These words in dark color I saw
Written upon the summit of the gate.
I said, “Their meaning is difficult for me, master.”
And he replied to me, as one who understood,
“Here you must abandon all your doubts.
All cowardice must be laid to rest.
We have now come to the place, where I told you,
You will see the woeful people
Who have lost the good obtained by intellect.”
And then he put his hand on mine and
With a smile that comforted me
He led me in among secret things.
There sighs and groans and plaintive wailing
Resounded through the starless air,
Which caused me to well up with tears.
Diverse tongues, horrible dialects,
Words of agony, accents of anger
And voices high and hoarse, and the sound of hands,
Made up a tumult that goes whirling on
Forever in that air forever black,
Just like the sand, when the whirlwind blows.
My head with horror bound, I said,
“Master, what is this that I hear?
Who is this, so overcome by pain?”
He said to me, “This miserable condition
Afflicts the melancholy souls of those
Who lived without infamy or praise.
They are commingled with that noisome choir
Of angels, who were neither rebels nor
Faithful to God, but only for themselves.
The heavens expelled them, for they were not beautiful;
Nor did the depths of Hell receive them,
In this way depriving the damned of their glory.”
And I, “Master, what is so grievous to them
That makes them lament so loudly?”
He answered, “I will tell you very briefly.
They have no hope of death;
And this blind life of theirs is so debased
That they envy every other fate.
The world allows them to have no glory;
Mercy and justice both despise them.
Let us not speak of them, but look and then pass by.”
And looking again, I saw a banner,
Which whirled around and ran on so rapidly
That it seemed like it would never stop;
And running after it there came so long a train
Of people, that I never would have believed
That Death could have ever unmade so many.
When I recognized some among them,
I looked and I saw the shade of a man
Who made, though cowardice, a great denial.
Immediately I understood and was certain
That this group comprised those worthless wretches
Hateful to God and to their own enemies.
These wretches, who were never truly alive,
Were naked and stung repeatedly
By the wasps and hornets that swarmed around them.
The insects caused their faces to pour with blood,
Which mingled with their tears, to be consumed
By the disgusting worms at their feet.
And when I looked farther on, I saw other people
Arrayed along the bank of a great river.
I said, “Master, Allow me
To know who these people are, and what makes them
Appear so ready to cross over, as far as I can
Discern from here in this weak light.”
And he said to me, “These things shall all be revealed
To you, as soon as our footsteps lead us
To the dismal shores of Acheron.”
Then, with my eyes ashamed and cast downward,
Fearing that my words might irritate him,
I refrained from speech until we reached the river.
And lo! in a boat there approached
An old man with hair of gray,
Crying, “Woe to you, you depraved souls!
Do not hope to look upon the sky ever again;
I come to lead you to the other shore,
To the eternal shades of fire and frost.
And you, standing over there, living soul,
Depart from these people, who are dead!”
But when he saw that I did not withdraw,
He said, “By other ways, by other ports will you
A lighter vessel must carry you.”
And to him my guide said, “Do not torment yourself, Charon;
It is so willed there, where all is possible
That is willed; and so, ask no further.”
At that, the fleecy cheeks of the ferryman fell quiet,
Who sailed the dark fen, his eyeballs
Encircled by wheels of flame.
But all those souls who were weary and naked,
Their complexions changed and they gnashed their teeth
As soon as they heard those cruel words.
They blasphemed against God and their own kin,
The human race, the place, the time, the seed
From which they sprung, the day that they were born.
Then they all drew back together,
bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore
that waits for all who have no fear of God.
That demon Charon, with eyes like hot coals,
Beckons to them, collects them all together,
Beats with his oar whoever lags behind.
As in the autumn, when the leaves fall,
First one and then another, until the branch
Has surrendered all its spoils to the earth.
Likewise, the evil seed of Adam
Throw themselves one by one from the riverside
At a signal, like a bird comes to its call.
So, they depart across the dark waves,
And before they land upon the other side,
Once again, on this side, a new group has assembled.
