Non era ancor di là Nesso arrivato,
quando noi ci mettemmo per un bosco
che da neun sentiero era segnato.
Non fronda verde, ma di color fosco;
non rami schietti, ma nodosi e 'nvolti;
non pomi v'eran, ma stecchi con tòsco.
Non han sì aspri sterpi né sì folti
quelle fiere selvagge che 'n odio hanno
tra Cecina e Corneto i luoghi cólti.
Quivi le brutte Arpie lor nidi fanno,
che cacciar de le Strofade i Troiani
con tristo annunzio di futuro danno.
Ali hanno late, e colli e visi umani,
piè con artigli, e pennuto 'l gran ventre;
fanno lamenti in su li alberi strani.
E 'l buon maestro “Prima che più entre,
sappi che se' nel secondo girone,”
mi cominciò a dire, “e sarai mentre
che tu verrai ne l'orribil sabbione.
Però riguarda ben; sì vederai
cose che torrien fede al mio sermone.”
Io sentia d'ogne parte trarre guai
e non vedea persona che 'l facesse;
per ch'io tutto smarrito m'arrestai.
Cred' ïo ch'ei credette ch'io credesse
che tante voci uscisser, tra quei bronchi,
da gente che per noi si nascondesse.
Però disse 'l maestro: “Se tu tronchi
qualche fraschetta d'una d'este piante,
li pensier c'hai si faran tutti monchi.”
Allor porsi la mano un poco avante
e colsi un ramicel da un gran pruno;
e 'l tronco suo gridò: “Perché mi schiante?”
Da che fatto fu poi di sangue bruno,
ricominciò a dir: “Perché mi scerpi?
non hai tu spirto di pietade alcuno?
Uomini fummo, e or siam fatti sterpi:
ben dovrebb' esser la tua man più pia,
se state fossimo anime di serpi.”
Come d'un stizzo verde ch'arso sia
da l'un de' capi, che da l'altro geme
e cigola per vento che va via,
sì de la scheggia rotta usciva insieme
parole e sangue; ond' io lasciai la cima
cadere, e stetti come l'uom che teme.
“S'elli avesse potuto creder prima,”
rispuose 'l savio mio, “anima lesa,
ciò c'ha veduto pur con la mia rima,
non averebbe in te la man distesa;
ma la cosa incredibile mi fece
indurlo ad ovra ch'a me stesso pesa.
Ma dilli chi tu fosti, si che 'n vece
d'alcun' ammenda tua fama rinfreschi
nel mondo sù, dove tornar li lece.”
E 'l tronco: “Si col dolce dir m'adeschi,
ch'i' non posso tacere; e voi non gravi
perch' ïo un poco a ragionar m'inveschi.
Io son colui che tenni ambo le chiavi
del cor di Federigo, e che le volsi,
serrando e diserrando, sì soavi,
che dal secreto suo quasi ogn' uom tolsi;
fede portai al glorïoso offizio,
tanto ch'i' ne perde' li sonni e ' polsi.
La meretrice che mai da l'ospizio
di Cesare non torse li occhi putti,
morte comune e de le corti vizio,
infiammò contra me li animi tutti;
e li 'nfiammati infiammar sì Augusto,
che ' lieti onor tornaro in tristi lutti.
L'animo mio, per disdegnoso gusto,
credendo col morir fuggir disdegno,
ingiusto fece me contra me giusto.
Per le nove radici d'esto legno
vi giuro che già mai non ruppi fede
al mio segnor, che fu d'onor sì degno.
E se di voi alcun nel mondo riede,
conforti la memoria mia, che giace
ancor del colpo che 'nvidia le diede.”
Un poco attese, e poi “Da ch'el si tace,”
disse 'l poeta a me, “non perder l'ora;
ma parla, e chiedi a lui, se più ti piace.”
Ond' ïo a lui: “Domandal tu ancora
di quel che credi ch'a me satisfaccia;
ch'i' non potrei, tanta pietà m'accora.”
Perciò ricominciò: “Se l'om ti faccia
liberamente ciò che 'l tuo dir priega,
spirito incarcerato, ancor ti piaccia
di dirne come l'anima si lega
in questi nocchi; e dinne, se tu puoi,
s'alcuna mai di tai membra si spiega.”
Allor soffiò il tronco forte, e poi
si convertì quel vento in cotal voce:
“Brievemente sarà risposto a voi.
Quando si parte l'anima feroce
dal corpo ond' ella stessa s'è disvelta,
Minòs la manda a la settima foce.
Cade in la selva, e non l'è parte scelta;
ma là dove fortuna la balestra,
quivi germoglia come gran di spelta.
Surge in vermena e in pianta silvestra:
l'Arpie, pascendo poi de le sue foglie,
fanno dolore, e al dolor fenestra.
Come l'altre verrem per nostre spoglie,
ma non però ch'alcuna sen rivesta,
ché non è giusto aver ciò ch'om si toglie.
Qui le strascineremo, e per la mesta
selva saranno i nostri corpi appesi,
ciascuno al prun de l'ombra sua molesta.”
Noi eravamo ancora al tronco attesi,
credendo ch'altro ne volesse dire,
quando noi fummo d'un romor sorpresi,
similemente a colui che venire
sente 'l porco e la caccia a la sua posta,
ch'ode le bestie, e le frasche stormire.
Ed ecco due da la sinistra costa,
nudi e graffiati, fuggendo si forte,
che de la selva rompieno ogne rosta.
Quel dinanzi: “Or accorri, accorri, morte!”
E l'altro, cui pareva tardar troppo,
gridava: “Lano, sì non furo accorte
le gambe tue a le giostre dal Toppo!”
E poi che forse li fallia la lena,
di sé e d'un cespuglio fece un groppo.
Di rietro a loro era la selva piena
di nere cagne, bramose e correnti
come veltri ch'uscisser di catena.
In quel che s'appiattò miser li denti,
e quel dilaceraro a brano a brano;
poi sen portar quelle membra dolenti.
Presemi allor la mia scorta per mano,
e menommi al cespuglio che piangea
per le rotture sanguinenti in vano.
“O Iacopo,” dicea, “da Santo Andrea,
che t'è giovato di me fare schermo?
che colpa ho io de la tua vita rea?”
Quando 'l maestro fu sovr' esso fermo,
disse: “Chi fosti, che per tante punte
soffi con sangue doloroso sermo?”
Ed elli a noi: “O anime che giunte
siete a veder lo strazio disonesto
c'ha le mie fronde sì da me disgiunte,
raccoglietele al piè del tristo cesto.
I' fui de la città che nel Batista
mutò 'l primo padrone; ond' ei per questo
sempre con l'arte sua la farà trista;
e se non fosse che 'n sul passo d'Arno
rimane ancor di lui alcuna vista,
que' cittadin che poi la rifondarno
sovra 'l cener che d'Attila rimase,
avrebber fatto lavorare indarno.
Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case.”
Not yet had Nessus reached the other side,
When we had put ourselves within a wood,
That was not marked by any path whatever.
Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour,
Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled,
Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison.
Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense,
Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold
'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places.
There do the hideous Harpies make their nests,
Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades,
With sad announcement of impending doom;
Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human,
And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged;
They make laments upon the wondrous trees.
And the good Master: "Ere thou enter farther,
Know that thou art within the second round,"
Thus he began to say, "and shalt be, till
Thou comest out upon the horrible sand;
Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see
Things that will credence give unto my speech."
I heard on all sides lamentations uttered,
And person none beheld I who might make them,
Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still.
I think he thought that I perhaps might think
So many voices issued through those trunks
From people who concealed themselves from us;
Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off
Some little spray from any of these trees,
The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain."
Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward,
And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn;
And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?"
After it had become embrowned with blood,
It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me?
Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever?
Men once we were, and now are changed to trees;
Indeed, thy hand should be more pitiful,
Even if the souls of serpents we had been."
As out of a green brand, that is on fire
At one of the ends, and from the other drips
And hisses with the wind that is escaping;
So from that splinter issued forth together
Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip
Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid.
"Had he been able sooner to believe,"
My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul,
What only in my verses he has seen,
Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand;
Whereas the thing incredible has caused me
To put him to an act which grieveth me.
But tell him who thou wast, so that by way
Of some amends thy fame he may refresh
Up in the world, to which he can return."
And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me,
I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not,
That I a little to discourse am tempted.
I am the one who both keys had in keeping
Of Frederick's heart, and turned them to and fro
So softly in unlocking and in locking,
That from his secrets most men I withheld;
Fidelity I bore the glorious office
So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses.
The courtesan who never from the dwelling
Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes,
Death universal and the vice of courts,
Inflamed against me all the other minds,
And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus,
That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings.
My spirit, in disdainful exultation,
Thinking by dying to escape disdain,
Made me unjust against myself, the just.
