Question:Imagine you are producing a scene from Dantes?Inferno?for stage or film (or any other medium you like). How would yo

FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, JANUARY 2002

Copyright © 2000 by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a

division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally

published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2000.

Anchor Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday edition as follows:

Dante Aligheri, 1265–1321 [Inferno. English]

The Inferno / Dante Aligheri; translated by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander; introduction & notes by Robert Hollander.

p.  cm. ISBN 0-385-49697-4

Includes bibliographical references and index. I. Hollander, Robert. II. Hollander, Jean. III. Title.

PQ4315.2 .H65 2000 851’.1—dc21 00-034531

eISBN: 978-0-345-80310-8

Author photograph of Robert Hollander by Pryde Brown Cover painting: Hell and Fall of the Damned by Hieronymus Bosch

© Scala/Art Resource, NY Cover design by Mark Melnick

Book design by Pei Loi Koay Map design by Je�rey L. Ward

www.anchorbooks.com

v3.1

for

Francesco,

Maria Grazia,

Stefano,

Simonetta,

Enrico,

& Tommaso

Contents

Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Note on Using This eBook Note on the Translation Table of Abbreviations and List of Commentators Map of Dante’s Hell Introduction

The Inferno: English INFERNO I INFERNO II INFERNO III INFERNO IV INFERNO V INFERNO VI INFERNO VII INFERNO VIII INFERNO IX INFERNO X INFERNO XI INFERNO XII INFERNO XIII INFERNO XIV INFERNO XV INFERNO XVI INFERNO XVII INFERNO XVIII INFERNO XIX INFERNO XX

INFERNO XXI INFERNO XXII INFERNO XXIII INFERNO XXIV INFERNO XXV INFERNO XXVI INFERNO XXVII INFERNO XXVIII INFERNO XXIX INFERNO XXX INFERNO XXXI INFERNO XXXII INFERNO XXXIII INFERNO XXXIV

The Inferno: Italian INFERNO I INFERNO II INFERNO III INFERNO IV INFERNO V INFERNO VI INFERNO VII INFERNO VIII INFERNO IX INFERNO X INFERNO XI INFERNO XII INFERNO XIII INFERNO XIV INFERNO XV INFERNO XVI INFERNO XVII INFERNO XVIII INFERNO XIX

INFERNO XX INFERNO XXI INFERNO XXII INFERNO XXIII INFERNO XXIV INFERNO XXV INFERNO XXVI INFERNO XXVII INFERNO XXVIII INFERNO XXIX INFERNO XXX INFERNO XXXI INFERNO XXXII INFERNO XXXIII INFERNO XXXIV

Notes Index of Names and Places Index of Subjects Treated in the Notes List of Works Cited About the Translators Other Books by Robert and Jean Hollander Acclaim for This Book

A Note on Using This eBook

In this eBook edition of The Inferno, you will �nd two types of hyperlinks.

The �rst type is embedded in the line numbers to the left of the text: these links allow you to click back and forth between the English translation and the original Italian text while still holding your place.

The second type of link, which is indicated by an arrow (→) at the end of a line of poetry, will bring you to an explanatory note.

You can click on an arrow to navigate to the appropriate note; you can then use the links at the end of each note to return to your location in either the English translation or the original Italian text. You can also click on the note number to return to your location in the English translation.

NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION

“Reader, this is an honest book.” Montaigne says this of his Essays. We would like to say the same of this translation. We have tried to bring Dante into our English without being led into the temptation of making the translation sound better than the original allows. The result may be judged by all who know him in his own idiom. This is not Dante, but an approximation of what he might authorize had he been looking over our shoulders, listening to our at times ferocious arguments. We could go on improving this e�ort as long as we live. We hope that as much as we have accomplished will �nd an understanding ear and heart among those who know the real thing. Every translation begins and ends in failure. To the degree that we have been able to preserve some of the beauty and power of the original, we have failed the less.

