Dante’s The Divine Comedy – The Inferno

DantesTheDivineComedy-TheInfernobyDanteAlighieriRobertHollanderJeanHollanderz-liborgepub

Imagine you are producing a scene from Dante’s Inferno for stage or film (or any other medium you like). How would you direct it? Consider casting and production details (issues of blocking, lighting, pacing, enunciation, costume, set design, etc.), as well as specifically how you will direct the actors (facial expression, body movement, delivery—how you would have them read certain lines). You can make some changes, but you must justify any decisions you make. Be specific about what you want to do and why you want to do it that way and use the text as the basis of your explanation.    As you write your essay, keep in mind the importance of a strong, argumentative thesis. Remember: your thesis must do more than simply state a fact. It must make an arguable assertion about the text. A second key to successfully completing this assignment is staying grounded in the text—analyze the text closely and let it support your argument. Remember: plot summary is NOT analysis! You may consider your audience (your reader) to have read Dante’s Inferno, so there is no need to recapitulate the plot or circumstances of the poem. No outside criticism is to be used, so there should be no need to cite any sources beyond the poem itself. 

FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, JANUARY 2002
Copyright © 2000 by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a
division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in
Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally
published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday, a
division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2000.
Anchor Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday edition as
follows:
Dante Aligheri, 1265–1321
[Inferno. English]
The Inferno / Dante Aligheri; translated by Robert Hollander and
Jean Hollander; introduction & notes by Robert Hollander.
p.  cm.
ISBN 0-385-49697-4
Includes bibliographical references and index.
I. Hollander, Robert. II. Hollander, Jean. III. Title.
PQ4315.2 .H65 2000
851’.1—dc21 00-034531
eISBN: 978-0-345-80310-8
Author photograph of Robert Hollander by Pryde Brown
Cover painting: Hell and Fall of the Damned by Hieronymus Bosch
© Scala/Art Resource, NY
Cover design by Mark Melnick
Book design by Pei Loi Koay
Map design by Je�rey L. Ward
www.anchorbooks.com

http://www.anchorbooks.com/

v3.1

for

Francesco,

Maria Grazia,

Stefano,

Simonetta,

Enrico,

& Tommaso

Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Note on Using This eBook
Note on the Translation
Table of Abbreviations and List of Commentators
Map of Dante’s Hell
Introduction
The Inferno: English
INFERNO I
INFERNO II
INFERNO III
INFERNO IV
INFERNO V
INFERNO VI
INFERNO VII
INFERNO VIII
INFERNO IX
INFERNO X
INFERNO XI
INFERNO XII
INFERNO XIII
INFERNO XIV
INFERNO XV
INFERNO XVI
INFERNO XVII
INFERNO XVIII
INFERNO XIX
INFERNO XX

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INFERNO XXI
INFERNO XXII
INFERNO XXIII
INFERNO XXIV
INFERNO XXV
INFERNO XXVI
INFERNO XXVII
INFERNO XXVIII
INFERNO XXIX
INFERNO XXX
INFERNO XXXI
INFERNO XXXII
INFERNO XXXIII
INFERNO XXXIV
The Inferno: Italian
INFERNO I
INFERNO II
INFERNO III
INFERNO IV
INFERNO V
INFERNO VI
INFERNO VII
INFERNO VIII
INFERNO IX
INFERNO X
INFERNO XI
INFERNO XII
INFERNO XIII
INFERNO XIV
INFERNO XV
INFERNO XVI
INFERNO XVII
INFERNO XVIII
INFERNO XIX

INFERNO XX
INFERNO XXI
INFERNO XXII
INFERNO XXIII
INFERNO XXIV
INFERNO XXV
INFERNO XXVI
INFERNO XXVII
INFERNO XXVIII
INFERNO XXIX
INFERNO XXX
INFERNO XXXI
INFERNO XXXII
INFERNO XXXIII
INFERNO XXXIV
Notes
Index of Names and Places
Index of Subjects Treated in the Notes
List of Works Cited
About the Translators
Other Books by Robert and Jean Hollander
Acclaim for This Book

A Note on Using This eBook
In this eBook edition of The Inferno, you will �nd two types of
hyperlinks.
The �rst type is embedded in the line numbers to the left of the text:
these links allow you to click back and forth between the English
translation and the original Italian text while still holding your
place.
The second type of link, which is indicated by an arrow (→) at the
end of a line of poetry, will bring you to an explanatory note.
You can click on an arrow to navigate to the appropriate note; you
can then use the links at the end of each note to return to your
location in either the English translation or the original Italian text.
You can also click on the note number to return to your location in
the English translation.

NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION
“Reader, this is an honest book.” Montaigne says this of his Essays.
We would like to say the same of this translation. We have tried to
bring Dante into our English without being led into the temptation
of making the translation sound better than the original allows. The
result may be judged by all who know him in his own idiom. This is
not Dante, but an approximation of what he might authorize had he
been looking over our shoulders, listening to our at times ferocious
arguments. We could go on improving this e�ort as long as we live.
We hope that as much as we have accomplished will �nd an
understanding ear and heart among those who know the real thing.
Every translation begins and ends in failure. To the degree that we
have been able to preserve some of the beauty and power of the
original, we have failed the less.
The accuracy of the translation from the Italian text established
by Giorgio Petrocchi (1966–67) has been primarily my
responsibility, its sound as English verse primarily that of the poet
Jean Hollander, my wife and collaborator. As will be clear from
various notes in the text, I am not always in accord with Petrocchi’s
readings; however, I thought it imperative to use as the base of this
entire project the current standard Italian text of the work,
indicating my occasional desire to diverge from it only in its
margins. My original intention was to reproduce the John D.
Sinclair translation (1939) of Inferno, cleaning up its just barely
post-Victorian “thee”s and “thou”s and other such, to a twenty-�rst-
century ear, outdated usages. However, (a) di�erences between the
Italian in the Società Dantesca Italiana (1921) edition, from which
Sinclair translated, and Petrocchi’s edition, (b) later “corrections” of
Sinclair’s version by a later translator, Charles Singleton, (c) further
study of Dante’s lines themselves, (d) a sense of ways in which a

prose translation eventually fails to be “sayable”—all of these
considerations led us to attempt a new verse translation of the �rst
cantica, despite our original debt to Sinclair.
Those who come to our text familiar with the Singleton
translation (1970) will perhaps think that it is its resonance that
they occasionally hear; this is because a tremendous amount of
Singleton’s translation conforms word-for-word to Sinclair’s, as
anyone may see simply by opening the two volumes side by side.
Thus, having decided to begin with Sinclair and to modify him, we
found that Singleton had apparently done essentially the same
thing. To his credit, his changes are usually for the better; to his
blame is his failure to acknowledge the frequency of his exact
coincidence with Sinclair. And thus, on his own advice, we have
considered it “a mistake  …  not to let the e�orts of one’s
predecessors contribute to one’s own” (page 372), and have on
occasion included his divergences from Sinclair when we found
them just. However, let there be no mistake: the reason our
translation seems to re�ect Singleton’s, to the extent that it does, is
that ours, on occasion, and Singleton’s, almost always, are both
deeply indebted to Sinclair.
In February 1997, when my wife and I decided to commit
ourselves to this e�ort, we were able to consult the draft of a verse
translation of Inferno composed by Patrick Creagh and me (begun in
1984 and abandoned in 1988, with some 80 percent of the work
Englished). Some of its phrases have found their way to our text,
and we owe a considerable debt to Patrick Creagh (and to my
earlier self), which we are glad to acknowledge. We also owe a debt
to the prose paraphrases of di�cult Italian passages found in the
still helpful English commentary by the Rev. Dr. H. F. Tozer (1901);
and to glosses gleaned from various Italian commentaries (most
particularly, in the early cantos, those of Francesco Mazzoni [1965–
85], but also to the interpretive paraphrases found in the
Bosco/Reggio commentary [1979]). We decided early on that we
would not consult contemporary verse translations until after we
had �nished our work, so as to keep other voices out of our ears.

Several friends and colleagues have helped us in our task. Lauren
Scancarelli Seem, administrative coordinator of the Princeton Dante
Project, was our �rst reader, making a number of suggestions for
changes. Margherita Frankel, a veteran Dantist as well as a good
friend, gave us a close reading and made many valuable criticisms
to which we have attended. The poet Frederick Tibbetts lent us his
exacting ear and made dozens of helpful suggestions. Lino Pertile,
the Dante scholar at Harvard University, also combed through our
text and made a number of helpful suggestions. The paperback
edition bene�tted from the eagle eye of Peter D’Epiro, who caught a
number of slips that have been corrected in this printing. Our
greatest debt is to Robert Fagles, who went through this translation
verse by verse and made many hundreds of comments in our
margins. To have had such attentive advice from the most favored
translator of Homer of our day has been our extraordinary fortune
and pleasure.
Our goal has been to o�er a clear translation, even of unclear
passages. We have also tried to be as compact as possible—not an
easy task, either. It is our hope that the reader will �nd this
translation a helpful bridge to the untranslatable magni�cence of
Dante’s poem.
February 1997 (Florence)–February 1998 (Tortola)
For this reprinting of the Anchor Books edition, we have made
about one hundred and �fty changes in the translation, mainly
a�ecting phrasing and punctuation. There are also some �ve or six
changes in the notes.
November 2010 (Hopewell)

TABLE OF ABBREVIATIONS & LIST OF COMMENTATORS
1.  Dante’s works:
Conv. Convivio
Dve De vulgari eloquentia
Egl. Egloghe
Epist. Epistole
Inf. Inferno
Mon. Monarchia
Par. Paradiso
Purg. Purgatorio
Quest. Questio de aqua et terra
Rime Rime
Rime dub. Rime dubbie
VN Vita nuova
   
Detto Il Detto d’Amore (“attributable to Dante”)
Fiore Il Fiore (“attributable to Dante”)
2.    Commentators on the Commedia (these texts are all either
currently available or, in the case of Landino, Bennassuti, and
Provenzal, should one day be available, in the database known as

the Dartmouth Dante Project; dates, particularly of the early
commentators, are often approximate):
Jacopo Alighieri (1322) (Inferno only)
L’anonimo lombardo (1322) (Latin) (Purgatorio only)
Graziolo de’ Bambaglioli (1324) (Latin) (Inferno only)
Jacopo della Lana (1324)
Guido da Pisa (1327) (Latin) (Inferno only)
L’Ottimo (1333)
L’anonimo selmiano (1337) (Inferno only)
Pietro di Dante (1340) (Latin) [also Inferno of 2nd & 3rd redactions]
Il codice cassinese (1350?) (Latin)
Giovanni Boccaccio (1373) (Inferno I–XVII only)
Benvenuto da Imola (1380) (Latin)
Francesco da Buti (1385)
L’anonimo �orentino (1400)
Giovanni da Serravalle (1416) (Latin)
Guiniforto Barzizza (1440) (Inferno only)
*Cristoforo Landino (1481)
Alessandro Vellutello (1544)
Bernardino Daniello (1568)
Lodovico Castelvetro (1570) (Inferno I–XXIX only)
Pompeo Venturi (1732)
Baldassare Lombardi (1791)
Luigi Portirelli (1804)
Paolo Costa (1819)
Gabriele Rossetti (1826–40) (Inferno & Purgatorio only)
Niccolò Tommaseo (1837)
Ra�aello Andreoli (1856)
*Luigi Bennassuti (1864)
Henry W. Longfellow (1867) (English)
Gregorio Di Siena (1867) (Inferno only)
Brunone Bianchi (1868)
G. A. Scartazzini (1874; but the 2nd ed. of 1900 is used)
Giuseppe Campi (1888)
Gioachino Berthier (1892)

Giacomo Poletto (1894)
H. Oelsner (1899) (English)
H. F. Tozer (1901) (English)
John Ruskin (1903) (English; not in fact a “commentary”)
John S. Carroll (1904) (English)
Francesco Torraca (1905)
C. H. Grandgent (1909) (English)
Enrico Mestica (1921)
Casini-Barbi (1921)
Carlo Steiner (1921)
Isidoro Del Lungo (1926)
Scartazzini-Vandelli (1929)
Carlo Grabher (1934)
Ernesto Trucchi (1936)
*Dino Provenzal (1938)
Luigi Pietrobono (1946)
Attilio Momigliano (1946)
Manfredi Porena (1946)
Natalino Sapegno (1955)
Daniele Mattalia (1960)
Siro A. Chimenz (1962)
Giovanni Fallani (1965)
Giorgio Padoan (1967) (Inferno I–VIII only)
Giuseppe Giacalone (1968)
Charles Singleton (1970) (English)
Bosco-Reggio (1979)
Pasquini-Quaglio (1982)
*Not yet available
NB: All references to other works (e.g., Mazz.1967.1) are keyed to
the List of Works Cited at the back of this volume, with the
exception of references to commentaries contained in the Dartmouth
Dante Project database, accessible online (telnet
library.dartmouth.edu; at the prompt type: connect dante).
Informational notes derived from Paget Toynbee’s Concise Dante

http://library.dartmouth.edu/

Dictionary of Proper Names and Notable Matters in the Works of Dante
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1914) are followed by the siglum (T).
References to the Enciclopedia dantesca, 6 vols. (Rome: Istituto della
Enciclopedia Italiana, 1970–78) are indicated by the abbreviation
ED. Commentaries by Robert Hollander are (at times) shorter
versions of materials found in the Princeton Dante Project, a
multimedia edition of the Commedia currently including most
materials relevant to Inferno (the last two cantiche are under
development). Subscription (without charge to the user) is possible
at www.princeton.edu/dante.

http://www.princeton.edu/dante

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INTRODUCTION
What is a “great book”? It is probably impossible to de�ne the
concept analytically to anyone’s satisfaction, but it may be described
pragmatically: a work that is loved, over time, by millions of more-
or-less ordinary readers and by thousands of scholars. Dante, by the
time he was writing the fourth canto of Inferno, had already decided
he was writing such a book. He sets his name down as one of the six
all-time great writers: only Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and Lucan
have preceded him (he will later add Statius). Unspeakably self-
assured as this poet may seem, many today would now shorten that
list, perhaps even to two: Homer and Dante. His self-con�dence may
seem overweening, but he was even more of a prophet than he
realized.
In about 1306, having entered his forties, he set about work on
his Comedy. By 1295 he had written a “little book” (the
nomenclature is his own), The New Life, thirty-one of his lyric poems
surrounded by a governing prose commentary that almost explains
the eventual meaning of his love for a young woman of Florence
named Beatrice, who had died in 1290 at the age of twenty-�ve. We
know nothing absolutely certain about her, whether she was an
actual woman (if so, probably a member of the Portinari family, and
then almost certainly married) or whether she is a �ctitious lady of
the sort that love-poets invented in order to have a subject to write
about. The text, on the other hand, makes it clear that we are to
treat her as historical, and also suggests that we are to understand
that she means more than she seems, for she is ineluctably joined
with the Trinity, and in particular with the life of Christ. Dante
seems completely aware of the radical newness of a lady loaded
with such lofty theological meaning in the tradition of vernacular
poetry of love. That is, he knows that what he is proposing is out of

bounds. And this is why he is usually so very di�dent in his
remarks, forcing us to draw some rather disquieting conclusions
about the nature of the very special kind of love that eventually
informs his praise of Beatrice.
Before he began work on his “theological epic,” the Comedy, he
had also written major parts of two other works, one a presentation
of his ideas about eloquence in the vernacular, De vulgari eloquentia,
the second, Convivio, a lengthy study of moral philosophy (in the
form of commentary to his own odes), of which he had completed
four of the projected �fteen “treatises.” He had been actively
involved in the often bitterly contested political life of Florence, at
that time one of the most important European cities, swollen with
new wealth and consequent political power. At a time when that
city had only six of them, he served the customary two-month term
as one of its priors, the highest political o�ce in the city. By 1302,
having inherited the wrong political identity, he lost practically
everything when his party, the White Guelph faction, was outfoxed
by the Black Guelphs, supported by the allied forces of Pope
Boniface VIII and the French king. He was exiled in 1302 and never
returned home again. He then lived a mainly itinerant life in
northern Italy, with two longish stays in Verona and a �nal one in
Ravenna, where he died of malarial fever in September 1321 at the
age of �fty-six.
The political situation of northern Italy during his lifetime was
distinguished by factionalism and chaos. The emperors who were
supposed to govern all of Europe had, for centuries, mainly avoided
their Italian responsibilities. The last of them to rule in Italy was
Frederick II (we hear of him in Inferno X and XIII), and he, while
one of the greatest �gures in Europe, was not a leader to Dante’s
liking. Dead in 1250, Frederick was the last emperor to govern from
Italy. Dante hoped for an imperial restoration of the proper kind,
and, to everyone’s amazement, including his own, had his hopes
rewarded when the newly crowned Henry VII, a compromise
candidate from Luxembourg, allowed to become emperor primarily
because of the machinations of Pope Clement V, descended into the
peninsula to rule Europe from Italy in 1310. When his military

expedition eventually failed because of his death in 1313, Dante’s
imperial hopes were dealt a terrible blow, but not �nally dashed. To
the end of his days (and in the text of Paradiso XXVII and XXX) he
insisted on believing that a new “Augustus” would ful�ll God’s
design for Italy and Europe.
On the local level, late-thirteenth-century northern Italy (Milano,
to the north, and Rome, to the south, are barely on Dante’s personal
political map; rather we hear, in addition to Florence, of such cities
as Genoa, Pisa, Pistoia, Siena, etc.) was in constant turmoil. The two
main “parties” were the Guelphs (those essentially allied with the
papacy) and the Ghibellines (aligned with the emperor—when there
was one to be aligned with—or at least with imperial hopes). But
most politics, as they are in our own time, were local. And there,
labels did not count so much as family. In Florence the Ghibellines
had been defeated and banished in 1266, a year after Dante’s birth,
leaving the city entirely Guelph. But that did not betoken an era of
unity. The Guelphs themselves were already divided (as they were
in many northern cities) in two factions, the “Blacks,” led by the
Donati family (into a less powerful branch of which Dante married),
and the “Whites,” led by the Cerchi. (It is probably correct to say
that the Whites were more devoted to a republican notion of
governance, while the Blacks were more authoritarian.) The �rst
impetus toward political division had occurred early in the century,
when a young man, member of a Ghibelline family, broke o� his
engagement and married a Guelph Donati (in Pistoia, not entirely
dissimilarly, the roots of division supposedly began in a snowball
�ght). A member of a White Guelph family, and having married into
the most important Black family, Dante was therefore tied to Guelph
interests. How then, do we explain his patent allegiance, in the
Comedy, to the imperial cause? In 1306 or so he seems to have,
rereading the Latin classics, reformulated his own political vision (as
is �rst evident in the fourth and �fth chapters of the last treatise of
the Convivio, before which there is not a clear imperialist sentiment
to be found in his writing). And so, nominally a Guelph, Dante was
far more in accord with Ghibelline ideas, except that, in practice, he
found Ghibellines lacking in the religious vision that he personally

saw as the foundation of any imperialist program. Politics are
everywhere in the poem, which is far from being the purely
religious text that some of its readers take it for.
In his exile, the Commedia (�rst called the Divina Commedia only
in 1555 by a Venetian publisher) became his obsession. For about
�fteen years, with few exceptions (a notable one being his treatise,
Monarchia, concerning the divine prerogatives of the empire,
perhaps composed in 1317), the poem absorbed almost all of his
time and energy. Its “motivating idea” is a simple one, outrageously
so. In the Easter period of 1300 a thirty-�ve-year-old Florentine,
struggling with failure and apparently spiritual death, is rescued by
the shade of the Roman poet Virgil. He, won to the project by the
living soul of Beatrice, who descends to hell from her seat in heaven
in order to enlist his aid, agrees to lead Dante on a journey through
hell and purgatory. Beatrice herself will again descend from heaven
to take Dante the rest of the way, through the nine heavenly spheres
and into paradise, where angels and souls in bliss gaze, in endless
rapture, on God. The entire journey takes nearly precisely one week,
Thursday evening to Thursday evening. It begins in fear and
trembling on this earth and ends with a joyous vision of the
trinitarian God. It is perhaps di�cult to imagine how even a Dante
could have managed to build so magni�cent an edi�ce out of so
improbable a literary idea. The result was a book that began to be
talked about, known from parts that seem to have circulated before
the whole, even before it was �nished (�rst citations begin to be
noted around 1315). By the time he had completed it, shortly before
his death, people were eagerly awaiting the publication of Paradiso.
And within months of his death (or even before) commentaries upon
it began to be produced. It was, in short, an instant “great book,”
probably the �rst of its kind since the last century of the pagan era,
when Romans (no less of them than Augustus himself) awaited
eagerly the �nished text of Virgil’s Aeneid.
One of the most striking things about the Comedy is the enormous
apparatus that has attached itself to it. No secular work in the
western tradition has so developed a heritage of line-by-line
commentary, one that began in Latin and Italian and that has now

entered any number of languages, European, Slavic, and Asian. It is
clear that Dante’s work convinced the scholars of his time that this
was a poem worthy of the most serious attention, both as a purveyor
of the most important ideas of Christianity (e.g., sin, grace,
redemption, transcendence) and as a response to the greatest of the
Latin poets (Virgil foremost, but also Ovid, Statius, Lucan, and
others) and philosophers (Aristotle [in his Arabic/Latin form] and
Cicero, primarily). Knowledge of Greek had essentially disappeared
from the time of the establishment of Latin Christianity as the
dominant religion and culture of the West in the �fth and sixth
centuries. The study of the language would only gradually begin
again some �fty years after Dante’s death. And thus while Dante
knows about Greek philosophy, all he has experienced of it comes
from the works (most of Aristotle) and bits and pieces (only one
work of Plato’s, the Timaeus, and excerpts of some of the pre-
Socratics) that had been translated into Latin. Strangely, for a
modern reader, his �rst commentators pay little or no attention to
his close and fairly extensive dealings with the poems of his
vernacular predecessors and co-practitioners (Guido Guinizzelli,
Arnaut Daniel, Brunetto Latini, Guido Cavalcanti, Cino da Pistoia,
and others). Perhaps the most impressive aspect of these
commentaries (and we are speaking of line-by-line analyses, on the
model of commentary to the Bible or to a handful of especially
respected classical authors, a form essentially denied to modern
writers before 1300) is the vast number of them. From the �rst
twenty years after Dante’s death at least ten have survived; by our
own time there are hundreds.
Along with conquering the allegiance of scholars, Dante won the
hearts of less-erudite Italians (or, at �rst, Tuscans) who found in his
vast poem the �rst use of Italian as a literary language in an
indisputably major work. Italian poetry, beginning at the time of St.
Francis in the early twelfth century, had performed wonders, but it
had rarely found a subject that seemed serious enough. Here was a
poem that tackled everything: theology, religion, philosophy,
politics, the sciences of heaven (astronomy/astrology) and of earth
(biology, geology), and, perhaps most of all, the study of human

behavior. And it did all these things in a language that everyone
could understand, or at least thought he could. It is probably not
true to suggest that Dante “invented modern Italian.” What he did
do was to deploy Italian as a literary language on a major scale,
incorporating the “serious” subjects that had hitherto been reserved
to Latin. If the Italian language had been waiting for a voice, Dante
gave it that voice. Before him it did not exist in a global form, a
complete language �t for all subjects; after him it did. It is probably
not because of him that Italian has changed no more between his
time and today than English has since Shakespeare’s day. It is,
nonetheless, a continuing surprise and reward for contemporary
Italians to have so ancient and yet so approachable a father,
speaking, at least most of the time, words that they themselves use
(and sometimes that he had invented).
Is Dante an “easy” poet? That depends on what passages we
happen to be reading. He can be as simple and straightforward as
one’s country neighbor, or as convoluted as the most arcane
professor. (Boccaccio, one of his greatest advocates, also shows both
proclivities in the prose of the Decameron.) Yet he has always found
a welcome from the least schooled of readers, and even from those
who could not read at all, but learned the poem by rote. A living
Tuscan farmer/poet, Mauro Punzecchi, years ago memorized the
poem while he worked his �elds and is today able to recite all of it.
Who does not envy him his gift?
Each of us reads his own Commedia, which makes perfect sense,
most of the time. It is only when we try to explain “our” poem to
someone else that the trouble starts.
The commentary that accompanies this new translation is, like
every one that has preceded it, except the �rst few, indebted to
earlier discussions of this text. And what of that text, as Dante left
it? No one has ever seen his autograph version. As a result, the
manuscript tradition of the poem is vast and complicated.
Nonetheless, and despite all the di�culties presented by particular
textual problems, the result of variant readings in various
manuscripts, it must be acknowledged that in the Comedy we have a
remarkably stable text, given the facts that we do not possess an

autograph and that the condition of the manuscripts is so
unyieldingly problematic. However, we do know that Dante left us
precisely 14,233 verses arranged in one hundred cantos, all of
which contained precisely the number of verses we �nd in them
today in every modern edition. And that is no small thing.
And so each reader comes to a text that o�ers some problems of
the textual variety; these pale beside problems of interpretation.
What we can all agree on is that the work is a wonder to behold.
Reading Dante is like listening to Bach. It is unimaginable to think
that a human being, so many years ago (or indeed ever), could
make such superhuman magic. Yet there it is, beckoning, but also
refusing to yield some of its secrets.
When I considered how I might present this poem in a brief
introduction, after years of thinking about it and teaching it and
writing about it, I thought of what I myself missed when I started
reading Dante. The �rst was a sense of Dante’s intellectual
biography; the second was a set of answers to a series of questions:
how does allegory work (i.e., how does this poem “mean”)? What
does Virgil represent and why is he the �rst guide in the poem?
How am I supposed to react to the sinners of Inferno, especially
those that seem so sympathetic to me? The �rst subject is too vast
for treatment here. My own attempt at an intellectual biography of
the poet is available in Italian (Dante Alighieri, Rome, Editalia, 2000;
an English version was published by Yale University Press in 2001).
The three questions I have tried to answer, both in the “Lectures”
found currently in the Princeton Dante Project, and, in shorter form,
in an essay I wrote a year ago (“Dante: A Party of One,” First Things
92 [April 1999]: 30–35; the essay on Virgil also has some points in
common with my article, “Virgil,” in the Dante Encyclopedia, ed.
Richard Lansing, New York, Garland, 2000). What follows is another
attempt to deal with three important matters facing any �rst-time
reader of the poem, or any reader at all.
(1)  Allegory.
When I was young I was taught that Dante’s poem was the very
essence of allegorical writing. What exactly is allegory? Simply put,

it is the interpretive strategy of understanding one thing as meaning
not itself but something other. A lady, blindfolded, holding a pair of
scales in one hand, is not to be understood as a being with a
particular history, but as a timeless entity, an abstraction: justice. If
we understand just this much, we are prepared to comprehend how
we might read—and how many of his �rst readers did understand—
Dante’s poem as an “allegory.” Virgil is not the Roman poet so much
as he is human reason unenlightened by faith; when he acts or
speaks in the poem he does so without the historical context
supplied by his life or works. And what of the second guide in the
poem, Beatrice? She, too, is removed from her historical role in
Dante’s life, and is treated as an abstraction, in her case the truths
discovered through faith, or perhaps revelation, or theology. And
what of the protagonist, Dante himself? That he has a very personal
history, of which we hear a good deal, matters not. He is a sort of
“Everyman,” and represents the ordinarily appetitive human soul.
Please let me explain that I myself think very little of such
formulations, but they are found in almost all the early
commentators. In a term derived from Cicero, these interpreters
thought of allegory as a “continuous metaphor.” The most
signi�cant actions performed in the poem, they thought, could best
be understood as part of this single, developing metaphor, in which
the �awed human soul called “Dante” is gradually educated, �rst by
reason (referred to as “Virgil”), and then by theological certainty
(code name “Beatrice”).
Since something like this does seem to occur in the course of the
poem, we can sense why the formulation has its appeal. The
problem is that it shortchanges the entire historical referentiality of
the poem. Dante’s life disappears as a subject worthy of attention;
Virgil’s texts need not be read or understood as ways to �nd out
what the poem means when it refers to them; Beatrice’s earthly
existence as a young woman becomes utterly super�uous, as does
her “relationship” (a curiously and precisely wrong word, given its
contemporary usage) with Dante. Fourteen centuries ago Isidore of
Seville de�ned allegory as “otherspeech,” in which a speaker or
writer said one thing but meant something else by it. Without

exploring the limitations that he himself imposed upon that formula,
we can merely note that it is frequently used in modern days to
explain allegory simply and quickly. If I say “Beatrice” I do not
mean her, but what she means. We are back to the lady holding the
scales. To use a medieval example, St. Thomas explains (Summa
I.i.9) that when the Bible refers to the arm of God (Isaiah 51:9) it
does not mean that God has an arm, but that He has operative
power. That is, we can discard the literal for its signi�cance, or, in
more modern terms, the signi�er for the signi�ed. Does this way of
reading Dante utterly denature the text we have before us? Perhaps
not utterly, but enough so that we should avoid it as much as we
can.
The matter gets more interesting and more complicated because
Dante himself wrote about the question of allegory. In his Convivio
he distinguishes between allegory as it is understood and practiced
by poets (along the lines we have been discussing) and as it is used
by theologians in order to understand certain passages in the Bible
(a very di�erent procedure that we will examine in a moment). And
in Convivio (II.i) he says the “correct” thing: it is his intention, in the
explication of his odes, to follow the allegorical procedures of the
poets (“since it is my intention here to follow the method of the
poets, I shall take the allegorical sense according to the usage of the
poets”). There are those who put this remark to the service of the
claim that the “allegory of the theologians” thus has nothing to do
with Dante’s procedures in the Comedy, either. However, that is
exactly what he claims in the letter he wrote to his patron,
Cangrande della Scala of Verona. The authenticity of his Epistle to
Cangrande, written sometime after Dante had begun writing the
Paradiso, and thus probably no earlier than 1316, is one of the most
debated of Dantean questions. It is di�cult for this writer to be fair
to the negative argument, which is so obviously based in a desire to
cancel what the epistle says. Whether or not Dante wrote it (and
current scholarly opinion is, once again, decidedly in favor), this
remarkable document puts forward the disturbing (to use a mild
word) idea that Dante’s poem was written with the same keys to
meaning as was the Bible. No one had ever said as much about his

own work before, and it must be made clear that it is anathema to
any sensible person of Dante’s (or any) time. If this were the only
occasion on which this most venturesome of writers had said
something outrageous, one might want to pay more heed to those
who try to remove the text from his canon on the ground that he
had no business making such a claim.
The principal tenet of theological allegory is that it holds certain
(but not all) historical events in the Bible as a privileged and limited
class of texts. Some historical passages in the Bible possessed four
senses. The four senses of the Bible are generally put forth, and
especially in the wake of Thomas Aquinas (Summa theologiae I.i.10),
as follows: (1) historical/literal, (2) allegorical, (3) moral or
tropological, (4) anagogical. It is helpful to understand that these
senses unfurl in a historical continuum. For instance, the historical
Moses, leading the Israelites out of captivity, gains his allegorical
meaning in Christ, leading humankind out of bondage to the
freedom of salvation. His moral (or tropological—these words are
used synonymously) sense is present now—whenever “now” occurs
—in the soul of the believer who chooses to make his or her
“exodus” from sin; while the anagogical sense is found only after the
end of time, when those who are saved are understood as having
arrived in the New Jerusalem, eternal joy in heaven. To o�er a
second example, one favored by Dante’s early commentators:
Jerusalem was the historical city of Old Testament time; it points to
the allegorical Jerusalem in which Jesus was cruci�ed; it is the moral
or tropological “city” (whether within a single believer or as the
entity formed by the Church Militant now) at any present moment;
it is, anagogically, the New Jerusalem, which will exist only at the
end of time. As opposed to the literal sense of poet’s allegory, the
literal sense of theological allegory is historically true, found only in
events narrated in the Bible (e.g., the fall of Adam and Eve, Moses
leading the Israelites in the Exodus, the birth of Jesus, the
Cruci�xion). According to the Epistle to Cangrande and, more
importantly, as found in the treatment of subjects in his poem itself
(most of which was written before he wrote the epistle, it is
important to remember), Dante has adapted the techniques of

theological allegory to the making of his poem. Characters and
events in it are portrayed in a historical mode and as part of a
historical continuum. Adam, Moses, Icarus, Aeneas, Paul, Augustus,
Virgil, and Dante are all portrayed as having said things or
accomplished deeds that are seen in a historical and meaningful
pattern that gives shape to this poem. Their actual historical status
does not matter. Dante surely did not believe that Icarus had
enjoyed a life on earth beyond that conferred by poets and
mythographers. But he treats him, in Inferno XVII, as a possible
precursor to himself, should Dante, a latter-day �yer through space,
have had a bad end and fallen from the back of Geryon.
If we have been able to rid ourselves of the interpretive problems
engendered by the “allegory of the poets,” here we have a still
larger problem. How can Dante have written the Comedy in the
same way that God wrote the Bible through his inspired human
agents? Obviously he could not have. Then why does he make so
outrageous a claim? Because what he is most concerned with is
establishing the “right” of poetry to truth. This is a complex
argument, and needs to be undertaken with a sense of the standing
of poetry in a theological age. Let us say that it was not propitious.
St. Thomas Aquinas had been clear about the issue. Poetry was the
least of the human sciences, was basically devoid of cognitive value,
and its practitioners were liars. In an intellectual climate of that
kind, Dante was forced into making a choice. Either he did what all
others who defended poetry had done (and as he himself had done
in Convivio), admit that poets are literally liars who nonetheless tell
moral and philosophical truths through (poets’) allegory, or he had
to �nd a new answer to the attacks on poetry by friars like Thomas.
Typically, he went his own way. If religious detractors of poetry say
it lacks truth, he will give them truth. The Comedy is presented,
from end to end (no reader can possibly miss this fact), as a record
of an actual experience. Let us be honest with one another. You do
not believe, and I do not believe, that Dante took a seven-day trip to
the otherworld. But we can agree that his claims for total veracity
are in the poem. Why? Because Dante took Thomas seriously. It is a
wonderful game that he plays, daring and at times very funny, and

surely he enjoyed playing it. Let me o�er a single example, drawn
from a pretty “serious” setting, the Earthly Paradise. Describing the
six wings adorning each of the four biblical beasts that represent the
authors of the Gospels in Purgatorio XXIX, Dante assures us that
their wings were six in number (Ezechiel’s cherubic creatures had
only four), that is, as many as are found in John’s description of the
same cherubs (Revelation 4:8). The text puts this in an arresting
way: “John sides with me, departing from him [Ezechiel].” No one
but Dante would have said this in this way. “Here I follow John”
would have been the proper way for a poet to guarantee the
truthfulness of his narrative. Not for Dante. Since the pretext of the
poem is that he indeed saw all that he recounts as having seen, his
own experience, in completely Thomistic spirit, comes �rst—he
knows this by his senses. And so John is his witness, and not he
John’s.
The whole question of exactly how and how much the “allegory
of the theologians” permeates the Comedy is not to be rehashed
here. It is the subject of a number of books, including two by this
writer. It is important to grasp that, by breaking out of the lockstep
of other poets, who give us narratives that are utterly and only
fabulous, i.e., patently untrue in their literal sense, Dante wanted to
take poetry somewhere new. The greatest French medieval poem,
the Romance of the Rose, is built around the presentation of a series
of abstractions speaking to one another in a garden. Marianne
Moore, borrowing from another writer, once referred to poems as
“imaginary gardens with real toads in them.” The Romance of the
Rose is an imaginary garden �lled with imaginary toads; the Comedy
presents itself as a real garden containing real toads. If the student
(or teacher) who is wrestling with this di�cult matter for the �rst
time takes only this much away from this discussion, it should be of
considerable aid. The reader is not asked by the poem to see Virgil
as Reason, Beatrice as Faith (or Theology or Revelation), Francesca
as Lust, Farinata as Heresy, etc. We may banish such abstractions
from mind, unless Dante himself insists on them. On occasion he
does—e.g., the Lady Poverty, beloved of St. Francis [Paradiso XI.74],
who is not to be confused with any historical earthly woman, but is

to be regarded as the ideal of Christ’s and the Apostles’ renunciation
of the things of this world. It is a useful and pleasing freedom that,
in consequence, we may enjoy: “The allegory of the Comedy is not
allegory as the commentators urge me to apply it. I may read this
poem as history, and understand it better.” That, at least
provisionally, is a good way to begin reading this poem.
(2)  Virgil.
We should be aware that Virgil was not always Dante’s guide in
poetry. The Vita nuova is essentially without major reference to him;
De vulgari and the �rst three treatises of Convivio are similar in this
respect. It is only in the fourth and last treatise of the latter that we
can begin to see how the Comedy could make Virgil so essential a
presence, for there Virgil’s texts are present in important ways, as
Dante begins to think of moral philosophy, Roman polity, and the
jettisoning of allegorical procedures in the same breath. As the
world of political reality, of human choices made in time and with
real consequence, for the �rst time becomes a stage for Dante’s
thought, Virgil becomes his most important resource. As is widely
understood, Dante’s recovery of Virgilian text is the most
noteworthy example of this phenomenon that we �nd in the Middle
Ages. We have not yet entered the world of the Renaissance, but we
are getting close.
There are few surprises awaiting the reader of the Comedy as
unsettling as to �nd a pagan poet serving as guide in a Christian
poem. We have perhaps gotten so used to the idea of Dante’s Virgil
that we forget to be surprised by it. For reasons that we �nd it
di�cult to fathom, Dante needed Virgil in order to make this poem;
and he wanted him to serve as a central character in it. Lesser minds
would have made a less provocative choice: an anonymous friar, a
learned Christian theologian, anyone less troubling than Virgil. One
tradition of Christian reception of Virgil, which is at least as old as
the emperor Constantine, held that his much-discussed fourth
Eclogue actually foretold the coming of Christ. Had Dante so
believed, his choice of guide might have been less burdensome.
However, we may be certain from Monarchia (I.xi.1) that Dante

knew that Virgil’s “virgin” was not the blessèd Mary but Astraea, or
“justice.” Any number of passages within the Comedy make it plain
that Dante did not consider the Roman poet a Christian avant-la-
lettre. We must conclude that he willfully chose a pagan as his guide,
leaving us to fathom his reasons for doing so.
In recent years a growing number of Dante’s interpreters have
been arguing for the view that Dante deliberately undercuts the
Latin poet, showing that both in some of his decisions as guide and
in some of his own actual texts he is, from Dante’s later and
Christian vantage point, prone to error. If this is the case, we must
not forget that Dante at the same time is intent upon glorifying
Virgil. And then we might consider the proposition that Dante’s love
for him, genuine and heartfelt, needed to be held at arm’s length
and chastised, perhaps revealing to a pagan-hating reader that
Dante knew full well the limitations of his Virgil. Yet he could not
do without him. Virgil is the guide in Dante’s poem because he
served in that role in Dante’s life. It was Virgil’s Aeneid and not the
works of Aristotle or of Aquinas which served as model for the
poem; it was Virgil who, more than any other author, helped to
make Dante Dante.
It may take readers years of rereading before they discover an
extraordinary fact about Dante’s Virgil. For all the excitement, even
exhilaration, brought forth by Virgil’s mere presence in this poem (a
text that would seem to need to exclude him on theological
grounds), sooner or later the fact that he is treated, on occasion,
rather shabbily begins to impress us. This is so obvious, once it is
pointed out, that one can begin to understand how thoroughly
trained we have all been to look with pleased eyes upon a Dantean
love for Virgil that heralds Renaissance humanism. To take only a
few examples from the goodly supply presented in the text of Inferno
(and Purgatorio will add many another), we witness Virgil
embarrassed by the recalcitrant fallen angels who deny him
entrance to the City of Dis (Inf. VIII and IX); later teased by his pupil
for that momentary failure (XIV); being careful to get Dante out of
observing distance lest Geryon prove as di�cult as the rebel angels
had been and thus embarrass him again (XVI); completely fooled by

the demons of the pitch, who cause him acute discomfort over three
cantos (XXI–XXIII). If such scenes make it seem more than unlikely
that Virgil could possibly represent Reason (and commentators who
think so grow silent at the margins of these scenes, only occasionally
being honest enough even to say, “here the allegory is
intermittent”), they also make us wonder about Dante’s motives in
treating his “master and author” so disrespectfully. It is perhaps
only because he loved Virgil so deeply that he feels the need to
remind himself and his reader that the pagan was, in the end, a
failure, capable of causing another Roman poet, Statius, to convert
to Christianity, but not of taking that step himself. All of that seems
wrong to us. There is perhaps no doctrine in the entire Comedy so
hateful to modern readers as that which makes pagans—and others
outside the Christian dispensation—responsible for knowing Christ.
When we consider Dante’s situation, however, his motives may seem
more understandable to us. Having fought o� the temptation to
make Virgil a Christian, Dante must now show himself and his
reader that he has not gone overboard in his a�ections.
There is another disturbing element to Dante’s Virgilianism. Not
only is Virgil the character forced to undergo some seriously
humiliating moments, but his texts are also on the receiving end of
Dante’s playful mockery. Perhaps the most evident moment of this
occurs in the twentieth canto, where Virgil is made to revise an
episode in the tenth book of the Aeneid so that it accords better with
Christian ideas about divination. It is a richly woven scene, and is
extremely funny (Dante is a much funnier poet than we like to
acknowledge), once we begin to understand the literary game that is
being played under our eyes. And this is not the only time that
Virgil’s texts receive such treatment. We will even �nd the Aeneid
remembered in the very last canto of Paradiso, with its reminder of
what the Sibyl told of Christian truth to an ear that could
understand her utterance—if not Virgil’s.
It is simply impossible to imagine the Comedy without Virgil. And
no one before Dante, and perhaps very few after, ever loved Virgil
as he did. At the same time there is a hard-edged sense of Virgil’s
crucial failure as poet of Rome, the city Dante celebrates for its two

suns, church and empire, but which Virgil saw only in the light of
the one. For Dante, that is his great failure. As unfair as it seems to
us, so much so that we frequently fail to note how often Virgil is
criticized by the later poet who so loved him, it is the price that
Dante forces him to pay when he enters this Christian precinct. And
it may have been the price that he exerted from himself, lest he
seem too available to the beautiful voices from the pagan past, seem
less �rm as the poet of both Romes. The Virgilian voice of the poem
is the voice that brings us, more often and more touchingly than any
other, the sense of tragedy that lies beneath the text of the Comedy.
(3)  The Moral Situation of the Reader.
How are we meant to respond to the sinners in hell? That seems an
easy question to resolve. In the Inferno we see the justice of God
proclaimed in the inscription over the gate of hell (III.4): “Justice
moved my maker on high.” If God is just, it follows logically that
there can be no question concerning the justness of His judgments.
All who are condemned to hell are justly condemned. Thus, when
we observe that the protagonist feels pity for some of the damned,
we are probably meant to realize that he is at fault for doing so.
Dante, not without risk, decided to entrust to us, his readers, the
responsibility for seizing upon the details in the narratives told by
sinners, no matter how appealing their words might be, in order to
condemn them on the evidence that issues from their own mouths.
It was indeed, as we can see from the many readers who fail to take
note of this evidence, a perilous decision for him to have made. Yet
we are given at least two clear indicators of the attitude that should
be ours. Twice in Inferno �gures from heaven descend to hell to
further God’s purpose in sending Dante on his mission. Virgil relates
the coming of Beatrice to Limbo. She tells him, in no uncertain
terms, that she feels nothing for the tribulations of the damned and
cannot be harmed in any way by them or by the destructive agents
of the place that contains them (Inf. II.88-93). All she longs to do is
to return to her seat in Paradise (Inf. II.71). And when the angelic
intercessor arrives to open the gates of Dis, slammed shut against
Virgil, we are told that this benign presence has absolutely no

interest in the situation of the damned or even of the living Dante.
All he desires is to complete his mission and be done with such
things (Inf. IX.88; 100-103), reminding us of Beatrice’s similar lack
of interest in the damned.
The complex mechanism that Dante has developed to establish
what we today, after Henry James, call “point of view” has perhaps
not been examined as closely as it should be. If we consider it, we
realize how “modern” it is. The essential staging of any scene in
Inferno involving a confrontation with a sinner potentially contains
some or all of the following voices: (1) the all-knowing narrator,
who has been through the known universe (and beyond!) and knows
and understands everything a mortal being can understand; (2)
Virgil, the wise guide who understands (most of the time) all that an
extremely intelligent pagan can understand (which is considerable,
if at some times more limited than at others); (3) the gradually
more-and-more-informed protagonist, who moves from alarming
cowardice and ignorance to relatively sound moral competence and
judgment before the Inferno ends; (4) a sinner (sometimes more than
one) who may or may not be trying to tell his or her story in a
distorted, self-serving way, seeking a better reputation, whether in
Dante’s eyes or in the view of posterity. That is a brief morphology
of the possible combination of speakers in any given scene. We all
should be able to agree that such an arrangement is, if nothing else,
complex. If the only speaker were Dante the narrator, we would
always know where he (and we) stood. When we re�ect that he
hardly ever intervenes with moral glosses within scenes, we learn
something important about this poem: it will not do our work for us.
Most of the speakers are, thus, at best usually reliable, at worst
completely unreliable. The gradations of their quali�cations may
change with every scene. And we are left with the problem of
evaluating the result. Let us examine only a single scene to see how
this grid of potential understanding functions.
In one of the most celebrated passages in all of literature,
Francesca da Rimini tells the protagonist her story (Inf. V.72–142).
As is usual, the omniscient narrator tells us nothing but the facts.
From him we learn that the protagonist was overcome by pity (72—

is this a good or bad thing?); that the sinners look like doves (82–84
—what is the “iconography” of these doves, birds of Venus or signs
of the Holy Spirit [the two most usual medieval associations for
these birds]?); that Francesca and Paolo come from a line of sinners
that includes Dido (85—Dido has a pretty rocky medieval reputation
as adulteress; does Francesca su�er from guilt by association?); that
the protagonist’s summoning call was full of a�ection and was
e�ective (87—is this to be applauded?). Later, he will tell us that
Dante was greatly stirred by Francesca’s �rst speech (109–111—
again, what moral view should we take of his behavior?). And he
concludes the canto with the information that Paolo was weeping all
through Francesca’s second speech (139–140—what do we make of
these tears?) and that the protagonist, �lled with pity, collapsed in a
faint (141–142—what moral view should we take of that?). The
omniscient narrator could have given us answers to all these
questions; he is content to raise them (intrinsically, he rarely asks
questions outright) and leave them in our minds. Often, and surely
in the Romantic era, many readers have thought that we are meant
to identify with the protagonist’s view of the scene. And that view,
at least, is unambiguous. He is intrigued by the sight of these two
handsome shades (73–75), cries out to them with courteous regard
for their prerogatives (80–81), bursts into a passionately-felt sense
of identi�cation with them (112–114), tells Francesca as much
(116–117), and then asks her to spell out exactly how she was
overcome by love (118–120). And that is all he says. Of course the
narrator tells us that, at the conclusion of Francesca’s words, he
faints from pity, perhaps his single most eloquent response. We at
least know where he stands.
What of Virgil, Dante’s guide? He only speaks twice, �rst to assure
Dante that these lovers will come if he but summon them in the
name of love (77–78—his laconic remark may be read either as a
mere statement of fact or as the world-weary remark of the poet
who knows all too much about what my friend John Fleming calls
“Carthaginian love,” i.e., the passion that undermines reason,
exempli�ed in Dido, as Virgil himself has told the tale in Aeneid IV).
And then he has only one more two-word utterance (in Italian it is

the laconic “che pense”): “What are your thoughts?” (111—is he
merely asking, seeing Dante so deep in reverie about the lovers, or
is he delicately reminding Dante that he should be thinking, rather
than feeling, since we have already been told by the narrator [at
verse 39] both that the sin of lust makes “reason subject to desire”
and that the protagonist has understood this?). Virgil has fewer than
three verses of the seventy-one dedicated to the scene. What would
he have said if the poet had allotted him more? It is interesting to
speculate.
What about Francesca herself, the most loquacious of the four?
She has thirty-eight verses to tell her story, well over half of the
scene (88–107; 121–138). What she tells is moving and beautiful,
like the woman herself, we imagine. In this reader’s view, one
common element in both her speeches is that someone or something
else is always being blamed for her unhappiness: the God who will
not hear her prayers, the god of Love who made Paolo fall in love
with her beautiful physical being and made her respond similarly to
his, her husband for killing them, the book that, describing an
adulterous kiss, encouraged them to engage in an adulterous
embrace, and the man who wrote that book. I admit that I am here
taking a dour view. Are we meant to read the scene this way? Most
people do not. (A. B. Giamatti, with whom I used to converse
endlessly about Dante, loved the Romantic reading of this canto. He
once cursed me, complaining, “Are you going to try to ruin this
scene for me too, Hollander?”) I hope it is clear that we all need to
watch more carefully the actual exchanges among the various
characters that might help establish a point of view from which we
can study the events brought forward in the poem. Whatever else
we can say, we should all be ready to admit that this is complicated
business. Dante is beautiful, yes, but he is complicated.
It is important to acknowledge that Romantic readers have a
point. Had Dante thought that all those in hell deserved as little
attention as the saved a�ord them, in other words, if he felt about
them as do Beatrice and the descended angel, he could have begun
the poem in purgatory, o�ering a brief notice of the pains of the
damned, of which it is better, he might have had the guardian of

purgatory say, not to speak. But he was interested in them, and not
only as negative exemplars for those Christians who need to rea�rm
their faith and will. The saints may have no interest in the damned,
but neither we nor Dante are saints. And thus, one might argue,
Inferno, the most e�ective part of the poem, in human terms, deals
with the problem (sin) and not its solution (faith and good works).
Do we have sympathy for the damned, at least those of them that
reveal traits that we admire (e�ective rhetoric, strong feeling, a
sense of their personal wrongness, even, at times, courtesy)? Of
course we do. Yet we should be aware that there is a trap for us if
we go too far. We need to learn to read ironically (a word that is
only used once in all Dante’s works, in the incomplete thought that
ends what we have of De vulgari eloquentia [II.xiv]), �nding an angle
of vision that corresponds to the author’s, who expresses thoughts
through his characters that need to be examined with care. That is a
di�cult goal.
Nonetheless, it is noteworthy (though rarely, if ever, noted) that
the “best” people in hell are not necessarily those whom we tend to
admire most. They include those who were involved in Florentine
public a�airs, always championing the cause of good governance:
Ciacco (Inf. VI), Farinata degli Uberti (X), Brunetto Latini (XV),
Jacopo Rusticucci and his mates (XVI), even Mosca dei Lamberti
(XXVIII). All of these are unusual among the denizens of hell in that
they either own up to their sins (not making an e�ort to persuade
Dante of their innocence or simply to avoid his questions about their
guilt) or want to be remembered for their good deeds on earth. That
the “standard list” of sympathetic sinners only mentions two of
them (Farinata and Brunetto) is informative: Francesca da Rimini
(canto V), Farinata, Pier delle Vigne (XIII), Brunetto, Ulysses (XXVI),
and Ugolino della Gherardesca (XXXIII). Francesca, Pier, Ulysses,
and Ugolino all try to convince Dante of their worthiness, avoiding
the subject of their sins. Their behavior in this regard might serve as
a clue to an attentive reader. On this score, Ciacco is a good deal
more reliable a witness than is Francesca.
There is more to say about many things. The text of the poem
awaits, with annotations that will address many of these. Your

translators wish you an invigorated journey through hell (not a bad
place once you get used to it) and your commentator hopes that you
will �nd his remarks helpful.
Robert Hollander
Tortola, 23 February 2000

The Inferno: English

1–9   
10–21   
22–27   
28–36   
37–43   
44–54   
55–60   
61–66   
67–75   
76–78   
79–90   
91–100   
101–111   
112–120   
121–129   
130–135   
136   
OUTLINE: INFERNO I
Dante, having lost his way, in a dark wood
hint of dawn: the sun on a mountaintop
simile: survivor of shipwreck looking back at sea
journey resumed; ascending the slope; a leopard
dawn and reassurance
a lion renews his fear; a she-wolf drives him back
simile: merchant (or gambler?) losing everything
apparition (of Virgil) and Dante’s �rst words
Virgil identi�es himself
his pointed question to Dante
Dante’s recognition, praise of Virgil; plea for aid
Virgil’s warning: power of the she-wolf
Virgil’s prophecy of the hound that will defeat her
Virgil will guide Dante through two realms to a third
Virgil: a second guide will take him to those in bliss,
since he is not allowed into that realm
Dante agrees to be led through the �rst two realms
the two set out

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18
21
24
INFERNO I
Midway in the journey of our life   →
I came to myself in a dark wood,   →
for the straight way was lost.   →
Ah, how hard it is to tell
the nature of that wood, savage, dense and harsh—
the very thought of it renews my fear!
It is so bitter death is hardly more so.   →
But to set forth the good I found   →
I will recount the other things I saw.
How I came there I cannot really tell,
I was so full of sleep   →
when I forsook the one true way.
But when I reached the foot of a hill,   →
there where the valley ended   →
that had pierced my heart with fear,   →
looking up, I saw its shoulders
arrayed in the �rst light of the planet   →
that leads men straight, no matter what their road.   →
Then the fear that had endured
in the lake of my heart, all the night   →
I spent in such distress, was calmed.
And as one who, with laboring breath,   →
has escaped from the deep to the shore
turns and looks back at the perilous waters,
so my mind, still in �ight,

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turned back to look once more upon the pass   →
no mortal being ever left alive.
After I rested my wearied �esh a while,
I took my way again along the desert slope,
my �rm foot always lower than the other.   →
But now, near the beginning of the steep,
a leopard light and swift   →
and covered with a spotted pelt   →
refused to back away from me
but so impeded, barred the way,
that many times I turned to go back down.
It was the hour of morning,
when the sun mounts with those stars   →
that shone with it when God’s own love
�rst set in motion those fair things,
so that, despite that beast with gaudy fur,
I still could hope for good, encouraged
by the hour of the day and the sweet season,
only to be struck by fear
when I beheld a lion in my way.
He seemed about to pounce—
his head held high and furious with hunger—
so that the air appeared to tremble at him.
And then a she-wolf who, all hide and bones,
seemed charged with all the appetites
that have made many live in wretchedness
so weighed my spirits down with terror,
which welled up at the sight of her,

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that I lost hope of making the ascent.
And like one who rejoices in his gains   →
but when the time comes and he loses,
turns all his thought to sadness and lament,
such did the restless beast make me—
coming against me, step by step,
it drove me down to where the sun is silent.
While I was �eeing to a lower place,   →
before my eyes a �gure showed,   →
faint, in the wide silence.   →
When I saw him in that vast desert,   →
‘Have mercy on me, whatever you are,’   →
I cried, ‘whether shade or living man!’
He answered: ’Not a man, though once I was.   →
My parents were from Lombardy—
Mantua was their homeland.
‘I was born sub Julio, though late in his time,   →
and lived at Rome, under good Augustus
in an age of false and lying gods.
‘I was a poet and I sang   →
the just son of Anchises come from Troy   →
after proud Ilium was put to �ame.   →
‘But you, why are you turning back to misery?
Why do you not climb the peak that gives delight,   →
origin and cause of every joy?’
‘Are you then Virgil, the fountainhead   →
that pours so full a stream of speech?’
I answered him, my head bent low in shame.   →

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‘O glory and light of all other poets,
let my long study and great love avail
that made me delve so deep into your volume.   →
‘You are my teacher and my author.
You are the one from whom alone I took   →
the noble style that has brought me honor.
‘See the beast that forced me to turn back.
Save me from her, famous sage—
she makes my veins and pulses tremble.’
‘It is another path that you must follow,’
he answered, when he saw me weeping,
‘if you would �ee this wild and savage place.
‘For the beast that moves you to cry out
lets no man pass her way,
but so besets him that she slays him.
‘Her nature is so vicious and malign
her greedy appetite is never sated—
after she feeds she is hungrier than ever.
‘Many are the creatures that she mates with,   →
and there will yet be more, until the hound
shall come who’ll make her die in pain.
‘He shall not feed on lands or lucre
but on wisdom, love, and power.
Between felt and felt shall be his birth.
‘He shall be the salvation of low-lying Italy,   →
for which maiden Camilla, Euryalus,   →
Turnus, and Nisus died of their wounds.
‘He shall hunt the beast through every town   →

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till he has sent her back to Hell
whence primal envy set her loose.
‘Therefore, for your sake, I think it wise
you follow me: I will be your guide,
leading you, from here, through an eternal place
‘where you shall hear despairing cries
and see those ancient souls in pain
as they bewail their second death.   →
‘Then you shall see the ones who are content
to burn because they hope to come,
whenever it may be, among the blessed.
‘Should you desire to ascend to these,
you’ll �nd a soul more �t to lead than I:   →
I’ll leave you in her care when I depart.
‘For the Emperor who has His seat on high
wills not, because I was a rebel to His law,   →
that I should make my way into His city.
‘In every part He reigns and there He rules.
There is His city and His lofty seat.
Happy the one whom He elects to be there!’
And I answered: ‘Poet, I entreat you
by the God you did not know,
so that I may escape this harm and worse,   →
‘lead me to the realms you’ve just described
that I may see Saint Peter’s gate   →
and those you tell me are so sorrowful.’
Then he set out and I came on behind him.

1–6   
7–9   
10–36   
37–42   
43–48   
49–74   
75–84   
85–93   
94–114   
115–120   
121–126   
127–130   
131–135   
136–140   
141–142   
OUTLINE: INFERNO II
Dante, “alone” with Virgil, prepares for the journey
invocation (Muses, “lofty genius”); his worthy memory
Dante’s uncertainty as to his quali�cations
simile: a man unwilling to do what he has resolved
Virgil: Dante is a coward
Virgil tells of his encounter with Beatrice in Limbo
Virgil will lead Dante; why is Beatrice not fearful?
Beatrice’s response: the saved are proof against hell
a lady in heaven (Mary), Lucy, and Beatrice all help
tears of Beatrice induce Virgil to begin at once
Virgil chides Dante for his cowardice
simile: �owers raised and opened by sun
Dante’s renewed vigor; debt to Beatrice and to Virgil
Dante has again embraced his �rst resolve
the two again set out

3
6
9
12
15
18
21
24
INFERNO II
Day was departing and the darkened air   →
released the creatures of the earth
from their labor, and I, alone,   →
prepared to face the struggle—   →
of the way and of the pity of it—
which memory, unerring, shall retrace.   →
O Muses, O lofty genius, aid me now!   →
O memory, that set down what I saw,
here shall your worth be shown.
I began: ‘Poet, you who guide me,   →
consider if my powers will su�ce
before you trust me to this arduous passage.   →
‘You tell of the father of Sylvius;   →
that he, still subject to corruption, went
to the eternal world while in the �esh.   →
‘But that the adversary of all evil showed;   →
such favor to him, considering who and what he was,
and the high sequel that would spring from him,
‘seems not un�tting to a man who understands.   →
For in the Empyrean he was chosen
to father holy Rome and her dominion,
‘both of these established—if we would speak;   →
the truth—to be the sacred precinct where
successors of great Peter have their throne.
‘On this journey, for which you grant him glory,

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he heard the words that prompted him;   →
to victory and prepared the Papal mantle.   →
‘Later, the Chosen Vessel went there;   →
to bring back con�rmation of our faith,
the �rst step in our journey to salvation.
‘But why should I go there? who allows it?
I am not Aeneas, nor am I Paul.   →
Neither I nor any think me �t for this.   →
‘And so, if I commit myself to come,
I fear it may be madness. You are wise,
you understand what I cannot express.’
And as one who unwills what he has willed,   →
changing his intent on second thought
so that he quite gives over what he has begun,
such a man was I on that dark slope.
With too much thinking I had undone;   →
the enterprise so quick in its inception.
‘If I have rightly understood your words,’   →
replied the shade of that great soul,
‘your spirit is assailed by cowardice,
‘which many a time so weighs upon a man
it turns him back from noble enterprise,
the way a beast shies from a shadow.   →
‘To free you from this fear
I’ll tell you why I came and what I heard
when �rst I felt compassion for you.
‘I was among the ones who are suspended;   →
when a lady called me, so blessèd and so fair;   →

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that I implored her to command me.
‘Her eyes shone brighter than the stars.
Gentle and clear, the words she spoke to me—   →
an angel’s voice was in her speech:
‘ “O courteous Mantuan spirit,   →
whose fame continues in the world
and shall continue while the world endures,
‘ “my friend, who is no friend of Fortune,   →
is so hindered on his way upon the desert slope;   →
that, in his terror, he has turned back,
‘ “and, from what I hear of him in Heaven,
I fear he has gone so far astray
that I arose too late to help him.
‘ “Set out, and with your polished words;   →
and whatever else is needed for his safety,
go to his aid, that I may be consoled.
‘ “I who bid you go am Beatrice.
I come from where I most desire to return.
The love that moved me makes me speak.
‘ “And when I am before my Lord
often will I o�er praise of you to Him.”   →
Then she fell silent. And I began:
‘ “O lady of such virtue that by it alone;   →
the human race surpasses all that lies
within the smallest compass of the heavens,
‘ “so pleased am I at your command that my consent,
were it already given, would be given late.
You have but to make your desire known.

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108
‘ “But tell me why you do not hesitate
to descend into the center of the earth;   →
from the unbounded space you long for.”
‘ “Since you are so eager to know more,”   →
she answered, “I shall be brief in telling you
why I am not afraid to enter here.
‘ “We should fear those things alone
that have the power to harm.
Nothing else is frightening.
‘ “I am made such by God’s grace
that your a�iction does not touch,
nor can these �res assail me.
‘ “There is a gracious lady in Heaven so moved;   →
by pity at his peril, she breaks stern judgment
there above and lets me send you to him.
‘ “She summoned Lucy and made this request:   →
«Your faithful one is now in need of you
and I commend him to your care.»
‘ “Lucy, the enemy of every cruelty,
arose and came to where I sat
at venerable Rachel’s side,   →
‘ “and said: «Beatrice, true praise of God,
why do you not help the one who loved you so
that for your sake he left the vulgar herd?;   →
‘ “«Do you not hear the anguish in his tears?
Do you not see the death besetting him;   →
on the swollen river where the sea cannot prevail?»
‘ “Never were men on earth so swift to seek;   →

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their good or to escape their harm as I,
after these words were spoken,
‘ “to descend here from my blessèd seat,
trusting to the noble speech that honors you
and those who have paid it heed.”
‘After she had said these things to me,
she turned away her eyes, now bright with tears,   →
making me more eager to set out.
‘And so I came to you just as she wished.   →
I saved you from the beast denying you
the short way to the mountain of delight.
‘What then? Why, why do you delay?
Why do you let such cowardice rule your heart?
Why are you not more spirited and sure,
‘when three such blessèd ladies
care for you in Heaven’s court
and my words promise so much good?’
As little �owers, bent and closed
with chill of night, when the sun
lights them, stand all open on their stems,
such, in my failing strength, did I become.
And so much courage poured into my heart
that I began, as one made resolute:
‘O how compassionate was she to help me,   →
how courteous were you, so ready to obey
the truthful words she spoke to you!
‘Your words have made my heart
so eager for the journey

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that I’ve returned to my �rst intent.
‘Set out then, for one will prompts us both.
You are my leader, you my lord and master,’   →
I said to him, and when he moved ahead
I entered on the deep and savage way.   →

1–9   
10–12   
13–21   
22–30   
31–33   
34–42   
43–44   
45–51   
52–57   
58–63   
64–69   
70–75   
76–78   
79–81   
82–93   
94–99   
100–111   
112–120   
121–126   
127–129   
130–136   
OUTLINE: INFERNO III
words inscribed above the gate of hell
having read them, Dante is afraid
Virgil admonishes, then encourages, Dante
tumultuous sound made by mouths and hands
Dante asks who these shades (in Circle “zero”) are
Virgil: the neutrals and the neutral angels
Dante wants to know the reason for their lamentation
Virgil: they would rather be anyone but themselves
Dante watches shades following a wavering banner
he knows some, and one who “made the great refusal”
they are stung by insects that make their faces bleed
looking ahead, Dante sees a crowd at a riverbank
Virgil says his questions will be answered later
Dante’s shame at this implicit criticism
appearance of Charon; his refusal to ferry Dante
Virgil’s rejoinder stills Charon
shades, cursing, enter his ski�; he strikes laggards
similes: leaves in fall, falcon returning to falconer
Virgil: the damned want the justice of their penalty
Virgil explains Charon’s desire not to include Dante
the earthquake and Dante’s fainting �t

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9
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24
INFERNO III
THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE CITY OF WOE,   →
THROUGH ME THE WAY TO EVERLASTING PAIN,
THROUGH ME THE WAY AMONG THE LOST.   →
JUSTICE MOVED MY MAKER ON HIGH.   →
DIVINE POWER MADE ME,   →
WISDOM SUPREME, AND PRIMAL LOVE.
BEFORE ME NOTHING WAS BUT THINGS ETERNAL,   →
AND ETERNAL, I ENDURE.
ABANDON ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER HERE.
These words, dark in hue, I saw inscribed   →
over an archway. And then I said:
‘Master, for me their meaning is hard.’   →
And he, as one who understood:   →
‘Here you must banish all distrust,
here must all cowardice be slain.
‘We have come to where I said
you would see the miserable sinners
who have lost the good of the intellect.’   →
And after he had put his hand on mine
with a reassuring look that gave me comfort,
he led me toward things unknown to man.   →
Now sighs, loud wailing, lamentation   →
resounded through the starless air,
so that I too began to weep.   →
Unfamiliar tongues, horrendous accents,   →

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39
42
45
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words of su�ering, cries of rage, voices
loud and faint, the sound of slapping hands—   →
all these made a tumult, always whirling
in that black and timeless air,
as sand is swirled in a whirlwind.
And I, my head encircled by error, said:
‘Master, what is this I hear, and what people
are these so overcome by pain?’
And he to me: ‘This miserable state is borne   →
by the wretched souls of those who lived
without disgrace yet without praise.
‘They intermingle with that wicked band   →
of angels, not rebellious and not faithful
to God, who held themselves apart.
‘Loath to impair its beauty, Heaven casts them out,   →
and depth of Hell does not receive them
lest on their account the evil angels gloat.’
And I: ‘Master, what is so grievous to them,
that they lament so bitterly?’
He replied: ‘I can tell you in few words.
‘They have no hope of death,   →
and their blind life is so abject
that they are envious of every other lot.
‘The world does not permit report of them.
Mercy and justice hold them in contempt.   →
Let us not speak of them—look and pass by.’
And I, all eyes, saw a whirling banner   →
that ran so fast it seemed as though

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it never could �nd rest.
Behind it came so long a �le of people
that I could not believe
death had undone so many.
After I recognized a few of these,   →
I saw and knew the shade of him
who, through cowardice, made the great refusal.
At once with certainty I understood
this was that worthless crew
hateful alike to God and to His foes.
These wretches, who never were alive,   →
were naked and beset
by stinging �ies and wasps
that made their faces stream with blood,
which, mingled with their tears,
was gathered at their feet by loathsome worms.
And then, �xing my gaze farther on,   →
I saw souls standing on the shore of a wide river,
and so I said: ‘Master, permit me �rst
‘to know who they are and then what inner law
makes them so eager for the crossing,
or so they seem in this dim light.’   →
And he to me: ‘You shall know these things,   →
but not before we stay our steps
on the mournful shore of Acheron.’
Then, my eyes cast down with shame,
fearing my words displeased him,
I did not speak until we reached that stream.

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And now, coming toward us in a boat,
an old man, his hair white with age, cried out:
‘Woe unto you, you wicked souls,
‘give up all hope of ever seeing Heaven.
I come to take you to the other shore,
into eternal darkness, into heat and chill.
‘And you there, you living soul,   →
move aside from these now dead.’
But when he saw I did not move,
he said: ‘By another way, another port,   →
not here, you’ll come to shore and cross.
A lighter ship must carry you.’
And my leader: ‘Charon, do not torment yourself.   →
It is so willed where will and power are one,   →
and ask no more.’
That stilled the shaggy jowls
of the pilot of the livid marsh,
about whose eyes burned wheels of �ame.
But those souls, naked and desolate,
lost their color. With chattering teeth
they heard his brutal words.
They blasphemed God, their parents,
the human race, the place, the time, the seed   →
of their begetting and their birth.
Then, weeping bitterly, they drew together
to the accursèd shore that waits
for everyone who fears not God.
Charon the demon, with eyes of glowing coals,   →

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beckons to them, herds them all aboard,
striking anyone who slackens with his oar.   →
Just as in autumn the leaves fall away,   →
one, and then another, until the bough
sees all its spoil upon the ground,
so the wicked seed of Adam �ing themselves
one by one from shore, at his signal,
as does a falcon at its summons.
Thus they depart over dark water,
and before they have landed on the other side
another crowd has gathered on this shore.
‘My son,’ said the courteous master,
‘all those who die in the wrath of God
assemble here from every land.
‘And they are eager to cross the river,
for the justice of God so spurs them on   →
their very fear is turned to longing.
‘No good soul ever crosses at this place.
Thus, if Charon complains on your account,
now you can grasp the meaning of his words.’
When he had ended, the gloomy plain shook   →
with such force, the memory of my terror
makes me again break out in sweat.
From the weeping ground there sprang a wind,
�aming with vermilion light,
which overmastered all my senses,
and I dropped like a man pulled down by sleep.   →

1–3   
4–12   
13–18   
19–22   
23–30   
31–42   
43–45   
46–50   
51–63   
64–72   
73–75   
76–78   
79–81   
82–93   
94–102   
103–105   
106–117   
118–129   
130–144   
145–147   
148–151   
OUTLINE: INFERNO IV
Dante awakened by “thunder” (after “lightning”)
once again Dante cannot see in the darkness
Virgil’s pallor entering the �rst Circle
Virgil says his face is pale from pity, not fear
to Dante the lament here seems less mournful (sighs)
Virgil is eager for Dante’s questions about those who
dwell in Limbo, sinless, but without faith
Dante grieves, realizing many good people are here
Dante: has anyone gone from Limbo to heaven?
Virgil describes the harrowing of hell, which he saw
the lightest place in hell: honorable souls
Dante: why are these set apart in the light?
Virgil: their fame on earth has this result in heaven
Dante hears a voice welcome Virgil on his return
the poets (Homer, Horace, Ovid, Lucan) approach
the “school” greets Dante and includes him among
them
unreported discourse of the six poets
the “noble castle” and its inner meadow
Greeks, Romans, and Saladin: active life (14 named)
Greeks, Romans, Arabs: contemplative life (21 named)
the poet insists on his inability to give a full account
Virgil and Dante move on to less peaceful precincts

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9
12
15
18
21
24
INFERNO IV
A heavy thunderclap broke my deep sleep   →
so that I started up like one
shaken awake by force.
With rested eyes, I stood
and looked about me, then �xed my gaze
to make out where I was.
I found myself upon the brink
of an abyss of su�ering
�lled with the roar of endless woe.
It was full of vapor, dark and deep.
Straining my eyes toward the bottom,
I could see nothing.
‘Now let us descend into the blind world   →
down there,’ began the poet, gone pale.
‘I will be �rst and you come after.’
And I, noting his pallor, said:   →
‘How shall I come if you’re afraid,
you, who give me comfort when I falter?’   →
And he to me: ‘The anguish of the souls   →
below us paints my face
with pity you mistake for fear.
‘Let us go, for the long road calls us.’
Thus he went �rst and had me enter
the �rst circle girding the abyss.
Here, as far as I could tell by listening,   →

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was no lamentation other than the sighs
that kept the air forever trembling.
These came from grief without torment
borne by vast crowds
of men, and women, and little children.   →
My master began: ‘You do not ask about
the souls you see? I want you to know,
before you venture farther,
‘they did not sin. Though they have merit,
that is not enough, for they were unbaptized,
denied the gateway to the faith that you profess.
‘And if they lived before the Christians lived,
they did not worship God aright.
And among these I am one.
‘For such defects, and for no other fault,
we are lost, and a�icted but in this,
that without hope we live in longing.’   →
When I understood, great sadness seized my heart,
for then I knew that beings of great worth   →
were here suspended in this Limbo.   →
‘Tell me, master, tell me, sir,’ I began,   →
seeking assurance in the faith
that conquers every doubt,
‘did ever anyone, either by his own
or by another’s merit, go forth from here
and rise to blessedness?’
And he, who understood my covert speech:   →
‘I was new to this condition when I saw

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a mighty one descend, crowned, with the sign of victory.
‘Out of our midst he plucked the shade   →
of our �rst parent, of Abel his son, of Noah,
and of Moses, obedient in giving laws,
‘the patriarch Abraham, David the King,
Israel with his father and his sons,
and with Rachel, for whom he served so long,
‘as well as many others, and he made them blessed.
And, I would have you know, before these   →
no human souls were saved.’
We did not halt our movement as he spoke,
but all the while were passing through a wood—
I mean a wood of thronging spirits.
We had not yet gone far from where I’d slept
when I beheld a blaze of light
that overcame a hemisphere of darkness,
though still a good way from it,
yet not so far but I discerned
an honorable company was gathered there.   →
‘O you who honor art and knowledge,   →
why are these so honored they are set
apart from the condition of the rest?’
And he answered: ‘Their honorable fame,
which echoes in your life above,
gains favor in Heaven, which thus advances them.’   →
Just then I heard a voice that said:   →
‘Honor the loftiest of poets!   →
His shade returns that had gone forth.’

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When the voice had paused and there was silence,
I saw four worthy shades approach,
their countenances neither sad nor joyful.
The good master spoke: ‘Take note
of him who holds that sword in hand   →
and comes as lord before the three:
‘He is Homer, sovereign poet.   →   →
Next comes Horace the satirist,   →
Ovid is third, the last is Lucan.   →
‘Since each is joined to me
in the name the one voice uttered,
they do me honor and, doing so, do well.’   →
There I saw assembled the fair school
of the lord of loftiest song,   →
soaring like an eagle far above the rest.
After they conversed a while,
they turned to me with signs of greeting,
and my master smiled at this.   →
And then they showed me greater honor still,
for they made me one of their company,   →
so that I became the sixth amidst such wisdom.   →
Thus we went onward to the light,
speaking of things that here are best unsaid,   →
just as there it was �tting to express them.
We came to the foot of a noble castle,   →
encircled seven times by towering walls,
defended round about by a fair stream.
Over this stream we moved as on dry land.

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Through seven gates I entered with these sages
until we came to a fresh, green meadow.
People were there with grave, slow-moving eyes
and visages of great authority.
They seldom spoke, and then in gentle tones.
When we withdrew over to one side   →
into an open space, high in the light,
we could observe them all.
There before me on the enameled green
the great spirits were revealed.
In my heart I exult at what I saw.
I saw Electra with many of her line,   →
of whom I recognized Hector, Aeneas,
and Caesar, in arms, with his falcon eyes.   →
I saw Camilla and Penthesilea.   →
Seated apart I saw King Latinus,
and next to him Lavinia, his daughter.
I saw that Brutus who drove out Tarquinius,   →
Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia.
And Saladin I saw, alone, apart.   →
When I raised my eyes a little higher,
I saw the master of those who know,   →
sitting among his philosophic kindred.
Eyes trained on him, all show him honor.
In front of all the rest and nearest him   →
I saw Socrates and Plato.
I saw Democritus, who ascribes the world
to chance, Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales,

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Empedocles, Heraclitus, and Zeno.
I saw the skilled collector of the qualities   →
of things—I mean Dioscorides—and I saw
Orpheus, Cicero, Linus, and moral Seneca,
Euclid the geometer, and Ptolemy,   →
Hippocrates, Avicenna, Galen,
and Averroes, who wrote the weighty glosses.
I cannot give account of all of them,   →
for the length of my theme so drives me on
that often the telling comes short of the fact.
The company of six falls o� to two
and my wise leader brings me by another way
out of the still, into the trembling, air.
And I come to a place where nothing shines.

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97–99   
100–108   
121–126   
127–129   
130–138   
1–3   
4–15   
16–20   
21–24   
25–30   
31–39   
40–49   
50–51   
52–63   
64–69   
70–78   
79–81   
82–87   
88–108   
109–111   
112–120   
121–138   
139–142   
OUTLINE: INFERNO V
descent to the second Circle: the lustful
proem: Minos judge of the damned
Minos attempts to discourage Dante
Virgil repeats his magical phrase (III.95–96)
again, impressions of sound are the �rst Dante has
the “hellscape”: weeping, darkness, storm
two similes: starlings and cranes
Dante wants to know who are punished here; Virgil:
Semiramis, Dido, Cleopatra
Helen, Achilles, Paris, Tristan, and many others
Dante’s piteous reaction and desire to speak
he calls out to the pair of lovers
simile: doves returning to nest
Francesca’s �rst speech:
her kind words for Dante’s kindness
she is from Ravenna
Love … Love … Love…: her litany of joy,
woe
Dante’s reaction and Virgil’s laconic question
Dante’s rumination and question to Francesca
Francesca’s second response:
despite the pain it will cause, she will
speak
she and Paolo were reading of Lancelot
in love
en�amed by the reading, they embraced
coda: Francesca concludes, Paolo weeps, Dante faints

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INFERNO V
Thus I descended from the �rst circle   →
down into the second, which girds a smaller space
but greater agony to goad lament.
There stands Minos, snarling, terrible.   →
He examines each o�ender at the entrance,
judges and dispatches as he encoils himself.   →
I mean that when the ill-begotten soul   →
stands there before him it confesses all,   →
and that accomplished judge of sins   →
decides what place in Hell is �t for it,
then coils his tail around himself to count
how many circles down the soul must go.
Always before him stands a crowd of them,
going to judgment each in turn.
They tell, they hear, and then are hurled down.
‘O you who come to this abode of pain,’
said Minos when he saw me, pausing   →
in the exercise of his high o�ce,   →
‘beware how you come in and whom you trust.
Don’t let the easy entrance fool you.   →
And my leader to him: ‘Why all this shouting?
‘Hinder not his destined journey.   →
It is so willed where will and power are one,
and ask no more.’
Now I can hear the screams   →

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of agony. Now I have come   →
where a great wailing beats upon me.
I reached a place mute of all light,
which bellows as the sea in tempest
tossed by con�icting winds.
The hellish squall, which never rests,
sweeps spirits in its headlong rush,
tormenting, whirls and strikes them.
Caught in that path of violence,   →
they shriek, weep, and lament.
Then how they curse the power of God!
I understood that to such torment
the carnal sinners are condemned,
they who make reason subject to desire.
As, in cold weather, the wings of starlings   →   →
bear them up in wide, dense �ocks,
so does that blast propel the wicked spirits.
Here and there, down and up, it drives them.
Never are they comforted by hope
of rest or even lesser punishment.
Just as cranes chant their mournful songs,   →
making a long line in the air,
thus I saw approach, heaving plaintive sighs,
shades lifted on that turbulence,
so that I said: ‘Master, who are these
whom the black air lashes?’
‘The �rst of them about whom
you would hear,’ he then replied,

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‘was empress over many tongues.
‘She was so given to the vice of lechery
she made lust licit in her law
to take away the blame she had incurred.
‘She is Semiramis, of whom we read   →   →
that she, once Ninus’ wife, succeeded him.
She held sway in the land the Sultan rules.
‘Here is she who broke faith with the ashes   →   →
of Sichaeus and slew herself for love.   →
The next is wanton Cleopatra.   →
‘See Helen, for whose sake so many years
of ill rolled past. And see the great Achilles,   →
who battled, at the last, with love.
‘See Paris, Tristan,’ and he showed me more
than a thousand shades, naming as he pointed,
whom love had parted from our life.   →
When I heard my teacher name the ladies
and the knights of old, pity overcame me   →
and I almost lost my senses.
I began: ‘Poet, gladly would I speak
with these two that move together   →
and seem to be so light upon the wind.’
And he: ‘Once they are nearer, you will see:   →
if you entreat them by the love
that leads them, they will come.’
As soon as the wind had bent them to us,
I raised my voice: ‘O wearied souls,   →
if it is not forbidden, come speak with us.’

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As doves, summoned by desire, their wings   →
outstretched and motionless, move on the air,
borne by their will to the sweet nest,
so did these leave the troop where Dido is,
coming to us through the malignant air,
such force had my a�ectionate call.
‘O living creature, gracious and kind,   →
that come through somber air to visit us
who stained the world with blood,
‘if the King of the universe were our friend   →   →
we would pray that He might give you peace,
since you show pity for our grievous plight.
‘We long to hear and speak of that
which you desire to speak and know,
here, while the wind has calmed.
‘On that shore where the river Po
with all its tributaries slows
to peaceful �ow, there I was born.
‘Love, quick to kindle in the gentle heart,   →
seized this man with the fair form taken from me.
The way of it a�icts me still.   →
‘Love, which absolves no one beloved from loving,   →
seized me so strongly with his charm that,
as you see, it has not left me yet.
‘Love brought us to one death.
Caïna waits for him who quenched our lives.   →
These words were borne from them to us.
And when I’d heard those two a�icted souls   →

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I bowed my head and held it low until at last
the poet said: ‘What are your thoughts?’
In answer I replied: ‘Oh,
how many sweet thoughts, what great desire,
have brought them to this woeful pass!’
Then I turned to them again to speak
and I began: ‘Francesca, your torments
make me weep for grief and pity,
‘but tell me, in that season of sweet sighs,   →
how and by what signs did Love
acquaint you with your hesitant desires?’
And she to me: ‘There is no greater sorrow   →
than to recall our time of joy
in wretchedness—and this your teacher knows.   →
‘But if you feel such longing
to know the �rst root of our love,
I shall tell as one who weeps in telling.
‘One day, to pass the time in pleasure,   →
we read of Lancelot, how love enthralled him.
We were alone, without the least misgiving.
‘More than once that reading made our eyes meet
and drained the color from our faces.
Still, it was a single instant overcame us:   →
‘When we read how the longed-for smile
was kissed by so renowned a lover, this man,
who never shall be parted from me,
‘all trembling, kissed me on my mouth.
A Galeotto was the book and he that wrote it.   →

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That day we read in it no further.’   →
While the one spirit said this
the other wept, so that for pity   →
I swooned as if in death.   →
And down I fell as a dead body falls.   →

1–6   
7–12   
13–21   
22–27   
28–33   
34–37   
38–42   
43–48   
49–57   
58–63   
64–72   
73–76   
77–84   
85–87   
88–90   
91–93   
94–99   
100–111   
112–115   
OUTLINE: INFERNO VI
Dante recovers from his syncope to �nd a new place
the third Circle: cold downpour on stinking ground
Cerberus presides, barking; he �ays the sinners
Cerberus’s opposition and Virgil’s “sop” for him
simile: dog ravenously gulping food
Dante and Virgil pass over the prone shades
Florence: Ciacco recognizes Dante and presents self
Dante does not recognize him, trans�gured by pain
Ciacco identi�es himself and his sin: gluttony
Dante asks his views on the likely future of the city
Ciacco: �rst the Whites, then the Blacks, will win
the just are few, the sinners many
Dante wants to know the afterlife of �ve townsmen
Ciacco: all are in hell, as Dante will perhaps see
Ciacco would like to be remembered to those above
he returns to his hebetude
Virgil: he will wake no more until the last trumpet
Virgil on the increase of eternal pain for the damned
they talk until they are ready to descend: Plutus

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INFERNO VI
With my returning senses that had failed   →
at the piteous state of those two kindred,   →
which had confounded me with grief,
new torments and new souls in torment
I see about me, wherever I may move,
or turn, or set my gaze.
I am in the third circle, of eternal,   →
hateful rain, cold and leaden,
changeless in its monotony.
Heavy hailstones, �lthy water, and snow
pour down through gloomy air.
The ground it falls on reeks.
Cerberus, �erce and monstrous beast,   →
barks from three gullets like a dog
over the people underneath that muck.
His eyes are red, his beard a greasy black,
his belly swollen. With his taloned hands
he claws the spirits, �ays and quarters them.
The rain makes them howl like dogs.
The unholy wretches often turn their bodies,
making of one side a shield for the other.
When Cerberus—that huge worm—noticed us,
he opened up his jaws and showed his fangs.
There was no part of him he held in check.
But then my leader spread his hands,   →

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picked up some earth, and with full �sts
tossed soil into the ravenous gullets.
As the dog that yelps with craving   →
grows quiet while it chews its food,
absorbed in trying to devour it,
the foul heads of that demon Cerberus were stilled,
who otherwise so thunders on the souls
they would as soon be deaf.
We were passing over shades sprawled   →
under heavy rain, setting our feet
upon their emptiness, which seems real bodies.
All of them were lying on the ground,   →
except for one who sat bolt upright
when he saw us pass before him.
‘O you who come escorted through this Hell,’
he said, ‘if you can, bring me back to mind.
You were made before I was undone.’
And I to him: ‘The punishment you su�er   →
may be blotting you from memory:
it doesn’t seem to me I’ve ever seen you.
‘But tell me who you are to have been put
into this misery with such a penalty
that none, though harsher, is more loathsome.’
And he to me: ‘Your city, so full of envy   →
that now the sack spills over,
held me in its con�nes in the sunlit life.
‘You and my townsmen called me Ciacco.   →
For the pernicious fault of gluttony,

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as you can see, I’m prostrate in this rain.
‘And in my misery I am not alone.
All those here share a single penalty
for the same fault.’ He said no more.
I answered him: ‘Ciacco, your distress so weighs
on me it bids me weep. But tell me,
if you can, what shall be the fate
‘of the citizens within the riven city?
Are any in it just? And tell me why
such discord has assailed it.’
And he to me: ‘After long feuding   →
they shall come to blood. The rustic faction,
having done great harm, shall drive the others out.
‘But it in turn must fall to them,   →
within three years, by power of him
who now just bides his time.
‘These in their arrogance will long subject
the other faction to their heavy yoke,
despite its weeping and its shame.
‘Two men are just and are not heeded there.   →
Pride, envy, and avarice are the sparks   →
that have set the hearts of all on �re.’
With that he ended his distressing words.
And I to him: ‘I wish you would instruct me more,
granting me the gift of further speech.
‘Farinata and Tegghiaio, who were so worthy,   →
Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, and Mosca,
and the rest whose minds were bent on doing good,

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‘tell me where they are and how they fare.
For great desire presses me to learn
whether Heaven sweetens or Hell embitters them.’
And he: ‘They are among the blacker souls.
Di�erent vices weigh them toward the bottom,
as you shall see if you descend that far.
‘But when you have returned to the sweet world   →
I pray you bring me to men’s memory.
I say no more nor answer you again.’   →
With that his clear eyes lost their focus.   →
He gazed at me until his head drooped down.
Then he fell back among his blind companions.
And my leader said: ‘He wakes no more
until angelic trumpets sound
the advent of the hostile Power.
‘Then each shall �nd again his miserable tomb,
shall take again his �esh and form,
and hear the judgment that eternally resounds.’   →
So we passed on through the foul mix
of shades and rain with lagging steps,
touching a little on the life to come.   →
‘Master,’ I asked, ‘after the great Judgment
will these torments be greater, less,
or will they stay as harsh as they are now?’
And he replied: ‘Return to your science,   →
which has it that, in measure of a thing’s perfection,
it feels both more of pleasure and of pain.
‘Although these accursèd people   →

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will never come to true perfection,
they will be nearer it than they are now.’
We went along that curving road,
with much more talk than I repeat,
and reached the point of our descent.
And there we came on Plutus, our great foe.

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40–48   
49–51   
52–66   
67–69   
70–96   
1–15   
16–21   
22–24   
25–35   
36–96   
97–99   
100–108   
109–116   
117–126   
127–130   
OUTLINE: INFERNO VII
proem: Plutus speaks; Virgil answers; Plutus collapses
the fourth Circle and Dante’s apostrophe of Justice
simile: waves meeting between Charybdis and Scylla
the avaricious and prodigal at their “jousts”
three exchanges between Dante & Virgil:
Dante: are the tonsured ones all clerics?
Virgil’s response is a�rmative
Dante expects to recognize the sinners
here
Virgil: no, their sin makes them
indistinguishable
Dante: what is the “Fortune” of which
you speak?
Virgil’s pronouncements on the role of
Fortune
Virgil prepares Dante for descent to the �fth Circle
their descent, following its source, to Styx
the bog, with the wrathful in con�ict with one another
and those below the water, sighing and gurgling
coda: retrospect over Styx, prospect of tower

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INFERNO VII
‘Pape Satàn, Pape Satàn, aleppe!’   →
burst out Plutus in his raucous voice.
And the courteous, all-discerning sage,
to comfort me, said: ‘Do not be overcome
by fear. However powerful he may be,
he’ll not prevent our climbing down this cli�.’
Then he turned to that bloated face
and said: ‘Silence, accursèd wolf!   →
Let your fury feed itself inside you.
‘Not without sanction is this journey down the pit.   →
It is willed on high, where Michael
did avenge the proud rebellion.’
As sails, swollen by the wind,   →
fall in a tangle when the mainmast snaps,
so fell that cruel beast to the ground.
Into the fourth hollow we made our way,
descending the dismal slope
that crams in all the evil of the universe.
Ah, Justice of God, who heaps up   →
such strange punishment and pain as I saw there?
And why do our sins so waste us?
Just as the waves clash above Charybdis,   →
one breaking on the other when they meet,
so here the souls move in their necessary dance.   →
Here the sinners were more numerous than elsewhere,   →

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and they, with great shouts, from opposite sides
were shoving burdens forward with their chests.
They crashed into each other, turned
and beat retreat, shoving their loads and shouting:
‘Why do you hoard?’ or ‘Why do you squander?’
Thus they proceeded in their dismal round   →
on both sides toward the opposite point,
taunting each other with the same refrain.
Once at that point, each group turned back
along its semi-circle to the next encounter.
And I, my heart pierced almost through,   →
said: ‘Master, now explain to me
who these people are. Were those with tonsured heads,   →
the ones there to our left, all clerics?’
‘All of them had such squinting minds
in their �rst lives,’ he said,
‘they kept no measure in their spending.
‘Their voices howl this clear enough
just as they reach the twin points on the circle
where opposing sins divide them.
‘These were clerics who have no lid of hair   →
upon their heads, and popes and cardinals,
in whom avarice achieves its excess.’
And I: ‘Master, in such a crew as this
I ought to recognize at least a few
who were befouled with these o�enses.’
And he to me: ‘You muster an empty thought.
The undiscerning life that made them foul

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now makes them hard to recognize.
‘The two groups will collide forever.
These will rise from the grave
with �sts tight, these with hair cropped.   →
‘Ill-giving and ill-keeping have stolen
the fair world from them and set them to this scu�e.
As for that, I prettify no words for it.
‘Now you see, my son, what brief mockery
Fortune makes of goods we trust her with,   →
for which the race of men embroil themselves.
‘All the gold that lies beneath the moon,
or ever did, could never give a moment’s rest
to any of these wearied souls.’
‘Master,’ I said, ‘tell me more: this Fortune
whom you mention, who is she that holds
the world’s possessions tightly in her clutches?’
And he to me: ‘O foolish creatures,   →
what great ignorance besets you!
I’ll have you feed upon my judgment of her:
‘He whose wisdom transcends all
made the heavens and gave them guides,
so that all parts re�ect on every part
‘in equal distribution of the light. Just so,
He ordained for worldly splendors
a general minister and guide
‘who shifts those worthless goods, from time to time,
from race to race, from one blood to another
beyond the intervention of human wit.

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‘One people comes to rule, another languishes,
in keeping with her judgment,
as secret as a serpent hidden in the grass.   →
‘Your wisdom cannot stand against her.
She foresees, she judges, she maintains her reign,
as do the other heavenly powers.   →
‘Her mutability admits no rest.
Necessity compels her to be swift,
and frequent are the changes in men’s state.   →
‘She is reviled by the very ones
who most should praise her,
blaming and defaming her unjustly.
‘But she is blessed and does not hear them.
Happy with the other primal creatures,
she turns her sphere, rejoicing in her bliss.
‘Now we must descend to greater anguish.
For every star that rose when I set out   →
is sinking now—we must not linger here.’
We crossed the circle to the other bank,
beside a spring that bubbles up and �ows
into a channel it makes for itself.
The water was darker than the deepest purple.
Accompanied by its murky waves
we began our strange descent.
This dreary stream, once it has reached   →
these malignant, ashen slopes,
drains out into the swamp called Styx.
And I, my gaze trans�xed, could see   →

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people with angry faces in that bog,
naked, their bodies smeared with mud.
They struck each other with their hands,
their heads, their chests and feet,
and tore each other with their teeth.
The good master said: ‘Son, now you see
the souls of those whom anger overcame.
And I would have you know for certain
‘that plunged beneath these waters,   →
as your eyes will tell you, are souls whose sighs
with bubbles make the water’s surface seethe.
‘Fixed in the slime they say: “We were sullen
in the sweet air that in the sun rejoices,
�lled as we were with slothful fumes.
‘ “Now we are sullen in black mire.”
This hymn they gurgle in their gullets,
for they cannot get a word out whole.’
Thus we made our circle round that �lthy bog,
keeping between the bank and swamp,
�xing our gaze on those who swallow mud.
And we came to the foot of a tower at last.

1–6   
7–12   
13–16   
17–24   
25–30   
31–39   
40–48   
49–51   
52–64   
65–81   
82–85   
86–93   
94–96   
97–108   
109–111   
112–120   
121–130   
OUTLINE: INFERNO VIII
WRATH  (�fth Circle continues, vv. 1–81 an interpolation)
signal lights and an answering light
Dante’s questions and Virgil’s reply
simile: swiftly �ying arrow
Phlegyas, his ski�; his wrath at Virgil’s rebuke
Dante’s weight displaces water beneath the ski�
Filippo Argenti: hostile exchange with Dante
Filippo Argenti: Dante’s reaction and Virgil’s assent
Virgil’s musing on the wealth of kings
Filippo Argenti: Dante’s wish and its ful�llment
CITY OF DIS  (sixth Circle begins)
approach to Dis and arrival in Phlegyas’s ski�
rebel angels decry the approach of living Dante
they will parley, but with Virgil alone
�rst address to reader in the poem
Dante’s concerns and Virgil’s comforting
Virgil leaves Dante alone for the �rst time
the rebel angels rebel once again; Virgil’s chagrin
Virgil’s promise of aid from above

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INFERNO VIII
To continue, let me say that long before   →
we reached the foot of that high tower
our eyes had noted at its top
two �aming lights displayed up there   →
to which another, so far o� the eye
could hardly make it out, sent back a signal.
And turning to that sea of wisdom, I asked:   →
‘What does this mean? And that other �re,
what does it answer? And who are they that made it?’
And he to me: ‘Over the �lthy waves
you may already glimpse what is to come,
if the marsh-fumes do not hide it from you.’
Never did a bowstring loose an arrow
that whipped away more swiftly through the air
than, even as I watched, a ski� came skimming   →
straight toward us on the water,
under the guidance of a single helmsman,
crying: ‘Now you are caught, damned spirit!’   →
‘Phlegyas, Phlegyas, this time you shout in vain,’   →
replied my lord: ‘You’ll not have us any longer   →
than it takes to cross this bog.’
Like one who learns of a deceitful plot   →
that has been hatched against him and begins to fret,
such was Phlegyas in his sti�ed wrath.
My leader stepped into the boat,   →

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and had me follow after.
And only then did it seem laden.
As soon as he and I were in the bark
the ancient prow moves o�, cutting deeper
through the water than when it carries souls.
While we crossed the stagnant swamp   →
one cloaked in mud rose up to say:   →
‘Who are you that you come before your time?’
And I to him: ‘If I come, I do not stay.
But you, who are you, now become so foul?’
He answered: ‘As you can see, I am one who weeps.’
And I to him: ‘In weeping and in misery,   →
accursèd spirit, may you stay.
I know you, for all your �lth.’
When he stretched both his hands toward the boat,   →
the wary master thrust him o�, saying:
‘Away there with the other dogs!’
Then my master put his arms around my neck,
kissed my face and said: ‘Indignant soul,
blessed is she that bore you in her womb!
‘In the world this man was full of arrogance.   →
Not one good deed adorns his memory.
That is why his shade is so enraged.
‘How many now above who think themselves
great kings will lie here in the mud, like swine,
leaving behind nothing but ill repute!’
And I: ‘Master, I would be most eager
to see him pushed deep down into this soup

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before we leave the lake.’
And he to me: ‘Before the shore
comes into view you’ll have your satisfaction.
Your wish deserves to be ful�lled.’
Soon I watched him get so torn to pieces
by the muddy crew, I still give praise
and thanks to God for it.
All cried: ‘Get Filippo Argenti!’   →
And that spiteful Florentine spirit   →
gnawed at himself with his own teeth.   →
Of him I say no more. Then we moved on,
when such a sound of mourning struck my ears
I opened my eyes wide to look ahead.
The good master said: ‘Now, my son,
we approach the city known as Dis,   →
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.’
And I: ‘Master, I can clearly see its mosques   →
within the ramparts, glowing red
as if they’d just been taken from the �re.’
And he to me: ‘The eternal �re
that burns inside them here in nether Hell
makes them show red, as you can see.’
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
Its walls seemed made of iron.   →
Not until we’d made a wide approach
did we come to a place where the boatman bellowed:
‘Out with you here, this is the entrance.’   →

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At the threshold I saw more than a thousand angels   →
fallen from Heaven. Angrily they shouted:
‘Who is this, who is not dead,
‘yet passes through the kingdom of the dead?’
At this my prudent master made a sign
that he would speak with them apart.
Then they reined in their great disdain
enough to say: ‘You come—alone. Let him be gone,
who has so boldly made his way into this kingdom.
‘Let him retrace his reckless path alone—
let him see if he can, for you shall stay,
you who have led him through this gloomy realm.’
Reader, how could I not lose heart   →
at the sound of these accursèd words?
I thought I would never make it back.
‘O my dear leader, who seven times and more   →
have braced my con�dence and rescued me
from the grave dangers that assailed me,
‘do not leave me,’ I cried, ‘helpless now!
If going farther is denied us,
let us at once retrace our steps.’
But the mentor who had brought me there replied:
‘Have no fear. None can prevent our passage,   →
so great a power granted it to us.
‘Wait for me here. Comfort your weary spirit   →
and feed it with good hope.
I will not forsake you in the nether world.’
He goes away and leaves me there,

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my gentle father, and I remain in doubt,
‘yes’ and ‘no’ at war within my mind.
I could not hear what he proposed,
but it was not long he stayed with them
before they pushed and scrambled back inside.
Then our adversaries slammed shut the gates   →
against my master, who, left outside,
came back to me with halting steps.
He had his eyes upon the ground, his brows
shorn of all con�dence. Sighing, he muttered:
‘Who dares deny me access to the realm of pain?’
To me he said: ‘Be not dismayed   →
at my vexation. In this contest I’ll prevail,
whatever they contrive to keep us out.
‘This insolence of theirs is nothing new:
they showed it once before, at another gate.
It still stands open without lock or bolt.
‘Over it you saw the deadly writing.   →
Even now, making his unescorted way   →
down through the circles, one descends
by whom the city shall be opened.’

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16–21   
22–30   
31–33   
34–54   
55–60   
61–63   
64–72   
73–75   
76–81   
82–90   
91–103   
104–109   
110–111   
112–117   
118–123   
124–131   
132–133   
OUTLINE: INFERNO IX
Dante’s pallor, Virgil’s reaction, Dante’s response
Dante’s pointed question and Virgil’s general response
a precision: his previous journey to the pit of hell
Virgil: a need now for assistance in entering the city
the Furies and their threat: Medusa
Virgil’s ministrations to threatened Dante
address to reader (second in poem)
simile: sound of advancing storm
Virgil uncovers Dante’s eyes as the “storm” approaches
simile: frogs leaving pond at the advent of a snake
Dante obeisant before the messenger’s angelic disdain
his speech to the fallen angels and abrupt departure
the poets’ entrance into Dis, force no longer needed
the sixth Circle: a plain of torment
simile: cemeteries at Arles and Pola
the tombs of the heretics, glowing red with heat
Dante’s question and Virgil’s answer: heresy
coda: the rightward turn

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INFERNO IX
The pallor cowardice painted on my face   →
when I saw my leader turning back
made him hasten to compose his features.
He stopped, like a man intent on listening,
for the eye could not probe far
through that dim air and murky fog.
‘Yet we must win this �ght,’ he began,   →
‘or else.… Such help was promised us.
How long it seems to me till someone comes!’
I clearly saw that he had covered up   →
his �rst words with the others that came after,
words so di�erent in meaning.
Still, I was �lled with fear by what he said.
Perhaps I understood his broken phrase
to hold worse meaning than it did.
‘Does ever anyone from the �rst circle,
where the only penalty is hope cut o�,   →
descend so deep into this dismal pit?’
I put this question and he answered:   →
‘It seldom happens that a soul from Limbo
undertakes the journey I am on.
‘It is true I came here once before,
conjured by pitiless Erichtho,
who could call shades back into their bodies.
‘I had not long been naked of my �esh

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when she compelled me to go inside this wall
to fetch a spirit from the circle of Judas.   →
‘That is the lowest place, the darkest,   →
and farthest from the heaven that encircles all.
Well do I know the way—so have no fear.
‘This swamp, which belches forth such noxious stench,
hems in the woeful city, circling it.
Now we cannot enter without wrath.’   →
And he said more, but I do not remember,
for my eyes and thoughts were drawn
to the high tower’s blazing peak
where all at once, erect, had risen
three hellish, blood-stained Furies:   →
they had the limbs and shape of women,
their waists encircled by green hydras.
Thin serpents and horned snakes entwined,
in place of hair, their savage brows.
And he, who knew full well the handmaids
of the queen of endless lamentation,
said to me: ‘See the �erce Furies!
‘That is Megaera on the left. On the right
Alecto wails. In the middle
is Tisiphone.’ And with that he fell silent.
Each rent her breast with her own nails.
And with their palms they struck themselves, shrieking.
In fear I pressed close to the poet.
‘Let Medusa come and we’ll turn him to stone,’   →
they cried, looking down. ‘To our cost,

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we failed to avenge the assault of Theseus.’   →
‘Turn your back and keep your eyes shut,
for if the Gorgon head appears and should you see it,
all chance for your return above is lost.’
While my master spoke he turned me round   →
and, placing no trust in my own hands,
covered my face with his hands also.
O you who have sound intellects,
consider the teaching that is hidden
behind the veil of these strange verses.
And now there came, over the turbid waves,   →
a dreadful, crashing sound
that set both shores to trembling.
It sounded like a mighty wind,
made violent by waves of heat,
that strikes the forest and with unchecked force
shatters the branches, hurls them away, and,
magni�cent in its roiling cloud of dust, drives on,
putting beast and shepherd to �ight.
He freed my eyes and said: ‘Now look   →
across the scum of that primeval swamp
to where the vapor is most dense and harsh.’
As frogs, before their enemy the snake,   →
all scatter through the water
till each sits huddled on the bank,
I saw more than a thousand lost souls �ee
before one who so lightly passed across the Styx
he did not touch the water with his feet.   →

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He cleared the thick air from his face,   →
his left hand moving it away,
as if that murky air alone had wearied him.
It was clear that he was sent from Heaven,   →
and I turned to the master, who signaled me   →
to keep silent and bow down before him.
Ah, how full of high disdain he seemed to me!
He came up to the gate and with a wand   →
he opened it, and there was no resistance.
‘O outcasts of Heaven, race despised,’   →
he began on the terrible threshold, ‘whence
comes this insolence you harbor in your souls?   →
‘Why do you kick against that will
which never can be severed from its purpose,
and has so many times increased your pain?
‘What pro�ts it to �ght against the fates?
Remember your own Cerberus still bears
the wounds of that around his chin and neck.’
Then he turned back along the wretched way   →
without a word for us, and he seemed pressed,
spurred on by greater cares
than those of the man who stands before him.
We turned our steps toward the city,
emboldened by his holy words.
We entered without further struggle.   →
And I, in my desire to see
what such a guarded fortress holds,
as soon as I had entered eagerly surveyed

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the wide plain stretching on all sides,
so �lled with bitter torment and despair.
Just as at Arles where the Rhone goes shallow,   →
just as at Pola, near Quarnero’s gulf,
which hems in Italy and bathes her borders,
the sepulchers make the land uneven,
so all around me in this landscape
the many tombs held even greater sorrow.
For here the graves were strewn with �ames
that made them glow with heat
hotter than iron is before it’s worked.
All their covers were propped open and from them
issued such dire lamentation it was clear
it came from wretches in despair and pain.
And I: ‘Master, who are these souls
entombed within these chests and who make known
their plight with sighs of sorrow?’
And he: ‘Here, with all their followers,   →
are the arch-heretics of every sect.
The tombs are far more laden than you think.
‘Like is buried here with like,
though their graves burn with unlike heat.’
Then, once he had turned to his right,   →
we passed between the torments and the lofty ramparts.

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28–33   
34–39   
40–42   
43–48   
49–51   
52–60   
61–63   
64–66   
67–72   
73–81   
82–84   
85–87   
1–3   
4–9   
10–12   
13–18   
19–21   
22–51   
52–72   
73–93   
OUTLINE: INFERNO X
Dante & Virgil among the sepulchres
Dante curious about their uncovered inhabitants
Virgil: the tombs will be closed after Judgment Day
Virgil: here you will see the Epicureans, and Farinata
Dante was silent about this wish only to please Virgil
Dante’s �rst exchange with Farinata:
Farinata’s recognition of a fellow Tuscan
Dante’s fear and Virgil’s rebuke
Farinata’s scornful air and Virgil’s
encouragement
Farinata: from whom are you descended?
Dante’s answer and Farinata’s rejoinder
Dante’s similar thrust
interruption: Dante’s exchange with Cavalcante:
Cavalcante’s abject appearance: where is
his son?
Dante comes not by his own powers; he
is led
he knows Cavalcante from his words and
situation
the father assumes his son is dead and
falls back
Dante’s second exchange with Farinata:
Farinata now turns Dante’s thrust back
on him
why are the Florentines merciless to his
family?
Dante: they do not forget the battle of
Montaperti

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94–99   
100–108   
109–114   
115–120   
121–132   
133–136   
Farinata’s plea: it was he who preserved
the city
Dante: what do the damned know of future and
present?
Farinata explains their condition in these respects
Dante’s apology to Cavalcante addressed to Farinata
Frederick II and Ottaviano degli Ubaldini punished
here
Virgil reassures Dante about his future
coda: resumption of leftward direction in descent

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INFERNO X
Now my master takes a hidden path   →
between the city’s ramparts and the torments,
and I come close behind him.
‘O lofty virtue,’ I began, ‘who lead me
as you will around these impious circles,   →
speak to me and satisfy my wishes.
‘The souls that lie within the sepulchres,
may they be seen? For all the lids are raised   →
and there is no one standing guard.’
And he to me: ‘All will be shut and sealed
when the souls return from Jehosaphat   →
with the bodies they have left above.
‘Here Epicurus and all his followers,
who hold the soul dies with the body,   →
have their burial place.
‘But soon your need to have an answer
will be satis�ed right here,
as will the wish you hide from me.’   →
And I: ‘Good leader, from you I do not keep
my heart concealed except to speak few words—
as you’ve from time to time advised.’
‘O Tuscan, passing through the city of �re,   →
alive, and with such courtesy of speech,
if it would please you, stay your steps awhile.
‘Your way of speaking makes it clear   →

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that you are native to that noble city
to which I was perhaps too cruel.’   →
This voice came suddenly
from one sarcophagus, so that, startled,
I drew closer to my leader.
And he to me: ‘Turn back! What are you doing?
Look, there Farinata stands erect—   →
you can see all of him from the waist up.’   →
Already I had �xed my gaze on his.
And he was rising, lifting chest and brow   →
as though he held all Hell in utter scorn.
At which my leader: ‘Choose your words with care,’
and his hands, ready, encouraging,
thrust me toward him among the tombs.
When I stood at the foot of his tomb
he looked at me a moment. Then he asked,
almost in disdain: ‘Who were your ancestors?’   →
And I, eager, held nothing back,
but told him who they were,
at which he barely raised his eyebrows   →
and said: ‘They were most bitter enemies   →
to me, my forebears, and my party—
not once, but twice, I had to drive them out.’
‘If they were banished,’ I responded, ‘they returned   →
from every quarter both the �rst time and the second,
a skill that Yours have failed to learn as well.’
Then, beside him, in the open tomb, up came   →
a shade, visible to the chin: I think

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he had raised himself upon his knees.
He looked around me as though he wished to see
if someone else were with me,
and when his hesitant hopes were crushed,
weeping, he said: ‘If you pass through this dark   →
prison by virtue of your lofty genius,   →
where is my son and why is he not with you?’   →
And I to him: ‘I come not on my own:   →
he who stands there waiting leads me through,   →
perhaps to one Your Guido held in scorn.’
His words and the manner of his punishment
already had revealed his name to me,
and thus was my reply so to the point.
Suddenly erect, he cried: ‘What?   →
Did you say “he held”? Lives he not still?
Does not the sweet light fall upon his eyes?’
When he perceived that I made some delay   →
before I answered, he fell backward
and showed himself no more.
But the other, that great soul at whose wish   →
I had stopped, did not change countenance,
nor bend his neck, nor move his chest.
And he, continuing from where he’d paused:   →
‘That they have badly learned this skill
torments me more than does this bed.
‘But the face of the lady reigning here   →
will be rekindled not �fty times before you too
shall know how di�cult a skill that is to learn.

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‘And, so may you return to the sweet world,   →
tell me, why are your people,
in every edict, so pitiless against my kin?’
Then I to him: ‘The havoc and great slaughter   →
that dyed the Arbia red caused them to raise
such prayers in our temple.’
He sighed and shook his head, then spoke:
‘I was not alone, nor surely without cause   →
would I have acted with the rest.
‘But it was I alone, when all agreed
to make an end of Florence, I alone
who dared speak out in her defense.’
‘So may Your seed sometime �nd peace,   →
pray untie for me this knot,’ I begged him,
‘which has entangled and confused my judgment.
‘From what I hear, it seems
you see beforehand that which time will bring,
but cannot know what happens in the present.’
‘We see, like those with faulty vision,   →
things at a distance,’ he replied. ‘That much,
for us, the mighty Ruler’s light still shines.
‘When things draw near or happen now,
our minds are useless. Without the words of others
we can know nothing of your human state.
‘Thus it follows that all our knowledge
will perish at the very moment
the portals of the future close.’
Then, remorseful for my fault, I said:   →

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‘Will You tell him who fell back down
his son is still among the living?
‘And let him know, if I was slow to answer,
it was because I was preoccupied
with doubts You have resolved for me.’
And now my master summoned me,
so that I begged the spirit to reveal,
at once, who else was down there with him.
His answer was: ‘More than a thousand lie
here with me: both the second Frederick   →
and the Cardinal. Of the rest I do not speak.’   →
With that he dropped from sight. I turned my steps
to the venerable poet, mulling
those words that seemed to augur ill.   →
He started out, and then, as we were going,
asked: ‘Why are you so bewildered?’   →
And I answered fully what he asked.
‘Keep in mind what you have heard against you,
but also now give heed to this,’
the sage insisted—and he raised one �nger.
‘When you shall stand before the radiance   →
of her whose fair eyes see and understand,
from her you’ll learn the journey of your life.’
Then he turned his footsteps to the left.   →
Leaving the wall, we headed toward the center
along a path that leads into a pit.
Its stench o�ended even at that height.

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16–27   
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52–60   
61–66   
67–75   
76–90   
91–96   
97–111   
112–115   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XI
a second group of heretics: Pope Anastasius
the stench of sin from lower hell
Virgil’s description of the sins of lower hell: malice
resulting in use of violence or fraud
violence (Circle 7) vs. neighbor, self, or God
fraud (Circle 8) vs. others
treachery, a worse form of fraud (Circle 9)
Dante’s question: why are not the inhabitants of
Circles 2–5 punished in Dis?
Virgil’s answer: incontinence less o�ensive to God than
malice and mad brutishness
Dante still puzzled by Virgil’s words about usury
Virgil on the sin against art, “God’s grandchild”
coda: Virgil announces it is time to go (ca. 4 am)

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INFERNO XI
At the brink of a high bank formed
by broken boulders in a circle
we stopped above a still more grievous throng.   →
Here, the unbearable foul stench
belched from that bottomless abyss
made us draw back behind the slab   →
of an imposing tomb, on which I saw inscribed
the words: ‘I hold Pope Anastasius:   →
Photinus drew him from the right and proper path.’
‘We must delay descending so our sense,   →
inured to that vile stench,
no longer heeds it.’
So spoke the master. I replied: ‘I know
you’ll �nd a useful way to pass this time.’
And he: ‘You’ll see that is my plan.’
‘My son,’ he then began, ‘beneath these rocks
there are three circles, smaller, one below the other,
but otherwise like those you leave behind.
‘All these are �lled with souls condemned.
So that the sight alone may later be enough,
know how and why they are con�ned this way.
‘Every evil deed despised in Heaven   →
has as its end injustice. Each such end
harms someone else through either force or fraud.
‘But since the vice of fraud is man’s alone,

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it more displeases God, and thus the fraudulent
are lower down, assailed by greater pain.
‘The �rst circle holds the violent   →
but is divided and constructed in three rings,
since violence takes three di�erent forms.
‘Violence may be aimed at God, oneself,
or at one’s neighbor—thus against all three
or their possessions—as I shall now explain.
‘Violent death and grievous wounds may be in�icted   →
upon a neighbor or, upon his goods,
pillage, arson, and violent theft.
‘And so murderers and everyone who wounds
unjustly, spoilers and plunderers—the �rst ring
punishes all these in separate groups.
‘A man may lay injurious hands upon himself   →
or on his goods, and for that reason
in the second ring must he repent in vain
‘who robs himself of the world above
or gambles away and wastes his substance,
lamenting when he should rejoice.
‘Violence may be committed against God   →
when we deny and curse Him in our hearts,
or when we scorn nature and her bounty.
‘And so the smallest ring stamps with its seal
both Sodom and Cahors and those
who scorn Him with their hearts and tongues.
‘Fraud gnaws at every conscience,   →
whether used on him who trusted

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or on one who lacked such faith.
‘Fraud against the latter only severs
the bond of love that nature makes.
Thus in the second circle nest
‘hypocrisy, �atteries, and sorcerers;
lies, theft, and simony;
panders, barrators, and all such �lth.
‘Fraud against the trusting fails to heed   →
not only natural love but the added bond
of faith, which forms a special kind of trust.
‘Therefore, in the tightest circle,
the center of the universe and seat of Dis,
all traitors are consumed eternally.’
And I: ‘Master, your account is clear   →
and clearly designates the nature
of this abyss and its inhabitants.
‘But tell me, those spirits in the viscous marsh,
those the wind drives, those the rain beats down on,
those clashing with such bitter tongues,
‘why are they not punished inside the �ery city
if God’s anger is upon them?
And if not, why are they so a�icted?’
And he: ‘Not often do your wits stray   →
far a�eld, as they do now—or is your mind
bent on pursuing other thoughts?
‘Do you not recall the words
your Ethics uses to expound
the three dispositions Heaven opposes,

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‘incontinence, malice, and mad brutishness,
and how incontinence o�ends God less
and incurs a lesser blame?
‘If you consider well this judgment
and consider who they are
that su�er punishment above, outside the wall,
‘you’ll understand why they are set apart
from these wicked spirits and why God’s vengeance
smites them with a lesser wrath.’
‘O sun, you who heal all troubled sight,   →
you so content me by resolving doubts
it pleases me no less to question than to know.
‘But go back a little way,’ I said,
‘to where you told me usury o�ends
God’s goodness, and untie that knot for me.’
‘Philosophy, for one who understands her,   →
observes,’ he said, ‘and not in one place only,
how nature takes her course
‘from heavenly intellect and its operation.
And, if you study well your Physics,
you will �nd, after not too many pages,
‘that human toil, as far as it is able,
follows nature, as the pupil does his master,
so that it is God’s grandchild, as it were.
‘By toil and nature, if you remember Genesis,
near the beginning, it is man’s lot
to earn his bread and prosper.
‘The usurer, who takes another path,

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scorns nature in herself and in her follower,
and elsewhere sets his hopes.
‘But follow me now, for it is time to go.   →
The Fishes are �ickering at the horizon
and all the Wain lies over Caurus. And here,
a short way o�, is the descent.’

1–3   
4–10   
11–15   
16–21   
22–25   
26–30   
31–45   
46–48   
49–51   
52–75   
76–82   
83–96   
97–99   
100–112   
113–114   
115–126   
127–138   
139   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XII
retrospect (the edge of the precipice at XI.1) and
monstrous prospect (the Minotaur)
simile: the fallen rock along the Adige near Trent
the wrath of the Minotaur
Virgil to the Minotaur: Dante is not Theseus
simile: bull’s movements after receiving mortal blow
the Minotaur’s fury allows a quick descent
Virgil’s remarks on the cause of the fallen rock
the river of blood (Phlegethon)
the poet’s apostrophe of covetousness and wrath
hellscape with centaurs: Nessus, Chiron, Pholus;
Nessus threatens and Virgil parries
Chiron’s surprise that Dante moves what he touches
Virgil explains his mission and asks for help
Chiron assigns Nessus the task of protecting them
following Nessus, Dante and Virgil observe tyrants:
Alexander, Dionysius, Ezzelino, Opizzo
Virgil’s order to Dante: let Nessus take you
Nessus stops; Dante sees Guy de Montfort and others
less deeply immersed in the river; they cross
Nessus: in the shallower part of the river are Attila,
Pyrrhus, Sextus, the two Riniers
coda: Nessus crosses back over the river

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INFERNO XII
Steep was the cli� we had to clamber down,
rocky and steep, but—even worse—it held
a sight that every eye would shun.
As on the rockslide that still marks the �ank   →
of the Àdige, this side of Trent,
whether by earthquake or erosion at the base,
from the mountain-top they slid away from,
the shattered boulders strew the precipice
and thus give footing to one coming down—
just so was the descent down that ravine.
And at the chasm’s jagged edge
was sprawled the infamy of Crete,   →
conceived in that false cow.
When he caught sight of us, he gnawed himself
like someone ruled by wrath.
My sage cried out to him: ‘You think,   →
perhaps, this is the Duke of Athens,
who in the world above put you to death.
‘Get away, you beast, for this man
does not come tutored by your sister,
he comes to view your punishments.’
Like the bull that breaks its tether   →
just as it receives the mortal blow
and cannot run, but lunges here and there,
so raged the Minotaur. My artful guide

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called out: ‘Run to the passage:
hurry down while he is in his fury.’
And so we made our way down the steep landslide   →
on scree that often shifted
under my feet with unexpected weight.
I went on lost in thought. And he said:
‘Perhaps you’re wondering about this rockslide   →
guarded by that bestial rage I quelled just now.   →
‘I want you to know, the other time   →
I came down into nether Hell
this rock had not yet fallen.
‘But surely, if memory does not fail,
it was just before He came who carried o�
from Dis the great spoil of the highest circle   →
‘when the deep and foul abyss shook on every side,   →
so that I thought the universe felt love,
by which, as some believe,
‘the world has many times been turned to chaos.
And at that moment this ancient rock,
here and elsewhere, fell broken into pieces.
‘But �x your eyes below, for we draw near
the river of blood that scalds
those who by violence do injury to others.’   →
O blind covetousness, insensate wrath,   →
which in this brief life goad us on and then,
in the eternal, steep us in such misery!
I saw a broad moat curving in its arc
that seemed to circle all the plain,

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just as my guide had said.
Between the edge of moat and precipice
ran centaurs in a �le and armed with arrows,   →
as when they went o� hunting in our world.
They saw us coming, stopped, and three   →
departed from the troop with bows
and shafts they had selected with great care.
One cried from afar: ‘To what torment
do you come, you two approaching down the slope?
Tell us from there. If not, I draw my bow.’
My master said: ‘We will give our answer   →
to Chiron once we have come closer.
Your will was always hasty, to your hurt.’
Then he nudged me, saying: ‘That is Nessus,   →
who died for lovely Deianira
and fashioned of himself his own revenge.
‘The middle one, his gaze �xed on his chest,   →
is the great Chiron, he who raised Achilles.
The other one is Pholus, who was so �lled with wrath.   →
‘Around the moat they go in thousands,
shooting arrows at any soul that rises
higher from the blood than guilt allows.’   →
As we drew near those swift wild beasts,   →
Chiron took an arrow and with its nock
pulled back his beard along his jaw.
When he had uncovered his enormous mouth
he said to his companions: ‘Have you observed
the one behind dislodges what he touches?

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‘That is not what the feet of dead men do.’
And my good leader, now at Chiron’s breast,
where his two natures join, replied:
‘He is indeed alive, and so alone,
it is my task to show him this dark valley.
Necessity compels us, not delight.
‘One brie�y left her song of hallelujah   →
and came to charge me with this novel task.
He is no robber, nor am I a thief.
‘But, by that power by which I move my steps
on this wild road, lend us a guide,
one of your band to whom we may stay close,   →
‘one who will show us to the ford
and carry this man over on his back,
for he is not a spirit that can �y through air.’
Chiron bent his torso to the right, then said   →
to Nessus: ‘Go back and guide them.
If you meet another troop, have it give way.’
And with this trusty escort we went on,
skirting the edge of the vermilion boil
from which the boiled cried out with piercing shrieks.
There I saw some sunken to the eyebrows,
and the great centaur said: ‘They are tyrants   →
who took to blood and plunder.
‘Here they lament their ruthless crimes.   →
Here is Alexander, here cruel Dionysius,
who gave to Sicily its years of woe.
‘And that brow with such jet-black hair

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is Ezzelino, while the other blond one there
is Obizzo d’Este, who was indeed
‘slain by his stepson in the world above.’
Then I turned to the poet, and he said:
‘Now let Nessus be your guide and I will follow.’   →
A little farther on the centaur stopped
above a crowd whose heads, down to their necks,   →
seemed to issue from that boiling stream.
He pointed out a shade apart, alone:
‘In God’s bosom that one clove in two
the heart that on the Thames still drips with blood.’
Then I saw some who had their heads,   →
even their whole chests, out of the river,
and of these I recognized a number,
as the blood became even more shallow   →
until it cooked nothing but their feet.
And here was our place to cross the moat.   →
‘Just as on this side you can see   →
the boiling stream always diminishing,’
said the centaur, ‘so, I’ll have you know,
‘on the other side the bottom falls away
until it plumbs the depths
where tyranny must groan.
‘There divine justice stings Attila,   →
who was a scourge on earth, and Pyrrhus,
and Sextus, and eternally wrings
‘tears, loosed by the boiling,   →
from Rinier of Corneto and Rinier Pazzo,

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who on the highways made such strife.’
Then he turned back and crossed the ford again.   →

55–57   
58–72   
73–75   
76–78   
94–102   
103–108   
1–3   
4–9   
10–15   
16–21   
22–32   
33–39   
40–45   
46–54   
55–78   
79–84   
85–90   
91–108   
109–110   
111–114   
115–129   
130–135   
136–138   
139–151   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XIII
retrospect (Nessus) and prospect (the wood)
description of the wood
the Harpies
Virgil urges Dante to be closely attentive
Dante’s puzzlement and Virgil’s instruction
the complaint of Pier delle Vigne
simile: Pier’s bloody words; Dante’s reaction
Virgil’s apology and captatio, addressed to Pier
Pier’s “oration”:
capturing the goodwill of his audience
narrative of the events at issue
peroration, making his climactic point
petition, seeking the consent of his
audience
Virgil urges Dante to question Pier further; he cannot,
and, too moved, asks Virgil to do so instead
Virgil’s two questions concern the suicides’ condition
Pier’s responses:
(1) how a dead soul becomes a thornbush
(2) how it will bring back its body after
Judgment
the two poets continue to regard Pier
simile: concealed hunter hearing prey approaching
the spendthrifts (Arcolano, Jacomo) pursued by dogs
the nameless Florentine suicide
Virgil’s question to him
the suicide’s answering “oration”

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INFERNO XIII
Nessus had not yet reached the other side   →
when we made our way into a forest
not marked by any path.
No green leaves, but those of dusky hue—   →
not a straight branch, but knotted and contorted—
no fruit of any kind, but poisonous thorns.
No rougher, denser thickets make a refuge
for the wild beasts that hate tilled lands
between the Cècina and Corneto.
Here the �lthy Harpies nest,   →
who drove the Trojans from the Strophades
with doleful prophecies of woe to come.
They have broad wings, human necks and faces,
taloned feet, and feathers on their bulging bellies.
Their wailing �lls the eerie trees.
And my good master then began to speak:
‘Before you go in deeper you should know,
you are, and will be, in the second ring
‘until you reach the dreadful sand. Look well—
you will see things that, in my telling,   →
would seem to strip my words of truth.’
Lamentations I heard on every side
but I saw no one who might be crying out
so that, confused, I stopped.   →
I think he thought that I thought   →

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all these voices in among the branches
came from people hiding there.
And so the master said: ‘If you break o�
a twig among these brambles,
your present thoughts will be cut short.’
Then I stretched out my hand   →
and plucked a twig from a tall thorn-bush,
and its stem cried out: ‘Why do you break me?’
When it ran dark with blood
it cried again: ‘Why do you tear me?
Are you completely without pity?
‘We once were men and now are turned to thorns.
Your hand might well have been more merciful
had we been souls of snakes.’
As from a green log, burning at one end,   →
that blisters and hisses at the other
with the rush of sap and air,
so from the broken splinter oozed
blood and words together, and I let drop
the twig and stood like one afraid.
‘Could he have believed it otherwise,   →
O wounded soul,’ my sage spoke up,
‘what he has seen only in my verses,
‘he would not have raised his hand against you.
But your plight, being incredible, made me
goad him to this deed that weighs on me.
‘Now tell him who you were, so that, by way   →
of recompense, he may revive your fame

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up in the world, where he’s permitted to return.’
And the stem said: ‘With your pleasing words   →
you so allure me I cannot keep silent.
May it not o�end if I am now enticed to speak.
‘I am the one who held both keys   →
to Frederick’s heart, and I could turn them,
locking and unlocking, so discreetly
‘I kept his secrets safe from almost everyone.
So faithful was I to that glorious o�ce
that �rst I lost my sleep and then my life.
‘The slut who never took her whoring eyes   →
from Caesar’s household, the common bane
and special vice of courts,
‘in�amed all minds against me.
And they, in�amed, did so in�ame Augustus   →
that welcome honors turned to dismal woe.
‘My mind, in scornful temper,   →
hoping by dying to escape from scorn,
made me, though just, against myself unjust.
‘By this tree’s new-sprung roots I give my oath:   →
not once did I break faith
with my true lord, a man so worthy of honor.
‘If one of you goes back into the world,
let him restore my reputation, which, helpless,
lies beneath the blow that envy dealt it.’
The poet waited, then he said to me:
‘Since he is silent now do not waste time
but speak if you would ask him more.’

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And I replied: ‘Please question him   →
about the things you think I need to know.
For I cannot, such pity �lls my heart.’
Thus he began again: ‘So that this man may,
with ready will, do as your words entreat,
may it please you, imprisoned spirit,
‘to tell us further how the souls are bound
inside such gnarled wood, and tell us, if you can,
if from such limbs one ever is set free.’
Then the tree forced out harsh breath, and soon
that wind was turned into a voice:
‘My answer shall be brief.
‘When the ferocious soul deserts the body
after it has wrenched up its own roots,
Minos condemns it to the seventh gulch.
‘It falls into the forest, in a spot not chosen,
but �ung by fortune, helter-skelter,
it fastens like a seed.
‘It spreads into a shoot, then a wild thicket.
The Harpies, feeding on its leaves,
give pain and to that pain a mouth.
‘We will come to claim our cast-o� bodies
like the others. But it would not be just if we again
put on the �esh we robbed from our own souls.
‘Here shall we drag it, and in this dismal wood
our bodies will be hung, each one
upon the thorn-bush of its painful shade.’
Our attention was still �xed upon the tree,   →

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thinking it had more to tell us,
when we were startled by a noise,
as a man, when he hears
the dogs, and branches snapping,
knows the boar and hunters near.
Now, from the left, two souls came running,
naked and torn, and so intent on �ight
they broke straight through the tangled thicket.
The one in front cried: ‘Come, come quickly, death!’
And the other, who thought his own pace slow:
‘Lano, your legs were not so nimble
‘at the tournament near the Toppo.’
Then, almost out of breath, he pressed himself
into a single tangle with a bush.
Behind them now the woods were thick
with bitches, black and ravenous and swift
as hounds loosed from the leash.
On him who had hidden in the tangle
they set their teeth, tore him to pieces,
and carried o� those miserable limbs.
And then my leader took me by the hand.   →
He led me to the bush,
which wept in vain lament from bleeding wounds.
‘O Jacopo da Sant’ Andrea,’ it said,
‘what use was it to make a screen of me?
Why must I su�er for your guilty life?’
When the master stopped beside it, he said:
‘Who were you, that through so many wounds

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pour out with blood your doleful words?’
And he to us: ‘O souls who have arrived   →
to see the shameless carnage
that has torn from me my leaves,
‘gather them here at the foot of this wretched bush.
I was of the city that traded patrons—
Mars for John the Baptist. On that account
‘Mars with his craft will make her grieve forever.
And were it not that at the crossing of the Arno
some vestige of him still remains,
‘those citizens who afterwards rebuilt it
upon the ashes that Attila left behind
would have done their work in vain.
I made my house into my gallows.’

