Inferno
Escape from the Malabranche. The Sixth Bolgia: Hypocrites. Catalano and Loderingo. Caiaphas.
Silent, alone, without companions,
we walked single file—
one ahead, the other following behind,
like Franciscan friars on their way.
The present fight brought to mind
one of Aesop's fables,
the one about the frog and the mouse.
The words "now" and "then" aren't more alike
than that story is to our situation,
if you compare how both begin and end.
And as one thought leads to another,
this comparison sparked a new idea
that doubled my fear.
I thought to myself: "Because of us,
these demons have been mocked and humiliated,
so badly injured and insulted
that it must really anger them.
If you add rage to their natural malice,
they'll chase us down more ruthlessly
than a dog attacking the rabbit it catches."
I could already feel my hair
standing on end with terror.
I kept looking back as I said,
"Master, unless you hide us both
right now, I'm afraid of the Malebranche.
They're behind us—
I can imagine them so clearly
I can almost feel them coming."
And he replied: "Even if I were made
of polished glass,
I couldn't reflect your appearance
faster than I sense your inner thoughts.
Your thoughts just merged with mine—
they have the same urgency, the same concern.
So I made one plan from both our thoughts:
"If perhaps the right bank slopes gently enough
that we can descend to the next ditch,
we'll escape this imagined pursuit."
He had barely finished voicing this idea
when I saw them coming with outstretched wings,
not far away, intent on seizing us.
My guide suddenly swept me up,
like a mother wakened by crackling flames
who sees the fire blazing near her child—
she grabs her son and flees without stopping,
caring more for him than herself,
not even pausing to throw on more than her slip.
Down from the ridge of that hard bank
he threw himself backward onto the hanging rock
that walls one side of the neighboring ditch.
Water never ran so swiftly through a millrace
to turn the wheel of a riverside mill
when it rushes closest to the paddles
as my master raced down that slope,
carrying me against his chest—
not like a companion, but like his own son.
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TUMULT AND ESCAPE
“to turn the wheel of a riverside mill / when it rushes closest to the paddles / as my master raced down that slope,”
His feet had barely touched the bottom
when the demons reached the ridge above us,
but he felt no fear.
High Providence, which made them guardians
of the fifth ditch, strips from all of them
the power to leave their post.
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THE HYPOCRITES
“of the fifth ditch, strips from all of them / the power to leave their post.”
Below we found a painted people
who walked with slow, weary steps,
weeping, looking exhausted and defeated.
They wore cloaks with hoods pulled low
over their eyes, cut in the same style
as the monks' robes made in Cologne.
On the outside, they gleamed with gold that dazzled,
but inside they were all lead, so heavy
that Frederick's straw cloaks were featherweight by comparison.
What an eternally exhausting garment!
We turned again, always to the left,
walking alongside them, listening to their sad laments.
But because of the weight, that weary crowd
moved so slowly that with every step
we found ourselves with new companions.
So I said to my leader: "Try to find
someone who might be known by deed or name—
keep your eyes moving as we walk."
And one who recognized my Tuscan speech
called out from behind: "Stop, you two
who run so quickly through this dark air!
Perhaps you'll get from me what you're looking for."
My leader turned and said: "Wait,
then proceed according to his pace."
I stopped and saw two souls showing
great eagerness in their faces to reach me,
but their burden and the narrow path slowed them.
When they arrived, they studied me sideways
for a long time without saying a word.
Then they turned to each other and said:
"This one seems alive—see how his throat moves.
And if they're dead, by what privilege
do they go uncovered by the heavy cloak?"
Then to me: "Tuscan, you who have come
to this college of wretched hypocrites,
don't disdain to tell us who you are."
And I answered: "I was born and raised
in the great city on Arno's beautiful river,
and I'm here in the body I've always had.
But who are you, from whose cheeks
I see such grief trickling down?
What punishment makes you glitter so?"
One replied: "These orange cloaks
are made of lead so heavy
that we creak like scales under the weight.
We were Jovial Friars, both from Bologna—
I am Catalano, he is Loderingo.
Your city chose us both together,
though usually they pick just one man,
to keep the peace. What we really were
you can still see around the Gardingo quarter."
"O Friars," I began, "your wicked—"
But I said no more, for my eyes fell upon
one crucified to the ground with three stakes.
When he saw me, he writhed all over,
sighing into his beard.
Friar Catalano, noticing this, said to me:
"That transfixed one you see there
advised the Pharisees it would be fitting
to torture one man for the sake of the people.
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THE HYPOCRITES—CRUCIFIED PHARISEE
“But I said no more, for my eyes fell upon / one crucified to the ground with three stakes. / When he saw me, he writhed all over,”
He lies naked and crosswise in the path,
as you can see, and he must feel
the weight of everyone who passes over him.
His father-in-law suffers the same way
in this ditch, along with the others
from that council which planted evil seed for the Jews."
I saw Virgil marvel at the sight
of him stretched on the cross,
so vilely banished for all eternity.
Then he asked the friar:
"If it's permitted, please tell us—
is there a passage sloping down to the right
where we two can climb out of here
without forcing some of those black angels
to come and pull us from this pit?"
He answered: "Closer than you hope,
there's a ridge that extends from the great outer wall
and crosses all these savage valleys—
except here, where it's broken and doesn't bridge across.
You'll be able to climb up the fallen rocks
that slope along the side and heap up at the bottom."
My leader stood awhile with bowed head,
then said: "He gave us bad information,
that one who hooks the sinners over there."
The friar replied: "Once in Bologna I heard
many stories about the devil's vices—
among them, that he's a liar and the father of lies."
At that my leader strode away with long steps,
his face somewhat disturbed by anger.
And I left those weighted-down souls behind,
following in his beloved footsteps.