The accuracy of the translation from the Italian text established by Giorgio Petrocchi (1966–67) has been primarily my responsibility, its sound as English verse primarily that of the poet Jean Hollander, my wife and collaborator. As will be clear from various notes in the text, I am not always in accord with Petrocchi’s readings; however, I thought it imperative to use as the base of this entire project the current standard Italian text of the work, indicating my occasional desire to diverge from it only in its margins. My original intention was to reproduce the John D. Sinclair translation (1939) of Inferno, cleaning up its just barely post-Victorian “thee”s and “thou”s and other such, to a twenty-�rst- century ear, outdated usages. However, (a) di�erences between the Italian in the Società Dantesca Italiana (1921) edition, from which Sinclair translated, and Petrocchi’s edition, (b) later “corrections” of Sinclair’s version by a later translator, Charles Singleton, (c) further study of Dante’s lines themselves, (d) a sense of ways in which a

prose translation eventually fails to be “sayable”—all of these considerations led us to attempt a new verse translation of the �rst cantica, despite our original debt to Sinclair.

Those who come to our text familiar with the Singleton translation (1970) will perhaps think that it is its resonance that they occasionally hear; this is because a tremendous amount of Singleton’s translation conforms word-for-word to Sinclair’s, as anyone may see simply by opening the two volumes side by side. Thus, having decided to begin with Sinclair and to modify him, we found that Singleton had apparently done essentially the same thing. To his credit, his changes are usually for the better; to his blame is his failure to acknowledge the frequency of his exact coincidence with Sinclair. And thus, on his own advice, we have considered it “a mistake  …  not to let the e�orts of one’s predecessors contribute to one’s own” (page 372), and have on occasion included his divergences from Sinclair when we found them just. However, let there be no mistake: the reason our translation seems to re�ect Singleton’s, to the extent that it does, is that ours, on occasion, and Singleton’s, almost always, are both deeply indebted to Sinclair.

In February 1997, when my wife and I decided to commit ourselves to this e�ort, we were able to consult the draft of a verse translation of Inferno composed by Patrick Creagh and me (begun in 1984 and abandoned in 1988, with some 80 percent of the work Englished). Some of its phrases have found their way to our text, and we owe a considerable debt to Patrick Creagh (and to my earlier self), which we are glad to acknowledge. We also owe a debt to the prose paraphrases of di�cult Italian passages found in the still helpful English commentary by the Rev. Dr. H. F. Tozer (1901); and to glosses gleaned from various Italian commentaries (most particularly, in the early cantos, those of Francesco Mazzoni [1965– 85], but also to the interpretive paraphrases found in the Bosco/Reggio commentary [1979]). We decided early on that we would not consult contemporary verse translations until after we had �nished our work, so as to keep other voices out of our ears.

Several friends and colleagues have helped us in our task. Lauren Scancarelli Seem, administrative coordinator of the Princeton Dante Project, was our �rst reader, making a number of suggestions for changes. Margherita Frankel, a veteran Dantist as well as a good friend, gave us a close reading and made many valuable criticisms to which we have attended. The poet Frederick Tibbetts lent us his exacting ear and made dozens of helpful suggestions. Lino Pertile, the Dante scholar at Harvard University, also combed through our text and made a number of helpful suggestions. The paperback edition bene�tted from the eagle eye of Peter D’Epiro, who caught a number of slips that have been corrected in this printing. Our greatest debt is to Robert Fagles, who went through this translation verse by verse and made many hundreds of comments in our margins. To have had such attentive advice from the most favored translator of Homer of our day has been our extraordinary fortune and pleasure.

Our goal has been to o�er a clear translation, even of unclear passages. We have also tried to be as compact as possible—not an easy task, either. It is our hope that the reader will �nd this translation a helpful bridge to the untranslatable magni�cence of Dante’s poem.

February 1997 (Florence)–February 1998 (Tortola)

For this reprinting of the Anchor Books edition, we have made about one hundred and �fty changes in the translation, mainly a�ecting phrasing and punctuation. There are also some �ve or six changes in the notes.

