Purgatorio

Canto XXI

The Poet Statius. Praise of Virgil. The natural thirst, that ne'er is satisfied Excepting with the water for whose grace The woman of Samaria besought, Put me

The natural thirst that can never be satisfied

except by the water for which

the Samaritan woman pleaded

tormented me.

The path was rough and steep, and urgency drove me forward

behind my guide as I pitied the souls receiving their righteous punishment.

Then—just as Luke tells us Christ appeared

to two disciples on the road from his empty tomb—

a spirit materialized behind us, gazing down

at the prostrate multitude. We hadn't noticed him

until he spoke: "My brothers, may God grant you peace!"

We spun around, and Virgil offered

the proper greeting in return.

The spirit began: "May the true court of heaven

seat you in peace among the blessed—

that same court that banishes me to eternal exile!"

"Wait," he said as we continued climbing swiftly,

"if you're souls that God refuses to lift up,

who has guided you so far up his mountain?"

My teacher answered: "If you look at the marks

this one bears, traced by the angel's hand,

you'll see he's destined to reign with the righteous.

But since she who spins day and night

hasn't yet finished winding the thread of life

that Clotho sets and measures for each soul,

his spirit—sister to yours and mine—

couldn't make this journey alone,

because it doesn't see as we do.

So I was drawn from hell's vast throat

to be his guide, and I'll lead him

as far as my knowledge can take him.

But tell us, if you know—why did the mountain

shudder just now? Why did every voice

cry out together, down to its very base?"

His question struck the bull's-eye of my curiosity,

and hope alone began to ease my thirst for answers.

"Nothing happens here," he began, "that breaks

the sacred order of this mountain,

nothing foreign to its customs.

This place is free from all earthly change.

Only what heaven draws from itself

can affect what happens here—nothing else.

No rain falls here, no hail, no snow,

no dew, no frost—nothing higher

than those three short steps below us.

No thick clouds appear, no thin ones,

no lightning, no rainbow

that shifts its colors across earthly skies.

No dry vapor rises any higher

than the top of those three steps I mentioned,

where Peter's representative plants his feet.

Lower down the mountain may tremble more or less,

but up here it never shakes from wind

hidden in the earth—I don't know how that works.

The mountain trembles only when a soul

feels itself pure enough to rise,

to begin climbing higher—and that cry accompanies it.

The will alone proves this purity.

When completely free to change its dwelling,

it surprises the soul and helps it soar.

The soul wants to do good at first, but desire won't let it—

the same desire that divine justice,

matching the soul's will to sin, sets upon torment.

I've been lying in this pain

for five hundred years and more, but just now felt

my will become free to seek a higher place.

That's why you heard the earthquake and the faithful

spirits throughout the mountain giving praise

to the Lord, praying he'll speed them upward."

So he explained. Since we enjoy drinking

as much as our thirst is great,

I can't say how much good his words did me.

My wise leader said: "Now I see the net

that traps you here, and how you break free,

why the earth shakes, and why you rejoice.

Please let me know who you were,

and why you've lain here so many centuries—

let me gather this from your own words."

"In the days when good Titus, with help

from the highest King, avenged the wounds

that bled the blood Judas sold,

I lived on earth," that spirit replied,

"under the name that lasts longest and brings most honor.

I was famous then, but not yet faithful.

My voice was so sweet that Rome

drew me, a man from Toulouse, to herself,

where I earned the right to crown my brow with myrtle.

People on earth still call me Statius.

I sang of Thebes, then of great Achilles,

but fell along the way with my second burden.

The sparks that kindled my passion

came from that divine flame that warmed more

than a thousand others—I mean the Aeneid,

which was my mother and nurse in poetry.

Without it I would have achieved nothing.

To have lived on earth in Virgil's time,

I'd accept one more year of exile

before emerging from this punishment."

These words made Virgil turn toward me

with a look that silently said: "Stay quiet!"

But the will can't control everything—

tears and laughter follow so closely

the emotions that produce them

that they least obey the will in the most honest people.

I only smiled, like someone giving a hint,

and the shade fell silent, staring

into my eyes, where expression lives most fully.

"So that you may complete such great work," he said,

"why did your face just flash a smile at me?"

Now I'm caught between two commands:

one tells me to stay silent, one urges me to speak,

so I sigh, and my master understands.

"Speak," he said, "don't be afraid

to talk, but tell him openly

what he asks so eagerly."

So I answered: "Ancient spirit, you may wonder

at the smile I gave, but let me

fill you with even greater wonder.

This one who guides my eyes toward heaven

is that very Virgil from whom you learned

to sing of mortals and gods.

If you thought my smile had some other cause,

dismiss it as false—it came from those words

you spoke about him."

The spirit was already bending down to embrace

my teacher's feet, but Virgil said: "Brother,

don't—you're a shade, and you see a shade."

Rising, Statius replied: "Now you can understand

the measure of love that warms me toward you,

when I forget our insubstantial nature

and treat a shadow as something solid."