In quella parte del giovanetto anno
che 'l sole i crin sotto l'Aquario tempra
e già le notti al mezzo dì sen vanno,
quando la brina in su la terra assempra
l'imagine di sua sorella bianca,
ma poco dura a la sua penna tempra,
lo villanello a cui la roba manca,
si leva, e guarda, e vede la campagna
biancheggiar tutta; ond' ei si batte l'anca,
ritorna in casa, e qua e là si lagna,
come 'l tapin che non sa che si faccia;
poi riede, e la speranza ringavagna,
veggendo 'l mondo aver cangiata faccia
in poco d'ora, e prende suo vincastro
e fuor le pecorelle a pascer caccia.
Così mi fece sbigottir lo mastro
quand' io li vidi sì turbar la fronte,
e così tosto al mal giunse lo 'mpiastro;
ché, come noi venimmo al guasto ponte,
lo duca a me si volse con quel piglio
dolce ch'io vidi prima a piè del monte.
Le braccia aperse, dopo alcun consiglio
eletto seco riguardando prima
ben la ruina, e diedemi di piglio.
E come quei ch'adopera ed estima,
che sempre par che 'nnanzi si proveggia,
così, levando me sù ver' la cima
d'un ronchione, avvisava un'altra scheggia
dicendo: “Sovra quella poi t'aggrappa;
ma tenta pria s'è tal ch'ella ti reggia.”
Non era via da vestito di cappa,
ché noi a pena, ei lieve e io sospinto,
potavam sù montar di chiappa in chiappa.
E se non fosse che da quel precinto
più che da l'altro era la costa corta,
non so di lui, ma io sarei ben vinto.
Ma perché Malebolge inver' la porta
del bassissimo pozzo tutta pende,
lo sito di ciascuna valle porta
che l'una costa surge e l'altra scende;
noi pur venimmo al fine in su la punta
onde l'ultima pietra si scoscende.
La lena m'era del polmon sì munta
quand'io fui sù, ch'i' non potea più oltre,
anzi m'assisi ne la prima giunta.
“Omai convien che tu così ti spoltre,”
disse 'l maestro; “ché, seggendo in piuma,
in fama non si vien, né sotto coltre;
sanza la qual chi sua vita consuma,
cotal vestigio in terra di sé lascia,
qual fummo in aere e in acqua la schiuma.
E però leva sù; vinci l'ambascia
con l'animo che vince ogne battaglia,
se col suo grave corpo non s'accascia.
Più lunga scala convien che si saglia;
non basta da costoro esser partito.
Se tu mi 'ntendi, or fa sì che ti vaglia.”
Leva'mi allor, mostrandomi fornito
meglio di lena ch'i'non mi sentia,
e dissi: “Va, ch'i' son forte e ardito.”
Su per lo scoglio prendemmo la via,
ch'era ronchioso, stretto e malagevole,
ed erto più assai che quel di pria.
Parlando andava per non parer fievole;
onde una voce uscì de l'altro fosso,
a parole formar disconvenevole.
Non so che disse, ancor che sovra 'l dosso
fossi de l'arco già che varca quivi;
ma chi parlava ad ire parea mosso.
Io era vòlto in giù, ma li occhi vivi
non poteano ire al fondo per lo scuro;
per ch'io: “Maestro, fa che tu arrivi
da l'altro cinghio e dismontiam lo muro;
ché, com' i' odo quinci e non intendo,
così giù veggio e neente affiguro.”
“Altra risposta,” disse, “non ti rendo
se non lo far; ché la dimanda onesta
si de' seguir con l'opera tacendo.”
Noi discendemmo il ponte de la testa
dove s'aggiugne con l'ottava ripa,
e poi mi fu la bolgia manifesta:
e vidivi entro terrible stipa
di serpenti, e di sì diversa mena
che la memoria il sangue ancor mi scipa.
Più non si vanti Libia con sua rena;
ché se chelidri, iaculi e faree
produce, e cencri con anfisibena,
né tante pestilenzie né sì ree
mostrò già mai con tutta l'Etïopia
né con ciò che di sopra al Mar Rosso èe.
Tra questa cruda e tristissima copia
corrëan genti nude e spaventate,
sanza sperar pertugio o elitropia:
con serpi le man dietro avean legate;
quelle ficcavan per le ren la coda
e 'l capo, ed eran dinanzi aggroppate.
Ed ecco a un ch'era da nostra proda,
s'avventò un serpente che 'l trafisse
là dove 'l collo a le spalle s'annoda.
Né O sì tosto mai né I si scrisse,
com' el s'accese e arse, e cener tutto
convenne che cascando divenisse;
e poi che fu a terra sì distrutto,
la polver si raccolse per sé stessa
e 'n quel medesmo ritornò di butto.
Così per li gran savi si confessa
che la fenice more e poi rinasce,
quando al cinquecentesimo anno appressa;
erba né biado in sua vita non pasce,
ma sol d'incenso lagrime e d'amomo,
e nardo e mirra son l'ultime fasce.
E qual è quel che cade, e non sa como,
per forza di demon ch'a terra il tira,
o d'altra oppilazion che lega l'omo,
quando si leva, che 'ntorno si mira
tutto smarrito de la grande angoscia
ch'elli ha sofferta, e guardando sospira:
tal era 'l peccator levato poscia.
Oh potenza di Dio, quant' è severa,
che cotai colpi per vendetta croscia!
Lo duca il domandò poi chi ello era;
per ch'ei rispuose: “Io piovvi di Toscana,
poco tempo è, in questa gola fiera.
Vita bestial mi piacque e non umana,
sì come a mul ch'i'fui; son Vanni Fucci
bestia, e Pistoia mi fu degna tana.”
E ïo al duca: “Dilli che non mucci,
e domanda che colpa qua giù 'l pinse;
ch'io 'l vidi omo di sangue e di crucci.”
E 'l peccator, che 'ntese, non s'infinse,
ma drizzò verso me l'animo e 'l volto,
e di trista vergogna si dipinse;
poi disse: “Più mi duol che tu m'hai colto
ne la miseria dove tu mi vedi,
che quando fui de l'altra vita tolto.
Io non posso negar quel che tu chiedi;
in giù son messo tanto perch'io fui
ladro a la sagrestia d'i belli arredi,
e falsamente già fu apposto altrui.
Ma perché di tal vista tu non godi,
se mai sarai di fuor da' luoghi bui,
apri li orecchi al mio annunzio, e odi.
Pistoia in pria d'i Neri si dimagra;
poi Fiorenza rinova gente e modi.
Tragge Marte vapor di Val di Magra
ch'è di torbidi nuvoli involuto;
e con tempesta impetüosa e agra
sovra Campo Picen fia combattuto;
ond'ei repente spezzerà la nebbia,
sì ch'ogne Bianco ne sarà feruto.
E detto l'ho perché doler ti debbia!”
In that part of the youthful year wherein
The Sun his locks beneath Aquarius tempers,
And now the nights draw near to half the day,
What time the hoar-frost copies on the ground
The outward semblance of her sister white,
But little lasts the temper of her pen,
The husbandman, whose forage faileth him,
Rises, and looks, and seeth the champaign
All gleaming white, whereat he beats his flank,
Returns in doors, and up and down laments,
Like a poor wretch, who knows not what to do;
Then he returns and hope revives again,
Seeing the world has changed its countenance
In little time, and takes his shepherd's crook,
And forth the little lambs to pasture drives.
Thus did the Master fill me with alarm,
When I beheld his forehead so disturbed,
And to the ailment came as soon the plaster.
For as we came unto the ruined bridge,
The Leader turned to me with that sweet look
Which at the mountain's foot I first beheld.
His arms he opened, after some advisement
Within himself elected, looking first
Well at the ruin, and laid hold of me.
And even as he who acts and meditates,
For aye it seems that he provides beforehand,
So upward lifting me towards the summit
Of a huge rock, he scanned another crag,
Saying: "To that one grapple afterwards,
But try first if 'tis such that it will hold thee."
This was no way for one clothed with a cloak;
For hardly we, he light, and I pushed upward,
Were able to ascend from jag to jag.
And had it not been, that upon that precinct
Shorter was the ascent than on the other,
He I know not, but I had been dead beat.
But because Malebolge tow'rds the mouth
Of the profoundest well is all inclining,
The structure of each valley doth import
That one bank rises and the other sinks.
Still we arrived at length upon the point
Wherefrom the last stone breaks itself asunder.
The breath was from my lungs so milked away,
When I was up, that I could go no farther,
Nay, I sat down upon my first arrival.
"Now it behoves thee thus to put off sloth,"
My Master said; "for sitting upon down,
Or under quilt, one cometh not to fame,
Withouten which whoso his life consumes
Such vestige leaveth of himself on earth,
As smoke in air or in the water foam.
And therefore raise thee up, o'ercome the anguish
With spirit that o'ercometh every battle,
If with its heavy body it sink not.
A longer stairway it behoves thee mount;
'Tis not enough from these to have departed;
Let it avail thee, if thou understand me."
Then I uprose, showing myself provided
Better with breath than I did feel myself,
And said: "Go on, for I am strong and bold."
Upward we took our way along the crag,
Which jagged was, and narrow, and difficult,
And more precipitous far than that before.
Speaking I went, not to appear exhausted;
Whereat a voice from the next moat came forth,
Not well adapted to articulate words.
I know not what it said, though o'er the back
I now was of the arch that passes there;
But he seemed moved to anger who was speaking.
I was bent downward, but my living eyes
Could not attain the bottom, for the dark;
Wherefore I: "Master, see that thou arrive
At the next round, and let us descend the wall;
For as from hence I hear and understand not,
So I look down and nothing I distinguish."
"Other response," he said, "I make thee not,
Except the doing; for the modest asking
Ought to be followed by the deed in silence."
We from the bridge descended at its head,
Where it connects itself with the eighth bank,
And then was manifest to me the Bolgia;
And I beheld therein a terrible throng
Of serpents, and of such a monstrous kind,
That the remembrance still congeals my blood
Let Libya boast no longer with her sand;
For if Chelydri, Jaculi, and Phareae
She breeds, with Cenchri and with Amphisbaena,
Neither so many plagues nor so malignant
E'er showed she with all Ethiopia,
Nor with whatever on the Red Sea is!
Among this cruel and most dismal throng
People were running naked and affrighted.
