CANTO XXIIIIn silence and in solitude we went,One first, the other following his steps,As minor friars journeying on their road.The present fray had turn’d my thoughts to museUpon old Aesop’s fable, where he toldWhat fate unto the mouse and frog befell.For language hath not sounds more like in sense,Than are these chances, if the originAnd end of each be heedfully compar’d.And as one thought bursts from another forth,So afterward from that another sprang,Which added doubly to my former fear.For thus I reason’d: “These through us have beenSo foil’d, with loss and mock’ry so complete,As needs must sting them sore. If anger thenBe to their evil will conjoin’d, more fellThey shall pursue us, than the savage houndSnatches the leveret, panting ’twixt his jaws.”Already I perceiv’d my hair stand allOn end with terror, and look’d eager back.“Teacher,” I thus began, “if speedilyThyself and me thou hide not, much I dreadThose evil talons. Even now behindThey urge us: quick imagination worksSo forcibly, that I already feel them.”He answer’d: “Were I form’d of leaded glass,I should not sooner draw unto myselfThy outward image, than I now imprintThat from within. This moment came thy thoughtsPresented before mine, with similar actAnd count’nance similar, so that from bothI one design have fram’d. If the right coastIncline so much, that we may thence descendInto the other chasm, we shall escapeSecure from this imagined pursuit.”He had not spoke his purpose to the end,When I from far beheld them with spread wingsApproach to take us. Suddenly my guideCaught me, ev’n as a mother that from sleepIs by the noise arous’d, and near her seesThe climbing fires, who snatches up her babeAnd flies ne’er pausing, careful more of himThan of herself, that but a single vestClings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beachSupine he cast him, to that pendent rock,Which closes on one part the other chasm.Never ran water with such hurrying paceAdown the tube to turn a landmill’s wheel,When nearest it approaches to the spokes,As then along that edge my master ran,Carrying me in his bosom, as a child,Not a companion. Scarcely had his feetReach’d to the lowest of the bed beneath,When over us the steep they reach’d; but fearIn him was none; for that high Providence,Which plac’d them ministers of the fifth foss,Power of departing thence took from them all.There in the depth we saw a painted tribe,Who pac’d with tardy steps around, and wept,Faint in appearance and o’ercome with toil.Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low downBefore their eyes, in fashion like to thoseWorn by the monks in Cologne. Their outsideWas overlaid with gold, dazzling to view,But leaden all within, and of such weight,That Frederick’s compar’d to these were straw.Oh, everlasting wearisome attire!We yet once more with them together turn’dTo leftward, on their dismal moan intent.But by the weight oppress’d, so slowly cameThe fainting people, that our companyWas chang’d at every movement of the step.Whence I my guide address’d: “See that thou findSome spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known,And to that end look round thee as thou go’st.”Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice,Cried after us aloud: “Hold in your feet,Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air.Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish.”Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake:“Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed.”I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose lookImpatient eagerness of mind was mark’dTo overtake me; but the load they bareAnd narrow path retarded their approach.Soon as arriv’d, they with an eye askancePerus’d me, but spake not: then turning eachTo other thus conferring said: “This oneSeems, by the action of his throat, alive.And, be they dead, what privilege allowsThey walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?”Then thus to me: “Tuscan, who visitestThe college of the mourning hypocrites,Disdain not to instruct us who thou art.”“By Arno’s pleasant stream,” I thus replied,“In the great city I was bred and grew,And wear the body I have ever worn.but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief,As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks?What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?”“Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue,”One of them answer’d, “are so leaden gross,That with their weight they make the balancesTo crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were,Bologna’s natives, Catalano I,He Loderingo nam’d, and by thy landTogether taken, as men used to takeA single and indifferent arbiter,To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped,Gardingo’s vicinage can best declare.”