November 2010 (Hopewell)

TABLE OF ABBREVIATIONS & LIST OF COMMENTATORS

1.  Dante’s works:

Conv. Convivio

Dve De vulgari eloquentia

Egl. Egloghe

Epist. Epistole

Inf. Inferno

Mon. Monarchia

Par. Paradiso

Purg. Purgatorio

Quest. Questio de aqua et terra

Rime Rime

Rime dub. Rime dubbie

VN Vita nuova

Detto Il Detto d’Amore (“attributable to Dante”)

Fiore Il Fiore (“attributable to Dante”)

2.    Commentators on the Commedia (these texts are all either currently available or, in the case of Landino, Bennassuti, and Provenzal, should one day be available, in the database known as

the Dartmouth Dante Project; dates, particularly of the early commentators, are often approximate):

Jacopo Alighieri (1322) (Inferno only) L’anonimo lombardo (1322) (Latin) (Purgatorio only)

Graziolo de’ Bambaglioli (1324) (Latin) (Inferno only) Jacopo della Lana (1324) Guido da Pisa (1327) (Latin) (Inferno only) L’Ottimo (1333) L’anonimo selmiano (1337) (Inferno only) Pietro di Dante (1340) (Latin) [also Inferno of 2nd & 3rd redactions] Il codice cassinese (1350?) (Latin) Giovanni Boccaccio (1373) (Inferno I–XVII only) Benvenuto da Imola (1380) (Latin) Francesco da Buti (1385) L’anonimo �orentino (1400) Giovanni da Serravalle (1416) (Latin) Guiniforto Barzizza (1440) (Inferno only) *Cristoforo Landino (1481) Alessandro Vellutello (1544) Bernardino Daniello (1568) Lodovico Castelvetro (1570) (Inferno I–XXIX only) Pompeo Venturi (1732) Baldassare Lombardi (1791) Luigi Portirelli (1804) Paolo Costa (1819) Gabriele Rossetti (1826–40) (Inferno & Purgatorio only) Niccolò Tommaseo (1837) Ra�aello Andreoli (1856) *Luigi Bennassuti (1864) Henry W. Longfellow (1867) (English) Gregorio Di Siena (1867) (Inferno only) Brunone Bianchi (1868) G. A. Scartazzini (1874; but the 2nd ed. of 1900 is used) Giuseppe Campi (1888) Gioachino Berthier (1892)

Giacomo Poletto (1894) H. Oelsner (1899) (English) H. F. Tozer (1901) (English) John Ruskin (1903) (English; not in fact a “commentary”) John S. Carroll (1904) (English) Francesco Torraca (1905) C. H. Grandgent (1909) (English) Enrico Mestica (1921) Casini-Barbi (1921) Carlo Steiner (1921) Isidoro Del Lungo (1926) Scartazzini-Vandelli (1929) Carlo Grabher (1934) Ernesto Trucchi (1936) *Dino Provenzal (1938) Luigi Pietrobono (1946) Attilio Momigliano (1946) Manfredi Porena (1946) Natalino Sapegno (1955) Daniele Mattalia (1960) Siro A. Chimenz (1962) Giovanni Fallani (1965) Giorgio Padoan (1967) (Inferno I–VIII only) Giuseppe Giacalone (1968) Charles Singleton (1970) (English) Bosco-Reggio (1979) Pasquini-Quaglio (1982)

*Not yet available

NB: All references to other works (e.g., Mazz.1967.1) are keyed to the List of Works Cited at the back of this volume, with the exception of references to commentaries contained in the Dartmouth Dante Project database, accessible online (telnet library.dartmouth.edu; at the prompt type: connect dante). Informational notes derived from Paget Toynbee’s Concise Dante

Dictionary of Proper Names and Notable Matters in the Works of Dante (Oxford: Clarendon, 1914) are followed by the siglum (T). References to the Enciclopedia dantesca, 6 vols. (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1970–78) are indicated by the abbreviation ED. Commentaries by Robert Hollander are (at times) shorter versions of materials found in the Princeton Dante Project, a multimedia edition of the Commedia currently including most materials relevant to Inferno (the last two cantiche are under development). Subscription (without charge to the user) is possible at www.princeton.edu/dante.

Click here for a larger version of this image

Click here for a larger version of this image

INTRODUCTION

What is a “great book”? It is probably impossible to de�ne the concept analytically to anyone’s satisfaction, but it may be described pragmatically: a work that is loved, over time, by millions of more- or-less ordinary readers and by thousands of scholars. Dante, by the time he was writing the fourth canto of Inferno, had already decided he was writing such a book. He sets his name down as one of the six all-time great writers: only Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and Lucan have preceded him (he will later add Statius). Unspeakably self- assured as this poet may seem, many today would now shorten that list, perhaps even to two: Homer and Dante. His self-con�dence may seem overweening, but he was even more of a prophet than he realized.