Without the hope of hole or heliotrope.
They had their hands with serpents bound behind them;
These riveted upon their reins the tail
And head, and were in front of them entwined.
And lo! at one who was upon our side
There darted forth a serpent, which transfixed him
There where the neck is knotted to the shoulders.
Nor 'O' so quickly e'er, nor 'I' was written,
As he took fire, and burned; and ashes wholly
Behoved it that in falling he became.
And when he on the ground was thus destroyed,
The ashes drew together, and of themselves
Into himself they instantly returned.
Even thus by the great sages 'tis confessed
The phoenix dies, and then is born again,
When it approaches its five-hundredth year;
On herb or grain it feeds not in its life,
But only on tears of incense and amomum,
And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet.
And as he is who falls, and knows not how,
By force of demons who to earth down drag him,
Or other oppilation that binds man,
When he arises and around him looks,
Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish
Which he has suffered, and in looking sighs;
Such was that sinner after he had risen.
Justice of God! O how severe it is,
That blows like these in vengeance poureth down!
The Guide thereafter asked him who he was;
Whence he replied: "I rained from Tuscany
A short time since into this cruel gorge.
A bestial life, and not a human, pleased me,
Even as the mule I was; I'm Vanni Fucci,
Beast, and Pistoia was my worthy den."
And I unto the Guide: "Tell him to stir not,
And ask what crime has thrust him here below,
For once a man of blood and wrath I saw him."
And the sinner, who had heard, dissembled not,
But unto me directed mind and face,
And with a melancholy shame was painted.
Then said: "It pains me more that thou hast caught me
Amid this misery where thou seest me,
Than when I from the other life was taken.
What thou demandest I cannot deny;
So low am I put down because I robbed
The sacristy of the fair ornaments,
And falsely once 'twas laid upon another;
But that thou mayst not such a sight enjoy,
If thou shalt e'er be out of the dark places,
Thine ears to my announcement ope and hear:
Pistoia first of Neri groweth meagre;
Then Florence doth renew her men and manners;
Mars draws a vapour up from Val di Magra,
Which is with turbid clouds enveloped round,
And with impetuous and bitter tempest
Over Campo Picen shall be the battle;
When it shall suddenly rend the mist asunder,
So that each Bianco shall thereby be smitten.
And this I've said that it may give thee pain."
This elaborate canto-opening simile (see the note to Inf .XXII.1-12) and its aftermath knit the narrative back together: Virgil had walked away from Catalano (and from Dante) at the end of the last canto; now, getting his anger under control, he turns back to reassure Dante and continue his leadership. That is a fair summary of how the simile works as a reflection of what is happening between the two characters. However, this simile (like the Aesopic material in Inf. XXIII.4-18), can be read for more than one set of equivalences: (1) Virgil's frown (hoarfrost) melts and he once again encourages Dante (the humble wretch), who eventually will, having completed the journey, feed us (his sheep) on the pages of the poem; (2) the devils' deception (hoarfrost), in the form of an incorrect presentation of the terrain, discourages Virgil (the wretch), who finally reads the signs right and will lead Dante (his sheep) to pasture. A form of this second simultaneous reading was proposed by Richard Lansing (From Image to Idea: A Study of the Simile in Dante's “Commedia” [Ravenna: Longo, 1977]), pp. 77-80.
As Margherita Frankel has noted (“Dante's Anti-Virgilian villanello,” Dante Studies 102 [1984]), pp. 82-83, the simile itself is divided into two rather different stylistic zones; the first six verses are 'classicizing' and rather high-flown, while the the final nine are in the low style. Hollander (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], pp. 27-49, suggests that the first tercet of the 'classical' part derives from Virgil's third Georgic (vv. 303-304), a citation also found in the second and third redactions of the commentary of Pietro di Dante, and also noted by Tommaseo. For other studies in English of this much studied simile see David J. Baker, “The Winter Simile in Inferno XXIV,” Dante Studies 92 (1974), pp. 77-91; George Economou, “Self-Consciousness of Poetic Activity in Dante and Langland,” in Vernacular Poetics in the Middle Ages, ed. Lois Ebin (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 1984), pp. 177-98; and Richard Lansing, From Image to Idea: A Study of the Simile in Dante's “Commedia” (Ravenna: Longo, 1977), pp. 74-80; for Dante's knowledge of the Georgics see Aristide Marigo, “Le Georgiche di Virgilio fonte di Dante,” Giornale dantesco 17 (1909), pp. 31-44.
The reference to Aquarius sets the time within the simile as winter, since the sun is in that constellation from 21 January to 21 February. And so the sun cools his 'locks' (its rays) in this season. For the short-lasting nature of hoarfrost see Lucan (Phars. IV.53) – a source perhaps first noted by Daniello (comm. to Inf. XXIV.6).
The sight of the ruina, the scree fallen at the Crucifixion, now gives Virgil hope: it is a way up and out of the bolgia. Catalano, unlike Malacoda, has given him valuable advice. For the ruina see the note to Inferno V.34.
The phrase 'people wearing leaden cloaks' obviously refers to the hypocrites whom we saw in the last canto.
The protagonist's physical difficulty, since unlike Virgil he must move his flesh and bones against the pull of gravity, is insisted on. The interplay between Virgil and Dante, now with roles reversed from Cantos XXI-XXIII (when Virgil was the one at a disadvantage) goes on for some time, through verse 60. It is in no way meant to make the reader believe, as did John Ruskin, in Modern Painters, that 'Dante was a notably bad climber' (in DDP, Ruskin to Inf. XII.2).
Once again (see the note to Inf. XIX.35) Dante insists that the far sides, or banks, of each bolgia are not as high as the ones encountered first, since the sloping floor of the Malebolge cuts down across each ditch.
The commentators are almost unanimous in taking Virgil's words at face value and as sound advice. See, for example, Chiavacci Leonardi (Inferno, con il commento di A. M. C. L. [Milan: Mondadori, 1991], pp. 712-13, who argues for earthly fame's 'double valence' in the poem'; she claims that it is sometimes an excusable aim (as here), sometimes a culpable one. Certainly the net effect of Virgil's appeal here is to get Dante moving upward in order to continue to the top of the ridge, whence he will be able to see into the next ditch as he continues his journey. Yet is it not strange that the motivation offered by Virgil is not the need to struggle onward toward the presence of God so much as it is the reward of earthly fame? Rossetti (comm. to vv. 43-51) was perhaps the first to observe the resonance of what has now become a standard citation for these verses, the entirely similar similes found in the book of Wisdom (Sap. 5:15): '... tanquam spuma gracilis quae a procella dispergitur, Et tanquam fumus qui a vento diffusus est' (like the insubstantial foam that is dispersed by the storm, like the smoke that is is dissipated by the wind). In Wisdom the comparisons are to the hopes of the impious man (as opposed to those of the just, whose thoughts are set on God [Sap. 5:16]). Narrowly construed, Virgil's words are those of the impious man who lodges his hopes in the most transitory of things – exactly what the poem will later establish as the true and fleeting nature of earthly fame (Purg. XI.91-93). Read in this light, Virgil's admonition culminates his series of errors in the three preceding cantos with what is not only potentially a more serious one, but one of which he himself had been guilty, taking the lesser good for the greater. If we were to imagine St. Thomas as guide here, we would expect his words to have been quite different. These observations reflect remarks made in a paper on this passage in November 1999 by a Princeton student, Daniel Cheely '03, the first reader of this passage known to this commentator to take into consideration the full force of its biblical source. For a similar understanding, see Margherita Frankel (“Dante's Anti-Virgilian villanello,” Dante Studies 102 [1984]), pp. 94-95, reading Virgil's inappropriate 'sermon' against the theologically correct view of the fleetingness and unimportance of earthly fame clearly expressed at Purgatorio XI.100-108. Beginning with Gregorio Di Siena (comm. to vv.49-51) commentators also cite another apposite text for these lines, Aeneid V.740, 'tenuis fugit ceu fumus in auras': it is the vision of Anchises that vanishes from Aeneas's sight 'like thin smoke into the air.'
Cantos XXI-XXIV thus include Virgil's most difficult moments as guide to the Christian underworld. The rest of the cantica is mainly without such unsettling behavior toward his master and author on the poet's part. But this will start up again in a series of moments that are difficult for Virgil in the early cantos of Purgatorio.
In a moment that will strike any one who is in fact a 'notably bad climber' (in the words of John Ruskin – see the note to vv. 32-36) with its aptness, the passage insists on Dante's effort to convince his guide that he is better furnished with breath than in fact he is.
These lines introduce a problem (who is speaking?) that will weave itself through the text until perhaps the eighteenth verse of the next canto. In a typically Dante-unfriendly gesture, Castelvetro objects that these lines are useless and never find a resolution. As we shall see, there may be a point to the interpretive exercise that Dante here invites the reader to join.
These twelve verses have no other point than to underline the intensity of Dante's curiosity about the identity of the speaker whose unintelligible voice he has just heard. It would be unlikely for him to have left his riddle unanswered. See the note to Inferno XXV.17-18.
Verse 69 has been the cause of much debate. Is the word in the text ire (as in Petrocchi's edition, meaning 'to go') or ira (wrath)? For a treatment of the problem see Hollander (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983]), pp. 27-49, offering a listing of the history of the commentary tradition (pp. 29-31) and concluding that the text originally read ira, as almost all the early commentators believed, with the major exception of Pietro di Dante (Pietro1 to vv. 65-69). For a countering view, see Ruggero Stefanini, “In nota a un commento,” Lectura Dantis [virginiana] 13 (1993), p. 85.
Once again, while not in agreement with it, we have preserved the letter of Petrocchi's text in our translation. Berthier, who opts for ira, cites St. Thomas to the effect that one of the five effects of wrath is precisely to cause in the furibond sinner 'clamor irrationabilis' (irrational cries), perhaps exactly what Dante has made out. See Berthier (comm. to XXIV.64-66). It also remains difficult to explain how one can hear, from a distance and in darkness, how a being is moved to getting into motion, while it is not at all difficult to hear, in precisely these circumstances, that a voice is moved by wrath.
The new prospect before Dante's eyes, once he is over the seventh bolgia, having descended from the bridge that connects to the eighth, completely absorbs his attention. The identity of the speaker, which he has been so eager to learn, is now forgotten – for a while.
