DANTE'S SUBLIME COMEDY: PURGATORY: Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Going From Pride

Like two slow oxen harnessed in one yoke

            I, bending almost double at his side,

            we crept on till my gentle master spoke:                                            3

“Leave him; we must go faster now.” I did,

            though inwardly depressed, but very soon

            followed my leader eagerly. We seemed                                             6

lighter of foot. Said he, “Start looking down.

            There’s splendid entertainment where we tread.”

            As flat stones in a graveyard often show                                           9

carvings provoking memories and tears,

            in every part that round-the-mountain street

            was paved with wonders of mosaic art.                                             12

All showed the penalties of too much pride.

            I saw the noblest creature God had made

            falling like lightning. On the other side                                               15

I saw the fifty-headed, hundred-armed

Briareus dismembered by Jove’s dart;

I saw Jove’s armored children as they viewed                                   18

the scattered limbs – Apollo, Pallas, Mars;

I saw King Nimrod, Babel’s architect

bewildered, staring at his futile heap;                                                 21

and poor Niobe, statue who bled tears

with seven sons and seven daughters dead;

and Saul, the conquered King of Israel,                                 24

on Gilboa self-slaughtered by his sword;

and mad Arachne, half a spider now,

still clinging to the woeful web she wove;                              27

and Rehoboam, boastful coward king,

fleeing by chariot, though none pursued.

That pavement also showed me how and why                                  30

Alcmaeon slew his mother, who betrayed

his father for a jeweled ornament;

and Assyria’s king Sennacherib,                                                         33

stabbed in a temple by his ruthless sons;

and afloat in a big cup of his own blood

Cyrus’ head, dropped there by Queen Tomaris                                 36

who said, “You liked bloodshed, so drink this up”;  

and showed Assyrians in panic flight

when General Holofernes lost his head;                                             39

and lastly showed the broken walls and ash

of mighty Troy, brought pitifully low.

No human artist could contrive to show                                            42

these histories in carving or in paint

so wonderfully well. The dead looked dead,

the living seemed to breathe. I found upon                              45

that road the fate of pride spelled out for me,

but go your haughty ways, great sons of Eve!

Do not believe what’s written on the ground.                         48

I had not seen how far we and the sun

had circled round the hill when Virgil said,

“The time for brooding’s past. Look upward – see,                          51

the hour is noon. An angel’s coming fast

who will direct us to the upward way,

so give him all the reverence he’s due.                                       54

Today, you know, will never dawn again.”

Knowing my master dreaded wasting time

I followed him in haste. We came to halt                                     57

before a lovely creature clad in white

whose face gleamed on us like the morning star.

Spreading his arms to us and then his wings,                               60

he, pointing to a deep cleft in the cliff,

told us, “Climb here! It is an easy way.

Why do so few arrive to share it now?                                               63

Mankind was made to soar. What little winds                               

detain such multitudes so far below?       

But up you go.” His wings then brushed my brow.             66       

The cloven rock contained a noble stair

            like that arising from the Arno bridge,

            built when my city had just government,                                           69

rising to where all Florence can be viewed,

            before the church of Miniato’s door,

            and as we climbed I heard a sweeter voice                                          72

than words can tell, sing “Blessèd are the meek,”

unlike the lamentable screams I heard

            between one level and the next in Hell.                                               75

I found that walking up that holy stair          

was easier than on the level ground.

            “Master,” I asked, “what weight has been removed?”                       78

“The weight of that first P and what it means,                                             

rubbed from your brow by the angelic wings,”

            said he. “The rest remain more faintly now.                                      81

All will be cancelled, one by one, until                                              

your body is so lightened by good will,

            you’ll be incapable of weariness.”                                                      84

Then I behaved like those who, unaware

of how they look before the stares of folk

begin to worry them. They use their hands                                        87

to feel what they can’t see and don’t yet know­.

