| |
| WHEN he had spoke, the sinner raised his hands 1 | |
| 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, | 5 |
| “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 | 10 |
| 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, 2 who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, | 15 |
| Nor utter’d more; and after him there came | |
| A Centaur full of fury, shouting, “Where, | |
| Where is the caitiff?” On Maremma’s marsh 3 | |
| Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch | |
| They swarm’d, to where the human face begins. | 20 |
| 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. | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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 4 lurk?” I, for a sign my guide | |
| Should stand attentive, placed against my lips | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| 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 | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| 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, | 60 |
| Agnello! 5 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, | 65 |
| 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 | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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, | 90 |
| 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 | 95 |
| 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 | 100 |
| 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 | 105 |
| 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 | 110 |
| 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 | 115 |
| 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 | 120 |
| 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. | 125 |
| 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 | 130 |
| 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 | 135 |
| 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. | 140 |