Now begins the drama of the marvelous, what Milton might have called 'things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.' Many have commented upon the exuberance of Dante's treatment of the scene of the thieves. On the question of its perhaps problematic virtuosity of this and the next canto see Richard Terdiman, “Problematic Virtuosity: Dante's Depiction of the Thieves (Inferno XXIV-XXV),” Dante Studies 91 (1973), pp. 27-45; for a reply see Peter Hawkins, “Virtuosity and Virtue: Poetic Self-Reflection in the Commedia,” Dante Studies 98 (1980), pp. 1-18.
The serpents derive, as almost all commentators duly note, from the ninth book of Lucan's Pharsalia with its description of the Libyan desert, replete with them. They are all beyond the pale of any known zoology. For a catalogue of Lucanian serpentism see Benvenuto (comm. to XXIV.85-90). For the texts see Singleton (comm. to XXIV.86-87). And, for Dante's knowledge of Lucan more generally, see Ettore Paratore, “Lucano e Dante,” in his Antico e nuovo (Caltanissetta: Sciascia, 1965), pp. 165-210.
Dante adapts Lucan's somewhat unusual term for 'serpent' (pestis – which generally means 'plague') and now imagines as many deserts as he knows of containing still other improbable serpentine creatures.
The scene, with its inhabitants naked, afraid, and trying to hide, evokes, as Hollander has argued (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], p. 34), the description of Adam and Eve hiding from God in the Garden of Eden after they have sinned (Genesis 3:9-10): 'Vocavitque Dominus Deus Adam, et dixit ei: “Ubi es?” Qui ait, “Vocem tuam audivi in paradiso et timui, eo quod nudus essem, et abscondi me”' (And the Lord God called Adam and asked, 'Where are you?' And Adam said, 'I heard your voice in the garden and I grew afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself'). Hollander goes on to examine nine more moments in this scene that reflect the 'primal scene' of thievery in Eden, including the parodic version of the fig leaves with which Adam and Eve covered their loins in (Genesis 3:7) found here in vv. 95-96. See also Rebecca Beal, “Dante among Thieves: Allegorical Soteriology in the Seventh Bolgia (Inferno XXIV and XXV),” Medievalia 9 (1983), pp. 103-5, for resonances of the Edenic scene in this passage.
The heliotrope was a stone that supposedly had the power to render its possessor invisible, as Boccaccio's Calandrino was urged to believe by his trickster friends (Decameron VIII.3). See Vincenzo Cioffari, “A Dante Note: Heliotropum,” Romanic Review 28 (1937), pp. 59-62
This figure, so rudely attacked, will turn out to be Vanni Fucci (v. 125).
Since the so-called Ottimo Commento (1333), commentators who have responded to this verse have agreed that these two letters are written most quickly because they are written in a single stroke. But do these two letters signify anything? For instance, are they a code for Dante's vaunt against Ovid (i.e., 'I [io] can portray metamorphosis even better than you')? Or do they represent the negation of Vanni's self (i.e., 'io' spelled backwards)? For an ingenious argument, extending this second hypothesis, see D. L. Darby Chapin, “IO and the Negative Apotheosis of Vanni Fucci,” Dante Studies 89 (1971), pp. 19-31, suggesting an Ovidian source. She argues that, when Io was transformed into a cow (Metam. I.646-650), medieval commentators represented her new hoof-print as made of the two letters of her name, the 'I' written inside the 'O' so as to represent the cleft in her newly formed hooves.
The reference to the phoenix is also Ovidian (Metam. XV.392-402). That rare bird was reputed to live 500 years and then to be reborn out of the ashes of its own perfumed funeral pyre. Christian exegetes thus easily took the phoenix as a symbol of Christ (see Rebecca Beal, “Dante among Thieves: Allegorical Soteriology in the Seventh Bolgia [Inferno XXIV and XXV],” Medievalia 9 [1983], pp. 105-7). Vanni, seen in this light, thus parodically enacts the death and resurrection of Christ.
The poet's exclamation is part of his presentation of himself not as a merely ingenious teller of fantastic tales, but as the scribe of God, only recording what he actually saw of God's just retaliation for sins performed against Him. See Romans 12:19, where Paul offers the words of God, 'Vengeance is mine; I shall repay,' a passage perhaps first cited in this context by Tommaseo (comm. to vv. 118-120).
Vanni Fucci's laconic self-identification tells us that he was an illegitimate son (of the Lazzari family of Pistoia) and insists upon his bestiality (some early commentators report that his nickname was 'Vanni the Beast'). He died sometime after 1295, when he apparently left Pistoia, and 1300 – although this is not certain.
Dante's response indicates that he had once known Vanni and thought of him as guilty of sins of violence, not necessarily those of fraud.
Vanni's shame and honest self-description give him a certain moral advantage over many of the dissembling sinners whom we meet. At the same time his wrathful character extends not only to self-hatred, but to hatred of others, as his ensuing harsh words for Dante will reveal (vv. 140-151). His character, so briefly etched, is that of a familiar enough figure, the embittered destroyer of any human bond. He is an equal-opportunity misanthrope.
The theft of sacred objects from the sacristy of the chapel of St. James in Pistoia – which caused an uproar when it occurred, ca. 1293-95 – was first not laid to his door and he indeed had left the city before his complicity was revealed by one of his confederates, soon afterwards put to death for his part in the crime. There is speculation that the eventual truth of Vanni's involvement was only discovered after 1300, yet in time for Dante to present it as 'news' here in his poem. Julia Holloway (“Brunetto Latino and Dante Alighieri: Stealing Hercules' Club [Inferno XXV's Metamorphoses]” [http://www.florin.ms/Lectura.html (2003 [1993])] has suggested that Vanni's theft of the silver-relief statues of the Virgin and the apostles from the treasury of the cathedral of Pistoia was seen by Dante as a latter-day version of the theft of the Palladium by Ulysses and Diomedes (Inf. XXVI.63).
Vanni's prophecy is the last of these 'personal prophecies' found in Inferno. There are nine of these in the Comedy. (See the note to Inf. VI.64-66.) He offers it as a form of revenge on Dante for having seen him in such distress.
The riddling expression of the language of prophecy is, at least for a contemporary of Vanni's and Dante's, for the most part not difficult to unravel. Pistoia's White Guelphs will drive out the Black party in 1301; Florence's Blacks will do the same in the same year to the Whites in that city (with one consequence being Dante's exile). In 1302 the Blacks of Pistoia, allied with Moroello Malaspina ('the headlong bolt'), will have their revenge upon the Whites, taking their stronghold at Serravalle. Some understand that Vanni also (or only) refers to the eventual Black victory over the Whites in Pistoia itself in 1306.
Vanni's acerbic ending, personalizing the prophecy as a way of making Dante grieve, is his tit-for-tat response for the grief that Dante has caused him by seeing him. He may be damned for thievery, but his party will be victorious, while Dante's will be roundly defeated.
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In quella parte del giovanetto anno
che 'l sole i crin sotto l'Aquario tempra
e già le notti al mezzo dì sen vanno,
quando la brina in su la terra assempra
l'imagine di sua sorella bianca,
ma poco dura a la sua penna tempra,
lo villanello a cui la roba manca,
si leva, e guarda, e vede la campagna
biancheggiar tutta; ond' ei si batte l'anca,
ritorna in casa, e qua e là si lagna,
come 'l tapin che non sa che si faccia;
poi riede, e la speranza ringavagna,
veggendo 'l mondo aver cangiata faccia
in poco d'ora, e prende suo vincastro
e fuor le pecorelle a pascer caccia.
Così mi fece sbigottir lo mastro
quand' io li vidi sì turbar la fronte,
e così tosto al mal giunse lo 'mpiastro;
ché, come noi venimmo al guasto ponte,
lo duca a me si volse con quel piglio
dolce ch'io vidi prima a piè del monte.
Le braccia aperse, dopo alcun consiglio
eletto seco riguardando prima
ben la ruina, e diedemi di piglio.
E come quei ch'adopera ed estima,
che sempre par che 'nnanzi si proveggia,
così, levando me sù ver' la cima
d'un ronchione, avvisava un'altra scheggia
dicendo: “Sovra quella poi t'aggrappa;
ma tenta pria s'è tal ch'ella ti reggia.”
Non era via da vestito di cappa,
ché noi a pena, ei lieve e io sospinto,
potavam sù montar di chiappa in chiappa.
E se non fosse che da quel precinto
più che da l'altro era la costa corta,
non so di lui, ma io sarei ben vinto.
Ma perché Malebolge inver' la porta
del bassissimo pozzo tutta pende,
lo sito di ciascuna valle porta
che l'una costa surge e l'altra scende;
noi pur venimmo al fine in su la punta
onde l'ultima pietra si scoscende.
La lena m'era del polmon sì munta
quand'io fui sù, ch'i' non potea più oltre,
anzi m'assisi ne la prima giunta.
“Omai convien che tu così ti spoltre,”
disse 'l maestro; “ché, seggendo in piuma,
in fama non si vien, né sotto coltre;
sanza la qual chi sua vita consuma,
cotal vestigio in terra di sé lascia,
qual fummo in aere e in acqua la schiuma.
E però leva sù; vinci l'ambascia
con l'animo che vince ogne battaglia,
se col suo grave corpo non s'accascia.
Più lunga scala convien che si saglia;
non basta da costoro esser partito.
Se tu mi 'ntendi, or fa sì che ti vaglia.”
Leva'mi allor, mostrandomi fornito
meglio di lena ch'i'non mi sentia,
e dissi: “Va, ch'i' son forte e ardito.”
Su per lo scoglio prendemmo la via,
ch'era ronchioso, stretto e malagevole,
ed erto più assai che quel di pria.
Parlando andava per non parer fievole;
onde una voce uscì de l'altro fosso,
a parole formar disconvenevole.
Non so che disse, ancor che sovra 'l dosso
fossi de l'arco già che varca quivi;
ma chi parlava ad ire parea mosso.
Io era vòlto in giù, ma li occhi vivi
non poteano ire al fondo per lo scuro;
per ch'io: “Maestro, fa che tu arrivi
da l'altro cinghio e dismontiam lo muro;
ché, com' i' odo quinci e non intendo,
così giù veggio e neente affiguro.”
“Altra risposta,” disse, “non ti rendo
se non lo far; ché la dimanda onesta
si de' seguir con l'opera tacendo.”
