138-139. Since the beginning of the canto, the sun has reached the meridian of Pur- gatory, which would make the time there noon. Morocco, for Dante part of the westernmost area of human habitation, would be experiencing dusk (6:00 P.M.), SO that night would just be setting foot there (see note to Canto II, 1-6).
I had already parted from those shades, following in the footsteps of my guide, when one of them back there pointed and called:
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“That soul climbing behind the other one! Look! To his left no light is shining through! He seems to walk as if he were alive!”
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Hearing these words, I turned around and saw souls staring in amazement at my form, at me alone—and at the broken light.
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“What is it that has caught your interest so and makes you lag behind?” my master asked. “What do you care, if they are whispering?
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Keep up with me and let the people talk! Be like a solid tower whose brave height remains unmoved by all the winds that blow;
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the man who lets his thoughts be turned aside by one thing or another, will lose sight of his true goal, his mind sapped of its strength. ”
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What could I say except: “I’m coming now”? I said it, and my face took on the color that makes a man deserve to be excused.
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Meanwhile, across the slope ahead of us, people were passing, chanting Miserere, singing the psalm in alternating parts.
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But when they noticed that the rays of light did not shine through my human form, they changed their chanting to a drawn-out, breathless “Ohhh!”
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Then two of them, dispatched as messengers, came running up and started to implore: “We pray you, please tell us about yourselves. ”
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My master answered them: “You may return, bearing the news to those who sent you here that this man’s body is true flesh and blood;
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if they were stunned, as I suppose they were, because he casts a shadow—now they know, and it could profit them to honor him. ”
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I never saw a meteor at night cut through the tranquil air, or bolts of light flash through the cloudy August sky at dusk,
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as quickly as they rushed back to their group; then all together they wheeled round and rushed toward us like a full-charging cavalry.
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“Oh look at all those souls pressing toward us, ” the Poet said; “each one will have his plea; listen to them, but move on as you do. ”
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“O soul, ” they cried, “you there, moving toward bliss clothed in the body you were born with, stop, just for a moment, look at us and see
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if you know anyone among us here, so as to bring back news of him to earth. Oh, wait! Where are you going? Oh, please stop!
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We are all souls who met a violent death, and we were sinners to our final hour; but then the light of Heaven lit our minds,
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and penitent and pardoning, we left that life at peace with God, Who left our hearts with longing for the holy sight of Him. ”
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I said: “I see your faces, but cannot recognize one. But, O souls, born for bliss, if there is some way I can please you now,
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tell me, and I will do so—by that peace which I go searching for while following from world to world so great a guide as this. ”
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One soul replied: “We need no oath from you; all of us here know you will keep your word, unless some lack of power thwarts your will.
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Now, speaking for myself, I will plead first: if ever you should travel to the land between Romagna and the realm of Charles,
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I beg you, be so gracious as to ask the souls in Fano to say prayers for me, that I may soon begin to purge my guilt.
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I came from Fano, but the deep-cut wounds from which I saw my life’s blood spilling out, were dealt me in the Antenori’s land—
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the land where I believed I was most safe. Azzo of Este had me killed (his hatred for me reached far beyond all reason’s bounds).
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If only I had fled toward Mira when at Oriaco they took me by surprise, I still would be with men who live and breathe;
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instead, I ran into the swampy mire: the reeds entangled me; I fell, and there I watched a pool of blood fill from my veins. ”
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64. The soul, who is not named in the canto, is Jacopo del Cassero. In 1296, as podestà of Bologna, he opposed the designs of the powerful and ruthless Azzo VIII of Este. In 1298, while en route to Milan to assume the office of podestà there, Jacopo was set upon and brutally murdered by Azzo’s henchmen at Oriago, a town on the river Brenta between Venice and Padova. He is the first of the three speakers in this canto who died a violent death.
75-76. The Antenori’s land is Padova, where Jacopo thought he would be safe.
77. Azzo VIII of Este was the Marquis of Este and Lord of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio. He died in 1308.
Another soul said: “Oh, may the desire that draws you up the mountain be fulfilled; and you, please help me satisfy my own.
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I am Buonconte, once from Montefeltro; no one, not even Giovanna, cares for me, and so, I walk ashamed among these souls. ”
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I said: “What violence—or was it chance?— swept you so far away from Campaldin that no one ever found your burial place?”
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He said: “Below the Casentino flows the river Archiano, which arises above the convent in the Apennines.
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Beyond, it takes another name, and there I made my way, my throat an open wound, fleeing on foot, and bloodying the plain.
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There I went blind. I could no longer speak, but as I died, I murmured Mary’s name, and there I fell and left my empty flesh.
