Canto XVII

Like Phaëthon rushing to Clymene

to confirm the terrible rumors he had heard about his birth—

the youth whose reckless plea still makes fathers

cautious of their children's desperate requests—

so I stood there, burning with questions,

and both Beatrice and the sacred light

that had first moved for my sake could see it clearly.

My lady spoke to me: "Release the flame

of your desire, let it emerge

clearly marked with your heart's true longing—

not so we might learn something new

from what you say, but to teach you

how to voice your thirst, so we can quench it."

"O my beloved foundation," I began,

"you who rise so high that just as earthbound minds

can see no triangle contains two obtuse angles,

you can perceive all contingent things

before they come to pass, your gaze fixed

on that eternal point where every moment converges—

while I climbed the mountain that heals souls

with Virgil as my guide, and later

when we descended into the world of the dead,

I heard grave words spoken about my future life.

Though I feel myself braced and ready

to stand firm against fortune's blows,

I would still find comfort in knowing

what trials approach me—

a foreseen arrow strikes with less force."

These words I spoke to that same radiant spirit

who had addressed me before, confessing my desire

exactly as Beatrice wished.

Not in the riddling prophecies that once

ensnared the foolish before the Lamb of God

was sacrificed to take away our sins,

but in clear words and unmistakable language

that paternal love replied,

both hidden and revealed in its own luminous smile:

"Contingency—which extends no further

than the boundaries of your material world—

is perfectly depicted in the eternal vision.

Yet this does not make it necessary,

any more than a ship sailing downstream

is compelled by the eye that watches it.

From that eternal vantage point,

as sweet harmony reaches the ear from an organ,

the time that awaits you comes into my sight.

Just as Hippolytus was forced to flee Athens

because of his stepmother's lies and cruelty,

so you must leave Florence against your will.

This is already decided, already set in motion,

and will soon be accomplished by the one

who plots it in that place where Christ

is bought and sold every single day.

As always happens, the outcry will blame

the injured party, but divine vengeance

will bear witness to the dispensing truth.

You will abandon everything you love most dearly—

this is the first arrow

that exile's bow will shoot.

You will learn how bitter

another's bread tastes,

how hard the path up and down

another's stairs.

But what will weigh most heavily on your shoulders

is the wicked, foolish company

you'll find yourself among in that dark valley.

They will all turn against you—

ungrateful, mad, and godless—

but soon after, their foreheads, not yours,

will burn with shame.

Their own actions will prove their brutality,

so it will serve you well

to make yourself a party of one.

Your first refuge and shelter

will be the great Lombard's generosity—

he who bears the sacred eagle on the Ladder—

who will regard you with such kindness

that between you, in giving and asking,

what usually comes last will come first.

With him you will meet one who at birth

was so powerfully marked by this strong star

that his deeds will be extraordinary.

People don't know him yet because of his youth—

only nine years have these celestial wheels

revolved around him—

but before the Gascon deceives noble Henry,

sparks of his virtue will begin to show

in his contempt for money and hardship.

His magnificence will become so renowned

that even his enemies won't be able

to keep silent about it.

Trust in him and his good works—

through him many people will be transformed,

rich and poor changing places.

Take this knowledge with you,

but do not speak of it yet"—

and he told me things that will seem incredible

even to those who witness them.

Then he added: "Son, these are the explanations

of what was prophesied to you before.

Here are the snares hidden

behind just a few more revolutions of time.

But do not envy your neighbors,

for your life will extend far beyond

the punishment of their betrayals."

When that blessed soul showed by its silence

that it had finished weaving the threads

into the pattern I had given it to complete,

I began like someone who yearns,

while still uncertain, for counsel

from one who sees clearly, wills rightly, and loves:

"I see clearly, my father, how time races toward me

carrying a blow that will fall heaviest

on whoever yields most to it.

So it's wise that I arm myself with foresight,

and if I lose the place most dear to me,

may I not lose all others through my songs.

Down through the world of infinite suffering,

over the mountain from whose beautiful summit

my lady's eyes first lifted me,

and then through heaven from light to light,

I have learned things that, if I tell them again,

will taste bitter as strong herbs to many.

And if I prove a timid friend to truth,

I fear I may not survive among those

who will call this present time the distant past."

The light in which my treasure was smiling—

the spirit I had discovered there—

flashed suddenly like a golden mirror in sunlight,

then replied:

"A conscience darkened

by its own shame or another's

will indeed find your words sharp,

but nevertheless, setting aside all lies,

make your entire vision known

and let them scratch where it itches.

For though your message may offend

at first taste, it will leave behind

vital nourishment once digested.

Your cry will act like the wind

that strikes hardest the highest peaks—

and this is no small mark of honor.

This is why you have been shown,

within these spheres, upon the mountain,

and in the valley of sorrow,

only souls known to fame—

because the listener's spirit will not rest

or confirm its faith through examples

whose roots are unknown and hidden,

or through arguments that are not clear."