“My son,” my polite master said to me,
“All those who perish in the wrath of God
Meet here together from every land;
And they are eager to cross over the river
Because divine justice spurs them on,
So that their fear is turned into desire.
A good soul never passes this way;
And so, if Charon complains about you,
You may well now know what that means.”
When he finished speaking, all of that dark country
Trembled so violently, that my recollection
Of that terror bathes me in sweat even now.
The land of tears gave forth a blast of wind,
And a bright red light flashed,
Which overcame all of my senses,
And like a man whom sleep has seized, I fell.
THE FILTHY FEN1
“Let us now descend into greater misery;
Already each star that was ascending when I set out
Sinks, and it is forbidden for us to loiter.”
We crossed the circle to the other bank,
Near to a spring that boiled and spilled out
Along a sluice that ran out of it.
The water was far darker than indigo;
And in the company of the murky waves,
We travelled downward by a winding path.
Into a marsh, which is called the Styx,
This sad brook makes its way down
To the foot of those malign, gray shores.
And I paused, intent upon looking,
And saw people caked with mud in that lagoon,
All of them naked and fierce.
They struck one another not only with their hands,
But their heads and bodies and feet,
Tearing each other to pieces with their teeth.
My good master said, “Son, you now look upon
The souls of those whom anger has overthrown;
And also, I would like you to know for sure
Beneath the water are souls whose sighs
Make the water bubble on the surface
As you can see at every turn.
Trapped in the mire, they croak, ‘Sullen we were
In the sweet air, which the sun gladdens,
Bearing within ourselves mournful fumes;
Now we are gloomy in this black ooze.’
They gurgle this refrain in their throats,
For they cannot utter it with unbroken words.”
Thus, we went circling around the filthy fen
A great arc between the dry bank and the swamp,
With our eyes on those who gorged the mire;
Until we came at last to the foot of a tower.2
THE BOILING BLOOD1
The place where we hoped to descend the bank
Was steep, and moreover, it was so precipitous,
that it was difficult to look upon.
That ruined escarpment looked like the flank of the Adige
On this side of Trent, after it was struck
By an earthquake or a landslide.
For from the mountain’s top, from which it slid down
Onto the plain below, the cliff is shattered in such a way
To provide a path downward to someone up above.
Likewise was our descent into that ravine
And on the lip of the broken chasm
The infamy of Crete lay stretched out,
Who was conceived in the womb of a false heifer;
And when he saw us, he gnawed himself,
Like someone whom anger racks within.2
My wise guide shouted toward him, “Do you suppose
That the King of Athens has arrived,
Who in the world above brought death to you?3
Go away, beast, for this one does not come
Instructed by your sister, but in order
To witness your punishments.”
Just like a bull who breaks loose at the moment
When he has received the killing blow,
Who cannot walk, but staggers here and there,
The Minotaur, I saw, behaved like that;
And watchful Virgil cried, “Run to the passage;
Let us descend while he is overcome by rage.”
Thus, we picked our way downward over the scree
Of stone, which often shifted beneath my feet
From the unaccustomed weight upon them.
I went on, deep in thought, and Virgil said, “You are thinking
Perhaps about this ruin, which is guarded
By that monster’s anger, which we just evaded.
Now you should know that the other time
I descended this way to the deepest parts of Hell,
This precipice had not yet fallen down.
But truly, if I understand correctly, a little
Before the arrival of the one who carried off from Dis
The great prize of its highest circle,
Upon all sides, the deep and loathsome valley
Trembled so much that I thought the Universe
Was thrilled with love, by which (there are those who think)
The world sometimes turns into chaos;
And at that moment, this ancient crag
Both here and elsewhere was rent asunder.4
But fix your eyes below; for the river of blood
Draws near, within which boils whoever did injury
To others by violence.”
O blind passion, O insane wrath
That spurs us onward in our short life,
And then stews us in torment for all eternity!
I saw a great ditch bent like a bow
That encompassed the entire plain
Exactly as my guide had described.
And between this and the foot of the embankment
Centaurs were running in a line, armed with arrows,
As they used to hunt in the world.