94–102   
103–111   
1–3   
4–6   
7–15   
16–18   
19–27   
28–30   
31–39   
40–42   
43–48   
49–60   
61–66   
67–72   
73–75   
76–78   
79–81   
82–84   
85–90   
91–93   
94–111   
112–120   
121–129   
130–138   
139–142   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XIV
retrospect: the Florentine suicide
the border separating the second and third rings
the hellscape of violence against God: barren sand
apostrophe: God’s just vengeance
three classes of sins punished in the third ring
the hellscape: �akes of �re
simile: �ames from sky on Alexander’s army in India
the hands of the sinners in their eternal “dance”
Dante’s impertinent question to Virgil
Capaneus’s monologue
Virgil’s rebuke of Capaneus
Virgil’s “commentary” to Dante
marker of separation between two halves of canto
the river of blood
simile: the river Bulicame
the stone margins of the river will a�ord them passage
Virgil stresses the importance of this river
Dante’s heightened curiosity
Virgil on the Old Man of Crete:
Mount Ida, paradisal past and deserted
present
the old man within the mountain
tears of the veglio form the four rivers of hell
the stream: Dante’s question and Virgil’s answer
Phlegethon and Lethe: Dante’s questions answered
coda: Virgil’s advice that Dante stick to the path

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INFERNO XIV
Urged by the love I bore my place of birth,   →
I gathered up the scattered leaves and gave them back
to him, who had by this time spent his breath.
Then we came to the boundary that divides   →
the second circling from the third.
And here the dreadful work of justice is revealed.
To tell how strange the new place was,   →
I say we reached a barren plain
that lets no plant set root into its soil.
The gloomy forest rings it like a garland
and is in turn encircled by the moat.
Here, at the very edge, we stayed our steps
at an expanse of deep and arid sand,
much like the sand pressed long ago   →
beneath the feet of Cato.
O vengeance of God, how much
should you be feared by all who read
what now I saw revealed before my eyes!
I saw many a herd of naked souls,   →
all crying out in equal misery,
though each seemed subject to a di�erent law:
some lay face up upon the ground,
some sat, their bodies hunched,
and others roamed about in constant motion.
Most numerous were those who roamed about,
those lying there in torment fewer,

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though theirs the tongues crying out the most.
Above the stretching sand, in slow descent,   →
broad �akes of �re showered down
as snow falls in the hills on windless days.   →
If Alexander, on India’s torrid plains,   →
seeing undiminished �akes of �re fall
upon the ground and on his troops,
ordered his men to trample down the soil
so that the �aming shower was put out
before the �re caught and spread,
here untrammeled the eternal �ames
came down, and the sand took �re
like tinder under �int, doubling the torment.
Ever without repose was the rude dance   →
of wretched hands, now here, now there,
slapping at each new scorching cinder.
I began: ‘Master, you who overcome all things—   →
all but the obstinate �ends who sallied forth
against us at the threshold of the gate,
‘who is that hero who seems to scorn the �re   →
and lies there grim and scowling
so that the rain seems not to torture him?’
And he himself, who had discerned   →
that I had asked my guide about him,
cried: ‘What I was alive, I am in death.   →
‘Let Jove wear out his blacksmith
from whom in rage he seized the shining bolt
he struck me with on that my �nal day.

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‘And though he weary all the others, one by one,
at their black forge in Mongibello,
shouting “Help, good Vulcan, help!”
‘as once he did on the battle�eld of Phlegra,
and though he hurl his shafts at me with all his might,
he still would have no joy in his revenge.’
Then my leader spoke with a vehemence   →
I had not heard him use before: ‘O, Capaneus,
because your pride remains unquenched
‘you su�er greater punishment.
In your own anger lies your agony,
a �tting torment for your rage.’
Then, with a calmer look, he said to me:
‘He was among the seven kings who once laid siege
to Thebes and held—and he still seems to hold—   →
‘God in disdain and to esteem Him lightly.
But his own spiteful ranting, as I made clear,
most �ttingly adorns his breast.
‘Now come along behind me, and be sure
you do not set your feet upon the burning sand
but keep your steps close to the forest’s edge.’
In silence we went on until we came   →
to where a little stream spurts from the wood.
The redness of it makes me shudder still.
As from the Bulicame �ows out a rivulet
the sinful women then divide among them,
so this ran down across the sand.
Its bed and both its banks were made of stone,

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as was the boundary on either side:
I saw our passage lay that way.
‘In all else I have shown you
since we entered through the gate
whose threshold is denied to none,
‘your eyes have yet seen nothing of such note
as is this stream before us:
its vapor quenches every �ame above it.’
These were my leader’s words. Hearing them,
I asked him to supply the food
for which he had provoked the appetite.
‘In the middle of the sea there lies a land,’   →   →
he said, ‘a wasteland known as Crete.
Under its king the world was innocent.
‘A mountain rises there, once glad
with leaves and streams, called Ida.
Now it is barren like a thing outworn.
‘Once Rhea chose it as the trusted cradle
for her child, and there, the better to conceal him
when he cried, she had her people raise an uproar.
‘Within the mountain stands a huge old man.   →
He keeps his back turned on Damietta,
gazing on Rome as in his mirror.
‘His head is fashioned of �ne gold,
his breast and arms of purest silver,
then to the fork he’s made of brass,
‘and from there down he is all iron,
but for his right foot of baked clay,

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and he rests more on this than on the other.
‘Every part except the gold is rent   →
by a crack that drips with tears, which, running down,
collect to force a passage through that cavern,
‘taking their course from rock to rock into this depth,   →
where they form Acheron, Styx, and Phlegethon,
then, going down this narrow channel,
‘down to where there is no more descent,
they form Cocytus: what kind of pond that is
you shall see in time—here I say no more.’
Then I asked: ‘If that stream �ows
down from our world, why do we see it
only at this boundary?’
And he answered: ‘You know this place is round,
and though you have come far,
descending toward the bottom on the left,
‘you have not come full circle.
Should some new thing confront us,
it need not bring such wonder to your face.’
And I again: ‘Master, where are Phlegethon and Lethe?   →
About the one you’re silent, and you say the other
is made into a river by this rain.’
‘In all your questions you do please me,’
he replied, ‘but the red and seething water
might well have answered one of those you ask.
‘Lethe you shall see: not in this abyss
but where the spirits go to cleanse themselves
once their repented guilt has been removed.’

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And then: ‘Now it is time to leave this forest.   →
See you stay close behind me.
The borders, which are not on �re, form a path
and over both of them all �ames are quenched.’

1–3   
4–12   
13–21   
22–30   
31–45   
46–48   
49–54   
55–69   
70–78   
79–87   
88–90   
91–96   
97–99   
100–102   
103–114   
115–118   
119–120   
121–124   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XV
Dante and Virgil continue along the stream
double simile: earthworks in Flanders and Padua
the troop of souls peering at Dante and Virgil
Dante and Brunetto Latini recognize one another
they exchange courtesies and proceed together
Brunetto’s questions (what brings you? who leads
you?)
Dante’s responses (my lost state; this guide)
Brunetto: Dante’s promising career and political
adversaries
Brunetto’s promise of Dante’s escape and warning to
those adversaries
Dante declares his debt to Brunetto
this is the second such prophecy he has heard
Dante says he is �rm against Fortune’s turnings
Virgil advises Dante to listen closely
Dante continues, asking Brunetto of his companions
Brunetto: famous men of letters (Priscian, Francesco
d’Accorso, Andrea de’ Mozzi)
Brunetto must leave: he must not be with those who
come
Brunetto, departing, commends his Tesoro to Dante
simile: Brunetto as winner in the race at Verona

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INFERNO XV
Now one of the stony borders bears us on   →
and vapors from the stream arise as mist
protecting banks and water from the �ames.
As the Flemings between Wissant and Bruges,   →
fearing the tide that rushes in upon them,
erect a bulwark to repel the sea,
and as the Paduans build dikes along the Brenta,
to protect their towns and castles
before the heat brings �oods to Carentana—
in just that way these banks were formed,
except the architect—whoever he was—
had made them not as lofty nor as thick.
By now we were so distant from the wood   →
that I could not have made it out
even had I turned in its direction.
Here we met a troop of souls
coming up along the bank, and each one
gazed at us as men at dusk will sometimes do,
eyeing one another under the new moon.
They peered at us with knitted brows
like an old tailor at his needle’s eye.
Thus scrutinized by such a company,
I was known to one of them who caught me   →
by the hem and then cried out, ‘What a wonder!’
And while he held his arm outstretched to me,

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I �xed my eyes on his scorched face
until beneath the charred dis�gurement
I could discern the features that I knew   →
and, lowering my hand toward his face,
asked: ‘Are You here, Ser Brunetto?’
And he: ‘O my son, let it not displease you
if Brunetto Latini for a while turns back
with you and lets the troop go on.’
I said to him: ‘With all my heart, I pray You,
and if You would have me sit with You, I will,
if he who leads me through allows.’
‘O son,’ he said, ‘whoever of this �ock stops
even for an instant has to lie a hundred years,
unable to fend o� the �re when it strikes.
‘Therefore, go on. I shall follow at your hem
and later will rejoin my band,
who go lamenting their eternal pain.’
I did not dare to leave the higher path
to walk the lower with him, but I kept
my head bowed, like one who walks in reverence.
He began: ‘What chance or fate is it
that brings you here before your �nal hour,
and who is this that shows the way?’   →
‘In the sunlit life above,’ I answered,   
‘in a valley there, I lost my way   →
before I reached the zenith of my days.
‘Only yesterday morning did I leave it,
but had turned back when he appeared,

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and now along this road he leads me home.’   →
And he to me: ‘By following your star   →
you cannot fail to reach a glorious port,
if I saw clearly in the happy life.
‘Had I not died too soon,   →
seeing that Heaven so favors you,
I would have lent you comfort in your work.
‘But that malignant, thankless rabble   →
that came down from Fiesole long ago
and still smacks of the mountain and the rock
‘rightly shall become, because of your good deeds,
your enemy: among the bitter sorbs
it is not �t the sweet �g come to fruit.
‘The world has long believed them to be blind,
a people greedy, envious and proud.
Be sure you stay untainted by their ways.
‘Your destiny reserves for you such honor
both parties shall be hungry to devour you,
but the grass shall be far from the goat.
‘Let the Fiesolan beasts make forage
of themselves but spare the plant,
if on their dung-heap any still springs up,
‘the plant in which lives on the holy seed
of those few Romans who remained
when it became the home of so much malice.’
‘If all my prayers were answered,’
I said to him, ‘You would not yet
be banished from mankind.

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‘For I remember well and now lament
the cherished, kind, paternal image of You   →
when, there in the world, from time to time,
‘You taught me how man makes himself immortal.
And how much gratitude I owe for that
my tongue, while I still live, must give report.
‘What You tell of my future I record   →
and keep for glossing, along with other texts,
by a lady of discernment, should I reach her.
‘This much I would have You know:   →
as long as conscience does not chide,
I am prepared for Fortune as she wills.
‘Such prophecy is not unknown to me.
Let Fortune spin her wheel just as she pleases,   →
and let the loutish peasant ply his hoe.’
At that I saw the right side of my master’s face
turned back in my direction. And he said:
‘He listens well who takes in what he hears.’   →
Nonetheless, I go on speaking
with ser Brunetto, asking who, of his companions,
are most eminent, most worthy to be known.
And he: “Some of them it is good to know.
Others it is better not to mention,
for the time would be too short for so much talk.
‘In sum, note that all of them were clerics   →
or great and famous scholars, all befouled
in the world above by a single sin.
‘Priscian goes with that wretched crowd,

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and Francesco d’Accorso too. And, had you had
a hankering for such �lth, you might have seen
‘the one transferred by the Servant of Servants
from the Arno to the Bacchiglione,
where he left his sin-stretched sinews.
‘I would say more, but I cannot stay,
cannot continue talking, for over there I see
new smoke rising from the sand.
‘People are coming with whom I must not be.   →
Let my Treasure, in which I still live on,   →
be in your mind—I ask for nothing more.’
After he turned back he seemed like one   →
who races for the green cloth on the plain
beyond Verona. And he looked more the winner
than the one who trails the �eld.

1–3   
4–9   
10–12   
13–18   
19–21   
22–27   
28–45   
46–51   
52–63   
64–72   
73–78   
79–85   
86–90   
91–93   
94–105   
106–114   
115–123   
124–136   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XVI
the sound of the waterfall at the border ahead: bees
three shades see that Dante is Florentine and stop him
their wounds: to remember them pains the poet even
now
Virgil’s insistence that these are worthy of courtesy
the three make a wheel of themselves
simile: wrestlers
one of them, admitting his sins, asks who Dante is; he
identi�es Guido Guerra, Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, and
himself (Iacopo Rusticucci)
Dante’s reaction is to want to embrace them
Dante’s a�ection for them; he is on his way to heaven
Rusticucci: do valor and courtesy still abide in
Florence, or is Guglielmo Borsiere right?
Dante: he is right; their stunned reaction
the three: Dante a truth-teller; they ask him to speak of
them once he returns to earth
they withdraw; Dante and Virgil continue on
the roaring waterfall
simile: the Acquacheta
Dante’s cord and Virgil’s challenge
Dante’s thought and Virgil’s “reading” of his mind
Dante’s oath to his readers (third address in the poem)
and the �gure (Geryon) rising from the depths

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INFERNO XVI
I had arrived where we could hear the distant roar   →
of water falling to the lower circle,
like the rumbling hum of bees around a hive,
when three shades at a run
broke from a passing crowd
under that rain of bitter torment.
Together they came toward us, each one calling:
‘Stop, you, who by your garb appear to be
a man from our degenerate city.’
Oh, what sores I noticed on their limbs,
both old and new ones, branded by the �ames!
It pains me still, when I remember them.
My teacher was attentive to their cries,
then turned his face to me and said:
‘Now wait: to these one must show courtesy.   →
‘And were it not for the �re that the nature
of this place draws down, I would say
that haste suits you far more than it does them.’
When we stopped, they took up again   →
their old refrain but, once they reached us,
all three had joined into a single wheel.
As combatants, oiled and naked, are wont to do,
watching for their hold and their advantage,
before the exchange of thrusts and blows,
wheeling, each �xed his eyes on me,

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so that their feet moved forward
while their necks were straining back.
One began: ‘If the squalor of this shifting sand   →
and our blackened, hairless faces
put us and our petitions in contempt,
‘let our fame prevail on you
to tell us who you are, who fearless
move on living feet through Hell.
‘He in whose steps you see me tread,
though he go naked, peeled hairless by the �re,
was of a higher rank than you imagine.
‘He was grandson of the good Gualdrada.
Guido Guerra was his name. In his life
he did much with good sense, much with the sword.
‘This other, squinching sand behind me,
is Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, whose voice
deserved a better welcome in the world.
‘And I, who am put to torment with them,
was Jacopo Rusticucci. It was my bestial wife,
more than all else, who brought me to this pass.’
Had I been sheltered from the �re   →
I would have thrown myself among them,
and I believe my teacher would have let me.
But because I would have burned and baked,
fright overcame the good intentions
that made me hunger to embrace them.
Then I began: ‘Not contempt, but sadness,
�xed your condition in my heart so deep—

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it will be long before it leaves me—
‘the moment that my master’s words
made me consider that such worthy men
as you were coming near.
‘I am of your city. How many times   →
I’ve heard your deeds, your honored names resound!
And I, too, spoke your names with a�ection.
‘I leave bitterness behind for the sweet fruits
promised by my truthful leader.
But �rst I must go down into the very core.’
‘That your spirit long may guide   →
your limbs,’ he now added,
‘and your renown shine after you,
‘tell us if valor and courtesy still live
there in our city, as once they used to do,
or have they utterly forsaken her?
‘Guglielmo Borsiere, grieving with us here
so short a time, goes yonder with our company
and makes us worry with his words.’
‘The new crowd with their sudden pro�ts   →
have begot in you, Florence, such excess
and arrogance that you already weep.’
This, my face uplifted, I cried out. And the three,   →
taking it for answer, looked at one another
as men do when they face the truth.
‘If at other times it costs so little
for you to give clear answers,’ they replied in turn,
‘happy are you to speak so freely.

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‘Therefore, so may you escape from these dark regions   →
to see again the beauty of the stars,
when you shall rejoice in saying “I was there,”
‘see that you speak of us to others.’
Then they broke their circle and as they �ed
their nimble legs seemed wings.
‘Amen’ could not have been said as quickly   →
as they vanished. And then my master
thought it time to leave.
I followed him, and we had not gone far   →
before the roar of water was so close
we hardly could have heard each other speak.
As the river that is the �rst to hold   →
its course from Monte Viso eastward
on the left slope of the Apennines,
and up there is called the Acquacheta,
before it pours into its lower bed
and, having lost that name at Forlì,
reverberates above San Benedetto
dell’Alpe, falling in one cataract
where there might well have been a thousand,
so, down from a precipitous bank, the �ood
of that dark water coming down resounded
in our ears and almost stunned us.
I had a cord around my waist   →
with which I once had meant to take
the leopard with the painted pelt.
After I had undone it,   →

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as my leader had commanded,
I gave it to him coiled and knotted.
Then, swinging round on his right side,
he �ung it out some distance from the edge,
down into the depth of that abyss.
‘Surely,’ I said to myself, ‘something new   →
and strange will answer this strange signal
the master follows with his eye.’
Ah, how cautious we should be with those
who do not see our actions only,
but with their wisdom peer into our thoughts!
He said to me: ‘Soon what I expect
and your mind only dreams of will appear.
Soon it shall be right before your eyes.’
To a truth that bears the face of falsehood   →
a man should seal his lips if he is able,
for it might shame him, through no fault of his,
but here I can’t be silent. And by the strains
of this Comedy—so may they soon succeed
in �nding favor—I swear to you, reader,
that I saw come swimming up
through that dense and murky air a shape
to cause amazement in the stoutest heart,
a shape most like a man’s who, having plunged   →
to loose the anchor caught fast in a reef
or something other hidden in the sea, now rises,
reaching upward and drawing in his feet.

1–4   
5–9   
10–18   
19–27   
28–36   
37–42   
43–45   
46–48   
49–51   
52–57   
58–78   
79–84   
85–88   
89–90   
91–99   
100–105   
106–114   
115–126   
127–134   
135–136   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XVII
Virgil indicates the presence of Geryon
Virgil’s invitation and Geryon’s “docking”
description of Geryon
similes: Geryon compared to boat, beaver, scorpion
at the Circle’s rim the travelers �nd sinners
Virgil will parley while Dante visits these
Dante moves toward them without his guide
the weeping eyes and busy hands of the usurers
simile: dogs scratching themselves in summertime
usurers not recognizable except from their pouches
�ve are identi�ed, three by their insignia
Virgil, mounted on Geryon, reassures Dante
simile: man with quartan fever at the sight of shade
Dante’s fear displaced by his own resultant shame
Dante mounts Geryon; Virgil’s ministrations
similes: boat and eel (for Geryon’s departure)
Dante’s fear: Phaeton and Icarus
the descent and Dante’s perceptions of it
simile: sullen falcon (for Geryon’s arrival)
Geryon, disburdened, �ies up and away

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INFERNO XVII
‘Behold the beast with pointed tail, that leaps   →
past mountains, shatters walls and weapons!
Behold the one whose stench a�icts the world!’
was how my guide began.
Then he signaled to the beast to come ashore
close to the border of our stony pathway.
And that foul e�gy of fraud came forward,
beached its head and chest
but did not draw its tail up on the bank.
It had the features of a righteous man,   →
benevolent in countenance,
but all the rest of it was serpent.
It had forepaws, hairy to the armpits,
and back and chest and both its �anks   →
were painted and inscribed with rings and curlicues.
So many vivid colors Turk or Tartar never wove
in warp and woof or in embroidery on top,
nor were such colors patterned on Arachne’s loom.
As sometimes barges lie ashore,   →
partly in water, partly on the land,
and as among the guzzling Germans
the beaver sets itself to catch its prey,
so lay this worst of brutes upon the stony rim
that makes a boundary for the sandy soil.
Its length of tail lashed in the void,

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twisting up its forked, envenomed tip,
armed like a scorpion’s tail.
My leader said: ‘Now we must change   →
direction for a moment till we reach
that evil beast stretched out down there.’
We descended, therefore, to our right,
and took ten steps along the edge to keep
our distance from the sand and �ames.
And, when we reached the beast,
I see some people sitting on the sand
a short way o�, near where it falls away.
Then the master said to me: ‘So that nothing   →
in this circle escape your understanding,
go over and examine their condition.
‘Let your talk be brief.
While you are gone, I’ll ask the beast
to lend us its strong shoulders.’
Thus, on the seventh circle’s edge,
still farther out, I went alone
to where the downcast souls were seated.   →
Their grief came bursting from their eyes.
With restless hands they sought relief,
now from the �ame and now from burning sand.
Not otherwise do dogs in summer gnaw and scratch,
now with muzzle, now with paw,
when �ies or �eas or horse�ies bite them.
Although I searched some of the faces
of those on whom the painful �re descends,

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I knew not one, but I could see
the pouches hanging from their necks   →
were di�erent in color, each with its coat of arms.
On these they seemed to feast their eyes.
And when I came among them and looked closer,
on a yellow purse I could make out   →
a lion’s countenance and form in blue.
Then, farther on, my wandering gaze
made out another crest, blood-red,   →
marked by a goose more white than butter.
And one, who had a pregnant sow, in azure,   →
embossed on his white wallet, said to me:
‘What are you doing down here in this ditch?
‘Now go—but wait, since you’re still alive,   →
know that my neighbor Vitaliano
shall soon be seated to my left.
‘Among these Florentines, I come from Padua.
Many a time they deafen me with shouting:
“May the sovereign knight come soon,   →
‘ “who brings the pouch with three goats on it!” ’
Then he twisted his mouth and stuck out his tongue   →
like an ox that licks its nose.
And I, fearing my delay might anger him
who had warned me to make my stay brief,
turned back and left those weary souls.
I found my leader mounted
on the shoulders of the savage beast.
He said to me: ‘Now be strong and resolute.

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‘From here on we descend such stairs as these.   →
You mount in front and I will take the middle
so that the tail may do no harm.’
As a man in a shivering-�t of quartan fever,
so ill his nails have lost all color,
trembles all over at the sight of shade,
so was I stricken at his words.
Rebuked by shame, which, in the presence
of a worthy master, makes a servant bold,
I mounted on those huge and ugly shoulders.
I wanted to say—though my voice did not come out
as I intended—‘Make sure you hold me fast!’
But he who had helped me many times before,
in other perils, clasped me in his arms
and steadied me as soon as I was mounted,
then said: ‘Geryon, move on now. Let your circles   →
be wide and your descending slow.
Keep in mind your unaccustomed burden.’
As a bark backs slowly from its mooring,
so the beast backed o� the ledge,
and when it felt itself adrift,
turned its tail to where its chest had been and,
extending it, made it wriggle like an eel’s,
while with its paws it gathered in the air.
Phaeton, I think, felt no greater fear   →
when he released the reins and the whole sky
was scorched, as we still see,
nor wretched Icarus when he felt the melting wax   →

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unfeathering the wings along his back
and heard his father shout: ‘Not that way!’
than was my terror when I saw
air everywhere around
and all things gone from sight except the beast.
On it goes, swimming slowly, slowly   →
wheeling, descending, but I feel only
the wind in my face and blowing from below.
Now on our right I heard the torrent’s hideous roar
below us, so that I thrust my head forward
and dared to look down the abyss.
Then I was even more afraid of being dropped,
for I saw �re and heard wailing,
and so, trembling, I hold on tighter with my legs.
And for the �rst time I became aware
of our descent and wheeling when I saw
the torments drawing closer all around me.
As the falcon that has long been on the wing—   →
and, without sight of lure or bird
makes the falconer cry out: ‘Oh, you’re coming down!’—
descends, weary, with many a wheeling,
to where it set out swiftly, and alights,
angry and sullen, far from its master,
so Geryon set us down at the bottom,
at the very foot of the jagged cli�,
and, disburdened of our persons,
vanished like an arrow from the string.

1–9   
10–18   
19–21   
22–25   
26–33   
34–39   
40–51   
52–63   
64–66   
67–74   
75–78   
79–99   
100–108   
109–114   
115–126   
127–136   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XVIII
Malebolge as castle: wall, moats, bridges, pit
similes: moats around castles and overarching bridges
leftward movement after Geryon has departed
�rst ditch: double �le of sinners
simile: bridge in Rome over Tiber during Jubilee Year
the punishing demons with their whips
Dante recognizes Venedico Caccianemico
Venedico’s pandering and that of other Bolognesi
a demon smites him and sends him o�
Dante and Virgil mount to the crown of the ridge
Virgil: now Dante can watch the other group of sinners
view of the seducers: Jason
the second ditch: sound of whining, stench
to see within, they mount to the ridge’s crown
�attery: Alessio Interminei of Lucca
�attery: Thaïs the whore; abrupt ending of canto

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INFERNO XVIII
There is a place in Hell called Malebolge,   →
fashioned entirely of iron-colored rock,
as is the escarpment that encircles it.
At the very center of this malignant space
there yawns a pit, extremely wide and deep.
I will describe its plan all in due time.
A path that circles like a belt around the base
of that high rock runs round the pit,
its sides descending in ten ditches.
As where concentric moats surround a castle
to guard its walls, their patterns clear
and governed by a meaningful design,
in such a pattern were these ditches shaped.
And, just as narrow bridges issue from the gates
of fortresses to reach the farthest bank,
so ridges stretched from the escarpment
down across the banks and ditches
into the pit at which they end and join.
Dropped from Geryon’s back, this was the place   →
in which we found ourselves. The poet kept
to the left and I came on behind him.
To our right I saw a su�ering new to me,   →
new torments, and new scourgers,
with whom the �rst ditch was replete.
The sinners in its depth were naked,

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those on our side of the center coming toward us,
the others moving with us, but with longer strides,
just as, because the throngs were vast the year   →
of Jubilee, the Romans had to �nd a way
to let the people pass across the bridge,
so that all those on one side face the castle,
heading over to Saint Peter’s,
these, on the other, heading toward the mount.
Here and there on the dark rock above them
I watched horned demons armed with heavy scourges   →
lashing them cruelly from behind.
Ah, how they made them pick their heels up
at the �rst stroke! You may be certain
no one waited for a second or a third.
While I went on my eye was caught
by one of them, and quickly I brought out:
‘It seems to me I’ve seen that man before.’
And so I paused to make him out.
My gentle leader stopped with me,
and then allowed me to retrace my steps.
The scourged soul thought that he could hide
by lowering his face—to no avail.
I said: ‘You there, with your eyes cast down,
‘if I’m not mistaken in your features,
you’re Venèdico Caccianemico.   →
What has brought you to such stinging torture?’
And he replied: ‘Unwillingly I tell it,
moved only by the truth of what you’ve said,

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which brings to mind the world that once I knew.
‘It was I who urged Ghisolabella
to do the will of that marquis,
no matter how the foul tale goes around.
‘I’m not the only Bolognese here lamenting.   →
This place is so crammed with them
that not so many tongues have learned to say
‘ “sipa” between the Sàvena and the Reno.
And if you’d like some con�rmation,
bring our greedy dispositions back to mind.’
While he was speaking a demon struck him
with his lash and said: ‘Away, pimp!
there are no women here to trick.’   →
Then I rejoined my escort. A few steps farther
and we came upon a place
where a ridge jutted from the bank.
This we ascended easily and,
turning to the right upon its jagged ledge,
we left behind their endless circling.   →
When we came to the point above the hollow   →
that makes a passage for the scourged,
my leader said: ‘Stop, let them look at you,
‘those other ill-born souls whose faces
you have not yet seen, since we have all
been moving in the same direction.’
From the ancient bridge we eyed the band
advancing toward us on the other side,
driven with whips just like the �rst.

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And the good master, without my asking, said:
‘See that imposing �gure drawing near.   →
He seems to shed no tears despite his pain.
‘What regal aspect he still bears!
He is Jason, who by courage and by craft   →
deprived the men of Colchis of the ram.
‘Then he ventured to the isle of Lemnos,
after those pitiless, bold women
put all the males among them to their death.
‘There with signs of love and polished words
he deceived the young Hypsipyle,
who had herself deceived the other women.
‘There he left her, pregnant and forlorn.
Such guilt condemns him to this torment,
and Medea too is thus avenged.
‘With him go all who practice such deceit.
Let that be all we know of this �rst ditch
and of the ones it clenches in its jaws.’
Now we had come to where the narrow causeway   →
intersects the second ridge to form
a buttress for another arch.
From here we heard the whimpering of people
one ditch away, snu�ing with their snouts
and beating on themselves with their own palms.
The banks, made slimy by a sticky vapor
from below, were coated with a mould
o�ending eyes and nose.
The bottom is so deep we could see nothing

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unless we climbed to the crown of the arch,
just where the ridge is highest.
We went up, and from there I could see,
in a ditch below, people plunged in excrement
that could have come from human privies.
Searching the bottom with my eyes I saw
a man, his head so smeared with shit
one could not tell if he were priest or layman.
He railed: ‘What whets your appetite to stare at me
more than all the others in their �lth?’
And I answered: ‘The fact, if I remember right,
‘that once I saw you when your hair was dry—
and you are Alessio Interminei of Lucca.   →
That’s why I eye you more than all the rest.’
Then he, beating on his pate:
‘I am immersed down here for the �attery
with which my tongue was never cloyed.’
And then my leader said to me: ‘Try to thrust
your face a little farther forward,
to get a better picture of the features
‘of that foul, disheveled wench down there,
scratching herself with her �lthy nails.
Now she squats and now she’s standing up.
‘She is Thaïs, the whore who, when her lover asked:   →
“Have I found favor with you?”
answered, “Oh, beyond all measure!”
And let our eyes be satis�ed with that.’

1–6   
7–9   
10–12   
13–15   
16–18   
19–21   
22–27   
28–30   
31–39   
40–45   
46–51   
52–57   
58–63   
64–78   
79–87   
88–114   
115–117   
118–120   
121–124   
125–132   
133   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XIX
the poet’s apostrophe: Simon Magus and followers
the bolgia observed from the bridge
apostrophe: God’s wisdom (seen in His three realms)
holes of punishment
simile: baptismal fonts in San Giovanni
allusion to something done by Dante in the Baptistry
the sinners’ kicking, burning feet
simile: �ame licking an oily surface
Dante’s question, Virgil’s o�er, Dante’s consent
descent to the bottom of the third bolgia
Dante, as confessor, questions Pope Nicholas III
Nicholas takes Dante for Pope Boniface VIII
Dante’s hesitation, Virgil’s urging, Dante’s consent
Nicholas’s reaction and self-identi�cation
Nicholas’s prediction of the per�dy and death of Pope
Clement V
the poet’s invective against simoniac popes
his apostrophe of the emperor Constantine
Nicholas responds with his feet
Virgil responds with his face and arms
ascent of the bank to the rim; Virgil sets Dante down
view of the next “valley”

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INFERNO XIX
O Simon Magus, o wretches of his band,   →
greedy for gold and silver,
who prostitute the things of God
that should be brides of goodness!
Now must the trumpet sound for you,
because your place is there in that third ditch.
We had come to where the next tomb lay,
having climbed to the point upon the ridge
that overlooks the middle of the trench.
O Supreme Wisdom, what great art you show
in Heaven, on earth, and in the evil world,
and what true justice does your power dispense!
Along the sides and bottom I could see
the livid stone was pierced with holes,
all round and of a single size.
They seemed to me as wide and deep   →
as those in my beautiful Saint John
made for the priests to baptize in,
one of which, not many years ago,
I broke to save one nearly drowned in it—
and let this be my seal, to undeceive all men.
From the mouth of each stuck out   →
a sinner’s feet and legs up to the thighs
while all the rest stayed in the hole.
They all had both their soles on �re.   →

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It made their knee-joints writhe so hard
they would have severed twisted vines or ropes.
As �ames move only on the surface   →
of oily matter caught on �re,
so these �ames �ickered heel to toe.
‘Who is that, master, who in his torment
wriggles more than any of his fellows
and is licked by redder �ames?’
And he: ‘If you like, I’ll take you down
along the lower bank and you will learn,   →
from him, his life and his misdeeds.’
And I: ‘Whatever pleases you is my desire.   →
You are my lord and know I do your will.
You know, too, what I leave unsaid.’
Then we came to the fourth embankment,
turned and descended on our left
into a narrow bottom pierced with holes.
The good master clasped me to his side
and did not set me down until we came
to the pit of one lamenting with his shanks.
‘Whatever you are, with your upper parts below,   →
planted like a post, you wretched soul,’
said I, ‘come out with something, if you can.’
I stood there like a friar who confesses   →
a treacherous assassin. Once �xed in place,
he calls the friar back to stay his death.
And he cried out: ‘Is that you already,   →
are you here already, Boniface?

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By several years the writing lied to me.   →
‘Are you so swiftly sated with those pro�ts
for which you did not fear to take by guile
the beautiful Lady and to do her outrage?’   →
I became like those who stand there mocked,
not comprehending what is said to them,
and thus not knowing what to say in turn.
Then Virgil said: ‘Tell him right away,
“I’m not the one, I’m not the one you think.” ’
I gave the answer I was told to give.
At that the spirit’s feet began to writhe.
Then, sighing, with a plaintive voice, he said:
‘What is it then you want from me?
‘If you are so keen to learn my name
that you descended from the bank for it,
know that I was cloaked in the great mantle.   →
‘But in truth I was a son of the she-bear
and so avid was I to advance my cubs
I �lled my purse as now I �ll this hole.
‘Beneath my head are crushed the others
who practiced simony before me,
now �attened into �ssures in the rock.
‘In turn I, too, shall be thrust lower down
as soon as he arrives whom I mistook you for
when I called out my hasty question.
‘But the time that I turned upside down,   →
have roasted my feet even now exceeds
the time that he’ll be planted with his feet on �re.

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‘For after him shall come a lawless shepherd
from the west, one even fouler in his deeds,
�t to be the cover over him and me.
‘A new Jason shall he be, the one of whom
we read in Maccabees, and even as the king indulged
Jason, so the king of France shall deal with him.’
I do not know if then I was too bold   →
when I answered him in just this strain:
‘Please tell me, how much treasure   →
‘did our Lord insist on from Saint Peter
before He gave the keys into his keeping?
Surely He asked no more than “Follow me,”
‘nor did Peter, or the others, take gold or silver
from Matthias when he was picked by lot
to �ll the place lost by the guilty soul.
‘Stay there then, for you are justly punished,
guarding well those gains, ill-gotten,
that made you boldly take your stand against King Charles.
‘And were it not that I am still restrained
by the reverence I owe the keys supreme,
which once you held in the happy life above,
‘I would resort to even harsher words
because your avarice a�icts the world,
trampling down the good and raising up the wicked.
‘Shepherds like you the Evangelist had in mind
when he saw the one that sits upon the waters
committing fornication with the kings,
‘she that was born with seven heads

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and from ten horns derived her strength
so long as virtue pleased her bridegroom.
‘You have wrought yourselves a god of gold and silver.
How then do you di�er from those who worship idols
except they worship one and you a hundred?
‘Ah, Constantine, to what evil you gave birth,   →
not by your conversion, but by the dowry
that the �rst rich Father had from you!’
And while I sang such notes to him,
whether gnawed by anger or by conscience,
he kicked out hard with both his feet.
Truly I believe this pleased my leader,
he listened with a look of such contentment
to the sound of the truthful words I spoke.
Therefore, he caught me in his arms   →
and, when he had me all upon his breast,
remounted by the path he had descended,
nor did he tire of holding me so close
but bore me to the summit of the arch   →
that crosses from the fourth dike to the �fth.
Here gently he set down his burden,
gently on account of the steep, rough ridge
that would have made hard going for a goat.
And there, before me, another valley opened.

1–3   
4–9   
10–18   
19–24   
25–30   
31–39   
40–45   
46–51   
52–56   
57–93   
94–99   
100–105   
106–114   
115–117   
118   
118–120   
121–123   
124–129   
130   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XX
Introduction:
proem to a twentieth canto
�rst view of diviners: silent weeping
second view: faces turned backwards on twisted necks
address to reader (fourth in Inferno)
Dante’s tears and Virgil’s rebuke
The diviners:
1. Amphiaraus (Statius, Thebaid VII–VIII)
2. Tiresias (Ovid, Metamorphoses III)
3. Aruns (Lucan, Pharsalia I)
4. Manto (Virgil, Aeneid X)
Virgil’s digression on Manto and Mantua
second digression: modern-day Mantua
Dante’s responses
5. Eurypylus (Virgil, Aeneid II)
6. Michael Scot (astrologer of Frederick II)
7. Guido Bonati (astrologer of G. da Montefeltro)
8. Asdente (astrologer in Parma)
9. crowd of female soothsayers
Coda:
Virgil urges Dante to resume the journey
they depart

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INFERNO XX
Of strange new pain I now must make my verse,   →
giving matter to the canto numbered twenty
of this �rst canzone, which tells of those submerged.
By now I was all eagerness to see   →
what sights the chasm, bathed in tears
of anguish, would disclose.
I saw people come along that curving canyon
in silence, weeping, their pace the pace of slow
processions chanting litanies in the world.
As my gaze moved down along their shapes,   →
I saw into what strange contortions
their chins and chests were twisted.
Their faces were reversed upon their shoulders   →
so that they came on walking backward,
since seeing forward was denied them.
Perhaps some time by stroke of palsy
a person could be twisted in that way,
but I’ve not seen it nor do I think it likely.
Reader, so may God let you gather fruit   →
from reading this, imagine, if you can,
how I could have kept from weeping
when I saw, up close, our human likeness
so contorted that tears from their eyes
ran down their buttocks, down into the cleft.
Yes, I wept, leaning against a spur   →

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of the rough crag, so that my escort said:
‘Are you still as witless as the rest?
’Here piety lives when pity is quite dead.   →
Who is more impious than one who thinks
that God shows passion in His judgment?
‘Raise your head! Raise it and look on him   →
under whose feet the earth gaped open
in sight of all the shouting Thebans:
‘ “Where are you rushing, Amphiaraus? Why
do you leave the war?” Nor did he stop his plunge
until he fell to Minos, who lays hold on all.
‘See how his shoulder-blades are now his chest.
Because he aspired to see too far ahead
he looks behind and treads a backward path.
‘See Tiresias, who changed his likeness   →
when he was turned from male to female,
transformed in every member.
‘Later on he had to touch once more
the two twined serpents with his rod
before he could regain his manly plumes.
‘He who puts his back to that one’s belly is Aruns.   →
In the hills of Luni—where the Carraresi,
who shelter in the valley, work the earth—
‘he lived inside a cave in that white marble,
from which he could observe the sea and stars
in a wide and boundless prospect.
‘And that female whose backward-�owing tresses   →
fall upon her breasts so they are hidden,

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and has her hairy parts on that same side,
‘was Manto, who searched through many lands
before she settled in the place where I was born—
for just a moment hear me out on this.   →
’After her father had parted from this life
and the city of Bacchus was enslaved,
she wandered for a time about the world.
‘High in fair Italy, at the foot of the alps   →
that form a border with Germany near Tyrol,
lies a lake they call Benàco.
‘By a thousand springs and more, I think,   →
the region between Garda, Val Camonica, and Pennino
is bathed by waters settling in that lake.
‘There is an island in its middle
that the pastors of Trent, Brescia, and Verona,
should they pass that way, would bless.
‘Peschiera, a strong and splendid fortress   →
against the Brescians and the Bergamese,
sits on the lowest point of land around.
‘There all the water Benàco’s bosom cannot hold   →
�ows over and descends into a river
running through green pastures.
‘This river, as it leaves the lake
and all the way to Govérnolo, is called
Mincio until it falls into the Po.
‘Before that, after but the briefest run,   →
it levels o� and spreads to make a swamp
sometimes scarce of water in the summer.

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‘When she passed that way, the cruel virgin
saw dry land in the middle of the marsh
where no one lived and no one tilled the soil.
‘There, to avoid all company, she stopped,   →
with only servants, to ply her magic arts.
There she lived and left her empty body.
’Later on, the people scattered round about
collected there because it was protected
by the marsh on every side.
‘They built the city over those dead bones
and, after her who �rst had claimed the spot,
named it Mantua, with no spells or incantations.
‘Once, its population was more plentiful,   →
before the foolishness of Casalodi
bore the brunt of Pinamonte’s guile.
‘I charge you, therefore, should you ever hear   →
my city’s origin described another way,
allow no lie to falsify the truth.’
And I: ‘Master, to me your explanation
is so convincing and so takes my trust
that any other tale would seem spent embers.
‘But tell me, among these people who are passing,
if you see any worthy of my notice,
for my thoughts keep going back to them alone.’
Then he replied: ‘The one whose beard   →
falls from his jowls onto his swarthy shoulders
was—when Greece was so deprived of males
‘that the only ones still there were in their cradles—

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a soothsayer. At Aulis, along with Calchas,
he told the favoring time for setting sail.
‘Eurypylus was his name, and thus he is sung
in certain verses of my lofty tragedy,
as you know very well, who know it all.
‘That other, with the skinny shanks,   →
was Michael Scot, who truly understood
the way to play the game of magic tricks.
’See Guido Bonatti. See Asdente, who now regrets   →   →
not having worked his leather and his thread—
but he repents too late.
‘See the wretched women who gave up needle,   →
spool, and spindle to take up fortune-telling,
casting spells with images and herbs.
‘But come now, for Cain, with his thorns,   →
already stands above the border of both hemispheres
and touches the waves below Seville.
‘and recall two nights ago   →
the moon, already full, did you no harm,
at any time in the deep wood.’
These were his words while we were moving on.   →

1–3   
4–6   
7–21   
22–28   
29–36   
37–42   
43–45   
46–54   
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124–126   
127–132   
133–135   
136–139   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXI
continuation of the conversation that ends Canto XX
weeping and darkness in the �fth bolgia
simile: the pitch and that in the arsenal at Venice
Virgil’s �rst warning to Dante and Dante’s reaction
a nameless devil laden with an anonymous sinner
the devil will return to Lucca for more like him
the devil departs
the new victim pronged by the sporting devils
simile: cooks prodding meat down in their cauldrons
Virgil’s second warning and claim of expertise
Virgil advances to meet the foe
simile: Virgil as beggar, devils as watchdogs
Virgil’s command to the “dogs”
Malacoda summoned and arriving
Virgil’s vaunt and Malacoda’s apparent servility
Virgil summons Dante from his hiding-place
simile: the truce at Caprona
these “troops” do not look peaceful to Dante
Malacoda restrains Scarmiglione
Malacoda lies about the condition of the bridges
Malacoda assembles his squad of ten
Malacoda lies about the purpose of their mission
Dante, terri�ed, longs for other guides than these
Virgil’s reassurance
the decuria readies itself; the diabolic signal

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INFERNO XXI
Thus from one bridge to the next we came   →
until we reached its highest point, speaking
of things my Comedy does not care to sing.
We stopped to look into the next crevasse
of Malebolge and heard more useless weeping.
All I could see was an astounding darkness.
As in the arsenal of the Venetians   →
in wintertime they boil the viscous pitch
to caulk their unsound ships
because they cannot sail—one rebuilds
his ship, while still another plugs
the seams of his, weathered by many a voyage:
one hammers at the stem, another at the stern,
this one makes the oars, that one twists the ropes
for rigging, another patches jib and mainsail—
so, not with �re, but by the art of God,
a thick pitch boiled there,
sticking to the banks on either side.
I saw the pitch but still saw nothing in it
except the bubbles raised up by the boiling,
the whole mass swelling and then settling back.
While I stared �xedly upon the seething pitch,
my leader cried: ‘Look out, look out!’
and drew me to him, away from where I stood.
Then I turned like a man, intent

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on making out what he must run from,
undone by sudden fear,
who does not slow his �ight for all his looking back:
just so I caught a glimpse of some dark devil   →
running toward us up the ledge.
Ah, how ferocious were his looks
and �erce his gesturing,
with wings spread wide and nimble feet!
One of his shoulders, which were high and pointed,   →
was laden with the haunches of a sinner
he held hooked by the tendons of his heels.
From our bridge he said: ‘O Malebranche,   →
here is one of Santa Zita’s Elders.   →
Thrust him under, while I head back for more   →
‘to that city, where there’s such a �ne supply.
Every man there—except Bonturo—is a swindler.   →
There money turns a No into a Yeah.’
He �ung him down and turned back up
the stony ridge. Never did a masti�
set loose to chase a thief make greater haste.
The sinner sank, then rose again, his face all pitch.   →
The demons, under cover of the bridge, cried out:
‘This is no place for the Holy Visage!
‘Here you swim a di�erent stroke than in the Serchio!   →
Unless you’d like to feel our hooks,
don’t let yourself stick out above the pitch.’
Then, with a hundred hooks and more,
they ripped him, crying: ‘Here you must do your dance

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in secret and pilfer—can you?—in the dark.’
In just the same way cooks command their scullions
to take their skewers and prod the meat down
in the cauldron, lest it �oat back up.
Then my good master said: ‘Squat down   →
behind that rock and �nd some cover
so that they do not see that you are here.
‘As for any outrage they may do me,
have no fear. I know this place and had
exactly such a scu�e here before.’   →
After he had crossed the bridge
and reached the other bank,
he had to show how resolute he was:
With all the rage and uproar   →
of dogs that rush upon a beggar—
who quickly starts to beg where he has stopped—
they swarmed on him from underneath the bridge
with threatening hooks. But he cried out:
‘Wait! Let none of you do harm!
‘Before you grapple at me with your hooks
let one of you come forth to hear me out.
Then take counsel, whether to use your claws.’
All cried: ‘Let Malacoda go.’ One moved—   →
the rest stood still—and he came forward,
grumbling: ‘This won’t do him any good.’
‘Consider, Malacoda,’ said my master,   →
‘whether you would see me come this far
unstopped by all your hindering

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‘without the will of God and favoring fate?
Let us proceed, for it is willed in Heaven
that I guide another down this savage way.’
Then his pride was so abashed that he let drop   →
the billhook to his feet, saying to the others:
‘Enough, let no one touch him.’
And my leader said to me: ‘You there, cowering   →
among the broken boulders of the bridge,
now you may come back to me in safety.’
At that I stirred and hastened to him.
Then the devils all came surging forward
so that I feared they might not keep the truce.
Just so do I recall the troops
afraid to leave Caprona with safe-conduct,   →
�nding themselves among so many enemies.
I drew my body up against my leader
but kept my eyes �xed on their faces,
which were far from friendly.
They aimed their hooks, and one said to another:   →
‘How about I nick him on the rump?’
And the other answered: ‘Sure, let him have one.’
But the demon who was speaking with my leader
turned round at once and said:
‘Easy does it, Scarmiglione!’
And then to us: ‘You can’t continue farther   →
down this ridge, for the sixth arch
lies broken into pieces at the bottom.
‘If you desire to continue on,

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then make your way along this rocky ledge.
Nearby’s another crag that yields a passage.
‘Yesterday, at a time �ve hours from now,   →
it was a thousand two hundred sixty-six years
since the road down here was broken.
‘I’m sending some men of mine along that way   →
to see if anyone is out to take the air.
Go with them—they won’t hurt you.’
‘Step forward, Alichino, Calcabrina,’   →
he continued, ’and you Cagnazzo,
and let Barbariccia lead the squad.
‘Let Libicocco come too, and Draghignazzo,
Cirïatto with his tusks, and Gra�acane,
Farfarello, and madcap Rubicante.
‘Have a good look around the boiling glue.
Keep these two safe as far as the next crag   →
that runs all of a piece above the dens.’
‘Oh, master,’ I said, ‘I don’t like what I see.   →
Please, let us �nd our way without an escort,
if you know how. As for me, I do not want one.
‘If you are as vigilant as ever,
don’t you see they grind their teeth
while with their furrowed brows they threaten harm?’
And he to me: ‘Don’t be afraid.   →
Let them grind on to their hearts’ content—
they do it for the stewing wretches.’
O� they set along the left-hand bank,   →
but �rst each pressed his tongue between his teeth

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to blow a signal to their leader,
and he had made a trumpet of his asshole.

1–12   
13–18   
19–30   
31–36   
37–39   
40–42   
43–45   
46–48   
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118   
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133–144   
145–150   
151   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXII
opening simile: the signal for a departure
the unlikely companions start their march
two similes: sinners as dolphins and as frogs
Gra�acane hooks a sinner
Dante explains how he came to know the devils’ names
the other devils urge Rubicante to �ay the sinner
Dante asks Virgil to determine the sinner’s identity
Virgil asks him; the sinner says he is from Navarre
Ciampolo’s autobiography
Cirïatto gores Ciampolo; Barbariccia protects him
Virgil wants to know of any Italians in the pitch
Ciampolo mentions a Sardinian neighbor
Libicocco attacks; Draghignazzo threatens
Barbariccia again controls the situation
Virgil insists on having the information he seeks
Ciampolo’s “neighbors”: Fra Gomita and Michel
Zanche
Ciampolo observes Farfarello’s evil intent
the “provost,” Barbariccia, restrains Farfarello
Ciampolo’s stratagem, asking space to summon others
dispute between Cagnazzo and Alichino
the �fth address to the reader in this cantica
Ciampolo’s escape, Alichino’s pursuit: simile of wild
duck and falcon
Calcabrina and Alichino grapple, fall into the pitch
Barbariccia organizes his two rescue parties
Virgil and Dante make good their escape

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INFERNO XXII
I have seen the cavalry break camp,   →
prepare for an attack, make their muster
and at times fall back to save themselves.
I have seen outriders in your land,
O Aretines. I have seen raiding-parties,
tournaments of teams, hand-to-hand jousts
begun with bells, trumpets, or drums,
with signals from the castle,
with summons of our own and those from foreign lands,
but never to such outlandish fanfare
have I seen horsemen move, or infantry,
or ship set sail at sign from land or star.
On we went, escorted by ten demons.   →
What savage company! But, as they say,
‘in church with saints, with guzzlers in the tavern.’
My attention was �xed upon the pitch
to note each detail of this gulch
and of the people poaching in it.
Like dolphins, when they arch their backs   →
above the water, giving sailors warning
to prepare to save their ship,
so from time to time, to ease his pain,
one of the sinners would show his back
and, quick as lightning, hide it once again.
And just as in a ditch at water’s edge

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frogs squat with but their snouts in sight,
their bodies and their legs all hidden,
so were the sinners scattered everywhere.
But they, at the approach of Barbariccia,
withdrew back down beneath the boiling.
There I saw—and my heart still shudders at it—
one who lingered, as it can happen
that one frog stays while yet another plunges,
and Gra�acane, who was nearest him,
caught a billhook in his pitchy locks
and hauled him out, looking like an otter.
By now I knew their names,   →
since I had noted these when they were chosen
and when they called to one another.
‘Set your claws to work, Rubicante,
see you rip his skin o�,’
shouted all the accursèd crew together.
And I: ‘Master, if you can do it,
�nd out the name of this poor wretch
caught in the clutches of his enemies.’
My leader got up close beside him
and asked him where he came from. He replied:
‘I was born in the kingdom of Navarre.   →
‘My mother, who had conceived me by a wastrel—
destroyer of himself and all his goods—
put me in service with a man of rank.
‘Then I joined the retinue of worthy Thibaut:
there �rst I set myself to taking bribes,

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for which I pay the reckoning in this heat.’
And Ciriatto, from whose jaw curved up
on either side a tusk, like the wild boar’s,
made him feel how one of these could rip.
The mouse had fallen in with wicked cats.
But Barbariccia blocked them with his arms   →
and said: ‘Stand back and let me jab him,’
then turned to face my master:
‘Speak up, if you are eager to learn more,
before I let him have a mangling.’
And my leader: ‘Of the other sinners in the pitch,   →
tell me, is anyone Italian?’
And he: ‘I just now came from one
‘who hailed from near those parts. I wish   →
I still were with him in the pitch—
then I’d have no fear of hook or claw!’
Then Libicocco said: ‘This is just too much,’   →
caught him with his grapple by the arm
and, ripping, gouged out a hunk of �esh.
Draghignazzo, too, wanted to catch him up,
by the legs, at which their captain
wheeled round on them with an ugly look.
After their fury had subsided,
my leader seized this chance to ask
the one still staring at his wound:
‘Who is the one you mentioned, from whom
you parted so unwisely when you came ashore?’
And he replied: ‘It was Fra Gomìta   →

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‘of Gallura, a vessel full of fraud,
who had his master’s enemies in hand
but dealt with them so each one sings his praises.
‘He took their money and discreetly let them o�,
as he himself admits. And in his other actions
he was no small-time swindler but a king.
’Don Michel Zanche of Logudoro   →
keeps company with him and, when speaking
of Sardegna, their tongues are never weary.
‘Oh, look at that one there, gnashing his teeth!—   →
I would say more, but I’m afraid that demon’s
getting set to give my mange a scratching.’
And the great marshal, turning to Farfarello,
who was rolling his eyes, ready to strike,
said: ‘Back o�, you �lthy bird!’
‘If you would care to see or hear,’   →
the emboldened spirit then began again,
‘Tuscans or Lombards, I can make some come.
‘But let the Malebranche stand away   →
so that the sinners have no fear of vengeance,
and, keeping to my place right here,
‘for one of me, I will make seven come
if I whistle, as is our custom
when one of us pulls free out of the pitch.’
At this Cagnazzo lifted up his snout and said,
shaking his head: ‘Hear the cunning stunt
he has contrived to throw himself back in!’
And he, with arti�ce in store, replied:

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‘I must indeed be cunning if I procure
still greater anguish for my friends.’
Alichino couldn’t stand this any more and said,
in opposition to the others: ‘If you dive
back in I won’t pursue you on the run—
‘oh no! I’ll beat my wings above the pitch.
Let’s leave the ridge and hide behind the bank.
We’ll see if you alone can take us on.’
Now, reader, you shall hear strange sport.
All turned their backs to where the sinner stood,
he �rst who’d most opposed the plan.
The Navarrese chose his moment well,
planted his feet and in a second
leaped and escaped from their designs.
At this they all were angry at their blunder,   →
but most of all the one whose fault it was,
so that he darted up and cried: ‘Now you are caught!’
It did him little good, for even wings
could not catch up with terror: the sinner dove
and the devil turned up his breast in �ight,
just as the wild duck, when the falcon nears,
dives for the bottom, and the bird of prey
must �y back up, angry and outsmarted.
Calcabrina, furious at this trick,
was winging close behind him, eager for the sinner
to break away as an excuse to scu�e,
and, since the barrator had vanished,
he turned his claws against his fellow

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and came to grips with him above the ditch.
But the other was indeed a full-�edged hawk,
�erce with his talons, and the pair of them
went tumbling down into the scalding pond.
The heat unclutched them in a moment,
but they had so beglued their wings
there was no way to rise above the pitch.
Barbariccia, lamenting with the rest,   →
had four of them �y to the other bank,
each with his hook in hand, and in no time
on this side and on that they clambered down
to their posts, reaching out their grapples
to the pitch-trapped pair, already cooked to a crust.
And that is how we left them in that broil.   →

1–3   
4–9   
10–12   
13–18   
19–24   
25–33   
34–36   
37–51   
52–57   
58–67   
68–75   
76–93   
94–99   
100–108   
109–110   
111–123   
124–126   
127–132   
133–138   
139–144   
145–148   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXIII
Virgil and Dante continue, walking as Franciscans do
Aesopic second-thoughts on the preceding scene
simile: one thought springing from another
Dante’s re�ection on his present condition
his resultant request to Virgil that they hide
Virgil’s plan to escape into the next bolgia
the Malebranche are back in force
similes: mother escaping with babe; water through
sluice (Virgil seizes Dante and carries him)
view of the Malebranche from �oor of sixth bolgia
the hypocrites in their gilded leaden cloaks
Dante hopes Virgil will �nd a being familiar to him
Dante’s Tuscan speech catches the interest of two
Dante explains his origin and condition and asks of
their identities and punishment
Catalano identi�es Loderingo and responds
Dante’s interrupted apostrophe of evil friars
Caiaphas and Catalano’s gloss on him
Virgil’s wonderment at Caiaphas
Virgil asks Catalano for directions
Catalano reveals what Malacoda concealed
Virgil’s response and Catalano’s rejoinder
Virgil, in some anger, departs, with Dante following

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INFERNO XXIII
Silent, alone, and unescorted   →
we went on, one in front, the other following,
as Friars Minor walk along the roads.
The brawl played out before our eyes   →
put me in mind of Aesop’s fable
in which he told the tale of frog and mouse,
for ‘issa’ and ‘mo’ are not more like in meaning
than one case and the other, if we compare
with circumspection their beginnings and their ends.
Just as one thought issues from another,
so, from the �rst, another now was born
that made me twice as fearful as before.
I thought, ’It’s our fault they have been cheated,
and with such hurt and shame
I’m sure it must enrage them.
‘If rage is added to their malice,
they will pursue us still more cruelly
than the hound that sets his fangs into a hare.’
I could feel my scalp go taut with fear   →
and kept my thoughts �xed just behind me
as I spoke: ‘Master, can’t you quickly
‘hide yourself and me? I am in terror
of the Malebranche; I sense them there behind us,
imagine them so clear I almost hear them.’
And he: ‘If I were made of leaded glass   →

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I could not re�ect your outward likeness
in less time than I grasp the one inside you.
’Just now your thought commingled with my own,
alike in attitude and aspect,
so that of both I’ve formed a single plan.
‘If the slope there to the right allows us
to make our way into the other ditch,
we shall escape the chase we both envision.’
Before he �nished telling me his plan   →
I saw them coming, wings outspread,
closing in to catch us.
My leader in a moment snatched me up,   →
like a mother who, awakened by the hubbub
before she sees the �ames that burn right near her,
snatches up her child and �ees,
and, more concerned for him than for herself,
does not delay to put a shift on.
Down from the rim of that stony bank,
supine, he slid along the sloping rock
that forms one border of the next crevasse.
Never did water, as it nears the paddles,   →
rush down along the sluices
cut through earth to turn a millwheel
more swiftly than my master down that bank,
bearing me along clasped to his breast
as if I were his child, not his companion.
No sooner had he touched the bottom with his feet   →
than the devils were above us on the ridge.

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Yet now we had no cause for feeling fear,
for high Providence, which made them
wardens of the �fth crevasse,
deprives them of the power to leave it.
Down there we came upon a lacquered people   →
who made their round, in tears, with listless steps.
They seemed both weary and defeated.
The cloaks they wore cut like the capes   →
sewn for the monks at Cluny,
had cowls that hung down past their eyes.
Gilded and dazzling on the outside,   →
within they are of lead, so ponderous
that those imposed by Frederick would seem but straw.   →
Oh what a toilsome cloak to wear forever!
Once more we turned to the left, then went along
beside them, intent upon their wretched wailing.
Their burden made that weary people
move so slowly we had new companions
each time we set one foot before the other.
And I said to my leader: ‘Cast your eyes
this way and that as we walk on.
See if you know the names or deeds of any.’
And one of them, having heard my Tuscan speech,   →
cried out behind us: ‘Stay your feet,
you who hasten through this sullen air.
‘I perhaps can answer what you asked.’
At that my leader turned around to say:
‘Wait a moment, then continue at his pace.’

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I stopped and noticed two whose looks
showed haste of mind to reach me,
but their load and the narrow way detained them.
When they came near they looked at me askance
for a while, without uttering a word,
until they turned to one another, saying:
‘The way his throat moves, this one must be alive.
And if they are dead, what gives them the right
to go uncovered by the heavy stole?’
and then to me: ‘O Tuscan, who have come
to this assembly of sad hypocrites,   →
do not disdain to tell us who you are.’
‘In the great city, by the fair river Arno,’
I said to them, ’I was born and raised,
and I am here in the body that was always mine.
‘But who are you in whom I see distilled
the misery running down your cheeks in tears?
And what is the grief you bear that glitters so?’
And one of them answered: ‘Our golden cloaks
are made of lead, and they’re so dense,
like scales we creak beneath their weight.   →
‘We were Jovial Friars, born in Bologna.   →
My name was Catalano, his, Loderingo.   →
Your city made the two of us a pair,
‘where usually a single man was chosen,
to keep the peace within, and we were such
that all around Gardingo the ruins can be seen.’
I began: ‘O Friars, your evil deeds …’   →

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but said no more, for one there caught my eye,   →
�xed cross-wise to the ground by three short stakes.
Seeing me, he writhed all over,
blowing sighs into his beard,
and Fra Catalano, observing this, said:
‘That man you see nailed down
advised the Pharisees it was the better course
that one man should be martyred for the people.
’He is stretched out naked, as you see,   →
across the path. It is his lot to feel
the weight of each who passes.
‘Just so his father-in-law is racked with us   →
down here and with the others of the council
that was a seed of evil for the Jews.’
I saw that Virgil marveled at the sight   →
of this shape stretched as on a cross,
so ignoble in his eternal exile.
Then he addressed the friar with these words:
‘May it please you, if it is permitted,
to say if on our right there is a passage
‘by which we two might leave this place
without requiring help from some black angels   →
to pluck us from these depths.’
And he replied: ’Nearer than you hope there lies   →
a rocky ridge that crosses all the savage valleys
from the farthest circle inward.
‘It has fallen only here and fails to reach across.
You can clamber up the sloping rubble

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that lies upon the bottom and piles up along the side.’
My leader stood a while, his head bent down, then said:
‘He who rips the sinners in the other ditch
misled us in his picture of this place.’
And the friar: ‘At one time in Bologna I heard tell   →
of the Devil’s many vices, and I heard
he is a liar and the father of all lies.’
At that my leader stalked o� with long strides,   →
a moment’s look of anger on his face.
And so I left those overburdened souls
to follow in the imprints of his cherished feet.

1–21   
22–24   
25–30   
31–42   
43–45   
46–57   
58–60   
61–63   
64–69   
70–78   
79–81   
82–96   
97–111   
112–118   
119–120   
121–126   
127–129   
130–139   
140–151   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXIV
the elaborate opening simile: peasant and hoarfrost
Virgil, back and prudently calculating, embraces Dante
simile: a provident man
the di�cult ascent out of the sixth bolgia
Dante’s arrival and temporary repose
Virgil urges Dante upward and onward
Dante’s forced assurances of his readiness
along the ridge over the seventh bolgia
Dante’s curiosity about a voice from below
his desire to �nd its source and Virgil’s assent
over the bridge to the edge of the eighth bolgia and a
closer look into the seventh
the serpents and the sinners
“death and resurrection” of Vanni Fucci
simile: a man possessed or in epileptic �t
exclamation of the poet: God’s power
Virgil begets response from Vanni
Dante’s further request of Vanni through Virgil
Vanni’s confession
Vanni’s prophecy of Dante’s political misery

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INFERNO XXIV
In that season of the youthful year   →
when the sun cools his locks beneath Aquarius
and the dark already nears but half the day,
and when the hoarfrost copies out upon the �elds
the very image of her snowy sister—
although her pen-point is not sharp for long—
the peasant, short of fodder, rises,
looks out, and sees the countryside
turned white, at which he slaps his thigh,
goes back indoors, grumbling here and there
like a wretch who knows not what to do,
then goes outside again and is restored to hope,
seeing that the world has changed its face
in that brief time, and now picks up his crook
and drives his sheep to pasture.
Thus the master caused me to lose heart
when I saw how troubled was his brow
and just as quickly came the poultice to the wound,
for no sooner had we reached the broken bridge
than he turned to me with that gentle glance
I �rst saw at the mountain’s foot.
He looked with care upon the ruin,   →
took thought, chose a plan of action,
then opened out his arms and took me in them.
And like one who reckons as he works,

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always planning for what comes next,
thus, while raising me to one boulder’s peak,
he searched for yet another crag
and said: ‘Take hold of that one next
but test it �rst to see if it will bear your weight.’
This was no climb for people wearing leaden cloaks.   →
Though he was weightless and I was being pushed,   →
how hard a climb it was from one crag to the other!
Were it not that on this side of the dike
the slope was shorter—I cannot speak for him—
I would have given up.
But since all Malebolge inclines   →
down to the mouth of the lowest pit,
it follows that each valley is constructed
with one side higher than the other.
At last we made it to the point
where the outermost stone had broken o�.
And there I felt my lungs so sucked of breath
that I could go no farther,
but I sat down as quickly as I could.
‘Now must you cast o� sloth,’ my master said.
‘Sitting on feather cushions or stretched out
under comforters, no one comes to fame.
‘Without fame, he who spends his time on earth   →
leaves only such a mark upon the world
as smoke does on the air or foam on water.
‘Get to your feet! Conquer this laboring breath
with strength of mind, which wins the battle

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if not dragged down by body’s weight.
‘There is a longer stair that must be climbed.
It’s not enough to leave these souls behind.
If you take my meaning, let it be of use.’
At that I rose, pretending to more breath   →
than I had in me, and said:
‘Go on then, for I am strong and resolute.’
We labored up a ridge,
rugged, narrow, di�cult,
and steeper far than was the last.
Not to seem so spent, I talked as I climbed up.
Then, from the next ditch, came a voice   →
that seemed un�t for forming words.
I could not make out what it said,   →
though I was at the crown that arches over,
but the one who spoke seemed to be in motion.
Hard as I strained to see, it was too dark
for living eyes to plumb the depths.
And so I said: ‘Master, take your way
‘to the next ledge where we can leave this bridge.
From here I make out nothing with my ears
nor with my eyes see anything down there.’
‘I give no other answer than to take you,’
he said, ‘for a just request
should be followed by the act, in silence.’
We left the bridge at the abutment   →
where it comes to rest on that eighth bank.
From there the contents of the ditch came into view.

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In it I saw a dreadful swarm of serpents,   →
of so strange a kind that even now
when I remember them it chills my blood.
Let Libya with all her sands no longer boast,   →
for though she fosters chelydri, jaculi,
phareae, cenchres, and amphisbaena,
she never reared so many venomous pests,   →
nor so appalling—not with all of Ethiopia
and the lands that lie along the Red Sea coast.
Amid this fearsome and most awful plenty,   →
people, naked and in terror, were running
without hope of refuge or of heliotrope.
Their hands were tied behind their backs with snakes
that thrust their heads and tails between the legs
and joined, knotting themselves in front.
And behold, one of these souls was near our ridge   →
when a serpent launched and pierced him through   →
right where the neck and shoulders join.
Never has ‘o’ nor even ‘i’ been writ so quick   →
as he caught �re and burned, turned,
in the very act of falling, into ashes.
And as he lay unmade upon the ground,
the dust regathered of its own accord
and suddenly he was himself again.
Just, as is attested by great sages,
the phoenix perishes and is reborn   →
when it approaches its �ve-hundredth year—
lifelong it feeds on neither grain nor grasses,

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but thrives on drops of frankincense and cardamom,
while nard and myrrh make up its winding sheet—
and just as one who faints, and knows not why—
whether possessed by devils that pull him down
or seized by the sickness that causes men to fall—
rises to his feet, and gazes round,
wholly bewildered by the breathless anguish
he has undergone, and as he looks, he sighs,
such did that sinner seem when he had risen.
O how stern it is, the power of God,   →
hurling such blows as it takes vengeance!
When my leader asked him who he was:
‘From Tuscany I rained down,’ was his answer,   →
‘not long ago, into this savage gorge.
‘I loved the life of beasts and not of men,
just like the mule I was. I am Vanni Fucci,
animal. Pistoia was my �tting den.’
And I to my leader: ‘Tell him not to slip away,   →
then ask what sin has thrust him to this depth,
for I knew him as a man of blood and rages.’
And the sinner, listening, did not dissemble,
but set his mind and eyes on me,
then colored with a wrathful shame   →
and said: ‘For you to catch me
in this misery pains me more
than when I was taken from the other life.
‘I can’t refuse to answer what you ask.
I am thrust so far below because I stole

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the lovely ornaments from the sacristy
‘and the blame was wrongly laid upon another.
But, so you take no joy in seeing me this low,   →
if ever you escape from these dark regions,
‘open your ears to prophecy and hear:
First, Pistoia strips herself of Blacks,   →
then Florence changes families and fashions.
‘Next Mars draws up a bolt from Val di Magra,
engulfed by torn and threatening clouds,
and, with violent and stinging storms,
’on Campo Piceno the battle shall be joined.
The headlong bolt shall rend the clouds,
striking and wounding every White.
And this I have told that it may make you grieve.’   →

1–9   
10–15   
16–18   
19–24   
25–33   
34–45   
46–48   
49–78   
79–84   
85–93   
94–102   
103–141   
142–144   
145–151   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXV
Vanni’s blasphemy and the serpents’ attack
the poet’s apostrophe: Pistoia
Vanni Fucci’s �ight and the centaur’s pursuit
the poet’s fanciful demon, Cacus
Virgil’s “certi�cation” of Cacus
the sudden appearance of three thieves
sixth address to the reader
Agnello shares a new shape with Cianfa
simile: lizard darting across path
“mating” of a serpent (Francesco) and a “man” (Buoso)
the poet’s claim to have surpassed Lucan and Ovid
Buoso changes shape with serpent Francesco
the poet’s apology
Puccio alone is not transmogri�ed

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INFERNO XXV
Then, making the �gs with both his thumbs,   →
the thief raised up his �sts and cried:
‘Take that, God! It’s aimed at you!’
From that time on the serpents were my friends,   →
for one of them coiled itself around his neck   →
as if to say, ‘Now you shall speak no more,’
while another enmeshed his arms and held him fast,
knotting itself so tight around his front
he could not even twitch his arms.
Ah, Pistoia, Pistoia, why won’t you resolve   →
to burn yourself to ashes, cease to be,
since you exceed your ancestors in evil?
Through all the gloomy rounds of Hell   →
I saw no soul so prideful against God,
not even him who toppled from the walls at Thebes.
He ran away without another word.
And then I saw a centaur full of rage   →
come shouting: ‘Where, where is that unripe soul?’
Maremma does not have as many snakes,   →
I think, as he had on his back,
from where the human part begins down to the rump.
On his shoulders, at the nape of his neck,
crouched a dragon with its wings spread wide
that sets on �re whatever it encounters.
My master said: ‘That is Cacus,

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who in the cave beneath the Aventine
many times over has made a lake of blood.
‘His road is di�erent from his brothers’
because he stole, with wicked cunning,
the herd of cattle he found near at hand.
‘For that his wily ways were ended
beneath the club of Hercules, who struck perhaps
a hundred blows, though he felt not the tenth.’
While my master spoke the centaur had run past.   →
Below where we were standing, three new souls
had neared, although we did not see them
until we heard their shouts: ‘You,
who are you?’ At that he stopped his tale
and we gave heed to them alone.
I knew none of them, and yet it happened—
as often happens by some chance—
that one had cause to speak another’s name,
asking: ‘What’s become of Cianfa?’   →
And then, to catch my guide’s attention,   →
I held my �nger up from chin to nose.
If, reader, you are slow to credit
what I’m about to tell you, it’s no wonder:
I saw it, and I myself can scarce believe it.
While I stood staring, with eyebrows raised,   →
a reptile with six legs propelled itself
at one of them, and fastened itself to him.
It grabbed his belly with its middle claws,
then with its forepaws held his arms

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and bit through both his cheeks.
It stretched its hind feet down the other’s thighs,
thrusting its tail between them
and curled it up behind, above the buttocks.
Never did clinging ivy �x itself
so tight upon a tree as did that fearsome beast
entwine itself around the other’s limbs.
Then they fused together, as if made
of molten wax, mixing their colors
so that neither seemed what it had been before,
as over the surface of a scrap of parchment,   →
before the advancing �ame, a brownish color comes
that is not black, yet makes the white die out.
The other two were looking on and each
was shouting: ‘Oh my, Agnello, how you change!   →
Look, now you are neither two nor one!’   →
The two heads had already been united,
two sets of features blending,
both lost in a single face.
Four separate limbs combined to form two arms.
The thighs and calves, the stomach and the chest
turned into members never seen before.
All trace of their �rst aspect was erased
and the unnatural �gure seemed both two
and none and lumbered o� at its slow pace.
As the green lizard beneath the scorching lash   →
of dog-day heat, between one hedge and the next,
seems lightning as it streaks across the road,

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just so appeared—darting toward the bellies   →
of the other two—a little �ery reptile,
black and livid as a peppercorn.
That part where �rst we are nourished
it trans�xed in one of them
and then fell prone before him.
The one trans�xed just stared, said nothing.
Indeed, with his feet stock-still, he yawned,
as if deep sleep or fever had assailed him.
He and the reptile stared at one another.
Both gave out dense smoke, one from its wound,
the other from its mouth. Then their smoke merged.
Let Lucan now fall silent where he tells   →
of poor Sabellus and Nasidius,
and let him wait to hear what comes forth now!
Let Ovid not speak of Cadmus or Arethusa,
for if his poem turns him into a serpent
and her into a fountain, I grudge it not,
for never did he change two natures, face to face,
in such a way that both their forms
were quite so quick exchanging substance.
Their corresponding changes went like this:   →
the reptile split its tail into a fork
and he that was wounded drew his feet together.
First his calves and then his thighs began
to knit so that in but a moment
no sign of a division could be seen.
The cloven tail assumed the shapes

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the other one was losing, and his skin
was turning soft while the other’s hardened.
I saw the man’s arms shrinking toward the armpits
and the brute’s forepaws, which had been short,
lengthen, precisely as the other’s dwindled.
Then the hind-paws, twisting together,
became the member that a man conceals,
and from his own the wretch had grown two paws.
While the smoke veils one and now the other
with new color and grows hair here
and elsewhere strips it o�,
one of them rose to his feet, the other fell,
but neither turned aside his baleful glare
under which each muzzle changed its shape.
In the one erect it shrank in to the temples,
and, from the excess �esh absorbed,
two ears extruded from smooth cheeks.
That which did not recede, the remnant
of that excess, made a nose for the face
and gave the lips a proper thickness.
The one prone on the ground shoves out his snout
and draws his ears into his head
as a snail draws in its horns,
and his tongue, till now a single thing
and �t for speech, divides, and the other’s
forked tongue joins, and the smoke stops.
The soul just now become a brute takes �ight,
hissing through the hollow, and the other,

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by way of speaking, spits after him.
Then he turned his new-made shoulders and he said   →
to the third: ‘I want Buoso to run, as I have done,
down on all fours along this road.’
Thus I saw the seventh rabble change
and change again, and let the newness of it
be my excuse if my pen has gone astray.   →
And though my eyes were dazed
and my mind somewhat bewildered,
these sinners could not �ee so stealthily
but I with ease discerned that Puccio Lameshanks,   →
and he alone, of the three companions
in that group, remained unchanged.
The other, Gaville, was the one whom you lament.   →

1–12   
13–18   
19–24   
25–33   
34–42   
43–45   
46–48   
49–54   
55–63   
64–69   
70–75   
76–84   
85–89   
90–99   
100–111   
112–123   
124–129   
130–135   
136–142   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXVI
ironic apostrophe of Florence
narrative rejoined: climbing out of the seventh bolgia
Dante’s reaction to the denizens of the next bolgia
simile (1): peasant and �re�ies
simile (2): Elisha/Elijah’s chariot: Dante/�ames
narrative: Dante’s intense reaction
Virgil: the relation between �ame and sinner
Dante: but what about that double �ame?
Virgil: the causes of the damnation of these two
Dante’s eagerness to speak with them
Virgil’s approval, but only he will speak
Virgil addresses Ulysses and Diomedes
the greater �ame prepares to speak:
leaving Circe but not going home
setting forth and the places left behind
Ulysses’ oration to his men and their reaction
the beginning of the last voyage
the destination, after �ve months: the mountain
storm and death

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INFERNO XXVI
Take joy, oh Florence, for you are so great   →
your wings beat over land and sea,
your fame resounds through Hell!
Among the thieves, I found �ve citizens of yours
who make me feel ashamed, and you
are raised by them to no great praise.
But if as morning nears we dream the truth,   →
it won’t be long before you feel the pain   →
that Prato, to name but one, desires for you.
Were it already come, it would not be too soon.
But let it come, since come indeed it must,
and it will weigh the more on me the more I age.
We left that place and, on those stairs
that turned us pale when we came down,   →
my leader now climbed back and drew me up.
And as we took our solitary way
among the juts and crags of the escarpment,
our feet could not advance without our hands.
I grieved then and now I grieve again   →
as my thoughts turn to what I saw,
and more than is my way, I curb my powers
lest they run on where virtue fail to guide them,
so that, if friendly star or something better still
has granted me its boon, I don’t misuse the gift.
As when a peasant, resting on a hillside—   →

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in the season when he who lights the world
least hides his face from us,
at the hour when the �y gives way to the mosquito—
sees �re�ies that glimmer in the valley
where perhaps he harvests grapes and ploughs his �elds,
with just so many �ames the eighth crevasse   →
was everywhere aglow, as I became aware
once I arrived where I could see the bottom.
And as the one who was avenged by bears   →
could see Elijah’s chariot taking �ight,
when the horses reared and rose to Heaven,
but made out nothing with his eyes
except the �ame alone
ascending like a cloud into the sky,
so each �ame moves along the gullet
of the trench and—though none reveals the theft—
each �ame conceals a sinner.
Rising to my feet to look, I stood up   →
on the bridge. Had I not grasped a jutting crag,
I would have fallen in without a shove.
My leader, when he saw me so intent, said:
‘These spirits stand within the �ames.
Each one is wrapped in that in which he burns.’   →
‘Master,’ I replied, ’I am the more convinced
to hear you say it. That is what I thought,
and had it in my mind to ask you this:
‘Who is in the �ame so riven at the tip   →
it could be rising from the pyre

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on which Etèocles was laid out with his brother?’
He replied: ‘Within this �ame �nd torment   →
Ulysses and Diomed. They are paired
in God’s revenge as once they earned his wrath.
’In their �ame they mourn the stratagem   →
of the horse that made a gateway
through which the noble seed of Rome came forth.
‘There they lament the wiles for which, in death,
Deidamìa mourns Achilles still,
and there they make amends for the Palladium.’
‘If they can speak within those �ames,’   →
I said, ’I pray you, master, and I pray again—
and may my prayer be a thousand strong—
‘do not forbid my lingering awhile
until the twin-forked �ame arrives.
You see how eagerly I lean in its direction.’
And he to me: ‘Your prayer deserves   →
much praise. Therefore, I grant it,
but on condition that you hold your tongue.
‘Leave speech to me, for I have understood
just what you want. And, since they were Greeks,
they might disdain your words.’
Once the �ame had neared, when he thought
the time and moment right,
I heard my leader speaking in this way:
‘O you who are twinned within a single �re,   →
if I have earned your favor while I lived,
if I have earned your favor—in whatever measure—

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‘when, in the world, I wrote my lofty verses,
then do not move away. Let one of you relate
just where, having lost his way, he went to die.’
And the larger horn of that ancient �ame
began to murmur and to tremble,
like a �ame that is worried by the wind.
Then, brandishing its tip this way and that,
as if it were the tongue of �re that spoke,
it brought forth a voice and said: ‘When I   →
‘took leave of Circe, who for a year and more
beguiled me there, not far from Gaëta,
before Aeneas gave that name to it,
‘not tenderness for a son, nor �lial duty   →
toward my agèd father, nor the love I owed
Penelope that would have made her glad,
‘could overcome the fervor that was mine
to gain experience of the world
and learn about man’s vices, and his worth.
‘And so I set forth upon the open deep   →
with but a single ship and that small band
of shipmates who had not deserted me.
‘One shore and the other I saw as far as Spain,
Morocco, the island of Sardegna,
and other islands set into that sea.
‘I and my shipmates had grown old and slow
before we reached the narrow strait
where Hercules marked o� the limits,
‘warning all men to go no farther.

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On the right-hand side I left Seville behind,
on the other I had left Ceüta.
‘ “O brothers,” I said, “who, in the course   →
of a hundred thousand perils, at last
have reached the west, to such brief wakefulness
‘ “of our senses as remains to us,
do not deny yourselves the chance to know—
following the sun—the world where no one lives.
’ “Consider how your souls were sown:   →
you were not made to live like brutes or beasts,
but to pursue virtue and knowledge.”
‘With this brief speech I had my companions   →
so ardent for the journey
I could scarce have held them back.
‘And, having set our stern to sunrise,   →
in our mad �ight we turned our oars to wings,
always gaining on the left.
‘Now night was gazing on the stars that light   →
the other pole, the stars of our own so low
they did not rise above the ocean �oor.
‘Five times the light beneath the moon
had been rekindled and as often been put out
since we began our voyage on the deep,
‘when we could see a mountain, distant,
dark and dim. In my sight it seemed
higher than any I had ever seen.
‘We rejoiced, but joy soon turned to grief:   →
for from that unknown land there came   →

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a whirlwind that struck the ship head-on.
‘Three times it turned her and all the waters   →
with her. At the fourth our stern reared up,
the prow went down—as pleased Another—
until the sea closed over us.’   →

67–72   
73–78   
79–84   
85–111   
112–123   
124–129   
1–6   
7–15   
16–18   
19–30   
31–33   
34–54   
55–57   
58–66   
67–129   
130–132   
133–136   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXVII
one �ame departs, another comes
simile: the new �ame as brazen Sicilian bull
Guido da Montefeltro: his di�culty producing words
Guido questions Virgil about Romagna
Virgil directs Dante to speak to his fellow Italian
Dante reports on Romagna’s troubled present
Dante o�ers fame in exchange for Guido’s identity
Guido agrees because he believes Dante is damned
Guido’s autobiography:
soldier, friar, dupe of Boniface
the covert ways of “the fox” are
renowned
old age and his failure to furl his sails
Boniface’s stratagem, Guido’s evil advice
his death; Francis and the fallen Cherub
Guido’s descent to the underworld
the departure of Guido’s �ame-covered shade
the poets move to the bridge over the ninth bolgia

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INFERNO XXVII
The �ame now stood erect and still,   →
meaning to speak no more, and was departing
with the gentle poet’s leave,   →
when another �ame, coming close behind,   →
caused our eyes to �x upon its tip,
drawn by the gibberish that came from it.
As the Sicilian bull that bellowed �rst   →
with the cries of him whose instrument
had fashioned it—and that was only just—
used to bellow with the victim’s voice
so that, although the bull was made of brass,
it seemed trans�xed by pain,
thus, having �rst no course or outlet
through the �ame, the mournful words
were changed into a language all their own.
But once the words had made their way   →
up to the tip, making it �icker
as the voice had done when it had formed them,
we heard it say: ‘O you at whom I aim my voice   →
and who, just now, said in the Lombard tongue:
“Now go your way, I ask you nothing more,”
‘though I’ve arrived, perhaps, a little late,
let it not trouble you to stay and speak with me.
Though I am in the �ame, as you can see, it irks me not.
‘If you are only a short while fallen   →

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into this blind world from that sweet land
of Italy, from which I bring down all my sins,
‘tell me if Romagna lives in peace or war.   →
I came from where the mountains stand between
Urbino and the ridge from which the Tiber springs.’
I still stood bending down to hear,
when my leader nudged my side and said:
‘It’s up to you to speak—this one is Italian.’   →
And I, who had my answer ready,
without delay began to speak:
‘O soul that is hidden from my sight down there,
‘your Romagna is not, and never was,   →
free of warfare in her rulers’ hearts.
Still, no open warfare have I left behind.
‘Ravenna remains as it has been for years.   →
The eagle of Polenta broods over it
so that he covers Cervia with his wings.
‘The town that once withstood the lengthy siege,
making of the French a bloody heap,
is now again beneath the green claws of the lion.
‘The elder masti� of Verrucchio and the younger,
who between them had harsh dealing with Montagna,
sharpen their teeth to augers in the customary place.
‘The young lion on a �eld of white,
who rules Lamone’s and Santerno’s cities,
changes sides between the summer and the snows.
‘And the city whose �ank the Savio bathes:
as she lives between tyranny and freedom,

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so she lies between the mountain and the plain.
‘But now, I beg you, tell us who you are.   →
Be no more grudging than another’s been to you,
so may your name continue in the world.’
When the �re had done its roaring for a while,
after its fashion, the point began to quiver
this way and that, and then gave breath to this:
‘If I but thought that my response were made   →
to one perhaps returning to the world,
this tongue of �ame would cease to �icker.
‘But since, up from these depths, no one has yet
returned alive, if what I hear is true,
I answer without fear of being shamed.
‘A warrior was I, and then a corded friar,   →
thinking, cinctured so, to make amends.
And surely would my hopes have come to pass
‘but for the Great Priest—the devil take him!—   →
who drew me back to my old ways.
And I would like to tell you how and why.
‘While I still kept the form in �esh and bones
my mother gave me, my deeds were not
a lion’s but the actions of a fox.   →
‘Cunning stratagems and covert schemes,
I knew them all, and was so skilled in them
my fame rang out to the far con�nes of the earth.
‘When I saw I had reached that stage of life   →
when all men ought to think
of lowering sail and coiling up the ropes,

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‘I grew displeased with what had pleased me once.   →
Repentant and shriven, I became a friar.
And woe is me! it would have served.
‘But he, Prince of the latter-day Pharisees,   →
engaged in battle near the Lateran
and not with either Saracen or Jew,
‘for all his enemies were Christian—
not one of them had gone to conquer Acre
or tra�c in the Sultan’s lands—
‘paid no heed, for his part, to the highest o�ce
or his holy orders, nor, for mine,
to the cord that used to keep its wearers lean.
‘As Constantine once had Sylvester summoned   →
from Soracte to cure his leprous sores,
so this man called on me to be his doctor
‘and cure him of the fever of his pride.
He asked me for advice, but I kept silent
because his words were like a drunkard’s words.
‘And then he spoke again: “Let not your heart mistrust:
I absolve you here and now if you will teach me
how I can bring Praeneste to the ground.   →
‘ “I have the power, as well you know, to lock   →
and unlock Heaven, because the keys are two
for which the pope before me had no care.”
‘His threatening tactics brought me to the point   →
at which the worse course seemed the one of silence.
And so I said: “Father, since you cleanse me
‘ “of the sin that I must even now commit:

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Promising much with scant observance
will seal your triumph on the lofty throne.”
‘The moment I was dead, Francis came for me.   →
But one of the dark Cherubim cried out:
“No, wrong me not by bearing that one o�.
‘ “He must come down to serve among my minions
because he gave that fraudulent advice.   →
From then till now I’ve dogged his footsteps.
‘ “One may not be absolved without repentance,   →
nor repent and wish to sin concurrently—
a simple contradiction not allowed.”
‘Oh, wretch that I am, how I shuddered
when he seized me and said: “Perhaps
you didn’t reckon I’d be versed in logic.”
‘He carried me to Minos, who coiled his tail   →
eight times around his scaly back
and, having gnawed it in his awful rage,
‘said: “Here comes a sinner for the thieving �re.”
And so, just as you see me, I am damned,   →
cloaked as I am. And as I go, I grieve.’
Once he had brought his words to this conclusion,
the weeping �ame departed,
twisting and tossing its pointed horn.
We continued on our way, my guide and I,
over the ridge and up the arch that spans
the ditch where those are paid their due
who, for disjoining, gather up their load.

1–6   
7–21   
22–24   
25–27   
28–33   
34–36   
37–42   
43–45   
46–51   
52–54   
55–60   
61–63   
64–69   
70–75   
76–90   
91–93   
94–102   
103–111   
112–117   
118–126   
127–138   
139–142   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXVIII
a self-conscious (Virgilian) opening
simile: corpses on the �elds of Puglia
simile: gaping cask and Mohammed
the physical appearance of Mohammed
Mohammed identi�es himself and then Alì
the nature of their sin: schism
the nature of their punishment by a devil
Mohammed wants to know the reason Dante is
damned
Virgil responds that he, dead, leads Dante, alive
wonderment of the other shades
Mohammed’s advice for Fra Dolcino
Mohammed’s foot had been suspended while he spoke
Pier da Medicina: his dis�gurement
his salute of Dante and desire to be remembered
his warning to the “two best men of Fano”
Dante’s curiosity about another shade
Pier reveals Curio
Mosca reveals himself; Dante’s curses; his retreat
Dante’s good conscience in relating the incredible
the description of decapitated Bertran de Born
Bertran reveals himself as an instigator of discord
Bertran and the law of contrapasso

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INFERNO XXVIII
Who, even in words not bound by meter,   →
and having told the tale many times over,
could tell the blood and wounds that I saw now?
Surely every tongue would fail,
for neither thought nor speech
has the capacity to hold so much.
Could all the wounded troops again assemble:   →
�rst from Apulia, land laid low by war,
who grieved for their lost blood   →
shed by the Trojans, then all those
of the long war, whose corpses were despoiled
of piles of rings—as Livy writes, who does not err—   →
together with the ones who felt the agony of blows   →
�ghting in the �elds against Guiscard,
and those whose bones still lie in heaps   →
at Ceperano, where each Apulian played it false,
and those near Tagliacozzo,   →
where old Alardo conquered without force of arms:
and should one show his limb pierced through,   →
another his, where it has been cut o�,
it would be nothing to the ninth pit’s �lth.
No cask ever gapes so wide for loss   →
of mid- or side-stave as the soul I saw
cleft from the chin right down to where men fart.
Between the legs the entrails dangled. I saw

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the innards and the loathsome sack
that turns what one has swallowed into shit.
While I was caught up in the sight of him,
he looked at me and, with his hands, ripped apart
his chest, saying: ‘See how I rend myself,
‘see how mangled is Mohammed!
Ahead of me proceeds Alì, in tears,   →
his face split open from his chin to forelock.
‘And all the others whom you see
sowed scandal and schism while they lived,   →
and that is why they here are hacked asunder.
‘A devil’s posted there behind us   →
who dresses us so cruelly,
putting each of this crew again to the sword
‘as soon as we have done our doleful round.
For all our wounds have closed
when we appear again before him.
‘But who are you to linger on the ridge?—   →
perhaps you put o� going to the torment
pronounced on your own accusation.’
‘Death does not have him yet nor does his guilt
lead him to torment,’ replied my master,
‘but to give him greater knowledge
‘I, who am dead indeed, must shepherd him
from circle to circle, through this Hell down here.
And this is as true as that I speak to you.’
On hearing this, more than a hundred souls
halted in the ditch to stare at me

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in wonder, each forgetful of his pain.
‘You, who perhaps will shortly see the sun,   →
warn Fra Dolcino to provide himself—
unless he’d like to join me here quite soon—
‘with stocks of victuals, lest the siege of snow
hand the Novarese the victory
not otherwise so easy to attain.’
One foot raised, halted in mid-stride,   →
Mohammed spoke these words,
then setting down that foot, went on his way.
Another, with his throat pierced through
and nose hacked o� just where the brows begin,   →
and only one ear left upon his head,
stopped with the rest of them to gape in wonder
and, before the others did, opened his windpipe,   →
scarlet on the skin side as it was,
to say: ‘O you whom guilt does not condemn   →
and whom I saw above in Italy,
if in your likeness I am not deceived,
‘should you ever see that gentle plain again
that slopes from Vercelli down to Marcabò,
for Pier da Medicina spare a thought.
‘And let the two chief men of Fano know,   →
both messer Guido and Angiolello,
that, unless our foresight here is vain,
‘through a brutal tyrant’s treachery
near La Cattolica they shall be heaved
out of their ship with weights to hold them down.

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‘Between the islands of Cyprus and Majorca   →
Neptune never witnessed so terrible a crime,
whether one committed by pirates or by Greeks.
‘That traitor, who sees through one eye only   →
and rules the city that another down here with me
would take delight in never having seen,
‘will have the men of Fano come to parley
and he will so deal with them that, to ply   →
Focara’s wind, they’ll need no vows or prayers.’
And I: ‘Point out to me and make him known,   →
if you would have me carry news of you above,
the one to whom that city’s sight was bitter.’
Then he laid his hand upon the jaw
of one of his companions, pried his lips apart,
and cried: ‘Here he is, but he won’t speak.   →
‘Banished, he quenched the doubt in Caesar,
a�rming that, to a man prepared,
delay was always harmful.’
Ah, how distressed he seemed to me,
with his tongue sliced o� so deep in his throat,
Curio, who had been so bold in speech!
And then another whose hands had been chopped o�,   →
raising his stumps up in the murky air
so that the blood from them befouled his face,
cried out: ‘Surely you’ll remember Mosca also,
who said, alas: “A done deed �nds its purpose.”
For Tuscany, that was an evil seed.’
‘And death to your own stock,’ I added then.   →

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At that, one sorrow piled upon another,
he made o�, like a man berserk with grief.
But I stayed on to watch the troop
and saw a thing I would be loath
to mention without further proof,
were I not comforted by conscience,   →
the bosom friend that forti�es a man
beneath the armor of an honest heart.
I truly saw, and seem to see it still,
a headless body make its way
like all the others in that dismal �ock.
And by its hair he held his severed head
swinging in his hand as if it were a lantern.
The head stared at us and said: ‘Oh, woe!’
Of himself he made himself a lamp,
and they were two in one and one in two.
How this can be He knows who so ordains it.
When he was just at the foot of the bridge
he raised his arm high and, with it, that head,
so as to make his words sound more distinct:
‘You, who view the dead with breath yet in your body,   →
look upon my grievous punishment.
Is any other terrible as this?
‘So you may carry back the news of me,
know I am Bertran de Born, the one
who urged the young king on with bad advice.
‘Father and son I set to enmity.
Ahithophel stirred no worse ill between

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Absalom and David with his wicked goading.
‘Because I severed persons thus conjoined,
severed, alas, I carry my own brain
from its starting-point here in my body.
In me you may observe �t punishment.’   →

1–3   
4–7   
8–12   
13–21   
22–30   
31–36   
37–39   
40–45   
46–51   
52–57   
58–72   
73–84   
85–90   
91–93   
94–96   
97–108   
109–120   
121–123   
124–135   
136–139   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXIX
Dante longs to remain in order to weep
Virgil’s rebuke: why do you wish to stay on here?
Virgil on the space and time left for the journey
Dante: had you understood my motive, you might
have let me stay longer—I was looking for a relative
Virgil: I saw him there threatening you while you were
occupied with Bertran de Born
Dante: what you say makes me pity him the more
�rst dim view of the bolgia
Dante covers his ears so as not to feel pity
similes: hospitals (both eye and nose)
a closer view reveals the falsi�ers
simile: plague in Aegina
comparisons:
they sit leaning on one another like pans;
they scratch as stableboys curry horses;
their nails are like knives scaling �sh
Virgil addresses a sinner: Are there Italians here?
Gri�olino of Arezzo: We both are; who are you?
Virgil: I lead this living man through hell
they are thunderstruck at such a presence; Virgil’s
advice to Dante; Dante’s promise of fame
Gri�olino: I died at the hands of Albero of Siena, not
for alchemy, but for failed magicianship
Dante: the French are not as vain as the Sienese
Capocchio (ironically): Sienese exceptions
Capocchio’s own sins in alchemy

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INFERNO XXIX
The many people and their ghastly wounds   →
did so intoxicate my eyes
that I was moved to linger there and weep.
But Virgil said: ‘What are you staring at?   →
Why is your gaze so �xed upon the depths
that hold those mournful, mutilated shades?
‘You have not done so at the other pits.
In case you plan to count the sinners one by one,   →
think: this hollow circles twenty-two miles round.
‘The moon already lies beneath our feet.   →
The time we are allotted soon expires   →
and there is more to see than you see here.’
‘Had you understood,’ I was quick to answer,   →
‘the reason for my close inspection,
perhaps you would have let me stay there longer.’
All the while my guide was moving on,
with me, intent on my reply, behind him.
And then I added: ‘Within that hole
‘where I had �xed my gaze, I do believe I saw
someone of my own blood lament
the sin that costs so dear down there.’
Then the master said: ‘Trouble your mind   →
no more because of him.
Turn it to other things and let him be,
‘for I saw him there below the bridge,

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pointing his �nger at you, �erce with threats,
and I heard him called Geri del Bello.
‘Just then you were so thoroughly engrossed
in him who once was lord of Hautefort
you did not glance that way before your kinsman left.’
‘O my leader, the violent death he died,   →
for which no vengeance has been taken yet,’
I said, ‘by any person partner to his shame,
‘made him indignant. That is why he went away
without addressing me—or so I think—
and why he’s made me pity him the more.’
Thus we continued talking till we reached   →
the �rst point on the ridge that could have shown
the next pit’s bottom, had there been more light.
When we stood above the �nal cloister   →
of Malebolge and all of its lay brothers
became discernible to us,
strange arrows of lament, their shafts,
with pity at their tips, pierced me,
so that I pressed my hands against my ears.
If the contagion of every hospital   →
in Valdichiana, from July until September,
and in the Maremma and Sardegna, were amassed
in one malarial ditch, just such su�ering
was in that place. And from it rose
the stench of festering limbs.
We came down, always to our left, and reached   →
the last bank of the lengthy crag.

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And then my eyes could have a better view   →
into the pit, there where the minister
of God on high, unerring justice, punishes
the counterfeiters whom she here records.
I think it could have been no greater sorrow   →
to see the people of Aegina stricken,
with such corruption in the very air
that every animal, even the smallest worm,
perished, and, later, as the poets hold for certain,
these ancient people were restored to life,
hatched from the eggs of ants—
no greater sorrow, than in that somber valley
to see those spirits, heaped on one another, languishing.
Some lay upon the bellies or the backs
of others, still others dragged themselves
on hands and knees along that gloomy path.
Step by step we went ahead in silence,
looking and listening to the stricken spirits,
who could not raise their bodies from the ground.
Two I saw seated, propped against each other   →
as pans are propped to warm before the �re,
each of them blotched with scabs from head to foot.
And never did I see a stable-boy,
with his master waiting, nor youth whose chore
keeps him from sleep, ply his curry-comb
more hurriedly than each one clawed his nails
across his skin because of that mad itch,
which knows no other remedy,

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and their nails tore o� those scabs
as a knife strips scales from bream
or other �sh with even larger scales.
‘You there, stripping o� your coat of mail,’   →
began my leader, addressing one of them,
‘and sometimes making pincers of your �ngers,
‘tell us whether, among those gathered here,
any are Italian, so may your nails
last you in this task for all eternity.’
‘We whom you see so blasted are Italian,’
answered one of them, through his tears,
‘but who are you, that you inquire of us?’
And my leader: ‘I am one who makes his way
down with this living man from ledge to ledge.
And my intention is to show him Hell.’
They stopped propping one another up
and each one, trembling, turned in my direction,
as others did who’d overheard those words.
The good master drew up close to me,
saying, ‘Ask them what you will.’
And I began, since this had been his wish:
‘So that your memory may not fade away
from minds of men in the world above
but live on yet for many suns to come,
‘tell me who you are, and where you hail from.
Do not let your foul and sickening torment
keep you from telling me your names.’
And one of them replied: ‘I was of Arezzo.   →

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Albero of Siena had me burned alive.
But what I died for does not bring me here.
‘It is true I said to him in jest:
“I do know how to rise into the air and �y!”
And he, who had the will but not the wit,
‘asked me to show him how. And just because
I failed to make him Daedalus, he had me set
on �re by one who took him as his son.
‘But Minos, incapable of error,
damned me to the last of these ten ditches
for the alchemy I practiced in the world.’
And I said to the poet: ‘Were people ever   →
quite so fatuous as are the Sienese?
Why, not even the French can match them!’
Whereupon the other leper, hearing me,   →
replied: ‘Except, of course for Stricca—
he knew how to moderate his spending—
‘and for Niccolò—the �rst one to devise
a costly use for cloves,
there in the garden where such seeds take root—
‘and for that band in whose company
Caccia d’Asciano squandered his vineyards
and his �elds, and Abbagliato showed his wit.
‘But, to let you know who’s in your camp
against the Sienese, look close at me
so that my face itself may answer you.
‘You will see I am the shade of Capocchio,   →
who altered metal by means of alchemy.

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And, if you are the man I take you for,
you will recall how good an ape I was of nature.’

1–12   
13–21   
22–27   
1–27   
28–33   
34–36   
37–45   
46–57   
58–75   
76–90   
91–93   
94–99   
100–129   
130–132   
133–135   
136–141   
142–148   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXX
opening double simile:
(Juno vs. Thebes): Athamas
(Fortuna vs. Troy): Hecuba
Gianni Schicchi and Myrrha
Gri�olino identi�es Gianni, attacking Capocchio
Dante asks Gri�olino about the second shade
Gri�olino: Myrrha became another, as did Gianni
Dante observes a lute-shaped sinner
Master Adam: his dropsical thirst; his sin
Master Adam: his desires for revenge
Dante: who are those “wet hands in winter”?
Master Adam: Potiphar’s wife and Sinon
Sinon and Master Adam: battle of blows and words
Dante �xed upon their quarrel; Virgil’s rebuke
Dante’s shame
simile: dreamer dreaming he’s not dreaming
Virgil’s acceptance of Dante’s blush

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INFERNO XXX
Once when Juno, furious with Semele,   →
vented her rage against the house of Thebes,
as she had done on more than one occasion,
Athamas went so raving mad that when he saw
his wife come near with both their children,
holding one on this arm, one on that,
he shouted: “Let’s spread the nets so I can trap
the lioness with her cubs as they go past!”
Then he reached out and with pitiless claws
he seized the one who was called Learchus,
whirled him round and dashed him on a rock.
At that she drowned herself with her other burden.
And when Fortune had subdued the haughty,   →
all-daring spirit of the Trojans,
so that both king and kingdom were brought low,
Hecuba—wretched, sorrowing, a captive—
when she saw Polyxena slaughtered and,
grieving woman, when she saw
Polydorus lying dead upon the shore,
went mad and started barking like a dog,
so greatly had her grief deranged her mind.
But no Theban crazed with rage—   →
or Trojan—did ever seem as cruel
in rending beasts, much less human parts,
as did two pallid, naked shades I saw,

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snapping their jaws as they rushed up
like swine charging from an opened sty.
The one came at Capocchio, set its tusks   →
into his neck, then dragged him
so his belly scraped the rock-hard ground.
And the Aretine, who stood there, trembling,
said to me: ‘That demon’s Gianni Schicchi,
and in his rabid rage he mauls the others.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘so may that other not �x
its teeth in you, be kind enough to tell me
just who it is before it runs away.’
And he answered: ‘That is the ancient soul   →
of wicked Myrrha, who became enamored
of her father with more than lawful love.
‘She contrived to sin with him
by taking on another person’s shape,
as did that other, eager to decamp,   →
‘to gain the queen mule of the herd,
take on the shape of Buoso Donati,
drawing up a will and giving it due form.’
When those two frenzied shades, on whom   →
I’d �xed my eyes, had hurried o�,
I turned to look at others born for sorrow.
One I saw, fashioned like a lute—   →
had he been sundered at the groin
from the joining where a man goes forked.
The heavy dropsy, which a�icts the body   →
with its ill-digesting humor

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so that the face and belly do not match,
forced his lips to draw apart
as a person parched with hectic fever curls
one lip to his chin and twists the other up.
‘O you who go unpunished here—I know not why—   →
through this world of misery,’
he said, ‘behold and then consider
‘the su�ering of Master Adam.
Alive, I had in plenty all I wanted.
And now I crave a single drop of water!
‘The streams that, in the Casentino,   →
run down along green hillsides to the Arno,
keeping their channels cool and moist,
‘�ow before my eyes forever, and not in vain,
because their image makes me thirst still more
than does the malady that wastes my features.
‘The rigid justice that torments me
employs the landscape where I sinned
to make my sighs come faster.
‘In those parts lies Romena, where I forged
the coinage stamped with John the Baptist.
For that I left my body burned above.
‘If I could only see down here the wretched souls   →
of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother,
I’d not give up that sight for Fonte Branda.
‘One of them is here with us already,   →
if the furious shades who move about don’t lie.
What good is that to me whose limbs are bound?

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‘If I were only light enough to budge   →
a single inch each hundred years,
I would by now have started on my way
‘to seek him out in this pit’s bloated shapes,
even though it runs eleven miles around
and spreads not less than half a mile across.
‘It is their fault that I have such companions,   →
for it was they who made me strike the �orins
that held three carats’ worth of dross.’
And I to him: ‘Who are these two wretches
who steam as wet hands do in winter
and lie so very near you on your right?’
‘I found them when I rained into this trough,’
he said, ‘and even then they did not move about,
nor do I think they will for all eternity.
‘One is the woman who lied accusing Joseph,   →
the other is false Sinon, the lying Greek from Troy.
Putrid fever makes them reek with such a stench.’
And one of them, who took o�ense, perhaps   →
at being named so vilely, hit him
with a �st right on his rigid paunch.
It boomed out like a drum. Then Master Adam,
whose arm seemed just as sturdy,
used it, striking Sinon in the face,
saying: ‘Although I cannot move about
because my legs are heavy,
my arm is loose enough for such a task.’
To which the other answered: ‘When they put you

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to the �re, your arm was not so nimble,
though it was quick enough when you were coining.’
And the dropsied one: ‘Well, that is true,
but you were hardly such a truthful witness
when you were asked to tell the truth at Troy.’
‘If I spoke falsely, you falsi�ed the coin,’   →
said Sinon, ‘and I am here for one o�ense alone,
but you for more than any other devil!’
‘You perjurer, keep the horse in mind,’   →
replied the sinner with the swollen paunch,
‘and may it pain you that the whole world knows.’
‘And may you su�er from the thirst,’ the Greek replied,
‘that cracks your tongue, and from the fetid humor
that turns your belly to a hedge before your eyes!’
Then the forger: ‘And so, as usual,
your mouth gapes open from your fever.
If I am thirsty, and swollen by this humor,   →
‘you have your hot spells and your aching head.
For you to lick the mirror of Narcissus
would not take much by way of invitation.’
I was all intent in listening to them,
when the master said: ‘Go right on looking   →
and it is I who’ll quarrel with you.’
When I heard him speak to me in anger
I turned and faced him with a shame
that circles in my memory even now.
As a man who dreams that he is being harmed   →
and, even as he dreams, hopes he is dreaming,

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longing for what is, as though it weren’t—
so it was with me, deprived of speech:
I longed to seek his pardon—and all the while
I did so without knowing that I did.
‘Less shame would cleanse a greater fault than yours,’   →
my master said, ‘and that is why
you may set down the load of such remorse.
‘Do not forget I’m always at your side
should it fall out again that fortune take you
where people are in wrangles such as this.
For the wish to hear such things is base.’

1–6   
7–18   
19–21   
22–33   
34–39   
40–45   
46–48   
49–57   
58–66   
67–69   
70–75   
76–81   
82–90   
91–96   
97–99   
100–105   
106–111   
112–114   
115–129   
130–135   
136–140   
141–144   
145   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXXI
simile: Virgil’s tongue, Achilles’ lance
leaving Malebolge: the horn in the gloom (Roland)
Satan’s “walled city”: Dante’s misperception
Virgil: soon you will see the cause of your error; let me
tell you now: those are giants, not towers
simile: lifting mist
simile: Monteriggione
the �rst giant (Nimrod)
digression: nature’s benevolent cessation
Nimrod’s bulk, face to belly
Nimrod’s words
Virgil’s response: blow your horn
Virgil: Nimrod and the confusion of tongues
Ephialtes in chains
Virgil: Ephialtes and the assault on Olympus
Dante: and where is Briareus?
Virgil: unbound Antaeus is next; Briareus further on
Ephialtes shakes with rage; Dante’s fear
arrival before Antaeus
Virgil’s captatio of Antaeus: his prowess; do not make
us proceed to Tityus or Typhon
Antaeus holding Virgil holding Dante
simile: the Garisenda tower of Bologna
Dante, fearful but safe, arrives on �oor of hell
comparison: Antaeus as raised mast of ship

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INFERNO XXXI
The same tongue that had stung me   →
so that both my cheeks turned red,
had also brought my cure,
just as the spear of Achilles and his father—
so I have heard it told—would be the cause
�rst of a painful, then a welcome, gift.
We turned our backs upon that dismal valley,   →
�rst climbing up the bank that circles it,
then crossing over, while speaking not a word.
Here it was less than night and less than day—
I could not see too far ahead.
But I heard a horn-blast that would have made
the loudest thunderclap seem faint.
To �nd its source I turned my eyes
back to the place from which the din had come.
After the woeful rout when Charlemagne   →
had lost his holy band of knights,
Roland did not sound so terrible a blast.
I had not looked that way for long   →
when I saw what seemed a range of lofty towers,
and I said: ‘Master, tell me, what city is this?’
And he to me: ‘Because you try to pierce
the darkness from too far away,
it follows that you err in your perception.
‘When you are nearer, you will understand

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how much your eyesight is deceived by distance.
Therefore, push yourself a little harder.’
Then with a�ection he took me by the hand   →
and said: ‘Before we travel farther,
and so the fact may seem to you less strange,
‘you should be told: these are not towers,
but giants and, from the navel down,
each stands behind the bank that rings the pit.’
As, when the mist is lifting,   →
little by little we discern things
hidden in the air made thick by fog,
so, when my eyes saw through the heavy dark
and I got nearer to the brink,
error left me and fear came in its place.
For, as all around her ring of walls   →
Monteriggioni is crowned with towers,
so at the cli�-edge that surrounds the pit
loomed up like towers half the body bulk
of horrifying giants, those whom Jove
still threatens from the heavens when he thunders.
Now I could discern the face of one,
his chest and shoulders, a portion of his paunch,
and, hanging at his sides, his arms.
Surely nature did well when she renounced   →
the craft of making creatures such as these,
depriving Mars of such practitioners.
If she does not repent her elephants
and whales, when one reviews the matter closely

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she will be found more cautious and more just.
For when the power of thought
is coupled with ill will and naked force
there is no refuge from it for mankind.
His face appeared to me as long and broad   →
as is, in Rome, the pine cone at St. Peter’s,
his other parts as large in like degree,
so that the bank, which hid him like an apron
from his middle downwards, still showed
so much of him above that quite in vain
three Frieslanders might boast of having reached
his hair. For I saw thirty spans of him
beneath the place where men make fast their cloaks.
‘Raphèl maì amècche zabì almi,’   →
the savage mouth, for which no sweeter
psalms were �t, began to shout.   →
And, in response, my leader: ‘You muddled soul,   →
stick to your horn! Vent yourself with that
when rage or other passion takes you.
‘Search at your neck, you creature of confusion,
and you will �nd the rope that holds the horn
aslant your mammoth chest.’
Then he to me: ‘He is his own accuser.
This is Nimrod, because of whose vile plan
the world no longer speaks a single tongue.
‘Let us leave him and not waste our speech,
for every language is to him as his
to others, and his is understood by none.’

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Then, turning to our left, we continued
with our journey. A bowshot farther on
we found the next one, bigger and more savage.   →
Now who had plied his craft to bind him so
I cannot say, but his right arm
was bound behind him, the other one in front,
by chains that from the neck down held him �xed.
They wound �ve times around his bulk
on the part of him that we could see.
‘This prideful spirit chose to test his strength   →
against almighty Jove,’ my leader said,
‘and this is his reward.
‘He is Ephialtes. He joined the great assault
when giants put the gods in fear.
Those arms he brandished he can move no more.’
And I to him: ‘If it is allowed,   →
I’d like to see with my own eyes
Briareus and his immeasurable bulk.’
He replied: ‘It is Antaeus you shall see.
He is close by, he speaks, he is not fettered.
And he shall set us down into the very depth of sin.
‘The one you want to see is farther on,
in fetters also, shaped like this one here,
except that from his looks he seems more �erce.’
Never did mighty earthquake shake a tower
with such great speed and force
as Ephialtes shook himself at that.   →
Then more than ever I was afraid of dying:

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my fear alone would have su�ced to bring it on,
had I not noted how tightly he was bound.
Going farther on, we came upon Antaeus.
Without the added measure of his head,   →
he stood a full �ve ells above the pit.
‘O you, who—in the fateful valley   →
that made Scipio an heir to glory,
when Hannibal with all his men displayed their backs—
‘you, who took as prey a thousand lions,
and by whose strength, it seems some do believe,
had you been at the war on Heaven with your brethren,
‘the sons of earth would have prevailed—
pray set us down, do not disdain to do so,
upon Cocytus, shackled by the cold.
‘Don’t make us go to Tityus or Typhon.
This man can give what everyone here longs for.   →
Therefore bend down and do not curl your lip.
‘He still can make you famous in the world,
because he lives, and hopes for years of living,
if Grace does not recall him sooner than his time.’
Thus spoke the master. The other was quick
to reach out with his hands—the mighty grip
once felt by Hercules—and seized my guide.
Virgil, when he felt himself secured, said:
‘Here, let me take hold of you!’
Then he made a single bundle of himself and me.
As when one sees the tower called Garisenda   →
from underneath its leaning side, and then a cloud

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passes over and it seems to lean the more,
thus did Antaeus seem to my �xed gaze
as I watched him bend—that was indeed a time
I wished that I had gone another road.
Even so, he set us gently on the bottom   →
that swallows Lucifer with Judas.
Nor in stooping did he linger   →
but, like a ship’s mast rising, so he rose.

1–9   
10–12   
13–15   
16–21   
22–24   
25–30   
31–35   
36–39   
40–51   
52–69   
70–78   
79–84   
85–102   
103–108   
109–111   
112–123   
124–126   
127–132   
133–139   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXXII
the poet’s disclaimer
second invocation of the poem
apostrophe of the denizens of all Cocytus
i. Caïna  (kindred)
beneath the giants’ feet: a mysterious voice
Dante turns to gaze at frozen “lake”
simile: neither Danube nor Don ices so thickly
simile: frogs’ snouts out of water
the sinners’ teeth chatter, their heads tilted down
two intertwined sinners, glued together by tears
another (Camicione de’ Pazzi) informs Dante: the two
are Alessandro and Napoleone degli Alberti; also here:
Mordred, Focaccia, Sassol Mascheroni; Sassol’s relative
(Carlino de’ Pazzi) coming soon
ii. Antenora (country or party)
moving toward the center, Dante kicks a head
Bocca’s complaint; Dante wants to converse
the nasty exchange between Dante and Bocca
Dante pulls his hair, Bocca still resists, only to be
betrayed by Buoso da Duera
Dante: now I can name you above
Bocca informs on others for Dante to reveal
two in one hole, the one gnawing the other’s nape
similes: eating bread; Tydeus chewing head
Dante o�ers one of the sinners (Ugolino) a deal

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INFERNO XXXII
If I had verses harsh enough and rasping   →
as would be�t this dismal hole
upon which all the other rocks weigh down,
more fully would I press out the juice
of my conception. But, since I lack them,
with misgiving do I bring myself to speak.
It is no enterprise undertaken lightly—
to describe the very bottom of the universe—
nor for a tongue that still cries ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy.’
But may those ladies who aided Amphion   →
to build the walls of Thebes now aid my verse,
that the telling be no di�erent from the fact.
O you misgotten rabble, worse than all the rest,   →
who �ll that place so hard to speak of,
better had you here been sheep or goats!
When we were down in that ditch’s darkness,   →
well below the giant’s feet,
my gaze still drawn by the wall above us,
I heard a voice say: ‘Watch where you walk.   →
Step so as not to tread upon our heads,
the heads of wretched, weary brothers.’
At that I turned to look about.   →
Under my feet I saw a lake
so frozen that it seemed more glass than water.
Never in winter did the Austrian Danube   →

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nor the far-o� Don, under its frigid sky,
cover their currents with so thick a veil
as I saw there. For had Tambernic fallen on it,
or Pietrapana, the ice would not
have creaked, not even at the edge.
And as frogs squat and croak,   →
their snouts out of the water, in the season
when peasant women often dream of gleaning,
so shades, ashen with cold, were grieving, trapped
in ice up to the place the hue of shame appears,
their teeth a-clatter like the bills of storks.
Downturned were all their faces, their mouths   →
gave witness to the cold, while from their eyes
came testimony of their woeful hearts.
I gazed around a while; then I looked down
and saw two shades so shackled to each other
their two heads’ hair made but a single skein.
‘Tell me, you with chests pressed close,’ I said,
‘who are you?’ They strained their necks,
and, when they had raised their faces,
their eyes, till then moist only to the rims,   →
dripped tears down to their lips, and icy air
then froze those tears—and them to one another.
Clamp never gripped together board to board
so tight, at which such anger overcame them
they butted at each other like two rams.
And one of the others, who’d lost both ears
to the cold, and kept his face averted, said:

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‘Why do you re�ect yourself so long in us?   →
‘If you would like to know who these two are,
the valley out of which Bisenzio �ows
belonged once to their father, Albert, and to them.
‘From a single womb they sprang, and though you seek
throughout Caïna, you will �nd no shade
more �t to be �xed in aspic,
‘not him whose breast and shadow were pierced
by a single blow from Arthur’s hand,
nor Focaccia, nor the one whose head so blocks
‘my view that I cannot see past him
and whose name was Sassol Mascheroni—
if you are Tuscan you know well who he was.
‘And, so you coax no further words from me,
know that I was Camiscion de’ Pazzi,
and I await Carlino for my exculpation.’
After that I saw a thousand faces purple   →
with the cold, so that I shudder still—
and always will—when I come to a frozen ford.
Then, while we made our way toward the center,   →
where all things that have weight converge,
and I was shivering in the eternal chill,
if it was will or fate or chance
I do not know, but, walking among the heads,
I struck my foot hard in the face of one.
Wailing, he cried out: ‘Why trample me?   →
Unless you come to add to the revenge
for Montaperti, why pick on me?’

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And I: ‘Master, would you wait for just a moment   →
so that I may resolve a doubt about this person.
And then I’ll make what haste you like.’
My leader stopped, and I said to the shade,
who was still shouting bitter curses:
‘And who are you, so to reproach another?’   →
‘No, who are you to go through Antenora,’
he answered, ‘bu�eting another’s cheeks?
Were I alive, this still would be an outrage.’
‘Well, I’m alive,’ I said, ‘and if it’s fame you seek,
it might turn out to your advantage
if I put your name among the others I have noted.’
And he: ‘I long for just the opposite.
Take yourself o� and trouble me no more—
you ill know how to �atter at this depth.’
Then I grabbed him by the scru� of the neck
and said: ‘Either you name yourself
or I’ll leave you without a single hair.’
And he: ‘You can peel me bald and I
won’t tell you who I am, nor give a hint,
even if you jump upon my head a thousand times.’
I now had his hair twisted in my hand
and had already plucked a tuft or two,
while he howled on, keeping his eyes cast down,
when another cried: ‘What ails you, Bocca?
Isn’t it enough, making noise with your jaws,
without that howling too? What devil’s at you?’
‘Now you no longer need to say a word,

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vile traitor,’ said I, ‘to your shame
shall I bring back true news of you.’
‘Be o�,’ he answered, ‘and tell what tale you will.
But don’t be silent, if you escape from here,   →
about the one whose tongue was now so nimble.
‘Here he laments the Frenchmen’s silver.
“I saw him of Duera,” you can say,
“there where they set the sinners out to cool.”
‘And if someone were to ask you: “Who else was there?”
beside you is the one from Beccherìa—
Florence sawed his throat in two.
‘I think Gianni de’ Soldanier is farther on,
with Ganelon and Tebaldello,
who opened up Faenza while it slept.’
We had left him behind when I took note   →
of two souls so frozen in a single hole
the head of one served as the other’s hat.
As a famished man will bite into his bread,   →
the one above had set his teeth into the other
just where the brain’s stem leaves the spinal cord.
Tydeus gnawed the temples of Melanippus
with bitter hatred just as he was doing
to the skull and to the other parts.
‘O you, who by so bestial a sign   →
show loathing for the one whom you devour,
tell me why,’ I said, ‘and let the pact be this:   →
‘if you can give just cause for your complaint,
then I, knowing who you are and what his sin is,

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may yet requite you in the world above,
if that with which I speak does not go dry.’

 4–21   
22–39   
40–42   
43–54   
55–64   
65–66   
67–70   
71–72   
73–75   
1–3   
4–75   
76–78   
79–90   
91–99   
100–105   
106–108   
109–114   
115–120   
121–138   
139–141   
142–147   
148–150   
151–157   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXXIII
ii. Antenora [continued] (country or party)
a gruesome opening rhetorical �ourish
Ugolino’s speech:
Ruggieri the culprit
Ugolino’s dream and the children
address to Dante
Day 1, the door nailed shut
Day 2, hunger
Day 3, silence
Day 4, Gaddo’s cry for help; his death
Days 5 and 6, the other three children
die
Days 6 and 7, grief and death
Ugolino resumes his cannibalistic behavior
apostrophe of Pisa as “modern Thebes”
iii. Ptolomea (guests and friends)
new assemblage of sinners, faces upturned
Dante feels the wind even on his callused face
Virgil: soon you will see the wind’s source
Fra Alberigo’s request: clear out my iced-over eyes
Dante o�ers a bargain that Alberigo accepts
Dante: are you already dead? Alberigo’s response
Dante: Branca d’Oria is still alive
Alberigo: but his and his kinsman’s souls are here
again Alberigo asks for aid; Dante does not give it
apostrophe of Genoa

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INFERNO XXXIII
He raised his mouth from his atrocious meal,   →
that sinner, and wiped it on the hair
of the very head he had been ravaging.
Then he began: ‘You ask me to revive   →
the desperate grief that racks my heart
even in thought, before I tell it.
‘But if my words shall be the seeds that bear
infamous fruit to the traitor I am gnawing,   →
then you will see me speak and weep together.   →
‘I don’t know who you are, nor by what means
you have come down here, but when I listen to you
speak,   →
it seems to me you are indeed from Florence.
‘Take note that I was Count Ugolino,
and he Archbishop Ruggieri. Let me
tell you why I’m such a neighbor to him.
‘How, as consummation of his malicious schemes,
after I’d lodged my trust in him, he had me seized
and put to death, there is no need to tell.
‘But when you learn what you cannot have heard—
that is to say, the cruelty of my death—   →
then you shall know if he has wronged me.
‘A little spyhole in the Mew, which now   →
on my account is called the Tower of Hunger,
where others yet shall be imprisoned,

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‘had through its opening shown me several moons,
when, in a dreadful dream,   →
the veil was rent, and I foresaw the future.
‘This man appeared to be the lord and master,   →
hunting the wolf and wolfcubs on the mountain
that hides Lucca from the sight of Pisans.
‘Along with well-trained hounds, lean and eager,
he had ranged in his front rank
Gualandi, Sismondi, and Lanfranchi.
‘Father and sons, after a brief pursuit,
seemed to be �agging, and it seemed to me I saw
the �esh torn from their �anks by sharp incisors.
‘When I awoke before the dawn of day   →
I heard my children, in that prison with me,
weep in their sleep and ask for bread.
‘You are cruel indeed, thinking what my heart   →
foretold, if you remain untouched by grief,
and if you weep not, what can make you weep?
‘Now they were awake, and the hour drew near
at which our food was brought to us.
Each of us was troubled by his dream.   →
‘Down below I heard them nailing shut   →
the entry to the dreadful tower. I looked
my children in the face, without a word.
‘I was so turned to stone inside I did not weep.   →
But they were weeping, and my little Anselm
said: “You look so strange, father, what’s wrong?”
‘Even then I shed no tear, and made no answer

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all that day, and all the night that followed
until the next day’s sun came forth upon the world.
‘As soon as some few rays had made their way
into the woeful prison, and I discerned
four other faces stamped with my expression,
‘the sorrow of it made me gnaw my hands.   →
And they, imagining I was doing this
from hunger, rose at once, saying:
‘ “Father, we would su�er less
if you would feed on us: you clothed us
in this wretched �esh—now strip it o�.”
‘Then, not to increase their grief, I calmed myself.   →
That day and the next we did not speak a word.
O hard earth, why did you not engulf us?
‘When we had come as far as the fourth day
my Gaddo threw himself on the ground before me,
crying, “O father, why won’t you help me?”
‘There he died; and even as you see me now
I watched the other three die, one by one,
on the �fth day and the sixth. And I began,
‘already blind, to grope over their bodies,
and for two days called to them, though they were dead.   →
Then fasting had more power than grief.’   →
Having said this, with maddened eyes he seized   →
that wretched skull again between his teeth
and clenched them on the bone just like a dog.
Ah Pisa, how you shame the people   →
of that fair land where ‘sì’ is heard!

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Since your neighbors are so slow to punish you,
may the islands of Capraia and Gorgona
move in to block the Arno at its mouth
and so drown every living soul in you!
Even if Count Ugolino bore the name
of traitor to your castles, you still
should not have put his children to such torture.
Their tender years, you modern Thebes,
made Uguiccione and Brigata innocent,
and the other two this canto names above.
We went on farther, to where the ice-crust   →
rudely wraps another sort of souls,
their faces not turned down but up.
The very weeping there prevents their weeping,   →
for the grief that meets a barrier at the eyelids
turns inward to augment their anguish,
since their �rst tears become a crust
that like a crystal visor �lls
the cups beneath the eyebrows.
Although the cold had made   →
all feeling leave my face
as though it were a callus,
I still could feel a breath of wind.
And I said: ‘Master, who sets this in motion?
Are not all winds banished here below?’
Thus he to me: ‘You will come soon enough   →
to where your eyes will give an answer,
seeing the source that puts out such a blast.’

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And one of the wretches in the icy crust   →
cried out: ‘O souls, so hard of heart
you are assigned the lowest station,
‘lift from my face these rigid veils
so I can vent a while the grief that swells
my heart, until my tears freeze up again.’
‘If you want my help, let me know your name,’   →
I answered. ‘Then, if I do not relieve you,
may I have to travel to the bottom of the ice.’
He spoke: ‘I am Fra Alberigo. I am he   →
who harvested the evil orchard,
and here, for �gs, I am repaid in dates.’
‘Oh,’ said I to him, ‘are you already dead?’
And he to me: ‘I have no knowledge   →
how my body fares in the world above.
‘Such privilege has this Ptolomea,
that many times a soul may fall down here
well before Atropos has cut it loose.
‘So that you may be all the more inclined
to scrape these tear-drops glazed upon my face,
know that the moment when a soul betrays
‘as I did, its body is taken by a devil,
who has it then in his control
until the time allotted it has run.
‘The soul falls headlong to this cesspool.
Perhaps the body of this shade, who spends   →
the winter with me here, still walks the earth,
‘as you must know, if you’ve come down just now.

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He is Branca d’Oria. Quite some years
have passed since he was thus con�ned.’
‘I think,’ I said to him, ‘you’re fooling me.
For Branca d’Oria is not yet dead: he eats
and drinks and sleeps and puts on clothes.’
‘In the ditch above, of the Malebranche,’
he said, ‘where the clingy pitch is at the boil,
Michel Zanche had not yet arrived
‘when this man left a devil in his stead
to own his body, as did his kinsman,
his partner in the treacherous act.
‘But now extend your hand and open   →
my eyes for me.’ I did not open them.
And to be rude to him was courtesy.
O men of Genoa, race estranged   →
from every virtue, crammed with every vice,
why have you not been driven from the earth?
With the most heinous spirit of Romagna
I found a son of yours who, for his evil deeds,
even now in Cocytus bathes his soul
while yet his body moves among the living.

1–3   
4–7   
8–9   
10–15   
16–21   
22–27   
28–36   
37–45   
46–52   
53–54   
55–60   
61–67   
68–69   
70–81   
82–84   
85–93   
94–96   
97–105   
106–126   
127–132   
133–139   
OUTLINE: INFERNO XXXIV
iv. Judecca (lords and benefactors)
Virgil’s Latin beginning
simile: mill seen through fog or twilight
Dante retreats behind Virgil to escape the wind
the souls here are completely covered by ice
Virgil announces Satan and encourages Dante
the seventh address to the reader in Inferno
Lucifer: his size, his ugliness
his three-faced head: white-yellow: Cassius; red: Judas;
black: Brutus
his six wings, congealing Cocytus
tears from his six eyes mix with blood at his chins
each of his three jaws chews a sinner; with his talons
he �ays the one in the center
Virgil identi�es Judas, Brutus, and Cassius
Virgil: it is time to depart, we have seen it all
the ascent
Dante attaches himself to Virgil; they turn around
Virgil’s encouragement: “hold fast”
arrival at a ledge; Dante sees Lucifer’s legs above
Virgil: it is already 7:30 AM Saturday
Dante’s three questions: (1) where’s the ice? (2) why is
Lucifer upside down? (3) how is it already morn?
Virgil’s responses: (1) behind us; (3) because of where
we are; (2) Lucifer’s fall
a watercourse leads them gently upward
they return to earth, under heaven.

