Purgatory: Canto XX. Fifth Ledge --The Spirits Celebrate Examples Of Poverty And Bounty
Fifth Ledge: the Avaricious.--The Spirits celebrate
examples of Poverty and Bounty.--Hugh Capet.--His discourse on
his descendants.--Trembling of the Mountain.
Against a better will the will fights ill: wherefore against my
own pleasure, in order to please him, I drew from the water the
sponge not full.
I moved on, and my Leader moved on through the space vacant only
alongside of the rock, as upon a wall one goes close to the
battlements. For on the other side the people, that through their
eyes are pouring drop by drop the evil that possesses all the
world, approach too near the edge.[1]
[1]Too close to leave a space for walking.
Accursed be thou, old she-wolf, who more than all the other
beasts hast prey, because of thy hunger hollow without end! O
Heaven! by whose revolution it seems that men believe conditions
here below are transmuted, when will he come through whom she
shall depart?[1] We were going on with slow and scanty steps, and
I attentive to the shades whom I heard piteously lamenting and
bewailing; and peradventure I heard in front of us one crying
out, "Sweet Mary," in his lament, even as a woman does who is in
travail; and continuing, "So poor wast thou as may be seen by
that inn where thou didst lay down thy holy burden." And
following this I heard, "O good Fabricius,[2] thou didst rather
wish for virtue with poverty than to possess great riches with
vice." These words were so pleasing to me that I drew myself
further on to have acquaintance with that spirit from whom they
seemed to come. He was speaking furthermore of the largess which
Nicholas[3] made to the damsels in order to conduct their youth
to honor. "O soul that discoursest so well," said I, "tell me who
thou wast, and why thou alone renewest these worthy praises. Not
without meed will be thy words, if I return to complete the short
journey of that life which flies towards its end." And he, "I
will tell thee, not for comfort that I may expect from yonder,[4]
but because such grace shineth on thee ere thou art dead. I was
the root of the evil plant which so overshadows all the Christian
land[5] that good fruit is rarely plucked therefrom. But if
Douai, Lille, Ghent, and Bruges had power, soon would there be
vengeance on it;[6] and I implore it from him who judges
everything. Yonder I was called Hugh Capet: of me are born the
Philips and the Louises, by whom of late times France is ruled. I
was the son of a butcher of Paris.[7] When the ancient kings had
all died out, save one, who had assumed the grey garb,[8] I found
me with the bridle of the government of the realm fast in my
hands, and with so much power recently acquired, and so full of
friends, that to the widowed crown the head of my son was
promoted, from whom the consecrated bones[9] of these began.
[1] The old she-wolf is avarice, the same who at the outset
(Hell, Canto I.) had driven Dante back and made him lose hope of
the height. The likeness of the two passages is striking.
[2] Caius Fabricius, the famous poor and incorruptible Roman
consul, who refused the bribes of Pyrrhus, King of Epirus. Dante
extols his worth also in the Convito, iv. 5.
[3] St. Nicholas, Bishop of Mira, who, according to the legend,
knowing that owing to the poverty of their father, three maidens
were exposed to the risk of leading lives of dishonor, secretly,
at night, threw into the window of their house money enough to
provide each with a dowry.
[4] The earth.
[5] In 1300 the descendants of Hugh Capet were ruling France,
Spain, and Naples.
[6] Phillip the Fair gained possession of Flanders, by force and
fraud, in 1299; but in 1802 the French were driven out of the
country, after a fatal defeat at Courtrai, here dimly prophesied.
[7] Dante here follows the incorrect popular tradition.
[8] Who had become a monk. The historical reference is obscure.
[9] An ironical reference to the ceremony of consecration at the
coronation of the kings.
"So long as the great dowry of Provence[1] took not the sense of
shame from my race, it was little worth, but still it did not
ill. Then it began its rapine with force and with falsehood; and,
after, for amends,[2] Ponthieu and Normandy it took, and Gascony;
Charles[3] came to Italy, and, for amends, made a victim of
Conradin,[4] and then thrust Thomas[5] back to heaven for amends.
A time I see, not long after this day, that draws forth another
Charles[6] from France to make both himself and his the better
known. Without arms he goes forth thence alone, but with the
lance with which Judas jousted;[7] and that he thrusts so that he
makes the paunch of Florence burst. Therefrom he will gain not
land,[8] but sin and shame so much the heavier for himself, as he
the lighter reckons such harm. The other,[9] who has already gone
out a prisoner from his ship, I see selling his daughter, and
bargaining over her, as do the corsairs with other female slaves.
