Inferno: Canto XXXIII

His mouth uplifted from the fell repast
That vengeful sinner, — wiping it upon
The hair of the foul mangled head: — at last

He thus began: "Thou bid'st me to renew
Unutterable grief; whose thought alone
Weighs down my heart, ere I the tale pursue.

But if my words may, haply, prove the seed,
Whence infamy shall spring to him I rend.
Then will I speak, though tears my voice impede.

I know not who thou art, nor can divine
How to this nether world thou didst descend;
But from thy speech I judge thee Florentine.

Know then — Count Ugolino was my name;
Archbishop Ruggier this: — now will I say
Why such close fellowship with him I claim.

How by his treacherous designs it fell,
That, trusting in him, I was borne away
And put to death — there is no need to tell.

But that which ne'er could have been heard by thee —
How cruel was my death — will I relate;
Then wilt thou know if he hath injured me.

Through a small loophole in that dismal cell,
(The "cell of hunger" call'd, from my sad fate,
And where some other yet is doom'd to dwell)

Full many moons had shed their broken light,
When o'er me came that evil omen'd sleep.
Which all unveil'd the fixture to my sight.

This traitor seem'd, as huntsman, to pursue
The He-wolf and his young ones to that steep
Which shuts out Lucca from the Pisan's view.

Lean hounds, well train'd, and eager for the chase —
The Gualands, with the Sismonds and Lanfrancks,
Before him he let slip: — in little space

The father and his sons, as though forespent,
Lagged in the course; and then their heaving flanks
Methought by those infuriate tusks were rent.

When I awoke, ere morn its rays had shed,
I heard my sons, who with me were confined.
Sob in their slumbers, and cry out for bread.

Full cruel art thou, if thou canst conceive.
Without a tear, what then came o'er my mind!
And if thou grieve not, what can make thee grieve?

They were awake; and now the hour drew near,
Which had been wont to bring their scant repast.
And each was pondering o'er his dream of fear, —

When from within the dreadful tower I heard
The entrance underneath with nails made fast: —
I gazed upon my boys — nor spake a word.

I wept not, for my heart was turn'd to stone; —
My children wept; — and little Anselm cried:
'What ails thee, Father? — strange thy looks are grown.'

Yet still I wept not — still made no reply
Throughout that day, and all the night beside;
Until another sun lit up the sky.

But, when a faint and broken ray was thrown
Within that dismal dungeon, and I view'd
In their four looks the image of my own, —

Then both my hands through anguish did I bite;
And they, supposing that from want of food
I did so — sudden rais'd themselves upright.

And said: 'O Father, less will be our pain,
If thou wilt feed on us: — thou didst bestow
This wretched flesh; — 'tis thine to take again.'

Then was I calm, lest they the more should grieve.
Two days all silent we remain'd! — O thou
Hard earth, why didst thou not beneath us cleave?

Four days our agonies had been delay'd,
When Gaddo at my feet his body threw.
Exclaiming: 'Father! why not give me aid?'

He died; — and, as distinct as here I stand,
I saw the three fall one by one, before
The sixth day closed; — then, groping with my hand,

I felt each wretched corse, for sight had fail'd;
Two days I call'd on those who were no more;
Then hunger — stronger e'en than grief — prevail'd."

This said — aside his vengeful eyes were thrown.
And with his teeth the skull again he tore, —
Fierce as a dog to gnaw the very bone.

O Pisa! the disgrace of that fair land
Where "Si" is spoken; — since thy neighbours round
Take vengeance on thee with a tardy hand —

To dam the mouth of Arno's rolling tide
Let Capraia and Gorgona raise a mound,
That all may perish in the waters wide!

Thou modern Thebes! what? though, as fame hath said.
Count Ugolino did thy forts betray, —
His sons deserved not punishment so dread.

Brigata, Uguccion, and that sad pair
My song hath told of — innocent were they;
Their tender years should have inclined to spare.

We then arrived, for we were journeying on,
Where bonds of ice another tribe compress,
Stretched on their back, unable to look down.

Their very tears forbid their tears to flow;
And grief, unable through their eyes to pass.
Turns itself inward to increase their woe.

Forming a cluster, the first tears unite,
Which thus, like crystal vizors to behold.
Fill all the cup that holds the ball of sight.

And though, like one to all impressions dead.
And callous grown, I was benumbed with cold.
So that all feeling from my face had fled, —

Still as it seem'd, some little wind prevailed;
Whereat I said: "O master, what is this? —
Methought, at such a depth all vapour fail'd."

"Ere long," he answer'd, "shall we hence repair.
To where thine eyes shall tell thee what it is.
Discerning whence proceeds this gust of air."

Then one, in frozen crust confined,
Exclaim'd: "O souls, so cruel though ye be.
Since to the lowest place ye are assigned, —

Raise from my face the rigid veil I feel.
That I may vent in tears my agony
A moment's space, ere they again congeal."

Then I: "If thou would'st bid my heart relent,
Say who thou art — and if I aid thee not,
Down to the lowest ice may I be sent."

"Friar Alberigo, be it known," he said,
"Am I, who fruit from evil garden brought;
And here my fig is with a date repaid."

"What? art thou number'd with the dead?" I cried.
"How on the earth above my body fares —
That knowledge I possess not," he replied;

"For many souls here come, by vengeance driven,
(Such privilege this Ptolomea shares)
Ere Atropos the fatal stroke hath given:

And that more willingly thou may'st erase
The crystal tears, upon my face congeal'd.
Know — every soul, that, like to mine, betrays —

The body straight is seized on by a fiend.
To whose dominion it doth wholly yield.
Till its allotted time on earth shall end;

The soul descends to such a cistern here:
And still perhaps on earth the body's seen
Of the sad shade which winters in my rear.

If lately thou earnest hither, thou must know.
He is Ser Branca D'Oria whom I mean; —
For many years has he been here below."

Then I: "Thou fain would'st dupe me, as I guess,
For Branca D'Oria surely is not dead.
But eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and dons his dress."

"Ere to the trench above of Malebranche,
Where alway boils the adhesive pitch," he said,
"Had yet arrived the hapless Michael Zanche,

This D'Oria's form the devil did assume;
His kinsman too — leagued in the treacherous plot —
Shared also in his miserable doom.

But come — extend thy hand this way to me;
Open my eyes;" — his eyes I opened not;
Rudeness to him were fairest courtesy.

Ah Genoese, of honesty devoid!
So base your city, so replete with guile.
Why are ye not at one fell swoop destroyed?

For with Romagna's spirit most accurst
A countryman of your's I found — so vile.
That in Cocytus is his soul immersed.

Though bodily he lives on earth the while.