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INFERNO XXXIV
‘Vexilla regis produent inferno   →
toward us. Look straight before you
and see if you can make him out,’ my master said.
As when a thick mist rises, or when our hemisphere   →
darkens to night, one may discern
a distant windmill by its turning sails,
it seemed to me I saw such a contrivance.
And, to avoid the wind, I drew in close   →
behind my leader: there was nowhere else to hide.
Now—and I shudder as I write it out in verse—   →
I was where the shades were wholly covered,   →
showing through like bits of straw in glass.
Some are lying down, still others stand erect:   →
some with their heads, and some with their footsoles, up,
some bent like bows, their faces to their toes.
When we had gotten far enough along
that my master was pleased to let me see
the creature who was once so fair of face,
he took a step aside, then brought me to a halt:
‘Look there at Dis! And see the place   →
where you must arm yourself with fortitude.
Then how faint and frozen I became,’   →
reader, do not ask, for I do not write it,
since any words would fail to be enough.
I did not die, nor did I stay alive.

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Imagine, if you have the wit,
what I became, deprived of either state.
The emperor of the woeful kingdom
rose from the ice below his breast,
and I in size am closer to a giant   →
than giants are when measured to his arms.
Judge, then, what the whole must be
that is proportional to such a part.
If he was fair as he is hideous now,
and raised his brow in scorn of his creator,   →
he is �t to be the source of every sorrow.
Oh, what a wonder it appeared to me   →
when I perceived three faces on his head.
The �rst, in front, was red in color.   →
Another two he had, each joined with this,
above the midpoint of each shoulder,
and all the three united at the crest.
The one on the right was a whitish yellow,
while the left-hand one was tinted like the people
living at the sources of the Nile.
Beneath each face two mighty wings emerged,   →
such as be�t so vast a bird:
I never saw such massive sails at sea.
They were featherless and fashioned
like a bat’s wings. When he �apped them,
he sent forth three separate winds,
the sources of the ice upon Cocytus.
Out of six eyes he wept and his three chins   →

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dripped tears and drooled blood-red saliva.
With his teeth, just like a hackle
pounding �ax, he champed a sinner
in each mouth, tormenting three at once.
For the one in front the gnawing was a tri�e
to the clawing, for from time to time
his back was left with not a shred of skin.
‘That soul up there who bears the greatest pain,’   →
said the master, ‘is Judas Iscariot, who has
his head within and outside �ails his legs.
‘As for the other two, whose heads are dangling down,
Brutus is hanging from the swarthy snout—
see how he writhes and utters not a word!—
‘and from the other, Cassius, so large of limb.
But night is rising in the sky. It is time   →
for us to leave, for we have seen it all.’
At his request I clasped him round the neck.
When the wings had opened wide enough   →
he chose the proper time and place
and took a handhold on those hairy �anks.
Then from hank to hank he clambered down
between the thick pelt and the crusted ice.
When we had come to where the thighbone   →
swivels, at the broad part of the hips,
my leader, with much strain of limb and breath,
turned his head where Satan had his shanks
and clung to the hair like a man climbing upward,
so that I thought we were heading back to Hell.

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‘Hold on tight, for by such rungs as these,’
said my master, panting like a man exhausted,
‘must we depart from so much evil.’
Then out through an opening in the rock he went,
setting me down upon its edge to rest.
And then, with quick and cautious steps, he joined me.
I raised my eyes, thinking I would see
Lucifer still the same as I had left him,
but saw him with his legs held upward.
And if I became confused, let those dull minds
who fail to see what point I’d passed
comprehend what I felt then.
The master said to me: ‘Get to your feet,   →
for the way is long and the road not easy,
and the sun returns to middle tierce.’
It was not the great hall of a palace,   →
where we were, but a natural dungeon,
rough underfoot and wanting light.
‘Master, before I tear myself from this abyss,’
I said once I had risen,
‘say a few words to rid me of my doubt.
‘Where is the ice? Why is this one �xed now
upside down? And how in so few hours
has the sun moved from evening into morning?’
And he to me: ‘You imagine you are still
beyond the center, where I grasped the hair
of the guilty worm by whom the world is pierced.
‘So you were, as long as I descended,

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but, when I turned around, you passed the point
to which all weights are drawn from every side.
‘You are now beneath the hemisphere
opposite the one that canopies the landmass—
and underneath its zenith that Man was slain
‘who without sin was born and sinless lived.
You have your feet upon a little sphere
that forms Judecca’s other face.
‘Here it is morning when it is evening there,
and the one whose hair provided us a ladder
is �xed exactly as he was before.
‘It was on this side that he fell from Heaven.   →
And the dry land that used to stand, above,
in fear of him immersed itself in water
‘and �ed into our hemisphere. And perhaps
to escape from him the land we’ll �nd above
created this lacuna when it rushed back up.’
As far as one can get from Beelzebub,   →
in the remotest corner of this cavern,
there is a place one cannot �nd by sight,
but by the sound of a narrow stream that trickles
through a channel it has cut into the rock
in its meanderings, making a gentle slope.
Into that hidden passage my guide and I   →
entered, to �nd again the world of light,
and, without thinking of a moment’s rest,
we climbed up, he �rst and I behind him,
far enough to see, through a round opening,

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a few of those fair things the heavens bear.
Then we came forth, to see again the stars.   →

The Inferno: Italian

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INFERNO I
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita   →
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,   →
ché la diritta via era smarrita.   →
Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura
esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte
che nel pensier rinova la paura!
Tant’ è amara che poco è più morte;   →
ma per trattar del ben ch’i’ vi trovai,   →
dirò de l’altre cose ch’i’ v’ho scorte.
Io non so ben ridir com’ i’ v’intrai,
tant’ era pien di sonno a quel punto   →
che la verace via abbandonai.
Ma poi ch’i’ fui al piè d’un colle giunto,   →
là dove terminava quella valle   →
che m’avea di paura il cor compunto,   →
guardai in alto e vidi le sue spalle
vestite già de’ raggi del pianeta   →
che mena dritto altrui per ogne calle.   →
Allor fu la paura un poco queta,
che nel lago del cor m’era durata   →
la notte ch’i’ passai con tanta pieta.
E come quei che con lena a�annata,   →
uscito fuor del pelago a la riva,
si volge a l’acqua perigliosa e guata,
così l’animo mio, ch’ancor fuggiva,

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si volse a retro a rimirar lo passo   →
che non lasciò già mai persona viva.
Poi ch’èi posato un poco il corpo lasso,
ripresi via per la piaggia diserta,
sì che ’l piè fermo sempre era ’l più basso.   →
Ed ecco, quasi al cominciar de l’erta,
una lonza leggiera e presta molto,   →
che di pel macolato era coverta;   →
e non mi si partia dinanzi al volto,
anzi ’mpediva tanto il mio cammino,
ch’i’ fui per ritornar più volte vòlto.
Temp’ era dal principio del mattino,
e ’l sol montava ’n sù con quelle stelle   →
ch’eran con lui quando l’amor divino
mosse di prima quelle cose belle;
sì ch’a bene sperar m’era cagione
di quella �era a la gaetta pelle
l’ora del tempo e la dolce stagione;
ma non sì che paura non mi desse
la vista che m’apparve d’un leone.
Questi parea che contra me venisse
con la test’ alta e con rabbiosa fame,
sì che parea che l’aere ne tremesse.
Ed una lupa, che di tutte brame
sembiava carca ne la sua magrezza,
e molte genti fé già viver grame,
questa mi porse tanto di gravezza
con la paura ch’uscia di sua vista,

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ch’io perdei la speranza de l’altezza.
E qual è quei che volontieri acquista,   →
e giugne ’l tempo che perder lo face,
che ’n tutti suoi pensier piange e s’attrista;
tal mi fece la bestia sanza pace,
che, venendomi ’ncontro, a poco a poco
mi ripigneva là dove ’l sol tace.
Mentre ch’i’ rovinava in basso loco,   →
dinanzi a li occhi mi si fu o�erto   →
chi per lungo silenzio parea �oco.   →
Quando vidi costui nel gran diserto,   →
“Miserere di me,” gridai a lui,   →
“qual che tu sii, od ombra od omo certo!”
Rispuosemi: “Non omo, omo già fui,   →
e li parenti miei furon lombardi,
mantoani per patrïa ambedui.
Nacqui sub Iulio, ancor che fosse tardi,   →
e vissi a Roma sotto ’l buono Augusto
nel tempo de li dèi falsi e bugiardi.
Poeta fui, e cantai di quel giusto   →
�gliuol d’Anchise che venne di Troia,   →
poi che ’l superbo Ilïón fu combusto.   →
Ma tu perché ritorni a tanta noia?
perché non sali il dilettoso monte   →
ch’è principio e cagion di tutta goia?”
“Or se’ tu quel Virgilio e quella fonte   →
che spandi di parlar sì largo �ume?”
rispuos’ io lui con vergognosa fronte.   →

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“O de li altri poeti onore e lume,
vagliami ’l lungo studio e ’l grande amore
che m’ha fatto cercar lo tuo volume.   →
Tu se’ lo mio maestro e ’l mio autore,
tu se’ solo colui da cu’ io tolsi   →
lo bello stilo che m’ha fatto onore.
Vedi la bestia per cu’ io mi volsi;
aiutami da lei, famoso saggio,
ch’ella mi fa tremar le vene e i polsi.”
“A te convien tenere altro vïaggio,”
rispuose, poi che lagrimar mi vide,
“se vuo’ campar d’esto loco selvaggio;
ché questa bestia, per la qual tu gride,
non lascia altrui passar per la sua via,
ma tanto lo ’mpedisce che l’uccide;
e ha natura sì malvagia e ria,
che mai non empie la bramosa voglia,
e dopo ’l pasto ha più fame che pria.
Molti son li animali a cui s’ammoglia,   →
e più saranno ancora, in�n che ’l veltro
verrà, che la farà morir con doglia.
Questi non ciberà terra né peltro,
ma sapïenza, amore e virtute,
e sua nazion sarà tra feltro e feltro.
Di quella umile Italia �a salute   →
per cui morì la vergine Cammilla,   →
Eurialo e Turno e Niso di ferute.
Questi la caccerà per ogne villa,   →

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�n che l’avrà rimessa ne lo ’nferno,
là onde ’nvidia prima dipartilla.
Ond’ io per lo tuo me’ penso e discerno
che tu mi segui, e io sarò tua guida,
e trarrotti di qui per loco etterno;
ove udirai le disperate strida,
vedrai li antichi spiriti dolenti,
ch’a la seconda morte ciascun grida;   →
e vederai color che son contenti
nel foco, perché speran di venire
quando che sia a le beate genti.
A le quai poi se tu vorrai salire,
anima �a a ciò più di me degna:   →
con lei ti lascerò nel mio partire;
ché quello imperador che là sù regna,
perch’ i’ fu’ ribellante a la sua legge,   →
non vuol che ’n sua città per me si vegna.
In tutte parti impera e quivi regge;
quivi è la sua città e l’alto seggio:
oh felice colui cu’ ivi elegge!”
E io a lui: “Poeta, io ti richeggio
per quello Dio che tu non conoscesti,
a ciò ch’io fugga questo male e peggio,   →
che tu mi meni là dov’ or dicesti,
sì ch’io veggia la porta di san Pietro   →
e color cui tu fai cotanto mesti.”
Allor si mosse, e io li tenni dietro.

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INFERNO II
Lo giorno se n’andava, e l’aere bruno;   →
toglieva li animai che sono in terra
da le fatiche loro; e io sol uno;   →
m’apparecchiava a sostener la guerra;   →
sì del cammino e sì de la pietate,
che ritrarrà la mente che non erra.   →
O Muse, o alto ingegno, or m’aiutate;;   →
o mente che scrivesti ciò ch’io vidi,
qui si parrà la tua nobilitate.
Io cominciai: “Poeta che mi guidi,   →
guarda la mia virtù s’ell’ è possente,
prima ch’a l’alto passo tu mi �di.   →
Tu dici che di Silvïo il parente,   →
corruttibile ancora, ad immortale
secolo andò, e fu sensibilmente.   →
Però, se l’avversario d’ogne male;   →
cortese i fu, pensando l’alto e�etto
ch’uscir dovea di lui, e ’l chi e ’l quale
non pare indegno ad omo d’intelletto;
ch’e’ fu de l’alma Roma e di suo impero;   →
ne l’empireo ciel per padre eletto:
la quale e ’l quale, a voler dir lo vero,   →
fu stabilita per lo loco santo
u’ siede il successor del maggior Piero.
Per quest’ andata onde li dai tu vanto,

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intese cose che furon cagione;   →
di sua vittoria e del papale ammanto.   →
Andovvi poi lo Vas d’elezïone,   →
per recarne conforto a quella fede
ch’è principio a la via di salvazione.
Ma io, perché venirvi? o chi ’l concede?
Io non Enëa, io non Paulo sono;;   →
me degno a ciò né io né altri ’l crede.   →
Per che, se del venire io m’abbandono,
temo che la venuta non sia folle.
Se’ savio; intendi me’ ch’i’ non ragiono.”
E qual è quei che disvuol ciò che volle;   →
e per novi pensier cangia proposta,
sì che dal cominciar tutto si tolle,
tal mi fec’ ïo ’n quella oscura costa,
perché, pensando, consumai la ’mpresa;   →
che fu nel cominciar cotanto tosta.
“S’i’ ho ben la parola tua intesa,”   →
rispuose del magnanimo quell’ ombra,
“l’anima tua è da viltade o�esa;
la qual molte fïate l’omo ingombra
sì che d’onrata impresa lo rivolve,
come falso veder bestia quand’ ombra.   →
Da questa tema a ciò che tu ti solve,
dirotti perch’ io venni e quel ch’io ’ntesi
nel primo punto che di te mi dolve.
Io era tra color che son sospesi,   →
e donna mi chiamò beata e bella,   →

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tal che di comandare io la richiesi.
Lucevan li occhi suoi più che la stella;
e cominciommi a dir soave e piana,   →
con angelica voce, in sua favella:
‘O anima cortese mantoana,   →
di cui la fama ancor nel mondo dura,
e durerà quanto ’l mondo lontana,
l’amico mio, e non de la ventura,   →
ne la diserta piaggia è impedito;   →
sì nel cammin, che vòlt’ è per paura;
e temo che non sia già sì smarrito,
ch’io mi sia tardi al soccorso levata,
per quel ch’i’ ho di lui nel cielo udito.
Or movi, e con la tua parola ornata;   →
e con ciò c’ha mestieri al suo campare,
l’aiuta sì ch’i’ ne sia consolata.
I’ son Beatrice che ti faccio andare;
vegno del loco ove tornar disio;
amor mi mosse, che mi fa parlare.
Quando sarò dinanzi al segnor mio,
di te mi loderò sovente a lui.’   →
Tacette allora, e poi comincia’ io:
‘O donna di virtù sola per cui;   →
l’umana spezie eccede ogne contento
di quel ciel c’ha minor li cerchi sui,
tanto m’aggrada il tuo comandamento,
che l’ubidir, se già fosse, m’è tardi;
più non t’è uo’ ch’aprirmi il tuo talento.

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Ma dimmi la cagion che non ti guardi
de lo scender qua giuso in questo centro;   →
de l’ampio loco ove tornar tu ardi.’
‘Da che tu vuo’ saver cotanto a dentro,   →
dirotti brievemente,’ mi rispuose,
‘perch’ i’ non temo di venir qua entro.
Temer si dee di sole quelle cose
c’hanno potenza di fare altrui male;
de l’altre no, ché non son paurose.
I’ son fatta da Dio, sua mercé, tale,
che la vostra miseria non mi tange,
né �amma d’esto ’ncendio non m’assale.
Donna è gentil nel ciel che si compiange;   →
di questo ’mpedimento ov’ io ti mando,
sì che duro giudicio là sù frange.
Questa chiese Lucia in suo dimando;   →
e disse: “Or ha bisogno il tuo fedele
di te, e io a te lo raccomando.”
Lucia, nimica di ciascun crudele,
si mosse, e venne al loco dov’ i’ era,
che mi sedea con l’antica Rachele.   →
Disse: “Beatrice, loda di Dio vera,
ché non soccorri quei che t’amò tanto,
ch’uscì per te de la volgare schiera?;   →
Non odi tu la pieta del suo pianto,
non vedi tu la morte che ’l combatte;   →
su la �umana ove ’l mar non ha vanto?”
Al mondo non fur mai persone ratte;   →

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a far lor pro o a fuggir lor danno,
com’ io, dopo cotai parole fatte,
venni qua giù del mio beato scanno,
�dandomi del tuo parlare onesto,
ch’onora te e quei ch’udito l’hanno.’
Poscia che m’ebbe ragionato questo,
li occhi lucenti lagrimando volse,   →
per che mi fece del venir più presto.
E venni a te così com’ ella volse:   →
d’inanzi a quella �era ti levai
che del bel monte il corto andar ti tolse.
Dunque: che è? perché, perché restai,
perché tanta viltà nel core allette,
perché ardire e franchezza non hai,
poscia che tai tre donne benedette
curan di te ne la corte del cielo,
e ’l mio parlar tanto ben ti promette?”
Quali �oretti dal notturno gelo
chinati e chiusi, poi che ’l sol li ’mbianca,
si drizzan tutti aperti in loro stelo,
tal mi fec’ io di mia virtude stanca,
e tanto buono ardire al cor mi corse,
ch’i’ cominciai come persona franca:
“Oh pietosa colei che mi soccorse!;   →
e te cortese ch’ubidisti tosto
a le vere parole che ti porse!
Tu m’hai con disiderio il cor disposto
sì al venir con le parole tue,

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ch’i’ son tornato nel primo proposto.
Or va, ch’un sol volere è d’ambedue:
tu duca, tu segnore e tu maestro.”   →
Così li dissi; e poi che mosso fue,
intrai per lo cammino alto e silvestro.   →

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INFERNO III
“Per me si va ne la città dolente,   →
per me si va ne l’etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.   →
Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore;   →
fecemi la divina podestate,   →
la somma sapïenza e ’l primo amore.
Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create   →
se non etterne, e io etterno duro.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.”
Queste parole di colore oscuro   →
vid’ ïo scritte al sommo d’una porta;
per ch’io: “Maestro, il senso lor m’è duro.”   →
Ed elli a me, come persona accorta:   →
“Qui si convien lasciare ogne sospetto;
ogne viltà convien che qui sia morta.
Noi siam venuti al loco ov’ i’ t’ho detto
che tu vedrai le genti dolorose
c’hanno perduto il ben de l’intelletto.”   →
E poi che la sua mano a la mia puose
con lieto volto, ond’ io mi confortai,
mi mise dentro a le segrete cose.   →
Quivi sospiri, pianti e alti guai   →
risonavan per l’aere sanza stelle,
per ch’io al cominciar ne lagrimai.   →
Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,   →

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parole di dolore, accenti d’ira,
voci alte e �oche, e suon di man con elle   →
facevano un tumulto, il qual s’aggira
sempre in quell’ aura sanza tempo tinta,
come la rena quando turbo spira.
E io ch’avea d’error la testa cinta,
dissi: “Maestro, che è quel ch’i’ odo?
e che gent’ è che par nel duol sì vinta?”
Ed elli a me: “Questo misero modo   →
tegnon l’anime triste di coloro
che visser sanza ’nfamia e sanza lodo.
Mischiate sono a quel cattivo coro   →
de li angeli che non furon ribelli
né fur fedeli a Dio, ma per sé fuoro.
Caccianli i ciel per non esser men belli,   →
né lo profondo inferno li riceve,
ch’alcuna gloria i rei avrebber d’elli.”
E io: “Maestro, che è tanto greve
a lor che lamentar li fa sì forte?”
Rispuose: “Dicerolti molto breve.
Questi non hanno speranza di morte,   →
e la lor cieca vita è tanto bassa,
che ’nvidïosi son d’ogne altra sorte.
Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa;
misericordia e giustizia li sdegna:   →
non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa.”
E io, che riguardai, vidi una ’nsegna   →
che girando correva tanto ratta,

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che d’ogne posa mi parea indegna;
e dietro le venìa sì lunga tratta
di gente, ch’i’ non averei creduto
che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.
Poscia ch’io v’ebbi alcun riconosciuto,   →
vidi e conobbi l’ombra di colui
che fece per viltade il gran ri�uto.
Incontanente intesi e certo fui
che questa era la setta d’i cattivi,
a Dio spiacenti e a’ nemici sui.
Questi sciaurati, che mai non fur vivi,   →
erano ignudi e stimolati molto
da mosconi e da vespe ch’eran ivi.
Elle rigavan lor di sangue il volto,
che, mischiato di lagrime, a’ lor piedi
da fastidiosi vermi era ricolto.
E poi ch’a riguardar oltre mi diedi,   →
vidi genti a la riva d’un gran �ume;
per ch’io dissi: “Maestro, or mi concedi
ch’i’ sappia quali sono, e qual costume
le fa di trapassar parer sì pronte,
com’ i’ discerno per lo �oco lume.”   →
Ed elli a me: “Le cose ti �er conte   →
quando noi fermerem li nostri passi
su la trista riviera d’Acheronte.”
Allor con li occhi vergognosi e bassi,
temendo no ’l mio dir li fosse grave,
in�no al �ume del parlar mi trassi.

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Ed ecco verso noi venir per nave
un vecchio, bianco per antico pelo,
gridando: “Guai a voi, anime prave!
Non isperate mai veder lo cielo:
i’ vegno per menarvi a l’altra riva
ne le tenebre etterne, in caldo e ’n gelo.
E tu che se’ costì, anima viva,   →
pàrtiti da cotesti che son morti.”
Ma poi che vide ch’io non mi partiva,
disse: “Per altra via, per altri porti   →
verrai a piaggia, non qui, per passare:
più lieve legno convien che ti porti.”
E ’l duca lui: “Caron, non ti crucciare:   →
vuolsi così colà dove si puote   →
ciò che si vuole, e più non dimandare.”
Quinci fuor quete le lanose gote
al nocchier de la livida palude,
che ’ntorno a li occhi avea di �amme rote.
Ma quell’ anime, ch’eran lasse e nude,
cangiar colore e dibattero i denti,
ratto che ’nteser le parole crude.
Bestemmiavano Dio e lor parenti,
l’umana spezie e ’l loco e ’l tempo e ’l seme   →
di lor semenza e di lor nascimenti.
Poi si ritrasser tutte quante insieme,
forte piangendo, a la riva malvagia
ch’attende ciascun uom che Dio non teme.
Caron dimonio, con occhi di bragia   →

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loro accennando, tutte le raccoglie;
batte col remo qualunque s’adagia.   →
Come d’autunno si levan le foglie   →
l’una appresso de l’altra, �n che ’l ramo
vede a la terra tutte le sue spoglie,
similemente il mal seme d’Adamo
gittansi di quel lito ad una ad una,
per cenni come augel per suo richiamo.
Così sen vanno su per l’onda bruna,
e avanti che sien di là discese,
anche di qua nuova schiera s’auna.
“Figliuol mio,” disse ’l maestro cortese,
“quelli che muoion ne l’ira di Dio
tutti convegnon qui d’ogne paese;
e pronti sono a trapassar lo rio,
ché la divina giustizia li sprona,   →
sì che la tema si volve in disio.
Quinci non passa mai anima buona;
e però, se Caron di te si lagna,
ben puoi sapere omai che ’l suo dir suona.”
Finito questo, la buia campagna   →
tremò sì forte, che de lo spavento
la mente di sudore ancor mi bagna.
La terra lagrimosa diede vento,
che balenò una luce vermiglia
la qual mi vinse ciascun sentimento;
e caddi come l’uom cui sonno piglia.   →

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INFERNO IV
Ruppemi l’alto sonno ne la testa   →
un greve truono, sì ch’io mi riscossi
come persona ch’è per forza desta;
e l’occhio riposato intorno mossi,
dritto levato, e �so riguardai
per conoscer lo loco dov’ io fossi.
Vero è che ’n su la proda mi trovai
de la valle d’abisso dolorosa
che ’ntrono accoglie d’in�niti guai.
Oscura e profonda era e nebulosa
tanto che, per �ccar lo viso a fondo,
io non vi discernea alcuna cosa.
“Or discendiam qua giù nel cieco mondo,”   →
cominciò il poeta tutto smorto.
“Io sarò primo, e tu sarai secondo.”
E io, che del color mi fui accorto,   →
dissi: “Come verrò, se tu paventi
che suoli al mio dubbiare esser conforto?”   →
Ed elli a me: “L’angoscia de le genti   →
che son qua giù, nel viso mi dipigne
quella pietà che tu per tema senti.
Andiam, ché la via lunga ne sospigne.”
Così si mise e così mi fé intrare
nel primo cerchio che l’abisso cigne.
Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,   →

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non avea pianto mai che di sospiri
che l’aura etterna facevan tremare;
ciò avvenia di duol sanza martìri,
ch’avean le turbe, ch’eran molte e grandi,
d’infanti e di femmine e di viri.   →
Lo buon maestro a me: “Tu non dimandi
che spiriti son questi che tu vedi?
Or vo’ che sappi, innanzi che più andi,
ch’ei non peccaro; e s’elli hanno mercedi,
non basta, perché non ebber battesmo,
ch’è porta de la fede che tu credi;
e s’ e’ furon dinanzi al cristianesmo,
non adorar debitamente a Dio:
e di questi cotai son io medesmo.
Per tai difetti, non per altro rio,
semo perduti, e sol di tanto o�esi
che sanza speme vivemo in disio.”   →
Gran duol mi prese al cor quando lo ’ntesi,
però che gente di molto valore   →
conobbi che ’n quel limbo eran sospesi.   →
“Dimmi, maestro mio, dimmi, segnore,”   →
comincia’ io per volere esser certo
di quella fede che vince ogne errore:
“uscicci mai alcuno, o per suo merto
o per altrui, che poi fosse beato?”
E quei che ’ntese il mio parlar coverto,
rispuose: “Io era nuovo in questo stato,   →
quando ci vidi venire un possente,

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con segno di vittoria coronato.
Trasseci l’ombra del primo parente,   →
d’Abèl suo �glio e quella di Noè,
di Moïsè legista e ubidente;
Abraàm patrïarca e Davìd re,
Israèl con lo padre e co’ suoi nati
e con Rachele, per cui tanto fé,
e altri molti, e feceli beati.
E vo’ che sappi che, dinanzi ad essi,   →
spiriti umani non eran salvati.”
Non lasciavam l’andar perch’ ei dicessi,
ma passavam la selva tuttavia,
la selva, dico, di spiriti spessi.
Non era lunga ancor la nostra via
di qua dal sonno, quand’ io vidi un foco
ch’emisperio di tenebre vincia.
Di lungi n’eravamo ancora un poco,
ma non sì ch’io non discernessi in parte
ch’orrevol gente possedea quel loco.   →
“O tu ch’onori scïenzïa e arte,   →
questi chi son c’hanno cotanta onranza,
che dal modo de li altri li diparte?”
E quelli a me: “L’onrata nominanza
che di lor suona sù ne la tua vita,
grazïa acquista in ciel che sì li avanza.”   →
Intanto voce fu per me udita:   →
“Onorate l’altissimo poeta;   →
l’ombra sua torna, ch’era dipartita.”

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Poi che la voce fu restata e queta,
vidi quattro grand’ ombre a noi venire:
sembianz’ avevan né trista né lieta.
Lo buon maestro cominciò a dire:
“Mira colui con quella spada in mano,   →
che vien dinanzi ai tre sì come sire:
quelli è Omero poeta sovrano;   →   →
l’altro è Orazio satiro che vene;   →
Ovidio è ’l terzo, e l’ultimo Lucano.   →
Però che ciascun meco si convene
nel nome che sonò la voce sola,
fannomi onore, e di ciò fanno bene.”   →
Così vid’ i’ adunar la bella scola
di quel segnor de l’altissimo canto   →
che sovra li altri com’ aquila vola.
Da ch’ebber ragionato insieme alquanto,
volsersi a me con salutevol cenno,
e ’l mio maestro sorrise di tanto;   →
e più d’onore ancora assai mi fenno,
ch’e’ sì mi fecer de la loro schiera,   →
sì ch’io fui sesto tra cotanto senno.   →
Così andammo in�no a la lumera,
parlando cose che ’l tacere è bello,   →
sì com’ era ’l parlar colà dov’ era.
Venimmo al piè d’un nobile castello,   →
sette volte cerchiato d’alte mura,
difeso intorno d’un bel �umicello.
Questo passammo come terra dura;

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per sette porte intrai con questi savi:
giugnemmo in prato di fresca verdura.
Genti v’eran con occhi tardi e gravi,
di grande autorità ne’ lor sembianti:
parlavan rado, con voci soavi.
Traemmoci così da l’un de’ canti,   →
in loco aperto, luminoso e alto,
sì che veder si potien tutti quanti.
Colà diritto, sovra ’l verde smalto,
mi fuor mostrati li spiriti magni,
che del vedere in me stesso m’essalto.
I’ vidi Eletra con molti compagni,   →
tra ’ quai conobbi Ettòr ed Enea,
Cesare armato con li occhi grifagni.   →
Vidi Cammilla e la Pantasilea;   →
da l’altra parte vidi ’l re Latino
che con Lavina sua �glia sedea.
Vidi quel Bruto che cacciò Tarquino,   →
Lucrezia, Iulia, Marzïa e Corniglia;
e solo, in parte, vidi ’l Saladino.   →
Poi ch’innalzai un poco più le ciglia,
vidi ’l maestro di color che sanno   →
seder tra �loso�ca famiglia.
Tutti lo miran, tutti onor li fanno:
quivi vid’ ïo Socrate e Platone,   →
che ’nnanzi a li altri più presso li stanno;
Democrito che ’l mondo a caso pone,
Dïogenès, Anassagora e Tale,

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Empedoclès, Eraclito e Zenone;
e vidi il buono accoglitor del quale,
Dïascoride dico; e vidi Orfeo,   →
Tulïo e Lino e Seneca morale;
Euclide geomètra e Tolomeo,   →
Ipocràte, Avicenna e Galïeno,
Averoìs che ’l gran comento feo.
Io non posso ritrar di tutti a pieno,   →
però che sì mi caccia il lungo tema,
che molte volte al fatto il dir vien meno.
La sesta compagnia in due si scema:
per altra via mi mena il savio duca,
fuor de la queta, ne l’aura che trema.
E vegno in parte ove non è che luca.

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INFERNO V
Così discesi del cerchio primaio   →
giù nel secondo, che men loco cinghia
e tanto più dolor, che punge a guaio.
Stavvi Minòs orribilmente, e ringhia:   →
essamina le colpe ne l’intrata;
giudica e manda secondo ch’avvinghia.   →
Dico che quando l’anima mal nata   →
li vien dinanzi, tutta si confessa;   →
e quel conoscitor de le peccata   →
vede qual loco d’inferno è da essa;
cignesi con la coda tante volte
quantunque gradi vuol che giù sia messa.
Sempre dinanzi a lui ne stanno molte:
vanno a vicenda ciascuna al giudizio,
dicono e odono e poi son giù volte.
“O tu che vieni al doloroso ospizio,”
disse Minòs a me quando mi vide,   →
lasciando l’atto di cotanto o�zio,   →
“guarda com’ entri e di cui tu ti �de;
non t’inganni l’ampiezza de l’intrare!”   →
E ’l duca mio a lui: “Perché pur gride?
Non impedir lo suo fatale andare:   →
vuolsi così colà dove si puote
ciò che si vuole, e più non dimandare.”
Or incomincian le dolenti note   →
a farmisi sentire; or son venuto   →

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là dove molto pianto mi percuote.
Io venni in loco d’ogne luce muto,
che mugghia come fa mar per tempesta,
se da contrari venti è combattuto.
La bufera infernal, che mai non resta,
mena li spirti con la sua rapina;
voltando e percotendo li molesta.
Quando giungon davanti a la ruina,   →
quivi le strida, il compianto, il lamento;
bestemmian quivi la virtù divina.
Intesi ch’a così fatto tormento
enno dannati i peccator carnali,
che la ragion sommettono al talento.
E come li stornei ne portan l’ali   →   →
nel freddo tempo, a schiera larga e piena,
così quel �ato li spiriti mali
di qua, di là, di giù, di sù li mena;
nulla speranza li conforta mai,
non che di posa, ma di minor pena.
E come i gru van cantando lor lai,   →
faccendo in aere di sé lunga riga,
così vid’ io venir, traendo guai,
ombre portate da la detta briga;
per ch’i’ dissi: “Maestro, chi son quelle
genti che l’aura nera sì gastiga?”
“La prima di color di cui novelle
tu vuo’ saper,” mi disse quelli allotta,
“fu imperadrice di molte favelle.

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A vizio di lussuria fu sì rotta,
che libito fé licito in sua legge,
per tòrre il biasmo in che era condotta.
Ell’ è Semiramìs, di cui si legge   →   →
che succedette a Nino e fu sua sposa:
tenne la terra che ’l Soldan corregge.
L’altra è colei che s’ancise amorosa,   →   →
e ruppe fede al cener di Sicheo;   →
poi è Cleopatràs lussurïosa.   →
Elena vedi, per cui tanto reo
tempo si volse, e vedi ’l grande Achille,   →
che con amore al �ne combatteo.
Vedi Parìs, Tristano”; e più di mille
ombre mostrommi e nominommi a dito,
ch’amor di nostra vita dipartille.   →
Poscia ch’io ebbi ’l mio dottore udito
nomar le donne antiche e ’ cavalieri,   →
pietà mi giunse, e fui quasi smarrito.
I’ cominciai: “Poeta, volontieri
parlerei a que’ due che ’nsieme vanno,   →
e paion sì al vento esser leggieri.”
Ed elli a me: “Vedrai quando saranno   →
più presso a noi; e tu allor li priega
per quello amor che i mena, ed ei verranno.”
Sì tosto come il vento a noi li piega,
mossi la voce: “O anime a�annate,   →
venite a noi parlar, s’altri nol niega!”
Quali colombe dal disio chiamate   →

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con l’ali alzate e ferme al dolce nido
vegnon per l’aere, dal voler portate;
cotali uscir de la schiera ov’ è Dido,
a noi venendo per l’aere maligno,
sì forte fu l’a�ettüoso grido.
“O animal grazïoso e benigno   →
che visitando vai per l’aere perso
noi che tignemmo il mondo di sanguigno,
se fosse amico il re de l’universo,   →   →
noi pregheremmo lui de la tua pace,
poi c’hai pietà del nostro mal perverso.
Di quel che udire e che parlar vi piace,
noi udiremo e parleremo a voi,
mentre che ’l vento, come fa, ci tace.
Siede la terra dove nata fui
su la marina dove ’l Po discende
per aver pace co’ seguaci sui.
Amor, ch’al cor gentil ratto s’apprende,   →
prese costui de la bella persona
che mi fu tolta; e ’l modo ancor m’o�ende.   →
Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona,   →
mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,
che, come vedi, ancor non m’abbandona.
Amor condusse noi ad una morte.
Caina attende chi a vita ci spense.”   →
Queste parole da lor ci fuor porte.
Quand’ io intesi quell’ anime o�ense,   →
china’ il viso, e tanto il tenni basso,

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�n che ’l poeta mi disse: “Che pense?”
Quando rispuosi, cominciai: “Oh lasso,
quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio
menò costoro al doloroso passo!”
Poi mi rivolsi a loro e parla’ io,
e cominciai: “Francesca, i tuoi martìri
a lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio.
Ma dimmi: al tempo d’i dolci sospiri,   →
a che e come concedette amore
che conosceste i dubbiosi disiri?”
E quella a me: “Nessun maggior dolore   →
che ricordarsi del tempo felice
ne la miseria; e ciò sa ’l tuo dottore.   →
Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice
del nostro amor tu hai cotanto a�etto,
dirò come colui che piange e dice.
Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto   →
di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse;
soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.
Per più fïate li occhi ci sospinse
quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso;
ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.   →
Quando leggemmo il disïato riso
esser basciato da cotanto amante,
questi, che mai da me non �a diviso,
la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante.
Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse:   →
quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”   →

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Mentre che l’uno spirto questo disse,
l’altro piangëa; sì che di pietade   →
io venni men così com’ io morisse.   →
E caddi come corpo morto cade.   →

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INFERNO VI
Al tornar de la mente, che si chiuse   →
dinanzi a la pietà d’i due cognati,   →
che di trestizia tutto mi confuse,
novi tormenti e novi tormentati
mi veggio intorno, come ch’io mi mova
e ch’io mi volga, e come che io guati.
Io sono al terzo cerchio, de la piova   →
etterna, maladetta, fredda e greve;
regola e qualità mai non l’ è nova.
Grandine grossa, acqua tinta e neve
per l’aere tenebroso si riversa;
pute la terra che questo riceve.
Cerbero, �era crudele e diversa,   →
con tre gole caninamente latra
sovra la gente che quivi è sommersa.
Li occhi ha vermigli, la barba unta e atra,
e ’l ventre largo, e unghiate le mani;
gra�a li spirti ed iscoia ed isquatra.
Urlar li fa la pioggia come cani;
de l’un de’ lati fanno a l’altro schermo;
volgonsi spesso i miseri profani.
Quando ci scorse Cerbero, il gran vermo,
le bocche aperse e mostrocci le sanne;
non avea membro che tenesse fermo.
E ’l duca mio distese le sue spanne,   →

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prese la terra, e con piene le pugna
la gittò dentro a le bramose canne.
Qual è quel cane ch’abbaiando agogna,   →
e si racqueta poi che ’l pasto morde,
ché solo a divorarlo intende e pugna,
cotai si fecer quelle facce lorde
de lo demonio Cerbero, che ’ntrona
l’anime sì, ch’esser vorrebber sorde.
Noi passavam su per l’ombre che adona   →
la greve pioggia, e ponavam le piante
sovra lor vanità che par persona.
Elle giacean per terra tutte quante,   →
fuor d’una ch’a seder si levò, ratto
ch’ella ci vide passarsi davante.
“O tu che se’ per questo ’nferno tratto,”
mi disse, “riconoscimi, se sai:
tu fosti, prima ch’io disfatto, fatto.”
E io a lui: “L’angoscia che tu hai   →
forse ti tira fuor de la mia mente,
sì che non par ch’i’ ti vedessi mai.
Ma dimmi chi tu se’ che ’n sì dolente
loco se’ messo, e hai sì fatta pena,
che, s’altra è maggio, nulla è sì spiacente.”
Ed elli a me: “La tua città, ch’è piena   →
d’invidia sì che già trabocca il sacco,
seco mi tenne in la vita serena.
Voi cittadini mi chiamaste Ciacco:   →
per la dannosa colpa de la gola,

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come tu vedi, a la pioggia mi �acco.
E io anima trista non son sola,
ché tutte queste a simil pena stanno
per simil colpa.” E più non fé parola.
Io li rispuosi: “Ciacco, il tuo a�anno
mi pesa sì, ch’a lagrimar mi ’nvita;
ma dimmi, se tu sai, a che verranno
li cittadin de la città partita;
s’alcun v’è giusto; e dimmi la cagione
per che l’ha tanta discordia assalita.”
E quelli a me: “Dopo lunga tencione   →
verranno al sangue, e la parte selvaggia
caccerà l’altra con molta o�ensione.
Poi appresso convien che questa caggia   →
infra tre soli, e che l’altra sormonti
con la forza di tal che testé piaggia.
Alte terrà lungo tempo le fronti,
tenendo l’altra sotto gravi pesi,
come che di ciò pianga o che n’aonti.
Giusti son due, e non vi sono intesi;   →
superbia, invidia e avarizia sono   →
le tre faville c’hanno i cuori accesi.”
Qui puose �ne al lagrimabil suono.
E io a lui: “Ancor vo’ che mi ’nsegni
e che di più parlar mi facci dono.
Farinata e ’l Tegghiaio, che fuor sì degni,   →
Iacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo e ’l Mosca
e li altri ch’a ben far puoser li ’ngegni,

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dimmi ove sono e fa ch’io li conosca;
ché gran disio mi stringe di savere
se ’l ciel li addolcia o lo ’nferno li attosca.”
E quelli: “Ei son tra l’anime più nere;
diverse colpe giù li grava al fondo:
se tanto scendi, là i potrai vedere.
Ma quando tu sarai nel dolce mondo,   →
priegoti ch’a la mente altrui mi rechi:
più non ti dico e più non ti rispondo.”   →
Li diritti occhi torse allora in biechi;   →
guardommi un poco e poi chinò la testa:
cadde con essa a par de li altri ciechi.
E ’l duca disse a me: “Più non si desta
di qua dal suon de l’angelica tromba,
quando verrà la nimica podesta:
ciascun rivederà la trista tomba,
ripiglierà sua carne e sua �gura,
udirà quel ch’in etterno rimbomba.”   →
Sì trapassammo per sozza mistura
de l’ombre e de la pioggia, a passi lenti,
toccando un poco la vita futura;   →
per ch’io dissi: “Maestro, esti tormenti
crescerann’ ei dopo la gran sentenza,
o �er minori, o saran sì cocenti?”
Ed elli a me: “Ritorna a tua scïenza,   →
che vuol, quanto la cosa è più perfetta,
più senta il bene, e così la doglienza.
Tutto che questa gente maladetta   →

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in vera perfezion già mai non vada,
di là più che di qua essere aspetta.”
Noi aggirammo a tondo quella strada,
parlando più assai ch’i’ non ridico;
venimmo al punto dove si digrada:
quivi trovammo Pluto, il gran nemico.

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INFERNO VII
“Pape Satàn, pape Satàn aleppe!”   →
cominciò Pluto con la voce chioccia;
e quel savio gentil, che tutto seppe,
disse per confortarmi: “Non ti noccia
la tua paura; ché, poder ch’elli abbia,
non ci torrà lo scender questa roccia.”
Poi si rivolse a quella ’n�ata labbia,
e disse: “Taci, maladetto lupo!   →
consuma dentro te con la tua rabbia.
Non è sanza cagion l’andare al cupo:   →
vuolsi ne l’alto, là dove Michele
fé la vendetta del superbo strupo.”
Quali dal vento le gon�ate vele   →
caggiono avvolte, poi che l’alber �acca,
tal cadde a terra la �era crudele.
Così scendemmo ne la quarta lacca,
pigliando più de la dolente ripa
che ’l mal de l’universo tutto insacca.
Ahi giustizia di Dio! tante chi stipa   →
nove travaglie e pene quant’ io viddi?
e perché nostra colpa sì ne scipa?
Come fa l’onda là sovra Cariddi,   →
che si frange con quella in cui s’intoppa,
così convien che qui la gente riddi.   →
Qui vid’ i’ gente più ch’altrove troppa,   →

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e d’una parte e d’altra, con grand’ urli,
voltando pesi per forza di poppa.
Percotëansi ’ncontro; e poscia pur lì
si rivolgea ciascun, voltando a retro,
gridando: “Perché tieni?” e “Perché burli?”
Così tornavan per lo cerchio tetro   →
da ogne mano a l’opposito punto,
gridandosi anche loro ontoso metro;
poi si volgea ciascun, quand’ era giunto,
per lo suo mezzo cerchio a l’altra giostra.
E io, ch’avea lo cor quasi compunto,   →
dissi: “Maestro mio, or mi dimostra
che gente è questa, e se tutti fuor cherci   →
questi chercuti a la sinistra nostra.”
Ed elli a me: “Tutti quanti fuor guerci
sì de la mente in la vita primaia,
che con misura nullo spendio ferci.
Assai la voce lor chiaro l’abbaia,
quando vegnono a’ due punti del cerchio
dove colpa contraria li dispaia.
Questi fuor cherci, che non han coperchio   →
piloso al capo, e papi e cardinali,
in cui usa avarizia il suo soperchio.”
E io: “Maestro, tra questi cotali
dovre’ io ben riconoscere alcuni
che furo immondi di cotesti mali.”
Ed elli a me: “Vano pensiero aduni:
la sconoscente vita che i fé sozzi,

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ad ogne conoscenza or li fa bruni.
In etterno verranno a li due cozzi:
questi resurgeranno del sepulcro
col pugno chiuso, e questi coi crin mozzi.   →
Mal dare e mal tener lo mondo pulcro
ha tolto loro, e posti a questa zu�a:
qual ella sia, parole non ci appulcro.
Or puoi, �gliuol, veder la corta bu�a
d’i ben che son commessi a la fortuna,   →
per che l’umana gente si rabu�a;
ché tutto l’oro ch’è sotto la luna
e che già fu, di quest’ anime stanche
non poterebbe farne posare una.”
“Maestro mio,” diss’ io, “or mi dì anche:
questa fortuna di che tu mi tocche,
che è, che i ben del mondo ha sì tra branche?”
E quelli a me: “Oh creature sciocche,   →
quanta ignoranza è quella che v’o�ende!
Or vo’ che tu mia sentenza ne ’mbocche.
Colui lo cui saver tutto trascende,
fece li cieli e diè lor chi conduce
sì, ch’ogne parte ad ogne parte splende,
distribuendo igualmente la luce.
Similemente a li splendor mondani
ordinò general ministra e duce
che permutasse a tempo li ben vani
di gente in gente e d’uno in altro sangue,
oltre la difension d’i senni umani;

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per ch’una gente impera e l’altra langue,
seguendo lo giudicio di costei,
che è occulto come in erba l’angue.   →
Vostro saver non ha contasto a lei:
questa provede, giudica, e persegue
suo regno come il loro li altri dèi.   →
Le sue permutazion non hanno triegue:
necessità la fa esser veloce;
sì spesso vien chi vicenda consegue.   →
Quest’ è colei ch’è tanto posta in croce
pur da color che le dovrien dar lode,
dandole biasmo a torto e mala voce;
ma ella s’è beata e ciò non ode:
con l’altre prime creature lieta
volve sua spera e beata si gode.
Or discendiamo omai a maggior pieta;
già ogne stella cade che saliva   →
quand’ io mi mossi, e ’l troppo star si vieta.”
Noi ricidemmo il cerchio a l’altra riva
sovr’ una fonte che bolle e riversa
per un fossato che da lei deriva.
L’acqua era buia assai più che persa;
e noi, in compagnia de l’onde bige,
intrammo giù per una via diversa.
In la palude va c’ha nome Stige   →
questo tristo ruscel, quand’ è disceso
al piè de le maligne piagge grige.
E io, che di mirare stava inteso,   →

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vidi genti fangose in quel pantano,
ignude tutte, con sembiante o�eso.
Queste si percotean non pur con mano,
ma con la testa e col petto e coi piedi,
troncandosi co’ denti a brano a brano.
Lo buon maestro disse: “Figlio, or vedi
l’anime di color cui vinse l’ira;
e anche vo’ che tu per certo credi
che sotto l’acqua è gente che sospira,   →
e fanno pullular quest’ acqua al summo,
come l’occhio ti dice, u’ che s’aggira.
Fitti nel limo dicon: ‘Tristi fummo
ne l’aere dolce che dal sol s’allegra,
portando dentro accidïoso fummo:
or ci attristiam ne la belletta negra.’
Quest’ inno si gorgoglian ne la strozza,
ché dir nol posson con parola integra.”
Così girammo de la lorda pozza
grand’ arco, tra la ripa secca e ’l mézzo,
con li occhi vòlti a chi del fango ingozza.
Venimmo al piè d’una torre al da sezzo.

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INFERNO VIII
Io dico, seguitando, ch’assai prima   →
che noi fossimo al piè de l’alta torre,
li occhi nostri n’andar suso a la cima
per due �ammette che i vedemmo porre,   →
e un’altra da lungi render cenno,
tanto ch’a pena il potea l’occhio tòrre.
E io mi volsi al mar di tutto ’l senno;   →
dissi: “Questo che dice? e che risponde
quell’ altro foco? e chi son quei che ’l fenno?”
Ed elli a me: “Su per le sucide onde
già scorgere puoi quello che s’aspetta,
se ’l fummo del pantan nol ti nasconde.”
Corda non pinse mai da sé saetta
che sì corresse via per l’aere snella,
com’ io vidi una nave piccioletta   →
venir per l’acqua verso noi in quella,
sotto ’l governo d’un sol galeoto,
che gridava: “Or se’ giunta, anima fella!”   →
“Flegïàs, Flegïàs, tu gridi a vòto,”   →
disse lo mio segnore, “a questa volta:   →
più non ci avrai che sol passando il loto.”
Qual è colui che grande inganno ascolta   →
che li sia fatto, e poi se ne rammarca,
fecesi Flegïàs ne l’ira accolta.
Lo duca mio discese ne la barca,   →

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e poi mi fece intrare appresso lui;
e sol quand’ io fui dentro parve carca.
Tosto che ’l duca e io nel legno fui,
segando se ne va l’antica prora
de l’acqua più che non suol con altrui.
Mentre noi corravam la morta gora,   →
dinanzi mi si fece un pien di fango,   →
e disse: “Chi se’ tu che vieni anzi ora?”
E io a lui: “S’i’ vegno, non rimango;
ma tu chi se’, che sì se’ fatto brutto?”
Rispuose: “Vedi che son un che piango.”
E io a lui: “Con piangere e con lutto,   →
spirito maladetto, ti rimani;
ch’i’ ti conosco, ancor sie lordo tutto.”
Allor distese al legno ambo le mani;   →
per che ’l maestro accorto lo sospinse,
dicendo: “Via costà con li altri cani!”
Lo collo poi con le braccia mi cinse;
basciommi ’l volto e disse: “Alma sdegnosa,
benedetta colei che ’n te s’incinse!
Quei fu al mondo persona orgogliosa;   →
bontà non è che sua memoria fregi:
così s’è l’ombra sua qui furïosa.
Quanti si tegnon or là sù gran regi
che qui staranno come porci in brago,
di sé lasciando orribili dispregi!”
E io: “Maestro, molto sarei vago
di vederlo attu�are in questa broda

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prima che noi uscissimo del lago.”
Ed elli a me: “Avante che la proda
ti si lasci veder, tu sarai sazio:
di tal disïo convien che tu goda.”
Dopo ciò poco vid’ io quello strazio
far di costui a le fangose genti,
che Dio ancor ne lodo e ne ringrazio.
Tutti gridavano: “A Filippo Argenti!”   →
e ’l �orentino spirito bizzarro   →
in sé medesmo si volvea co’ denti.   →
Quivi il lasciammo, che più non ne narro;
ma ne l’orecchie mi percosse un duolo,
per ch’io avante l’occhio intento sbarro.
Lo buon maestro disse: “Omai, �gliuolo,
s’appressa la città c’ha nome Dite,   →
coi gravi cittadin, col grande stuolo.”
E io: “Maestro, già le sue meschite   →
là entro certe ne la valle cerno,
vermiglie come se di foco uscite
fossero.” Ed ei mi disse: “Il foco etterno
ch’entro l’a�oca le dimostra rosse,
come tu vedi in questo basso inferno.”
Noi pur giugnemmo dentro a l’alte fosse
che vallan quella terra sconsolata:
le mura mi parean che ferro fosse.   →
Non sanza prima far grande aggirata,
venimmo in parte dove il nocchier forte
“Usciteci,” gridò: “qui è l’intrata.”   →

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Io vidi più di mille in su le porte   →
da ciel piovuti, che stizzosamente
dicean: “Chi è costui che sanza morte
va per lo regno de la morta gente?”
E ’l savio mio maestro fece segno
di voler lor parlar segretamente.
Allor chiusero un poco il gran disdegno
e disser: “Vien tu solo, e quei sen vada
che sì ardito intrò per questo regno.
Sol si ritorni per la folle strada:
pruovi, se sa; ché tu qui rimarrai,
che li ha’ iscorta sì buia contrada.”
Pensa, lettor, se io mi sconfortai   →
nel suon de le parole maladette,
ché non credetti ritornarci mai.
“O caro duca mio, che più di sette   →
volte m’hai sicurtà renduta e tratto
d’alto periglio che ’ncontra mi stette,
non mi lasciar,” diss’ io, “così disfatto;
e se ’l passar più oltre ci è negato,
ritroviam l’orme nostre insieme ratto.”
E quel segnor che lì m’avea menato,
mi disse: “Non temer; ché ’l nostro passo   →
non ci può tòrre alcun: da tal n’è dato.
Ma qui m’attendi, e lo spirito lasso   →
conforta e ciba di speranza buona,
ch’i’ non ti lascerò nel mondo basso.”
Così sen va, e quivi m’abbandona

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lo dolce padre, e io rimagno in forse,
che sì e no nel capo mi tenciona.
Udir non potti quello ch’a lor porse;
ma ei non stette là con essi guari,
che ciascun dentro a pruova si ricorse.
Chiuser le porte que’ nostri avversari   →
nel petto al mio segnor, che fuor rimase
e rivolsesi a me con passi rari.
Li occhi a la terra e le ciglia avea rase
d’ogne baldanza, e dicea ne’ sospiri:
“Chi m’ha negate le dolenti case!”
E a me disse: “Tu, perch’ io m’adiri,   →
non sbigottir, ch’io vincerò la prova,
qual ch’a la difension dentro s’aggiri.
Questa lor tracotanza non è nova;
ché già l’usaro a men segreta porta,
la qual sanza serrame ancor si trova.
Sovr’ essa vedestù la scritta morta:   →
e già di qua da lei discende l’erta,   →
passando per li cerchi sanza scorta,
tal che per lui ne �a la terra aperta.”

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INFERNO IX
Quel color che viltà di fuor mi pinse   →
veggendo il duca mio tornare in volta,
più tosto dentro il suo novo ristrinse.
Attento si fermò com’ uom ch’ascolta;
ché l’occhio nol potea menare a lunga
per l’aere nero e per la nebbia folta.
“Pur a noi converrà vincer la punga,”   →
cominciò el, “se non … Tal ne s’o�erse.
Oh quanto tarda a me ch’altri qui giunga!”
I’ vidi ben sì com’ ei ricoperse   →
lo cominciar con l’altro che poi venne,
che fur parole a le prime diverse;
ma nondimen paura il suo dir dienne,
perch’ io traeva la parola tronca
forse a peggior sentenzia che non tenne.
“In questo fondo de la trista conca
discende mai alcun del primo grado,   →
che sol per pena ha la speranza cionca?”
Questa question fec’ io; e quei “Di rado   →
incontra,” mi rispuose, “che di noi
faccia il cammino alcun per qual io vado.
Ver è ch’altra fïata qua giù fui,
congiurato da quella Eritón cruda
che richiamava l’ombre a’ corpi sui.
Di poco era di me la carne nuda,

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ch’ella mi fece intrar dentr’ a quel muro,
per trarne un spirto del cerchio di Giuda.   →
Quell’ è ’l più basso loco e ’l più oscuro,   →
e ’l più lontan dal ciel che tutto gira:
ben so ’l cammin; però ti fa sicuro.
Questa palude che ’l gran puzzo spira
cigne dintorno la città dolente,
u’ non potemo intrare omai sanz’ ira.”   →
E altro disse, ma non l’ho a mente;
però che l’occhio m’avea tutto tratto
ver’ l’alta torre a la cima rovente,
dove in un punto furon dritte ratto
tre furïe infernal di sangue tinte,   →
che membra feminine avieno e atto,
e con idre verdissime eran cinte;
serpentelli e ceraste avien per crine,
onde le �ere tempie erano avvinte.
E quei, che ben conobbe le meschine
de la regina de l’etterno pianto,
“Guarda,” mi disse, “le feroci Erine.
Quest’ è Megera dal sinistro canto;
quella che piange dal destro è Aletto;
Tesifón è nel mezzo”; e tacque a tanto.
Con l’unghie si fendea ciascuna il petto;
battiensi a palme e gridavan sì alto,
ch’i’ mi strinsi al poeta per sospetto.
“Vegna Medusa: sì ’l farem di smalto,”   →
dicevan tutte riguardando in giuso;

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“mal non vengiammo in Tesëo l’assalto.”   →
“Volgiti ’n dietro e tien lo viso chiuso;
ché se ’l Gorgón si mostra e tu ’l vedessi,
nulla sarebbe di tornar mai suso.”
Così disse ’l maestro; ed elli stessi   →
mi volse, e non si tenne a le mie mani,
che con le sue ancor non mi chiudessi.
O voi ch’avete li ’ntelletti sani,
mirate la dottrina che s’asconde
sotto ’l velame de li versi strani.
E già venìa su per le torbide onde   →
un fracasso d’un suon, pien di spavento,
per cui tremavano amendue le sponde,
non altrimenti fatto che d’un vento
impetüoso per li avversi ardori,
che �er la selva e sanz’ alcun rattento
li rami schianta, abbatte e porta fori;
dinanzi polveroso va superbo,
e fa fuggir le �ere e li pastori.
Li occhi mi sciolse e disse: “Or drizza il nerbo   →
del viso su per quella schiuma antica
per indi ove quel fummo è più acerbo.”
Come le rane innanzi a la nimica   →
biscia per l’acqua si dileguan tutte,
�n ch’a la terra ciascuna s’abbica,
vid’ io più di mille anime distrutte
fuggir così dinanzi ad un ch’al passo
passava Stige con le piante asciutte.   →

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Dal volto rimovea quell’ aere grasso,   →
menando la sinistra innanzi spesso;
e sol di quell’ angoscia parea lasso.
Ben m’accorsi ch’elli era da ciel messo,   →
e volsimi al maestro; e quei fé segno   →
ch’i’ stessi queto ed inchinassi ad esso.
Ahi quanto mi parea pien di disdegno!
Venne a la porta e con una verghetta   →
l’aperse, che non v’ebbe alcun ritegno.
“O cacciati del ciel, gente dispetta,”   →
cominciò elli in su l’orribil soglia,
“ond’ esta oltracotanza in voi s’alletta?   →
Perché recalcitrate a quella voglia
a cui non puote il �n mai esser mozzo,
e che più volte v’ha cresciuta doglia?
Che giova ne le fata dar di cozzo?
Cerbero vostro, se ben vi ricorda,
ne porta ancor pelato il mento e ’l gozzo.”
Poi si rivolse per la strada lorda,   →
e non fé motto a noi, ma fé sembiante
d’omo cui altra cura stringa e morda
che quella di colui che li è davante;
e noi movemmo i piedi inver’ la terra,
sicuri appresso le parole sante.
Dentro li ’ntrammo sanz’ alcuna guerra;   →
e io, ch’avea di riguardar disio
la condizion che tal fortezza serra,
com’ io fui dentro, l’occhio intorno invio:

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e veggio ad ogne man grande campagna,
piena di duolo e di tormento rio.
Sì come ad Arli, ove Rodano stagna,   →
sì com’ a Pola, presso del Carnaro
ch’Italia chiude e suoi termini bagna,
fanno i sepulcri tutt’ il loco varo,
così facevan quivi d’ogne parte,
salvo che ’l modo v’era più amaro;
ché tra li avelli �amme erano sparte,
per le quali eran sì del tutto accesi,
che ferro più non chiede verun’ arte.
Tutti li lor coperchi eran sospesi,
e fuor n’uscivan sì duri lamenti,
che ben parean di miseri e d’o�esi.
E io: “Maestro, quai son quelle genti
che, seppellite dentro da quell’ arche,
si fan sentir coi sospiri dolenti?”
E quelli a me: “Qui son li eresïarche   →
con lor seguaci, d’ogne setta, e molto
più che non credi son le tombe carche.
Simile qui con simile è sepolto,
e i monimenti son più e men caldi.”
E poi ch’a la man destra si fu vòlto,   →
passammo tra i martìri e li alti spaldi.

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INFERNO X
Ora sen va per un secreto calle,   →
tra ’l muro de la terra e li martìri,
lo mio maestro, e io dopo le spalle.
“O virtù somma, che per li empi giri
mi volvi,” cominciai, “com’ a te piace,   →
parlami, e sodisfammi a’ miei disiri.
La gente che per li sepolcri giace
potrebbesi veder? già son levati   →
tutt’ i coperchi, e nessun guardia face.”
E quelli a me: “Tutti saran serrati
quando di Iosafàt qui torneranno   →
coi corpi che là sù hanno lasciati.
Suo cimitero da questa parte hanno
con Epicuro tutti suoi seguaci,   →
che l’anima col corpo morta fanno.
Però a la dimanda che mi faci
quinc’ entro satisfatto sarà tosto,
e al disio ancor che tu mi taci.”   →
E io: “Buon duca, non tegno riposto
a te mio cuor se non per dicer poco,
e tu m’hai non pur mo a ciò disposto.”
“O Tosco che per la città del foco   →
vivo ten vai così parlando onesto,
piacciati di restare in questo loco.
La tua loquela ti fa manifesto   →
di quella nobil patrïa natio,

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a la qual forse fui troppo molesto.”   →
Subitamente questo suono uscìo
d’una de l’arche; però m’accostai,
temendo, un poco più al duca mio.
Ed el mi disse: “Volgiti! Che fai?
Vedi là Farinata che s’è dritto:   →
da la cintola in sù tutto ’l vedrai.”   →
Io avea già il mio viso nel suo �tto;
ed el s’ergea col petto e con la fronte   →
com’ avesse l’inferno a gran dispitto.
E l’animose man del duca e pronte
mi pinser tra le sepulture a lui,
dicendo: “Le parole tue sien conte.”
Com’ io al piè de la sua tomba fui,
guardommi un poco, e poi, quasi sdegnoso,
mi dimandò: “Chi fuor li maggior tui?”   →
Io ch’era d’ubidir disideroso,
non gliel celai, ma tutto gliel’ apersi;
ond’ ei levò le ciglia un poco in suso;   →
poi disse: “Fieramente furo avversi   →
a me e a miei primi e a mia parte,
sì che per due fïate li dispersi.”
“S’ei fur cacciati, ei tornar d’ogne parte,”   →
rispuos’ io lui, “l’una e l’altra fïata;
ma i vostri non appreser ben quell’ arte.”
Allor surse a la vista scoperchiata   →
un’ombra, lungo questa, in�no al mento:
credo che s’era in ginocchie levata.

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Dintorno mi guardò, come talento
avesse di veder s’altri era meco;
e poi che ’l sospecciar fu tutto spento,
piangendo disse: “Se per questo cieco   →
carcere vai per altezza d’ingegno,   →
mio �glio ov’ è? e perché non è teco?”   →
E io a lui: “Da me stesso non vegno:   →
colui ch’attende là per qui mi mena   →
forse cui Guido vostro ebbe a disdegno.”
Le sue parole e ’l modo de la pena
m’avean di costui già letto il nome;
però fu la risposta così piena.
Di sùbito drizzato gridò: “Come?   →
dicesti ‘elli ebbe’? non viv’ elli ancora?
non �ere li occhi suoi lo dolce lume?”
Quando s’accorse d’alcuna dimora   →
ch’io facëa dinanzi a la risposta,
supin ricadde e più non parve fora.
Ma quell’ altro magnanimo, a cui posta   →
restato m’era, non mutò aspetto,
né mosse collo, né piegò sua costa;
e sé continüando al primo detto,   →
“S’elli han quell’ arte,” disse, “male appresa,
ciò mi tormenta più che questo letto.
Ma non cinquanta volte �a raccesa   →
la faccia de la donna che qui regge,
che tu saprai quanto quell’ arte pesa.
E se tu mai nel dolce mondo regge,   →

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dimmi: perché quel popolo è sì empio
incontr’ a’ miei in ciascuna sua legge?”
Ond’ io a lui: “Lo strazio e ’l grande scempio   →
che fece l’Arbia colorata in rosso,
tal orazion fa far nel nostro tempio.”
Poi ch’ebbe sospirando il capo mosso,
“A ciò non fu’ io sol,” disse, “né certo   →
sanza cagion con li altri sarei mosso.
Ma fu’ io solo, là dove so�erto
fu per ciascun di tòrre via Fiorenza,
colui che la difesi a viso aperto.”
“Deh, se riposi mai vostra semenza,”   →
prega’ io lui, “solvetemi quel nodo
che qui ha ’nviluppata mia sentenza.
El par che voi veggiate, se ben odo,
dinanzi quel che ’l tempo seco adduce,
e nel presente tenete altro modo.”
“Noi veggiam, come quei c’ha mala luce,   →
le cose,” disse, “che ne son lontano;
cotanto ancor ne splende il sommo duce.
Quando s’appressano o son, tutto è vano
nostro intelletto; e s’altri non ci apporta,
nulla sapem di vostro stato umano.
Però comprender puoi che tutta morta
�a nostra conoscenza da quel punto
che del futuro �a chiusa la porta.”
Allor, come di mia colpa compunto,   →
dissi: “Or direte dunque a quel caduto

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che ’l suo nato è co’ vivi ancor congiunto;
e s’i’ fui, dianzi, a la risposta muto,
fate i saper che ’l fei perché pensava
già ne l’error che m’avete soluto.”
E già ’l maestro mio mi richiamava;
per ch’i’ pregai lo spirto più avaccio
che mi dicesse chi con lu’ istava.
Dissemi: “Qui con più di mille giaccio:
qua dentro è ’l secondo Federico   →
e ’l Cardinale; e de li altri mi taccio.”   →
Indi s’ascose; e io inver’ l’antico
poeta volsi i passi, ripensando
a quel parlar che mi parea nemico.   →
Elli si mosse; e poi, così andando,
mi disse: “Perché se’ tu sì smarrito?”   →
E io li sodisfeci al suo dimando.
“La mente tua conservi quel ch’udito
hai contra te,” mi comandò quel saggio;
“e ora attendi qui,” e drizzò ’l dito:
“quando sarai dinanzi al dolce raggio   →
di quella il cui bell’ occhio tutto vede,
da lei saprai di tua vita il vïaggio.”
Appresso mosse a man sinistra il piede:   →
lasciammo il muro e gimmo inver’ lo mezzo
per un sentier ch’a una valle �ede,
che ’n�n là sù facea spiacer suo lezzo.

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INFERNO XI
In su l’estremità d’un’alta ripa
che facevan gran pietre rotte in cerchio,
venimmo sopra più crudele stipa;   →
e quivi, per l’orribile soperchio
del puzzo che ’l profondo abisso gitta,
ci raccostammo, in dietro, ad un coperchio   →
d’un grand’ avello, ov’ io vidi una scritta
che dicea: “Anastasio papa guardo,   →
lo qual trasse Fotin de la via dritta.”
“Lo nostro scender conviene esser tardo,   →
sì che s’ausi un poco in prima il senso
al tristo �ato; e poi no i �a riguardo.”
Così ’l maestro; e io “Alcun compenso,”
dissi lui, “trova che ’l tempo non passi
perduto.” Ed elli: “Vedi ch’a ciò penso.”
“Figliuol mio, dentro da cotesti sassi,”
cominciò poi a dir, “son tre cerchietti
di grado in grado, come que’ che lassi.
Tutti son pien di spirti maladetti;
ma perché poi ti basti pur la vista,
intendi come e perché son costretti.
D’ogne malizia, ch’odio in cielo acquista,   →
ingiuria è ’l �ne, ed ogne �n cotale
o con forza o con frode altrui contrista.
Ma perché frode è de l’uom proprio male,

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più spiace a Dio; e però stan di sotto
li frodolenti, e più dolor li assale.
Di vïolenti il primo cerchio è tutto;   →
ma perché si fa forza a tre persone,
in tre gironi è distinto e costrutto.
A Dio, a sé, al prossimo si pòne
far forza, dico in loro e in lor cose,
come udirai con aperta ragione.
Morte per forza e ferute dogliose   →
nel prossimo si danno, e nel suo avere
ruine, incendi e tollette dannose;
onde omicide e ciascun che mal �ere,
guastatori e predon, tutti tormenta
lo giron primo per diverse schiere.
Puote omo avere in sé man vïolenta   →
e ne’ suoi beni; e però nel secondo
giron convien che sanza pro si penta
qualunque priva sé del vostro mondo,
biscazza e fonde la sua facultade,
e piange là dov’ esser de’ giocondo.
Puossi far forza ne la deïtade,   →
col cor negando e bestemmiando quella,
e spregiando natura e sua bontade;
e però lo minor giron suggella
del segno suo e Soddoma e Caorsa
e chi, spregiando Dio col cor, favella.
La frode, ond’ ogne coscïenza è morsa,   →
può l’omo usare in colui che ’n lui �da

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e in quel che �danza non imborsa.
Questo modo di retro par ch’incida
pur lo vinco d’amor che fa natura;
onde nel cerchio secondo s’annida
ipocresia, lusinghe e chi a�attura,
falsità, ladroneccio e simonia,
ru�an, baratti e simile lordura.
Per l’altro modo quell’ amor s’oblia   →
che fa natura, e quel ch’è poi aggiunto,
di che la fede spezïal si cria;
onde nel cerchio minore, ov’ è ’l punto
de l’universo in su che Dite siede,
qualunque trade in etterno è consunto.”
E io: “Maestro, assai chiara procede   →
la tua ragione, e assai ben distingue
questo baràtro e ’l popol ch’e’ possiede.
Ma dimmi: quei de la palude pingue,
che mena il vento, e che batte la pioggia,
e che s’incontran con sì aspre lingue,
perché non dentro da la città roggia
sono ei puniti, se Dio li ha in ira?
e se non li ha, perché sono a tal foggia?”
Ed elli a me “Perché tanto delira,”   →
disse, “lo ’ngegno tuo da quel che sòle?
o ver la mente dove altrove mira?
Non ti rimembra di quelle parole
con le quai la tua Etica pertratta
le tre disposizion che ’l ciel non vole,

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incontenenza, malizia e la matta
bestialitade? e come incontenenza
men Dio o�ende e men biasimo accatta?
Se tu riguardi ben questa sentenza,
e rechiti a la mente chi son quelli
che sù di fuor sostegnon penitenza,
tu vedrai ben perché da questi felli
sien dipartiti, e perché men crucciata
la divina vendetta li martelli.”
“O sol che sani ogne vista turbata,   →
tu mi contenti sì quando tu solvi,
che, non men che saver, dubbiar m’aggrata.
Ancora in dietro un poco ti rivolvi,”
diss’ io, “là dove di’ ch’usura o�ende
la divina bontade, e ’l groppo solvi.”
“Filoso�a,” mi disse, “a chi la ’ntende,   →
nota, non pure in una sola parte,
come natura lo suo corso prende
dal divino ’ntelletto e da sua arte;
e se tu ben la tua Fisica note,
tu troverai, non dopo molte carte,
che l’arte vostra quella, quanto pote,
segue, come ’l maestro fa ’l discente;
sì che vostr’ arte a Dio quasi è nepote.
Da queste due, se tu ti rechi a mente
lo Genesì dal principio, convene
prender sua vita e avanzar la gente;
e perché l’usuriere altra via tene,

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per sé natura e per la sua seguace
dispregia, poi ch’in altro pon la spene.
Ma seguimi oramai che ’l gir mi piace;   →
ché i Pesci guizzan su per l’orizzonta,
e ’l Carro tutto sovra ’l Coro giace,
e ’l balzo via là oltra si dismonta.”

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INFERNO XII
Era lo loco ov’ a scender la riva
venimmo, alpestro e, per quel che v’er’ anco,
tal, ch’ogne vista ne sarebbe schiva.
Qual è quella ruina che nel �anco   →
di qua da Trento l’Adice percosse,
o per tremoto o per sostegno manco,
che da cima del monte, onde si mosse,
al piano è sì la roccia discoscesa,
ch’alcuna via darebbe a chi sù fosse:
cotal di quel burrato era la scesa;
e ’n su la punta de la rotta lacca
l’infamïa di Creti era distesa   →
che fu concetta ne la falsa vacca;
e quando vide noi, sé stesso morse,
sì come quei cui l’ira dentro �acca.
Lo savio mio inver’ lui gridò: “Forse   →
tu credi che qui sia ’l duca d’Atene,
che sù nel mondo la morte ti porse?
Pàrtiti, bestia, ché questi non vene
ammaestrato da la tua sorella,
ma vassi per veder le vostre pene.”
Qual è quel toro che si slaccia in quella   →
c’ha ricevuto già ’l colpo mortale,
che gir non sa, ma qua e là saltella,
vid’ io lo Minotauro far cotale;

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e quello accorto gridò: “Corri al varco;
mentre ch’e’ ’nfuria, è buon che tu ti cale.”
Così prendemmo via giù per lo scarco   →
di quelle pietre, che spesso moviensi
sotto i miei piedi per lo novo carco.
Io gia pensando; e quei disse: “Tu pensi
forse a questa ruina, ch’è guardata   →
da quell’ ira bestial ch’i’ ora spensi.   →
Or vo’ che sappi che l’altra fïata   →
ch’i’ discesi qua giù nel basso inferno,
questa roccia non era ancor cascata.
Ma certo poco pria, se ben discerno,
che venisse colui che la gran preda
levò a Dite del cerchio superno,   →
da tutte parti l’alta valle feda   →
tremò sì, ch’i’ pensai che l’universo
sentisse amor, per lo qual è chi creda
più volte il mondo in caòsso converso;
e in quel punto questa vecchia roccia,
qui e altrove, tal fece riverso.
Ma �cca li occhi a valle, ché s’approccia
la riviera del sangue in la qual bolle
qual che per vïolenza in altrui noccia.”   →
Oh cieca cupidigia e ira folle,   →
che sì ci sproni ne la vita corta,
e ne l’etterna poi sì mal c’immolle!
Io vidi un’ampia fossa in arco torta,
come quella che tutto ’l piano abbraccia,

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secondo ch’avea detto la mia scorta;
e tra ’l piè de la ripa ed essa, in traccia
corrien centauri, armati di saette,   →
come solien nel mondo andare a caccia.
Veggendoci calar, ciascun ristette,   →
e de la schiera tre si dipartiro
con archi e asticciuole prima elette;
e l’un gridò da lungi: “A qual martiro
venite voi che scendete la costa?
Ditel costinci; se non, l’arco tiro.”
Lo mio maestro disse: “La risposta   →
farem noi a Chirón costà di presso:
mal fu la voglia tua sempre sì tosta.”
Poi mi tentò, e disse: “Quelli è Nesso,   →
che morì per la bella Deianira,
e fé di sé la vendetta elli stesso.
E quel di mezzo, ch’al petto si mira,   →
è il gran Chirón, il qual nodrì Achille;
quell’ altro è Folo, che fu sì pien d’ira.   →
Dintorno al fosso vanno a mille a mille,
saettando qual anima si svelle
del sangue più che sua colpa sortille.”   →
Noi ci appressammo a quelle �ere isnelle:   →
Chirón prese uno strale, e con la cocca
fece la barba in dietro a le mascelle.
Quando s’ebbe scoperta la gran bocca,
disse a’ compagni: “Siete voi accorti
che quel di retro move ciò ch’el tocca?

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Così non soglion far li piè d’i morti.”
E ’l mio buon duca, che già li er’ al petto,
dove le due nature son consorti,
rispuose: “Ben è vivo, e sì soletto
mostrar li mi convien la valle buia;
necessità ’l ci ’nduce, e non diletto.
Tal si partì da cantare alleluia   →
che mi commise quest’ o�cio novo:
non è ladron, né io anima fuia.
Ma per quella virtù per cu’ io movo
li passi miei per sì selvaggia strada,
danne un de’ tuoi, a cui noi siamo a provo,   →
e che ne mostri là dove si guada,
e che porti costui in su la groppa,
ché non è spirto che per l’aere vada.”
Chirón si volse in su la destra poppa,   →
e disse a Nesso: “Torna, e sì li guida,
e fa cansar s’altra schiera v’intoppa.”
Or ci movemmo con la scorta �da
lungo la proda del bollor vermiglio,
dove i bolliti facieno alte strida.
Io vidi gente sotto in�no al ciglio;
e ’l gran centauro disse: “E’ son tiranni   →
che dier nel sangue e ne l’aver di piglio.
Quivi si piangon li spietati danni;   →
quivi è Alessandro, e Dïonisio fero
che fé Cicilia aver dolorosi anni.
E quella fronte c’ha ’l pel così nero,

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è Azzolino; e quell’ altro ch’è biondo,
è Opizzo da Esti, il qual per vero
fu spento dal �gliastro sù nel mondo.”
Allor mi volsi al poeta, e quei disse:
“Questi ti sia or primo, e io secondo.”   →
Poco più oltre il centauro s’a�sse
sovr’ una gente che ’n�no a la gola   →
parea che di quel bulicame uscisse.
Mostrocci un’ombra da l’un canto sola,
dicendo: “Colui fesse in grembo a Dio
lo cor che ’n su Tamisi ancor si cola.”
Poi vidi gente che di fuor del rio   →
tenean la testa e ancor tutto ’l casso;
e di costoro assai riconobb’ io.
Così a più a più si facea basso   →
quel sangue, sì che cocea pur li piedi;
e quindi fu del fosso il nostro passo.   →
“Sì come tu da questa parte vedi   →
lo bulicame che sempre si scema,”
disse ’l centauro, “voglio che tu credi
che da quest’ altra a più a più giù prema
lo fondo suo, in�n ch’el si raggiunge
ove la tirannia convien che gema.
La divina giustizia di qua punge   →
quell’ Attila che fu �agello in terra,
e Pirro e Sesto; e in etterno munge
le lagrime, che col bollor diserra,   →
a Rinier da Corneto, a Rinier Pazzo,

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che fecero a le strade tanta guerra.”
Poi si rivolse e ripassossi ’l guazzo.   →

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INFERNO XIII
Non era ancor di là Nesso arrivato,   →
quando noi ci mettemmo per un bosco
che da neun sentiero era segnato.
Non fronda verde, ma di color fosco;   →
non rami schietti, ma nodosi e ’nvolti;
non pomi v’eran, ma stecchi con tòsco.
Non han sì aspri sterpi né sì folti
quelle �ere selvagge che ’n odio hanno
tra Cecina e Corneto i luoghi cólti.
Quivi le brutte Arpie lor nidi fanno,   →
che cacciar de le Strofade i Troiani
con tristo annunzio di futuro danno.
Ali hanno late, e colli e visi umani,
piè con artigli, e pennuto ’l gran ventre;
fanno lamenti in su li alberi strani.
E ’l buon maestro “Prima che più entre,
sappi che se’ nel secondo girone,”
mi cominciò a dire, “e sarai mentre
che tu verrai ne l’orribil sabbione.
Però riguarda ben; sì vederai   →
cose che torrien fede al mio sermone.”
Io sentia d’ogne parte trarre guai
e non vedea persona che ’l facesse;
per ch’io tutto smarrito m’arrestai.   →
Cred’ ïo ch’ei credette ch’io credesse   →

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che tante voci uscisser, tra quei bronchi,
da gente che per noi si nascondesse.
Però disse ’l maestro: “Se tu tronchi
qualche fraschetta d’una d’este piante,
li pensier c’hai si faran tutti monchi.”
Allor porsi la mano un poco avante   →
e colsi un ramicel da un gran pruno;
e ’l tronco suo gridò: “Perché mi schiante?”
Da che fatto fu poi di sangue bruno,
ricominciò a dir: “Perché mi scerpi?
non hai tu spirto di pietade alcuno?
Uomini fummo, e or siam fatti sterpi:
ben dovrebb’ esser la tua man più pia,
se state fossimo anime di serpi.”
Come d’un stizzo verde ch’arso sia   →
da l’un de’ capi, che da l’altro geme
e cigola per vento che va via,
sì de la scheggia rotta usciva insieme
parole e sangue; ond’ io lasciai la cima
cadere, e stetti come l’uom che teme.
“S’elli avesse potuto creder prima,”   →
rispuose ’l savio mio, “anima lesa,
ciò c’ha veduto pur con la mia rima,
non averebbe in te la man distesa;
ma la cosa incredibile mi fece
indurlo ad ovra ch’a me stesso pesa.
Ma dilli chi tu fosti, si che ’n vece   →
d’alcun’ ammenda tua fama rinfreschi

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nel mondo sù, dove tornar li lece.”
E ’l tronco: “Si col dolce dir m’adeschi,   →
ch’i’ non posso tacere; e voi non gravi
perch’ ïo un poco a ragionar m’inveschi.
Io son colui che tenni ambo le chiavi   →
del cor di Federigo, e che le volsi,
serrando e diserrando, sì soavi,
che dal secreto suo quasi ogn’ uom tolsi;
fede portai al glorïoso o�zio,
tanto ch’i’ ne perde’ li sonni e ’ polsi.
La meretrice che mai da l’ospizio   →
di Cesare non torse li occhi putti,
morte comune e de le corti vizio,
in�ammò contra me li animi tutti;
e li ’n�ammati in�ammar sì Augusto,   →
che ’ lieti onor tornaro in tristi lutti.
L’animo mio, per disdegnoso gusto,   →
credendo col morir fuggir disdegno,
ingiusto fece me contra me giusto.
Per le nove radici d’esto legno   →
vi giuro che già mai non ruppi fede
al mio segnor, che fu d’onor sì degno.
E se di voi alcun nel mondo riede,
conforti la memoria mia, che giace
ancor del colpo che ’nvidia le diede.”
Un poco attese, e poi “Da ch’el si tace,”
disse ’l poeta a me, “non perder l’ora;
ma parla, e chiedi a lui, se più ti piace.”

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Ond’ ïo a lui: “Domandal tu ancora   →
di quel che credi ch’a me satisfaccia;
ch’i’ non potrei, tanta pietà m’accora.”
Perciò ricominciò: “Se l’om ti faccia
liberamente ciò che ’l tuo dir priega,
spirito incarcerato, ancor ti piaccia
di dirne come l’anima si lega
in questi nocchi; e dinne, se tu puoi,
s’alcuna mai di tai membra si spiega.”
Allor so�ò il tronco forte, e poi
si convertì quel vento in cotal voce:
“Brievemente sarà risposto a voi.
Quando si parte l’anima feroce
dal corpo ond’ ella stessa s’è disvelta,
Minòs la manda a la settima foce.
Cade in la selva, e non l’è parte scelta;
ma là dove fortuna la balestra,
quivi germoglia come gran di spelta.
Surge in vermena e in pianta silvestra:
l’Arpie, pascendo poi de le sue foglie,
fanno dolore, e al dolor fenestra.
Come l’altre verrem per nostre spoglie,
ma non però ch’alcuna sen rivesta,
ché non è giusto aver ciò ch’om si toglie.
Qui le strascineremo, e per la mesta
selva saranno i nostri corpi appesi,
ciascuno al prun de l’ombra sua molesta.”
Noi eravamo ancora al tronco attesi,   →

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credendo ch’altro ne volesse dire,
quando noi fummo d’un romor sorpresi,
similemente a colui che venire
sente ’l porco e la caccia a la sua posta,
ch’ode le bestie, e le frasche stormire.
Ed ecco due da la sinistra costa,
nudi e gra�ati, fuggendo sì forte,
che de la selva rompieno ogne rosta.
Quel dinanzi: “Or accorri, accorri, morte!”
E l’altro, cui pareva tardar troppo,
gridava: “Lano, sì non furo accorte
le gambe tue a le giostre dal Toppo!”
E poi che forse li fallia la lena,
di sé e d’un cespuglio fece un groppo.
Di rietro a loro era la selva piena
di nere cagne, bramose e correnti
come veltri ch’uscisser di catena.
In quel che s’appiattò miser li denti,
e quel dilaceraro a brano a brano;
poi sen portar quelle membra dolenti.
Presemi allor la mia scorta per mano,   →
e menommi al cespuglio che piangea
per le rotture sanguinenti in vano.
“O Iacopo,” dicea, “da Santo Andrea,
che t’è giovato di me fare schermo?
che colpa ho io de la tua vita rea?”
Quando ’l maestro fu sovr’ esso fermo,
disse: “Chi fosti, che per tante punte

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so� con sangue doloroso sermo?”
Ed elli a noi: “O anime che giunte   →
siete a veder lo strazio disonesto
c’ha le mie fronde sì da me disgiunte,
raccoglietele al piè del tristo cesto.
I’ fui de la città che nel Batista
mutò ’l primo padrone; ond’ ei per questo
sempre con l’arte sua la farà trista;
e se non fosse che ’n sul passo d’Arno
rimane ancor di lui alcuna vista,
que’ cittadin che poi la rifondarno
sovra ’l cener che d’Attila rimase,
avrebber fatto lavorare indarno.
Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case.”

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INFERNO XIV
Poi che la carità del natio loco   →
mi strinse, raunai le fronde sparte
e rende’le a colui, ch’era già �oco.
Indi venimmo al �ne ove si parte   →
lo secondo giron dal terzo, e dove
si vede di giustizia orribil arte.
A ben manifestar le cose nove,   →
dico che arrivammo ad una landa
che dal suo letto ogne pianta rimove.
La dolorosa selva l’è ghirlanda
intorno, come ’l fosso tristo ad essa;
quivi fermammo i passi a randa a randa.
Lo spazzo era una rena arida e spessa,
non d’altra foggia fatta che colei   →
che fu da’ piè di Caton già soppressa.
O vendetta di Dio, quanto tu dei
esser temuta da ciascun che legge
ciò che fu manifesto a li occhi mei!
D’anime nude vidi molte gregge   →
che piangean tutte assai miseramente,
e parea posta lor diversa legge.
Supin giacea in terra alcuna gente,
alcuna si sedea tutta raccolta,
e altra andava continüamente.
Quella che giva ’ntorno era più molta,

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e quella men che giacëa al tormento,
ma più al duolo avea la lingua sciolta.
Sovra tutto ’l sabbion, d’un cader lento,   →
piovean di foco dilatate falde,
come di neve in alpe sanza vento.   →
Quali Alessandro in quelle parti calde   →
d’Indïa vide sopra ’l süo stuolo
�amme cadere in�no a terra salde,
per ch’ei provide a scalpitar lo suolo
con le sue schiere, acciò che lo vapore
mei si stingueva mentre ch’era solo:
tale scendeva l’etternale ardore;
onde la rena s’accendea, com’ esca
sotto focile, a doppiar lo dolore.
Sanza riposo mai era la tresca   →
de le misere mani, or quindi or quinci
escotendo da sé l’arsura fresca.
I’ cominciai: “Maestro, tu che vinci   →
tutte le cose, fuor che ’ demon duri
ch’a l’intrar de la porta incontra uscinci,
chi è quel grande che non par che curi   →
lo ’ncendio e giace dispettoso e torto,
sì che la pioggia non par che ’l marturi?”
E quel medesmo, che si fu accorto   →
ch’io domandava il mio duca di lui,
gridò: “Qual io fui vivo, tal son morto.   →
Se Giove stanchi ’l suo fabbro da cui
crucciato prese la folgore aguta

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onde l’ultimo dì percosso fui;
o s’elli stanchi li altri a muta a muta
in Mongibello a la focina negra,
chiamando ‘Buon Vulcano, aiuta, aiuta!’
sì com’ el fece a la pugna di Flegra,
e me saetti con tutta sua forza:
non ne potrebbe aver vendetta allegra.”
Allora il duca mio parlò di forza   →
tanto, ch’i’ non l’avea sì forte udito:
“O Capaneo, in ciò che non s’ammorza
la tua superbia, se’ tu più punito;
nullo martiro, fuor che la tua rabbia,
sarebbe al tuo furor dolor compito.”
Poi si rivolse a me con miglior labbia,
dicendo: “Quei fu l’un d’i sette regi
ch’assiser Tebe; ed ebbe e par ch’elli abbia   →
Dio in disdegno, e poco par che ’l pregi;
ma, com’ io dissi lui, li suoi dispetti
sono al suo petto assai debiti fregi.
Or mi vien dietro, e guarda che non metti,
ancor, li piedi ne la rena arsiccia;
ma sempre al bosco tien li piedi stretti.”
Tacendo divenimmo là ’ve spiccia   →
fuor de la selva un picciol �umicello,
lo cui rossore ancor mi raccapriccia.
Quale del Bulicame esce ruscello
che parton poi tra lor le peccatrici,
tal per la rena giù sen giva quello.

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Lo fondo suo e ambo le pendici
fatt’ era ’n pietra, e ’ margini da lato;
per ch’io m’accorsi che ’l passo era lici.
“Tra tutto l’altro ch’i’ t’ho dimostrato,
poscia che noi intrammo per la porta
lo cui sogliare a nessuno è negato,
cosa non fu da li tuoi occhi scorta
notabile com’ è ’l presente rio,
che sovra sé tutte �ammelle ammorta.”
Queste parole fuor del duca mio;
per ch’io ’l pregai che mi largisse ’l pasto
di cui largito m’avëa il disio.
“In mezzo mar siede un paese guasto,”   →   →
diss’ elli allora, “che s’appella Creta,
sotto ’l cui rege fu già ’l mondo casto.
Una montagna v’è che già fu lieta
d’acqua e di fronde, che si chiamò Ida;
or è diserta come cosa vieta.
Rëa la scelse già per cuna �da
del suo �gliuolo, e per celarlo meglio,
quando piangea, vi facea far le grida.
Dentro dal monte sta dritto un gran veglio,   →
che tien volte le spalle inver’ Dammiata
e Roma guarda come süo speglio.
La sua testa è di �n oro formata,
e puro argento son le braccia e ’l petto,
poi è di rame in�no a la forcata;
da indi in giuso è tutto ferro eletto,

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salvo che ’l destro piede è terra cotta;
e sta ’n su quel, più che ’n su l’altro, eretto.
Ciascuna parte, fuor che l’oro, è rotta   →
d’una fessura che lagrime goccia,
le quali, accolte, fóran quella grotta.
Lor corso in questa valle si diroccia;   →
fanno Acheronte, Stige e Flegetonta;
poi sen van giù per questa stretta doccia,
in�n, là ove più non si dismonta,
fanno Cocito; e qual sia quello stagno
tu lo vedrai, però qui non si conta.”
E io a lui: “Se ’l presente rigagno
si diriva così dal nostro mondo,
perché ci appar pur a questo vivagno?”
Ed elli a me: “Tu sai che ’l loco è tondo;
e tutto che tu sie venuto molto,
pur a sinistra, giù calando al fondo,
non se’ ancor per tutto ’l cerchio vòlto;
per che, se cosa n’apparisce nova,
non de’ addur maraviglia al tuo volto.”
E io ancor: “Maestro, ove si trova   →
Flegetonta e Letè? ché de l’un taci,
e l’altro di’ che si fa d’esta piova.”
“In tutte tue question certo mi piaci,”
rispuose, “ma ’l bollor de l’acqua rossa
dovea ben solver l’una che tu faci.
Letè vedrai, ma fuor di questa fossa,
là dove vanno l’anime a lavarsi

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quando la colpa pentuta è rimossa.”
Poi disse: “Omai è tempo da scostarsi   →
dal bosco; fa che di retro a me vegne:
li margini fan via, che non son arsi,
e sopra loro ogne vapor si spegne.”

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INFERNO XV
Ora cen porta l’un de’ duri margini;   →
e ’l fummo del ruscel di sopra aduggia,
sì che dal foco salva l’acqua e li argini.
Quali Fiamminghi tra Guizzante e Bruggia,   →
temendo ’l �otto che ’nver’ lor s’avventa;
fanno lo schermo perché ’l mar si fuggia;
e quali Padoan lungo la Brenta,
per difender lor ville e lor castelli,
anzi che Carentana il caldo senta:
a tale imagine eran fatti quelli,
tutto che né sì alti né sì grossi,
qual che si fosse, lo maestro félli.
Già eravam da la selva rimossi   →
tanto, ch’i’ non avrei visto dov’ era,
perch’ io in dietro rivolto mi fossi,
quando incontrammo d’anime una schiera
che venian lungo l’argine, e ciascuna
ci riguardava come suol da sera
guardare uno altro sotto nuova luna;
e sì ver’ noi aguzzavan le ciglia
come ’l vecchio sartor fa ne la cruna.
Così adocchiato da cotal famiglia,
fui conosciuto da un, che mi prese   →
per lo lembo e gridò: “Qual maraviglia!”
E io, quando ’l suo braccio a me distese,
�ccaï li occhi per lo cotto aspetto,

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sì che ’l viso abbrusciato non difese
la conoscenza süa al mio ’ntelletto;   →
e chinando la mano a la sua faccia,
rispuosi: “Siete voi qui, ser Brunetto?”
E quelli: “O �gliuol mio, non ti dispiaccia
se Brunetto Latino un poco teco
ritorna ’n dietro e lascia andar la traccia.”
I’ dissi lui: “Quanto posso, ven preco;
e se volete che con voi m’asseggia,
faròl, se piace a costui che vo seco.”
“O �gliuol,” disse, “qual di questa greggia
s’arresta punto, giace poi cent’ anni
sanz’ arrostarsi quando ’l foco il feggia.
Però va oltre: i’ ti verrò a’ panni;
e poi rigiugnerò la mia masnada,
che va piangendo i suoi etterni danni.”
Io non osava scender de la strada
per andar par di lui; ma ’l capo chino
tenea com’ uom che reverente vada.
El cominciò: “Qual fortuna o destino
anzi l’ultimo dì qua giù ti mena?
e chi è questi che mostra ’l cammino?”   →
“Là sù di sopra, in la vita serena,”
rispuos’ io lui, “mi smarri’ in una valle,   →
avanti che l’età mia fosse piena.
Pur ier mattina le volsi le spalle:
questi m’apparve, tornand’ïo in quella,
e reducemi a ca per questo calle.”   →

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Ed elli a me: “Se tu segui tua stella,   →
non puoi fallire a glorïoso porto,
se ben m’accorsi ne la vita bella;
e s’io non fossi sì per tempo morto,   →
veggendo il cielo a te così benigno,
dato t’avrei a l’opera conforto.
Ma quello ingrato popolo maligno   →
che discese di Fiesole ab antico,
e tiene ancor del monte e del macigno,
ti si farà, per tuo ben far, nimico;
ed è ragion, ché tra li lazzi sorbi
si disconvien fruttare al dolce �co.
Vecchia fama nel mondo li chiama orbi;
gent’ è avara, invidiosa e superba:
dai lor costumi fa che tu ti forbi.
La tua fortuna tanto onor ti serba,
che l’una parte e l’altra avranno fame
di te; ma lungi �a dal becco l’erba.
Faccian le bestie �esolane strame
di lor medesme, e non tocchin la pianta,
s’alcuna surge ancora in lor letame,
in cui riviva la sementa santa
di que’ Roman che vi rimaser quando
fu fatto il nido di malizia tanta.”
“Se fosse tutto pieno il mio dimando,”
rispuos’ io lui, “voi non sareste ancora
de l’umana natura posto in bando;
ché ’n la mente m’è �tta, e or m’accora,

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la cara e buona imagine paterna   →
di voi quando nel mondo ad ora ad ora
m’insegnavate come l’uom s’etterna:
e quant’ io l’abbia in grado, mentr’ io vivo
convien che ne la mia lingua si scerna.
Ciò che narrate di mio corso scrivo,   →
e serbolo a chiosar con altro testo
a donna che saprà, s’a lei arrivo.
Tanto vogl’ io che vi sia manifesto,   →
pur che mia coscïenza non mi garra,
ch’a la Fortuna, come vuol, son presto.
Non è nuova a li orecchi miei tal arra:
però giri Fortuna la sua rota   →
come le piace, e ’l villan la sua marra.”
Lo mio maestro allora in su la gota
destra si volse in dietro e riguardommi;
poi disse: “Bene ascolta chi la nota.”   →
Né per tanto di men parlando vommi
con ser Brunetto, e dimando chi sono
li suoi compagni più noti e più sommi.
Ed elli a me: “Saper d’alcuno è buono;
de li altri �a laudabile tacerci,
ché ’l tempo saria corto a tanto suono.
In somma sappi che tutti fur cherci   →
e litterati grandi e di gran fama,
d’un peccato medesmo al mondo lerci.
Priscian sen va con quella turba grama,
e Francesco d’Accorso anche; e vedervi,

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s’avessi avuto di tal tigna brama,
colui potei che dal servo de’ servi
fu trasmutato d’Arno in Bacchiglione,
dove lasciò li mal protesi nervi.
Di più direi; ma ’l venire e ’l sermone
più lungo esser non può, però ch’i’ veggio
là surger nuovo fummo del sabbione.
Gente vien con la quale esser non deggio.   →
Sieti raccomandato il mio Tesoro,   →
nel qual io vivo ancora, e più non cheggio.”
Poi si rivolse e parve di coloro   →
che corrono a Verona il drappo verde
per la campagna; e parve di costoro
quelli che vince, non colui che perde.

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INFERNO XVI
Già era in loco onde s’udia ’l rimbombo   →
de l’acqua che cadea ne l’altro giro,
simile a quel che l’arnie fanno rombo,
quando tre ombre insieme si partiro,
correndo, d’una torma che passava
sotto la pioggia de l’aspro martiro.
Venian ver’ noi, e ciascuna gridava:
“Sòstati tu ch’a l’abito ne sembri
essere alcun di nostra terra prava.”
Ahimè, che piaghe vidi ne’ lor membri,
ricenti e vecchie, da le �amme incese!
Ancor men duol pur ch’i’ me ne rimembri.
A le lor grida il mio dottor s’attese;
volse ’l viso ver’ me, e “Or aspetta,”
disse, “a costor si vuole esser cortese.   →
E se non fosse il foco che saetta
la natura del loco, i’ dicerei
che meglio stesse a te che a lor la fretta.”
Ricominciar, come noi restammo, ei   →
l’antico verso; e quando a noi fuor giunti,
fenno una rota di sé tutti e trei.
Qual sogliono i campion far nudi e unti,
avvisando lor presa e lor vantaggio,
prima che sien tra lor battuti e punti,
così rotando, ciascuno il visaggio

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drizzava a me, sì che ’n contraro il collo
faceva ai piè continüo vïaggio.
E “Se miseria d’esto loco sollo   →
rende in dispetto noi e nostri prieghi,”
cominciò l’uno, “e ’l tinto aspetto e brollo,
la fama nostra il tuo animo pieghi
a dirne chi tu se’, che i vivi piedi
così sicuro per lo ’nferno freghi.
Questi, l’orme di cui pestar mi vedi,
tutto che nudo e dipelato vada,
fu di grado maggior che tu non credi:
nepote fu de la buona Gualdrada;
Guido Guerra ebbe nome, e in sua vita
fece col senno assai e con la spada.
L’altro, ch’appresso me la rena trita,
è Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, la cui voce
nel mondo sù dovria esser gradita.
E io, che posto son con loro in croce,
Iacopo Rusticucci fui, e certo
la �era moglie più ch’altro mi nuoce.”
S’i’ fossi stato dal foco coperto,   →
gittato mi sarei tra lor di sotto,
e credo che ’l dottor l’avria so�erto;
ma perch’ io mi sarei brusciato e cotto,
vinse paura la mia buona voglia
che di loro abbracciar mi facea ghiotto.
Poi cominciai: “Non dispetto, ma doglia
la vostra condizion dentro mi �sse,

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tanta che tardi tutta si dispoglia,
tosto che questo mio segnor mi disse
parole per le quali i’ mi pensai
che qual voi siete, tal gente venisse.
Di vostra terra sono, e sempre mai   →
l’ovra di voi e li onorati nomi
con a�ezion ritrassi e ascoltai.
Lascio lo fele e vo per dolci pomi
promessi a me per lo verace duca;
ma ’n�no al centro pria convien ch’i’ tomi.”
“Se lungamente l’anima conduca   →
le membra tue,” rispuose quelli ancora,
“e se la fama tua dopo te luca,
cortesia e valor dì se dimora
ne la nostra città sì come suole,
o se del tutto se n’è gita fora;
ché Guiglielmo Borsiere, il qual si duole
con noi per poco e va là coi compagni,
assai ne cruccia con le sue parole.”
“La gente nuova e i sùbiti guadagni   →
orgoglio e dismisura han generata,
Fiorenza, in te, sì che tu già ten piagni.”
Così gridai con la faccia levata;   →
e i tre, che ciò inteser per risposta,
guardar l’un l’altro com’ al ver si guata.
“Se l’altre volte sì poco ti costa,”
rispuoser tutti, “il satisfare altrui,
felice te se sì parli a tua posta!

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Però, se campi d’esti luoghi bui   →
e torni a riveder le belle stelle,
quando ti gioverà dicere ‘I’ fui,’
fa che di noi a la gente favelle.”
Indi rupper la rota, e a fuggirsi
ali sembiar le gambe loro isnelle.
Un amen non saria possuto dirsi   →
tosto così com’ e’ fuoro spariti;
per ch’al maestro parve di partirsi.
Io lo seguiva, e poco eravam iti,   →
che ’l suon de l’acqua n’era sì vicino,
che per parlar saremmo a pena uditi.
Come quel �ume c’ha proprio cammino   →
prima dal Monte Viso ’nver’ levante,
da la sinistra costa d’Apennino,
che si chiama Acquacheta suso, avante
che si divalli giù nel basso letto,
e a Forlì di quel nome è vacante,
rimbomba là sovra San Benedetto
de l’Alpe per cadere ad una scesa
ove dovea per mille esser recetto;
così, giù d’una ripa discoscesa,
trovammo risonar quell’ acqua tinta,
sì che ’n poc’ ora avria l’orecchia o�esa.
Io avea una corda intorno cinta,   →
e con essa pensai alcuna volta
prender la lonza a la pelle dipinta.
Poscia ch’io l’ebbi tutta da me sciolta,   →

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sì come ’l duca m’avea comandato,
porsila a lui aggroppata e ravvolta.
Ond’ ei si volse inver’ lo destro lato,
e alquanto di lunge da la sponda
la gittò giuso in quell’ alto burrato.
“E’ pur convien che novità risponda,”   →
dicea fra me medesmo, “al novo cenno
che ’l maestro con l’occhio sì seconda.”
Ahi quanto cauti li uomini esser dienno
presso a color che non veggion pur l’ovra,
ma per entro i pensier miran col senno!
El disse a me: “Tosto verrà di sovra
ciò ch’io attendo e che il tuo pensier sogna;
tosto convien ch’al tuo viso si scovra.”
Sempre a quel ver c’ha faccia di menzogna   →
de’ l’uom chiuder le labbra �n ch’el puote,
però che sanza colpa fa vergogna;
ma qui tacer nol posso; e per le note
di questa comedìa, lettor, ti giuro,
s’elle non sien di lunga grazia vòte,
ch’i’ vidi per quell’ aere grosso e scuro
venir notando una �gura in suso,
maravigliosa ad ogne cor sicuro,
sì come torna colui che va giuso   →
talora a solver l’àncora ch’aggrappa
o scoglio o altro che nel mare è chiuso,
che ’n sù si stende e da piè si rattrappa.

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INFERNO XVII
“Ecco la �era con la coda aguzza,   →
che passa i monti e rompe i muri e l’armi!
Ecco colei che tutto ’l mondo appuzza!”
Sì cominciò lo mio duca a parlarmi;
e accennolle che venisse a proda,
vicino al �n d’i passeggiati marmi.
E quella sozza imagine di froda
sen venne, e arrivò la testa e ’l busto,
ma ’n su la riva non trasse la coda.
La faccia sua era faccia d’uom giusto,   →
tanto benigna avea di fuor la pelle,
e d’un serpente tutto l’altro fusto;
due branche avea pilose insin l’ascelle;
lo dosso e ’l petto e ambedue le coste   →
dipinti avea di nodi e di rotelle.
Con più color, sommesse e sovraposte
non fer mai drappi Tartari né Turchi,
né fuor tai tele per Aragne imposte.
Come talvolta stanno a riva i burchi,   →
che parte sono in acqua e parte in terra,
e come là tra li Tedeschi lurchi
lo bivero s’assetta a far sua guerra,
così la �era pessima si stava
su l’orlo ch’è di pietra e ’l sabbion serra.
Nel vano tutta sua coda guizzava,

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torcendo in sù la venenosa forca
ch’a guisa di scorpion la punta armava.
Lo duca disse: “Or convien che si torca   →
la nostra via un poco insino a quella
bestia malvagia che colà si corca.”
Però scendemmo a la destra mammella,
e diece passi femmo in su lo stremo,
per ben cessar la rena e la �ammella.
E quando noi a lei venuti semo,
poco più oltre veggio in su la rena
gente seder propinqua al loco scemo.
Quivi ’l maestro “Acciò che tutta piena   →
esperïenza d’esto giron porti,”
mi disse, “va, e vedi la lor mena.
Li tuoi ragionamenti sian là corti;
mentre che torni, parlerò con questa,
che ne conceda i suoi omeri forti.”
Così ancor su per la strema testa
di quel settimo cerchio tutto solo
andai, dove sedea la gente mesta.   →
Per li occhi fora scoppiava lor duolo;
di qua, di là soccorrien con le mani
quando a’ vapori, e quando al caldo suolo:
non altrimenti fan di state i cani
or col ce�o or col piè, quando son morsi
o da pulci o da mosche o da tafani.
Poi che nel viso a certi li occhi porsi,
ne’ quali ’l doloroso foco casca,

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non ne conobbi alcun; ma io m’accorsi
che dal collo a ciascun pendea una tasca   →
ch’avea certo colore e certo segno,
e quindi par che ’l loro occhio si pasca.
E com’ io riguardando tra lor vegno,
in una borsa gialla vidi azzurro   →
che d’un leone avea faccia e contegno.
Poi, procedendo di mio sguardo il curro,
vidine un’altra come sangue rossa,   →
mostrando un’oca bianca più che burro.
E un che d’una scrofa azzurra e grossa   →
segnato avea lo suo sacchetto bianco,
mi disse: “Che fai tu in questa fossa?
Or te ne va; e perché se’ vivo anco,   →
sappi che ’l mio vicin Vitalïano
sederà qui dal mio sinistro �anco.
Con questi Fiorentin son padoano:
spesse fïate mi ’ntronan li orecchi
gridando: ‘Vegna ’l cavalier sovrano,   →
che recherà la tasca con tre becchi!’ ”
Qui distorse la bocca e di fuor trasse   →
la lingua, come bue che ’l naso lecchi.
E io, temendo no’l più star crucciasse
lui che di poco star m’avea ’mmonito,
torna’mi in dietro da l’anime lasse.
Trova’ il duca mio ch’era salito
già su la groppa del �ero animale,
e disse a me: “Or sie forte e ardito.

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Omai si scende per sì fatte scale;   →
monta dinanzi, ch’i’ voglio esser mezzo,
sì che la coda non possa far male.”
Qual è colui che sì presso ha ’l riprezzo
de la quartana, c’ha già l’unghie smorte,
e triema tutto pur guardando ’l rezzo,
tal divenn’ io a le parole porte;
ma vergogna mi fé le sue minacce,
che innanzi a buon segnor fa servo forte.
I’ m’assettai in su quelle spallacce;
sì volli dir, ma la voce non venne
com’ io credetti: “Fa che tu m’abbracce.”
Ma esso, ch’altra volta mi sovvenne
ad altro forse, tosto ch’i’ montai
con le braccia m’avvinse e mi sostenne;
e disse: “Gerïon, moviti omai:   →
le rote larghe, e lo scender sia poco;
pensa la nova soma che tu hai.”
Come la navicella esce di loco
in dietro in dietro, sì quindi si tolse;
e poi ch’al tutto si sentì a gioco,
là ’v’ era ’l petto, la coda rivolse,
e quella tesa, come anguilla, mosse,
e con le branche l’aere a sé raccolse.
Maggior paura non credo che fosse   →
quando Fetonte abbandonò li freni,
per che ’l ciel, come pare ancor, si cosse;
né quando Icaro misero le reni   →

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sentì spennar per la scaldata cera,
gridando il padre a lui “Mala via tieni!”
che fu la mia, quando vidi ch’i’ era
ne l’aere d’ogne parte, e vidi spenta
ogne veduta fuor che de la fera.
Ella sen va notando lenta lenta;   →
rota e discende, ma non me n’accorgo
se non che al viso e di sotto mi venta.
Io sentia già da la man destra il gorgo
far sotto noi un orribile scroscio,
per che con li occhi ’n giù la testa sporgo.
Allor fu’ io più timido a lo stoscio,
però ch’i’ vidi fuochi e senti’ pianti;
ond’ io tremando tutto mi raccoscio.
E vidi poi, ché nol vedea davanti,
lo scendere e ’l girar per li gran mali
che s’appressavan da diversi canti.
Come ’l falcon ch’è stato assai su l’ali,   →
che sanza veder logoro o uccello
fa dire al falconiere “Omè, tu cali!”
discende lasso onde si move isnello,
per cento rote, e da lunge si pone
dal suo maestro, disdegnoso e fello;
così ne puose al fondo Gerïone
al piè al piè de la stagliata rocca,
e, discarcate le nostre persone,
si dileguò come da corda cocca.

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INFERNO XVIII
Luogo è in inferno detto Malebolge,   →
tutto di pietra di color ferrigno,
come la cerchia che dintorno il volge.
Nel dritto mezzo del campo maligno
vaneggia un pozzo assai largo e profondo,
di cui suo loco dicerò l’ordigno.
Quel cinghio che rimane adunque è tondo
tra ’l pozzo e ’l piè de l’alta ripa dura,
e ha distinto in dieci valli il fondo.
Quale, dove per guardia de le mura
più e più fossi cingon li castelli,
la parte dove son rende �gura,
tale imagine quivi facean quelli;
e come a tai fortezze da’ lor sogli
a la ripa di fuor son ponticelli,
così da imo de la roccia scogli
movien che ricidien li argini e ’ fossi
in�no al pozzo che i tronca e raccogli.
In questo luogo, de la schiena scossi   →
di Gerïon, trovammoci; e ’l poeta
tenne a sinistra, e io dietro mi mossi.
A la man destra vidi nova pieta,   →
novo tormento e novi frustatori,
di che la prima bolgia era repleta.
Nel fondo erano ignudi i peccatori;

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dal mezzo in qua ci venien verso ’l volto,
di là con noi, ma con passi maggiori,
come i Roman per l’essercito molto,   →
l’anno del giubileo, su per lo ponte
hanno a passar la gente modo colto,
che da l’un lato tutti hanno la fronte
verso ’l castello e vanno a Santo Pietro,
da l’altra sponda vanno verso ’l monte.
Di qua, di là, su per lo sasso tetro
vidi demon cornuti con gran ferze,   →
che li battien crudelmente di retro.
Ahi come facean lor levar le berze
a le prime percosse! già nessuno
le seconde aspettava né le terze.
Mentr’ io andava, li occhi miei in uno
furo scontrati; e io sì tosto dissi:
“Già di veder costui non son digiuno.”
Per ch’ïo a �gurarlo i piedi a�ssi;
e ’l dolce duca meco si ristette,
e assentio ch’alquanto in dietro gissi.
E quel frustato celar si credette
bassando ’l viso; ma poco li valse,
ch’io dissi: “O tu che l’occhio a terra gette,
se le fazion che porti non son false,
Venedico se’ tu Caccianemico.   →
Ma che ti mena a sì pungenti salse?”
Ed elli a me: “Mal volontier lo dico;
ma sforzami la tua chiara favella,

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che mi fa sovvenir del mondo antico.
I’ fui colui che la Ghisolabella
condussi a far la voglia del marchese,
come che suoni la sconcia novella.
E non pur io qui piango bolognese;   →
anzi n’è questo loco tanto pieno,
che tante lingue non son ora apprese
a dicer ‘sipa’ tra Sàvena e Reno;
e se di ciò vuoi fede o testimonio,
rècati a mente il nostro avaro seno.”
Così parlando il percosse un demonio
de la sua scurïada, e disse: “Via,
ru�an! qui non son femmine da conio.”   →
I’ mi raggiunsi con la scorta mia;
poscia con pochi passi divenimmo
là ’v’ uno scoglio de la ripa uscia.
Assai leggeramente quel salimmo;
e vòlti a destra su per la sua scheggia,
da quelle cerchie etterne ci partimmo.   →
Quando noi fummo là dov’ el vaneggia   →
di sotto per dar passo a li sferzati,
lo duca disse: “Attienti, e fa che feggia
lo viso in te di quest’ altri mal nati,
ai quali ancor non vedesti la faccia
però che son con noi insieme andati.”
Del vecchio ponte guardavam la traccia
che venìa verso noi da l’altra banda,
e che la ferza similmente scaccia.

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E ’l buon maestro, sanza mia dimanda,
mi disse: “Guarda quel grande che vene,   →
e per dolor non par lagrime spanda:
quanto aspetto reale ancor ritene!
Quelli è Iasón, che per cuore e per senno   →
li Colchi del monton privati féne.
Ello passò per l’isola di Lenno
poi che l’ardite femmine spietate
tutti li maschi loro a morte dienno.
Ivi con segni e con parole ornate
Isi�le ingannò, la giovinetta
che prima avea tutte l’altre ingannate.
Lasciolla quivi, gravida, soletta;
tal colpa a tal martiro lui condanna;
e anche di Medea si fa vendetta.
Con lui sen va chi da tal parte inganna;
e questo basti de la prima valle
sapere e di color che ’n sé assanna.”
Già eravam là ’ve lo stretto calle   →
con l’argine secondo s’incrocicchia,
e fa di quello ad un altr’ arco spalle.
Quindi sentimmo gente che si nicchia
ne l’altra bolgia e che col muso scu�a,
e sé medesma con le palme picchia.
Le ripe eran grommate d’una mu�a,
per l’alito di giù che vi s’appasta,
che con li occhi e col naso facea zu�a.
Lo fondo è cupo sì, che non ci basta

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loco a veder sanza montare al dosso
de l’arco, ove lo scoglio più sovrasta.
Quivi venimmo; e quindi giù nel fosso
vidi gente attu�ata in uno sterco
che da li uman privadi parea mosso.
E mentre ch’io là giù con l’occhio cerco,
vidi un col capo sì di merda lordo,
che non parëa s’era laico o cherco.
Quei mi sgridò: “Perché se’ tu sì gordo
di riguardar più me che li altri brutti?”
E io a lui: “Perché, se ben ricordo,
già t’ho veduto coi capelli asciutti,
e se’ Alessio Interminei da Lucca:   →
però t’adocchio più che li altri tutti.”
Ed elli allor, battendosi la zucca:
“Qua giù m’hanno sommerso le lusinghe
ond’ io non ebbi mai la lingua stucca.”
Appresso ciò lo duca “Fa che pinghe,”
mi disse, “il viso un poco più avante,
sì che la faccia ben con l’occhio attinghe
di quella sozza e scapigliata fante
che là si gra�a con l’unghie merdose,
e or s’accoscia e ora è in piedi stante.
Taïde è, la puttana che rispuose   →
al drudo suo quando disse ‘Ho io grazie
grandi apo te?’: ‘Anzi maravigliose!’
E quinci sian le nostre viste sazie.”

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INFERNO XIX
O Simon mago, o miseri seguaci   →
che le cose di Dio, che di bontate
deon essere spose, e voi rapaci
per oro e per argento avolterate,
or convien che per voi suoni la tromba,
però che ne la terza bolgia state.
Già eravamo, a la seguente tomba,
montati de lo scoglio in quella parte
ch’a punto sovra mezzo ’l fosso piomba.
O somma sapïenza, quanta è l’arte
che mostri in cielo, in terra e nel mal mondo,
e quanto giusto tua virtù comparte!
Io vidi per le coste e per lo fondo
piena la pietra livida di fóri,
d’un largo tutti e ciascun era tondo.
Non mi parean men ampi né maggiori   →
che que’ che son nel mio bel San Giovanni,
fatti per loco d’i battezzatori;
l’un de li quali, ancor non è molt’ anni,
rupp’ io per un che dentro v’annegava:
e questo sia suggel ch’ogn’ omo sganni.
Fuor de la bocca a ciascun soperchiava   →
d’un peccator li piedi e de le gambe
in�no al grosso, e l’altro dentro stava.
Le piante erano a tutti accese intrambe;   →

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per che sì forte guizzavan le giunte,
che spezzate averien ritorte e strambe.
Qual suole il �ammeggiar de le cose unte   →
muoversi pur su per la strema buccia,
tal era lì dai calcagni a le punte.
“Chi è colui, maestro, che si cruccia
guizzando più che li altri suoi consorti,”
diss’ io, “e cui più roggia �amma succia?”
Ed elli a me: “Se tu vuo’ ch’i’ ti porti
là giù per quella ripa che più giace,   →
da lui saprai di sé e de’ suoi torti.”
E io: “Tanto m’è bel, quanto a te piace:   →
tu se’ segnore, e sai ch’i’ non mi parto
dal tuo volere, e sai quel che si tace.”
Allor venimmo in su l’argine quarto;
volgemmo e discendemmo a mano stanca
là giù nel fondo foracchiato e arto.
Lo buon maestro ancor de la sua anca
non mi dipuose, sì mi giunse al rotto
di quel che si piangeva con la zanca.
“O qual che se’ che ’l di sù tien di sotto,   →
anima trista come pal commessa,”
comincia’ io a dir, “se puoi, fa motto.”
Io stava come ’l frate che confessa   →
lo per�do assessin, che, poi ch’è �tto,
richiama lui per che la morte cessa.
Ed el gridò: “Se’ tu già costì ritto,   →
se’ tu già costì ritto, Bonifazio?

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Di parecchi anni mi mentì lo scritto.   →
Se’ tu sì tosto di quell’ aver sazio
per lo qual non temesti tòrre a ’nganno
la bella donna, e poi di farne strazio?”   →
Tal mi fec’ io, quai son color che stanno,
per non intender ciò ch’è lor risposto,
quasi scornati, e risponder non sanno.
Allor Virgilio disse: “Dilli tosto:
‘Non son colui, non son colui che credi’ ”
e io rispuosi come a me fu imposto.
Per che lo spirto tutti storse i piedi;
poi, sospirando e con voce di pianto,
mi disse: “Dunque che a me richiedi?
Se di saper ch’i’ sia ti cal cotanto,
che tu abbi però la ripa corsa,
sappi ch’i’ fui vestito del gran manto;   →
e veramente fui �gliuol de l’orsa,
cupido sì per avanzar li orsatti,
che sù l’avere e qui me misi in borsa.
Di sotto al capo mio son li altri tratti
che precedetter me simoneggiando,
per le fessure de la pietra piatti.
Là giù cascherò io altresì quando
verrà colui ch’i’ credea che tu fossi,
allor ch’i’ feci ’l sùbito dimando.
Ma più è ’l tempo già che i piè mi cossi   →
e ch’i’ son stato così sottosopra,
ch’el non starà piantato coi piè rossi:

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ché dopo lui verrà di più laida opra,
di ver’ ponente, un pastor sanza legge,
tal che convien che lui e me ricuopra.
Nuovo Iasón sarà, di cui si legge
ne’ Maccabei; e come a quel fu molle
suo re, così �a lui chi Francia regge.”
Io non so s’i’ mi fui qui troppo folle,   →
ch’i’ pur rispuosi lui a questo metro:
“Deh, or mi dì: quanto tesoro volle   →
Nostro Segnore in prima da san Pietro
ch’ei ponesse le chiavi in sua balìa?
Certo non chiese se non ‘Viemmi retro.’
Né Pier né li altri tolsero a Matia
oro od argento, quando fu sortito
al loco che perdé l’anima ria.
Però ti sta, ché tu se’ ben punito;
e guarda ben la mal tolta moneta
ch’esser ti fece contra Carlo ardito.
E se non fosse ch’ancor lo mi vieta
la reverenza de le somme chiavi
che tu tenesti ne la vita lieta,
io userei parole ancor più gravi;
ché la vostra avarizia il mondo attrista,
calcando i buoni e sollevando i pravi.
Di voi pastor s’accorse il Vangelista,
quando colei che siede sopra l’acque
puttaneggiar coi regi a lui fu vista;
quella che con le sette teste nacque,

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e da le diece corna ebbe argomento,
�n che virtute al suo marito piacque.
Fatto v’avete dio d’oro e d’argento;
e che altro è da voi a l’idolatre,
se non ch’elli uno, e voi ne orate cento?
Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre,   →
non la tua conversion, ma quella dote
che da te prese il primo ricco patre!”
E mentr’ io li cantava cotai note,
o ira o coscïenza che ’l mordesse,
forte spingava con ambo le piote.
I’ credo ben ch’al mio duca piacesse,
con sì contenta labbia sempre attese
lo suon de le parole vere espresse.
Però con ambo le braccia mi prese;   →
e poi che tutto su mi s’ebbe al petto,
rimontò per la via onde discese.
Né si stancò d’avermi a sé distretto,
sì men portò sovra ’l colmo de l’arco   →
che dal quarto al quinto argine è tragetto.
Quivi soavemente spuose il carco,
soave per lo scoglio sconcio ed erto
che sarebbe a le capre duro varco.
Indi un altro vallon mi fu scoperto.