Noi discendemmo il ponte de la testa
dove s'aggiugne con l'ottava ripa,
e poi mi fu la bolgia manifesta:
e vidivi entro terrible stipa
di serpenti, e di sì diversa mena
che la memoria il sangue ancor mi scipa.
Più non si vanti Libia con sua rena;
ché se chelidri, iaculi e faree
produce, e cencri con anfisibena,
né tante pestilenzie né sì ree
mostrò già mai con tutta l'Etïopia
né con ciò che di sopra al Mar Rosso èe.
Tra questa cruda e tristissima copia
corrëan genti nude e spaventate,
sanza sperar pertugio o elitropia:
con serpi le man dietro avean legate;
quelle ficcavan per le ren la coda
e 'l capo, ed eran dinanzi aggroppate.
Ed ecco a un ch'era da nostra proda,
s'avventò un serpente che 'l trafisse
là dove 'l collo a le spalle s'annoda.
Né O sì tosto mai né I si scrisse,
com' el s'accese e arse, e cener tutto
convenne che cascando divenisse;
e poi che fu a terra sì distrutto,
la polver si raccolse per sé stessa
e 'n quel medesmo ritornò di butto.
Così per li gran savi si confessa
che la fenice more e poi rinasce,
quando al cinquecentesimo anno appressa;
erba né biado in sua vita non pasce,
ma sol d'incenso lagrime e d'amomo,
e nardo e mirra son l'ultime fasce.
E qual è quel che cade, e non sa como,
per forza di demon ch'a terra il tira,
o d'altra oppilazion che lega l'omo,
quando si leva, che 'ntorno si mira
tutto smarrito de la grande angoscia
ch'elli ha sofferta, e guardando sospira:
tal era 'l peccator levato poscia.
Oh potenza di Dio, quant' è severa,
che cotai colpi per vendetta croscia!
Lo duca il domandò poi chi ello era;
per ch'ei rispuose: “Io piovvi di Toscana,
poco tempo è, in questa gola fiera.
Vita bestial mi piacque e non umana,
sì come a mul ch'i'fui; son Vanni Fucci
bestia, e Pistoia mi fu degna tana.”
E ïo al duca: “Dilli che non mucci,
e domanda che colpa qua giù 'l pinse;
ch'io 'l vidi omo di sangue e di crucci.”
E 'l peccator, che 'ntese, non s'infinse,
ma drizzò verso me l'animo e 'l volto,
e di trista vergogna si dipinse;
poi disse: “Più mi duol che tu m'hai colto
ne la miseria dove tu mi vedi,
che quando fui de l'altra vita tolto.
Io non posso negar quel che tu chiedi;
in giù son messo tanto perch'io fui
ladro a la sagrestia d'i belli arredi,
e falsamente già fu apposto altrui.
Ma perché di tal vista tu non godi,
se mai sarai di fuor da' luoghi bui,
apri li orecchi al mio annunzio, e odi.
Pistoia in pria d'i Neri si dimagra;
poi Fiorenza rinova gente e modi.
Tragge Marte vapor di Val di Magra
ch'è di torbidi nuvoli involuto;
e con tempesta impetüosa e agra
sovra Campo Picen fia combattuto;
ond'ei repente spezzerà la nebbia,
sì ch'ogne Bianco ne sarà feruto.
E detto l'ho perché doler ti debbia!”
In that part of the youthful year wherein
The Sun his locks beneath Aquarius tempers,
And now the nights draw near to half the day,
What time the hoar-frost copies on the ground
The outward semblance of her sister white,
But little lasts the temper of her pen,
The husbandman, whose forage faileth him,
Rises, and looks, and seeth the champaign
All gleaming white, whereat he beats his flank,
Returns in doors, and up and down laments,
Like a poor wretch, who knows not what to do;
Then he returns and hope revives again,
Seeing the world has changed its countenance
In little time, and takes his shepherd's crook,
And forth the little lambs to pasture drives.
Thus did the Master fill me with alarm,
When I beheld his forehead so disturbed,
And to the ailment came as soon the plaster.
For as we came unto the ruined bridge,
The Leader turned to me with that sweet look
Which at the mountain's foot I first beheld.
His arms he opened, after some advisement
Within himself elected, looking first
Well at the ruin, and laid hold of me.
And even as he who acts and meditates,
For aye it seems that he provides beforehand,
So upward lifting me towards the summit
Of a huge rock, he scanned another crag,
Saying: "To that one grapple afterwards,
But try first if 'tis such that it will hold thee."
This was no way for one clothed with a cloak;
For hardly we, he light, and I pushed upward,
Were able to ascend from jag to jag.
And had it not been, that upon that precinct
Shorter was the ascent than on the other,
He I know not, but I had been dead beat.
But because Malebolge tow'rds the mouth
Of the profoundest well is all inclining,
The structure of each valley doth import
That one bank rises and the other sinks.
Still we arrived at length upon the point
Wherefrom the last stone breaks itself asunder.
The breath was from my lungs so milked away,
When I was up, that I could go no farther,
Nay, I sat down upon my first arrival.
"Now it behoves thee thus to put off sloth,"
My Master said; "for sitting upon down,
Or under quilt, one cometh not to fame,
Withouten which whoso his life consumes
Such vestige leaveth of himself on earth,
As smoke in air or in the water foam.
And therefore raise thee up, o'ercome the anguish
With spirit that o'ercometh every battle,
If with its heavy body it sink not.
A longer stairway it behoves thee mount;
'Tis not enough from these to have departed;
Let it avail thee, if thou understand me."
Then I uprose, showing myself provided
Better with breath than I did feel myself,
And said: "Go on, for I am strong and bold."
Upward we took our way along the crag,
Which jagged was, and narrow, and difficult,
And more precipitous far than that before.
Speaking I went, not to appear exhausted;
Whereat a voice from the next moat came forth,
Not well adapted to articulate words.
I know not what it said, though o'er the back
I now was of the arch that passes there;
But he seemed moved to anger who was speaking.
I was bent downward, but my living eyes
Could not attain the bottom, for the dark;
Wherefore I: "Master, see that thou arrive
At the next round, and let us descend the wall;
For as from hence I hear and understand not,
So I look down and nothing I distinguish."
"Other response," he said, "I make thee not,
Except the doing; for the modest asking
Ought to be followed by the deed in silence."
We from the bridge descended at its head,
Where it connects itself with the eighth bank,
And then was manifest to me the Bolgia;
And I beheld therein a terrible throng
Of serpents, and of such a monstrous kind,
That the remembrance still congeals my blood
Let Libya boast no longer with her sand;
For if Chelydri, Jaculi, and Phareae
She breeds, with Cenchri and with Amphisbaena,
Neither so many plagues nor so malignant
E'er showed she with all Ethiopia,
Nor with whatever on the Red Sea is!
Among this cruel and most dismal throng
People were running naked and affrighted.
Without the hope of hole or heliotrope.
They had their hands with serpents bound behind them;
These riveted upon their reins the tail
And head, and were in front of them entwined.
And lo! at one who was upon our side
There darted forth a serpent, which transfixed him
There where the neck is knotted to the shoulders.
Nor 'O' so quickly e'er, nor 'I' was written,
As he took fire, and burned; and ashes wholly
Behoved it that in falling he became.
And when he on the ground was thus destroyed,
The ashes drew together, and of themselves
Into himself they instantly returned.
Even thus by the great sages 'tis confessed
The phoenix dies, and then is born again,
When it approaches its five-hundredth year;
On herb or grain it feeds not in its life,
But only on tears of incense and amomum,
And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet.
And as he is who falls, and knows not how,
By force of demons who to earth down drag him,
Or other oppilation that binds man,
When he arises and around him looks,
Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish
Which he has suffered, and in looking sighs;
Such was that sinner after he had risen.
Justice of God! O how severe it is,
That blows like these in vengeance poureth down!
The Guide thereafter asked him who he was;
Whence he replied: "I rained from Tuscany
A short time since into this cruel gorge.
A bestial life, and not a human, pleased me,
Even as the mule I was; I'm Vanni Fucci,
Beast, and Pistoia was my worthy den."
And I unto the Guide: "Tell him to stir not,
And ask what crime has thrust him here below,
For once a man of blood and wrath I saw him."
And the sinner, who had heard, dissembled not,
But unto me directed mind and face,
And with a melancholy shame was painted.
Then said: "It pains me more that thou hast caught me
Amid this misery where thou seest me,
Than when I from the other life was taken.
What thou demandest I cannot deny;
So low am I put down because I robbed
The sacristy of the fair ornaments,
And falsely once 'twas laid upon another;
But that thou mayst not such a sight enjoy,
If thou shalt e'er be out of the dark places,
Thine ears to my announcement ope and hear:
Pistoia first of Neri groweth meagre;
Then Florence doth renew her men and manners;
Mars draws a vapour up from Val di Magra,
Which is with turbid clouds enveloped round,
And with impetuous and bitter tempest
Over Campo Picen shall be the battle;
When it shall suddenly rend the mist asunder,
So that each Bianco shall thereby be smitten.
And this I've said that it may give thee pain."
This elaborate canto-opening simile (see the note to Inf .XXII.1-12) and its aftermath knit the narrative back together: Virgil had walked away from Catalano (and from Dante) at the end of the last canto; now, getting his anger under control, he turns back to reassure Dante and continue his leadership. That is a fair summary of how the simile works as a reflection of what is happening between the two characters. However, this simile (like the Aesopic material in Inf. XXIII.4-18), can be read for more than one set of equivalences: (1) Virgil's frown (hoarfrost) melts and he once again encourages Dante (the humble wretch), who eventually will, having completed the journey, feed us (his sheep) on the pages of the poem; (2) the devils' deception (hoarfrost), in the form of an incorrect presentation of the terrain, discourages Virgil (the wretch), who finally reads the signs right and will lead Dante (his sheep) to pasture. A form of this second simultaneous reading was proposed by Richard Lansing (From Image to Idea: A Study of the Simile in Dante's “Commedia” [Ravenna: Longo, 1977]), pp. 77-80.
