CANTO XXVWhen he had spoke, the sinner rais’d his handsPointed in mockery, and cried: “Take them, God!I level them at thee!” From that day forthThe serpents were my friends; for round his neckOne of then rolling twisted, as it said,“Be silent, tongue!” Another to his armsUpgliding, tied them, riveting itselfSo close, it took from them the power to move.Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubtTo turn thee into ashes, cumb’ring earthNo longer, since in evil act so farThou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark,Through all the gloomy circles of the abyss,Spirit, that swell’d so proudly ’gainst his God,Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled,Nor utter’d more; and after him there cameA centaur full of fury, shouting, “WhereWhere is the caitiff?” On Maremma’s marshSwarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunchThey swarm’d, to where the human face begins.Behind his head upon the shoulders lay,With open wings, a dragon breathing fireOn whomsoe’er he met. To me my guide:“Cacus is this, who underneath the rockOf Aventine spread oft a lake of blood.He, from his brethren parted, here must treadA different journey, for his fraudful theftOf the great herd, that near him stall’d; whence foundHis felon deeds their end, beneath the maceOf stout Alcides, that perchance laid onA hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt.”While yet he spake, the centaur sped away:And under us three spirits came, of whomNor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim’d;“Say who are ye?” We then brake off discourse,Intent on these alone. I knew them not;But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that oneHad need to name another. “Where,” said he,“Doth Cianfa lurk?” I, for a sign my guideShould stand attentive, plac’d against my lipsThe finger lifted. If, O reader! nowThou be not apt to credit what I tell,No marvel; for myself do scarce allowThe witness of mine eyes. But as I lookedToward them, lo! a serpent with six feetSprings forth on one, and fastens full upon him:His midmost grasp’d the belly, a forefootSeiz’d on each arm (while deep in either cheekHe flesh’d his fangs); the hinder on the thighsWere spread, ’twixt which the tail inserted curl’dUpon the reins behind. Ivy ne’er clasp’dA dodder’d oak, as round the other’s limbsThe hideous monster intertwin’d his own.Then, as they both had been of burning wax,Each melted into other, mingling hues,That which was either now was seen no more.Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns,A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black,And the clean white expires. The other twoLook’d on exclaiming: “Ah, how dost thou change,Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now,“Nor only one.” The two heads now becameOne, and two figures blended in one formAppear’d, where both were lost. Of the four lengthsTwo arms were made: the belly and the chestThe thighs and legs into such members chang’d,As never eye hath seen. Of former shapeAll trace was vanish’d. Two yet neither seem’dThat image miscreate, and so pass’d onWith tardy steps. As underneath the scourgeOf the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields,Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seemsA flash of lightning, if he thwart the road,So toward th’ entrails of the other twoApproaching seem’d, an adder all on fire,As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart.In that part, whence our life is nourish’d first,One he transpierc’d; then down before him fellStretch’d out. The pierced spirit look’d on himBut spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn’d,As if by sleep or fev’rous fit assail’d.He ey’d the serpent, and the serpent him.One from the wound, the other from the mouthBreath’d a thick smoke, whose vap’ry columns join’d.Lucan in mute attention now may hear,Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell,Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute.What if in warbling fiction he recordCadmus and Arethusa, to a snakeHim chang’d, and her into a fountain clear,I envy not; for never face to faceTwo natures thus transmuted did he sing,Wherein both shapes were ready to assumeThe other’s substance. They in mutual guiseSo answer’d, that the serpent split his trainDivided to a fork, and the pierc’d spiritDrew close his steps together, legs and thighsCompacted, that no sign of juncture soonWas visible: the tail disparted tookThe figure which the spirit lost, its skinSoft’ning, his indurated to a rind.The shoulders next I mark’d, that ent’ring join’dThe monster’s arm-pits, whose two shorter feetSo lengthen’d, as the other’s dwindling shrunk.The feet behind then twisting up becameThat part that man conceals, which in the wretchWas cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smokeWith a new colour veils, and generatesTh’ excrescent pile on one, peeling it offFrom th’ other body, lo! upon his feetOne upright rose, and prone the other fell.Not yet their glaring and malignant lampsWere shifted, though each feature chang’d beneath.Of him who stood erect, the mounting faceRetreated towards the temples, and what thereSuperfluous matter came, shot out in earsFrom the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg’d,Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell’dInto due size protuberant the lips.He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extendsHis sharpen’d visage, and draws down the earsInto the head, as doth the slug his horns.His tongue continuous before and aptFor utt’rance, severs; and the other’s forkClosing unites. That done the smoke was laid.The soul, transform’d into the brute, glides off,Hissing along the vale, and after himThe other talking sputters; but soon turn’dHis new-grown shoulders on him, and in fewThus to another spake: “Along this pathCrawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!”So saw I fluctuate in successive changeTh’ unsteady ballast of the seventh hold:And here if aught my tongue have swerv’d, eventsSo strange may be its warrant. O’er mine eyesConfusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.Yet ’scap’d they not so covertly, but wellI mark’d Sciancato: he alone it wasOf the three first that came, who chang’d not: thou,The other’s fate, Gaville, still dost rue.