I, by the roots unwonted of this wood,
Do swear to you that never broke I faith
Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour;
And to the world if one of you return,
Let him my memory comfort, which is lying
Still prostrate from the blow that envy dealt it."
Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent,"
The Poet said to me, "lose not the time,
But speak, and question him, if more may please thee."
Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire
Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me;
For I cannot, such pity is in my heart."
Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man
Do for thee freely what thy speech implores,
Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased
To tell us in what way the soul is bound
Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst,
If any from such members e'er is freed."
Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward
The wind was into such a voice converted:
"With brevity shall be replied to you.
When the exasperated soul abandons
The body whence it rent itself away,
Minos consigns it to the seventh abyss.
It falls into the forest, and no part
Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it,
There like a grain of spelt it germinates.
It springs a sapling, and a forest tree;
The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves,
Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet.
Like others for our spoils shall we return;
But not that any one may them revest,
For 'tis not just to have what one casts off.
Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal
Forest our bodies shall suspended be,
Each to the thorn of his molested shade."
We were attentive still unto the trunk,
Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us,
When by a tumult we were overtaken,
In the same way as he is who perceives
The boar and chase approaching to his stand,
Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches;
And two behold! upon our left-hand side,
Naked and scratched, fleeing so furiously,
That of the forest, every fan they broke.
He who was in advance: "Now help, Death, help!"
And the other one, who seemed to lag too much,
Was shouting: "Lano, were not so alert
Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!"
And then, perchance because his breath was failing,
He grouped himself together with a bush.
Behind them was the forest full of black
She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot
As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain.
On him who had crouched down they set their teeth,
And him they lacerated piece by piece,
Thereafter bore away those aching members.
Thereat my Escort took me by the hand,
And led me to the bush, that all in vain
Was weeping from its bloody lacerations.
"O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea,
What helped it thee of me to make a screen?
What blame have I in thy nefarious life?"
When near him had the Master stayed his steps,
He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many
Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?"
And he to us: "O souls, that hither come
To look upon the shameful massacre
That has so rent away from me my leaves,
Gather them up beneath the dismal bush;
I of that city was which to the Baptist
Changed its first patron, wherefore he for this
Forever with his art will make it sad.
And were it not that on the pass of Arno
Some glimpses of him are remaining still,
Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it
Upon the ashes left by Attila,
In vain had caused their labour to be done.
Of my own house I made myself a gibbet."
Ettore Paratore (“Analisi 'retorica' del canto di Pier della Vigna,” Studi Danteschi 42 [1965], pp. 281-82) has studied the phenomenon of the 'connected canti' of the Comedy, those, like XII and XIII, in which the action flows from one into the other, in which a canto is not 'end-stopped.' He counts 16 such in Inferno; 10 in Purgatorio; 8 in Paradiso. That one third of the borders of Dante's cantos are so fluid helps us to understand that he has a strong a sense of delineation of the units of the whole and, at the same time, a desire not to be restrained by these borders. For a recent reading of the canto as a whole see Gabriele Muresu, “La selva dei disperati (Inferno XIII),” La Rassegna della letteratura italiana 99 (1995), pp. 5-45.
The very image of infertility, the forest of the suicides is compared, in what is a simile in feel, but which lacks, like the forest itself, the usual decorative elements, to the wilds of the Maremma, here between the river Cecina to the north and the town of Corneto to the south, a wild part of Tuscany.
The vegetation is more of brakes and bushes than of trees, and the dominant impression is of scraggly enclosure.
The Harpies, heavy birds with the faces of women and clawed hands, the demonic monsters who preside over this canto (once again, like the Minotaur and the Centaurs, part human, part beast), derive from Virgil (Aen. III.210-212; Aen. III.216-217; Aen. III.253-257). Having twice befouled the food of the Trojan refugees, one of them (Calaeno) then attempts to convince Aeneas and his followers that they, in their voyage to Italy, are doomed to starvation and failure. For the classical tradition of the Harpies, especially as found in Lucan, see Sonia Gentile, “'Ut canes infernales': Cerbero e le Arpie in Dante,” in I “monstra” nell'“Inferno” dantesco: tradizione e simbologie (Spoleto: Centro italiano di studi sull'alto medioevo, 1997), pp. 194-203. And for their meaning as 'false prophets,' counselling despair, see Stephany's article, “Dante's Harpies: 'tristo annuzio di futuro danno,'” Italica 62 (1985), pp. 24-33.
Virgil's words offer the occasion for a certain ingenuity on the part of some commentators. Literally, what they mean is clear enough: 'were I only to tell you what you are about to see, you would not believe me' (i.e., Dante has to experience the speaking vegetation in order to believe its reality). But see the note to XIII.46-51.
Dante, lost in a dark wood, as he was at the beginning of the poem, is smarrito (bewildered), as his path was lost (smarrita) in that wood (Inf. I.3). The repetition of the word here seems deliberate, and perhaps invites us to consider the possibility that the lost soul whom we met in Inferno I was in some way himself suicidal.
This is perhaps the most self-consciously 'literary' line in a canto filled with 'literariness.' See the elegant essay by Leo Spitzer (“Speech and Language in Inferno XIII,” Italica 19 [1942], pp. 77-104) for a close analysis of this canto.
Dante's hesitant gesture and the sinner's horrified response reflect closely a scene in the Aeneid in which Aeneas similarly tears pieces of vegetation from the grave of murdered Polydorus, who finally cries out in words that are echoed in this sinner's complaints (Aen. III.22-48). Just before the Greeks overran Troy, Priam sent his son Polydorus to be raised by the Thracian king Polymestor, and with him the treasure of Troy. Once the city fell, Polymestor killed Polydorus, stole the treasure, and had the youth's body cast into the sea.
The speaker, we will later learn from the historical details to which he refers (he is never named), is Pier delle Vigne, the chancellor of Frederick II of Sicily and Naples (see the note to Inf. XIII.58-61). Here he is represented as a 'gran pruno' (tall thorn-bush), and while the modifying adjective grants him a certain dignity, it also reduces him to the least pleasant of plants. The forest of the suicides resembles a dense thicket of briar, the only 'vegetation' found in hell after the green meadow of Limbo (Inf. IV.111).
Dante's simile, which sounds like the sounds it describes, reduces Pier's natural dignity by giving him so distorted a voice.
Virgil's apology to Pier for encouraging Dante to pluck a piece of him now clearly evokes the text of the Aeneid, thus adding a dimension to the words he had uttered at Inferno XIII.20-21.
Virgil's invitation to Pier to speak so that Dante may 'revive his fame' in the world above has a positive result. As we move down through hell, we will find that some sinners look upon their 'interview' with this 'reporter' a wonderful opportunity to attempt to clear their names, while others shun any 'publicity' at all.
The beginning of Pier's speech is an Italian version of Pier's noted 'chancery style' of Latin oratory turned to document-writing. Pier was known not only for his Latin writings on behalf of Frederick's exercise of his imperial power, but for his vernacular poems, which are similarly florid.
His speech to Dante, in its entirety, forms an Italian version of a classical oration, with its parts measured as follows: (1) capturing of the good will of the audience (55-57); (2) narrative of events at issue (58-72); (3) peroration, making the climactic point (73-75); (4) petition, seeking the consent of the audience (76-78). For a more detailed consideration of the rhetorical construction of the speech see David C. Higgins (“Cicero, Aquinas, and St. Matthew in Inferno XIII,” Dante Studies 93 [1975]), pp. 63-64.
The speaker identifies himself, if by circumlocution, as Pier della Vigna (or 'delle Vigne'): 'Petrus de Vinea, minister of the Emperor Frederick II, born at Capua ca. 1190; after studying at Bologna, he received an appointment at the court of Frederick II as notary, and thenceforward he rapidly rose to distinction. He was made judge and protonotary, and for more than twenty years he was the trusted minister and confidant of the Emperor. He was at the height of his power in 1247, but two years later he was accused of treachery, and was thrown into prison and blinded; and soon after he committed suicide (April, 1249)' (Paget Toynbee, “Pier della Vigna,” Concise Dante Dictionary [Oxford: Clarendon, 1914 (1898)]). For the numerous and widely various accounts of the manner of his death see Fabrizio Franceschini, “Le dieci morti di Pier della Vigna: commenti danteschi e itinerari medievali,” Waib: Quaderni di cultura ghibellina in Italia (Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2000), pp. 47-64. Further information about the emperor Frederick II may be found in the note to Inf. X.119.
Holding the keys to the emperor's heart, the 'promised land' of any self-seeking courtier, this Peter is a parodic version of St. Peter, who, in the Christian tradition, holds the keys (one for mercy, one for judgment) that unlock or lock the Kingdom of Heaven. For the original Biblical image of the two keys see Isaiah 22:22.
