May 15 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
Glimpses Into the Beyond
The best part of the Divine Comedy for a few minutes’ reading is the “Inferno.” There the reader finds the most vivid descriptions, the most startling and unforgettable pictures.
- Dante born May 15, 1265.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
Divine Comedy
Dante Alighieri
Page 102 opens with the close of Canto XXIV and one of its notes; the reading starts at “CANTO XXV.”
CANTO XXV
ARGUMENT.—The sacrilegious Fucci vents his fury in blasphemy, is seized by serpents, and flying is pursued by Cacus in the form of a Centaur, who is described with a swarm of serpents on his haunch, and a dragon on his shoulders breathing forth fire. Our Poet then meets with the spirits of three of his countrymen, two of whom undergo a marvelous transformation in his presence.
WHEN he had spoke, the sinner raised his hands1Pointed in mockery and cried: “Take them, God!I level them at thee.” From that day forthThe serpents were my friends; for round his neckOne of them rolling twisted, as it said,“Be silent, tongue!” Another, to his armsUpgliding, tied them, riveting itselfSo close, it took from them the power to move.Pistoia! ah, Pistoia! why dost doubtTo turn thee into ashes, cumbering earthNo longer, since in evil act so farThou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark,Through all the gloomy circles of the abyss,Spirit, that swell’d so proudly ’gainst his God;Not him,2 who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled,Nor utter’d more; and after him there cameA Centaur full of fury, shouting, “Where,Where is the caitiff?” On Maremma’s marsh3Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunchThey swarm’d, to where the human face begins.Behind his head, upon the shoulders, layWith open wings a dragon, breathing fireOn whomsoe’er he met. To me my guide:“Cacus is this, who underneath the rockOf Aventine spread oft a lake of blood.He, from his brethren parted, here must treadA different journey, for his fraudful theftOf the great herd that near him stall’d; whence foundHis felon deeds their end, beneath the maceOf stout Alcides, that perchance laid onA hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt.”While yet he spake, the Centaur sped away:And under us three spirits came, of whomNor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim’d,“Say who are ye!” We then brake off discourse,Intent on these alone. I knew them not:But, as it chanceth oft, befell that oneHad need to name another. “Where,” said he,“Doth Cianfa4 lurk?” I, for a sign my guideShould stand attentive, placed against my lipsThe finger lifted. If, O reader! nowThou be not apt to credit what I tell,No marvel; for myself do scarce allowThe witness of mine eyes. But as I look’dToward them, lo! a serpent with six feetSprings forth on one, and fastens full upon him:His midmost grasp’d the belly, a forefootSeized on each arm (while deep in either cheekHe flesh’d his fangs); the hinder on the thighsWere spread, ’twixt which the tail inserted curl’dUpon the reins behind. Ivy ne’er clasp’dA dodder’d oak, as round the other’s limbsThe hideous monster intertwined his own.Then, as they both had been of burning wax,Each melted into other, mingling hues,That which was either now was seen no more.Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns,A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black,And the clean white expires. The other twoLook’d on exclaiming, “Ah! how dost thou change,Agnello!5 See! Thou art nor double now,Nor only one.” The two heads now becameOne, and two figures blended in one formAppear’d, where both were lost. Of the four lengthsTwo arms were made: the belly and the chest,The thighs and legs, into such members changedAs never eye hath seen. Of former shapeAll trace was vanish’d. Two, yet neither, seem’dThat image miscreate, and so pass’d onWith tardy steps. As underneath the scourgeOf the fierce dog-star that lays bare the fields,Shifting from brake to brake the lizard seemsA flash of lightning, if he thwart the road;So toward the entrails of the other twoApproaching seem’d an adder all on fire,As the dark pepper-grain livid and swart.In that part, whence our life is nourish’d first,Once he transpierced; then down before him fellStretch’d out. The pierced spirit look’d on him,But spake not; yea, stood motionless and yawn’d,As if by sleep or feverous fit assail’d.He eyed the serpent, and the serpent him.One from the wound, the other from the mouthBreathed a thick