Circles of Hell

by Dante Alighieri

  My leader, bending with his palms wide-spanned,

  scooped dirt in each, and then – his fists both full –

  hurled these as sops down all three ravening throats.

  A hungry mongrel – yapping, thrusting out,

  intent on nothing but the meal to come –

  is silent only when its teeth sink in.

  In that same way, with three repulsive muzzles,

  the demon Cerberus. His thunderous growlings

  stunned these souls. They wished themselves stone deaf.

  Over such shadows, flat in that hard rain,

  we travelled onwards still. Our tread now fell

  on voided nothings only seeming men.

  Across the whole terrain these shades were spread,

  except that one, at seeing us pass by,

  sat, on the sudden, upright and then cried:

  ‘You there! Drawn onwards through this stretch of Hell,

  tell me you know me. Say so, if so you can.

  You! Made as man before myself unmade.’

  And I replied: ‘The awful pain you feel

  perhaps has cancelled you from memory.

  Till now, it seems, I’ve never even seen you.

  Then tell me who you are, and why you dwell

  in such a place? And why a pain like this?

  Others may well be worse, none so disgusting.’

  And he: ‘That burgh of yours – that sack of bile

  that brims by now to overflow – I lived

  as hers throughout my own fine-weather years.

  You knew me, like your city friends, as Hoggo.

  So here I am, condemned for gullet sins,

  lying, you see, squashed flat by battering rain.

  I’m not alone in misery of soul.

  These all lie subject to the self-same pain.

  Their guilt is mine.’ He spoke no further word.

  ‘Hoggo, your heavy labours,’ I replied,

  ‘weigh on me hard and prompt my heavy tears.

  But tell me, if you can, where they’ll all end,

  the citizens of that divided town?

  Is there among them any honest man?

  Why is that place assailed by so much strife?’

  His answer was: ‘From each side, long harangues.

  And then to blood. The Wildwood boys

  will drive the others out. They’ll do great harm.

  But then, within the span of three brief suns,

  that side will fall and others rise and thrive,

  spurred on by one who now just coasts between.

  For quite some time they’ll hold their heads up high

  and grind the others under heavy weights,

  however much, for shame, these weep and writhe.

  Of this lot, two are honest yet not heard.

  For pride and avarice and envy are

  the three fierce sparks that set all hearts ablaze.’

  With this, his tear-drenched song now reached an end.

  But I to him: ‘I still want more instruction.

  This gift I ask of you: please do say more.

  Tegghiaio, Farinata – men of rank –

  Mosca, Arrigo, Rusticucci, too,

  and others with their minds on noble deeds,

  tell me, so I may know them, where they are.

  For I am gripped by great desire, to tell

  if Heaven holds them sweet – or poisonous Hell.’

  And he: ‘These dwell among the blackest souls,

  loaded down deep by sins of differing types.

  If you sink far enough, you’ll see them all.

  But when you walk once more where life is sweet,

  bring me, I beg, to others in remembrance.

  No more I’ll say, nor answer any more.’

  His forward gaze now twisted to a squint.

  He stared at me a little, bent his head,

  then fell face down and joined his fellow blind.

  My leader now addressed me: ‘He’ll not stir

  until the trumpets of the angels sound,

  at which his enemy, True Power, will come.

  Then each will see once more his own sad tomb,

  and each, once more, assume its flesh and figure,

  each hear the rumbling thunder roll for ever.’

  So on we fared across that filthy blend

  of rain and shadow spirit, slow in step,

  touching a little on the life to come.

  Concerning which, ‘These torments, sir,’ I said,

  ‘when judgement has been finally proclaimed –

  will these increase or simmer just the same?’

  ‘Return,’ he said, ‘to your first principles:

  when anything (these state) becomes more perfect,

  then all the more it feels both good and pain.

  Albeit these accursed men will not

  achieve perfection full and true, they still,

  beyond that Day, will come to sharper life.’

  So, circling on the curve around that path,

  we talked of more than I shall here relate,

  but reached the brow, from which the route descends,

  and found there Plutus, the tremendous foe.

  Canto VIII

  THE WRATHFUL AND THE MELANCHOLIC

  And so I say (continuing) that, long before

  we reached the bottom of that lofty tower,

  our eyes had travelled upwards to its summit,

  drawn by a pair of tiny flames, set there –

  as now we saw – to signal to a third,

  so far away the eye could hardly grasp it.

  I turned towards the ocean of all wisdom:

  ‘What do they mean?’ I said to him. ‘What answer

  follows from the farther fire? Who makes these signs?’

  And he: ‘Across these waves of foaming mire,

  you may already glimpse what they’ve been waiting for,

  unless it still goes hidden by these marshy fumes.’

  No bow string ever shot through air an arrow

  rapider than now, at speed, I saw come on

  towards us there, a mean little vessel,

  within it – as pilot plying these waters –

  a single galley man who strained the oar,

  squealing: ‘You fiend! You’ve got it coming now!’