In about 1306, having entered his forties, he set about work on his Comedy. By 1295 he had written a “little book” (the nomenclature is his own), The New Life, thirty-one of his lyric poems surrounded by a governing prose commentary that almost explains the eventual meaning of his love for a young woman of Florence named Beatrice, who had died in 1290 at the age of twenty-�ve. We know nothing absolutely certain about her, whether she was an actual woman (if so, probably a member of the Portinari family, and then almost certainly married) or whether she is a �ctitious lady of the sort that love-poets invented in order to have a subject to write about. The text, on the other hand, makes it clear that we are to treat her as historical, and also suggests that we are to understand that she means more than she seems, for she is ineluctably joined with the Trinity, and in particular with the life of Christ. Dante seems completely aware of the radical newness of a lady loaded with such lofty theological meaning in the tradition of vernacular poetry of love. That is, he knows that what he is proposing is out of

bounds. And this is why he is usually so very di�dent in his remarks, forcing us to draw some rather disquieting conclusions about the nature of the very special kind of love that eventually informs his praise of Beatrice.

Before he began work on his “theological epic,” the Comedy, he had also written major parts of two other works, one a presentation of his ideas about eloquence in the vernacular, De vulgari eloquentia, the second, Convivio, a lengthy study of moral philosophy (in the form of commentary to his own odes), of which he had completed four of the projected �fteen “treatises.” He had been actively involved in the often bitterly contested political life of Florence, at that time one of the most important European cities, swollen with new wealth and consequent political power. At a time when that city had only six of them, he served the customary two-month term as one of its priors, the highest political o�ce in the city. By 1302, having inherited the wrong political identity, he lost practically everything when his party, the White Guelph faction, was outfoxed by the Black Guelphs, supported by the allied forces of Pope Boniface VIII and the French king. He was exiled in 1302 and never returned home again. He then lived a mainly itinerant life in northern Italy, with two longish stays in Verona and a �nal one in Ravenna, where he died of malarial fever in September 1321 at the age of �fty-six.

The political situation of northern Italy during his lifetime was distinguished by factionalism and chaos. The emperors who were supposed to govern all of Europe had, for centuries, mainly avoided their Italian responsibilities. The last of them to rule in Italy was Frederick II (we hear of him in Inferno X and XIII), and he, while one of the greatest �gures in Europe, was not a leader to Dante’s liking. Dead in 1250, Frederick was the last emperor to govern from Italy. Dante hoped for an imperial restoration of the proper kind, and, to everyone’s amazement, including his own, had his hopes rewarded when the newly crowned Henry VII, a compromise candidate from Luxembourg, allowed to become emperor primarily because of the machinations of Pope Clement V, descended into the peninsula to rule Europe from Italy in 1310. When his military

expedition eventually failed because of his death in 1313, Dante’s imperial hopes were dealt a terrible blow, but not �nally dashed. To the end of his days (and in the text of Paradiso XXVII and XXX) he insisted on believing that a new “Augustus” would ful�ll God’s design for Italy and Europe.

On the local level, late-thirteenth-century northern Italy (Milano, to the north, and Rome, to the south, are barely on Dante’s personal political map; rather we hear, in addition to Florence, of such cities as Genoa, Pisa, Pistoia, Siena, etc.) was in constant turmoil. The two main “parties” were the Guelphs (those essentially allied with the papacy) and the Ghibellines (aligned with the emperor—when there was one to be aligned with—or at least with imperial hopes). But most politics, as they are in our own time, were local. And there, labels did not count so much as family. In Florence the Ghibellines had been defeated and banished in 1266, a year after Dante’s birth, leaving the city entirely Guelph. But that did not betoken an era of unity. The Guelphs themselves were already divided (as they were in many northern cities) in two factions, the “Blacks,” led by the Donati family (into a less powerful branch of which Dante married), and the “Whites,” led by the Cerchi. (It is probably correct to say that the Whites were more devoted to a republican notion of governance, while the Blacks were more authoritarian.) The �rst impetus toward political division had occurred early in the century, when a young man, member of a Ghibelline family, broke o� his engagement and married a Guelph Donati (in Pistoia, not entirely dissimilarly, the roots of division supposedly began in a snowball �ght). A member of a White Guelph family, and having married into the most important Black family, Dante was therefore tied to Guelph interests. How then, do we explain his patent allegiance, in the Comedy, to the imperial cause? In 1306 or so he seems to have, rereading the Latin classics, reformulated his own political vision (as is �rst evident in the fourth and �fth chapters of the last treatise of the Convivio, before which there is not a clear imperialist sentiment to be found in his writing). And so, nominally a Guelph, Dante was far more in accord with Ghibelline ideas, except that, in practice, he found Ghibellines lacking in the religious vision that he personally

