Purgatory: Canto XXVIII. The Earthly Paradise
The Earthly Paradise.--The Forest.--A Lady
gathering flowers on the bank of a little stream.--Discourse with
her concerning the nature of the place.
Fain now to search within and round about the divine forest dense
and living, which tempered the new day to my eyes, without longer
waiting I left the bank, taking the level ground very slowly,
over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance. A sweet breeze
that had no variation in itself struck me on the brow, not with
heavier blow than a soft wind; at which the branches, readily
trembling, all of them were bending to the quarter where the holy
mountain casts its first shadow; yet not so far parted from their
straightness, that the little birds among the tops would leave
the practice of their every art; but with full joy singing they
received the early breezes among the leaves, which kept a burden
to their rhymes, such as gathers from bough to bough through the
pine forest upon the shore of Chiassi, when Aeolus lets forth
Sirocco.[1]
[1] The south-east wind.
Now had my show steps carried me within the ancient wood so far
that I could not see back to where I had entered it: and lo, a
stream took from me further progress, which toward the left with
its little waves was bending the grass that sprang upon its bank.
All the waters, that are purest on the earth, would seem to have
some mixture in them, compared with that which hides nothing,
although it moves along dusky under the perpetual shadow, which
never lets the sun or moon shine there.
With feet I stayed, and with my eyes I passed to the other side
of the streamlet, to gaze at the great variety of the fresh may;
and there appeared to me, even as a thing appears suddenly which
turns aside through wonder every other thought, a solitary lady,
who was going along, singing, and culling flower from flower,
wherewith all her path was painted. "Ah, fair Lady,[1] who
warmest thyself in the rays of love, if I may trust to looks
which are wont to be witnesses of the heart, may the will come to
thee," said I to her, "to draw forward toward this stream, so far
that I can understand what thou art singing. Thou makest me
remember where and what was Proserpine, at the time when her
mother lost her, and she the spring."
[1] This lady is the type of the life of virtuous activity. Her
name, as appears later, is Matilda. Why this name was chosen for
her, and whether she stands for any earthly personage, has been
the subject of vast and still open debate.
As a lady who is dancing turns with feet close to the ground and
to each other, and hardly sets foot before foot, she turned
herself on the red and on the yellow flowerets toward me, not
otherwise than a virgin who lowers her modest eyes, and made my
prayers content, approaching so that the sweet sound came to me
with its meaning. Soon as she was there where the grasses are now
bathed by the waves of the fair stream, she bestowed on me the
gift of lifting her eyes. I do not believe that so great a light
shone beneath the lids of Venus, transfixed by her son, beyond
all his custom. She was smiling upon the opposite right bank,
gathering with her hands more colors which that high land brings
forth without seed. The stream made us three paces apart; but the
Hellespont where Xerxes passed it--a curb still on all human
pride--endured not more hatred from Leander for swelling between
Sestos and Abydos, than that from me because it opened not then.
"Ye are new come," she began, "and, perchance, why I smile mu
this place chosen for human nature as its nest, some doubt holds
you marvelling; but the psalm 'Delectasti'[1] affords light which
may uncloud your understanding.And thou who art in front, and
didst pray to me, say, if else thou wouldst hear, for I came
ready for every question of thine, so far as may suffice." "The
water," said I, "and the sound of the forest, impugn within me
recent faith in something that I heard contrary to this." Whereon
she, "I will tell, how from its own cause proceeds that which
makes thee wonder; and I will clear away the mist which strikes
thee.
[1] Psalm xcii. 4. "Delectasti me, Domine, in factura tua, et in
operibus mannuum tuarum exultabo." "For thou, Lord, hast made me
glad through thy work; I will triumph in the works of thy hands."
