Purgatorio: Canto XX
Project Gutenberg EPUB3 edition
Dante Alighieri and Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth
Ill strives the will against a better will; Therefore, to pleasure him, against my pleasure I drew the sponge not saturate from the water.
Onward I moved, and onward moved my Leader, Through vacant places, skirting still the rock, As on a wall close to the battlements;
For they that through their eyes pour drop by drop The malady which all the world pervades, On the other side too near the verge approach.
Accursed mayst thou be, thou old she-wolf, That more than all the other beasts hast prey, Because of hunger infinitely hollow!
O heaven, in whose gyrations some appear To think conditions here below are changed, When will he come through whom she shall depart?
Onward we went with footsteps slow and scarce, And I attentive to the shades I heard Piteously weeping and bemoaning them;
And I by peradventure heard “Sweet Mary!” Uttered in front of us amid the weeping Even as a woman does who is in child-birth;
And in continuance: “How poor thou wast Is manifested by that hostelry Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down.”
Thereafterward I heard: “O good Fabricius, Virtue with poverty didst thou prefer To the possession of great wealth with vice.”
So pleasurable were these words to me That I drew farther onward to have knowledge Touching that spirit whence they seemed to come.
He furthermore was speaking of the largess Which Nicholas unto the maidens gave, In order to conduct their youth to honour.
“O soul that dost so excellently speak, Tell me who wast thou,” said I, “and why only Thou dost renew these praises well deserved?
Not without recompense shall be thy word, If I return to finish the short journey Of that life which is flying to its end.”
And he: “I’ll tell thee, not for any comfort I may expect from earth, but that so much Grace shines in thee or ever thou art dead.
I was the root of that malignant plant Which overshadows all the Christian world, So that good fruit is seldom gathered from it;
But if Douay and Ghent, and Lille and Bruges Had Power, soon vengeance would be taken on it; And this I pray of Him who judges all.
Hugh Capet was I called upon the earth; From me were born the Louises and Philips, By whom in later days has France been governed.
I was the son of a Parisian butcher, What time the ancient kings had perished all, Excepting one, contrite in cloth of gray.
I found me grasping in my hands the rein Of the realm’s government, and so great power Of new acquest, and so with friends abounding,
That to the widowed diadem promoted The head of mine own offspring was, from whom The consecrated bones of these began.
So long as the great dowry of Provence Out of my blood took not the sense of shame, ’Twas little worth, but still it did no harm.
Then it began with falsehood and with force Its rapine; and thereafter, for amends, Took Ponthieu, Normandy, and Gascony.
Charles came to Italy, and for amends A victim made of Conradin, and then Thrust Thomas back to heaven, for amends.
A time I see, not very distant now, Which draweth forth another Charles from France, The better to make known both him and his.
Unarmed he goes, and only with the lance That Judas jousted with; and that he thrusts So that he makes the paunch of Florence burst.
He thence not land, but sin and infamy, Shall gain, so much more grievous to himself As the more light such damage he accounts.
The other, now gone forth, ta’en in his ship, See I his daughter sell, and chaffer for her As corsairs do with other female slaves.
What more, O Avarice, canst thou do to us, Since thou my blood so to thyself hast drawn, It careth not for its own proper flesh?
That less may seem the future ill and past, I see the flower-de-luce Alagna enter, And Christ in his own Vicar captive made.
I see him yet another time derided; I see renewed the vinegar and gall, And between living thieves I see him slain.
I see the modern Pilate so relentless, This does not sate him, but without decretal He to the temple bears his sordid sails!
When, O my Lord! shall I be joyful made By looking on the vengeance which, concealed, Makes sweet thine anger in thy secrecy?
What I was saying of that only bride Of the Holy Ghost, and which occasioned thee To turn towards me for some commentary,
So long has been ordained to all our prayers As the day lasts; but when the night comes on, Contrary sound we take instead thereof.
At that time we repeat Pygmalion, Of whom a traitor, thief, and parricide Made his insatiable desire of gold;
And the misery of avaricious Midas, That followed his inordinate demand, At which forevermore one needs but laugh.
The foolish Achan each one then records, And how he stole the spoils; so that the wrath Of Joshua still appears to sting him here.
Then we accuse Sapphira with her husband, We laud the hoof-beats Heliodorus had, And the whole mount in infamy encircles
Polymnestor who murdered Polydorus. Here finally is cried: ‘O Crassus, tell us, For thou dost know, what is the taste of gold?’
Sometimes we speak, one loud, another low, According to desire of speech, that spurs us To greater now and now to lesser pace.