This 'slut' is commonly recognized as envy, the sin of hoping that one's happy neighbor will be made unhappy.
Pier is trying to establish his innocence of the charges that he betrayed his lord by stealing from his treasury. We now know that he was in fact guilty of that fault; however, it is far from clear that Dante knew what we know. See Cassell's gathering of evidence for the case against Pier's barratry (Dante's Fearful Art of Justice [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984], pp. 38-42).
'Augustus,' the emperor par excellence, is Pier's title for his emperor, Frederick.
Pier's disdegnoso gusto, whether pleasure in self-hatred (see Steno Vazzana, “Il 'disdegnoso gusto' di Pier de le Vigne,” L'Alighieri 11 [1998], pp. 91-94, for this reading) or pleasure in imagining his vengeance upon his enemies (see Higgins [“Cicero, Aquinas, and St. Matthew in Inferno XIII,” Dante Studies 93 (1975)], p. 72), is presented as the motive for his suicide.
For a reading of these climactic words of Pier's oration, his oath, sworn on 'this tree's new-sprung roots,' that he did not break faith with Frederick, see the endnote to this canto. For discussion of the word nove, which has been understood variously as meaning 'recent,' 'strange,' 'singular,' and even 'nine,' see Claudia Villa, “'Per le nove radici d'esto legno': Pier della Vigna, Nicola della Rocca (e Dante): anamorfosi e riconversione di una metafora,” Strumenti critici 15 (1991), pp. 131-44. Here the word nove, would seem most naturally to refer to the new 'roots' of his 'body,' replacing those that God and nature had given him for his natural life.
How are we meant to respond to Pier, an unquestionably imposing figure? Here is Attilio Momigliano, in his commentary to this passage (XIII.55-78): '[Pier's] way of speaking, with its lofty sense of fidelity, with its steady clearsightedness, with its manly rebellion against the injustice of fate, with that indestructible sense of his honor and the desire to redeem it, even in death – all of these dressed in the folds of an austerely embellished eloquence – dwells in our memory like a solemn portrait of a courtier and makes us forget the fault of the suicide, as the words of Francesca, Brunetto, or Ugolino make us forget adultery, sodomy, betrayal. These virtues or passions that redeem, even in hell, a great sin are among the most noble and suggestive inventions of the Comedy.' Such a view of the 'great sinners' of the Inferno is attractive, no doubt, in part because it makes Dante a much less 'judgmental' poet than in fact he is. However, it is probably better to see that, in the case of Pier (as well as in that of the others mentioned by Momigliano), the sinner speaks of himself in such a way as to condemn himself in his own words, at least if we learn to read him from the ironic angle of vision that the split between consciousness of the slowly-evolving protagonist and the knowledgeable poet surely seems to call for.
It was centuries ago that a reader first thought of Judas when he read of Pier. Pietro di Dante, in the second redaction of his commentary (Pietro2 to XIII.16-51), cites St. Jerome's comment on Psalm 8: 'Judas offended God more greatly by hanging himself than by betraying Him.' Dante's son, however, never developed the importance of Judas as the quintessential suicide in the controlling image of this canto. In our own time perhaps the first to do so was Gianvito Resta (“Il canto XIII dell'Inferno,” in “Inferno”: letture degli anni 1973-1976, ed. S. Zennaro [Rome: Bonacci, 1977], pp. 335-36); a fuller expression of this insight was developed by Anthony Cassell (Dante's Fearful Art of Justice [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984], pp. 46-56). While Cassell's reading mainly involves Pier's betrayal of Frederick, the perhaps better understanding is to allow Pier his proclaimed fealty to his emperor, but to realize that his very words reveal that, if his temporal allegiances were respected, they had displaced his only truly significant loyalty, that owed to his only meaningful Lord, Jesus Christ (see Dennis Looney, “Believing in the Poet: Inferno XIII,” Allegorica 13 [1992], p. 39). The denial of Christ's authority was much a part of the behaviors of the emperor whom he served, Frederick II, revealed as punished for his heresy a few cantos earlier (Inf. X.119). It is difficult to read his words in any other way: 'I give my oath: not once did I break faith with my true lord.' Even if we allow Pier his claim (and we do not find him punished in the ninth Circle, where such a sin might have located him for eternity), a deeper reading of his 'oath' should make us see that, like Judas, he did betray his Lord, as Stephany has shown, precisely in his loyalty to the emperor, whom he treats, in his eulogy of Frederick, as in his own kingly person being all the Christ one needed. And thus, in imitation of Judas, he will have his body hanging on a tree for eternity. (For two articles about Frederick, Pier, and the court life that they shaped and shared, see Christie Fengler and William Stephany, “The Capuan Gate and Pier della Vigna,” Dante Studies 99 [1981], pp. 145-57; and Stephany, “Pier della Vigna's Self-fulfilling Prophecies: the 'Eulogy' of Frederick II and Inferno 13,” Traditio 38 [1982], pp. 193-212.)
Pier, as many have noted, has important attributes in common with Dante. Both were political figures who ended up losing the goals of their highly energized activity; both were poets. Yet it seems clear that, for all the fellow-feeling that Dante must have felt for the ruined chancellor, he is more interested in the crucial errors he made in directing his political life to the sharing and taking of power and to that alone. For Dante, the political life can only be lived justly under the sign of the true 'emperor,' God.
The protagonist, like many readers, has been won over by Pier's oratory. As was the case in his meeting with Farinata and Cavalcante in Inferno X, he began in fear, then turned to pity. Neither is an attitude recommended by the moral setting of the poem that contains this currently piteous protagonist. Again, see the endnote to this canto.
Responding to the first of Virgil's two questions on Dante's behalf (the nature of the punishment accorded the suicides), Pier describes the process by which a suicidal soul is turned, not into an airy resemblance of its former human self, but into a thing, a thornbush tortured by Harpies (the despair that led it to self-destruction in the first place). The commentary of Durling and Martinez (ad loc., Oxford, 1996) suggests that the imprisoned Pier stands in polar relation to the similarly imprisoned Boethius, who reacted with fortitude and philosophic calm in the face of the injustice of his emperor. As for the image of the 'seed' of the suicide's soul taking root where it is flung down in this 'forest,' a student at Princeton, Kyle Corcoran '03, has recently suggested that there is a relationship here, by contraries, to the parable of the sower in Luke's gospel (8:4-15).
The second of Virgil's questions regarded the eventual disposition of the incarcerated soul. It will be reincarnated after the Last Judgment, and then hang upon the bush it is contained by now.
This self-contained unit of twenty-seven verses is devoted to a second class of those violent against themselves. These wastrels were 'prodigal' in so thoroughly intentional a way that they did not casually toss away their possessions, but willfully destroyed them in a sort of 'material suicide.' Once again we note the line that Dante has drawn between the incontinent form of a sin (prodigality, punished in Inferno VII) and its 'malicious' version.
Paget Toynbee describes the two sinners found here as follows: 'Lano [Arcolano Maconi], gentleman of Siena, placed by Dante, together with Jacomo da sant' Andrea, among those who have squandered their substance.... Lano is said to have been a member of the “Spendthrift Brigade” of Siena, and to have squandered all his property in riotous living. He took part in an expedition of the Florentines and Sienese against Arezzo in 1288, which ended in the Sienese force falling into an ambush and being cut to pieces by the Aretines under Buonconte da Montefeltro at... Pieve al Toppo. Lano, being ruined and desperate, chose to fight and be killed, rather than run away and make his escape; hence the allusion of Jacomo in the text.... Jacomo [and not Dante's 'Jacopo'] della Cappella di sant' Andrea of Padua, the son of Odorico Fontana da Monselice and Speronella Delesmanini, a very wealthy lady, whose fortune Jacomo inherited, and squandered in the most senseless acts of prodigality. He is supposed to have been put to death by order of Ezzolino da Romano [see Inf. XII.102] in 1239' (cited from “Lano” and “Jacomo da sant' Andrea,” in Toynbee's Concise Dante Dictionary [Oxford: Clarendon, 1914 (1898)]).
The relatively minor figure we now encounter, a cespuglio (bush) and not the gran pruno (tall thornbush – Inf. XIII.32) that holds the soul of Pier delle Vigne, complains against the unintentional despoiling of his leaves by the exhausted Jacomo, who had huddled up against him in order to escape the pursuing hounds. Various of the early commentators identify him as either Lotto degli Agli or Rocco de' Mozzi (for review see Berthier, comm. to Inf. XIII.151; and for reasons to believe it is the latter who is referred to see Vincenzo Presta, “In margine al canto XIII dell'Inferno,” Dante Studies 90 [1972], pp.19-20), yet some of these commentators also suggest that Dante left the name 'open' because so many Florentines committed suicide in this way that he wanted to suggest the frequency of the phenomenon in his native city.