"The supreme Good, which itself alone is pleasing to itself, made
man good, and for good, and gave this place for earnest to him of
eternal peace. Through his own default he dwelt here little
while; through his own default to tears and to toil he changed
honest laughter and sweet play. In order that the disturbance,
which the exhalations of the water and of the earth (which follow
so far as they can the heat) produce below, might not make any
war on man, this mountain rose so high toward heaven, and is free
from them from the point where it is locked in.[1] Now because
the whole air revolves in circuit with the primal revolution,[2]
if its circle be not broken by some projection, upon this height,
which is wholly disengaged in the living air, this motion
strikes, and makes the wood, since it is dense, resound; and the
plant being struck hath such power that with its virtue it
impregnates the breeze, and this then in its whirling scatters it
around: and the rest of the earth, according as it is fit in
itself, or through its sky, conceives and brings forth divers
trees of divers virtues. It should not seem a marvel then on
earth, this being heard, when some plant, without manifest seed,
there takes hold. And thou must know that the holy plain where
thou art is full of every seed, and has fruit in it which yonder
is not gathered. The water which thou seest rises not from a vein
restored by vapor which the frost condenses, like a stream that
gains and loses breath, but it issues from a fountain constant
and sure, which by the will of God regains as much as, open on
two sides, it pours forth. On this side it descends with virtue
that takes from one the memory of sin; on the other it restores
that of every good deed. Here Lethe, so on the other side Eunoe
it is called; and it works not if first it be not tasted on this
side and on that. To all other savors this is superior.
[1] Above the level of the gate through which Purgatory is
entered, as Statius has already explained (Canto XXI), the vapors
of earth do not rise.
[2] With the movement given to it by the motions of the heavens.
"And, though thy thirst may be fully sated even if I disclose no
more to thee, I will yet give thee a corollary for grace; nor do
I think my speech may be less dear to thee, if beyond promise
it enlarge itself with thee. Those who in ancient time told in
poesy of the Age of Gold, and of its happy state, perchance upon
Parnassus dreamed of this place: here was the root of mankind
innocent; here is always spring, and every fruit; this is the
nectar of which each tells."
I turned me back then wholly to my Poets, and saw that with a
smile they had heard the last sentence; then to the beautiful
Lady I turned my face.
gathering flowers on the bank of a little stream.--Discourse with
her concerning the nature of the place.
Fain now to search within and round about the divine forest dense
and living, which tempered the new day to my eyes, without longer
waiting I left the bank, taking the level ground very slowly,
over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance. A sweet breeze
that had no variation in itself struck me on the brow, not with
heavier blow than a soft wind; at which the branches, readily
trembling, all of them were bending to the quarter where the holy
mountain casts its first shadow; yet not so far parted from their
straightness, that the little birds among the tops would leave
the practice of their every art; but with full joy singing they
received the early breezes among the leaves, which kept a burden
to their rhymes, such as gathers from bough to bough through the
pine forest upon the shore of Chiassi, when Aeolus lets forth
Sirocco.[1]
[1] The south-east wind.
Now had my show steps carried me within the ancient wood so far
that I could not see back to where I had entered it: and lo, a
stream took from me further progress, which toward the left with
its little waves was bending the grass that sprang upon its bank.
All the waters, that are purest on the earth, would seem to have
some mixture in them, compared with that which hides nothing,
although it moves along dusky under the perpetual shadow, which
never lets the sun or moon shine there.
With feet I stayed, and with my eyes I passed to the other side
of the streamlet, to gaze at the great variety of the fresh may;
and there appeared to me, even as a thing appears suddenly which
turns aside through wonder every other thought, a solitary lady,
who was going along, singing, and culling flower from flower,
wherewith all her path was painted. "Ah, fair Lady,[1] who
warmest thyself in the rays of love, if I may trust to looks
which are wont to be witnesses of the heart, may the will come to
thee," said I to her, "to draw forward toward this stream, so far
that I can understand what thou art singing. Thou makest me
remember where and what was Proserpine, at the time when her
mother lost her, and she the spring."
[1] This lady is the type of the life of virtuous activity. Her
name, as appears later, is Matilda. Why this name was chosen for
her, and whether she stands for any earthly personage, has been
the subject of vast and still open debate.
