Classic Poem

CANTO XXXIII.

Argument.

Count Ugolino. — Third zone of the ninth circle. — The souls of those whose bodies are still alive.

T HE sinner raised his mouth from its fierce food,
And o'er the hair of the torn head he drew
His lips, to wipe away the stain of blood.
Then he began: " Thou wouldst I should renew
The desperate grief that all my heart doth steep,
Only to think thereon, ere speech ensue.
But if my words be seed whence ye may reap
The fruit of shame to him whom here I gnaw,
At once thou shalt behold me speak and weep.
I know not who thou art, nor by what law
Thou to this depth hast come; but yet thy speech
Doth seem thy Florentine descent to show.
I was Count Ugolino; and this wretch,
The Archbishop Ruggieri: unto thee
I tell the bond which binds us each to each.
Sooth, the effect of his vile treachery,
Wherewith I, trusting fully to his word,
Was ta'en, and done to death, no need to be
To thee declared. But what thou hast not heard,
Namely, the manner of my cruel pain,
Now hear, and know if justly in me stirr'd
Be wrath. A narrow window in the den,
Which now of Hunger bears the name for me,
And where imprison'd some may be again,
Of many a changing moon had let me see
The light, ere yet the evil sleep I slept
That rent the curtain of futurity.
This man appear'd to lead the hounds that swept,
Chasing the wolf and cubs unto the mount
Which from the Pisans' ken doth intercept
The view of Lucca. With lean dogs and gaunt,
Gualandi and Sismondi and Lanfranc
Had set themselves to lead the battle's front.
But, weary with short course, full quickly sank
The father and the sons; and sharp teeth sped,
Methought, with bloody wounds to rend each flank.
When I awoke, before the night had fled,
I heard my children wailing in their sleep,
Those who were with me, and demanding bread.
Thou must be cruel, if thou here canst keep
Dry eyes at thought of what my heart forecast;
If not at this, what thing can make thee weep?
And they awoke, and now the hour was past
When, at the first, our food to us was borne;
And for his dream each doubted. And at last
Within the lock below I heard them turn
The key of the dread tower; then on each son
I gazed, but neither did I speak nor mourn.
I wept not; for within I was as stone.
They wept; and then my little Anselm said:
" Thou look'st so, father! what is't they have done?"
And yet I did not weep; nor answerid,
For all that day and all the after night,
Till a new sun on earth its beams had shed.
When in our prison-house a little light
Had enter'd, and I thus might well descry
Four faces that gave back mine own aright,
Then both my hands, for anguish, did I try
To gnaw and tear; and they, who deem'd I fain
Would eat, did all, at once, arise and cry:
" Father, to us it would be lesser pain
If thou wouldst feed on us; from thee we had
These wretched bodies; take them back again."
Then I was calm, lest they should be more sad;
And that day and the next we spake not aught:
Ah! cruel earth, why wert not openid?
After unto the fourth day we were brought,
Then at my feet extended, Gaddo fell,
Crying: " My father, why dost help me not?"
And there he died; and as thou see'st me well,
The three remaining, one by one, I saw
Fall, 'twixt the fifth day and the sixth. Then still,
I blindly groping over them did go:
Two days I called them after they were dead;
Thereafter, hunger was more strong than woe. "
With eyes askance, when he these words had said,
He gnaw'd the wretched skull again, with teeth
Of doglike strength on hardest bone to feed.
Ah! Pisa, thou disgrace of those who breathe
In the fair country where the " si " doth sound,
E'en if thy neighbours' vengeance tarrieth,
Let Gorgona and eke Capraia bound
The place where to the sea flows Arno's stream,
So that within thee all thy sons be drown'd.
For if among you ye did truly deem
Count Ugolino had your forts betray'd,
To slay his sons did justice ill beseem.
New Thebes! most innocent were surely made,
By youth, Brigata, Uguccion, and they,
The two of whom but now my words were said!
Then we pass'd on to where a people lay,
Fast-frozen in a winding-sheet of ice,
Not downward bent, but stretch'd upon the way
Supine. And of this vale the sad device
Stay'd them from tears: and grief which might not flow
Turn'd inward, to increase their agonies.
Because the drops to a hard knot did grow,
And, like a crystal vizier, wholly fill'd
And closed the cavity beneath each brow.
And though by the great cold I was so chill'd
That from my face all feeling now was flown,
As when some callous place the blood hath still'd,
Yet here it seem'd as if some wind had blown.
Then I: " My Master, whence doth this arise?
In this far depth is any vapour known? "
Whence he to me: " Soon shalt thou with thine eyes
Behold of this strange thing the reason just,
Which moves the air in such unwonted guise. "
And then a wretch within the icy crust
Cried with loud voice to us: " O spirits fell,
Whose guilt hath merited the last dread post,
Lift from mine eyes a moment their hard veil,
And let the grief which all my heart doth steep
Flow forth, ere yet the frost again prevail. "
And I to him: " If by my help thou 'dst weep,
Say who thou art; and if I give not aid,
May I descend unto the icy deep "
" Know, I am Brother Alberic, " he said,
" He of the fruit which grew in evil soil,
Who here, instead of figs, on dates am fed. "
" Oh! " I replied, " then art thou dead, the while? "
He answer'd: " If that mortal garb of mine
Still lives, no knowledge doth my grief beguile.
This Tolomea doth such powers combine
That oft the spirit hither doth descend,
Ere Atropos of life hath cut the line.
That thou thy hand more willingly mayst lend
To wipe these glassy tears from off mine eye,
Know, that whene'er the soul betrays a friend,
As I have done, the corpse is seizid by
A demon, who doth govern it, I wis,
Until the time is come that it should die.
The spirit falls into this dread abyss;
And still, perchance, on earth his corpse doth go
Who winters there behind me. But of this,
If thou art newly come, thou shouldest know:
He is Sir Branca d'Oria; and there,
Long since, was prisonid the ice below. "
I said: " Methinks thy words deceit do bear;
For Branca d'Oria is not yet dead;
And eats and drinks and sleeps and clothes doth wear. "
" Unto the den of Malibranch, " he said,
" Where boileth ever the tenacious pitch,
Not yet, in truth, had Michael Zanchi sped,
When to the limbs where erst abode yon wretch,
And to his traitor-comrade's, there was brought
A demon, in their stead. Thy hand now stretch,
And ope mine eyes. " But yet I did it not;
And, sooth, did to that treach'rous one rehearse
Discourtesy with courteous justice fraught.
Ah! Genoese, a people most perverse,
Full of deceit, and alien from all good,
Why doth not Providence your race disperse?
Where the worst spirit of Romagna stood,
I found your son, who, for his deeds of ill,
In soul was bathed in Cocytus' dark flood,
And in his body seem'd on earth to linger still.