CANTO XXIXSo were mine eyes inebriate with viewOf the vast multitude, whom various woundsDisfigur’d, that they long’d to stay and weep.But Virgil rous’d me: “What yet gazest on?Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight belowAmong the maim’d and miserable shades?Thou hast not shewn in any chasm besideThis weakness. Know, if thou wouldst number themThat two and twenty miles the valley windsIts circuit, and already is the moonBeneath our feet: the time permitted nowIs short, and more not seen remains to see.”“If thou,” I straight replied, “hadst weigh’d the causeFor which I look’d, thou hadst perchance excus’dThe tarrying still.” My leader part pursu’dHis way, the while I follow’d, answering him,And adding thus: “Within that cave I deem,Whereon so fixedly I held my ken,There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood,Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear.”Then spake my master: “Let thy soul no moreAfflict itself for him. Direct elsewhereIts thought, and leave him. At the bridge’s footI mark’d how he did point with menacing lookAt thee, and heard him by the others nam’dGeri of Bello. Thou so wholly thenWert busied with his spirit, who once rul’dThe towers of Hautefort, that thou lookedst notThat way, ere he was gone.”—“O guide belov’d!His violent death yet unaveng’d,” said I,“By any, who are partners in his shame,Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think,He pass’d me speechless by; and doing soHath made me more compassionate his fate.”So we discours’d to where the rock first show’dThe other valley, had more light been there,E’en to the lowest depth. Soon as we cameO’er the last cloister in the dismal roundsOf Malebolge, and the brotherhoodWere to our view expos’d, then many a dartOf sore lament assail’d me, headed allWith points of thrilling pity, that I clos’dBoth ears against the volley with mine hands.As were the torment, if each lazar-houseOf Valdichiana, in the sultry time’Twixt July and September, with the isleSardinia and Maremma’s pestilent fen,Had heap’d their maladies all in one fossTogether; such was here the torment: direThe stench, as issuing steams from fester’d limbs.We on the utmost shore of the long rockDescended still to leftward. Then my sightWas livelier to explore the depth, whereinThe minister of the most mighty Lord,All-searching Justice, dooms to punishmentThe forgers noted on her dread record.More rueful was it not methinks to seeThe nation in Aegina droop, what timeEach living thing, e’en to the little worm,All fell, so full of malice was the air(And afterward, as bards of yore have told,The ancient people were restor’d anewFrom seed of emmets) than was here to seeThe spirits, that languish’d through the murky valeUp-pil’d on many a stack. Confus’d they lay,One o’er the belly, o’er the shoulders oneRoll’d of another; sideling crawl’d a thirdAlong the dismal pathway. Step by stepWe journey’d on, in silence looking roundAnd list’ning those diseas’d, who strove in vainTo lift their forms. Then two I mark’d, that satPropp’d ’gainst each other, as two brazen pansSet to retain the heat. From head to foot,A tetter bark’d them round. Nor saw I e’erGroom currying so fast, for whom his lordImpatient waited, or himself perchanceTir’d with long watching, as of these each onePlied quickly his keen nails, through furiousnessOf ne’er abated pruriency. The crustCame drawn from underneath in flakes, like scalesScrap’d from the bream or fish of broader mail.“O thou, who with thy fingers rendest offThy coat of proof,” thus spake my guide to one,“And sometimes makest tearing pincers of them,Tell me if any born of Latian landBe among these within: so may thy nailsServe thee for everlasting to this toil.”“Both are of Latium,” weeping he replied,“Whom tortur’d thus thou seest: but who art thouThat hast inquir’d of us?” To whom my guide:“One that descend with this man, who yet lives,From rock to rock, and show him hell’s abyss.”Then started they asunder, and each turn’dTrembling toward us, with the rest, whose earThose words redounding struck. To me my liegeAddress’d him: “Speak to them whate’er thou list.”And I therewith began: “So may no timeFilch your remembrance from the thoughts of menIn th’ upper world, but after many sunsSurvive it, as ye tell me, who ye are,And of what race ye come. Your punishment,Unseemly and disgustful in its kind,Deter you not from opening thus much to me.”“Arezzo was my dwelling,” answer’d one,“And me Albero of Sienna broughtTo die by fire; but that, for which I died,Leads me not here. True is in sport I told him,That I had learn’d to wing my flight in air.And he admiring much, as he was voidOf wisdom, will’d me to declare to himThe secret of mine art: and only hence,Because I made him not a Daedalus,Prevail’d on one suppos’d his sire to burn me.But Minos to this chasm last of the ten,For that I practis’d alchemy on earth,Has doom’d me. Him no subterfuge eludes.”Then to the bard I spake: “Was ever raceLight as Sienna’s? Sure not France herselfCan show a tribe so frivolous and vain.”The other leprous spirit heard my words,And thus return’d: “Be Stricca from this chargeExempted, he who knew so temp’ratelyTo lay out fortune’s gifts; and NiccoloWho first the spice’s costly luxuryDiscover’d in that garden, where such seedRoots deepest in the soil: and be that troopExempted, with whom Caccia of AscianoLavish’d his vineyards and wide-spreading woods,And his rare wisdom Abbagliato show’dA spectacle for all. That thou mayst knowWho seconds thee against the SienneseThus gladly, bend this way thy sharpen’d sight,That well my face may answer to thy ken;So shalt thou see I am Capocchio’s ghost,Who forg’d transmuted metals by the powerOf alchemy; and if I scan thee right,Thus needs must well remember how I apedCreative nature by my subtle art.”