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Now hear the truth. Tell it to living men: God’s angel took me up, and Hell’s fiend cried: ’O you from Heaven, why steal what is mine?
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You may be getting his immortal part— and won it for a measly tear, at that, but for his body I have other plans!’
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88. Buonconte was the son of Guido of Montefeltro (Inferno XXVII). In 1289 he led the forces of the Ghibellines of Arezzo against the Florentine Guelphs in the battle of Campaldino. Guido’s side suffered defeat and he was slain. His body was never found.
89. The widow of Buonconte was named Giovanna, and “no one” probably refers to the daughter and brother who survived him.
95. The river Archiano is a tributary of the Arno.
You know how vapor gathers in the air, then turns to water when it has returned to where the cold condenses it as rain.
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To that ill will, intent on evilness, he joined intelligence and, by that power within his nature, stirred up mist and wind,
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until the valley, by the end of day, from Pratomagno to the mountain chain, was fogbound. With dense clouds he charged the sky:
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the saturated air turned into rain; water poured down, and what the sodden ground rejected filled and overflowed the deepest
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gullies, whose spilling waters came to join and form great torrents rushing violently, relentlessly, to reach the royal stream.
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Close to its mouth the raging Archiano discovered my cold body—sweeping it into the Arno, loosening the cross
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I’d made upon my breast in final pain; it dragged me to its banks, along its bed, then swathed me in the shroud of all its spoils. ”
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“Oh, please, when you are in the world again, and are quite rested from your journey here, ” a third soul, following on the second, said,
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“Oh, please remember me! I am called Pia. Siena gave me life, Maremma death, as he knows who began it when he put
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his gem upon my finger, pledging faith. ”
116. Pratomagno was a locale near Arezzo on the Arno, now called Pratovecchio.
CANTO VI
THE SOULS OF those who have died by violence continue to press eagerly upon the Pilgrim. Among them Dante recognizes Benincasa of Laterina; Guccio Tarlati of Pietramala; Federigo Novello; Farinata, son of Marzucco degli Scornigiani; Count Orso of Mangona; and Pierre de la Brosse of Turenne. As he frees himself from this encumbering crowd of shades, the Pilgrim asks Virgil about the power of prayer to affect the will of Heaven. Virgil gives a partial explanation and tells the Pilgrim that he will have to wait until Beatrice gives him a more comprehensive elucidation of the matter. Noting a figure seated in silence not far away, Virgil and the Pilgrim go up to him to ask directions; upon learning that Virgil is a Mantuan by birth, the stranger embraces him. It is the shade of Sordello. At this point there is a break in the action of the poem, and Dante inveighs at length against the evil and corruption of Italy.
The loser, when a game of dice breaks up, despondent, often lingers there as he, learning the hard way, replays all his throws.
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The crowd leaves with the winner: some in front, some tugging at him from behind, the rest close to his side beg to be recognized.
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He keeps on going, listening to them all; the ones who get a handout will not push, and this is his protection from the crowd.
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I was that man caught in a begging throng, turning my face toward one and then the next, buying my way out with my promises.
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I saw the Aretine who met his death at the revengeful hand of Ghin di Tacco; I saw that soul who drowned giving pursuit.
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I saw with hands outstretched, imploring me, Federigo Novello, and the Pisan, too, whose death inspired good Marzucco’s strength.
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I saw Count Orso, and I saw that soul torn from its body, so he said, by hate and envy—not for any wrong he did:
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Pierre de la Brosse, I mean. And while still here on earth, the Lady of Brabant might well take care lest she end up in fouler flock.
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Once I had freed myself from all those shades who prayed only that others pray for them and thus quicken their way to bliss, I said:
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“It seems to me that somewhere in your verse, you, O my Light, deny explicitly the power of prayer to bend the laws of Heaven;
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13. The Aretine was Benincasa da Laterina, a jurist from Arezzo. Ghin di Tacco (14), motivated by a desire to vindicate the death sentence given to a close relative, perhaps his father or brother, entered Benincasa’s courtroom in disguise, murdered him, and escaped, carrying with him the judge’s head.
15. Guccio Tarlati da Pietramala drowned in the Arno following the battle of either Campaldino or Montaperti.
17. Son of Count Guido Novello, Federigo was killed in 1291 by one of the Guelphs, Bostoli d’Arezzo, in a battle that took place in the Casentino. The Pisan is Farinata, a doctor of law and son of Messer Marzucco degli Scornigiani of Pisa.
18. This line is supposedly a reference to the fortitude of a Francescan Friar Minor (Marzucco), who demonstrated his “strength” by forgiving the murderer of his son, Farinata, “the Pisan” mentioned in the preceding line (17).
