The Portable Dante (37 page)

Another soul said: “Oh, may the desire that draws you up the mountain be fulfilled; and you, please help me satisfy my own.

I am Buonconte, once from Montefeltro; no one, not even Giovanna, cares for me, and so, I walk ashamed among these souls. ”

I said: “What violence—or was it chance?— swept you so far away from Campaldin that no one ever found your burial place?”

He said: “Below the Casentino flows the river Archiano, which arises above the convent in the Apennines.

Beyond, it takes another name, and there I made my way, my throat an open wound, fleeing on foot, and bloodying the plain.

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.

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?

You may be getting his immortal part— and won it for a measly tear, at that, but for his body I have other plans!’

You know how vapor gathers in the air, then turns to water when it has returned to where the cold condenses it as rain.

To that ill will, intent on evilness, he joined intelligence and, by that power within his nature, stirred up mist and wind,

until the valley, by the end of day, from Pratomagno to the mountain chain, was fogbound. With dense clouds he charged the sky:

the saturated air turned into rain; water poured down, and what the sodden ground rejected filled and overflowed the deepest

gullies, whose spilling waters came to join and form great torrents rushing violently, relentlessly, to reach the royal stream.

Close to its mouth the raging Archiano discovered my cold body—sweeping it into the Arno, loosening the cross

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. ”

“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,

“Oh, please remember me! I am called Pia. Siena gave me life, Maremma death, as he knows who began it when he put

his gem upon my finger, pledging faith. ”

The loser, when a game of dice breaks up, despondent, often lingers there as he, learning the hard way, replays all his throws.

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.

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.

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.

I saw the Aretine who met his death at the revengeful hand of Ghin di Tacco; I saw that soul who drowned giving pursuit.

I saw with hands outstretched, imploring me, Federigo Novello, and the Pisan, too, whose death inspired good Marzucco’s strength.

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:

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.

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:

“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;

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?”

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.

High justice would in no way be debased if ardent love should cancel instantly the debt these penitents must satisfy.

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.

Do not try to resolve so deep a doubt; wait until she shall make it clearer—she, the light between truth and intelligence.

You understand me: I mean Beatrice, she will appear upon this mountain top; you will behold her smiling in her bliss. ”

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. ”

“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.

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.

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. ”

We made our way toward him. (O Lombard soul, how stately and disdainful you appeared, what majesty was in your steady gaze!)

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.

But Virgil went straight up to him and asked directions for the best way to ascend. The shade ignored the question put to him,

asking of us, instead, where we were born and who we were. My gentle guide began: “Mantua …” And the other, until then

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.

(Ah, slavish Italy, the home of grief, ship without pilot caught in a raging storm, no queen of provinces—whorehouse of shame!

How quick that noble soul was to respond to the mere sound of his sweet city’s name, by welcoming his fellow citizen—

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!

O wretched Italy, search all your coasts, probe to your very center: can you find within you any part that is at peace?

What matter if Justinian repaired the bridle—if the saddle’s empty now! The shame would have been less if he had not.

You priests who should pursue your holiness, remembering what God prescribes for you, let Caesar take the saddle as he should—

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!

O German Albert, you abandon her, allowing her, ungoverned, to run wild. You should have been astride her saddle-bow!

Let a just judgment fall down from the stars upon your house: one unmistakable and strange enough to terrify your heir!

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.

Come see the Cappelletti, callous heart, see the Monaldi, the Montecchi ruined, the Filippeschi fearful of their fate.

Come, heartless one, come see your noblemen who suffer; help them heal their wounds; come see how safe it is to dwell in Santafior.

Come see your city, Rome, in mourning now, widowed, alone, lamenting night and day: “My Caesar, why have you abandoned me?”

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!

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?

Or is this part of a great plan conceived in Your deep intellect, to some good end that we are powerless to understand?

For all the towns of Italy are filled with tyrants: any dolt who plays the role of partisan can pass for a Marcellus.

Florence, my Florence! How happy you must be with this digression, for you’re not involved— thank your resourceful citizens for that!

Some men have justice in their hearts; they
think
before they shoot their judgments from the bow— your people merely shoot off words about it!

Some men think twice when offered public post; your citizens accept before they’re asked, shouting, “I’ll gladly sacrifice myself!”

Rejoice, I say to you, you have good cause, rich as you are, so wise, knowing such peace! The facts bear out the truth of what I say.

Athens and Lacedaemon, still well known for ancient laws and civil discipline, showed but the faintest signs of order then

compared to you, who plan so cleverly that by the time November is half done the laws spun in October are in shreds.

How often within memory have you changed coinage and customs, laws and offices, and members of your body politic!

Think back, and if you see the truth, you’ll see that you are like a woman, very sick, who finds no rest on her soft, sumptuous bed,

but turns and tosses to escape her pain.)