The Portable Dante (40 page)

Then with his sword he traced upon my brow the scars of seven
P
‘s. “Once entered here, be sure you cleanse away these wounds, ” he said.

Ashes, or earth when it is dug up dry— this was the color of the robes he wore; he reached beneath them and drew out two keys.

One key was silver and the other gold; first he applied the white one, then the yellow— with that the gate responded to my wish.

“Whenever either one of these two keys fails to turn properly inside the lock, ” the angel said, “the road ahead stays closed.

One is more precious, but the other needs wisdom and skill before it will unlock, for it is that one which unties the knot.

I hold these keys from Peter, who advised: ’Admit too many, rather than too few, if they but cast themselves before your feet. ’ “

Then, pushing back the portal’s holy door, “Enter, ” he said to us, “but first be warned: to look back means to go back out again. ”

And then the pivots of that sacred gate, fashioned of heavy metal, resonant, turned slow inside their sockets. The rolling roar

was louder and more stubborn than Tarpeia’s, when it was robbed of vigilant Metellus— its treasury made lean from that time on.

And as the grating pivots rolled, I turned, for I heard chanting:
Te Deum laudamus
— accompanied by the sweet notes of that door.

This harmony of sounds made me recall just how it seems in church when we attend to people singing as the organ plays:

sometimes the words are heard, and sometimes lost.

When we had passed the threshold of the gate forever closed to souls whose loves are bad and make the crooked road seem like the straight,

I heard it close again, resoundingly; if I had turned to look back at the gate, how could I have explained this fault of mine?

Then we were climbing through a narrow cleft along a path that zigzagged through the rock the way a wave swells up and then pulls back.

“Now, we are at the point, ” my guide began, “where we must use our wits: when the path bends, we keep close to the far side of the curve. ”

This forced us into taking smaller steps, so that the waning moon had made its way to rest already in its bed, before

we finally squeezed through that needle’s eye. When we were free, once more out on the mount, where this recedes enough to form a ledge,

we stopped there on the level space that stretched lonelier than a desert path—I, tired, and both of us uncertain of the way.

From the plain’s edge, verging on empty space, to where the cliff-face soars again, was room for three men’s bodies laid out end to end;

as far as I could take in with my eyes, measuring carefully from left to right, this terrace did not vary in its width.

And standing there, before we took a step, I realized that all the inner cliff, which, rising sheer, offered no means to climb,

was pure white marble; on its flawless face were carvings that would surely put to shame not only Polyclete but Nature too.

The angel who came down to announce on earth the peace longed for by weeping centuries, which broke the ancient ban and opened Heaven,

appeared before our eyes: a shape alive, carved in an attitude of marble grace, an effigy that could have spoken words.

One would have sworn that he was saying “Ave!” for she who turned the key, opening for us the Highest Love, was also figured there;

the outlines of her image carved the words
Ecce ancilla Dei,
as clearly cut as is the imprint of a seal on wax.

“Why don’t you look at other parts as well?” my gentle master said, the while I stood close by his side, the side that holds the heart.

And so I turned my eyes and looked ahead past Mary’s figure to that point where he who prompted me now stood, and there I saw

another story cut into the stone; crossing in front of Virgil, I drew near, so that my eyes could take in all of it.

Carved in the spread of marble there, I saw the cart and oxen with the holy Ark: a warning not to exceed one’s competence.

Ahead of it moved seven separate choirs testing my senses: one of these said, “No, ” the other one said, “Yes, they truly sing!”

With equal art, the smoke which censers poured was traced so faithfully that eyes and nose could not decide between a “yes” or “no. ”

Ahead, and far beyond the sacred Ark, his robes girt up, the humble Psalmist danced, showing himself both more and less than king.

Depicted on the other side was Michal, as from a palace window she looked on, her face revealed her sadness and her scorn.

I moved away from that place to observe at closer range another story told in whiteness just beyond the face of Michal.

Here was retold the magnanimity of that great Prince of Rome whose excellence moved Gregory to win his greatest fight:

there rode the noble Trajan, Emperor, and clinging to his bridle as she wept a wretched widow, carved in lines of grief.

The trampled space surrounding him was packed with knights on horseback—eagles, flying high, threaded in gold of banners in the wind.

That poor widow amid the mass of shapes seemed to be saying: “Lord, avenge my son who has been killed; my heart is cut with grief. ”

He seemed to answer: “You will have to wait for my return. ” And she, like one impelled by frantic grief: “But, oh, my lord, if you

should not return?” And he: “Who takes my place will do it for me. ” She: “How can you let another’s virtue take the place of yours?”

Then he: “Take comfort, for I see I must perform my duty, now, before I leave: Justice so wills, and pity holds me here. ”

That One for Whom no new thing can exist fashioned this art of visible speech—so strange to us who do not know it here on earth.

As I stood there delighting in the sight of these august humilities displayed, dear to behold for their own Craftsman’s sake,

“See, over there, how slowly they approach, that crowd of souls, ” the Poet whispered to me, “they will direct us to the lofty stairs. ”

My eyes, intent on their admiring, were, nonetheless, not slow to turn toward him, for they are always eager for new sights.

But, Reader, when I tell you how God wills His penitents should pay their debts, do not abandon your intention to repent.

You must not think about the punishment, think but of what will come of it—at worst it cannot last beyond the Final Day.

“Master, what I see moving toward us there, ” I said, “do not seem to be shades at all; I don’t know what they are, my sight’s confused. ”

“The grievous nature of their punishment, ” he answered, “bends their bodies toward the ground; my own eyes were not sure of what they saw.

Try hard to disentangle all the parts of what you see moving beneath those stones. Can you see now how each one beats his breast?”

O haughty Christians, wretched, sluggish souls, all you whose inner vision is diseased, putting your trust in things that pull you back,

do you not understand that we are worms, each born to form the angelic butterfly, that flies defenseless to the Final Judge?

Why do your souls’ pretensions rise so high, since you are but defective insects still, worms as yet imperfectly evolved?

Sometimes one sees a corbel, holding the weight of roof or ceiling, carved in human shape with chest pressed tightly down against its knees,

so that this unreality gives real anguish to one who sees it—this is how these souls appeared, and how they made me feel.

True, some of them were more compressed, some less, as more or less weight pressed on each one’s back, but even the most patient of them all

“Our Father Who in Heaven dost abide, not there constrained but dwelling there because Thou lovest more Thy lofty first effects,

hallowed be Thy name, hallowed Thy Power, by Thy creatures as it behooves us all to render thanks for Thy sweet effluence.

Thy kingdom come to us with all its peace; if it come not, we of ourselves cannot attain to it, no matter how we strive.

And as Thine angels offer up their wills to Thee in sacrifice, singing Hosannah, let all men offer up to Thee their own.

Give us this day our daily manna, Lord: without it, those most eager to advance go backwards through this wild wasteland of ours.

As we forgive our trespassers, do Thou, forgive our trespasses, merciful Lord, look not upon our undeserving worth.

Our strength is only weakness, lead us not into temptation by our ancient foe: deliver us from him who urges evil.

This last request, beloved Lord, we make not for ourselves, who know we have no need, but for those souls who still remain behind. ”