Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Dante Alighieri (1265–1321). The Divine Comedy.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Inferno [Hell]

Canto XXV ARGUMENT.—The sacrilegious Fucci vents his fury in blasphemy, is seized by serpents, and flying is pursued by Cacus in the form of a Centaur, who is described with a swarm of serpents on his haunch, and a dragon on his shoulders breathing forth fire. Our Poet then meets with the spirits of three of his countrymen, two of whom undergo a marvelous transformation in his presence.

WHEN he had spoke, the sinner raised his hands

Pointed in mockery and cried” “Take them, God!

I level them at thee.” From that day forth

The serpents were my friends; for round his neck

One of them rolling twisted, as it said,

“Be silent, tongue!” Another, to his arms

Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself

So close, it took from them the power to move.

Pistoia! ah, Pistoia! why dost doubt

To turn thee into ashes, cumbering earth

No longer, since in evil act so far

Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark,

Through all the gloomy circles of the abyss,

Spirit, that swell’d so proudly ’gainst his God;

Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled,

Nor utter’d more; and after him there came

A Centaur full of fury, shouting, “Where,

Where is the caitiff?” On Maremma’s marsh

Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch

They swarm’d, to where the human face begins.

Behind his head, upon the shoulders, lay

With open wings a dragon, breathing fire

On whomsoe’er he met. To me my guide:

“Cacus is this, who underneath the rock

Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood.

He, from his brethren parted, here must tread

A different journey, for his fraudful theft

Of the great herd that near him stall’d; whence found

His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace

Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on

A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt.”

While yet he spake, the Centaur sped away:

And under us three spirits came, of whom

Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim’d,

“Say who are ye!” We then brake off discourse,

Intent on these alone. I knew them not:

But, as it chanceth oft, befell that one

Had need to name another. “Where,” said he,

“Doth Cianfa lurk?” I, for a sign my guide

Should stand attentive, placed against my lips

The finger lifted. If, O reader! now

Thou be not apt to credit what I tell,

No marvel; for myself do scarce allow

The witness of mine eyes. But as I look’d

Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet

Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him:

His midmost grasp’d the belly, a forefoot

Seized on each arm (while deep in either cheek

He flesh’d his fangs); the hinder on the thighs

Were spread, ’twixt which the tail inserted curl’d

Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne’er clasp’d

A dodder’d oak, as round the other’s limbs

The hideous monster intertwined his own.

Then, as they both had been of burning wax,

Each melted into other, mingling hues,

That which was either now was seen no more.

Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns,

A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black,

And the clean white expires. The other two

Look’d on exclaiming, “Ah! how dost thou change,

Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now,

Nor only one.” The two heads now became

One, and two figures blended in one form

Appear’d, where both were lost. Of the four lengths

Two arms were made: the belly and the chest,

The thighs and legs, into such members changed

As never eye hath seen. Of former shape

All trace was vanish’d. Two, yet neither, seem’d

That image miscreate, and so pass’d on

With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge

Of the fierce dog-star that lays bare the fields,

Shifting from brake to brake the lizard seems

A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road;

So toward the entrails of the other two

Approaching seem’d an adder all on fire,

As the dark pepper-grain livid and swart.

In that part, whence our life is nourish’d first,

Once he transpierced; then down before him fell

Stretch’d out. The pierced spirit look’d on him,

But spake not; yea, stood motionless and yawn’d,

As if by sleep or feverous fit assail’d.

He eyed the serpent, and the serpent him.

One from the wound, the other from the mouth

Breathed a thick smoke, whose vapory columns join’d.

Lucan in mute attention now may hear,

Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus, tell,

Nor thine, Nasidius. Ovid now be mute.

What if in warbling fiction he record

Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake

Him changed, and her into a fountain clear,

I envy not; for never face to face

Two natures thus transmuted did he sing,

Wherein both shapes were ready to assume

The other’s substance. They in mutual guise

So answer’d that the serpent split his train

Divided to a fork, and the pierced spirit

Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs

Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon

Was visible: the tail, disparted, took

The figure which the spirit lost; its skin

Softening, his indurated to a rind.

The shoulders next I mark’d, that entering join’d

The monster’s arm-pits, whose two shorter feet

So lengthen’d, as the others dwindling shrunk.

The feet behind then twisting up became

That part that man conceals, which in the wretch

Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke

With a new color veils, and generates

The excrescent pile on one, peeling it off

From the other body, lo! upon his feet

One upright rose, and prone the other fell.

Nor yet their glaring and malignant lamps

Were shifted, though each feature changed beneath.

Of him who stood erect, the mounting face

Retreated toward the temples, and what there

Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears

From the smooth cheeks; the rest, not backward dragg’d,

Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell’d

Into due size protuberant the lips.

He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends

His sharpen’d visage, and draws down the ears

Into the head, as doth the slug his horns.

His tongue, continuous before and apt

For utterance, severs; and the other’s fork

Closing unites. That done, the smoke was laid.

The soul, transform’d into the brute, glides off,

Hissing along the vale, and after him

The other talking sputters; but soon turn’d

His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few

Thus to another spake: “Along this path

Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!”

So saw I fluctuate in successive change

The unsteady ballast of the seventh hold:

And here if aught my pen have swerved, events

So strange may be its warrant. O’er mine eyes

Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.

Yet ’scaped they not so covertly, but well

I mark’d Sciancato: he alone it was

Of the three first that came, who changed not: tho’

The other’s fate, Gaville! still dost rue.