CANTO XXXIIIHis jaws uplifting from their fell repast,That sinner wip’d them on the hairs o’ th’ head,Which he behind had mangled, then began:“Thy will obeying, I call up afreshSorrow past cure, which but to think of wringsMy heart, or ere I tell on’t. But if words,That I may utter, shall prove seed to bearFruit of eternal infamy to him,The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at onceShalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst beI know not, nor how here below art come:But Florentine thou seemest of a truth,When I do hear thee. Know I was on earthCount Ugolino, and th’ Archbishop heRuggieri. Why I neighbour him so close,Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughtsIn him my trust reposing, I was ta’enAnd after murder’d, need is not I tell.What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is,How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear,And know if he have wrong’d me. A small grateWithin that mew, which for my sake the nameOf famine bears, where others yet must pine,Already through its opening sev’ral moonsHad shown me, when I slept the evil sleep,That from the future tore the curtain off.This one, methought, as master of the sport,Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelpsUnto the mountain, which forbids the sightOf Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachsInquisitive and keen, before him rang’dLanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi.After short course the father and the sonsSeem’d tir’d and lagging, and methought I sawThe sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awokeBefore the dawn, amid their sleep I heardMy sons (for they were with me) weep and askFor bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pangThou feel at thinking what my heart foretold;And if not now, why use thy tears to flow?Now had they waken’d; and the hour drew nearWhen they were wont to bring us food; the mindOf each misgave him through his dream, and IHeard, at its outlet underneath lock’d upThe’ horrible tower: whence uttering not a wordI look’d upon the visage of my sons.I wept not: so all stone I felt within.They wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried:“Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?” YetI shed no tear, nor answer’d all that dayNor the next night, until another sunCame out upon the world. When a faint beamHad to our doleful prison made its way,And in four countenances I descry’dThe image of my own, on either handThrough agony I bit, and they who thoughtI did it through desire of feeding, roseO’ th’ sudden, and cried, ‘Father, we should grieveFar less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav’stThese weeds of miserable flesh we wear,And do thou strip them off from us again.’Then, not to make them sadder, I kept downMy spirit in stillness. That day and the nextWe all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth!Why open’dst not upon us? When we cameTo the fourth day, then Geddo at my feetOutstretch’d did fling him, crying, ‘Hast no helpFor me, my father!’ “There he died, and e’enPlainly as thou seest me, saw I the threeFall one by one ’twixt the fifth day and sixth:Whence I betook me now grown blind to gropeOver them all, and for three days aloudCall’d on them who were dead. Then fasting gotThe mastery of grief.” Thus having spoke,Once more upon the wretched skull his teethHe fasten’d, like a mastiff’s ’gainst the boneFirm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shameOf all the people, who their dwelling makeIn that fair region, where th’ Italian voiceIs heard, since that thy neighbours are so slackTo punish, from their deep foundations riseCapraia and Gorgona, and dam upThe mouth of Arno, that each soul in theeMay perish in the waters! What if fameReported that thy castles were betray’dBy Ugolino, yet no right hadst thouTo stretch his children on the rack. For them,Brigata, Ugaccione, and the pairOf gentle ones, of whom my song hath told,Their tender years, thou modern Thebes! did makeUncapable of guilt. Onward we pass’d,Where others skarf’d in rugged folds of iceNot on their feet were turn’d, but each revers’dThere very weeping suffers not to weep;For at their eyes grief seeking passage findsImpediment, and rolling inward turnsFor increase of sharp anguish: the first tearsHang cluster’d, and like crystal vizors show,Under the socket brimming all the cup.Now though the cold had from my face dislodg’dEach feeling, as ’twere callous, yet me seem’dSome breath of wind I felt. “Whence cometh this,”Said I, “my master? Is not here belowAll vapour quench’d?”—“‘Thou shalt be speedily,”He answer’d, “where thine eye shall tell thee whenceThe cause descrying of this airy shower.”Then cried out one in the chill crust who mourn’d:“O souls so cruel! that the farthest postHath been assign’d you, from this face removeThe harden’d veil, that I may vent the griefImpregnate at my heart, some little spaceEre it congeal again!” I thus replied:“Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid;And if I extricate thee not, far downAs to the lowest ice may I descend!”“The friar Alberigo,” answered he,“Am I, who from the evil garden pluck’dIts fruitage, and am here repaid, the dateMore luscious for my fig.”—“Hah!” I exclaim’d,“Art thou too dead!”—“How in the world aloftIt fareth with my body,” answer’d he,“I am right ignorant. Such privilegeHath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soulDrops hither, ere by Atropos divorc’d.And that thou mayst wipe out more willinglyThe glazed tear-drops that o’erlay mine eyes,Know that the soul, that moment she betrays,As I did, yields her body to a fiendWho after moves and governs it at will,Till all its time be rounded; headlong sheFalls to this cistern. And perchance aboveDoth yet appear the body of a ghost,Who here behind me winters. Him thou know’st,If thou but newly art arriv’d below.The years are many that have pass’d away,Since to this fastness Branca Doria came.”“Now,” answer’d I, “methinks thou mockest me,For Branca Doria never yet hath died,But doth all natural functions of a man,Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on.”He thus: “Not yet unto that upper fossBy th’ evil talons guarded, where the pitchTenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach’d,When this one left a demon in his steadIn his own body, and of one his kin,Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forthThy hand, and ope mine eyes.” I op’d them not.Ill manners were best courtesy to him.Ah Genoese! men perverse in every way,With every foulness stain’d, why from the earthAre ye not cancel’d? Such an one of yoursI with Romagna’s darkest spirit found,As for his doings even now in soulIs in Cocytus plung’d, and yet doth seemIn body still alive upon the earth.
