Canto XXIV

In that season of the young year

when the Sun softens his golden hair beneath Aquarius,

and the nights begin to match the length of days—

when hoarfrost sketches on the ground

the white image of her sister snow,

though her pen's ink runs thin and fades quickly—

The farmer, finding his fodder gone,

rises and steps outside to see the fields

gleaming white in every direction.

He strikes his thigh in dismay,

returns to his house, pacing and lamenting

like a lost soul who cannot find his way.

But soon he ventures out again, and hope returns

as he sees how quickly the world has changed its face.

He takes up his shepherd's staff

and drives his little lambs out to pasture.

Just so my Master filled me with alarm

when I saw his brow so deeply troubled—

but the remedy came as swiftly as the wound.

When we reached the shattered bridge,

he turned to me with that gentle expression

I had first seen at the mountain's base.

After careful consideration,

studying the wreckage thoroughly,

he opened his arms and took hold of me.

Like someone who plans while acting,

always thinking several moves ahead,

he lifted me up toward the summit of a massive boulder,

then examined the next rocky outcrop, saying:

"We'll grab onto that one next,

but first test if it will bear your weight."

This was no path for anyone wearing robes.

Even with him being nimble and pushing me upward,

we could barely climb from jagged point to jagged point.

Had the slope on this side not been shorter

than on the other bank,

I cannot say about him, but I would have collapsed entirely.

But since all of Malebolge tilts downward

toward the mouth of the deepest pit,

each valley's design ensures

that one wall rises while the other falls.

Eventually we reached the spot

where the final stone breaks away.

My lungs were so drained of breath

when I climbed up that I could go no further—

I collapsed the moment I arrived.

"Now you must cast off laziness,"

my Master said. "Sitting on soft cushions

or lying under quilts will never bring you fame.

Without fame, whoever wastes his life

leaves no more trace of himself on earth

than smoke in air or foam on water.

So get up. Overcome this exhaustion

with the spirit that wins every battle,

unless it lets the heavy body drag it down.

You have a much longer stairway yet to climb.

It's not enough to have left these souls behind.

If you understand me, let my words inspire you."

I stood up, showing myself

better supplied with breath than I actually felt,

and said: "Move on—I am strong and ready."

We continued up along the ridge,

which was jagged, narrow, and treacherous,

far steeper than the one before.

I kept talking as we walked, trying not to seem winded,

when a voice emerged from the next ditch—

sounds barely capable of forming words.

I couldn't make out what it said,

though I stood on the arch that spans that place,

but whoever was speaking seemed moved to rage.

I leaned down, but my living eyes

could not penetrate to the bottom through the darkness.

"Master," I said, "make sure we reach

the next ridge and descend the wall.

Just as I hear from here but cannot understand,

so I look down but can make out nothing."

"I give you no answer," he replied,

"except action. A reasonable request

should be followed by deeds, not words."

We climbed down from the bridge at its far end,

where it connects to the eighth embankment,

and then the chasm revealed itself to me.

I saw within it a terrible swarm

of serpents of such monstrous variety

that the memory still freezes my blood.

Let Libya boast no more of her desert sands.

Though she breeds Chelydri, Jaculi, and Phareans,

Cenchri and Amphisbaenas,

never has she displayed so many venoms,

so malignant, not with all Ethiopia

nor whatever lands border the Red Sea.

Through this cruel and wretched multitude

people ran naked and terrified,

with no hope of hiding place or protective stone.

Their hands were bound behind them with serpents

that thrust their heads and tails through at the loins,

coiling in knots across their chests.

And look! At one soul on our side of the pit

a serpent darted forth and pierced him

right where the neck joins the shoulders.

Never was 'O' or 'I' written so quickly

as he caught fire and burned,

falling as he was utterly reduced to ash.

When he was destroyed there on the ground,

the ashes gathered themselves together

and instantly reformed into his shape.

Just so the great scholars tell us

the phoenix dies and is born again

as it approaches its five-hundredth year.

In life it feeds on no grass or grain,

but only on tears of incense and amomum,

and nard and myrrh become its funeral shroud.

Like someone who falls but doesn't know how—

whether by demonic force dragging him earthward

or some other affliction that binds mortals—

who rises and looks around himself,

completely bewildered by the great anguish

he has endured, and sighs as he stares:

such was that sinner after he stood up.

O justice of God! How severe you are

to rain down such vengeful blows!

My Guide then asked who he was,

and he replied: "I rained down from Tuscany

into this savage throat not long ago.

A bestial life pleased me, not a human one—

fitting for the mule I was. I am Vanni Fucci,

beast, and Pistoia was my fitting den."

I said to my Guide: "Tell him not to slip away,

and ask what crime thrust him down here,

for I once knew him as a man of blood and rage."

The sinner, who had heard, did not dissemble

but turned his attention and face toward me,

coloring with melancholy shame.

"It pains me more that you have caught me

in this misery where you see me now

than when I was taken from the other life.

I cannot deny what you ask:

I am placed this far down because I robbed

the sacristy of its beautiful ornaments,

and the blame was falsely placed on another.

But so that you will not enjoy this sight,

if you ever escape these dark regions,

open your ears and hear my prophecy:

First Pistoia will be stripped of Black Guelphs,

then Florence will change her people and customs.

Mars will draw up a vapor from Val di Magra

wrapped in turbulent clouds,

and with fierce and bitter storm

the battle will rage over Campo Piceno.

Suddenly it will tear apart the mist

so that every White Guelph will be struck down.

I have told you this so that it might cause you pain."