saw as the foundation of any imperialist program. Politics are everywhere in the poem, which is far from being the purely religious text that some of its readers take it for.

In his exile, the Commedia (�rst called the Divina Commedia only in 1555 by a Venetian publisher) became his obsession. For about �fteen years, with few exceptions (a notable one being his treatise, Monarchia, concerning the divine prerogatives of the empire, perhaps composed in 1317), the poem absorbed almost all of his time and energy. Its “motivating idea” is a simple one, outrageously so. In the Easter period of 1300 a thirty-�ve-year-old Florentine, struggling with failure and apparently spiritual death, is rescued by the shade of the Roman poet Virgil. He, won to the project by the living soul of Beatrice, who descends to hell from her seat in heaven in order to enlist his aid, agrees to lead Dante on a journey through hell and purgatory. Beatrice herself will again descend from heaven to take Dante the rest of the way, through the nine heavenly spheres and into paradise, where angels and souls in bliss gaze, in endless rapture, on God. The entire journey takes nearly precisely one week, Thursday evening to Thursday evening. It begins in fear and trembling on this earth and ends with a joyous vision of the trinitarian God. It is perhaps di�cult to imagine how even a Dante could have managed to build so magni�cent an edi�ce out of so improbable a literary idea. The result was a book that began to be talked about, known from parts that seem to have circulated before the whole, even before it was �nished (�rst citations begin to be noted around 1315). By the time he had completed it, shortly before his death, people were eagerly awaiting the publication of Paradiso. And within months of his death (or even before) commentaries upon it began to be produced. It was, in short, an instant “great book,” probably the �rst of its kind since the last century of the pagan era, when Romans (no less of them than Augustus himself) awaited eagerly the �nished text of Virgil’s Aeneid.

One of the most striking things about the Comedy is the enormous apparatus that has attached itself to it. No secular work in the western tradition has so developed a heritage of line-by-line commentary, one that began in Latin and Italian and that has now

entered any number of languages, European, Slavic, and Asian. It is clear that Dante’s work convinced the scholars of his time that this was a poem worthy of the most serious attention, both as a purveyor of the most important ideas of Christianity (e.g., sin, grace, redemption, transcendence) and as a response to the greatest of the Latin poets (Virgil foremost, but also Ovid, Statius, Lucan, and others) and philosophers (Aristotle [in his Arabic/Latin form] and Cicero, primarily). Knowledge of Greek had essentially disappeared from the time of the establishment of Latin Christianity as the dominant religion and culture of the West in the �fth and sixth centuries. The study of the language would only gradually begin again some �fty years after Dante’s death. And thus while Dante knows about Greek philosophy, all he has experienced of it comes from the works (most of Aristotle) and bits and pieces (only one work of Plato’s, the Timaeus, and excerpts of some of the pre- Socratics) that had been translated into Latin. Strangely, for a modern reader, his �rst commentators pay little or no attention to his close and fairly extensive dealings with the poems of his vernacular predecessors and co-practitioners (Guido Guinizzelli, Arnaut Daniel, Brunetto Latini, Guido Cavalcanti, Cino da Pistoia, and others). Perhaps the most impressive aspect of these commentaries (and we are speaking of line-by-line analyses, on the model of commentary to the Bible or to a handful of especially respected classical authors, a form essentially denied to modern writers before 1300) is the vast number of them. From the �rst twenty years after Dante’s death at least ten have survived; by our own time there are hundreds.

