Purgatorio
Lament over the State of the Church. Final Reproaches of Beatrice. The River Eunoe. "Deus venerunt gentes," alternating
"The nations have come, O God," alternating
Now three voices, now four, the maidens began their melodious psalm
through tears, and Beatrice listened to them,
compassionate and sighing, with such a face
that Mary was scarcely more transformed at the cross.
But when the other virgins gave her space to speak,
she rose to her feet, her color like fire,
and made this response:
"A little while, and you will not see me;
and again, my beloved sisters,
a little while, and you will see me."
Then she placed all seven in front of her,
and with a gesture alone, beckoned me to follow—
me, and the lady, and the wise one who remained.
So she moved forward, and I don't think
her tenth step had touched the ground
when her eyes struck mine,
and with a tranquil expression she said to me,
"Come more quickly, so that if I speak with you,
you'll be well positioned to listen."
As soon as I was beside her as I should be,
she said: "Brother, why don't you dare
to ask questions now, walking with me?"
Like those who are too reverent
when speaking before their superiors,
who can't bring living words to their lips,
so it happened to me—without clear sound
I began: "My lady, you know my need
and what would be good for it."
And she replied: "From this moment forward
I want you to strip yourself of fear and shame,
so you no longer speak like someone dreaming.
Know that the vessel the serpent broke
was, and is not—but let the guilty one
know that God's vengeance fears no obstacle.
The Eagle that left its feathers on the chariot,
making it first monster, then prey,
will not forever be without an heir.
I see clearly, and therefore tell you:
the stars are already near to bring the time,
safe from every hindrance and barrier,
when a Five Hundred, Ten, and Five—
one sent from God—will destroy the thieving woman
and that giant who sins with her.
Perhaps my dark prophecy,
like riddles of old, persuades you less
because it clouds your understanding.
But soon events themselves will be the solution
to this difficult enigma,
without destroying flocks and harvests.
Take note: just as I speak these words to you,
teach them to those who live
that life which is a race toward death.
And remember, when you write them down,
don't hide what you've seen of the tree
that has been despoiled twice in this place.
Whoever plunders or breaks it
offends God with blasphemous deed—
He who made it sacred for His use alone.
For tasting from it, the first soul
craved Him for more than five thousand years
in pain and longing—Him who punished the bite in Himself.
Your mind sleeps if it doesn't understand
why the tree stands so supremely tall
and inverted at its crown.
If your empty thoughts had not been
like mineral water clouding your mind,
obscuring your vision like a stain,
you would recognize by these circumstances alone
the moral justice of God's prohibition of the tree.
But since I see your intellect
turned to stone and darkened by guilt,
so that the light of my words dazzles you,
I want you to carry this back within you—
if not written, at least imprinted—
for the same reason pilgrims bear palm-wrapped staffs."
And I replied: "Like wax that takes
the seal's impression without changing it,
my mind is now imprinted by you.
But why does your longed-for teaching
soar so far beyond my sight
that the more I strain, the more I lose it?"
"So you may recognize," she said, "the school
you've followed, and see how far
its teaching falls behind my words,
and understand that your path is as distant
from the divine as the highest heaven
is separated from earth."
I answered her: "I don't remember
ever turning away from you,
nor does my conscience reproach me for it."
"If you can't remember," she replied, smiling,
"then recall that today
you drank from Lethe's waters.
Just as smoke reveals fire,
this forgetfulness clearly shows
some fault in your will, focused elsewhere.
From now on my words will be unveiled,
as much as is fitting
to expose them to your untrained gaze."
More brilliant now and with slower steps,
the sun held the meridian circle
that shifts with the viewer's position,
when the seven ladies stopped
at the edge of a shadow dark
as the Alps wear on their cold borders
beneath green leaves and black branches.
Before them I seemed to see
Tigris and Euphrates flowing from one spring,
parting slowly like reluctant friends.
"O light, O glory of humankind,
what river is this that spreads here
from one source and then divides?"
At my question, I was told,
"Ask Matilda to explain."
The beautiful lady answered
like someone clearing herself of blame:
"This and other things I told him,
and I'm certain Lethe's waters haven't hidden them."
Beatrice said: "Perhaps some greater concern
that often steals our memory
has made his mind's vision dim.
But look—there rises Eunoe.
Lead him to it, and as you always do,
revive his half-dead power."
Like a noble soul that makes no excuses
but adopts another's will as its own
as soon as the sign is given,
so when she took hold of me,
the beautiful lady moved forward
and said to Statius in her gracious way, "Come with him."
If I had more space for writing, Reader,
I would still sing at least in part
of that sweet drink that never satisfies.
But since all the pages prepared
for this second canticle are filled,
art's discipline lets me go no further.
I returned from those most holy waters
reborn, like new trees
renewed with fresh foliage—
pure and ready to ascend to the stars.
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THE EUNOË
“for this second canticle are filled, / art's discipline lets me go no further. / I returned from those most holy waters”