His jaws uplifting from their fell repast,That sinner wip’d them on the hairs o’ th’ head,Which he behind had mangled, then began:“Thy will obeying, I call up afreshSorrow past cure, which but to think of wringsMy heart, or ere I tell on’t. But if words,That I may utter, shall prove seed to bearFruit of eternal infamy to him,The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at onceShalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst beI know not, nor how here below art come:But Florentine thou seemest of a truth,When I do hear thee. Know I was on earthCount Ugolino, and th’ Archbishop heRuggieri. Why I neighbour him so close,Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughtsIn him my trust reposing, I was ta’enAnd after murder’d, need is not I tell.What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is,How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear,And know if he have wrong’d me. A small grateWithin that mew, which for my sake the nameOf famine bears, where others yet must pine,Already through its opening sev’ral moonsHad shown me, when I slept the evil sleep,That from the future tore the curtain off.This one, methought, as master of the sport,Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelpsUnto the mountain, which forbids the sightOf Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachsInquisitive and keen, before him rang’dLanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi.After short course the father and the sonsSeem’d tir’d and lagging, and methought I sawThe sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awokeBefore the dawn, amid their sleep I heardMy sons (for they were with me) weep and askFor bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pangThou feel at thinking what my heart foretold;And if not now, why use thy tears to flow?Now had they waken’d; and the hour drew nearWhen they were wont to bring us food; the mindOf each misgave him through his dream, and IHeard, at its outlet underneath lock’d upThe’ horrible tower: whence uttering not a wordI look’d upon the visage of my sons.I wept not: so all stone I felt within.They wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried:“Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?” YetI shed no tear, nor answer’d all that dayNor the next night, until another sunCame out upon the world. When a faint beamHad to our doleful prison made its way,And in four countenances I descry’dThe image of my own, on either handThrough agony I bit, and they who thoughtI did it through desire of feeding, roseO’ th’ sudden, and cried, ‘Father, we should grieveFar less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav’stThese weeds of miserable flesh we wear,And do thou strip them off from us again.’Then, not to make them sadder, I kept downMy spirit in stillness. That day and the nextWe all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth!Why open’dst not upon us? When we cameTo the fourth day, then Geddo at my feetOutstretch’d did fling him, crying, ‘Hast no helpFor me, my father!’ “There he died, and e’enPlainly as thou seest me, saw I the threeFall one by one ’twixt the fifth day and sixth:Whence I betook me now grown blind to gropeOver them all, and for three days aloudCall’d on them who were dead. Then fasting gotThe mastery of grief.” Thus having spoke,Once more upon the wretched skull his teethHe fasten’d, like a mastiff’s ’gainst the boneFirm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shameOf all the people, who their dwelling makeIn that fair region, where th’ Italian voiceIs heard, since that thy neighbours are so slackTo punish, from their deep foundations riseCapraia and Gorgona, and dam upThe mouth of Arno, that each soul in theeMay perish in the waters! What if fameReported that thy castles were betray’dBy Ugolino, yet no right hadst thouTo stretch his children on the rack. For them,Brigata, Ugaccione, and the pairOf gentle ones, of whom my song hath told,Their tender years, thou modern Thebes! did makeUncapable of guilt. Onward we pass’d,Where others skarf’d in rugged folds of iceNot on their feet were turn’d, but each revers’d
There very weeping suffers not to weep;For at their eyes grief seeking passage findsImpediment, and rolling inward turnsFor increase of sharp anguish: the first tearsHang cluster’d, and like crystal vizors show,Under the socket brimming all the cup.
Now though the cold had from my face dislodg’dEach feeling, as ’twere callous, yet me seem’dSome breath of wind I felt. “Whence cometh this,”Said I, “my master? Is not here belowAll vapour quench’d?”—“‘Thou shalt be speedily,”He answer’d, “where thine eye shall tell thee whenceThe cause descrying of this airy shower.”
Then cried out one in the chill crust who mourn’d:“O souls so cruel! that the farthest postHath been assign’d you, from this face removeThe harden’d veil, that I may vent the griefImpregnate at my heart, some little spaceEre it congeal again!” I thus replied:“Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid;And if I extricate thee not, far downAs to the lowest ice may I descend!”
“The friar Alberigo,” answered he,“Am I, who from the evil garden pluck’dIts fruitage, and am here repaid, the dateMore luscious for my fig.”—“Hah!” I exclaim’d,“Art thou too dead!”—“How in the world aloftIt fareth with my body,” answer’d he,“I am right ignorant. Such privilegeHath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soulDrops hither, ere by Atropos divorc’d.And that thou mayst wipe out more willinglyThe glazed tear-drops that o’erlay mine eyes,Know that the soul, that moment she betrays,As I did, yields her body to a fiendWho after moves and governs it at will,Till all its time be rounded; headlong sheFalls to this cistern. And perchance aboveDoth yet appear the body of a ghost,Who here behind me winters. Him thou know’st,If thou but newly art arriv’d below.The years are many that have pass’d away,Since to this fastness Branca Doria came.”
“Now,” answer’d I, “methinks thou mockest me,For Branca Doria never yet hath died,But doth all natural functions of a man,Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on.”
He thus: “Not yet unto that upper fossBy th’ evil talons guarded, where the pitchTenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach’d,When this one left a demon in his steadIn his own body, and of one his kin,Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forthThy hand, and ope mine eyes.” I op’d them not.Ill manners were best courtesy to him.
Ah Genoese! men perverse in every way,With every foulness stain’d, why from the earthAre ye not cancel’d? Such an one of yoursI with Romagna’s darkest spirit found,As for his doings even now in soulIs in Cocytus plung’d, and yet doth seemIn body still alive upon the earth.