So were mine eyes inebriate with viewOf the vast multitude, whom various woundsDisfigur’d, that they long’d to stay and weep.
But Virgil rous’d me: “What yet gazest on?Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight belowAmong the maim’d and miserable shades?Thou hast not shewn in any chasm besideThis weakness. Know, if thou wouldst number themThat two and twenty miles the valley windsIts circuit, and already is the moonBeneath our feet: the time permitted nowIs short, and more not seen remains to see.”“If thou,” I straight replied, “hadst weigh’d the causeFor which I look’d, thou hadst perchance excus’dThe tarrying still.” My leader part pursu’dHis way, the while I follow’d, answering him,And adding thus: “Within that cave I deem,Whereon so fixedly I held my ken,There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood,Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear.”Then spake my master: “Let thy soul no moreAfflict itself for him. Direct elsewhereIts thought, and leave him. At the bridge’s footI mark’d how he did point with menacing lookAt thee, and heard him by the others nam’dGeri of Bello. Thou so wholly thenWert busied with his spirit, who once rul’dThe towers of Hautefort, that thou lookedst notThat way, ere he was gone.”—“O guide belov’d!His violent death yet unaveng’d,” said I,“By any, who are partners in his shame,Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think,He pass’d me speechless by; and doing soHath made me more compassionate his fate.”So we discours’d to where the rock first show’dThe other valley, had more light been there,E’en to the lowest depth. Soon as we cameO’er the last cloister in the dismal roundsOf Malebolge, and the brotherhoodWere to our view expos’d, then many a dartOf sore lament assail’d me, headed allWith points of thrilling pity, that I clos’dBoth ears against the volley with mine hands.As were the torment, if each lazar-houseOf Valdichiana, in the sultry time’Twixt July and September, with the isleSardinia and Maremma’s pestilent fen,Had heap’d their maladies all in one fossTogether; such was here the torment: direThe stench, as issuing steams from fester’d limbs.We on the utmost shore of the long rockDescended still to leftward. Then my sightWas livelier to explore the depth, whereinThe minister of the most mighty Lord,All-searching Justice, dooms to punishmentThe forgers noted on her dread record.
More rueful was it not methinks to seeThe nation in Aegina droop, what timeEach living thing, e’en to the little worm,All fell, so full of malice was the air(And afterward, as bards of yore have told,The ancient people were restor’d anewFrom seed of emmets) than was here to seeThe spirits, that languish’d through the murky valeUp-pil’d on many a stack. Confus’d they lay,One o’er the belly, o’er the shoulders oneRoll’d of another; sideling crawl’d a thirdAlong the dismal pathway. Step by stepWe journey’d on, in silence looking roundAnd list’ning those diseas’d, who strove in vainTo lift their forms. Then two I mark’d, that satPropp’d ’gainst each other, as two brazen pansSet to retain the heat. From head to foot,A tetter bark’d them round. Nor saw I e’erGroom currying so fast, for whom his lordImpatient waited, or himself perchanceTir’d with long watching, as of these each onePlied quickly his keen nails, through furiousnessOf ne’er abated pruriency. The crustCame drawn from underneath in flakes, like scalesScrap’d from the bream or fish of broader mail.
“O thou, who with thy fingers rendest offThy coat of proof,” thus spake my guide to one,“And sometimes makest tearing pincers of them,Tell me if any born of Latian landBe among these within: so may thy nailsServe thee for everlasting to this toil.”“Both are of Latium,” weeping he replied,“Whom tortur’d thus thou seest: but who art thouThat hast inquir’d of us?” To whom my guide:“One that descend with this man, who yet lives,From rock to rock, and show him hell’s abyss.”Then started they asunder, and each turn’dTrembling toward us, with the rest, whose earThose words redounding struck. To me my liegeAddress’d him: “Speak to them whate’er thou list.”And I therewith began: “So may no timeFilch your remembrance from the thoughts of menIn th’ upper world, but after many sunsSurvive it, as ye tell me, who ye are,And of what race ye come. Your punishment,Unseemly and disgustful in its kind,Deter you not from opening thus much to me.”“Arezzo was my dwelling,” answer’d one,“And me Albero of Sienna broughtTo die by fire; but that, for which I died,Leads me not here. True is in sport I told him,That I had learn’d to wing my flight in air.And he admiring much, as he was voidOf wisdom, will’d me to declare to himThe secret of mine art: and only hence,Because I made him not a Daedalus,Prevail’d on one suppos’d his sire to burn me.But Minos to this chasm last of the ten,For that I practis’d alchemy on earth,Has doom’d me. Him no subterfuge eludes.”Then to the bard I spake: “Was ever raceLight as Sienna’s? Sure not France herselfCan show a tribe so frivolous and vain.”The other leprous spirit heard my words,And thus return’d: “Be Stricca from this chargeExempted, he who knew so temp’ratelyTo lay out fortune’s gifts; and NiccoloWho first the spice’s costly luxuryDiscover’d in that garden, where such seedRoots deepest in the soil: and be that troopExempted, with whom Caccia of AscianoLavish’d his vineyards and wide-spreading woods,And his rare wisdom Abbagliato show’dA spectacle for all. That thou mayst knowWho seconds thee against the SienneseThus gladly, bend this way thy sharpen’d sight,That well my face may answer to thy ken;So shalt thou see I am Capocchio’s ghost,Who forg’d transmuted metals by the powerOf alchemy; and if I scan thee right,Thus needs must well remember how I apedCreative nature by my subtle art.”