With five spread fingertips I felt my head

and found six Ps where seven had been etched.                        90

My guide smiled as he saw me doing so.

           

           

           

           

           

           

           

           

           

           

         

         

        

           

          

DANTE'S SUBLIME COMEDY: PURGATORY, Chapter 11

                         Chapter 11: The Proud

“Our Father in Heaven, unlimited

            except by your great love for all you made,

            for everything you’ve given us on earth                                              3     

we praise your name as angels do above.

            Teach us to find your House of Peace on high

            which by our strength alone we cannot reach                                     6

however hard and painfully we try.

            Give everyone the nourishment we need

            to rightly follow in the steps of Christ                                               9

and not slide backwards into sinful ways.

Forgive our sins as we also forgive

those who have hurt us. Dear Lord, most of all           12                 

 do not let enemies become so strong

            they drive the virtuous to doing wrong.

         Lord God, you know that prayer is not for us,      15                                  

but souls alive whose state is not redeemed.”

            Yes, those ghosts prayed for us while toiling on

            beneath such weight as we have never dreamed.       18                           

Let we with any goodness pray that they

            are quicker lightened, raised above the moon

            to their appointed place in Paradise.                               21                       

Reading my mind I heard kind Virgil say,

            “May all who stoop here be unburdened soon

             and wing their upward flight. I lead a man                                           24

            

still clad in Adam’s flesh, so we need stairs

            to climb this cliff.  Can any of you say

if the nearest way is to left or right?”                                               27

We could not see who spoke but heard a voice.

           “Go with us to the right, where there’s a place

             a man may climb. Were I not bent so low                                           30

I might see his face, recognize a friend              

            who pitied me. I was Italian,

            my father great Bill Aldobrandesco­–                                                    33

surely you know his name? Pride in my birth

and famous ancestors made me forget         

all of us share one common Mother Earth.                                    36

Arrogance killed me, dragged to infamy

my name and kin.  In Compagnatico                                     

            children know this and in Sienna too.                                                39

I am Umberto, whose excessive pride

            will crush me until God is satisfied.”                                     

            To hear him I’d bent low and so saw one                                           42

who did not speak but twisted round his neck

            to see me, knew me, kept his eyes on me                              

            as he crept onward very painfully.                                                      45

Bent almost double at his side I cried,

            “You, Oderisi! Pride of Gubbio                                 

         for illustrating books, or as they say           48                                                                 

in Paris, for illuminating them.”

            “Brother,” said he, “Franco of Bologna                                 

             does that better now.  His claim to fame                                           51

is partly due to what he learned from me.

            When living I denied how good he was.                                 

            Here I am purging all that pettiness.                                                  54     

The emptiness of glory in a name

is obvious. Florence once gloried in                                                   

            the radiance of Cimabue’s art.                                                           57

Giotto’s fame has cast a shade on it.

            Guido Guinizelli’s verse was once                                        

            the splendour of our tongue. Cavalcanti’s                                         60

is now more highly sung. Who’s next? Are you?

            Who cares? A thousand years, two thousand, ten                

            are eye-blinks to the slowly turning spheres                                      63

of the universe. Fame is a brief noise.

            He crawling before me once had a name                                

            shouted through Tuscany, and adored                                              66

in Sienna, where it’s now ignored, though

            he helped it smash a mad Florentine horde.”                         

           “Your true words humble me, but tell me more,”                               69

I said, “about that lord who crawls before.”

            “He, Provenzan Salvani, tried to be                                       

             Sienna’s tyrant prince and so creeps thus                                         72 

like all of us who raised ourselves far too

            presumptuously high.” Said I, “But why,

            is he not below with other princes                                                      75

not yet fit for your purifying pain?”

             Orsini said, “He earned this higher place

 because once, when a despot but not rich,                                        78

he begged for money in the public square

            to ransom a dear friend, though his proud soul

            found this humiliation agony.                                                             81

You too will know the pain of beggary.”