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INFERNO XX
Di nova pena mi conven far versi   →
e dar matera al ventesimo canto
de la prima canzon, ch’è d’i sommersi.
Io era già disposto tutto quanto   →
a riguardar ne lo scoperto fondo,
che si bagnava d’angoscioso pianto;
e vidi gente per lo vallon tondo
venir, tacendo e lagrimando, al passo
che fanno le letane in questo mondo.
Come ’l viso mi scese in lor più basso,   →
mirabilmente apparve esser travolto
ciascun tra ’l mento e ’l principio del casso,
ché da le reni era tornato ’l volto,   →
e in dietro venir li convenia,
perché ’l veder dinanzi era lor tolto.
Forse per forza già di parlasia
si travolse così alcun del tutto;
ma io nol vidi, né credo che sia.
Se Dio ti lasci, lettor, prender frutto   →
di tua lezione, or pensa per te stesso
com’ io potea tener lo viso asciutto,
quando la nostra imagine di presso
vidi sì torta, che ’l pianto de li occhi
le natiche bagnava per lo fesso.
Certo io piangea, poggiato a un de’ rocchi   →
del duro scoglio, sì che la mia scorta

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mi disse: “Ancor se’ tu de li altri sciocchi?
Qui vive la pietà quand’ è ben morta;   →
chi è più scellerato che colui
che al giudicio divin passion comporta?
Drizza la testa, drizza, e vedi a cui   →
s’aperse a li occhi d’i Teban la terra;
per ch’ei gridavan tutti: ‘Dove rui,
Anfïarao? perché lasci la guerra?’
E non restò di ruinare a valle
�no a Minòs che ciascheduno a�erra.
Mira c’ha fatto petto de le spalle;
perché volse veder troppo davante,
di retro guarda e fa retroso calle.
Vedi Tiresia, che mutò sembiante   →
quando di maschio femmina divenne,
cangiandosi le membra tutte quante;
e prima, poi, ribatter li convenne
li duo serpenti avvolti, con la verga,
che rïavesse le maschili penne.
Aronta è quel ch’al ventre li s’atterga,   →
che ne’ monti di Luni, dove ronca
lo Carrarese che di sotto alberga,
ebbe tra ’ bianchi marmi la spelonca
per sua dimora; onde a guardar le stelle
e ’l mar non li era la veduta tronca.
E quella che ricuopre le mammelle,   →
che tu non vedi, con le trecce sciolte,
e ha di là ogne pilosa pelle,

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Manto fu, che cercò per terre molte;
poscia si puose là dove nacqu’ io;
onde un poco mi piace che m’ascolte.   →
Poscia che ’l padre suo di vita uscìo
e venne serva la città di Baco,
questa gran tempo per lo mondo gio.
Suso in Italia bella giace un laco,   →
a piè de l’Alpe che serra Lamagna
sovra Tiralli, c’ha nome Benaco.
Per mille fonti, credo, e più si bagna   →
tra Garda e Val Camonica e Pennino
de l’acqua che nel detto laco stagna.
Loco è nel mezzo là dove ’l trentino
pastore e quel di Brescia e ’l veronese
segnar poria, s’e’ fesse quel cammino.
Siede Peschiera, bello e forte arnese   →
da fronteggiar Bresciani e Bergamaschi,
ove la riva ’ntorno più discese.
Ivi convien che tutto quanto caschi   →
ciò che ’n grembo a Benaco star non può,
e fassi �ume giù per verdi paschi.
Tosto che l’acqua a correr mette co,
non più Benaco, ma Mencio si chiama
�no a Govèrnol, dove cade in Po.
Non molto ha corso, ch’el trova una lama,   →
ne la qual si distende e la ’mpaluda;
e suol di state talor esser grama.
Quindi passando la vergine cruda

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vide terra, nel mezzo del pantano,
sanza coltura e d’abitanti nuda.
Lì, per fuggire ogne consorzio umano,   →
ristette con suoi servi a far sue arti,
e visse, e vi lasciò suo corpo vano.
Li uomini poi che ’ntorno erano sparti
s’accolsero a quel loco, ch’era forte
per lo pantan ch’avea da tutte parti.
Fer la città sovra quell’ ossa morte;
e per colei che ’l loco prima elesse,
Mantüa l’appellar sanz’ altra sorte.
Già fuor le genti sue dentro più spesse,   →
prima che la mattia da Casalodi
da Pinamonte inganno ricevesse.
Però t’assenno che, se tu mai odi   →
originar la mia terra altrimenti,
la verità nulla menzogna frodi.”
E io: “Maestro, i tuoi ragionamenti
mi son sì certi e prendon sì mia fede,
che li altri mi sarien carboni spenti.
Ma dimmi, de la gente che procede,
se tu ne vedi alcun degno di nota;
ché solo a ciò la mia mente ri�ede.”
Allor mi disse: “Quel che da la gota   →
porge la barba in su le spalle brune,
fu—quando Grecia fu di maschi vòta,
sì ch’a pena rimaser per le cune—
augure, e diede ’l punto con Calcanta

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in Aulide a tagliar la prima fune.
Euripilo ebbe nome, e così ’l canta
l’alta mia tragedìa in alcun loco:
ben lo sai tu che la sai tutta quanta.
Quell’ altro che ne’ �anchi è così poco,   →
Michele Scotto fu, che veramente
de le magiche frode seppe ’l gioco.
Vedi Guido Bonatti; vedi Asdente,   →   →
ch’avere inteso al cuoio e a lo spago
ora vorrebbe, ma tardi si pente.
Vedi le triste che lasciaron l’ago,   →
la spuola e ’l fuso, e fecersi ’ndivine;
fecer malie con erbe e con imago.
Ma vienne omai, ché già tiene ’l con�ne   →
d’amendue li emisperi e tocca l’onda
sotto Sobilia Caino e le spine;
e già iernotte fu la luna tonda:   →
ben ten de’ ricordar, ché non ti nocque
alcuna volta per la selva fonda.”
Sì mi parlava, e andavamo introcque.   →

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INFERNO XXI
Così di ponte in ponte, altro parlando   →
che la mia comedìa cantar non cura,
venimmo; e tenavamo ’l colmo, quando
restammo per veder l’altra fessura
di Malebolge e li altri pianti vani;
e vidila mirabilmente oscura.
Quale ne l’arzanà de’ Viniziani   →
bolle l’inverno la tenace pece
a rimpalmare i legni lor non sani,
ché navicar non ponno—in quella vece
chi fa suo legno novo e chi ristoppa
le coste a quel che più vïaggi fece;
chi ribatte da proda e chi da poppa;
altri fa remi e altri volge sarte;
chi terzeruolo e artimon rintoppa—:
tal, non per foco ma per divin’ arte,
bollia là giuso una pegola spessa,
che ’nviscava la ripa d’ogne parte.
I’ vedea lei, ma non vedëa in essa
mai che le bolle che ’l bollor levava,
e gon�ar tutta, e riseder compressa.
Mentr’ io là giù �samente mirava,
lo duca mio, dicendo “Guarda, guarda!”
mi trasse a sé del loco dov’ io stava.
Allor mi volsi come l’uom cui tarda

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di veder quel che li convien fuggire
e cui paura sùbita sgagliarda,
che, per veder, non indugia ’l partire:
e vidi dietro a noi un diavol nero   →
correndo su per lo scoglio venire.
Ahi quant’ elli era ne l’aspetto fero!
e quanto mi parea ne l’atto acerbo,
con l’ali aperte e sovra i piè leggero!
L’omero suo, ch’era aguto e superbo,   →
carcava un peccator con ambo l’anche,
e quei tenea de’ piè ghermito ’l nerbo.
Del nostro ponte disse: “O Malebranche,   →
ecco un de li anzïan di Santa Zita!   →
Mettetel sotto, ch’i’ torno per anche   →
a quella terra, che n’è ben fornita:
ogn’ uom v’è barattier, fuor che Bonturo;   →
del no, per li denar, vi si fa ita.”
Là giù ’l buttò, e per lo scoglio duro
si volse; e mai non fu mastino sciolto
con tanta fretta a seguitar lo furo.
Quel s’attu�ò, e tornò sù convolto;   →
ma i demon che del ponte avean coperchio,
gridar: “Qui non ha loco il Santo Volto!
qui si nuota altrimenti che nel Serchio!   →
Però, se tu non vuo’ di nostri gra�,
non far sopra la pegola soverchio.”
Poi l’addentar con più di cento ra�,
disser: “Coverto convien che qui balli,

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sì che, se puoi, nascosamente acca�.”
Non altrimenti i cuoci a’ lor vassalli
fanno attu�are in mezzo la caldaia
la carne con li uncin, perché non galli.
Lo buon maestro “Acciò che non si paia   →
che tu ci sia,” mi disse, “giù t’acquatta
dopo uno scheggio, ch’alcun schermo t’aia;
e per nulla o�ension che mi sia fatta,
non temer tu, ch’i’ ho le cose conte,
per ch’altra volta fui a tal baratta.”   →
Poscia passò di là dal co del ponte;
e com’ el giunse in su la ripa sesta,
mestier li fu d’aver sicura fronte.
Con quel furore e con quella tempesta   →
ch’escono i cani a dosso al poverello
che di sùbito chiede ove s’arresta,
usciron quei di sotto al ponticello,
e volser contra lui tutt’ i runcigli;
ma el gridò: “Nessun di voi sia fello!
Innanzi che l’uncin vostro mi pigli,
traggasi avante l’un di voi che m’oda,
e poi d’arruncigliarmi si consigli.”
Tutti gridaron: “Vada Malacoda!”   →
per ch’un si mosse—e li altri stetter fermi—
e venne a lui dicendo: “Che li approda?”
“Credi tu, Malacoda, qui vedermi   →
esser venuto,” disse ’l mio maestro,
“sicuro già da tutti vostri schermi,

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sanza voler divino e fato destro?
Lascian’ andar, ché nel cielo è voluto
ch’i’ mostri altrui questo cammin silvestro.”
Allor li fu l’orgoglio sì caduto,   →
ch’e’ si lasciò cascar l’uncino a’ piedi,
e disse a li altri: “Omai non sia feruto.”
E ’l duca mio a me: “O tu che siedi   →
tra li scheggion del ponte quatto quatto,
sicuramente omai a me ti riedi.”
Per ch’io mi mossi e a lui venni ratto;
e i diavoli si fecer tutti avanti,
sì ch’io temetti ch’ei tenesser patto;
così vid’ ïo già temer li fanti
ch’uscivan patteggiati di Caprona,   →
veggendo sé tra nemici cotanti.
I’ m’accostai con tutta la persona
lungo ’l mio duca, e non torceva li occhi
da la sembianza lor ch’era non buona.
Ei chinavan li ra� e “Vuo’ che ’l tocchi,”   →
diceva l’un con l’altro, “in sul groppone?”
E rispondien: “Si, fa che gliel’ accocchi.”
Ma quel demonio che tenea sermone
col duca mio, si volse tutto presto
e disse: “Posa, posa, Scarmiglione!”
Poi disse a noi: “Più oltre andar per questo   →
iscoglio non si può, però che giace
tutto spezzato al fondo l’arco sesto.
E se l’andare avante pur vi piace,

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andatevene su per questa grotta;
presso è un altro scoglio che via face.
Ier, più oltre cinqu’ ore che quest’ otta,   →
mille dugento con sessanta sei
anni compié che qui la via fu rotta.
Io mando verso là di questi miei   →
a riguardar s’alcun se ne sciorina;
gite con lor, che non saranno rei.”
“Tra’ti avante, Alichino, e Calcabrina,”   →
cominciò elli a dire, “e tu, Cagnazzo;
e Barbariccia guidi la decina.
Libicocco vegn’ oltre e Draghignazzo,
Cirïatto sannuto e Gra�acane
e Farfarello e Rubicante pazzo.
Cercate ’ntorno le boglienti pane;
costor sian salvi in�no a l’altro scheggio   →
che tutto intero va sovra le tane.”
“Omè, maestro, che è quel ch’i’ veggio?”   →
diss’ io, “deh, sanza scorta andianci soli,
se tu sa’ ir; ch’i’ per me non la cheggio.
Se tu se’ sì accorto come suoli,
non vedi tu ch’e’ digrignan li denti
e con le ciglia ne minaccian duoli?”
Ed elli a me: “Non vo’ che tu paventi;   →
lasciali digrignar pur a lor senno,
ch’e’ fanno ciò per li lessi dolenti.”
Per l’argine sinistro volta dienno;   →
ma prima avea ciascun la lingua stretta

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coi denti, verso lor duca, per cenno;
ed elli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

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INFERNO XXII
Io vidi già cavalier muover campo,   →
e cominciare stormo e far lor mostra,
e talvolta partir per loro scampo;
corridor vidi per la terra vostra,
o Aretini, e vidi gir gualdane,
fedir torneamenti e correr giostra;
quando con trombe, e quando con campane,
con tamburi e con cenni di castella,
e con cose nostrali e con istrane;
né già con sì diversa cennamella
cavalier vidi muover né pedoni,
né nave a segno di terra o di stella.
Noi andavam con li diece demoni.   →
Ahi �era compagnia! ma ne la chiesa
coi santi, e in taverna coi ghiottoni.
Pur a la pegola era la mia ’ntesa,
per veder de la bolgia ogne contegno
e de la gente ch’entro v’era incesa.
Come i dal�ni, quando fanno segno   →
a’ marinar con l’arco de la schiena
che s’argomentin di campar lor legno,
talor così, ad alleggiar la pena,
mostrav’ alcun de’ peccatori ’l dosso
e nascondea in men che non balena.
E come a l’orlo de l’acqua d’un fosso

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stanno i ranocchi pur col muso fuori,
sì che celano i piedi e l’altro grosso,
sì stavan d’ogne parte i peccatori;
ma come s’appressava Barbariccia,
così si ritraén sotto i bollori.
I’ vidi, e anco il cor me n’accapriccia,
uno aspettar così, com’ elli ’ncontra
ch’una rana rimane e l’altra spiccia;
e Gra�acan, che li era più di contra,
li arruncigliò le ’mpegolate chiome
e trassel sù, che mi parve una lontra.
I’ sapea già di tutti quanti ’l nome,   →
sì li notai quando fuorono eletti,
e poi ch’e’ si chiamaro, attesi come.
“O Rubicante, fa che tu li metti
li unghioni a dosso, sì che tu lo scuoi!”
gridavan tutti insieme i maladetti.
E io: “Maestro mio, fa, se tu puoi,
che tu sappi chi è lo sciagurato
venuto a man de li avversari suoi.”
Lo duca mio li s’accostò allato;
domandollo ond’ ei fosse, e quei rispuose:
“I’ fui del regno di Navarra nato.   →
Mia madre a servo d’un segnor mi puose,
che m’avea generato d’un ribaldo,
distruggitor di sé e di sue cose.
Poi fui famiglia del buon re Tebaldo;
quivi mi misi a far baratteria,

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di ch’io rendo ragione in questo caldo.”
E Cirïatto, a cui di bocca uscia
d’ogne parte una sanna come a porco,
li fé sentir come l’una sdruscia.
Tra male gatte era venuto ’l sorco;
ma Barbariccia il chiuse con le braccia   →
e disse: “State in là, mentr’ io lo ’nforco.”
E al maestro mio volse la faccia;
“Domanda,” disse, “ancor, se più disii
saper da lui, prima ch’altri ’l disfaccia.”
Lo duca dunque: “Or dì: de li altri rii   →
conosci tu alcun che sia latino
sotto la pece?” E quelli: “I’ mi partii,
poco è, da un che fu di là vicino.   →
Così foss’ io ancor con lui coperto,
ch’i’ non temerei unghia né uncino!”
E Libicocco “Troppo avem so�erto,”   →
disse; e preseli ’l braccio col runciglio,
sì che, stracciando, ne portò un lacerto.
Draghignazzo anco i volle dar di piglio
giuso a le gambe; onde ’l decurio loro
si volse intorno intorno con mal piglio.
Quand’ elli un poco rappaciati fuoro,
a lui, ch’ancor mirava sua ferita,
domandò ’l duca mio sanza dimoro:
“Chi fu colui da cui mala partita
di’ che facesti per venire a proda?”
Ed ei rispuose: “Fu frate Gomita,   →

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quel di Gallura, vasel d’ogne froda,
ch’ebbe i nemici di suo donno in mano,
e fé sì lor, che ciascun se ne loda.
Danar si tolse e lasciolli di piano,
sì com’ e’ dice; e ne li altri o�ci anche
barattier fu non picciol, ma sovrano.
Usa con esso donno Michel Zanche   →
di Logodoro; e a dir di Sardigna
le lingue lor non si sentono stanche.
Omè, vedete l’altro che digrigna;   →
i’ direi anche, ma i’ temo ch’ello
non s’apparecchi a grattarmi la tigna.”
E ’l gran proposto, vòlto a Farfarello
che stralunava li occhi per fedire,
disse: “Fatti ’n costà, malvagio uccello!”
“Se voi volete vedere o udire,”   →
ricominciò lo spaürato appresso,
“Toschi o Lombardi, io ne farò venire;
ma stieno i Malebranche un poco in cesso,   →
sì ch’ei non teman de le lor vendette;
e io, seggendo in questo loco stesso,
per un ch’io son, ne farò venir sette
quand’ io su�olerò, com’ è nostro uso
di fare allor che fori alcun si mette.”
Cagnazzo a cotal motto levò ’l muso,
crollando ’l capo, e disse: “Odi malizia
ch’elli ha pensata per gittarsi giuso!”
Ond’ ei, ch’avea lacciuoli a gran divizia,

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rispuose: “Malizioso son io troppo,
quand’ io procuro a’ mia maggior trestizia.”
Alichin non si tenne e, di rintoppo
a li altri, disse a lui: “Se tu ti cali,
io non ti verrò dietro di gualoppo,
ma batterò sovra la pece l’ali.
Lascisi ’l collo, e sia la ripa scudo,
a veder se tu sol più di noi vali.”
O tu che leggi, udirai nuovo ludo:
ciascun da l’altra costa li occhi volse,
quel prima, ch’a ciò fare era più crudo.
Lo Navarrese ben suo tempo colse;
fermò le piante a terra, e in un punto
saltò e dal proposto lor si sciolse.
Di che ciascun di colpa fu compunto,   →
ma quei più che cagion fu del difetto;
però si mosse e gridò: “Tu se’ giunto!”
Ma poco i valse: ché l’ali al sospetto
non potero avanzar; quelli andò sotto,
e quei drizzò volando suso il petto:
non altrimenti l’anitra di botto,
quando ’l falcon s’appressa, giù s’attu�a,
ed ei ritorna sù crucciato e rotto.
Irato Calcabrina de la bu�a,
volando dietro li tenne, invaghito
che quei campasse per aver la zu�a;
e come ’l barattier fu disparito,
così volse li artigli al suo compagno,

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e fu con lui sopra ’l fosso ghermito.
Ma l’altro fu bene sparvier grifagno
ad artigliar ben lui, e amendue
cadder nel mezzo del bogliente stagno.
Lo caldo sghermitor sùbito fue;
ma però di levarsi era neente,
sì avieno inviscate l’ali sue.
Barbariccia, con li altri suoi dolente,   →
quattro ne fé volar da l’altra costa
con tutt’ i ra�, e assai prestamente
di qua, di là discesero a la posta;
porser li uncini verso li ’mpaniati,
ch’eran già cotti dentro da la crosta.
E noi lasciammo lor così ’mpacciati.   →

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INFERNO XXIII
Taciti, soli, sanza compagnia   →
n’andavam l’un dinanzi e l’altro dopo,
come frati minor vanno per via.
Vòlt’ era in su la favola d’Isopo   →
lo mio pensier per la presente rissa,
dov’ el parlò de la rana e del topo;
ché più non si pareggia “mo” e “issa”
che l’un con l’altro fa, se ben s’accoppia
principio e �ne con la mente �ssa.
E come l’un pensier de l’altro scoppia,
così nacque di quello un altro poi,
che la prima paura mi fé doppia.
Io pensava così: “Questi per noi
sono scherniti con danno e con be�a
sì fatta, ch’ assai credo che lor nòi.
Se l’ira sovra ’l mal voler s’aggue�a,
ei ne verranno dietro più crudeli
che ’l cane a quella lievre ch’elli acce�a.”
Già mi sentia tutti arricciar li peli   →
de la paura e stava in dietro intento,
quand’ io dissi: “Maestro, se non celi
te e me tostamente, i’ ho pavento
d’i Malebranche. Noi li avem già dietro;
io li ’magino sì, che già li sento.”
E quei: “S’i’ fossi di piombato vetro,   →

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l’imagine di fuor tua non trarrei
più tosto a me, che quella dentro ’mpetro.
Pur mo venieno i tuo’ pensier tra ’ miei,
con simile atto e con simile faccia,
sì che d’intrambi un sol consiglio fei.
S’elli è che sì la destra costa giaccia,
che noi possiam ne l’altra bolgia scendere,
noi fuggirem l’imaginata caccia.”
Già non compié di tal consiglio rendere,   →
ch’io li vidi venir con l’ali tese
non molto lungi, per volerne prendere.
Lo duca mio di sùbito mi prese,   →
come la madre ch’al romore è desta
e vede presso a sé le �amme accese,
che prende il �glio e fugge e non s’arresta,
avendo più di lui che di sé cura,
tanto che solo una camiscia vesta;
e giù dal collo de la ripa dura
supin si diede a la pendente roccia,
che l’un de’ lati a l’altra bolgia tura.
Non corse mai sì tosto acqua per doccia   →
a volger ruota di molin terragno,
quand’ ella più verso le pale approccia,
come ’l maestro mio per quel vivagno,
portandosene me sovra ’l suo petto,
come suo �glio, non come compagno.
A pena fuoro i piè suoi giunti al letto   →
del fondo giù, ch’e’ furon in sul colle

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sovresso noi; ma non lì era sospetto:
ché l’alta provedenza che lor volle
porre ministri de la fossa quinta,
poder di partirs’ indi a tutti tolle.
Là giù trovammo una gente dipinta   →
che giva intorno assai con lenti passi,
piangendo e nel sembiante stanca e vinta.
Elli avean cappe con cappucci bassi   →
dinanzi a li occhi, fatte de la taglia
che in Clugnì per li monaci fassi.
Di fuor dorate son, sì ch’elli abbaglia;   →
ma dentro tutte piombo, e gravi tanto,
che Federigo le mettea di paglia.   →
Oh in etterno faticoso manto!
Noi ci volgemmo ancor pur a man manca
con loro insieme, intenti al tristo pianto;
ma per lo peso quella gente stanca
venìa sì pian, che noi eravam nuovi
di compagnia ad ogne mover d’anca.
Per ch’io al duca mio: “Fa che tu trovi
alcun ch’al fatto o al nome si conosca,
e li occhi, sì andando, intorno movi.”
E un che ’ntese la parola tosca,   →
di retro a noi gridò: “Tenete i piedi,
voi che correte sì per l’aura fosca!
Forse ch’avrai da me quel che tu chiedi.”
Onde ’l duca si volse e disse: “Aspetta,
e poi secondo il suo passo procedi.”

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Ristetti, e vidi due mostrar gran fretta
de l’animo, col viso, d’esser meco;
ma tardavali ’l carco e la via stretta.
Quando fuor giunti, assai con l’occhio bieco
mi rimiraron sanza far parola;
poi si volsero in sé, e dicean seco:
“Costui par vivo a l’atto de la gola;
e s’e’ son morti, per qual privilegio
vanno scoperti de la grave stola?”
Poi disser me: “O Tosco, ch’al collegio
de l’ipocriti tristi se’ venuto,   →
dir chi tu se’ non avere in dispregio.”
E io a loro: “I’ fui nato e cresciuto
sovra ’l bel �ume d’Arno a la gran villa,
e son col corpo ch’i’ ho sempre avuto.
Ma voi chi siete, a cui tanto distilla
quant’ i’ veggio dolor giù per le guance?
e che pena è in voi che sì sfavilla?”
E l’un rispuose a me: “Le cappe rance
son di piombo sì grosse, che li pesi
fan così cigolar le lor bilance.   →
Frati godenti fummo, e bolognesi;   →
io Catalano e questi Loderingo   →
nomati, e da tua terra insieme presi
come suole esser tolto un uom solingo,
per conservar sua pace; e fummo tali,
ch’ancor si pare intorno dal Gardingo.”
Io cominciai: “O frati, i vostri mali …”   →

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ma più non dissi, ch’a l’occhio mi corse   →
un, cruci�sso in terra con tre pali.
Quando mi vide, tutto si distorse,
so�ando ne la barba con sospiri;
e ’l frate Catalan, ch’a ciò s’accorse,
mi disse: “Quel con�tto che tu miri,
consigliò i Farisei che convenia
porre un uom per lo popolo a’ martìri.
Attraversato è, nudo, ne la via,   →
come tu vedi, ed è mestier ch’el senta
qualunque passa, come pesa, pria.
E a tal modo il socero si stenta   →
in questa fossa, e li altri dal concilio
che fu per li Giudei mala sementa.”
Allor vid’ io maravigliar Virgilio   →
sovra colui ch’era disteso in croce
tanto vilmente ne l’etterno essilio.
Poscia drizzò al frate cotal voce:
“Non vi dispiaccia, se vi lece, dirci
s’a la man destra giace alcuna foce
onde noi amendue possiamo uscirci,
sanza costrigner de li angeli neri   →
che vegnan d’esto fondo a dipartirci.”
Rispuose adunque: “Più che tu non speri   →
s’appressa un sasso che da la gran cerchia
si move e varca tutt’ i vallon feri,   
salvo che ’n questo è rotto e nol coperchia;
montar potrete su per la ruina,

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che giace in costa e nel fondo soperchia.”
Lo duca stette un poco a testa china;
poi disse: “Mal contava la bisogna
colui che i peccator di qua uncina.”
E ’l frate: “Io udi’ già dire a Bologna   →
del diavol vizi assai, tra ’ quali udi’
ch’elli è bugiardo e padre di menzogna.”
Appresso il duca a gran passi sen gì,   →
turbato un poco d’ira nel sembiante;
ond’ io da li ’ncarcati mi parti’
dietro a le poste de le care piante.

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INFERNO XXIV
In quella parte del giovanetto anno   →
che ’l sole i crin sotto l’Aquario tempra
e già le notti al mezzo dì sen vanno,
quando la brina in su la terra assempra
l’imagine di sua sorella bianca,
ma poco dura a la sua penna tempra,
lo villanello a cui la roba manca,
si leva, e guarda, e vede la campagna
biancheggiar tutta; ond’ ei si batte l’anca,
ritorna in casa, e qua e là si lagna,
come ’l tapin che non sa che si faccia;
poi riede, e la speranza ringavagna,
veggendo ’l mondo aver cangiata faccia
in poco d’ora, e prende suo vincastro
e fuor le pecorelle a pascer caccia.
Così mi fece sbigottir lo mastro
quand’ io li vidi sì turbar la fronte,
e così tosto al mal giunse lo ’mpiastro;
ché, come noi venimmo al guasto ponte,
lo duca a me si volse con quel piglio
dolce ch’io vidi prima a piè del monte.
Le braccia aperse, dopo alcun consiglio   →
eletto seco riguardando prima
ben la ruina, e diedemi di piglio.
E come quei ch’adopera ed estima,

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che sempre par che ’nnanzi si proveggia,
così, levando me sù ver’ la cima
d’un ronchione, avvisava un’altra scheggia
dicendo: “Sovra quella poi t’aggrappa;
ma tenta pria s’è tal ch’ella ti reggia.”
Non era via da vestito di cappa,   →
ché noi a pena, ei lieve e io sospinto,   →
potavam sù montar di chiappa in chiappa.
E se non fosse che da quel precinto
più che da l’altro era la costa corta,
non so di lui, ma io sarei ben vinto.
Ma perché Malebolge inver’ la porta   →
del bassissimo pozzo tutta pende,
lo sito di ciascuna valle porta
che l’una costa surge e l’altra scende;
noi pur venimmo al �ne in su la punta
onde l’ultima pietra si scoscende.
La lena m’era del polmon sì munta
quand’io fui sù, ch’i’ non potea più oltre,
anzi m’assisi ne la prima giunta.
“Omai convien che tu così ti spoltre,”
disse ’l maestro; “ché, seggendo in piuma,
in fama non si vien, né sotto coltre;
sanza la qual chi sua vita consuma,   →
cotal vestigio in terra di sé lascia,
qual fummo in aere e in acqua la schiuma.
E però leva sù; vinci l’ambascia
con l’animo che vince ogne battaglia,

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se col suo grave corpo non s’accascia.
Più lunga scala convien che si saglia;
non basta da costoro esser partito.
Se tu mi ’ntendi, or fa sì che ti vaglia.”
Leva’mi allor, mostrandomi fornito   →
meglio di lena ch’i’ non mi sentia,
e dissi: “Va, ch’i’ son forte e ardito.”
Su per lo scoglio prendemmo la via,
ch’era ronchioso, stretto e malagevole,
ed erto più assai che quel di pria.
Parlando andava per non parer �evole;
onde una voce uscì de l’altro fosso,   →
a parole formar disconvenevole.
Non so che disse, ancor che sovra ’l dosso   →
fossi de l’arco già che varca quivi;
ma chi parlava ad ire parea mosso.
Io era vòlto in giù, ma li occhi vivi
non poteano ire al fondo per lo scuro;
per ch’io: “Maestro, fa che tu arrivi
da l’altro cinghio e dismontiam lo muro;
ché, com’ i’ odo quinci e non intendo,
così giù veggio e neente a�guro.”
“Altra risposta,” disse, “non ti rendo
se non lo far; ché la dimanda onesta
si de’ seguir con l’opera tacendo.”
Noi discendemmo il ponte de la testa   →
dove s’aggiugne con l’ottava ripa,
e poi mi fu la bolgia manifesta:

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e vidivi entro terribile stipa   →
di serpenti, e di sì diversa mena
che la memoria il sangue ancor mi scipa.
Più non si vanti Libia con sua rena;   →
ché se chelidri, iaculi e faree
produce, e cencri con an�sibena,
né tante pestilenzie né sì ree   →
mostrò già mai con tutta l’Etïopia
né con ciò che di sopra al Mar Rosso èe.
Tra questa cruda e tristissima copia   →
corrëan genti nude e spaventate,
sanza sperar pertugio o elitropia:
con serpi le man dietro avean legate;
quelle �ccavan per le ren la coda
e ’l capo, ed eran dinanzi aggroppate.
Ed ecco a un ch’era da nostra proda,   →
s’avventò un serpente che ’l tra�sse   →
là dove ’l collo a le spalle s’annoda.
Né O sì tosto mai né I si scrisse,   →
com’ el s’accese e arse, e cener tutto
convenne che cascando divenisse;
e poi che fu a terra sì distrutto,
la polver si raccolse per sé stessa
e ’n quel medesmo ritornò di butto.
Così per li gran savi si confessa
che la fenice more e poi rinasce,   →
quando al cinquecentesimo anno appressa;
erba né biado in sua vita non pasce,

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ma sol d’incenso lagrime e d’amomo,
e nardo e mirra son l’ultime fasce.
E qual è quel che cade, e non sa como,
per forza di demon ch’a terra il tira,
o d’altra oppilazion che lega l’omo,
quando si leva, che ’ntorno si mira
tutto smarrito de la grande angoscia
ch’elli ha so�erta, e guardando sospira:
tal era ’l peccator levato poscia.
Oh potenza di Dio, quant’ è severa,   →
che cotai colpi per vendetta croscia!
Lo duca il domandò poi chi ello era;
per ch’ei rispuose: “Io piovvi di Toscana,   →
poco tempo è, in questa gola �era.
Vita bestial mi piacque e non umana,
sì come a mul ch’i’ fui; son Vanni Fucci
bestia, e Pistoia mi fu degna tana.”
E ïo al duca: “Dilli che non mucci,   →
e domanda che colpa qua giù ’l pinse;
ch’io ’l vidi omo di sangue e di crucci.”
E ’l peccator, che ’ntese, non s’in�nse,
ma drizzò verso me l’animo e ’l volto,
e di trista vergogna si dipinse;   →
poi disse: “Più mi duol che tu m’hai colto
ne la miseria dove tu mi vedi,
che quando fui de l’altra vita tolto.
Io non posso negar quel che tu chiedi;
in giù son messo tanto perch’io fui

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ladro a la sagrestia d’i belli arredi,
e falsamente già fu apposto altrui.
Ma perché di tal vista tu non godi,   →
se mai sarai di fuor da’ luoghi bui,
apri li orecchi al mio annunzio, e odi.
Pistoia in pria d’i Neri si dimagra;   →
poi Fiorenza rinova gente e modi.
Tragge Marte vapor di Val di Magra
ch’è di torbidi nuvoli involuto;
e con tempesta impetüosa e agra
sovra Campo Picen �a combattuto;
ond’ei repente spezzerà la nebbia,
sì ch’ogne Bianco ne sarà feruto.
E detto l’ho perché doler ti debbia!”   →

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INFERNO XXV
Al �ne de le sue parole il ladro   →
le mani alzò con amendue le �che,
gridando: “Togli, Dio, ch’a te le squadro!”
Da indi in qua mi fuor le serpi amiche,   →
perch’ una li s’avvolse allora al collo,   →
come dicesse “Non vo’ che più diche”
e un’altra a le braccia, e rilegollo,
ribadendo sé stessa sì dinanzi,
che non potea con esse dare un crollo.
Ahi Pistoia, Pistoia, ché non stanzi   →
d’incenerarti sì che più non duri,
poi che ’n mal fare il seme tuo avanzi?
Per tutt’ i cerchi de lo ’nferno scuri   →
non vidi spirto in Dio tanto superbo,
non quel che cadde a Tebe giù da’ muri.
El si fuggì che non parlò più verbo;
e io vidi un centauro pien di rabbia   →
venir chiamando: “Ov’ è, ov’ è l’acerbo?”
Maremma non cred’ io che tante n’abbia,   →
quante bisce elli avea su per la groppa
in�n ove comincia nostra labbia.
Sovra le spalle, dietro da la coppa,
con l’ali aperte li giacea un draco;
e quello a�uoca qualunque s’intoppa.
Lo mio maestro disse: “Questi è Caco,
che, sotto ’l sasso di monte Aventino,

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di sangue fece spesse volte laco.
Non va co’ suoi fratei per un cammino,
per lo furto che frodolente fece
del grande armento ch’elli ebbe a vicino;
onde cessar le sue opere biece
sotto la mazza d’Ercule, che forse
gliene diè cento, e non sentì le diece.”
Mentre che sì parlava, ed el trascorse,   →
e tre spiriti venner sotto noi,
de’ quai né io né ’l duca mio s’accorse,
se non quando gridar: “Chi siete voi?”
per che nostra novella si ristette,
e intendemmo pur ad essi poi.
Io non li conoscea; ma ei seguette,
come suol seguitar per alcun caso,
che l’un nomar un altro convenette,
dicendo: “Cianfa dove �a rimaso?”   →
per ch’io, acciò che ’l duca stesse attento,   →
mi puosi ’l dito su dal mento al naso.
Se tu se’ or, lettore, a creder lento
ciò ch’io dirò, non sarà maraviglia,
ché io che ’l vidi, a pena il mi consento.
Com’ io tenea levate in lor le ciglia,   →
e un serpente con sei piè si lancia
dinanzi a l’uno, e tutto a lui s’appiglia.
Co’ piè di mezzo li avvinse la pancia
e con li anterïor le braccia prese;
poi li addentò e l’una e l’altra guancia;

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li diretani a le cosce distese,
e miseli la coda tra ’mbedue
e dietro per le ren sù la ritese.
Ellera abbarbicata mai non fue
ad alber sì, come l’orribil �era
per l’altrui membra avviticchiò le sue.
Poi s’appiccar, come di calda cera
fossero stati, e mischiar lor colore,
né l’un né l’altro già parea quel ch’era:
come procede innanzi da l’ardore,   →
per lo papiro suso, un color bruno
che non è nero ancora e ’l bianco more.
Li altri due ’l riguardavano, e ciascuno
gridava: “Omè, Agnel, come ti muti!   →
Vedi che già non se’ né due né uno.”   →
Già eran li due capi un divenuti,
quando n’apparver due �gure miste
in una faccia, ov’ eran due perduti.
Fersi le braccia due di quattro liste;
le cosce con le gambe e ’l ventre e ’l casso
divenner membra che non fuor mai viste.
Ogne primaio aspetto ivi era casso:
due e nessun l’imagine perversa
parea; e tal sen gio con lento passo.
Come ’l ramarro sotto la gran fersa   →
dei dì canicular, cangiando sepe,
folgore par se la via attraversa,
sì pareva, venendo verso l’epe   →

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de li altri due, un serpentello acceso,
livido e nero come gran di pepe;
e quella parte onde prima è preso
nostro alimento, a l’un di lor tra�sse;
poi cadde giuso innanzi lui disteso.
Lo tra�tto ’l mirò, ma nulla disse;
anzi, co’ piè fermati, sbadigliava
pur come sonno o febbre l’assalisse.
Elli ’l serpente e quei lui riguardava;
l’un per la piaga e l’altro per la bocca
fummavan forte, e ’l fummo si scontrava.
Taccia Lucano omai là dov’ e’ tocca   →
del misero Sabello e di Nasidio,
e attenda a udir quel ch’or si scocca.
Taccia di Cadmo e d’Aretusa Ovidio,
ché se quello in serpente e quella in fonte
converte poetando, io non lo ’nvidio;
ché due nature mai a fronte a fronte
non trasmutò sì ch’amendue le forme
a cambiar lor matera fosser pronte.
Insieme si rispuosero a tai norme,   →
che ’l serpente la coda in forca fesse,
e ’l feruto ristrinse insieme l’orme.
Le gambe con le cosce seco stesse
s’appiccar sì, che ’n poco la giuntura
non facea segno alcun che si paresse.
Togliea la coda fessa la �gura
che si perdeva là, e la sua pelle

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si facea molle, e quella di là dura.
Io vidi intrar le braccia per l’ascelle,
e i due piè de la �era, ch’eran corti,
tanto allungar quanto accorciavan quelle.
Poscia li piè di rietro, insieme attorti,
diventaron lo membro che l’uom cela,
e ’l misero del suo n’avea due porti.
Mentre che ’l fummo l’uno e l’altro vela
di color novo, e genera ’l pel suso
per l’una parte e da l’altra il dipela,
l’un si levò e l’altro cadde giuso,
non torcendo però le lucerne empie,
sotto le quai ciascun cambiava muso.
Quel ch’era dritto, il trasse ver’ le tempie,
e di troppa matera ch’in là venne
uscir li orecchi de le gote scempie;
ciò che non corse in dietro e si ritenne
di quel soverchio, fé naso a la faccia
e le labbra ingrossò quanto convenne.
Quel che giacëa, il muso innanzi caccia,
e li orecchi ritira per la testa
come face le corna la lumaccia;
e la lingua, ch’avëa unita e presta
prima a parlar, si fende, e la forcuta
ne l’altro si richiude; e ’l fummo resta.
L’anima ch’era �era divenuta,
su�olando si fugge per la valle,
e l’altro dietro a lui parlando sputa.

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Poscia li volse le novelle spalle,   →
e disse a l’altro: “I’ vo’ che Buoso corra,
com’ ho fatt’ io, carpon per questo calle.”
Così vid’ io la settima zavorra
mutare e trasmutare; e qui mi scusi
la novità se �or la penna abborra.   →
E avvegna che li occhi miei confusi
fossero alquanto e l’animo smagato,
non poter quei fuggirsi tanto chiusi,
ch’i’ non scorgessi ben Puccio Sciancato;   →
ed era quel che sol, di tre compagni
che venner prima, non era mutato;
l’altr’ era quel che tu, Gaville, piagni.   →

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INFERNO XXVI
Godi, Fiorenza, poi che se’ sì grande   →
che per mare e per terra batti l’ali,
e per lo ’nferno tuo nome si spande!
Tra li ladron trovai cinque cotali
tuoi cittadini onde mi ven vergogna,
e tu in grande orranza non ne sali.
Ma se presso al mattin del ver si sogna,   →
tu sentirai, di qua da picciol tempo,   →
di quel che Prato, non ch’altri, t’agogna.
E se già fosse, non saria per tempo.
Così foss’ ei, da che pur esser dee!
ché più mi graverà, com’ più m’attempo.
Noi ci partimmo, e su per le scalee
che n’avea fatto iborni a scender pria,   →
rimontò ’l duca mio e trasse mee;
e proseguendo la solinga via,
tra le schegge e tra ’ rocchi de lo scoglio
lo piè sanza la man non si spedia.
Allor mi dolsi, e ora mi ridoglio   →
quando drizzo la mente a ciò ch’io vidi,
e più lo ’ngegno a�reno ch’i’ non soglio,
perché non corra che virtù nol guidi;
sì che, se stella bona o miglior cosa
m’ha dato ’l ben, ch’io stessi nol m’invidi.
Quante ’l villan ch’al poggio si riposa,   →

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nel tempo che colui che ’l mondo schiara
la faccia sua a noi tien meno ascosa,
come la mosca cede a la zanzara,
vede lucciole giù per la vallea,
forse colà dov’ e’ vendemmia e ara:
di tante �amme tutta risplendea   →
l’ottava bolgia, sì com’ io m’accorsi
tosto che fui là ’ve ’l fondo parea.
E qual colui che si vengiò con li orsi   →
vide ’l carro d’Elia al dipartire,
quando i cavalli al cielo erti levorsi,
che nol potea sì con li occhi seguire,
ch’el vedesse altro che la �amma sola,
sì come nuvoletta, in sù salire:
tal si move ciascuna per la gola
del fosso, ché nessuna mostra ’l furto,
e ogne �amma un peccatore invola.
Io stava sovra ’l ponte a veder surto,   →
sì che s’io non avessi un ronchion preso,
caduto sarei giù sanz’ esser urto.
E ’l duca, che mi vide tanto atteso,
disse: “Dentro dai fuochi son li spirti;
catun si fascia di quel ch’elli è inceso.”   →
“Maestro mio,” rispuos’ io, “per udirti
son io più certo; ma già m’era avviso
che così fosse, e già voleva dirti:
chi è ’n quel foco che vien sì diviso   →
di sopra, che par surger de la pira

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dov’ Eteòcle col fratel fu miso?”
Rispuose a me: “Là dentro si martira   →
Ulisse e Dïomede, e così insieme
a la vendetta vanno come a l’ira;
e dentro da la lor �amma si geme   →
l’agguato del caval che fé la porta
onde uscì de’ Romani il gentil seme.
Piangevisi entro l’arte per che, morta,
Deïdamìa ancor si duol d’Achille,
e del Palladio pena vi si porta.”
“S’ei posson dentro da quelle faville   →
parlar,” diss’ io, “maestro, assai ten priego
e ripriego, che ’l priego vaglia mille,
che non mi facci de l’attender niego
�n che la �amma cornuta qua vegna;
vedi che del disio ver’ lei mi piego!”
Ed elli a me: “La tua preghiera è degna   →
di molta loda, e io però l’accetto;
ma fa che la tua lingua si sostegna.
Lascia parlare a me, ch’i’ ho concetto
ciò che tu vuoi; ch’ei sarebbero schivi,
perch’ e’ fuor greci, forse del tuo detto.”
Poi che la �amma fu venuta quivi
dove parve al mio duca tempo e loco,
in questa forma lui parlare audivi:
“O voi che siete due dentro ad un foco,   →
s’io meritai di voi mentre ch’io vissi,
s’io meritai di voi assai o poco

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quando nel mondo li alti versi scrissi,
non vi movete; ma l’un di voi dica
dove, per lui, perduto a morir gissi.”
Lo maggior corno de la �amma antica
cominciò a crollarsi mormorando,
pur come quella cui vento a�atica;
indi la cima qua e là menando,
come fosse la lingua che parlasse,
gittò voce di fuori e disse: “Quando   →
mi diparti’ da Circe, che sottrasse
me più d’un anno là presso a Gaeta,
prima che sì Enëa la nomasse,
né dolcezza di �glio, né la pieta   →
del vecchio padre, né ’l debito amore
lo qual dovea Penelopè far lieta,
vincer potero dentro a me l’ardore
ch’i’ ebbi a divenir del mondo esperto
e de li vizi umani e del valore;
ma misi me per l’alto mare aperto   →
sol con un legno e con quella compagna
picciola da la qual non fui diserto.
L’un lito e l’altro vidi in�n la Spagna,
�n nel Morrocco, e l’isola d’i Sardi,
e l’altre che quel mare intorno bagna.
Io e ’ compagni eravam vecchi e tardi
quando venimmo a quella foce stretta
dov’ Ercule segnò li suoi riguardi
acció che l’uom più oltre non si metta;

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da la man destra mi lasciai Sibilia,
da l’altra già m’avea lasciata Setta.
‘O frati,’ dissi, ’che per cento milia   →
perigli siete giunti a l’occidente,
a questa tanto picciola vigilia
d’i nostri sensi ch’è del rimanente
non vogliate negar l’esperïenza,
di retro al sol, del mondo sanza gente.
Considerate la vostra semenza:   →
fatti non foste a viver come bruti,
ma per seguir virtute e canoscenza.’
Li miei compagni fec’ io sì aguti,   →
con questa orazion picciola, al cammino,
che a pena poscia li avrei ritenuti;
e volta nostra poppa nel mattino,   →
de’ remi facemmo ali al folle volo,
sempre acquistando dal lato mancino.
Tutte le stelle già de l’altro polo   →
vedea la notte, e ’l nostro tanto basso,
che non surgëa fuor del marin suolo.
Cinque volte racceso e tante casso
lo lume era di sotto da la luna,
poi che ’ntrati eravam ne l’alto passo,
quando n’apparve una montagna, bruna
per la distanza, e parvemi alta tanto
quanto veduta non avëa alcuna.
Noi ci allegrammo, e tosto tornò in pianto;   →
ché de la nova terra un turbo nacque   →

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e percosse del legno il primo canto.
Tre volte il fé girar con tutte l’acque;   →
a la quarta levar la poppa in suso
e la prora ire in giù, com’ altrui piacque,
in�n che ’l mar fu sovra noi richiuso.”   →

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INFERNO XXVII
Già era dritta in sù la �amma e queta   →
per non dir più, e già da noi sen gia
con la licenza del dolce poeta,   →
quand’ un’altra, che dietro a lei venìa,   →
ne fece volger li occhi a la sua cima
per un confuso suon che fuor n’uscia.
Come ’l bue cicilian che mugghiò prima   →
col pianto di colui, e ciò fu dritto,
che l’avea temperato con sua lima,
mugghiava con la voce de l’a�itto,
sì che, con tutto che fosse di rame,
pur el pareva dal dolor tra�tto;
così, per non aver via né forame
dal principio nel foco, in suo linguaggio
si convertïan le parole grame.
Ma poscia ch’ebber colto lor vïaggio   →
su per la punta, dandole quel guizzo
che dato avea la lingua in lor passaggio,
udimmo dire: “O tu a cu’ io drizzo   →
la voce e che parlavi mo lombardo,
dicendo ‘Istra ten va, più non t’adizzo,’
perch’ io sia giunto forse alquanto tardo,
non t’incresca restare a parlar meco;
vedi che non incresce a me, e ardo!
Se tu pur mo in questo mondo cieco   →

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caduto se’ di quella dolce terra
latina ond’ io mia colpa tutta reco,
dimmi se Romagnuoli han pace o guerra;   →
ch’io fui d’i monti là intra Orbino
e ’l giogo di che Tever si diserra.”
Io era in giuso ancora attento e chino,
quando il mio duca mi tentò di costa,
dicendo: “Parla tu; questi è latino.”   →
E io, ch’avea già pronta la risposta,
sanza indugio a parlare incominciai:
“O anima che se’ là giù nascosta,
Romagna tua non è, e non fu mai,   →
sanza guerra ne’ cuor de’ suoi tiranni;
ma ’n palese nessuna or vi lasciai.
Ravenna sta come stata è molt’ anni:   →
l’aguglia da Polenta la si cova,
sì che Cervia ricuopre co’ suoi vanni.
La terra che fé già la lunga prova
e di Franceschi sanguinoso mucchio,
sotto le branche verdi si ritrova.
E ’l mastin vecchio e ’l nuovo da Verrucchio,
che fecer di Montagna il mal governo,
là dove soglion fan d’i denti succhio.
Le città di Lamone e di Santerno
conduce il lïoncel dal nido bianco,
che muta parte da la state al verno.
E quella cu’ il Savio bagna il �anco,
così com’ ella sie’ tra ’l piano e ’l monte,

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tra tirannia si vive e stato franco.
Ora chi se’, ti priego che ne conte;   →
non esser duro più ch’altri sia stato,
se ’l nome tuo nel mondo tegna fronte.”
Poscia che ’l foco alquanto ebbe rugghiato
al modo suo, l’aguta punta mosse
di qua, di là, e poi diè cotal �ato:
“S’i’ credesse che mia risposta fosse   →
a persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
questa �amma staria sanza più scosse;
ma però che già mai di questo fondo
non tornò vivo alcun, s’i’ odo il vero,
sanza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Io fui uom d’arme, e poi fui cordigliero,   →
credendomi, sì cinto, fare ammenda;
e certo il creder mio venìa intero,
se non fosse il gran prete, a cui mal prenda!,   →
che mi rimise ne le prime colpe;
e come e quare, voglio che m’intenda.
Mentre ch’io forma fui d’ossa e di polpe
che la madre mi diè, l’opere mie
non furon leonine, ma di volpe.   →
Li accorgimenti e le coperte vie
io seppi tutte, e sì menai lor arte,
ch’al �ne de la terra il suono uscie.
Quando mi vidi giunto in quella parte   →
di mia etade ove ciascun dovrebbe
calar le vele e raccoglier le sarte,

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ciò che pria mi piacëa, allor m’increbbe,   →
e pentuto e confesso mi rendei;
ahi miser lasso! e giovato sarebbe.
Lo principe d’i novi Farisei,   →
avendo guerra presso a Laterano,
e non con Saracin né con Giudei,
ché ciascun suo nimico era Cristiano,
e nessun era stato a vincer Acri
né mercatante in terra di Soldano,
né sommo o�cio né ordini sacri
guardò in sé, né in me quel capestro
che solea fare i suoi cinti più macri.
Ma come Costantin chiese Silvestro   →
d’entro Siratti a guerir de la lebbre,
così mi chiese questi per maestro
a guerir de la sua superba febbre;
domandommi consiglio, e io tacetti
perché le sue parole parver ebbre.
E’ poi ridisse: ‘Tuo cuor non sospetti;
�nor t’assolvo, e tu m’insegna fare
sì come Penestrino in terra getti.   →
Lo ciel poss’ io serrare e diserrare,   →
come tu sai; però son due le chiavi
che ’l mio antecessor non ebbe care.’
Allor mi pinser li argomenti gravi   →
là ’ve ’l tacer mi fu avviso ’l peggio,
e dissi: ‘Padre, da che tu mi lavi
di quel peccato ov’ io mo cader deggio,

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lunga promessa con l’attender corto
ti farà trïunfar ne l’alto seggio.’
Francesco venne poi, com’ io fu’ morto,   →
per me; ma un d’i neri cherubini
li disse: ‘Non portar; non mi far torto.
Venir se ne dee giù tra ’ miei meschini
perché diede ’l consiglio frodolente,   →
dal quale in qua stato li sono a’ crini;
ch’assolver non si può chi non si pente,   →
né pentere e volere insieme puossi
per la contradizion che nol consente.’
Oh me dolente! come mi riscossi
quando mi prese dicendomi: ‘Forse
tu non pensavi ch’io löico fossi!’
A Minòs mi portò; e quelli attorse   →
otto volte la coda al dosso duro;
e poi che per gran rabbia la si morse,
disse: ‘Questi è d’i rei del foco furo’;
per ch’io là dove vedi son perduto,   →
e sì vestito, andando, mi rancuro.”
Quand’ elli ebbe ’l suo dir così compiuto,
la �amma dolorando si partio,
torcendo e dibattendo ’l corno aguto.
Noi passamm’ oltre, e io e ’l duca mio,
su per lo scoglio in�no in su l’altr’ arco
che cuopre ’l fosso in che si paga il �o
a quei che scommettendo acquistan carco.

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INFERNO XXVIII
Chi poria mai pur con parole sciolte   →
dicer del sangue e de le piaghe a pieno
ch’i’ ora vidi, per narrar più volte?
Ogne lingua per certo verria meno
per lo nostro sermone e per la mente
c’hanno a tanto comprender poco seno.
S’el s’aunasse ancor tutta la gente   →
che già, in su la fortunata terra
di Puglia, fu del suo sangue dolente   →
per li Troiani e per la lunga guerra
che de l’anella fé sì alte spoglie,
come Livïo scrive, che non erra,   →
con quella che sentio di colpi doglie   →
per contastare a Ruberto Guiscardo;
e l’altra il cui ossame ancor s’accoglie   →
a Ceperan, là dove fu bugiardo
ciascun Pugliese, e là da Tagliacozzo,   →
dove sanz’ arme vinse il vecchio Alardo;
e qual forato suo membro e qual mozzo   →
mostrasse, d’aequar sarebbe nulla
il modo de la nona bolgia sozzo.
Già veggia, per mezzul perdere o lulla,   →
com’ io vidi un, così non si pertugia,
rotto dal mento in�n dove si trulla.
Tra le gambe pendevan le minugia;

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la corata pareva e ’l tristo sacco
che merda fa di quel che si trangugia.
Mentre che tutto in lui veder m’attacco,
guardommi e con le man s’aperse il petto,
dicendo: “Or vedi com’ io mi dilacco!
vedi come storpiato è Mäometto!
Dinanzi a me sen va piangendo Alì,   →
fesso nel volto dal mento al ciu�etto.
E tutti li altri che tu vedi qui,
seminator di scandalo e di scisma   →
fuor vivi, e però son fessi così.
Un diavolo è qua dietro che n’accisma   →
sì crudelmente, al taglio de la spada
rimettendo ciascun di questa risma,
quand’ avem volta la dolente strada;
però che le ferite son richiuse
prima ch’altri dinanzi li rivada.
Ma tu chi se’ che ’n su lo scoglio muse,   →
forse per indugiar d’ire a la pena
ch’è giudicata in su le tue accuse?”
“Né morte ’l giunse ancor, né colpa ’l mena,”
rispuose ’l mio maestro, “a tormentarlo;
ma per dar lui esperïenza piena,
a me, che morto son, convien menarlo
per lo ’nferno qua giù di giro in giro;
e quest’ è ver così com’ io ti parlo.”
Più fuor di cento che, quando l’udiro,
s’arrestaron nel fosso a riguardarmi

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per maraviglia, oblïando il martiro.
“Or dì a fra Dolcin dunque che s’armi,   →
tu che forse vedra’ il sole in breve,
s’ello non vuol qui tosto seguitarmi,
sì di vivanda, che stretta di neve
non rechi la vittoria al Noarese,
ch’altrimenti acquistar non saria leve.”
Poi che l’un piè per girsene sospese,   →
Mäometto mi disse esta parola;
indi a partirsi in terra lo distese.
Un altro, che forata avea la gola
e tronco ’l naso in�n sotto le ciglia,   →
e non avea mai ch’una orecchia sola,
ristato a riguardar per maraviglia
con li altri, innanzi a li altri aprì la canna,   →
ch’era di fuor d’ogne parte vermiglia,
e disse: “O tu cui colpa non condanna   →
e cu’ io vidi in su terra latina,
se troppa simiglianza non m’inganna,
rimembriti di Pier da Medicina,
se mai torni a veder lo dolce piano
che da Vercelli a Marcabò dichina.
E fa sapere a’ due miglior da Fano,   →
a messer Guido e anco ad Angiolello,
che, se l’antiveder qui non è vano,
gittati saran fuor di lor vasello
e mazzerati presso a la Cattolica
per tradimento d’un tiranno fello.

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Tra l’isola di Cipri e di Maiolica   →
non vide mai sì gran fallo Nettuno,
non da pirate, non da gente argolica.
Quel traditor che vede pur con l’uno,   →
e tien la terra che tale qui meco
vorrebbe di vedere esser digiuno,
farà venirli a parlamento seco;
poi farà sì, ch’al vento di Focara   →
non sarà lor mestier voto né preco.”
E io a lui: “Dimostrami e dichiara,   →
se vuo’ ch’i’ porti sù di te novella,
chi è colui da la veduta amara.”
Allor puose la mano a la mascella
d’un suo compagno e la bocca li aperse,
gridando: “Questi è desso, e non favella.   →
Questi, scacciato, il dubitar sommerse
in Cesare, a�ermando che ’l fornito
sempre con danno l’attender so�erse.”
Oh quanto mi pareva sbigottito
con la lingua tagliata ne la strozza
Curïo, ch’a dir fu così ardito!
E un ch’avea l’una e l’altra man mozza,   →
levando i moncherin per l’aura fosca,
sì che ’l sangue facea la faccia sozza,
gridò: “Ricordera’ti anche del Mosca,
che disse, lasso! ‘Capo ha cosa fatta,’
che fu mal seme per la gente tosca.”
E io li aggiunsi: “E morte di tua schiatta”;   →

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per ch’elli, accumulando duol con duolo,
sen gio come persona trista e matta.
Ma io rimasi a riguardar lo stuolo,
e vidi cosa ch’io avrei paura,
sanza più prova, di contarla solo;
se non che coscïenza m’assicura,   →
la buona compagnia che l’uom francheggia
sotto l’asbergo del sentirsi pura.
Io vidi certo, e ancor par ch’io ’l veggia,
un busto sanza capo andar sì come
andavan li altri de la trista greggia;
e ’l capo tronco tenea per le chiome,
pesol con mano a guisa di lanterna:
e quel mirava noi e dicea: “Oh me!”
Di sé facea a sé stesso lucerna,
ed eran due in uno e uno in due;
com’ esser può, quei sa che sì governa.
Quando diritto al piè del ponte fue,
levò ’l braccio alto con tutta la testa
per appressarne le parole sue,
che fuoro: “Or vedi la pena molesta,   →
tu che, spirando, vai veggendo i morti:
vedi s’alcuna è grande come questa.
E perché tu di me novella porti,
sappi ch’i’ son Bertram dal Bornio, quelli
che diedi al re giovane i ma’ conforti.
Io feci il padre e ’l �glio in sé ribelli;
Achitofèl non fé più d’Absalone

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e di Davìd coi malvagi punzelli.
Perch’ io parti’ così giunte persone,
partito porto il mio cerebro, lasso!,
dal suo principio ch’è in questo troncone.
Così s’osserva in me lo contrapasso.”   →

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INFERNO XXIX
La molta gente e le diverse piaghe   →
avean le luci mie sì inebrïate,
che de lo stare a piangere eran vaghe.
Ma Virgilio mi disse: “Che pur guate?   →
perché la vista tua pur si so�olge
là giù tra l’ombre triste smozzicate?
Tu non hai fatto sì a l’altre bolge;
pensa, se tu annoverar le credi,   →
che miglia ventidue la valle volge.
E già la luna è sotto i nostri piedi;   →
lo tempo è poco omai che n’è concesso,   →
e altro è da veder che tu non vedi.”
“Se tu avessi,” rispuos’ io appresso,   →
“atteso a la cagion per ch’io guardava,
forse m’avresti ancor lo star dimesso.”
Parte sen giva, e io retro li andava,
lo duca, già faccendo la risposta,
e soggiugnendo: “Dentro a quella cava
dov’ io tenea or li occhi sì a posta,
credo ch’un spirto del mio sangue pianga
la colpa che là giù cotanto costa.”
Allor disse ’l maestro: “Non si franga   →
lo tuo pensier da qui innanzi sovr’ ello.
Attendi ad altro, ed ei là si rimanga;
ch’io vidi lui a piè del ponticello

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mostrarti e minacciar forte col dito,
e udi’ ’l nominar Geri del Bello.
Tu eri allor sì del tutto impedito
sovra colui che già tenne Altaforte,
che non guardasti in là, sì fu partito.”
“O duca mio, la vïolenta morte   →
che non li è vendicata ancor,” diss’ io,
“per alcun che de l’onta sia consorte,
fece lui disdegnoso; ond’ el sen gio
sanza parlarmi, sì com’ ïo estimo:
e in ciò m’ha el fatto a sé più pio.”
Così parlammo in�no al loco primo   →
che de lo scoglio l’altra valle mostra,
se più lume vi fosse, tutto ad imo.
Quando noi fummo sor l’ultima chiostra   →
di Malebolge, sì che i suoi conversi
potean parere a la veduta nostra,
lamenti saettaron me diversi,
che di pietà ferrati avean li strali;
ond’ io li orecchi con le man copersi.
Qual dolor fora, se de li spedali   →
di Valdichiana tra ’l luglio e ’l settembre
e di Maremma e di Sardigna i mali
fossero in una fossa tutti ’nsembre,
tal era quivi, e tal puzzo n’usciva
qual suol venir de le marcite membre.
Noi discendemmo in su l’ultima riva   →
del lungo scoglio, pur da man sinistra;

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e allor fu la mia vista più viva   →
giù ver’ lo fondo, là ’ve la ministra
de l’alto Sire infallibil giustizia
punisce i falsador che qui registra.
Non credo ch’a veder maggior tristizia   →
fosse in Egina il popol tutto infermo,
quando fu l’aere sì pien di malizia,
che li animali, in�no al picciol vermo,
cascaron tutti, e poi le genti antiche,
secondo che i poeti hanno per fermo,
si ristorar di seme di formiche;
ch’era a veder per quella oscura valle
languir li spirti per diverse biche.
Qual sovra ’l ventre e qual sovra le spalle
l’un de l’altro giacea, e qual carpone
si trasmutava per lo tristo calle.
Passo passo andavam sanza sermone,
guardando e ascoltando li ammalati,
che non potean levar le lor persone.
Io vidi due sedere a sé poggiati,   →
com’ a scaldar si poggia tegghia a tegghia,
dal capo al piè di schianze macolati;
e non vidi già mai menare stregghia
a ragazzo aspettato dal segnorso,
né a colui che mal volontier vegghia,
come ciascun menava spesso il morso
de l’unghie sopra sé per la gran rabbia
del pizzicor, che non ha più soccorso;

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e sì traevan giù l’unghie la scabbia,
come coltel di scardova le scaglie
o d’altro pesce che più larghe l’abbia.
“O tu che con le dita ti dismaglie,”   →
cominciò ’l duca mio a l’un di loro,
“e che fai d’esse tal volta tanaglie,
dinne s’alcun Latino è tra costoro
che son quinc’ entro, se l’unghia ti basti
etternalmente a cotesto lavoro.”
“Latin siam noi, che tu vedi sì guasti
qui ambedue,” rispuose l’un piangendo;
“ma tu chi se’ che di noi dimandasti?”
E ’l duca disse: “I’ son un che discendo
con questo vivo giù di balzo in balzo,
e di mostrar lo ’nferno a lui intendo.”
Allor si ruppe lo comun rincalzo;
e tremando ciascuno a me si volse
con altri che l’udiron di rimbalzo.
Lo buon maestro a me tutto s’accolse,
dicendo: “Dì a lor ciò che tu vuoli”;
e io incominciai, poscia ch’ei volse:
“Se la vostra memoria non s’imboli
nel primo mondo da l’umane menti,
ma s’ella viva sotto molti soli,
ditemi chi voi siete e di che genti;
la vostra sconcia e fastidiosa pena
di palesarvi a me non vi spaventi.”
“Io fui d’Arezzo, e Albero da Siena,”   →

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rispuose l’un, “mi fé mettere al foco;
ma quel per ch’io mori’ qui non mi mena.
Vero è ch’i’ dissi lui, parlando a gioco:
‘I’ mi saprei levar per l’aere a volo’;
e quei, ch’avea vaghezza e senno poco,
volle ch’i’ li mostrassi l’arte; e solo
perch’ io nol feci Dedalo, mi fece
ardere a tal che l’avea per �gliuolo.
Ma ne l’ultima bolgia de le diece
me per l’alchìmia che nel mondo usai
dannò Minòs, a cui fallar non lece.”
E io dissi al poeta: “Or fu già mai   →
gente sì vana come la sanese?
Certo non la francesca sì d’assai!”
Onde l’altro lebbroso, che m’intese,   →
rispuose al detto mio: “Tra’mene Stricca
che seppe far le temperate spese,
e Niccolò che la costuma ricca
del garofano prima discoverse
ne l’orto dove tal seme s’appicca;
e tra’ne la brigata in che disperse
Caccia d’Ascian la vigna e la gran fonda,
e l’Abbagliato suo senno proferse.
Ma perché sappi chi sì ti seconda
contra i Sanesi, aguzza ver’ me l’occhio,
sì che la faccia mia ben ti risponda:
sì vedrai ch’io son l’ombra di Capocchio,   →
che falsai li metalli con l’alchìmia;

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e te dee ricordar, se ben t’adocchio,
com’ io fui di natura buona scimia.”

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INFERNO XXX
Nel tempo che Iunone era crucciata   →
per Semelè contra ’l sangue tebano,
come mostrò una e altra fïata,
Atamante divenne tanto insano,
che veggendo la moglie con due �gli
andar carcata da ciascuna mano,
gridò: “Tendiam le reti, sì ch’io pigli
la leonessa e ’ leoncini al varco”;
e poi distese i dispietati artigli,
prendendo l’un ch’avea nome Learco,
e rotollo e percosselo ad un sasso;
e quella s’annegò con l’altro carco.
E quando la fortuna volse in basso   →
l’altezza de’ Troian che tutto ardiva,
sì che ’nsieme col regno il re fu casso,
Ecuba trista, misera e cattiva,
poscia che vide Polissena morta,
e del suo Polidoro in su la riva
del mar si fu la dolorosa accorta,
forsennata latrò sì come cane;
tanto il dolor le fé la mente torta.
Ma né di Tebe furie né troiane   →
si vider mäi in alcun tanto crude,
non punger bestie, nonché membra umane,
quant’ io vidi in due ombre smorte e nude,
che mordendo correvan di quel modo

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che ’l porco quando del porcil si schiude.
L’una giunse a Capocchio, e in sul nodo   →
del collo l’assannò, sì che, tirando,
grattar li fece il ventre al fondo sodo.
E l’Aretin che rimase, tremando
mi disse: “Quel folletto è Gianni Schicchi,
e va rabbioso altrui così conciando.”
“Oh,” diss’ io lui, “se l’altro non ti �cchi
li denti a dosso, non ti sia fatica
a dir chi è, pria che di qui si spicchi.”
Ed elli a me: “Quell’ è l’anima antica   →
di Mirra scellerata, che divenne
al padre, fuor del dritto amore, amica.
Questa a peccar con esso così venne,
falsi�cando sé in altrui forma,
come l’altro che là sen va, sostenne,   →
per guadagnar la donna de la torma,
falsi�care in sé Buoso Donati,
testando e dando al testamento norma.”
E poi che i due rabbiosi fuor passati   →
sovra cu’ io avea l’occhio tenuto,
rivolsilo a guardar li altri mal nati.
Io vidi un, fatto a guisa di lëuto,   →
pur ch’elli avesse avuta l’anguinaia
tronca da l’altro che l’uomo ha forcuto.
La grave idropesì, che sì dispaia   →
le membra con l’omor che mal converte,
che ’l viso non risponde a la ventraia,

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faceva lui tener le labbra aperte
come l’etico fa, che per la sete
l’un verso ’l mento e l’altro in sù rinverte.
“O voi che sanz’ alcuna pena siete,   →
e non so io perché, nel mondo gramo,”
diss’ elli a noi, “guardate e attendete
a la miseria del maestro Adamo;
io ebbi, vivo, assai di quel ch’i’ volli,
e ora, lasso!, un gocciol d’acqua bramo.
Li ruscelletti che d’i verdi colli   →
del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno,
faccendo i lor canali freddi e molli,
sempre mi stanno innanzi, e non indarno,
ché l’imagine lor vie più m’asciuga
che ’l male ond’ io nel volto mi discarno.
La rigida giustizia che mi fruga
tragge cagion del loco ov’ io peccai
a metter più li miei sospiri in fuga.
Ivi è Romena, là dov’ io falsai
la lega suggellata del Batista;
per ch’io il corpo sù arso lasciai.
Ma s’io vedessi qui l’anima trista   →
di Guido o d’Alessandro o di lor frate,
per Fonte Branda non darei la vista.
Dentro c’è l’una già, se l’arrabbiate   →
ombre che vanno intorno dicon vero;
ma che mi val, c’ho le membra legate?
S’io fossi pur di tanto ancor leggero   →

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ch’i’ potessi in cent’ anni andare un’oncia,
io sarei messo già per lo sentiero,
cercando lui tra questa gente sconcia,
con tutto ch’ella volge undici miglia,
e men d’un mezzo di traverso non ci ha.
Io son per lor tra sì fatta famiglia;   →
e’ m’indussero a batter li �orini
ch’avevan tre carati di mondiglia.”
E io a lui: “Chi son li due tapini
che fumman come man bagnate ’l verno,
giacendo stretti a’ tuoi destri con�ni?”
“Qui li trovai—e poi volta non dierno—,”
rispuose, “quando piovvi in questo greppo,
e non credo che dieno in sempiterno.
L’una è la falsa ch’accusò Gioseppo;   →
l’altr’ è ’l falso Sinon greco di Troia:
per febbre aguta gittan tanto leppo.”
E l’un di lor, che si recò a noia   →
forse d’esser nomato sì oscuro,
col pugno li percosse l’epa croia.
Quella sonò come fosse un tamburo;
e mastro Adamo li percosse il volto
col braccio suo, che non parve men duro,
dicendo a lui: “Ancor che mi sia tolto
lo muover per le membra che son gravi,
ho io il braccio a tal mestiere sciolto.”
Ond’ ei rispuose: “Quando tu andavi
al fuoco, non l’avei tu così presto;

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ma sì e più l’avei quando coniavi.”
E l’idropico: “Tu di’ ver di questo:
ma tu non fosti sì ver testimonio
là ’ve del ver fosti a Troia richesto.”
“S’io dissi falso, e tu falsasti il conio,”   →
disse Sinon; “e son qui per un fallo,
e tu per più ch’alcun altro demonio!”
“Ricorditi, spergiuro, del cavallo,”   →
rispuose quel ch’avëa in�ata l’epa;
“e sieti reo che tutto il mondo sallo!”
“E te sia rea la sete onde ti crepa,”
disse ’l Greco, “la lingua, e l’acqua marcia
che ’l ventre innanzi a li occhi sì t’assiepa!”
Allora il monetier: “Così si squarcia
la bocca tua per tuo mal come suole;
ché s’i’ ho sete e omor mi rinfarcia,   →
tu hai l’arsura e ’l capo che ti duole,
e per leccar lo specchio di Narcisso,
non vorresti a ’nvitar molte parole.”
Ad ascoltarli er’ io del tutto �sso,
quando ’l maestro mi disse: “Or pur mira,   →
che per poco che teco non mi risso!”
Quand’ io ’l senti’ a me parlar con ira,
volsimi verso lui con tal vergogna,
ch’ancor per la memoria mi si gira.
Qual è colui che suo dannaggio sogna,   →
che sognando desidera sognare,
sì che quel ch’è, come non fosse, agogna,

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tal mi fec’ io, non possendo parlare,
che disïava scusarmi, e scusava
me tuttavia, e nol mi credea fare.
“Maggior difetto men vergogna lava,”   →
disse ’l maestro, “che ’l tuo non è stato;
però d’ogne trestizia ti disgrava.
E fa ragion ch’io ti sia sempre allato,
se più avvien che fortuna t’accoglia
dove sien genti in simigliante piato:
ché voler ciò udire è bassa voglia.”

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INFERNO XXXI
Una medesma lingua pria mi morse,   →
sì che mi tinse l’una e l’altra guancia,
e poi la medicina mi riporse;
così od’ io che solea far la lancia
d’Achille e del suo padre esser cagione
prima di trista e poi di buona mancia.
Noi demmo il dosso al misero vallone   →
su per la ripa che ’l cinge dintorno,
attraversando sanza alcun sermone.
Quiv’ era men che notte e men che giorno,
sì che ’l viso m’andava innanzi poco;
ma io senti’ sonare un alto corno,
tanto ch’avrebbe ogne tuon fatto �oco,
che, contra sé la sua via seguitando,
dirizzò li occhi miei tutti ad un loco.
Dopo la dolorosa rotta, quando   →
Carlo Magno perdé la santa gesta,
non sonò sì terribilmente Orlando.
Poco portäi in là volta la testa,   →
che me parve veder molte alte torri;
ond’ io: “Maestro, dì, che terra è questa?”
Ed elli a me: “Però che tu trascorri
per le tenebre troppo da la lungi,
avvien che poi nel maginare abborri.
Tu vedrai ben, se tu là ti congiungi,

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quanto ’l senso s’inganna di lontano;
però alquanto più te stesso pungi.”
Poi caramente mi prese per mano   →
e disse: “Pria che noi siam più avanti,
acciò che ’l fatto men ti paia strano,
sappi che non son torri, ma giganti,
e son nel pozzo intorno da la ripa
da l’umbilico in giuso tutti quanti.”
Come quando la nebbia si dissipa,   →
lo sguardo a poco a poco ra�gura
ciò che cela ’l vapor che l’aere stipa,
così forando l’aura grossa e scura,
più e più appressando ver’ la sponda,
fuggiemi errore e crescémi paura;
però che, come su la cerchia tonda   →
Montereggion di torri si corona,
così la proda che ’l pozzo circonda
torreggiavan di mezza la persona
li orribili giganti, cui minaccia
Giove del cielo ancora quando tuona.
E io scorgeva già d’alcun la faccia,
le spalle e ’l petto e del ventre gran parte,
e per le coste giù ambo le braccia.
Natura certo, quando lasciò l’arte   →
di sì fatti animali, assai fé bene
per tòrre tali essecutori a Marte.
E s’ella d’elefanti e di balene
non si pente, chi guarda sottilmente,

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più giusta e più discreta la ne tene;
ché dove l’argomento de la mente
s’aggiugne al mal volere e a la possa,
nessun riparo vi può far la gente.
La faccia sua mi parea lunga e grossa   →
come la pina di San Pietro a Roma,
e a sua proporzione eran l’altre ossa;
sì che la ripa, ch’era perizoma
dal mezzo in giù, ne mostrava ben tanto
di sovra, che di giugnere a la chioma
tre Frison s’averien dato mal vanto;
però ch’i’ ne vedea trenta gran palmi
dal loco in giù dov’ omo a�bbia ’l manto.
“Raphèl maì amècche zabì almi,”   →
cominciò a gridar la �era bocca,
cui non si convenia più dolci salmi.   →
E ’l duca mio ver’ lui: “Anima sciocca,   →
tienti col corno, e con quel ti disfoga
quand’ ira o altra passïon ti tocca!
Cércati al collo, e troverai la soga
che ’l tien legato, o anima confusa,
e vedi lui che ’l gran petto ti doga.”
Poi disse a me: “Elli stessi s’accusa;
questi è Nembrotto per lo cui mal coto
pur un linguaggio nel mondo non s’usa.
Lasciànlo stare e non parliamo a vòto;
ché così è a lui ciascun linguaggio
come ’l suo ad altrui, ch’a nullo è noto.”

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Facemmo adunque più lungo vïaggio,
vòlti a sinistra; e al trar d’un balestro
trovammo l’altro assai più fero e maggio.   →
A cigner lui qual che fosse ’l maestro,
non so io dir, ma el tenea soccinto
dinanzi l’altro e dietro il braccio destro
d’una catena che ’l tenea avvinto
dal collo in giù, sì che ’n su lo scoperto
si ravvolgëa in�no al giro quinto.
“Questo superbo volle esser esperto   →
di sua potenza contra ’l sommo Giove,”
disse ’l mio duca, “ond’ elli ha cotal merto.
Fïalte ha nome, e fece le gran prove
quando i giganti fer paura a’ dèi;
le braccia ch’el menò, già mai non move.”
E io a lui: “S’esser puote, io vorrei   →
che de lo smisurato Brïareo
esperïenza avesser li occhi mei.”
Ond’ ei rispuose: “Tu vedrai Anteo
presso di qui che parla ed è disciolto,
che ne porrà nel fondo d’ogne reo.
Quel che tu vuo’ veder, più là è molto
ed è legato e fatto come questo,
salvo che più feroce par nel volto.”
Non fu tremoto già tanto rubesto,
che scotesse una torre così forte,
come Fïalte a scuotersi fu presto.   →
Allor temett’ io più che mai la morte,

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e non v’era mestier più che la dotta,
s’io non avessi viste le ritorte.
Noi procedemmo più avante allotta,
e venimmo ad Anteo, che ben cinque alle,   →
sanza la testa, uscia fuor de la grotta.
“O tu che ne la fortunata valle   →
che fece Scipïon di gloria reda,
quand’ Anibàl co’ suoi diede le spalle,
recasti già mille leon per preda,
e che, se fossi stato a l’alta guerra
de’ tuoi fratelli, ancor par che si creda
ch’avrebber vinto i �gli de la terra:
mettine giù, e non ten vegna schifo,
dove Cocito la freddura serra.
Non ci fare ire a Tizio né a Tifo:
questi può dar di quel che qui si brama;   →
però ti china e non torcer lo grifo.
Ancor ti può nel mondo render fama,
ch’el vive, e lunga vita ancor aspetta
se ’nnanzi tempo grazia a sé nol chiama.”
Così disse ’l maestro; e quelli in fretta
le man distese, e prese ’l duca mio,
ond’ Ercule sentì già grande stretta.
Virgilio, quando prender si sentio,
disse a me: “Fatti qua, sì ch’io ti prenda”;
poi fece sì ch’un fascio era elli e io.
Qual pare a riguardar la Carisenda   →
sotto ’l chinato, quando un nuvol vada

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sovr’ essa sì, ched ella incontro penda:
tal parve Antëo a me che stava a bada
di vederlo chinare, e fu tal ora
ch’i’ avrei voluto ir per altra strada.
Ma lievemente al fondo che divora   →
Lucifero con Giuda, ci sposò;
né, sì chinato, li fece dimora,   →
e come albero in nave si levò.

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INFERNO XXXII
S’ïo avessi le rime aspre e chiocce,   →
come si converrebbe al tristo buco
sovra ’l qual pontan tutte l’altre rocce,
io premerei di mio concetto il suco
più pienamente; ma perch’ io non l’abbo,
non sanza tema a dicer mi conduco;
ché non è impresa da pigliare a gabbo
discriver fondo a tutto l’universo,
né da lingua che chiami mamma o babbo.
Ma quelle donne aiutino il mio verso   →
ch’aiutaro Anfïone a chiuder Tebe,
sì che dal fatto il dir non sia diverso.
Oh sovra tutte mal creata plebe   →
che stai nel loco onde parlare è duro,
mei foste state qui pecore o zebe!
Come noi fummo giù nel pozzo scuro   →
sotto i piè del gigante assai più bassi,
e io mirava ancora a l’alto muro,
dicere udi’mi: “Guarda come passi:   →
va sì, che tu non calchi con le piante
le teste de’ fratei miseri lassi.”
Per ch’io mi volsi, e vidimi davante   →
e sotto i piedi un lago che per gelo
avea di vetro e non d’acqua sembiante.
Non fece al corso suo sì grosso velo   →

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di verno la Danoia in Osterlicchi,
né Tanaï là sotto ’l freddo cielo,
com’ era quivi; che se Tambernicchi
vi fosse sù caduto, o Pietrapana,
non avria pur da l’orlo fatto cricchi.
E come a gracidar si sta la rana   →
col muso fuor de l’acqua, quando sogna
di spigolar sovente la villana,
livide, insin là dove appar vergogna
eran l’ombre dolenti ne la ghiaccia,
mettendo i denti in nota di cicogna.
Ognuna in giù tenea volta la faccia;   →
da bocca il freddo, e da li occhi il cor tristo
tra lor testimonianza si procaccia.
Quand’ io m’ebbi dintorno alquanto visto,
volsimi a’ piedi, e vidi due sì stretti,
che ’l pel del capo avieno insieme misto.
“Ditemi, voi che sì strignete i petti,”
diss’ io, “chi siete?” E quei piegaro i colli;
e poi ch’ebber li visi a me eretti,
li occhi lor, ch’eran pria pur dentro molli,   →
gocciar su per le labbra, e ’l gelo strinse
le lagrime tra essi e riserrolli.
Con legno legno spranga mai non cinse
forte così; ond’ ei come due becchi
cozzaro insieme, tanta ira li vinse.
E un ch’avea perduti ambo li orecchi
per la freddura, pur col viso in giùe,

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disse: “Perché cotanto in noi ti specchi?   →
Se vuoi saper chi son cotesti due,
la valle onde Bisenzo si dichina
del padre loro Alberto e di lor fue.
D’un corpo usciro; e tutta la Caina
potrai cercare, e non troverai ombra
degna più d’esser �tta in gelatina:
non quelli a cui fu rotto il petto e l’ombra
con esso un colpo per la man d’Artù;
non Focaccia; non questi che m’ingombra
col capo sì, ch’i’ non veggio oltre più,
e fu nomato Sassol Mascheroni;
se tosco se’, ben sai omai chi fu.
E perché non mi metti in più sermoni,
sappi ch’i’ fu’ il Camiscion de’ Pazzi;
e aspetto Carlin che mi scagioni.”
Poscia vid’ io mille visi cagnazzi   →
fatti per freddo; onde mi vien riprezzo,
e verrà sempre, de’ gelati guazzi.
E mentre ch’andavamo inver’ lo mezzo   →
al quale ogne gravezza si rauna,
e io tremava ne l’etterno rezzo;
se voler fu o destino o fortuna,
non so; ma, passeggiando tra le teste,
forte percossi ’l piè nel viso ad una.
Piangendo mi sgridò: “Perché mi peste?   →
se tu non vieni a crescer la vendetta
di Montaperti, perché mi moleste?”

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E io: “Maestro mio, or qui m’aspetta,   →
sì ch’io esca d’un dubbio per costui;
poi mi farai, quantunque vorrai, fretta.”
Lo duca stette, e io dissi a colui
che bestemmiava duramente ancora:
“Qual se’ tu che così rampogni altrui?”   →
“Or tu chi se’ che vai per l’Antenora,
percotendo,” rispuose, “altrui le gote,
sì che, se fossi vivo, troppo fora?”
“Vivo son io, e caro esser ti puote,”
fu mia risposta, “se dimandi fama,
ch’io metta il nome tuo tra l’altre note.”
Ed elli a me: “Del contrario ho io brama.
Lèvati quinci e non mi dar più lagna,
ché mal sai lusingar per questa lama!”
Allor lo presi per la cuticagna
e dissi: “El converrà che tu ti nomi,
o che capel qui sù non ti rimagna.”
Ond’ elli a me: “Perché tu mi dischiomi,
né ti dirò ch’io sia, né mosterrolti
se mille �ate in sul capo mi tomi.”
Io avea già i capelli in mano avvolti,
e tratti glien’ avea più d’una ciocca,
latrando lui con li occhi in giù raccolti,
quando un altro gridò: “Che hai tu, Bocca?
non ti basta sonar con le mascelle,
se tu non latri? qual diavol ti tocca?”
“Omai,” diss’ io, “non vo’ che più favelle,

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malvagio traditor; ch’a la tua onta
io porterò di te vere novelle.”
“Va via,” rispuose, “e ciò che tu vuoi conta;
ma non tacer, se tu di qua entro eschi,   →
di quel ch’ebbe or così la lingua pronta.
El piange qui l’argento de’ Franceschi:
‘Io vidi,’ potrai dir, ‘quel da Duera
là dove i peccatori stanno freschi.’
Se fossi domandato ‘Altri chi v’era?’
tu hai dallato quel di Beccheria
di cui segò Fiorenza la gorgiera.
Gianni de’ Soldanier credo che sia
più là con Ganellone e Tebaldello,
ch’aprì Faenza quando si dormia.”
Noi eravam partiti già da ello,   →
ch’io vidi due ghiacciati in una buca,
sì che l’un capo a l’altro era cappello;
e come ’l pan per fame si manduca,   →
così ’l sovran li denti a l’altro pose
là ’ve ’l cervel s’aggiugne con la nuca:
non altrimenti Tidëo si rose
le tempie a Menalippo per disdegno,
che quei faceva il teschio e l’altre cose.
“O tu che mostri per sì bestial segno   →
odio sovra colui che tu ti mangi,
dimmi ’l perché,” diss’ io, “per tal convegno,   →
che se tu a ragion di lui ti piangi,
sappiendo chi voi siete e la sua pecca,

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nel mondo suso ancora io te ne cangi,
se quella con ch’io parlo non si secca.”

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INFERNO XXXIII
La bocca sollevò dal �ero pasto   →
quel peccator, forbendola a’ capelli
del capo ch’elli avea di retro guasto.
Poi cominciò: “Tu vuo’ ch’io rinovelli   →
disperato dolor che ’l cor mi preme
già pur pensando, pria ch’io ne favelli.
Ma se le mie parole esser dien seme
che frutti infamia al traditor ch’i’ rodo,   →
parlare e lagrimar vedrai insieme.   →
Io non so chi tu se’ né per che modo
venuto se’ qua giù; ma �orentino   →
mi sembri veramente quand’ io t’odo.
Tu dei saper ch’i’ fui conte Ugolino,
e questi è l’arcivescovo Ruggieri:
or ti dirò perché i son tal vicino.
Che per l’e�etto de’ suo’ mai pensieri,
�dandomi di lui, io fossi preso
e poscia morto, dir non è mestieri;
però quel che non puoi avere inteso,
cioè come la morte mia fu cruda,   →
udirai, e saprai s’e’ m’ha o�eso.
Breve pertugio dentro da la Muda,   →
la qual per me ha ’l titol de la fame,
e che conviene ancor ch’altrui si chiuda,
m’avea mostrato per lo suo forame

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più lune già, quand’ io feci ’l mal sonno   →
che del futuro mi squarciò ’l velame.
Questi pareva a me maestro e donno,   →
cacciando il lupo e ’ lupicini al monte
per che i Pisan veder Lucca non ponno.
Con cagne magre, studïose e conte
Gualandi con Sismondi e con Lanfranchi
s’avea messi dinanzi da la fronte.
In picciol corso mi parieno stanchi
lo padre e ’ �gli, e con l’agute scane
mi parea lor veder fender li �anchi.
Quando fui desto innanzi la dimane,   →
pianger senti’ fra ’l sonno i miei �gliuoli
ch’eran con meco, e dimandar del pane.
Ben se’ crudel, se tu già non ti duoli   →
pensando ciò che ’l mio cor s’annunziava;
e se non piangi, di che pianger suoli?
Già eran desti, e l’ora s’appressava
che ’l cibo ne solëa essere addotto,
e per suo sogno ciascun dubitava;   →
e io senti’ chiavar l’uscio di sotto   →
a l’orribile torre; ond’ io guardai
nel viso a’ mie’ �gliuoi sanza far motto.
Io non piangëa, sì dentro impetrai:   →
piangevan elli; e Anselmuccio mio
disse: ‘Tu guardi sì, padre! che hai?’
Perciò non lagrimai né rispuos’ io
tutto quel giorno né la notte appresso,

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in�n che l’altro sol nel mondo uscìo.
Come un poco di raggio si fu messo
nel doloroso carcere, e io scorsi
per quattro visi il mio aspetto stesso,
ambo le man per lo dolor mi morsi;   →
ed ei, pensando ch’io ’l fessi per voglia
di manicar, di sùbito levorsi
e disser: ‘Padre, assai ci �a men doglia
se tu mangi di noi: tu ne vestisti
queste misere carni, e tu le spoglia.’
Queta’mi allor per non farli più tristi;   →
lo dì e l’altro stemmo tutti muti;
ahi dura terra, perché non t’apristi?
Poscia che fummo al quarto dì venuti,
Gaddo mi si gittò disteso a’ piedi,
dicendo: ‘Padre mio, ché non m’aiuti?’
Quivi morì; e come tu mi vedi,
vid’ io cascar li tre ad uno ad uno
tra ’l quinto dì e ’l sesto; ond’ io mi diedi,
già cieco, a brancolar sovra ciascuno,
e due dì li chiamai, poi che fur morti.   →
Poscia, più che ’l dolor, poté ’l digiuno.”   →
Quand’ ebbe detto ciò, con li occhi torti   →
riprese ’l teschio misero co’ denti,
che furo a l’osso, come d’un can, forti.
Ahi Pisa, vituperio de le genti   →
del bel paese là dove ’l sì suona,
poi che i vicini a te punir son lenti,

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muovasi la Capraia e la Gorgona,
e faccian siepe ad Arno in su la foce,
sì ch’elli annieghi in te ogne persona!
Che se ’l conte Ugolino aveva voce
d’aver tradita te de le castella,
non dovei tu i �gliuoi porre a tal croce.
Innocenti facea l’età novella,
novella Tebe, Uguiccione e ’l Brigata
e li altri due che ’l canto suso appella.
Noi passammo oltre, là ’ve la gelata   →
ruvidamente un’altra gente fascia,
non volta in giù, ma tutta riversata.
Lo pianto stesso lì pianger non lascia,   →
e ’l duol che truova in su li occhi rintoppo,
si volge in entro a far crescer l’ambascia;
ché le lagrime prime fanno groppo,
e sì come visiere di cristallo,
rïempion sotto ’l ciglio tutto il coppo.
E avvegna che, sì come d’un callo,   →
per la freddura ciascun sentimento
cessato avesse del mio viso stallo,
già mi parea sentire alquanto vento;
per ch’io: “Maestro mio, questo chi move?
non è qua giù ogne vapore spento?”
Ond’ elli a me: “Avaccio sarai dove   →
di ciò ti farà l’occhio la risposta,
veggendo la cagion che ’l �ato piove.”
E un de’ tristi de la fredda crosta   →

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gridò a noi: “O anime crudeli
tanto che data v’è l’ultima posta,
levatemi dal viso i duri veli,
sì ch’ïo sfoghi ’l duol che ’l cor m’impregna,
un poco, pria che ’l pianto si raggeli.”
Per ch’io a lui: “Se vuo’ ch’i’ ti sovvegna,   →
dimmi chi se’, e s’io non ti disbrigo,
al fondo de la ghiaccia ir mi convegna.”
Rispuose adunque: “I’ son frate Alberigo;   →
i’ son quel da le frutta del mal orto,
che qui riprendo dattero per �go.”
“Oh,” diss’ io lui, “or se’ tu ancor morto?”
Ed elli a me: “Come ’l mio corpo stea   →
nel mondo sù, nulla scïenza porto.
Cotal vantaggio ha questa Tolomea,
che spesse volte l’anima ci cade
innanzi ch’Atropòs mossa le dea.
E perché tu più volontier mi rade
le ’nvetrïate lagrime dal volto,
sappie che, tosto che l’anima trade
com fec’ ïo, il corpo suo l’è tolto
da un demonio, che poscia il governa
mentre che ’l tempo suo tutto sia vòlto.
Ella ruina in sì fatta cisterna;
e forse pare ancor lo corpo suso   →
de l’ombra che di qua dietro mi verna.
Tu ’l dei saper, se tu vien pur mo giuso;
elli è ser Branca Doria, e son più anni

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poscia passati ch’el fu sì racchiuso.”
“Io credo,” diss’ io lui, “che tu m’inganni;
ché Branca Doria non morì unquanche,
e mangia e bee e dorme e veste panni.”
“Nel fosso sù,” diss’ el, “de’ Malebranche,
là dove bolle la tenace pece,
non era ancora giunto Michel Zanche,
che questi lasciò il diavolo in sua vece
nel corpo suo, ed un suo prossimano
che ’l tradimento insieme con lui fece.
Ma distendi oggimai in qua la mano;   →
aprimi li occhi.” E io non gliel’ apersi;
e cortesia fu lui esser villano.
Ahi Genovesi, uomini diversi   →
d’ogne costume e pien d’ogne magagna,
perché non siete voi del mondo spersi?
Ché col peggiore spirto di Romagna
trovai di voi un tal, che per sua opra
in anima in Cocito già si bagna,
e in corpo par vivo ancor di sopra.

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INFERNO XXXIV
“Vexilla regis prodeunt inferni   →
verso di noi; però dinanzi mira,”
disse ’l maestro mio, “se tu ’l discerni.”
Come quando una grossa nebbia spira,   →
o quando l’emisperio nostro annotta,
par di lungi un molin che ’l vento gira,
veder mi parve un tal di�cio allotta;
poi per lo vento mi ristrinsi retro   →
al duca mio, ché non lì era altra grotta.
Già era, e con paura il metto in metro,   →
là dove l’ombre tutte eran coperte,   →
e trasparien come festuca in vetro.
Altre sono a giacere; altre stanno erte,   →
quella col capo e quella con le piante;
altra, com’ arco, il volto a’ piè rinverte.
Quando noi fummo fatti tanto avante,
ch’al mio maestro piacque di mostrarmi
la creatura ch’ebbe il bel sembiante,
d’innanzi mi si tolse e fé restarmi,
“Ecco Dite,” dicendo, “ed ecco il loco   →
ove convien che di fortezza t’armi.”
Com’ io divenni allor gelato e �oco,   →
nol dimandar, lettor, ch’i’ non lo scrivo,
però ch’ogne parlar sarebbe poco.
Io non mori’ e non rimasi vivo;

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pensa oggimai per te, s’hai �or d’ingegno,
qual io divenni, d’uno e d’altro privo.
Lo ’mperador del doloroso regno
da mezzo ’l petto uscia fuor de la ghiaccia;
e più con un gigante io mi convegno,   →
che i giganti non fan con le sue braccia:
vedi oggimai quant’ esser dee quel tutto
ch’a così fatta parte si confaccia.
S’el fu sì bel com’ elli è ora brutto,
e contra ’l suo fattore alzò le ciglia,   →
ben dee da lui procedere ogne lutto.
Oh quanto parve a me gran maraviglia   →
quand’ io vidi tre facce a la sua testa!
L’una dinanzi, e quella era vermiglia;   →
l’altr’ eran due, che s’aggiugnieno a questa
sovresso ’l mezzo di ciascuna spalla,
e sé giugnieno al loco de la cresta:
e la destra parea tra bianca e gialla;
la sinistra a vedere era tal, quali
vegnon di là onde ’l Nilo s’avvalla.
Sotto ciascuna uscivan due grand’ ali,   →
quanto si convenia a tanto uccello:
vele di mar non vid’ io mai cotali.
Non avean penne, ma di vispistrello
era lor modo; e quelle svolazzava,
sì che tre venti si movean da ello:
quindi Cocito tutto s’aggelava.
Con sei occhi piangëa, e per tre menti   →

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gocciava ’l pianto e sanguinosa bava.
Da ogne bocca dirompea co’ denti
un peccatore, a guisa di maciulla,
sì che tre ne facea così dolenti.
A quel dinanzi il mordere era nulla
verso ’l gra�ar, che tal volta la schiena
rimanea de la pelle tutta brulla.
“Quell’ anima là sù c’ha maggior pena,”   →
disse ’l maestro, “è Giuda Scarïotto,
che ’l capo ha dentro e fuor le gambe mena.
De li altri due c’hanno il capo di sotto,
quel che pende dal nero ce�o è Bruto:
vedi come si storce, e non fa motto!;
e l’altro è Cassio, che par sì membruto.
Ma la notte risurge, e oramai   →
è da partir, ché tutto avem veduto.”
Com’ a lui piacque, il collo li avvinghiai;
ed el prese di tempo e loco poste,   →
e quando l’ali fuoro aperte assai,
appigliò sé a le vellute coste;
di vello in vello giù discese poscia
tra ’l folto pelo e le gelate croste.
Quando noi fummo là dove la coscia   →
si volge, a punto in sul grosso de l’anche,
lo duca, con fatica e con angoscia,
volse la testa ov’ elli avea le zanche,
e aggrappossi al pel com’ om che sale,
sì che ’n inferno i’ credea tornar anche.

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“Attienti ben, ché per cotali scale,”
disse ’l maestro, ansando com’ uom lasso,
“conviensi dipartir da tanto male.”
Poi uscì fuor per lo fóro d’un sasso
e puose me in su l’orlo a sedere;
appresso porse a me l’accorto passo.
Io levai li occhi e credetti vedere
Lucifero com’ io l’avea lasciato,
e vidili le gambe in sù tenere;
e s’io divenni allora travagliato,
la gente grossa il pensi, che non vede
qual è quel punto ch’io avea passato.
“Lèvati sù,” disse ’l maestro, “in piede:   →
la via è lunga e ’l cammino è malvagio,
e già il sole a mezza terza riede.”
Non era camminata di palagio   →
là ’v’ eravam, ma natural burella
ch’avea mal suolo e di lume disagio.
“Prima ch’io de l’abisso mi divella,
maestro mio,” diss’ io quando fui dritto,
“a trarmi d’erro un poco mi favella:
ov’ è la ghiaccia? e questi com’ è �tto
sì sottosopra? e come, in sì poc’ ora,
da sera a mane ha fatto il sol tragitto?”
Ed elli a me: “Tu imagini ancora
d’esser di là dal centro, ov’ io mi presi
al pel del vermo reo che ’l mondo fóra.
Di là fosti cotanto quant’ io scesi;

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quand’ io mi volsi, tu passasti ’l punto
al qual si traggon d’ogne parte i pesi.
E se’ or sotto l’emisperio giunto
ch’è contraposto a quel che la gran secca
coverchia, e sotto ’l cui colmo consunto
fu l’uom che nacque e visse sanza pecca;
tu haï i piedi in su picciola spera
che l’altra faccia fa de la Giudecca.
Qui è da man, quando di là è sera;
e questi, che ne fé scala col pelo,
�tto è ancora sì come prim’ era.
Da questa parte cadde giù dal cielo;   →
e la terra, che pria di qua si sporse,
per paura di lui fé del mar velo,
e venne a l’emisperio nostro; e forse
per fuggir lui lasciò qui loco vòto
quella ch’appar di qua, e sù ricorse.”
Luogo è là giù da Belzebù remoto   →
tanto quanto la tomba si distende,
che non per vista, ma per suono è noto
d’un ruscelletto che quivi discende
per la buca d’un sasso, ch’elli ha roso,
col corso ch’elli avvolge, e poco pende.
Lo duca e io per quel cammino ascoso   →
intrammo a ritornar nel chiaro mondo;
e sanza cura aver d’alcun riposo,
salimmo sù, el primo e io secondo,
tanto ch’i’ vidi de le cose belle

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che porta ’l ciel, per un pertugio tondo.
E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.   →

Notes
INFERNO I
1.      The �rst of the 14,233 lines that constitute the Comedy
immediately establishes a context for the poem that is both
universal and particular. It also immediately compels a reader to
realize that this is a di�cult work, one that may not be read
passively, but calls for the reader’s active engagement.
Many commentators have pointed out that this opening verse
echoes a biblical text, Isaiah’s account of the words of Hezekiah,
a�icted by the “sickness unto death” (Isaiah 38:10): “in dimidio
dierum meorum vadam ad portas inferi” (in the midst of my days, I
shall go to the gates of the nether region). Many another potential
“source” has found proponents, but this one is so apposite that it has
probably received more attention than any other. One other should
also be mentioned here, the Tesoretto of Brunetto Latini (see note to
Inf. XV.50). Another tradition holds that the reference is to the age
of Dante when he made his voyage (he was thirty-�ve years old in
1300, half of the biblical “three score and ten”—Psalms 89:10). In
addition, some commentators have noted the resonance of the epic
tradition in Dante’s opening phrase, since epics were seen as
beginning, like this poem, in medias res, “in the midst of the action,”
not at its inception.
Related issues are also debated by the earliest commentators, in
particular the date of the vision. While there has been disagreement
even about the year of the journey to the otherworld, indicated at
various points as being 1300 (e.g., Inf. X.79–80, XXI.113, Purg. II.98,
XXXII.2), it is clear that Dante has set his work in the Jubilee Year,
proclaimed by Pope Boniface VIII in February of 1300. Far more
uncertainty attends the question of the actual days indicated.
Dante’s descent into hell is begun either on Friday, 25 March or on

Friday, 8 April, with the conclusion of the journey occurring almost
exactly one week later. In favor of the March date, one can argue
that Dante could hardly have chosen a more propitious date for a
beginning: March 25 was the anniversary of the creation of Adam,
of the conception and of the Cruci�xion of Christ, and also marked
the Florentine “New Year,” since that city measured the year from
the Annunciation. [return to English / Italian]
2.   mi ritrovai (I came to myself) has the sense of a sudden shocked
discovery. “It is the pained amazement of one who has only now, for
the �rst time, become aware that he is in peril” (Padoan, comm. to
Inf. I.2).
The grammatical solecism (“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
/ mi ritrovai” [Midway in the journey of our life I came to
myself…]), mixing plural and singular �rst-persons, is another sign
of the poet’s desire to make his reader grasp the relation between
the individual and the universal, between Dante and all humankind.
His voyage is meant to be understood as ours as well.
The selva oscura is one of the governing images of this canto and
of the poem. Many commentators point to the previous
metaphorical statement found in the Dantean work that is probably
nearest in time to it, the fourth treatise of his Convivio (Conv.
IV.xxiv.12), where the author refers to “la selva erronea di questa
vita” (the error-�lled wood of this life). But here the wood is to be
taken “historically” in at least a certain sense, and seems to re�ect,
to some readers, the condition of Eden after the Fall. In such a
reading, Dante’s sinful life is as though lived in the ruins of Eden,
the place to which he has let himself be led, away from the light of
God. In any case, the wood indicates not sin itself, but human life
lived in the condition of sin. [return to English / Italian]
3.   See Wisdom 5:7: “Lassati sumus in via iniquitate et perditionis,
et ambulavimus vias di�ciles; viam autem Domini ignoravimus”
(We grew weary in the way of iniquity and perdition, and we
walked di�cult pathways; to the way of the Lord, however, we paid

no attention)—perhaps �rst noted in Padoan’s commentary to this
verse. [return to English / Italian]
7.      Perhaps the �rst serious interpretive tangle for readers of the
poem. The problem is a simple one to describe: what is the
antecedent of the implicit subject of the verb è (“It is so bitter …”)?
There are three feminine nouns that may have that role, since the
predicate adjective, amara (bitter), is also in the feminine: cosa dura
(hard thing, v. 4), selva (wood, v. 5), paura (fear, v. 6). Several
current commentators are convinced that selva is the antecedent. On
the other hand, it seems likely that the antecedent is the phrase cosa
dura (as in Castelvetro’s commentary). The entire passage makes
good sense when read this way. To tell of his experience in the dark
and savage wood is di�cult (vv. 4–6) and so bitter that only dying
seems more bitter; but, in order to treat of the better things he found
in the wood, he will speak. [return to English / Italian]
8–9.      These innocent-sounding lines have been the cause of
considerable puzzlement. What is “the good” that Dante found?
What are the “other things”? It may be that these terms are in
antithetic relation. Over �ve hundred years ago Filippo Villani
(Bell.1989.1, p. 93) o�ered this gloss: “de bonis et malis in silva
repertis” (of the good and the bad found in the forest). Following
this line of interpretation yields the following general sense of the
passage: “Even in the depths of my sin I found God in terrible
things.” And thus the ben is not here Virgil (as many commentators
suggest despite the fact that Virgil does not appear to Dante in the
forest), but God’s grace in allowing Dante to learn of His goodness
even in his worst experiences. [return to English / Italian]
11.      pien di sonno. The date is Thursday, 24 March (or 7 April?)
1300. As the text will later make clear (Inf. XXI.112–114), we are
observing the 1266th anniversary of Good Friday (which fell on 8
April in 1300 [but see note to v. 1, above]). This would indicate
that the poem actually begins on Thursday evening, the 1266th
anniversary of Maundy Thursday, when the Apostles slept while

Christ watched in the garden, and continued to sleep even as He
called to them to rise. That this moment is recalled here seems
likely: Dante, too, is “asleep” to Christ in his descent into sin. See
Matth. 26:40–46. [return to English / Italian]
13.      The colle (hill) is generally interpreted as signifying the good
life attainable by humankind under its own powers; some, however,
believe it has a higher and spiritual meaning, involving salvation.
For discussion and strong support for the �rst reading, based in texts
of Aristotle, Brunetto Latini, and Dante himself (esp. Mon. III.xvi.7:
beatitudo huius vitae [the blessedness of this life]), see Mazz.1967.1,
pp. 58–60. [return to English / Italian]
14.      valle (valley): another key word in this landscape. Dante’s
descent into the valley where the selva is located marks a major
moral failure and brings him close to death. [return to English / Italian]
15.      paura (fear), as many have pointed out, is perhaps the key
word, in the beginning of the poem, that describes Dante’s perilous
inner condition. It occurs �ve times in the canto: at vv. 6; here; 19;
44; 53. [return to English / Italian]
17.   pianeta: the rays of the sun are meant. [return to English / Italian]
18.      altrui (others): all those who walk in the ways of the Lord.
[return to English / Italian]
20.      For Boccaccio, this “lake” or “concavity” in the heart is the
place to which our emotions �ow; he goes on to mention fear as the
exemplary emotion, thus giving Dante’s verse a “medical”
explanation. [return to English / Italian]
22–27.  This is the �rst simile in a poem �lled with similes, as many
as four hundred of them. Here, in response to the �rst of these, it is
perhaps helpful to observe that “similes” in Dante are varied, and
possibly fall into three rough categories: “classical” similes, like this

one, perfectly balanced and grammatically correct; “improper
classical” similes, which are similarly balanced but not expressed
with grammatical precision; and simple comparisons, brief and
unembellished. For a study in English of the Dantean simile see
Lans.1977.1; for bibliography see Sowe.1983.1.
This simile probably takes its setting from the Aeneid (I.180–181),
the scene of Aeneas’s shipwreck on the coast of Carthage, and
begins a series of linking allusions to the narrative of the �rst book
of that poem that run through Inferno I and II. Dante begins his role
as protagonist in this “epic” as the “new Aeneas”; his �rst words as
speaker will later suggest that he is the “new David” as well (v. 65).
[return to English / Italian]
26–27.   A much-disputed passage. Almost all commentators equate
the passo with the selva (see note to v. 2, above). The debate centers
on whether the relative pronoun che is objective or subjective, i.e.,
do we say “the pass that never let a mortal being go alive” or “the
pass no mortal being ever left behind”? Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1, pp.
79–86) o�ers convincing evidence for the second reading, on the
basis of Dante’s elsewise constant use of the verb lasciare in this way
(to mean “abandon,” “leave behind”). We have followed Mazzoni in
our translation.
Dante’s verse may re�ect one of the �rst vernacular poems in
Italian, the “Laudes creaturarum” of St. Francis, vv. 27–28: “Laudato
si’, mi’ Signore, per sora nostra morte corporale, / de la quale nullu
homo vivente pò skappare” (Blessed be thou, my Lord, for our sister
mortal death, from whom no living man can escape). Whether or
not this is the case (and we might consider a second possible
citation of Francis’s poem in v. 117—see note to that verse, below),
the meaning would seem to be that Dante’s extraordinary voyage
into the afterworld will uniquely separate him, if only temporarily,
from the world of the living while he is still alive. [return to English /
Italian]
30.      It seems likely that the words are meant both literally and
�guratively: Dante, sorely beset by his fatigue and probably by his

fear as well, is inching up the slope toward the hill by planting his
bottom foot �rm and pushing o� it to advance the higher one. As
Filippo Villani was �rst to note, there is a Christian tradition for
such a di�cult progress toward one’s goal, found precisely in St.
Augustine, who for a long time remained a catechumen before he
chose his life in Christ (Bell.1989.1, p. 109). John Freccero formed a
similar opinion. According to his article “Dante’s Firm Foot and the
Journey without a Guide” (1959, reprinted in Frec.1986.1), Dante
moves forward with the right foot, representing intellect, supported
by the left foot, representing will. Freccero goes on to show that the
resultant �guration is one of homo claudus, a limping man, wounded
in both his feet by Adam’s sin. [return to English / Italian]
32–54.   The lonza (a hybrid born of leopard and lion) is the �rst of
the three beasts to move against Dante as he attempts to mount the
hill. Commentators frequently point to a biblical source for Dante’s
three beasts, the passage in Jeremiah (5:6) that describes three wild
animals (lion, wolf, and “pard” [a leopard or panther]) that will fall
upon Jerusalemites because of their transgressions and backsliding.
For an extensive review of the problem see Gaetano Ragonese,
“�era,” ED (vol. 2, 1970, with bibliography through 1969).
The early commentators are strikingly in accord; for them the
beasts signify (1) three of the seven mortal sins: lust, pride, and
avarice. Modern interpreters mainly—but not entirely, as we shall
see—reject this formulation. One of these interpretations is based on
Inferno VI. 75, the three “sparks” that have lit evil �res in the hearts
of contemporary Florentines, according to Ciacco, who is seconded
by Brunetto Latini [Inf. XV. 68]): (2) envy, pride, and avarice.
Others suggest that the key is found at Inferno XI. 81–82, where,
describing the organization of the punishment of sin, Virgil speaks
of (3) “the three dispositions Heaven opposes, incontinence,
malice, and mad brutishness.” Even within this approach there
are strong disagreements as to which beast represents which
Aristote-lian/Ciceronian category of sin: is the leopard fraud or
incontinence? is the she-wolf incontinence or fraud? (the lion is seen
by all those of this “school” as violence). For instance, some have

asked, if the leopard is fraud, the worst of the three dispositions to
sin, why is it the beast that troubles Dante the least? A possible
answer is that fraud is the disposition least present in Dante.
Perhaps the single passage in the text of Inferno that identi�es one
of the three beasts in such a way as to leave little doubt about its
referentiality occurs in XVI. 106–108, where Dante tells us that he
was wearing a cord that he once used in his attempt to capture the
beast with “the painted pelt.” That this cord is used as a challenge
to Geryon, the guardian of the pit of Fraud, makes it seem nearly
necessary that in this passage the leopard is meant to signify Fraud.
If that is true, it would seem also necessary that the lion would
stand for Violence and the she-wolf for Incontinence. The last
formulation is the trickiest to support. The she-wolf is mainly
associated, in the poem, not so much with Incontinence as with
avarice (e.g., Purg. XX. 10–15). Thus Dante presents himself as most
�rm against Fraud, less �rm against Violence, and weak when
confronted by Incontinence. In his case the sin of Incontinence that
a�icts him most is lust, not avarice.
There are few passages in the poem that have generated as much
discussion and as little common understanding. Now see Gorni’s
extended discussion (Gorn. 1995.1, pp. 23–55).
The formulation of the early commentators ([1] lust, pride, and
avarice) has had a resurgence in our time. It would certainly be
pleasing to have reason to assent to their nearly unanimous
understanding. Mazzoni (Mazz. 1967.1. pp. 99–102) has given,
basing his argument on texts found in the Bible and in the writings
of the Fathers and Doctors of the Church, good reason for returning
to this view. If it were not for Inferno XVI. 106–108, it would be a
fairly convincing argument. However, that passage seems
unalterably to associate Geryon with the lonza.
It should also be noted that a number of still other modern
interpreters have proposed various political identities for the three
beasts, perhaps the most popular being (4) the leopard as Dante’s
Florentine enemies, the lion as the royal house of France, the
she-wolf as the forces of the papacy. It is di�cult to align such a
view with the details in the text, which seem surely to be pointing

to a moral rather than a political view of the situation of the
protagonist as the poem begins.
For an extended discussion of the problem in English see Cassell
(Cass. 1989.2), pp. 45–76. [return to English / Italian]
33.   di pel macolato … coverta (covered with a spotted pelt). For the
resonance of the Aeneid (Aen. I.323), see the phrase maculosae
tegmine lyncis (the spotted hide of the lynx), �rst noted by Pietro
Alighieri (�rst redaction of commentary to Inf. I.33). [return to English
/ Italian]
38.   Dante and others in his time believed that the sun was in the
constellation of Aries at the creation, which supposedly occurred on
25 March, the date of the Annunciation and of the Cruci�xion as
well. [return to English / Italian]
55–60.   Dante’s second simile in the canto turns from the semantic
�eld of epic and perilous adventure to the more mundane but not
much less perilous activity of the merchant or the gambler, his
�nancial life hanging in the balance as he awaits news of an arriving
ship or the throw of the dice—just at that moment at which his
stomach sinks in the sudden awareness that he has in fact, and
unthinkably, lost. See the simile involving gambling and gamblers
that opens Purgatorio VI. [return to English / Italian]
61.      For Dante’s verb rovinare see Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1, p. 114),
citing Conv. IV.vii.9: “La via  …  de li malvagi è oscura. Elli non
sanno dove rovinano” (The path of the wicked is a dark one. They
do not know where they are rushing). Mazzoni points out that Dante
is translating Proverbs 4:19, substituting ruinare for the biblical
correre. [return to English / Italian]
62.      Dante’s phrasing that describes Virgil’s appearance to the
protagonist (“dinanzi a li occhi mi si fu o�erto”) reminded
Tommaseo (commentary to Inf. I.62) of the phrasing that describes
Venus’s appearance to her son, Aeneas, when the latter is intent on

killing Helen in order to avenge the harm done to Troy by the Greek
surprise attack within the walls of the city: “mihi se  …  ante
ocul[o]s … obtulit” (she o�ered herself to my eyes). [return to English /
Italian]
63.      Both Brugnoli (Brug.1981.1) and Hollander (Holl.1983.1, pp.
23–79) independently agree on most of the key elements in this
puzzling verse: �oco is to be taken as visual rather than aural;
silenzio is understood as deriving from the Virgilian sense of the
silence of the dead shades (e.g., Aen. VI.264: umbrae silentes). It is
fair also to say that neither deals convincingly with the adjective
lungo. How can one see that a “silence” is of long duration? A recent
intervention by Casagrande (Casa.1997.1, pp. 246–48) makes a
strong case for interpreting the adjective lungo as here meaning
“vast, extensive,” having a spatial reference. In his reading the verse
would mean “who appeared indistinct in the vast silence”; our
translation re�ects Casagrande’s view. [return to English / Italian]
64.      Virgil appears to Dante nel gran diserto. The adjective is
probably meant to recall the �rst description of the place, la piaggia
diserta (the desert slope—v. 29). [return to English / Italian]
65–66.   Dante’s �rst spoken word as character in his own poem is
Latin (Miserere, “Have mercy”). This is the language of the Church,
the �rst word of the �ftieth Psalm (50:1). Thus our hero is identi�ed
as a son of the Church—albeit a currently failing one—at the outset
of the work. It has also been pointed out that, typically enough, this
�rst utterance made by the protagonist involves a double citation,
the �rst biblical, the second classical, Aeneas’s speech to his mother,
Venus (Aen. I.327–330).
That Dante is trying to ascertain whether Virgil is a shade or a
living soul helps interpret v. 63, i.e., he looks as though he is alive,
and yet somehow not. [return to English / Italian]
67–87.      Alessio and Villa (Ales.1993.1) o�er an important
consideration of Dante’s debt to the traditional classical and

medieval “lives of the poets” in formulating his own brief vita Virgilii
in this passage. Among other things, such a view undercuts the
argument of those interpreters who try to make Virgil an “allegory”
of reason. He is presented as a real person with a real history and is
thoroughly individuated. No one could mistake the details of this
life for that of another, and no one has. [return to English / Italian]
70.   This much-debated verse has left many in perplexity. In what
sense are we to take the phrase sub Iulio? What is the implicit
subject of the verb fosse? What is the precise meaning of tardi
(“late”)? Virgil was born in 70 B.C., Julius died in 44 B.C., and Virgil
died in 19 B.C. Hardly any two early commentators have the same
opinion about this verse. Has Dante made a mistake about the date
of Julius’s governance? Or does sub Iulio only mean “in the days of
Julius”? Was Virgil’s birth too late for him to be honored by Julius?
Or does the clause indicate that, although he was born late in pagan
times, it was still too early for him to have heard of Christianity?
The most usual contemporary reading is perhaps well stated in
Padoan’s commentary to this verse: the Latin phrase is only meant
to indicate roughly the time of Julius, and nothing more speci�c
than that; when Julius died, Virgil was only twenty-six and had not
begun his poetic career, which was thus to be identi�ed with
Augustus, rather than with Julius. [return to English / Italian]
73.      The word poeta is one of the most potent words in Dante’s
personal vocabulary of honor and esteem. It is used thirty times in
all throughout the poem in this form, seven more times in others. In
its �rst use, here, it constitutes Virgil’s main claim as Dante’s guide.
[return to English / Italian]
74.   Anchises was the father of Aeneas. [return to English / Italian]
75.   The phrase superbo Ilïón clearly mirrors Aen. III.2–3, “superbum
/ Ilium.” It almost certainly has a moralizing overtone here (see also
the note to v. 106, below), while in Virgil it probably only indicates
the “topless towers of Troy”; in Dante it gives us some sense that

Troy may have fallen because of its superbia, or pride. [return to English
/ Italian]
77.   dilettoso monte: in no ways di�erent from the colle of verse 13.
[return to English / Italian]
79.  At this �rst appearance of Virgil’s name in Dante’s text (it will
appear thirty times more) it is probably worth noting that Dante’s
spelling of the name is not only his, but a widespread medieval
idiosyncrasy. Translating “Vergilius” with “Virgilio” was intended to
lend the Latin poet a certain dignity (by associating him with the
noun vir, man) and/or a certain mysterious power (by associating
him with the word virga, or “rod” with magical power). [return to
English / Italian]
81.      Why is Dante’s head “bent low in shame”? The immediate
context is that of Virgil’s rebuke to Dante for his failure to climb the
hill and consequent ruinous �ight. It is for this reason—or so one
might understand—that he feels ashamed. [return to English / Italian]
84.   For the lofty resonance of the word volume in the Comedy (as
compared with libro, another and lesser word for “book”) see
Holl.1969.1, pp. 78–79. The Bible is the only other book so referred
to. Two other words that usually refer to God’s divine authority are
also each used once to refer to Virgil or his writing: autore (Inf. I.85)
and scrittura (Purg. VI.34). [return to English / Italian]
86–87.   There has been much discussion of exactly what the “noble
style” is and where it is to be found in Dante’s work. The style is the
“high style” or “tragic style” found in Virgil and other classical poets
and was achieved by Dante in his odes (three of which are collected
in Convivio), as he himself indicated in De vulgari eloquentia (see Dve
II.vi.7).
Dante’s formulation here goes further, making Virgil his sole
source. His later interactions with other poets in hell (e.g., Pier delle
Vigne [Inf. XIII], Brunetto Latini [Inf. XV]) or relatives of poets

(Cavalcante [Inf. X]) show that not one of them is interested in the
identity of Dante’s guide, a fact that re�ects directly on the poems
left by these three practitioners, which are markedly without sign of
Virgilian in�uence. Thus, not only is Virgil Dante’s sole source for
the “noble style,” but Dante portrays himself as Virgil’s sole follower
among the recent and current poets of Italy. Perhaps more than any
other claim for a literary identity, this sets him apart from them. For
Dante’s complicated relationship with his poetic precursors see
Barolini (Baro.1984.1). [return to English / Italian]
100–105.      In a canto �lled with passages that have called forth
rivers of commentators’ ink, perhaps none has resulted in so much
interpretive excitement as this one. While our commentary always
follows Petrocchi’s text of the poem, even when we are in
disagreement, we should say that here we are in disagreement. We
would capitalize the two nouns “Feltro” and “Feltro,” so that they
would indicate place names in northern Italy. The person in Dante’s
mind would then be Cangrande della Scala, the youthful general of
the armies of Verona when Dante �rst visited that city ca. 1304. In
that case, what we would deal with here is the �rst of three (see
also Purg. XXXIII.37–45, Par. XXVII.142–148) “world-historical”
prophecies of the coming of a political �gure (in the last two surely
an emperor) who, in his advent, also looks forward to the Second
Coming of Christ. For an excellent review of the entire problem see
C. T. Davis, “veltro,” ED (vol. 5, 1976). For the notion that there is
indeed a Virgilian (and imperial) source for Dante’s prophecy in the
prediction of Augustan rule in Aeneid I.286–296 see Holl.1969.1, pp.
90–91. [return to English / Italian]
106.      The phrase umile Italia surely recalls Virgil’s
humilem … Italiam (Aen. III.522–523), as has been frequently noted.
Some have argued that, in Dante, the words have a moral tint,
mainly contending that the reference is to Italy’s current lowly
political condition. [return to English / Italian]

107–108.      The curious intermingling of enemies (Camilla and
Turnus fought against the Trojan invaders, Euryalus and Nisus with
them) helps establish Dante’s sense that Aeneas’s Italian war was a
necessary and just one, its victims as though sacri�ced for the cause
of establishing Rome, the “new Troy.” For the centrality of Rome in
Dante’s thought see the volume of the late Charles Till Davis
(Davi.1957.1), still the essential study of this important subject.
[return to English / Italian]
109–111.      Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1, pp. 137–38) argues strongly for
the interpretation of prima as an adjective modifying invidia, and
thus for a phrase meaning “primal envy,” when death entered the
created world precisely because of Satan’s envy (see Wisdom 2:24:
“Through envy of the devil came death into the world.”). He notes
the resulting parallel between this line and Inf. III.6, where God is,
in His third person, “Primo Amore” (Primal Love). [return to English /
Italian]
117.      The possibilities for interpreting this verse are various. The
“second death” may refer to what the sinners are su�ering now (in
which case they cry out either for a cessation in their pain—a
“death” of it—or against their condition) or it may refer to the
“death” they will su�er at the end of time in Christ’s �nal Judgment
(in which case they may either be crying out for that �nality or
against that horrifying prospect). Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1, p. 143)
was perhaps the �rst to hear an echo here (now heard by several
others) of v. 31 of St. Francis’s “Laudes creaturarum” (for an earlier
possible citation of that poem see note to v. 27): “ka la morte
secunda no ’l farrà male” (the good soul, liberated by death, hopes
that it will not su�er eternal damnation at the Last Judgment).
Thus, while the question remains a di�cult one, the best hypothesis
probably remains Mazzoni’s (Mazz.1967.1, pp. 139–45): the sinners
are crying out in fear of the punishments to come after the Last
Judgment. [return to English / Italian]

122.   Virgil’s self-description as unworthy may re�ect a similar self-
description, that of John the Baptist. See John 1:27 and related
discussion in Holl.1983.1, pp. 63, 71–73. In this formulation Virgil
is to Beatrice as John was to Christ. For an earlier moment in
Dante’s writing that is based on exactly such a typological
construction, one in which Guido Cavalcanti’s Giovanna/John the
Baptist is portrayed as the “forerunner” to Dante’s Beatrice/Christ,
see VN XXIV.3–4. [return to English / Italian]
125.      It is fair to say that most commentators dodge this
troublesome word. How could Virgil have been a “rebel” against a
God he did not know? We should remember that this formulation is
Virgil’s own and may simply re�ect his present sense of what he
should have known when he was alive. That is, Virgil may be
exaggerating his culpability. [return to English / Italian]
132.      “This harm” is Dante’s present situation in the world; “and
worse” would be his damnation. [return to English / Italian]
134–135.      Dante has apparently understood clearly enough that
Virgil will lead him through hell and purgatory, but not paradise.
Having read the poem, we know that Beatrice will assume the role
of guide for the �rst nine heavens. Virgil seems to know this (see vv.
122–123), but not Dante, who seems to be aware only that some
soul will take up the role of Virgil when his �rst guide leaves him.
[return to English / Italian]

INFERNO II
1–6.      Against the common opinion (as it exists even today, most
recently exhibited by Merc.1998.1) that the �rst two cantos perform
separate functions (e.g., I = prologue to the poem as a whole, II =
prologue to the �rst cantica), Wilkins (Wilk.1926.1) argues, on the
basis of discussion of the de�ning characteristics of prologues found
in the Epistle to Cangrande (Epist. XIII.43–48), that Cantos I and II
form a unitary prologue to the entire poem as well as to its �rst
cantica (or “canticle”). This reader �nds his comments just and
convincing. In actuality, all three cantiche begin with two-canto-long
prologues containing an invocation, some narrated action, and
presentation of details that prepare the reader for what is to follow
further along in the poem.
For the structural parallels that also tend to merge the two cantos
into a single entity see Holl.1990.2, p. 97: [return to English / Italian]
Inferno I Inferno II
1–27 Dante’s peril 1–42 Dante’s uncertainty
simile (22–27) simile (37–40)
28–60 three beasts 43–126 three blessed ladies
simile (55–58) simile (127–130)
61–136 Virgil’s assurances 127–142 Dante’s will �rmed
1–3.   The precise Virgilian text that lies behind Dante’s generically
“Virgilian” opening �ourish is debated. (Major candidates include
Aen. III.147, Aen. IV.522–528, Aen. VIII.26–27, Aen. IX.224–225,
Georg. I.427–428. See discussion in Mazz.1967.1, pp. 165–66.)
These three lines, as has often been noted, have a sad eloquence
that establishes a mode of writing to which the poet will return

when he considers the Virgilian “tears of things” in the lives of some
of his characters. [return to English / Italian]
3.      The protagonist, about to descend into hell, is described,
perhaps surprisingly, since he is in the company of Virgil, as being
alone (“sol uno”). But see Conv. IV.xxvi.9, where Dante describes
Aeneas, about to begin his descent ad inferos, similarly as being
“alone”: “…  when Aeneas prepared, alone with the Sibyl [solo con
Sibilla], to enter the underworld.” In Dante’s view, it would seem
that the condition of a mortal soul, about to enter the underworld, is
one of loneliness, even though it is accompanied by a shade. See
Holl.1993.1, p. 256. [return to English / Italian]
4–5.    This formulation perhaps refers to the struggle of the
protagonist with the di�culties of proceeding (his struggles with
fearsome exterior forces ranged against him, from the previously-
encountered three beasts in the �rst canto to Satan in the last) and
with his own interior weakness, demonstrated by his occasional
surrender to the emotion of pity (beginning with Francesca in the
�fth canto and ending when he does not yield to Ugolino’s
entreaties for his pity in the thirty-third). For a possible �ve-part
program that marks the development of the protagonist’s strength,
as he moves through �ve cycles of pity and fear in hell, see
Holl.1969.1, pp. 301–7. [return to English / Italian]
6.      In the words of Singleton’s gloss, “Memory will now faithfully
retrace the real event of the journey, exactly as it took place. This
most extraordinary journey through the three realms of the afterlife
is represented, never as dreamed or experienced in vision, but as a
real happening.… Here, then, and in the following invocation, the
poet’s voice is heard for the �rst time as it speaks of his task as
poet.” [return to English / Italian]
7–9.      The passage including the poem’s �rst invocation is
challenging and has caused serious interpretive di�culty. Why does
Dante invoke the Muses in a Christian work? What does alto ingegno

(lofty genius) refer to? Is the invocation of two powers (“Muses” and
“lofty genius”) or of three (the mente, or “memory,” of verse 8)? For
a discussion of these points see Holl.1990.2, pp. 98–100, arguing
that the “muses” are the devices of poetic making that the
individual poet may master, that the “lofty genius” is not Dante’s,
but God’s, and that only these two elements are invoked, while
“mente” is merely put forward as having been e�ective in recording
the facts of the journey (and is surely not “invoked,” as the very
language of the passage makes plain). In this formulation, here and
in some of his later invocations Dante is asking for divine assistance
in conceptualizing the matter of his poem so that it may resemble
his Creator, its source, while also asking for the help of the “muses”
in �nding the most appropriate expressive techniques for that
conceptualization. As for the raw content, that he has through his
own experience; he requires no external aid for it. What he does
need is conceptual and expressive power, alto ingegno and the poetic
craft represented by the “muses.”
It is, given Dante’s fondness for the number of Beatrice, nine,
di�cult to believe that the fact that there are nine invocations in
the poem may be accidental (see Holl.1976.2). For perhaps the �rst
reckoning that accounts for all nine invocations see Fabb.1910.1. It
is curious that few commentators have noted the fact that there are,
in fact, nine invocations (and only nine) in the poem. They are as
follows: Inf. II.7, XXXII.10–12; Purg. I.7–12, XXIX.37–42; Par. I.13–
21, XVIII.83–88, XXII.112–123, XXX.97–99, XXXIII.67–75. [return to
English / Italian]
10.   This verse begins a series of conversations that give the canto
its shape. With the exception of the eleventh Canto, 92 percent of
which is devoted to dialogue (mainly Virgil’s explanations of the
circles of hell, joined by Dante’s responses and questions), no other
Infernal canto contains so much dialogue, with 118 of its 142 verses
being spoken (83 percent). These conversations form a chiasmus
(from the Greek chi, our letter ‘x’), the device of shaping the parts of
a text into a perfectly balanced pattern (see Holl.1990.2, p. 100):

1. Dante (10–36)
     2. Virgil (43–57)
          3. Beatrice (58–74)
               4. Virgil (75–84)
          5. Beatrice (85–114)
     6. Virgil (115–126)
7. Dante (133–140)
                                        [return to English / Italian]
12.      The meaning of the phrase alto passo is debated. See
Mazz.1967.1, pp. 180–84, for documentation. Mazzoni gives good
reasons for accepting a literal reading, one that makes the passo
correspond to the journey, rather than, as some have proposed, a
metaphorical one, in which it signi�es the poem. Mazzoni
paraphrases these words with the phrase “impresa eccezionale”
(extraordinary undertaking), while also stressing the di�culty of
that adventure. Our translation seeks a similar solution. [return to
English / Italian]
13.      According to Virgil, Aeneas was the father of Silvius and
Ascanius. [return to English / Italian]
15.   In his commentary Padoan points out that the insistence on the
physicality of Aeneas’s descent e�ectively undercuts that tradition
of medieval allegorized Virgil which asserts that the “descent” is to
be taken as a “philosophical,” rather than as a literal, journey.
Aeneas’s journey, like Dante’s own, is to be dealt with as actually
having occurred in space and time. [return to English / Italian]
16–19.      For the commentators, the most troubling aspect of a
di�cult tercet is found in the phrase “e ’l chi e ’l quale”
(“considering who and what he was,” v. 18—see Mazzoni, pp. 192–
96). The sense, however, may be fairly straightforward: it is not
surprising that God should have chosen Aeneas to found Rome, with

its profound impact on human history, both imperial and
ecclesiastical, since Aeneas (the “who” of the verse) was both the
founder of a royal line (ancestor of Julius Caesar through Ascanius)
and “divine” (the “what,” since he was the son of a goddess, Venus).
Dante uses the word “cortese” (courteous, i.e., as in the favoring
generosity of a lord or lady) in v. 17 in a way that theologizes its
usual courtly context. For the tradition of the concept as it comes
into Dante see Crim.1993.1. [return to English / Italian]
20–21.      The adjective alma (here translated as “holy”) has had
various interpretations in the commentary tradition, e.g., “exalted”
(eccelsa: Boccaccio), “lofty” (alta: Buti), “nurturing” (alma: Landino),
“holy” (sancta: Benvenuto). Citing Paget Toynbee, Mazzoni
(Mazz.1967.1), p. 198, makes a strong argument for the last of
these. Our translation re�ects his view. And this formulation knits
up these two tercets into a single meaning: Aeneas was chosen by
God to be the founder of imperial and ecclesiastical Rome. Such a
view disturbs those who believe that Dante, when he began the
Comedy, was still a Guelph (i.e., a supporter of the papacy) in his
political attitudes and not a Ghibelline (a supporter of the empire).
A reading of the fourth book of Convivio (Mazzoni [Mazz.1967.1],
pp. 216–20), demonstrates the close correspondence between what
Dante says here and what he had said in Convivio IV, iv-v. There he
had already made a decisive shift toward recognizing the
importance of what we would call “secular Rome.” Dante, as the
prophecy of the veltro (depending on one’s interpretation of it) may
already have demonstrated, now believes in the divine origin and
mission of the empire. See note to Inf. I.100–105. [return to English /
Italian]
22–24.      See Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 198–220, for a thorough
review of this tercet, made problematic not because its words or the
sense of these words is di�cult, but because what it says is assumed
by many commentators to be premature in its championing of the
empire, a position Dante is supposed to have embraced only later.
See the preceding note. For a recent attempt to describe the political

aspect of the poem see Hollander (Holl.2000.1), the section, in the
discussion devoted to the Commedia, entitled “La politica.” [return to
English / Italian]
26.      Aeneas understood things from what was revealed to him in
the underworld, most notably by his father, Anchises (see
Mazz.1967.1, p. 222). [return to English / Italian]
27.    This verse concludes the “imperial theme” of this canto,
initiated in v. 13. These �ve tercets continually break Aeneas’s
identity or task into two aspects (“e ’l chi e ’l quale” [who and what
he was—v. 18], “de l’alma Roma e di suo impero” [holy Rome and
her dominion—v. 20], “la quale e ’l quale” [both of these
established—v. 22], “di sua vittoria e del papale ammanto” [to
victory and … the papal mantle—v. 27]). This speech is not in the
mouth of Virgil, but of Dante, and for a reason. It purveys, with
some heated enthusiasm, the view of Roman imperial excellence
that Dante had only recently developed. He cannot allow its
religious dimension authoritative utterance by Virgil, whose
credentials as “Christian” are not exactly imposing. And so the
otherwise not-very-mature protagonist is here given the author’s
voice to say what that author wants most de�nitely to set down
before us. [return to English / Italian]
28.      For Paul as the Vas d’elezïone (Chosen Vessel) see Acts 9:15.
For his ascent to heaven while still alive see II Cor. 12:4.
This �at statement that Paul’s journey actually occurred contrasts
with the less forthright claim made for Aeneas’s in verse 13: “Tu dici
che” (You tell that). This and the subsequent phrasing, in which that
same journey is referred to as the “andata onde li dai tu vanto”
(journey for which you grant him glory) at v. 25, both imbue the
speaker’s acceptance of the veracity of Virgil’s account of that
journey with a certain sense of dubiety (see Holl.1990.2, p. 103), at
least when compared with the biblical authority enjoyed by Paul’s.
With regard to the question of whether or not Dante believed Paul
had been to hell (as recounted in the Visio Pauli) see Padoan’s

comment, with bibliography (to which now should be added
Silv.1997.1). Most commentators would seem to believe that Dante
is here alluding only to Paul’s heavenly journey, not to his
apocryphal descent. [return to English / Italian]
32.      It has frequently been remarked that Dante’s denial must be
taken ironically. What the protagonist says is not what his author
thinks: Dante is to be understood as both the “new Aeneas” and the
“new Paul.” Jaco� and Stephany o�er an ample deliberation on this
subject (Jaco.1989.1), pp. 57–72. For a recent study of Paul’s
presence in Dante’s works see DiSc.1995.1. [return to English / Italian]
33–36.      Dante’s apparent modesty is obviously meant to be taken
rather as cowardice, as Virgil’s response at v. 45 (“your spirit is
assailed by cowardice”) makes pellucidly clear. [return to English /
Italian]
37–40.  A type of simile Dante enjoys deploying, one in which both
elements (“tenor” and “vehicle”) are eventually seen to involve the
same agent: “and as a man  …  so was I.” See note to Inferno
XXX.136–141. [return to English / Italian]
41.      For the importance of the word impresa (enterprise) in the
overall economy of the poem see Holl.1969.1, p. 230. It occurs
twice in this canto (next at v. 47), where it refers to Dante’s journey,
then in Inf. XXXII.7, where it refers to the poem that Dante is
writing, and �nally in Par. XXXIII.95, where it surely refers to the
voyage, and perhaps to the poem as well. See note to Inferno
XXXII.1–9. [return to English / Italian]
43.   This is the �rst occurrence of the word “word” (parola) in the
poem and in this canto. It will reappear four more times in the canto
at vv. 67, 111, 135, and 137. If, as several commentators have urged
(see Holl.1990.2, p. 96), the �rst Canto of the poem is the “canto
della paura” (canto of fear—the word paura appears �ve times [see
note to canto I.15], as does parola in this one, and neither appears

so many times in any other canto), then Inferno II perhaps should be
construed as the ‘canto della parola’ (canto of the word). See
Holl.1990.2, passim. [return to English / Italian]
48.      For a possible source for this verse, not hitherto cited, see
Aeneid X.592–593, where Aeneas scornfully addresses Lucagus,
whom he has just mortally wounded, and tells his fallen enemy that
he cannot blame his plight on the shying of his horses: “Lucagus, the
cowardly �ight of your horses has not betrayed your chariot, nor
has the empty shadow [vanae … umbrae] of an enemy turned them
away.” See Holl.1993.1, p. 256. [return to English / Italian]
52.   The verbal adjective sospesi (suspended), that is, in a position
between the presence of God and actual punishment, is a technical
term for the virtuous heathen who dwell in Limbo. See Mazzoni’s
note (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 239–47. [return to English / Italian]
53–54.      Beatrice’s anonymous �rst appearance and Virgil’s
instinctive obeisance might easily lead a reader to assume that this
lady has primarily an “allegorical” meaning. For a recent study of
the roots of the problematic allegorical interpretation of Beatrice see
Porc.1997.2. We will in time be told who she is (Inf. II.70). Dante’s
�rst extended work, Vita nuova (ca. 1293), celebrated his lady,
Beatrice, as a mortal woman unlike any other, her meaning
indissolubly linked with the Trinity, and in particular with the
Second Person, Christ. [return to English / Italian]
56–57.    Virgil describes Beatrice’s speech as being soave e piana
(gentle and clear). She will, in turn, describe his speech as parola
ornata (polished words—at v. 67). The two adjectives, piana and
ornata, may remind us of a major distinction, found in medieval
categorizations of rhetorical styles, between the plain, or low, style,
and the ornate, or high. Benvenuto, commenting on this passage,
was the �rst to point this out, glossing “soave e piana” as follows:
“divine speech is sweet and humble, not elevated and proud, as is
that of Virgil and the poets.” Thus Virgil’s description of Beatrice’s

words corresponds antithetically to hers of his; her speech
represents the sublimely humble style valorized by the Comedy,
while his recalls the high style that marked pagan eloquence (the
observation is drawn from Holl.1990.2, p. 107, where there are
references to previous discussions in Auer.1958.1, pp. 65–66;
Mazz.1979.1, pp. 157–58). [return to English / Italian]
58.      Beatrice’s �rst words, which Daniello (commentary to this
verse) compared to Juno’s attempt to win over Aeolus at Aeneid
I.66–67, o�er a striking example of captatio benevolentiae, the
rhetorical device of gaining favor with one’s audience. They will be
e�ective enough in gaining Virgil’s goodwill. And, despite Virgil’s
characterization of her speech, in v. 56, as being “gentle and clear,”
it is also unmistakably lofty in its rhetorical reach. [return to English /
Italian]
61.   For a consideration of the fullest implications of this verse see
Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 256–68. According to him, the literal
sense is that Dante is not a friend to Fortune, not that Fortune has
forsaken him. The upshot of these readings is that Beatrice makes
Dante her friend in true spiritual friendship, denying that he is
“friendly” to Fortune. [return to English / Italian]
62–64.      Words familiar from the �rst canto come back into play
here: diserta piaggia (I.29), cammin (I.1), paura (I.53), smarrito (I.3).
This is not the last time we will look back to the protagonist’s
desperate condition evident at the beginning of the poem. [return to
English / Italian]
67.      See Holl.1990.2, p. 118, for discussion of the undercutting of
Virgil’s “ornate speech” (parola ornata) when it is seen as linked to
Jason’s parole ornate (Inf. XVIII.91), the deceptive rhetoric by which
he seduces women. [return to English / Italian]
74.      Beatrice’s promise to speak well of Virgil to God has drawn
some skeptical response, e.g., Castelvetro on this verse: “Questo che

monta a Virgilio che è dannato?” (What good is this to Virgil, who is
damned?). We are probably meant to be more impressed than that.
[return to English / Italian]
76–78.      The meaning of this much-disputed tercet would seem to
be: “O lady of virtuous disposition which alone, shared by others,
may bring them, too, to salvation out of the sublunar world of
sin  …” This is to rely on Mazzoni’s a�rmation (Mazz.1967.1, pp.
276–77) of Barbi’s reading of the verse (Barb.1934.2, p. 22), which
continues to �nd detractors. [return to English / Italian]
83.   in questo centro. Singleton, in his comment on this verse, speaks
of the “strong pejorative connotation” of Dante’s phrase, stemming
from “the well-established view that the earth’s position at the
center of the universe is the most ignoble—because it is farthest
from God and His angels.” Singleton goes on to cite from a sermon
of Fra Giordano da Rivalto, characterizing the true center of the
earth as “that point within the earth which is in its midst, as the
core is in the midst of an apple. We believe that hell is located
there, at the true center.” [return to English / Italian]
85–93.   Beatrice’s insistence that she is not “touchable” by the grim
powers of the pains of hell underlines the marginality of sin for the
saved. Hell is simply not of concern to them. It is important to
know, as one begins reading the poem, what one can only know
once one has �nished it: no soul in purgation or in grace in heaven
has a thought for the condition of the damned (only the damned
themselves do). Their concern for those who do not share their
redeeming penitence or bliss is reserved for those still alive on
earth, who have at least the hope of salvation. Hell, for the saved, is
a sordid reality of which it is better not to speak. [return to English /
Italian]
94.      While every modern commentator recognizes (quite rightly)
Mary in this lady, none of the early interpreters do, a fact that may

seem astonishing (Castelvetro, in 1570, may have been the �rst to
do so). [return to English / Italian]
97.      Lucy, the martyred Syracusan virgin (fourth century), whose
name itself associates her with light, obviously played a special role
in Dante’s devotional life. She will reappear in Purg. IX.52–63,
where she indeed carries Dante from the valley in which he sleeps
in the ante-purgatory to the gate of purgatory itself; and then she is
seen seated in blessedness (Par. XXXII.137–138). See the discussion
in Jaco� and Stephany (Jaco.1989.1), pp. 29–38. [return to English /
Italian]
102.    Rachel, the fourth lady indicated as dwelling in heaven,
presented here as Beatice’s “neighbor,” is traditionally interpreted
(as she is by Dante himself—see Purg. XXVII.94–108) as the
contemplative life, as her sister Leah represents the active one. Since
the fourteenth century there have been frequent (and widely
varying) attempts to “allegorize” the Virgin, Lucy, and Beatrice,
most often as various varieties of grace (see Padoan’s commentary
to v. 97 for a brief summary). There is no textual basis for such
e�orts, as appealing as many readers apparently �nd them. [return to
English / Italian]
105.   What exactly does it mean, Lucy’s insistence to Beatrice that,
for her sake, Dante “left the vulgar herd” (la volgare schiera)? Guido
da Pisa interprets the phrase to mean Dante turned from the study
of the liberal arts to theology. Without debating such a judgment,
one might add a poetic dimension to it, as has Francesco Mazzoni
(Mazz.1967.1, pp. 289–93). According to him, the most important
meaning of the verse is to re�ect Dante’s turning from a
“conventional” amorous poetic subject matter to what he will later
call the “dolce stil novo” (Purg. XXIV.57), a poetry that presents, in
a new “style,” the higher meaning of Beatrice. (Some would go
further, still, and suggest that this meaning is essentially
Christological—see Holl.1999.1.) Mazzoni’s view is seconded by the
importance of the word volgare to Dante. While it is surely at times

limited to the negative sense of the Latin vulgus, pertaining to the
common people, the “mob,” it is also the word that he uses to
describe his own vernacular speech, as in the title of his treatise De
vulgari eloquentia (“On Eloquence in the Vernacular”).
The view that Dante’s sense of his own poetic vocation is central
to the meaning of this verse is supported by the text at Inf. IV.101,
where the group of classical poets, who so graciously include Dante
in their number, is also described as a schiera (company). [return to
English / Italian]
107–108.      As tormented a passage as may be found in this canto,
and one of the most di�cult in the entire work, whether for its
literal sense (what “death”? what “river”? what “sea”?) or its
possibly only metaphorical meaning. See Mazzoni’s summary of the
centuries-long debate over the passage (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 294–303,
as well as Freccero’s essay (Frec.1986.1 [1966]), pp. 55–69. For
discussion of a “typological” reading of the passage see Holl.1990.2,
pp. 110–11, associating the narrated action with a temporarily
halted attempt to enter the River Jordan.
For the literal sense in which the Dead Sea is not a “sea,” but a
“lake” that receives the waters of Jordan see Filippo Villani
(Bell.1989.1, p. 109): “And, in the literal sense, the river Jordan
does not �ow into a sea, but ends in a lake that is bright and clear,
even pleasant.” [return to English / Italian]
109–114.   Beatrice concludes her speech by expressing the e�cacy
of Lucy’s words on Dante’s behalf, which won her over to
interceding with Virgil in order to give her beloved a second chance.
(Purgatorio XXX and XXXI will reveal that she had grounds for being
less charitable to her backsliding lover.) Her speech concludes with
the same sort of captatio benevolentiae that marked its inception at v.
58, now couched in terms that praise Virgil’s parlare onesto. The
phrase means more than “honest speech,” as is made clear by its
etymological propinquity to the verb onora (honors) in the next line.
“Noble” (found also in Sinclair’s translation) seemed to the
translators a reasonable way to attempt to bridge the gap between

“honest” and “decorous,” retaining a sense of moral and stylistic
gravity for the words of the greatest poet of pagan antiquity—which
Virgil was for Dante. [return to English / Italian]
116.   Beatrice’s tears remind us of Venus’s when the goddess weeps
for her burdened son in Aeneid I.228, as was perhaps �rst suggested
by Holl.1969.1, pp. 91–92. See also Jaco.1982.1, p. 3, showing that
the verse probably re�ects Rachel’s tears for her lost children
(Jeremiah 31:15)—who are eventually restored to her (as will Dante
be to Beatrice). [return to English / Italian]
118–126.      Virgil o�ers a summation, as might a modern lawyer
concluding his charge to a jury or a classical or medieval orator
convincing his learned auditors as he concludes his argument. Virgil
has saved Dante from the she-wolf; why has his pupil not been more
ready to follow him? And now there is the further evidence of the
three heavenly ladies who have also interceded on Dante’s behalf,
thus giving con�rmation of the justness of what Virgil had sketched
as a plan for Dante’s journey (Inf. I.112–123). [return to English /
Italian]
133–135.      For the resonance of I Kings 17:22–24, especially the
phrase “the word of the Lord in your mouth is truth,” see
Ferr.1995.1, p. 114. And for the vere parole of Beatrice, see also the
“veras  …  voces” that Aeneas would like to exchange with mother
Venus, Aeneid I.409, as noted by Jaco.1989.1, pp. 21–22. [return to
English / Italian]
140.      For the words duca, segnore, and maestro, as well as others,
terms used by Dante for his guide, see Gmel.1966.1, pp. 59–60,
o�ering the following enumeration of these: duca is used 19 times in
Inferno and 17 times in Purgatorio; maestro, 34 times in Inferno, 17 in
Purgatorio; signore, 8 times; poeta, 8 times in Inferno, 7 times in
Purgatorio; savio, 6 times; padre, 10 times. [return to English / Italian]

142.   Knitting together the two proemial cantos, the word cammino
occupies their �rst and �nal verses. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO III
1–9.   Modern editions vary in using capital or lower-case letters for
this inscription over the gate of hell. Lacking Dante’s autograph MS,
we can only conjecture. For the view that the model for these words
is found in the victorious inscriptions found on Roman triumphal
arches, sculpted in capital letters in stone, see Holl.1969.1, p. 300.
In this view every condemned sinner is being led back captive to
“that Rome of which Christ is Roman” (Purg. XXXII.102), “under the
yoke” into God’s holy kingdom, where he or she will be eternally a
prisoner. [return to English / Italian]
1–3.   For the city as the poem’s centering image of political life, the
hellish earthly city, resembling Florence, “which stands for the self
and against the common good,” and the heavenly city, an idealized
view of imperial Rome, see Ferrante (Ferr.1984.1), pp. 41–42. The
anaphora, or repetition, of the phrase per me si va, as it comes
“uttered” by the gate of hell itself in the �rst three verses, has a ring
of inevitable doom about it. [return to English / Italian]
4.    “Justice moved my maker on high.” Dante’s verse may seem to
violate the Aristotelian/Thomist de�nition of God as the “unmoved
mover.” Strictly speaking, nothing can “move” God, who Himself
moves all things (even if He can be described in the Bible as feeling
anger at humankind, etc.). Dante’s apparently theologically
incorrect statement shows the importance of his sense of justice as
the central force in the universe, so encompassing that it may be
seen as, in a sense, God’s “muse,” as well as the primary subject of
the poem. The word in its noun form appears fully thirty-�ve times
in the poem (see Holl.1992.1, pp. 40–41). [return to English / Italian]
5–6.   The three attributes of the Trinity—Power, Wisdom, and Love
—are nearly universally recognized as informing these two verses.