The nameless suicide, now more careful of his 'body' than he had been when he took his own life, asks to have his torn-off leaves returned to him. He identifies himself as Florentine by referring to the city's first patron, Mars, the god of war, whose replacement by John the Baptist in Christian times had weakened her, according to his not very reliable view. (Dante's sources seem to have confused Attila with Totila, who had in fact besieged the city in 542.)
The phrase strazio disonesto (shameless carnage) that describes the condition of the ruined bush probably reflects the description of the mutilated visage of Deiphobus (Aen. VI.497): inhonesto volnere (shameful wound), as Pompeo Venturi (comm. to XIII.140) seems to have been the first to suggest.
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Non era ancor di là Nesso arrivato,
quando noi ci mettemmo per un bosco
che da neun sentiero era segnato.
Non fronda verde, ma di color fosco;
non rami schietti, ma nodosi e 'nvolti;
non pomi v'eran, ma stecchi con tòsco.
Non han sì aspri sterpi né sì folti
quelle fiere selvagge che 'n odio hanno
tra Cecina e Corneto i luoghi cólti.
Quivi le brutte Arpie lor nidi fanno,
che cacciar de le Strofade i Troiani
con tristo annunzio di futuro danno.
Ali hanno late, e colli e visi umani,
piè con artigli, e pennuto 'l gran ventre;
fanno lamenti in su li alberi strani.
E 'l buon maestro “Prima che più entre,
sappi che se' nel secondo girone,”
mi cominciò a dire, “e sarai mentre
che tu verrai ne l'orribil sabbione.
Però riguarda ben; sì vederai
cose che torrien fede al mio sermone.”
Io sentia d'ogne parte trarre guai
e non vedea persona che 'l facesse;
per ch'io tutto smarrito m'arrestai.
Cred' ïo ch'ei credette ch'io credesse
che tante voci uscisser, tra quei bronchi,
da gente che per noi si nascondesse.
Però disse 'l maestro: “Se tu tronchi
qualche fraschetta d'una d'este piante,
li pensier c'hai si faran tutti monchi.”
Allor porsi la mano un poco avante
e colsi un ramicel da un gran pruno;
e 'l tronco suo gridò: “Perché mi schiante?”
Da che fatto fu poi di sangue bruno,
ricominciò a dir: “Perché mi scerpi?
non hai tu spirto di pietade alcuno?
Uomini fummo, e or siam fatti sterpi:
ben dovrebb' esser la tua man più pia,
se state fossimo anime di serpi.”
Come d'un stizzo verde ch'arso sia
da l'un de' capi, che da l'altro geme
e cigola per vento che va via,
sì de la scheggia rotta usciva insieme
parole e sangue; ond' io lasciai la cima
cadere, e stetti come l'uom che teme.
“S'elli avesse potuto creder prima,”
rispuose 'l savio mio, “anima lesa,
ciò c'ha veduto pur con la mia rima,
non averebbe in te la man distesa;
ma la cosa incredibile mi fece
indurlo ad ovra ch'a me stesso pesa.
Ma dilli chi tu fosti, si che 'n vece
d'alcun' ammenda tua fama rinfreschi
nel mondo sù, dove tornar li lece.”
E 'l tronco: “Si col dolce dir m'adeschi,
ch'i' non posso tacere; e voi non gravi
perch' ïo un poco a ragionar m'inveschi.
Io son colui che tenni ambo le chiavi
del cor di Federigo, e che le volsi,
serrando e diserrando, sì soavi,
che dal secreto suo quasi ogn' uom tolsi;
fede portai al glorïoso offizio,
tanto ch'i' ne perde' li sonni e ' polsi.
La meretrice che mai da l'ospizio
di Cesare non torse li occhi putti,
morte comune e de le corti vizio,
infiammò contra me li animi tutti;
e li 'nfiammati infiammar sì Augusto,
che ' lieti onor tornaro in tristi lutti.
L'animo mio, per disdegnoso gusto,
credendo col morir fuggir disdegno,
ingiusto fece me contra me giusto.
Per le nove radici d'esto legno
vi giuro che già mai non ruppi fede
al mio segnor, che fu d'onor sì degno.
E se di voi alcun nel mondo riede,
conforti la memoria mia, che giace
ancor del colpo che 'nvidia le diede.”
Un poco attese, e poi “Da ch'el si tace,”
disse 'l poeta a me, “non perder l'ora;
ma parla, e chiedi a lui, se più ti piace.”
Ond' ïo a lui: “Domandal tu ancora
di quel che credi ch'a me satisfaccia;
ch'i' non potrei, tanta pietà m'accora.”
Perciò ricominciò: “Se l'om ti faccia
liberamente ciò che 'l tuo dir priega,
spirito incarcerato, ancor ti piaccia
di dirne come l'anima si lega
in questi nocchi; e dinne, se tu puoi,
s'alcuna mai di tai membra si spiega.”
Allor soffiò il tronco forte, e poi
si convertì quel vento in cotal voce:
“Brievemente sarà risposto a voi.
Quando si parte l'anima feroce
dal corpo ond' ella stessa s'è disvelta,
Minòs la manda a la settima foce.
Cade in la selva, e non l'è parte scelta;
ma là dove fortuna la balestra,
quivi germoglia come gran di spelta.
Surge in vermena e in pianta silvestra:
l'Arpie, pascendo poi de le sue foglie,
fanno dolore, e al dolor fenestra.
Come l'altre verrem per nostre spoglie,
ma non però ch'alcuna sen rivesta,
ché non è giusto aver ciò ch'om si toglie.
Qui le strascineremo, e per la mesta
selva saranno i nostri corpi appesi,
ciascuno al prun de l'ombra sua molesta.”
Noi eravamo ancora al tronco attesi,
credendo ch'altro ne volesse dire,
quando noi fummo d'un romor sorpresi,
similemente a colui che venire
sente 'l porco e la caccia a la sua posta,
ch'ode le bestie, e le frasche stormire.
Ed ecco due da la sinistra costa,
nudi e graffiati, fuggendo si forte,
che de la selva rompieno ogne rosta.
Quel dinanzi: “Or accorri, accorri, morte!”
E l'altro, cui pareva tardar troppo,
gridava: “Lano, sì non furo accorte
le gambe tue a le giostre dal Toppo!”
E poi che forse li fallia la lena,
di sé e d'un cespuglio fece un groppo.
Di rietro a loro era la selva piena
di nere cagne, bramose e correnti
come veltri ch'uscisser di catena.
In quel che s'appiattò miser li denti,
e quel dilaceraro a brano a brano;
poi sen portar quelle membra dolenti.
Presemi allor la mia scorta per mano,
e menommi al cespuglio che piangea
per le rotture sanguinenti in vano.
“O Iacopo,” dicea, “da Santo Andrea,
che t'è giovato di me fare schermo?
che colpa ho io de la tua vita rea?”
Quando 'l maestro fu sovr' esso fermo,
disse: “Chi fosti, che per tante punte
soffi con sangue doloroso sermo?”
Ed elli a noi: “O anime che giunte
siete a veder lo strazio disonesto
c'ha le mie fronde sì da me disgiunte,
raccoglietele al piè del tristo cesto.
I' fui de la città che nel Batista
mutò 'l primo padrone; ond' ei per questo
sempre con l'arte sua la farà trista;
e se non fosse che 'n sul passo d'Arno
rimane ancor di lui alcuna vista,
que' cittadin che poi la rifondarno
sovra 'l cener che d'Attila rimase,
avrebber fatto lavorare indarno.
Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case.”
Not yet had Nessus reached the other side,
When we had put ourselves within a wood,
That was not marked by any path whatever.
Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour,
Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled,
Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison.
Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense,
Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold
'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places.
There do the hideous Harpies make their nests,
Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades,
With sad announcement of impending doom;
Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human,
And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged;
They make laments upon the wondrous trees.
And the good Master: "Ere thou enter farther,
Know that thou art within the second round,"
Thus he began to say, "and shalt be, till
Thou comest out upon the horrible sand;
Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see
Things that will credence give unto my speech."
I heard on all sides lamentations uttered,
And person none beheld I who might make them,
Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still.
I think he thought that I perhaps might think
So many voices issued through those trunks
From people who concealed themselves from us;
Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off
Some little spray from any of these trees,
The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain."
Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward,
And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn;
And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?"
After it had become embrowned with blood,
It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me?
Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever?
Men once we were, and now are changed to trees;
Indeed, thy hand should be more pitiful,
Even if the souls of serpents we had been."
As out of a green brand, that is on fire
At one of the ends, and from the other drips
And hisses with the wind that is escaping;
So from that splinter issued forth together
Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip
Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid.
"Had he been able sooner to believe,"
My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul,
What only in my verses he has seen,
Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand;
Whereas the thing incredible has caused me
To put him to an act which grieveth me.