When he had spoke, the sinner rais’d his handsPointed in mockery, and cried: “Take them, God!I level them at thee!” From that day forthThe serpents were my friends; for round his neckOne of then rolling twisted, as it said,“Be silent, tongue!” Another to his armsUpgliding, tied them, riveting itselfSo close, it took from them the power to move.Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubtTo turn thee into ashes, cumb’ring earthNo longer, since in evil act so farThou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark,Through all the gloomy circles of the abyss,Spirit, that swell’d so proudly ’gainst his God,Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled,Nor utter’d more; and after him there cameA centaur full of fury, shouting, “WhereWhere is the caitiff?” On Maremma’s marshSwarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunchThey swarm’d, to where the human face begins.Behind his head upon the shoulders lay,With open wings, a dragon breathing fireOn whomsoe’er he met. To me my guide:“Cacus is this, who underneath the rockOf Aventine spread oft a lake of blood.He, from his brethren parted, here must treadA different journey, for his fraudful theftOf the great herd, that near him stall’d; whence foundHis felon deeds their end, beneath the maceOf stout Alcides, that perchance laid onA hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt.”While yet he spake, the centaur sped away:And under us three spirits came, of whomNor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim’d;“Say who are ye?” We then brake off discourse,Intent on these alone. I knew them not;But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that oneHad need to name another. “Where,” said he,“Doth Cianfa lurk?” I, for a sign my guideShould stand attentive, plac’d against my lipsThe finger lifted. If, O reader! nowThou be not apt to credit what I tell,No marvel; for myself do scarce allowThe witness of mine eyes. But as I lookedToward them, lo! a serpent with six feetSprings forth on one, and fastens full upon him:His midmost grasp’d the belly, a forefootSeiz’d on each arm (while deep in either cheekHe flesh’d his fangs); the hinder on the thighsWere spread, ’twixt which the tail inserted curl’dUpon the reins behind. Ivy ne’er clasp’dA dodder’d oak, as round the other’s limbsThe hideous monster intertwin’d his own.Then, as they both had been of burning wax,Each melted into other, mingling hues,That which was either now was seen no more.Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns,A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black,And the clean white expires. The other twoLook’d on exclaiming: “Ah, how dost thou change,Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now,
“Nor only one.” The two heads now becameOne, and two figures blended in one formAppear’d, where both were lost. Of the four lengthsTwo arms were made: the belly and the chestThe thighs and legs into such members chang’d,As never eye hath seen. Of former shapeAll trace was vanish’d. Two yet neither seem’dThat image miscreate, and so pass’d onWith tardy steps. As underneath the scourgeOf the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields,Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seemsA flash of lightning, if he thwart the road,So toward th’ entrails of the other twoApproaching seem’d, an adder all on fire,As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart.In that part, whence our life is nourish’d first,One he transpierc’d; then down before him fellStretch’d out. The pierced spirit look’d on himBut spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn’d,As if by sleep or fev’rous fit assail’d.He ey’d the serpent, and the serpent him.One from the wound, the other from the mouthBreath’d a thick smoke, whose vap’ry columns join’d.Lucan in mute attention now may hear,Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell,Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute.What if in warbling fiction he recordCadmus and Arethusa, to a snakeHim chang’d, and her into a fountain clear,I envy not; for never face to faceTwo natures thus transmuted did he sing,Wherein both shapes were ready to assumeThe other’s substance. They in mutual guiseSo answer’d, that the serpent split his trainDivided to a fork, and the pierc’d spiritDrew close his steps together, legs and thighsCompacted, that no sign of juncture soonWas visible: the tail disparted tookThe figure which the spirit lost, its skinSoft’ning, his indurated to a rind.The shoulders next I mark’d, that ent’ring join’dThe monster’s arm-pits, whose two shorter feetSo lengthen’d, as the other’s dwindling shrunk.The feet behind then twisting up becameThat part that man conceals, which in the wretchWas cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smokeWith a new colour veils, and generatesTh’ excrescent pile on one, peeling it offFrom th’ other body, lo! upon his feetOne upright rose, and prone the other fell.Not yet their glaring and malignant lampsWere shifted, though each feature chang’d beneath.Of him who stood erect, the mounting faceRetreated towards the temples, and what thereSuperfluous matter came, shot out in earsFrom the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg’d,Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell’dInto due size protuberant the lips.He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extendsHis sharpen’d visage, and draws down the earsInto the head, as doth the slug his horns.His tongue continuous before and aptFor utt’rance, severs; and the other’s forkClosing unites. That done the smoke was laid.The soul, transform’d into the brute, glides off,Hissing along the vale, and after himThe other talking sputters; but soon turn’dHis new-grown shoulders on him, and in fewThus to another spake: “Along this pathCrawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!”So saw I fluctuate in successive changeTh’ unsteady ballast of the seventh hold:And here if aught my tongue have swerv’d, eventsSo strange may be its warrant. O’er mine eyesConfusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.Yet ’scap’d they not so covertly, but wellI mark’d Sciancato: he alone it wasOf the three first that came, who chang’d not: thou,The other’s fate, Gaville, still dost rue.