Hell is of God’s making, not an independent “city” of rebels, but a
totally dependent polis of those who had rebelled against their
maker. For the postbiblical concept of the Trinity, especially as it
was advanced in St. Augustine’s De Trinitate, where Father, Son, and
Holy Spirit is each identi�ed by one of these attributes, respectively,
see G. Fallani, “Trinità” (ED, vol. 5, 1976, pp. 718–21). [return to
English / Italian]
7–8.      The apparent di�culty of these verses (perhaps re�ected in
Dante’s di�culty in understanding the writing over the gate, Inf.
III.12) is resolved once we understand that here “eternal” is used to
mean “sempiternal,” that is, as having had a beginning in time but
lasting ever after. Only God, who is not created but all-creating,
may be considered eternal. See Mazz.1967.1, pp. 331–36. Mazzoni,
in agreement with B. Nardi (Nard.1959.1), p. 17, allows this status
to three classes of being: angels, prime matter (that is, the potential
form of the as yet uncreated world), and the heavenly spheres. For
Matthew’s description of Christ’s Judgment of the damned see
Matth. 25:41, 46: “Then shall he say also unto them on the left
hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting �re, prepared for
the devil and his angels … And these shall go away into everlasting
punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.” [return to English /
Italian]
10.      Are the letters of these words “dark in hue,” as are the inset
carvings over actual gates, begrimed by time (or, as some early
commentators urged, because they are hellishly menacing)? Or are
they rhetorically di�cult, and “dark” in that respect? The phrase
“rhetorical colors” to indicate the rhetor’s stylistic techniques is
familiar from classical rhetoric and is found in Dante’s Vita nuova,
e.g., VN XXV.7; XXV.10. Whichever understanding one chooses, one
will have to make a decision consonant with an interpretation of
verse 12, below. [return to English / Italian]
12.      There is a fairly serious disagreement over the most probable
interpretation of the words “for me their meaning is hard.” Our

translation tries to re�ect both possibilities, suggesting that one is
clearly present, while the second may be only latent. Are the words
over the gate of hell (1) threatening to Dante? Or (2) are they hard
for him to understand? It seems clear that the traveler is frightened
by the dire advice tendered in verse 9, which would have him
abandon all hope. Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 337–42, o�ers a
lengthy gloss to this tercet. It seems impossible not to accept his
basic premise, namely that the context of the scene makes the
meaning immediate and moral: the traveler is afraid, and Virgil
reproves him for his fear (vv. 14–15). [return to English / Italian]
13–15.   The phrase “as one who understood” lends Virgil authority
in two regards: he is aware of Dante’s moral shortcomings and he
understands the underworld, since he has descended once before
(see Inf. IX.22–27, XXI.63). [return to English / Italian]
18.      The “good of the intellect” has long been understood as God.
See Mazz. 1967.1, p. 343, citing Paradiso IV.116, where God is the
“fonte ond’ ogne ver deriva” (the source from which all truth
derives). [return to English / Italian]
21.    The translation “things unknown [segrete] to man” avoids the
rendering of segrete by the English cognate “secret.” The word here
does not mean “secret” so much as “cut o� from.” [return to English /
Italian]
22–30.   This �rst sense impression of the underworld is exclusively
aural. We are probably meant to understand that Dante’s eyes are
not yet accustomed to the darkness of hell. Cf. Inferno IV.25–27 and
XI.11—where his olfactory capacity must become used to the stench
of nether hell. [return to English / Italian]
24.      This �rst instance of Dante’s weeping is part of a program of
the protagonist’s development in hell, in which he (very) gradually
overcomes the twin temptations to weep for or feel fear at the

situation of the sinners in Inferno. See Holl.1969.1, pp. 301–7.
[return to English / Italian]
25.   The adjective diverse here means either “di�erent the one from
the other” (on the model of the confused languages spoken after the
construction of the Tower of Babel) or “strange,” a meaning for the
adjective frequently found in Dante. In our translation we have tried
to allow for both meanings. Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), p. 348, cites v.
123 as further evidence for the �rst interpretation; there those who
die in the wrath of God “assemble here from every land,” a phrasing
that calls attention to di�ering nationalities and thus suggests a
plurality of tongues. [return to English / Italian]
27.      E suon di man con elle (the sound of slapping hands):
Boccaccio’s gloss to Inferno IX.49–51, “battiensi a palme” (strike
themselves with the palms of their hands), which describes the
Furies beating their breasts “as here on earth do women who feel
great sadness, or who behave as though they did,” may help unravel
this verse as well: the sound is that of hands striking the sinners’
own bodies as they beat their breasts, as Boccaccio had already
suggested in his gloss to this verse; “as women do when they strike
themselves with their open palms.” [return to English / Italian]
34–36.      For the history of the interpretation of this tercet, now
generally understood to indicate the presence in the “ante-inferno,”
or vestibule of hell, of the neutrals, those who never took a side, see
Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 355–67. And, for the existence of
exactly such a “vestibule” in hell in the apocryphal Visio Pauli,
describing St. Paul’s descent to the netherworld, see Silverstein
(Silv.1937.1). In Paul’s vision (for the most recent text see
Silv.1997.1) there is a river of �ame separating “those who were
neither hot nor cold” (Revelation 3:15–16) from the other sinners.
[return to English / Italian]
37–39.    There has been a lengthy dispute in the commentary
tradition as to whether or not Dante has invented the neutral angels

or is re�ecting a medieval tradition that had itself “invented” them
(since they are not, properly speaking, biblical in origin). This is
presented at length by Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 368–76, who
shows that such a tradition did exist and probably helped to shape
Dante’s conceptualization. On this problem see Nardi (Nard.1960.1),
pp. 331–50. See also Freccero’s 1960 essay “The Neutral Angels”
(Frec.1986.1), pp. 110–18. [return to English / Italian]
40–42.      To what does the adjective rei (“evil”) refer, the neutral
angels or all of the damned? The neutral angels (v. 38) are the
antecedent of the pronoun li in vv. 40 and 41. It seems clear that
this is also true with respect to the adjective in v. 42, and thus our
translation, “lest on their account the evil angels gloat.” That the
adjective is to be treated as an adjectival noun for “the wicked,” i.e.,
the damned in general, is an idea that has only entered
commentaries in our own century. [return to English / Italian]
46–48.   Paraphrased: “Like all the rest, these sinners have no hope
of improving their posthumous lot; but their foul condition is such
that they are envious of every other class of sinners.” [return to English
/ Italian]
50.      Misericordia e giustizia (“Mercy and justice”) are here to be
understood as heaven and hell, neither of which will entertain any
report of such vile creatures. [return to English / Italian]
52–57.   Dante’s essential technique for indicating the crucial moral
failures of his various groups of sinners is here before us for the �rst
time. The neutrals, who never took a side, are portrayed as an
organized crowd following a banner: exactly what they were not in
life (e.g., the neutral angels who neither rebelled directly against
God nor stood with Him, but who kept to one side). And in this
respect the neutrals are punished by being forced to assume a pose
antithetic to that which they struck in life. At the same time, the
banner that they follow is the very essence of indeterminacy. Not
only is there no identifying sign on it, it is not held in the anchoring

hand of any standard-bearer; it is a parody of the standard raised
before a body of men who follow a leader. Elsewhere we will
encounter other such symbolic artifacts. In Dante’s hell the
punishment of sin involves the application of opposites and
similarities. This form of just retribution is what Dante will later
refer to as the contrapasso (Inf. XXVIII.142). [return to English / Italian]
58–60.    The most-debated passage of this canto, at least in the
modern era. Many of the early commentators were convinced that it
clearly intended a biting reference to Pope Celestine V (Pier da
Morrone), who abdicated the papacy in 1294 after having held the
o�ce for less than four months. He was followed into it by Dante’s
great ecclesiastical enemy, Pope Boniface VIII, and colorful
contemporary accounts would have it that Boniface mimicked the
voice of the Holy Spirit in the air passages leading to Celestine’s
bedchamber, counseling his abdication. Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), pp.
390–415, o�ers a thorough history of the interpretation of the verse.
Two factors led to growing uneasiness with the identi�cation of
Celestine: (1) in 1313 he had been canonized, (2) ca. 1346
Francesco Petrarca, in his De vita solitaria, had defended the motives
for his abdication. Thus, beginning with the second redaction of the
commentary of Pietro di Dante, certainty that the vile self-recuser
was Celestine began to waver. The names of many others have been
proposed, including those of Esau and Pontius Pilate. It seems fair to
say that there are fatal objections to all of these other candidacies.
For strong, even convincing, support for that of Celestine see
Padoan (Pado.1961.1) and Simonelli (Simo.1993.1), pp. 41–58.
Telling objections to Petrocchi’s denial that Dante would have put
the canonized (in 1313) Celestine in hell (Petr.1969.1 [1955], pp.
41–59) are found in Nardi (Nard.1960.1).
The word viltà (cowardice) is the very opposite of nobility of
character. See Convivio IV.xvi.6 for Dante’s own statement of this
commonplace: “  ‘nobile’ […] viene da ‘non vile’  ” [“noble” derives
from “not vile”]. And we should remember that Dante himself has
twice been accused by Virgil of viltà because of his cowardice in not

immediately accepting his Heaven-ordained mission (Inf. II.45,
II.122). [return to English / Italian]
64–69.   The second descriptive passage that indicates the condition
of these sinners continues the contrapasso. Now we see that these
beings, who lacked all inner stimulation, are stung (stimolati) by
noxious insects. Their tears mix with the blood drawn by these
wounds only to serve as food for worms. Dante’s personal hatred for
those who, unlike him, never made their true feelings or opinions
known irradiates this canto. There is not a single detail that falls
short of the condition of eternal insult. [return to English / Italian]
64.   M. Barbi (Barb.1934.1), p. 261: sciaurati must be understood as
“vile, abject, worthless,” as a bitterly negative term with no softness
in it. Similarly, the phrase che mai non fur vivi (who never were
alive) is darkened by its probable source, cited by several modern
commentators (perhaps �rst by Sapegno) in Rev. 3:1: “Nomen habes
quod vivas, et mortuus es” (you have a name that you are alive, and
are dead), a �tting castigation for Dante to have had in mind for the
neutrals. [return to English / Italian]
70–71.      These verses mark a split between the second and third
scenes of the canto, the neutrals and those other sinners, of all
kinds, who are destined to begin their travel to their �nal
destinations in Charon’s bark. From this point on the action of the
canto moves to the near bank of the Acheron. The next canto will
begin on the other side of the river. [return to English / Italian]
75.   The “dim light”: Dante’s �rst experience of hell proper was one
of utter darkness. Indeed, his �rst sense impressions of the neutrals
are entirely auditory (vv. 22–33). Now the character himself assures
us that he has begun to see at least a little (starting at v. 52). [return
to English / Italian]
76–78.   Virgil’s rather clipped response, in marked contrast with his
ready response to Dante’s question about the identity of the neutrals

(vv. 34–42), causes Dante to feel ashamed (vv. 79–81). The exact
reason for Virgil’s reproof is a matter of some debate. One might
argue that his point is that Dante has gotten ahead of himself. In the
�rst instance, he asked about the nature of those he saw displayed
just before him. Now he is anticipating, literally looking ahead, and
Virgil warns him against such behavior. [return to English / Italian]
88.      Charon’s insistence on Dante’s di�erence—he is alive, the
others dead—will �nd frequent repetition as the protagonist’s
extraordinary presence in hell is noted by various guardians and
damned souls. [return to English / Italian]
91–93.      Most today take Charon’s formulation to refer to Dante’s
eventual passage to purgatory aboard the angel-guided ship that we
see in Purgatorio II.41. [return to English / Italian]
94.   Charon, introduced �rst (vv. 82–83) only by his characteristics
(in a typical Dantean gesture, making us wonder who this imposing
�gure might be), is now named, and will be twice more (vv. 109,
128). This highly insistent naming should make it plain that Dante
is serious about proposing the notion that the guardian of hell is
derived from the Sixth Book of Virgil’s poem. It is fascinating,
however, to watch the early commentators, so used to reading any
�ction as though it were “allegorical,” “dehistoricizing” Charon.
Among the early commentators Charon is variously understood as
“�eshly desire,” “disordered love,” “ancient sinfulness,” “vice,”
“time,” etc. It is surely better to understand him �rst and foremost
as himself. [return to English / Italian]
95–96.      These two verses are repeated, word for word, at Inferno
V.23–24. This is the longest example of a word-for-word repetition
that we �nd in the entire poem. [return to English / Italian]
104–105.   Our translation is in accord with the literal interpretation
of Padoan’s comment to this verse, against those who understand
seme to refer to their ancestors, semenza to their parents. For an

apposite citation of Job 3:3 (“Let the day perish wherein I was born,
and the night in which it was said: A man child is conceived”) see
Fron.1998.1, p. 47. [return to English / Italian]
109.      For Dante’s possible reliance, in his description of Charon’s
eyes, on the Roman d’Enéas, v. 2449 (“roges les oitz come charbons”
[his eyes were red as coals]), see Spag.1997.1, pp. 120–22; 134–35.
[return to English / Italian]
111.      The verb s’adagia has been variously interpreted, either to
mean that the souls delay entering Charon’s ski�, or that, once in it,
they seat themselves in so self-indulgent a manner as to draw
Charon’s wrath. [return to English / Italian]
112–120.      Where each of the �rst two cantos has had two major
similes (Inf. I.22–27; I.55–60; II.37–42; II.127–132), the third canto
has only this double simile that describes the �nal action of the
canto, the departure of the sinners in Charon’s ski�. It is a
commonplace that the third canto is the most “Virgilian” canto of
the Commedia. In fact, study has shown that it has more than twice
as many Virgilian citations than any other canto in the poem (see
Holl.1993.1, pp. 250–51). This double simile has long been
recognized as involving an amalgam of two Virgilian passages (Aen.
VI.309–312 and Georg. II.82). It has also been understood as
comprising the “controlling simile” for the entire poem, combining
pagan and Christian elements: see the article by M. Frankel
(Fran.1982.1). [return to English / Italian]
125–126.      Virgil now is willing to answer the question that Dante
posed earlier (vv. 73–74): divine justice spurs these sinners so that
they are eager to cross the river and �nd their perdition. [return to
English / Italian]
130–134.    For the Aristotelian/Thomist sources of Dante’s
meteorology, the subterranean winds that cause earthquakes, see
Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 446–52. [return to English / Italian]

136.   Dante’s falling into unconsciousness indicates his inability to
deal with the overwhelming experience of his crossing into the
realm of hell proper, an “inability” apparently shared by the poet,
who simply does not tell us how he crossed the river. The
protagonist will su�er a similar lapse at the conclusion of the �fth
canto (Inf. V.142).
The question of how Dante crosses Acheron is much debated. The
pointed lack of concrete reference to how he is transported is a sign
either of the poet’s reticence or confusion or of his having set a little
problem for his readers. It has become acceptable, on the heels of
the lengthy gloss o�ered by Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.1), pp. 452–55, to
suggest that the poet has deliberately left the issue unresolved. Yet
that does not seem a likely hypothesis. The moment is too
important, supported by too many details, to be dealt with as
anything less than a problematic mystery that the poet asks us to
solve. Mazzoni registers the various theories that account for his
transporter (Charon, an angel, Virgil, Beatrice, Lucia, some
unnamed supernatural force). But see the countering argument of
Hollander (Holl.1984.1), p. 292: We are in fact meant to understand
that it is Charon who takes Dante across and that this crux is
entirely the result of interpretive overexertion that has made the
self-evident confusing. Charon indeed does wish to refuse Dante
passage in his ski� (vv. 88–93); to his protestations Virgil responds
as follows (vv. 94–96): “Charon, do not torment yourself. It is so
willed where will and power are one, and ask no more.” Daniello,
commenting on these verses, says that Virgil’s words have the same
e�ect on Charon that the Sibyl’s display of the golden bough had on
him. For Charon to be able to resist such a command would involve
Dante in a theological or at least a poetic absurdity. Cf. the similar
moment at Inferno V.16–24, where Minos likewise would resist
Dante’s passage through his realm and where Virgil employs the
same incantatory phrase that he had uttered in Canto III to achieve
the same result. Would Virgil have uttered the spell again had it not
previously proved e�cacious? That seems a most doubtful
proposition. It seems likely that Dante’s reason for not permitting us
to witness the �rst scene being played out (we are given another

version of the scene upon which it is modeled a bit later at Inf.
VIII.25–27) is that he found that poetic choice an excessive one, too
self-consciously reminiscent of Aeneas’s fanciful entrance into the
underworld for him to make evident reference to it at this important
moment, the threshold of his Christian afterworld. If this argument
has merit, it accounts for the poet’s reticence on poetic grounds.
Dante easily could have told us what he wants us to make ourselves
responsible for; but that is not his way. Rather, he makes us his
partners in taking responsibility for such incredible details as these
all through this incredible poem. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO IV
1–9.      The last canto had come to its dramatic conclusion with a
shaking of the earth accompanied—indeed perhaps caused by—a
supernatural lightning bolt that made Dante fall into a fainting
“sleep.” In medieval opinion such earthquakes were caused by
winds imprisoned in the earth. Now he is awakened by the
following thunder. As the last verse of Inferno III has him overcome
by sleep (“sonno”), so in the �rst line of this canto that sleep is
broken, overriding the sharp line of demarcation that a canto ending
or beginning seems to imply, as at the boundary between Inferno II
and III.
There has been a centuries-long debate over the question of
whether this “thunder” (truono), the noise made by the sorrowing
damned (v. 9), is the same as the thunderclap of v. 2 (truono [the
reading in most MSS and editions]). Mazzoni (Mazz.1965.1), pp.
45–49, summarizes that debate. It seems best to understand that this
noise is not the one that awakens Dante, but the one that he �rst
hears from the inhabitants of Limbo, i.e., that the two identical
words indicate diverse phenomena. [return to English / Italian]
13.      That, even according to Virgil, who dwells in it, the world of
Limbo is “blind” might have helped hold in check some of the more
enthusiastic readings of this canto as exemplary of Dante’s
“humanistic” inclinations. For important discussions along these
lines see Mazzoni, Introduzione (Mazz.1965.1), pp. 29–35; Padoan
(Pado.1965.1). And see Virgil’s own later “gloss” to Limbo (Purg.
VII.25–30), where he describes his punishment for not believing in
Christ-to-come as consisting in his being denied the sight of the Sun.
Dante describes Limbo as being without other punishment than its
darkness (and indeed here it is described as a “blind world” [cieco
mondo]), its inhabitants as sighing rather than crying out in pain (v.
26). Had he wanted to make Limbo as positive a place as some of

his commentators do, he surely would have avoided, in this verse,
the reference to the descent that is necessary to reach it. Such was
not the case for the neutrals in the previous circle, who apparently
dwell at approximately the same level as the �oor of the entrance
through the gate of hell. This is the �rst downward movement
within the Inferno. [return to English / Italian]
16–17.      Virgil’s sudden pallor (v. 14) causes Dante to believe that
his guide is fearful, as he himself had been at the end of the
previous canto (III.131). [return to English / Italian]
18.      Virgil has given comfort to Dante when the latter has
succumbed to doubt in each of the �rst two cantos. [return to English /
Italian]
19–21.      Virgil makes plain the reason for his pallor: he is feeling
pity for those who dwell in Limbo (and thus himself as well), not
fear. That much seems plain enough. But there has been controversy
over the centuries as to whether Virgil refers only to the inhabitants
of Limbo or to all the damned. Mazzoni (Mazz.1965.1), pp. 58–65,
o�ers a careful review of the problem and concludes that the better
reading is the former, demonstrating that Dante has, in �ve passages
in earlier works, made sighs (sospiri) the result of feeling anguish
(angoscia)—as they are here (v. 26). [return to English / Italian]
25–27.      As was true in the last Circle (where the neutrals were
punished) the darkness is at �rst so great that Dante apparently
cannot see; his �rst impressions are only auditory. Compare Inferno
III.21–30. [return to English / Italian]
30.   This line, seemingly innocent of polemical intent, is in fact in
pronounced and deliberate disagreement with St. Thomas (though
in accord with Virgil’s description of the crowds along the bank of
Acheron [Aen. VI.306–307]). For Thomas, the inhabitants of Limbo
were in one of two classes: the Hebrew saints, harrowed by Christ
and taken to heaven, and all unbaptized infants. They are now of

that second group alone. Dante’s addition of the virtuous pagans is
put forward on his own authority. This is perhaps the �rst of many
instances in which Dante chooses to di�er with Thomas. For a
helpful analysis of the ways in which Dante both follows and
separates himself from “authoritative” accounts of the Limbus, see
Mazzoni (Mazz.1965.1), pp. 70–80. Mazzoni shows that Dante is in
total agreement with Thomas about the presence of the unbaptized
infants in Limbo, but disagrees with him (following Bonaventure
instead) about whether these infants su�er the pain that comes from
knowing of their inability to see God—which Thomas allows himself
to doubt. Dante (as does Bonaventure) holds a harsher view on this
point. His view of the unbaptized pagans, however, is as mild as his
view of the pain of the infants is severe. It is in sharp disagreement
with the views of most Christians on this issue. Padoan
(Pado.1969.1), p. 371, cites Guido da Pisa’s commentary to this
verse as exemplary of early puzzled or hostile responses to Dante’s
inclusion of the virtuous pagans in Limbo: “The Christian faith,
however, does not hold that there are any here other than the
innocent babes. Here, and in certain other passages, this poet speaks
not as a theologian but as a poet.” [return to English / Italian]
42.   Virgil’s insistence that the inhabitants of Limbo “without hope
live in longing” does not as greatly reduce the sense of punishment
su�ered here, as some argue. See St. Thomas, De malo, q. 5, art. 2
(cited by Mazzoni [Mazz.1965.1], p. 69): “Original sin is not �tly
punished by sensation, but only by damnation itself, that is, the
absence of the sight of God.” If their only punishment is that
absence, it is nonetheless total. [return to English / Italian]
44.      In at least one respect Inferno I and II are cantos paired in
opposition, the �rst rooted in Dante’s fear (paura), the second in the
reassurance granted by the word (parola), as spoken by Virgil and
Beatrice. The same may be said for Cantos III and IV. Mazzoni,
following the lead of Forti (Fort.1961.1), identi�es the central
subject of the �rst of this pair as “pusillanimità” (cowardice), of the

second as “magnanimità” (greatness of soul—Mazz.1965.1, pp. 34–
35). See note to Canto III.58–60. [return to English / Italian]
45.      The word sospesi (“suspended”) has caused great dispute. Are
the limbicoli “hanging” between heaven and hell? between salvation
and damnation? Is there some potential better state awaiting them?
Mazzoni’s note (Mazz.1965.1), pp. 89–93, leaves little doubt, and
resolves their situation as follows: they are punished eternally for
their original sin, but are aware (as are none of the other damned
souls) of the better life that is denied them. They are “suspended,”
in other words, between their punishment and their impossible
desire. [return to English / Italian]
46–51.      Dante’s question has caused discomfort. Why should he
seek con�rmation of Christ’s ascent to heaven from a pagan? Why
should he need to con�rm his Christian faith on this indisputable
point of credence, without which there is no Christian faith? Neither
Dante’s question nor Virgil’s answer concerns itself primarily with
Christ’s descent to Limbo and ascent to heaven, but rather with the
more nebulous facts regarding those who went up with Him after the
harrowing of hell. See, for a modern recovery of the importance of
the harrowing as a concern in Limbo, the work of Iannucci
(Iann.1979.2; Iann.1992.1). “Did ever anyone, either by his own or
by another’s merit, go forth from here and rise to blessedness?”
Dante’s question refers, �rst, to the Hebrew patriarchs and
matriarchs, second, to unbaptized infants and to all those who were
later taken up from Limbo and whose ascent Virgil might have
witnessed. Indeed, Virgil’s answer will identify more than twenty of
those harrowed by Christ; thus we know how he understood Dante’s
�rst concern. Dante was interested in con�rming what he had heard
about the harrowing. But his question does have a second point.
Virgil has himself been elevated from hell, if but for a moment.
Dante’s question alludes, tacitly, to him as well: “Are you one of the
saved?” Dante’s “covert speech,” as the phrase intimates, is focused
on the salvation of pagans, and on Virgil in particular. In his gloss to
v. 51 Benvenuto da Imola characterizes Dante’s view of his own

“covert speech” as follows: “…  as though my words had hidden the
thought, ‘you great philosophers and poets, your great wisdom,
what did it, without faith, accomplish for your salvation? Certainly
nothing at all, for even the ancient patriarchs, in their simple,
faithful credence, were drawn up out of this prison, in which place
you are to remain for ever and ever.’ ” [return to English / Italian]
52–54.      Virgil tells Dante what he witnessed in 34 a.d., when he
was “new” to his condition, some �fty-three years after his death in
19 B.C. He saw a “mighty one” (Christ recognized by Virgil only for
his power, an anonymous harrower to the pagan observer). He is
either crowned with the sign of victory or crowned and holding the
sign of victory, a scepter representing the Cross. [return to English /
Italian]
55–61.   Virgil’s list of the patriarchs and matriarchs, beginning with
“our �rst parent,” Adam (Eve, similarly harrowed, will be seen in
the Empyrean [Par. XXXII.5]), Abel, Noah, Moses, Abraham, David,
Jacob, Isaac, the (twelve) sons of Jacob (and his daughter, Dinah?
[but it seems unlikely that Dante was considering her]), and Rachel.
The twenty-one (or twenty-two—if Dante counted Jacob’s progeny
as we do) Hebrew elders will be added to in Par. XXXII.4–12: Eve,
Sarah, Rebecca, Judith, and Ruth, thus accounting for some of the
“many others” whom Virgil does not name here, twenty-�ve men
and seven women in all, when we include the others added along
the way: Samuel (Par. IV.29), Rahab (Par. IX.116), Solomon (Par.
X.109), Joshua (Par. XVIII.38), Judas Maccabeus (Par. XVIII.49),
and Ezechiel (Par. XX.49). [return to English / Italian]
62–63.      Virgil’s conclusion e�ectively voids the second part of
Dante’s question. He has told only of those who were taken by
Christ for their own merits. [return to English / Italian]
72.   This new place, the only place in hell in which light is said to
overcome darkness (vv. 68–69), is immediately linked to the “key
word” of this section of the canto, “honor.” This is the densest

repetition of a single word and its derivates in the Comedy: seven
times in 29 lines (72–100: at vv. 72, 73, 74, 76, 80, 93, 100), with a
“coda” tacked on at v. 133. Can there be any doubt that honor and
poetry are indissolubly linked in Dante’s view of his own status? As
lofty as noble actions and great philosophy may be for him (but that
part of the canto, vv. 106–147, has only a single occurrence of the
word “honor”), it is poetry that, for Dante, is the great calling.
[return to English / Italian]
73.      Padoan’s gloss on Dante’s phrase is worth noting: scïenzïa
(“knowledge”) is represented by philosophy and the seven liberal
arts, while arte (“art” in a more restricted sense than is found in the
modern term) has to do with the means of expressing knowledge.
[return to English / Italian]
78.      Dante’s enthusiasm for the power of great poetry is such that
he claims that God, in recognition of its greatness, mitigates the
punishment of these citizens of Limbo with respect to that of the
others there who dwell in darkness (and who were not, we thus
conclude, great poets—or doers of great deeds or accomplishers of
philosophic wisdom, for these, too, dwell in this lightest part of hell
[vv. 106–147]). [return to English / Italian]
79.   There has been debate over the identity of the speaker of the
following two lines. Since Dante does not say, speci�cally, that
Homer speaks them, we cannot know that it was he who spoke.
Dante steps back and lets us make the ascription. Who else would
have spoken? Horace? Perhaps. Certainly not Ovid, not exactly
Virgil’s greatest supporter. And even less Lucan, whose work rather
pointedly attacks what Virgil champions. But the scene makes its
inner logic clear: the leader of the group is Homer, who “comes as
lord before the three” (v. 87). He speaks �rst, and Virgil responds.
[return to English / Italian]
80–81.      Homer’s great compliment to Virgil has so claimed our
a�ectionate attention, resonating in its grave “o” and “a” sounds,

that we have not seen the drama in the following verse: “his shade
returns that had gone forth.” What did Homer and Virgil’s other
companions think when Beatrice came to Limbo to draw Virgil up to
the world of the living? They have witnessed this sort of event
before, at least once (the harrowing), and perhaps at least once
more (Trajan’s latter-day resurrection). A student, Elizabeth
Statmore (Princeton ’82), in a seminar in February 1982 o�ered an
interesting hypothesis (see Holl.1984.2, p. 219): Virgil’s companions
thought that he, too, had now been harrowed. But no, here he is
again, right back where he belongs. [return to English / Italian]
86.   The sword in Homer’s hand indicates not only that he was an
epic poet, not only that he is the �rst among poets, but that, as a
result, epic poetry is to be taken as the foremost poetic genre. See
note to vv. 95–96. [return to English / Italian]
88–90.   Alessio and Villa argue that the Latin poets in Dante’s bella
scola are divided into generic categories as follows: Virgil: tragedy;
Ovid: elegy; Horace: satire; Lucan: history. Missing from such a list
is a representative of comedy. They argue that almost any reader
would have expected to �nd Terence’s name here, and go on to
surmise that Dante has deliberately excluded Terence as the
representative of comedy because he has taken that role unto
himself (Ales.1993.1, pp. 56–58). For Dante’s knowledge of Terence
see Vill.1984.1.
For all these authors consult the entries found in the Enciclopedia
dantesca: Guido Martellotti, “Omero” (ED, vol. 4, 1973), pp. 145a–
48a; Ettore Paratore, “Ovidio” (ED, vol. 4, 1973), pp. 225b–36b;
Giorgio Brugnoli and Roberto Mercuri, “Orazio” (ED, vol. 4, 1973),
pp. 173b–80b; Ettore Paratore, “Lucano” (ED, vol. 3, 1971), pp.
697b–702b. [return to English / Italian]
88.  See Mazzoni’s discussion of what Dante who, not having Greek,
could not and did not read Homer’s texts, could in fact know about
him (Mazz.1965.1), pp. 137–39. And see Brugnoli (Brug.1993.1).
[return to English / Italian]

89.    For Horace’s medieval reputation as a satirist see Mazzoni
(Mazz. 1965.1), pp. 139–40, Villa (Vill.1993.1), and Reynolds
(Reyn.1995.1). [return to English / Italian]
90.  In recent years there has been a growing amount of concerted
attention �nally being paid to Dante’s enormous debt to Ovid,
historically overshadowed by the at least apparently even greater
one to Virgil. E.g., Jaco.1991.1, containing seven essays on Dante’s
responses to Ovid, and Pico.1991.1, Pico.1993.1, Pico.1994.1. And
see the lengthy treatment by Marthe Dozon (Dozo.1991.1).
Lucan, not studied enough as source for so many of Dante’s
verses, is also beginning to receive more attention. For a recent
study arguing for Dante’s close and highly nuanced reading of
Lucan, one that helps to account for much of the portrait of his
Ulysses, see Stull and Hollander (Stul.1991.1). [return to English /
Italian]
93.  Virgil is not suggesting that his fellow ancient poets do well to
praise him, but that in praising him they honor their shared
profession. If there is a “humanistic” gesture in this canto, we �nd it
here, “a solemn celebration of the worth of poetry” (Padoan’s
comment). [return to English / Italian]
95–96.    Two problems of interpretation continue to assault these
lines. (1) Is the “lord of loftiest song” Homer or Virgil? Most today
agree that Homer is meant. (2) Does the relative pronoun che in v.
96 refer to the singer or the song? That is, is it Homer (or Virgil)
who soars above all other poets, or is it the lofty style of epic that
�ies higher than all other forms of poetic expression? Most today
prefer the second reading. This argument depends heavily upon the
reference of the adjective altri. Those who think that the second
meaning is most likely point out that the adjective seems to refer to
canto in the preceding line, while a reference to the “other poets”
can only be assumed, since there is no noun to attach to them. Our
translation leaves the meaning ambivalent, as Dante seems to do.
[return to English / Italian]

99.  The poets’ greeting of Dante is the occasion for the only smile
found in Inferno. [return to English / Italian]
101.    In Inferno II.105 Lucy tells Beatrice that Dante, for her sake,
had left “the vulgar herd” (la volgare schiera). Exactly what this
means is a matter of some dispute, yet some believe that it refers to
his distancing himself from the rest of contemporary vernacular
poets in his quite di�erent championing of his own and most special
lady. (See note to Inf. II.105.) Such an interpretation is lent support
by the fact that here the word (schiera) returns to designate a quite
di�erent group of poets, the great auctores. (Of the nineteen uses of
the noun in the poem, only these two make it refer to a group that
Dante either leaves or joins.) In this interpretation Dante makes
himself unique among contemporary poets in part because of his
adherence to Beatrice, in part because of his involvement with Virgil
and the other great poets of antiquity. [return to English / Italian]
102.    For a review of the various sorts of discomfort among the
commentators occasioned by Dante’s promotion of his own poetic
career in this verse (some going so far as to insist that he displays
humility here rather than pride) see Mazzoni (Mazz.1965.1), pp.
147–54. It is clear that Dante is putting himself in very good
company on the basis of very little accomplishment: a series of
lyrics, the Vita nuova, two un�nished treatises, and three cantos of
the Comedy. His daring is amazing. However, we ought to consider
that most of his readers today will readily agree that he is not only
justly included in this company of the great poets of all time
between Homer and Dante, but is one of its foremost members. It
was a dangerous gesture for him to make. It is redeemed by his
genius.
For a possible source for this verse see Gmel.1966.1, p. 91: Ovid’s
Tristia, IX.x.54, where that poet makes himself fourth in the line of
poets after Tibullus, Gallus, and Propertius. And we should look
ahead to Purg. XXI.91 when the inclusion of Statius will make Dante
not the sixth but the seventh in this group.

That there are forty named or otherwise identi�ed inhabitants in
Limbo is probably not accidental (the �ve poets and the thirty-�ve
souls later observed in the precincts of the noble castle). In one
tradition of medieval numerology the “number” of man is four (of
God, three). In a widely practiced mode of medieval “counting,” 40
= 4 + 0 = 4. [return to English / Italian]
104–105.    What was the subject under discussion that is now not
reported? Mazzoni (Mazz.1965.1, pp. 154–56), following an early
indication of D’Ovidio’s, argues that the subject is poetry, or the
secrets of those involved in this sacred art, adducing as evidence
two passages in Purg. XXII (104–105; 127–129). In the �rst of these
Virgil tells Statius that he and his poetic companions in Limbo often
speak of the Muses; then Dante is allowed to overhear Statius and
Virgil speaking of the art of poetic making. To be sure, the poet
deliberately refuses (and this will not be the last time) to tell us
what was said. Yet it is clear that we are meant to wonder what it
was, and to come up with some sort of reasonable hypothesis in
explanation. No writer would otherwise include such a provocative
detail. [return to English / Italian]
106–111.    The noble castle with its seven walls and surrounding
stream that Dante and the poets walk over as though it were dry
land in order then to pass through the seven gates and into a green
meadow: what do these things signify? It is clear that here we are
dealing with the conventional kind of allegory, in which poetic
objects stand for abstract ideas. But which ones? As is often the
case, allegories (here, a brief extended metaphor) of this kind have
proven to be extremely di�cult for Dante’s readers, and not only for
his modern readers. Mazzoni (Mazz.1965.1) presents the history of
the question (pp. 156–68); yet it cannot be said that he has resolved
it. Is the castle the good life of the human being without Grace, all
that can be done with the moral and speculative virtues that pagans
could perfect despite their lack of faith (Mazzoni)? Or does the
castle represent philosophy, with its seven disciplines (physics,
metaphysics, ethics, politics, economics, mathematics, and dialectic

[Padoan’s comment])? Or something else? And what does it mean
that the pagan poets and Dante all can cross the stream as though it
were not water? Surely that stands for some impediment that keeps
the rest of the inhabitants of Limbo out, since apparently only those
worthy of entrance can move over it. There are thirty-�ve
designated inhabitants within the walls and fully two-�fths of these
are “actives” (and the majority of these are women: eight of the
fourteen). The more numerous “contemplatives”—had they been the
only inhabitants discussed—might indicate that the castle stands for
“philosophy.” But what have Caesar, Camilla, Latinus, or Lavinia got
to do with philosophy? What, then, do the castle and its
surroundings stand for? The best that human beings can be without
God, in whatever precise further formulation: that seems a
plausible, if not satisfying, response to Dante’s riddle. [return to English
/ Italian]
115–117.    The resemblance to the vision of the Elysian �elds, the
best place in the pagan underworld, in Aen. VI.752–755 was not lost
on Boccaccio—nor on Pietro di Dante before him, in the third
redaction of his commentary, as discussed by Mazz.1965.1, p. 172.
[return to English / Italian]
121–122.    The �rst group is Trojan: Electra, mother of Dardanus,
founder of Troy; Hector; Aeneas. The line becomes Roman with
Aeneas. [return to English / Italian]
123.  For Caesar as the �rst emperor of Rome see Convivio IV.v.12.
For the source in Suetonius of his falcon-like eyes see Campi’s
comment to this verse. That Caesar is here in armor may well be a
reminder of his crossing of the Rubicon in arms to attack Rome (see
Stul.1991.1, p. 36). [return to English / Italian]
124–126.    The next group is Latian, those who fought and lost
against Aeneas; �rst named are two warrior maidens, then Latinus,
king of Latium, and his daughter, Lavinia. Aeneas won the right to

marry her by his victory over the forces led by Turnus. [return to
English / Italian]
127–128.    This group is associated with the Roman Republic, �rst
its founder, Lucius Brutus, and then four of its matronly heroines.
[return to English / Italian]
129.    That Saladin, for all the good report that he enjoyed, is
included by Dante in Limbo (along with two other “in�dels,”
Avicenna and Averroes, at vv. 143–144) is nonetheless
extraordinary. They are the only three “moderns” in Limbo, all
representatives of that Islamic culture which Dante usually saw in
negative terms and only as the enemy of Christendom. [return to
English / Italian]
131.    This “master” of knowledge, the teacher of philosophy for
nearly every major thinker in the Middle Ages, is, of course,
Aristotle. For two important studies in English of the Aristotelian
basis of Dante’s thought see Boyde (Boyd.1981.1 and Boyd.1993.1).
[return to English / Italian]
134–140.    Socrates and Plato lead the listing of other Greek
philosophers. Dante’s knowledge of the pre-Socratics is, of course,
limited; but his interest in them was great. [return to English / Italian]
140–141.    The group of four combines poets (Orpheus, Linus) and
moral philosophers (Cicero, Seneca). [return to English / Italian]
142–144.  The last grouping combines classical mathematicians and
doctors of medicine with two “moderns,” both Muslims, Avicenna
(eleventh-century philosopher) and Averroes (twelfth-century
commentator of Aristotle). For Dante’s surprising “liberality” in
including Avicenna and Averroes in Limbo see note to v. 129. [return
to English / Italian]

145–147.    Dante’s abrupt switch to the role of author from that of
narrator is noteworthy. With the exception of the invocation in
Inferno II.7, this is the �rst time he has assumed that role, this time
addressing remarks about the poem to us, his readers: “I cannot give
account of all of them, for the length of my theme so drives me on,
the telling often comes short of the fact.” The e�ect is, as we have
observed before (note to vv. 64–66, above), to put together an
appeal to his experience as voyager, returned from a veracious visit
to the otherworld, and insistence on his absolute control over what
he has in fact invented. As readers we are aware that it is he who
has created the inhabitants of Limbo; his remark both insists that he
is only recording what he observed and simultaneously allows a
shared understanding of his contrivance. What is genial in it is that
it turns his reader into a collaborator. The use of the word tema
(here “poetic subject”) underlines the literary nature of the
enterprise. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO V
1–3.   A descent again marks a border, this time between the Limbus
and the second Circle. Singleton’s gloss argues that the presence
here of Minos in judgment indicates that “real hell” begins only
now, that Limbo is “marginal.” It is true, however, that the Limbus
is inside the gate of hell. Not only does “real hell” begin there, it in
a sense begins with those who are barely inside the gate, the
neutrals. They are so pusillanimous that they are not even allowed
“a proper burial,” as it were. One may not even say, as some have,
that only with the second Circle do we begin to witness actual
punishment being meted out for past sins, since the neutrals are
indeed tormented by stinging insects as a �t punishment for their
feckless conduct (Inf. III.65–66). [return to English / Italian]
4–5.   Padoan, in his gloss, argues that the present tense of the verbs
in this tercet (sta, ringhia, essamina, giudica, manda, avvinghia)
re�ects the continuous condition of Minos’s behavior. In fact all the
verbs in the passage describing Minos’s judgment, vv. 4–15, are in
the present, as Dante leaves little doubt but that he wants his
readers to imagine themselves—unless a life of good conduct and
God’s grace combine to gain a better end—coming before that
judgment in the future. This is the everlasting present of the
moment of damnation, occurring, the text would make us feel, even
as we read. For a study of the historical present in the Commedia,
with attention (pp. 266–68) to this passage, see Sanguineti
(Sang.1958.1).
Dante fairly often portrays infernal monsters and characters as
having bestial traits. For this particular one, canine vociferation, see
also Cerberus (Inf. VI.43), Plutus (Inf. VII.43), Hecuba (Inf. XXX.20),
Bocca degli Abati (Inf. XXXII.105; Inf. XXXII.108); Brutus and
Cassius in Inferno XXXIV (described as “barking” retrospectively at
Par. VI.74). See discussion in Spag.1997.1, p. 112.

For the con�ation here in the �gure of Minos of the roles of Minos
and of Rhadamanthus in Virgil’s underworld, see Moor.1896.1, pp.
183–84; the texts are found at Aeneid VI.432–433 and 566–569.
[return to English / Italian]
6.      The precise way that Minos winds his tail about himself is a
subject in dispute. Does he �ap it back and forth as many times as
he wishes to indicate the appropriate Circle? Or does he wind it like
a vine around a tree? See Mazz.1977.1, pp. 104–5, for a brief
summary of the debate and reasons to prefer the second hypothesis.
[return to English / Italian]
7.    Sinners are “ill-begotten” in that their end is this, eternal
damnation, because of their sins (and not because their procreation
in itself so fated them). Padoan, commenting on this verse, points
out that Dante himself is later described as “bene nato” (wellborn)—
Par. V.115. [return to English / Italian]
8.      Dante presents Minos as a parody of a confessor meting out
penance to a sinner (see Beno.1983.1). The word confessa marks the
beginning of this canto’s concern with confession, which will be
parodied again when Dante “confesses” Francesca (vv. 118–120).
For now we are perhaps meant to ruminate on the perversity of
sinners. In the world above they were o�ered, through this o�ce of
the Church, the possibility of confession and remission of sins. We
may infer that those sinners whom we �nd in hell probably did not
avail themselves of their great opportunity. (We never hear the
word “confession” on the lips of any of them except for Guido da
Montefeltro [Inf. XXVII.83]. And he, having confessed and become a
friar, then sins again and is condemned. His second [and vain]
confession is made, too late, in hell and only to Dante.) This
moment o�ers a brief but cogent vision of human perversity: in
their lives all those whom we see in hell had the opportunity to be
rid of their sins by owning up to them in confession. They
apparently did not do so. Here, in hell, what is the very �rst thing

that they do? They make full disclosure of their sins  …  to Minos.
[return to English / Italian]
9–12.      The mechanical nature of Minos’s judgment—he is a judge
who renders judgment with his tail, not his head—underlines the
lack of authority of the demons in hell: Minos is merely doing God’s
work. Hell is presented as a perfectly functioning bureaucracy. If
some of Satan’s minions are at times rebellious (e.g., the rebel
angels in Inf. IX, the winged demons in XXI–XXIII), they are so in
vain. Hell, too, is a part of God’s kingdom. [return to English / Italian]
17.      Once the narrated action of Dante’s descent continues (it had
been suspended at v. 3), the tense moves back to the past de�nite:
“Minos said.”[return to English / Italian]
18–19.   Minos, seeing a rarity, to say the least—a living man before
him at the entrance—steals a moment from his incessant judgment
to o�er this warning. How kindly are his intentions? Most
commentators seem to think he is the most “humane” of the infernal
demons, and even courteous to Dante. However, and as Padoan
points out (in his commentary), his calling into question, albeit
indirectly, the competence of Virgil as guide (“beware … whom you
trust”), is evidently meant to unsettle Dante. He would obviously
prefer not to have such visitors. [return to English / Italian]
20.   Commentators customarily note that here Dante builds his line
out of two sources: Aeneid VI.126: “Facilis descensus Averno” (the
descent to the underworld is easy [but not the return from there]);
Matth. 7:13: “spatiosa via est, quae ducit ad perditionem” (broad is
the way that leads to perdition). [return to English / Italian]
22–24.      Virgil obviously understands that Minos’s words were
meant to scare Dante o� (and perhaps he also understands the
implicit insult to himself contained in them). For the repetition here
of the identical verses (23 and 24) used to quell Charon’s rebellious
desires see Inf. III.95–96 and note. It seems clear that Virgil would

not have used them again had they not been e�cacious the �rst
time, that is, had Charon not relented and rowed Dante across (see
note to Inf. III.136). [return to English / Italian]
25.      Here the present tense is an example of the “historical” (or
“vivid”) present. [return to English / Italian]
26–33.      The “hellscape” that is established by the sounds in the
darkness (once again Dante’s eyes need to adjust to the deepening
shadows) mates well with the sin of lust: darkness, passionate winds
in con�ict that bear their victims in unceasing agitation in their
storm of passion. For a passage that might have had some e�ect on
Dante’s shaping of this scene, see II Peter 2:10–22, the Apostle
Peter’s denunciation of the lustful. [return to English / Italian]
34.      One of the most debated verses in this canto because of the
word ruina (literally, “ruin”). What precisely does it mean? Two
discussions of the commentary tradition are available, the �rst by
Letterio Cassata (Cass.1971.1), the second, still more complete, by
Nicolò Mineo (ED, vol. 4, 1973), pp. 1056–57. Mineo points out that
there have been six identi�able schools of interpretation for the
meaning of la ruina. Unfortunately, there are severe problems
associated with all of them. Many American and some Italian
students of the problem have been drawn to Singleton’s solution
(commentary to Inf. XII.32 and XII.36–45): Dante suppresses the
meaning of the noun here only to reveal it at Inferno XII.32–41,
where questa ruina (v. 32) refers to the crack in the wall of hell
made by the earthquake that accompanied Christ’s cruci�xion.
However, it does remain extremely dubious, as many rightly point
out, that Dante would, for the only time in his poem, hold back the
reference necessary to a word’s clear literal sense for seven cantos.
We agree with Mazzoni’s tentative judgment (Mazz. 1977.1, pp.
106–8) that the meaning of ruina here is not “ruin,” but “fury,
violence,” as in the impetus of the wind that drives these sinners.
[return to English / Italian]

40–49.   The �rst two similes of the canto (and see the third one, vv.
82–85) associate the lustful with birds, a natural association given
their condition, driven by the wind, and one in accord with the
medieval view that lust is the property of beings less than human,
and indeed frequently of birds. [return to English / Italian]
40–43.   The �rst vast group of the “ordinary” lovers is compared to
a �ock of starlings, with their ragged, darting, sky-covering �ight on
a winter’s day. (T. S. Eliot’s typist and house agent’s clerk in The
Waste Land, vv. 222–248, would eventually be assigned here, one
imagines.)[return to English / Italian]
46–49.   The group in the second simile of the canto is more select,
the “stars” of lustful living. Where the starlings are as though
without individual identities, the “masses” of the lustful, as it were,
each of these has a particularity and a certain fame, and is thus
worthy of being treated as exemplary. (For a discussion of
exemplary literature in the middle ages see Delc.1989.1, with
special attention to Dante, pp. 195–227.) Padoan (commentary), on
the other hand, suggests that this second group is distinguished from
the �rst on moral grounds, since they all died by their own hand or
at the hand of others, and are as a result more heavily punished.
The evidence for such a view does not seem present in the text.
For the cranes see Aeneid X.264–266 as well as Statius, Thebaid
V.11–16. [return to English / Italian]
58–67.    This is the second important “catalogue” that we �nd in
Inferno. The �rst named the forty identi�ed inhabitants of Limbo
(see note to Inf. IV.102—at the end of that note). In the Circle of
lust we �nd these seven identi�ed sinners and two more: Francesca
and Paolo, who bring the total to nine. As Curtius argued quite some
time ago, given the importance for Dante of the number nine (the
“number” of his beloved Beatrice), it seems likely that these nine
souls who died for love are associated with her by opposition
(Curt.1948.1, p. 369).

It is also notable that Dante’s catalogues are unlike (and
pronouncedly so in this case) later humanist catalogues of the
famous, which thrive on additions, in display of “erudition”: the
more the better seems to be the motto of such writers. Dante, on the
other hand, frequently sculpts his groupings to a purpose.
One of the insistent poetic topoi that we �nd in medieval writers
—and certainly in Dante—is that of translatio. This is the notion that
certain ideas or institutions have their major manifestations in
movement through historical time and space. The two most usually
deployed examples of this topos are translatio imperii (the movement
of imperial greatness from Troy to Rome to “new Rome”—wherever
that may be in a given patriotic writer’s imagination [in Dante’s case
the empireless Rome of his own day]) and translatio studii (the
development of serious intellectual pursuit from its birth in Athens,
to its rebirth in Rome, to its new home [Paris, according to some, in
Dante’s day]). It is perhaps useful to think of Dante’s catalogues as
re�ecting a similar sense of history, of movement through time and
space. In this one, a sort of translatio amoris, we have three triads:
Semiramis (incestuous paramour of her own son), Dido (partner of
Aeneas, abandoned by him), Cleopatra (lover of Julius Caesar and of
Mark Antony), all three lustful queens of the African coast; Helen
and Paris (Greek and Trojan lovers whose lusts brought down a
kingdom) with Achilles (Greek lover of the Trojan woman
Polyxena); Tristan (a man caught up in destructive passion for King
Mark’s wife, Isolde, in the court of Cornwall, as we move into
Europe and toward the present); Francesca and Paolo (lovers from
the recent past [ca. 1285] in Rimini, here in Italy). [return to English /
Italian]
58.    Semiramis was the legendary queen of Assyria (Dante has
confused the name of her capital, Babylon, for that of the Egyptian
city, and thus misplaced her realm). She was supposed to have
legalized incest in order to carry out her sexual liaison with her son.
For more about her see Samu.1944.1 and Shap.1975.1. [return to
English / Italian]

61–62.      Dante’s use of periphrasis (circumlocution) represents one
of his favored “teaching techniques,” in which he (generally, but
certainly not always) o�ers his readers fairly easy problems to solve.
Use of periphrasis has a second e�ect: it tends to emphasize the
importance of the person or thing so presented. The “Dido” that we
scribble in our margins, remembering that her husband’s name was
Sichaeus, stands out from the page, partly because it is we who have
supplied the name. That Dido is the quintessential presence in this
“�ock” is underlined by v. 85, where she is the only named presence
in it, having previously been alluded to only indirectly. [return to
English / Italian]
61.    Dido’s presence here frequently upsets readers who think that
she ought to be found in Canto XIII, since she committed suicide. It
is clear that Dante thinks of the psychology of sin with a certain
sophistication, isolating the impulse, the deeper motive, that drives
our actions from the actions themselves. In Dido’s case this is her
uncontrolled desire for Aeneas. She does not kill herself from
despair (as do the suicides in the thirteenth canto), but rather to
give expression to her need for her lover—or so Dante would seem
to have believed. [return to English / Italian]
62.   Virgil’s similar one-line description of Dido’s “in�delity” occurs
at Aeneid IV.552, where she admits that she had not “kept the faith
promised to the ashes of Sichaeus.”[return to English / Italian]
63.      For Dante’s knowledge that Cleopatra committed suicide by
having an asp bite her, see Paradiso VI.76–78. [return to English /
Italian]
65.      It is important to remember that Dante, Greekless, had not
read Homer, who only became available in Latin translation much
later in the fourteenth century. His Achilles is not the hero of the
Iliad known to some of us, but the warrior-lover portrayed by Statius
and others. [return to English / Italian]

69–72.      di nostra vita. The echo of the �rst line of the poem is
probably not coincidental. Dante was lost “midway in the journey of
our life” and, we will later learn, some of his most besetting
problems arose from misplaced a�ection. He was, indeed, near
death as a result of his transgressions. The repetition of the word
smarrito to describe Dante’s distraught condition also recalls the �rst
tercet of the poem. Here we can see an emerging pattern in his reuse
of key words from previous contexts in order to enhance the
signi�cance of a current situation in the poem. [return to English /
Italian]
71.      Dante refers to the great �gures of the olden days with
strikingly anachronistic terms, the medieval “ladies and knights”
emphasizing the continuity of the historical record. No “humanist”
writer would be likely to use such a locution that so dramatically
erases the gap between classical antiquity and the present age.
[return to English / Italian]
74.      To be “light upon the wind” is, to some readers, a sign of
Francesca’s and Paolo’s noble ability to triumph over their dismal
surroundings; to others, it indicates that they are driven even more
wildly than some other shades by the winds of passion. This �rst
detail begins a series of challenging phrasings that invite the reader
to consider closely the ambiguities of the entire episode. For a
summary of the issues at stake here, see Mazz.1977.1, pp. 124–28.
And for a thorough consideration of the history of interpretation of
the episode of Francesca see A. E. Quaglio, “Francesca” (ED, vol. 3,
1971, pp. 1–13). [return to English / Italian]
76–78.   Virgil’s only complete tercet in the second half of the canto
(see note to vv. 109–117) is laconic, as though he were aware of the
emotions felt by Dante (which he himself had so devastatingly
presented in Aeneid IV, the story of love’s destructive power over
Dido) and realized there was nothing he had said or could say that
might rein in his excited pupil. [return to English / Italian]

80.      The protagonist’s adjective for the two sinners (they are
“anime a�annate”) may well be meant to remind us of the only
other time we �nd that adjective in Inferno (Inf. I.22), when Dante is
described as being like a man who has escaped from the sea “with
laboring breath” (con lena a�annata). If that is true, it further binds
the character’s sense of identity with these sinners. [return to English /
Italian]
82–84.   The third simile involving birds in this canto (and there are
only three similes in it) compares the two lovers to doves. As Shoaf
(Shoa.1975.1) has demonstrated, there is a “dove program” in the
Comedy, beginning with the Venereal doves re�ected here, passing
through the doves at their feeding in Purgatorio II.124–129, and
�nishing in the reference to James and Peter as “doves” of the Holy
Spirit in Paradiso XXV.119–121. Dante’s doves here seem to re�ect
both Aeneid V.213–217 and Georgics I.414. [return to English / Italian]
88.      Francesca da Polenta of Ravenna was a�anced to Giovanni
Malatesta of Rimini, who was crippled. History or legend has it that
the marriage was arranged when his younger brother, Paolo, was
sent to make the pledge of betrothal. Francesca, seeing him, was
under the impression that it was this handsome man who was to be
her husband. Her delusion on her wedding day is not di�cult to
imagine. Commentators point out that her adulterous conduct was a
lot more calculated than Dante presents it (she and Paolo, also
married, both had children and she had then been married for ten
years). The fact is, however, that Dante’s version of the story makes
her conduct seem about as understandable as possible, an e�ort on
which the character herself spends her considerable resources of
persuasion.
The beginning of her highly rhetorical speech re�ects the
tradition of classical rhetoric that would have a speaker �rst seek to
gain the sympathy of the audience, a device referred to as captatio
benevolentiae, the capturing of the goodwill of one’s auditors. For
noteworthy earlier examples of captatio see Beatrice’s �rst words to

Virgil (Inf. II.58–60) and Virgil’s �rst words to her (Inf. II.76–81).
[return to English / Italian]
91–93.      Francesca’s locutions are revealing and instructive: God is
portrayed as having turned away from the two lovers, while Dante
is welcomed for not having done so, for feeling pietà for them. This
canto has one of its “key words” in amore, which occurs fully eleven
times in it (vv. 61, 66, 69, 78, 100, 103, 106, 119, 125, 128, 134).
But this word, “pity,” is crucial as well (vv. 72, 93, 117, 140, and, in
the continuing narrative of the next canto, VI.2). Dante is �lled with
pity for lost lovers. Should he be? That may be the central question
facing a reader of Inferno V (see further discussion, below [note to v.
142]). [return to English / Italian]
91.  For the source of this verse in Cavalcanti’s line “Se Mercé fosse
amica a’ miei disiri” (Were Mercy friendly to my desires) see Contini
(Cont.1976.1), p. 155. [return to English / Italian]
100–106.  The use of anaphora (repetition) here at the beginning of
each tercet, “Amor  …  Amor  …  Amor…,” underlines the rhetorical
skill of Francesca, who presses her case with listening Dante: it was
Love’s fault that she and Paolo fell into carnal passion. “Amor”
appears three times as the �rst word in a tercet after an end-stopped
line and thus must be capitalized. It seems also reasonable to believe
that Francesca is here referring to her “god,” the Lord of Love,
Cupid, whose name is “Amor.” He is the only god she seems to own,
since, by her account (v. 91), the “King of the universe” is not her
friend. [return to English / Italian]
102.    Against Pagliaro (Pagl.1967.1), pp. 136–49, who argues that
Francesca is referring to the way in which she was made to fall in
love, Padoan (commentary and Pado.1993.1, pp. 189–200) argues
persuasively that she refers in fact to the brutal manner of her
death. This verse is much debated. The wording of the text allows,
in itself, either interpretation. Our translation therefore leaves the

meaning ambiguous, as does, indeed, the original, whatever Dante’s
intentions. [return to English / Italian]
103.  The dicta of Andreas Capellanus are often cited as lying behind
Francesca’s speech (e.g., De amore II, 8): “Amor nil posset amori
denegare” (Love can deny love nothing at all). A closer parallel
exists between a line in a love poem by Cino da Pistoia and this one:
“A nullo amato amar perdona amore” (“Love allows no one beloved
not to love,” cited by Enrico Mestica [commentary]). But we do not
know if Dante is echoing Cino or Cino, Dante. [return to English /
Italian]
107.    Francesca, whose chief rhetorical strategy is to remove as
much blame from herself as she is able, �nding other forces at fault
wherever possible (e.g., Paolo’s physical beauty, her despicable
husband, the allure of a French romance), here tries to even the
score with her husband. She may be damned, but he, as the killer of
his wife and brother, will be much lower down, in the ninth Circle.
Since Gianciotto, who killed them in 1283–84, lived until 1304, his
shade could not be seen by Dante in Caïna. We have, as a result, no
basis on which to question her opinion. However, had Dante wanted
to guarantee it, it would have taken a line or so to do just that—and
he does several times have sinners tell of the impending arrival of
still others in a given Circle in ways that clearly call for acceptance
(see note to Inf. XXXII.54–69). And so we are left wondering at
Francesca’s remark, and should at least keep this question open. It
seems better to view her prediction as a wish stated as a fact than as
a fact. However, for an example of the view that accepts Francesca’s
predictive placement of her husband in hell see Bald.1988.1, p.
1070.
Iannucci suggests that Gianciotto may have been conceived by
Dante as being misshapen and lame like Vulcan, the cuckolded
husband of Venus (Iann.1980.1, p. 345). [return to English / Italian]
109–117.    These nine verses contain the “drama” of the canto in
nuce. Dante’s pensive condition in the �rst tercet re�ects his being

moved deeply by Francesca’s beautiful speech; Virgil attempts to
spur him to thoughtful appreciation of what he has seen and heard;
the second tercet records his more emotional than rational outburst:
he is totally sympathetic to the lovers, and now, in the third, he
turns to tell Francesca that he is �lled with pity for her. She has won
him over.
Some twenty years ago Dante’s tearful state (v. 117) reminded
Elizabeth Raymond and Susan Saltrick (both Princeton ’78) of the
tears Augustine shed for Dido—see Pine.1961.1, p. 34 (Confessions
I.13). [return to English / Italian]
118–120.    In 1972, Georgia Nugent, then a student at Princeton,
pointed out that Dante’s question mimics the questions used by
confessors to ascertain the nature of a penitent’s sins. Here, we may
re�ect, Dante is behaving more like a priest in the so-called
“religion of Love” than a Christian confessor. See the earlier
discussion of confession in this canto, note to v. 8. [return to English /
Italian]
121–126.    “This [the �rst tercet] imitates Virgil  …  but literally
translates Boëtius” (Taaf.1822.1, p. 326). See the Consolation of
Philosophy II, pr. 4: “in omni adversitate fortunae infelicissimum est
genus infortunii fuisse felicem” (among fortune’s many adversities
the most unhappy kind is once to have been happy).
For the Virgilian resonances (Aen. II.3–13), see the fairly detailed
account in Holl.1969.1, pp. 110–11. [return to English / Italian]
123.    There is debate as to whether the word dottore (here
“teacher”) refers to Boethius or Virgil. Most prefer the second
hypothesis. We should realize that either choice forces upon us a
somewhat ungainly hypothesis, the �rst that Francesca knows
Boethius well (it is only several years since Dante had characterized
the Consolation of Philosophy as a work known only to few [Conv.
II.xii.2]), the second that she recognizes the Roman poet Virgil
without having had him identi�ed by Dante. Since Virgil is referred
to by Dante as “il mio dottore” in this very canto (v. 70), it seems

the wiser choice to accept the notion that Dante, taking advantage
of poetic license, allows Francesca to recognize Virgil. [return to
English / Italian]
127–128.    In the Old French Lancelot of the Lake, King Arthur’s
queen, Guinevere, betrayed her husband with the knight Lancelot.
Much has been written on the sources of this scene. Work in English
includes articles by Carozza (Caro.1967.1) and Maddox
(Madd.1996.1). And for a possible link to the love story of Eloise
and Abelard see Dronke (Dron.1975.1). [return to English / Italian]
132.    Francesca’s account of her and Paolo’s conquest by Amor is
“corrected” by a later text, Dante’s reference to God as the “punto
che mi vinse” (Par. XXX.11), where Dante is, like Paolo,
“constrained” by love (strinse [v. 128]; Paradiso XXX, 15: amor mi
costrinse)—but his desire is for Beatrice, not for a �eshly liaison. The
passage in Paradiso is clearly meant to re�ect negatively, not only
on the amorous activity of Francesca and Paolo, but on the
protagonist’s reactions to it. The god of Love and Francesca are
being played against God and Beatrice—or so we will understand
once we reach the last cantica. For the resonance of this self-citation
see Holl.1988.1, pp. 7–8, discussing the contributions of Contini
(Cont.1976.1), p. 206; Hollander (Holl.1983.1), pp. 139–40; and
Dronke (Dron.1989.1), p. 30. [return to English / Italian]
137.    Once again Francesca blames another for their predicament,
this time the go-between, Gallehault, in the tale of Lancelot and
Guinevere as well as its author. By now we have come to see—or
should have—how often she lays her problems at the doors of
others. At least in part because of Dante’s reference to him here,
Gallehault became synonymous with “pander.”[return to English /
Italian]
138.  Francesca, reading a book that leads to her “conversion” to sin
and death in the company of a man named Paul, is the “negative
antitype” of St. Augustine, reading a book by Paul that leads to his

conversion (Confessions VIII.xii [Pine.1961.1, p. 178]—see Swing for
what seems to be the �rst observation of this striking connection
[Swin.1962.1], p. 299, and further discussion by Hollander
[Holl.1969.1], pp. 112–13). Augustine is converted by reading a
passage in St. Paul (Romans 13:13–14): “Let us walk honestly as in
the day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and
wantonness, not in strife and envying. But put you on the Lord Jesus
Christ, and make not provision for the �esh, to ful�ll the lusts
thereof.” Here, we may re�ect, Francesca reads a book and is
“converted,” by doing so, to the lust that leads to death. And if
Augustine was converted by reading a man named Paul, Francesca
gives herself to adultery with a man bearing the same name. As
Swing has pointed out, Francesca’s last words, quel giorno più non vi
leggemmo avante (that day we read in it no further), seem more than
coincidentally close to Augustine’s nec ultra volui legere (and I did
not wish to read any further). For support of the idea that Dante is
here thinking of this pivotal moment in Augustine’s spiritual
autobiography, see Scot.1979.1, p. 14. If we are meant to think of
Augustine’s Confessiones here, that would round o� this canto’s
concern with confession (see discussion, above, in notes to vv. 8 and
118–120). [return to English / Italian]
140.    We now realize that during the entire episode we have not
heard a word from Paolo. Dante will return to this strategy when he
twice again involves pairs of sinners in su�ering together, Diomedes
with Ulysses in Inferno XXVI, Ruggieri with Ugolino in Inferno
XXXIII. In each case one of the two is a silent partner. We can try to
imagine what an eternity of silence in the company of the voluble
being who shares the culpability for one’s damnation might be like.
[return to English / Italian]
141.  Dante’s death-like swoon has him experiencing something akin
to the death in sensuality experienced by Francesca and Paolo. This
is to be at odds with the view of Pietrobono (commentary), who
argues that Dante’s death-like collapse mirrors his attaining of the
state urged by Paul in his Epistle to the Romans, chapter 6, wherein

the Christian “dies” to sin in imitation of Christ (e.g., “For he that is
dead is freed from sin”—Romans 6:7). It would rather seem that this
is exactly not the state attained by the protagonist at this point in
the poem.
Maddox (Madd.1996.1), pp. 119–22, draws a parallel between
Dante’s fainting spell and that su�ered by Galehot in the prose
Lancelot. [return to English / Italian]
142.    Torraca, commenting on this verse, was perhaps the �rst
commentator to note the Arthurian material that lies behind Dante’s
famous line: the Italian prose version of the stories of Arthur’s court,
La tavola ritonda, XLVII, where Tristan’s response to Isolde’s death is
described as follows: “e cadde sì come corpo morto.” The
protagonist is thus compared to the victim of overwhelming passion.
His fainting marks him here as unable to control his pity, as it had
had the same e�ect with respect to fear two cantos earlier (Inf.
III.136).
The �fth Canto of Inferno is the cause of continuing debate. Where
are we to locate ourselves as witnesses to these scenes? Romantic
readers understandably tend to align themselves with the love that
Francesca emblematizes and/or the pity that Dante exhibits;
moralizing ones with the �rmness that an Augustinian reader would
feel. Virgil perhaps, given his silence through most of the second
half of the canto (once Francesca appears on the scene he speaks
only two words: “che pense?” [what are your thoughts?—v. 111]),
would then seem to be trying to rein in Dante’s enthusiastic
involvement with this enticing shade. Yet even as theologically-
oriented a reader as Mazzoni (Mazz.1977.1, pp. 125–26) �nds it
important to distance himself from such “rigid moralizing” as is
found in Busn.1922.1 and Mont.1962.1. A view similar to Mazzoni’s
is found in a much-cited essay by Renato Poggioli: “The ‘romance’ of
Paolo and Francesca becomes in Dante’s hands an ‘antiromance,’ or
rather, both things at once. As such, it is able to express and to
judge romantic love at the same time” (Pogg.1957.1, p. 358). In
America, the role of the “rigid moralizer” has been played, in recent
times, most notably by Cassell (Cass.1984.1), with similar responses

from most of his reviewers. For Mazzoni and many, perhaps most,
contemporary readers, the canto needs to be responded to more
generously than the “moralizers” would like. And, to be sure, there
is at times a certain perhaps unfortunately zealous tone in the words
of such critics. On the other hand, their views seem only to accord
with the overall aims of the poet and his poem. Francesca is, after
all, in hell. The love she shares with Paolo was and is a “mad love”
(for this concept see Aval.1975.1). The text clearly maintains that
the lustful punished here “make reason subject to desire” (v. 39).
And so, where some would �nd pity the middle ground for the
reader to occupy, between the sinful lust of Francesca and Paolo and
the “rigid moralizers,” others, including this commentator, argue
that it is pity itself that is here at fault. Amore and pietà are no doubt
among the “key words” of the canto (see above, note to vv. 91–93);
that does not mean that they must function in opposition to one
another; they may be versions of the same emotion. Indeed, if we
see that Francesca’s aim is precisely to gain Dante’s pity, and that
she is successful in doing so, we perhaps ought to question his
o�ering of it. Sympathy for the damned, in the Inferno, is nearly
always and nearly certainly the sign of a wavering moral
disposition. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO VI
1.      His consciousness returned after his swoon, Dante begins to
investigate his new surroundings. Once again we are not told how
he moved (or was moved) from one Circle to the next, from Lust to
Gluttony. [return to English / Italian]
2.      As many commentators now point out, the technical word for
“in-laws” (cognati) used here reminds the reader who has become
caught up in Francesca’s words (as was the protagonist) that her
adultery was particularly sinful, since she engaged in it with her
brother-in-law. [return to English / Italian]
7.   See Domb.1970.1 for the notion that the hellish downpour takes
its central and antithetic model from the manna promised by God to
Moses in the Bible (Exod. 16:4): “Ecce ego pluam vobis panes de
caelo” (Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you). [return to
English / Italian]
13–14.      For Virgil’s description of Cerberus, the three-headed dog
guarding the entrance to the underworld in classical mythology, see
Aen. VI.417–418. Dante’s version of the creature is unique in its
inclusion of human attributes. [return to English / Italian]
25–27.      The “sop” to Cerberus, in Virgil a honeyed cake (Aen.
VI.419–422), here becomes mere earth (terra). Kleinhenz
(Klei.1975.1, p. 190) has pointed out that Dante’s strategic redoing
of Virgil has its biblical resonance, as God’s malediction of the
serpent (Gen. 3:14) concludes “…    terram comedes cunctis diebus
vitae tuae” (and dust shall you eat all the days of your life). The
serpent’s punishment for having urged Eve to eat the fruit of the
tree is himself to eat the dead earth; his punishment is shared now
by Cerberus. [return to English / Italian]

28–32.    This is the only simile found in this, the shortest canto we
have yet read (only Inferno XI will have so few verses—115). It is as
though Dante had begun paring his art, striving for succinctness
more than he had before.
The distribution of canto lengths throughout the poem would
seem to indicate that Dante originally was limiting himself to
composing in shorter units than he would generally employ later in
his text. If we examine the �rst twenty cantos we �nd that fourteen,
or 70% of them, are 136 lines long or fewer (115 to 136), while 9
(or 11%) of the �nal eighty are in this group (and all of these
between 130 and 136 lines). Con�ning ourselves to the very shortest
cantos (those from 115 to 130 verses), we �nd that these occur six
times in the �rst twenty cantos, with only one (of 130 lines) in this
shorter group occurring after Inferno XX. Of the eighty �nal cantos,
88.75% (71 of them) are between 139 and 160 lines long; only
11.25% (9 cantos) of the �nal eighty are 136 lines or fewer. See
Ferrante (Ferr.1993.1), pp. 154–55, for the distribution of Dante’s
canto lengths. Such data surely make it seem that Dante was
experimenting with this distribution as he progressed, a tentative
conclusion that would cast some doubt on the position of Thomas
Hart, who has argued, carefully and well, that it seems plausible
that Dante may have planned even these details from the very
beginning. For a summary of his copious and interesting work,
a�ording an overview of it, see Hart.1995.1. [return to English / Italian]
34–36.  In hell, we are given to understand, matter and bodies can
interact, but not matter and shades. Accordingly, we might expect
Dante to be soaked and chilled by the awful rain, while the shades
of the gluttons feel nothing. Instead, in a single terzina, the poet
forces us to make two allowances: Dante, walking through the rain
that strikes the sinners, apparently feels nothing of it. The sinners, of
course, feel it all too well. We are reminded again that the physical
laws of the afterworld are immutable—except when the writer
chooses to break them in order to make the details of his poetry
work better. [return to English / Italian]

37–39.      For the �rst (but not the last) time in the poem Dante is
recognized by one of the dead souls. This moment introduces the
Florentine “subtext” of the Comedy. Ciacco (as we shall learn to call
this �gure at v. 52) is the �rst of some three dozen Florentine
characters found in the poem, the vast majority of them in hell.
[return to English / Italian]
43–45.    As Padoan (commentary) points out, even those purging
their former gluttony on their way to salvation are so changed in
their facial expressions that Dante cannot recognize an old friend:
Forese Donati in Purg. XXIII.43. [return to English / Italian]
49–51.      The metaphor of a sack out of which the contents spill
introduces the main theme of the canto, not gluttony, but political
rivalry (even if the image itself relates to the overabundant storage
of food). Many commentators try to �nd reasons to explain Dante’s
having related the two, but none has found a genuinely convincing
link. Until now, each group of sinners, the neutrals, the virtuous
pagans, the lustful, has been portrayed as expressing their most
pertinent activities on earth in everything that they do or say.
Dante, however, chose not to keep to such a scheme on a regular
basis and obviously decided to introduce “subcategories,” as it were,
in certain Circles (e.g., politics [again] in the Circle of heresy). The
fact is, Dante wants to address certain concerns and brings them to
his text when he wants to.
The envy that Dante sees as the source of the terrible political
rivalries in Florence in 1300 is traditionally understood as that felt
by the nobler but poorer Donati (Black) faction of the Guelphs
against the richer Cerchi (White) faction. Yet, and given both the
political situation and the main meaning of envy in Dante’s
understanding (e.g., the desire to see one’s opponents su�er loss), it
seems clear that all Florentines are marked by this sin in Dante’s
eyes. Envy, seen in Inf. I.111 as the motive force behind Satan’s
seduction of Eve, is the second worst (after pride) of the seven
mortal sins. In our time we tend not to understand either its gravity
nor its widespread hold on human hearts. An envious person does

not want another’s wealth or happiness so much as he wishes his
neighbor to be deprived of wealth or happiness. [return to English /
Italian]
52.   One of the most debated questions of this canto has to do with
the identity and the name of this character. Was his name actually
“Ciacco”? If it was, an enduring supposition is that of Isidoro Del
Lungo (commentary): he is the thirteenth-century Florentine poet
Ciacco dell’Anguillaia. While such a solution is attractive, there is as
yet not a shred of evidence to support it. A more likely hypothesis is
that his name was a nickname, granted him either because of his
gluttonous habits (“ciacco” was a noun that in Tuscany meant “pig,”
or “hog,” according to some fourteenth-century commentators, most
notably Francesco da Buti, but none of the earliest report that this
was the case and there is no other con�rming record) or because his
physiognomy was such as to call for such a name (i.e., his nose was
�attened on his face [Pézard, ED, vol. 1, 1970, p. 983b]). And there
is the further possibility that the nickname suggested no reference to
o�ensive traits (Mazzoni points out that there are many examples in
public documents of the time in which such names are used as
Christian names [Mazz.1967.2, p. 36]). The fourteenth-century
commentator published as the Chiose selmiani states that Ciacco was
a Florentine banker who ate and drank so much that his eyesight
went bad—as a result he could not count money and people made
fun of him; he knew Dante, and died before Dante turned fourteen.
That is the most detailed and speci�c account we �nd in any early
commentator. Boccaccio’s reference to Ciacco (Decameron IX.viii.4)
would suggest that he read Dante’s phrasing (“Voi cittadini mi
chiamaste Ciacco”) as indicating that this man had a di�erent name
but was called by the Florentines by his nickname: “essendo in
Firenze uno da tutti chiamato Ciacco” (there being in Florence a
man who was called “Ciacco” by everyone). For a recent review of
the entire problem, opting for the porcine nickname on the basis of
Isidore of Seville’s discussion of Epicureans as hogs, see Simone
Marchesi’s article (Marc.1999.1). [return to English / Italian]

64–66.      This is the �rst prophecy about events that will have
importance in Dante’s own life (as opposed to the “world-historical”
prophecies that concern Dante as part of the human family) in a
poem that is studded with them. For the “personal prophecies” in
the poem see Pasq.1996.1, p. 419: Ciacco’s, Farinata’s (Inf. X.79–
81); Brunetto’s (Inf. XV.55–57); Vanni Fucci’s (Inf. XXIV.143–150);
Currado Malaspina’s (Purg. VIII.133–139); Oderisi’s (Purg. XI.139–
141); Bonagiunta’s (Purg. XXIV.37–38); Forese’s (Purg. XXIV.82–90);
and, ninth and last, Cacciaguida’s (Par. XVII.46–93). Ciacco’s
prophecy concerns the events of May 1300, three or �ve weeks after
the date of the journey, and thus events genuinely near at hand. The
White faction, led by the Cerchi family, selvaggia in the sense of
“rustic” (in that its members come from the wooded outskirts of the
city), will drive out the Black faction in 1300. [return to English /
Italian]
67–69.   Within three years (in fact in 1302) the White faction will
fall as the Blacks return to the city through the treachery of Pope
Boniface VIII, who currently takes no action to help the city. [return
to English / Italian]
73.   “Two men are just …” For a brief but strong reading of the due
giusti as referring to Dante and another Florentine, identity not
knowable, see Barb.1934.1, p. 266. Currently a great debate rages
over this verse, fanned by the exertions of Mazzoni. Following the
gloss of Pietro di Dante, who argues that the phrase refers not to
two human beings, but to two laws, natural and posited, (i.e., made
by man), Mazzoni argues that the source for such an interpretation
exists in St. Thomas’s commentary on a passage in Aristotle’s Ethics
(VIII, c. xv, 1243): “Duplex est iustum” (Justice is twofold), that is,
natural and posited. Perhaps even more helpful to Mazzoni’s case is
Dante’s own phrasing in his epistle against his fellow townsmen
(Epist. VI.5), whom he accuses of transgressing laws both divine and
man-made (“Vos autem divina iura et humana transgredientes”). The
traditional reading of the verse, which has gathered massive
support, is as we have translated it: “Two men are just and are not

heeded there.” Mazzoni’s “translation” would read, in English, “the
two kinds of justice are not followed there.” One can see both the
force and the charm of his argument. It is a possible line of
interpretation. But it has to date failed to convince most who
address the problem. They continue to �nd the traditional reading a
much more likely one (e.g., Bara.1981.1). [return to English / Italian]
74–75.    See the similar remark o�ered by Brunetto Latini, Inf.
XV.68. For Florence to be a�icted by pride, envy, and avarice is for
her to be a�icted by the worst of the seven mortal sins. [return to
English / Italian]
79–81.      The identity of Arrigo remains a puzzle. If there are only
two just Florentines in the city in 1300, in “the good old days” there
seem to have been at least �ve, men who made great e�ort to o�er
sustenance to goodness. The meaning of the tercet is clear enough.
The problem arises because one of the �ve, Arrigo, is never
mentioned again—or surely does not seem to be. The other four are
seen in hell, Farinata in Canto X, among the heretics, Tegghiaio and
Iacopo in XVI, among the Florentine homosexual politicians (the
most positively presented sinners since those we met in Limbo), and
Mosca, in a sense the only “surprise” here, since he is punished in
Canto XXVIII for his treachery on the battle�eld, but, in Dante’s
mind, is praiseworthy for his e�orts to bring peace to the city before
that. See the study of Pietro Santini (Sant.1923.1) for this argument.
Of course, it is the puzzle created by Arrigo’s not being further
referred to in hell that has drawn commentators’ fullest attention.
For a review of the many competing “Harrys” who began to
populate the margins of Dante’s poem in the fourteenth century and
have continued to do so into our own, see Vincenzo Presta, “Arrigo”
(ED, vol. 1, 1970, pp. 391–92). It is strange that Dante picked the
names of �ve men, four of whom he goes on to include prominently
in his poem, and one that he does not mention again—especially
since he has Ciacco say explicitly that the protagonist will see all of
them in his descent (v. 87). This is a mystery that will probably
forever remain a mystery. [return to English / Italian]

88.   The world of the living is almost always characterized as being
�lled with the light of the sun, as “sweet,” when it is remembered
by the damned in their bitter darkness. [return to English / Italian]
90.  A sixteenth-century commentator, Castelvetro, paraphrases this
line as follows: “it has been conceded me by God to make clear to
you what I have revealed, at your insistence, but, as for the future, I
say no more either to you or to anyone else until the Day of
Judgment.” [return to English / Italian]
91–93.   Ciacco’s last “gesture,” his glance moving from Dante’s face
and going vacant, has been a puzzle to many readers. The
commentary of Bosco/Reggio is clear and to the point: “Ciacco
passes from his temporarily fully-human phase to one of nearly pure
animality; �rst he looks askance; then he continues to �x Dante with
a stunned gaze in which, bit by bit, any last trace of humanity is
extinguished; then his head droops, deprived of any human vitality;
�nally he falls head�rst into the muck, unfeeling and inert.” [return to
English / Italian]
99.      In the opinion of Benvenuto da Imola (commentary) “the
judgment that eternally resounds” has a biblical source, the words
of Christ: “Depart from me, you cursed ones, into everlasting �re”
(Matth. 25:41). For the resonance here of the angelic trumpet blast
that will herald the Last Judgment see Singleton (commentary),
citing I Cor. 15:51–53. [return to English / Italian]
102.   For all the interest shown in the present situation of Florence
in this canto, it is clear that the future of the damned is to be
understood as having greater eventual importance. This, at least, is
Dante’s “o�cial” position. [return to English / Italian]
106–108.      Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.2, p. 50) shows that this tercet
derives from a passage in St. Thomas’s commentary to Aristotle’s De
anima: “quanto anima est perfectior, tanto exercet plures perfectas
operationes et diversas” (as the soul becomes more perfect, so it is

more perfect in its several operations). La tua scïenza is thus
Aristotle’s De anima, and not the Physics or the Ethics, as some have
variously argued. [return to English / Italian]
109–111.      Thoroughly in accord with the penal code of hell, this
“improvement” in the condition of the damned will only result in
their ability to feel more pain. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO VII
1.      Plutus, the god of wealth in classical myth, wishes to prevent
the passage of this living soul through Satan’s kingdom. That, at
least, is what we must surmise from Virgil’s reaction, vv. 4–6, which
assuages Dante’s fear. There is a program of demonic resistance that
makes Dante fearful throughout Inferno: Charon (Inf. III.91–93),
Minos (V.19–20), Cerberus (VI.22–24), Phlegyas (VIII.18), the Furies
(IX.52–54), the Minotaur (XII.14–15), Geryon (XVII.25–27),
Malacoda and the Malebranche (XXI.23–XXIII.57), Nimrod
(XXXI.67), Satan (XXXIV.22–27). In almost all of these scenes it is
Virgil’s task to quell the resistance of the infernal guardians and to
reassure his charge.
Pape Satàn, Pape Satàn, aleppe. The third verse suggests that Virgil
understands these words spoken by Plutus. If that is correct, he is
perhaps the only one to have done so. Over the centuries a
continuing debate addresses, rather confusedly, the precise nature of
these �ve words: whether they are part of a recognizable language
or not; whether they are totally meaningless or have some meaning;
whether they are an invocation of the power of Satan against
invading Dante or an oath giving expression to the monster’s
surprise at the presence of a living soul in hell. For a review of the
question see Hollander (Holl.1992.1), who sees this and Nimrod’s
similarly nonsensical �ve words (Inf. XXXI.67) as parodic inversions
of the �ve words of clear speech called for by St. Paul, concerned
about the overreliance of the faithful on speaking in tongues (I Cor.
14:19). Plutus’s oath may be garbled speech, but it does contain
“pseudo-words” that have meaning: Pape represents either a Latin
interjection (papae) of admiration, as many ancient commentators
think, or/and a debased form of the Italian and Latin for “pope”
(papa—see v. 47: papi); Satàn would fairly clearly seem to be a form
of the Italian “Satana” or of the Latin “Sathanas” and thus “Satan”;
aleppe, as some of the �rst commentators noticed, is the Italian form
of the Hebrew word for the �rst letter of the alphabet, “aleph,” as in

the Latin expression “alpha ed omega” (the �rst and last letters of
the Greek alphabet, signifying “the beginning and the end”), as God
de�nes Himself in the Bible (Rev. 1:8, repeated at 21:6 and 22:13).
If one had to render these nonsense words in English one might say
something like “O Pope Satan, my god.” Fortunately, one does not
have to. For the connection of these words in mixed language to
those in the �rst verses of the seventh canto of Paradiso (there,
naturally, totally positive in tone and meaning)—the parallelism is
certainly striking—see Sarolli (Saro.1971.1), pp. 289–90. [return to
English / Italian]
8.      That Virgil refers to Plutus as a wolf ties him to the vice of
avarice, since in this poem wolves are often symbols of that vice
(e.g., Purg. XX.10; Par. IX.132; XXVII.55). [return to English / Italian]
10–12.  In justifying Dante’s status as visitor to the infernal regions,
Virgil refers to the war in heaven (see Rev. 12:7–9), where the
archangel Michael is speci�cally mentioned as a warrior in the
battle that sent Satan down into hell with his minions, the fallen
angels. Dante’s treatment makes it seem that Plutus felt his kinship
with these creatures, whom the travelers will encounter at Inferno
VIII.82–84. [return to English / Italian]
13–15.  Virgil’s words, telling exactly how things are with respect to
demonic rebellion, are enough to crumple the irascible spirit of
Plutus (vv. 13–15). [return to English / Italian]
19.      The author’s apostrophe of God’s justice reminds us of the
centrality of this concern to the entire Comedy. See note to Inferno
III.4. [return to English / Italian]
22–23.  Dante’s locus classicus for the description of the tumultuous
meeting of the Ionian and Mediterranean seas between Sicily and
the Italian mainland is found in Aeneid III.420–433. [return to English /
Italian]

24.      Dante’s Italian makes it clear that this dance is the ridda, a
popular dance in which the linked participants reverse the direction
of their circling movement with the playing and singing of each new
strophe. [return to English / Italian]
25–30.    For the relatively greater number of condemned souls
devoted to avarice see Aeneid VI.608–611, the Sibyl’s description of
Tartarus, which includes a description of the punishment of
(unnamed) Sisyphus, eternally rolling his stone (v. 616). Dante
appropriates these two details to build the details of his fourth
Circle. Virgil’s brief description of those who loved riches to excess
is without reference to those of the precisely opposite inclination. In
Dante’s formulation, prodigality is the opposite form of the same
vice. This is one of the few examples in the code of ethics found in
this poem in which an Aristotelian measure seems to be at work, in
which a “golden mean” locates the correct or permissible amount of
a�ection or desire. (See v. 42 for con�rmation that there is a proper
measure in such things.) [return to English / Italian]
31–35.    It has not often been noted, but, seen from above, the
avaricious and prodigal perform a perfect circle in their movement.
Their activities in hell (as was true in the world above) mount up to
exactly zero. This nullity is re�ected in their nameless and
unidenti�able condition here; and their circling is to be compared to
that performed by Fortune’s wheel (see n. to v. 90, below). [return to
English / Italian]
36.      Dante’s sympathetic responses to various of the damned
usually indicate a sense of identity with them. On this occasion, it
would rather seem to reveal his horror at the nature of this
punishment. [return to English / Italian]
38–39.    Dante allows himself a fairly traditional anticlerical thrust.
Christ had led his followers in embracing poverty and, much later,
the mendicant orders took vows of poverty, some in remembrance
of St. Francis’s imitation of Christ in this respect. Thus, while

avarice in any person respected for a higher calling would be
disgraceful, it is particularly so in a member of the clergy and
becomes an easy (and popular) target. It is notable that the clergy
are noticed only here—and in number—among the avaricious; none
of them is pointed out among the prodigal. [return to English / Italian]
46–48.    The insistence on the large number of clerics among the
avaricious (and no other social orders are identi�ed as being
avaricious, not even bankers or moneylenders) continues, now
including a plurality of popes.
The anonymous plurality of popes mentioned in v. 47 leaves the
reader free to supply any number of such ponti�s. The essential
impression left by the poem as a whole is that more popes are
damned than saved. This is probably true, but Dante does insist that
a number of popes are in fact saved. The �rst and foremost is of
course St. Peter, considered by Dante and medieval writers in
general as being the �rst pope. He is seen in paradise by Dante in
the heaven of the Fixed Stars, where he has a major role as speaker,
but he is referred to from the beginning of the poem to its end (Inf.
II.24; Par. XXXII.133). And Peter himself is the one who tells of the
salvations of six other early popes: his two immediate successors
Linus and Cletus, both martyred in the �rst century (Par. XXVII.41),
as well as four other popes martyred, according to a tradition that
Dante followed, in the second and third centuries: Sixtus I, Pius I,
Calixtus I, and Urban I (Par. XXVII.44). Also mentioned as being
saved are Agapetus I (Par. VI.16) and Gregory I (Par. XXVIII.133–
135). We see Pope Adrian V purging his avarice on the road to
heaven (Purg. XIX.99) and Pope Martin IV repenting his zest for
eating eels also on his way to paradise (Purg. XXIV.22). And there is
Pope John XXI, seen as present in the heaven of the Sun and hence
among the blessed (Par. XII.134). Thus, twelve popes are indicated
as being among God’s chosen.
Several other popes are referred to, but without having their
eventual destinations under God’s justice made plain. Such is the
case with respect to Sylvester I (Inf. XXVII.94), Clement IV (Purg.
III.125), Innocent III (Par. XI.92), and Honorius III (Par. XI.98).

The case of the popes who are damned is more complex. Here is
an attempt to list the fallen ponti�s referred to in the poem. If the
one “who made the great refusal” (Inf. III.60) is, as many believe,
Pope Celestine V, he would be the �rst damned pope whom we see.
He is followed by the unnamed ponti�s of Canto VII and then by
Anastasius II (Inf. XI.8). Many believe that Innocent IV is the most
certain presence in the unnamed line of precursors alluded to by
Nicholas III (Inf. XIX.73)—a second instance of a plurality of
damned popes, while the saved ones are never referred to in this
way. Those that are con�rmed as damned are Nicholas himself (Inf.
XIX.70), Boniface VIII (Inf. XIX.53), Clement V (Inf. XIX.83), and, a
last for good measure, John XXII (Par. XXVII.58). Thus at least �ve
popes are de�nitively damned. In two cases, as we have seen, Dante
opens the door to other possibilities. As a result, the absolute
possible low is nine (�ve plus the plural “papi” at Inf. VII.47 and
“altri” at Inf. XIX.73—there must be at least two in each case to
account for the plural). Celestine would bring the total to ten. In
short, Dante probably did mean to encourage his readers to believe
exactly what most of them seem to believe—that more popes were
damned than were saved. [return to English / Italian]
57.      That is, the avaricious will have their �sts clamped in
remembrance of their grasping behaviors, while the prodigal will
have their hair shorn to remind them of their lack of care for their
possessions (and themselves). Sinclair, in his note to this verse
(Sinc.1939.1, p. 105), cites an old Italian proverb: a prodigal spends
“even to the hair of his head.” [return to English / Italian]
62–96.    Virgil’s discourse on the nature and e�ect of Fortune on
mortal lives is notable for its sunniness and equability. The usual
and necessary citation among commentators is of Boethius, whose
Consolation of Philosophy is the standard medieval text on the subject
and was well known to Dante. The Lady Philosophy explains to
complaining Boethius that humans who su�er like to blame their
misfortune on bad luck, expressed by the fortune that turns its back
on them. What philosophy makes plain is that the fault lies in

ourselves, in that we pitch our hopes on things we should recognize
as fallible, �eeting, and of ultimately little importance. What Dante
adds to this stern message is a sense of calmness about and even
positive acceptance of these facts of human existence. Fortune may
be understood as, in the happy formulation of Charles Grandgent (in
his proem to this canto), “the Angel of Earth.” Nothing that she does
should be unexpected; everything that she does is “right.” Exactly
such an understanding may be found in Dante’s own words in his
Monarchia (II.ix.8), where he says that the force that distributes the
goods of the world, victory or defeat in battle, which the pagans
attributed to their gods, “we call  …  by the more appropriate and
accurate name ‘divine providence.’ ” Particularly helpful discussions
of Dante’s understanding of fortune may be found in Cio�ari’s book
(Ciof.1940.1), Toja’a article (Toja.1965.1), and Padoan’s various
remarks on this passage in his commentary.
The distance that Dante has traveled from the position he took in
his Convivio (IV.xi.6–8), where the unequal distribution of goods
among humans is seen as a defect of Fortune’s agency, is manifest.
In that passage Fortune is seen as acting randomly; here she is
provident (v. 86)—and we should remember that she was
traditionally portrayed as blindfolded, unseeing as she acts. In this
passage, as one of the angelic hierarchy, she turns her famous
“wheel” in knowledge and in bliss. God’s in His heaven, Fortune
turns her wheel, all’s right with the world, which is only and
absolutely as it should be. [return to English / Italian]
70–72.    Virgil’s desire to “feed” his confused “o�spring” so that he
may give over his foolish view of Fortune will mark a turning point
in the protagonist’s understanding of her. [return to English / Italian]
84.      Dante’s “serpent hidden in the grass” has been seen, at least
from the sixteenth century on, as being a translation of Virgil’s third
Eclogue, verse 93: “latet anguis in herba.” [return to English / Italian]
87.      The altri dèi, literally “other gods,” translated as “other
heavenly powers,” are the other nine orders of angels. [return to

English / Italian]
90.      The rapid tranformations of human states are summarized by
the Casini/Barbi commentary to v. 96 as follows: a given human
being may typically move, along eight points on Fortune’s wheel,
from humility, to patience, to peace, to riches, to pride, to
impatience, to war, to poverty. This is a typical “ride” of anyone
tied to Fortune’s wheel, ending back at the starting point. See note
to vv. 31–35, above. [return to English / Italian]
98–99.    Virgil’s indication of the time reveals that it is now after
midnight, some six hours after the travelers set out at 6 PM on Friday
evening. [return to English / Italian]
106.      The river Styx has a classical history, most notably in the
Aeneid (VI.323). [return to English / Italian]
109–114.    Clearly the protagonist, gazing upon the inhabitants of
the �fth Circle, is looking at the wrathful. The problem for
interpreters is that wrath, or anger, is a sin of violence, not one of
incontinence; yet the poem has not yet left the realm of
incontinence behind. Without reviewing the fairly vast literature
upon this problem, one can o�er some uncomplicated solutions,
based on the thirteenth chapter of St. Thomas’s commentary on
Aristotle’s Ethics (IV.5). Aristotle, in Thomas’s paraphrase,
distinguishes three kinds of anger: choleric (which comes upon one
quickly and quickly departs), bitter (which lasts long in the heart of
the a�icted person, and is not released easily), di�cult (which is
more hostile, longer-lasting, and directed against those it should not
be, and which is not released until the one experiencing this kind of
wrath in�icts injury upon an enemy). It seems clear that Dante here
shows the punishment of the �rst sort of wrath in the choleric, who
are not guilty of sins of violence, but of intemperance. (For the
second set of sinners punished here, see the next note.) In this
interpretation, the third form of anger, which has as its intention
physical harm to another, is punished only in the realm of the

violent against others, in Canto XII—where it should be, and not as
a sin of intemperance, which these �rst two are. [return to English /
Italian]
118–126.    Those who are punished under the surface of the Styx
are, in this formulation (see n. to vv. 109–114), what St. Thomas
characterizes as Aristotle’s second set of the wrathful, the amari, or
“bitter.” These people kept their anger in, su�ering gravely within
themselves (as opposed to the choleric, quick to vent their anger in
insults and blows). Dante’s inventive representation of this kind of
wrath shows its exemplars as experiencing the “muddy” or “smoky”
sensation of sti�ed anger. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO VIII
1.      For the �rst time the poet interrupts the chronological �ow of
his narrative, interpolating events that occurred before the situation
described in the very last verse of the preceding canto (for a briefer
but similar interpolation see the �rst tercet of the thirteenth canto).
The �rst 81 lines of Canto VIII relate what occurred between the
travelers’ �rst experience of the wrathful sinners in the Styx
(VII.129) and their arrival at the foot of a tower of the walled city of
Dis (VII.130). The self-conscious interruption of the narrative may
be enough to account for the self-conscious opening verse: “To
continue, let me say …” However, Boccaccio, in his commentary to
this canto, was the �rst to sponsor the idea that in fact Dante only
now, in Lunigiana in 1306, took up again the composition of his
poem, begun in Florence before his exile and left behind when he
could not return to the city. According to Boccaccio, a friend
brought him the text of the �rst seven cantos, which had lain fallow
for some six or seven years. While most do not credit this version of
the history of composition of the Comedy, it has some support. See
Ferretti (Ferr.1935.1) and Padoan (Pado.1993.1). The latter’s book
is devoted to a reassessment of the problem of the compositional
history of the entire poem. In his view, Inferno was composed
between 1306 and 1315, while most students of the problem argue
for a completion of the �rst cantica around 1310. [return to English /
Italian]
4–6.      This mysterious signaling almost certainly refers to the
defensive maneuvers of the demonic guardians of hell. Perhaps the
�res of the defenders of Dis atop this tower are a warning to those
farther along the wall—or at least some think so. Thus the two
�ames set out here would warn against a force of two enemies, and
the answering �ame would seem to acknowledge that warning. Yet
the primary purpose of the two �ames would seem to be to summon

Phlegyas (see n. to v. 19) to capture and deliver a soul into bondage.
(In this second interpretation, the twin �ames do not necessarily
indicate the number of interlopers.) Such a view encourages some to
believe that Minos hurls the wrathful into the Styx, whence they are
retrieved and given proper station by Phlegyas, whose business in
the muddy river is not to ferry souls across and into Dis, but to place
them in the river, as Caretti (Care.1951.2), p. 6, believes. That
solution, however, would imply that the signals from the tower
would be deployed each time a wrathful soul is sent down, and that
seems improbable. A possible way out is o�ered by the hypothesis
that Phlegyas’s function is to round up escaping wrathful souls
should they attempt to �ee the mud. In such a case, the demons of
Dis would assist a fellow demon to wreak pain upon the damned.
But then why do the demons signal other demons along the wall? Or
are the �res answered by still other demons at Phlegyas’s
“boathouse”? The details are sparse enough to make a �nal
resolution next to impossible. [return to English / Italian]
7–12.      Dante’s three questions are not really answered by Virgil,
who does not say exactly what the twinned �ame signi�es, does not
say at all what the second means in answer, and similarly ignores
the question of agency with respect to the second �ame. He does
imply that Phlegyas’s ski� is what the custodians of the �rst �ame
summoned. [return to English / Italian]
15.   Padoan, in his commentary, points out that Phlegyas’s ski� is
not large, like Charon’s, but small, an infernal speedboat, as it were,
meant for the pursuit of individuals and not intended for ferrying
crowds of souls across a river. [return to English / Italian]
18.      Phlegyas, who is not in the least interested in Virgil, would
seem to believe that Dante is a condemned soul who is trying to
escape. As Padoan points out in his commentary to this verse, Dante
elsewhere several times uses the adjective fello (here translated as
“damned”) so as to associate it with wrath (see Inf. XVII.132;
XXI.72; Par. IV.15). [return to English / Italian]

19.      “Son of Mars and King of Orchomenos in Boeotia, father of
Ixion and Coronis; the latter having been violated by Apollo, by
whom she became the mother of Aesculapius, Phlegyas in fury set
�re to the temple of Apollo at Delphi, for which sacrilege he was
slain by the god and condemned to eternal punishment in the lower
world” (T). In the Aeneid (VI.618–620) he is mentioned by the Sibyl
as now, in Tartarus, warning against such temerity against the gods.
[return to English / Italian]
20–21.      Virgil’s mocking response makes it seem likely that
Phlegyas does at times intervene in the capture and punishment of
damned souls, if not under what precise conditions he does so.
[return to English / Italian]
22–24.   The brief simile establishes the fact that Phlegyas feels he
has been tricked into thinking that he had been summoned to do his
usual task. As we have seen, exactly what that is remains something
of a mystery. Yet why would other demons have chosen to trick
him? Or is the reader to infer a divine plan behind his summons?
This last detail, like so many in this part of the narrative (vv. 3–24),
raises more questions than it answers. [return to English / Italian]
25–30.      For the relation of this moment, so clearly modeled on
Aeneas’s stepping into Charon’s ski� in Aeneid VI.413–414, to
Dante’s version of that scene at the close of Inferno III, see the note
to v. 136 of that canto. [return to English / Italian]
31–39.      This is the �rst time in the poem that we hear an angry
debate between the protagonist and one of the sinners. These are
often, as here, couched in a form reminiscent of tenzoni, poems in
the low language of streetwise insult, that were a popular pastime of
thirteenth-century Italian poets, including Dante. “Pure” tenzoni
were usually sonnets. The second participant usually responded to
the insults of the �rst with the same rhyme scheme (and often the
identical rhyme words) deployed by the original attacker. Dante’s

adaptation of the technique in Inferno reveals its roots in this form.
[return to English / Italian]
32.   This is Filippo Argenti. See n. to v. 61, below. [return to English /
Italian]
37.      Casagrande (Casa.1978.1), p. 249, cites a passage in Hugh of
St. Victor to explain Dante’s curse and Filippo’s weeping: “It is a
misery to him who, bitter of mind because he cannot exact revenge
upon his superior, must take satisfaction in his own tears.” [return to
English / Italian]
40–45.      After Virgil thrusts Filippo Argenti (see n. to v. 61) back
into the Styx, fending o� his attempted wrathful assault, he
congratulates Dante for his harsh words to this sinner (vv. 37–39).
His words are reminiscent of those spoken of Christ in Luke 11:27:
“Blessed is the womb that bore you.” Sinclair (Sinc.1939.1, p. 119)
cites a biblical text as being in concert with the spirit of the
protagonist’s righteous indignation here: “Do not I hate them, O
Lord, that hate you … I hate them with perfect hatred: I count them
my enemies” (Psalms 139:21–22). In his commentary to Inferno
XX.28–30 Guido da Pisa put this thought in the following terms:
“The su�ering of the damned should move no one to compassion, as
the Bible attests. And the reason for this is that the time for mercy is
here in this world, while in the world to come it is time only for
justice.” [return to English / Italian]
46.   Some read Filippo’s pridefulness as being his “real” sin, and not
wrath. Wrath is his besetting vice, but many others may come into
play in him or in any sinner. The notion that our disposition to sin
must be unitary has no base either in medieval ethical treatises or in
ordinary human experience. [return to English / Italian]
61.   From the cries of others the reader �nally learns the name of
this sinner (Dante has known exactly who he is—see v. 39). Filippo
Argenti was a Black Guelph from a powerful Florentine family. His

real name was Filippo Adimari de’ Cavicciuoli, but he supposedly
was known as Filippo Argenti because he had his horse’s hooves
shod in silver (argento). A number of early commentators relate that
his brother, Boccaccino, got hold of Dante’s possessions when the
poet was exiled. If that is true, we have here a pretty clear case of
authorial revenge upon a particularly hated enemy. See Francesco
Forti, “Filippo Argenti,” ED, vol. 2, 1970, pp. 873–76. [return to
English / Italian]
62.      The word bizzarro, explains Boccaccio’s comment to this
passage, in Florentine vernacular is used of people who “suddenly
and for any reason at all lose their tempers.” See note to Inferno
VII.109–114. [return to English / Italian]
63.   Benvenuto da Imola’s commentary to this verse: Filippo gnaws
himself “just as a proud man will do, unable to avenge the injury
done him by someone more powerful.” [return to English / Italian]
68.   Dis (Dite), for the Romans another name for Pluto, god of the
underworld, for Dante is thereby another name for Lucifer or Satan.
[return to English / Italian]
70.      The most visible buildings of this city, seen from afar, are
mosques (meschite), thus associating them with what was for Dante
and his era a most hostile religious and military force, the
Mohammedans. [return to English / Italian]
78.   The iron walls of the City of Dis are emblematic of the fact that
from here on down all sins punished are the result of the hardened
will, not the whims of appetite. Virgil’s Tartarus, into which Aeneas
does not penetrate (the Sibyl describes to him its contents) has an
iron tower (Aen. VI.554: ferrea turris) that may be remembered here.
[return to English / Italian]
81.      Only here and now do we arrive at the place we left in the
�nal verse of the last canto, under a tower of the City of Dis. [return

to English / Italian]
82–85.   The �rst “citizens” of Dis whom we see are the rebel angels
who were defeated, along with Satan, by Michael and his angels.
For the �rst time Virgil will have to deal with adversaries who are
not easily swayed. [return to English / Italian]
94–96.  Dante’s addresses to the reader are a noteworthy feature of
the poem. Perhaps no other literary text contains as many cases of
direct address to its readership. The net e�ect is to forge a
relationship between us and the author that makes us partners in his
enterprise. His most usual tactic is to ask us to share in the strong
emotions he experienced at any given moment; on other occasions
he invites us to interpret things di�cult to understand. In all cases
we feel drawn into the poem, as though we were witnessing what
the poet describes ourselves or being asked to share with him the
di�culty of interpreting his materials. See discussions in Gmelin
(Gmel.1951.1), Auerbach (Auer.1954.1), and Spitzer (Spit.1955.1).
And see the article of Vittorio Russo, “appello al lettore,” ED, vol. 1,
1970, pp. 324–26, for a listing: Inf. VIII.94–96; IX.61–63; XVI.127–
132; XX.19–24; XXII.118; XXV.46–48; XXXIV.22–27; Purg. VIII.19–
21; IX.70–72; X.106–111; XVII.1–9; XXIX.97–105; XXXI.124–126;
XXXIII.136–138; Par. II.1–18; V.109–114; X.7–27; XIII.1–21;
XXII.106–111. Thus there are seven in each of the �rst two cantiche
and at least �ve in Paradiso. However, and as Russo points out,
there may be seven in the third cantica as well, since the passage at
IX.10–12 may also be included and that at X.7–27 perhaps should
be seen as two separate addresses (7–15 and 22–27).
The addresses are a subgroup of the classical rhetorical �gure of
apostrophe (direct address), which is amply used by this poet. For
discussion see the article “apostrofe” by Francesco Tateo, ED, vol. 1,
1970, pp. 319–21. Another subdivision of apostrophe in addition to
addressing one’s reader is found in the invocations of the Comedy.
See note to Inferno II.7–9. There are nine of these in the poem.
[return to English / Italian]

97–99.   In their commentary Casini/Barbi insist that, on the model
of several biblical passages (e.g., the just man who falls seven times,
rising again each time, of Prov. 24:16), the “seven times” is to be
taken as indeterminate. They go on to list eight times that Virgil has
come to Dante’s aid: Inferno I.49, II.130, III.94, V.21, VI.22, VII.8,
VIII.19, VIII.41. [return to English / Italian]
104–105.   Virgil’s reassurance of an understandably shaken Dante,
given the strength of opposition from the fallen angels, relies on the
promise of divine support made to him, apparently, by Beatrice in
the scene reported in Inferno II. [return to English / Italian]
106–111.      For the �rst time since he began his guidance, Virgil
feels able to leave Dante to his own devices. The next time that he
does so (Inf. XVI.37–39) his pupil will even be allowed to visit a
group of sinners unguided. Both these moments, in ascending order,
reveal the protagonist’s growing capacity to deal with sin. [return to
English / Italian]
115–117.   For the �rst time in his role as guide, Virgil su�ers defeat
in an attempt to gain Dante access to the next stage of the journey.
Once again the reader understands that the forces of Dis, schooled
in guile and strong of will, are far more stubborn adversaries than
those encountered before. [return to English / Italian]
121–126.   Virgil joins his frustration to what hopes he can muster
in order to encourage Dante. His main evidence for believing that he
will be able to continue is drawn from his witness of the harrowing
of hell, of which he gave notice in Inferno IV.52–63. J. S. Carroll, in
his comment to Inferno III.1–9, looks ahead to these verses and cites
the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus, chapters 13–19, in which the
hosts of hell attempted to block Christ’s harrowing as source for the
attempt of these new rebels to keep Virgil out of their kingdom.
[return to English / Italian]

127.   The “deadly writing” over the gate of hell (Inf. III.1–9) is so,
in the words of Casini/Barbi on this verse, because it tells the
damned where they are headed—into eternal death. Thus the
writing itself is very much “alive,” but it speaks of death. [return to
English / Italian]
128–130.      The nature of this descending messenger will be
discussed in the note to Inferno IX.85. Musa (Musa.1974.1), p. 150,
argues that this descent should put us in mind of the descent of the
prophesied nova progenies (new race) of Virgil’s fourth Eclogue, v. 7.
How does Virgil know that such aid is coming? Some argue that
he “sees” it in his mind; others that Beatrice had promised exactly
such help if ever it were needed when she spoke to Virgil in Limbo
(Inf. II). The text o�ers con�rmation of neither notion, if the latter
seems the more probable. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO IX
1–3.   Dante has gone white with cowardice. Seeing this, Virgil tries
to compose his own features. In Canto VIII.121 Virgil was angry,
and this fact leads many commentators to believe that the color in
his face now is still the red �ush of anger. On the other hand, others
believe (and over the centuries there are roughly as many of one
opinion as of the other) that Virgil’s new color just now is the pallor
of frustration and shame. Either reading is possible, but red is
probably the better choice, especially since we then have the
dramatic contrast between white-cheeked Dante and red-faced
Virgil. [return to English / Italian]
7–9.      Virgil’s doubt and ensuing con�rmation has caused
considerable di�culty. The overall sense of the tercet is, however,
probably clear enough: “we must win this �ght unless (I did not
understand what Beatrice told me)…No, what she said must be true;
but I wish the promised help from heaven would get here.” Musa’s
remark on the passage bears repeating (Musa.1974.1, p. 73):
“because during his lifetime [Virgil] could not believe in the coming
of Christ, so now he can not believe in the coming of the angel—in
spite of his having learned from Beatrice that the Pilgrim’s journey
is willed in Heaven.” In other words, Virgil, condemned to hell for
not having had faith, repeats that error even now. [return to English /
Italian]
10–15.   A fairly rare example of an interpretive exercise embedded
in the poetic text itself, Dante as glossator of Virgil’s words and
presenter of his own understanding as he heard them. What he
thought, then, was perhaps that Virgil was afraid that they would be
left in hell, in which case Dante would perish. [return to English /
Italian]

17.   The “�rst circle” is Limbo, where Virgil and the other virtuous
heathens have their eternal resting place, and where, in his own
words, “without hope we live in longing” (Inf. IV.42). [return to English
/ Italian]
19–27.      Erichtho’s conjuration of Virgil may be the single most
outrageous example of the utter liberty Dante at times employs in
his treatment of classical literature. No such tale exists in any other
text before Dante’s, nor anything like it. While many point to the
similar statement made by the Sibyl, hoping to reassure Aeneas that
she has been shown by Hecate (Proserpina) the places of the
underworld (Aen. VI.562–565), no one has come close to �nding a
source for a Virgilian journey to the depths of hell under the spell of
Erichtho. This Thessalian witch appears in a crucial role in Lucan’s
Pharsalia, the later poet’s rather nasty version of Virgil’s more
benign Sibyl. In a lengthy episode in the sixth book (vv. 507–830) of
Lucan’s poem, a book with evident parallels to the descent to the
underworld in the Aeneid, replete with Sibyl-like guide in the person
of Erichtho, the witch holds center stage. Serving the curiosity of
Sextus Pompeius, son of the great Pompey, one of the major
republican opponents of Caesar in the civil war, she agrees to
foretell the outcome of the war by practicing her necromantic art on
the corpse of a recently slain soldier. What the soldier tells is hardly
pleasant news, but is hardly complete, either. He does make plain to
Sextus that the ghost of his father will come to him in Sicily
(VI.812–813) in order to reveal still more (but Lucan committed
suicide by Nero’s order before �nishing the poem, and the scene was
not written). It is out of these materials that Dante has concocted his
idiosyncratic tale.
And what is it that Erichtho wanted? In Lucan’s poem (VI.586–
587) we learn that her greatest desire is to be able to mangle the
corpses of Julius Caesar (the poem is set before the murder of
Caesar—44 B.C.) and of Pompey. Virgil died in 19 B.C. As he says in
this narrative, Erichtho called him (like the young soldier in Lucan’s
poem, only recently dead) back into his body shortly after he died
and sent him down to the ninth Circle, Judecca. Why? Those who

have written on this problem have not developed any hypothesis to
account for her motive. Yet Dante surely would have given her one
in the myth that he was constructing. Or Virgil is simply making up
a tall story in order to give himself authority—a dubious hypothesis
embraced by some.
We know from Lucan that Erichtho had an unful�lled ambition, to
ravage the corpses of Caesar and Pompey. Where are these located
in Dante? Caesar is in Limbo; of Pompey we hear little, and nothing
about his station in the afterlife. However, it is at least possible that
Dante is playing a game with his reader here. As a co-conspirator of
Brutus and Cassius, would Pompey not naturally have been
punished along with them? That seems possible. Whatever
justi�cation we seek for this strange tale of Virgil’s �rst visit to the
realm of the damned, we probably should try to �nd it in the pages
of Lucan. (See Holl.1980.1, pp. 178–80.)
Boccaccio was the �rst and perhaps lone discussant (in his
commentary to Inf. IX.25–27) to think of the only biblical tale that
contains similar elements (and was surely familiar to Dante), the
story of Saul’s visit to the witch of Endor, who calls up the spirit of
Samuel for Saul; the latter—in a scene more powerful than even
anything in Lucan—foretells Saul’s death and the defeat of the
Israelites at the hands of the Philistines (I Samuel 28:3–25). [return to
English / Italian]
27.      Judecca, the ninth Circle, named for Judas, betrayer, like all
those punished there with him, of a rightful lord and master. [return
to English / Italian]
28–30.   His tale told, Virgil’s point is clear: “I have been all the way
down to the bottom of the pit; you can trust in my guidance.” The
“heaven that encircles all” is almost certainly the Crystalline Sphere,
or primum mobile. [return to English / Italian]
33.      There is debate among commentators as to what exactly this
sentence means. It seems more likely that the ira (“wrath”) referred
to is the righteous anger of the forces of God (namely, the angel

who is now approaching) rather than the wrath the travelers will
encounter in the forces defending the City of Dis, as Boccaccio
believes, or the “wrath” they must employ in order to enter the city
(the view of most of the early commentators). [return to English /
Italian]
38–48.      “The three Erinyes or Furies, Alecto, Megaera, and
Tisiphone, who dwelt in the depths of Hell and punished men both
in this world and after death” (T). See Aeneid VI.570–575. In Virgil,
as in Greek myth, these three sisters are punishers of crimes of
blood. Dante sees them as the handmaids of Proserpina (or Hecate),
the queen of hell. [return to English / Italian]
52.      “Gorgon Medusa; she alone of the three Gorgons was mortal,
and was at �rst a beautiful maiden, but, in consequence of her
having given birth to two children by Poseidon in one of Athena’s
temples, the latter changed her hair into serpents, which gave her
head such a fearful appearance that every one who looked upon it
was turned into stone” (T). See Ovid, Metamorphoses IV.606–V.249.
The Furies’ threat to bring out their biggest defensive weapon
remains unful�lled only, we may assume, because of the rapid
deployment of God’s own siege-weapon, the angelic intercessor.
[return to English / Italian]
54.      The Furies lament that, when Theseus came to the nether
regions with Perithous in order to rescue Proserpina (see Aen.
VI.392–397), they only imprisoned him, rather than putting him to
death, since that left him alive to be rescued by Hercules. [return to
English / Italian]
58–63.   Vv. 61–63 contain the second address to the reader in the
poem (see note to Inf. VIII.94–96). This one has caused more
di�culty than any other, and “solutions” are so abundant that it is
fair to say that none has won general consent, from the �rst
commentators’ exertions until today. Opinions are divided, �rst of
all, on whether the passage points back in the text, either primarily

to Medusa (seen as despair, heresy, the hardened will, etc.) or to the
Furies (seen as sin itself, or the three main categories of sin
punished in hell [incontinence, violence, fraud], or remorse, etc.), or
to a combination of these. Those who believe that the passage
invites the reader rather to look forward than back are in accord that
it refers to the avenging intruder who is about to appear in order to
open the locked gates of Dis; but there is great debate over exactly
what the one “sent from heaven” (v. 85) signi�es (see discussion,
below). Surely it seems more natural for the reference to point
backwards to something already said. And indeed something
noteworthy and perhaps puzzling has just occurred: Virgil has
covered Dante’s eye-covering hands with his own hands as well. If
this passage (vv. 58–60) is the one that contains a hidden doctrine
(and few commentators believe it is, but see Hollander
[Holl.1969.1], pp. 239–46), perhaps what it suggests is that stoic
restraint is not enough to keep a sinner safe from dangerous
temptation (i.e., Dante, had she appeared, would have looked upon
Medusa and been turned to stone, just as Ulysses would have listened
to the Sirens and been destroyed by them had he not been
restrained by other forces). [return to English / Italian]
64–72.      This splendidly energetic simile is perhaps built out of
elements found in two similes in the Aeneid (II.416–419; XII.451–
455). In the �rst of these the Trojan forces mount an impetuous
counterattack upon the Greek invaders of their city; in the second
the forces of Aeneas begin the eventually victorious �nal attack
upon the armies of Turnus. The celestial messenger, though only
one in number, has the force of a great army; victory is seconds
away. [return to English / Italian]
73.   Now Virgil can allow Dante to use his eyes once more: Medusa
is apparently no longer a threat. [return to English / Italian]
76–78.      A number of commentators and translators have the frogs
in this simile going to the bottom of the pond; they go to land (a la
terra), as Dante says they do, and as any intelligent frog will do

when a snake enters the water. This simile probably derives from
Ovid, Metamorphoses VI.370–381. [return to English / Italian]
81.   The angel walks upon the water in imitation of Christ (Matth.
14:25). [return to English / Italian]
82–83.   The angel resembles Mercury, as he is described by Statius,
Thebaid II. 1–11, coming back up from the foul air of the
underworld with his caduceus in hand. [return to English / Italian]
85.   That this agent of good is “sent from heaven” indicates clearly
enough that he is an angel, although debate over his identity still
continues. See Silvio Pasquazi, “Messo celeste,” ED, vol. 3, 1971,
making a strong case for his angelic status and giving a summary of
the debate. Pasquazi also argues for one traditional further
identi�cation, making the messo speci�cally the archangel Michael,
who led the forces of the good angels against the rebellious ones in
the war in heaven (Rev. 12: 7–9)—see n. to Inferno VII.10–12—
exactly the forces he now must combat once more in the
netherworld. Over the centuries there has been a continuing
argument between those who believe that the messo is Mercury and
those who believe that he is an angel, and, in some cases,
speci�cally Michael. It seems highly likely that Dante here gives us
an archangel Michael “dressed up” as Mercury, a fused identity that
is not problematic in any way, given Dante’s practice of combining
pagan and Christian materials. [return to English / Italian]
86–87.      Virgil’s command that Dante bow down before the angel
removes just about any doubt about the messo’s divine status. [return
to English / Italian]
89–90.      The angel’s opening of the barred gates with his verghetta
(“wand”) is almost surely modeled on Mercury’s similar opening of
the gates of Herse’s chamber with his verga, i.e., his caduceus (Ovid,
Metam. II.819). [return to English / Italian]

