The Divine Comedy (Illustrated Edition). Dante Alighieri

spirits, running swift. They towards us came,

      And each one cried aloud, “Oh do thou stay!

      Whom by the fashion of thy garb we deem

      To be some inmate of our evil land.”

      Ah me! what wounds I mark’d upon their limbs,

      Recent and old, inflicted by the flames!

      E’en the remembrance of them grieves me yet.

      Attentive to their cry my teacher paus’d,

      And turn’d to me his visage, and then spake;

      “Wait now! our courtesy these merit well:

      And were ’t not for the nature of the place,

      Whence glide the fiery darts, I should have said,

      That haste had better suited thee than them.’’

      They, when we stopp’d, resum’d their ancient wail,

      And soon as they had reach’d us, all the three

      Whirl’d round together in one restless wheel.

      As naked champions, smear’d with slippery oil,

      Are wont intent to watch their place of hold

      And vantage, ere in closer strife they meet;

      Thus each one, as he wheel’d, his countenance

      At me directed, so that opposite

      The neck mov’d ever to the twinkling feet.

      “If misery of this drear wilderness,”

      Thus one began, “added to our sad cheer

      And destitute, do call forth scorn on us

      And our entreaties, let our great renown

      Incline thee to inform us who thou art,

      That dost imprint with living feet unharm’d

      The soil of Hell. He, in whose track thou see’st

      My steps pursuing, naked though he be

      And reft of all, was of more high estate

      Than thou believest; grandchild of the chaste

Gualdrada,1 him they Guidoguerra call’d,

      Who in his lifetime many a noble act

      Achiev’d, both by his wisdom and his sword.

      The other, next to me that beats the sand,

Is Aldobrandi,2 name deserving well,

      In the’ upper world, of honour; and myself

      Who in this torment do partake with them,

Am Rusticucci,3 whom, past doubt, my wife

      Of savage temper, more than aught beside

      Hath to this evil brought.” If from the fire

      I had been shelter’d, down amidst them straight

      I then had cast me, nor my guide, I deem,

      Would have restrain’d my going; but that fear

      Of the dire burning vanquish’d the desire,

      Which made me eager of their wish’d embrace.

      I then began: “Not scorn, but grief much more,

      Such as long time alone can cure, your doom

      Fix’d deep within me, soon as this my lord

      Spake words, whose tenour taught me to expect

      That such a race, as ye are, was at hand.

      I am a countryman of yours, who still

      Affectionate have utter’d, and have heard

      Your deeds and names renown’d. Leaving the gall

      For the sweet fruit I go, that a sure guide

      Hath promis’d to me. But behooves, that far

      As to the centre first I downward tend.”

      “So may long space thy spirit guide thy limbs,”

      He answer straight return’d; “and so thy fame

      Shine bright, when thou art gone; as thou shalt tell,

      If courtesy and valour, as they wont,

      Dwell in our city, or have vanish’d clean?

      For one amidst us late condemn’d to wail,

Borsiere,4 yonder walking with his peers,

      Grieves us no little by the news he brings.”

      “An upstart multitude and sudden gains,

      Pride and excess, O Florence! have in thee

      Engender’d, so that now in tears thou mourn’st!”

      Thus cried I with my face uprais’d, and they

      All three, who for an answer took my words,

      Look’d at each other, as men look when truth

      Comes to their ear. “If thou at other times,”

      They all at once rejoin’d, “so easily

      Satisfy those, who question, happy thou,

      Gifted with words, so apt to speak thy thought!

      Wherefore if thou escape this darksome clime,

      Returning to behold the radiant stars,

When thou with pleasure shalt retrace the past,5

      See that of us thou speak among mankind.”

      This said, they broke the circle, and so swift

      Fled, that as pinions seem’d their nimble feet.

      Not in so short a time might one have said

      “Amen,” as they had vanish’d. Straight my guide

      Pursu’d his track. I follow’d; and small space

      Had we pass’d onward, when the water’s sound

      Was now so near at hand, that we had scarce

      Heard one another’s speech for the loud din.

E’en as the river,6 that holds on its course

      Unmingled, from the mount of Vesulo,

      On the left side of Apennine, toward

      The east, which Acquacheta higher up

      They call, ere it descend into the vale,

At Forli7 by that name no longer known,

      Rebellows o’er Saint Benedict, roll’d on

      From the’ Alpine summit down a precipice,

Where space8 enough to