Canto VIII

I should say, continuing my story, that long before

we reached the foot of that high tower,

our eyes were drawn upward to its summit

because of two small flames we saw burning there

In the distance, signals flashed back and forth—

lights so far away they barely reached the eye.

I turned to my guide, hungry for understanding:

"What do those fires say to each other?

Who made them speak across this wasteland?"

"Look through the murky waves," he answered.

"You can see what's coming toward us now,

unless the marsh mist hides it from your sight."

No arrow ever shot from a bowstring

and cut through air with such swift speed

as the small boat I saw racing toward us,

driven by a single ferryman who shouted:

"So! You've arrived at last, damned soul!"

"Phlegyas, Phlegyas," my master said,

"your rage is wasted this time.

You'll have us only long enough to cross."

Like someone who discovers he's been betrayed

and seethes with sudden fury,

Phlegyas trembled with gathered wrath.

My guide stepped down into the boat

and motioned me to follow.

Only when I entered did it seem to bear weight.

As soon as we were both aboard,

the ancient prow began cutting through water

deeper than it was used to displacing.

While we traveled down that channel of the dead,

a figure rose before me, caked with mud:

"Who are you, coming here before your time?"

"Though I come," I replied, "I do not stay.

But who are you, so filthy and degraded?"

"You can see I'm one who weeps," he answered.

"Then weep and wail, accursed spirit," I said.

"Stay here in your misery—I know who you are

beneath all that defilement."

He reached both hands toward our boat,

but my alert master pushed him away:

"Back with the other dogs!" Then he embraced me,

kissed my face, and said: "Righteous soul,

blessed is the woman who carried you.

That was an arrogant man in the world above.

No goodness adorns his memory—

so here his shadow rages with fury.

How many who think themselves great kings up there

will wallow here like pigs in filth,

leaving behind only horrible disgrace."

"Master," I said, "I would be pleased

to see him dunked into this swill

before we leave this lake behind."

"Before the shore appears," he answered,

"you will be satisfied. Such a wish

deserves to be fulfilled."

Soon after, I watched the muddy souls

make such havoc of him that I still

praise and thank God for what I saw.

They all screamed: "Get Filippo Argenti!"

And that enraged Florentine spirit

turned his teeth upon himself.

We left him there—I'll say no more—

but cries of anguish struck my ears,

and I strained my eyes ahead.

"Now, my son," my good master said,

"the city approaches whose name is Dis,

with its grave citizens and great host."

"Master, I can already see its towers

rising red from the valley there,

as if they were forged in fire."

"The eternal flames burning within

make them glow red," he told me,

"as you see here in this lower Hell."

We came at last to the deep moats

that circle that city of despair.

The walls seemed made of iron.

After sailing a wide circuit,

we reached a place where the pilot

cried out: "Disembark! Here's the entrance!"

Above the gates I saw more than a thousand

of those rained down from Heaven, who said angrily:

"Who is this who, without dying,

travels through the kingdom of the dead?"

My wise master made a gesture

showing he wished to speak with them privately.

They lowered their great scorn a little and said:

"You come alone, and let him go—

the one who dared enter this domain.

Let him find his own mad way back if he can.

You will stay here, you who have guided him

through such dark regions."

Think, reader, how I felt

at the sound of those cursed words—

I believed I would never return from here.

"My dear guide," I said, "you who have given me

safety more than seven times,

who have pulled me back from dangers that loomed before me,

don't abandon me in this ruin.

If we can't go forward,

let's quickly retrace our steps together."

That lord who had led me there

said to me: "Don't be afraid.

No one can take away our passage—

it was granted by such authority.

Wait here for me, and comfort your weary spirit

with better hope. I will not leave you

alone in this underworld."

So my sweet father goes on and abandons me,

and I remain suspended between doubt and hope,

yes and no battling in my head.

I couldn't hear what he proposed to them,

but he wasn't with them long

before they all raced back inside.

Our enemies slammed the gates

in my lord's face, leaving him outside.

He turned back to me with slow steps,

eyes downcast, his forehead stripped

of all confidence. Sighing, he said:

"Who has barred me from these houses of sorrow?"

Then to me: "Don't be afraid of my anger.

I will win this contest,

no matter what defenses they plan inside.

Their arrogance is nothing new—

they used it once at a less secret gate

that still stands without its locks.

You saw the deadly inscription above it.

And already, descending this side of it,

passing through the circles without escort,

comes one who will open this city to us."