91.   The “outcasts of heaven” are undoubtedly the rebellious angels
referred to in Inferno VIII.82–83, “more than a thousand angels
fallen from Heaven.” See also the reference, a few lines earlier in
this canto (v. 79), to “a thousand lost souls” who guard the City of
Dis, that is, these very angels. [return to English / Italian]
93–99.   The angel makes clear, in his address to his fallen brethren,
that resistance to the will of God is utterly useless. His reference to
the chaining of Cerberus by Hercules re�ects Aeneid VI.392–396.
Dante has now been associated with two classical heroes, Theseus
(v. 54) and Hercules. His powers, however, reside not in himself but
in his heaven-ordained mission. [return to English / Italian]
100–103.      The angel’s impassive attitude tells us something about
the nature of the inhabitants of hell that we sometimes forget: from
God’s perspective there is nothing worthy of attention in their
plight. The angel only wants to get out of this place as quickly as he
can in order to return to eternal bliss, so much so that he has not
even a word of greeting or support for the two travelers. [return to
English / Italian]
106.   This whole passage, from Inferno VII.130 to now, the moment
of successful entry of the walled City of Dis, narrates a military
campaign: Virgil and Dante approach by sea in Phlegyas’s military
transport ship; the forces ranged against them signal their coming
and prepare to do battle, closing the gates and assuming defensive
positions on the battlements; they wheel up their main weapons, the
Furies, who prepare to unleash their secret weapon, Medusa; the
invading forces then deploy their secret weapon, the heavenly
battering-ram that opens the gates and, in a trice, wins the battle.
[return to English / Italian]
112–115.      Dante’s references to two famous ancient Roman
cemeteries, at Arles in France and Pola in Istria, build the scene for
us: these grave sites are not mounds in the ground but sarchophagi,

raised monuments of stone that contain the remains of the dead.
[return to English / Italian]
127–131.      Virgil explains to Dante that this sixth Circle of hell
encloses many di�erent heretical sects, each of which is punished in
a separate sepulchre, and some of which are punished with more,
others with less, severity.
Why is heresy punished within the walls of Dis, where all the sins
punished are sins of will, not those of appetite? It is interesting to
see how often early commentators associate heresy with obstinacy
or obduracy; their word is the Latin pertinax. Some of them may be
re�ecting St. Thomas’s de�nition (S.T. II–II, q. 5, a. 3): if a man “is
not pertinacious in his disbelief, he is in that case no heretic, but
only a man in error.” See, among others, the commentaries of
Boccaccio (Inf. IX.127; IX.110–133), Benvenuto (Inf. IX.112–116;
IX.127–129), Francesco da Buti (Inf. IX.106–123; X.31–39), John of
Serravalle (Inf. X.13–15); Daniello (Inf. IX.133 [citing Thomas]) and,
among the moderns, Poletto (Inf. X.28–30), Carroll (Inf. IX.132).
[return to English / Italian]
132.      The turnings to the right here and at Inferno XVII.32 have
caused puzzlement and some ingenuity. In hell, whenever the
direction of their movement is mentioned, Dante and Virgil
elsewhere always head to the left. Only on these two occasions do
they move rightward. These two rightward turnings occur just
before the entrance to the sixth Circle, in which heresy is punished,
and before the exit from the realm of Violence, the seventh Circle.
This is another instance in which the commentary tradition has not
resolved Dante’s plan, if indeed there was one. [return to English /
Italian]

INFERNO X
1–2.   The path is “hidden” because it lies between the walls of Dis
and the sepulchres. See Aen. VI.443, the “secreti calles” that lead
into the Lugentes Campi (Fields of Mourning) where Aeneas
encounters the mournful spirit of Dido. [return to English / Italian]
5.   Dante is apparently alluding to the new direction, to the right,
in which Virgil now is leading him. [return to English / Italian]
8–9.      The image of the uncovered tombs and the reference to
“guards,” as Durling and Martinez point out in their commentary
(Durl.1996.1), suggest details of the scene surrounding the death
and resurrection of Jesus. The actual position of the covering slabs
of these funeral monuments is not clear. The passage in Inf. XI.6
would make it appear that they may be propped against the sides of
the tombs, as Durling and Martinez suggest. [return to English / Italian]
11.      Jehosaphat is the valley in Palestine in which, according to
Joel (3:2), all will gather for the Last Judgment. [return to English /
Italian]
14–15.      “Epicurus, celebrated Greek philosopher, B.C. 342–270; he
started at Athens the philosophic school called after him, which
taught that the summum bonum, or highest good, is happiness—not
sensual enjoyment, but peace of mind, as the result of the
cultivation of the virtues. He held that virtue was to be practiced
because it led to happiness, whereas the Stoics held that virtue
should be cultivated for its own sake” (T). While in the Convivio
(IV.vi.11–12) Dante de�nes Epicureanism as the pleasure principle
without speaking of it as speci�cally heretical, here he falls in with
a more stringent Christian view, perhaps echoing St. Paul who, in I
Cor. 15:32, cites the standard tag for Epicureanism, “Eat, drink, and

be merry, for tomorrow we die,” as the unworthy countering view
to the Resurrection. It is in keeping with this attitude that Dante
presents “Epicureans” as those who deny the immortality of the
soul. [return to English / Italian]
18.      See the wish expressed by Dante in vv. 6–8, above, which
Virgil realizes hides Dante’s real desire: he hopes to see, now that he
is among “the blacker souls” where Ciacco had said he would �nd
Farinata and four other Florentines (Inf. VI.85), some or one of
these, and perhaps the �rst he there named, Farinata. [return to English
/ Italian]
22–24.   The speaker is Farinata degli Uberti, born in Florence at the
turn of the thirteenth century, and by mid-century the head of the
Ghibelline faction. Having expelled the Guelphs from the city in
1248, the Ghibellines were themselves expelled in 1258, but, led by
Farinata, took revenge quickly at the battle of Montaperti in 1260,
at which they utterly routed the Florentine Guelphs and their allies.
Subsequently the Ghibellines gathered in council at Empoli, where it
was proposed that Florence should be destroyed, to general acclaim.
Farinata was the unyielding force of opposition and eventually won
the day, saying that he would �ght alone with sword in hand to
prevent this outcome. The Florentines did not show great
appreciation of his acts and never made any exception for his family
in their dealings with the various eventual Ghibelline exiles.
Farinata died in Florence in 1264. For bibliography on his
signi�cance to Dante see Cassell (Cass.1984.1), p. 117. [return to
English / Italian]
25.      Ever since Guido da Pisa (1328?) commentators have, from
time to time, noted the echo here of the words of the bystanders
who heard Peter deny his knowledge of Christ a second time; surely,
they say, you are one of his followers from Galilee, for your speech
makes you plainly so (“loquela tua manifestum te facit”—Matth.
26:73). [return to English / Italian]

27.      Against the more usual understanding, that Farinata’s “forse”
(perhaps) reveals regret at his harshness against his fellow citizens
at the battle of Montaperti, consider the judgment of Cassell
(Cass.1984.1), p. 19: Farinata displays “the false modesty of gloating
understatement.” [return to English / Italian]
32.      Farinata, who did not believe in Christ’s resurrection, here
replays it, as it were, rising from his tomb, at this instant making his
punishment clearly �t his crime. See Convivio II.viii.8 for Dante’s
own outcry against such failure of belief: “I say that of all the follies
the most foolish, the basest, and the most pernicious is the belief
that beyond this life there is no other” (tr. Lansing). [return to English /
Italian]
33.   As Durling (Durl.1981.2, pp. 11–14) and Cassell (Cass.1984.1,
pp. 24–26) independently discovered, Farinata rises from his tomb
in imitation of the “Man of Sorrows” (see Isaiah 53:3: virum
dolorum), that image (the so-called imago pietatis) of Jesus rising
from the tomb, naked, showing the signs of his torture, not yet
having taken on majesty. [return to English / Italian]
35.   That the features of Farinata upon which Dante fastens are his
chest and brow underlines his prideful nature. And pride, which we
have seen behind the sinful actions of such as Filippo Argenti in
Canto VIII, the “root sin” that stands behind so much human failure
in the eyes of Dante’s Church, is easily understood as a root of
heresy, the sti�-necked refusal to believe what has been given as
manifest by Christ and his Church. [return to English / Italian]
42.   Farinata’s words reveal his pride in familial background. He is
an Uberti and a Ghibelline; let all others tremble before him. [return
to English / Italian]
45.   Dante’s self-identi�cation as minor nobility and a Guelph does
not much impress Farinata, who raises his eyebrows—another sign

of his pridefulness. See Inf. XXXIV.35, where Satan is described as
having raised his brows against God. [return to English / Italian]
46–48.   Farinata now wins the second round of his little battle with
Dante: yes, he knows Dante’s people, and twice over has sent them
into exile (1248 and 1260). This canto’s scenes play out against a
series of dates spread over the second half of the thirteenth century
in Florence: 1248, expulsion of the Guelphs; 1258, expulsion of the
Ghibellines; 1260, Montaperti and the second expulsion of the
Guelphs; 1264, death of Farinata; 1266, defeat of Manfred and the
imperial forces at the battle of Benevento and banishment of the
Uberti family; 1280, death of Cavalcante the elder; 1289, battle of
Campaldino, another Guelph triumph (in which Dante took part);
1290, death of Beatrice; 1300, death of Guido Cavalcanti; 1302,
exile of Dante Alighieri. [return to English / Italian]
49–51.      But now the belittled Guelph bites back: our family was
twice exiled and came back home twice; yours has not done quite so
well (since the Uberti have remained in exile since the aftermath of
the battle of Benevento in 1266).
The reader may note that the adjective “Yours” in v. 51 is
capitalized. We have followed the practice of capitalizing the
English translation of the respectful plural form of words for the
singular “you,” so as to alert the reader to their use in Dante’s
Italian. Three Florentines are the only ones to receive this treatment
in hell: Farinata and Cavalcante here, and Brunetto Latini in Canto
XV, the last of these the father of a poet and a poet, respectively.
[return to English / Italian]
52–54.      The interruption of the discourse between Dante and
Farinata will last for seven tercets, until Farinata, “on hold” while
this other drama is played out, will continue the conversation as
though there had been no interruption to it.
The far less imposing �gure who rises out of the same tomb
alongside Farinata, Cavalcante de’ Cavalcanti (died ca. 1280), was a
wealthy Florentine Guelph and the father of Dante’s former “�rst

friend” (see VN III.14, XXIV.6, XXX.3), Guido Cavalcanti. Since
Guido was alive at the imagined date of Dante’s journey, he cannot
be found in the afterworld. However, his reputation as a
“materialist” makes it seem at least likely that Dante was certain
that this aristocratic and independent-minded poet and thinker was
coming right here to join his father. It is not accidental that the
entire conversation between the father and his son’s former friend
concerns that son. If Farinata believes in family and party,
Cavalcante is the archetypal doting father. Their portraits, showing
them in such di�erent lights, are perhaps the �nest example we
have of such close, contrastive “portraiture” in verse since the
classical era. See the study of Erich Auerbach (Auer.1957.1).
One of the �nest lyric poets of his time, Guido Cavalcanti was
from six to ten years older than Dante. He was married by his family
to a woman named Beatrice, in fact the daughter of Farinata. In
other words, these two heretical Florentines, Guido’s father,
Cavalcante, and Farinata, are in-laws; it is notable that, divided by
party loyalty as they are, they do not speak to one another. Guido
was an ardent Guelph, siding with the Whites (Dante’s party also)
when the Guelphs divided into two factions. He had a street brawl
with the leader of the Black Guelphs, Corso Donati, who had once
tried to kill him. “In the summer of 1300, during Dante’s priorate
(June 15–Aug. 15), it was decided (June 24), in order to put an end
to the disturbances caused by the continued hostilities between the
two factions, to banish the leaders of both sides,…among those who
approved this decision being Dante, in his capacity as Prior. It thus
came about that Dante was instrumental in sending his own friend
into exile, and, as it proved, to his death; for though the exiles were
recalled very shortly after the expiry of Dante’s term of o�ce (Aug.
15), so that Guido only spent a few weeks at Sarzana, he never
recovered from the e�ects of the malarious climate of the place, and
died in Florence at the end of August in that same year; he was
buried in the cemetery of Santa Reparata on Aug. 29  …” (T). One
might wish to consider the fact that Farinata the Ghibelline and
Guido the Guelph had been banished by the priors of Florence,
Farinata in 1258, Cavalcanti in 1300. And mindful of the afterlives

of these two exiles is the exiled Dante Alighieri, former prior, now
himself exiled by the priors of the city. [return to English / Italian]
58.      Dante’s phrase, “cieco carcere” (dark prison), has long been
considered an echo of the same words in Virgil’s Latin, carcere caeco,
at Aen. VI.734. [return to English / Italian]
59.      The phrase “per altezza d’ingegno” (by virtue of your lofty
genius) is clearly meant to remind us of the similar phrase we heard
in Dante’s �rst invocation: “O Muse, o alto ingegno” (O Muses, O
lofty genius—Inf. II.7). However, how we are to interpret the
resemblance is not easily resolved. Those who believe that in the
�rst passage Dante was invoking his own poetic powers see in
Cavalcanti’s doting father’s reaction a simple sense of rivalry: which
of these two poets is more gifted? If, on the other hand, we believe
that Dante, in the invocation, calls for aid from a Higher Power (see
note to Inf. II.7–9), then the father’s question indicates that he
doesn’t understand, materialist that he is, the nature of true
Christian poetic inspiration. His son’s genius and that inspiring
Dante are not commensurable. [return to English / Italian]
60.      Cavalcanti’s mournful question about his son’s whereabouts
has put some commentators (perhaps the �rst was Daniello, in
1568) in mind of Andromache’s equally mournful question about
the whereabouts of her husband Hector, “Hector ubi est?” (Where is
Hector?—Aen. IV.312). But see Durling (Durl.1981.2), p. 25n.,
arguing for the resonance of Genesis 4:9: “Ubi est Abel frater tuus?”
(Where is Abel your brother?) Durling points out that both these
“fratricidal” stories culminate in an exile, Cain sent forth from the
land a fugitive (Gen. 4:12–16), while Guido was literally sent into
exile by the action of Dante and the �ve other priors of Florence.
[return to English / Italian]
61.      Dante’s words may re�ect the Gospel of John (8:28) when
Jesus says “a meipso facio nihil” (I do nothing of myself), but only
through the Father. [return to English / Italian]

62–63.   One of the most debated passages in the poem. For a recent
review, with bibliography, see Hollander (Holl.1992.2), pp. 204–6,
222–23. It should be noted that our translation is interpretive; the
Italian can mean either what we have said it does or else “whom
perhaps your Guido held in scorn.” The text thus either indicates
that Guido at a certain point perhaps scorned the work of Virgil or
else withdrew his approval of Dante’s love of Beatrice, to whom
perhaps Dante is being led, as Virgil has promised him (Inf. I.122–
123). [return to English / Italian]
67–69.   The father’s premature lament for his living son (but he will
be dead in four months) in this searing tercet obviously collects the
di�cult thoughts and feelings of the poet as well. There has been a
great deal written about the use of the past de�nite (“elli ebbe” [he
had]) and its possible consequences. Why did Dante say that (v.
63)? Had Guido scorned someone habitually, the use of the
imperfect would have been more likely. Those who believe that his
scorn was for Virgil (roughly half of those who involve themselves
in this quarrel) are right to be puzzled, for such a scornful view of
the Latin poet would not seem to have been a sudden shift of
attitude (and, in fact, there is no Virgilian element in any of Guido’s
poems). An attractive alternative explanation is given by Siro
Chimenz in his commentary: at a certain point in his relations with
Dante, and at least after Beatrice’s death, when Dante continued to
write of her, Guido did come to have disdain for Dante’s loyalty to
Beatrice. In short, Dante the protagonist is thinking of Guido’s
climactic “rejection” of Beatrice as a de�nite past event, one
perhaps precisely re�ected in a sonnet Guido wrote to Dante
expressing his disgust with his former friend. [return to English / Italian]
70–72.      Cavalcante’s sudden disappearance rounds out his version
of “resurrection,” one that fails. In his �rst line he came up (surse)
but in his last he falls back (ricadde) into his eternal tomb. [return to
English / Italian]

73–75.   Farinata’s stoic restraint is evident once again; he has been
waiting for Dante’s attention to return to him in order to continue
their di�cult conversation about Florentine politics. Unmoved and
unmoving, he is the exempli�cation of the “stone man” admired by
Stoic philosophers. He is “great-souled” (magnanimo), a quality of
the highest kind in Aristotle’s formulation in the Ethics, but
connected, even in classical times, with a fear that such a man may
also be prideful. See Scott (Scot.1977.1), pp. 13–45, for the double
valence of the term, which becomes still less even potentially
positive in the works of Christian writers. [return to English / Italian]
76–78.      Farinata, more human in his second conversation, admits
his sense of frustration in his family’s political misfortune; it is, he
says, worse torment even than damnation. We may re�ect that, in
the universe of this poem, there is no worse torment than
damnation. Nonetheless, Farinata exudes a certain sel�ess concern
for his family. [return to English / Italian]
79–81.   Bested by Dante’s last riposte, Farinata now gets even with a
prophecy: within �fty months (�fty moons; Proserpina, the moon, is
traditionally referred to as queen of hell) Dante himself will know
the pain of exile. There surely seems to be fellow-feeling joined to
the bleak promise. By July 1304—roughly �fty months from March
1300—the last e�orts of the Whites to reenter the city were over
and done with (Dante had already given up on their e�orts), and
Dante knew his exile was, for all intents and purposes, limitless.
[return to English / Italian]
82–84.      Having characterized Dante as a fellow-su�erer at the
hands of their fellow citizens, Farinata wants to know why his
Ghibelline family seems singled out by the actions of the priors.
[return to English / Italian]
85–87.      Dante’s answer o�ers the perhaps sole locus in this canto
that directly relates heresy and politics—and surely the reader has
wondered what the connection must be. The “prayers” in the church

that he refers to are words uttered in vituperative political councils,
thus creating an image of political intrigue, even if of Guelph
against Ghibelline, as a form of deformed “religious” activity.
Florence seems a city in which politics has become the state
religion.
The Arbia is a river near the site of the battle of Montaperti.
[return to English / Italian]
89–93.      Farinata’s last words on the subject of the Florentine past
remind his auditor that he was no more guilty than the rest of the
Ghibellines (and many of them have been allowed to return) and
that, further, at the council of Empoli (see note to vv. 22–24), he
was alone in defending the city from destruction. There is no
question but that Dante’s view of Farinata is complex. As hard as he
is on him, there is also great admiration for some of his qualities as
leader, and for his having stood alone, and successfully, in defense
of the city. The drama of Ghibellinism for Dante is a central one;
what these people want to accomplish politically is not in itself
anathema to him—far from it; that they wish to achieve their aims
without God is what destroys their credentials as politicians and as
human beings. [return to English / Italian]
94–99.   Having realized that Cavalcanti does not know that his son
is alive, while Farinata seems to know the future, Dante asks for
clari�cation. [return to English / Italian]
100–108.   Farinata explains that the present and the near future are
not known by the sinners, only the time to come. Most believe that
what he says applies to all the damned, e.g., Singleton in his
commentary to this passage. On the other hand, for the view that
this condition pertains only to the heretics see Cassell (Cass.1984.1),
pp. 29–31. But see Alberigo, his soul already in hell yet not knowing
how or what its body is doing in the world above (Inf. XXXIII.122–
123). And see note to Inf. XIX.54.
The “portals of the future close” at Judgment Day, after which
there shall be “no more time” (Rev. 10:6). [return to English / Italian]

109–114.   Dante excuses his “fault”: until Farinata explained things,
he assumed the damned were aware of present events. Given the
historical situation between the poet and Cavalcanti, it is not
surprising that the author stages the drama of his understandable
guilt at his role in Guido’s death in this somewhat strained way.
[return to English / Italian]
119.      Frederick II (1194–1250), king of Sicily and Naples (1197–
50), known in his own day as stupor mundi (the wonder of the
world) for his extraordinary verve and accomplishments, presided
over one of the most glorious courts in Europe. His political battles
with the papacy marked nearly the full extent of his reign (he was
the victorious leader of the Sixth Crusade [1228–29], “won” by
treaty, while he was under interdict of excommunication). [return to
English / Italian]
120.      “Cardinal Ottaviano degli Ubaldini, member of a powerful
Tuscan Ghibelline family, known to his contemporaries as ‘the
Cardinal’ par excellence, was brother of Ubaldino della Pila (Purg.
xxiv.29) and uncle of the Archbishop Ruggieri (Inf. xxxiii.14); he
was made Bishop of Bologna in 1240, when he was under thirty, by
special dispensation of Pope Gregory IX, and in 1244 he was created
Cardinal by Innocent IV at the Council of Lyons; he was papal legate
in Lombardy, and died in 1272. [He] was suspected of favouring the
imperial party, and is credited with a saying: ‘If I have a soul, I have
lost it a thousand times for the Ghibellines’  ” (T). [return to English /
Italian]
123.      Dante is considering the dire event, his exile, that Farinata
has predicted, vv. 79–81. [return to English / Italian]
125.      The word used by Virgil to describe Dante’s di�culty is
smarrito, a word that has been associated with the protagonist’s
initial lost and perilous condition (Inf. I.3) and then occurs again
(Inf. XV.50) with speci�c reference to his lostness at the outset of
the journey for the last time in the poem. It is also used in such a

way as to remind us of his initial situation in Inf. II.64, V.72, and
XIII.24; in the last two of these scenes the protagonist is feeling pity
for sinners, emotion that the poet fairly clearly considers
inappropriate. [return to English / Italian]
130–132.   Virgil’s promise that Beatrice (it can only be she) will lay
bare to him the story of his life to come is not ful�lled, even though
it is referred to again at Inf. XV.88–90. That role, so clearly reserved
for Beatrice, is eventually given to Cacciaguida in Par. XVII.46–75.
The apparent contradiction has caused much consternation. An
ingenious solution has been proposed by Marguerite Mills Chiarenza
(Chia.1985.1): just as in the Aeneid Helenus promises Aeneas that
the Sibyl will reveal his future to him (Aen. III.458–460) only to
have her instead lead him to Anchises, who performs that promised
task (VI.756–886), so in the Comedy also the promised female
“prophet” is replaced by a male. In Chiarenza’s view, the
“contradiction” is deliberate. [return to English / Italian]
133–136.      Virgil now returns to his accustomed leftward direction
in his guidance of Dante. See note to Inf. IX.132. [return to English /
Italian]

INFERNO XI
3.      The word stipa (“throng”—from the verb stipare or stivare) in
Dante (see Inf. VII.19; XXIV.82) seems to refer to animals or people
crowded together as in a pen or in the hold of a ship (cf. the English
“steerage”). Here the term refers to those crowded together in the
more restricted area of the narrowing lower three circles of hell, i.e.,
the subject of Virgil’s discourse throughout this canto, the shortest
(along with Inf. VI, which also has but 115 lines) of the poem. [return
to English / Italian]
6.      This lid of a second funerary monument is similarly not fully
described. Are these lids suspended in air or do they rest on the
ground, tilted against the sides of the tombs? See note to Inferno
X.8–9. [return to English / Italian]
8–9.      Dante may have confused Pope Anastasius II (496–98) with
the emperor Anastasius I (491–518). In the commentaries there is
also a question as to whether Dante’s Photinus was a deacon of
Thessalonica or the bishop of Sirmium. Further, the grammatical
structure of the passage would allow us to understand either that
Photinus misled Anastasius into heresy or was himself thus misled
by the pope. A passage in Isidore of Seville, if it happens to be
Dante’s direct or indirect source, resolves two of these three issues.
Isidore is speaking of the various kinds of heresy (Etymologiae
VIII.v.37). According to him, the Photinians are named after
Photinus the bishop of Sirmium, who followed the Ebionite heresy
(see Etym. VIII.v.36) in promulgating the notion that Jesus was born
from the natural union of Joseph and Mary. And thus it was
Photinus who misled the pope, since this very heresy is named after
him. The more usual view in the commentaries is that the Photinus
in question was the deacon of Thessalonica, a follower of Acacius,

but this is probably not the better interpretation. [return to English /
Italian]
10–15.      Dante, as though speaking through Virgil to his reader,
would seem to be admitting that this canto is not nearly as exciting
as those that have gone before (and those that will come after),
since it involves nothing but pedantic lecturing. In his little joke the
excuse for his reader-unfriendly behavior is that the protagonist’s
olfactory powers required a rest so that they might become
accustomed to the stench of lower hell. No experiential learning
being possible, the class had to retire to the schoolroom. Virgil’s
discourse is thus presented as little more than �ller—even if the
reader realizes that the canto has no lesser purpose than that of
establishing a system for the organization of the sins of humankind.
[return to English / Italian]
22–27.      Perhaps the key passage for our understanding of the
organization of lower hell. All sins punished therein are sins of
malizia, malice, in the sense that these sinners all willfully desire to
do harm (the incontinent may indeed end up doing harm to others
or to themselves, but their desire is for another kind of grati�cation
altogether). Heresy, because it lies within the iron walls of Dis, and
is thus also punished as a sin of the will rather than of the appetite
(surely it seems closer to malice than to appetite), is perhaps less
readily considered a desire to harm others (even though it assuredly,
to Dante’s mind, does so). Ingiuria has thus both its Latin meaning,
injustice, acting in opposition to the law (iniuria), and its other
meaning, the doing of harm. As Mazzoni (Mazz.1985.1, p. 14)
points out, Daniello was the �rst commentator explicitly to link this
passage with its almost certain source in Cicero (De o�ciis I.xiii.41),
a passage that de�nes iniuria as having two modes, force or fraud,
with fraud meriting the greater hatred.
Here malice is divided into two subgroups, force (violence) and
fraud. Fraud itself will shortly be divided into two subgroups (see
note to vv. 61–66); but for now Dante has only divided the sins of
violence (Cantos XII–XVII) and fraud (Cantos XVIII–XXXIV) into

these two large groups. On malizia see Mazzoni, pp. 10–14; he
demonstrates that for Dante, following St. Thomas, malice re�ects
voluntas nocendi, the will to do harm. For a revisionist view of the
entire question see Cogan (Coga.1999.1). [return to English / Italian]
28–33.   Virgil divides the sins of violence (synonymous with those
of force) into three subsidiary “rings” (gironi). These are, in order of
their gravity, violence against God (Cantos XIV–XVII), against one’s
self (Canto XIII), and against one’s neighbor (Canto XII). [return to
English / Italian]
34–39.      Now, in the order in which we witness them, Virgil
describes the three categories of the sin of violence more fully, here
violence against others, whether directed against their persons or
their property (Canto XII). [return to English / Italian]
40–45.   Those violent against themselves or their own property are
in the second ring (Canto XIII). [return to English / Italian]
46–51.   The third ring encloses those who are violent against God
by blaspheming him (Canto XIV); “violent” against nature in the
commission of unnatural sexual acts (sodomy, identi�ed by the
reference to Sodom, punished in Canto XV—see the con�rmation at
Purg. XXVI.79, where the penitent homosexuals cry out “Soddoma”
against their past sins); violent against “art,” exempli�ed in the
reference to Cahors, the town in southern France which, in the
Middle Ages, had become synonymous with usury (see Virgil’s
further explanation at vv. 97–111). [return to English / Italian]
52–60.      Turning at last to fraud, Virgil now divides it into two
kinds, depending on whether or not it is practiced against those who
trust in one or not. He �rst describes the second and lesser kind,
“simple fraud,” as it were, committed by those who are punished in
the eighth Circle, which we shall learn (Inf. XVIII.1) is called
“Malebolge” after the ten “evil pockets” that contain them (Cantos
XVIII–XXX). Here the poet for whatever reason (to keep his readers

on their toes?) allows Virgil to name the sins in no discernible order,
while also omitting two of them: (6) hypocrisy, (2) �attery, (4)
divination, (10) counterfeiting, (7) thievery, (3) simony, (1)
pandering [and seducing, not mentioned here], (5) barratry (the
purchase or sale of political o�ce); totally omitted from mention
are (8) false counsel and (9) schismatic acts. [return to English / Italian]
61–66.   The second form of fraud, that which severs not only the tie
of a�ection that is natural to humans but that even more sacred one
which binds human beings in special relationships of trust, is
referred to as treachery (v. 66). Such sinners occupy the ninth Circle
(Cantos XXXI–XXXIV). [return to English / Italian]
67–75.      Having told Virgil that his discourse has been clear and
convincing, the protagonist nonetheless reveals that he has not quite
got it; why, he asks, are not the angry and sullen (Canto VIII), the
lustful (Canto V), the gluttonous (Canto VI), and the avaricious and
prodigal (Canto VII) punished inside the City of Dis if God holds
them in his righteous anger? And if He doesn’t, why are they in the
state of a�iction they are in? Dante has set up his reader with this
inattentive question. The protagonist thinks that Virgil’s analysis of
God’s wrath at v. 22 makes God hate only malizia, and does not
understand the relationship between that form of sin and
incontinence. [return to English / Italian]
76–90.   After chastising Dante for his foolishness, Virgil clari�es the
situation. Aristotle, he says, in the seventh book of the Ethics treats
the three dispositions of the soul that Heaven opposes. These are
incontinence, malice (the malizia of v. 22), and “mad brutishness”
(matta bestialitade). The clarity of this statement should not have left
so much vexation in its wake, but it has. (For a thorough review of
the debate and a solution of the problems that caused it see
Francesco Mazzoni’s lengthy gloss to these verses, Mazz.1985.1, pp.
25–45.) “Malice,” just as it did when it was �rst used, identi�es
violence and simple fraud; “mad brutishness” refers to treachery. As
Mazzoni demonstrates, both in Aristotle and in Thomas’s

commentary on the Ethics (and elsewhere in his work), “bestiality”
is one step beyond malice, just as it is here in Dante; in Thomas’s
words it is a “magnum augmentum Malitiae,” i.e., a similar but
worse kind of sin. Nonetheless, there are those who argue that, since
malizia eventually comes to encompass both kinds of fraud (those
punished in both the eighth and ninth Circles), matta bestialitade
cannot refer to treachery. Nonetheless, if they were to consider the
way in which Dante has handled his various de�nitions they might
realize that he has done here just what he has done at vv. 22–24: he
identi�es “malice” with violence and fraud and then (at vv. 61–66)
adds a third category (and second category of fraud), treachery, just
as he does here. For a strong and helpful summary (in English) of
the debate, with arguments similar to and conclusions identical with
Mazzoni’s, see Triolo (Trio.1998.1), whose own initial work on the
subject dates to 1968 (see his bibliographical note). [return to English /
Italian]
91–96.   Now fully cognizant of the grand design of hell, Dante (like
some of his readers?) admits he is having di�culty with one
particular: usury. How does it “o�end God’s goodness” (v. 48)?
[return to English / Italian]
97–111.      Weaving strands of Aristotle and St. Thomas, Virgil
demonstrates that nature takes her course from the divine mind, and
that “art” then follows nature. Humankind, fallen into sin, as is
recorded in Genesis (3:17), must earn its bread in the sweat of its
brow, precisely by following the rules of nature and whatever craft
it practices. And for this reason usurers are understood as sinning
against nature, God’s child, and her child, “art” (in the sense of
“craft”), thus the “grandchild” of God and all the more vulnerable to
human transgression. [return to English / Italian]
112–115.      Telling time by the stars he cannot see but remembers
(here the constellation Pisces [“the Fishes”] in the east and the Big
Dipper [“the Wain”], lying to the northwest [Caurus, the northwest
wind]), Virgil tells Dante it is time to continue the journey, since it

is already ca. 4 AM in Italy. They have been descending for ten
hours, and have only fourteen left to them, since the entire trip
down will take exactly twenty-four hours, 6 PM Friday evening until
6 PM Saturday (Jerusalem time). [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XII
4–10.      For the landslide near Trent (in northern Italy, carrying
down into the river Adige) and discussion of it in Albertus Magnus,
De meteoris, see Singleton’s comment to these verses: Benvenuto da
Imola was the �rst to identify the landslide as that at Slavini di
Marco and to mention Albert’s reference to it. Opinion is divided as
to whether Dante actually visited this landmark or had merely read
about it in Albert’s treatise, which was well known to him. [return to
English / Italian]
12–13.      “The infamy of Crete” is the Minotaur (only identi�ed by
name at v. 25), half man and half bull, conceived by the sexually
venturesome Pasiphaë (wife of Minos, king of Crete) with a bull,
when she placed herself in a wooden replica of a cow in order to
enjoy a bovine embrace. See Purg. XXVI.87 for another reference to
her on the Terrace of the purgation of lust. Most modern
commentators, but not all, believe that Dante, in a reversal of the
classical tradition, gave the Minotaur a man’s head upon a bull’s
body. [return to English / Italian]
16–21.      The Minotaur had his labyrinthine home on Crete, where
his violence was kept under some control by feeding to him a yearly
tribute from Athens of seven maids and seven youths. Virgil taunts
and thus distracts him, reminding him that he was killed by
Theseus, instructed by the monster’s “sister” Ariadne and guided by
her thread back through the labyrinth.
Since the Minotaur is the �rst infernal guardian whom we meet
within the walls of Dis (the rebel angels, the Furies, and the unseen
Medusa were located on the city’s ramparts in Canto IX), we might
want to consider in what way he is di�erent from those we have
met in the Circles of Incontinence—Minos (the “step-father” of the
Minotaur, as it were—Canto V), Cerberus (Canto VI), and Plutus

(Canto VII). Like Charon (Canto III) and Phlegyas (Canto VIII),
Minos has a general function, “judging” all the damned souls who
confess their besetting sins to him (Charon ferries all across
Acheron, Phlegyas seems to be employed in replacing temporarily
escaped sinners in the Styx). Thus only Cerberus (gluttony) and
Plutus (avarice) would seem to represent a particular sin of
incontinence. The Minotaur (and the matter is much debated) seems
to represent the entire zone of Violence, as Geryon (Canto XVI) will
represent Fraud and the Giants (Canto XXXI), Treachery. If this
hypothesis is correct, then the Minotaur’s function is precisely
similar to that of Geryon and of the Giants, and he is the gatekeeper
for the entire seventh Circle (see Inf. XII.32). For his connection to
violence see Boccaccio’s commentary: “When he had grown up and
become a most ferocious animal, and of incredible strength, they tell
that Minos had him shut up in a prison called the labyrinth, and
that he had sent to him there all those whom he wanted to die a
cruel death.” Rossetti’s commentary sees the Minotaur as being
associated with all three sins of violence punished in this Circle:
“The Minotaur, who is situated at the rim of this tripartite circle,
fed, according to myth, on human limbs (violence against one’s
neighbor); according to the poem [v. 14] was biting himself
(violence against oneself) and was conceived in the ‘false cow’
(violence against nature, daughter of God).”
Surely he is wrathful (this canto has more uses of the word ira
[wrath] than any other: XII.15, XII.33, XII.49, XII.72). As was
pointed out in the note to Inf. VII.109–114, the wrath punished in
Styx was intemperate wrath, a sin of passion and not of hardened
will, while the sin punished here is Aquinas’s third sort of anger,
that which is kept alive for cold-blooded revenge. For a similar
opinion, which insists on the distinction between the incontinence
of Filippo Argenti and the intentional, willful behavior that we
witness here, see Beck.1984.1, p. 228. [return to English / Italian]
22–25.      The possible Virgilian source (Aen. II.223–224) of Dante’s
simile was perhaps �rst noted in Tommaseo’s commentary: Laocoön,
dying beneath the assault of the twin serpents, bellows like a

stricken bull that has momentarily escaped death and is now �eeing
from the altar because the axe of his executioner has been slightly
o� target, allowing him a few more minutes of life. [return to English /
Italian]
28–30.   Dante’s corporality is again brought to our attention; only
he moves physical objects, as Chiron will duly note at v. 81 (see
note to vv. 76–82). [return to English / Italian]
32.   The ruina (rockslide), just now referred to in the fourth verse of
this canto, is clearly meant to be understood as having been caused
by the earthquake at the Cruci�xion (see Matth. 27:51). [return to
English / Italian]
33.      Wrath, punished in the Styx (the �fth Circle) is here
distinguished from “bestial” wrath that is the sign of a hardened will
to do violence. As was the case in Inf. XI.83 (see note to Inf. XI.76–
90) Dante uses the word “bestial” to increase the heinousness of a
kind of sin. Wrath is a sin of Incontinence; “bestial wrath,” a sin of
Violence. Fraud is a sin of malice, “mad brutishness” (treachery) a
sin of greater malice. [return to English / Italian]
34–36.   See Inf. IX.22–27 where Virgil tells of his previous journey
down through the underworld, when he was sent to the ninth Circle
by the witch Erichtho (see note to Inf. IX.19–27). [return to English /
Italian]
39.      “Dis” here is a name for Lucifer: see Inf. XXXIV.20. [return to
English / Italian]
40–45.      Virgil’s explanation of what happened in the immediate
aftermath of the Cruci�xion shows a correct temporal and physical
understanding (he, after all, actually witnessed these phenomena
�fty-three years after he arrived in Limbo [see Inf. IV.52–63]).
However, his use of the Greek poet and philosopher Empedocles (ca.
492–430 B.C.) as authority shows his ingrained pagan way of

accounting for one of Christianity’s greatest miracles, Christ’s
ransoming of souls committed to hell. According to Empedocles
(�rst referred to at Inf. IV.138), in addition to the four elements
(earth, water, air, �re) there were two others, and these governed
the universe in alternating movements of love (concord) and hatred
(chaos). As chaos moves toward concord, crowned by love, that very
order, momentarily established, at once recedes and moves back
toward chaos. This “circular” theory of history is intrinsically
opposed to the Christian view, in which Christ’s establishment of
love as a universal principle redeemed history once and for all. In
Virgil’s apparent understanding, the climactic event in Christian
history marked only the beginning of a (�nal?) stage of chaos. For
an appreciation of the importance of Virgil’s misunderstanding of
the meaning of the Cruci�xion see Baldassaro (Bald.1978.1), p. 101.
(For Dante’s knowledge of Empedocles’s theories through Aristotle,
Albertus Magnus, and St. Thomas see G. Stabile, “Empedocle,” ED
[vol. 2, 1970], p. 667.) [return to English / Italian]
48.      The sinners against their neighbors and/or their property are
clearly identi�ed as being guilty of the sin of violence, forza (force),
the �rst area of malizia, according to Inferno XI.22–24. [return to
English / Italian]
49–51.      The poet’s apostrophe (see the similar ones at Inf. VII.19–
21, XIV.16–18) would seem to identify two of the most immediate
causes of violent acts, cupidity and wrath. See Guido da Pisa’s
commentary on this passage: “the violence that is in�icted on a
neighbor arises either from cupidity or wrath.” [return to English /
Italian]
56–57.      Patrolling the river of blood (identi�ed only later [Inf.
XIV.116] as “Phlegethon”) from its bank are the Centaurs. Some
early commentators saw in them a portrait of the bands of
mercenary cavalrymen who were such an important feature of the
horrendous wars of Dante’s divided Italy. As Dante presents them
they are seen as replicating their cruel habits as hunters in the world

above. The original centaurs, half man and half horse, in Greek
myths that came to Dante through various Latin poets, were the
“sons” of Ixion and a cloud made to resemble Juno, whom Ixion
desired to ravish when Jupiter allowed him entrance to Olympus.
His sperm, falling to earth, created one hundred centaurs (their
name re�ects their number, “centum,” and their airy beginning,
“aura,” or so believed some early commentators, e.g., Guido da Pisa,
Pietro di Dante, and John of Serravalle). Their career on earth
involved attempted rape at the wedding feast of Pirithous and
Hippodamia, where it was necessary for Hercules to intercede in
order to disperse them. The centaurs represent the particular sin of
violence to others, turned to God’s use in punishing those mortals
who also sinned in this way. [return to English / Italian]
58–63.   The centaurs take Virgil and Dante for wandering damned
souls and one of them (we learn that this is Nessus at v. 67)
challenges them. His words, “Tell us from there. If not, I draw my
bow” (Ditel costinci; se non, l’arco tiro) are probably modeled on
Charon’s to the armed �gure of Aeneas (Aen. VI.389): “fare age,
quid venias, iam istinc, et comprime gressum” (tell me, even from
there, why you come here, and hold your steps). [return to English /
Italian]
64–66.   Virgil accords greater authority to Chiron than to the other
centaurs. Dante’s view of him re�ects the fact that he was not sired
by Ixion’s lust, but by the former Olympian-in-chief: “Saturn,
enamored of Philyra and fearing the jealousy of his wife, Rhea,
changed himself into a horse and in this shape begat Chiron, who
took the form of a centaur. Chiron educated Achilles, Aesculapius,
Hercules, and many other famous Greeks, and Virgil knows at once
that, because he is the wisest, he must be the leader of the band”
(Singleton’s commentary). [return to English / Italian]
67–69.      Nessus, on the other hand, is one of the Ixion-begotten
centaurs. When he tried to rape Hercules’ wife, Deianira, according
to the ninth book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the great hero shot him

with a poisoned arrow as Nessus was crossing a stream with
Deianira on his back. Dying, the centaur dipped a tunic into his own
poisoned blood (thus explaining exactly what Dante means when he
says “fashioned of himself his own revenge”) and gave it to
Hercules’ wife, telling her that whoever put on that tunic would
become enamored of her. Years later, when Hercules fell in love
with Iole, Deianira gave him the tunic. He put it on, experienced
excruciating pain, and committed suicide to end his agony.
Vengeful, Nessus displays his connection to violence against others,
and precisely that “di�cult” anger described by St. Thomas (see
note to Inf. VII. 109–114). [return to English / Italian]
70–71.   “Chiron’s bowed head may be intended to suggest wisdom
or an attitude of meditation, as most commentators believe, since he
was considered to be the wisest of all the centaurs; but it also serves
to direct the reader’s gaze to the creature’s breast, where its two
natures, human and bestial, are joined” (Singleton’s commentary).
For Chiron as teacher of Achilles see at least Statius, Achilleid I.118.
[return to English / Italian]
72.      Pholus, like Nessus, and unlike Chiron, whose violence is
tempered (and thus made more e�ective?) by reason, has no better
nature to recommend him. He, begotten by Ixion like Nessus, like
Nessus died at the hands of Hercules in most of the various Latin
versions of the tale that Dante knew, but as the result of an
accident: he himself dropped one of Hercules’ poisoned arrows on
his foot and died. [return to English / Italian]
75.      Degrees of sinfulness control the depth of immersion: sinners
are variously swathed in blood up to their eyebrows (v. 103:
murderous tyrants); throats (116: murderers); waists (121:
plunderers); feet (125: unspeci�ed).
Some commentators believe that Dante’s conception of this river
of blood was in�uenced by his experience as a cavalryman at the
battle of Campaldino in 1289, when the slaughter made the rivulets

crossing the terrain run with blood. For a description and analysis of
that battle see Oert.1968.1. [return to English / Italian]
76–82.      Chiron’s remarks are put to the service of reminding the
reader of the uniqueness of this �eshly visitor to hell. The “realism”
of the detail (when he is described as moving the bristles of his
beard with an arrow) has understandably pleased many; it perhaps
also forces us to wonder whether the demons of hell have a �eshly
or only a spirit presence, for if Dante can move things with his body,
apparently Chiron can also—his own beard with the nock of an
arrow. This question is never confronted by Dante, who leaves the
ontological status of the demons of hell unresolved. [return to English /
Italian]
88–89.      One of the few references to Beatrice heard in hell. An
appeal to such authority is perhaps made to Chiron in view of his
unusual rational powers. [return to English / Italian]
93–96.   Virgil’s request that one of the centaurs bear Dante on his
back to cross over the river of blood will be answered indirectly,
between vv. 114 and 115. [return to English / Italian]
97–99.   The “tour” of the river of blood is only now ready to begin,
under the guidance of Nessus, perhaps because Ovid had said of him
that he was “membrisque valens scitusque vadorum” (strong of limb
and schooled in fording streams—Metam. IX.108). [return to English /
Italian]
104.      Dante’s negative view of tyrants, seen as serving themselves
rather than the state they govern, is also found in Monarchia
(III.iv.10). [return to English / Italian]
106–111.   The �rst (and worst) group of the violent against others
are the tyrants, including Alexander the Great and Dionysius the
Elder of Syracuse. Both these identities are disputed, some modern
commentators arguing for Alexander of Pherae, some for Dionysius

the Younger, the son of the Elder. Singleton’s notes to the passage
o�er convincing support for both traditional identi�cations. On
Dante’s view of tyrants see Carp.1998.1.
Ezzelino III da Romano (1194–1259), Ghibelline strongman in the
March of Treviso in northern Italy, was, in Guelph eyes, a monster
of cruelty. (See Giovanni Villani’s account of his misdeeds, cited by
Singleton.) He is coupled with a Guelph, Òpizzo II d’Este (1247–93),
lord of Ferrara and a supporter of the French forces in Italy and of
the pope. His violence was rewarded in life by his murder at the
hands of either his own and “denatured” son or his illegitimate
(“natural”) o�spring (the commentators are divided). [return to English
/ Italian]
114–115.   In handing Dante over to Nessus, Virgil does not tell him
to “mount up.” Yet this is what we should almost certainly
understand is happening. The rest of the canto, up to its �nal two
lines, takes place with Dante looking down from Nessus’s back (see
note to v. 126). This is almost clear when we consider the next
verse: “A little farther on the centaur stopped.” Up to now the
movements of Dante and Virgil have been noted as they made their
way along; now it is the centaur’s movement which is recorded.
Why? Because Dante is sitting on his back. Why did Dante handle
this part of the journey so delicately? Perhaps because he was aware
that the scene would have been “outrageous,” a Dante on horseback
in hell, too much for a reader to accept if merely told. In this
formulation the poet once again invites the reader to become his
accomplice in making his �ction. (For discussion see Holl.1984.1.)
[return to English / Italian]
116–120.      This slightly less bloodied crew contains “mere”
murderers, only one of whom is indicated (by periphrasis): Guy de
Montfort (1243–98), of royal English blood, in order to avenge his
father Simon’s murder killed his cousin, Henry of Cornwall in a
church at Viterbo in 1271, supposedly while Henry was praying
during the elevation of the Host. Henry’s heart, returned to England,

“still drips with blood” because his murder was not avenged. [return
to English / Italian]
121–123.      Those who rise higher from the blood are generally
understood to be the non-murderous violent. It seems likely that
their counterpart group, perhaps 180 degrees across the river, is the
�nal one referred to before the end of the canto (vv. 134–137).
Dante recognizes many of the present group, thus perhaps asking us
to understand that they are local Tuscan ru�ans. [return to English /
Italian]
124–125.      Although those who merely stand in blood are not
further identi�ed in any way, we may assume that they were the
least destructive of those violent against the property of others,
perhaps pickpockets and others of that ilk. [return to English / Italian]
126.      Not every reader notices that at this point Dante (astride
Nessus’s back, we may want to remember) crosses over the river of
blood. [return to English / Italian]
127–132.      As he crosses toward the far side of the river (the one
nearer to the center of hell) Nessus looks back over the area they
have traversed (to their right), where the river grew increasingly
shallow, and then looks left, where, he knows, the riverbed
gradually deepens until it reaches its lowest point, which coincides
with the �rst place Dante saw, that in which the tyrants are
punished. This information suggests that Dante and Virgil have
traversed a semicircle in order to reach this shallowest point, where
they have forded the river. The unexplored run of the river thus also
occupies 180 degrees of the circle. [return to English / Italian]
133–138.      The only group referred to in that unexplored bend of
the river includes those whose violence was limited to property, the
group parallel in placement to the third group seen by Dante in his
journey along Phlegethon. This new group is situated roughly
halfway along the untraversed semicircle. The �ve identi�ed

personages that he has already seen in the one he has traveled are in
parallel with the �ve he will only hear described: Attila the Hun (ca.
406–53), Pyrrhus of Epirus (ca. 318–272 B.C.), and Sextus Pompeius
Magnus (d. 35 B.C.), the son of Pompey the Great, who, according to
Lucan, disgraced the family name when he turned pirate (Pharsalia
VI.119–122). The identities of the last two are sometimes disputed;
one reason to think that they are as given here is that the resulting
group of exemplary plunderers has in common its depredations of
Rome. For a brief and clear representation of the various confusions
among potential identities for Pyrrhus and Sextus see Botterill
(Bott.1990.1), p. 156. [return to English / Italian]
136–138.      The “moderns” are represented by two highwaymen
named Rinier, both contemporaries of Dante. Rinier da Corneto
worked the wild country around Rome, the Maremma, while Rinier
Pazzo, dead by 1280, had his turf in the roads south of Florence and
toward Arezzo. [return to English / Italian]
139.   His task accomplished, Nessus crosses back over the river of
blood without a word. It seems clear that he would not have crossed
over had he not been carrying Dante on his back. [return to English /
Italian]

INFERNO XIII
1–3.      Ettore Paratore (Para.1965.1, pp. 281–82) has studied the
phenomenon of the “connected canti” of the Comedy, those, like XII
and XIII, in which the action �ows from one into the other, in which
a canto is not “end-stopped.” He counts 16 such in Inferno; 10 in
Purgatorio; 8 in Paradiso. That one third of the borders of Dante’s
cantos are so �uid helps us to understand that he has a strong sense
of delineation of the units of the whole and, at the same time, a
desire not to be restrained by these borders. [return to English / Italian]
4–9.   Dante refers to the wilds of the Maremma, here between the
river Cecina to the north and the town of Corneto to the south, a
wild part of Tuscany. [return to English / Italian]
10–15.      The Harpies, heavy birds with the faces of women and
clawed hands, the demonic monsters who preside over this canto
(once again, like the Minotaur and the Centaurs, part human, part
beast), derive from Virgil (Aen. III.210–212; 216–217; 253–257).
Having twice befouled the food of the Trojan refugees, one of them
(Celaeno) then attempts to convince Aeneas and his followers that
they, in their voyage to Italy, are doomed to starvation and failure.
[return to English / Italian]
20–21.   Virgil’s words o�er the occasion for a certain ingenuity on
the part of some commentators, who believe that Virgil here refers
to the text of the Aeneid. Literally, what they mean is clear enough:
“were I only to tell you what you are about to see, you would not
believe me” (i.e., Dante has to hear the vegetation speak in order to
accept its ability to do so). But see note to vv. 46–51. [return to English
/ Italian]
24.   Dante, lost in a dark wood, as he was at the beginning of the
poem, is smarrito (bewildered), as his path was lost (smarrita) in that

wood. The repetition of the word here seems deliberate, and
perhaps invites us to consider the possibility that the lost soul whom
we met in Inferno I was in some way himself suicidal. [return to English
/ Italian]
25.      This is perhaps the most self-consciously “literary” line in a
canto �lled with “literariness.” See the elegant essay by Leo Spitzer
(Spit.1942.1) for a close analysis of Inferno XIII. [return to English /
Italian]
31–39.  Dante’s hesitant gesture and the sinner’s horri�ed response
re�ect closely a scene in the Aeneid in which Aeneas similarly tears
pieces of vegetation from the grave of murdered Polydorus, who
�nally cries out in words that are echoed in this sinner’s complaints
(Aen. III.22–48). Just before the Greeks overran Troy, Priam sent his
son Polydorus to be raised by the Thracian king Polymnestor, and
with him the treasure of Troy. Once the city fell, Polymnestor killed
Polydorus, stole the treasure, and had the youth’s body cast into the
sea.
The speaker, we will later learn from the historical details to
which he refers (he is never named), is Pier delle Vigne, the
chancellor of Frederick II of Sicily and Naples (see note to vv. 58–
61). Here he is represented as a “gran pruno” (tall thorn-bush), and
while the modifying adjective grants him a certain dignity, it also
reduces him to the least pleasant of plants. The forest of the suicides
resembles a dense thicket of briar, the only “vegetation” found in
hell after the green meadow of Limbo (Inf. IV.111). [return to English /
Italian]
40–44.      Dante’s simile, which sounds like the sounds it describes,
reduces Pier’s natural dignity by giving him so distorted a voice.
[return to English / Italian]
46–51.      Virgil’s apology to Pier for encouraging Dante to pluck a
piece of him now clearly evokes the text of the Aeneid, thus adding a

dimension to the words he had uttered at vv. 20–21. [return to English
/ Italian]
52–54.      Virgil’s invitation to Pier to speak so that Dante may
“revive his fame” in the world above has a positive result. As we
move down through hell, we will �nd that some sinners look upon
their “interview” with this “reporter” as a wonderful opportunity to
attempt to clear their name, while others shun any “publicity” at all.
[return to English / Italian]
55–57.   The beginning of Pier’s speech is an Italian version of Pier’s
noted “chancery style” of Latin oratory turned to document-writing.
Pier was known not only for his Latin writings on behalf of
Frederick’s exercise of imperial power, but for his vernacular poems,
which are similarly �orid.
His speech to Dante, in its entirety, forms an Italian version of a
classical oration, with its parts measured as follows: (1) capturing of
the goodwill of the audience (55–57); (2) narrative of events at issue
(58–72); (3) peroration, making the climactic point (73–75); (4)
petition, seeking the consent of the audience (76–78). (For a more
detailed consideration of the rhetorical construction of the speech
see Higgins [Higg.1975.1], pp. 63–64.) [return to English / Italian]
58–61.   The speaker identi�es himself, if by circumlocution, as Pier
della Vigna (or “delle Vigne”): “Petrus de Vinea, minister of the
Emperor Frederick II, born at Capua ca. 1190; after studying at
Bologna, he received an appointment at the court of Frederick II as
notary, and thenceforward he rapidly rose to distinction. He was
made judge and protonotary, and for more than twenty years he
was the trusted minister and con�dant of the Emperor. He was at
the height of his power in 1247, but two years later he was accused
of treachery, and was thrown into prison and blinded; and soon
after he committed suicide (April, 1249)” (T). For the Emperor
Frederick II see note to Inferno X.119.
Holding the keys to the emperor’s heart, the “promised land” of
any self-seeking courtier, this Peter is a parodic version of St. Peter,

who, in the Christian tradition, holds the keys (one for mercy, one
for judgment) that unlock or lock the kingdom of heaven. For the
original biblical image of the two keys see Isaiah 22:22. [return to
English / Italian]
64.   This “slut” is commonly recognized as envy, the sin of hoping
that one’s happy neighbor will be made unhappy.
Pier is trying to establish his innocence of the charges that he
betrayed his lord by stealing from his treasury. We now know that
he was in fact guilty of that fault; however, it is far from clear that
Dante knew what we know. See Cassell’s gathering of evidence for
the case against Pier’s barratry (Cass.1984.1, pp. 38–42). [return to
English / Italian]
68.      “Augustus,” the emperor par excellence, is Pier’s title for his
emperor, Frederick. [return to English / Italian]
70.      Pier’s disdegnoso gusto, whether pleasure in self-hatred (see
Vazzana [Vazz.1998.1] for this reading) or pleasure in imagining his
vengeance upon his enemies (see Higgins [Higg.1975.1], p. 72), is
presented as the motive for his suicide. [return to English / Italian]
73–75.      How are we to respond to this unquestionably imposing
�gure? Here is Attilio Momigliano, in his commentary to this
passage: “[Pier’s] way of speaking, with its lofty sense of �delity,
with its steady clearsightedness, with its manly rebellion against the
injustice of fate, with that indestructible sense of his honor and the
desire to redeem it, even in death—all of these dressed in the folds
of an austerely embellished eloquence—dwells in our memory like a
solemn portrait of a courtier and makes us forget the fault of the
suicide, as the words of Francesca, Brunetto, or Ugolino make us
forget adultery, sodomy, betrayal. These virtues or passions that
redeem, even in hell, a great sin are among the most noble and
suggestive inventions of the Comedy.” Such a view of the “great
sinners” of the Inferno is attractive, no doubt, in part because it
makes Dante a much less “judgmental” poet than in fact he is.

However, it is probably better to see that, in the case of Pier (as well
as in that of the others mentioned by Momigliano), the sinner
speaks of himself in such a way as to condemn himself in his own
words, at least if we learn to read him from the ironic angle of
vision that the split between the consciousness of the slowly
evolving protagonist and that of the knowledgeable poet surely
seems to call for.
It was centuries ago that a reader �rst thought of Judas when he
read of Pier. Pietro di Dante, in the second redaction of his
commentary to vv. 16–51 of this canto, cites St. Jerome’s comment
on Psalm 8: “Judas o�ended God more greatly by hanging himself
than by betraying Him.” Dante’s son, however, never developed the
importance of Judas as the quintessential suicide in the controlling
image of this canto. In our own time perhaps the �rst to do so was
Giovanni Resta (Rest.1977.1); a fuller expression of this insight was
developed by Anthony Cassell (Cass.1984.1, pp. 46–56). While
Cassell’s reading mainly involves Pier’s betrayal of Frederick, the
perhaps better understanding is to allow Pier his proclaimed fealty
to his emperor, but to realize that his very words reveal that, if his
temporal allegiances were respected, they had displaced his only
truly signi�cant loyalty, that owed to his only meaningful Lord,
Jesus Christ (see Loon.1992.1, p. 39). Like Judas, he did betray his
Lord, as Stephany has shown, precisely in his loyalty to the
emperor, whom he treats, in his eulogy of Frederick, as in his own
kingly person being all the Christ one needed. And thus, in imitation
of Judas, he will have his body hanging on a tree for eternity. (For
two articles about Frederick, Pier, and the court life that they
shaped and shared, see Feng.1981.1 and Step.1982.1).
Pier, as many have noted, has important attributes in common
with Dante. Both were political �gures who ended up losing the
goals of their highly energized activity; both were poets. Yet it
seems clear that, for all the fellow-feeling that Dante must have felt
for the ruined chancellor, he is more interested in the crucial errors
he made in directing his political life to the sharing and taking of
power and to that alone. For Dante, the political life can only be

lived justly under the sign of the true “emperor,” God. [return to
English / Italian]
82–84.   The protagonist, like many readers, has been won over by
Pier’s oratory. As was the case in his meeting with Farinata and
Cavalcante in Inferno X, he began in fear, then turned to pity.
Neither is an attitude recommended by the moral setting of the
poem that contains this currently piteous protagonist. [return to English
/ Italian]
109–126.      This self-contained unit of twenty-seven verses is
devoted to a second class of those violent against themselves. These
wastrels were “prodigal” in so thoroughly intentional a way that
they did not casually toss away their possessions, but willfully
destroyed them in a sort of “material suicide.” Once again we note
the line that Dante has drawn between the incontinent form of a sin
(prodigality, punished in Inferno VII) and its “malicious” version.
Paget Toynbee describes the two sinners found here as follows:
“Lano [Arcolano Maconi], gentleman of Siena, placed by Dante,
together with Jacomo da sant’ Andrea, among those who have
squandered their substance … Lano is said to have been a member
of the ‘Spendthrift Brigade’ of Siena, and to have squandered all his
property in riotous living. He took part in an expedition of the
Florentines and Sienese against Arezzo in 1288, which ended in the
Sienese force falling into an ambush and being cut to pieces by the
Aretines under Buonconte da Montefeltro at  …  Pieve al Toppo.
Lano, being ruined and desperate, chose to �ght and be killed,
rather than run away and make his escape; hence the allusion of
Jacomo in the text  …  Jacomo [and not Dante’s “Jacopo”] della
Cappella di sant’ Andrea of Padua, the son of Odorico Fontana da
Monselice and Speronella Delesmanini, a very wealthy lady, whose
fortune Jacomo inherited, and squandered in the most senseless acts
of prodigality. He is supposed to have been put to death by order of
Ezzolino da Romano [see Inf. XII.102] in 1239” (T). [return to English /
Italian]

130–135.      The relatively minor �gure we now encounter, a
cespuglio (bush) and not the gran pruno (tall thorn-bush—v. 32) that
holds the soul of Pier delle Vigne, complains against the
unintentional despoiling of his leaves by the exhausted Jacomo, who
had huddled up against him in order to escape the pursuing hounds.
Various of the early commentators identify him as either Lotto degli
Agli or Rocco de’ Mozzi, yet some of these commentators also
suggest that Dante left the name “open” because so many
Florentines committed suicide by hanging themselves that he
wanted to suggest the frequency of the phenomenon in his native
city. [return to English / Italian]
139–151.      The nameless suicide, now more careful of his “body”
than he had been when he took his own life, asks to have his torn-
o� leaves returned to him. He identi�es himself as Florentine by
referring to the city’s �rst patron, Mars, the god of war, whose
replacement by John the Baptist in Christian times had weakened
her, according to his not very reliable view. (Dante’s sources seem
to have confused Attila with Totila, who had in fact besieged the
city in 542.) [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XIV
1–3.      The �rst tercet concludes the action of the preceding canto.
This is a particularly egregious example of the way in which Dante
deliberately avoids keeping his canto borders “neat” (see note to Inf.
XIII.1–3). [return to English / Italian]
4–6.   These verses, on the other hand, would have made a “proper”
beginning to the fourteenth canto, marking, as they do, the border
between the second ring of the seventh Circle (violence against
selves) and the third (violence against God). Here we shall witness
(as indeed we have done before) the dreadful “art” of God in
carrying out His just revenge upon sinners, in this case those who
sinned directly against Him. [return to English / Italian]
7–13.      The hellscape, featuring impoverished “vegetation” in the
last canto, now is as barren as it can possibly be: nothing can take
root in this sand. The retrospective glance reminds us of where we
have been in this Circle: Phlegethon, circling the wood, the wood in
turn circling the sand (violence against others, against selves, and
now against God).
The translation of verse 7, which uses the adjective nove either to
mean “new” or “strange,” or perhaps both at once, attempts to
represent this ambiguity. [return to English / Italian]
14–15.      That Dante should refer here to Cato the Younger, who
committed suicide at Utica (when further opposition by the
republican forces led by him against Julius Caesar’s army seemed
futile), seems to invite a negative judgment on him. Cato, however,
will be presented in Purgatorio I and II, in an authorial decision that
still ba�es commentators, as one of the saved. To refer to him here,
a few verses from the wood of the suicides—where Christian readers
would normally assume that Cato might be punished—given Dante’s

plan eventually to reveal his salvation, was a chancy choice for him
to have made.
The poet is translating a line from Lucan’s Pharsalia describing
Cato’s heroic decision to lead the remnant of dead Pompey’s
republican forces across the barren sands of Libya in an attempt to
escape from Caesar, and to do so, not carried by slaves, as Roman
generals were wont to be transported, but on foot himself:
“primusque gradus in pulvere ponam” (and I, �rst among them,
shall set my feet upon the sand [Phars. IX.395—the citation was
perhaps �rst noted by Daniello in 1568]). (For a treatment of Cato
in the context of Canto XIV see Mazzotta [Mazz.1979.1], pp. 47–
65.)
Dante thus reads Cato’s suicide as something other, an act
resembling Christ’s sacri�ce of Himself so that others may be free
(for discussion see Hollander [Holl.1969.1], pp. 123–31). Such a
view may seem blasphemous; it has caused extraordinary exertion
on the part of commentators to “allegorize” the saved Cato we �nd
in Purgatorio by turning him into an abstract quality rather than
treating him as historical. Dante’s text will not permit us such
luxury of avoidance. His Cato, a Christian through a process that
hardly anyone has understood, is saved. [return to English / Italian]
19–27.      This passage is opaque to a �rst-time reader. Only in
retrospect are we able with precision to realize which sinners are
alluded to by which postures: those lying supine, the fewest in
number, are the blasphemers (and they, because they cursed God,
now cry out the loudest); the most numerous class of sinners,
moving about incessantly, are the homosexuals, who sinned against
nature (Canto XV); the sinners hunched up are the usurers, who
sinned againt God’s “grandchild,” art, or industry (Canto XVI).
[return to English / Italian]
28.      The �akes of �re showering down on all those who were
violent against God seem most directly derived from the brimstone
and �re rained down upon the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah
for their allowance of the practice of homosexuality (Genesis 19:24),

as was perhaps �rst observed by Vellutello in his commentary
(1544) to this passage. [return to English / Italian]
30.      A clear reference to a line in a sonnet by Guido Cavalcanti,
“Biltà di donna” (“A lady’s loveliness”), in which, describing things
beautiful to behold, he refers to “white snow falling on a windless
day” (e bianca neve scender senza venti). [return to English / Italian]
31–36.      The reference is to an incident related in a letter (falsely)
attributed to Alexander the Great, writing to his tutor, Aristotle,
from his campaign in India. Dante found the text in the De Meteoris
(I.iv.8) of Albertus Magnus, a work to which he adverts fairly
frequently (see, e.g., note to Inf. XII.4–10). [return to English / Italian]
40.   Benvenuto da Imola’s commentary explains that the “tresca” is
a Neapolitan dance in which a leader touches one part of his or her
body with a hand, a gesture imitated by all the other dancers; then,
rapidly, the leader touches another part, then another, sometimes
using one, sometimes two, hands, each gesture, acclerated in time,
being similarly imitated by the rest. [return to English / Italian]
43–45.      Dante’s preface to his question about the identity of the
noteworthy personage before them might be compared to the
unnecessarily �ippant question posed by a student to a teacher who
had been caught out in an earlier mistake. There seems to be no
other reason for Dante to remind Virgil of his failure to enter the
walls of Dis (Inf. VIII.115–117). [return to English / Italian]
46–48.   Like Farinata, Capaneus (we learn his name from Virgil at
v. 63) is a �gure of some greatness (see Inf. X.73, where Farinata is
magnanimo [great of soul]—and see Statius, Thebaid XI.1, where
Capaneus is referred to as magnanimus); like Farinata, he seems not
to be bothered by the pains of hell (Inf. X.36).
The last verb in the tercet is a matter of debate. As always, in our
translation we follow Petrocchi, even when we disagree with him.
His reading is marturi, or “torture”; others prefer the traditional

reading, maturi, “ripen” or “soften,” a view with which we concur.
[return to English / Italian]
49–50.      Capaneus, though undergoing the pain in�icted by the
burning �akes, is alert enough to overhear the two strangers
discussing him. Surely his stoic reserve creates an initial positive
impression on the reader. [return to English / Italian]
51–60.   Capaneus was one of the seven kings who besieged Thebes
in aid of Polynices, the son of Oedipus whose twin brother, Eteocles,
refused to allow him his turn at ruling. The narrative of the death of
Capaneus on the walls of Thebes and his boast against Jupiter are
drawn from Statius, Thebaid X.883–939.
As Capaneus’s oratorical �ourish begins, the listener tends to
admire the courage of his speech. As it continues, it more and more
resembles vainglorious boasting. Capaneus may play the role of a
stock character in Roman comedy, the miles gloriosus, or braggart
soldier. When we study his words we �nd some disquieting
elements in them: alive he was a defamer of the gods, as he is now;
he says that Jupiter will not have his revenge against him even if he
sends Vulcan in his forge in Mount Etna into mass production of
lightning bolts (as was necessary to quell the insurrection of the
giants at the battle of Phlegra [see the further reference at Inf.
XXXI.95]). We may re�ect that, in the �rst place, Jupiter (or indeed
the true God he would have blasphemed had he known Him)
already has his vengeance (one look at supine Capaneus con�rms
this); in the second, when Jupiter took his revenge at Thebes, it took
him but a single bolt to dispatch Capaneus (and Statius says that he
was lucky not to live long enough for the second). In short,
Capaneus, in his egregious overcon�dence, makes something of a
fool of himself (and see Inf. XXV.15 for con�rmation of his prideful
opposition to God). [return to English / Italian]
61–66.      The vehemence of Virgil’s outburst against Capaneus,
underlined as being his most heated condemnation of a sinner yet
(and no other will exceed it), is di�cult to explain. A student,

Edward Sherline (Princeton ’82), some years ago suggested that
Virgil, already angered by Dante’s wry reminder of his previous
insu�ciency before the walls of Dis (vv. 43–45), is now having his
revenge on Capaneus, a revenge especially pleasing when Virgil
considered what Capaneus was quite e�ective doing and what he
himself had utterly failed to do: besting the defenders of the walls of
a hostile city (mere victory of that kind was not enough for
Capaneus, who challenged Jupiter himself to combat). [return to
English / Italian]
69–70.   Some readers have objected that blasphemy against Jupiter
should be welcomed in a Christian dispensation, not punished.
Dante’s point is clearly that Capaneus meant to oppose the very
principle of divine power, no matter what its name. [return to English /
Italian]
76–84.      The little stream that the travelers now see is the second
(and last) body of water that moves across their usual circular path
and downward (see Inf. VII.100–108, where the descent from the
fourth to the �fth Circle is made alongside a little stream that seems
to connect Acheron to Styx). All other gatherings of water have been
circles that they had eventually to cross in order to descend. We will
soon be able to understand (vv. 115–117) that this particular stream
contains waters from Phlegethon that will eventually fall into the
frozen Cocytus (heard tumbling down to the eighth Circle at XVI.1–
2). Dante and Virgil apparently do not happen to see the stream that
connects Styx to Phlegethon because, as Virgil suggests (vv. 128–
129), their path does not describe a full circle in every zone (e.g.,
their passage along Phlegethon, which covers exactly a semicircle,
in Inf. XII).
The Bulicame is a hot spring near Viterbo from which prostitutes,
perhaps not allowed to frequent the public baths, made conduits
from the source to service their own dwellings.
The passage to the next and deeper zone of the burning sand now
lies right before them (it is a necessary expedient, we want to
remember, to get Dante across the burning sand); before they can

follow it, Virgil will take up the subject of the waters of hell. [return
to English / Italian]
94–111.   Virgil, in his presentation of the rivers of hell, pauses �rst
to create an etiological myth that explains their source. It has two
parts, a history of Crete and a description of the statue of an old
man that stands inside Mount Ida. [return to English / Italian]
94–102.      Virgil’s �rst words rely on the passage in the Aeneid
(III.104–106) describing Crete, similarly located “in the middle of
the sea” (medio  …  ponto). It was once “chaste” when it enjoyed a
“golden age” under Saturn (see Iann.1992.2, for Dante’s almost
entirely positive treatment of Saturn). But now its mountain, Ida,
the site of a sort of classical “Eden,” rich in water and vegetation, is
a wasteland; like Eden, it, too, is deserted. Rhea, Saturn’s wife,
chose it as the cradle for her son, Jupiter. But now “original sin”
seems to have crept into the Golden Age: the crying child needs to
be protected (in the original myth, of course, from Saturn himself,
who had the unpleasant habit of eating his children so as to be sure
not to be dethroned by one of them).
That is all we are told. On Crete there was once a Golden Age, but
something went awry. Many commentators refer to the parallel with
the similar narrative found in Ovid (Metam. I.89–150), the descent
from an age of gold, to one of silver, to one of bronze, and �nally to
one of iron, when Astraea, justice, is the last of the gods to leave the
earth. (See note to Inf. XXXIV.121–126.) [return to English / Italian]
103–111.   Dante’s second myth is more of his own devising. While
the statue of the old man is closely modeled on that found in
Nebuchadnezzar’s dream (Daniel 2: 31–35), the poet’s enclosure of
the statue in Ida seems to be essentially his own invention. But there
are “hydraulic” reasons for putting him and his tears (these are not
found in Daniel) there: Dante needs to account for the origin of the
rivers of hell. The gran veglio, within the mountain, turns his back on
Egypt (Damietta, a city in the Nile delta) and gazes on Rome as
though it were his mirror. Interpretations of this detail vary, but it

would seem that the movement of temporal rule from the East to
Rome would account for this representative of the original political
order looking toward its new home. What does he see there?
Probably, in Dante’s view, his mirror image, since the empire is
totally ine�ective. He is putting more weight upon his right foot,
formed of baked clay, which most of the early commentators
thought represented the corrupt Church; yet an argument can be
made that, since the veglio is a �guration of pagan man, the Church
would be inappropriately a part of his “physique.” In
Nebuchadnezzar’s dream a rock destroys the feet of the statue; for
Christian exegetes this rock represents Christ, destroying the Old
Man and making the new life possible for mankind. [return to English /
Italian]
112–114.   The waters that collect from all the non-golden and riven
parts of the statue gather somewhere beneath it under Mount Ida
and force their way into the underworld. For the root of the image
of the rivers of hell as tears from the veglio’s eyes in the redeeming
blood of Christ on the Cross, �owing into Limbo to redeem Adam,
see Silverstein (Silv.1931.1) and Cassell (Cass.1984.1), pp. 58–60.
The Old Man is, in this reading, the parodic anticipation of the New
Man, the Son of God. [return to English / Italian]
115–129.      And now Virgil can get to his putative main point, the
disposition of the rivers of hell. Dante’s question in response seems
to reveal that he has forgotten what he has seen at the border of
Avarice and Wrath (Inf. VII.100–108). See note to vv. 76–84, above.
On the other hand, Virgil does not make that plain to him. As a
result, whether that stream is supposed to be from the same source
as this one—the most attractive hypothesis—becomes, at best, moot.
[return to English / Italian]
130–138.   Dante’s two questions are meant as an aid to the reader,
who may not have realized that the river of blood and what has just
now been called “Phlegethon” for the �rst time (at v. 116) are one
and the same. As for Lethe, since it is thought of as being a major

�uvial appurtenance of the afterworld, the poet wants to reassure
his reader that it has not been forgotten in the watery arrangement
of hell but awaits discovery in purgatory. [return to English / Italian]
139–142.   The coda ties the action back to where it stopped, at v.
84. The next canto, in fact, will pick up precisely from there (and
not here), as though it were the last verse of the canto. For a similar
phenomenon earlier on, see note to Inferno VIII.1. [return to English /
Italian]

INFERNO XV
1–3.   Both the words margini (borders) and ruscello (stream) appear
in the passage at which the forward motion of the journey was
arrested in the previous canto (XIV.79–84). The action, interrupted
by Virgil’s discourse about Crete and the gran veglio, now continues.
The poets walk along one of the two “banks” that rise above the
barren plain of sand and border the red stream as it heads for the
lower regions. Thus we know that all their movement until they
reach the edge of the next boundary (XVI.103) is on a downward
gradient, headed toward the center of the pit. This revision in their
usual procedure (a leftward, circling movement) is necessitated by
the topography of the ring of violence against God, the sand where
�akes of �re fall and which admits no mortal traversal. [return to
English / Italian]
4–12.      The double simile compares the construction made by God
to carry the “water” of hell toward its �nal destination to the huge
earthworks engineered in Flanders and in northern Italy to protect
farmland and human habitations from �ood. “Carentana” probably
refers (the exact reference is debated in the commentaries) to the
mountains north of Padua from which in spring the snows release
their torrents. [return to English / Italian]
13–21.   Another double comparison. As the poets move away from
the wood of the suicides and down across the sand along their dyke,
they approach a group of the damned. Its members examine them as
men look at one another under a new moon and as an aging tailor
concentrates upon threading his needle. The �rst comparison may
suggest the image of homosexual “cruising” in the darkest of
moonlit nights (it is di�cult for modern readers to imagine how
dark the nighttime streets of medieval cities were); the second
conveys the intensity of such gazing. For this way of reading many

of the words and images of the canto see Pequigney (Pequ.1991.1).
And see the endnote after Canto XVI. [return to English / Italian]
23–24.   The sinner, standing below Dante, must reach up to touch
the hem of his garment. His words of recognition capture the tone of
an elderly teacher recognizing his former star pupil and, some
would argue, of his e�eminacy. [return to English / Italian]
28–30.      Dante recognizes his old “teacher,” Brunetto Latini (ca.
1220–94). He probably taught Dante by the example of his works
rather than in any classroom, but the entire scene is staged as a
reunion between teacher and former student.
Brunetto, whose life has a number of similarities to Dante’s, was a
Florentine Guelph, a man of letters who was much involved in
politics, and, not least in importance, he wrote narrative verse in the
vernacular; he was also a notary, which accounts for his title, ser. He
became a de facto exile when he learned about the battle of
Montaperti (1260) and the triumph of the Ghibellines while he was
in France. He stayed there for six years and, wrote his French
encyclopedic treatise, the Livre dou Tresor, or Treasure. Before his
voluntary exile, Brunetto had previously written a major portion of
an allegorical poem in Italian rhymed couplets, referred to within
the work itself three times as Il Tesoro but which became known as
the Tesoretto (“Little Treasure”—one supposes because it was both
incomplete and did not seem as “weighty” as the Tresor [referred to
as Tesoro in Bono Giamboni’s abbreviated Italian version of the
prose work]). The Tesoretto, as it has continued to be called, was at
that point, even though incomplete, the longest narrative poem
composed in Italian. Returning to Florence after the “restoration” of
1266 in the wake of the battle of Benevento, he took up his political
and notarial chores, and died in the city, much honored, in 1294.
(For a careful presentation of the importance of Brunetto for Dante,
see Francesco Mazzoni, “Latini, Brunetto,” ED, vol. 3, 1971, pp.
579–88. See also Mazzoni’s essential study of Dante’s borrowings
from Brunetto [Mazz.1967.3]; and Charles Davis’s article
[Davi.1967.1].)

The poet’s honori�c feelings toward Brunetto are perhaps
mirrored in the word his name rhymes with: “intelletto.” And his
answering gesture, to move his face down toward his “teacher,”
certainly does so as well. (The Petrocchi text here o�ers what is
surely an implausible reading: “la mano alla sua faccia” (which we
have translated as it stands). It seems nearly certain that the text
should read, as it does in many manuscripts, “la mia alla sua faccia,”
i.e., Dante bent his face toward Brunetto’s in an act of homage. This
better reading is con�rmed by the later verse (v. 44) that has Dante
walking with his head still bent down in reverence (see note to v.
50). [return to English / Italian]
48.  A number of commentaries on this passage cite Aeneid VI.531–
534, Deiphobus’s similar questions to Aeneas.
It is striking that Brunetto never discovers the identity of Dante’s
leader (nor did Cavalcante in Inf. X). Like Cavalcante’s son Guido’s,
Brunetto’s body of work is notably unmarked by Virgil’s in�uence.
The omission, in other words, may be entirely intentional. [return to
English / Italian]
50.    Dante’s re�ection upon his own lostness at the outset (Inf. I.3,
I.14) picks up, as a few commentators have sensed (Pietrobono
perhaps the �rst), a similar passage in Brunetto’s Tesoretto, vv. 186–
90:
               e io, in tal corrotto
               pensando a capo chino,
               perdei il gran cammino,
               e tenni a la traversa
               d’una selva diversa.
(And I, in such great vexation, my head bowed down, lost the
main road and came upon a path that crossed a strange wood.)
The phrase a capo chino (my head bowed down) has perhaps been
borrowed to describe Dante’s reverence before Brunetto (v. 44—see
note to vv. 28–30). [return to English / Italian]

54.  Dante had criticized Brunetto’s (along with other Tuscan poets’)
Italian poetry for its low dialectism in De vulgari eloquentia (I.xiii.1);
now he himself uses a Tuscan dialectical form (ca, for casa, “house”
or “home”) as though in apology; and he uses it to express the high
and ultimate purpose of his journey, his return to the God who
made him. It is a moment of stunning force. [return to English / Italian]
55.  Dante’s “star” is probably his natal sign, Gemini. Brunetto here
and elsewhere sees Dante’s special status as related to the in�uence
of the heavens rather than to the election of Heaven. [return to English
/ Italian]
58–60.      Brunetto’s desire to aid Dante in his current and future
plight, given the context of the discussion that follows, would seem
rather to refer to his political life than to his literary one, though it
is di�cult to separate the two. [return to English / Italian]
61–78.      Brunetto, like Farinata (Inf. X.79–81), prophesies Dante’s
exile. His sense of the history of Florence (perhaps re�ecting his
own treatment of this subject in the �rst book of his Tresor) puts
forward the legend that Florence was populated by the Romans after
they destroyed neighboring Fiesole in order to put an end to
Catiline’s conspiracy. Unfortunately, their descendants, the
Florentine nobility, allowed the surviving Fiesolans to emigrate and
mix their base population with the Roman stock. For Dante, all the
city’s (and his own) troubles stem from this original mistake. [return
to English / Italian]
83–85.      Dante pays his debt to Brunetto. But what was it that
Brunetto (or, more likely, his writings) taught Dante about
immortality? Brunetto himself (Tresor II.cxx.1) says that fame for
good works gives one a second life on earth. Surely that is not
enough for the Christian Dante, who knows the true meaning of
immortality. The only seconde vie that matters is in the afterlife. Is
Dante saying that Brunetto taught him this? That seems impossible.
But he did learn from him how his earthly fame might be

established by writing a narrative poem in Italian. And his heavenly
reward might be combined with that one if his poem were, unlike
Brunetto’s work, dedicated to a higher purpose. Perhaps one of the
earliest commentators said this best: Brunetto gave Dante “the
knowledge that does not allow him to die either in his essential
being in the other world, nor with respect to fame in this one”
(Jacopo della Lana). For the work of Brunetto that had such e�ect
on Dante see the note to v. 119. [return to English / Italian]
88–90.   The protagonist, responding to Brunetto’s warning that his
good deeds will not go unpunished (vv. 61–64), adverts to Farinata’s
similar prophecy and Virgil’s promise of Beatrice’s eventual
explanation of it. See note to Inf. X.130–132. [return to English / Italian]
91–94.      Dante claims that he is ready for Fortune’s adversity. See
the similar but stronger utterance at Paradiso XVII.22–24. [return to
English / Italian]
95–96.      For a reading of the “peasant” that is based in the
representation of Saturn as an old and tired farmer, carrying a spade
or mattock, and thus keyed to the allegorical understanding of
Saturn as time, see Iannucci (Iann.1982.1). The phrase would then
mean: “let Fortune turn her wheel as she pleases and let time
continue its relentless course” (p. 6). [return to English / Italian]
99.   This is Virgil’s only utterance in the canto. (Walking ahead of
Dante, accompanied by Brunetto, who is moving close to the bank,
along the sand, Virgil is not “in the frame” for most of the scene.)
How we should read the remark is no longer as clear as it once
seemed. Is it congratulatory or monitory? All the early
commentators who deal with it think it is the latter, i.e., Dante has
just uttered a truthful wish (vv. 91–96), but one di�cult to live up
to. And that seems the most likely reading. [return to English / Italian]
106–114.    Brunetto indicates that all his companions were men of
letters, identifying Priscian (the great Latin grammarian of the early

sixth century); Francesco d’Accorso (1225–93), a renowned jurist of
Bologna; and Andrea de’ Mozzi (died 1296). A Florentine, he was
made bishop of Florence (on the Arno) in 1287 until he was
transferred to Vicenza (on the Bacchiglione) by Pope Boniface VIII
(here ironically referred to with the papal formula “servant of
servants”) in 1295 for his riotous habits. None of these (neither is
Brunetto) is recorded by other writers as having been homosexual.
The last verse, indicating Andrea’s “sin-stretched sinews” would,
however, seem to indicate his sexual activity (and the meaning of
this line is thus hotly contested by those who deny that
homosexuality is punished in this ring—see the endnote to the next
canto). [return to English / Italian]
118.      What is the division that separates these two groups of
homosexuals? We should note that Brunetto, accompanying Dante,
has gone lower down the sloping sand than he generally does; his
group apparently remains higher up. The only clue given us by the
text is that his fellows are all men of letters, while the next group
will be made up of politicians (but then Brunetto must be
considered, at least to some degree, a “politician” himself). Is that
what keeps them separate? It does not seem likely. It would rather
seem that the two groups are kept separate by their particular form
of sexual deviance, as Boccaccio appears to suggest. [return to English /
Italian]
119.      It has long been assumed that Brunetto asks Dante’s
a�ectionate remembrance of his Tresor. In the opinion of some,
however, it is far better to understand that the work in question is
the Tesoretto. To suggest as much is not to deny the importance of
the French encyclopedic treatise for Dante, who knew it well and
whose memory is su�used by it. However, given his predilection for
poetry, it seems likely that for him the pivotal work was the
Tesoretto because it was his �rst Italian model for the Comedy. It is
fairly clear why nearly all the commentators think that Dante is
referring to the Tresor: It is a major work, at least by comparison to
the un�nished Tesoretto, and people do not especially appreciate the

poetry of Brunetto (perhaps with good reason). But why would
Dante not be giving credit to the work which made a di�erence to
him as poet? That seems a sensible view of the matter. However, it
was only in the eighteenth century that a commentator (Lombardi)
would suggest this possibility, and only in the nineteenth that one
would seize upon it (Gregorio Di Siena). An as yet unpublished book
on Dante and Brunetto by Frank Ordiway extends the evidence
o�ered by Mazzoni (Mazz.1967.3) of Dante’s considerable citation
of the Tesoretto into a strong argument for the reference to the
Italian work in this line. For bibliography of those who have argued
for the Tesoretto see Holl.1992.2, n. 82.
The text of the Tesoretto itself o�ers evidence that it is the work
we should think of here:
               Io, Burnetto Latino,
               che vostro in ogni guisa
               mi son sanza divisa,
               a voi mi racomando.
               Poi vi presento e mando
               questo ricco Tesoro,
               che vale argento ed oro:…
               (vv. 70–76; italics added)
               (I, Brunetto Latini, who am yours in every way,
               without any reservation commend myself to you.
               Then I present and send to you this rich
               Treasure, which is worth silver and gold.)
Within the text of what we call the Tesoretto we �nd that its own
title for itself is Tesoro (and this will occur twice more in the work).
And we can hear, in Dante’s verse 119, another echo of the Italian
work, the verb raccomandare. It seems di�cult to go on believing
that the Tresor is on our poet’s mind at this crucial juncture of his
presentation of his literary “father,” his �nal words in Dante’s poem.
[return to English / Italian]

121–124.      The canto concludes with a simile that perfectly
expresses Dante’s ambivalent feelings about Brunetto. He looks
every bit the winner—but he is in last place. In the actual race run
outside Verona, the runners ran naked, according to the early
commentators; the winner received a piece of green cloth, while the
one who �nished last was given a rooster, which he had to carry
back into the city with him as a sign of his disgrace and a cause of
derisive taunts on the part of his townsmen. The case can be made
that Dante treats Brunetto in exactly both these ways.
Two biblical texts are of interest here: “The race is not to the
swift, nor the battle to the strong” (Eccles. 9:11); “Know ye not that
they which run in a race run all, but one receives the prize?” (I Cor.
9:24). [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XVI
1–3.   The opening allusion to the noise of falling water is repeated,
once the encounter with the three Florentines is complete, at vv.
92–93. [return to English / Italian]
15–18.      Everything that we learn about these sinners seconds
Virgil’s positive opinion of them. And in Inferno VI.79–82 we read
that Dante was particularly interested in meeting Iacopo and
Tegghiaio (along with Farinata, Mosca, and the mysterious Arrigo),
Florentines who had labored to do good for the city. Again we face
a situation in which the sinner seems, apart from his sin, a
thoroughly admirable person, and indeed capable of performing
good deeds. See also Ciacco in Inferno VI. [return to English / Italian]
19–27.   The three sinners who have recognized Dante as Florentine
from his clothing continue their lamentation, but now form
themselves into a wheeling circle so that they may remain in motion
(in accord with their penalty) while also staying in one place, like
joggers at a stoplight. Thus while their feet move in one direction,
their heads move in an opposite one, so that their glances may stay
�xed on Dante.
There is some discussion in the commentaries as to whether Dante
refers to classical wrestling, as presented in Latin epics such as
Virgil’s and Lucan’s, or to a contemporary version of the sport, or,
indeed, to both. [return to English / Italian]
28–42.      The �rst-named of three Florentines is Guido Guerra (a
member of the family of the Conti Guidi, one of the most powerful
in northern Italy); born ca. 1220, grandson of Guido Guerra IV and
Gualdrada de’ Ravignani, he was a notably successful Guelph
political leader, leading them back from exile after the battle of
Montaperti (1260) to their crushing defeat of the Ghibellines at
Benevento (1266) and their restoration to power in the city; he died

in 1272. The second is Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, of the noble Adimari
family, contemporary and ally of Guido Guerra in the Guelph cause;
along with Guido he counseled the Florentines not to engage in the
expedition against Siena that ended in the disastrous defeat at
Montaperti. The speaker is Iacopo Rusticucci, also a Guelph, but
not, like the two he names, of noble rank (at least according to the
Anonimo Fiorentino’s commentary to this passage). His house and
that of his neighbor, Tegghiaio, were destroyed in the aftermath of
Montaperti. In the eyes of most readers, Iacopo blames his unwilling
wife for his turning to homosexuality. But now see Chiamenti
(Chia.1998.1), who argues that the adjective �era (bestial) used of
her rather suggests her bestial pleasure in having anal intercourse
with her husband, a form of sexual practice indeed considered
sodomitic. [return to English / Italian]
46–51.   Dante’s journey through hell produces no scene in which he
is as cordial to a group of sinners as this one (see Holl.1996.1). That
his a�ection is directed toward homosexuals is noteworthy, but does
not necessarily involve him in anything more than what a modern
reader must consider a remarkable lack of the typical Christian
heterosexual scorn for homosexuals. The conversation here, like that
with Ciacco, is devoted not to the sin of which these men were
guilty, but to their political concerns for Florence, which Dante
shares enthusiastically. These men are “good Guelphs,” as Farinata
was a “good Ghibelline,” leaders who put true concerns for the city
over those of party, as Dante surely believed he himself did. [return to
English / Italian]
58–63.   Dante identi�es himself, out of modesty we presume, as a
fellow Florentine, but not by name. His heavenly destination is
enough by way of reward to let him wish to remain modestly
anonymous. His reference to the good “deeds” (ovra) of these souls
joins, in a series of moments with positive things to say about some
of Florence’s citizens, with Brunetto’s reference (Inf. XV.60) to
Dante’s own political work (opera) on behalf of Florence, and to the
passage that initiated these concerns, with speci�c reference to

Guido Guerra and Iacopo Rusticucci (Inf. VI. 79–81), when Dante
spoke with Ciacco of the good deeds of some of Florence’s citizens.
[return to English / Italian]
64–72.   Iacopo’s question o�ers Dante an opportunity to stage one
of his frequent invectives against human depravity, especially of the
Florentine sort. Guglielmo Borsiere, only recently arrived at this
station, has been telling his fellows that the “good old days” are so
no longer (while we have a secure date of death only for Guido
Guerra [1272], we imagine that his other two companions also have
been in hell for a quarter century or so: Florence is much changed).
Guglielmo, of whom we know little, was, as his last name informs
us, probably a pursemaker. Courtesy (in the sense of decency
toward one’s fellows but more in the wider sense of a whole courtly
code of living) and valor (in the sense of showing attention to the
worth of things by one’s own conduct) are thus societal values
re�ected in individual behavior. Find them in Florence today?
Dante’s answer will be �rmly negative. [return to English / Italian]
73–75.      The “new rich,” having moved in from the surrounding
countryside, are without any valor and courtesy, and already the
civic price is being paid. Dante’s brief but strongly phrased remark
is �lled with personal—and bitter—experience. We should probably
remember the earlier denunciation of the original Fiesolan
“barbarian” incursions into pure “Roman” Florence (Inf. XV.61–78).
This moment of rhetorical elevation marks the only place that the
name of the city about which the canto is so largely concerned is
allowed to appear. [return to English / Italian]
76.   Dante approximates the gesture of an Old Testament prophet,
calling for divine retribution, raising his eyes and voice rather to
heaven than, as some commentators propose, to Florence. [return to
English / Italian]
82–85.      Like Ciacco (Inf. VI.88) and few others in hell, these men
have the con�dence in the force of the good that they did on earth

to want to be remembered above, even though they are condemned
to eternal punishment.
This is the only time in hell that several sinners speak
harmoniously as one. And what is also notable is their reference to
the stars that shine over earth now, the last reference to them until
we come to the concluding line of the cantica (Inf. XXXIV.139),
when Dante and Virgil see them once again.
Beginning with Daniello (who borrowed the notice from his
teacher, Trifon Gabriele [Gabr.1993.1]), commentators have
remarked on the similarity of the sentiments expressed in their
words “when you shall rejoice in saying ‘I was there’  ” to Aeneas’s
words to his storm-tossed men (Aen. I.203): “forsan et haec olim
meminisse iuvabit” (perhaps one day it will be a joy to recall even
such events as these). [return to English / Italian]
88–89.      When this group hurries o� to rejoin their fellows (as did
Brunetto his), the poet describes their �ight as taking no more time
than it takes to say “Amen.” The detail also probably implies, as it
were, an illicit prayer for them on Dante’s part, as though the
protagonist, in response to their kind words, accepted their prayer
for his return to the world, and would like to o�er one for them in
return. In a sense, the poet’s positive treatment of them in this canto
is the ful�llment of that wish. [return to English / Italian]
91–93.   The sound of water heard in the opening lines of the canto
(1–3) is now, since Dante and Virgil have descended the sloping
sand toward the center of hell, much louder. [return to English / Italian]
94–105.      Dante, fond of the rivers of Italy as sources for poetic
“digressions,” describes the Acquacheta (its name means “quiet
water”) as being joined by the Riodestro near its source in the
Apennines, and then changing name (to “Montone”) at Forlì, before
it �ows into the Adriatic Sea just south of Ravenna without pouring
�rst into the Po, the major river of the region. At its source at San
Benedetto dell’Alpe, the meaning seems to be (and Petrocchi’s text is
much debated here), when the river was not in �ood, forming the

cascade referred to, it might have consisted in only a thousand
rivulets. Phlegethon, descending into Cocytus, is here a waterfall
resembling the Acquacheta in �ood.
Perhaps mirroring the length of the river it describes, the simile
here is the longest yet found in Inferno (the two closest challengers
occur at Inf. III.112–120 and Inf. XV.4–12; but the thirteen cantos of
Malebolge will at �rst equal and �nally outdo any other area of the
poem for length of simile: Inf. XXI.7–18; Inf XXII.1–12; Inf. XXIV.1–
18; Inf. XXVIII.7–21; and the “champion,” Inf. XXX. 1–27). [return to
English / Italian]
106–108.   Dante’s cord is now retrospectively added to the details
of the scene in Inferno I (as the full moon will be added to that scene
in Inf. XX.127–129). The cord has the function of holding his robes
together, but symbolically may also re�ect the cincture of one who
attempts to “gird his loins” and live right. (For bibliography of
various interpretations of the cord’s signi�cance see Mercuri [Merc.
1984.1], pp. 14n.-17n.)
Over the years, some commentators have tried to make the case
that the cord is that of a Franciscan garment, and that Dante was a
member of the (lay) Third Order of Franciscans. This may be true
(most doubt it), but the corda would o�er no proof at all, since
Dante knew the technical name for the cord that bound the garment
of a Franciscan: the capestro (Inf. XXVII.92).
This passage is linked to the question of the identity of the three
beasts encountered by Dante in Inferno I (see note to I.32–54). [return
to English / Italian]
109–114.      Virgil pitches Dante’s coiled-up cord into the abyss
apparently as a challenge to a creature somewhere down there. The
poet builds suspense for the advent of that creature, whose
appearance is delayed until the beginning of the next canto. [return to
English / Italian]
115–123.      Does Virgil read Dante’s thoughts or is he simply so
sensitive to Dante’s way of reacting to events that he can understand

what his pupil must be thinking? For a convincing statement in
support of the second thesis, with review of the various other
passages in Inferno in which Virgil might seem to be claiming for
himself the sort of intellective powers that Beatrice will possess (she
does read the pilgrim’s mind), see Musa.1977.1. [return to English /
Italian]
124–132.      Rhetorical energy increases as Dante swears to each of
us, his readers, that he actually saw the creature he is about to
describe. It is Geryon (only named at Inf. XVII.97, but see note at
XVII.1–3), as mythical a monster as one can �nd and, as Castelvetro
complained in his commentary, in Dante’s handling not even
resemblant of any of the descriptions of him found in classical
literature. In other words, Dante has put the veracity of the entire
Comedy (here named for the �rst of only two times [the second
occurs at Inf. XXI.2]) upon the reality of Geryon. Where such as
Ferrucci (Ferr.1971.1) use the passage to argue that Dante here
obviously admits that his poem is no “historical” record of an
“actual” journey, Hollander (Holl.1976.1), pp. 111–12; 132–33,
bases his countering argument in his perception that the ground for
Dante’s choice of the “allegory of the theologians” for the Comedy
lay in his battle with St. Thomas over the literal untruth of poetry;
thus, according to him, Dante “claims that his poem is literally true
while tacitly admitting that he has made it all up” (p. 133). The
di�erence between these two positions may seem slight, but is
major, for one reads the poem di�erently according as one admits or
denies the applicability of theological allegory to its making and to
its understanding.
For Dante’s distinctions between tragedy and comedy see the
concluding discussion in the note to Inferno XX.106–114. [return to
English / Italian]
133–136.   The concluding simile asks the reader to imagine a detail
that cannot be seen: “something other hidden in the sea”; one might
argue that precisely this inability to describe what cannot be seen

marks the guarantee of Dante’s “realistic” descriptive narrative.
Makers of “mere �ctions” operate under no such limit.
For Geryon as palombaro, that is, a man who releases anchors
from the objects they attach to and then pulls himself back up to the
surface by a cord thrown into the water with him, see Baldelli
(Bald.1993.1). [return to English / Italian]
Endnote. The debate concerning homosexuality in these cantos.
There has been much recent debate about whether or not the sin
punished here is in fact homosexuality. The principal negative
�ndings are those advanced by André Pézard (Peza.1950.1), Richard
Kay (Kay.1978.1), and Peter Armour (Armo.1983.1; Armo.1991.1).
(Pézard’s solution is that these sinners were guilty of blasphemy in
deriding the mother tongue; Kay’s, that they were guilty of denying
the political supremacy of the empire; Armour’s, that Brunetto was
guilty of a Manichaean heresy. For bibliography of other recent
discussions see Contrada [Cont.1995.1].) One of the principal issues
facing those who oppose these interesting arguments is that in
purgatory homosexuality is regarded a sin of lust and thus of
incontinence. If it is punished here, in Violence, it would be in a
di�erent category than it occupies there. Had Dante thought of
homosexuality as the sin against nature when he composed Inferno,
with its basic organization taken from Aristotle and Cicero, and as a
sin of lust when he composed the second cantica, organized by the
seven capital sins? If he did so, perhaps he should not have. Despite
the signi�cant contradiction that results, most students of the
problem remain convinced that the sin punished in Cantos XV and
XVI is in fact homosexuality, and are supported by the text itself.
The sin punished here is surely what is referred to by the name of
the city “Soddoma” (Sodom) at Inferno XI.50; in Purgatorio XXVI.40
the penitent homosexuals call out that word in self-identi�cation
and penitence (and report that they do so at XXVI.79). If Dante had
wanted us to separate the two sins, he made it awfully di�cult for
us to follow his logic in so doing. (For an attempt to rationalize the
discrepancy see Pequigney [Pequ.1991.1], pp. 31–39.)

INFERNO XVII
1–3.   Virgil’s description of Geryon (not identi�ed by name until v.
97) re�ects his triple nature in classical literature. In the tradition
known to Dante, he enticed strangers to be his guests, only to kill
and eat them. He was eventually killed by Hercules. In the Aeneid he
is twice identi�ed with the number three: he is described as forma
tricorporis umbrae (the form of the three-bodied shade—VI.289) and
again as tergemini  …  Geryonae (triple Geryon—VIII.202). Ovid
(Heroides IX.92) says that “in tribus unus erat” (he was one in
three). In classical literature he is sometimes referred to as the king
of three Iberian islands—which may account for his tripleness.
“Dante’s image was profoundly modi�ed, however, by Pliny’s
description—followed by Solinus—of a strange beast called
Mantichora (Historia Naturalis, VIII, 30) which has the face of a
man, the body of a lion, and a tail ending in a sting like a
scorpion’s” (Grandgent’s introductory note to this canto). All these
threes �nd an answer in the three destructive action verbs
describing him in this �rst tercet. This embodiment of fraud (he is
the “foul e�gy of fraud” at v. 7) is thus presented as the counterfeit
of Christ, three-in-one rather than one-in-three. The very words that
introduce this numerically central canto of Inferno, “Ecco la �era”
(Behold the beast), would seem to echo the familiar tag for Christ,
Ecce homo (Behold the man [John 19:5]), as a student at Dartmouth
College (Sarah LaBudde, ’84) suggested some years ago. [return to
English / Italian]
10–11.      The positive words that accompany this description,
invoking justice and benignity, remind us of the absence of such
qualities in hell. Now they appear, but only as the masks for Fraud.
The realm of Violence here will show us its last set of sinners, the
usurers, men identi�ed by bestial devices hanging from their
throats; this �rst tip of the iceberg of Fraud is in the form of a huge

beast, his bestial and reptilian parts at �rst mainly hidden in the
void, with the fair face of a man. The last book in the Christian
scripture tells of similar creatures, the locusts of destruction that
will be loosed upon the world who have faces like men and tails like
scorpions, with stingers in them (Rev. 9:7; 9:10). [return to English /
Italian]
14–18.   The “tattooed” body of Geryon looms in eerie beauty until
the resemblance to the similarly “painted” leopard of Canto I.42
(referred to again at XVI.108) suggests that we can understand both
these creatures as embodiments of the sins of fraud (see Durling and
Martinez on these verses [Durl.1996.1]). And the concluding
reference to Arachne (Ovid, Metam. VI.5–145), that world-class
weaver turned into a spider, whose metamorphosed beguiling art
has a purpose: the entrapment of �ies. Chiavacci Leonardi
(Chia.1991.1) calls attention to Rossetti’s commentary to vv. 7–12,
in which he interprets the shape of the serpent as a sort of history of
the process of fraud: “Fraud begins its work by inspiring trust (the
face of a just man); then weaves its deceit (the serpentine trunk);
and at last strikes its �nal blow (the pointed tail).” [return to English /
Italian]
19–24.   The two similes identify the posture of Geryon in terms of
homely images, a boat drawn up to shore, a beaver �shing with its
tail. (Beavers were reputed to use their tails as bait, eventually
grasping the thereby attracted �sh with their paws.) Tommaseo’s
commentary to this passage pointed out that hyperactive Teutonic
appetite was a matter of note as far back as the histories of Tacitus.
[return to English / Italian]
28–33.      Their descent to the right causes some commentators to
think that the travelers have changed direction, as they did in the
Circle of heresy; what they have done is merely what they have
done before, all across the ring of the violent against nature; that is,
they are moving downward toward the center. They have not

changed their essential leftward course on this occasion, either.
[return to English / Italian]
37–39.      For only the second time in the poem Virgil leaves Dante
alone (see Inf. VIII.106–111). And now, for the �rst time, he is
allowed to visit a group of sinners unguided. Virgil’s decision to let
him do so probably tells us that he believes the protagonist already
proof against the danger or attraction of usury. Further, on both
occasions we have come to the end of a large area of hell, �rst
Incontinence and now Violence. For the idea that the infernal
voyage is divided into �ve segments, in each of which the
protagonist moves through cycles of unworthy fear and improper
sympathy until he reaches �rmness against an entire category of sin,
see Hollander (Holl.1969.1), pp. 301–7, with addendum in
Holl.1980.1, pp. 168–69. [return to English / Italian]
45–48.      Having learned that the homosexuals were punished by
continual movement, re�ective of their agitated lives, the reader
now �nds the third set of the violent against God sitting in place
(and thereby undergoing precisely the punishment that the violent
against nature dreaded). Usurers, we may understand, have caused
money to race from hand to hand, but were themselves stationary,
unmoved movers hunched over their desks in the pursuit of gain.
We are in the third and �nal zone of the third ring of the seventh
Circle. Like the �rst, it is located at a margin of that Circle (see Inf.
XIV.12). [return to English / Italian]
55–57.   The usurers, rendered unrecognizable by the burning (and
by the degrading nature of their sin, which is a sin against God’s
“grandchild,” industry, yet is also a sin against His child, nature,
because it makes money “copulate”), have their only identity in the
coats-of-arms hanging from their necks, fastened loose enough so
that they themselves can see them. Their identities are made known
to an observer by these devices, but they would rather seem to be
gazing on their “real” selves, the money that used to �ll their
purses, than on their escutcheons. [return to English / Italian]

59–60.      This device indicates the Gian�gliazzi family of Florence,
Black Guelphs. Exactly which member of the family is not known,
but perhaps Dante was happy to leave the door open to the widest
possible speculation. [return to English / Italian]
62–63.      The arms of the Obriachi family, Florentine Ghibellines.
Once again commentators have proposed various individuals, but
without a victorious candidate emerging. [return to English / Italian]
64–66.   The “star” among the usurers, the only one with a speaking
part, is, most commentators believe, Reginaldo degli Scrovegni, the
only non-Florentine in the little group of identi�ed sinners. He was
from Padua and was a usurer on a major scale. A penitential desire
to make up for paternal usurious practice reputedly moved his son,
Arrigo, to endow the construction of the Scrovegni Chapel, its walls
devoted to Giotto’s frescoes, one of the most beautiful interior
spaces in the Western world. [return to English / Italian]
67–69.   Reginaldo’s discourtesy to Dante is matched by his envious
report that his fellow Paduan (and fellow usurer, still alive as late as
1307), Vitaliano del Dente (there is some disagreement as to his
exact identity among the commentators) will join him here one of
these days. [return to English / Italian]
72–73.      Mocking his Florentine companions in usury, Reginaldo
reports that they, too, are awaiting a townsman, the “king of the
usurers” of Dante’s day (and alive until 1310), Giovanni Buiamonte,
a Ghibelline. [return to English / Italian]
74–78.      Reginaldo’s animalistic, sub-verbal facial gesture in
response to the reported conversations of his companions conveys
some of the self-enclosed antisocial nature of these sinners. They
really did not care for anything but money. Dante, having been
warned by Virgil to return quickly (and the whole scene has a
rushed urgency about it), heads back toward Virgil—and Geryon.

This little narrative (vv. 43–78) of Dante’s �rst (and last) “solo”
adventure in the Inferno is carried out with a striking mixture of
brief understatement and the only vivid colors we �nd in the cantica
(as Chiavacci Leonardi points out in her commentary to v. 63). The
quick spareness of the narration allows the poet to give us �ve
personages in this brief space. And for all the brightness of the color
on the devices that we see, the net e�ect is of an enervated
attachment, not so much to wealth as to the lonely pursuit of
in�nite gathering. [return to English / Italian]
82.    The “stairs” to which Virgil refers are monstrous creatures, as
he looks ahead to their means of conveyance over the great gaps in
walkable terrain that they will face at Cocytus (Canto XXXI, Antaeus
will be their “stairs” then) and at the center of the Earth (Canto
XXXIV, where Satan’s legs will be the ladder Virgil climbs to begin
to draw Dante up from hell). [return to English / Italian]
97–99.      Virgil’s commands to Geryon, coupled with the monster’s
instantaneous disappearance once his tour of duty is ended, make
the reader realize that Virgil has used extraordinarily persuasive
arguments to tame this beast. His having sent Dante away also
reminds us of the time he left his charge alone but in sight of his
temporary yet crushing defeat at the hands of the demons at the
walls of Dis. This time he �rst gets his pupil out of viewing range
and then, we do not know how, manages to control a most di�cult
demon and turn him into the �rst helicopter. If Dante is the main
learner in Inferno, Virgil learns a few things himself. [return to English /
Italian]
106–108.   The extraordinary journey put fear into our hero, which
he now may compare to that felt by classical precursors who failed
on similar �ights. As Brownlee points out, Phaeton (his story is
found in Ovid, Metam. II.47–324) dropped the reins of his heavenly
chariot as a result of his terror upon looking at the constellation
Scorpio, while Dante mounts on the scorpion-tailed Geryon in order
to accomplish his �ight (Brow.1984.1), p. 136.

The “scorching” of the sky, the path of Phaeton’s fall, is the Milky
Way. [return to English / Italian]
109–111.    Icarus (Ovid, Metam. VIII.183–235), on a second
extraordinary �ight that failed, did not obey the instructions of his
father, Daedalus, trying instead to turn a voyage home into a trip
through the galaxy. If the protagonist then thought of these two
precursors, he must have thought that he, too, might die for his
temerity; the poet, however, making the analogies now, sees the
comic resolution of a voyage that might have turned tragic except
for the fact that this voyager had God on his side. [return to English /
Italian]
115–126.      This, perhaps the single most melodramatic and
implausible narrative passage in the Comedy, is accomplished with
considerable art. Dante, his face at �rst pushed up against the body
of the beast, sees nothing. He feels the wind on his face, hears the
torrent below, �nally gets his eyes into play and sees the �ames of
lower hell, hears the cries of the damned, and �nally, now that he is
able to look, realizes the pattern of his descending �ight from the
“approach” of the circling and rising hellscape. [return to English /
Italian]
127–136.   The simile re-introduces falconry to the poem; references
to this sport of hunting with birds will reappear several times. The
similetic falcon, like Geryon an unwilling worker, has come down
before �nishing his mission (to catch a bird or be summoned home
by the falconer’s lure); to compound his bad birdmanship, he does
not even land on his master’s arm, but far a�eld. Geryon, on the
other hand, while equally rebellious, does complete his �ight as his
master (Virgil) had ordered. The simile, now that the fearsome �ight
is over, has a way of making Geryon less terrifying than he was,
comparing him to a small bird of prey. At this midpoint of the
Comedy we have a provisional comic ending, with Dante safe and
sound exactly halfway there. (For Dante’s distinctions between
tragedy and comedy see the note to Inferno XX.106–114.) The last

two verses of the canto, however, give Geryon a last moment of
terrifying will and power. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XVIII
1–18.      The extended introductory passage interrupts the narrative
in order to set the new scene: Malebolge, the eighth Circle, with its
ten varieties of fraudulent behaviors. Only in Inferno does an equal
number of cantos (17 and 17) create a precise center for a cantica in
the space between two cantos, and we have just passed it. The last
canto ended with a sort of “comic” conclusion to Dante’s dangerous
voyage on Geryon. He has now traversed precisely half of the
literary space devoted to the underworld. Thus, fully half of the
cantica, Cantos XVIII to XXXIV, is dedicated to the sins of Fraud.
That division tells us something about the poet’s view of human
behavior, namely that it is better typi�ed by the worst of sins than
by the lesser ones.
The poetry of Malebolge, studied by Sanguineti (Sang.1962.1), is
strikingly self-con�dent. One has the feeling that Dante, having
�nished his apprenticeship, now has achieved a level of aesthetic
performance that may have surprised even him. In the seventh canto
he had conjoined two kinds of sinners, the avaricious and the
prodigal; but these are two sides of the same sin. Here for the �rst
time, as something of a tour de force, he includes two entirely
separate categories of sin in a single canto, one of them itself
subdivided into two groups, as in Canto VII—all of this in 115 lines.
The precision of the operation is noteworthy, and may be
represented as follows:
(1)  panders & seducers (2)  �atterers
   
disposition of both (22–39) disposition (100–114)
modern exemplar (52–66) modern exemplar (115–126)
classical exemplar (82–99) classical exemplar (127–136)

The hellscape o�ers a gray stone circular wall surrounding a stone
“�eld,” which in turn surrounds a pit (the “keep” of this “castle”);
the �eld is divided into ten valleys, which resemble moats set
around a castle. The analogy is complete, but works in reverse, since
a castle rises above its surroundings, while this “castle” is a hole
leading into hell. Our �rst view of Malebolge (the name is a
Dantean coinage made up of words meaning “evil” and “pouches”)
makes it seem like a vast, emptied stadium, e.g., the Colosseum,
which Dante might have seen in 1301 if he indeed visited Rome
then, or the arena of Verona, which he probably saw at least by
1304. The former hypothesis is attractive in that the second image
of the canto is also modeled on Roman architecture: the bridge over
the Tiber between the Vatican and the city. [return to English / Italian]
19–21.      The narrative is now joined to the action concluding the
last canto and the poets resume their leftward circling movement.
[return to English / Italian]
22–27.      The panders, moving from left to right as Dante views
them, are moving in a direction contrary to his; the seducers,
moving from his right to his left, and thus moving in parallel with
him, are going faster than he; but then he has no demons lashing
him with whips. [return to English / Italian]
28–33.      The simile, re�ecting the Roman invention of two-way
tra�c in 1300 for the crowds thronging to the holy places, on the
bridge across the Tiber, from the city (to St. Peter’s, after they pass
Castel Sant’Angelo) and back again (to the area of Monte Giordano,
just o� the Tiber), has caused some to argue that Dante had been in
Rome during the Jubilee. It is more likely that he was in fact there
in 1301 and heard tell of this modern wonder of crowd control. That
the �rst city that Malebolge calls to mind is Rome in the Jubilee
Year is not without its ironic thrust, especially since it had been
Pope Boniface VIII, so hated by Dante, who proclaimed this great
event (the �rst in the Church’s history). [return to English / Italian]

35.   In his commentary to the passage Benvenuto da Imola suggests
that the panders are punished by horned devils because their actions
resulted in the cuckoldry of others. [return to English / Italian]
50.      Venedico was an important political �gure of Bologna in the
second half of the thirteenth century. His sin was in selling his own
sister to Opizzo of Este (see Inf. XII.111). He actually died in 1302,
although Dante obviously believed he had died before 1300. [return
to English / Italian]
58–61.   Venedico’s pleasantry insists that there are more Bolognesi
in this zone of hell than currently populate the city itself. “Sipa” is
ancient dialectical Bolognese for “yes,” and thus the phrase means
“have grown up speaking Bolognese dialect” between the rivers that
mark the eastern and western con�nes of the city. [return to English /
Italian]
66.    The demon’s rough remark is variously understood: either
“there are no women here to defraud” (as Venedico did his sister),
or “there are no women here for sale” (to o�er to Dante). And there
may also be a hint of slang words for female genitalia. In our
translation we have tried to keep both of the �rst meanings possible.
[return to English / Italian]
72.      The circlings of the whipped sinners, not of the ditches
themselves, are almost certainly what is referred to, just as
Francesco da Buti, in his commentary to this passage, said centuries
ago. However, it was only some eighty years ago that Enrico Bianchi
(Bian.1921.1) brought such a comprehension back to the verse,
thereby increasing its power: the reference is to the Florentine
custom of whipping a condemned man along the route to his
execution. Most contemporary commentators accept this reading.
[return to English / Italian]
73–78.   At the high point of the bridge over the ditch on their way
toward the next bolgia the travelers stop to observe the second set of

sinners in this one, whom they have not been able to examine
because these were going along in the same direction as were they,
and at a faster clip. [return to English / Italian]
83–85.   Like Capaneus (Inf. XIV.46–48), the heroic Jason is allowed
to keep some of his dignity and his stoical strength. [return to English /
Italian]
86–96.      Jason, who will be remembered in Paradiso in a far more
positive light, as the precursor of Dante in his having taken a great
voyage and returned with the golden �eece (Par. II.16–18; XXV.7;
XXXIII.94–96), is here presented as the classical exemplar of the vile
seducer. Dante has Virgil condense the lengthy narrative of Jason’s
exploits found in Ovid (Metam. VII.1–424) into two details, the
seductions of Hypsipyle (daughter of the king of Lemnos) and of
Medea (daughter of the king of Colchis).
For the resonance at v. 91 of Beatrice’s description of Virgilian
utterance as “parola ornata” see the note to Inf. II.67. As for Jason’s
segni (signs of love), Dante may be thinking of his ability to move
Medea by tears as well as words (see Metam. VII.169). [return to
English / Italian]
100–114.   The second ditch is �lled with supernatural excrement (it
only seems to have come from the toilets of humans). What do
�atterers do? It is unnecessary to repeat the slang phrases that are
used in nearly all languages to characterize their utterance. What
they did above, they do below, wallowing in excrement, their faces
ingesting it as animals guzzle food from their troughs (see v. 104).
[return to English / Italian]
122.      Alessio Interminei is the �rst Lucchese whom we encounter,
but there will be others, below. Dante seems systematically to
include in hell representatives of all the major Tuscan cities. [return
to English / Italian]

133–135.      Thaïs is a courtesan in Terence’s comic play Eunuchus,
and had a reputation even into the Middle Ages as a �atterer.
Whether Dante is citing Terence directly (most currently dispute
this) or through Cicero (De amicitia XXVI.98—a text that Dante
assuredly did know and which explicitly associates Thaïs with
�attery, though there and in Terence she is the one �attered, not the
�atterer) is a matter that still excites argument. For the most recent
claims for Dante’s knowledge of Terence see Villa (Vill.1984.1); but
see also the countering arguments of Bara´nski (Bara.1993.1), pp.
230–38. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XIX
1–6.      “In the Bible, Simon Magus was a sorcerer of Samaria who
was converted by the preaching of Philip the evangelist (see Acts
8:9–13). When he subsequently attempted to buy the power of
conferring the Holy Ghost, he was severely rebuked by the apostle
Peter for thinking that the gift of God might be purchased with
money (see Acts 8:14–24). From the name Simon is derived the
word ‘simony,’ which is applied to all tra�c in sacred things,
especially the buying or selling of ecclesiastical o�ces” (Singleton’s
comment).
For the intrinsic and striking distinction between the man named
Simon, who was a magus (Acts 8:9), and the apostle Peter, also
named Simon (Simon Petrus—John 20:2, 20:6), see Singleton
(Sing.1965.1) as well as Herzman and Stephany (Herz.1978.1), pp.
40, 46. Nicholas is seen as the follower of Simon Magus, while
Dante presents himself as the follower of Simon Peter.
For studies of the canto as a whole see Fost.1969.1 and the third
chapter of Musa.1974.1. [return to English / Italian]
16–21.   Some have argued that this passage is not credible if taken
literally and, therefore, must be understood as metaphorical. See
Spitzer (Spit.1943.1) and, more recently, Noakes (Noak.1968.1),
who argues that the public vow of adherence to the French king
taken, in the baptistry and thus in proximity to the font, before
Charles of Valois entered Florence in 1302, is what Dante now
confesses he “broke.” The language of the passage is so concrete
that it seems di�cult to credit such an ingenious solution.
Mazzoni (Mazz.1981.1) a�rms the literal meaning of the passage,
while leaving in doubt the nature of the act that Dante claims to
have performed. Reviewing the commentary tradition, he supports
the view of most of the early commentators that the noun
battezzatori refers to the priests who performed baptismal rites.

Mirko Tavoni (Tavo.1992.1) gives reasons for believing that it refers
to the fonts themselves. That question is probably not resolvable, as
the noun can have either meaning.
All the early commentators take the incident referred to here as
actually having occurred, when a child, playing with other children,
became lodged in one of the smaller baptismal fonts of the
Florentine baptistry. Castelvetro has perhaps the most believable
explanation; in his view the baptismal font and its several little
pozzetti were protected by a thin wooden covering in order to
protect the holy water from sight (and desacralizing droppings?). It
is this and not the marble of the font (which Benvenuto da Imola has
Dante breaking with an axe brought to him by a bystander) that the
poet broke, thus saving the near-drowned child. His solemn oath,
reminiscent of the language describing papal bulls and their seals,
now stakes his authority as Florentine and poet on the charitable
nature of his act, which others had apparently characterized as
sacrilegious. Whatever explanation we �nd most acceptable, it
seems clear that Dante is referring to an actual event that his former
fellow-citizens would remember. [return to English / Italian]
22–24.   We shall later learn that Dante here comes face to feet with
a pope, Nicholas III (vv. 69–72). The inverted �gure, like Judas in
the central mouth of Lucifer (Inf. XXXIV.63), has his head within,
his legs without. Dante’s use of bocca (mouth) for the opening of the
hole into which he descends suggests that eventually Nicholas will
be eaten and digested by hell itself once the next simoniac pope
comes to his eternal station. [return to English / Italian]
25.  For the parodic inversion of Pentecostal �re in the punishment
of sins that involve the perversion of the gift of the Holy Spirit, in
particular as manifest in the misuse of extraordinary gifts of
persuasion found among those punished as heresiarchs, sodomites,
simoniacs, and false counselors, see Reginald French (Fren.1964.1),
pp. 8–10. [return to English / Italian]

28–30.   For the oil referred to here as indicative, parodically, of the
anointing unction that priests o�er those who su�er, see Herzman
and Stephany (Herz.1978.1), pp. 49–51. Unction is usually
associated with the head, not the feet; the ironic point is clear.
[return to English / Italian]
35.   The further bank of the bolgia is not as high as the nearer one
because the slope of the Malebolge cuts away the topmost part of
each successive pouch. For this reason Virgil will lead Dante over
the third bolgia to the fourth embankment only to climb down into
the third from this vantage point. [return to English / Italian]
37–39.      Dante’s submissiveness to his lord, acknowledging Virgil’s
awareness of his wishes, is surely meant to contrast with Nicholas’s
rebellious o�ense to his. [return to English / Italian]
46–47.      The pope’s situation is reminiscent of St. Peter’s upside-
down cruci�xion (see Herzman and Stephany [Herz.1978.1, p. 44]),
but also refers to the Florentine mode of dispatching convicted
assassins, “planting” them upside down in a hole and then
su�ocating them when the hole is �lled back up with earth: “Let the
assassin be planted upside down, so that he may be put to death.”
[return to English / Italian]
49–51.      Dante now assumes the role of confessing friar. The last
verse of the tercet has caused controversy. While cessare, used
transitively, ordinarily in Dante means “to avoid,” most agree that
here it means “delay.” In our translation we have tried to hedge,
using “stay” in such a way as to allow it to be interpreted either as
“put o� (for a while)” or “put a stop to.” [return to English / Italian]
52–53.   The �rst naming of Pope Boniface VIII (Benedetto Caetani)
in the poem. Succeeding Celestine V in January 1295 and dying in
October 1303, he greatly strengthened the power of the papacy,
while also asserting its temporal power in the realm Dante allowed
to empire alone. His support of the Black Guelphs and the French

forces in Florence earned him Dante’s un�agging enmity. Nicholas’s
taking Dante for Boniface is grimly yet hilariously amusing. [return to
English / Italian]
54.      Some have suggested that the condition of future knowledge
alluded to by Farinata (Inf. X.100–108) pertains only to the heretics;
this passage would seem to indicate clearly that others, as well, and
perhaps all those in hell, have some sense of the future but none of
the present. Nicholas had “read” in the “book of the future” that
Boniface would be on his way to hell as of 1303, and is thus now
confused, as he expects no one else to pile in on top of him but
Boniface. [return to English / Italian]
57.      The beautiful Lady is, resolved from metaphor, the Church,
Christ’s “bride.” [return to English / Italian]
69–72.      Pope Nicholas III (Giovanni Gaetano Orsini) served from
1277–80, openly practicing nepotism in favor of his relations. His
references to the “she-bear” and her “cubs” re�ect his family name,
Orsini (orsa means “bear” in Italian), one of the most powerful of
Roman families. [return to English / Italian]
79–87.      Clement is compared to Jason, brother of the high priest
Onias. From the king of Syria, Antiochus IV Epiphanes, he bought
his brother’s position and then brought pagan practices to Jerusalem
(see II Mach. 4:7–26). In short, to Dante he seemed a Jewish
“simoniac pope,” pre�guring the corrupt practices of Clement.
Dante condemns, as Durling points out (Durl.1996.1, p. 300), a
number of Clement’s actions, including “his role in Philip’s
destruction of the Templars, Purg. XX.91–93; the removal of the
papal see to Avignon, Purg. XXXII.157–160; his simony, Par.
XVII.82; and his betrayal of Henry VII, Par. XXX.142–148.”
This is perhaps the crucial passage for those who debate the
internal dating of the composition of the poem. First, one should
explain its literal meaning. Nicholas has now been “cooking” for
twenty years (1280–1300). The Frenchman Bertrand de Got, who

served as Pope Clement V from 1305–1314 and who supervised the
papacy’s removal to Avignon in 1309, an act that caused much
Italian outrage (and notably Dante’s [see Purg. XXXII.157–160; Epist.
XI.21–26]), will replace Boniface as topmost simoniac pope before
Boniface spends twenty years in that position of punishment, i.e.,
before 1323. If the �rst cantica was composed, as many, but not all,
propose, between 1306–07 and 1309–10, Dante here is either
making a rough (and chancy) prediction that Clement, who su�ered
from ill health, would die sometime before 1323, or he is knowingly
referring to the death of Clement in 1314. However, most, observing
Dante’s general practice in “predicting” only things actually known
to him, argue that this is a prophecy post eventum, i.e., that the
passage was written after April of 1314, when Clement died. If that
is true, then either the traditional dating of the poem’s composition
is incorrect, and it was written later (and much more quickly) than
is generally believed (ca. 1313–1321), or Dante inserted this passage
while he was revising Inferno in 1315 before circulating it. This is
Petrocchi’s solution (Petr.1969.1), and many follow it. For an
opposing view, see Padoan (Pado.1993.1). And for a summary of the
question and bibliography see A. E. Quaglio, “Commedia,
Composizione,” ED (vol. 2, 1970), pp. 81–82.
That this is the only reference to Clement before well into
Purgatorio lends support to the idea that this passage is a later
interpolation. In a paper written in 1999 Stefano Giannini
(Gian.1999.1), a graduate student at Johns Hopkins University,
examined all the references to events occurring after 1300 in
Inferno. His provisional results are as follows: 22 references to
events occurring between 1300 and 1304; 4 references to events
occurring between 1306 and 1309 (all between Cantos XXVI and
XXIX); this sole reference to an event occurring in 1314. These
results would certainly seem to support those who maintain that this
passage is a later interpolation and that Inferno was essentially
completed during the �rst decade of the fourteenth century. [return to
English / Italian]

88–89.    Dante’s coyness here is palpable: of course he is not being
“too bold” (troppo folle) in the eyes of any just observer. At the same
time he is clearly aware of the enormity of his “singing” such a
“tune” to a pope. [return to English / Italian]
90–117.      Dante’s great outburst of invective against Nicholas (and
all simoniac popes) is based on the history of the Church, beginning
with Christ’s calling of Peter, moving to Peter’s and the other
apostles’ choosing Matthias by lot to take the place of Judas. After
Dante alludes to Nicholas’s vile maneuvering against the Angevin
king, Charles I of Sicily, he returns to the Bible, now to Rev. 17,
interpreted positively as the presentation of the Roman Church as
keeper of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit and the Ten
Commandments. (For the relationship between the woman here
[Rome as honest wife of the Caesars, free of papal constraint] and
the whore of Purgatorio XXXII [Rome as the corrupted Church after
the Donation of Constantine] see Davis [Davi.1998.1], p. 271.)
Dante’s oration ends with a �nal slam at papal worship of “the
golden calf,” joining the �nal apostrophe of the canto in rebuke of
Constantine as the source of most of Christianity’s troubles when he
granted the papacy temporal authority. [return to English / Italian]
115–117.      The author’s apostrophe of the emperor Constantine
(reigned 306–337) holds him responsible for the so-called “Donation
of Constantine,” by which he granted temporal sovereignty to Pope
Sylvester I (314–335)—and his successors—over Italy and the rest of
the western empire. This document was considered genuine until
Lorenzo Valla, in the �fteenth century, demonstrated that it was a
forgery. For Dante it was genuine and a cause for excited concern.
(His views on the subject are exposited forcefully in the later
Monarchia [III.x.1–9]). In his view the emperor was not empowered
to give over his authority; thus the document was truthful, but its
legitimacy compromised.
We are perhaps meant to understand by these lines that Sylvester,
who cured Constantine of leprosy and was, as a result, rewarded by
him with authority over the Roman Empire, is the bottom-most

pope in this hole, the “�rst rich Father,” a condition that was to his
immediate bene�t but to the eventual loss of all Christians. [return to
English / Italian]
124–126.      Virgil’s pleasure in Dante is indeed so great that he
embraces him and carries him back out of the bolgia. [return to English
/ Italian]
128–130.      Virgil sets Dante down upon the bridge that overlooks
the fourth bolgia, in which, in the next canto, Dante will observe the
diviners. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XX
1–3.      The uniquely self-conscious opening of this canto, featuring
the only explicit numeration of a canto in the poem, has caused a
certain puzzlement and even consternation. One discussant, H. D.
Austin, has argued that its prosaic super�uity recommends that
future editors either excise it from the poem, as an addition by an
overenthusiastic scribe, or at least print it in square brackets
(Aust.1932.1, pp. 39–40). Its self-consciousness and di�culty, one
might argue in rejoinder, are precisely signs of Dantean authorship.
The opening line portrays a poet who only unwillingly commits
himself to the di�cult task he now must assume. Many of the words
of this �rst tercet have received close critical attention. Nova has
either the sense (or both senses, as our translation would indicate)
of “new” or “strange” (see D’Ovidio [Dovi.1926.1], p. 318). Matera
is, as Chiavacci Leonardi says (Chia.1991.1), p. 599, a “technical
term,” one used to denote the subject that a writer chooses to treat.
Canto is here used for the �rst time (it will be used again only at Inf.
XXXIII.90, Par. V.16 and V.139) to indicate a part of the poem; as
Bara´nski (Bara.1995.3, pp. 3–4) has pointed out, the early
commentators found this term strange, rendering it with Latin or
Italian words for “chapter” or “book.” Canzone is a still more
troubling choice of word (it is used twice more, Purg. XXXI.134,
XXXII.90); in De vulgari eloquentia (e.g., Dve II.viii.2–9) it is the word
(cantio in Dante’s Latin) that describes the lofty vernacular ode that
Dante presents (with himself as most successful practitioner of the
form) as the height of poetic eloquence in the mother tongue, and
thus “tragic” in tone, because it is like the lofty style of the classical
poets. Is Dante suggesting that Inferno is tragic? (For some thoughts
along this line see Hollander [Holl.1980.1], pp. 137–40.) It is only
in Purg. XXXIII.140 that he will �nally give a part of the poem the
name it now enjoys: cantica, with its religious (resonance of
Solomon’s Canticle of Canticles [see Pert.1991.1, pp. 107–8]) and

“comic” overtones. And �nally there is the apparently strikingly
inexact word sommersi, which has seemed to many commentators
wrong, since the damned are not submerged in water but buried
under earth. Marino Barchiesi (Barc.1973.2), p. 85, resolved this
problem by �nding a probable source in the Aeneid (VI.267), where
Virgil asks the gods for permission “pandere res alta terra et caligine
mersas” (to reveal things immersed deep in earth and darkness).
If the opening tercet causes this much di�culty, what follows will
often be at least as challenging. One of the most interesting and
provocative studies of the canto remains Parodi’s essay
(Paro.1908.1). It is a canto that is still today renowned for its
problematic nature. [return to English / Italian]
4–9.   The �rst description of the diviners insists upon their silence
and their misery, expressed by tears, the only form of expression
allowed them, given the fact that their necks are twisted, thus
cutting o� the possibility of speech. We are probably meant to
re�ect on the fact that their voices, announcing their false
prescriptions, were the instruments of their deception of their
clients/victims. [return to English / Italian]
10–12.      Hollander has suggested (Holl.1980.1, p. 141) that the
image of the twisted necks of the diviners, with the resultant loss of
the capacity of speech, may have been suggested by a text in Lucan
(Phars. V.197), in which Apollo closes o� the throat of a prophetess
(Phemonoe) before she can reveal the rest of a dire prophecy, thus
depriving her Roman listener of news of his unhappy destiny:
“Cetera suppressit faucesque obstruxit Apollo” (Apollo closed her
throat and suppressed the rest of her speech). [return to English / Italian]
13–15.      The backward-looking diviners su�er this contrapasso for
having looked, with wrongful intent, into the future. Biblical
references have seemed apt to an occasional commentator. Pietro di
Dante adduces Isaiah 44:25: “[I am the Lord] That frustrates the
tokens of the liars, and makes diviners mad; that turns wise men

backward, and makes their knowledge foolish.” [return to English /
Italian]
19–24.      The �rst tercet of this fourth address to the reader in this
cantica (see note to Inf. VIII.94–96) is generally understood as
indicating that, given the sad sight he must behold, Dante is
excusing himself from blame for weeping. Benvenuto da Imola,
however, has a di�ering view (and says that “this subtle �ction is
poorly understood by many others”). According to him, Dante’s
tears reveal his guilty feelings about his own involvement in
astrological prediction and that “as a result he presents himself as
weeping out of compassion for others, and for himself because of his
own errors.” It is possible to read the passage in an even harsher
light. If the reader is to “gather fruit” from reading this passage, is it
not likely that its point is that Dante was wrong to weep for these
creatures? What he feels is sadness at the human �gure rendered so
contorted, forgetting the reason for the (entirely just) punishment.
[return to English / Italian]
25–27.      Dante weeps and thereby earns Virgil’s rebuke (which
commentators since Tommaseo have related to the words that Jesus
directed to Peter and the other apostles, slow to take his meaning,
found in Matthew 15:16: “Adhuc et vos sine intellectu estis?” (Are
you also even yet without understanding?) A question that has
exercised many readers is whether the protagonist already knows
that those punished here are the diviners. While some, like Ettore
Caccia (Cacc.1967.1, p. 695) and Antonino Pagliaro (Pagl.1967.1, p.
611), argue that Dante weeps only at the piteous condition of the
contorted human body, and not for the lot of the diviners, others,
like Marino Barchiesi (Barc.1973.1, p. 62) reply that such
distinction-making is oversubtle. Indeed, the whole context of the
canto would make it seem necessary that Virgil’s rebuke is not
aimed at so wide a target, but rather at Dante’s failure to react
adversely to the diviners. [return to English / Italian]

28–30.      Perhaps the tercet in the canto that has caused the most
debate. Where is “here” (qui)? Who is indicated by the �rst “who”
(chi)? And what does the last verse of the tercet mean? In response
to the �rst two questions, Hollander has made the following
observations (Holl.1980.1, p. 147), dividing the most plausible
series of answers into two groups: “(1) If Dante weeps for lost
humanity in general, qui refers to hell in general and chi almost
certainly refers to Dante. (2) If Dante weeps for the diviners in
particular, qui refers to this bolgia and chi almost certainly applies to
the diviners.” Carlo Steiner, in his commentary to this passage,
argues that it seems logically inconsistent for Virgil to call Dante
“witless” at v. 27 and “impious” at v. 29, as stupidity and impiety
are some stages distant one from another.
As for the complicated philological problem regarding the exact
reading of verse 30, this writer, along with many another, accepts
the arguments of Petrocchi (Petr.1966.1, pp. 181–82) for the
reading “passion comporta” (and not “compassion porta” or
“passïon porta”). For a fuller exposition, based on texts in Statius
and St. Augustine, see Holl.1980.1, pp. 147–57, citing, for
Augustine, the earlier discussions of Filomusi Guel� (Filo.1911.1),
pp. 192–95; and now see Puccetti (Pucc.1994.1), pp. 199–206. For
brief descriptions of a good half-dozen competing interpretations of
the sin of the diviners see Caccia (Cacc.1967.1), pp. 688–90. [return
to English / Italian]
31–39.      In Canto XI Virgil has two continuous speeches of some
length, vv. 15–66 and vv. 76–115. We are here involved in Virgil’s
longest single speech in the poem, vv. 27–99. Having warned Dante
against the sin of divination, he now proceeds to identify its
exemplars, beginning with �ve classical diviners. The �rst of these
derives from Statius. “Amphiaraus  …  was one of the seven kings
who joined in the expedition against Thebes (Inf. XIV.68);
foreseeing that the issue would be fatal to himself, he concealed
himself to avoid going to the war, but his hiding-place was revealed
by his wife Eriphyle, who had been bribed by Polynices with the
necklace of Harmonia (Purg. XII.50–51). Amphiaraus, as had been

foreseen, met his death at Thebes, being swallowed up by the earth,
but before he died he enjoined his son Alcmaeon to put Eriphyle to
death on his return from Thebes, in punishment of her betrayal of
him (Par. IV.103–105)” (T). The incidents referred to here are a
somewhat reinvented version of the narrative found in Statius
(Thebaid VII.690–823; VIII.1–210). For Dante’s willful distortions of
the story of this augur, who is portrayed with great sympathy by
Statius, see Holl.1980.1, pp. 170–73. [return to English / Italian]
40–45.      “Tiresias, famous soothsayer of Thebes. According to the
story he once separated with his sta� two serpents which he found
coupled in a wood, whereupon he was changed into a woman for
seven years; at the expiration of this period he found the same two
serpents and struck them again, whereupon he was changed back
into a man. Subsequently, Jupiter and Juno having di�ered as to
which of the two sexes experienced the greater [sexual] pleasure,
the question was referred to Tiresias, as having belonged to both
sexes, and he decided in favour of woman, which coincided with the
opinion of Jupiter; Juno thereupon in anger struck him with
blindness, but Jupiter, by way of compensation, endowed him with
the gift of prophecy (Ovid, Metam. III.316–38)” (T). For a study of
Dante’s recasting of Ovid’s essentially positive presentation of
Tiresias, making him a repulsive �gure rather than the truthful and
blameless seer he is in Ovid, with particular attention to the verga,
or magic wand, that Dante contrives for him, thus associating him
with Circe and Mercury, see Holl.1980.1, pp. 173–84. [return to
English / Italian]
46–51.      “Aruns, Etruscan soothsayer, who, according to Lucan
(Phars. I.584–638) foretold the civil war, which was to end in the
death of Pompey and the triumph of Caesar. Dante … describes him
as having dwelt in a cave … in the Carrara hills” (T). Castelvetro, in
his comment on this passage, points out that, in Lucan’s text, Aruns
does not dwell in a cave but within the walls of Luni and that,
furthermore, he was not an astrologer (as Dante implies) but used
other means to develop his soothsaying (e.g., studying the �ight of

birds, the innards of animals, the course of the thunderbolt). [return
to English / Italian]
52–56.   “Manto, daughter of Tiresias, Theban prophetess…; Dante
here puts into Virgil’s mouth an account of the founding of Mantua
by Manto … which is totally inconsistent with Virgil’s own account
as given in the Aeneid (X.198–200). By an oversight Dante also
includes la �glia di Tiresia, who can be none other than Manto,
among the persons mentioned by Statius who Virgil says are
together with himself in Limbo (Purg. XXII.113)” (T). Compared
with the violence done to classical texts in the preceding three
examples (Amphiaraus, Tiresias, and Aruns), that done to Virgil’s
tale of Manto is even more remarkable. Even her hair seems to
belong to another, whether the uncombed locks of frenetic Erichtho
(“inpexis  …  comis”—Phars. VI.518), as Benvenuto da Imola
suggested, or those of the Sibyl (perhaps the “source” for Lucan’s
witch’s hair), “non comptae  …  comes” (Aeneid VI.48), as noted by
Grabher. Since the Roman poet, as surely Dante realized, had
deliberately associated his birthplace (Pietola, then probably known
as Andes, near Mantua) with Manto, so as to make himself, like her,
a vates, or prophet (see the study by Marie Desport [Desp.1952.1]),
Dante now makes his maestro ed autore recant the �ction that he
himself had devised. (Virgil’s commentators themselves had
wondered how the Greek Manto could have come to Italy in order
to found her city, since Virgil’s poem is the only text to contain this
claim.)
One of the lasting problems left by this canto is its eventual
contradiction of Dante’s placement of Manto in Limbo in Purgatorio
XXII.113, where Virgil tells Statius that various of the characters of
whom the later poet wrote are found in that zone of the afterworld.
Previous writers had resorted to various hypotheses, none
particularly satisfying, in order to explain how Dante could have
forgotten what he had said about Manto here when he wrote the
later passage, or that, with equal failure to satisfy, “the daughter of
Tiresias” of Purgatorio XXII was someone other than Manto, or even
that the original text read something other than “la �glia di Tiresia.”