smoke, whose vapory columns join’d.Lucan in mute attention now may hear,Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus, tell,Nor thine, Nasidius. Ovid now be mute.What if in warbling fiction he recordCadmus and Arethusa, to a snakeHim changed, and her into a fountain clear,I envy not; for never face to faceTwo natures thus transmuted did he sing,Wherein both shapes were ready to assumeThe other’s substance. They in mutual guiseSo answer’d that the serpent split his trainDivided to a fork, and the pierced spiritDrew close his steps together, legs and thighsCompacted, that no sign of juncture soonWas visible: the tail, disparted, tookThe figure which the spirit lost; its skinSoftening, his indurated to a rind.The shoulders next I mark’d, that entering join’dThe monster’s arm-pits, whose two shorter feetSo lengthen’d, as the others dwindling shrunk.The feet behind then twisting up becameThat part that man conceals, which in the wretchWas cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smokeWith a new color veils, and generatesThe excrescent pile on one, peeling it offFrom the other body, lo! upon his feetOne upright rose, and prone the other fell.Nor yet their glaring and malignant lampsWere shifted, though each feature changed beneath.Of him who stood erect, the mounting faceRetreated toward the temples, and what thereSuperfluous matter came, shot out in earsFrom the smooth cheeks; the rest, not backward dragg’d,Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell’dInto due size protuberant the lips.He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extendsHis sharpen’d visage, and draws down the earsInto the head, as doth the slug his horns.His tongue, continuous before and aptFor utterance, severs; and the other’s forkClosing unites. That done, the smoke was laid.The soul, transform’d into the brute, glides off,Hissing along the vale, and after himThe other talking sputters; but soon turn’dHis new-grown shoulders on him, and in fewThus to another spake: “Along this pathCrawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!”So saw I fluctuate in successive changeThe unsteady ballast of the seventh hold:And here if aught my pen have swerved, eventsSo strange may be its warrant. O’er mine eyesConfusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.Yet ’scaped they not so covertly, but wellI mark’d Sciancato: he alone it wasOf the three first that came, who changed not: tho’The other’s fate, Gaville! still dost rue.
CANTO XXVI
ARGUMENT.—Remounting by the steps, down which they have descended to the seventh gulf, they go forward to the arch that stretches over the eighth, and from thence behold numberless flames wherein are punished the evil counsellors, each flame containing a sinner, save one, in which were Diomede and Ulysses, the latter of whom relates the manner of his death.
FLORENCE, exult! for thou so mightilyHast thriven, that o’er land and sea thy wingsThou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell.Among the plunderers, such the three I foundThy citizens; whence shame to me thy son,And no proud honour to thyself redounds.But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn,Are of the truth presageful, thou ere longShalt feel what Prato6 (not to say the rest)Would fain might come upon thee; and that chanceWere in good time, if it befell thee now.Would so it were, since it must needs befall!For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more.We from the depth departed; and my guideRemounting scaled the flinty steps, which lateWe downward traced, and drew me up the steep.Pursuing thus our solitary wayAmong the crags and splinters of the rock,Sped not our feet without the help of hands.Then sorrow seized me, which e’en now revives,As my thought turns again to what I saw,And, more than I am wont, I rein and curbThe powers of nature in me, lest they runWhere Virtue guides not; that, if aught of goodMy gentle star or something better gave me,I envy not myself the precious boon.As in that season, when the sun least veilsHis face that lightens all, what time the flyGives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then,Upon some cliff reclined, beneath him seesFire-flies innumerous spangling o’er the vale,Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labor lies;With flames so numberless throughout its spaceShone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depthWas to my view exposed. As he, whose wrongsThe bears avenged, as its departure sawElijah’s chariot, when the steeds erectRaised their