  ‘Phlegyas, Phlegyas!’ my master said.

  ‘Your screams and shouts have, this time, little point.

  We’re yours – but only while we cross this marsh.’

  Like someone hearing that a massive hoax

  has just, to his disgruntlement, been pulled on him,

  so Phlegyas now stood, in pent-up rage.

  My lord stepped down, and, entering the boat,

  he made me, in my turn, embark behind.

  The hull seemed laden only when I did.

  At once – my leader boarded, me as well –

  the ancient prow put out. It sawed the waves

  more deeply than it would with other crews.

  So, rushing forwards on that lifeless slick,

  there jerked up, fronting me, one brimming slime

  who spoke: ‘So who – you come too soon! – are you?’

  And my riposte: ‘I come, perhaps; I’ll not remain.

  But who might you be, brutishly befouled?’

  His answer was: ‘Just look at me. I’m one

  who weeps.’ And I to him: ‘Weep on. In grief,

  may you remain, you spirit of damnation!

  I know who you are, filth as you may be.’

  And then he stretched both hands towards our gunwales.

  My teacher, though – alert – soon drove him back,

  saying: ‘Get down! Be off with all that dog pack!’

  And then he ringed both arms around my neck.

  He kissed my face, then said: ‘You wrathful soul!

  Blessed the one that held you in her womb.

  That man, alive, flaun
ted his arrogance,

  and nothing good adorns his memory.

  So here his shadow is possessed with rage.

  How many, in the world above, pose there

  as kings but here will lie like pigs in muck,

  leaving behind them horrible dispraise.’

  ‘Sir,’ I replied, ‘this I should really like:

  before we make our way beyond this lake,

  to see him dabbled in the minestrone.’

  He gave me my answer: ‘Before that shore

  has come to view, you’ll surely have your fill.

  And rightly you rejoice in this desire.’

  Then, moments on, I saw that sinner ripped

  to vicious tatters by that mud-caked lot.

  I praise God still, and still give thanks for that.

  ‘Get him,’ they howled. ‘Let’s get him – Silver Phil!’

  That crazy Florentine! He bucked, he baulked.

  Turning, the Guelf turned teeth upon himself.

  We left him there. Of him, my story tells no more.

  And yet my ears were pierced with cries of pain.

  At which, I barred my eyes intently forwards.

  ‘Dear son,’ my teacher in his goodness said,

  ‘we now approach the city known as Dis,

  its teeming crowds and weighty citizens.’

  ‘Already, sir,’ I said, ‘I clearly can

  make out the minarets beyond this moat,

  as bright and red, it seems, as if they sprang

  from fire.’ ‘Eternal fire,’ he answered me,

  ‘burning within, projects, as you can see,

  these glowing profiles from the depths of Hell.’

  We now arrived within the deep-dug ditch –

  the channel round that place disconsolate,

  whose walls, it seemed to me, were formed of iron.

  Not without, first, encircling it about,

  we came to where the ferry man broke forth:

  ‘Out you all get!’ he yelled. ‘The entry’s here.’

  I saw there, on that threshold – framed – more than

  a thousand who had rained from Heaven. Spitting

  in wrath. ‘Who’s that,’ they hissed, ‘who, yet undead,

  travels the kingdom of the truly dead?’

  He gave a sign, my teacher in all wisdom,

  saying he sought some secret word with them.

  At which they somewhat hid their fierce disdain.

  ‘You come, but on your own!’ they said. ‘Let him,

  so brazen entering our realm, walk by.

  He may retrace his foolish path alone –

  or try it, if he can – while you’ll stay here.

  You’ve been his escort through this dark terrain.’

  Reader, imagine! I grew faint at heart,

  to hear these cursed phrases ringing out.

  I truly thought I’d never make it back.

  ‘My guide, my dearest master. Seven times –

  or more by now – you’ve brought me safely through.

  You’ve drawn me from the face of towering doom.

  Do not, I beg you, leave me here undone.

  If we are now denied a clear way on,

  then let us quickly trace our footsteps back.’

  My lord had led me onwards to that place –

  and now he said: ‘Do not be terrified.

  No one can take from us our right to pass.

  Wait here a while. Refresh your weary soul.

  Take strength. Be comforted. Feed on good hope.

  I’ll not desert you in this nether world.’

  So off he went. He there abandoned me,

  my sweetest father. Plunged in ‘perhapses’,

  I so remained, brain arguing ‘yes’ and ‘no’.

  What he then said to them I could not tell.

  Yet hardly had he taken up his stand

  when all ran, jostling, to return inside.

  They barred the door, these enemies of ours,

  to meet his thrust. My lord remained shut out.

  With heavy tread, he now came back to me.

  Eyes bent upon the ground, his forehead shaved

  of all brave confidence, sighing, he said:

  ‘Who dares deny me entrance to this house of grief?’

  To me he said: ‘You see. I’m angry now.

