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7: The Climb Halts

1 Those Mantuans, Sordello and my guide,

embraced each other happily until

the first drew back enquiring, “Who are you?”

4 “A soul from Hell,” the greater poet said.

“Augustus, the first Emperor of Rome,

buried my bones before the Christian faith

7 let saved souls make a staircase of this hill,

so I, Virgil, will not reach paradise.”

Like one who thinks, “This is . . . it cannot be!

10 It must . . . but surely not?” Sordello stood

wondering, as if his eyes perceived

a marvel far too great to be believed,

13 then bowed as low as anybody could.

“You are the glory of the Latin race!”

he cried, “Through you our language is as strong,

16 will live as long, as Gospel scriptures do.

Tell me the miracle that brings you here,

and if you think me fit to know, from which

19 cloister of Hell.” Said Virgil, “I have come

through all the rings of Hell, but dwell with souls

who do not suffer pain. Ours is the state

of babies who die before christening 22

cleans off their sinful stain. We do not weep

but sigh for what we, living, could not know

so cannot now enjoy eternally – 25

true faith, hope, charity. But even so

Heaven has ordered me to lead this man

up to the mountain’s height. Since sunset casts 28

its shadow on us we will climb by night,

having not reached real Purgatory yet.

Sordello, can you tell us the right way?” 31

“Yes, I will be your guide a while,” said he,

“but not uphill at once. Now you must halt

and be escorted to a resting place 34

where you will find folk you’ll be glad to see.”

“Why? Who bans our divinely ordered climb?”

my master cried, “Do you?” Sordello stooped, 37

drew a line with his finger on the ground,

and said, “When light departs you won’t cross this.

None forbids night climbing here, but darkness 40

abolishes all wish to climb, though letting

any drift backward down the way they came.”

My master brooded, then said, “Lead us please 43

to where you say a rest will do us good.”

He led us in the gloaming a short way

toward a corrie hollowing the slope, 46

then said, “Here we will wait for a new day

deep in the mountain’s lap.” A winding path

49 that rose and fell brought us to that deep dell.

We stood upon the edge where, gazing down

there still was light enough to see below

52 a glowing lawn as green as emerald

with blossoms golden, crimson, pearly white,

silver and azure and pure indigo.

55 All colours of the rainbow were surpassed

by blooms feasting our eyes. Their fragrances

blent in one sweetness, lovely but unknown

58 to living men before I breathed that air,

and there sat souls unseen by lower folk

singing the Holy Hymn to Heaven’s Queen.

61 “Before the sun now setting leaves the sky,”

Sordello said, “we need descend no more.

Why? Those below are clearly seen from here.

64 He who sits highest of that kingly crew,

too glum to move his lips in sacred song

was Rudolph, Emperor, who failed to heal

67 wounds that have mangled Italy so long.

Trying to comfort him is Ottocar,

King of Bohemia, in his nappies

70 better than bearded Wenceslaus, his son

who lazily now occupies his throne.

That snub-nosed chap beating his breast in grief