But tell him who thou wast, so that by way
Of some amends thy fame he may refresh
Up in the world, to which he can return."
And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me,
I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not,
That I a little to discourse am tempted.
I am the one who both keys had in keeping
Of Frederick's heart, and turned them to and fro
So softly in unlocking and in locking,
That from his secrets most men I withheld;
Fidelity I bore the glorious office
So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses.
The courtesan who never from the dwelling
Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes,
Death universal and the vice of courts,
Inflamed against me all the other minds,
And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus,
That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings.
My spirit, in disdainful exultation,
Thinking by dying to escape disdain,
Made me unjust against myself, the just.
I, by the roots unwonted of this wood,
Do swear to you that never broke I faith
Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour;
And to the world if one of you return,
Let him my memory comfort, which is lying
Still prostrate from the blow that envy dealt it."
Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent,"
The Poet said to me, "lose not the time,
But speak, and question him, if more may please thee."
Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire
Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me;
For I cannot, such pity is in my heart."
Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man
Do for thee freely what thy speech implores,
Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased
To tell us in what way the soul is bound
Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst,
If any from such members e'er is freed."
Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward
The wind was into such a voice converted:
"With brevity shall be replied to you.
When the exasperated soul abandons
The body whence it rent itself away,
Minos consigns it to the seventh abyss.
It falls into the forest, and no part
Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it,
There like a grain of spelt it germinates.
It springs a sapling, and a forest tree;
The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves,
Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet.
Like others for our spoils shall we return;
But not that any one may them revest,
For 'tis not just to have what one casts off.
Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal
Forest our bodies shall suspended be,
Each to the thorn of his molested shade."
We were attentive still unto the trunk,
Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us,
When by a tumult we were overtaken,
In the same way as he is who perceives
The boar and chase approaching to his stand,
Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches;
And two behold! upon our left-hand side,
Naked and scratched, fleeing so furiously,
That of the forest, every fan they broke.
He who was in advance: "Now help, Death, help!"
And the other one, who seemed to lag too much,
Was shouting: "Lano, were not so alert
Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!"
And then, perchance because his breath was failing,
He grouped himself together with a bush.
Behind them was the forest full of black
She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot
As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain.
On him who had crouched down they set their teeth,
And him they lacerated piece by piece,
Thereafter bore away those aching members.
Thereat my Escort took me by the hand,
And led me to the bush, that all in vain
Was weeping from its bloody lacerations.
"O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea,
What helped it thee of me to make a screen?
What blame have I in thy nefarious life?"
When near him had the Master stayed his steps,
He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many
Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?"
And he to us: "O souls, that hither come
To look upon the shameful massacre
That has so rent away from me my leaves,
Gather them up beneath the dismal bush;
I of that city was which to the Baptist
Changed its first patron, wherefore he for this
Forever with his art will make it sad.
And were it not that on the pass of Arno
Some glimpses of him are remaining still,
Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it
Upon the ashes left by Attila,
In vain had caused their labour to be done.
Of my own house I made myself a gibbet."
Ettore Paratore (“Analisi 'retorica' del canto di Pier della Vigna,” Studi Danteschi 42 [1965], pp. 281-82) has studied the phenomenon of the 'connected canti' of the Comedy, those, like XII and XIII, in which the action flows from one into the other, in which a canto is not 'end-stopped.' He counts 16 such in Inferno; 10 in Purgatorio; 8 in Paradiso. That one third of the borders of Dante's cantos are so fluid helps us to understand that he has a strong a sense of delineation of the units of the whole and, at the same time, a desire not to be restrained by these borders. For a recent reading of the canto as a whole see Gabriele Muresu, “La selva dei disperati (Inferno XIII),” La Rassegna della letteratura italiana 99 (1995), pp. 5-45.
The very image of infertility, the forest of the suicides is compared, in what is a simile in feel, but which lacks, like the forest itself, the usual decorative elements, to the wilds of the Maremma, here between the river Cecina to the north and the town of Corneto to the south, a wild part of Tuscany.
The vegetation is more of brakes and bushes than of trees, and the dominant impression is of scraggly enclosure.
The Harpies, heavy birds with the faces of women and clawed hands, the demonic monsters who preside over this canto (once again, like the Minotaur and the Centaurs, part human, part beast), derive from Virgil (Aen. III.210-212; Aen. III.216-217; Aen. III.253-257). Having twice befouled the food of the Trojan refugees, one of them (Calaeno) then attempts to convince Aeneas and his followers that they, in their voyage to Italy, are doomed to starvation and failure. For the classical tradition of the Harpies, especially as found in Lucan, see Sonia Gentile, “'Ut canes infernales': Cerbero e le Arpie in Dante,” in I “monstra” nell'“Inferno” dantesco: tradizione e simbologie (Spoleto: Centro italiano di studi sull'alto medioevo, 1997), pp. 194-203. And for their meaning as 'false prophets,' counselling despair, see Stephany's article, “Dante's Harpies: 'tristo annuzio di futuro danno,'” Italica 62 (1985), pp. 24-33.
Virgil's words offer the occasion for a certain ingenuity on the part of some commentators. Literally, what they mean is clear enough: 'were I only to tell you what you are about to see, you would not believe me' (i.e., Dante has to experience the speaking vegetation in order to believe its reality). But see the note to XIII.46-51.
Dante, lost in a dark wood, as he was at the beginning of the poem, is smarrito (bewildered), as his path was lost (smarrita) in that wood (Inf. I.3). The repetition of the word here seems deliberate, and perhaps invites us to consider the possibility that the lost soul whom we met in Inferno I was in some way himself suicidal.
This is perhaps the most self-consciously 'literary' line in a canto filled with 'literariness.' See the elegant essay by Leo Spitzer (“Speech and Language in Inferno XIII,” Italica 19 [1942], pp. 77-104) for a close analysis of this canto.
Dante's hesitant gesture and the sinner's horrified response reflect closely a scene in the Aeneid in which Aeneas similarly tears pieces of vegetation from the grave of murdered Polydorus, who finally cries out in words that are echoed in this sinner's complaints (Aen. III.22-48). Just before the Greeks overran Troy, Priam sent his son Polydorus to be raised by the Thracian king Polymestor, and with him the treasure of Troy. Once the city fell, Polymestor killed Polydorus, stole the treasure, and had the youth's body cast into the sea.
The speaker, we will later learn from the historical details to which he refers (he is never named), is Pier delle Vigne, the chancellor of Frederick II of Sicily and Naples (see the note to Inf. XIII.58-61). Here he is represented as a 'gran pruno' (tall thorn-bush), and while the modifying adjective grants him a certain dignity, it also reduces him to the least pleasant of plants. The forest of the suicides resembles a dense thicket of briar, the only 'vegetation' found in hell after the green meadow of Limbo (Inf. IV.111).
Dante's simile, which sounds like the sounds it describes, reduces Pier's natural dignity by giving him so distorted a voice.
Virgil's apology to Pier for encouraging Dante to pluck a piece of him now clearly evokes the text of the Aeneid, thus adding a dimension to the words he had uttered at Inferno XIII.20-21.
Virgil's invitation to Pier to speak so that Dante may 'revive his fame' in the world above has a positive result. As we move down through hell, we will find that some sinners look upon their 'interview' with this 'reporter' a wonderful opportunity to attempt to clear their names, while others shun any 'publicity' at all.
The beginning of Pier's speech is an Italian version of Pier's noted 'chancery style' of Latin oratory turned to document-writing. Pier was known not only for his Latin writings on behalf of Frederick's exercise of his imperial power, but for his vernacular poems, which are similarly florid.
His speech to Dante, in its entirety, forms an Italian version of a classical oration, with its parts measured as follows: (1) capturing of the good will of the audience (55-57); (2) narrative of events at issue (58-72); (3) peroration, making the climactic point (73-75); (4) petition, seeking the consent of the audience (76-78). For a more detailed consideration of the rhetorical construction of the speech see David C. Higgins (“Cicero, Aquinas, and St. Matthew in Inferno XIII,” Dante Studies 93 [1975]), pp. 63-64.
The speaker identifies himself, if by circumlocution, as Pier della Vigna (or 'delle Vigne'): 'Petrus de Vinea, minister of the Emperor Frederick II, born at Capua ca. 1190; after studying at Bologna, he received an appointment at the court of Frederick II as notary, and thenceforward he rapidly rose to distinction. He was made judge and protonotary, and for more than twenty years he was the trusted minister and confidant of the Emperor. He was at the height of his power in 1247, but two years later he was accused of treachery, and was thrown into prison and blinded; and soon after he committed suicide (April, 1249)' (Paget Toynbee, “Pier della Vigna,” Concise Dante Dictionary [Oxford: Clarendon, 1914 (1898)]). For the numerous and widely various accounts of the manner of his death see Fabrizio Franceschini, “Le dieci morti di Pier della Vigna: commenti danteschi e itinerari medievali,” Waib: Quaderni di cultura ghibellina in Italia (Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2000), pp. 47-64. Further information about the emperor Frederick II may be found in the note to Inf. X.119.
