The Portable Dante (48 page)

then, we cry out against Pygmalion, how he turned traitor, thief, and parricide through his unsated appetite for gold;

and avaricious Midas, whose request, moved by his greed, made him a starveling wretch, the butt of ridicule through centuries;

then we recall the foolishness of Achan, who stole the spoils, and stirred Joshua’s wrath— which seems, as we recite, to sting him still.

Next we accuse Sapphira with her mate; we hail the hoofs that kicked Heliodorus; and, all around the mount, echoes the shame

of Polymnestor slaying Polydorus; the last cry heard is ‘Crassus, tell us, now, what does gold taste like?
You
should surely know!’

At times we cry out loud, at times speak soft, according as our feelings spur us on, sometimes with greater, sometimes lesser force.

So, I was not the only one to cry the good we praise by day; it was by chance no other spirit nearby raised his voice. ”

We had already taken leave of him and we were striving to cover as much ground as those prostrate souls allowed us to,

when, suddenly, I felt the mountain shake as if about to crumble, and I felt my body numb, seized by the chill of death.

Delos, before Latona nested there, in order to give birth to those two eyes that shine in Heaven, was never shaken more.

Then on all sides a shout rose up, so loud my master drew close to my side and said: “You need not fear while I am still your guide. ”

Gloria in excelsis,
all sang,
Deo
— at least, this is what those close by sang out, whose words I could hear clearly as they cried.

As had the shepherds who first heard that song, we stood fixed with our souls suspended there until the hymn ended, the tremor ceased.

Then we continued on our sacred road: beneath our eyes the prostrate souls once more were wholly given up to their laments.

Never before, unless my memory errs, had my blind ignorance stirred up in me so violent a desire for the truth

as I felt now, racking my brain to know. I dared not slow our pace with questioning, and I could see no explanation there.

I walked along, timid, deep in my thoughts.

The natural thirst which nothing satisfies except that water begged for long ago by the poor woman of Samaria

tormented me, and haste was urging me along the crowded path, and I was still grieving at the just pain those souls must pay,

when suddenly—just as we read in Luke that Christ, new-risen from the tomb, appeared to the two men on the Emmaus road—

a shade appeared! He had come from behind while we were trying not to step on shades, quite unaware of him until he spoke:

“May God, my brothers, give you peace. ” At that, we quickly turned around, and Virgil then responded to his words appropriately,

and said: “May God’s True Court which sentenced me to eternal banishment, lead you in peace into the Congregation of the Blest. ”

“What’s that?” he said as we kept forging on. “If you are souls whom God will not receive, who let you climb His stairway this far up?”

And then my teacher said: “If you observe those marks the angel has traced on his brow, you’ll see that he must dwell among the Just.

But she who labors spinning day and night, had not spun out for him the flax which Clotho packs on her distaff for each one of us;

therefore, his soul, sister to yours and mine, in coming up, could not come by itself, because it does not see as our eyes do.

And so I was brought up from Hell’s wide throat to serve him as a guide, and guide I shall as far as my own knowledge will permit.

But can you tell me why the mountain shook so hard just now, and why all of the souls down to its marshy base, cried out as one?”

My leader’s question pierced the needle’s eye of my desire, and with the eager hope that this aroused, I felt my thirst relieved.

The shade said: “Sacred laws that rule this mount will not let anything take place that is uncustomary or irregular.

This place is not subject to any change: what Heaven takes from itself into itself, and nothing else, can serve as cause up here;

therefore no rain, no hail, no snow can fall, nor dew nor hoarfrost form at any point beyond the three-step stairway down below.

There are no clouds, misty or dense, no sign of lightning or of Thaumas’ daughter, she who often moves from place to place below;

nor can dry vapors rise beyond the height of those three steps of which I just now spoke, whereon Saint Peter’s vicar rests his feet.

Quakes may occur below, slight or severe, but tremors caused by winds hid in the earth (I know not why) have never reached this high.

Up here the mountain trembles when some soul feels itself pure enough to stand erect or start at once to climb—then, comes the shout.

The will to rise, alone, proves purity: once freed, it takes possession of the soul and wills the soul to change its company.

It willed to climb before, but the desire High Justice set against it, inspired it to wish to suffer—as once it wished to sin.

And I, who for five hundred years and more, have lain here in my pain, felt only now will free to raise me to a higher sill.

That’s why you felt the quake and why you heard the pious dwellers on the mount praise God. May He soon call them up to be with Him. ”

This was his explanation. And my joy was inexpressible: the more the thirst, the more enjoyable becomes the drink.

And my wise leader: “Now I see what net holds you bound here, and how the mesh is torn, why the mount shakes, why you rejoice as one.

Now, if it please you, I would like to know who you once were, and learn from your own words why you have lain so many centuries here. ”

“During the rule of the good Titus, who, assisted by the King of Kings, avenged the wounds that poured forth blood which Judas sold,

I bore the title that endures the most and which is honored most, ” that soul replied; “renown I had, not yet the Christian faith.

The spirit of my verses was so sweet that from Toulouse, Rome called me to herself, and judged me worthy of the myrtle crown.

My name is Statius, still well known on earth. I sang of Thebes, then of Achilles’ might, but found that second weight too great to bear.

The spark that kindled my poetic ardor came from the sacred flame that set on fire more than a thousand poets: I mean the
Aeneid.

That was the mother of my poetry, the nurse that gave it suck. Without that poem, my verses would have not been worth a thing.

And if only I could have been alive when Virgil lived, I would consent to spend an extra year of exile on the mount. ”

At these words Virgil turned to me. His look told me in silence: “Silence!” But the power of a man’s will is often powerless:

laughter and tears follow so close upon the passions that provoke them that the more sincere the man, the less they obey his will.

I smiled and unsmilcd quicker than a blink, but he stopped speaking; staring straight at me, into the eyes, where secrets are betrayed:

“So may your toiling win you grace, ” he said, “tell me the reason for your smile just now—that smile that quickly came and quickly went. ”

Here I am caught between opposing sides: the one tells me be quiet, the other bids me to speak up. And so, I sigh. My guide

perfectly understood: “Don’t be afraid to speak, ” he said: “speak to him, answer now the question he has asked so earnestly. ”

“You seem to find my smiling very strange, ” I said to him, “O ancient spirit, but I have to tell you something stranger still:

This shade here who directs my eyes to Heaven is the poet Virgil, who bequeathed to you the power to sing the deeds of men and gods.

In truth, the only reason for my smile, is that you chose to mention Virgil here: your very words are guilty of my smile. ”

Already he was bending to embrace my teacher’s feet, but Virgil: “Brother, no!
You
are a shade; it is a shade you see. ”

And Statius, rising: “Now you understand how much my love for you burns deep in me, when I forget about our emptiness

and deal with shadows as with solid things. ”