Two Americans have argued independently that the apparent
contradiction is intentional, and is based on Dante’s willful
insistence that the Manto portrayed by Virgil was indeed a diviner,
while the same character portrayed by Statius was not (she is rather
the dutiful daughter of Tiresias, helping with the chores, as it were).
See Richard Kay (Kay.1978.2) and Robert Hollander (Holl.1980.1),
pp. 205–13. Kay also argues, less convincingly, that Dante thought
of Virgil’s Manto as historical and of Statius’s character as �ctive,
thus further excusing the bilocation. [return to English / Italian]
57–60.      With risible understatement, the poet has Virgil ask for a
little of the protagonist’s time (his digression will continue until
verse 99, occupying fully fourteen terzine). This passage begins by
tacitly acknowledging the utter �ctiveness of this account, since we
have no source for what happened to Manto after Tiresias’s death
(and the conquest of Thebes by Creon). Dante puts, into the mouth
of Virgil, an account of her voyage into Italy. As is the case for that
undertaken by Ulysses in Canto XXVI, there is no known source for
this one, either. [return to English / Italian]
61–63.   We turn our attention from the story of Manto in order to
examine the landscape of Italy, to which she will repair in her
wanderings. Benaco is now known as Lake Garda. [return to English /
Italian]
64–69.      The fresh waters of northern Italy, entering into Garda,
with its island that might serve for Christian services if the various
bishops of its neighboring dioceses were to gather there, since a
chapel on the island was subject to the jurisdiction of all three of
them, will be seen to contrast with the muddy waters surrounding
Manto’s adoptive homeland once we arrive there. For discussion of
the meaning of these geographical references see Caccia
(Cacc.1966.1). [return to English / Italian]
70–72.   The fortress at Peschiera, under the control of the Scaliger
family of Verona, with whom Dante was on good terms by the time

he was writing the Comedy, is seen as strong enough to hold o�
attacks from the cities of Brescia or Bergamo. [return to English / Italian]
73–78.      Leaving Benaco (Garda), the waters that began in the
mountains to the north now head south (in the Mincio) and �nally,
after reaching Governolo, east (in the Po—in which they �nally
reach the [Adriatic] sea). [return to English / Italian]
79–81.      Here the attention of Dante turns back to a spot that the
waters reach before they attain Governolo, the untilled, swampy
land that will become the site of Mantua. [return to English / Italian]
85–93.   Finally here is Manto. She is described as “vergine cruda”
(cruel virgin [in the sense that she does not like the company of
men]), a phrase that may re�ect Statius’s description of her (Thebaid
IV.463) as “innuba Manto” and/or Dante’s description of that other
diviner, Erichtho, who is “Eritón cruda” at Inf. IX.23. Here she
practiced her divinatory arts with her servants and died. Those who
had �ed her fearsome presence returned after her death and built
Virgil’s city upon her bones, giving it her name, but not her
divinatory capacity. What is at �rst shocking about this account is
that it contradicts what we �nd in the Aeneid, where (X.198–203)
we learn that the city was founded by Ocnus, the son of Manto. In
other words, Dante has excised (indeed, has forced Virgil himself to
excise) Ocnus. For if Manto had had progeny, as she did according
to Virgil, then her mantic ability might have been passed on to
others—the claim that Virgil was evidently himself bent upon
making in his poem, only to be forced to recant it here in Dante’s. It
is an extraordinary moment. [return to English / Italian]
94–96.      Dante’s reference to a late-thirteenth-century political
disaster in Mantua probably seems gratuitous to the modern reader.
Given the poet’s concern with the condition of his own Florence,
however, we can appreciate his interest in the dramatic events
resulting from when the Guelph leader of Mantua, the Count of
Casalodi, allowed himself to be tricked by the Ghibelline Pinamonte

Bonacolsi, who apparently convinced him to expel many of the
nobles in order to mollify the populace, angered by his having come
from Brescia to rule in 1272. Foolishly exiling even members of his
own party, he was in time bereft of supporters; in 1291, Pinamonte
led a popular revolt that sent the count into exile and killed the
remaining noble families. The tercet o�ered Dante a moment’s bitter
re�ection upon his own condition as exiled Guelph, brought about
by the similar folly of his fellow citizens. [return to English / Italian]
97–102.      Capping his (to us absurd yet amusing) contradiction of
the details of the founding of Mantua published in his own poem,
Virgil now gets Dante to swear that he will regard only the current
version of that history as truthful, and that he will consider any
other version, i.e., the Roman poet’s own, as nothing other than a
lie. The protagonist dutifully assents. Thus is Virgil made to remove
the stain of divination from his poem and from himself. The result is
eventually quite di�erent from what the tactic might have been
intended to secure, i.e., Virgil’s poem is seen precisely as associated
with this fault. See Barolini (Baro.1998.1), pp. 283–84. [return to
English / Italian]
106–114.      “Eurypylus, augur sent by the Greeks to consult the
oracle of Apollo as to their departure from Troy; he brought back
the reply that, as their departure from Greece had cost them a
bloody sacri�ce in the death of Iphigenia, so by blood must they
purchase their return (Aen. II.114–119). Dante, who describes
Eurypylus as having a long beard,…makes Virgil say (vv. 110–113)
that Eurypylus was associated with Calchas in foretelling the time of
the sailing of the Greek �eet from Aulis; but there is no mention of
this fact in the Aeneid” (T). Toynbee’s version is not exactly correct.
Not even in Sinon’s lying account of these events, to which the text
refers, is Eurypylus said to be an augur: the message that he brings
back from Apollo’s shrine is then interpreted by Calchas, the “true”
augur in the Aeneid, to mean that Sinon must be sacri�ced. We
should re�ect that Dante must have realized that none of what
Sinon says is truthful. Yet he nonetheless uses this material in order

to concoct his own still more inauthentic version of events. See
Holl.1980.1, pp. 200–3.
The phrase with which Virgil indicates the Aeneid, “l’alta mia
tragedìa,” has caused only some debate, as most commentators
believe that, for Dante, with regard to its plot, Virgil’s epic was a
“comedy” because it begins in di�culty (the shipwreck that initiates
the action) and ends in happiness (the impending marriage of
Aeneas and Lavinia; the impending foundation of Rome). Its style,
on the other hand, is generally seen as lofty, and thus, in Dante’s
understanding of such things, “tragic” (see, for example, Inf.
XXVI.82, where Virgil also refers to epic writing as being in the
high, or tragic style: “quando nel mondo gli alti versi scrissi” [when,
in the world, I wrote my lofty verses]). For an attack on the usual
understanding, beginning with the view that Virgil’s phrase would
then be pleonastic (“l’alta mia tragedìa” would need to be
understood as having the sense of “my lofty high poem,” twice
referring to the stylistic level of the work), and arguing that both for
a few early commentators and in Dante’s own views the plot of the
Aeneid is indeed tragic, see Holl.1980.1, pp. 214–18; Holl.1983.1,
pp. 130–34; Holl.1993.2, pp. 19, 62–66. According to this reading,
the meaning of Virgil’s phrase is that his poem is lofty in style and
unhappy at its conclusion, the death of Turnus at the hands of
Aeneas, who gives over the ideal of clemency when he kills his
enemy. [return to English / Italian]
115–117.      “Michael Scot, who perhaps belonged to the family of
the Scots of Balwearie in Fifeshire, was born ca. 1175; after studying
at Oxford and Paris, he spent some time at Toledo, where he
acquired a knowledge of Arabic, and thus gained access to the
Arabic versions of Aristotle, some of which he translated into Latin
at the instigation of the Emperor Frederick II, at whose court at
Palermo he resided for several years; he died before 1235. His own
works, which deal almost exclusively with astrology, alchemy, and
the occult sciences in general, are doubtless responsible for his
popular reputation as a wizard. Many of his alleged prophecies are
recorded by the commentators, and by Villani, Salimbene, and

others” (T). For a description of his Liber astronomicus see Lynn
Thorndike (Thor.1923.1), vol. 2, pp. 826–35. [return to English / Italian]
118.    “Bonatti, who was a tiler by trade, seems to have acted as
domestic astrologer to Guido da Montefeltro; it is said to have been
by his aid that the latter won his decisive victory over the French
papal forces at Forlì, May 1, 1282. Bonatti wrote (ca. 1270) a work
on astrology (Decem tractatus Astrologiae), which was printed at
Augsburg in 1491” (T). [return to English / Italian]
118–120. “Maestro Benvenuto, nicknamed Asdente (i.e., toothless),
a shoemaker of Parma who was famed as a prophet and soothsayer
during the latter half of Cent. XIII…; referred to, as ‘il calzolaio di
Parma,’ as an instance of an individual who would be noble, if
notoriety constituted nobility (Conv. IV.xvi.6)” (T). [return to English /
Italian]
121–123.      Dante’s eight astrologers have moved from classical
through thirteenth-century exemplars, the recent ones in descending
nobility and literacy. His list now declines to an anonymous
plurality of commonfolk, women who practice witchcraft through
brewing magic potions and making images of their clients’ enemies.
[return to English / Italian]
124–126.      The moon is setting over the point that demarcates the
border of the hemisphere of land (with its center, in the medieval
and moralized cartographical conception, at Jerusalem) and that of
water. The moon is setting in the ocean west of Seville and the sun
is about to rise, from the perspective of one watching at Jerusalem.
Medieval legend has it that what is often referred to in our time as
“the man in the moon” was the image of Cain carrying a bundle of
thorns. For a study of this tradition see Prato’s book (Prat.1881.1).
For the astronomical and cartographical rami�cations of the passage
see Gizzi (Gizz.1974.1), vol. 2, pp. 113–36. [return to English / Italian]

127–129.      Once again (see, for example, Inf. XVI.106–108) Dante
adds a detail to an earlier scene in the poem, the prologue, the
action of which takes place on this earth. There is no mention of the
moon in the �rst canto. It is also not possible that Virgil means
yesterday night, as some propose, for Dante and Virgil were then
already in hell, having begun their descent on Friday evening after
Dante spent his night in the wood on Thursday: “  ‘yesternight,’ i.e.
the night before last, it being now early morning” is the explanation
o�ered in Tozer’s gloss on this verse. [return to English / Italian]
130.    Having proscribed the word introcque from the illustrious
vernacular in De vulgari eloquentia (Dve I.xiii.2), Dante here employs
it. It is a latinism (derived from inter hoc) and means, roughly,
“meanwhile.” That is how Dante uses it as an example of crude
Florentine “municipal” speech in De vulgari: “Since we ain’t got
nuthin’ else to do, let’s eat” would be a colloquial American
equivalent of the example he gives. If writers of the illustrious
vernacular are to avoid such expressions, we are perhaps forced to
re�ect that Dante’s Comedy, unlike Virgil’s lofty Tragedy, is written
in the low style (and has a “happy ending”). For discussions in this
vein see Barberi Squarotti (Barb.1972.1), p. 281, and Hollander
(Holl.1980.1), pp. 214–18. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXI
1–3.   What is the subject under discussion as the travelers leave the
fourth bridge and reach the midpoint of the �fth? Most
commentators simply avoid the issue, which probably must remain
moot, as Conrieri argues (Conr.1981.1, pp. 1–2).
Dante’s choice of title for his work caused some early
commentators di�culty, but not all of them. Guido da Pisa, for
instance, nearly certainly echoing the epistle to Cangrande, says that
this work is a comedy because, like other comedies, it begins in
misery and adversity and ends in prosperity and happiness
(incipiunt a miseria et adversitate et �niunt in prosperitatem et
felicitatem). Others see only the stylistic reference of the term, as in
the case of Benvenuto, for whom the title simply means “my book in
the vernacular” (meus liber vulgaris). But others, like Francesco da
Buti, allow that they are puzzled, wondering whether or not Dante
should so have entitled it, but then allowing that it was his right to
do whatever he chose. For a brief consideration of Dante’s sense of
tragedy and comedy see the concluding discussion in the note to
Inferno XX.106–114. [return to English / Italian]
7–21.   Castelvetro objects that Dante’s wonderfully energetic simile
is almost entirely made up of extraneous elements, i.e., he needed
only to say that the pitch in the bolgia was as black as that in the
arsenal at Venice. Of course, that is the beauty of it, as Dante paints
his scene as though he had seen the pictures of Brueghel before they
were painted. Trucchi’s gloss points out that the “honest
mercantilism” of the Venetians, with all its vitality, stands against
the sordid conniving of barrators. The pitch, the punishing agent of
this bolgia, is the apt sign of the nature of barrators (whom we today
call “grafters”), working in secret and leaving such practitioners
enlimed with its sticky sign, attaching to all who practice this kind
of fraud. “Barratry, the buying and selling of public o�ce, is the

civil equivalent of simony, the buying and selling of church o�ce,
the sin punished in the third bolgia” (Singleton’s comment).
Verse 11, “chi fa suo legno novo,” is understood by nearly all the
commentators to refer to the construction of new ships. However,
the entire context here involves the rebuilding of existent vessels;
thus our translation has it that this phrase refers to making an old
ship new. [return to English / Italian]
29.  This �gure introduces the “traditional medieval” devils of plays
and festivals to the poem. No other scenes in Inferno are as closely
linked to the popular culture of the period as these in the cantos
devoted to barratry. [return to English / Italian]
34–36.      Benvenuto suggests that this �gure, laden with what
resembles a slaughtered corpse, reminds us of a butcher taking a
carcass to be skinned and sold. Christopher Kleinhenz has indicated
another (and parodic) likely source: Christ as the Good Shepherd
(the pastor bonus of the Bible and of medieval illustrations), holding
a saved lamb on his shoulder (Klei.1982.1, pp. 129–31). [return to
English / Italian]
37.    The name of this class of devils, Malebranche, �ts well the
place, Malebolge, and means “Evil Claws,” referring to their hooked
hands, and perhaps to their forked prongs. [return to English / Italian]
38.  The elders of Lucca were the city’s magistrates, similar in their
governance to the priors of Florence. Zita was a young servant
woman of the city, dead in the 1270s, to whom were reputed great
kindness and numerous miracles. While she was not canonized until
1690, she was reputed a saint shortly after her death, and her cult
�ourished around her tomb in the church of San Frediano in Lucca.
As for the identity of this nameless Lucchese, Guido da Pisa seems
to have been the �rst commentator to say that he was Martino
Bottario (or Bottai). He seems to have shared political (and thus
grafting) power with Bonturo Dati, mentioned in v. 41. There is
another fact about him that is striking: he apparently died,

according to Guido, on 26 March 1300, that is, at least in certain
calculations, on the very day that is now unfolding in Dante’s poem.
Francesco da Buti con�rms his name and also registers the date of
his death, now given as the Friday night before Holy Saturday (but
only referring to the month of March, strangely, since Good Friday
fell on 9 April in 1300). Later commentators, if they refer to this
material, all have the death date as occurring on 9 April, even
though this is not authorized by the �rst commentators to claim that
Martino is the Lucchese here present. For particulars see Pietro
Mazzamuto, ED, vol. 1, 1970, pp. 313–14. [return to English / Italian]
39.  The notion that barrators come straight from earth to this point
in hell, carried o� by a devil, seems to violate the rule that all must
cross Acheron with Charon (Inf. III.122–123) and then go before
Minos to be judged (Inf. V.7–12). Even the black Cherub who carries
o� the soul of Guido da Montefeltro is said (by Guido himself) to
have carried him only as far as Minos (Inf. XXVII.124). Thus
Singleton reasons that the devil at least stops brie�y at Minos’s
place of judgment in order to allow the formal sentencing to take
place. (Must we also imagine that he accompanies barrators from
Lucca aboard Charon’s ski�?) It is surely true that Dante is generally
precise in honoring the ground rules that he establishes; it is also
true that he has written a poem, one that allows him to please his
fancy when he chooses. [return to English / Italian]
41–42.   Bonturo Dati, who did not die until 1325, was famed for his
barratry. A popular tale has it that when Boniface VIII, embracing
him at an encounter when Bonturo visited him on an embassy,
shook him, Bonturo said, in return, “You have just shaken half of
Lucca” (meaning to indicate Martino as the other half). Dante’s
devil’s exclusion of him from among the Lucchesi who, suborned by
money, will turn an elder’s “no” into a “yes” is indubitably ironic
and sarcastic: no one in Lucca is a greater grafter than he. [return to
English / Italian]

46–48.      The ironic edge of the devils’ remark is variously
interpreted, depending on the meaning of convolto. Does this sinner
return to the surface with his face now covered with pitch (in which
case he resembles the ebony face of Christ on the much-venerated
image of the Cruci�xion in San Martino, in Lucca)? or is he bent in
two, emerging with his backside from the pitch (in which case he
looks like a citizen of Lucca kneeling to prostrate himself before the
image)? Strong arguments are made for each interpretation, and
each is supported by a further text (Inf. XXII.25–28, 19–24), in
which the sinners in this bolgia are compared, second to frogs with
only their snouts out of water, �rst to dolphins showing their backs
as they move through water. Either meaning is completely possible,
but most contemporary commentators prefer the latter, perhaps
because it is the more burlesque. [return to English / Italian]
49.  The Serchio is the river near Lucca in which citizens swam for
refreshment in the days of summer. That the devils address Martino
would tend to support the notion that it is his head that has surfaced
rather than his rump, i.e., they would seem to be saying “Man, that’s
no way to do your imitation of the Holy Visage!” [return to English /
Italian]
58–62.      Virgil’s self-assurance will shortly prove to be ill-founded.
Here begins the longest episode in the Inferno; it will run through
Canto XXIII.57, some 290 verses. See Hollander (Holl.1984.3), pp.
85–86. [return to English / Italian]
63.  Some Renaissance commentators (e.g., Vellutello and Daniello)
insist on the proximity of the word baratta to barratry, which would
indicate that the word is likely to indicate a previous scu�e with
these very demons—who certainly seem the types to have bothered
Virgil on his descent to Cocytus when Erichtho sent him on his
mission down there (Inf. IX.22–27). The �rst commentator in the
DDP to try a di�erent tack is Singleton, who argues that the primary
reference is to Virgil’s di�culties with the devils at the walls of Dis
(see Inf. VIII, 82–130) or to some skirmish that he had with these

devils on his previous journey to lower hell (Inf. IX, 22–30). The fact
that Virgil is shortly to be found out of his depth in his struggle with
the Malebranche, again after exhibiting self-con�dence in the face of
hostile demons, supports this reading. [return to English / Italian]
67–72.      Virgil’s calm assurance is shredded by the attack of the
“dogs” who rush out upon him, a poor beggar. The simile is hard on
Virgil, who only barely manages to regain control of the situation,
which, we remember, is being observed by Dante, squatting in
hiding on the bridge. [return to English / Italian]
76–78.      The entry on the scene of Malacoda (“Eviltail”), the lead
devil of the Malebranche of Malebolge, is perfectly in character, as
we shall see. He pretends to be servile, but mutters under his breath
about his sense of Virgil’s futility. [return to English / Italian]
79–84.      Virgil’s aplomb, his “high style” contrasting with demonic
“vernacular,” serves at once to set him apart from the “low-life”
devils and their leader, Malacoda, but also to make him seem
slightly ridiculous, since Malacoda, not he, is eventually in control
of the situation, as Virgil will only �nally realize, to his considerable
chagrin, in Canto XXIII.140–141. Virgil’s reference in v. 83 to the
fact that he is not alone (“Let us proceed”) for the �rst time alerts
Malacoda and his cohort to Dante’s hidden presence. [return to English
/ Italian]
85–87.      Malacoda’s fearful gesture, letting fall his billhook, is a
masterful ploy that succeeds in getting Virgil to lower his guard. See
Guyler (Guyl.1972.1), p. 34. [return to English / Italian]
88–93.   Virgil, tricked, orders Dante to leave his hiding-place. The
devils, sensing fresh meat, crowd forward. Dante’s fear is a more
realistic response to the situation than is Virgil’s self-assurance.
[return to English / Italian]

95.  Dante was present at the successful siege of Caprona in 1289, a
cavalryman observing the success of the mission of his Tuscan
Guelphs against this Pisan stronghold. It is to his lasting credit that
what he remembers for us is how the victims must have felt when
they came out under a pact of safe conduct. Dante, exiled on the
charge of barratry by his fellow citizens, here perhaps means to
remind them that he had borne arms on behalf of the republic in its
victories, the siege of Caprona in August 1289 and the previous
great victory at Campaldino that June, referred to later in this scene
(XXII.4–5). He was not a grafter, scheming in the dark, but a
cavalryman who did his deeds in the fearsome clarity of war. There
have been several attempts in the last two centuries to relate the
scenes and personages of these cantos of barratry to Dante’s own
experiences as accused barrator per�diously sent into exile on this
pretext (and thus presented as attacked by the twelve priors of
Florence, the Malebranche), and to his military experiences, o�ered
as vindication against such malicious and untrue charges. For
cautionary remarks, urging restraint in such interpretation, see
Conrieri (Conr.1981.1), pp. 38–39. [return to English / Italian]
100–105.      Dante’s fears are justi�ed; only Malacoda’s intervention
prevents the bullying devils from assaulting him with their hooks.
Malacoda holds back Scarmiglione, encouraging him to await a
more propitious moment for his attack. Scarmiglione is the �rst of
the twelve devils to be named. He is apparently not included in the
squad of ten put under Barbariccia’s control—see note to vv. 118–
123. [return to English / Italian]
106–111.   Malacoda’s partial truth (the sixth bridge, over the bolgia
of hypocrisy, is in ruins) is quickly joined to a total fabrication (the
next bridge along their route is intact). All the bridges are down, as
Virgil will be told by Fra Catalano in Canto XXIII.133–138. [return to
English / Italian]
112–114.      This extraordinarily precise time reference is the most
certain text in the poem for establishing an external date for the

journey. It is 7 AM of Holy Saturday, since Christ, according to Dante
(Conv. IV.xxiii.10), died at noon. In fact, Dante here is modifying the
facts, if on the authority of Luke 23:44, who gives the time of the
preternatural darkness as noon. Even Luke, however, is clear that
Jesus died at 3 PM. Dante is willing to rewrite any text to suit his
purpose.
From this passage we learn that the events narrated in this poem
occurred in Easter week of 1300. However, and as we have seen,
Dante seems to be con�ating two dates for the start of the journey,
each of which is propitious, 25 March and 8 April (the actual date of
Good Friday in 1300) in order to gain the maximum signi�cant
referentiality. See note to Inf. I.1. [return to English / Italian]
115–117.      Malacoda lies yet again, promising safe conduct. Once
again Virgil is trusting, Dante not. [return to English / Italian]
118–123.   Dante’s pleasure in developing nomi parlanti (names that
bespeak the quality of their possessors) is evident here. His playful
naming is based on the aggressive bestial characteristics of these
creatures.
Dante’s thoroughness and care in his handling of the demons’
names is underlined by the fact that each of the ten members of the
decina (from decuria, the Latin military term for a “squad” of ten
troopers) is named exactly once in the following canto, as follows
(with Sinclair’s [Sinc.1939.1, p. 279] English approximations of
some of these names in parentheses): Barbariccia (Curlybeard—
XXII.29), Gra�acane (Scratchdog—34), Rubicante (Redface—40),
Cirïatto (Swineface—55), Libicocco (70), Draghignazzo (Vile Dragon
—73), Farfarello (94), Cagnazzo (Low Hound—106), Alichino (112),
and Calcabrina (133). [return to English / Italian]
125–126.   Malacoda lies again: the devils understand that they are
to take Dante and Virgil by surprise, attacking Dante later on. [return
to English / Italian]

127–132.   Dante’s pleas to Virgil will fall on deaf ears, but we sense
already (and will shortly have con�rmed) that he, not his guide,
understands what the devils are up to. [return to English / Italian]
133–135.      Virgil’s response to Dante’s question, based on correct
observation and resultant correct interpretation of the devils’ true
motives, marks yet another moment in this canto in which the
reader is nearly forced to observe how harshly the guide is being
treated by the author. In recent years there has been an increasing
acknowledgment of what should have been clear to any reader who
is willing to give over the notion that the Comedy is essentially an
“allegorical” poem in which the character Virgil represents
“Reason.” See, among others, Bacchelli (Bacc.1954.1), Ryan.1982.2,
Holl.1984.3. [return to English / Italian]
136–139.   The devils either prepare to make or have already made
a farting sound with their tongues stuck through their teeth in
answer to Malacoda’s prior “war-signal” of a fart. See Sarolli’s
appreciation of this low-mimetic scene as part of the tradition of
musica diaboli, the hellish music that stands in total contrast with
the heavenly music we shall hear in Paradiso (Saro.1971.1, pp. 5n.,
363–80). The perverse devils turn their mouths into anuses in
preparing to answer Malacoda’s (and he is surely aptly named in
light of this sound) turning his anus into a bugle, the gestures
constituting a sign of “understanding among the malefactors and a
sign of their derision for Virgil’s self-con�dent misreading of their
intentions” (Holl.1984.3, p. 90). [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXII
1–12.   The similetic array of signals for troop movements in battle
or for the start of a sporting event, a small catalogue of things and
techniques domestic and foreign, is, we remember, the poet’s way of
responding to the demonic fart that concluded the last canto and
ushered Dante o� on his journey under the guidance of the decuria,
Malacoda’s squad, now under the control of Barbariccia. Vv. 4–5 are
generally taken to refer to the battle of Campaldino in 1289.
This, even if it is not a “true simile,” is the �rst of eleven canto-
opening similes in the poem. See Inferno XXIV.1–18; XXX.1–27;
XXXI.1–6; Purgatorio VI.1–12; XVII.1–12; Paradiso IV.1–9; XVII.1–6;
XXIII.1–12; XXIX.1–9; XXXI.1–15. [return to English / Italian]
13–15.      Professor Kevin Brownlee, in a seminar at Dartmouth
College in 1985, suggested that these verses and the atmosphere of
the entire scene in XXI and XXII re�ect some earmarks of the French
fabliau: physical violence, proverbial remarks, animalistic traits,
physically stronger characters being bested by cleverer weak ones.
For the farcical elements in these cantos see Spitzer (Spit.1942.1
and Spit.1944.1). [return to English / Italian]
19–30.      The two similes describe the actions of the barrators in
motion and at rest. They only move to relieve their pain for a
moment or to duck under the pitch (thus increasing their pain) in
order to avoid a hooking by the devils—a pain still more disturbing,
as well as embarrassing.
It was apparently a current belief that dolphins approached ships
when they sensed that a storm at sea was brewing. [return to English /
Italian]
37–39.      Dante claims to remember the names as they were called
out by Malacoda (Inf. XXI.118–123) and then repeated by various of

the demons in the course of the action. [return to English / Italian]
48–54.   “Ciampolo, name given by the commentators to a native of
Navarre, who  …  describes himself as a retainer of King Thibault II
of Navarre [1253–70], in whose service he practiced [barratry]” (T).
About Ciampolo (for “Gian Paolo,” pronounced “Giampolo”) we
know nothing except what is furnished by the early commentators.
[return to English / Italian]
59–60.      Barbariccia, as leader of the troupe, intervenes to allow
Virgil the opportunity for further questions. Cirïatto had gored
Ciampolo as he dangled from the end of Gra�acane’s hook (vv. 55–
57). Now Barbariccia extends his long arms around the place where
the pitchy sinner stands to ward the others o�: he wants Ciampolo
for himself. (This view and our translation respect the readings of
the details of this passage and of v. 123 in the Bosco/Reggio
commentary.) [return to English / Italian]
64–66.   Virgil wants to know, on behalf of Dante, whether there are
other Italians in the pitch. The word latino, while it may of course
mean “Latin,” more frequently in Dante means “Italian,” as in Conv.
IV.xxviii.8, where Guido da Montefeltro is referred to as “lo
nobilissimo nostro latino” (the most noble of us Italians). See also
Purg. XI.58 and Purg. XIII.92. [return to English / Italian]
67.    Ciampolo says that he has come from one who hails from a
place near Italy; as we shall learn (v. 82), he speaks of Sardinia.
[return to English / Italian]
70–75.      Two devils can barely be restrained; indeed, before
Barbariccia once again asserts his authority, allowing Virgil yet
another question, Libicocco succeeds in giving Ciampolo a second
wound (see vv. 55–57 for Cirïatto’s earlier thrust into his �esh).
[return to English / Italian]

81–87.   “Frate Gomita, Sardinian friar who, having been appointed
[ca. 1294] chancellor or deputy of Nino Visconti of Pisa, judge of
Gallura, abused his position to tra�c in the sale of public o�ces.
Nino turned a deaf ear to all complaints against him until he
discovered that the friar had connived at the escape of certain
prisoners who were in his keeping, whereupon Nino had him
hanged forthwith” (T). For Nino see note to Inf. XXXIII.1–3. [return to
English / Italian]
88.    “Michael Zanche, Governor of Logodoro in Sardinia; he seems
to have acted as intendant for Enzio, natural son of the Emperor
Frederick II, who received the title of King of Sardinia on his
marriage with Adelasia di Torres, heiress of Logodoro and Gallura;
after Adelasia’s divorce from Enzio, Michael married her, and
assumed the government of the Sardinian provinces, which he
retained until c. 1290, when he was murdered by Branca d’Oria of
Genoa (Inf. XXXII.137)” (T). Toynbee’s data, based on indications
found in the early commentators, is currently treated with some
caution. [return to English / Italian]
91–96.   Once again the conversation between Ciampolo and Virgil
is interrupted by the devils’ vicious sport, with order being
maintained only by Barbariccia’s �rm insistence. De Robertis has
noted the parallels between Ciampolo and the protagonist as objects
of the devils’ attention (DeRo.1981.1, p. 3). [return to English / Italian]
97–99.   As crafty as his keepers, Ciampolo uses Dante and Virgil to
set up his countermeasures, o�ering to bring to the surface barrators
who will speak their language, Tuscans and Lombards (he has
evidently caught the linguistic marks of their birthplaces in their
accents). Dante, of course, is variously recognized as a Tuscan from
his speech, but it comes as something of a surprise when we
discover Virgil actually speaking in Lombard dialect (Inf. XXVII.20–
21). [return to English / Italian]

100–123.   The game Ciampolo devises involves the following ploys
on his part and reactions by the Malebranche: (1) Ciampolo’s
cleverly indirect invitation to the devils to withdraw so as not to
frighten o� (putative) emergent Tuscans and Lombards whom he,
sitting down to show his own apparent good faith, will whistle up if
there are no devils visible; (2) Cagnazzo’s understanding that this is
a ruse; (3) Ciampolo’s countermove: “But you must give them room.
Do you think I would cause my fellow-su�erers still greater
su�ering?” (of course he would!); (4) Alichino’s being won over by
Ciampolo’s wiles, mainly because he is so eager for a �ght, whether
Ciampolo is tricking them or not; he gets all his mates, even the
suspicious Cagnazzo (and Barbariccia, we must surmise), to move
down behind the ridge so as not to be visible from the pitch and
challenges Ciampolo to try to escape him, if he dare; (5) Ciampolo’s
dive from the ridge as he makes good his escape. The rhythm of this
central action in Canto XXII parallels that in the previous canto, in
which two observers have entirely di�erent interpretations of the
same phenomena. Cagnazzo and Alichino here respectively play the
parts of Dante and Virgil in the previous scene: Cagnazzo and Dante
discern the motives of Ciampolo and the devils, respectively, while
Alichino and Virgil do not.
At v. 123 we have translated the noun proposto as “designs,” i.e.,
“intention,” as Bosco/Reggio argue in their comment to this verse.
[return to English / Italian]
124–144.      The postlude to Ciampolo’s escape also is �lled with
action: (1) Alichino speeds after the Navarrese but cannot catch up
with him; (2) Calcabrina takes out his rage on Alichino, whose
gullibility led to the loss of their plaything; (3) they both fall into
the pitch. [return to English / Italian]
145–150.      Barbariccia directs four of his band to �y across to the
other side of the ditch as part of a rescue mission, while he and the
remaining three extend their hooks from the top of the bank, which
the ten had hidden behind, in a mutual e�ort to pull their fallen
comrades from the gluey pitch. [return to English / Italian]

151.  Virgil and Dante seize the occasion to escape. [return to English /
Italian]

INFERNO XXIII
1–3.   The quiet opening of the canto compares the two travelers to
pairs of Franciscan mendicants. As John of Serravalle reminds us in
his comment to this passage, the more authoritative of the two
traditionally went before. Thus, when we consider the considerable
time spent in exploring Virgil’s di�culties in the preceding two
cantos, we probably ought to perceive the delicate irony inherent in
these verses. [return to English / Italian]
4–18.   The fable runs roughly as follows: a mouse, wishing to cross
a river, is advised by an apparently friendly frog to allow himself to
be attached to that frog by a string, to which project he consents.
Once the frog, mouse in tow, reaches midstream, he dives in an
attempt to drown the mouse. An over�ying kite, or hawk, seeing the
struggling mouse atop the waters, dives down, captures and kills the
mouse—and the attached frog, a bonus. It seems sensible to believe
that, as the protagonist reviews the events of the prior canto, he
thinks of two things: the aptness of the fable to the situation of
Ciampolo (mouse), Alichino (frog), and Calcabrina (kite), as well as
to his own: Dante (mouse), Virgil (frog), and the Malebranche (kite).
Thus the beginning and the end of the fable are particularly apt to
his situation: in order to reach the next bolgia he has tied himself to
Virgil, and now the kite must be on its way. That Virgil should be
cast in the role of the double-dealing frog seemed so unlikely that
apparently no one, before Guyler, pp. 35–40, suggested as much.
While this writer agrees with him, the complexity of the passage, it
should be noted, guarantees that its meaning will continue to be
debated.
The words “mo” and “issa” are both dialectical forms, meaning
“right now,” derived from the Latin modo (used again in this canto
at v. 28 and a total of twenty-�ve times in the poem) and ipsa hora
(see Purg. XXIV.55). Hollander (Holl.1984.3), p. 93, suggests that

the choice of words for “now” accentuates the imminent and
immediate danger in which Dante �nds himself.
The absolute source of this fable of “Aesop” is not known, but it
seems that Dante may have been acquainted with both the
collection circulated under the name Romulus, which McKenzie
(McKe.1900.1) says is the (Carolingian) collection adverted to by
the various fourteenth-century commentators who discuss the
passage, and the later one (12th century) assembled by Waltherius
Anglicus. Clara Kraus (“Esopo,” ED, vol. 2, 1970, pp. 729–30) points
out, following McKenzie, that this particular fable derives from an
unknown non-Aesopic source, even if the poet presents it as being
by him. (Dante had referred to Aesop once previously: Conv.
IV.xxx.4. For the question of sources see also Mandruzzato
(Mand.1955.1) and Guyler (Guyl.1972.1), pp. 29–31, the latter
reviewing the discussions of McKenzie, Larkin (Lark.1962.1 and
Lark.1966.1), and Padoan (Pado.1964.1) and eventually favoring
Waltherius as source text. [return to English / Italian]
19.    For Dante’s hair, curling tight with fear, Pietro di Dante
adduces Aeneid II.774: “steteruntque comae” (and my hair stood on
end). The setting for the scene is the night of the destruction of
Troy. A few lines earlier (v. 733), Aeneas is warned by his father,
Anchises, to �ee: “nate,…fuge, nate; propinquant” (my son, my son,
�ee—they are coming closer). Moments later, Aeneas realizes that
he has lost Creusa, and turns back to the �aming city to �nd her.
His wife’s ghost appears to him in a vision that is the cause of his
hair standing on end. If Dante was thinking of this scene, as Pietro
believed, he has perhaps put Anchises’ warning about the fast-
approaching Greek marauders into his own mouth, the advice he
might have expected to have heard from Virgil, his “father,” and the
author of that scene. For these observations see Hollander
(Holl.1984.3), p. 94. [return to English / Italian]
25–30.   As Mark Musa (Musa.1977.1) has pointed out, Virgil, here
and elsewhere (Inf. IV.51; X.17–18; XVI.119–120; XIX.39; XXVI.73–
74), is either accorded by the protagonist or confers upon himself

the power of “reading Dante’s mind.” Musa shows that, rather than
the power actually to read the protagonist’s thoughts, Virgil’s
capacity is one of heightened rationality, not the kind of
supernatural power enjoyed by Beatrice, who, like all beati�ed
souls, has precisely the ability to read the unvoiced thoughts of
others; in other words, Virgil is able to fathom what Dante is
thinking from the context of the experiences that they share, and
nothing more than that.
Dante refers to mirrors being made by backing clear glass with
lead in Convivio III.ix.8. [return to English / Italian]
34–36.   The Malebranche are back, the “kite” of the fable, about to
pounce on “mouse” and “frog.” [return to English / Italian]
37–45.      This simile, classical in form, seems to have no classical
counterpart (although the �res of dying Troy may come to mind),
whether in image or in language; rather, it seems to be among those
that Dante draws from contemporary experience, ruinous �res being
a pronounced feature of medieval town life. Virgil’s customary
paternal role here is resolved into a maternal one. That we should
take this surprising change as meant positively is guaranteed by a
later scene, just as Virgil has left the poem and returned to Limbo.
At this moment of greatest pathos involving Dante’s love for his
guide and teacher, Dante turns back to him as a frightened child
runs to his mother (Purg. XXX.44), only to �nd him gone forever.
[return to English / Italian]
46–48.      The second simile is also without classical origin.
Commentators point out that land mills were powered by water,
diverted from other sources along sluices, while water mills were
situated in the rivers or streams that powered them. [return to English /
Italian]
52–57.   At the border of their domain the Malebranche, so swift on
their own turf, are now frozen into immobility by the laws of God’s
governance of hell, as Dante and Virgil look back at them. The

victims of earthly barrators are not similarly protected. [return to
English / Italian]
58–60.   The new set of sinners is characterized, in a total change of
pace, by slowness and quiet, in stark contrast with the
extraordinarily energetic, even frenetic, pace of the cantos of
barratry.
They are “lacquered” in that they are covered by gilded mantles
(v. 64). [return to English / Italian]
61–63.   The hypocrites, “dressed” as monks, are in fact represented
by only two personages, Catalano and Loderingo, both friars (see n.
to vv. 104–108). The hypocrisy of the clergy—and especially of the
mendicant orders—was a medieval commonplace, one most
e�ectively exploited by such writers as Boccaccio and Chaucer.
While many early commentators believed that the monastery
referred to was located in Köln (Cologne), in Germany, the
predominant modern view is that this is the great Benedictine
monastery in France, at Cluny. [return to English / Italian]
64.  “Ypocresia … dicitur ab ‘epi’ quod est ‘supra’ et ‘crisis’ quod est
‘aurum’  ” (Hypocrisy is so called from “epi,” that is, “above,” and
“crisis,” that is, “gold”). This familiar gloss, deriving from
Uguccione of Pisa, is found in the third redaction of Pietro di
Dante’s commentary. [return to English / Italian]
66.  Almost all the early commentators relate the tale that Frederick
II (see Inf. X.119) put those who had particularly o�ended him to
the following torture and death: he would have them covered with a
thick “cape” of lead and placed in a large crucible, under which a
�re was set, causing the lead to melt and the victim to su�er greatly
before dying. While there is no evidence to connect Frederick with
this practice, it seems clear that many of his contemporaries
believed that he indeed did dispatch his enemies in this way. [return
to English / Italian]

76.    Once again Dante’s Tuscan speech serves to �nd him damned
souls whose lives will be of interest. See Inf. X.22; XXII.99. [return to
English / Italian]
92.    For Dante’s word “hypocrites” commentators frequently cite
Matthew 6:16: “Moreover when you fast, be not, as the hypocrites,
of a sad countenance: for they dis�gure their faces, that they may
appear to men to fast.” [return to English / Italian]
102.    The friars are like creaking scales (literally, “balances” in
Dante’s Italian) because the weight they support on their lurching
shoulders is so tremendous that they “creak” beneath it. [return to
English / Italian]
103.  “Frati gaudenti, ‘Jovial Friars,’ popular name of the knights of
a military and conventual order, called the Knights of Our Lady…,
which was [re-]founded in 1261 by certain citizens of Bologna
under the sanction of [Pope] Urban IV. The object of the order was
to make peace between the contending factions in the di�erent
cities of Italy, and to reconcile family feuds, and to protect the weak
against their oppressors. The nickname ‘Frati Gaudenti’ is supposed
to have been bestowed upon the knights on account of the laxity of
their rules, which permitted them to marry and to live in their own
homes, and merely required them to abstain from the use of gold
and silver trappings, from attending at secular banquets, and from
encouraging actors; while they bound themselves not to take up
arms, save in defence of widows and orphans, and of the Catholic
faith, or for the purpose of making peace between man and man”
(T). For Dante’s relationship to Bologna see Raimondi
(Raim.1967.1). [return to English / Italian]
104–108.      Catalano (ca. 1210–85) was a Bolognese Guelph of the
Catalani family; Loderingo degli Andalò (ca. 1210–93) belonged to a
Ghibelline family of the city. Loderingo was one of the founders of
the Bolognese order of the Frati Gaudenti, and Catalano was also
involved in it. While their allegiances to opposing parties made

them seem to be an ideal “couple” to serve as podestà (an o�ce
usually taken on by a single non-citizen, chosen in the hope of
guaranteeing fairness) of a faction-riddled city, their vows to the
pope meant that, once they were chosen to serve in Florence in
1266, they in fact sided with the forces of the pope (Clement IV)
against the Florentine Ghibellines, with the result that the area
known as the Gardingo, where some of the most powerful
Ghibelline families lived (including Farinata’s Uberti—see Inf. X),
was razed by the populace with at least the tacit consent of these
two. [return to English / Italian]
109.    There is dispute as to whether Dante’s broken apostrophe of
the two friars (or, as some believe, of friars in general) was going to
be one of rebuke (e.g., Benvenuto da Imola) or commiseration (e.g.,
Francesco da Buti). The context and the similar moment in Inferno
XIX.90–117, when Dante upbraids Pope Nicholas III, both would
seem to support the harsher reading. [return to English / Italian]
110–117.      Dante’s attention is drawn by the �gure cruci�ed upon
the ground, attached through his hands and his conjoined feet. From
Catalano’s description it will become clear that this is Caiaphas, the
high priest who urged the Pharisees “that one man should be
martyred for the people” and bears that burden of responsibility for
the death of Jesus (see John 11:50). As Chiavacci Leonardi points
out (Chia.1991.1, p. 696), Caiaphas masks his own vicious motives
for wanting to give over Jesus as a desire for the public weal (i.e.,
saving the rest of the Hebrews from Roman repression), thus
justifying his presence among the hypocrites. [return to English / Italian]
118–120.      The punishment of Caiaphas (and of his fellows in this
act of hypocrisy, referred to in the next tercet) is a re�nement upon
that of the rest of the hypocrites. They are cloaked in lead, he is
naked (his Christ-centered hypocrisy deserves to be revealed); yet
he, too, feels the weight of hypocrisy on his own body when each of
the others, in turn, slowly walks over his outstretched form. [return to
English / Italian]

121–123.      Catalano refers to Annas, the father-in-law of Caiaphas,
who presided over the council of the Pharisees (the “others” of the
text) by which Jesus was condemned. It was this action, in Dante’s
mind, which was punished in the destruction of the second Temple
by the forces of the Roman emperor Vespasian, led by his son Titus,
in 70 A.D. and in the resultant diaspora of the Hebrew people. [return
to English / Italian]
124–126.      The high priest, unlike Jesus, is cruci�ed upon the
ground and trodden upon (thus seeming so “ignoble”). There has
been much discussion of the possible reasons for Virgil’s
“marveling” over the cruci�ed shape of Caiaphas. Castelvetro, in
error, says that Virgil would have seen Caiaphas on an earlier visit
to the depths; Lombardi gets this right: when Virgil was sent down
by Erichtho, Christ had not yet been cruci�ed and Caiaphas not yet
been damned. Further, and as Margherita Frankel has argued
(Fran.1984.1, p. 87), Virgil has already seen Christ and his Cross
(Inf. IV.53–54). Nonetheless, and as others have pointed out, Virgil
does not marvel at others who were not here before his �rst visit.
Rossetti further remarks that nowhere else in Inferno does Virgil
marvel at any other sinner, the text thus conferring a specialness
upon this scene. Benvenuto da Imola and Vellutello both o�ered an
interesting hypothesis, which has since made its way into some
modern commentaries: the verse at line 117, “one man should be
martyred for the people,” seems to echo a verse from the Aeneid
(V.815): “per multis dabitur caput” (one life shall be given for
many). (In that passage Neptune speaks of the coming “sacri�ce” of
Palinurus.) Vellutello sees that “prophecy” as an unwitting Virgilian
prophecy of Christ, and suggests that Virgil now wonders at how
close he had come. If that seems perhaps a forced reading, a similar
e�ect is gained by the phrase that Dante uses to indicate Caiaphas’s
punishment in his “eternal exile” (etterno essilio). That phrase will
only be used once again in the poem, precisely by Virgil himself to
indicate his own punishment in Limbo (Purg. XXI.18), as Castelvetro
observed. The Anonimo Fiorentino, perhaps better than many later
commentators, caught the �avor of this passage, which he reads as

indicating Virgil’s grief for himself because he had not lived in a
time when he could have known Christ. In this reader’s view, Virgil
wonders at Caiaphas because the high priest had actually known
Christ in the world and yet turned against Him. Had Virgil had that
opportunity, he thinks, his life (and afterlife) would have been very
di�erent. [return to English / Italian]
131.  The “black angels” are obviously the winged devils of the last
bolgia. Are they actually fallen angels, or does Virgil merely speak
ironically, employing the �gure antiphrasis, indicating devils by
their opposites? Most of the commentators seem to believe that
these really are fallen angels. This may be a questionable
interpretation, since Dante seems clear about the kinds of fallen
angels found in hell: neutral (Canto III.37–42) and rebellious (Canto
VIII.82–83). If this were the only other place in hell in which we
found evil creatures referred to as “angels,” it would seem likely
that the term would be merely a �gure of speech on Virgil’s part.
However, we also have the black Cherub referred to by Guido da
Montefeltro (Inf. XXVII.113). See the note to that passage. [return to
English / Italian]
133–138.      Virgil’s question to Catalano (and Loderingo) receives
this devastating answer: he has been fooled by Malacoda; all the
bridges connecting the �fth and sixth “valleys” are down. [return to
English / Italian]
142–144.      Catalano’s bit of “university wit” is the last straw for
Virgil, pilloried with understated sarcasm for trusting in the words
of devils. Catalano cites Scripture (John 8:44): “Diabolus est mendax
et pater eius” (The devil is a liar and the father of lies). [return to
English / Italian]
145–148.      Virgil, angered (as well he might be), strides away,
followed by the protagonist. We re�ect that it is Dante who has
contrived this whole elaborate scene to the discom�ture of Virgil,
but who now, as a character in the poem, follows humbly and

caringly in his dear leader’s footsteps. Hollander (Holl.1984.4), pp.
115–17, has suggested that this last verse is modelled on the
concluding verses of Statius’s Thebaid (XII.816–817): “…    nec tu
divinam Aeneida tempta, / sed longe sequere et vestigia semper
adora” (do not attempt to rival the divine Aeneid, but follow at a
distance, always worshiping its footsteps). With this gesture Statius
tries to reassure his reader (and perhaps himself) that he feels no
envy toward Virgil’s greatness; Dante’s gesture has a di�erent task
to perform, to reassure himself (and his reader) that, for all that the
poet has put Virgil through in these cantos of barratry, he
nonetheless reveres his great pagan guide. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXIV
1–21.   This elaborate canto-opening simile (see note to Inf. XXII.1–
12) and its aftermath knit the narrative back together: Virgil had
walked away from Catalano (and from Dante) at the end of the last
canto; now, getting his anger under control, he turns back to
reassure Dante and continue his leadership. That is a fair summary
of how the simile works as a re�ection of what is happening
between the two characters. However, this simile (like the Aesopic
material in Canto XXIII) can be read for more than one set of
equivalences: (1) Virgil’s frown (hoarfrost) melts and he once again
encourages Dante (the humble wretch), who eventually will, having
completed the journey, feed us (his sheep) with the pages of the
poem; (2) the devils’ deception (hoarfrost), in the form of an
incorrect presentation of the terrain, discourages Virgil (the wretch),
who �nally reads the signs right and will lead Dante (his sheep) to
pasture. A form of this second simultaneous reading was proposed
by Lansing (Lans.1977.1), pp. 77–80.
As Frankel has noted (Fran.1984.1), pp. 82–83, the simile itself is
divided into two rather di�erent stylistic zones; the �rst six verses
are “classicizing” and rather high-�own, while the �nal nine are in
the low style. Hollander (Holl.1984.4) suggests that the �rst tercet
of the “classical” part derives from Virgil’s third Georgic (vv. 303–
304), a citation also found in the second and third redactions of the
commentary of Pietro di Dante, and also noted by Tommaseo. For
other studies in English of this much studied simile see Bake.1974.1,
Econ.1976.1, and Lans.1977.1 (pp. 74–80); for Dante’s knowledge of
the Georgics see Marigo (Mari.1909.1).
The reference to Aquarius sets the time within the simile as
winter, since the sun is in that constellation from 21 January to 21
February. And so the sun cools his “locks” (its rays) in this season.
[return to English / Italian]

22–24.      The sight of the ruina, the scree fallen at the Cruci�xion,
now gives Virgil hope: it is a way up and out of the bolgia. Catalano,
unlike Malacoda, has given him valuable advice. [return to English /
Italian]
31.  The phrase “people wearing leaden cloaks” obviously refers to
the hypocrites whom we saw in the last canto. [return to English /
Italian]
32–36.   The protagonist’s physical di�culty, since unlike Virgil he
must move his �esh and bones against the pull of gravity, is insisted
on. The interplay between Virgil and Dante, now with roles reversed
from Cantos XXI–XXIII (when Virgil was the one at a disadvantage)
goes on for some time, through verse 60. It is in no way meant to
make the reader believe, as did John Ruskin, in Modern Painters,
that “Dante was a notably bad climber.” [return to English / Italian]
37–40.   Once again (see Inf. XIX.35 and note) the poet insists that
the far sides, or banks, of each bolgia are not as high as the ones
encountered �rst, since the sloping �oor of the Malebolge cuts down
across each ditch. [return to English / Italian]
49–51.   The commentators are almost unanimous in taking Virgil’s
words at face value and as sound advice. See, for example,
Chiavacci Leonardi (Chia.1991.1), pp. 712–13, who argues for
earthly fame’s “double valence” in the poem; she claims that it is
sometimes an excusable aim (as here), sometimes a culpable one.
Certainly the net e�ect of Virgil’s appeal here is to get Dante
moving upward in order to continue to the top of the ridge, whence
he will be able to see into the next ditch as he continues his journey.
Yet is it not strange that the motivation o�ered by Virgil is not the
need to struggle onward toward the presence of God so much as it is
the reward of earthly fame? Rossetti, in his commentary, was
perhaps the �rst to observe the resonance of what has now become
a standard citation for these verses, the entirely similar similes
found in the book of Wisdom (5:15): “like the insubstantial foam

that is dispersed by the storm, like the smoke that is dissipated by
the wind.” In Wisdom the comparisons are to the hopes of the
impious man (as opposed to those of the just, whose thoughts are
set on God [5:16]). Narrowly construed, Virgil’s words are those of
the impious man who lodges his hopes in the most transitory of
things—exactly what the poem will later establish as the true and
�eeting nature of earthly fame (Purg. XI.91–93). If we were to
imagine St. Thomas as guide here, we would expect his words to
have been quite di�erent. Beginning with Gregorio Di Siena,
commentators also cite another apposite text for these lines, Aeneid
V.740, “tenuis fugit ceu fumus in auras”: it is the vision of Anchises
that vanishes from Aeneas’s sight “like thin smoke into the air.”
Cantos XXI–XXIV thus include Virgil’s most di�cult moments as
guide to the Christian underworld. The rest of the cantica is mainly
without such unsettling behavior toward his master and author on
the poet’s part. But this will start up again in a series of moments
that are di�cult for Virgil in the early cantos of Purgatorio. [return to
English / Italian]
58–64.      In a moment that will strike anyone who is in fact a
“notably bad climber” with its aptness, the passage insists on
Dante’s e�ort to convince his guide that he is better furnished with
breath than in fact he is. [return to English / Italian]
65–66.      These lines introduce a problem (who is speaking?) that
will weave itself through the text until perhaps the eighteenth verse
of the next canto. [return to English / Italian]
67–78.   These twelve verses have no other point than to underline
the intensity of Dante’s curiosity about the identity of the speaker
whose unintelligible voice he has just heard. It would be unlikely for
him to have left his riddle unanswered. See note to vv. 17–18 of the
next canto.
Verse 69 has been the cause of much debate. Is the word in the
text ire (as in Petrocchi’s edition, meaning “to go”) or ira (wrath)?
For a treatment of the problem see Hollander (Holl.1983.2), o�ering

a listing of the history of the commentary tradition (pp. 29–31) and
concluding that the text originally read ira, as almost all the early
commentators believed, with the major exception of Pietro di Dante.
For a countering view see Stef.1993.1, p. 85.
Once again, while not in agreement with it, we have preserved
the letter of Petrocchi’s text in our translation. Berthier, who opts
for ira, cites St. Thomas to the e�ect that one of the �ve e�ects of
wrath is precisely to cause in the furious sinner “clamor
irrationabilis” (irrational cries), perhaps exactly what Dante has
made out. It also remains di�cult to explain how one can hear,
from a distance and in darkness, how a being is “moved” to getting
into motion, while it is not at all di�cult to hear, in precisely these
circumstances, that a voice is moved by wrath. [return to English /
Italian]
79–81.   The new prospect before Dante’s eyes, once he is over the
seventh bolgia, having descended from the bridge that connects to
the eighth, completely absorbs his attention. The identity of the
speaker, which he has been so eager to learn, is now forgotten—for
a while. [return to English / Italian]
82–84.   Now begins the drama of the marvelous, what Milton might
have called “things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.” Many have
commented upon the exuberance of Dante’s treatment of the scene
of the thieves. On the question of the perhaps problematic virtuosity
of this and the next canto see Terd.1973.1; for a reply see
Hawk.1980.1. [return to English / Italian]
85–87.   The serpents derive, as almost all commentators duly note,
from the ninth book of Lucan’s Pharsalia with its description of the
Libyan desert, replete with them. They are all beyond the pale of
any known zoology. For Dante’s knowledge of Lucan in general see
Para.1965.2. [return to English / Italian]
88–90.   Dante adapts Lucan’s somewhat unusual term for “serpent”
(pestis—which generally means “plague”) and now imagines as

many deserts as he knows of containing still other improbable
serpentine creatures. [return to English / Italian]
91–96.      The scene, with its principal actors naked, afraid, and
trying to hide, evokes, as Hollander has argued (Holl.1983.2), p. 34,
the description of Adam and Eve hiding from God in the Garden of
Eden after they have sinned (Gen. 3:9–10): “Vocavitque Dominus
Deus Adam, et dixit ei: ‘Ubi es?’ Qui ait, ‘Vocem tuam audivi in
paradiso et timui, eo quod nudus essem, et abscondi me’ ” (And the
Lord God called Adam and asked, “Where are you?” And Adam said,
“I heard your voice in the garden and I grew afraid, because I was
naked, and I hid myself”). Hollander goes on to examine nine more
moments in this scene that re�ect the “primal scene” of thievery in
Eden, including the parodic version of the �g leaves with which
Adam and Eve covered their loins in Gen. 3:7 found here in vv. 95–
96. See also Beal.1983.1, pp. 103–5, for resonances of the Edenic
scene in this passage.
The heliotrope was a stone that supposedly had the power to
render its possessor invisible, as Boccaccio’s Calandrino was urged
to believe by his trickster friends (Decameron VIII.3). On the
heliotrope’s properties see Ciof.1937.1. [return to English / Italian]
97.  This �gure, so rudely attacked, will turn out to be Vanni Fucci
(v. 125). [return to English / Italian]
98–99.      For this and the two other forms of punishment found in
this bolgia see the “Table of Metamorphoses,” the endnote to Canto
XXV. [return to English / Italian]
100.    Since the so-called Ottimo Commento (1333), commentators
have agreed that these two letters are written most quickly because
they are written in a single stroke. But do these two letters signify
anything? For instance, are they a code for Dante’s vaunt against
Ovid (i.e., “I [io] can portray metamorphosis even better than
you”)? Or do they represent the negation of Vanni’s self (i.e., “io”
spelled backwards)? For an ingenious argument, extending this

second hypothesis, see Darby Chapin (Darb.1971.1), suggesting an
Ovidian source. She argues that, when Io was transformed into a
cow (Metam. I.646–650), medieval commentators represented her
new hoofprint as made of the two letters of her name, the “I”
written inside the “O” so as to represent the cleft in her newly
formed hooves ( ). [return to English / Italian]
107–111.      The reference to the phoenix is also Ovidian (Metam.
XV.392–402). That rare bird was reputed to live �ve hundred years
and then be reborn out of the ashes of its own perfumed funeral
pyre. Christian exegetes thus easily took the phoenix as a symbol of
Christ (see Beal.1983.1, pp. 105–7). Vanni, seen in this light, thus
parodically enacts the death and resurrection of Christ. [return to
English / Italian]
119–120.      The poet’s exclamation is part of his presentation of
himself not as a merely ingenious teller of fantastic tales, but as the
scribe of God, only recording what he actually saw of God’s just
retaliation for sins performed against Him. See Romans 12:19,
where Paul o�ers the words of God, “Vengeance is mine; I shall
repay.” [return to English / Italian]
122–126.      Vanni Fucci’s laconic self-identi�cation tells us that he
was an illegitimate son (of the Lazzari family of Pistoia) and insists
upon his bestiality (some early commentators report that his
nickname was “Vanni the Beast”). He died sometime after 1295,
when he apparently left Pistoia, and before 1300—although this is
not certain. [return to English / Italian]
127–129.      Dante’s response indicates that he had once known
Vanni and thought of him as guilty of sins of violence, not
necessarily those of fraud. [return to English / Italian]
132–139.      Vanni’s shame and honest self-description give him a
certain moral advantage over many of the dissembling sinners
whom we meet. At the same time his wrathful character extends not

only to self-hatred, but to hatred of others, as his ensuing harsh
words for Dante will reveal (vv. 140–151). His character, so brie�y
etched, is that of a familiar enough �gure, the embittered destroyer
of any human bond.
The theft of sacred objects from the sacristy of the chapel of St.
James in Pistoia—which caused an uproar when it occurred, ca.
1293–95—was �rst not laid to his door and he indeed had left the
city before his complicity was revealed by one of his confederates,
soon afterwards put to death for his part in the crime. There is
speculation that the eventual truth of Vanni’s involvement was only
discovered after 1300, yet in time for Dante to present it as “news”
here in his poem. [return to English / Italian]
140–142.      Vanni’s prophecy is the last of these “personal
prophecies” found in Inferno. There are nine of these in the Comedy.
(See note to Inf. VI.64–66.) He o�ers it as a form of revenge on
Dante for having seen him in such distress. [return to English / Italian]
143–150.      The riddling expression of the language of prophecy is,
at least for a contemporary of Vanni’s and Dante’s, for the most part
not di�cult to unravel. Pistoia’s White Guelphs will drive out the
Black party in 1301; Florence’s Blacks will do the same in the same
year to the Whites in that city (with one consequence being Dante’s
exile). In 1302 the Blacks of Pistoia, allied with Moroello Malaspina
(“the headlong bolt”), will have their revenge upon the Whites,
taking their stronghold at Serravalle. Some understand that Vanni
also (or only) refers to the eventual Black victory over the Whites in
Pistoia itself in 1306. [return to English / Italian]
151.  Vanni’s acerbic ending, personalizing the prophecy as a way of
making Dante grieve, is his tit-for-tat response for the grief that
Dante has caused him by seeing him. He may be damned for
thievery, but his party will be victorious, while Dante’s will be
roundly defeated. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXV
1–3.      Emphasizing the close relationship between the two cantos,
this one begins in absolute continuation of the action of the last, as
though there were no formal divide between them.
Vanni’s obscene gesture to God is variously understood. Francesco
da Buti, in his gloss, says that the gesture is made by extending two
�ngers on each hand (apparently the same gesture as giving the sign
of the horns, for cuckoldry, but the commentator does not say so),
and in this case, four �ngers in all, thus accounting for the verb
squadrare (“to square”), with its resonance of fourness. Beginning
with Pompeo Venturi in the 1730s, most commentators say that the
gesture is made by placing the thumb between the index and middle
�ngers. Ignazio Baldelli, however, has recently argued that the
gesture involves making the image of the female pudenda with
thumb and index �nger (Bald.1997.1). Whatever the precise gesture
Vanni made, it was not a polite one. [return to English / Italian]
4.      The serpents, according to Guido da Pisa, become Dante’s
“friends” because they undo the reason for the curse laid on the
serpent in the Garden (Gen. 3:15); these serpents are doing
something praiseworthy despite their unappealing ancestry. [return to
English / Italian]
5–9.      The serpents attaching themselves to Vanni reminded
Tommaseo of the serpents that kill the sons of Laocoön and
eventually capture the priest himself in their coils and strangle him
(Aeneid II.201–224). Other commentators have not followed his
lead. [return to English / Italian]
10–12.      The poet apostrophizes Pistoia as he nears the end of the
section of these cantos devoted to Vanni Fucci. The next thieves
whom we will see will all be Florentines. [return to English / Italian]

13–15.      Vanni’s pride is unfavorably compared even to that
displayed by Capaneus (Inf. XIV.49–60). We are reminded once
more that sins, in any given sinner (living or dead) are often several;
Capaneus, a blasphemer, and Vanni Fucci, a thief, are both
portrayed as being motivated by pride against God. [return to English /
Italian]
17–18.      It is here, at last, that we �nd the answer to the question
the text left us with in the last canto—or so Hollander
(Holl.1983.2), pp. 36–37, has claimed. Verses 65–78 of the previous
canto had Dante eager to discover the identity of the speaker of
those unformed words and Virgil getting him closer to their source
so that he could have his answer. The descent, however, allows him
to see still other (very distracting) things: the serpents and then
Vanni Fucci. The moment Vanni disappears we �nally hear that
voice and have our question answered. All commentators who have
dealt with the issue have argued either that the voice was Vanni’s or
that its identity was intentionally and totally masked by the author.
It seems, on the other hand, that the voice is that of Cacus, the
thieving centaur, who will be named at v. 25. What do we discover?
He is angry (“pien di rabbia”), as was that voice (ad ira mosso, and
not ad ire mosso); he cries out in perverse imitation of God’s voice in
the Garden in the Bible (Gen. 3:9) asking hiding Adam, “Where are
you?” (See note to Inf. XXIV.91–96.) Cacus is in pursuit of Vanni
Fucci, “unripe” (acerbo) because of his sin. Later in the poem Satan
is also portrayed as having fallen from heaven “unripe” (acerbo) in
his sinfulness (Par. XIX.48), while Adam, beginning his life
innocent, without sin, is referred to as having been created by God
“ripe” (maturo) in the Garden (Par. XXVI.91). Thus, in this “replay”
of the primal scene of theft in the Garden, Vanni takes on the role of
Adam after the Fall, having moved from ripeness to unripeness,
hiding from his just maker, while Cacus plays the unlikely role of
the vengeful God in pursuit of his fallen child. [return to English /
Italian]

19–33.   Cacus was strictly speaking not a centaur, but the tradition
that he was one extends at least until the prologue of Cervantes’ Don
Quixote. Virgil does refer to him as “semihominis Caci” (half-human
Cacus) at Aeneid VIII.194, but his context is clear: Cacus is the son
of Vulcan, not of Ixion, father of the Centaurs. And so Dante’s
decision to make him a centaur, a “brother” of the keepers of the
�rst ring of violence in Inferno XII, is either completely his own or
re�ects a tradition about which we know nothing. (See G. Padoan,
“Caco,” ED, vol. 1, 1970, pp. 741–42.) On the other hand, many
details of this passage clearly re�ect those found in the lengthy
passage describing Hercules’ killing of Cacus for his theft of cattle in
Virgil’s poem (VIII.184–275), dragging them into his cave
backwards so that their hoofprints would lead away from the guilty
party’s lair. It seems clear that Dante here had Virgil’s poem in mind
as his prime source and that he knowingly distorts Virgilian text: in
Virgil, Cacus is not a centaur; in Virgil his mouth gives forth smoke
and �re (vv. 198–199; 252–255; 259) while in Dante he has a
dragon on his back to do that for him; in Virgil, Hercules strangles
Cacus (vv. 260–261) while in Dante he clubs him over the head (see
Holl.1983.2, pp. 40–41). We have seen such willful rearrangement
of Virgilian material before, notably in Inferno XX, and will see it
again (see Inf. XXXI.103–105), when the unseen Briareus will be
described in very un-Virgilian terms (see note to Inf. XXXI.97–105).
As Beal points out (Beal.1983.1), pp. 108–10, Cacus was often seen
as related to Satan, since Hercules was frequently understood to
represent Christ.
The Maremma is a boggy region of Tuscany, the Aventine one of
the seven hills of Rome. [return to English / Italian]
34–36.      The frenetic action described in this canto is so amply
described that less than 15 percent of its verses are spoken by its
characters, the lowest �gure for any canto in the Inferno.
The three sinners will turn out to be Agnello (named at v. 68),
Buoso (v. 140), Puccio (v. 148); Cianfa literally joins Agnello
(named at v. 43); Francesco will be added, referred to indirectly (v.

151). Thus there are �ve Florentine thieves seen here in this bolgia.
[return to English / Italian]
43.   The �rst of the �ve Florentines referred to in the canto, Cianfa,
according to early commentators, was a member of the Donati
family; he apparently died in 1289. [return to English / Italian]
44–45.   Dante’s digital gesture hushes Virgil. When we consider the
enormous liberties the poet has just taken with the text of the
Aeneid, we may not be surprised, within the �ction, at his rather
peremptory treatment of his leader. [return to English / Italian]
49–51.      As we will eventually be able to puzzle out, Cianfa is the
serpent attaching itself, in a parody of sexual embrace, to Agnello.
See endnote to this canto for some details. [return to English / Italian]
64–66.      The third of these three rapid comparisons has caused
di�culty: does the poet refer to a �ame moving across a piece of
parchment, turning the nearer material brown before it blackens? or
to the wick of a candle, which similarly turns brown before turning
black? The strongest case for the former is that, in the case of the
candlewick, the brown color moves down the wick, while Dante says
the brown moves suso (“up,” “along”). See Chia.1991.1, p. 746.
[return to English / Italian]
68.      Agnello (or Agnolo) dei Brunelleschi, a Ghibelline family, of
whom the commentators have little to say that can be relied upon as
coming from history rather than from Dante’s placement of him
among the thieves. [return to English / Italian]
69–72.      For the “mating” of the two thieves, twentieth-century
commentators, beginning perhaps with Grandgent, point to the
conjunction in a single bisexual body of Ovid’s nymph Salmacis and
Hermaphroditus (Metam. IV.373–379). [return to English / Italian]

79–81.      The �nal coupling of the canto conjoins Buoso and
Francesco in yet a third version of punishment seen in this bolgia
(see the endnote to the canto). The “dog days” are the hottest part
of summer in late July and early August. [return to English / Italian]
82–90.   A new �gure (Francesco) assaults one of the remaining two
(Agnello and Cianfa have moved o�), known as Buoso, as we shall
learn near the canto’s end. [return to English / Italian]
94–102.      The three rhetorically balanced tercets perform a task
slightly di�erent from the one they are traditionally accorded, i.e.,
the modern poet’s victorious boast over his creaky classical
forebears. But that is what the �rst two both seem to do: let Lucan
be silent with his horrible tales of soldiers slain by serpents in the
Libyan desert in Book IX of the Pharsalia; let Ovid be silent with his
tales of Cadmus, transmogri�ed into a serpent (Metam. IV.563–603),
and of Arethusa, transformed into a spring (Metam. V.572–641). The
third puts forward the modern poet’s superiority: Buoso and
Francesco do not sustain individual transformations, but exchange
their very natures, one becoming the other. Is the radical di�erence
between Lucan/Ovid and Dante the poetic novelty of the latter, as
would seem to be the case? Or is it rather the result of this poet’s not
inventing his marvels, but merely describing them? We all realize
that the �rst explanation is in fact correct, Dante does (and means
to) outdo his classical precursors. But then we may re�ect that his
claim is that he is not making this up, but merely observing
“reality,” God’s vengeance on the �oor of the seventh bolgia. Let
�ctive poets yield to this new Christian teller of truths revealed, the
humble scribe of God. We do not have to believe this claim, but we
can sense that it is being lodged. [return to English / Italian]
103–138.      This, the most fully described of the various
metamorphoses found in these two cantos, is broken by Castelvetro
into seven stages of mutual transformation, Francesco into a man
and Buoso into a serpent. The former becomes a man as follows: (1)
his tail becomes legs, (2) his front paws become arms, (3) his rear

legs become a penis, (4) his hide becomes skin, (5) his posture
changes from prone to erect, (6) his snout becomes a face, (7) his
serpentine hiss becomes a voice. Buoso, naturally, goes through
exactly the obverse process. [return to English / Italian]
139–141.   Francesco, not identi�ed until the last verse of the canto,
turns momentarily away from Buoso, having regained his power of
speech, only to use it to express his desire to punish him, addressing
Puccio (see v. 148). As for Buoso, his identity is much debated.
Michele Barbi (Barb.1934.1), pp. 305–22, suggests that he is
probably Buoso di Forese Donati (died ca. 1285). [return to English /
Italian]
144.      Campi points to Landino’s and Vellutello’s understanding of
this Florentine verb, abborracciare, as meaning to make something of
a botch of things as a result of working too quickly. Thus Dante’s
worries that his pen, following these never-before-observed and
rapid transformations, may have blotted his page a bit when he
attempted to set them down. [return to English / Italian]
148.      Puccio Galigai, nicknamed “Lameshanks,” of a Ghibelline
family. As for the reason for his not undergoing transformation, as
do the four other Florentines in this canto, Fallani, in his
commentary, follows Filomusi Guel� (Filo.1911.1), suggesting that
Puccio Sciancato, the only sinner in this bolgia who is not changed
in form, perhaps represents simple fraud, also treated by Aquinas in
the passage referred to in the endnote that follows. [return to English /
Italian]
151.      Francesco de’ Cavalcanti (the identi�cation is not certain)
who, murdered by inhabitants of the town of Gaville, in the upper
Arno valley, was avenged by his relations. [return to English / Italian]
ENDNOTE: TABLE OF METAMORPHOSES, INFERNO XXIV & XXV
Vanni Fucci Agnello & Cianfa Buoso & Francesco

(XXIV.97–120) (XXV.49–78) (XXV.79–141)
     
serpent bites neck and
shoulders from rear
six-footed serpent
bites head from in
front
four-footed serpent
bites belly from
front
     
burns to ashes and
returns in same nature
immediately
turn into a new
creature of shared
nature
exchange their
natures
     
resurrection mutation transmutation
     
three comparisons: three comparisons: three comparisons:
o/i ivy on tree lizard in path
phoenix hot waxes blending man in sleep/fever
epileptic burning parchment snail’s horns
     
Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theol. II, II, q. 66, a. 6: on aggravated theft,
cited by Filomusi Guel� (Filo.1911.1), pp. 199–206:
     
Sacrilegio: theft of
church property
Peculato: theft of
goods commonly
held
Plagio: theft from
fellow men

INFERNO XXVI
1–3.      Matching the ironic apostrophe of Pistoia that follows the
departure of Vanni Fucci in the last canto, vv. 10–12, this one of
Florence comes in the wake of the poem’s departure from the �ve
Florentine thieves. The image of Florence as winged has caused
some puzzlement. While commentators, beginning perhaps with
Scartazzini/Vandelli, point out that Dante’s words most probably
echo the Latin inscription, dating to 1255, on the façade of the
Florentine Palazzo del Podestà, proclaiming that Florence is in
possession of the sea, the land, indeed the entire world, we are still
left to speculate on Dante’s reasons for presenting her as winged.
Whatever his reason, we might want to re�ect that he thought of
himself as the “wingèd one” because of the easy pun available from
his surname, Alighieri, in Latin “aliger” (wingèd). See Shan.1975.1
and Shan.1977.1. In this canto the apostrophized city and the
seafaring Ulysses are both associated with “wings” (“in our mad
�ight we turned our oars to wings” [v. 125]); at least intrinsically,
the protagonist is also. He is on a better-purposed “�ight.” For these
motifs and another related one see Corti (Cort.1990.1). [return to
English / Italian]
7.      The text alludes to the classical and medieval belief that
morning dreams were more truthful in their content than any
others. Guido da Pisa is the �rst (but hardly the last) to refer to a
text in Ovid to this e�ect (Heroides XIX.195–196). On the subject see
Speroni’s article (Sper.1948.1). And see, for the same view of
morning dreams, Purgatorio IX.16–18. [return to English / Italian]
8–12.      The passage about Prato has caused two interpretive
problems: (1) Does it refer to the anger felt by Cardinal Niccolò da
Prato when he failed to bring peace between the warring Florentine
factions in 1304, or to the rebellion of the town of Prato in 1309,

when Florence’s small neighbor cast out its Black Guelphs? (2) Is
Dante heartened or heartsick as he contemplates this “future” event?
It was only in the eighteenth century that a commentator
suggested a reference to the cardinal (Venturi). Further, since the
second event was probably roughly contemporaneous to the writing
of this canto, it seems likely that Dante would have enjoyed having
so recent a piece of news as con�rmation of his “prophecy.” As to
his emotions, it seems more reasonable to re�ect that Dante is
admitting that he will only be happy once the power of the Black
Guelphs of Florence is destroyed; he is in pain as he awaits that
liberation. In other words, this is not an expression of sadness for
the city’s coming tribulation, but a desire to see them come to pass
—and that is the common view of the early commentators. [return to
English / Italian]
14.      While we do not believe that Dante says here what Petrocchi
says he does, we have, as always, followed his text, which reads
iborni (pallid, the color and coolness of ivory) and not, as the text
had previously stood, i borni (the outcroppings of the rocks). In our
opinion the “old” reading is the superior one. Instead of “on those
stairs that turned us pale when we came down” we would say “on
the stairs the jutting rocks had made for our descent.” [return to
English / Italian]
19–24.      According to Pertile (Pert.1979.1), those who propose a
negative view of Ulysses fail to acknowledge the importance of
these verses, which reveal the poet’s sympathy for the Greek hero
even now as he writes of him. He cites (p. 37) Ovid (Metam.
XIII.135–139) in support of his argument. However, that text o�ers
Ulysses’ vaunt of his own worthiness to receive the arms of Achilles
(denying the claims of Ajax), and the entire passage gives us the
portrait of a �gure full of pride and self-love. See Hollander
(Holl.1969.1), pp. 115–16, arguing that Dante, in this passage, is
fully conscious of his previous “Ulyssean” e�orts, undertaken by his
venturesome and prideful intellect, and now hopes to keep them
under control. Castelvetro’s reading of the passage is in this vein;

according to him the poet grieves “for having improperly put to use
my genius.” Dante hopes, in other words, to be exactly unlike
Ulysses. [return to English / Italian]
25–30.      The �rst of two elaborate similes in prologue to the
appearance of Ulysses deals with the number of false counselors:
they are as numerous as �re�ies. Dante, as peasant (il villano)
resting on his hillside (poggio—Frankel [Fran.1986.1, pp. 102–5],
contrasts his “humble” hillock with Ulysses’ “prideful” mountain [v.
133]), looks out upon this valley full of �re�ies. This peaceful scene
lulls many readers into a sort of moral exemption for Ulysses; if he
looks so pleasant, how can he be seen as sinful? In fact, the
distancing e�ect of the simile makes Ulysses seem small and
relatively insigni�cant. We can imagine how he might feel, told that
he had been compared to a �re�y.
Many readers are rightly reminded of the previous simile
involving a rustic (lo villanello) at Inferno XXIV.7–15. [return to English
/ Italian]
31.      For the �ames as reminiscent of the Epistle of James (3:4–6)
see Bates and Rendall (Bate.1989.1) and Cornish (Corn.1989.1):
“Behold also the ships, which though they be so great, and are
driven by �erce winds, yet are turned about with a very small helm,
wherever the steersman pleases. Even so the tongue is a little
member, and boasts many things. Behold how great a matter a little
�re kindles! And the tongue is a �re, a world of iniquity: so is the
tongue among our members, that it de�les the whole body, and sets
on �re the course of nature, and it is set on �re of hell.” Pietro di
Dante was the �rst to cite this passage in connection with Dante’s
description of the �ames here. [return to English / Italian]
34–42.      The second Ulyssean simile describes the �ame-wrapped
appearance of Ulysses in terms of Elijah’s �ery ascent to heaven.
Perhaps the �rst extended discussion of the biblical text behind the
passage was o�ered by Frankel (Fran. 1986.1), pp. 110–16, who
argues that, while Elijah is seen as antithetical to Ulysses (see

Cass.1984.1, pp. 88–93), Dante is also seen as related to the
negative aspect of Elisha (his pride in taking on the prophet’s
mantle)—see II Kings 2:9–12. She is answered by Ferretti Cuomo
(Ferr. 1995.1), who sees Elisha as only a positive �gure of Dante,
similarly accepting his role as successor prophet. For the same view
see Hollander (Holl. 1969.1), p. 117.
Elisha was avenged by the bears in that the forty-two children
who mocked his prophetic calling, addressing him as “Baldy”
(calve), were attacked and lacerated by two bears (II Kings 2:23–
24). Dante refers to this incident in Epistle VI.16. [return to English /
Italian]
43–45.      The protagonist’s excitement at the prospect of seeing
Ulysses is evident (Ulysses has not been identi�ed yet, but the poet
seems to be taking a liberty in allowing his character to fathom who
is about to appear). In his reckless abandon to gain experience of
this great sinner, he resembles Ulysses himself. [return to English /
Italian]
48.      Virgil’s point seems to be that each of the �ame-enclosed
sinners is covered by the external sign of their inner ardor, their
longing to captivate the minds of those upon whom they practiced
their fraudulent work. [return to English / Italian]
52–54.      Almost all commentators point to the passage in Statius’s
Thebaid (XII. 429–432) that describes the immolation of the corpses
of the two warring brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, whose enmity
was the root of the civil war in Thebes and is manifest now even in
their death, as the smoke from their burning bodies will not join.
Among the early commentators only Pietro di Dante noticed that the
same scene is reported in similar ways in Lucan as well (Phars.
I.551–552). [return to English / Italian]
55–57.   Ulysses and Diomedes are clearly indicated as su�ering the
punishment of God for their fraudulent acts; yet this indictment has
not kept readers from admiring them—or at least Ulysses. Perhaps

the central problem in the large debate that has surrounded Dante’s
version of the Greek hero in the last century-and-a-half is how
sympathetically we are meant to respond to him. To put that
another way, what is the nature of Ulysses’ sin, and how urgently is
it meant to govern the reader’s sense of his worth? And a further
complication is of more recent vintage: what should we make of the
at least apparent similarity between Ulysses and Dante himself?
Chiavacci Leonardi has made a useful distinction between the two
essential attitudes that distinguish divergent readings of the
undoubtedly heroic �gure (Chia.1991.1, p. 762): (1) Ulysses is
marked by greatness; he is unfortunate but guiltless; (2) he is
characterized by the sin of pride, like Adam. For an example of the
�rst view see Francesco De Sanctis in 1870: Dante “erects a statue to
this precursor of Christopher Columbus, a pyramid set in the mud of
hell” (DeSa.1949.1), pp. 201–2. For similar views see Croce
(Croc.1921.1), p. 98, and Fubini (Fubi.1966.1). Attilio Momigliano,
in his comment to vv. 64–69, throws all caution to the wind. He
complains that the �rst sixty-three verses of the canto are too dry
and erudite. Now that Ulysses is on the scene, we breathe the air of
true and enthusiastic poetry. “Appearances notwithstanding,” he
says, “Dante not only does not condemn the fraudulent acts of
Ulysses and Diomedes, he exalts them.” The negative view in
modern discussions was enunciated clearly by Bruno Nardi
(Nard.1942.1). See also Wilhelm (Wilh.1960.1); Padoan
(Pado.1977.1); Hollander (Holl.1969.1), pp. 114–23; Scott
(Scot.1971.1); Iannucci (Iann.1976.1). Recently a third “school” has
opened its doors, one that �nds Ulysses less than totally admirable
and yet associated with Dante, who presents himself, just beneath
the lines of his text, as a trespassing voyager himself. See Mazzotta
(Mazz.1975.1), p. 41; Stierle (Stie.1988.1); Barolini (Baro.1992.1),
passim; Bloom (Bloo.1994.1), pp. 85–89. For a rejoinder to the
position of these critics see Stull and Hollander (Stul.1991.1
[1997]), pp. 43–52. [return to English / Italian]
58–63.   Virgil lists the sins of the two heroes: the stratagem of the
troop-hiding Trojan horse (with which Ulysses, if not Diomedes, is

associated in Virgil, Aen. II); Ulysses’ trickery in getting Achilles to
join the war against Troy, thus abandoning, on the isle of Scyros, his
beloved Deidamia (as recounted in Statius’s un�nished Achilleid),
who subsequently died of grief at the news of his death in Troy; the
joint adventure in which they stole the Palladium, image of Athena,
a large wooden statue, in return for which the horse served as a
fraudulent peace-o�ering (Aen. II.163–169). Those who, like
Momigliano, believe that the fraudulent acts of Ulysses and
Diomedes are exalted by Dante, should be reminded that Virgil, in
the Aeneid, is pretty hard on them. Diomedes, for his part in the
theft of the Palladium, is impious (impius—Aen. II.163) while
Ulysses is called an “inventor of crimes” (scelerum … inventor—Aen.
II.164). It seems more than likely that Dante would have shared
Virgil’s views of these matters. For the recovery of the notion,
widespread in the ancient commentators, that Ulysses is best
described as “astutus” (in the sense of possessing low cunning) see
Kay.1980.1; Aher.1982.1.
Sources for Dante’s Ulysses are found nearly everywhere, so much
so that one has a feeling that more are called than should be chosen:
Virgil (Loga.1964.1; Pado.1977.1; Thom.1967.1, pp. 44–46;
Thom.1974.1, pp. 52–61); Ovid (Pico.1991.2); Persius
(Chie.1998.1); Statius’s Achilleid (Pado.1977.1, pp. 173–76;
Hage.1997.1); Lucan (Stul.1991.1); Tacitus (VonR.1986.2); the
Alexander cycle (Aval.1966.1; VonR.1986.1); as built on negative
correspondences with Moses (Porc.1997.1, pp. 20–25). There are of
course many more. For three Latin passages (from Cicero, Horace,
and Seneca) that may have helped shape Dante’s conception of
Ulysses see Singleton’s comment to vv. 90–120.
For the vast bibliography of work devoted to Dante’s Ulysses see
Cass.1981.1 and Seri.1994.1, pp. 155–91. [return to English / Italian]
64–69.   Now that Dante knows that the �ame contains Ulysses, his
ardor to hear him speak is nearly overwhelming. [return to English /
Italian]

70–75.      See Donno (Donn.1973.1) for the notion that here Virgil
actually speaks Greek (if not assuming the role of Homer, as some
have argued) because of a fable, which Dante might have known,
that had it that Diomedes, forced back into wandering when his
homecoming is ruined by news of his wife’s in�delity, went o� to
Daunia (Apulia?) and eventually died thereabouts. Some of the birds
that dwelled there became known as “Diomedian birds.” Their main
trait was to be hostile to all barbarians and friendly to all Greeks
(pp. 30–31). On the basis of this fable, Donno argues, Virgil chooses
to address Diomedes and Ulysses in Greek. The argument may be
forced, but it is interesting. The passage is puzzling and its di�culty
is compounded by what is found at Inferno XXVII.20, when Guido da
Montefeltro says that he has heard Virgil speaking Lombard dialect
to Ulysses. [return to English / Italian]
79–84.      Virgil identi�es himself as Ulysses’ (and Diomedes’)
“author.” Now this is strictly true, since both of them appear (if
rather unfavorably) in the Aeneid. Nonetheless, one can understand
why some commentators have imagined that Virgil is pretending to
be Homer as he addresses Ulysses and Diomedes. However, that he
refers to his work as li alti versi (“my lofty verses”) probably
connects with his earlier description of his Aeneid, “l’alta mia
tragedìa” (my lofty tragedy), at Inferno XX.113. It seems most
sensible to believe that Virgil is speaking whatever language he
usually speaks. [return to English / Italian]
90–93.   Ulysses’ speech begins, like classical epic, in medias res (in
the midst of the action, i.e., not at its beginning). Dante would seem
to be portraying him as the author of his own self-celebrating song,
a “mini-epic,” as it were. He makes it sound as though staying with
Circe, the enchantress, were less culpable than it probably was, in
Dante’s eyes. His next gesture is to boast that he had come to Gaeta
before Aeneas did, which city Aeneas names after his dead nurse,
who died and was buried there (Aen. VII.2). Thus does Ulysses put
himself forward as a rivalrous competitor of Virgil’s hero. [return to
English / Italian]

94–99.      Ulysses’ aim, to discover the truth about the world and
about mankind, sounds acceptable or even heroic to many
contemporary readers. When we examine the prologue to this
thought, in which he denies his family feeling for Telemachus,
Laertes, and Penelope in order to make his voyage, we may begin to
see the inverted parallelism to the hero whom he would emulate
and best, Aeneas, loyal to Ascanius, Anchises, and Creusa. If Ulysses
is venturesome, Aeneas is, as Virgil hardly tires of calling him, pius,
a “family man” if ever there was one. [return to English / Italian]
100–111.      He and his crew of aging, tired sailors head out across
the Mediterranean from Italy and reach the gates of Hercules, the
very sign, even as Ulysses reports it, of the end of the known world.
While Dante does not refer to it (nor to the previous voyages of
Marco Polo), a number of recent commentators speculate that he
was aware of the voyage of the Vivaldi brothers in 1291. They, in
search of India, sailed out through the Strait of Gibraltar, having
passed Spain and Africa, and were never heard from again. [return to
English / Italian]
112–113.   It is a commonplace in the commentaries to believe that
the opening words of Ulysses’ speech to his men re�ect the �rst
words of Aeneas to his men (Aen. I.198). Several, however, also refer
to the similar passage in Lucan (Phars. I.299), but without making
any further case for Lucan’s greater appositeness here. Stull and
Hollander (Stul.1991.1), pp. 8–12, argue that Caesar’s infamous
words to his men, urging them to march on Rome, are cited far
more precisely: the phrase “che per cento milia / perigli” (through a
hundred thousand perils) mirrors nearly exactly Lucan’s “qui mille
pericula” (through a thousand perils) except for the added touch
that Ulysses is even more grandiloquent than Lucan’s �orid Julius.
The result seems fairly devastating to all those who argue for a
positive valence for Dante’s Ulysses, which is close to impossible to
assert if the essential model for the hero is Julius Caesar, portrayed
in Lucan as the worst of rabble-rousing, self-admiring leaders, here
at the moment that begins the civil war that will destroy the

republic. For Lucan, and for Dante, this is one of the most terrible
moments in Roman history. Stull and Hollander explore a series of
resonances of Lucan’s text in this canto. [return to English / Italian]
118–120.      Ulysses’ �nal �ourish not only won over his �agging
shipmates, it has become a rallying cry of Romantic readers of this
scene, from Tennyson to Primo Levi. What can be wrong with such
desires, so fully human? Alessandra Colangeli, a student at the
University of Rome, suggested, after she heard a lecture on this
canto on 10 March 1997, that Ulysses’ words seemed to echo those
of the serpent in the Garden to Adam and Eve, promising that, if
they were to eat the forbidden fruit, they would become like gods,
knowing good and evil (Gen. 3:5). For a similar if more general
view of Ulysses as the tempter see Cassell (Cass.1984.1), p. 86. Since
Adam’s later words to Dante (Par. XXVI.115–117) rehearse both the
scene in the Garden and Ulysses’ transgression, the eating from the
tree and the trespass of an established limit, the association has
some grounding in Dante’s text. Baldelli (Bald.1998.1) is the latest
to argue that the speech is the locus of Ulysses’ fraudulent counsel,
since he, anticipating the reckless adventure of the Vivaldi brothers,
urges his men to go beyond the known limits in search of
experience.
Gustavo Vinay (Vina.1960.1), pp. 5–6, points out that these verses
echo the opening of the Convivio (“All men naturally desire
knowledge”). His insight gives support to those who have argued
that Ulysses is staged as a precursor, as it were, of the venturesome
younger Dante, in whose more mature view a number of positions
put forward in Convivio have become something of an
embarrassment. For such opinions see, among others, Valli
(Vall.1935.1), Hollander (Holl.1969.1), pp. 114–18, and
Holl.1975.1; Freccero (Frec.1986.1 [1973]), pp. 188–90; Gagliardi
(Gagl.1994.1), pp. 330–32, resuscitating Valli’s views (his title
derives from Valli’s). [return to English / Italian]
121–123.      Ulysses’ summary of the result of his speech is a
masterpiece of false modesty. Once he has uttered his words, his

exhausted companions are ready for anything. We now perhaps
notice that one of his key words is “little,” one mark of a speaker
who masks his pride in false humility: his reduced company of
shipmates is picciola (v. 102); so is the time left his men on earth
(picciola, v. 114); and now his oration is also but a little thing (v.
122), picciola used one more time, a total of three times in twenty-
one verses. Ulysses is, in modern parlance, a con artist, and a good
one, too. He has surely fooled a lot of people. [return to English / Italian]
124–126.   His men, his “brothers,” now show their real relationship
to Ulysses: it is an instrumental one. They are his oars. As Carroll
suggests in his commentary, “Is it not possible that this wild
adventure is narrated as the last piece of evil counsel of which
Ulysses was guilty?” [return to English / Italian]
127–135.   The �ve-month voyage, the ship’s stern to the east (the
site of sunrise, perhaps the most familiar medieval image for Christ),
occupies three tercets. Ulysses, abetted by his rowers, has stormed
Olympus. They are the �rst mortals to see the mount that became
purgatory since Adam and Eve left it. God’s punishment does not
wait long to overcome them. [return to English / Italian]
136.   For a possible source of this verse in the Bible (John 16:20),
see Chiappelli (Chia.1989.1), p. 123: “You shall weep and lament,
but the world shall rejoice; and you shall be sorrowful, but your
sorrow shall be changed to joy.” For another, perhaps more apt, see
Durling (Durl.1996.1), p. 414, citing James 4:9: “Be a�icted, and
mourn, and weep: let your laughter be turned to mourning, your joy
to heaviness.” [return to English / Italian]
137–138.   The whirlwind is frequently associated with God’s power
used in punishment. See, among others, Cassell (Cass.1984.1), pp.
90–92. [return to English / Italian]
139–141.      The �nal image of Ulysses’ narrative is based, as a
commentator as early in the tradition as Guido da Pisa realized, on

Aeneid I.116–117, where Virgil describes the only ship in Aeneas’s
�otilla to be destroyed in the storm at sea: “…    but a wave whirls
the ship, driving it three times around in the same place, and then a
sudden eddy swallows it up in the sea.” The echo is probably not
without consequence for our view of the would-be hero Ulysses:
“The ship in point is that which carried the Lycians and faithful
Orontes and which goes down within sight of the land that would
have saved its sailors, as does Ulysses’ ship. It is a ship of the
damned. Aeneas, in his piety, is the hero; Ulysses, in his heroicness,
is the failure” (Holl.1969.1, p. 121). [return to English / Italian]
142.      The �nal verse of the canto seems also to have a classical
antecedent (one not previously noted), the �nal verses of the
seventh book of Statius’s Thebaid. There, the seer Amphiaraus, the
�rst of the “seven against Thebes” to die in that civil war, plunges
into a chasm in the earth only to have the land then close back in
above him (Theb. VII.821–823): “and as he sank he looked back at
the heavens and groaned to see the plain meet above him, until a
fainter shock joined once more the parted �elds and shut out the
daylight from Avernus” (trans. Mozley). Dante has referred to
Amphiaraus’s descent into hell at Inferno XX.31–36. If he is thinking
of it here, it would call to mind still another pagan hero who may
serve as a model for Ulysses’ rash voyage and entombment. [return to
English / Italian]

INFERNO XXVII
1–2.  Ulysses’ speech ends, his tongue of �re erect (i.e., not waving
about [see Inf. XXVI.85–89]) and stilled. [return to English / Italian]
3.  This innocent detail—Virgil’s dismissal of Ulysses—will resurface
at v. 21 with the addition of rather striking information about the
language of Virgil’s last words to Ulysses, uttered but not recorded
here. [return to English / Italian]
4–6.    The next �ame-enclosed shade, who will turn out to be a
modern-day Ulysses, Guido da Montefeltro, was well known enough
that he never has to be identi�ed in more than indirect ways (vv.
67–78). Born ca. 1220, Guido was one of the great Ghibelline
captains of the last third of the thirteenth century, winning a
number of important victories for the nonetheless eventually
unsuccessful Ghibelline cause. He was reconciled to the Church in
1286, but then took up his soldiering against the Guelphs once
again, �nally desisting only in 1294. In 1296 he joined the
Franciscan order (v. 67). However, in the following year Pope
Boniface VIII cajoled him into reentering the world of military
a�airs, this time working against the Ghibellines (the Colonna
family, which held the fortress of Palestrina, Roman Praeneste, as
detailed in the text [vv. 85–111]). Guido died in 1298 in the
Franciscan monastery at Assisi.
While other pairs of preceding cantos contain those who had
committed the same sin (VII–VIII [the wrathful]; X–XI [heretics];
XV–XVI [sodomites]; XXIV–XXV [thieves]), only XXVI and XXVII
treat two major �gures guilty of the same sin, perhaps suggesting
how closely Guido and Ulysses are related in Dante’s imagination.
[return to English / Italian]
7–15.  This simile is derived either from various histories (Pietro di
Dante mentions Orosius and Valerius Maximus) or from Ovid, Ars

amatoria I.653–656. The ancient tyrant of Agrigento (in Sicily),
Phalaris, had the Athenian Perillus construct for him a brazen bull
in which he could roast his victims alive. Their screams were
transformed into what resembled the bellowings of a bull. Once the
instrument of torture was �nished, Phalaris ordered that Perillus be
its �rst victim, thus testing his handicraft. It worked. Ovid’s moral
to the story (Ars I.655–656) seems to be echoed in Dante’s verse 8:
“there is no law more just than that the craftsman of death should
die by his own handicraft.” [return to English / Italian]
16–18.    These verses make clear for the �rst time how the
mechanics of speech of the fraudulent counselors work; their words
are formed by their tongues, within their �res, and then produced
by the tips of their �ames. When Guido �rst appeared (v. 6) he was
apparently only mumbling about his pain within his �ame. [return to
English / Italian]
19–21.    Guido’s address to Virgil not only insists that the Roman
poet was speaking his (native—see Inf. I.68) Lombard, i.e., north
Italian, dialect, but then o�ers in evidence his exact words. What
are we to understand about the language in which Virgil �rst
addressed Ulysses (Inf. XXVI.72–75)? Was it the same as this? Or is
this, as seems more likely, the colloquial manner in which he sends
him away? The entire problem has vexed many a commentator, and
no simple resolution has as yet emerged. [return to English / Italian]
25–27.    Perhaps because he cannot see clearly from within his
�ame, Guido cannot tell whether Virgil (or Dante, for that matter) is
a living soul or a dead fellow-sinner, just now come down from Italy
to spend eternity here. The reason for Dante’s insistence on this
detail will be made plain when Guido reveals himself only because
he does not believe that Dante will ever resurface to tell his
miserable story. [return to English / Italian]
28.    When Guido died (1298), the peace in Romagna had not yet
been con�rmed, as it was the following year. The region of

Romagna is situated in the eastern north-central part of Italy. [return
to English / Italian]
33.    Not only is Guido an Italian (latino), he is that Italian whom
Dante had designated as most noble (lo nobilissimo nostro latino) in
Convivio IV.xxviii.8. Commentators have been concerned about this
apparent contradiction (for an attempt to mitigate it see Pertile
[Pert.1982.1], pp. 171–75). If, however, Dante had changed his
mind about a number of his positions in Convivio, as others believe,
there is no reason to �nd the contradiction anything less than
intentional. Further, he may not have known of Guido’s involvement
with Boniface when he wrote the passage praising him in Convivio.
See note to vv. 106–111.
Virgil’s passing the questioning of Guido (a modern) over to Dante
reminds us of his insisting on it for Ulysses (an ancient) in the
previous canto. [return to English / Italian]
37–39.    Dante’s reference to Romagna answers Guido’s �rst
question: there is peace—of a sort—there now. [return to English /
Italian]
40–54.    Dante now enlightens Guido (and only an expert in the
political and geographical lore of the region would understand his
elliptical speech) about the condition of eight cities and forti�ed
towns of Romagna, governed by various tyrants: Ravenna, Cervia,
Forlì, Verrucchio, Rimini, Faenza, Imola, and Cesena. Guido had
been in military action in many of them, with mixed results. [return
to English / Italian]
55–57.  Having answered some of the concerns of Guido (whom he
as yet does not recognize), Dante asks for a similar favor, o�ering
fame in the world as a reward. [return to English / Italian]
61–66.  Guido’s response, made familiar to English readers by T. S.
Eliot as the epigraph to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, makes it
clear that, for him, report among the living would bring infamy, not

fame. Since he believes that Dante is a damned soul, and thus
unable to regain the world of the living, he will speak. [return to
English / Italian]
67.    Guido sums up his life in a single line: he went from bad to
good. In fact, he went from bad to good to bad again. Dante may
have re�ected that his own life was exactly the opposite in its
movements, from good to bad, but then from bad to good. Guido
did not have a Beatrice to lead him back to the true path, only a
Boniface. [return to English / Italian]
70–72.    Boniface VIII, according to Guido, led him from his life of
religious retreat back into political machinations. Like Francesca da
Rimini, Guido da Montefeltro blames his fall upon another; like her,
he will tell Dante the reasons for it. See Inf. V.119, where Dante asks
Francesca to tell “a che e come” (how and by what signs) she came
into Love’s power; Guido will tell Dante “e come e quare” (Latin
“why,” more precisely “in what respect” [how and why]) the
reasons for his fall into perdition. [return to English / Italian]
75.    According to contemporary documents, Guido was actually
referred to as “the fox.” His quality of astutia, or “cunning,” further
identi�es him with Ulysses (see note to Inf. XXVI.58–63). [return to
English / Italian]
79–81.  Guido’s nautical metaphors clearly relate him, perhaps more
plainly than before, to Ulysses. For the curious notice on the part of
Filippo Villani (in his life of Guido Bonatti) that Guido da
Montefeltro was “full of all cunning [astutia]” and that he was
known among the Italians as “the new Ulysses” see Hollander
(Holl.1980.1), p. 142. This would suggest either that, in Dante’s day,
Guido was actually referred to in this way, or that Filippo, a great
reader of Dante, is freely interpreting the reason for the
juxtaposition of these two great �gures in Inferno. [return to English /
Italian]

82–84.    Guido speaks of his contrition, confession, and satisfaction
as though they were the merest of conveniences to attain an end. Do
we believe, on the strength of this account, that he had actually
fooled God? [return to English / Italian]
85–93.    Guido’s vicious slam of Boniface, with its concomitant
enthusiasm for the abandoned devotion to crusading, is not in any
respect at odds with Dante’s own thoughts. Boniface is attacking
Palestrina and its Christian inhabitants, none of whom had joined
the Saracens in their retaking of Acre in 1291, until then the only
remaining Christian possession in the Holy Land, or gone there only
to do business with the enemy. Instead of attacking the in�del (or
backsliding Christians) he moves against his coreligionists.
Boniface cares nothing for Christians, according to Guido (and
Dante). Not only does he not oppose the heathen in order to make
war on his own, he does not honor his own holy orders, nor those of
Guido the friar. The use of the term capestro (cord) here has
implications for those who believe that the corda at Inferno XVI.106
is a reference to Dante’s status as a Franciscan. (See note to Inf.
XVI.106–108.) [return to English / Italian]
94–97.    In the fourth century, Constantine, su�ering from leprosy,
had Pope Sylvester I brought to him from his cave on Soracte
(where he was in hiding because of Constantine’s persecution of
Christians) to cure him. When the ponti� did so, Constantine
converted to Christianity (and ended up in paradise, according to
Dante [Par. XX.55–60]); but he also out of gratitude was reputed to
have given Sylvester authority over the western empire, centered in
the city of Rome. (See note to Inf. XIX.115–117.) [return to English /
Italian]
102.  Penestrino is modern Palestrina, not far from Rome, and was
ancient Praeneste. The Colonna family were in rebellion against
Boniface’s authority and had defended themselves in this fortress.
[return to English / Italian]

103–105.    Boniface’s claim is utterly false, as Guido will learn. His
reference to Celestine V here makes it seem all the more likely that
it is he who is referred to in Inferno III.59–60. [return to English /
Italian]
106–111.    Silence as a defensive weapon against this pope was
probably the only way out; but his imposing insistence was too
much for Guido, and he makes his bargain.
A continuing debate follows verse 110. Did Dante read these
words in chroniclers who preceded him (e.g., Riccobaldo of Ferrara,
Francesco Pipino of Bologna, both of whom wrote before 1313, if
we are not sure exactly when), or did they get them from Dante?
Some contemporary commentators (e.g., Bosco/Reggio) favor the
precedence of Riccobaldo’s chronicle, perhaps written between 1308
and 1313, and believe that Dante’s account (and revision of his
former positive view of Guido) derive from it. [return to English /
Italian]
112–114.    Markulin (Mark.1982.1) considers the possibility that
Guido has invented the battle between St. Francis and the black
Cherub (a member of the second highest rank of angels, associated
with knowledge). Discomfort with the scene has been abroad for a
while. Castelvetro did not hide his annoyance, seeing that Dante had
portrayed the soul of Francis as having made an error in thinking
that Guido was to be saved and thus could not possibly have been
sent from heaven by God (and was consequently wasting his time),
for which reasons he criticizes Dante for not speaking with greater
reverence.
Guido’s son Buonconte will be caught up in a similar struggle
between devil and angel, with the angel winning (Purg. V.104–105).
Such a scene may �nd justi�cation in medieval popularizing art, but
Castelvetro is right to complain about its theological absurdities. On
the other hand, Dante is writing a poem and not a treatise. That he
repeats the motif would seem to indicate that we are meant to take
it “seriously.” See note to Inferno XXIII.131. [return to English / Italian]

116.  Perhaps the most discussed issue in these cantos is developed
from this verse. What is “fraudulent advice” (consiglio frodolente)
precisely? Is it the sin that condemns Guido? Is Ulysses condemned
for the same sin? Fraudulent counsel is giving someone evil advice
(whether or not it is e�ective advice) or acting in such fraudulent
ways as to lead others into harming themselves. Since Virgil, in
Canto XI.52–60, leaves the sins of the eighth and ninth bolgia
unnamed, this is the only indication we have for a clear
determination of the sin punished in these two cantos. Any other
solution seems less satisfactory, if there have been many who have
been eager to try to �nd one. [return to English / Italian]
118–120.    While Dante, in Convivio III.xiii.2, clearly states that
fallen angels cannot philosophize, since love is a basic requirement
of true philosophizing and they are without love, it is clear that they
can use logic, one of the tools of philosophy. [return to English / Italian]
124.  This fallen angel does the “right thing” and stops his descent
with his victim at Minos. See note to Inferno XXI.39. [return to English /
Italian]
128–132.    Unlike Ulysses, who ends his speech with a certain
majesty, Guido insists upon his bitterness, realizing eternally his
foolishness in his having given over his chance for love and
salvation when he did the bidding of Boniface. The canto opens with
Ulysses’ �ame calm and steady (vv. 1–2) and ends with that of
Guido writhing. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXVIII
1–6.  For Dante’s disclaimer of the ability to describe the blood and
wounds that surpass both words and memory (even were he to
revert to prose to do so), see Virgil’s similar disclaimer in Aeneid
VI.625–627: “And if I had a hundred tongues and as many mouths,
along with a voice of iron, I could not put together all the shapes of
crime nor run through all the catalogue of torments.” The passage
was �rst cited by Pietro di Dante and is now a commonplace in the
commentaries. [return to English / Italian]
7–21.  This elliptical version of a simile, so rich in its catalog of the
horrors of war, involves four battles (or series of battles), two of
them ancient, two modern, roughly as follows: [return to English /
Italian]
1150 B.C.
ca.
Aeneas’s Trojans triumph in south and central
Italy;
216 B.C. Romans are defeated by the Carthaginians at
Cannae;
1070 ca. Robert Guiscard’s Normans defeat the Saracens;
1266 &
1268
Manfred, then Conradin, defeated by Charles of
Anjou.
In this series of military actions the Roman and/or imperial side
�rst wins, then loses disastrously. The intrinsic view of history here
is more chaotic than directed. Absent is Dante’s more optimistic
view of history unfolding as a Roman and Christian manifestation of
the spirit moving through time to its appointed goal. And we might
further re�ect that winning and losing battles has little to do with

one’s �nal destination in God’s plan: Aeneas wins, but is in Limbo
(Inf. IV.122), Robert Guiscard wins and is in heaven (Par. XVIII.48),
Manfred loses and is on his way to heaven (Purg. III.112).
For Dante’s relation to martial epic, a genre surely drawn to our
attention by these scenes of war, see Hollander (Holl.1989.1). While
Dante’s position here would also seem to look down on “mere”
martial epic, with all its pointless slaughter, he nonetheless reveals
an aptitude for the genre.
9–11.    Puglia (Apulia) here, most commentators agree, is meant in
its wider sense, i.e., not only the southeast portion of the Italian
peninsula, but the region including Lazio. The Trojans are then
Aeneas and his men (some believe the reference is to the later
Romans). The “long war” is the second Punic War (218–201 B.C.),
during which the Romans su�ered a terrible defeat at the hands of
Hannibal’s Carthaginian forces at Cannae (216 B.C.) in Apulia.
Historians relate that after the battle a Carthaginian envoy showed
the Roman senate the vast number of gold rings taken from the
�ngers of noble Romans killed in the battle. [return to English / Italian]
12.  The problem of the extent of Dante’s knowledge of Livy remains
a vexed one. Commentators point out that Dante here would rather
seem to be following Orosius (or Augustine) than Livy, but still
appeals to Livy as the most authoritative historian of Rome. His vast
compendium, Ab urbe condita, did not come through the ages intact;
precisely which parts of it were known to Dante is not known to us.
[return to English / Italian]
13–14.    Robert Guiscard, a Norman, won many victories in Puglia
ca. 1060–80 to consolidate his power as duke of the region,
including what for Dante was the most important one, that over the
Saracens, which apparently helped to gain him his place in Paradiso
(XVIII.48). [return to English / Italian]
15–16.  The text alludes to Manfred’s disastrous loss, occasioned, in
Dante’s view, by the betrayal of his Apulian allies, at the battle near

Ceperano that was prologue to his �nal defeat and death at the
hands of the forces of the French king Charles of Valois at the battle
of Benevento (1266). Manfred is the �rst saved soul found once
Dante begins his ascent of the mount of purgatory (Purg. III.112).
[return to English / Italian]
17–18.    Two years after the defeat at Benevento, the Ghibelline
forces, now under Conradin, the grandson of the emperor Frederick
II, su�ered their �nal defeat near Tagliacozzo, in the Abruzzi, again
at the hands of the forces of Charles of Anjou, who, after the battle,
had Conradin put to death, thus ending the Hohenstaufen succession
in Italy. Alardo was the French knight Érard de Valéry, who gave
Charles the strategic advice that gained him military advantage on
the �eld. [return to English / Italian]
19–21.  This image, suggesting layers of excavated battle�elds, each
containing vast areas of wounded soldiers holding out their
mutilated limbs, gives us some sense of Dante’s view of the end
result of war, sheer human butchery. Bosco/Reggio suggest that this
bolgia brings into mind the image of a huge slaughterhouse. [return to
English / Italian]
For the Virgilian resonance (Aen. II.361–362) of these lines, see
Tommaseo’s comment: this is Aeneas’s response when he must tell
the terrible carnage during the night of the fall of Troy.
22–31.    This disgusting image of Mohammed derives from Dante’s
conviction that the prophet was in fact a Christian whose schismatic
behavior took the form of founding (in 630) what Dante considered
a rival sect rather than a new religion, Islam. Thus Mohammed
reveals himself as divided in two. [return to English / Italian]
32–33.  Alì, disciple, cousin, and son-in-law of Mohammed, became
the fourth leader of the Muslims. But the issues surrounding his
succession in 656 divided them into two factions, Sunni and Shiite,
that continue to this day. [return to English / Italian]

35.  All punished here are described by this verse. “Scandal,” in this
sense, means a promulgated doctrine that leads others to stumble
and lose their way to the truth. See Thomas Aquinas, Summa
theologica II–II, q. 43, a. 1, resp., on the Greek word σκ˙αƲδαλοƲ, or
“stumbling block.” Thus all here either caused schism in others or
themselves lead schismatic groups, the �rst three religious
(Mohammed, Alì, Fra Dolcino), the last �ve political (Pier da
Medicina, Malatestino, Curio, Mosca, Bertran de Born). [return to
English / Italian]
37–40.  The unseen devil of this ditch joins the cast of devils of the
Malebolge, the whippers of the �rst bolgia and the hookers of the
�fth. In this case there seems to be one devil alone, perhaps
intended to remind the reader of the solitary Cherub, with �aming
sword, sent to guard the Garden after Adam and Eve had been
ejected from it (Gen. 3:24). (See Purgatorio VIII.25–27, where this
passage is more clearly alluded to.) It is only in Malebolge that we
�nd such creatures. [return to English / Italian]
43–45.  Mohammed evidently believes that Dante is one of the dead
sinners. But how or why he thinks that such as they can loiter in
hell, doing a bit of sightseeing before they go to judgment, is not
easily explained. Virgil’s response (v. 49) makes it clear that only
he, in this pair of visitors, is a dead soul. [return to English / Italian]
55–60.  Disabused of his erring view, Mohammed uses the occasion
to send a message to his fellow in religious schism, Fra Dolcino. A
northerner, from Novara (balancing the southern setting of the
opening of the canto), Dolcino Tornielli was the head, from ca.
1300, of a group known as the Apostolic Brethren (gli Apostolici).
This “order” had as its aim the restoration of the simplicity of
apostolic times to the Christian religion. Its enemies accused Dolcino
of holding heretical ideas, such as the community of goods and
women. It did not help Dolcino’s case that he was accompanied by a
beautiful woman, Margaret of Trent, reputed to be his mistress.
Pope Clement V preached a crusade against the Brethren in 1305. In

1307, starved out by their enemies in the high country to which
they had retreated, the Brethren were captured. Margaret and
Dolcino were burned at the stake. [return to English / Italian]
61–63.    Mohammed’s placement of his suspended foot is read by
some as a mere “realistic detail.” Rasha Al-Sabah (Alsa.1977.1)
argues for an iconographic reading, based in a passage in St.
Thomas on Proverbs 6:12–19, in which “a wicked man with lying
mouth, sowing discord,” has “feet that are swift in running to
mischief.” His posture, one foot suspended, may also refer to the
Greek term “σκ ˙ αƲδαλοƲ,” for “stumbling block,” found at v. 35.
[return to English / Italian]
65.    This bloodied �gure, thus sliced by the sword-wielding devil,
will be revealed as Pier da Medicina at v. 73. For the reminiscence
of Virgil’s description of the dis�gured visage of Deiphobus (Aen.
VI.494–497), similarly deprived of his nose, see Scartazzini’s
commentary and many later ones as well. [return to English / Italian]
68.    Pier opens his windpipe to speak, since the devil’s cut had
wounded him there, thus preventing his breath from reaching his
mouth. [return to English / Italian]
70–75.    The early commentators are not sure exactly who Pier of
Medicina (a town between Bologna and Imola) was, but Dante and
he apparently knew one another. While the nature of his schismatic
behavior thus lies in shadow, the fact that his ensuing remarks refer
to political intrigue would seem to mark him also as a political,
rather than a religious, schismatic. [return to English / Italian]
76–81.    Pier refers, in his prophecy, which parallels that given by
Mohammed, initially to two victims of “schism,” Guido del Cassero
and Angiolello di Carignano, �rst identi�ed by Guiniforto in 1440,
and then to the victimizer, Malatestino Malatesta, lord of Rimini.
(He is referred to as “the younger masti�” in the last canto at v. 46.)
The details are not known to any commentators, but apparently

Dante knew that these two leaders of the city of Fano were tricked
by Malatestino into coming to confer with him at the town of La
Cattolica. His men caught them in their ship on their way (or after
they left) and drowned them. [return to English / Italian]
82–84.  Unriddled, the passage means that the entire Mediterranean
Sea never witnessed so great a crime. For the phrase “gente
argolica,” meaning “Greeks,” a synecdoche based on the part (the
denizens of Argos) for the whole (Greece), see Aeneid II.78, as was
noted in Torraca’s commentary (1905). [return to English / Italian]
85–87.  Malatestino, one-eyed, holds Rimini, the city that Curio (v.
102) wishes he had never seen (because it was there that he o�ered
the advice that condemns him to this punishment). [return to English /
Italian]
89–90.  The two men of Fano (v. 76) will have no need of prayer for
help against the tricky winds o� Focara’s point because they will be
dead. [return to English / Italian]
91–93.  Dante, his appetite whetted by Pier’s elliptical phrasing at v.
87, wants him to expand. [return to English / Italian]
96–102.    Pier opens the tongueless mouth of Curio, seen as a
schismatic for his advice to Caesar to march on Rome, thus
destroying the republic and causing the civil wars. For Curio in
Lucan and Dante see Stul.1991.1, pp. 27–28. [return to English / Italian]
103–108.  The description of Mosca dei Lamberti is one of the most
a�ecting in this canto �lled with a�ective moments. Mosca was
among those Florentine citizens mentioned by Dante (Inf. VI.80) as
having attempted to do good in the divided city; for his crime, of
those mentioned he is the farthest down in hell. A fervent
Ghibelline, in 1216 he urged the murder of Buondelmonte dei
Buondelmonti, who, engaged to a girl of the Amidei family, married
a Donati instead. The result of this killing was the origin of the

bitter rivalry between the Amidei and the Donati, Ghibellines and
Guelphs respectively, and of the civil discord that tore Florence
apart. Mosca is thus seen as a modern-day Curio, urging the
powerful to do what in their hearts they must have known was not
to be done.
His words, “a done deed �nds its purpose,” so mercilessly laconic,
now cause him enough by way of regret that we can sense some
justi�cation in Dante’s original characterization of him. [return to
English / Italian]
109–111.    Dante is nonetheless stern in his criticism of Mosca, not
accepting his gesture of penitence, and Mosca is left with his
deserved heartbreak. [return to English / Italian]
115–117.    The poet’s self-assurance, playful though it certainly is,
may o�end some readers. He can narrate what is to follow because
he knows he actually saw the next scene, a shade carrying his
severed head. [return to English / Italian]
130–138.    Bertran de Born, one of the great poets of war of his or
any time (and thus greatly admired by Ezra Pound in the last
century) loved to see destruction of towns and men. One thinks of
Robert Duvall’s character in Francis Ford Coppola’s �lm Apocalypse
Now, who loved the smell of napalm in the morning. It is often
pointed out that v. 132 is a reprise of a passage in the Lamentations
of Jeremiah (Lament. 1:12), already cited by Dante in the opening
verses of an “exploded” sonnet in his Vita nuova (VII.1–3) to express
his own solitary sadness in love. In a sense, they are part of
Bertran’s punishment, the “tough guy” portrayed as self-pitying.
Bertran was a Gascon nobleman of the second half of the twelfth
century. His poetry, written in Provençal, which is re�ected in
several passages in this canto, is not the subject of his discourse.
Rather, he condemns himself for his implacable schismatic actions
at the English court, where he supported and encouraged the
rebellious plotting of Prince Henry against his own father, Henry II,
king of the realm. For a text that encapsulates the problem

presented in Bertran and all the other political schismatics, see Luke
11:17: “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to
desolation” (cited by Marianne Shapiro [Shap.1974.1], p. 114).
For the reference to Ahitophel’s similar support and
encouragement of Absalom’s rebellion against his father, King
David, see II Samuel 15:7–18:15. [return to English / Italian]
142.    The word contrapasso is generally understood to be based on
an Aristotelian term in its Latin translation, contrapassum, used in
the same sense that the biblical concept of retribution, expressed in
the Latin lex talionis (the taking of an eye for an eye, etc.), is
understood to have. That is, one does something wrong and receives
the appropriate punishment for doing it. Out of the Hebrew and
Aristotelian concept (the latter re�ned by Thomas’s commentary on
Aristotle), Dante supposedly developed this idea, which is given a
name here, but has been operative since we saw the �rst sinners in
hell, the neutrals, in Canto III. For a lengthy and helpful gloss, see
Singleton on this verse. Valerio Lucchesi (Lucc.1991.1) has mounted
a complex argument attempting to deny this positive understanding
of the term by Dante on the basis of its instability as a concept that
St. Thomas actually embraces. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXIX
1–3.  Dante’s weeping eyes have reminded commentators, beginning
with Tommaseo, of biblical sources, particularly Isaiah 16:9 and
34:7, as well as Ezekiel 23:33. Durling (Durl.1996.1), p. 458,
suggests an echo of a passage in St. Augustine’s Confessions (VI.8),
when Alypius is described as becoming drunk at the sight of the
blood spilled at the Roman games. [return to English / Italian]
4–7.  Virgil’s rebuke, reminiscent of that found in Canto XX (vv. 27–
30), is particularly stern, as though Dante were guilty of the sort of
appalling human ghoulishness that makes people today gather at the
scenes of fatal accidents. [return to English / Italian]
8–9.  Virgil’s sarcastic thrust for the �rst time in the poem o�ers us
a measurement of the size of one of the areas of hell: this bolgia is
twenty-two miles in circumference. (We will discover, at Inf.
XXX.86, that the next bolgia’s circumference is exactly half this
one’s.) These two measurements were the cause of an orgy of
calculating in the Renaissance, involving no less a �gure than
Galileo in absurd plottings of an implausibly huge Inferno. For an
account of these see John Kleiner (Klei.1994.1), pp. 23–56. [return to
English / Italian]
10.    Castelvetro hears the echo here of the Sibyl’s words in Aeneid
VI.539: “nox ruit, Aenea; nos �endo ducimus horas” (Night is
coming, Aeneas; we waste the time in weeping). He goes on to add
that Servius, in his commentary to Aeneid VI.255, pointed out that
only a single day was granted by the gods for Aeneas’s journey to
the underworld. We understand that the same is true for Dante,
whose voyage in hell takes exactly twenty-four hours. [return to
English / Italian]