Holding the keys to the emperor's heart, the 'promised land' of any self-seeking courtier, this Peter is a parodic version of St. Peter, who, in the Christian tradition, holds the keys (one for mercy, one for judgment) that unlock or lock the Kingdom of Heaven. For the original Biblical image of the two keys see Isaiah 22:22.
This 'slut' is commonly recognized as envy, the sin of hoping that one's happy neighbor will be made unhappy.
Pier is trying to establish his innocence of the charges that he betrayed his lord by stealing from his treasury. We now know that he was in fact guilty of that fault; however, it is far from clear that Dante knew what we know. See Cassell's gathering of evidence for the case against Pier's barratry (Dante's Fearful Art of Justice [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984], pp. 38-42).
'Augustus,' the emperor par excellence, is Pier's title for his emperor, Frederick.
Pier's disdegnoso gusto, whether pleasure in self-hatred (see Steno Vazzana, “Il 'disdegnoso gusto' di Pier de le Vigne,” L'Alighieri 11 [1998], pp. 91-94, for this reading) or pleasure in imagining his vengeance upon his enemies (see Higgins [“Cicero, Aquinas, and St. Matthew in Inferno XIII,” Dante Studies 93 (1975)], p. 72), is presented as the motive for his suicide.
For a reading of these climactic words of Pier's oration, his oath, sworn on 'this tree's new-sprung roots,' that he did not break faith with Frederick, see the endnote to this canto. For discussion of the word nove, which has been understood variously as meaning 'recent,' 'strange,' 'singular,' and even 'nine,' see Claudia Villa, “'Per le nove radici d'esto legno': Pier della Vigna, Nicola della Rocca (e Dante): anamorfosi e riconversione di una metafora,” Strumenti critici 15 (1991), pp. 131-44. Here the word nove, would seem most naturally to refer to the new 'roots' of his 'body,' replacing those that God and nature had given him for his natural life.
How are we meant to respond to Pier, an unquestionably imposing figure? Here is Attilio Momigliano, in his commentary to this passage (XIII.55-78): '[Pier's] way of speaking, with its lofty sense of fidelity, with its steady clearsightedness, with its manly rebellion against the injustice of fate, with that indestructible sense of his honor and the desire to redeem it, even in death – all of these dressed in the folds of an austerely embellished eloquence – dwells in our memory like a solemn portrait of a courtier and makes us forget the fault of the suicide, as the words of Francesca, Brunetto, or Ugolino make us forget adultery, sodomy, betrayal. These virtues or passions that redeem, even in hell, a great sin are among the most noble and suggestive inventions of the Comedy.' Such a view of the 'great sinners' of the Inferno is attractive, no doubt, in part because it makes Dante a much less 'judgmental' poet than in fact he is. However, it is probably better to see that, in the case of Pier (as well as in that of the others mentioned by Momigliano), the sinner speaks of himself in such a way as to condemn himself in his own words, at least if we learn to read him from the ironic angle of vision that the split between consciousness of the slowly-evolving protagonist and the knowledgeable poet surely seems to call for.
It was centuries ago that a reader first thought of Judas when he read of Pier. Pietro di Dante, in the second redaction of his commentary (Pietro2 to XIII.16-51), cites St. Jerome's comment on Psalm 8: 'Judas offended God more greatly by hanging himself than by betraying Him.' Dante's son, however, never developed the importance of Judas as the quintessential suicide in the controlling image of this canto. In our own time perhaps the first to do so was Gianvito Resta (“Il canto XIII dell'Inferno,” in “Inferno”: letture degli anni 1973-1976, ed. S. Zennaro [Rome: Bonacci, 1977], pp. 335-36); a fuller expression of this insight was developed by Anthony Cassell (Dante's Fearful Art of Justice [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984], pp. 46-56). While Cassell's reading mainly involves Pier's betrayal of Frederick, the perhaps better understanding is to allow Pier his proclaimed fealty to his emperor, but to realize that his very words reveal that, if his temporal allegiances were respected, they had displaced his only truly significant loyalty, that owed to his only meaningful Lord, Jesus Christ (see Dennis Looney, “Believing in the Poet: Inferno XIII,” Allegorica 13 [1992], p. 39). The denial of Christ's authority was much a part of the behaviors of the emperor whom he served, Frederick II, revealed as punished for his heresy a few cantos earlier (Inf. X.119). It is difficult to read his words in any other way: 'I give my oath: not once did I break faith with my true lord.' Even if we allow Pier his claim (and we do not find him punished in the ninth Circle, where such a sin might have located him for eternity), a deeper reading of his 'oath' should make us see that, like Judas, he did betray his Lord, as Stephany has shown, precisely in his loyalty to the emperor, whom he treats, in his eulogy of Frederick, as in his own kingly person being all the Christ one needed. And thus, in imitation of Judas, he will have his body hanging on a tree for eternity. (For two articles about Frederick, Pier, and the court life that they shaped and shared, see Christie Fengler and William Stephany, “The Capuan Gate and Pier della Vigna,” Dante Studies 99 [1981], pp. 145-57; and Stephany, “Pier della Vigna's Self-fulfilling Prophecies: the 'Eulogy' of Frederick II and Inferno 13,” Traditio 38 [1982], pp. 193-212.)
Pier, as many have noted, has important attributes in common with Dante. Both were political figures who ended up losing the goals of their highly energized activity; both were poets. Yet it seems clear that, for all the fellow-feeling that Dante must have felt for the ruined chancellor, he is more interested in the crucial errors he made in directing his political life to the sharing and taking of power and to that alone. For Dante, the political life can only be lived justly under the sign of the true 'emperor,' God.
The protagonist, like many readers, has been won over by Pier's oratory. As was the case in his meeting with Farinata and Cavalcante in Inferno X, he began in fear, then turned to pity. Neither is an attitude recommended by the moral setting of the poem that contains this currently piteous protagonist. Again, see the endnote to this canto.
Responding to the first of Virgil's two questions on Dante's behalf (the nature of the punishment accorded the suicides), Pier describes the process by which a suicidal soul is turned, not into an airy resemblance of its former human self, but into a thing, a thornbush tortured by Harpies (the despair that led it to self-destruction in the first place). The commentary of Durling and Martinez (ad loc., Oxford, 1996) suggests that the imprisoned Pier stands in polar relation to the similarly imprisoned Boethius, who reacted with fortitude and philosophic calm in the face of the injustice of his emperor. As for the image of the 'seed' of the suicide's soul taking root where it is flung down in this 'forest,' a student at Princeton, Kyle Corcoran '03, has recently suggested that there is a relationship here, by contraries, to the parable of the sower in Luke's gospel (8:4-15).
The second of Virgil's questions regarded the eventual disposition of the incarcerated soul. It will be reincarnated after the Last Judgment, and then hang upon the bush it is contained by now.
This self-contained unit of twenty-seven verses is devoted to a second class of those violent against themselves. These wastrels were 'prodigal' in so thoroughly intentional a way that they did not casually toss away their possessions, but willfully destroyed them in a sort of 'material suicide.' Once again we note the line that Dante has drawn between the incontinent form of a sin (prodigality, punished in Inferno VII) and its 'malicious' version.
Paget Toynbee describes the two sinners found here as follows: 'Lano [Arcolano Maconi], gentleman of Siena, placed by Dante, together with Jacomo da sant' Andrea, among those who have squandered their substance.... Lano is said to have been a member of the “Spendthrift Brigade” of Siena, and to have squandered all his property in riotous living. He took part in an expedition of the Florentines and Sienese against Arezzo in 1288, which ended in the Sienese force falling into an ambush and being cut to pieces by the Aretines under Buonconte da Montefeltro at... Pieve al Toppo. Lano, being ruined and desperate, chose to fight and be killed, rather than run away and make his escape; hence the allusion of Jacomo in the text.... Jacomo [and not Dante's 'Jacopo'] della Cappella di sant' Andrea of Padua, the son of Odorico Fontana da Monselice and Speronella Delesmanini, a very wealthy lady, whose fortune Jacomo inherited, and squandered in the most senseless acts of prodigality. He is supposed to have been put to death by order of Ezzolino da Romano [see Inf. XII.102] in 1239' (cited from “Lano” and “Jacomo da sant' Andrea,” in Toynbee's Concise Dante Dictionary [Oxford: Clarendon, 1914 (1898)]).
