The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• The Peace of God
• Preface
• Purgatorio I
• Purgatorio Ii
• Purgatorio Iii
• Purgatorio Iv
• Purgatorio V
• Purgatorio Vi
• Purgatorio Vii
• Purgatorio Viii
• Purgatorio Ix
• Purgatorio X
• Purgatorio Xi
• Purgatorio Xii
• Purgatorio Xiii
• Purgatorio Xiv
• Purgatorio Xv
• Purgatorio Xvi
• Purgatorio Xvii
• Purgatorio Xviii
• Purgatorio Xix
• Purgatorio Xx
• Purgatorio Xxi
• Purgatorio Xxii
• Purgatorio Xxiii
• Purgatorio Xxiv
• Purgatorio Xxv
• Purgatorio Xxvi
• Purgatorio Xxvii
• Purgatorio Xxviii
• Purgatory Xxix
• Purgatorio Xxx
• Purgatorio Xxxi
• Purgatorio Xxxii
• Purgatorio Xxxiii

PURGATORIO XIII

• We now were at the summit of the stairs,
• where for the second time is cut away
• the Mount, ascent of which frees one from sin;
• and there a cornice, like the first one, girds
• the hillside round about, save that its arc
• more quickly curves. There is no shaded carving
• apparent here, nor is there any mark;
• the bank seems bare, as also seems the path,
• with but the livid color of the rock.

• “If we await folk here, of whom to ask
• our way,” the Poet argued, “I ’m afraid
• our choice will be, perhaps, delayed too long.”

• Then on the sun he fixed his steadfast eyes,
• made of his right the center for his motion,
• and turned the left side of himself around.

• “O thou sweet light, with confidence in whom
• I enter this new path, conduct us thou,”
• he said, “as one should be conducted here.
• Thou warm’st the world, and on it thou dost shine;
• if aught else urge not to the contrary,
• thy rays at all times ought to be our guides.”

• Already had we gone as far up there,
• as here on earth is reckoned for a mile,
• in little time, because of ready will;
• when, flying toward us, there were spirits heard,
• who, though unseen, were to the board of love
• uttering their courteous calls.

• The voice which first
• passed flying, said aloud: “They have no wine!”
• and then behind us kept repeating it;
• and ere, because of having moved away,
• it could be heard no more, another, passing,
• cried: “I ’m Orestes!” nor did that one linger.

• “What are these voices, Father?” said I then;
• and ev’n while I was asking, lo, a third,
• which said: “Love those, from whom ye’ve ill received!”

• The kindly Teacher then: “This circle whips
• the fault of envy, hence the scourge’s cords
• are drawn from love. The curb will probably
• give forth a sound the contrary of this;
• in my opinion, I believe thou ’lt hear it,
• before the pass of pardon thou attain.
• But keenly through the air address thy gaze,
• and thou ’lt see people on ahead of us,
• who seated are, and each against the cliff.”

• Then wider than before I oped mine eyes;
• I looked ahead, and shades I saw with cloaks
• not differing from the color of the stone.

• And when a little further on we were,
• I heard one crying: “Mary, pray for us!”
• and cries to Michael, Peter, and all the Saints.
• Nor do I think there walks on earth to-day
• a man so hard, that he would not be pierced
• by sympathy for what I then perceived;
• for, after I had drawn so near to them,
• that what they did with clearness came to me,
• tears from my eyes were drawn by bitter grief.
• Covered they seemed to me with coarse hair-cloth,
• and one sustained the other with his shoulder,
• while all of them were by the bank sustained.

• Ev’n thus the blind, in want of livelihood,
• at Pardons stand to beg for what they need,
• and one upon the other bows his head,
• that pity may be speedily aroused,
• not merely by the sound of what they say,
• but by their aspect, which no less implores.

• And as the sun availeth not the blind,
• so to the shades, whereof I spoke just now,
• the sky’s light willeth not to grant itself;
• because an iron band runs through, and sews
• the eyelids of them all, as with wild hawks
• one does, since otherwise they ’d not keep still.

• To me it seemed an outrage that, unseen,
• I should see others, as I walked along;
• I therefore turned to my wise Counselor.

• He well knew what the dumb man wished to say;
• and therefore waited not for me to ask,
• but “Speak,” he said, “be brief and to the point.”

• Virgil on that side of the cornice-ledge
• was coming on with me, whence one can fall,
• because it wreathes itself with no bank there.
• On the other side I had those zealous shades,
• who through the horrid seams were pressing so
• their tears, that they were bathing both their cheeks.

• Turning to them, I thus began: “O people,
• who certain are of seeing that High Light,
• which your desire hath for its only object;
• so melt Grace soon the scum upon your conscience,
• that memory’s stream may through it clearly flow,
• tell me, for grateful will it be to me
• and pleasing, if there is among you here
• a soul that Latin is; it will be well
• for him, perhaps, if I should come to know it.”

• “O brother mine, we both are citizens
• of one true City; but thou meanest one,
• who, while a pilgrim, lived in Italy.”

• It seemed to me that this I heard for answer
• a little further on than where I was;
• I therefore let myself be heard much further.
• Among the rest I saw a shade which seemed
• expectant in its looks; and, if one ask
• “How so?” held up its chin as do the blind.

• “Spirit,” said I, “that dost subdue thyself,
• that thou mayst climb, if she that didst reply,
• make thyself known to me by place or name.”

• “Sienese I was;” she answered, “and with these
• cleanse here my guilty life, and pray to Him
• with tears, that He may lend Himself to us.
• Though called Sapìa, sapient was I not,
• for I was far more glad of others’ harm,
• than I of my good fortune ever was.
• And, that thou mayst not think that I deceive thee,
• ev’n as I tell thee, hear how mad I was,
• once my years’ arch was on its downward course.
• When with their foes my fellow citizens
• were joined in battle near the town of Colle,
• I prayed to God for that which He had willed.
• When, routed there, they took the bitter path
• of flight, I felt, on seeing them pursued,
• a joy unequalled by all other joys;
• I therefore upward turned my daring face,
• and cried to God: ‘I fear Thee now no more!’
• as doth the blackbird at the least fair weather.
• When I was at the end of life, I longed
• for peace with God; but not yet would my debt
• have been diminished by repentance here,
• had it not been that Pietro Pettinagno,
• who of his charity was grieved for me,
• was mindful of me in his holy prayers.

• But who art thou, that askest of our state
• while going on, and hast thine eyes unclosed,
• as I believe, and dost, while breathing, talk?”

• “Mine eyes will yet be taken from me here,
• but not for long;” said I, “for they have not
• offended much by being turned by envy.
• Far greater is the fear, wherewith my soul
• is filled, of that tormenting pain below,
• for even now the load there weighs upon me.”

• And she: “Who, then, led thee to us up here,
• if to return below thou think?” And I:
• “He that is with me here, and speaketh not.
• But I am living, therefore ask of me,
• elected spirit, if thou’dst have me move
• my mortal feet in thy behalf on earth.”

• “Oh, this” she answered, “is so strange to hear,
• that certainly it proves God’s love for thee;
• therefore assist me with thy prayers at times!
• I beg thee by what most thou longest for,
• if e’er thou tread the soil of Tuscany,
• that thou among my kin restore my fame.
• Among that vain folk wilt thou see them there,
• which hopes in Talamone, and will waste
• more hope on it than on the Diàna quest;
• but still more will the admirals invest.”