Seeing us descend, each one stood still
And from the squadron, three detached themselves,
Taking aim at us with their bows and arrows.
And from a distance, one of them shouted, “To what torment
Do you come, you descending down the hillside?
Tell us from there; if not, I will draw the bow.”
My master said, “We will make our answer
to Chiron, standing next to you there;
that will of yours was always too hasty.”
Then Virgil said to me, “This one is Nessus,
Who perished for the lovely Deianeira,
But then he avenged himself with his own blood.
And in the middle, eyes fixed upon his chest,
Is the great Chiron, who raised Achilles;
That other one is Pholus, who was so wrathful.5
Thousands and thousands of centaurs run around the ditch
Shooting with arrows whatever soul emerges
Out of the blood more than his crimes allows.”
We approached these swift monsters;
Chiron took an arrow and with the notch
Backward upon his jaws he combed his beard.
After he had uncovered his great mouth,
He said to his companions, “Have you noticed
That the one behind moves whatever he touches?
The feet of dead men do not behave in this way.”
And my guide, who was now at his breast,
Where the centaur’s two natures are joined together,
Replied, “Indeed he lives, and thus it falls to me alone
To show him the dark valley;
Necessity, not pleasure, compels us.
Someone who paused from singing Halleluja
Committed this new duty to me;
He was no thief; and I am no furtive spirit.
But by that power at whose command I am making
My way along this forlorn road,
Loan us one of your entourage to accompany us,
And to show us where we can find the ford,
And who can carry this one on his back;
For he is not a spirit that can walk in the air.”
Chiron turned to the right
And said to Nessus, “Turn around and guide them,
And tell any other band you meet to leave them alone.”
With our faithful escort we moved on
Along the shore of that bubbling blood,
In which the boiled uttered their loud laments.
I saw people submerged up to their eyebrows,
And the great centaur said, “These are tyrants,
Who dealt in bloodshed and pillaging.
Here they lament their pitiless sins; here
Is Alexander and fierce Dionysius
Who caused such grievous years in Sicily.6
That forehead there with the black hair
Is Azzolin; and the other, the blond one,
Is Obizzo d’Este, who, in truth,
Was murdered by his stepson in the world above.”7
Then I turned to the poet and he said,
“Now let him go first, and I will follow next.”
A little farther on, the centaur stopped
Above some people, who came out of that boiling stream
As far down as their throats.
He pointed out a shade by himself to the side,
Saying, “He stabbed in the bosom of God
The heart that is still honored on the Thames.”8
Then I saw people, who lifted their heads
And also their chests out of the river
And I recognized many of them.
Thus ever more and more that blood
Grew shallower, until it covered the feet alone
And there across the moat lay our passage.
“Even as you see on this side
The boiling streams that slowly recede,”
The centaur said, “I want you to know
That further on its bed declines more and more
Until it reunites itself at a point
Where tyrants groan in agony.
Down there, divine justice stings that Attila,
Who was a scourge on the whole world,
And Pyrrhus, and Sextus, and forever more it milks
The tears, which with the boiling it unseals,
From Rinier da Corneto and Rinier the Mad,
Who caused such strife upon the public roads.”9
Then he turned back and crossed the ford once more.
THE FOREST OF THE SUICIDES1
Nessus had not yet reached the other side
When we found ourselves within a forest
That was not marked by any path whatsoever.
The foliage was not green, but dark in color.
The branches were not smooth, but gnarled and tangled.
There were no apple trees, but only thorns with poison.
Those savage beasts that hold in hatred
The cultivated land between Cécina and Corneto
Does not boast such dense and tangled thickets as their lairs.
There do the hideous Harpies make their nests,
Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades
With sad announcements of their impending doom;2
They have broad wings, and necks and faces like humans,
And feet with claws, and their great bellies sport feathers.
They make laments upon these strange trees.
And the good master said, “Before you go any farther,
Know that you are within the second circle,”
And he continued thus, “and shall be until
You come out upon the horrible sand;
Therefore, have a good look around, and you will see
Things that will lend weight to my words.”
I heard on all sides the sound of lamentations,
And I could see no one who uttered them,