The relatively minor figure we now encounter, a cespuglio (bush) and not the gran pruno (tall thornbush – Inf. XIII.32) that holds the soul of Pier delle Vigne, complains against the unintentional despoiling of his leaves by the exhausted Jacomo, who had huddled up against him in order to escape the pursuing hounds. Various of the early commentators identify him as either Lotto degli Agli or Rocco de' Mozzi (for review see Berthier, comm. to Inf. XIII.151; and for reasons to believe it is the latter who is referred to see Vincenzo Presta, “In margine al canto XIII dell'Inferno,” Dante Studies 90 [1972], pp.19-20), yet some of these commentators also suggest that Dante left the name 'open' because so many Florentines committed suicide in this way that he wanted to suggest the frequency of the phenomenon in his native city.
The nameless suicide, now more careful of his 'body' than he had been when he took his own life, asks to have his torn-off leaves returned to him. He identifies himself as Florentine by referring to the city's first patron, Mars, the god of war, whose replacement by John the Baptist in Christian times had weakened her, according to his not very reliable view. (Dante's sources seem to have confused Attila with Totila, who had in fact besieged the city in 542.)
The phrase strazio disonesto (shameless carnage) that describes the condition of the ruined bush probably reflects the description of the mutilated visage of Deiphobus (Aen. VI.497): inhonesto volnere (shameful wound), as Pompeo Venturi (comm. to XIII.140) seems to have been the first to suggest.
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Non era ancor di là Nesso arrivato,
quando noi ci mettemmo per un bosco
che da neun sentiero era segnato.
Non fronda verde, ma di color fosco;
non rami schietti, ma nodosi e 'nvolti;
non pomi v'eran, ma stecchi con tòsco.
Non han sì aspri sterpi né sì folti
quelle fiere selvagge che 'n odio hanno
tra Cecina e Corneto i luoghi cólti.
Quivi le brutte Arpie lor nidi fanno,
che cacciar de le Strofade i Troiani
con tristo annunzio di futuro danno.
Ali hanno late, e colli e visi umani,
piè con artigli, e pennuto 'l gran ventre;
fanno lamenti in su li alberi strani.
E 'l buon maestro “Prima che più entre,
sappi che se' nel secondo girone,”
mi cominciò a dire, “e sarai mentre
che tu verrai ne l'orribil sabbione.
Però riguarda ben; sì vederai
cose che torrien fede al mio sermone.”
Io sentia d'ogne parte trarre guai
e non vedea persona che 'l facesse;
per ch'io tutto smarrito m'arrestai.
Cred' ïo ch'ei credette ch'io credesse
che tante voci uscisser, tra quei bronchi,
da gente che per noi si nascondesse.
Però disse 'l maestro: “Se tu tronchi
qualche fraschetta d'una d'este piante,
li pensier c'hai si faran tutti monchi.”
Allor porsi la mano un poco avante
e colsi un ramicel da un gran pruno;
e 'l tronco suo gridò: “Perché mi schiante?”
Da che fatto fu poi di sangue bruno,
ricominciò a dir: “Perché mi scerpi?
non hai tu spirto di pietade alcuno?
Uomini fummo, e or siam fatti sterpi:
ben dovrebb' esser la tua man più pia,
se state fossimo anime di serpi.”
Come d'un stizzo verde ch'arso sia
da l'un de' capi, che da l'altro geme
e cigola per vento che va via,
sì de la scheggia rotta usciva insieme
parole e sangue; ond' io lasciai la cima
cadere, e stetti come l'uom che teme.
“S'elli avesse potuto creder prima,”
rispuose 'l savio mio, “anima lesa,
ciò c'ha veduto pur con la mia rima,
non averebbe in te la man distesa;
ma la cosa incredibile mi fece
indurlo ad ovra ch'a me stesso pesa.
Ma dilli chi tu fosti, si che 'n vece
d'alcun' ammenda tua fama rinfreschi
nel mondo sù, dove tornar li lece.”
E 'l tronco: “Si col dolce dir m'adeschi,
ch'i' non posso tacere; e voi non gravi
perch' ïo un poco a ragionar m'inveschi.
Io son colui che tenni ambo le chiavi
del cor di Federigo, e che le volsi,
serrando e diserrando, sì soavi,
che dal secreto suo quasi ogn' uom tolsi;
fede portai al glorïoso offizio,
tanto ch'i' ne perde' li sonni e ' polsi.
La meretrice che mai da l'ospizio
di Cesare non torse li occhi putti,
morte comune e de le corti vizio,
infiammò contra me li animi tutti;
e li 'nfiammati infiammar sì Augusto,
che ' lieti onor tornaro in tristi lutti.
L'animo mio, per disdegnoso gusto,
credendo col morir fuggir disdegno,
ingiusto fece me contra me giusto.
Per le nove radici d'esto legno
vi giuro che già mai non ruppi fede
al mio segnor, che fu d'onor sì degno.
E se di voi alcun nel mondo riede,
conforti la memoria mia, che giace
ancor del colpo che 'nvidia le diede.”
Un poco attese, e poi “Da ch'el si tace,”
disse 'l poeta a me, “non perder l'ora;
ma parla, e chiedi a lui, se più ti piace.”
Ond' ïo a lui: “Domandal tu ancora
di quel che credi ch'a me satisfaccia;
ch'i' non potrei, tanta pietà m'accora.”
Perciò ricominciò: “Se l'om ti faccia
liberamente ciò che 'l tuo dir priega,
spirito incarcerato, ancor ti piaccia
di dirne come l'anima si lega
in questi nocchi; e dinne, se tu puoi,
s'alcuna mai di tai membra si spiega.”
Allor soffiò il tronco forte, e poi
si convertì quel vento in cotal voce:
“Brievemente sarà risposto a voi.
Quando si parte l'anima feroce
dal corpo ond' ella stessa s'è disvelta,
Minòs la manda a la settima foce.
Cade in la selva, e non l'è parte scelta;
ma là dove fortuna la balestra,
quivi germoglia come gran di spelta.
Surge in vermena e in pianta silvestra:
l'Arpie, pascendo poi de le sue foglie,
fanno dolore, e al dolor fenestra.
Come l'altre verrem per nostre spoglie,
ma non però ch'alcuna sen rivesta,
ché non è giusto aver ciò ch'om si toglie.
Qui le strascineremo, e per la mesta
selva saranno i nostri corpi appesi,
ciascuno al prun de l'ombra sua molesta.”
Noi eravamo ancora al tronco attesi,
credendo ch'altro ne volesse dire,
quando noi fummo d'un romor sorpresi,
similemente a colui che venire
sente 'l porco e la caccia a la sua posta,
ch'ode le bestie, e le frasche stormire.
Ed ecco due da la sinistra costa,
nudi e graffiati, fuggendo si forte,
che de la selva rompieno ogne rosta.
Quel dinanzi: “Or accorri, accorri, morte!”
E l'altro, cui pareva tardar troppo,
gridava: “Lano, sì non furo accorte
le gambe tue a le giostre dal Toppo!”
E poi che forse li fallia la lena,
di sé e d'un cespuglio fece un groppo.
Di rietro a loro era la selva piena
di nere cagne, bramose e correnti
come veltri ch'uscisser di catena.
In quel che s'appiattò miser li denti,
e quel dilaceraro a brano a brano;
poi sen portar quelle membra dolenti.
Presemi allor la mia scorta per mano,
e menommi al cespuglio che piangea
per le rotture sanguinenti in vano.
“O Iacopo,” dicea, “da Santo Andrea,
che t'è giovato di me fare schermo?
che colpa ho io de la tua vita rea?”
Quando 'l maestro fu sovr' esso fermo,
disse: “Chi fosti, che per tante punte
soffi con sangue doloroso sermo?”
Ed elli a noi: “O anime che giunte
siete a veder lo strazio disonesto
c'ha le mie fronde sì da me disgiunte,
raccoglietele al piè del tristo cesto.
I' fui de la città che nel Batista
mutò 'l primo padrone; ond' ei per questo
sempre con l'arte sua la farà trista;
e se non fosse che 'n sul passo d'Arno
rimane ancor di lui alcuna vista,
que' cittadin che poi la rifondarno
sovra 'l cener che d'Attila rimase,
avrebber fatto lavorare indarno.
Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case.”
Not yet had Nessus reached the other side,
When we had put ourselves within a wood,
That was not marked by any path whatever.
Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour,
Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled,
Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison.
Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense,
Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold
'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places.
There do the hideous Harpies make their nests,
Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades,
With sad announcement of impending doom;
Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human,
And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged;
They make laments upon the wondrous trees.
And the good Master: "Ere thou enter farther,
Know that thou art within the second round,"
Thus he began to say, "and shalt be, till
Thou comest out upon the horrible sand;
Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see
Things that will credence give unto my speech."
I heard on all sides lamentations uttered,
And person none beheld I who might make them,
Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still.
