For the first time, the pilgrim and Virgil descend a level of hell inside a canto of INFERNO. Or descend and see the full level—because we descended to the lustful and to Plutus without really seeing them in their rings. Here, we actually descend the level with the pilgrim and see the wrathful, the fifth circle of hell.

In fact, we see more than the wrathful: we see their two states, which are an infernal perversion of the medieval iconography of Leah and Rachel.

Join me, Mark Scarbrough, as we talk through notions of wrath from St. Thomas Aquinas (who got them from Aristotle), as well as the strange twists that happen to Virgil’s character in the final moments of Canto VII of INFERNO. This one’s the most fully circle we’ve seen, stocked with naturalistic detail. The poem is becoming more and more a sight for the (poetic) eyes!

Here’s my English translation of the INFERNO, Canto VII, Lines 97 - 130:

[Virgil says,] “Now let’s descend to even greater sorrow;

Those stars that were rising when I started out

Are falling now, and we must not stick around too long.”

 

We crossed the circle to its outer rim,

To a place where a boiling spring

Overflows and collects in a ditch to flow away.

 

The water was dark, more so than ink,

And we, going along beside its murky wave,

Went down by a fractured path.

 

Into this swamp, which is called Styx,

This miserable creek made its way

To the bottom of the evil, gray slope.

 

And I, with a fixed stare,

Saw a muddy people in that mess,

All of them naked and with looks of rage.

 

They were socking each other, not just with their hands,

But with their heads, their chests, even their feet—

They even tore each other limb from limb with their teeth.

 

My good master said, “Son, now you see

The souls of those overtaken with wrath.

And what’s more, I want you to believe for certain

 

“That under the water is a people who sigh

And make all those bubbles at its surface,

As you can see, wherever you turn your eyes.

 

“Stuck in the muck, they say, ‘We were so sad,

Even when the sun made the sweet air glad,

That we carried around our own acrid fog.

 

‘Now we croak like frogs in this black morass.’

They gargle their refrain deep in their throats

For they can’t speak complete words.”

 

In this way, we made a big arc around the gross pond,

Between the dry bank and the wet parts,

Our eyes on those who suck down the mud.

At last, we came to the foot of a tower.