  Don’t be dismayed. They’ll fuss around in there.

  They’ll seek to keep us out. But I’ll win through.

  This insolence of theirs is nothing new.

  At some less secret gate they tried it once.

  But that still stands without its lock, ajar.

  You’ve seen the door, dead words scribed on its beam.

  And now already there descends the slope –

  passing these circles, and without a guide –

  someone through whom the city will lie open.’

  Canto XIII

  THE VIOLENT AGAINST SELF

  No, Nessus had not reached the other side

  when we began to travel through a wood

  that bore no sign of any path ahead.

  No fresh green leaves but dismal in colour,

  no boughs clean arc-ed but knotty and entwined,

  no apples were there but thorns, poison-pricked.

  No scrubby wilderness so bitter and dense

  from Cécina as far as Corneto

  offers a den to beasts that hate ploughed farmlands.

  Their nest is there, those disgusting Harpies

  who drove the Trojans from the Strophades,

  with grim announcements of great harm to come.

  Wings widespreading, human from neck to brow,

  talons for feet, plumage around their paunches,

  they sing from these uncanny trees their songs of woe.

  Constant in kindness, my teacher now said:

  ‘Before you venture further in, please know

  that you now stand in Sub-ring Number Two,

  and shall until you reach the Appalling Sands.

  So look around. Take care. What you’ll see here

  would drain belief from any word I uttered.’

  A wailing I heard, dragged out from every part,

  and saw there no one who might make these sounds,

  so that I stopped, bewildered, in my tracks.

  Truly I think he truly thought that, truly,

  I might just have believed these voices rose

  from persons hidden from us in the thorn maze.

  Therefore: ‘If you,’ my teacher said, ‘will wrench

  away some sprig from any tree you choose,

  that will lop short your feeling in such doubt.’

  And so I reached my hand a little forwards.

  I plucked a shoot (no more) from one great hawthorn.

  At which its trunk screamed out: ‘Why splinter me?’

  Now darkened by a flow of blood, the tree

  spoke out a second time: ‘Why gash me so?

  Is there no living pity in your heart?

  Once we were men. We’ve now become dry sticks.

  Your hand might well have proved more merciful

  if we had been the hissing souls of snakes.’

  Compare: a green brand, kindled at one end –

  the other oozing sap – whistles and spits

  as air finds vent, then rushes out as wind.

  So now there ran, out of this fractured spigot,

  both words and blood. At which I let the tip

  drop down and stood like someone terror-struck.

  ‘You injured soul!’ my teacher (sane as ever)

  now replied. ‘If he had only earlier

  believed what my own writings could have shown,

  he’d not have stretched his hand so far towards you.

  This, though, is all beyond belief. So I was forced

  to urge a deed that presses on my own mind still.

  But tell him now who once you were. He may,


  in turn, as remedy, refresh your fame,

  returning to the world above by leave.’

  The trunk: ‘Your words, sir, prove so sweet a bait,

  I cannot here keep silence. Don’t be irked

  if I a while should settle on that lure and talk.

  I am the one who held in hand both keys

  to Federigo’s heart. I turned them there,

  locking so smoothly and unlocking it

  that all men, almost, I stole from his secrets.

  Faith I kept, so true in that proud office

  I wasted sleep and lost my steady pulse.

  That harlot Scandal, then (her raddled eyes

  she never drags from where the emperor dwells,

  the vice of court life, mortal blight of all)

  enflamed the minds of everyone against me.

  And they in flames enflamed the great Augustus.

  So, happy honours turned to hapless grief.

  My mind – itself disdainful in its tastes –

  believing it could flee disdain by dying,

  made me unjust against myself so just.

  By all these weird, new-wooded roots, I swear

  on oath before you: I did not break faith,

  nor failed a lord so worthy of regard.

  Will you – should either head back to the world –

  bring comfort to my memory, which lies

  still lashed beneath the stroke of envious eyes?’

  Pausing a while, he said (my chosen poet),

  ‘He’s silent now, so waste no opportunity.

  If there is more you wish to know, then say.’

  ‘You,’ I replied, ‘must speak once more and ask

  what you believe will leave me satisfied.

  I could not do it. Pity wrings my core.’

  And so he did once more begin: ‘Suppose

  that freely, from a generous heart, someone

  should do, imprisoned ghost, what your prayers seek,

  tell us, if you should care to, this: how souls

  are bound in these hard knots. And, if you can:

  will anyone be ever loosed from limbs like these?’

  At that (exhaling heavily) the trunk

  converted wind to word and formed this speech:

  ‘The answer you require is quick to give:

  When any soul abandons savagely

  its body, rending self by self away,

  Minos consigns it to the seventh gulf.

  Falling, it finds this copse. Yet no one place

  is chosen as its plot. Where fortune slings it,

  there (as spelt grains might) it germinates.

  A sapling sprouts, grows ligneous, and then

  the Harpies, grazing on its foliage,

  fashion sharp pain and windows for that pain.