O Avarice, what more canst thou do with us, since thou hast so
drawn my race unto thyself that it cares not for its own flesh?
In order that the ill to come and that already done may seem the
less, I see the fleur-de-lis entering Anagna, and in his Vicar
Christ made a captive.[10] I see him being mocked a second time;
I see the vinegar and the gall renewed, and between living
thieves him put to death. I see the new Pilate so cruel that this
does not sate him, but, without decretal, he bears his covetous
sails into the Temple.[11] O my Lord, when shall I be glad in
seeing thy vengeance which, concealed, makes sweet thine anger in
thy secrecy?
[1] Through the marriage in 1245 of Charles of Anjou, brother of
St. Louis (Louis IX.), with Beatrice, the heiress of the Count
of Provence.
[2] The bitterness of Dante's irony is explained by the part
which France had played in Italian affairs.
[3] Of Anjou.
[4] The youthful grandson of Frederick II., who, striving to
wrest Naples and Sicily, his hereditary possessions, from the
hands of Charles of Anjou, was defeated and taken prisoner by him
in 1267, and put to deaths by him in 1268. His fate excited great
compassion.
[5] Charles was believed to have had St. Thomas Aquinas poisoned.
[6] Charles of Valois, brother of Philip the Fair, sent by
Boniface VIII., in 1301, to Florence as peacemaker. But there he
wrought great harm, and siding with the Black party, the Whites,
including Dante, were driven into exile.
[7] The lance of treachery.
[8] A reference to his nickname of Senza terra, or Lackland.
[9] Charles II., son of Charles of Anjou. In 1283 he was made
captive in a sea fight, by Ruggieri de Loria, the Admiral of
Peter II. of Aragon. In 1300, according to common report, he sold
his young daughter in marriage to the old Marquis of Este.
[10] Spite of his hostility to Boniface VIII., the worst crime of
the house of France was, in Dante's eyes, the seizure of the Pope
at Anagni, in 1303, by the emissaries of Philip the Fair.
[11] The destruction of the Order of the Temple.
"What I was saying of that only bride of the Holy Spirit, and
which made thee turn toward me for some gloss, is ordained for
all our prayers so long as the day lasts, but when the night
comes, we take up a contrary sound instead. Then we rehearse
Pygmalion,[1] whom his gluttonous longing for gold made a traitor
and thief and parricide; and the wretchedness of the avaricious
Midas which followed on his greedy demand, at which men must
always laugh. Then of the foolish Achan each one recalls how he
stole the spoils, so that the anger of Joshua seems still to
sting him, here.[2] Then we accuse Sapphira with her husband; we
praise the kicks that Heliodorus received,[3] and in infamy
Polymnestor who slew Polydorus[4] circles the Whole mountain.
Finally our cry here is, 'Crassus, tell us, for thou knowest,
what is the taste of gold?'[5] At times one speaks loud, and
another low, according to the affection which spurs us to speak
now at a greater, now at a less pace. Therefore in the good which
by day is here discoursed of, of late I was not alone, but here
near by no other person lifted up his voice."
[1] The brother of Dido, and the murderer of her husband for the
sake of his riches--Aeneid, i. 353-4.
[2] Joshua, vii.
[3] For his attempt to plunder the treasury of the Temple.--2
Maccabees, iii. 25.
[4] Priam had entrusted Polydorus, his youngest son, to
Polymnestor, King of Thrace, who, when the fortunes of Troy
declined, slew Polydorus, that he might take possession of the
treasure sent with him.
[5] Having been slain in battle with the Parthians, their king
poured molten gold down his throat in derision, because of his
fame as the richest of men.
We had already parted from him, and were striving to advance
along the road so far as was permitted to our power, when I felt
the Mountain tremble, like a thing that is falling; whereupon a
chill seized me such as is wont to seize him who goes to death.
Surely Delos shook not so violently, before Latona made her nest
therein to give birth to the two eyes of heaven.[1] Then began on
all sides such a cry that the Master drew towards me, saying:
"Distrust not, while I guide thee." "Gloria in excelsis Deo,"[2]
all were saying, according to what I gathered from those near at
hand whose cry it was possible to understand. We stopped,
motionless and in suspense, like the shepherds who first heard
that song, until the trembling ceased, and it was ended. Then we
took up again our holy journey, looking at the shades that were
lying on the ground, returned already to their wonted plaint. No
ignorance ever with so sharp attack made me desirous of
knowing--if my memory err not in this--as it seemed to me I then
experienced in thought. Nor, for our haste, did I dare to ask,
nor of myself could I see aught there. So I went on timid and
thoughtful.