As Margherita Frankel has noted (“Dante's Anti-Virgilian villanello,” Dante Studies 102 [1984]), pp. 82-83, the simile itself is divided into two rather different stylistic zones; the first six verses are 'classicizing' and rather high-flown, while the the final nine are in the low style. Hollander (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], pp. 27-49, suggests that the first tercet of the 'classical' part derives from Virgil's third Georgic (vv. 303-304), a citation also found in the second and third redactions of the commentary of Pietro di Dante, and also noted by Tommaseo. For other studies in English of this much studied simile see David J. Baker, “The Winter Simile in Inferno XXIV,” Dante Studies 92 (1974), pp. 77-91; George Economou, “Self-Consciousness of Poetic Activity in Dante and Langland,” in Vernacular Poetics in the Middle Ages, ed. Lois Ebin (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 1984), pp. 177-98; and Richard Lansing, From Image to Idea: A Study of the Simile in Dante's “Commedia” (Ravenna: Longo, 1977), pp. 74-80; for Dante's knowledge of the Georgics see Aristide Marigo, “Le Georgiche di Virgilio fonte di Dante,” Giornale dantesco 17 (1909), pp. 31-44.
The reference to Aquarius sets the time within the simile as winter, since the sun is in that constellation from 21 January to 21 February. And so the sun cools his 'locks' (its rays) in this season. For the short-lasting nature of hoarfrost see Lucan (Phars. IV.53) – a source perhaps first noted by Daniello (comm. to Inf. XXIV.6).
The sight of the ruina, the scree fallen at the Crucifixion, now gives Virgil hope: it is a way up and out of the bolgia. Catalano, unlike Malacoda, has given him valuable advice. For the ruina see the note to Inferno V.34.
The phrase 'people wearing leaden cloaks' obviously refers to the hypocrites whom we saw in the last canto.
The protagonist's physical difficulty, since unlike Virgil he must move his flesh and bones against the pull of gravity, is insisted on. The interplay between Virgil and Dante, now with roles reversed from Cantos XXI-XXIII (when Virgil was the one at a disadvantage) goes on for some time, through verse 60. It is in no way meant to make the reader believe, as did John Ruskin, in Modern Painters, that 'Dante was a notably bad climber' (in DDP, Ruskin to Inf. XII.2).
Once again (see the note to Inf. XIX.35) Dante insists that the far sides, or banks, of each bolgia are not as high as the ones encountered first, since the sloping floor of the Malebolge cuts down across each ditch.
The commentators are almost unanimous in taking Virgil's words at face value and as sound advice. See, for example, Chiavacci Leonardi (Inferno, con il commento di A. M. C. L. [Milan: Mondadori, 1991], pp. 712-13, who argues for earthly fame's 'double valence' in the poem'; she claims that it is sometimes an excusable aim (as here), sometimes a culpable one. Certainly the net effect of Virgil's appeal here is to get Dante moving upward in order to continue to the top of the ridge, whence he will be able to see into the next ditch as he continues his journey. Yet is it not strange that the motivation offered by Virgil is not the need to struggle onward toward the presence of God so much as it is the reward of earthly fame? Rossetti (comm. to vv. 43-51) was perhaps the first to observe the resonance of what has now become a standard citation for these verses, the entirely similar similes found in the book of Wisdom (Sap. 5:15): '... tanquam spuma gracilis quae a procella dispergitur, Et tanquam fumus qui a vento diffusus est' (like the insubstantial foam that is dispersed by the storm, like the smoke that is is dissipated by the wind). In Wisdom the comparisons are to the hopes of the impious man (as opposed to those of the just, whose thoughts are set on God [Sap. 5:16]). Narrowly construed, Virgil's words are those of the impious man who lodges his hopes in the most transitory of things – exactly what the poem will later establish as the true and fleeting nature of earthly fame (Purg. XI.91-93). Read in this light, Virgil's admonition culminates his series of errors in the three preceding cantos with what is not only potentially a more serious one, but one of which he himself had been guilty, taking the lesser good for the greater. If we were to imagine St. Thomas as guide here, we would expect his words to have been quite different. These observations reflect remarks made in a paper on this passage in November 1999 by a Princeton student, Daniel Cheely '03, the first reader of this passage known to this commentator to take into consideration the full force of its biblical source. For a similar understanding, see Margherita Frankel (“Dante's Anti-Virgilian villanello,” Dante Studies 102 [1984]), pp. 94-95, reading Virgil's inappropriate 'sermon' against the theologically correct view of the fleetingness and unimportance of earthly fame clearly expressed at Purgatorio XI.100-108. Beginning with Gregorio Di Siena (comm. to vv.49-51) commentators also cite another apposite text for these lines, Aeneid V.740, 'tenuis fugit ceu fumus in auras': it is the vision of Anchises that vanishes from Aeneas's sight 'like thin smoke into the air.'
Cantos XXI-XXIV thus include Virgil's most difficult moments as guide to the Christian underworld. The rest of the cantica is mainly without such unsettling behavior toward his master and author on the poet's part. But this will start up again in a series of moments that are difficult for Virgil in the early cantos of Purgatorio.
In a moment that will strike any one who is in fact a 'notably bad climber' (in the words of John Ruskin – see the note to vv. 32-36) with its aptness, the passage insists on Dante's effort to convince his guide that he is better furnished with breath than in fact he is.
These lines introduce a problem (who is speaking?) that will weave itself through the text until perhaps the eighteenth verse of the next canto. In a typically Dante-unfriendly gesture, Castelvetro objects that these lines are useless and never find a resolution. As we shall see, there may be a point to the interpretive exercise that Dante here invites the reader to join.
These twelve verses have no other point than to underline the intensity of Dante's curiosity about the identity of the speaker whose unintelligible voice he has just heard. It would be unlikely for him to have left his riddle unanswered. See the note to Inferno XXV.17-18.
Verse 69 has been the cause of much debate. Is the word in the text ire (as in Petrocchi's edition, meaning 'to go') or ira (wrath)? For a treatment of the problem see Hollander (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983]), pp. 27-49, offering a listing of the history of the commentary tradition (pp. 29-31) and concluding that the text originally read ira, as almost all the early commentators believed, with the major exception of Pietro di Dante (Pietro1 to vv. 65-69). For a countering view, see Ruggero Stefanini, “In nota a un commento,” Lectura Dantis [virginiana] 13 (1993), p. 85.
Once again, while not in agreement with it, we have preserved the letter of Petrocchi's text in our translation. Berthier, who opts for ira, cites St. Thomas to the effect that one of the five effects of wrath is precisely to cause in the furibond sinner 'clamor irrationabilis' (irrational cries), perhaps exactly what Dante has made out. See Berthier (comm. to XXIV.64-66). It also remains difficult to explain how one can hear, from a distance and in darkness, how a being is moved to getting into motion, while it is not at all difficult to hear, in precisely these circumstances, that a voice is moved by wrath.
The new prospect before Dante's eyes, once he is over the seventh bolgia, having descended from the bridge that connects to the eighth, completely absorbs his attention. The identity of the speaker, which he has been so eager to learn, is now forgotten – for a while.
Now begins the drama of the marvelous, what Milton might have called 'things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.' Many have commented upon the exuberance of Dante's treatment of the scene of the thieves. On the question of its perhaps problematic virtuosity of this and the next canto see Richard Terdiman, “Problematic Virtuosity: Dante's Depiction of the Thieves (Inferno XXIV-XXV),” Dante Studies 91 (1973), pp. 27-45; for a reply see Peter Hawkins, “Virtuosity and Virtue: Poetic Self-Reflection in the Commedia,” Dante Studies 98 (1980), pp. 1-18.
The serpents derive, as almost all commentators duly note, from the ninth book of Lucan's Pharsalia with its description of the Libyan desert, replete with them. They are all beyond the pale of any known zoology. For a catalogue of Lucanian serpentism see Benvenuto (comm. to XXIV.85-90). For the texts see Singleton (comm. to XXIV.86-87). And, for Dante's knowledge of Lucan more generally, see Ettore Paratore, “Lucano e Dante,” in his Antico e nuovo (Caltanissetta: Sciascia, 1965), pp. 165-210.
Dante adapts Lucan's somewhat unusual term for 'serpent' (pestis – which generally means 'plague') and now imagines as many deserts as he knows of containing still other improbable serpentine creatures.
The scene, with its inhabitants naked, afraid, and trying to hide, evokes, as Hollander has argued (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], p. 34), the description of Adam and Eve hiding from God in the Garden of Eden after they have sinned (Genesis 3:9-10): 'Vocavitque Dominus Deus Adam, et dixit ei: “Ubi es?” Qui ait, “Vocem tuam audivi in paradiso et timui, eo quod nudus essem, et abscondi me”' (And the Lord God called Adam and asked, 'Where are you?' And Adam said, 'I heard your voice in the garden and I grew afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself'). Hollander goes on to examine nine more moments in this scene that reflect the 'primal scene' of thievery in Eden, including the parodic version of the fig leaves with which Adam and Eve covered their loins in (Genesis 3:7) found here in vv. 95-96. See also Rebecca Beal, “Dante among Thieves: Allegorical Soteriology in the Seventh Bolgia (Inferno XXIV and XXV),” Medievalia 9 (1983), pp. 103-5, for resonances of the Edenic scene in this passage.
The heliotrope was a stone that supposedly had the power to render its possessor invisible, as Boccaccio's Calandrino was urged to believe by his trickster friends (Decameron VIII.3). See Vincenzo Cioffari, “A Dante Note: Heliotropum,” Romanic Review 28 (1937), pp. 59-62
This figure, so rudely attacked, will turn out to be Vanni Fucci (v. 125).
Since the so-called Ottimo Commento (1333), commentators who have responded to this verse have agreed that these two letters are written most quickly because they are written in a single stroke. But do these two letters signify anything? For instance, are they a code for Dante's vaunt against Ovid (i.e., 'I [io] can portray metamorphosis even better than you')? Or do they represent the negation of Vanni's self (i.e., 'io' spelled backwards)? For an ingenious argument, extending this second hypothesis, see D. L. Darby Chapin, “IO and the Negative Apotheosis of Vanni Fucci,” Dante Studies 89 (1971), pp. 19-31, suggesting an Ovidian source. She argues that, when Io was transformed into a cow (Metam. I.646-650), medieval commentators represented her new hoof-print as made of the two letters of her name, the 'I' written inside the 'O' so as to represent the cleft in her newly formed hooves.
