Peace I desired with God at the extreme
Of my existence, and as yet would notMy debt have been by penitence discharged,
Had it not been that in remembrance held mePier Pettignano in his holy prayers,Who out of charity was grieved for me.
But who art thou, that into our conditionsQuestioning goest, and hast thine eyes unboundAs I believe, and breathing dost discourse?”
“Mine eyes,” I said, “will yet be here ta’en from me,But for short space; for small is the offenceCommitted by their being turned with envy.
Far greater is the fear, wherein suspendedMy soul is, of the torment underneath,For even now the load down there weighs on me.”
And she to me: “Who led thee, then, among usUp here, if to return below thou thinkest?”And I: “He who is with me, and speaks not;
And living am I; therefore ask of me,Spirit elect, if thou wouldst have me moveO’er yonder yet my mortal feet for thee.”
“O, this is such a novel thing to hear,”She answered, “that great sign it is God loves thee;Therefore with prayer of thine sometimes assist me.
And I implore, by what thou most desirest,If e’er thou treadest the soil of Tuscany,Well with my kindred reinstate my fame.
Them wilt thou see among that people vainWho hope in Talamone, and will lose thereMore hope than in discovering the Diana;
But there still more the admirals will lose.”
Purgatorio: Canto XIV
“Who is this one that goes about our mountain,Or ever Death has given him power of flight,And opes his eyes and shuts them at his will?”
“I know not who, but know he’s not alone;Ask him thyself, for thou art nearer to him,And gently, so that he may speak, accost him.”
Thus did two spirits, leaning tow’rds each other,Discourse about me there on the right hand;Then held supine their faces to address me.
And said the one: “O soul, that, fastened stillWithin the body, tow’rds the heaven art going,For charity console us, and declare
Whence comest and who art thou; for thou mak’st usAs much to marvel at this grace of thineAs must a thing that never yet has been.”
And I: “Through midst of Tuscany there wandersA streamlet that is born in Falterona,And not a hundred miles of course suffice it;
From thereupon do I this body bring.To tell you who I am were speech in vain,Because my name as yet makes no great noise.”
“If well thy meaning I can penetrateWith intellect of mine,” then answered meHe who first spake, “thou speakest of the Arno.”
And said the other to him: “Why concealedThis one the appellation of that river,Even as a man doth of things horrible?”
And thus the shade that questioned was of thisHimself acquitted: “I know not; but truly’Tis fit the name of such a valley perish;
For from its fountain-head (where is so pregnantThe Alpine mountain whence is cleft PeloroThat in few places it that mark surpasses)
To where it yields itself in restorationOf what the heaven doth of the sea dry up,Whence have the rivers that which goes with them,
Virtue is like an enemy avoidedBy all, as is a serpent, through misfortuneOf place, or through bad habit that impels them;
On which account have so transformed their natureThe dwellers in that miserable valley,It seems that Circe had them in her pasture.
’Mid ugly swine, of acorns worthierThan other food for human use created,It first directeth its impoverished way.
Curs findeth it thereafter, coming downward,More snarling than their puissance demands,And turns from them disdainfully its muzzle.
It goes on falling, and the more it grows,The more it finds the dogs becoming wolves,This maledict and misadventurous ditch.
Descended then through many a hollow gulf,It finds the foxes so replete with fraud,They fear no cunning that may master them.
Nor will I cease because another hears me;And well ’twill be for him, if still he mind himOf what a truthful spirit to me unravels.
Thy grandson I behold, who doth becomeA hunter of those wolves upon the bankOf the wild stream, and terrifies them all.
He sells their flesh, it being yet alive;Thereafter slaughters them like ancient beeves;Many of life, himself of praise, deprives.
Blood-stained he issues from the dismal forest;He leaves it such, a thousand years from nowIn its primeval state ’tis not re-wooded.”
As at the announcement of impending illsThe face of him who listens is disturbed,From whate’er side the peril seize upon him;
So I beheld that other soul, which stoodTurned round to listen, grow disturbed and sad,When it had gathered to itself the word.
The speech of one and aspect of the otherHad me desirous made to know their names,And question mixed with prayers I made thereof,
Whereat the spirit which first spake to meBegan again: “Thou wishest I should bring meTo do for thee what thou’lt not do for me;
But since God willeth that in thee shine forthSuch grace of his, I’ll not be chary with thee;Know, then, that I Guido del Duca am.
My blood was so with envy set on fire,That if I had beheld a man make merry,Thou wouldst have seen me sprinkled o’er with pallor.
From my own sowing such the straw I reap!O human race! why dost thou set thy heartWhere interdict of partnership must be?
This is Renier; this is the boast and honourOf the house of Calboli, where no one sinceHas made himself the heir of his desert.
And not alone his blood is made devoid,’Twixt Po and mount, and sea-shore and the Reno,Of good required for truth and for diversion;
For all within these boundaries is fullOf venomous roots, so that too tardilyBy cultivation now would they diminish.
Where is good Lizio, and Arrigo Manardi,Pier Traversaro, and Guido di Carpigna,O Romagnuoli into bastards turned?
When in Bologna will a Fabbro rise?When in Faenza a Bernardin di Fosco,The noble scion of ignoble seed?
Be not astonished, Tuscan, if I weep,When I remember, with Guido da Prata,Ugolin d’ Azzo, who was living with us,
Frederick Tignoso and his company,The house of Traversara, and th’ Anastagi,And one race and the other is extinct;
The dames and cavaliers, the toils and easeThat filled our souls with love and courtesy,There where the hearts have so malicious grown!
O Brettinoro! why dost thou not flee,Seeing that all thy family is gone,And many people, not to be corrupted?
Bagnacaval does well in not begettingAnd ill does Castrocaro, and Conio worse,In taking trouble to beget such Counts.
Will do well the Pagani, when their DevilShall have departed; but not therefore pureWill testimony of them e’er remain.