Canto XXIV

Our conversation didn't slow our steps—

we pressed forward boldly, talking as we walked,

like a ship driven by favorable winds.

The shadows, appearing doubly dead,

revealed wonder in the sepulchers of their eyes,

amazed to discover I was still alive.

Continuing our exchange, I said:

"Perhaps he climbs more slowly than he might,

for the sake of others here.

But tell me, if you know—where is Piccarda?

And do I see anyone of note

among these souls who stare at me so intently?"

"My sister—between beauty and goodness,

I cannot say which was greater—

already triumphs, crowned and rejoicing

on high Olympus," he said first, then added:

"Here we're allowed to name each other freely,

our faces so transformed by this strict diet.

This one," he said, pointing, "is Buonaguinta

of Lucca. That face beyond him,

more gaunt than all the rest,

once held the Holy Church in his embrace—

he came from Tours, and purges himself by fasting

from Bolsena's eels and Vernaccia wine."

He named many others, one by one.

All seemed content to hear their names spoken—

I saw not one darkened expression among them.

I watched Ubaldino dalla Pila

bite at empty air from hunger,

and Boniface, who shepherded so many

with his bishop's staff.

I saw Master Marchese, who once had leisure

to drink at Forlì with less restraint than here,

yet never felt truly satisfied.

But like someone who observes carefully

then values one above the others,

I focused on the man from Lucca,

who seemed most eager to know me.

He murmured something—I caught the name "Gentucca"

from that place where he feels justice's wound

that wastes them all so terribly.

"O soul," I said, "you seem so eager

to speak with me—do so that I might hear you

and satisfy us both with conversation."

"A woman is born who does not yet wear the veil,"

he began, "who will make my city

pleasant to you, however others may condemn it.

You will continue your journey with this prophecy.

If my murmuring has misled you,

future events will prove my words true.

But tell me—do I see him here who created

those revolutionary verses beginning:

'Ladies who have intelligence of love'?"

"I am one who, when Love inspires me,

pays attention, and expresses exactly

what he dictates within me," I replied.

"O brother, now I understand," he said,

"the limitation that held me, the Notary, and Guittone

back from that sweet new style I now hear.

I see clearly how your pens

follow closely behind the one who dictates,

which never happened with ours.

Whoever tries to look beyond this difference

sees no distinction between one style and another."

Satisfied, he fell silent.

Like birds wintering toward the Nile—

sometimes forming into tight formations,

then flying faster in single file—

all the people there turned their faces

and quickened their steps,

made swift by both their leanness and their longing.

As a weary runner lets his companions

continue ahead while he walks,

venting the gasping from his chest,

so Forese let the holy flock pass by

and walked behind with me, asking:

"When will I see you again?"

"I don't know how long I'll live," I answered,

"but my return won't be so swift

that desire won't arrive here first.

The place where I was born to live

grows more depleted of goodness each day

and seems destined for terrible ruin."

"Go now," he said, "for I see the one

most guilty of this being dragged

by a beast's tail toward the valley

where there is no repentance.

The beast runs faster with each step,

accelerating until it strikes him down

and leaves his body shamefully torn.

Those wheels won't turn much longer"—

he lifted his eyes toward heaven—

"before what my words cannot express

becomes clear to you.

Stay behind now, for time is so precious

in this kingdom that I lose too much

by walking alongside you like this."

Like a knight breaking from a cavalry charge

to seek the honor of first combat,

he departed from us with longer strides.

I remained on the path with my two guides,

such mighty marshals of the world.

When he had gone so far ahead

that my eyes could barely follow him

as my mind had struggled with his words,

I saw the laden, living branches

of another apple tree appear,

not far away, having just turned toward it.

I saw people beneath it raising their hands,

crying out something toward the leaves—

like eager, deluded children

who beg from someone who doesn't answer

but holds their desire high and visible

to sharpen their appetite.

Then they departed as if undeceived.

We approached the great tree

that refuses so many prayers and tears.

"Pass onward without drawing near.

Higher up stands the tree from which Eve ate—

this tree was raised from that one."

Someone among the branches spoke these words.

Virgil, Statius, and I pressed forward

along the ascending side.

"Remember," the voice said, "those accursed ones

formed from clouds, who drunk with wine

fought Theseus with their double chests.

Remember the Jews who showed themselves soft

in drinking, so Gideon refused them

as companions descending toward Midian."

Pressed close to one edge of the path,

we passed on, hearing of gluttony's sins

followed by their wretched consequences.

Released onto the empty road,

we continued more than a thousand steps forward

in contemplation, each without a word.

"What are you three thinking as you walk alone?"

a voice said suddenly.

I started like a frightened, timid animal.

I raised my head to see who spoke,

and never in any furnace were metals or glass

seen so brilliant and red

as the figure who said: "If you wish

to ascend, you must turn here.

This is the way for one who seeks peace."

His radiance overwhelmed my sight,

so I turned back to my teachers

like someone guided only by sound.

As the morning breeze of May

moves and breathes fragrance,

saturated with grass and flowers,

I felt wind strike the center of my forehead

and sensed the movement of feathers

that breathed an odor of ambrosia around me.

And I heard these words:

"Blessed are those whom grace illuminates so fully

that love of taste never kindles excessive desire

in their hearts, but leaves them hungering

always only as much as justice requires."