THE DIVINE COMEDY: Inferno, Purgatorio & Paradiso (3 Classic Translations in One Edition). Dante Alighieri
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СКАЧАТЬ what time in dreams

       The village gleaner oft pursues her toil,

       So, to where modest shame appears, thus low

       Blue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood,

       Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork.

       His face each downward held; their mouth the cold,

       Their eyes express'd the dolour of their heart.

       A space I look'd around, then at my feet

       Saw two so strictly join'd, that of their head

       The very hairs were mingled. "Tell me ye,

       Whose bosoms thus together press," said I,

       "Who are ye?" At that sound their necks they bent,

       And when their looks were lifted up to me,

       Straightway their eyes, before all moist within,

       Distill'd upon their lips, and the frost bound

       The tears betwixt those orbs and held them there.

       Plank unto plank hath never cramp clos'd up

       So stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats

       They clash'd together; them such fury seiz'd.

       And one, from whom the cold both ears had reft,

       Exclaim'd, still looking downward: "Why on us

       Dost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know

       Who are these two, the valley, whence his wave

       Bisenzio slopes, did for its master own

       Their sire Alberto, and next him themselves.

       They from one body issued; and throughout

       Caina thou mayst search, nor find a shade

       More worthy in congealment to be fix'd,

       Not him, whose breast and shadow Arthur's land

       At that one blow dissever'd, not Focaccia,

       No not this spirit, whose o'erjutting head

       Obstructs my onward view: he bore the name

       Of Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be,

       Well knowest who he was: and to cut short

       All further question, in my form behold

       What once was Camiccione. I await

       Carlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt

       Shall wash out mine." A thousand visages

       Then mark'd I, which the keen and eager cold

       Had shap'd into a doggish grin; whence creeps

       A shiv'ring horror o'er me, at the thought

       Of those frore shallows. While we journey'd on

       Toward the middle, at whose point unites

       All heavy substance, and I trembling went

       Through that eternal chillness, I know not

       If will it were or destiny, or chance,

       But, passing 'midst the heads, my foot did strike

       With violent blow against the face of one.

       "Wherefore dost bruise me?" weeping, he exclaim'd,

       "Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge

       For Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?"

       I thus: "Instructor, now await me here,

       That I through him may rid me of my doubt.

       Thenceforth what haste thou wilt." The teacher paus'd,

       And to that shade I spake, who bitterly

       Still curs'd me in his wrath. "What art thou, speak,

       That railest thus on others?" He replied:

       "Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks

       Through Antenora roamest, with such force

       As were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?"

       "And I am living, to thy joy perchance,"

       Was my reply, "if fame be dear to thee,

       That with the rest I may thy name enrol."

       "The contrary of what I covet most,"

       Said he, "thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more.

       Ill knowest thou to flatter in this vale."

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       Then seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried:

       "Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here."

       "Rend all away," he answer'd, "yet for that

       I will not tell nor show thee who I am,

       Though at my head thou pluck a thousand times."

       Now I had grasp'd his tresses, and stript off

       More than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes

       Drawn in and downward, when another cried,

       "What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough

       Thy chatt'ring teeth, but thou must bark outright?

       "What devil wrings thee?"—"Now," said I, "be dumb,

       Accursed traitor! to thy shame of thee

       True tidings will I bear."—"Off," he replied,

       "Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence

       To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib,

       Forget not: here he wails the Frenchman's gold.

       'Him of Duera,' thou canst say, 'I mark'd,

       Where the starv'd sinners pine.' If thou be ask'd

       What other shade was with them, at thy side

       Is Beccaria, whose red gorge distain'd

       The biting axe of Florence. Farther on,

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