The Divine Comedy (Illustrated Edition). Dante Alighieri

hence

      Beneath, e’en to the lowest depth of all,

      Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself

      Shall see it) I here give thee no account.”

      Then I to him: “If from our world this sluice

      Be thus deriv’d; wherefore to us but now

      Appears it at this edge?” He straight replied:

      “The place, thou know’st, is round; and though great part

      Thou have already pass’d, still to the left

      Descending to the nethermost, not yet

      Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb.

      Wherefore if aught of new to us appear,

      It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks.”

      Then I again inquir’d: “Where flow the streams

      Of Phlegethon and Lethe? for of one

      Thou tell’st not, and the other of that shower,

      Thou say’st, is form’d.” He answer thus return’d:

      “Doubtless thy questions all well pleas’d I hear.

Yet the red seething wave2 might have resolv’d

      One thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see,

      But not within this hollow, in the place,

Whither3 to lave themselves the spirits go,

      Whose blame hath been by penitence remov’d.”

      He added: “Time is now we quit the wood.

      Look thou my steps pursue: the margins give

      Safe passage, unimpeded by the flames;

      For over them all vapour is extinct.”

      Footnotes

1 A warm medicinal spring near Viterbo; the waters of which, as Landino and Vellutelli affirm, passed by a place of ill-fame. Venturi conjectures that Dante would imply that it was the scene of licentious merriment among those who frequented its baths.

2 Phlegethon.

3 The other side of Purgatory.

      Canto XV

       Table of Contents

      ARGUMENT.—Taking their way upon one of the mounds by which the streamlet, spoken of in the last Canto, was embanked, and having gone so far that they could no longer have discerned the forest if they had turned round to look for it, they meet a troop of spirits that come along the sand by the side of the pier. These are they who have done violence to Nature; and among them Dante distinguishes Brunetto Latini, who had been formerly his master; with whom, turning a little backward, he holds a discourse which occupies the remainder of this Canto.

      One of the solid margins bears us now

      Envelop’d in the mist, that from the stream

      Arising, hovers o’er, and saves from fire

      Both piers and water. As the Flemings rear

      Their mound, ’twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase back

      The ocean, fearing his tumultuous tide

      That drives toward them, or the Paduans theirs

      Along the Brenta, to defend their towns

      And castles, ere the genial warmth be felt

On Chiarentana’s1 top; such were the mounds,

      So fram’d, though not in height or bulk to these

      Made equal, by the master, whosoe’er

      He was, that rais’d them here. We from the wood

      Were not so far remov’d, that turning round

      I might not have discern’d it, when we met

      A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier.

      They each one ey’d us, as at eventide

      One eyes another under a new moon,

      And toward us sharpen’d their sight as keen,

      As an old tailor at his needle’s eye.

      Thus narrowly explor’d by all the tribe,

      I was agniz’d of one, who by the skirt

      Caught me, and cried, “What wonder have we here!”

      And I, when he to me outstretch’d his arm,

      Intently fix’d my ken on his parch’d looks,

      That although smirch’d with fire, they hinder’d not

      But I remember’d him; and towards his face

My hand inclining, answer’d: “Sir! Brunetto!2

      And art thou here?” He thus to me: “My son!

      Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto

      Latini but a little space with thee

      Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.”

      I thus to him replied: “Much as I can,

      I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing,

      That I here seat me with thee, I consent;

      His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain’d.”

      “O son!” said he, “ whoever of this throng

      One instant stops, lies then a hundred years,

      No fan to ventilate him, when the fire

      Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close

      Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin

      My troop, who go mourning their endless doom.”

      I dar’d not from the path descend to tread

      On equal ground with him, but held my head

      Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise.

      “What chance or destiny,” thus be began,

      “Ere the last day conducts thee here below?

      And who is this, that shows to thee the way?”

      “There up aloft,” I answer’d, “in the life

      Serene, I wander’d in a valley lost,

      Before mine age had to its fullness reach’d.

      But yester-morn I left it: then once more

      Into that vale returning, him I met;

      And by this path