steep flight for heaven; his eyes meanwhile,Straining pursued them, till the flame alone,Upsoaring like a misty speck, he kenn’d:E’en thus along the gulf moves every flame,A sinner so enfolded close in each,That none exhibits token of the theft.Upon the bridge I forward bent to lookAnd grasp’d a flinty mass, or else had fallen,Though push’d not from the height. The guide, who mark’dHow I did gaze attentive, thus began:“Within these ardours are the spirits; eachSwathed in confining fire.” “Master! thy word,”I answer’d, “hath assured me; yet I deem’dAlready of the truth, already wish’dTo ask thee who is in yon fire, that comesSo parted at the summit, as it seem’dAscending from that funeral pile7 where layThe Theban brothers.” He replied: “Within,Ulysses there and Diomede endureTheir penal tortures, thus to vengeance nowTogether hasting, as erewhile to wrathThese in the flame with ceaseless groans deploreThe ambush of the horse,8 that open’d wideA portal for the goodly seed to pass,Which sow’d imperial Rome; nor less the guileLament they, whence, of her Achilles ’reft,Deïdamia yet in death complains.And there is rued the stratagem that TroyOf her Palladium spoil’d.”—“If they have powerOf utterance from within these sparks,” said I,“O master! think my prayer a thousand-foldIn repetition urged, that thou vouchsafeTo pause till here the horned flame arrive.See, how toward it with desires I bend.”He thus: “Thy prayer is worthy of much praise,And I accept it therefore; but do thouThy tongue refrain: to question them be mine;For I divine thy wish; and they perchance,For they were Greeks,9 might shun discourse with thee.”When there the flame had come, where time and placeSeem’d fitting to my guide, he thus began:“O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire!If, living, I of you did merit aught,Whate’er the measure were of that desert,When in the world my lofty strain I pour’d,Move ye not on, till one of you unfoldIn what clime death o’ertook him self-destroy’d.”Of the old flame forthwith the greater hornBegan to roll, murmuring, as a fireThat labors with the wind, then to and froWagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds,Threw out its voice, and spake: “When I escapedFrom Circe, who beyond a circling yearHad held me near Caieta by her charms,Ere thus Aeneas yet had named the shore;Nor fondness for my son, nor reverenceOf my old father, nor return of love,That should have crown’d Penelope with joy,Could overcome in me the zeal I hadTo explore the world, and search the ways of life,Man’s evil and his virtue. Forth I sail’dInto the deep illimitable main,With but one bark, and the small faithful bandThat yet cleaved to me. As Iberia far,Far as Marocco, either shore I saw,And the Sardinian and each isle besideWhich round that ocean bathes. Tardy with ageWere I and my companions, when we cameTo the strait pass,10 where Hercules ordain’dThe boundaries not to be o’erstepp’d by man.The walls of Seville to my right I left,On the other hand already Ceuta past.‘O brothers!’ I began, ‘who to the westThrough perils without number now have reach’d;To this the short remaining watch, that yetOur senses have to wake, refuse not proofOf the unpeopled world, following the trackOf Phoebus. Call to mind from whence ye sprang:Ye were not form’d to live the life of brutes,But virtue to pursue and knowledge high.’With these few words I sharpen’d for the voyageThe mind of my associates, that I thenCould scarcely have withheld them. To the dawnOur poop we turn’d, and for the witless flightMade our oars wings, still gaining on the left.Each star of the other pole night now beheld,And ours so low, that from the ocean floorIt rose not. Five times reillumed, as oftVanish’d the light from underneath the moon,Since the deep way we enter’d, when from farAppear’d a mountain dim,11 loftiest methoughtOf all I e’er beheld. Joy seized us straight;But soon to mourning changed. From the new landA whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost sideDid strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl’d her roundWith all the waves; the fourth time lifted upThe poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed:And over us the booming billow closed.”12
CANTO XXVII
ARGUMENT.—The Poet, treating of the same punishment as in the last Canto, relates that he turned toward a flame in which was the Count Guido da Montefeltro, whose inquiries respecting the state of Romagna he answers; and Guido is thereby induced to declare who he is, and why condemned to that torment.