[1] Apollo and Diana, the divinities of Sun and Moon.
[2] "Glory to God in the highest."
examples of Poverty and Bounty.--Hugh Capet.--His discourse on
his descendants.--Trembling of the Mountain.
Against a better will the will fights ill: wherefore against my
own pleasure, in order to please him, I drew from the water the
sponge not full.
I moved on, and my Leader moved on through the space vacant only
alongside of the rock, as upon a wall one goes close to the
battlements. For on the other side the people, that through their
eyes are pouring drop by drop the evil that possesses all the
world, approach too near the edge.[1]
[1]Too close to leave a space for walking.
Accursed be thou, old she-wolf, who more than all the other
beasts hast prey, because of thy hunger hollow without end! O
Heaven! by whose revolution it seems that men believe conditions
here below are transmuted, when will he come through whom she
shall depart?[1] We were going on with slow and scanty steps, and
I attentive to the shades whom I heard piteously lamenting and
bewailing; and peradventure I heard in front of us one crying
out, "Sweet Mary," in his lament, even as a woman does who is in
travail; and continuing, "So poor wast thou as may be seen by
that inn where thou didst lay down thy holy burden." And
following this I heard, "O good Fabricius,[2] thou didst rather
wish for virtue with poverty than to possess great riches with
vice." These words were so pleasing to me that I drew myself
further on to have acquaintance with that spirit from whom they
seemed to come. He was speaking furthermore of the largess which
Nicholas[3] made to the damsels in order to conduct their youth
to honor. "O soul that discoursest so well," said I, "tell me who
thou wast, and why thou alone renewest these worthy praises. Not
without meed will be thy words, if I return to complete the short
journey of that life which flies towards its end." And he, "I
will tell thee, not for comfort that I may expect from yonder,[4]
but because such grace shineth on thee ere thou art dead. I was
the root of the evil plant which so overshadows all the Christian
land[5] that good fruit is rarely plucked therefrom. But if
Douai, Lille, Ghent, and Bruges had power, soon would there be
vengeance on it;[6] and I implore it from him who judges
everything. Yonder I was called Hugh Capet: of me are born the
Philips and the Louises, by whom of late times France is ruled. I
was the son of a butcher of Paris.[7] When the ancient kings had
all died out, save one, who had assumed the grey garb,[8] I found
me with the bridle of the government of the realm fast in my
hands, and with so much power recently acquired, and so full of
friends, that to the widowed crown the head of my son was
promoted, from whom the consecrated bones[9] of these began.
[1] The old she-wolf is avarice, the same who at the outset
(Hell, Canto I.) had driven Dante back and made him lose hope of
the height. The likeness of the two passages is striking.
[2] Caius Fabricius, the famous poor and incorruptible Roman
consul, who refused the bribes of Pyrrhus, King of Epirus. Dante
extols his worth also in the Convito, iv. 5.
[3] St. Nicholas, Bishop of Mira, who, according to the legend,
knowing that owing to the poverty of their father, three maidens
were exposed to the risk of leading lives of dishonor, secretly,
at night, threw into the window of their house money enough to
provide each with a dowry.
[4] The earth.
[5] In 1300 the descendants of Hugh Capet were ruling France,
Spain, and Naples.
[6] Phillip the Fair gained possession of Flanders, by force and
fraud, in 1299; but in 1802 the French were driven out of the
country, after a fatal defeat at Courtrai, here dimly prophesied.
[7] Dante here follows the incorrect popular tradition.
[8] Who had become a monk. The historical reference is obscure.
[9] An ironical reference to the ceremony of consecration at the
coronation of the kings.
"So long as the great dowry of Provence[1] took not the sense of
shame from my race, it was little worth, but still it did not
ill. Then it began its rapine with force and with falsehood; and,
after, for amends,[2] Ponthieu and Normandy it took, and Gascony;
Charles[3] came to Italy, and, for amends, made a victim of
Conradin,[4] and then thrust Thomas[5] back to heaven for amends.
A time I see, not long after this day, that draws forth another
Charles[6] from France to make both himself and his the better
known. Without arms he goes forth thence alone, but with the
lance with which Judas jousted;[7] and that he thrusts so that he
makes the paunch of Florence burst. Therefrom he will gain not
land,[8] but sin and shame so much the heavier for himself, as he
the lighter reckons such harm. The other,[9] who has already gone
out a prisoner from his ship, I see selling his daughter, and
bargaining over her, as do the corsairs with other female slaves.
O Avarice, what more canst thou do with us, since thou hast so
drawn my race unto thyself that it cares not for its own flesh?