“O friars!” I began, “your miseries—”But there brake off, for one had caught my eye,Fix’d to a cross with three stakes on the ground:He, when he saw me, writh’d himself, throughoutDistorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard.And Catalano, who thereof was ’ware,Thus spake: “That pierced spirit, whom intentThou view’st, was he who gave the PhariseesCounsel, that it were fitting for one manTo suffer for the people. He doth lieTransverse; nor any passes, but him firstBehoves make feeling trial how each weighs.In straits like this along the foss are plac’dThe father of his consort, and the restPartakers in that council, seed of illAnd sorrow to the Jews.” I noted then,How Virgil gaz’d with wonder upon him,Thus abjectly extended on the crossIn banishment eternal. To the friarHe next his words address’d: “We pray ye tell,If so be lawful, whether on our rightLies any opening in the rock, wherebyWe both may issue hence, without constraintOn the dark angels, that compell’d they comeTo lead us from this depth.” He thus replied:“Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rockFrom the next circle moving, which o’erstepsEach vale of horror, save that here his copeIs shatter’d. By the ruin ye may mount:For on the side it slants, and most the heightRises below.” With head bent down awhileMy leader stood, then spake: “He warn’d us ill,Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook.”To whom the friar: “At Bologna erstI many vices of the devil heard,Among the rest was said, ‘He is a liar,And the father of lies!’” When he had spoke,My leader with large strides proceeded on,Somewhat disturb’d with anger in his look.I therefore left the spirits heavy laden,And following, his beloved footsteps mark’d.
CANTO XXIIIIn silence and in solitude we went,One first, the other following his steps,As minor friars journeying on their road.The present fray had turn’d my thoughts to museUpon old Aesop’s fable, where he toldWhat fate unto the mouse and frog befell.For language hath not sounds more like in sense,Than are these chances, if the originAnd end of each be heedfully compar’d.And as one thought bursts from another forth,So afterward from that another sprang,Which added doubly to my former fear.For thus I reason’d: “These through us have beenSo foil’d, with loss and mock’ry so complete,As needs must sting them sore. If anger thenBe to their evil will conjoin’d, more fellThey shall pursue us, than the savage houndSnatches the leveret, panting ’twixt his jaws.”Already I perceiv’d my hair stand allOn end with terror, and look’d eager back.“Teacher,” I thus began, “if speedilyThyself and me thou hide not, much I dreadThose evil talons. Even now behindThey urge us: quick imagination worksSo forcibly, that I already feel them.”He answer’d: “Were I form’d of leaded glass,I should not sooner draw unto myselfThy outward image, than I now imprintThat from within. This moment came thy thoughtsPresented before mine, with similar actAnd count’nance similar, so that from bothI one design have fram’d. If the right coastIncline so much, that we may thence descendInto the other chasm, we shall escapeSecure from this imagined pursuit.”He had not spoke his purpose to the end,When I from far beheld them with spread wingsApproach to take us. Suddenly my guideCaught me, ev’n as a mother that from sleepIs by the noise arous’d, and near her seesThe climbing fires, who snatches up her babeAnd flies ne’er pausing, careful more of himThan of herself, that but a single vestClings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beachSupine he cast him, to that pendent rock,Which closes on one part the other chasm.Never ran water with such hurrying paceAdown the tube to turn a landmill’s wheel,When nearest it approaches to the spokes,As then along that edge my master ran,Carrying me in his bosom, as a child,Not a companion. Scarcely had his feetReach’d to the lowest of the bed beneath,When over us the steep they reach’d; but fearIn him was none; for that high Providence,Which plac’d them ministers of the fifth foss,Power of departing thence took from them all.There in the depth we saw a painted tribe,Who pac’d with tardy steps around, and wept,Faint in appearance and o’ercome with toil.Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low downBefore their eyes, in fashion like to thoseWorn by the monks in Cologne. Their outsideWas overlaid with gold, dazzling to view,But leaden all within, and of such weight,That Frederick’s compar’d to these were straw.Oh, everlasting wearisome attire!We yet once more with them together turn’dTo leftward, on their dismal moan intent.But by the weight oppress’d, so slowly cameThe fainting people, that our companyWas chang’d at every movement of the step.Whence I my guide address’d: “See that thou findSome spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known,And to that end look round thee as thou go’st.”Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice,Cried after us aloud: “Hold in your feet,Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air.Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish.”Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake:“Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed.”I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose lookImpatient eagerness of mind was mark’dTo overtake me; but the load they bareAnd narrow path retarded their approach.Soon as arriv’d, they with an eye askancePerus’d me, but spake not: then turning eachTo other thus conferring said: “This oneSeems, by the action of his throat, alive.And, be they dead, what privilege allowsThey walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?”Then thus to me: “Tuscan, who visitestThe college of the mourning hypocrites,Disdain not to instruct us who thou art.”“By Arno’s pleasant stream,” I thus replied,“In the great city I was bred and grew,And wear the body I have ever worn.but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief,As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks?What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?”“Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue,”One of them answer’d, “are so leaden gross,That with their weight they make the balancesTo crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were,Bologna’s natives, Catalano I,He Loderingo nam’d, and by thy landTogether taken, as men used to takeA single and indifferent arbiter,To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped,Gardingo’s vicinage can best declare.”“O friars!” I began, “your miseries—”But there brake off, for one had caught my eye,Fix’d to a cross with three stakes on the ground:He, when he saw me, writh’d himself, throughoutDistorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard.And Catalano, who thereof was ’ware,Thus spake: “That pierced spirit, whom intentThou view’st, was he who gave the PhariseesCounsel, that it were fitting for one manTo suffer for the people. He doth lieTransverse; nor any passes, but him firstBehoves make feeling trial how each weighs.In straits like this along the foss are plac’dThe father of his consort, and the restPartakers in that council, seed of illAnd sorrow to the Jews.” I noted then,How Virgil gaz’d with wonder upon him,Thus abjectly extended on the crossIn banishment eternal. To the friarHe next his words address’d: “We pray ye tell,If so be lawful, whether on our rightLies any opening in the rock, wherebyWe both may issue hence, without constraintOn the dark angels, that compell’d they comeTo lead us from this depth.” He thus replied:“Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rockFrom the next circle moving, which o’erstepsEach vale of horror, save that here his copeIs shatter’d. By the ruin ye may mount:For on the side it slants, and most the heightRises below.” With head bent down awhileMy leader stood, then spake: “He warn’d us ill,Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook.”To whom the friar: “At Bologna erstI many vices of the devil heard,Among the rest was said, ‘He is a liar,And the father of lies!’” When he had spoke,My leader with large strides proceeded on,Somewhat disturb’d with anger in his look.I therefore left the spirits heavy laden,And following, his beloved footsteps mark’d.
In silence and in solitude we went,One first, the other following his steps,As minor friars journeying on their road.The present fray had turn’d my thoughts to museUpon old Aesop’s fable, where he toldWhat fate unto the mouse and frog befell.For language hath not sounds more like in sense,Than are these chances, if the originAnd end of each be heedfully compar’d.And as one thought bursts from another forth,So afterward from that another sprang,Which added doubly to my former fear.For thus I reason’d: “These through us have beenSo foil’d, with loss and mock’ry so complete,As needs must sting them sore. If anger thenBe to their evil will conjoin’d, more fellThey shall pursue us, than the savage houndSnatches the leveret, panting ’twixt his jaws.”Already I perceiv’d my hair stand allOn end with terror, and look’d eager back.“Teacher,” I thus began, “if speedilyThyself and me thou hide not, much I dreadThose evil talons. Even now behindThey urge us: quick imagination worksSo forcibly, that I already feel them.”He answer’d: “Were I form’d of leaded glass,I should not sooner draw unto myselfThy outward image, than I now imprintThat from within. This moment came thy thoughtsPresented before mine, with similar actAnd count’nance similar, so that from bothI one design have fram’d. If the right coastIncline so much, that we may thence descendInto the other chasm, we shall escapeSecure from this imagined pursuit.”He had not spoke his purpose to the end,When I from far beheld them with spread wingsApproach to take us. Suddenly my guideCaught me, ev’n as a mother that from sleepIs by the noise arous’d, and near her seesThe climbing fires, who snatches up her babeAnd flies ne’er pausing, careful more of himThan of herself, that but a single vestClings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beachSupine he cast him, to that pendent rock,Which closes on one part the other chasm.Never ran water with such hurrying paceAdown the tube to turn a landmill’s wheel,When nearest it approaches to the spokes,As then along that edge my master ran,Carrying me in his bosom, as a child,Not a companion. Scarcely had his feetReach’d to the lowest of the bed beneath,
