Canto X

When we had crossed the threshold of the door¹Which the perverted love of souls disuses,Because it makes the crooked way seem straight,Re-echoing I heard it closed again;And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it,What for my failing had been fit excuse?We mounted upward through a rifted rock,Which undulated to this side and that,Even as a wave receding and advancing.“Here it behoves us use a little art,”Began my Leader, “to adapt ourselvesNow here, now there, to the receding side.”And this our footsteps so infrequent made,That sooner had the moon’s decreasing disk²Regained its bed to sink again to rest,Than we were forth from out that needle’s eye;But when we free and in the open were,There where the mountain backward piles itself,I wearied out, and both of us uncertainAbout our way, we stopped upon a plainMore desolate than roads across the deserts.From where its margin borders on the void,To foot of the high bank that ever rises,A human body three times told would measure;And far as eye of mine could wing its flight,Now on the left, and on the right flank now,The same this cornice did appear to me.Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet,When I perceived the embankment round about,Which all right of ascent had interdicted,³To be of marble white, and so adornedWith sculptures, that not only Polycletus,⁴But Nature’s self, had there been put to shame.⁵The Angel, who came down to earth with tidingsOf peace, that had been wept for many a year,And opened Heaven from its long interdict,In front of us appeared so truthfullyThere sculptured in a gracious attitude,He did not seem an image that is silent.One would have sworn that he was saying, “Ave”;⁶For she was there in effigy portrayedWho turned the key to ope the exalted love,And in her mien this language had impressed,“Ecce ancilla Dei,” as distinctly⁷As any figure stamps itself in wax.“Keep not thy mind upon one place alone,”The gentle Master said, who had me standingUpon that side where people have their hearts;Whereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheldIn rear of Mary, and upon that sideWhere he was standing who conducted me,Another story on the rock imposed;Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near,So that before mine eyes it might be set.There sculptured in the self-same marble wereThe cart and oxen, drawing the holy ark,Wherefore one dreads an office not appointed.⁸People appeared in front, and all of themIn seven choirs divided, of two sensesMade one say, “No,” the other, “Yes, they sing.”Likewise unto the smoke of the frankincense,Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and noseWere in the yes and no discordant made.Preceded there the vessel benedight,Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist,⁹And more and less than King was he in this.Opposite, represented at the windowOf a great palace, Michal looked upon him,¹⁰Even as a woman scornful and afflicted.I moved my feet from where I had been standing,To examine near at hand another story,Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.There the high glory of the Roman Prince¹¹Was chronicled, whose great beneficenceMoved Gregory to his great victory;¹²’Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;And a poor widow at his bridle stood,In attitude of weeping and of grief.Around about him seemed it thronged and fullOf cavaliers, and the eagles in the goldAbove them visibly in the wind were moving.The wretched woman in the midst of theseSeemed to be saying: “Give me vengeance, Lord,For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.”And he to answer her: “Now wait untilI shall return.” And she: “My Lord,” like oneIn whom grief is impatient, “shouldst thou notReturn?” And he: “Who shall be where I amWill give it thee.” And she: “Good deed of othersWhat boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?”Whence he: “Now comfort thee, for it behoves meThat I discharge my duty ere I move;Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.”He who on no new thing has ever lookedWas the creator of this visible language,Novel to us, for here it is not found.While I delighted me in contemplatingThe images of such humility,And dear to look on for their Maker’s sake,“Behold, upon this side, but rare they makeTheir steps,” the Poet murmured, “many people;These will direct us to the lofty stairs.”Mine eyes, that in beholding were intentTo see new things, of which they curious are,In turning round towards him were not slow.But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerveFrom thy good purposes, because thou hearestHow God ordaineth that the debt be paid;Attend not to the fashion of the torment,Think of what follows; think that at the worstIt cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence.“Master,” began I, “that which I beholdMoving towards us seems to me not persons,And what I know not, so in sight I waver.”And he to me: “The grievous qualityOf this their torment bows them so to earth,That my own eyes at first contended with it;But look there fixedly, and disentangleBy sight what cometh underneath those stones;Already canst thou see how each is stricken.”O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones!Who, in the vision of the mind infirm,Confidence have in your backsliding steps,Do ye not comprehend that we are worms,¹³Born to bring forth the angelic butterflyThat flieth unto judgment without screen?Why floats aloft your spirit high in air?¹⁴Like are ye unto insects undeveloped,Even as the worm in whom formation fails!As to sustain a ceiling or a roof,In place of corbel, oftentimes a figureIs seen to join its knees unto its breast,Which makes of the unreal real anguishArise in him who sees it; fashioned thusBeheld I those, when I had ta’en good heed.True is it, they were more or less bent down,According as they more or less were laden;And he who had most patience in his looksWeeping did seem to say, “I can no more!”