The reference to the phoenix is also Ovidian (Metam. XV.392-402). That rare bird was reputed to live 500 years and then to be reborn out of the ashes of its own perfumed funeral pyre. Christian exegetes thus easily took the phoenix as a symbol of Christ (see Rebecca Beal, “Dante among Thieves: Allegorical Soteriology in the Seventh Bolgia [Inferno XXIV and XXV],” Medievalia 9 [1983], pp. 105-7). Vanni, seen in this light, thus parodically enacts the death and resurrection of Christ.
The poet's exclamation is part of his presentation of himself not as a merely ingenious teller of fantastic tales, but as the scribe of God, only recording what he actually saw of God's just retaliation for sins performed against Him. See Romans 12:19, where Paul offers the words of God, 'Vengeance is mine; I shall repay,' a passage perhaps first cited in this context by Tommaseo (comm. to vv. 118-120).
Vanni Fucci's laconic self-identification tells us that he was an illegitimate son (of the Lazzari family of Pistoia) and insists upon his bestiality (some early commentators report that his nickname was 'Vanni the Beast'). He died sometime after 1295, when he apparently left Pistoia, and 1300 – although this is not certain.
Dante's response indicates that he had once known Vanni and thought of him as guilty of sins of violence, not necessarily those of fraud.
Vanni's shame and honest self-description give him a certain moral advantage over many of the dissembling sinners whom we meet. At the same time his wrathful character extends not only to self-hatred, but to hatred of others, as his ensuing harsh words for Dante will reveal (vv. 140-151). His character, so briefly etched, is that of a familiar enough figure, the embittered destroyer of any human bond. He is an equal-opportunity misanthrope.
The theft of sacred objects from the sacristy of the chapel of St. James in Pistoia – which caused an uproar when it occurred, ca. 1293-95 – was first not laid to his door and he indeed had left the city before his complicity was revealed by one of his confederates, soon afterwards put to death for his part in the crime. There is speculation that the eventual truth of Vanni's involvement was only discovered after 1300, yet in time for Dante to present it as 'news' here in his poem. Julia Holloway (“Brunetto Latino and Dante Alighieri: Stealing Hercules' Club [Inferno XXV's Metamorphoses]” [http://www.florin.ms/Lectura.html (2003 [1993])] has suggested that Vanni's theft of the silver-relief statues of the Virgin and the apostles from the treasury of the cathedral of Pistoia was seen by Dante as a latter-day version of the theft of the Palladium by Ulysses and Diomedes (Inf. XXVI.63).
Vanni's prophecy is the last of these 'personal prophecies' found in Inferno. There are nine of these in the Comedy. (See the note to Inf. VI.64-66.) He offers it as a form of revenge on Dante for having seen him in such distress.
The riddling expression of the language of prophecy is, at least for a contemporary of Vanni's and Dante's, for the most part not difficult to unravel. Pistoia's White Guelphs will drive out the Black party in 1301; Florence's Blacks will do the same in the same year to the Whites in that city (with one consequence being Dante's exile). In 1302 the Blacks of Pistoia, allied with Moroello Malaspina ('the headlong bolt'), will have their revenge upon the Whites, taking their stronghold at Serravalle. Some understand that Vanni also (or only) refers to the eventual Black victory over the Whites in Pistoia itself in 1306.
Vanni's acerbic ending, personalizing the prophecy as a way of making Dante grieve, is his tit-for-tat response for the grief that Dante has caused him by seeing him. He may be damned for thievery, but his party will be victorious, while Dante's will be roundly defeated.
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In quella parte del giovanetto anno
che 'l sole i crin sotto l'Aquario tempra
e già le notti al mezzo dì sen vanno,
quando la brina in su la terra assempra
l'imagine di sua sorella bianca,
ma poco dura a la sua penna tempra,
lo villanello a cui la roba manca,
si leva, e guarda, e vede la campagna
biancheggiar tutta; ond' ei si batte l'anca,
ritorna in casa, e qua e là si lagna,
come 'l tapin che non sa che si faccia;
poi riede, e la speranza ringavagna,
veggendo 'l mondo aver cangiata faccia
in poco d'ora, e prende suo vincastro
e fuor le pecorelle a pascer caccia.
Così mi fece sbigottir lo mastro
quand' io li vidi sì turbar la fronte,
e così tosto al mal giunse lo 'mpiastro;
ché, come noi venimmo al guasto ponte,
lo duca a me si volse con quel piglio
dolce ch'io vidi prima a piè del monte.
Le braccia aperse, dopo alcun consiglio
eletto seco riguardando prima
ben la ruina, e diedemi di piglio.
E come quei ch'adopera ed estima,
che sempre par che 'nnanzi si proveggia,
così, levando me sù ver' la cima
d'un ronchione, avvisava un'altra scheggia
dicendo: “Sovra quella poi t'aggrappa;
ma tenta pria s'è tal ch'ella ti reggia.”
Non era via da vestito di cappa,
ché noi a pena, ei lieve e io sospinto,
potavam sù montar di chiappa in chiappa.
E se non fosse che da quel precinto
più che da l'altro era la costa corta,
non so di lui, ma io sarei ben vinto.
Ma perché Malebolge inver' la porta
del bassissimo pozzo tutta pende,
lo sito di ciascuna valle porta
che l'una costa surge e l'altra scende;
noi pur venimmo al fine in su la punta
onde l'ultima pietra si scoscende.
La lena m'era del polmon sì munta
quand'io fui sù, ch'i' non potea più oltre,
anzi m'assisi ne la prima giunta.
“Omai convien che tu così ti spoltre,”
disse 'l maestro; “ché, seggendo in piuma,
in fama non si vien, né sotto coltre;
sanza la qual chi sua vita consuma,
cotal vestigio in terra di sé lascia,
qual fummo in aere e in acqua la schiuma.
E però leva sù; vinci l'ambascia
con l'animo che vince ogne battaglia,
se col suo grave corpo non s'accascia.
Più lunga scala convien che si saglia;
non basta da costoro esser partito.
Se tu mi 'ntendi, or fa sì che ti vaglia.”
Leva'mi allor, mostrandomi fornito
meglio di lena ch'i'non mi sentia,
e dissi: “Va, ch'i' son forte e ardito.”
Su per lo scoglio prendemmo la via,
ch'era ronchioso, stretto e malagevole,
ed erto più assai che quel di pria.
Parlando andava per non parer fievole;
onde una voce uscì de l'altro fosso,
a parole formar disconvenevole.
Non so che disse, ancor che sovra 'l dosso
fossi de l'arco già che varca quivi;
ma chi parlava ad ire parea mosso.
Io era vòlto in giù, ma li occhi vivi
non poteano ire al fondo per lo scuro;
per ch'io: “Maestro, fa che tu arrivi
da l'altro cinghio e dismontiam lo muro;
ché, com' i' odo quinci e non intendo,
così giù veggio e neente affiguro.”
“Altra risposta,” disse, “non ti rendo
se non lo far; ché la dimanda onesta
si de' seguir con l'opera tacendo.”
Noi discendemmo il ponte de la testa
dove s'aggiugne con l'ottava ripa,
e poi mi fu la bolgia manifesta:
e vidivi entro terrible stipa
di serpenti, e di sì diversa mena
che la memoria il sangue ancor mi scipa.
Più non si vanti Libia con sua rena;
ché se chelidri, iaculi e faree
produce, e cencri con anfisibena,
né tante pestilenzie né sì ree
mostrò già mai con tutta l'Etïopia
né con ciò che di sopra al Mar Rosso èe.
Tra questa cruda e tristissima copia
corrëan genti nude e spaventate,
sanza sperar pertugio o elitropia:
con serpi le man dietro avean legate;
quelle ficcavan per le ren la coda
e 'l capo, ed eran dinanzi aggroppate.
Ed ecco a un ch'era da nostra proda,
s'avventò un serpente che 'l trafisse
là dove 'l collo a le spalle s'annoda.
Né O sì tosto mai né I si scrisse,
com' el s'accese e arse, e cener tutto
convenne che cascando divenisse;
e poi che fu a terra sì distrutto,
la polver si raccolse per sé stessa
e 'n quel medesmo ritornò di butto.
Così per li gran savi si confessa
che la fenice more e poi rinasce,
quando al cinquecentesimo anno appressa;
erba né biado in sua vita non pasce,
ma sol d'incenso lagrime e d'amomo,
e nardo e mirra son l'ultime fasce.
E qual è quel che cade, e non sa como,
per forza di demon ch'a terra il tira,
o d'altra oppilazion che lega l'omo,
quando si leva, che 'ntorno si mira
tutto smarrito de la grande angoscia
ch'elli ha sofferta, e guardando sospira:
tal era 'l peccator levato poscia.
Oh potenza di Dio, quant' è severa,
che cotai colpi per vendetta croscia!
Lo duca il domandò poi chi ello era;
per ch'ei rispuose: “Io piovvi di Toscana,
poco tempo è, in questa gola fiera.
Vita bestial mi piacque e non umana,
sì come a mul ch'i'fui; son Vanni Fucci
bestia, e Pistoia mi fu degna tana.”
E ïo al duca: “Dilli che non mucci,
e domanda che colpa qua giù 'l pinse;
ch'io 'l vidi omo di sangue e di crucci.”
E 'l peccator, che 'ntese, non s'infinse,
ma drizzò verso me l'animo e 'l volto,
e di trista vergogna si dipinse;
poi disse: “Più mi duol che tu m'hai colto
ne la miseria dove tu mi vedi,
che quando fui de l'altra vita tolto.
Io non posso negar quel che tu chiedi;
in giù son messo tanto perch'io fui
ladro a la sagrestia d'i belli arredi,
e falsamente già fu apposto altrui.
Ma perché di tal vista tu non godi,
se mai sarai di fuor da' luoghi bui,
apri li orecchi al mio annunzio, e odi.
Pistoia in pria d'i Neri si dimagra;
poi Fiorenza rinova gente e modi.
Tragge Marte vapor di Val di Magra
ch'è di torbidi nuvoli involuto;
e con tempesta impetüosa e agra
sovra Campo Picen fia combattuto;
ond'ei repente spezzerà la nebbia,
sì ch'ogne Bianco ne sarà feruto.
E detto l'ho perché doler ti debbia!”