Along with conquering the allegiance of scholars, Dante won the hearts of less-erudite Italians (or, at �rst, Tuscans) who found in his vast poem the �rst use of Italian as a literary language in an indisputably major work. Italian poetry, beginning at the time of St. Francis in the early twelfth century, had performed wonders, but it had rarely found a subject that seemed serious enough. Here was a poem that tackled everything: theology, religion, philosophy, politics, the sciences of heaven (astronomy/astrology) and of earth (biology, geology), and, perhaps most of all, the study of human

behavior. And it did all these things in a language that everyone could understand, or at least thought he could. It is probably not true to suggest that Dante “invented modern Italian.” What he did do was to deploy Italian as a literary language on a major scale, incorporating the “serious” subjects that had hitherto been reserved to Latin. If the Italian language had been waiting for a voice, Dante gave it that voice. Before him it did not exist in a global form, a complete language �t for all subjects; after him it did. It is probably not because of him that Italian has changed no more between his time and today than English has since Shakespeare’s day. It is, nonetheless, a continuing surprise and reward for contemporary Italians to have so ancient and yet so approachable a father, speaking, at least most of the time, words that they themselves use (and sometimes that he had invented).

Is Dante an “easy” poet? That depends on what passages we happen to be reading. He can be as simple and straightforward as one’s country neighbor, or as convoluted as the most arcane professor. (Boccaccio, one of his greatest advocates, also shows both proclivities in the prose of the Decameron.) Yet he has always found a welcome from the least schooled of readers, and even from those who could not read at all, but learned the poem by rote. A living Tuscan farmer/poet, Mauro Punzecchi, years ago memorized the poem while he worked his �elds and is today able to recite all of it. Who does not envy him his gift?

Each of us reads his own Commedia, which makes perfect sense, most of the time. It is only when we try to explain “our” poem to someone else that the trouble starts.

The commentary that accompanies this new translation is, like every one that has preceded it, except the �rst few, indebted to earlier discussions of this text. And what of that text, as Dante left it? No one has ever seen his autograph version. As a result, the manuscript tradition of the poem is vast and complicated. Nonetheless, and despite all the di�culties presented by particular textual problems, the result of variant readings in various manuscripts, it must be acknowledged that in the Comedy we have a remarkably stable text, given the facts that we do not possess an

autograph and that the condition of the manuscripts is so unyieldingly problematic. However, we do know that Dante left us precisely 14,233 verses arranged in one hundred cantos, all of which contained precisely the number of verses we �nd in them today in every modern edition. And that is no small thing.

And so each reader comes to a text that o�ers some problems of the textual variety; these pale beside problems of interpretation. What we can all agree on is that the work is a wonder to behold. Reading Dante is like listening to Bach. It is unimaginable to think that a human being, so many years ago (or indeed ever), could make such superhuman magic. Yet there it is, beckoning, but also refusing to yield some of its secrets.

When I considered how I might present this poem in a brief introduction, after years of thinking about it and teaching it and writing about it, I thought of what I myself missed when I started reading Dante. The �rst was a sense of Dante’s intellectual biography; the second was a set of answers to a series of questions: how does allegory work (i.e., how does this poem “mean”)? What does Virgil represent and why is he the �rst guide in the poem? How am I supposed to react to the sinners of Inferno, especially those that seem so sympathetic to me? The �rst subject is too vast for treatment here. My own attempt at an intellectual biography of the poet is available in Italian (Dante Alighieri, Rome, Editalia, 2000; an English version was published by Yale University Press in 2001). The three questions I have tried to answer, both in the “Lectures” found currently in the Princeton Dante Project, and, in shorter form, in an essay I wrote a year ago (“Dante: A Party of One,” First Things 92 [April 1999]: 30–35; the essay on Virgil also has some points in common with my article, “Virgil,” in the Dante Encyclopedia, ed. Richard Lansing, New York, Garland, 2000). What follows is another attempt to deal with three important matters facing any �rst-time reader of the poem, or any reader at all.

(1)  Allegory. When I was young I was taught that Dante’s poem was the very essence of allegorical writing. What exactly is allegory? Simply put,

it is the interpretive strategy of understanding one thing as meaning not itself but something other. A lady, blindfolded, holding a pair of scales in one …