The Portable Dante (52 page)

While we were walking at the ledge’s edge in single file—my good guide telling me from time to time: “I warn you now, take heed!”—

the sun shone on my shoulder from the right, and now, the azure of the western sky was slowly turning pale beneath its rays;

my shadow made the flames a deeper red, and even this slight evidence, I saw, caused many souls to wonder as they passed.

And this was the occasion for those souls to speculate about me. I heard said: “He seems to have a body of real flesh!”

Then some of them toward me began to strain, coming as close to me as they could come, most careful not to step out of the fire.

“O you who walk behind the other two, surely, as sign of your deep reverence, stop, speak to me whom thirst and fire burn.

I’m not the only one—all of us here are thirsty for your words, much thirstier than Ethiopes or Indians for cool drink.

Tell us, how is it possible for you to block the sun as if you were a wall, as if you had escaped the net of death?”

So said a voice to me. I would have tried already to explain, if something else unusual had not just caught my eye:

straight down the middle of the blazing road facing this group, another band of souls was on its way. I stopped to stare, amazed,

for I saw shades on either side make haste to kiss each other without lingering, and each with this brief greeting satisfied.

The ants in their black ranks do this: they rush to nose each other, as if to inquire which way to go or how their luck has been.

As soon as friendly greetings are exchanged, before taking the first step to depart, each one tries to outshout the other’s cry;

the group that just arrived: “Sodom, Gomorrah!” The rest: “Pasiphaë enters the cow so that the bull may rush to mount her lust!”

Imagine cranes forming two flocks: one flies off toward the Riphean heights, one toward the sands, one to escape the frost, and one the sun—

so, here, two groups went their opposing ways, and all, in tears, took up once more their chants, with cries that fit each of their penances.

Then those same shades who had first questioned me drew close to me as they had done before, intent on listening, their faces glowed.

And I, who twice now knew their eager wish, began: “O souls assured of entering beatitude whenever it may be,

I did not leave my body, green or ripe, below on earth: I have it with me here; it is real flesh, complete with blood and bones.

I climb to cure my blindness, for above a lady has won grace for me, that I may bear my mortal burden through your world.

But please—so may what you desire most be quickly yours, and Heaven’s greatest sphere shelter you in its loving spaciousness—

tell me, who are you? Who are those that run away behind us in the other group? I shall record your answers in my book. ”

No less dumbfounded than a mountaineer, who, speechless, gapes at everything he sees, when, rude and rustic, he comes down to town,

were all those shades there judging from their looks; but when they had recovered from surprise (which in a noble heart lasts but a while),

the same soul who had earlier questioned me began: “Blessed arc you, who from our shores can ship experience back for a better death!

The shades that do not move with us were marked by that same sin for which Caesar as he passed in triumph heard himself called a ‘Queen’;

and that is why you heard ‘Sodom!’ cried out in self-reproach, as they ran off from us; they use their shame to intensify the flames.

And ours was an hermaphroditic sin, but since we did not act like human beings, yielding instead, like animals, to lust,

when we pass by the other group, we shout to our own shame the shameful name of her who bestialized herself in beast-shaped wood.

Now you know what our guilt is. Should you want to know our names, I do not know them all, and if I did, there still would not be time.

As for my name, I can fulfill your wish: I am Guido Guinizelli—here so soon, for I repented long before I died. ”

As King Lycurgus raged with grief, two sons discovered their lost mother and rejoiced—I felt the same (though more restrained) to hear

that spirit name himself—father of me and father of my betters, all who wrote a sweet and graceful poetry of love.

I heard no more, I did not speak, I walked deep in my thoughts, my eyes fixed on his shade; the flames kept me from coming close to him.

At last my eyes were satisfied. And then I spoke, convincing him of my deep wish to serve him in whatever way I could.

He answered me: “What I just heard you say has made a deep impression on my mind, which even Lethe cannot wash away.

But if what you have told me is the truth, now tell me what it is that makes you show in words and looks this love you have for me?”

And I to him: “Those graceful poems of yours, which, for as long as our tongue serves for verse, will render precious even the ink you used. ”

“My brother, I can show you now, ” he said (he pointed to a spirit up ahead), “a better craftsman of his mother tongue.

Poets of love, writers of tales in prose— better than all of them he was! They’re fools who think him of Limoges a greater poet!

They judge by reputation, not by truth, their minds made up before they know the rules of reason and the principles of art.

Guittone was judged this way in the past; many praised him and him alone—though, now, most men have been won over to the truth.

But now, if that high privilege be yours of climbing to the cloister, there where Christ is Abbot of the holy college, then,

please say a
Paternoster
for me there—at least the part appropriate for us, who are by now delivered from all evil. ”

Then, to make room for someone else, perhaps, he disappeared into the depths of fire the way fish seeking deeper waters fade.

I moved up toward the shade just pointed out, and told him my desire had prepared a gracious place of welcome for his name.

He readily and graciously replied: “Tan m’abellis vostre cortes deman, Qu’ieu no me puesc no voill a vos cobrire.

Ieu sui Arnaut, que plor e vau cantan; consiros vei la passada folor, e vei jausen lo joi qu’esper, denan.

Ara vos prec, per aquella valor que vos guida al som de l’escalina, sovenha vos a temps de ma dolor!”

Then in the purifying flames he hid.

It was the hour the sun’s first rays shine down upon the land where its Creator shed his own life’s blood, the hour the Ebro flows

beneath high Scales, and Ganges’ waters boil in noonday heat: so day was fading, then, when God’s angel of joy appeared to us.

Upon the bank beyond the fire’s reach he stood, singing
Beati mundo corde!
The living beauty of his voice rang clear.

Then: “Holy souls, no farther can you go without first suffering fire. So, enter now, and be not deaf to what is sung beyond, ”

he said to us as we came up to him. I, when I heard these words, felt like a man who is about to be entombed alive.

Gripping my hands together, I leaned forward and, staring at the fire, I recalled what human bodies look like burned to death.

Both of my friendly guides turned toward me then, and Virgil said to me: “O my dear son, there may be pain here, but there is no death.

Remember all your memories! If I took care of you when we rode Geryon, shall I do less when we are nearer God?

Believe me when I say that if you spent a thousand years within the fire’s heart, it would not singe a single hair of yours;

and if you still cannot believe my words, approach the fire and test it for yourself on your own robe: just touch it with the hem.

It’s time, high time, to put away your fears; turn towards me, come, and enter without fear!” But I stood there, immobile—and ashamed.