In that part of the youthful year wherein
The Sun his locks beneath Aquarius tempers,
And now the nights draw near to half the day,
What time the hoar-frost copies on the ground
The outward semblance of her sister white,
But little lasts the temper of her pen,
The husbandman, whose forage faileth him,
Rises, and looks, and seeth the champaign
All gleaming white, whereat he beats his flank,
Returns in doors, and up and down laments,
Like a poor wretch, who knows not what to do;
Then he returns and hope revives again,
Seeing the world has changed its countenance
In little time, and takes his shepherd's crook,
And forth the little lambs to pasture drives.
Thus did the Master fill me with alarm,
When I beheld his forehead so disturbed,
And to the ailment came as soon the plaster.
For as we came unto the ruined bridge,
The Leader turned to me with that sweet look
Which at the mountain's foot I first beheld.
His arms he opened, after some advisement
Within himself elected, looking first
Well at the ruin, and laid hold of me.
And even as he who acts and meditates,
For aye it seems that he provides beforehand,
So upward lifting me towards the summit
Of a huge rock, he scanned another crag,
Saying: "To that one grapple afterwards,
But try first if 'tis such that it will hold thee."
This was no way for one clothed with a cloak;
For hardly we, he light, and I pushed upward,
Were able to ascend from jag to jag.
And had it not been, that upon that precinct
Shorter was the ascent than on the other,
He I know not, but I had been dead beat.
But because Malebolge tow'rds the mouth
Of the profoundest well is all inclining,
The structure of each valley doth import
That one bank rises and the other sinks.
Still we arrived at length upon the point
Wherefrom the last stone breaks itself asunder.
The breath was from my lungs so milked away,
When I was up, that I could go no farther,
Nay, I sat down upon my first arrival.
"Now it behoves thee thus to put off sloth,"
My Master said; "for sitting upon down,
Or under quilt, one cometh not to fame,
Withouten which whoso his life consumes
Such vestige leaveth of himself on earth,
As smoke in air or in the water foam.
And therefore raise thee up, o'ercome the anguish
With spirit that o'ercometh every battle,
If with its heavy body it sink not.
A longer stairway it behoves thee mount;
'Tis not enough from these to have departed;
Let it avail thee, if thou understand me."
Then I uprose, showing myself provided
Better with breath than I did feel myself,
And said: "Go on, for I am strong and bold."
Upward we took our way along the crag,
Which jagged was, and narrow, and difficult,
And more precipitous far than that before.
Speaking I went, not to appear exhausted;
Whereat a voice from the next moat came forth,
Not well adapted to articulate words.
I know not what it said, though o'er the back
I now was of the arch that passes there;
But he seemed moved to anger who was speaking.
I was bent downward, but my living eyes
Could not attain the bottom, for the dark;
Wherefore I: "Master, see that thou arrive
At the next round, and let us descend the wall;
For as from hence I hear and understand not,
So I look down and nothing I distinguish."
"Other response," he said, "I make thee not,
Except the doing; for the modest asking
Ought to be followed by the deed in silence."
We from the bridge descended at its head,
Where it connects itself with the eighth bank,
And then was manifest to me the Bolgia;
And I beheld therein a terrible throng
Of serpents, and of such a monstrous kind,
That the remembrance still congeals my blood
Let Libya boast no longer with her sand;
For if Chelydri, Jaculi, and Phareae
She breeds, with Cenchri and with Amphisbaena,
Neither so many plagues nor so malignant
E'er showed she with all Ethiopia,
Nor with whatever on the Red Sea is!
Among this cruel and most dismal throng
People were running naked and affrighted.
Without the hope of hole or heliotrope.
They had their hands with serpents bound behind them;
These riveted upon their reins the tail
And head, and were in front of them entwined.
And lo! at one who was upon our side
There darted forth a serpent, which transfixed him
There where the neck is knotted to the shoulders.
Nor 'O' so quickly e'er, nor 'I' was written,
As he took fire, and burned; and ashes wholly
Behoved it that in falling he became.
And when he on the ground was thus destroyed,
The ashes drew together, and of themselves
Into himself they instantly returned.
Even thus by the great sages 'tis confessed
The phoenix dies, and then is born again,
When it approaches its five-hundredth year;
On herb or grain it feeds not in its life,
But only on tears of incense and amomum,
And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet.
And as he is who falls, and knows not how,
By force of demons who to earth down drag him,
Or other oppilation that binds man,
When he arises and around him looks,
Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish
Which he has suffered, and in looking sighs;
Such was that sinner after he had risen.
Justice of God! O how severe it is,
That blows like these in vengeance poureth down!
The Guide thereafter asked him who he was;
Whence he replied: "I rained from Tuscany
A short time since into this cruel gorge.
A bestial life, and not a human, pleased me,
Even as the mule I was; I'm Vanni Fucci,
Beast, and Pistoia was my worthy den."
And I unto the Guide: "Tell him to stir not,
And ask what crime has thrust him here below,
For once a man of blood and wrath I saw him."
And the sinner, who had heard, dissembled not,
But unto me directed mind and face,
And with a melancholy shame was painted.
Then said: "It pains me more that thou hast caught me
Amid this misery where thou seest me,
Than when I from the other life was taken.
What thou demandest I cannot deny;
So low am I put down because I robbed
The sacristy of the fair ornaments,
And falsely once 'twas laid upon another;
But that thou mayst not such a sight enjoy,
If thou shalt e'er be out of the dark places,
Thine ears to my announcement ope and hear:
Pistoia first of Neri groweth meagre;
Then Florence doth renew her men and manners;
Mars draws a vapour up from Val di Magra,
Which is with turbid clouds enveloped round,
And with impetuous and bitter tempest
Over Campo Picen shall be the battle;
When it shall suddenly rend the mist asunder,
So that each Bianco shall thereby be smitten.
And this I've said that it may give thee pain."
This elaborate canto-opening simile (see the note to Inf .XXII.1-12) and its aftermath knit the narrative back together: Virgil had walked away from Catalano (and from Dante) at the end of the last canto; now, getting his anger under control, he turns back to reassure Dante and continue his leadership. That is a fair summary of how the simile works as a reflection of what is happening between the two characters. However, this simile (like the Aesopic material in Inf. XXIII.4-18), can be read for more than one set of equivalences: (1) Virgil's frown (hoarfrost) melts and he once again encourages Dante (the humble wretch), who eventually will, having completed the journey, feed us (his sheep) on the pages of the poem; (2) the devils' deception (hoarfrost), in the form of an incorrect presentation of the terrain, discourages Virgil (the wretch), who finally reads the signs right and will lead Dante (his sheep) to pasture. A form of this second simultaneous reading was proposed by Richard Lansing (From Image to Idea: A Study of the Simile in Dante's “Commedia” [Ravenna: Longo, 1977]), pp. 77-80.
As Margherita Frankel has noted (“Dante's Anti-Virgilian villanello,” Dante Studies 102 [1984]), pp. 82-83, the simile itself is divided into two rather different stylistic zones; the first six verses are 'classicizing' and rather high-flown, while the the final nine are in the low style. Hollander (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], pp. 27-49, suggests that the first tercet of the 'classical' part derives from Virgil's third Georgic (vv. 303-304), a citation also found in the second and third redactions of the commentary of Pietro di Dante, and also noted by Tommaseo. For other studies in English of this much studied simile see David J. Baker, “The Winter Simile in Inferno XXIV,” Dante Studies 92 (1974), pp. 77-91; George Economou, “Self-Consciousness of Poetic Activity in Dante and Langland,” in Vernacular Poetics in the Middle Ages, ed. Lois Ebin (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 1984), pp. 177-98; and Richard Lansing, From Image to Idea: A Study of the Simile in Dante's “Commedia” (Ravenna: Longo, 1977), pp. 74-80; for Dante's knowledge of the Georgics see Aristide Marigo, “Le Georgiche di Virgilio fonte di Dante,” Giornale dantesco 17 (1909), pp. 31-44.
The reference to Aquarius sets the time within the simile as winter, since the sun is in that constellation from 21 January to 21 February. And so the sun cools his 'locks' (its rays) in this season. For the short-lasting nature of hoarfrost see Lucan (Phars. IV.53) – a source perhaps first noted by Daniello (comm. to Inf. XXIV.6).
The sight of the ruina, the scree fallen at the Crucifixion, now gives Virgil hope: it is a way up and out of the bolgia. Catalano, unlike Malacoda, has given him valuable advice. For the ruina see the note to Inferno V.34.
The phrase 'people wearing leaden cloaks' obviously refers to the hypocrites whom we saw in the last canto.
The protagonist's physical difficulty, since unlike Virgil he must move his flesh and bones against the pull of gravity, is insisted on. The interplay between Virgil and Dante, now with roles reversed from Cantos XXI-XXIII (when Virgil was the one at a disadvantage) goes on for some time, through verse 60. It is in no way meant to make the reader believe, as did John Ruskin, in Modern Painters, that 'Dante was a notably bad climber' (in DDP, Ruskin to Inf. XII.2).
Once again (see the note to Inf. XIX.35) Dante insists that the far sides, or banks, of each bolgia are not as high as the ones encountered first, since the sloping floor of the Malebolge cuts down across each ditch.
The commentators are almost unanimous in taking Virgil's words at face value and as sound advice. See, for example, Chiavacci Leonardi (Inferno, con il commento di A. M. C. L. [Milan: Mondadori, 1991], pp. 712-13, who argues for earthly fame's 'double valence' in the poem'; she claims that it is sometimes an excusable aim (as here), sometimes a culpable one. Certainly the net effect of Virgil's appeal here is to get Dante moving upward in order to continue to the top of the ridge, whence he will be able to see into the next ditch as he continues his journey. Yet is it not strange that the motivation offered by Virgil is not the need to struggle onward toward the presence of God so much as it is the reward of earthly fame? Rossetti (comm. to vv. 43-51) was perhaps the first to observe the resonance of what has now become a standard citation for these verses, the entirely similar similes found in the book of Wisdom (Sap. 5:15): '... tanquam spuma gracilis quae a procella dispergitur, Et tanquam fumus qui a vento diffusus est' (like the insubstantial foam that is dispersed by the storm, like the smoke that is is dissipated by the wind). In Wisdom the comparisons are to the hopes of the impious man (as opposed to those of the just, whose thoughts are set on God [Sap. 5:16]). Narrowly construed, Virgil's words are those of the impious man who lodges his hopes in the most transitory of things – exactly what the poem will later establish as the true and fleeting nature of earthly fame (Purg. XI.91-93). Read in this light, Virgil's admonition culminates his series of errors in the three preceding cantos with what is not only potentially a more serious one, but one of which he himself had been guilty, taking the lesser good for the greater. If we were to imagine St. Thomas as guide here, we would expect his words to have been quite different. These observations reflect remarks made in a paper on this passage in November 1999 by a Princeton student, Daniel Cheely '03, the first reader of this passage known to this commentator to take into consideration the full force of its biblical source. For a similar understanding, see Margherita Frankel (“Dante's Anti-Virgilian villanello,” Dante Studies 102 [1984]), pp. 94-95, reading Virgil's inappropriate 'sermon' against the theologically correct view of the fleetingness and unimportance of earthly fame clearly expressed at Purgatorio XI.100-108. Beginning with Gregorio Di Siena (comm. to vv.49-51) commentators also cite another apposite text for these lines, Aeneid V.740, 'tenuis fugit ceu fumus in auras': it is the vision of Anchises that vanishes from Aeneas's sight 'like thin smoke into the air.'