In order that the ill to come and that already done may seem the
less, I see the fleur-de-lis entering Anagna, and in his Vicar
Christ made a captive.[10] I see him being mocked a second time;
I see the vinegar and the gall renewed, and between living
thieves him put to death. I see the new Pilate so cruel that this
does not sate him, but, without decretal, he bears his covetous
sails into the Temple.[11] O my Lord, when shall I be glad in
seeing thy vengeance which, concealed, makes sweet thine anger in
thy secrecy?
[1] Through the marriage in 1245 of Charles of Anjou, brother of
St. Louis (Louis IX.), with Beatrice, the heiress of the Count
of Provence.
[2] The bitterness of Dante's irony is explained by the part
which France had played in Italian affairs.
[3] Of Anjou.
[4] The youthful grandson of Frederick II., who, striving to
wrest Naples and Sicily, his hereditary possessions, from the
hands of Charles of Anjou, was defeated and taken prisoner by him
in 1267, and put to deaths by him in 1268. His fate excited great
compassion.
[5] Charles was believed to have had St. Thomas Aquinas poisoned.
[6] Charles of Valois, brother of Philip the Fair, sent by
Boniface VIII., in 1301, to Florence as peacemaker. But there he
wrought great harm, and siding with the Black party, the Whites,
including Dante, were driven into exile.
[7] The lance of treachery.
[8] A reference to his nickname of Senza terra, or Lackland.
[9] Charles II., son of Charles of Anjou. In 1283 he was made
captive in a sea fight, by Ruggieri de Loria, the Admiral of
Peter II. of Aragon. In 1300, according to common report, he sold
his young daughter in marriage to the old Marquis of Este.
[10] Spite of his hostility to Boniface VIII., the worst crime of
the house of France was, in Dante's eyes, the seizure of the Pope
at Anagni, in 1303, by the emissaries of Philip the Fair.
[11] The destruction of the Order of the Temple.
"What I was saying of that only bride of the Holy Spirit, and
which made thee turn toward me for some gloss, is ordained for
all our prayers so long as the day lasts, but when the night
comes, we take up a contrary sound instead. Then we rehearse
Pygmalion,[1] whom his gluttonous longing for gold made a traitor
and thief and parricide; and the wretchedness of the avaricious
Midas which followed on his greedy demand, at which men must
always laugh. Then of the foolish Achan each one recalls how he
stole the spoils, so that the anger of Joshua seems still to
sting him, here.[2] Then we accuse Sapphira with her husband; we
praise the kicks that Heliodorus received,[3] and in infamy
Polymnestor who slew Polydorus[4] circles the Whole mountain.
Finally our cry here is, 'Crassus, tell us, for thou knowest,
what is the taste of gold?'[5] At times one speaks loud, and
another low, according to the affection which spurs us to speak
now at a greater, now at a less pace. Therefore in the good which
by day is here discoursed of, of late I was not alone, but here
near by no other person lifted up his voice."
[1] The brother of Dido, and the murderer of her husband for the
sake of his riches--Aeneid, i. 353-4.
[2] Joshua, vii.
[3] For his attempt to plunder the treasury of the Temple.--2
Maccabees, iii. 25.
[4] Priam had entrusted Polydorus, his youngest son, to
Polymnestor, King of Thrace, who, when the fortunes of Troy
declined, slew Polydorus, that he might take possession of the
treasure sent with him.
[5] Having been slain in battle with the Parthians, their king
poured molten gold down his throat in derision, because of his
fame as the richest of men.
We had already parted from him, and were striving to advance
along the road so far as was permitted to our power, when I felt
the Mountain tremble, like a thing that is falling; whereupon a
chill seized me such as is wont to seize him who goes to death.
Surely Delos shook not so violently, before Latona made her nest
therein to give birth to the two eyes of heaven.[1] Then began on
all sides such a cry that the Master drew towards me, saying:
"Distrust not, while I guide thee." "Gloria in excelsis Deo,"[2]
all were saying, according to what I gathered from those near at
hand whose cry it was possible to understand. We stopped,
motionless and in suspense, like the shepherds who first heard
that song, until the trembling ceased, and it was ended. Then we
took up again our holy journey, looking at the shades that were
lying on the ground, returned already to their wonted plaint. No
ignorance ever with so sharp attack made me desirous of
knowing--if my memory err not in this--as it seemed to me I then
experienced in thought. Nor, for our haste, did I dare to ask,
nor of myself could I see aught there. So I went on timid and
thoughtful.
[1] Apollo and Diana, the divinities of Sun and Moon.
[2] "Glory to God in the highest."
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