On the right, two spirits bending toward each other talk of the man who winds the mountain before death has pruned his wing, who opens his eyes and covers them at will. Accost him gently. Their faces lean backward. O soul still pent in the body, for charity comfort us: recount whence thou comest and who thou art, for the favour shown thee is a thing that never hath been. Dante begins with a brooklet whose well-head springs in Falterona, not satisfied when he has measured some hundred miles. From his banks this frame. To tell who I am were words misspent; my name scarce sounds on rumour's lip. Thou dost speak of Arno's wave, says the first. Why hath he concealed the title, as a man doth of some horrible thing? It is fitting the name should perish of that vale, the other answers. From the Alpine steep maimed of Pelorus to the ocean, virtue is worried down as a snake, a mortal foe, by disastrous influence or by wills that custom goads to evil. Nature is so transformed it seems they shared of Circe's feeding: brute swine worthier of acorns, then curs, then wolves, then foxes so replete with craft they do not fear that skill can master it. Keep this in memory, from no erring spirit. Lo, I behold thy grandson a hunter of those wolves upon the fierce stream: their flesh yet living he sets up to sale, then dooms like an aged beast. Smeared with gore he issues from the rueful wood, leaving such havoc that in a thousand years it spreads not to prime lustihood again. The listening spirit changes looks, struck with sadness as one who hears tidings of woe to come.
Dante wants the names. Thy wish imports that I do for thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine, says the shade who first addressed him; but since grace so largely shines, I will be liberal too. Guido of Duca know then that I am. Envy so parched my blood, that had I seen a fellow man made joyous, thou hadst marked a livid paleness overspread my cheek. Such harvest reap I of the seed I sowed. O man, why place thy heart where there doth need exclusion of participants in good? This is Rinieri, boast and honour of the house of Calboli, where of his worth no heritage remains. Nor his the only blood, betwixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore, stript of what truth or fancy asks for bliss. Rank and venomed roots would mock slow culture's toil. Where is good Lizio, Manardi, Traversaro, Carpigna? O bastard slips of old Romagna's line. Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep, when I recall names that once witched us into love and courtesy, where now malice reigns in recreant hearts. O Brettinoro, why tarriest, since thy family hath gone? Well doeth he that bids his lineage cease. But Tuscan, go thy ways; I take far more delight in weeping than in words.
Their silence assures the way. Soon a voice like vollied lightning shouts Whosoever finds will slay me, then flees as a bolt from a downward-rushing cloud. After a short truce, another crash: Mark in me Aglauros turned to rock. Dante draws more closely to his guide. Mute stillness. There was the galling bit, Virgil says. But your old enemy so baits his hook, he drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb avails, nor reclaiming call. Heaven calls, and round about you wheeling courts your gaze with everlasting beauties. Yet your eye turns with fond doting still upon the earth. Therefore He smites you who discerneth all.