NOW upward rose the flame, and still’d its lightTo speak no more, and now pass’d on with leaveFrom the mild poet gain’d; when following cameAnother, from whose top a sound confused,Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look.As the Sicilian bull,13 that rightfullyHis cries first echoed who had shaped its mould,Did so rebellow, with the voice of himTormented, that the brazen monster seem’dPierced through with pain; thus, while no way they found,Nor avenue immediate through the flame,Into its language turn’d the dismal words:But soon as they had won their passage forth,Up from the point, which vibrating obey’dTheir motion at the tongue, these sounds were heard:“O thou! to whom I now direct my voice,That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase,‘Depart thou; I solicit thee no more;’Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive,Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile,And with me parley: lo! it irks not me,And yet I burn. If but e’en now thou fallInto this blind world, from that pleasant landOf Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt,Tell me if those who in Romagna dwellHave peace or war. For of the mountains there14Was I, betwixt Urbino and the heightWhence Tiber first unlocks his mighty flood.”Leaning I listen’d yet with heedful ear,When, as he touch’d my side, the leader thus:“Speak thou: he is a Latian.” My replyWas ready, and I spake without delay:“O spirit! who art hidden here below,Never was thy Romagna without warIn her proud tyrants’ bosoms, nor is now:But open war there left I none. The state,Ravenna hath maintain’d this many a year,Is stedfast. There Polenta’s eagle15 broods;And in his broad circumference of plumeO’ershadows Cervia. The green talons graspThe land,16 that stood erewhile the proof so longAnd piled in bloody heap the host of France.“The old mastiff of Verrucchio and the young,17That tore Montagna18 in their wrath, still make,Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs.“Lamone’s city, and Santerno’s,19 rangeUnder the lion of the snowy lair,20Inconstant partisan, that changeth sides,Or ever summer yields to winter’s frost.And she, whose flank is wash’d of Savio’s wave,21As ’twixt the level and the steep she lies,Lives so ’twixt tyrant power and liberty.“Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou:Be not more hard than others. In the world,So may thy name still rear its forehead high.”Then roar’d awhile the fire, its sharpen’d pointOn either side waved, and thus breathed at last:“If I did think my answer were to oneWho ever could return unto the world,This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne’er,If true be told me, any from this depthHas found his upward way, I answer thee,Nor fear lest infamy record the words.“A man of arms22 at first, I clothed me thenIn good Saint Francis’ girdle, hoping soTo have made amends. And certainly my hopeHad fail’d not, but that he, whom curses light on,The high priest,23 again seduced me into sin.And how, and wherefore, listen while I tell.Long as this spirit moved the bones and pulpMy mother gave me, less my deeds bespakeThe nature of the lion than the fox.All ways of winding subtlety I knew,And with such art conducted, that the soundReach’d the world’s limit. Soon as to that partOf life I found me come, and when each behovesTo lower sails and gather in the lines;That, which before had pleased me, then I rued,And to repentance and confession turn’d,Wretch that I was; and well it had bested me.The chief of the new Pharisees24 meantime,Waging his warfare near the Lateran,Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foesAll Christians were, nor against Acre oneHad fought,25 nor traffick’d in the Soldan’s land),He, his great charge nor sacred ministry,In himself reverenced, nor in me that cordWhich used to mark with leanness whom it girded.As in Soracte, Constantine besought,To cure his leprosy, Sylvester’s aid;So me, to cure the fever of his pride,This man besought: my counsel to that endHe ask’d; and I was silent; for his wordsSeem’d drunken: but forthwith he thus resumed:‘From thy heart banish fear: of all offenceI hitherto absolve thee. In return,Teach me my purpose so to execute,That Penestrino cumber earth no more.Heaven, as thou knowest, I have power to shutAnd open: and the keys are therefore twain,The which my predecessor26 meanly prized.’“Then, yielding to the forceful arguments,Of silence, as more perilous I deem’d,And answer’d: ‘Father! since thou washest meClear of that guilt wherein I now must fall,Large promise with performance scant, be sure,Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.’“When I was number’d with the dead, then cameSaint Francis for me; but a cherub darkHe met, who cried, ‘Wrong me not; he is mine,And must below to join the wretched crew,For the deceitful counsel which he gave.E’er since I watch’d him, hovering at his hair.No power can the impenitent absolve;Nor to repent, and will, at once consist,By contradiction absolute forbid.’Oh misery! how I shook myself, when heSeized me, and cried, ‘Thou haply thought’st me notA disputant in logic so exact!’To Minos down he bore me; and the judgeTwined eight times round his callous back the tail,Which biting with excess of rage, he spake:‘This is a guilty soul, that in the fireMust vanish.’ Hence, perdition-doom’d, I roveA prey to rankling sorrow, in this garb.”When he had thus fulfill’d his words, the flameIn dolour parted, beating to and fro,And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went,I and my leader, up along the rock,Far as another arch, that overhangsThe foss, wherein the penalty is paidOf those who load them with committed sin.
The reading ends with Canto XXVII on page 114; Canto XXVIII, which begins lower on that page, and its two notes are left out.
Volume 20, pages 102–114 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for May 15 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 50. There the assignment reads “Vol. 20, pp. 102–114.” Read it in the guide.