Inferno: Canto XXIII

Silent, alone, with no companion near.
We journeyed, one before and one behind
(So Minor Friars when they walk appear);

And Æsop's fable came into my mind,
As my thoughts brooded o'er that recent brawl,
That, where the tale of frog and mouse we find;

Not more alike do mo and issa fall
Than one was to the other, if the end
And the beginning we to mind recall.

And as one thought to others birth doth lend,
So out of that another straightway rose,
Which made me 'neath a doubled terror bend.

So thought I: "These, out-tricked and mocked by foes,
We being the cause, with loss of such a kind,
I needs must think 'twill them to ill dispose,

If anger with their malice be combined.
They will pursue us, fiercer far than hound
Pursues the hare he snaps at from behind."

Already every hair on end I found
With fear, and, full of care, I stood aside,
Then spake: "O Master, if no hiding-ground

Be shown for me and thee, I'm terrified
At these same evil-clawed ones. There behind
They come; in thought I hear them at our side."

Were I a mirror, glass with lead combined,"
He said, " not sooner thee I'd image there
Than now thy soul's clear likeness here I find.

It was but now thy thoughts to mine came near.
As with like gesture and like presence seen,
So that the twain did common counsel bear.

If it so chance the right bank down doth lean.
That to another Bolgia we descend,
Then shall we 'scape that fancied chase, I ween."

Nor had he brought his counsel to an end.
When I beheld them with their wings outspread,
Not far, and with intent to seize us, bend.

Then suddenly my Guide his arms did fling
Around me, as a mother, roused by cries,
Sees the fierce flames around her gathering,

And takes her boy, nor ever halts, but flies,
Caring for him than for herself far more.
Though one scant shift her only robe supplies.

Then he, from that high marge of stony shore.
Gave himself headlong to the pendent rock
Which one side of the Bolgia lappeth o'er,

Never ran stream with such a rushing shock
Adown the sluice to turn a water-mill,
When it comes close upon the mill-wheel's dock.

As did my Master down that sloping hill.
Still bearing up my form upon his breast,
As though not friend, but son, his arms did fill.

Scarce had his feet the very bottom pressed
Of that deep pit, when they the summit gained
Above us; but his fear was laid to rest;

For the high Providence that these ordained
At the fifth fosse to keep their post as guard.
There, without power to leave it them detained.

A painted people there met our regard.
Who round and round still moved with tardy pace,
Weeping, with features worn and spent and marred;

Cloaks had they, with hoods low o'er eyes and face
Down-hanging, made in fashion like to those
Which at Cologne are worn by monkish race,

O'erlaid without with gold, that dazzling shows,
Within all lead, and of such crushing weight,
That those had seemed of straw that Frederick chose.

O everlasting weary robe of state !
We turned ourselves toward the left again
With them, intent on their wail desolate.

But through the weight, that folk, outworn with pain,
So slowly moved, that we new comrades still
Found, as each forward step by us was ta'en.

Then said I to my Guide, " Find, if thou will.
Some one by name or action to us known,
And as thou go'st, let thine eyes gaze their fill."

And one who heard my speech of Tuscan tone,
Cried to us from behind, " Stay ye your feet,
Ye who through this dusk air are running on;

What thou dost seek, from me perchance thou'lt greet."
And then my Leader turned and bade me " Wait,"
And then thy footsteps to his motion mete."

I stood, and saw two forms in hurry great
Of purpose and of look to come to me.
But their strait path and burden made them late.

When they came near, with side-glance steadfastly
They looked at me, but not a word they spake;
Then whispered to each other secretly,

His throat gives proof he living breath doth take;
And if they're dead, by what especial grace
Do they their journey with no hood's weight make?""

Then said to me: " O thou of Tuscan race.
Who to the guild of hypocrites art come,
To tell us who thou art count no disgrace."

And I: " I had my birth and found my home
In the great city hard by Arno fair,"
And in my own true body here I roam;

But who are ye, on whose wan cheeks despair.
E'en as I see, in many a tear doth flow.
And what this torment that on you doth glare?"

And one replied, " These orange hoods do so
Crush with their leaden burden, that the weight
Doth make the scale to creak and groan below;

Friars Joyous were we, of Bologna late;
His name Lodringo, Catalano mine,
And both together chosen by thy state,

As oft to one man men the task assign,
To keep its peace, and how we worked our will
Thou may'st around Gardingo's walls divine."

And I began: " O friars, your deeds ill...."
But more I said not, for before mine eye"
One on the ground, by three stakes pierced, lay still,

Who, when he saw me, writhed in agony,
And, sobbing, breathed his sighs through shaggy beard.
And when Fra Catalan did this espy.

He said, " This man, whom thou dost see thus speared,"
Gave counsel to the Pharisees 'twas meet
By one man's death the nation's guilt were cleared.

Impaled and naked lies he in our street,
As thou perceivest, and he needs must know
The weight of whoso passeth by his feet.

And his wife's father suffereth equal woe
Here in this fosse, and all that Sanhedrim,
Seed whence great evils to the Jews did grow."

Then saw I Virgil wondering much at him
Who there was lying stretched upon the cross,
In everlasting exile drear and grim.

Then to the friar he thus his words did loss:
"Think it not hard to tell us, if thou may.
If on the right is any path across.

By which we twain might outward take our way,
Without constraining any black fiends drear
To take and bear us from this pit away?"

Then answered he, " Beyond thy hopes is near
A rock from yon great circle, that awry
Is stretched, and spans each cruel valley here,

Save that o'er this it comes not, but doth lie
All broken; on its ruins thou may'st go.
For down it slopes, and at the base mounts high."

A little while my Guide stood, head bent low.
Then said, " Full ill did he the matter tell"
Who with his hook drags sinners to their woe."

And then the friar: "I at Bologna well
Recall the vices to the Devil laid,
'A liar, of all lies the parent fell.'"

Soon did my Guide pass on with hastened tread,
His face disturbed a little by his wrath;
Then, from those crushed ones parting, as he led,

I followed where those dear feet traced their path.