11–12.    Virgil’s lunar time-telling suggests that, since Inferno
XXI.112, some six hours have passed, making it ca. 1:30 PM now and
leaving less than �ve hours for the completion of the journey. [return
to English / Italian]
13–21.  Defending himself against the charge of idle curiosity, Dante
informs Virgil that he was looking for the shade of a relative among
the schismatics. The exchange shows that Virgil cannot in fact
“read” Dante’s thoughts. See note to Inferno XXIII.25–30. [return to
English / Italian]
22–27.  Virgil now adds some details to Canto XXVIII: he had seen
Geri del Bello menace Dante while the protagonist was so
preoccupied by Bertran de Born. This family drama runs as follows.
Geri del Bello, Dante’s father’s cousin, was evidently something of a
troublemaker (he was once cited for attacking a man in Prato in
1280). He was murdered, perhaps at about this time, by a member
of the Sacchetti family, and revenge was only achieved by another
member of the Alighieri clan ca. 1310 (perhaps just as Dante was
�nishing Inferno). The details are far from clear, and the accounts in
the early commentators diverge. See Simonetta Sa�otti Bernardi
and Renato Piattoli, “Alighieri, Geri,” ED, vol. 1, 1970. [return to
English / Italian]
31–36.  For the delicate interplay between Dante’s aristocratic sense
of the necessity of acting on behalf of his family’s honor and his
Christian knowledge that vengeance is the province of God alone,
see Pertile (Pert.1998.1), pp. 378–84. Pertile also argues that Dante
and Geri play out the roles of Aeneas and Dido in the underworld,
when the guilty former lover fails to communicate with the shade of
his o�ended dead paramour and leaves with his guilt unresolved
(Aen. VI.450–476). Dante’s feeling pio—piteous toward Geri—would
seem to connect him with Virgil’s pius Aeneas, who also honored his
familiars. [return to English / Italian]

37–39.  The change in setting, from one bolgia to the other, is more
abrupt than usual. The �rst thirty-six verses of the canto have been
a sort of personal addendum to the last canto; the rest of it will
combine with the next one to present the �nal ditch of the
Malebolge, devoted to the punishment of forgery, in various forms:
of metals (all in Canto XXIX), of persons, of coins, of words (all in
Canto XXX). For the “fraudulent” blending of metals by alchemists,
those punished in the rest of this canto, see Meye.1969.1. [return to
English / Italian]
40–45.    These “lay brothers” of the “monastery” of the forgers are
piteous in their aspect and in their groans; the protagonist, now of
sterner stu� than he had been under the in�uence of his relative’s
unavenged murder, covers his ears (where he had feasted his
drunken eyes at the beginning of the canto). [return to English / Italian]
46–51.    The Valdichiana and Maremma, in Tuscany, and Sardinia
were all characterized by malarial outbreaks in the summer.
Commentators speak of the special hospitals set up in the
Valdichiana to deal with outbreaks of the disease. [return to English /
Italian]
52–53.  They cross the last bridge, now seen as an entity, the long
span (interrupted over the sixth bolgia) that traverses the extent of
Malebolge. [return to English / Italian]
54–57.  God’s unerring justice is portrayed as the punishing agent of
the counterfeiters. But what does it mean that she records or
“registers” them? And where is “here”? Most early commentators
argued that “here” referred to the bolgia. Beginning in the
Renaissance, the majority believe that it refers to this world. But
what sense does it make to say that justice “registers” sinners in this
world? The image is of writing down a person’s name in a book. For
a review of the debate over the line (57) see Hollander
(Holl.1982.1), proposing that “here” means “this book,” i.e., Dante’s
Inferno, a solution put forth (although never discussed by later

commentators) by John of Serravalle in the �fteenth century. Dante
will once again (and only once again) use the verb registrare: see
Purgatorio XXX.63, when his name, “Dante,” is “registered here,”
i.e., in his text. [return to English / Italian]
58–66.    Details from Ovid’s lengthy account of the plague, sent by
Juno, on the island of Aegina (Metam. VII.523–657) is here used in
simile to describe the falsi�ers, who have become plague-blasted
shades of humans because of their counterfeiting, in which that
which is worth less is made to seem worth more. That their
a�iction is an infernal version of leprosy (some commentators
believe it is scabies [see v. 82]) is attested by Bosco/Reggio
(commentary to this verse) on the basis of medieval medical
treatises, some of which report that scabies is a secondary symptom
of leprosy. Capocchio, the second of the two sinners revealed here,
is described as “leprous” (v. 124).
In verse 63 Dante takes mere poetic �ctiveness to task (in Conv.
IV.xxvii.17 he had referred to this story as a favola [fable]). His
“real” sinners may resemble the plague-victims in Ovid’s fanciful
tale; unlike them, however, they are not present in a fable, but in a
truthful narrative. Here Dante’s insistence on the veracity of what
he relates is so challenging that we can see the wink in his eye.
[return to English / Italian]
73–84.    The three rapid comparisons are the very stu� of homely
poetry: pans on a stove, stable boys currying horses, cooks’ helpers
cleaning �sh. We have seen precisely this stylistic range before,
paired similetic passages describing the same thing in two very
di�erent registers, that of classical myth deployed alongside that of
“scenes from everyday life.” Among other things, this second
register, with its ordinary, even ugly, names of things in the real
world, helps us “believe” that Dante’s poetry is in fact “true,” while
Ovid’s is not—even as we acknowledge that Dante is as much a
fabulist as was Ovid. [return to English / Italian]

85–90.  Even Virgil’s ironic captatio, his attempt to win Gri�olino’s
goodwill, re�ects the low style of things in this scene. [return to English
/ Italian]
109–120.    Gri�olino d’Arezzo was in fact burned at the stake for a
charge of heresy brought by Albero di Siena, perhaps the natural
son of the bishop of Siena, ca. 1270. Thus he was put to death for a
sin he did not commit, but condemned by God for the one he did:
falsifying metals. Dante obviously enjoyed telling this tale of
bu�oonish credulity, in which Gri�olino failed in his role of
Daedalus to Albero’s Icarus, and which would have �t a novella of
Boccaccio, even though it is irrelevant to the sin punished here.
[return to English / Italian]
121–123.    Florentines love to belittle the Sienese; Italians love to
belittle the French. Dante gets two for one. [return to English / Italian]
124–135.  Capocchio was burned alive as an alchemist in 1293. As
was the case when we listened to Gri�olino, what we �rst hear
about from him does not concern falsi�cation, but another topic
altogether—the luxurious living of the Sienese, down to their
overindulgence in the use of cloves to season their food. This is
exempli�ed in Stricca the spendthrift; Niccolò the gourmet; and
Caccia d’Asciano who, with Abbagliato, was part of the notorious
brigata spendereccia (Spendthrift Brigade) of Siena, which liked to
gather to eat and drink and then destroy the plates and service
while they were at it. [return to English / Italian]
136–139.    Capocchio was, according to some early commentators,
known to Dante in their early days as students. He was supposedly a
particularly adept imitator of the words and gestures of others, a
talent which he later extended to “alchemical” malfeasance, to his
cost. For the concept of the ape as mimic, see Curtius (Curt.1948.1),
pp. 538–40. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXX
1–12.    This is the �rst of two lengthy classical opening similes
derived from the third, fourth, and thirteenth books of Ovid’s
Metamorphoses. Dante’s classical material in this �rst sally involves
the matter of Thebes, his favorite example of the “city of
destruction” in ancient times. Juno, jealous of Semele, daughter of
Cadmus, founder of Thebes, takes out her wrath on the city by
destroying Semele herself (only referred to indirectly here in v. 3)
and her sister, Ino, the consort of Athamas, king of Orchomenus.
Juno’s revenge in this second instance is achieved by making
Athamas go mad. In his distemper he kills his son Learchus, thus
causing Ino to leap with the other (Melicertes) into the sea (see
Metam. IV.512–530). [return to English / Italian]
13–21.  The second tale is related to Troy, that other classical “city
of destruction.” After the fall of the city, the widowed queen,
Hecuba, was, according to Ovid’s account in his thirteenth book,
carried o� by the Greeks. When they stopped in Thrace, she
witnessed the sacri�ce of her daugher Polyxena on the tomb of
Achilles and then, when she had gone to the sea for water to
prepare the corpse for burial, found the body of her son Polydorus,
murdered by the Thracian king, Polymnestor, washed up on the
shore beside her. At this she went mad, and began barking like a
dog (Metam. XIII.404–406). Finally, she killed Polymnestor,
according to Ovid, by tearing out his eyes. [return to English / Italian]
22–27.    The completion of each opening similetic comparison is
only now put forward. Reduced to madness, Athamas kills his own
child, Hecuba, the king who had killed her son (Metam. XIII.558–
564). Nonetheless, they are less savage than the two bestial forms
that now appear. [return to English / Italian]

28–33.    One of these two sinners attacks and bears o� Capocchio,
who had held our attention at the end of the last canto. This new
shade is thus associated with Athamas, acting out his maddened
rage, and is identi�ed by Gri�olino, the other sinner we met in
Canto XXIX, as Gianni Schicchi. Where Capocchio had been
scratching himself, he now gets his scabrous belly scraped by the
ground as he is dragged o�.
Gianni Schicchi was a member of the Florentine Cavalcanti family
and was renowned for his ability to impersonate others. He was
dead by 1280. Commentators speculate that Dante would have
heard tell of his impersonations while he was still a boy. One
particular case is detailed a few lines farther on (vv. 42–45). [return
to English / Italian]
37–41.    Gri�olino explains to Dante that the other furious shade is
that of Ovid’s Myrrha (Metam. X.298–502). She, daughter of
Cinyras, king of Cyprus, disguised herself, abetted by her nurse, as a
willing young woman (her mother being absent) in order to sleep
with her father. In the development of the canto, she is at least
formally in parallel with Hecuba (since Gianni plays the part of
Athamas), but beyond their common feminine savagery there is
little to associate them.
We may speculate that all the Ovidian material of this canto has
marginalized Virgil. Indeed, he does not speak a word until v. 131.
This is the longest silence on his part since he entered the poem in
its �rst canto; it is 169 lines since he last spoke at XXIX.101. For
preceding long Virgilian silences see Inferno V.112–VI.93; XV.1–99;
XVI.18–121. In two cantos he speaks only a single verse: Inferno
XV.99 and XXVII.33. However, the longest Virgilian silences in the
poem await us. Inferno XXXII is the �rst canto in the poem in which
he does not speak a word (and he is silent between XXXI.134 and
XXXIII.106, a total of 255 verses); Purgatorio XXIV is the second and
the longest (with Virgil silent between XXIII.15 and XXV.17, a total
of 288 verses). [return to English / Italian]

42–45.    The story of Gianni Schicchi’s impersonation of the dead
and testamentless Buoso Donati in order to help the surviving
Schicchi family members get an inheritance they feared they would
otherwise lose delighted the early commentators, who take pleasure
in repeating it. Gianni’s payment for himself was to will himself the
best animal—the lead mule—of Buoso’s herd. Puccini’s opera,
bearing his name as its title, continues to purvey Gianni’s tale.
[return to English / Italian]
46–48.    Reading the last canto for the �rst time, we may have
assumed that the tenth bolgia was devoted to detailing the
punishment of a single form of falsi�cation, alchemical deceptions,
punished in a single way, by the scabs that cover the bodies of these
leprous sinners (see note to Inf. XXIX.58–66). After reading Canto
XXX we have learned that there is a total of four species of
falsi�cation, each punished by a particular disease. The three
species in this canto are as follows: impersonators (hydrophobia),
counterfeiters of coin (dropsy), perjurors (fever). Here we come to
the second in this group, the counterfeiters. [return to English / Italian]
49–51.    For the musical elements in the description of this sinner
(he will �nd a name, Master Adam, at v. 61), see Iannucci
(Iann.1995.1). The lute, which resembles “a pregnant guitar” (as a
waggish student of music once insisted) was, in Dante’s time,
generally regarded as a “serious” instrument, like David’s harp, and
thus associated with the “right” kind of musical performance.
Iannucci points out (p. 114) that this is the only stringed instrument
mentioned in hell. Adam, who looks like a lute, ends up sounding
like a drum (v. 103), an instrument, as Iannucci argues, associated
with such lower forms of musical amusement as public spectacles.
For the symbolic inversions in the musicality of this scene see
Heilbronn (Heil.1983.1). [return to English / Italian]
52–57.  Dropsy, in which a main symptom is the retention of water,
which distends parts of the body, was also characterized by terrible
thirst. [return to English / Italian]

58–61.    Resentfully noting Dante’s lack of punishment, the sinner
identi�es himself. Master Adam, according to some commentators
an Englishman, was in the employ of the Conti Guidi of Romena (in
the Casentino, not far from Florence). (We will hear more of this
family in vv. 73–87.) They convinced him to falsify the gold �orin,
stamped with the image of John the Baptist, the patron of Florence,
by pouring gold of only 21 (and not 24) carats, thus reducing its
purity by one-eighth. On the symbolic importance of money, as it is
re�ected in this canto, see Shoaf (Shoa.1983.1), pp. 39–48. Adam’s
crime was discovered and he was burned alive in Florence in 1281.
His name almost inevitably reminds the reader of his namesake,
the �rst sinner. For discussion of the way in which this “new Adam”
is in fact a modern version of the �rst one, see Mussetter
(Muss.1978.1).
As many note, the language here again re�ects that found in the
Lamentations of Jeremiah. See note to Inferno XXVIII.130–138.
[return to English / Italian]
64–69.  Adam’s memories of “the green hills of home” torment him,
only increasing his punishment. What for the reader is a moment of
pastoral escape from hellish thoughts is for him torment. For a
Virgilian source of the image see Eclogue X.42, describing “cool
streams and gentle meadows.” [return to English / Italian]
76–78.  Envy, often marked by the desire to see those who are well
o� su�ering, rules Adam’s heart. He would rather see his employers
punished than slake his thirst. Fonte Branda, according to the early
commentators, is the famous spring in Siena. Later writers have
argued for another, of the same name, in the vicinity of Romena.
However, that the earliest commentators do not refer to it probably
seconds the notion that the more famous one is referred to here.
[return to English / Italian]
79–81.    Guido had died in 1281 and news of his location in this
bolgia has reached Adam through one of the rabid impersonators
who range the territory. [return to English / Italian]

82–87.  Adam’s “impossible dream” is to be able to move an inch in
a hundred years—and even that is beyond him. Were it not,
Manfredi Porena did the math and calculated that, at even this
speed, it would take him 700,000 years to �nd Guido.
That this bolgia is half the circumference and breadth of the last
one has given those who would like to establish the exact size of
Dante’s hell the two coordinates they think they need. Such
calculation is a temptation to be avoided. See the note to Inferno
XXIX.8–9. Adam undercalculates the diameter, which is 3.5 miles,
considerably. We re�ect that his dubious measurement is the result
of his dropsied bulk and consequent laziness. A half mile is
hundreds of thousands of years of (for him impossible) movement.
[return to English / Italian]
88–90.    Adam’s hatred of the Conti Guidi is understandable; his
placing the entire blame on them for his own misdeeds is typical of
certain sinners, always �nding a cause for their failures in the hearts
and minds of others. [return to English / Italian]
97–99.    Adam �rst identi�es Potiphar’s wife (Gen. 39:6–20), who,
having failed to seduce Joseph, accused him before Pharaoh of
attempting to seduce her. Then he identi�es Sinon (as he is known
from the second book of the Aeneid), whose misrepresentations led
to the destruction of Troy. Both su�er from high fever, seen not as a
symptom of other ailments, but as a disease in itself; both worked
treacherously against a “chosen people,” the Hebrews and the
Trojans. [return to English / Italian]
100–103.    Angered by the words of Master Adam, Sinon’s �rst
gesture is to strike him on his taut paunch, which booms like a
drum. This act begins a series of exchanged insults, begun and
ended by Adam. Until the last in the series, each one occupies a
single tercet (Adam’s �nal �ourish will occupy two). As many who
have written on this scene have re�ected, Dante’s technique here is
modeled on the exchange of poetic insult found in the genre called
tenzone. See note to Inferno VIII.31–39. [return to English / Italian]

115.    Not only are these exchanges generally re�ective of the
tradition of the tenzone, this particular verse has been seen (e.g.,
Casini/Barbi’s commentary in 1921) as rehearsing a particular
tenzone, one between Cecco Angiolieri and Dante (whose sonnet,
apparently the occasion for Cecco’s, is lost). Cecco’s (“Dante
Alighieri, s’i’ so’ bon begolardo”) begins roughly as follows:
               Dante Alighieri, if I’m a foolish bard,
               I can feel your lance just behind my back;
               If I’m out for dinner, you’re there for a snack;
               If I chew the fat, you but suck the lard.
                                        [return to English / Italian]
118.    For Virgil’s presentation of Sinon’s lie see Aeneid II.152–159.
[return to English / Italian]
126–129.    Adam’s last words remind Sinon that, even if the
counterfeiter is su�ering from dropsy, his accuser has got a case of
fever. His last riposte jibes at Sinon’s thirst, which would lead him to
the “mirror of Narcissus,” i.e., a pool that would re�ect his true,
hideous self—which image he would destroy out of thirst, in a sort
of grubby version of the original myth. As Brownlee pointed out,
this reference begins the “Narcissus program” in the Commedia,
which includes references to the myth in a number of passages, and
in all cantos numbered XXX (Brow.1978.1), pp. 205–6. [return to
English / Italian]
131–135.  Virgil’s harsh rebuke here seems on the mark, certainly to
Dante himself. Dante’s emphatic acceptance of it stands in clear
contrast to his rejection of the similar rebuke in the last canto (Inf.
XXIX.4–12), where Virgil had not understood the cause of his
staring into the ninth bolgia. Here Dante has become an interested
bystander (rather than a man with a mission), enjoying the back-
and-forth argument between the two sinners (just as do we) because
it is both violent and amusing. [return to English / Italian]

136–141.    This is a remarkable simile (or “pseudo-simile” on the
grounds that it “compares a thing, person, or emotion with itself”—
in the words of Eric Mallin (see Mall.1984.1), p. 15. (Mallin
discusses this particular simile, pp. 28–31.) Tozer’s prior remark in
his commentary (1901) is of interest: “This is a conspicuous instance
of an interesting class of similes—viz. those drawn from mental
experiences—of which there are as many as thirty in the Divine
Comedy.” The simile is di�cult enough that a prose paraphrase may
help to make its point clearer: “As a man dreams of being harmed
and of wishing he were only dreaming (which he in fact is), so did I,
unable to speak, feel ashamed because I could not excuse myself—
while all the while my blushing was doing just that for me.” [return to
English / Italian]
142–148.    Virgil accepts Dante’s unvoiced apology and warns him
against future backsliding of this kind. Berthier, in his gloss, cites
from St. Bernard, De ordine vitae, from a passage, he says, located
“before its middle”: “audire quod turpe est, pudori maximo est” (it
is most shameful to give ear to vile things). [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXXI
1–6.  The reader—at least on a second reading—may admire Dante’s
insistence on his authorial freedom in not marking the border
between Malebolge and the ninth Circle at the canto’s edge. Instead,
with another classical simile (and Momigliano notes the large
numbers of classical allusions sprinkled through Cantos XXVIII–
XXXI), he delays the transition until v. 7.
Virgil’s rebuke in Canto XXX.130–132 had both caused Dante
embarrassment and supplied the antidote: his blush of shame (which
reassured Virgil of his charge’s moral development). The most likely
source for Dante’s reference to the lance of Achilles, which had the
magical property of curing with a second touch the very wound that
it had caused, is Ovid, Remedia Amoris I.43–44: “The Pelian spear
[in Dante’s understanding, the spear of Peleus?] that once had
wounded his enemy, the son of Hercules [Telephus], also brought
comfort to the wound,” a tale presented as being of somewhat
dubious provenance, as another one of those pagan yarns (“so I have
heard it told”). For some of the problems associated with this text
see Singleton’s commentary. Ovid in fact refers to the spear given by
Chiron, the centaur (see Inf. XII.71), who lived on Mt. Pelion, to
Achilles himself. At least one other medieval poet before Dante,
Bernard de Ventadour, had referred to the weapon as belonging �rst
to Peleus. Dante knew that Peleus was the father of Achilles, from, if
nowhere else, Statius’s Achilleid (I.90). [return to English / Italian]
7–13.  The departure from Malebolge and arrival in the penumbral
murk of the last bolgia is anything but dramatic. Here nothing is
distinct until Dante hears a horn-blast. We shall eventually learn
that this is sounded by Nimrod (v. 77). [return to English / Italian]
16–18.    The reference to the Chanson de Roland, a text that,
Cecchetti reminds us, Dante knew in a form probably most unlike

anything we read today (Cecc.1990.1, p. 409), is the reader’s �rst
sure sign that we are in the realm of treachery, not mere “simple
fraud.” As Scott points out (Scot.1985.1), pp. 29–30, for most
medieval readers there was perhaps no worse betrayal than that of
Ganelon (punished in the next canto, XXXII.122), whose treacherous
act, in 778, was directed against Charlemagne, the future emperor
(crowned in Rome on Christmas Day in 800) and future saint
(canonized in 1165, exactly one hundred years before Dante’s birth);
he betrayed Charlemagne’s rear guard to the Saracen invaders.
Roland blew Oliphant, his horn, too late to bring back Charlemagne
and his troops, miles distant, in time to save his part of the army, all
of whom were slaughtered at Roncesvalles by the Saracens.
Reminded of that blast, we know we are among the treacherous.
The parallels set up by the scene are interesting. If Nimrod plays
the role of Roland, his horn-blast is timely enough to prevent the
entrance of the “invaders,” Dante and Virgil, but equally ine�ectual.
There is an “emperor” in this scene, too, “lo ’mperador del doloroso
regno” (the emperor of the woeful kingdom), Satan (XXXIV.28). And
Nimrod’s blast is meant to warn the Satanic forces of the advent of
the enemy, as Roland’s was. Who is the Ganelon of the scene?
Antaeus, who will “betray” his lord by helping Dante and Virgil
descend into Satan’s stronghold. If all these inverse parallels work,
we have to add another: Dante and Virgil are the Saracens in this
series of analogies by contrary. [return to English / Italian]
19–27.  Dante’s confusion, as he peers through the mist, causes him
to take giants for towers. For the medieval works on optics that lie
behind the description of Dante’s misperceptions here, see Dronke
(Dron.1986.1), p. 36. [return to English / Italian]
28–33.  Virgil, as gently and reassuringly as he can, prepares Dante
to behold the giants. As the guardians of this zone of hell, as the
most proximate servants of Satan, as it were, the giants are seen to
represent the sin of pride. That is how Pietro di Dante saw them
centuries ago: “Gigantes �gurative pro superbis accipiuntur” (The

giants are to be �guratively understood as those who are prideful).
[return to English / Italian]
34–39.    The second simile of the canto is without classical
decoration. It involves improving sight, whether because a mist
gradually lifts or because a walker gets closer to the indistinct object
he examines from afar. [return to English / Italian]
40–45.    The third simile compares the looming giants with the
towers of the forti�ed town, Monteriggione, a Sienese outpost
situated on the road between Florence and Siena. In the thirteenth
century its defensive walls were supplemented by fourteen towers,
each over sixty feet in height.
For the attempt of the giants to overthrow the Olympian gods,
referred to obliquely here, see note at vv. 94–96. [return to English /
Italian]
49–57.  Dante’s meditation on the handiwork of Nature, God’s child
(see Inf. XI.99–105), can only be taken seriously, by a modern
reader, when one considers that, according to Genesis 6:4, once
“giants walked the earth.” Nature, as implementer of God’s design,
is “more cautious and more just” because she now fashions her
largest creatures without intelligence, thus better protecting
humans. [return to English / Italian]
58–66.    The anatomy of the giants, visible only above their waists,
since the bank forms a sort of apron, or “�g leaf” (perizoma—see the
word in Gen. 3:7) for them, is described from the head down, to
their shoulders (“where men make fast their cloaks”), to their
waists. The giant’s head, which resembles the bronze pinecone
Dante might well have seen in Rome in 1301 in the Vatican, is
about eleven feet in height. Three Frieslanders, reputed to be among
the tallest of men, standing on one another’s shoulders, would have
reached merely from the bank to the bottom of his locks, some
twenty-two feet, if we allow the topmost Frieslander to reach up
with an arm toward that hair. This leaves a foot or two of neck

unmeasured. Further, Dante himself, measuring by eye, thinks that
the distance from the bank to the giant’s shoulders is some thirty
spans (a span equals the space covered by a hand spread open), also
some twenty-two feet. Dante indicates that the giant is about thirty-
�ve feet tall measured from the waist, his midpoint, and thus some
seventy feet in all. One senses his amusement at the reader who will
do this calculation. [return to English / Italian]
67.  The garbled speech that issues from Nimrod’s mouth has caused
a veritable orgy of interpretive enthusiasm. (The reader should be
aware that we are not at all sure about what these words looked like
when they left Dante’s pen; as nonsense, they may have caused
more scribal confusion than others. Hence, any attempt to
“construe” them should be extremely cautious, which has certainly
not been the case.) Dante has variously been assumed to have
known more Aramaic or Arabic or Hebrew than he likely could
have, and to have deployed this arcane knowledge in creating a
meaningful phrase. For a review of various attempts to make these
words “make sense,” with bibliography, see Ettore Caccia, “Raphèl
maì amècche zabì almi,” ED, vol. 4, 1973. And see the note to
Inferno VII.1, where Plutus also speaks �ve garbled words. While it
is nearly certainly true that we are not meant to be able to
understand Nimrod’s words (that is the point Virgil makes, after all),
it is nonetheless likely that they, like those of Plutus, should be seen
as corrupted versions of words that do make sense. “Raphel” can
hardly fail to remind us of the name of the archangel Raphael,
“maì” seems a version of the Italian word for “ever” (or “never”),
“amècche” could be a series of simple words (a me che: “to,” “me,”
“that”), “zabì” sounds like a slide into dialectical speech, and “almi”
is perfectly good Italian for “holy,” “divine.” The point is not that
these words make any sense; it is rather that they do not. Like
Plutus’s outburst, they are meant to be understood as corrupted
speech. And, as was true in that case, they are intended to keep
these intruders out of the place this guardian has been posted to
guard. See Chiari (Chia.1967.1), p. 1107, who argues that Nimrod’s

cry is the product of anger and menace common to all infernal
guardians.
These �ve words may refer to St. Paul’s desire that the
Corinthians speak �ve words with understanding rather than ten
thousand in tongues (I Cor. 14:19), as was �rst noted by Pézard
(Peza.1958.1), p. 59; he was supported by one commentator,
Giacalone, in 1968, and then by Kleinhenz (Klei.1974.1), p. 283n.
Hollander (Holl.1992.1) attempts to take this ‘program’ into
passages in Purgatorio and Paradiso.
For the importance to Dante of St. Paul, who does not appear as a
personage in the Commedia, see Angelo Penna and Giovanni Fallani,
“Paolo, santo,” ED, vol. 4, 1973; Giorgio Petrocchi (Petr.1988.1).
[return to English / Italian]
69.  That Dante refers to this fallen speech as “psalms” (salmi), even
negatively, reminds the reader that Nimrod’s words re�ect the
divine origin of language, if we hear it now in its postlapsarian
condition. [return to English / Italian]
70–81.  Virgil’s stinging remarks to Nimrod (which are in fact quite
amusing) have drawn puzzled responses from some commentators.
Why does Virgil address Nimrod, since the giant cannot understand
him? Or are his words meant only for Dante? Some complain that it
is like speaking to an animal for him to speak to this creature.
Precisely so. And we humans do this all the time. It matters not at
all that Nimrod cannot understand. The reader can.
Virgil treats Nimrod like a drunk at a New Year’s Eve party,
telling him to give over attempts at speech and content himself with
blowing his horn. Referring to the giant’s rage, he underlines the
oppositional intent of his outburst; calling him “creature of
confusion” (anima confusa), he probably alludes to the “confusion of
tongues” that followed in the wake of the building of the Tower of
Babel. Before dismissing Nimrod as unworthy of further speech,
Virgil makes this association clear. In Genesis, Nimrod was not a
giant, but “a mighty hunter before the Lord” (10:9). It is probably to
St. Augustine, who mentions him three times in De civitate Dei XVI

as a giant, that we owe Dante’s decision to do so as well. The
building of the tower and the resultant “confusion” of language
(Gen. 11:1–9) was, for Dante, one of the de�ning moments in the
history of human language, the “linguistic fall” described there
paralleling the fall of Adam and Eve. See Arno Borst (Bors.1957.1),
vol. 2, pp. 869–75, for Dante’s place in the history of responses to
the building of the tower.
Nimrod will be referred to by name twice more in the poem (Purg.
XII.34; Par. XXVI.126), so that he is mentioned once in each cantica.
For this phenomenon, words that appear a single time in each
cantica, see Hollander (Holl.1988.3), pp. 108–10. [return to English /
Italian]
84–90.    The second of the three giants whom we see in this canto
(we shall hear of three others) will be identi�ed shortly (v. 94) as
Ephialtes. Unlike Nimrod, too stupid to be dangerous, this one,
bigger still and far more �erce, is capable of the harm that the poet
feared in vv. 55–57. [return to English / Italian]
91–96.    Ephialtes was one of the giants who attempted, by piling
Pelion on Ossa, to scale Olympus and overthrow the gods. He and
his fellow rebels were killed by Jove at Phlegra (Inf. XIV.58). [return
to English / Italian]
97–105.    Dante wants to see Briareus because, we suppose, he has
read about him in the Aeneid (X.565–567); he has a hundred arms
and hands and breathes �re from �fty mouths and breasts. It is
important to note that Virgil himself apologizes for this account:
dicunt, he says, “or so they say,” the same tactic that Dante has used
when warning us against the excesses of pagan mythmaking when
he imports it to his own poem (see Inf. XXIX.63; XXXI.4). Dante,
however, wants to have some fun at his fellow poet’s expense.
Briareus, Virgil explains (like a host who does not want to produce a
particularly embarrassing guest at a party), is way up ahead there,
and he looks just like Ephialtes, anyway. What Dante has made his
auctor do is to apologize for including such unbelievable rot in the

divine Aeneid, while allowing Virgil to escape the discomfort of
actually having to gaze upon the “normal,” Dantean version of a
proper giant, human in everything but his size. Most commentators
do not perceive the humor of this moment. However, for a sense of
Dante’s playfulness here, see Andreoli in 1856 and Trucchi in 1936.
Not only is Antaeus a “normal” giant (we see what Dante has
gotten us to assent to by overruling “excessive” gigantism—an
acceptance of “normal” gigantism), but he is a relatively friendly
one, unfettered, we assume, because he did not �ght against the
gods at Phlegra. The son of Neptune and Gea, Earth, Antaeus was
invincible in combat so long as he remained in contact with earth.
Hercules, discovering this, was able to hold him free from the earth
and kill him, crushing him in his hands. On Dante’s treatment of
Antaeus, see Rabuse (Rabu.1961.1). [return to English / Italian]
108.    Ephialtes is angry, either because he thinks Virgil and Dante
will have more success with Antaeus or because Virgil has said that
Briareus looks even meaner than he. [return to English / Italian]
113–114.  The size of Antaeus’s upper body, not including his head,
is seven ells, about twenty-two feet, thus roughly the same as
Nimrod’s. [return to English / Italian]
115–124.    Virgil begins by referring to the Battle of Zama in 202
B.C., where Scipio Africanus defeated Hannibal (revenge for the
Battle of Cannae in 216—see Inf. XXVIII.9–11), thus successfully
concluding the second Punic War, which had begun so badly.
Needless to say, this (for Dante and any Roman-minded reader)
great victory is hardly of a comparable magnitude to that of a giant
capturing a lot of lions. Thus the reference to Zama o�ers a
backhanded compliment to Antaeus, who killed his lions in the same
place that Scipio defeated Hannibal.
Virgil �nds himself in a di�cult situation. As was not the case
with Ulysses, when Virgil could boast that he had written of his
exploits (even if not very favorably, he had at least written of the
Greek hero—see Inf. XXVI.80–82), he has not written about Antaeus

at all. To make matters worse, he did once mention a certain
Antaeus, a soldier in Turnus’s ranks, mowed down by Aeneas in his
Achilles-like battle�eld fury in Aeneid X.561. And, still worse, this
mention of an Antaeus who is merely a walk-on corpse in Virgil’s
poem precedes by only four lines Virgil’s mention of Briareus (see
note to vv. 97–105). And so here is a poet who has, intrinsically at
least, insulted the giant whom he now wants to cajole. What is he to
do? What he does is borrow from Lucan (of course only we know
that he is accomplishing this chronologically impossible feat) in
order to praise Antaeus. It was Lucan, not Virgil, who told the tale
of Antaeus the lion-killer (Phars. IV.601–602), and it was Lucan, not
Virgil, who explicitly compared Antaeus favorably to Briareus, not
to mention Typhon and Tityus (the two other giants of whom we are
about to hear at v. 124). See Pharsalia IV.595–597. Gea had more
reason to boast of this gigantic son, Antaeus, than of the others,
Typhon, or Tityus, or �erce Briareus; and she was merciful to the
gods when she did not set loose Antaeus on the �eld at Phlegra.
(This detail o�ers the matter for Virgil’s second instance of the
greatness of Antaeus.) It can hardly be coincidental that all four of
the giants present in Virgil’s speech here are also together in Lucan’s
text. And so Virgil’s two gestures toward Antaeus are both taken
from Lucan. It is an extraordinarily amusing moment; one can
imagine how Dante smiled as he composed it. Nonetheless, many of
his commentators vehemently deny that this passage is ironic. It is
di�cult to see with what justice they do so. For what has Virgil
really said to Antaeus? “You killed a lot of lions right near the place
where Rome won one of its greatest military victories; you didn’t
�ght at the battle in which your brothers were killed by the gods.”
[return to English / Italian]
125–132.    Virgil’s captatio benevolentiae has not been successful.
Antaeus still needs persuading. Dante, Virgil tells him, can do what
he didn’t do: make Antaeus famous. Perhaps Antaeus was a better
reader of classical texts than some imagine; his lip was still curled
with disdain after Virgil’s praise had ended. Fame is the spur;
Antaeus bends and grasps Virgil, in a benevolent replay of his own

death scene, when Hercules held him in his hands. [return to English /
Italian]
136–141.    The fourth and last simile of the canto refers to one of
two towers (the shorter one, in fact, but the one that “leans” the
most) built in Bologna in 1109 and 1110. Towers and giants have
pride in common, and so the comparison is not without its moral
reasons. Its visual reasons are indisputably stunning, a tower that
seems to be falling because a cloud is passing over it. [return to English
/ Italian]
142–143.  For the tradition of hell as a devouring mouth, re�ected
in these verses, see Sonia Gentili (Gent.1997.1), pp. 177–82. And for
a larger, more speculative, view, one that holds that hell is
programmatically modeled on the shape of the human body (with
the last Circle as the anus), see Durling (Durl.1981.1)
There has been much debate as to where the giants stand in
relation to the �oor of Hell. Are their feet on the �oor itself or do
they stand on a ledge above it? See the next canto, vv. 16–18 and
the note thereto. [return to English / Italian]
144–145.    No one in hell sticks around after work, neither angelic
messenger (Inf. IX.100–103) nor cooperative monster (Inf. XVII.133–
136).
Guiniforto, in his comment to this passage, suggests that Dante
must have had a small boat in mind, the mast of which may be
raised very quickly.
An entire canto has been devoted to a transition from one circle to
the next. We realize, once all the exuberant poetic play has stopped,
that we are on the lowest point in Dante’s universe, the �oor of hell.
From here, everywhere is up. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXXII
1–9.  Dante apologizes for not having under his control a language
rough enough to be the exact counterpart of what he must describe.
For the relationship of the diction of the passage to that found in
Dante’s Rime petrose, see Poletto’s commentary (1894), perhaps the
�rst to contain this observation, now become customary. See also
Blasucci (Blas.1969.1).
The place he needs to describe is the center of the entire universe
(at least it is in the geocentric view). If he had the right words, he
would be able to set forth more adequately what he indeed fully
understands, i.e., his conception does not come short of the nature of
these things (see v. 12), but his words may. Dante draws this
distinction with some care. To repeat, his “conception” is one
matter, his description of it another (it is the “juice” that he must
“squeeze” from the “fruit” of his experience). And the setting of that
experience into verse is no light task (impresa—for the importance
of this word, referring variously to Dante’s journey and to his poem,
see Holl.1969.1, p. 230, citing its other three occurrences in the
poem [Inf. II.41 and II.47; Par. XXXIII.95]), not one for a tongue
capable only of “babytalk.” For the linguistic program concerning
“babytalk” found in the Commedia and its oppositional relation to
that previously advanced by Dante in De vulgari eloquentia, see
Holl.1980.2. Here Dante is including two words, “mommy” and
“daddy,” that he himself had explicitly proscribed from the
illustrious vernacular (Dve II.vii.4). [return to English / Italian]
10–12.    This is Dante’s second invocation. For the program of
invocation in the poem as a whole, see note to Inferno II.7–9. Here
the poet seeks aid only from the Muses and only for his ability to
�nd the right words for his di�cult task in rendering such
unpleasant matter. His “conception” (see v. 4), we may understand,
is already formed (in Inf. II.7 he implicitly asked for that, as well).

The reference to the poet Amphion probably derives from the Ars
poetica of Horace (vv. 394–396), a work well known to Dante.
Amphion was able, through the magic of his inspired lyre-playing,
to compel the rocks of Mt. Cithaeron to move down the mountain
and, of their own accord, create the walls of Thebes. Dante,
describing the Infernal “city of destruction,” the ninth Circle, home
of Lucifer, asks for the help of the Muses in order to build, not the
physical city, but his image of it in words that do justice to the
conception he has been given. [return to English / Italian]
13–15.    The poet’s address to all the denizens of Cocytus seems to
have been aimed particularly at the arch-sinner punished here,
Judas, by its reference, �rst noted by Pietro di Dante, to Matthew
26:24, Christ’s words to Judas, for whom it had been better “not to
have been born.” [return to English / Italian]
16–18.    The narrative of this ultimate part of the �rst cantica has
been held in abeyance for nine self-conscious opening lines about
the poet’s craft, for an invocation, and then for an apostrophe. The
visit to the pit of the universe has �nally begun. However, Dante’s
failure to manage these details more clearly has rattled his readers.
Do the giants stand on the icy �oor of Cocytus? Apparently not.
Here Dante asserts that he and Virgil �nd themselves far below the
feet of Antaeus. They do not seem, however, to have themselves
descended that distance. Rather, it seems more likely that Antaeus
has set them down just about where they �nd themselves now.
Some commentators object, since most humans, and certainly most
giants, are probably not limber enough (or long-armed enough) to
bend at the waist and deposit a burden well below the level of their
feet. Do we learn where the giants stand? No. Is Dante concerned
lest their feet become chilled on the ice? No. Might they be standing
on some sort of ledge? Yes. Can we be certain that they are? No.
Might Antaeus have longer arms than we like to think? Yes. Can we
know that he does? No. This is a poem, and, especially when it deals
with the marvelous, while it is at times amazingly precise, it is also,
at other times, exasperatingly (to certain readers) imprecise. As a

result, beginning perhaps with Bianchi (1868), commentators have
invented a ledge for Antaeus, and hence all the giants, to stand on.
It has become part of the furniture of the poem, even if Dante did
not construct it. [return to English / Italian]
19–21.  The identity of this voice has long puzzled readers. Torraca,
essentially alone in this opinion, opts for Virgil; many for an
unnamed sinner; many others for one (or both) of the Alberti
brothers, whom we see in vv. 41–51. Benvenuto da Imola, followed
only by his student John of Serravalle, makes probably the best
surmise: the voice is that of Camicione de’ Pazzi, a position that
seems sensible, as we shall see as we move through the scene, but
has had no success among the commentators. [return to English / Italian]
22–24.  Dante had been looking back up in the direction of Antaeus
and wondering at the height of the wall he now stood beneath. The
voice calls on him to attend to his surroundings, as he now
immediately does, realizing that he is standing on a frozen lake.
[return to English / Italian]
25–30.    A double simile describes the thickness of the ice, greater
than even that found on the Danube or the Don, so thick that even
had a mountain (whether Tambura or Pania, in the Apuan Alps
above Lucca) fallen upon it, it would not have even creaked. [return
to English / Italian]
31–36.    A second simile re�ects the protagonist’s new awareness
that there are sinners in this ice, looking like frogs in summer (and
how they must wish for summer, these shades), with just their
snouts out of the water, and their teeth sounding like the clicking
bills of storks. [return to English / Italian]
37–39.    This �rst group of sinners (we will learn eventually that
there are four groups, each in a somewhat di�erent posture) have
their heads facing downwards. Their mouths clatter with the cold,
their eyes run with tears (as we shall �nd out, that is a better

condition than that enjoyed by those lower down in the ninth
Circle). We are in Caïna, named for Cain, the �rst murderer (of his
brother Abel). [return to English / Italian]
46–51.  These two (we will shortly learn that they are brothers) lift
up their heads to behold Dante, which causes their tears to spill over
their faces and onto their lips (instead of onto the ice), thus gluing
them together still more �rmly when their tears become gelid.
Frozen into a parody of the Christian kiss of peace, they respond by
moving the only part of them they can, their foreheads, which they
use to butt one another in anger. Once we hear who they are, we
will understand the reason for such hatred. [return to English / Italian]
54–69.  The speaker is Camicione de’ Pazzi. Nothing much is known
of him except that he, from near Florence (the Val d’Arno)
murdered his relative Ubertino. His is the only voice we hear in this
�rst zone of Cocytus, the prime reason to believe that it was he who
spoke at vv. 19–21. Having warned Dante to be careful as he began
walking, lest he kick the inseparate heads of the two brothers, he
now identi�es them for Dante. Alessandro and Napoleone degli
Alberti, counts of Mangona, were also “neighbors” of Dante’s, living
in the countryside near Prato. While little is known of them, they
apparently killed one another in the 1280s as the result of a dispute
over their inheritance from their father.
Also here, says Camicione, is Mordred (vv. 61–62), who killed
King Arthur and was slain by him, as recounted in the Old French
Morte d’Arthur. The blow of Arthur’s lance left a hole clear through
Mordred’s body so that a ray of sunlight passed through it—and
thus through his shadow as well. And Focaccia is here (v. 63). That
was the nickname (see Aher.1982.2) of Vanni dei Cancellieri of
Pistoia, a White Guelph reputed by various commentators to have
murdered various of his relatives, most probably at least his cousin
Detto, a member of the Black Guelphs, ca. 1286. Also present is
Sassol Mascheroni (vv. 63–66), another Florentine who murdered a
relative in a quarrel over an inheritance. After he identi�es himself,
Camicione says that his relative, Carlino, will commit a still greater

sin, betraying a White stronghold in the Val d’Arno to Black forces
for money—a sin �t for the next zone, Antenora, where political
treachery is punished, thus making (in his own eyes, at least)
Camicione’s sin seem less o�ensive.
Carlino’s treachery and death took place only in 1302; therefore,
Camicione is using the power of the damned to see into the future,
of which we were told in Inferno X.100–108. The staging of a future
damnation just here perhaps has consequence for Francesca’s
projected damnation of her husband in 1304 to precisely this circle
and zone: Gianciotto is headed here, according to her (Inf. V.107).
Since Dante uses this occasion precisely to predict the later coming
of a damned soul currently still alive, we may be reminded of
Francesca’s similar prediction. And we sense how easy it would have
been for Dante to have had Camicione, guilty of the same sin as
Gianciotto, tell of his future presence in Caïna, thus “guaranteeing”
Francesca’s prediction. And he, like Francesca in this, tries to
exculpate himself to some degree by insisting that the person he
refers to is more guilty than he is, and will be punished still lower
down in hell. [return to English / Italian]
70–72.    We have crossed a border without knowing it. The ice of
Cocytus is not marked, as were the Malebolge, with clear
delineators that separate one sin from another. This di�erence may
result from Dante’s sense of the essential commonality of all sins
treacherous in nature, so utterly debased (they are referred to as
“matta bestialitade” in Inf. XI.82–83).
The four areas of Cocytus make concentric circles, each lower in
the ice than the last, as we move toward the center. We understand
that we have reached a new zone only because the faces of the
damned look straight out at us (and are not bent down, as they were
in Caïna). This zone is named after Antenor, the Trojan who, a
grandson of Priam, in the non-Virgilian versions of the story of the
Trojan War, urged that Helen be given back to Menelaus. After Paris
refused to give her back, Antenor, in such sources as Dictys
Cretensis, is responsible for betraying the city to the Greeks. He

escaped from the city and founded Padua (see Purg. V.75). [return to
English / Italian]
73–78.    The protagonist’s footwork has raised questions in many.
Did he kick Bocca on purpose? The language is such that answering
is not easy. Was the blow the result of will (his own) or fate
(destiny, as determined by God) or chance (mere accident, a thing
of no consequence to the Divine Mind)? These three alternatives
o�er a range of genuine and separate possibilities, which is not true
for all the hypotheses that one may consult in the commentary
tradition. As Bosco/Reggio argue, that Dante kicks the head hard
makes it di�cult to believe that his will was not involved. [return to
English / Italian]
79–81.  The victim of Dante’s kick, we will learn at v. 106, is Bocca
degli Abati. Bocca’s betrayal occurred on the battle�eld at
Montaperti (1260) when he, a member of the Florentine Guelph
army, cut o� the arm of the standard-bearer at the height of the
battle. The ensuing disastrous defeat of the Guelphs at the hands of
the Ghibellines was sometimes laid at his door, as it is here by
Dante. [return to English / Italian]
82–85.    The protagonist thinks he knows that this might well be
Bocca, and gets Virgil’s permission to question him. We recall how
stern Virgil was in his rebuke of Dante for listening to the “tenzone”
between Master Adam and Sinon in Canto XXX.131–132. Here he
stands complacently to one side as Dante gets involved in a fairly
violent “tenzone” himself. But now, one might argue, he is actively
engaged in remonstrating with a wrongdoer and thus has Virgil’s
full support. [return to English / Italian]
87–112.    This “tenzone” is in �ve parts. (1) Dante begins it with a
rebuke for Bocca’s bad manners (a sinner in the depth of hell should
treat mortal special visitors better than he has done); Bocca answers
with continuing complaint. (2) Dante o�ers fame—for a price; Bocca
answers rudely. (3) Dante moves to a threat of physical assault;

Bocca de�es him. (4) Dante begins pulling out Bocca’s hair; Bocca
“barks,” thus moving another sinner there present to name him (he
is answering in Bocca’s place, as it were). (5) Dante rejoices in his
victory over Bocca; Bocca remains sullen.
The Italian at v. 90 is, in itself, ambivalent. Because of the
conjugation of the imperfect subjunctive, “se fossi vivo” can either
mean “were I alive” or “were you alive.” Since Bocca, like
Camicione (if he is the speaker of vv. 19–21), seems to be able to
tell that Dante is in the �esh, e.g., from the sound of his footfall on
the ice, from the force of his kick, it would make no sense for him to
doubt Dante’s presence as a living being. Further, Dante’s response
would seem to follow better if Bocca’s words are understood as
meaning, “were I alive.” Our translation runs accordingly. (There
are those who dispute this reading.)
At vv. 103–105 Dante is playfully citing his own vengeful and
sexually charged desire to pull the hair of the “stony lady” in one of
his Rime petrose, “Così nel mio parlar,” vv. 66–73. For the most
recent discussion see Pasquini (Pasq.1999.1), pp. 31–33, noting as
well various other resonances of the “stony rhymes” in this canto.
See also the study of Durling and Martinez (Durl.1990.1) for a wider
view. [return to English / Italian]
113–123.  Bocca’s revenge for his “betrayal” by Buoso da Duera is to
reveal the names of others in Antenora so that they may join him in
infamy as a result of Dante’s eventual report to the living, the �rst
of these, naturally, being Buoso himself (vv. 114–117). Buoso was a
Ghibelline (he is “paired” with the Guelph Bocca) who, entrusted by
Manfred’s high command to hold the high passes near Parma
against the invading army of Charles of Anjou in 1265, apparently
accepted a bribe in order to let the Guelph forces reach Parma
without a �ght.
Tesauro de’ Beccheria (vv. 119–120), abbot of Vallombrosa, a
Ghibelline, was accused of treacherously assisting the Florentine
Ghibellines, banned from the city in 1258, to reenter Florence. He
was beheaded for betraying the city.

Gianni de’ Soldanieri (v. 121), also a Ghibelline, joined the
popular uprising against the Ghibelline leaders of Florence just after
the defeat and death of the great Ghibelline leader, Manfred, at
Benevento in 1266. He thus was seen as betraying his own party.
Ganelon (v. 122) treacherously betrayed Charlemagne’s rear
guard at Roncesvalles in 778. See Inferno XXXI.16–18.
Tebaldello Zambrasi of Faenza (v. 122), also a Ghibelline,
betrayed his fellow Ghibellines of Bologna who, having been exiled,
had taken refuge in Faenza. In 1280 Tebaldello opened a gate of his
city, just before dawn, to a war party of Bolognese Guelphs so that
they might avenge themselves upon their fellow citizens. Tebaldello
himself died in 1282 in another battle. [return to English / Italian]
124–125.  A sudden change in the protagonist’s attention reveals the
pair of sinners whom we will shortly know as Ugolino and Ruggieri
(vv. 13–14 of the next canto), the one with his head above the
other’s. [return to English / Italian]
127–132.    Again Dante blends an unadorned “ordinary” scene (a
hungry man wol�ng down a loaf of bread) with classical material (a
passage from Statius’s Thebaid VIII.751–762) in a double simile. The
moment in Statius describes Tydeus, dying in battle, asking his men
to cut o� for him the head of Melanippus, whom he had just slain,
but who had �rst given him his own mortal blow. They do so
(Capaneus [Inf. XIV] is the one who carries the body to him). With
savage joy Tydeus, dying, chews upon the head of the man who had
killed him. [return to English / Italian]
133.    For the “bestial sign” as re�ecting the words of St. Paul, see
Freccero’s essay, “Bestial Sign and Bread of Angels” (Frec.1986.1),
p. 160: “But if you bite one another, take heed or you will be
consumed by one another” (Galatians 5:15). The cannibalistic scene
before us here introduces the concerns with starvation that will be
so prominent in the �rst half of the next canto. [return to English /
Italian]

135–139.  Dante o�ers to present to the world this sinner’s case (so
that it may judge whether or not his wrath is justi�ed) if he will but
reveal his name and the o�ense committed by the other sinner.
Dante ful�lls this promise in the following canto, and the world—or
at least the Dantean part of it—has been arguing about that case
ever since.
There is also a dispute over the exact meaning of the last line of
Dante’s oath. A number of understandings have been o�ered: “as
long as I do not die �rst” (the choice of many of the early
commentators); “as long as my tongue does not fail me” (also
popular among the early commentators); “if this cold [of Cocytus]
does not wither it” (only Torraca and Pietrobono; probably not
worth serious consideration); “if my words do not die” (Grabher and
Fallani); “if it does not become paralyzed” (Steiner and quite a few
modern commentators). It seems clear that Dante, in this vernacular
and pithy oath, swears on his life that he will carry out his promise.
Tozer (1901) paraphrases adequately: “If I live to recount it.”
Recently Guglielmo Gorni has tried an entirely new tack: “if my
Florentine vernacular survives” (Gorn.1996.1), but this seems more
venturesome than necessary.
When we �nish reading this canto we may re�ect on the singular
fact that, for the �rst time since he entered the poem in its sixty-
seventh verse, Virgil has not spoken in an entire canto. See note to
Inferno XXX.37–41. [return to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXXIII
1–3.  The complications of political intrigue lie behind the story that
we are about to hear. For a review, in English, see Singleton’s
commentary to vv. 17–18. The main particulars are as follows.
Count Ugolino della Gherardesca (ca. 1220–89) was of a Ghibelline
family of Pisa. In 1275 he joined with the Guelph Visconti family in
order to advance his own political ambitions, but failed to do so
when his plans became known and he was banished. He returned to
Pisa and now joined with the Archbishop, Ruggieri degli Ubaldini
(grandson of Ottaviano degli Ubaldini [see Inf. X.120]), a
Ghibelline, and conspired with him against Judge Nino Visconti, a
Guelph, and, in Dante’s eyes, a good man (we see him, on his way to
salvation, in Purg. VIII.53). In 1288, Ugolino and Ruggieri managed
to force Nino to leave the city, thus allowing them a free hand. At
this point, however, Ruggieri decided to be rid of Ugolino, and had
him accused of “betraying” Pisa by giving some of its outlying
castles to the Florentines and the Lucchesi (he had in fact been
trying to negotiate a political advantage to Pisa in these dealings).
With that as an excuse, Ruggieri had Ugolino imprisoned in the
summer of 1288, along with two sons and two grandsons (Dante has
made the tale more pathetic by making all four of the children
young—but Ugolino was in his sixties when the �ve of them were
imprisoned). They were starved to death in February 1289.
Ugolino is found in Antenora, and thus was a betrayer of party or
country. In what did his sin consist? Dante refers to the “betrayal”
involving the castles in v. 86, but seems to think this was only an
accusation. However, his real treacherous behavior, in Dante’s eyes,
may have involved either his betrayal of his own Ghibelline party,
or of the good forces in Pisa itself in his double-dealing with Judge
Nino, who also happened to be his grandson.
Almost all admire the horror of this scene, Ugolino lifting his
gore-stained mouth from Ruggieri’s neck, then wiping it on the hair

of his enemy’s head. We may re�ect that Ugolino is moved to cease
his vengeful chewing by his hope for further, greater vengeance:
Dante’s recounting of his case against Ruggieri in the world above.
[return to English / Italian]
4–6.    Ugolino’s �rst words are nearly universally observed to be a
citation of the opening of Aeneas’s sad speech to Dido in Aeneid II.3–
8, a passage also nearly universally cited for the beginning of
Francesca’s second speech to Dante (Inf. V.121–123). Why the
repetition? Hollander (Holl.1984.5), p. 550, suggests that it
represents a sort of test for the reader, who now hears another
“sympathetic sinner” trying to capture the goodwill of the
protagonist (and, indeed, of the reader) and is supposed to realize
that this refrain has been heard before, similarly put to the service
of exculpating a sinner by that very sinner.
For a second Virgilian resonance here see Aeneid I.209, where
Aeneas hides the grief in his heart from his companions (“premit
altum corde dolorem”); the echo of these words (“che ’l cor mi
preme”) was noted by Tommaseo, who observes the di�ering
contexts. [return to English / Italian]
8.    The phrasing of Ugolino’s hoped-for fruition of infamy for
Ruggieri possibly re�ects the language of the parable of the sower
(Luke 8:4–11), where Jesus interprets the seed as the word of God.
Durling and Martinez (Durl.1996.1), p. 531, suggest the importance,
for the images of fruition used both by Ugolino and Alberigo, of
Matthew 7:20, “by their fruits you shall know them.” [return to English
/ Italian]
9.    Both Francesca (Inf. V.126) and Ugolino weep and speak
simultaneously, each of them in imitation of Aeneas’s imagined
hardened soldier, who would have to speak through tears if he had
the fall of Troy to narrate (Aen. II.6–8). And both Francesca and
Ugolino are accompanied by a companion who does not speak in
Dante’s presence. [return to English / Italian]

11–12.    Like Farinata (Inf. X.25), Ugolino realizes that Dante is
Florentine from his speech. [return to English / Italian]
20–21.  The story of Ugolino’s imprisonment and death was familiar
to all who lived in Tuscany. What Dante could not have known,
Ugolino says, was how much he had su�ered. The way in which he
says this, on the other hand, indicates the sort of egotism that we
will experience all through his speech. Here is a man who has
experienced death in the company of his children; we do not even
hear of them at �rst, since his attention is �xed entirely on himself.
See Holl.1984.5, p. 551. [return to English / Italian]
22–24.    The tower (the edi�ce remains, without its tower, in the
Piazza dei Cavalieri in Pisa to this day) would not serve as prison
many years into the fourteenth century, but it apparently still did so
when Dante wrote these lines. [return to English / Italian]
26–27.  For the supposed greater truth of morning dreams see note
to Inferno XXVI.7. [return to English / Italian]
28–36.    Ugolino’s dream turns out to have been completely
accurate: Ruggieri, out hunting on Mount San Giuliano, is after
Ugolino (the wolf) and his children (the cubs). He has set, ahead of
the chase, the waiting ambushers, the Ghibelline leaders of Pisa, and
with his hounds he is driving his victims toward them and to their
destruction.
For the canine imagery in Cocytus and especially in this canto, see
Brugnoli (Brug.1989.1). [return to English / Italian]
37–39.  Ugolino awakes from the dream to �nd its reality before his
eyes, his children hungry in their sleep and crying for their daily
bread, usually brought them in the morning (see vv. 43–44). [return
to English / Italian]
40–42.    Ugolino is angered by the fact that Dante is not weeping.
The protagonist, unlike most readers, has evidently found a moral

vantage point from which there seems something wrong with this
narration. Since we have seen him weep for other apparently less
sympathetic �gures, his lack of compassion might serve as a clue to
us about our own reactions.
In this canto, vv. 5–75, words for weeping and grief (piangere,
lagrimare, doglia, dolere, dolore, and doloroso) occur a total of
thirteen times (see Holl.1969.1, p. 306). And see Vittorio Russo
(Russ.1966.1) for a wider study of this phenomenon. [return to English
/ Italian]
45.    Apparently the children have had a dream similar to their
father’s. The process of the starvation of Ugolino and his children
roughly coincided with the Lenten season. [return to English / Italian]
46–48.    Ugolino’s dream now has a �ner point. He understands at
once that they are to die, caught by the hunter Ruggieri and his
men. His �rst impulse, which will be repeated, is to keep silent.
[return to English / Italian]
49.    Ugolino, who has just criticized Dante for being cruel because
he does not weep, now tells the protagonist that he himself did not
weep when he perceived the fate of his sons and of himself. Indeed,
he turned to stone. For Hollander (Holl.1984.5), pp. 552–55, the key
passage that stands behind this scene is found in Luke’s Gospel,
11:5–13, Christ’s parable of the importunate friend. A man is visited
by a friend at midnight and goes to the house of another friend to
seek bread in order to feed his guest. The importuned friend replies,
“Trouble me not, the door is now shut, and my children are with me
in bed; I cannot rise and give you.” Christ comments on the parable,
insisting that importuning will eventually work: “If a son shall ask
for bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone?”
The various details of the parable, in a form that is both parallel and
antithetic to the action recounted here, �nd their place in Ugolino’s
narrative: the knocking on the door echoed in the hammer blows
nailing up the prison, the man in bed with his children behind a
locked door, and the father who will not give his son a stone when

he asks for bread. Ugolino, however, gives his sons exactly that, a
stony silence. When we ask ourselves what we would do in that
situation, we probably know. We would speak, not be silent (see
Botterill [Bott.1988.2], p. 287); we would weep with our children,
not show stoic reserve; and, if we were thirteenth-century Italians,
we would pray with them after having sought their forgiveness for
having involved them, innocent, in our political machinations. The
opening passage of Luke 11 has a prayer for us, should we require
one, for it is in that text that Jesus teaches his disciples what we
know as “the Lord’s prayer.” [return to English / Italian]
58–63.    Ugolino, silent, biting his hands from grief, causes the
children to think that he is hungry and they o�er themselves to him
for food. They, like their father, can only think literally about
nourishment, forgetting the symbolic eucharistic value of bread.
(Freccero [Frec.1986.1], pp. 156–57, believes that their o�er is
eucharistic and spiritually motivated.) This is the last conversation
among them. [return to English / Italian]
64–69.  The father, thinking that display of his own sorrow will only
increase the pain felt by his sons, teaches them his lesson: stoic
silence in the face of death. Had Seneca written this canto, perhaps
we would be justi�ed in thinking Ugolino’s reserve a valuable
example of courage. The silence is only broken once more, on this
fourth day, by Gaddo, dying, who asks the question the reader, too,
might very well ask: “O father, why won’t you help me?” The drama
of paternity that we �nd in this canto is not that proposed, in his
beautiful essay, by Francesco De Sanctis (DeSa.1967.1), but that of a
terribly failing father.
The total absence of religious concerns in Dante’s portrait of
Ugolino is in contrast to the tale that circulates in some of the
commentaries, �rst in 1333 in the Ottimo Commento, that Ugolino,
realizing they were all to die, asked for a friar to confess them, and
was refused. Had Dante included such a detail, his Ugolino would
have seemed a much di�erent man. [return to English / Italian]

74.  Only now that it is too late does Ugolino break the silence with
his cries. It is the last heartbreaking detail of his failure as a father.
The tale that he tells to win Dante’s sympathy has also failed, as we
shall see. [return to English / Italian]
75.  Did Ugolino ingest his children? For a history of the centuries-
long debate see Hollander (Holl.1985.2). For a strong argument in
favor of the notion, see Herzman (Herz.1980.1). To most, the
position represented by Herzman and others, mainly (in recent
years) Americans, seems a not convincing interpretation. In
Singleton’s opinion, it is a “curious view,” one “hardly worth a
serious rebuttal.” This writer stands with Geo�rey Chaucer’s view of
the matter in the Monk’s Tale, v. 2455: “Hymself, despeired, eek for
hunger starf” (and he, despairing, also [i.e., as the children had]
died from hunger). One wishes that Chaucer had used a term for
starvation, but that might not have rhymed or scanned. “Digiuno”
(fasting) is not the same thing as “hunger.” And surely Chaucer
knew that.
An observation in the commentary of Guido da Pisa also o�ers
evidence that the number of days in the narrative (seven) is
signi�cant in this regard. Guido says, “And lest it seem impossible
that one could have lived six days without food, heed Macrobius on
the Dream of Scipio. He says that the life of a man cannot last
beyond seven days without food.” If Dante, with his so carefully
calculated seven days to starvation, is aware of this bit of medical
lore, Ugolino died at the limit of human endurance without
nourishment. Had he ingested the �esh of his children, he would
have lived longer. Further, when the corpses were exhibited outside
the tower, after their removal, the scandal of the teeth-torn �esh
would have made the rounds. No such story did, with the exception
of a variant, somewhat suspect, in the text of the commentary of
Jacopo della Lana. See Holl.1985.2, n. 24. [return to English / Italian]
76–78.    His tale told, Ugolino resumes his bestial rage against the
cause of his woes, the skull of Ruggieri, whose evil plots bested
Ugolino’s own machinations. For the view that Ugolino hides his

own culpability behind that of others, see Barberi Squarotti
(Barb.1972.2). [return to English / Italian]
79–90.    Romantic readers, who admire Ugolino, do not often read
past verse 75 with close attention. Dante’s apostrophe of Pisa, “new
Thebes,” blames the city, not for killing Ugolino, which it had a
reason to do (if not perhaps a correct one), but for killing the
children. All of Dante’s sympathy is lodged with the children, none
with Ugolino. And here we are not speaking of the protagonist (who
was �rm enough himself against Ugolino’s entreaties for pity), but
of the author.
In Dve (I.viii.2–5) Dante had divided Europeans into three large
linguistic groups, Provençal, French, and Italian, by their respective
ways of saying “yes,” oc, oïl, and sì. He thus, at vv. 79–80, refers to
the inhabitants of Italy.
Capraia and Gorgona are islands in the Mediterranean that then
belonged to Pisa. [return to English / Italian]
91–93.  The transition to Ptolomea is as abrupt as that to Antenora
had been (Inf. XXXII.70). And once again the determining detail is
the positioning of the faces of those punished in the area. These now
have their faces turned upwards (where those in Antenora looked
straight ahead and those in Caïna had their faces tilted downward).
Most commentators believe that Ptolomea, where treachery to
guests and friends is punished, gets its name from Ptolemy, the
captain of Jericho who, as recorded in I Maccabees 16:11–17,
invited his father-in-law, Simon Maccabeus, and his two sons to a
banquet and then, once they had drunk, slew them. (There is
dispute about the matter, some proposing Ptolemy XII, king of
Egypt, 51–47 B.C., who murdered Pompey as a favor to Julius Caesar
[Lucan, Phars. VIII.536–712].) [return to English / Italian]
94–99.    Their upturned visages turn the eye sockets into cups in
which the tears of the sinners become small basins of ice. Fra
Alberigo will three times ask Dante to clear these for him (vv. 112–
114, 127–128, 148–150). [return to English / Italian]

100–105.    Despite his frozen facial skin, Dante feels a wind, and
asks Virgil how this can be, since the sun, creator of wind, is absent
from this place. [return to English / Italian]
106–108.    Pietro di Dante suggests that the wind emanating from
Satan, to which Virgil alludes gingerly, not wanting to alarm Dante
unduly (cf. his behavior as they approached the giants in Inf.
XXXI.29–33), is a perverse imitation of the breath of the Holy Spirit
referred to in Acts 2:3. [return to English / Italian]
109–114.  The only speaking presence in Ptolomea (identi�ed as Fra
Alberigo in v. 118) believes that Dante and Virgil are sinners
destined for Judecca, the “lowest station” in Inferno. In Antenora
the souls seemed to be able to tell that Dante was alive; here,
perhaps because of their greater physical discomfort and icebound
blindness, their sensory capacities seem more limited than those of
the souls above them. [return to English / Italian]
115–117.    Dante’s “agreement” with Alberigo is utterly cynical; he
has no intention of helping this sinner in any way, and says what he
says only to get the sinner to disclose himself, swearing a misleading
oath in order to reassure him (of course he is going to the “bottom
of the ice,” but not as a sinner for his eternal punishment, but as a
very privileged visitor). [return to English / Italian]
118–120.  A member of the Jovial Friars (see note to Inf. XXIII.103),
Alberigo was a Guelph from Faenza, and, in 1285, invited two of his
relatives, with one of whom he had had a dispute, to dinner. When
he called out for the fruit course, the prearranged signal, hired
assassins rushed into the room and killed his guests. Now, he says,
he is having a fruit course of his own, in which he is getting more
(and worse) than he gave, date for �g (since, in Dante’s day, dates
were more expensive than �gs). [return to English / Italian]
122–133.  Here, in answer to the protagonist’s question, based in his
surprise at �nding him here, since he had not heard that he had

died, Alberigo reveals the poet’s extraordinary innovation. Those
who have broken the guest laws die in their souls as soon as they do
so, so that their souls go to hell, leaving their bodies alive on earth.
As early as Pietro di Dante, some commentators have pointed to a
possible source in John 13:27, where it is said that, shortly after
Judas betrayed Jesus at the Last Supper, Satan entered into Judas.
Atropos (v. 126) is the third of the three Fates (Clotho spins the
fabric for the skein of our lives, Lachesis lets it out from her dista�,
and Atropos snips it o� at our deaths). [return to English / Italian]
134–147.    To prove his point, Alberigo points out someone he
believes Dante might know taking his “winter vacation” here in
Ptolomea, Branca d’Oria. He was a Ghibelline nobleman of Genoa
who, with the help of another family member, treacherously
murdered his father-in-law, Michel Zanche (see Inf. XXII.88), around
1294. Thus his soul has been down here for six years, while his
body is still eating, drinking, sleeping, and putting on clothes, as
Dante insists. History contrived to make Dante’s �ction all the more
amusing. Branca, who was born ca. 1233, lived into his nineties,
only dying in 1325, thus outliving his condemner, Dante. Perhaps
he had the great pleasure of reading about his “wintering” soul as
he enjoyed his life in Genoa. [return to English / Italian]
148–150.    For the third time Alberigo asks Dante to clear the ice
from his eyes, and now Dante, having what he wanted from him,
simply does not do so. There are those who argue that the
protagonist here behaves more like a sinner than a Christian, but by
now we should be used to his approved form of righteous
indignation. And there is no reproof for such behavior from Virgil
here. [return to English / Italian]
151–157.    Matching the apostrophe attacking Pisa that ended the
�rst part of the canto (vv. 79–90), this one of Genoa concludes the
visit to Ptolomea, one of the shortest episodes in the Inferno. [return
to English / Italian]

INFERNO XXXIV
1.  The �rst verse of the last canto of Inferno (like the �rst verse of
the last canto of Purgatorio) is in Latin. Its �rst three words are
identical to the �rst verse of a hymn of the True Cross composed by
Venantius Fortunatus (sixth century) but the last, obviously, has
been added by Dante. Satan, still in the distance, is naturally not
“advancing” against Dante and Virgil, but the wind he emits might
have made it seem that way as they approach him. Satan, as we
shall see, is immobile.
This is the only complete Latin verse in the cantica, but see seven
earlier Latin words or phrases: Inferno I.65; I.70; XV.62; XVI.88;
XVIII.6; XXI.42; XXVII.72. [return to English / Italian]
4–7.    “The Satanic mills” of William Blake may not re�ect this
passage, even as much as Blake read Dante, yet Dante’s simile
immediately presents Satan as a vast contraption doing its necessary
work in the architect’s plan for this infernal city. We re�ect that this
was once the fairest of angels, now reduced, despite his awesome
size, to mindless iteration of his wings. Joan Ferrante speaks of
“Lucifer, who emits no sound but sends forth a silent and freezing
wind of hate, a parody perhaps of the love-inspiring tongues of
�ame brought to the Apostles by the Holy Spirit” (Ferr.1969.1), p.
38. [return to English / Italian]
8–9.    Commentators occasionally remark that Dante has here
forgotten the fact that insubstantial Virgil, a shade, would give
Dante no shelter at all. The “rules” of the poem overrule the “rules”
of even his own physics if and when he chooses. For example, Virgil
picks Dante up and carries him at Inferno XIX.124–125 and XXIII.37.
See note to Inferno VI.34–36. [return to English / Italian]

10.    Since Tommaseo, in 1837, commentators have cited, for this
verse, Aeneas’s words as he tells the story of Laocoön (Aen. II.204):
“horresco referens” (I shudder merely to tell it). In the Aeneid two
serpents are moving toward the priest to kill him; here, the Serpent
is being approached by Virgil and Dante. The di�ering context is
eventually reassuring, but the protagonist is, for the last time in this
cantica, �lled with fear. [return to English / Italian]
11–12.  For the third time in Cocytus the fact that we have crossed a
boundary is made clear only by the fact that sinners are now
punished in a di�erent posture. This last realm is named, of course,
for Judas, who betrayed his rightful Lord, Jesus Christ. [return to
English / Italian]
13–15.  The sinners here are frozen inside the ice, as though tossed
into it helter-skelter before it froze and now stuck in their various
postures eternally, like straw caught in molten glass in the artisan’s
shop and now fastened in that glass, a lasting imperfection in it.
Their postures are horizontal (whether facedown or supine we
cannot tell—perhaps both), vertical (both head-up and head-down),
or bent in two. We eventually realize that in this zone we will not
learn the identity of any of these sinners, a situation that may
remind us of the anonymity that was insisted on for the neutrals in
Inferno III.49–51. All of our attention is saved for Lucifer and the
three special betrayers who are punished in his mouth. [return to
English / Italian]
20–21.  Virgil uses the classical name for the king of hell, as he has
once before (Inf. XI.65), and as he did in his own poem (e.g., Aen.
VI.269). This is the last time that we will hear that name, as we are
shortly to leave his “kingdom.” The phrase “Ecco Dite” here surely
echoes the phrase used of Jesus, before he is sentenced to death,
“Ecce homo.” See note to Inferno XVII.1–3. [return to English / Italian]
22–27.  The last verse of this seventh and last address to the reader
in Inferno is treated by most commentators as a triviality, i.e., Dante

assures the reader that he was indeed half-dead (as he has already
said). See, for example, the comment found in Bosco/Reggio: “The
expression simply translates  …  that simple and banal phrase  …  in
Italian, mezzo morto [half dead].” Does Dante need to ask us to
exercise our wits, if we have these, in order to understand that? The
portentousness of his declaration that he cannot write what he
became because words would fail him cannot be squared with such
an interpretation, words for which would fail no one. Few, however,
have come forward with more vital readings. Gregorio Di Siena, in
his commentary, quotes Torricelli, who says that at this moment
Dante is passing from the state of death to the state of living in
God’s forgiveness. Ernesto Trucchi, who bridles at the terribly
uninteresting readings put forward by previous commentators,
claims that this is the moment in which, in the protagonist, the fear
of hell becomes the fear of God. More recently, Durling and
Martinez propose (Durl.1996.1, p. 544) the following: “This moment
is the culmination of the penitential imitation of Christ in the
descent into hell, symbolically the pilgrim’s death to sin, that is, the
death of the ‘old man,’ leading to the reversal of direction from
descent to ascent.” They give credit to Freccero’s essay “The Sign of
Satan” (Frec.1986.1), pp. 167–79. Whether we accept their
interpretation or not, it does seem that they, and very few others,
have responded with the kind of attention that the passage
obviously calls for. [return to English / Italian]
30–31.  That is, “I am, proportionally, closer in size to a giant than a
giant is to Lucifer.” For the size of the giants, ca. seventy feet, see
the note to Inferno XXXI.58–66. Let us, merely for purposes of
calculation, agree that Dante was six feet tall. The equation is
simple: 6/70 = 70/x; x = 817. Since a body is roughly 2.5 times an
arm’s length, Satan is some 2000 feet tall and thus looms, from the
waist up, over the ice by some 1000 feet. [return to English / Italian]
35.    Satan, once of the highest order of angels, the Seraphim, has
come a long way down. It is worth noting that the only other sinner

in hell referred to as raising his brows is prideful Farinata (Inf.
X.45). [return to English / Italian]
37–38.    The “wonder” that is Satan even now reminds us of his
divine origin. As many have noted, he stands before us as a parodic
version of Christ cruci�ed, even to his physical resemblance to the
scene on Golgotha, in which Christ was upon a cross between two
thieves. For a representation of the three-headed Satan known to
Dante from the mosaic on the ceiling of the Baptistry in Florence see
Bosco/Reggio’s commentary. [return to English / Italian]
39–45.  The three colors of Satan’s faces have caused much debate.
Almost all the early commentators equate them with the opposites
of the three attributes of the trinitarian God, Love, Power, and
Knowledge. They associate red with anger, thus hatred (or
impotence), yellowish white with impotence (or hatred), and black
with ignorance. As many note, these are not particularly convincing
schemes, if their overall applicability seems acceptable. [return to
English / Italian]
46–51.    The six wings of Satan are his six wings as one of the
angelic order of Seraphim (Isaiah 6:2); they are now not glorious in
color but the wings of a giant bat. Their resemblance to sails on a
great ship is parodic, since Satan proceeds nowhere, but connects
with images associated with Ulysses (Inf. XXVI) and the ship
bringing the saved souls to the shore of purgatory (Purg. I). [return to
English / Italian]
53–57.  Guido da Pisa associates Satan’s tears and mastication with
a biblical text (Matth. 8:12), Jesus’ words to the centurion
concerning those who fail to believe: “and there shall be weeping
and gnashing of teeth.” [return to English / Italian]
61–67.    The three most gravely punished sinners of the poem are
Judas Iscariot, who betrayed Jesus (founder of the Church), as well
as Brutus and Cassius, who betrayed Julius Caesar (the �rst ruler of

the empire). Judas is tortured more severely, his back �ayed (see
vv. 58–60) as was Christ’s, on the way to Golgotha, bearing the
cross. Nonetheless, Brutus and Cassius, those stalwarts of the Roman
Republic, which Dante honored so notably (see Holl.1986.1), are
not treated a great deal better. When we consider that another
“conspirator” against Julius, Cato the Younger, is found saved in the
next canto (Purg. I), we must surely be puzzled. For Dante, despite
his predominant hostility to him as a man (see Stul.1991.1, pp. 33–
43), Julius was nonetheless the �rst emperor of Rome, and thus
served a divinely-ordained purpose. For this reason, Brutus and
Cassius are seen as betrayers of their rightful lord. [return to English /
Italian]
68–69.    It is now nightfall of the Saturday of Easter weekend; the
journey to this point has lasted precisely twenty-four hours. We
have also reached the border of the midpoint of this canto, verse 69
of 139. The next verse begins the action that will encompass
another twenty-four-hour period, seventy verses that will extend
through exactly as many hours as have been consumed by the
journey up to now. [return to English / Italian]
71–75.  When Satan opens his wings, Virgil, with Dante holding on
to him, seizes the moment to grasp the animal-like �ank of “the
Beast.” [return to English / Italian]
76–84.  At the very center of the universe even Virgil, a shade, feels
the pull of gravity as he tries to move back up toward the light.
The locution describing Virgil’s changed direction, “ov’ elli avea
le zanche” (where he had his shanks), has caused debate, some
believing that the “he” refers to Virgil himself, i.e., turned his head
to where his legs had been; others, that he turned his head to where
Satan’s leg were. Our translation follows Hatcher and Musa, who
opt for Satan’s legs (Hatc.1964.1 and Hatc.1966.1), pointing out,
among other things, that Dante’s insertion of the pronoun “elli”
before the verb “avea” makes it almost necessary to draw this
conclusion, since he never else inserts a pronoun into a sequence of

verbs without introducing a new subject of the verb; that is, if the
line read “[Virgilio] volse la testa ov’ avea le zanche,” Virgil would
clearly be the implied subject of the second verb. According to
Hatcher and Musa, the “elli” all but removes that possibility.
Since Dante doesn’t understand (see vv. 90–93) that he has
reached the center of the universe and is being moved back upward
toward the surface of the earth at the antipodes, he assumes that
Virgil is going back up toward the ice of Cocytus. [return to English /
Italian]
94–96.  It is now 7:30 AM (midway between 6:00 and 9:00, the �rst
“tierce,” or three-hour period, into four of which the solar day was
divided (6–9; 9–noon; noon-3; 3–6). Since moments ago (v. 68) we
had learned that it was 6 PM in Jerusalem, how can this be? For the
�rst time in the poem Virgil tells time by the sun, and not the moon;
and he tells it by the position of the sun in purgatory, twelve hours
ahead of Jerusalem (where it is currently 7:30 PM). We are leaving
hell behind. [return to English / Italian]
97–120.    Even though the travelers have to traverse an enormous
distance in seventy lines, thirty-nine of them (88–126) are devoted
to their new situation, Dante’s three questions, and Virgil’s
responses. The setting is a space on the convex side of the ice of
Cocytus, i.e., on its far side. The only remaining evidence of the
infernal core is o�ered by the legs of Lucifer, sticking up through
the crust of the area that contains the rest of him. We are on the
other side of the ice, and there is nothing more by way of
constructed space to catch our eye.
Dante wants to know why he no longer sees the ice, why Lucifer
is “upside down,” and how it can already be morning. Some of
Virgil’s explanations have already been adverted to. He also explains
that they are now under the southern hemisphere of the world
above, not the northern, where Christ was put to death and whence
they had begun their descent. [return to English / Italian]

121–126.    Virgil’s �nal words in Inferno create, as it were, the
foundation myth of sin: how it established itself in the world that
God had made good. Forti (Fort.1986.1), p. 246, refers to the
passage as a “genuine cosmological myth,” to the fall of Lucifer as
“the �rst event that occurs in time” (p. 259).
It is worth considering a similar passage in Ovid (Metam. I.151–
162): Astraea, or justice, has just left the earth. The battle of Phlegra
ensues (about which we have heard in Canto XXXI [44–45, 91–96,
119–121]); once the giants are destroyed, mother Earth, Gea, forms
man in their image, if smaller, out of their gore. But this new stock,
too, is contemptuous of the gods. Soon enough Lycaon (the “wolf-
man”) will commit the �rst murder, one that will eventually lead to
the murder of Julius Caesar (v. 201).
Here, in the �nal moments of the �nal canto, we learn of the �rst
things to occur in terrestrial time: Satan fell from heaven and
crashed into our earth (see Par. XXIX.55–57). To �ee from him, all
the land in the southern hemisphere hid beneath the sea and moved
to the north of the equator, while the matter that he displaced in his
fall rose up behind him to form the mount of purgatory.
Over the years there have been e�orts to �nd contradictions to
this view of the earth’s “geology” in Dante’s later Questio de aqua et
terra (1320). Bruno Nardi (Nard.1959.1) made a case for the
contradiction. Freccero’s review (Frec.1961.1) o�ered strong
rebuttals to Nardi’s main arguments. The magisterial edition
produced by Mazzoni (Mazz.1979.2) convincingly presents the work
as Dantean. Pasquazi (Pasq.1985.1) makes a strong case for the
absence of any signi�cant contradiction. For a study of the wider
question see Stabile (Stab.1983.1). [return to English / Italian]
127–132.  Along a passage in the rock through the space contained
between the �oor formed by the convex side of Cocytus and the
underside of the earth above, the travelers follow the sound of a
stream. It, many suggest, is the river Lethe, running down into hell
�lled with the sins now forgotten by all who have purged
themselves of them (Purg. XXVIII.127–130). [return to English / Italian]

133–138.    There is no pausing for rest that now seems a waste of
time, given the nearness of the light. Looking through a crevice (the
word in Italian is pertugio, the same word used to describe the
opening through which Ugolino could see the moon from his cell
[Inf. XXXIII.22]) in the earth’s surface, whence, we assume, comes
the little stream that they are following, Dante is able to see a few
stars in the �rmament above him. [return to English / Italian]
139.    In a single verse the cantica concludes. And in this line both
Virgil and Dante actually step out of hell, and now can see the full
expanse of the dawn sky, �lled with stars. Both Purgatorio and
Paradiso will also end with the word “stars” (stelle), the goals of a
human sight that is being drawn to God. There is no doubt as to the
fact that even Inferno, ending in happiness of this kind, is a comedic
part of a comedic whole. [return to English / Italian]

INDEX OF NAMES AND PLACES
Index of these items (in their English forms, where these exist) in
the Italian text of Inferno. NB: (1) if a character or place is
mentioned more than once in a canto, only the �rst reference is
present; (2) no distinction has been made between direct and
indirect references; i.e., one will �nd “Laertes” instead of “Ulysses,
father of.”
Abbagliato, XXIX.132
Abel, IV.56
Abraham, IV.58
Absalom, XXVIII.137
Acheron, III.71; XIV.116
Achilles, V.65; XII.71; XXVI.62; XXXI.5
Acquacheta, XVI.97
Acre, XXVII.89
Adam, III.115; IV.55
Adam, Master, XXX.49
Adige, XII.5
Aegina, XXIX.59
Aeneas, I.74; II.13; IV.122; XXVI.93
Aesop, XXIII.4
Aghinolfo, XXX.77
Agnello, XXV.68
Ahithophel, XXVIII.137
Alardo, XXVIII.18
Alberigo, Friar, XXXIII.109
Albero of Siena, XXIX.109
Albert (Alberto degli Alberti), XXXII.57
Alecto, IX.47

Alessandro (count of Romena), XXX.77
Alessandro degli Alberti, XXXII.41
Alessio Interminei of Lucca, XVIII.122
Alexander, XII.107; XIV.31
Alì, XXVIII.32
Alichino, XXI.118; XXII.112
Altaforte, XXIX.29
Amphiaraus, XX.31
Amphion, XXXII.11
Anastasius, XI.8
Anaxagoras, IV.137
Anchises, I.74
Andrea de’ Mozzi, XV.112
Angiolello, XXVIII.77
Annas, XXIII.121
Anselm (Anselmuccio), XXXIII.50
Antaeus, XXXI.100; XXXII.17
Antenora, XXXII.88
Antiochus IV Epiphanes, XIX.87
Apennines, XVI.96; XXVII.30
Apulia, XXVIII.9
Arabia, XXIV.90
Arachne, XVII.18
Arbia, X.86
Arethusa, XXV.97
Arezzo, XXII.5; XXIX.109
Argos, XXVIII.84
Ariadne, XII.20
Arles, IX.112
Arno, XIII.146; XV.113; XXIII.95; XXX.65; XXXIII.83
Arrigo (unseen hell-dweller), VI.80
Arsenal of Venice, XXI.7
Arthur, King, XXXII.62
Aruns, XX.46
Asdente, XX.118
Athamas, XXX.4

Atropos, XXXIII.126
Attila, XII.134; XIII.149
Augustus (Caesar), I.71
Aulis, XX.111
Austria, XXXII.26
Aventine, Mount, XXV.26
Averroës, IV.144
Avicenna, IV.143
Azzo of Este, XII.112; XVIII.56
Bacchiglione, XV.113
Bacchus, XX.59
Barbariccia, XXI.120; XXII.29
Beccheria, XXXII.119
Beelzebub, XXXIV.127
Benaco, XX.63
Bergamo, XX.71
Bertran de Born, XXVIII.118; XXIX.29
Bisenzio, XXXII.56
Bocca (degli Abati), XXXII.106
Bologna, XVIII.58; XXIII.103
Bonifazio, XIX.53; XXVII.70
Bonturo, XXI.41
Branca d’Oria, XXXIII.137
Brenta, XV.7
Brescia, XX.68
Briareus, XXXI.98
Brigata, XXXIII.89
Bruges, XV.4
Brunetto Latini, XV.30
Brutus (Lucius Junius Brutus), IV.127
Brutus (Marcus Junius Brutus), XXXIV.65
Bulicame, XIV.79
Buoso, XXV.35
Buoso da Duera, XXXII.106
Buoso Donati, XXX.44

Caccia d’Asciano, XXIX.131
Cacus, XXV.17
Cadmus, XXV.97
Caesar, Julius, I.70; IV.123; XXVIII.98
Cagnazzo, XXI.19; XXII.106
Cahors, XI.50
Caïaphas, XXIII.111
Cain, XX.126
Caïna, V.107; XXXII.58
Calcabrina, XXI.118; XXII.133
Calchas, XX.110
Camilla, I.107; IV.124
Camiscion de’ Pazzi, XXXII.52
Campo Piceno, XXIV.148
Cannae, XXVIII.8
Capaneus, XIV.46; XXV.15
Capocchio, XXIX.124; XXX.28
Capraia, XXXIII.82
Caprona, XXI.95
Cardinal, the (see Ubaldini, Ottaviano)
Carentana, XV.9
Carlino de’ Pazzi, XXXII.69
Carrarese, XX.48
Casalodi, XX.95
Casentino, XXX.65
Cassius, XXXIV.67
Castel Sant’ Angelo, XVIII.32
Catalano, Fra, XXIII.104
Cato, XIV.15
Cattolica, La, XXVIII.80
Caurus, XI.114
Cavalcante de’ Cavalcanti, X.53
Cecina, XIII.9
Celestine V, III.59 [?]; XXVII.105
Ceprano, XXVIII.16
Cerberus, VI.13; IX.98

Cervia, XXVII.42
Cesena, XXVII.52
Ceüta, XXVI.111
Charlemagne, XXXI.17
Charles I (of Naples), XIX.99
Charon, III.82
Charybdis, VII.22
Chiron, XII.65
Ciacco, VI.38
Ciampolo, XXII.32
Cianfa, XXV.43
Cicero, IV.141
Cinyras, XXX.39
Circe, XXVI.91
Ciriatto, XXI.122; XXII.55
Clement V, XIX.82
Cleopatra, V.63
Cluny, XXIII.63
Cocytus, XIV.119; XXXI.123; XXXII.22; XXXIII.156; XXXIV.52
Colchis, XVIII.87
Colonna, The, XXVII.86
Constantine, XIX.115; XXVII.94
Cornelia, IV.128
Corneto, XII.137; XIII.9
Crete, XII.12; XIV.95
Curio, XXVIII.102
Cyprus, XXVIII.82
Daedalus, XVII.111; XXIX.116
Damietta, XIV.104
Danube, XXXII.26
David, IV.58; XXVIII.138
Deianira, XII.68
Deidamia, XXVI.62
Democritus, IV.136
Dido, V.61

Diogenes, IV.137
Diomedes, XXVI.56
Dionysius, XII.107
Dioscorides, IV.140
Dis (city), VIII.68
Dis (Satan), XI.65; XII.39; XXXIV.20
Dolcino, Fra, XXVIII.55
Don, XXXII.27
Draghignazzo, XXI.121; XXII.73
Duera, XXXII.116.
Egypt, V.60; XXVII.90
Electra, IV.121
Elijah, XXVI.35
Elisha, XXVI.34
Empedocles, IV.138; XII.42
Empoli, X.91
Ephialtes, XXXI.94
Epicurus, X.14
Erichtho, IX.23
Eteocles, XXVI.54
Ethiopia, XXIV.89
Euclid, IV.142
Euryalus, I.108
Eurypylus, XX.112
Ezzelino, XII.110
Faenza, XXVII.49; XXXII.123
Fano, XXVIII.76
Farfarello, XXI.123; XXII.94
Farinata, VI.79; X.32
Fiesole, XV.62
Filippo Argenti, VIII.32
Flanders, XV.4
Focaccia (Vanni dei Cancellieri), XXXII.63
Focara, XXVIII.89

Fonte Branda, XXX.78
Forlì, XVI.99; XXVII.43
France, XIX.87; XXVII.44; XXIX.123; XXXII.115
Francesca, V.74
Francesco d’Accorso, XV.110
Francis, St., XXVII.112
Frederick II, X.119; XIII.59; XXIII.66
Friesland, XXXI.64
Furies, IX.38
Gaddo, XXXIII.68
Gaeta, XXVI.92
Galen, IV.143
Gallahault, V.137
Gallura, XXII.82
Ganelon, XXXII.122
Garda, XX.65
Gardingo, XXIII.108
Garisenda, XXXI.136
Gaville, XXV.151
Genoa, XXXIII.151
Geri del Bello, XXIX.27
Germany, XVII.21; XX.62
Geryon, XVI.131; XVII.1; XVIII.20
Ghibellines, X.47
Ghisolabella, XVIII.55
Gian�gliazzi, XVII.59
Gianni de’ Soldanieri, XXXII.121
Gianni Schicchi, XXX.25
Giovanni Buiamonte, XVII.72
Gomita, Fra, XXII.81
Gorgon (see Medusa)
Gorgona, XXXIII.82
Governolo, XX.78
Gra�acane, XXI.122; XXII.34
Greece, XX.108; XXVI.75

Gri�olino, XXIX.109; XXX.31
Gualandi, XXXIII.32
Gualdrada, XVI.37
Guido Bonatti, XX.118
Guido Cavalcanti, X.63
Guido da Montefeltro, XXVII.4
Guido da Romena, XXX.77
Guido del Cassero, XXVIII.77
Guido di Monforte, XII.118
Guido Guerra, XVI.34
Guido Vecchio da Polenta, XXVII.41
Guiglielmo Borsiere, XVI.70
Hannibal, XXXI.117
Hautefort, XXIX.29
Hector, IV.122
Hecuba, XXX.16
Helen, V.64
Henry II, XXVIII.135
Henry (Prince of Cornwall), XII.120
Heraclitus, IV.138
Hercules, XXV.32; XXVI.108; XXXI.132
Hippocrates, IV.143
Homer, IV.88
Horace, IV.89
Hypsipyle, XVIII.92
Icarus, XVII.109
Ida, Mount, XIV.98
Ilium (see Troy)
Imola, XXVII.49
India, XIV.32
Ino, XXX.5
Isaac, IV.59
Israel, IV.59

Jacopo da Sant’ Andrea, XIII.133
Jacopo Rusticucci, VI.80; XVI.44
Jason, XVIII.86
Jason (of Maccabees), XIX.85
Jehoshaphat, X.11
John the Baptist, XIII.143; XXX.74
John (the Evangelist), XIX.106
Joseph, XXX.97
Jove, XIV.52; XXXI.45
Judas Iscariot, IX.27; XIX.96; XXXI.143; XXXIV.62
Judecca, XXXIV.117
Julia, IV.128
Juno, XXX.1
Laertes, XXVI.95
Lamone, XXVII.49
Lancelot, V.128
Lanfranchi, XXXIII.32
Lano, XIII.120
Lateran, XXVII.86
Latinus, King, IV.125
Lavinia, IV.126
Learchus, XXX.10
Lemnos, XVIII.88
Lethe, XIV.131; XXXIV.130
Libicocco, XXI.121; XXII.70
Libya, XIV.14; XXIV.85
Linus, IV.141
Livy, XXVIII.12
Loderingo, XXIII.104
Logodoro, XXII.89
Lombard (dialect), XXVII.20
Lombardy, I.68; XXII.99
London, XII.120
Lucan, IV.90; XXV.94
Lucca, XVIII.122; XXI.38; XXXIII.30

Lucifer, XXXI.143; XXXIV.1
Lucretia, IV.128
Lucy, II.97
Luni, XX.47
Maccabees, XIX.86
Maghinardo Pagano, XXVII.50
Majorca, XXVIII.82
Malacoda, XXI.76
Malatesta da Verrucchio, XXVII.46
Malatesta, Gianciotto, V.107
Malatesta, Paolo, V.74
Malatestino da Verrucchio, XXVII.46; XXVIII.81
Malebolge, XVIII.1; XXI.5; XXIV.37; XXIX.41
Malebranche, XXI.37; XXII.100; XXIII.23; XXXIII.142
Manto, XX.55
Mantua, I.69; II.58; XX.93
Marcabò, XXVIII.75
Marcia, IV.128
Maremma, XIII.9; XXV.19; XXIX.48
Marquis, the (see Azzo of Este)
Mars, XIII.144; XXIV.145; XXXI.51
Matthias, XIX.94
Medea, XVIII.96
Medusa, IX.52
Megaera, IX.46
Melanippus, XXXII.131
Melicerta, XXX.5
Michael (archangel), VII.11
Michael Scot, XX.116
Michel Zanche, Don, XXII.88; XXXIII.144
Mincio, XX.77
Minos, V.4; XIII.96; XX.36; XXVII.124; XXIX.120
Minotaur, XII.12
Mohammed, XXVIII.31
Mongibello, XIV.56

Montagna, XXVII.47
Montaperti, X.85; XXXII.81
Monteriggione, XXXI.41
Montone, XVI.94
Mordred, XXXII.61
Morocco, XXVI.104
Mosca, VI.80; XXVIII.106
Moses, IV.57
Mount Giordano, XVIII.33
Mount Viso, XVI.95
Myrrha, XXX.38
Napoleone degli Alberti, XXXII.41
Narcissus, XXX.128
Nasidius, XXV.95
Navarre, XXII.48
Navarrese, XXII.121 (see also Ciampolo)
Neptune, XXVIII.83
Nessus, XII.67; XIII.1
Niccolò, XXIX.127
Nicholas III, XIX.70
Nile, XXXIV.45
Nimrod, XXXI.46
Ninus, V.59
Nisus, I.108
Noah, IV.56
Novarese, XXVIII.59
Opizzo of Este, XII.111; XVIII.56
Orpheus, IV.140
Ovid, IV.90; XXV.97
Padua, XV.7; XVII.70
Palladium, XXVI.63
Paris, V.67
Pasiphaë, XII.13

Paul, II.28
Peleus, XXXI.5
Penelope, XXVI.96
Penestrino, XXVII.102
Pennino, XX.65
Penthesilea, IV.124
Peschiera, XX.70
Peter, St., I.134; II.24; XIX.91
Phaeton, XVII.107
Philip IV, XIX.87
Phlegethon, XII.47; XIV.77; XV.2; XVI.104; XVII.118
Phlegra, XIV.58; XXXI.94
Phlegyas, VIII.19
Phoenix, XXIV.107
Pholus, XII.72
Photinus, XI.9
Pier da Medicina, XXVIII.73
Pier delle Vigne, XIII.32
Pietrapana, XXXII.29
Pinamonte, XX.96
Pisa, XXXIII.30
Pistoia, XXIV.126; XXV.10
Plato, IV.134
Plutus, VI.115; VII.2
Po, V.98; XX.78
Pola, IX.113
Polenta, XXVII.41
Polydorus, XXX.18
Polyxena, XXX.17
Potiphar’s wife, XXX.97
Prato, XXVI.9
Priscian, XV.109
Proserpina, IX.44; X.80
Ptolomea, XXXIII.124
Ptolemy, IV.142
Puccio Sciancato, XXV.35

Pyrrhus, XII.135
Quarnero, IX.113
Rachel, II.102; IV.60
Ravenna, V.97; XXVII.40
Red Sea, XXIV.90
Reno, XVIII.61
Rhea, XIV.100
Rhone, IX.112
Rimini, XXVIII.86
Rinier of Corneto, XII.137
Rinier Pazzo, XII.137
Robert Guiscard, XXVIII.14
Roland, XXXI.18
Romagna, XXVII.28; XXXIII.154
Romena, XXX.73
Roncesvalles, XXXI.16
Rubicante, XXI.123; XXII.40
Ruggieri, Archbishop, XXXII.125; XXXIII.14
Sabellus, XXV.95
St. Peter’s, XVIII.32; XXXI.59
Saladin, IV.129
San Benedetto dell’Alpe, XVI.100
San Giovanni, X.87; XIX.7
Santerno, XXVII.49
Sardinia, XXII.89; XXVI.104; XXIX.48
Sassol Mascheroni, XXXII.65
Saturn, XIV.96
Savena, XVIII.61
Savio, XXVII.52
Scarmiglione, XXI.105
Scipio, XXXI.116
Scylla, VII.23
Semele, XXX.2

Semiramis, V.58
Seneca, IV.141
Serchio, XXI.49
Seville, XX.126; XXVI.110
Sextus (Pompeius), XII.135
Sichaeus, V.62
Sicily, XII.108; XXVII.7
Siena, XXIX.109
Silvius (Ascanius), II.13
Simon Magus, XIX.1
Sinon, XXX.98
Sismondi, XXXIII.32
Socrates, IV.134
Sodom, XI.50
Soracte, XXVII.95
Spain, XXVI.103
Stricca, XXIX.125
Strophades, XIII.11
Styx, VII.106; VIII.10; IX.81; XIV.116
Sultan, V.60; XXVII.90
Sylvester, XIX.117; XXVII.94
Tagliacozzo, XXVIII.17
Tambernic, XXXII.28
Tarquin, IV.127
Tartary, XVII.17
Tebaldello, XXXII.122
Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, VI.79; XVI.41
Telemachus, XXVI.94
Thaïs, XVIII.133
Thales, IV.137
Thames, XII.120
Thebes, XIV.69; XX.32; XXV.15; XXX.2; XXXII.11; XXXIII.89
Theseus, IX.54; XII.17
Thibaut, King, XXII.52
Tiber, XVIII.29; XXVII.30

Tiresias, XX.40
Tirol, XX.63
Tisiphone, IX.48
Tityus, XXXI.124
Toppo, XIII.121
Trent, XII.5; XX.67
Tristan, V.67
Trojans, I.74; XIII.11; XXVIII.10; XXX.14
Tully (see Cicero)
Turkey, XVII.17
Turnus, I.108
Tuscany, X.22; XXII.99; XXIII.76; XXIV.122; XXVIII.108; XXXII.66
Tydeus, XXXII.130
Typhon, XXXI.124
Ubaldini, Ottaviano, X.120
Ugolino, Count, XXXII.125; XXXIII.2
Uguiccione, XXXIII.89
Ulysses, XXVI.56; XXVII.1
Urbino, XXVII.29
Val Camonica, XX.65
Valdichiana, XXIX.47
Val di Magra, XXIV.145
Vanni Fucci, XXIV.97; XXV.1
Venedico Caccianemico, XVII.50
Venice, XXI.7
Vercelli, XXVIII.75
Verona, XV.122; XX.68
Verrucchio, XXVII.46
Vitaliano, XVII.68
Vulcan, XIV.57
Wissant, XV.4
Zeno, IV.138

Zita, XXI.38

INDEX OF SUBJECTS TREATED IN NOTES
This index is meant to help the reader �nd subjects, treated in the
notes, that may not be readily remembered as being related to a
particular passage.
Achilles, lance of XXXI.1–6
addresses to the reader VIII.94–96
aleppe (Hebrew “aleph”) VII.1
aliger (wingèd), D. as XXVI.1–3
Alypius (in Confessions) XXIX.1–3
angels, neutral III.37–39
anger, three kinds of VII.109–114
anger, incontinent/willful XII.16–21; XII.33
ape as mimic XXIX.136–139
Apostolici (Apostolic Brethren) XXVIII.55–60
apostrophe (direct address) VIII.94–96
autorità (authority) IV.113
avarice (in the Aeneid) VII.25–30
Babel, Tower of XXXI.70–81
Baptistry, D.’s deed in XIX.16–21
barking (creatures in hell) V.4–5
Boethius VII.62–96
book, words for I.84
brigata spendereccia XIII.109–126; XXIX.124–135
brows (as locus of Pride) X.45; XXXIV.35
Cacus, as centaur XXV.19–33
canto, canzone, cantica XX.1–3
cantos, “connected” XIII.1–3; XV.1–3

cantos, lengths of VI.28–32
captatio benevolentiae II.58; II.109–114; V.88; XXIX.85–90;
XXXI.125–132
catalogues of sinners V.58–67
Celestine V, Boniface’s view XXVII.103–105
chaos (Empedocles’ theory) XII.40–45
Cherub guarding empty Eden XXVIII.37–40
Christ as “Good Shepherd” XXI. 34–36
Christ as “Man of Sorrows” X.33
Christ’s descent into hell IV.52–54
city, hell as III.1–3
color (in Virgil’s face) IX.1–3
colors (rhetorical) III.10
comedy (and see “tragedy”) I.86–87; IV.88–90; XVI.124–132;
XX.130; XXI.1–3; XXXIV.139
conception possible to poet II.7–9; XXXII.1–9
confession V.8; V.138
confusion of tongues XXXI.70–81
Constantine, Donation of XIX.115–117; XXVII.94–97
contrapasso III.52–57; XXVIII.142
cord worn by D. I.32–34; XVI.106–108
crossing rivers, problems of III.136; XII.114–115
Daedalus XXIX.109–120
D. as author/narrator IV.145–147
D. as Old Testament prophet XVI.76
D. as soldier at war XII.75; XXI.95
date of journey I.1; I.11
date of poem’s composition VIII.1; XIX.79–87; XXI.112–114;
XXVII.76–81
Deiphobus dis�gured XXVIII.65
demonic resistance VII.1
Dite (see “king of hell”)
doves, “program” of V.82–84
dreams, truth of at morning XXVI.7
dying to sin XXXIV.22–27

“Ecce homo” parodied XVII.1–3; XXXIV.20–21
Empedocles (see “chaos”)
entry into Dis as military campaign IX.106
envy VI.49–51; XIII.64
epic I.1; IV.86; IV.95–96; XXVI.90–93; XXVIII.7–21
eternal and sempiternal III.7–8
exemplarity V.46–49
fable (vs. history) XVI.124–132; XXIX.58–66
fame as motivation XXIV.49–51
“�ve words w. understanding” VII.1; XXXI.67
forgery, varieties of XXIX.37–39
Fortuna as “Angel of Earth” VII.62–96
“foundation myth” of sin XIV.94–102; XXXIV.121–126
Francis and the black Cherub XXVII.112–114
frati gaudenti (Jovial Friars) XXIII.103
fraudulent counsel XXVII.116
friendship, spiritual II.61
future (known to the damned) X.100–108
gate of hell as triumphal arch III.1–9
Ghibelline views (D.’s) II.20–21
Ghibellinism (when Godless) X.89–93; XIII.73–75
giants, size of XXX.58–66; XXXIV.30–31
golden age (see “foundation myth”)
“golden mean” (Aristotle) VII.25–30
Guittone d’Arezzo XXVIII.7–21
harrowing of hell IV.46–51; VIII.121–126
heavenly disregard for sin II.85–93; IX.100–103
Hebrews harrowed from hell IV.55–61
hell, as mouth XXXI.142–143
heresy as sin of will IX.127–131
Holy Spirit, spiration of XIX.25; XXXIII.106–108; XXXIV.4–7
honori�c voi as “You” X.49–51

“humanism” of D. IV.13
indignation, righteous VIII.40–45; IX.33; XXXIII.148–150
Inferno, measurement of XXIX.8–9; XXX.82–87
interpolations in narrative VIII.1
invocations II.7–9; X.59; XXXII.10–12
Jason, referred to in Par. XVIII.86–96
Judas, Pier delle Vigne as XIII.73–75
justice III.4
king of hell (Dite) VIII.68; XXXIV.20–21
Laocoön XII.22–25; XXV.10
Latin in Inferno XXXIV.1
latino (meaning “Italian”) XXII.64–66
Limbo, population of IV.30; IV.102
Manto, bilocation of XX.52–56
Maundy Thursday I.11
Mercury (as intercessor) IX.85
Michael (archangel) VII.10–12; IX.85
miles gloriosus (Capaneus) XIV.51–60
monsters, functions of XII.16–21
music of the devil XXI.136–139
musical instruments XXX.49–51
Narcissus “program” XXX.126–129
narrative details added XVI.106–108; XX.127–129
Nebuchadnezzar, dream of XIV.103–111
nova progenies (Virgilian) VIII.128–130
Orpheus (Linus and Musaeus) IV.140–141
pagan poets, rivalry with XXV.94–102
pagans, salvation of IV.46–51; IV.62–63
Paul, St., authority of II.28; XXXI.67

Paul, St., Visio Pauli III.34–36
periphrasis (circumlocution) V.61–62
petrose (D’s “stony rhymes”) XXXII.1–9; XXXII.87–112
Phlegra, battle of XIV.58; XXXI.97–105; XXXIV.121–126
phoenix XXIV.107–111
physical laws of hell VI.34–36; XXXIV.8–9
pity and fear, cycles of II.4–5; III.24; V.142; X.125; XIII.82–84;
XX.19–24; XXXIII.79–90
podestà, o�ce of XXIII.104–108
Pompey (Sextus Pompeius) IX.19–27
popes in afterworld VII.46–48
poverty (St. Francis) VII.38–39
prologue to Inferno II.1–6
prophecies, “historical” I.100–105
prophecies, “personal” VI.64–66
registrare (write in a book) XXIX.54–57
ridda (a dance) VII.24
rightward turnings IX.132
river crossings (see “crossing”)
Rome in Jubilee Year XVIII.28–33
ruina (made at Cruci�xion) V.34; XII.32; XXIV.22–24
Satan, imitating Cruci�xion XXXIV.37–38
Scipio Africanus XXXI.115–124
similes:
at beginning of cantos XXII.1–12
categorized I.22–27
drawn from mental experience XXX.136–141
lengths of XVI.94–105
simony XIX.1–6
sin and placement in hell V.61; VIII.46; XXV.13–15
sinners speaking in unison XVI.82–85

sins:
of Fraud, space allowed XVIII.1–18
of malizia XI.22–27
of matta bestialitade XI.76–90
of will (and not appetite) VIII.78
Sisyphus VII.25–30
smarrito (referring to D.) X.125
speech:
garbled XXXI.67
least present in a canto XXV.34–36
most present in a canto II.10
starvation, days necessary XXXIII.75
stoic restraint X.73–75; XXXIII.49
styles:
doctrine of the styles I.86–87; II.56–57
mix of high and low XXIV.1–21; XXIX.73–84
“sympathetic sinners” V.109–117; XIII.73–75; XXVI.55–57;
XXXIII.4–6
synaesthesia V.28
tears, of Rachel II.116
tenzone (literary genre) VIII.31–39; XXX.100–103; XXX.115;
XXXII.82–85
Terence, D’s knowledge of IV.88–90; XVIII.133–135
Tesoretto (Brunetto Latini) I.1; XV.50; XV.119
Thebes, city of destruction XXX.1–12
time consumed in journey XXIX.10
tragedy (and see “comedy”) I.86–87; XX.106–114; XXVI.79–84
translatio V.58–67
Trinity III.5–6; XXXIV.39–45
tyrants, D’s view of XII.104; XII.106–111
vendetta (vengeance) XXIX.31–36

verga (magic wand) IX.89–90; XX.40–45
“Vexilla regis prodeunt” XII.38–39; XXXIV.1
viltà (cowardice) III.58–60
Virgil:
as John the Baptist I.122
as mother XXIII.37–45
as Reason? I.67–87; XXI.133–135
failure to have faith IX.7–9
failures as guide VIII.115; XIV.43–45; XXI.63; XXIV.49–51
frequency of citation of III.112–120
leaving D. to himself VIII.106–111; XVII.37–39
limits of authority II.28
parola ornata (ornate words) II.67; XVIII.86–96
previous descent (Erichtho) IX.19–27
protracted silences XXX.37–41
protracted speeches XX.31–39
“reading” D.’s mind XVI.115–123; XXIII.25–30
rebukes of D. III.76–78; XX.25–27; XXX.131–135
spelling of his name I.79
words for him as guide II.140
weeping as D.’s reaction XXXIII.40–42
wheel of Fortune VII.62–96; VII.90
witch of Endor (I Samuel 28) IX.19–27
wolf as avarice VII.8
words found once per cantica XXXI.70–81
wrath (see “anger”)

LIST OF WORKS CITED
What follows is precisely that, not an inclusive bibliography of
studies relevant to Dante or even to his Inferno, which alone would
be voluminous. Abbreviated references in the texts of the notes are
keyed to this alphabetical listing. For those interested in the general
condition of Dantean bibliography, however, a few remarks may be
helpful.
Since an extended bibliography for the study of Dante includes
tens of thousands of items, those who deal with the subjects that
branch out from the works of this writer are condemned to
immoderate labor and a sense that they are always missing
something important. While even half a century ago it was possible
to develop, in a single treatment, a fairly thorough compendium of
the most signi�cant items (e.g., S. A. Chimenz, Dante, in Letteratura
italiana. I maggiori [Milan: Marzorati, 1954], pp. 85–109), the
situation today would require far more space. Fortunately, the
extraordinary scholarly tool represented by the Enciclopedia
dantesca, dir. U. Bosco, 6 vols. (Rome, Istituto della Enciclopedia
Italiana, 1970–78—henceforth ED) has given Dante studies its single
most important bibliographical resource, leaving only the last
quarter century—which happens to be the most active period in the
history of Dante studies—uncovered. However, for the years 1965–
90 Enzo Esposito has edited a helpful guide, Dalla bibliogra�a alla
storiogra�a: la bibliogra�a dantesca nel mondo dal 1965–1990
(Ravenna: Longo, 1995). A closer analysis of a shorter period is
available in “Bibliogra�a Dantesca 1972–1977,” ed. Leonella
Coglievina, Studi Danteschi 60 (1988): 35–314 (presenting 3121
items for this �ve-year period). The bibliography in ED, vol. 6, pp.
499–618 (a length that gives some sense of the amount of basic
information available), contains ca. 5000 items and is of

considerable use, breaking its materials into convenient categories.
(Its bibliography of bibliographies alone runs six double-column
pages, pp. 542–47.) The ED also, of course, contains important
bibliographical indications in many of its entries. A major new
English source for bibliographical information has recently been
published: The Dante Encyclopedia, ed. Richard Lansing (New York:
Garland, 2000).
In the past dozen years, Dante studies, perhaps more than any
other post-classical area of literature, has moved into “the computer
age.” There is a growing online bibliography available, developed
from the bibliography of American Dante studies, overseen by
Richard Lansing for the Dante Society of America, which includes a
growing number of Italian items
(http://www.princeton.edu/~dante). Some seventy-one
commentaries to the Commedia are now available through the
Dartmouth Dante Project (opened 1988), still best reached via
Telnet (telnet library.dartmouth.edu; at the prompt type “connect
dante”), but soon to be available on the Web as well. There is also
the new Princeton Dante Project (http://www.princeton.edu/dante),
a multimedia edition of the Commedia (open to public use since
1999) overseen by Robert Hollander, which also functions as an
entry point to most of the many Dante sites on the Web, perhaps
most notably that established and maintained by Otfried
Lieberknecht in Berlin, which is a source of an enormous amount of
information about Dante in electronic form, and, in the autumn of
2000, the site being developed by the Società Dantesca Italiana
(www.danteonline.it).
LIST OF WORKS CITED IN THE NOTES
Aher.1982.1
Ahern, John, “Dante’s Slyness: The Unnamed Sin of the Eighth
Bolgia,” Romanic Review 73 (1982): 275–91.

http://www.princeton.edu/~dante

http://www.princeton.edu/dante

http://www.danteonline.it/

Aher.1982.2
Ahern, John, “Apocalyptic Onomastics: Focaccia (Inferno XXXII,
63),” Romance Notes 23 (1982): 181–84.
Ales.1993.1
Alessio, Gian Carlo, and Claudia Villa, “Per Inferno I, 67–87,” in
Dante e la “bella scola” della poesia: Autorità e s�da poetica, ed. A. A.
Iannucci (Ravenna: Longo, 1993 [1984]), pp. 41–64.
Alsa.1977.1
Al-Sabah, Rasha, “Inferno XXVIII: The Figure of Muhammad,” Yale
Italian Studies 1 (1977): 147–61.
Armo.1983.1
Armour, Peter, “Dante’s Brunetto: The Paternal Paterine?” Italian
Studies 38 (1983): 1–38.
Armo.1991.1
Armour, Peter, “The Love of Two Florentines: Brunetto Latini and
Bondie Dietaiuti,” Lectura Dantis [virginiana] 9 (1991): 60–71.
Auer.1954.1
Auerbach, Erich, “Dante’s Addresses to the Reader,” Romance
Philology 7 (1954): 268–78.
Auer.1957.1
Auerbach, Erich, “Farinata and Cavalcante,” in Mimesis: The
Representation of Reality in Western Literature, tr. W. Trask (New
York: Doubleday Anchor, 1957 [1946]), pp. 151–77.
Auer.1958.1
Auerbach, Erich, “Sermo humilis,” in Literary Language and Its Public
in Late Latin Antiquity and in the Middle Ages, tr. R. Manheim
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1965 [1958]), pp. 25–66.
Aust.1932.1
Austin, H. D., “The Submerged (Inf., XX, 3),” Romanic Review 23

(1932): 38–40.
Aval.1975.1
Avalle d’Arco, Silvio, “…  de fole amor,” in Modelli semiologici nella
“Commedia” di Dante (Milan: Bompiani, 1975), pp. 97–121; 137–73.
Bacc.1954.1
Bacchelli, Riccardo, “Da Dite a Malebolge: la tragedia delle porte
chiuse e la farsa dei ponti rotti,” Giornale storico della letteratura
italiana 131 (1954): 1–32.
Bake.1974.1
Baker, David J., “The Winter Simile in Inferno XXIV,” Dante Studies
92 (1974): 77–91.
Bald.1978.1
Baldassaro, Lawrence, “Inferno XII: The Irony of Descent,” Romance
Notes 19 (1978): 98–103.
Bald.1988.1
Baldelli, Ignazio, “Dante, i Guidi e i Malatesta,” Annali della Scuola
Normale Superiore di Pisa, serie 3, 18 (1988): 1067–70.
Bald.1993.1
Baldelli, Ignazio, “Un errore lessicogra�co: ‘palombaro’ e Gerione
palombaro,” in Omaggio a Gianfranco Folena (Padua: Editoriale
Programma, 1993), pp. 243–49.
Bald.1997.1
Baldelli, Ignazio, “Le ‘�che’ di Vanni Fucci,” Giornale storico della
letteratura italiana 174 (1997): 1–38.
Bald.1998.1
Baldelli, Ignazio, “Dante e Ulisse,” Lettere Italiane 50 (1998): 358–
73.

Bara.1981.1
Bara´nski, Zygmunt G., “Inferno VI.73: A Controversy Re-examined,”
Italian Studies 36 (1981): 1–26.
Bara.1993.1
Bara´nski, Zygmunt G., “Dante e la tradizione comica latina,” in
Dante e la “bella scola” della poesia: Autorità e s�da poetica, ed. A. A.
Iannucci (Ravenna: Longo, 1993), pp. 225–45.
Bara.1995.3
Bara´nski, Zygmunt G., “The Poetics of Meter: Terza rima, ‘canto,’
‘canzon,’ ‘cantica,’  ” in Dante Now: Current Trends in Dante Studies,
ed. Theodore J. Cachey, Jr. (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame
Press, 1995), pp. 3–41.
Bara.1997.1
Bara´nski, Zygmunt G., ed., Seminario Dantesco Internazionale: Atti
del primo convegno tenutosi al Chauncey Conference Center, Princeton,
21–23 ottobre 1994 (Florence: Le Lettere, 1997).
Barb.1934.1
Barbi, Michele, Problemi di critica dantesca (Florence: Sansoni, 1934).
Barb.1934.2
Barbi, Michele, “Ancora sul testo della Divina Commedia,” Studi
Danteschi 18 (1934): 5–57.
Barb.1972.1
Barberi Squarotti, Giorgio, “Inferno, XX” [Ateneo Veneto 1965], in
L’arti�cio dell’eternità (Verona: Fiorini, 1972), pp. 235–81.
Barb.1972.2
Barberi Squarotti, Giorgio, “L’orazione del conte Ugolino,” in
L’arti�cio dell’eternità (Verona: Fiorini, 1972), pp. 283–332.
Barc.1973.1
Barchiesi, Marino, “Catarsi classica e ‘medicina’ dantesca, Dal canto

XX dell’Inferno,” Letture classensi 4 (1973): 9–124.
Barc.1973.2
Barchiesi, Marino, “Il Testo e il Tempo,” Il Verri, ser. V, no. 4
(December 1973): 76–95.
Baro.1984.1
Barolini, Teodolinda, Dante’s Poets (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1984).
Baro.1992.1
Barolini, Teodolinda, The Undivine “Comedy”: Detheologizing Dante
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992).
Baro.1997.1
Barolini, Teodolinda, “Guittone’s Ora parrà, Dante’s Doglia mi reca,
and the Commedia’s Anatomy of Desire,” in Seminario Dantesco
Internazionale: Atti del primo convegno tenutosi al Chauncey Conference
Center, Princeton, 21–23 ottobre 1994, ed. Z. G. Bara´nski (Florence:
Le Lettere, 1997), pp. 3–23.
Baro.1998.1
Barolini, Teodolinda, “Canto XX: True and False See-ers,” in Lectura
Dantis: “Inferno”, ed. A. Mandelbaum, A. Oldcorn, C. Ross (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1998), pp. 275–86.
Bate.1989.1
Bates, Richard, and Thomas Rendall, “Dante’s Ulysses and the
Epistle of James,” Dante Studies 107 (1989): 33–44.
Beal.1983.1
Beal, Rebecca, “Dante among Thieves: Allegorical Soteriology in the
Seventh Bolgia (Inferno XXIV and XXV),” Medievalia 9 (1983): 101–
23.
Beck.1984.1
Becker, Christopher, “Justice among the Centaurs,” Forum Italicum

18 (1984): 217–29.
Bell.1989.1
Bellomo, Saverio, ed., Filippo Villani, Expositio seu comentum super
“Comedia” Dantis Allegherii (Florence: Le Lettere, 1989).
Benf.1995.1
Benfell, V. Stanley, “Prophetic Madness: The Bible in Inferno XIX,”
Modern Language Notes 110 (1995): 145–63.
Beno.1983.1
Benoit, Raymond, “Inferno V,” The Explicator 41, 3 (1983): 2.
Bian.1921.1
Bianchi, Enrico, “Le ‘cerchie eterne,’  ” Studi Danteschi 3 (1921):
137–39.
Blas.1969.1
Blasucci, Luigi, “L’esperienza delle Petrose e il linguaggio della
Divina Commedia,” in his Studi su Dante e Ariosto (Milan: Ricciardi,
1969), pp. 1–35.
Bloo.1994.1
Bloom, Harold, “The Strangeness of Dante: Ulysses and Beatrice,” in
his The Western Canon: The Books and the School of the Ages (New
York: Harcourt Brace, 1994), pp. 76–104.
Bors.1957.1
Borst, Arno, Der Turmbau von Babel, 3 vols. (Stuttgart: A.
Hiersemann, 1957–60).
Bott.1988.2
Botterill, Steven, “Rereading Lancelot: Dante, Chaucer, and Le
Chevalier de la Charrette,” Philological Quarterly 67 (1988): 279–89.
Bott.1990.1
Botterill, Steven, “Inferno XII,” in Dante’s “Divine Comedy”,

Introductory Readings, I: “Inferno” (Special issue, Lectura Dantis
Virginiana, vol. I), ed. T. Wlassics (Charlottesville, Va.: University of
Virginia, 1990), pp. 149–62.
Boyd.1981.1
Boyde, Patrick, Dante Philomythes and Philosopher: Man in the Cosmos
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981).
Boyd.1993.1
Boyde, Patrick, Perception and passion in Dante’s “Comedy”
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).
Brow.1978.1
Brownlee, Kevin, “Dante and Narcissus (Purg. XXX, 76–99),” Dante
Studies 96 (1978): 201–6.
Brow.1984.1
Brownlee, Kevin, “Phaeton’s Fall and Dante’s Ascent,” Dante Studies
102 (1984): 135–44.
Brug.1981.1
Brugnoli, Giorgio, “Chi per lungo silenzio parea �oco,” in Letterature
comparate: problemi e metodo. Studi in onore di Ettore Paratore, vol. 3
(Bologna: Pàtron, 1981), pp. 1169–82.
Brug.1989.1
Brugnoli, Giorgio, “Le ‘cagne conte,’ ” in Filologia e critica dantesca:
studi o�erti a Aldo Vallone (Florence: Olschki, 1989), pp. 95–112.
Brug.1993.1
Brugnoli, Giorgio, “Omero,” in Dante e la “bella scola” della poesia:
Autorità e s�da poetica, ed. A. A. Iannucci (Ravenna: Longo, 1993),
pp. 65–85.
Busn.1922.1
Busnelli, Giovanni, “La ruina del secondo cerchio e Francesca da
Rimini,” Miscellanea Dantesca pubblicata a cura del Comitato cattolico

padovano per il VI centenario della morte del Poeta (Padua, 1922), pp.
49–60.
Cacc.1966.1
Caccia, Ettore, “L’accenno di Dante a Garda e i versi 67–69 nel
canto XX dell’Inferno,” in Dante e la cultura veneta, ed. V. Branca and
G. Padoan (Florence: Olschki, 1966), pp. 307–25.
Cacc.1967.1
Caccia, Ettore, “Canto XX,” in “Inferno”: Lectura Dantis Scaligera
(Florence: Le Monnier, 1967), pp. 673–724.
Camb.1970.1
Cambon, Glauco, “Synaesthesia in the Divine Comedy,” Dante Studies
88 (1970): 3–5.
Cami.1950.1
Camilli, Amerindo, “La cronologia del viaggio dantesco,” Studi
Danteschi 29 (1950): 61–84.
Care.1951.1
Caretti, Lanfranco, Il canto di Francesca (Lucca: Lucentia, 1951).
Care.1951.2
Caretti, Lanfranco, “Una Interpretazione Dantesca,” in Studi e
ricerche di letteratura italiana (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1951), pp.
4–14.
Caro.1967.1
Carozza, Davy, “Elements of the roman courtois in the Episode of
Paolo and Francesca (Inferno V),” Papers on Language and Literature 3
(1967): 291–301.
Carp.1998.1
Carpi, Umberto, “I tiranni (a proposito di Inf. XII),” L’Alighieri 39
(1998): 7–31.

Casa.1978.1
Casagrande, Gino, “Dante e Filippo Argenti: riscontri patristici e
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Click here to return to the text

Click here to return to the text

ROBERT HOLLANDER
AND JEAN HOLLANDER
INFERNO
ROBERT HOLLANDER taught The Divine Comedy to Princeton students for
forty-two years. He is the author of a dozen books and some eighty
articles on Dante and/or Boccaccio. A member of Princeton’s
Department of French and Italian and the former chairman of its
Department of Comparative Literature, he has received many
awards, including the Gold Medal of the city of Florence in
recognition of his Dante scholarship.
JEAN HOLLANDER, his wife, is a poet, teacher, and was director of the
Writers’ Conference at the College of New Jersey. She has published
three books of her poems.

ALSO BY ROBERT HOLLANDER
Allegory in Dante’s Commedia
Walking on Dante: poems
Boccaccio’s Two Venuses
Studies in Dante
Il Virgilio dantesco: Tragedia nella “Commedia”
André Malraux, The Temptation of the West (translator)
Giovanni Boccaccio, Amorosa Visione (translated with Timothy
Hampton and Margherita Frankel)
Boccaccio’s Last Fiction: Il Corbaccio
Dante and Paul’s “�ve words with understanding”
Dante’s Epistle to Cangrande
Boccaccio’s Dante and the Shaping Force of Satire
Dante: A Life in Works
The Dartmouth Dante Project (founder and director)
The Princeton Dante Project (founder and director)

ALSO BY JEAN HOLLANDER
Crushed into Honey: poems
Hugo von Ho�mansthal, The Woman Without a Shadow (translator)
I Am My Own Woman: The Outlaw
Life of Charlotte von Mahlsdorf (translator)
Moondog: poems

ACCLAIM FOR THE HOLLANDER TRANSLATION OF INFERNO
“A distinguished act of poetry and scholarship in one and the same
breath, the Hollander Dante, among the strong translations of the
poet, deserves to take its own honored place.”
—Robert Fagles, translator of The Iliad and The Odyssey
“The new Inferno, as this is likely to be called, is both majestic and
magisterial and the product of a lifelong devotion to Dante’s poetry
and to the staggering body of Dante scholarship. The Hollanders
capture each and every accent in Dante, from the soft-spoken,
e�usive stilnovist poet, to the wrathful Florentine exile, to the
disillusioned man who would become what many, including T. S.
Eliot, consider the best poet who ever lived. The Hollanders’
adaptation is not only an intelligent reader’s Dante, but it is meant
to enlighten and to move and ultimately to give us a Dante so
versatile that he could at once soar to the hereafter and remain
un�inchingly earthbound.”
—André Aciman, author of Out of Egypt: A Memoir
“The present volume makes the poem accessible to the lay reader
and appealing to the specialist: the translation is both faithful to the
original and highly readable; the introduction and notes are dense
without being overly scholarly; the bibliography consists
predominantly of studies in English, encouraging further
investigation by English-language readers.… A highly worthy new
Inferno that is the mature fruit of years of scholarly, pedagogical,
and creative work.”
—Choice

“The Hollanders’ [translation] is probably the most �nely
accomplished and may well prove the most enduring.… The
annotation is crowded with useful insights and bits of information
and keeps us abreast of scholarly opinion across the ages.”
—RWB Lewis, Los Angeles Times
“The notes following each canto, besides being up-to-date in
scholarly terms and full of the insight produced by decades of
teaching, re�ection, and scholarship, are of genuinely useful length
and pertinence. The decisions they made about the translation seem
completely successful.… This is the translation for our time and
probably beyond.”
—National Review
“A brisk, vivid, readable—and scrupulously subtle—translation,
coupled with excellent notes and commentary. Every lover of Dante
in English should have this volume.”
—Alicia Ostriker
“English-speaking lovers of Dante are doubly in the Hollanders’
debt: �rst, for this splendidly lucid and eminently readable version
of Dante’s Hell, and second, for the provocative, elegantly written
commentary, which judiciously synthesizes a lifetime of deeply
engaged, wide-ranging scholarship, as well as the past six centuries
of commentary on the poem. No student of Dante would want to be
without it.”
—John Ahern, Antolini Professor of Italian Literature, Vassar
College
“This new Hollander translation deserves to sweep the �eld.…
Robert and Jean Hollander, both practicing published poets, have
produced an English text of remarkable poetic sensitivity while
never traducing the original Italian or pretending to supplant
Dante’s poem with one of their own. They have given us the Inferno
in English, not a modern poetic medley on themes by Dante. And

Robert Hollander has supplied precisely that kind of commentary
the student or general reader needs—an economical and graceful
edi�ce of explanatory notes resting �rmly on a foundation, massive
and deep, yet invisible and therefore not distracting to the reader’s
eye, of the erudition of a lifetime’s study of the medieval Italian
poets.”
—John Fleming, Professor of English and Comparative Literature,
Princeton University

Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Note on Using This eBook
Note on the Translation
Table of Abbreviations and List of Commentators
Map of Dante’s Hell
Introduction
The Inferno: English
INFERNO I
INFERNO II
INFERNO III
INFERNO IV
INFERNO V
INFERNO VI
INFERNO VII
INFERNO VIII
INFERNO IX
INFERNO X
INFERNO XI
INFERNO XII
INFERNO XIII
INFERNO XIV
INFERNO XV
INFERNO XVI
INFERNO XVII
INFERNO XVIII
INFERNO XIX
INFERNO XX
INFERNO XXI
INFERNO XXII
INFERNO XXIII
INFERNO XXIV
INFERNO XXV
INFERNO XXVI
INFERNO XXVII
INFERNO XXVIII
INFERNO XXIX
INFERNO XXX
INFERNO XXXI
INFERNO XXXII
INFERNO XXXIII
INFERNO XXXIV
The Inferno: Italian
INFERNO I
INFERNO II
INFERNO III
INFERNO IV
INFERNO V
INFERNO VI
INFERNO VII
INFERNO VIII
INFERNO IX
INFERNO X
INFERNO XI
INFERNO XII
INFERNO XIII
INFERNO XIV
INFERNO XV
INFERNO XVI
INFERNO XVII
INFERNO XVIII
INFERNO XIX
INFERNO XX
INFERNO XXI
INFERNO XXII
INFERNO XXIII
INFERNO XXIV
INFERNO XXV
INFERNO XXVI
INFERNO XXVII
INFERNO XXVIII
INFERNO XXIX
INFERNO XXX
INFERNO XXXI
INFERNO XXXII
INFERNO XXXIII
INFERNO XXXIV
Notes
Index of Names and Places
Index of Subjects Treated in the Notes
List of Works Cited
About the Translators
Other Books by Robert and Jean Hollander
Acclaim for This Book