As a lady who is dancing turns with feet close to the ground and
to each other, and hardly sets foot before foot, she turned
herself on the red and on the yellow flowerets toward me, not
otherwise than a virgin who lowers her modest eyes, and made my
prayers content, approaching so that the sweet sound came to me
with its meaning. Soon as she was there where the grasses are now
bathed by the waves of the fair stream, she bestowed on me the
gift of lifting her eyes. I do not believe that so great a light
shone beneath the lids of Venus, transfixed by her son, beyond
all his custom. She was smiling upon the opposite right bank,
gathering with her hands more colors which that high land brings
forth without seed. The stream made us three paces apart; but the
Hellespont where Xerxes passed it--a curb still on all human
pride--endured not more hatred from Leander for swelling between
Sestos and Abydos, than that from me because it opened not then.
"Ye are new come," she began, "and, perchance, why I smile mu
this place chosen for human nature as its nest, some doubt holds
you marvelling; but the psalm 'Delectasti'[1] affords light which
may uncloud your understanding.And thou who art in front, and
didst pray to me, say, if else thou wouldst hear, for I came
ready for every question of thine, so far as may suffice." "The
water," said I, "and the sound of the forest, impugn within me
recent faith in something that I heard contrary to this." Whereon
she, "I will tell, how from its own cause proceeds that which
makes thee wonder; and I will clear away the mist which strikes
thee.
[1] Psalm xcii. 4. "Delectasti me, Domine, in factura tua, et in
operibus mannuum tuarum exultabo." "For thou, Lord, hast made me
glad through thy work; I will triumph in the works of thy hands."
"The supreme Good, which itself alone is pleasing to itself, made
man good, and for good, and gave this place for earnest to him of
eternal peace. Through his own default he dwelt here little
while; through his own default to tears and to toil he changed
honest laughter and sweet play. In order that the disturbance,
which the exhalations of the water and of the earth (which follow
so far as they can the heat) produce below, might not make any
war on man, this mountain rose so high toward heaven, and is free
from them from the point where it is locked in.[1] Now because
the whole air revolves in circuit with the primal revolution,[2]
if its circle be not broken by some projection, upon this height,
which is wholly disengaged in the living air, this motion
strikes, and makes the wood, since it is dense, resound; and the
plant being struck hath such power that with its virtue it
impregnates the breeze, and this then in its whirling scatters it
around: and the rest of the earth, according as it is fit in
itself, or through its sky, conceives and brings forth divers
trees of divers virtues. It should not seem a marvel then on
earth, this being heard, when some plant, without manifest seed,
there takes hold. And thou must know that the holy plain where
thou art is full of every seed, and has fruit in it which yonder
is not gathered. The water which thou seest rises not from a vein
restored by vapor which the frost condenses, like a stream that
gains and loses breath, but it issues from a fountain constant
and sure, which by the will of God regains as much as, open on
two sides, it pours forth. On this side it descends with virtue
that takes from one the memory of sin; on the other it restores
that of every good deed. Here Lethe, so on the other side Eunoe
it is called; and it works not if first it be not tasted on this
side and on that. To all other savors this is superior.
[1] Above the level of the gate through which Purgatory is
entered, as Statius has already explained (Canto XXI), the vapors
of earth do not rise.
[2] With the movement given to it by the motions of the heavens.
"And, though thy thirst may be fully sated even if I disclose no
more to thee, I will yet give thee a corollary for grace; nor do
I think my speech may be less dear to thee, if beyond promise
it enlarge itself with thee. Those who in ancient time told in
poesy of the Age of Gold, and of its happy state, perchance upon
Parnassus dreamed of this place: here was the root of mankind
innocent; here is always spring, and every fruit; this is the
nectar of which each tells."
I turned me back then wholly to my Poets, and saw that with a
smile they had heard the last sentence; then to the beautiful
Lady I turned my face.
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