When over us the steep they reach’d; but fearIn him was none; for that high Providence,Which plac’d them ministers of the fifth foss,Power of departing thence took from them all.There in the depth we saw a painted tribe,Who pac’d with tardy steps around, and wept,Faint in appearance and o’ercome with toil.Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low downBefore their eyes, in fashion like to thoseWorn by the monks in Cologne. Their outsideWas overlaid with gold, dazzling to view,But leaden all within, and of such weight,That Frederick’s compar’d to these were straw.Oh, everlasting wearisome attire!We yet once more with them together turn’dTo leftward, on their dismal moan intent.But by the weight oppress’d, so slowly cameThe fainting people, that our companyWas chang’d at every movement of the step.Whence I my guide address’d: “See that thou findSome spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known,And to that end look round thee as thou go’st.”Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice,Cried after us aloud: “Hold in your feet,Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air.Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish.”Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake:“Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed.”I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose lookImpatient eagerness of mind was mark’dTo overtake me; but the load they bareAnd narrow path retarded their approach.Soon as arriv’d, they with an eye askancePerus’d me, but spake not: then turning eachTo other thus conferring said: “This oneSeems, by the action of his throat, alive.And, be they dead, what privilege allowsThey walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?”
Then thus to me: “Tuscan, who visitestThe college of the mourning hypocrites,Disdain not to instruct us who thou art.”“By Arno’s pleasant stream,” I thus replied,“In the great city I was bred and grew,And wear the body I have ever worn.but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief,As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks?What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?”“Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue,”One of them answer’d, “are so leaden gross,That with their weight they make the balancesTo crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were,Bologna’s natives, Catalano I,He Loderingo nam’d, and by thy landTogether taken, as men used to takeA single and indifferent arbiter,To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped,Gardingo’s vicinage can best declare.”“O friars!” I began, “your miseries—”But there brake off, for one had caught my eye,Fix’d to a cross with three stakes on the ground:He, when he saw me, writh’d himself, throughoutDistorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard.And Catalano, who thereof was ’ware,
Thus spake: “That pierced spirit, whom intentThou view’st, was he who gave the PhariseesCounsel, that it were fitting for one manTo suffer for the people. He doth lieTransverse; nor any passes, but him firstBehoves make feeling trial how each weighs.In straits like this along the foss are plac’dThe father of his consort, and the restPartakers in that council, seed of illAnd sorrow to the Jews.” I noted then,How Virgil gaz’d with wonder upon him,Thus abjectly extended on the crossIn banishment eternal. To the friarHe next his words address’d: “We pray ye tell,If so be lawful, whether on our rightLies any opening in the rock, wherebyWe both may issue hence, without constraintOn the dark angels, that compell’d they comeTo lead us from this depth.” He thus replied:“Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rockFrom the next circle moving, which o’erstepsEach vale of horror, save that here his copeIs shatter’d. By the ruin ye may mount:For on the side it slants, and most the heightRises below.” With head bent down awhileMy leader stood, then spake: “He warn’d us ill,Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook.”To whom the friar: “At Bologna erstI many vices of the devil heard,Among the rest was said, ‘He is a liar,And the father of lies!’” When he had spoke,My leader with large strides proceeded on,Somewhat disturb’d with anger in his look.I therefore left the spirits heavy laden,And following, his beloved footsteps mark’d.