Cantos XXI-XXIV thus include Virgil's most difficult moments as guide to the Christian underworld. The rest of the cantica is mainly without such unsettling behavior toward his master and author on the poet's part. But this will start up again in a series of moments that are difficult for Virgil in the early cantos of Purgatorio.
In a moment that will strike any one who is in fact a 'notably bad climber' (in the words of John Ruskin – see the note to vv. 32-36) with its aptness, the passage insists on Dante's effort to convince his guide that he is better furnished with breath than in fact he is.
These lines introduce a problem (who is speaking?) that will weave itself through the text until perhaps the eighteenth verse of the next canto. In a typically Dante-unfriendly gesture, Castelvetro objects that these lines are useless and never find a resolution. As we shall see, there may be a point to the interpretive exercise that Dante here invites the reader to join.
These twelve verses have no other point than to underline the intensity of Dante's curiosity about the identity of the speaker whose unintelligible voice he has just heard. It would be unlikely for him to have left his riddle unanswered. See the note to Inferno XXV.17-18.
Verse 69 has been the cause of much debate. Is the word in the text ire (as in Petrocchi's edition, meaning 'to go') or ira (wrath)? For a treatment of the problem see Hollander (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983]), pp. 27-49, offering a listing of the history of the commentary tradition (pp. 29-31) and concluding that the text originally read ira, as almost all the early commentators believed, with the major exception of Pietro di Dante (Pietro1 to vv. 65-69). For a countering view, see Ruggero Stefanini, “In nota a un commento,” Lectura Dantis [virginiana] 13 (1993), p. 85.
Once again, while not in agreement with it, we have preserved the letter of Petrocchi's text in our translation. Berthier, who opts for ira, cites St. Thomas to the effect that one of the five effects of wrath is precisely to cause in the furibond sinner 'clamor irrationabilis' (irrational cries), perhaps exactly what Dante has made out. See Berthier (comm. to XXIV.64-66). It also remains difficult to explain how one can hear, from a distance and in darkness, how a being is moved to getting into motion, while it is not at all difficult to hear, in precisely these circumstances, that a voice is moved by wrath.
The new prospect before Dante's eyes, once he is over the seventh bolgia, having descended from the bridge that connects to the eighth, completely absorbs his attention. The identity of the speaker, which he has been so eager to learn, is now forgotten – for a while.
Now begins the drama of the marvelous, what Milton might have called 'things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.' Many have commented upon the exuberance of Dante's treatment of the scene of the thieves. On the question of its perhaps problematic virtuosity of this and the next canto see Richard Terdiman, “Problematic Virtuosity: Dante's Depiction of the Thieves (Inferno XXIV-XXV),” Dante Studies 91 (1973), pp. 27-45; for a reply see Peter Hawkins, “Virtuosity and Virtue: Poetic Self-Reflection in the Commedia,” Dante Studies 98 (1980), pp. 1-18.
The serpents derive, as almost all commentators duly note, from the ninth book of Lucan's Pharsalia with its description of the Libyan desert, replete with them. They are all beyond the pale of any known zoology. For a catalogue of Lucanian serpentism see Benvenuto (comm. to XXIV.85-90). For the texts see Singleton (comm. to XXIV.86-87). And, for Dante's knowledge of Lucan more generally, see Ettore Paratore, “Lucano e Dante,” in his Antico e nuovo (Caltanissetta: Sciascia, 1965), pp. 165-210.
Dante adapts Lucan's somewhat unusual term for 'serpent' (pestis – which generally means 'plague') and now imagines as many deserts as he knows of containing still other improbable serpentine creatures.
The scene, with its inhabitants naked, afraid, and trying to hide, evokes, as Hollander has argued (“Ad ira parea mosso: God's Voice in the Garden,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], p. 34), the description of Adam and Eve hiding from God in the Garden of Eden after they have sinned (Genesis 3:9-10): 'Vocavitque Dominus Deus Adam, et dixit ei: “Ubi es?” Qui ait, “Vocem tuam audivi in paradiso et timui, eo quod nudus essem, et abscondi me”' (And the Lord God called Adam and asked, 'Where are you?' And Adam said, 'I heard your voice in the garden and I grew afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself'). Hollander goes on to examine nine more moments in this scene that reflect the 'primal scene' of thievery in Eden, including the parodic version of the fig leaves with which Adam and Eve covered their loins in (Genesis 3:7) found here in vv. 95-96. See also Rebecca Beal, “Dante among Thieves: Allegorical Soteriology in the Seventh Bolgia (Inferno XXIV and XXV),” Medievalia 9 (1983), pp. 103-5, for resonances of the Edenic scene in this passage.
The heliotrope was a stone that supposedly had the power to render its possessor invisible, as Boccaccio's Calandrino was urged to believe by his trickster friends (Decameron VIII.3). See Vincenzo Cioffari, “A Dante Note: Heliotropum,” Romanic Review 28 (1937), pp. 59-62
This figure, so rudely attacked, will turn out to be Vanni Fucci (v. 125).
Since the so-called Ottimo Commento (1333), commentators who have responded to this verse have agreed that these two letters are written most quickly because they are written in a single stroke. But do these two letters signify anything? For instance, are they a code for Dante's vaunt against Ovid (i.e., 'I [io] can portray metamorphosis even better than you')? Or do they represent the negation of Vanni's self (i.e., 'io' spelled backwards)? For an ingenious argument, extending this second hypothesis, see D. L. Darby Chapin, “IO and the Negative Apotheosis of Vanni Fucci,” Dante Studies 89 (1971), pp. 19-31, suggesting an Ovidian source. She argues that, when Io was transformed into a cow (Metam. I.646-650), medieval commentators represented her new hoof-print as made of the two letters of her name, the 'I' written inside the 'O' so as to represent the cleft in her newly formed hooves.
The reference to the phoenix is also Ovidian (Metam. XV.392-402). That rare bird was reputed to live 500 years and then to be reborn out of the ashes of its own perfumed funeral pyre. Christian exegetes thus easily took the phoenix as a symbol of Christ (see Rebecca Beal, “Dante among Thieves: Allegorical Soteriology in the Seventh Bolgia [Inferno XXIV and XXV],” Medievalia 9 [1983], pp. 105-7). Vanni, seen in this light, thus parodically enacts the death and resurrection of Christ.
The poet's exclamation is part of his presentation of himself not as a merely ingenious teller of fantastic tales, but as the scribe of God, only recording what he actually saw of God's just retaliation for sins performed against Him. See Romans 12:19, where Paul offers the words of God, 'Vengeance is mine; I shall repay,' a passage perhaps first cited in this context by Tommaseo (comm. to vv. 118-120).
Vanni Fucci's laconic self-identification tells us that he was an illegitimate son (of the Lazzari family of Pistoia) and insists upon his bestiality (some early commentators report that his nickname was 'Vanni the Beast'). He died sometime after 1295, when he apparently left Pistoia, and 1300 – although this is not certain.
Dante's response indicates that he had once known Vanni and thought of him as guilty of sins of violence, not necessarily those of fraud.
Vanni's shame and honest self-description give him a certain moral advantage over many of the dissembling sinners whom we meet. At the same time his wrathful character extends not only to self-hatred, but to hatred of others, as his ensuing harsh words for Dante will reveal (vv. 140-151). His character, so briefly etched, is that of a familiar enough figure, the embittered destroyer of any human bond. He is an equal-opportunity misanthrope.
The theft of sacred objects from the sacristy of the chapel of St. James in Pistoia – which caused an uproar when it occurred, ca. 1293-95 – was first not laid to his door and he indeed had left the city before his complicity was revealed by one of his confederates, soon afterwards put to death for his part in the crime. There is speculation that the eventual truth of Vanni's involvement was only discovered after 1300, yet in time for Dante to present it as 'news' here in his poem. Julia Holloway (“Brunetto Latino and Dante Alighieri: Stealing Hercules' Club [Inferno XXV's Metamorphoses]” [http://www.florin.ms/Lectura.html (2003 [1993])] has suggested that Vanni's theft of the silver-relief statues of the Virgin and the apostles from the treasury of the cathedral of Pistoia was seen by Dante as a latter-day version of the theft of the Palladium by Ulysses and Diomedes (Inf. XXVI.63).
Vanni's prophecy is the last of these 'personal prophecies' found in Inferno. There are nine of these in the Comedy. (See the note to Inf. VI.64-66.) He offers it as a form of revenge on Dante for having seen him in such distress.
The riddling expression of the language of prophecy is, at least for a contemporary of Vanni's and Dante's, for the most part not difficult to unravel. Pistoia's White Guelphs will drive out the Black party in 1301; Florence's Blacks will do the same in the same year to the Whites in that city (with one consequence being Dante's exile). In 1302 the Blacks of Pistoia, allied with Moroello Malaspina ('the headlong bolt'), will have their revenge upon the Whites, taking their stronghold at Serravalle. Some understand that Vanni also (or only) refers to the eventual Black victory over the Whites in Pistoia itself in 1306.
Vanni's acerbic ending, personalizing the prophecy as a way of making Dante grieve, is his tit-for-tat response for the grief that Dante has caused him by seeing him. He may be damned for thievery, but his party will be victorious, while Dante's will be roundly defeated.
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