19. Count Orso, the son of Napoleone dell’Acerbaia, was viciously murdered by his cousin Alberto di Mangona. Alberto’s father, Alessandro, and Napoleone were brothers who killed each other. Both are punished among the traitors in Caina (Inferno XXXII, 55-58).
22-24. Pierre de la Brosse, surgeon and chancellor to Philip III of France, was falsely accused of treachery by Philip’s second wife, Mary of Brabant (23), and was hanged in 1278.
yet these souls ask precisely for such prayers. Does this, then, mean their hopes are all in vain? Or have I failed to understand your words?”
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And he: “What I once wrote means what it says; yet, if you think about it carefully, you must see that their hopes are not deceived.
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High justice would in no way be debased if ardent love should cancel instantly the debt these penitents must satisfy.
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The words of mine you cite apply alone to those whose sins could not be purged by prayer, because their prayers had no access to God.
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Do not try to resolve so deep a doubt; wait until she shall make it clearer—she, the light between truth and intelligence.
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You understand me: I mean Beatrice, she will appear upon this mountain top; you will behold her smiling in her bliss. ”
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I said: “My lord, let us make greater haste: I’m not as tired as I was before; and look! The mountain casts a shadow now. ”
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“As long as daylight lasts we shall move on, climbing as far as possible, ” he said, “but things are not the way you think they are.
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Before you reach the top you’ll see the sun come out from where the slope is hiding him, preventing you from casting any shade.
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45. Beatrice, standing, as it were, “between” Truth (the meaning of prayer) and Intellect (the Pilgrim’s mind), will be able to illuminate fully for him the true meaning of prayer. The matter involves grace, which goes beyond Virgil’s understanding.
But see that spirit stationed over there, all by himself, the one who looks at us; he will show us the quickest way to go. ”
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We made our way toward him. (O Lombard soul, how stately and disdainful you appeared, what majesty was in your steady gaze!)
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He did not say a word to us, but let us keep on moving up toward him, while he was watching like a couchant lion on guard.
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But Virgil went straight up to him and asked directions for the best way to ascend. The shade ignored the question put to him,
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asking of us, instead, where we were born and who we were. My gentle guide began: “Mantua …” And the other, until then
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all self-absorbed, sprang to his feet and came toward him: “O Mantuan, I am Sordello of your own town”—and the two shades embraced.
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(Ah, slavish Italy, the home of grief, ship without pilot caught in a raging storm, no queen of provinces—whorehouse of shame!
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How quick that noble soul was to respond to the mere sound of his sweet city’s name, by welcoming his fellow citizen—
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while, now, no one within your bounds knows rest from war, and those enclosed by the same wall and moat, even they are at each other’s throats!
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O wretched Italy, search all your coasts, probe to your very center: can you find within you any part that is at peace?
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58. This is the spirit of Sordello of Goito. An adventurer and a poet, Sordello was born in the town of Goito, near Mantua, about 1200. Although relatively little is known about his life, it is likely that the wrath he incurred as a result of several episodes with women necessitated his leaving Italy.
What matter if Justinian repaired the bridle—if the saddle’s empty now! The shame would have been less if he had not.
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You priests who should pursue your holiness, remembering what God prescribes for you, let Caesar take the saddle as he should—
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see how this beast has grown viciously wild, without the rider’s spurs to set her straight, since you dared take the reins into your hands!
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O German Albert, you abandon her, allowing her, ungoverned, to run wild. You should have been astride her saddle-bow!
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Let a just judgment f
all down from the stars upon your house: one unmistakable and strange enough to terrify your heir!
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You and your sire, whom greed for greater wealth holds back up there, have let this come to pass: the garden of the Empire is laid waste.
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Come see the Cappelletti, callous heart, see the Monaldi, the Montecchi ruined, the Filippeschi fearful of their fate.
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Come, heartless one, come see your noblemen who suffer; help them heal their wounds; come see how safe it is to dwell in Santafior.
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Come see your city, Rome, in mourning now, widowed, alone, lamenting night and day: “My Caesar, why have you abandoned me?”
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Come see how people love each other now! If you cannot be moved to pity us, then come and feel the shame your name has earned!
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O Jove Supreme, crucified here on earth for all mankind, have I the right to ask if Your just eyes no longer look on us?
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Or is this part of a great plan conceived in Your deep intellect, to some good end that we are powerless to understand?
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For all the towns of Italy are filled with tyrants: any dolt who plays the role of partisan can pass for a Marcellus.
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Florence, my Florence! How happy you must be with this digression, for you’re not involved— thank your resourceful citizens for that!