I think he thought that I perhaps might think
So many voices issued through those trunks
From people who concealed themselves from us;
Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off
Some little spray from any of these trees,
The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain."
Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward,
And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn;
And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?"
After it had become embrowned with blood,
It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me?
Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever?
Men once we were, and now are changed to trees;
Indeed, thy hand should be more pitiful,
Even if the souls of serpents we had been."
As out of a green brand, that is on fire
At one of the ends, and from the other drips
And hisses with the wind that is escaping;
So from that splinter issued forth together
Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip
Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid.
"Had he been able sooner to believe,"
My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul,
What only in my verses he has seen,
Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand;
Whereas the thing incredible has caused me
To put him to an act which grieveth me.
But tell him who thou wast, so that by way
Of some amends thy fame he may refresh
Up in the world, to which he can return."
And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me,
I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not,
That I a little to discourse am tempted.
I am the one who both keys had in keeping
Of Frederick's heart, and turned them to and fro
So softly in unlocking and in locking,
That from his secrets most men I withheld;
Fidelity I bore the glorious office
So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses.
The courtesan who never from the dwelling
Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes,
Death universal and the vice of courts,
Inflamed against me all the other minds,
And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus,
That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings.
My spirit, in disdainful exultation,
Thinking by dying to escape disdain,
Made me unjust against myself, the just.
I, by the roots unwonted of this wood,
Do swear to you that never broke I faith
Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour;
And to the world if one of you return,
Let him my memory comfort, which is lying
Still prostrate from the blow that envy dealt it."
Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent,"
The Poet said to me, "lose not the time,
But speak, and question him, if more may please thee."
Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire
Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me;
For I cannot, such pity is in my heart."
Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man
Do for thee freely what thy speech implores,
Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased
To tell us in what way the soul is bound
Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst,
If any from such members e'er is freed."
Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward
The wind was into such a voice converted:
"With brevity shall be replied to you.
When the exasperated soul abandons
The body whence it rent itself away,
Minos consigns it to the seventh abyss.
It falls into the forest, and no part
Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it,
There like a grain of spelt it germinates.
It springs a sapling, and a forest tree;
The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves,
Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet.
Like others for our spoils shall we return;
But not that any one may them revest,
For 'tis not just to have what one casts off.
Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal
Forest our bodies shall suspended be,
Each to the thorn of his molested shade."
We were attentive still unto the trunk,
Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us,
When by a tumult we were overtaken,
In the same way as he is who perceives
The boar and chase approaching to his stand,
Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches;
And two behold! upon our left-hand side,
Naked and scratched, fleeing so furiously,
That of the forest, every fan they broke.
He who was in advance: "Now help, Death, help!"
And the other one, who seemed to lag too much,
Was shouting: "Lano, were not so alert
Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!"
And then, perchance because his breath was failing,
He grouped himself together with a bush.
Behind them was the forest full of black
She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot
As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain.
On him who had crouched down they set their teeth,
And him they lacerated piece by piece,
Thereafter bore away those aching members.
Thereat my Escort took me by the hand,
And led me to the bush, that all in vain
Was weeping from its bloody lacerations.
"O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea,
What helped it thee of me to make a screen?
What blame have I in thy nefarious life?"
When near him had the Master stayed his steps,
He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many
Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?"
And he to us: "O souls, that hither come
To look upon the shameful massacre
That has so rent away from me my leaves,
Gather them up beneath the dismal bush;
I of that city was which to the Baptist
Changed its first patron, wherefore he for this
Forever with his art will make it sad.
And were it not that on the pass of Arno
Some glimpses of him are remaining still,
Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it
Upon the ashes left by Attila,
In vain had caused their labour to be done.
Of my own house I made myself a gibbet."
Ettore Paratore (“Analisi 'retorica' del canto di Pier della Vigna,” Studi Danteschi 42 [1965], pp. 281-82) has studied the phenomenon of the 'connected canti' of the Comedy, those, like XII and XIII, in which the action flows from one into the other, in which a canto is not 'end-stopped.' He counts 16 such in Inferno; 10 in Purgatorio; 8 in Paradiso. That one third of the borders of Dante's cantos are so fluid helps us to understand that he has a strong a sense of delineation of the units of the whole and, at the same time, a desire not to be restrained by these borders. For a recent reading of the canto as a whole see Gabriele Muresu, “La selva dei disperati (Inferno XIII),” La Rassegna della letteratura italiana 99 (1995), pp. 5-45.
The very image of infertility, the forest of the suicides is compared, in what is a simile in feel, but which lacks, like the forest itself, the usual decorative elements, to the wilds of the Maremma, here between the river Cecina to the north and the town of Corneto to the south, a wild part of Tuscany.
The vegetation is more of brakes and bushes than of trees, and the dominant impression is of scraggly enclosure.
The Harpies, heavy birds with the faces of women and clawed hands, the demonic monsters who preside over this canto (once again, like the Minotaur and the Centaurs, part human, part beast), derive from Virgil (Aen. III.210-212; Aen. III.216-217; Aen. III.253-257). Having twice befouled the food of the Trojan refugees, one of them (Calaeno) then attempts to convince Aeneas and his followers that they, in their voyage to Italy, are doomed to starvation and failure. For the classical tradition of the Harpies, especially as found in Lucan, see Sonia Gentile, “'Ut canes infernales': Cerbero e le Arpie in Dante,” in I “monstra” nell'“Inferno” dantesco: tradizione e simbologie (Spoleto: Centro italiano di studi sull'alto medioevo, 1997), pp. 194-203. And for their meaning as 'false prophets,' counselling despair, see Stephany's article, “Dante's Harpies: 'tristo annuzio di futuro danno,'” Italica 62 (1985), pp. 24-33.
Virgil's words offer the occasion for a certain ingenuity on the part of some commentators. Literally, what they mean is clear enough: 'were I only to tell you what you are about to see, you would not believe me' (i.e., Dante has to experience the speaking vegetation in order to believe its reality). But see the note to XIII.46-51.
Dante, lost in a dark wood, as he was at the beginning of the poem, is smarrito (bewildered), as his path was lost (smarrita) in that wood (Inf. I.3). The repetition of the word here seems deliberate, and perhaps invites us to consider the possibility that the lost soul whom we met in Inferno I was in some way himself suicidal.
This is perhaps the most self-consciously 'literary' line in a canto filled with 'literariness.' See the elegant essay by Leo Spitzer (“Speech and Language in Inferno XIII,” Italica 19 [1942], pp. 77-104) for a close analysis of this canto.
Dante's hesitant gesture and the sinner's horrified response reflect closely a scene in the Aeneid in which Aeneas similarly tears pieces of vegetation from the grave of murdered Polydorus, who finally cries out in words that are echoed in this sinner's complaints (Aen. III.22-48). Just before the Greeks overran Troy, Priam sent his son Polydorus to be raised by the Thracian king Polymestor, and with him the treasure of Troy. Once the city fell, Polymestor killed Polydorus, stole the treasure, and had the youth's body cast into the sea.
The speaker, we will later learn from the historical details to which he refers (he is never named), is Pier delle Vigne, the chancellor of Frederick II of Sicily and Naples (see the note to Inf. XIII.58-61). Here he is represented as a 'gran pruno' (tall thorn-bush), and while the modifying adjective grants him a certain dignity, it also reduces him to the least pleasant of plants. The forest of the suicides resembles a dense thicket of briar, the only 'vegetation' found in hell after the green meadow of Limbo (Inf. IV.111).
Dante's simile, which sounds like the sounds it describes, reduces Pier's natural dignity by giving him so distorted a voice.
Virgil's apology to Pier for encouraging Dante to pluck a piece of him now clearly evokes the text of the Aeneid, thus adding a dimension to the words he had uttered at Inferno XIII.20-21.
Virgil's invitation to Pier to speak so that Dante may 'revive his fame' in the world above has a positive result. As we move down through hell, we will find that some sinners look upon their 'interview' with this 'reporter' a wonderful opportunity to attempt to clear their names, while others shun any 'publicity' at all.
The beginning of Pier's speech is an Italian version of Pier's noted 'chancery style' of Latin oratory turned to document-writing. Pier was known not only for his Latin writings on behalf of Frederick's exercise of his imperial power, but for his vernacular poems, which are similarly florid.
His speech to Dante, in its entirety, forms an Italian version of a classical oration, with its parts measured as follows: (1) capturing of the good will of the audience (55-57); (2) narrative of events at issue (58-72); (3) peroration, making the climactic point (73-75); (4) petition, seeking the consent of the audience (76-78). For a more detailed consideration of the rhetorical construction of the speech see David C. Higgins (“Cicero, Aquinas, and St. Matthew in Inferno XIII,” Dante Studies 93 [1975]), pp. 63-64.
The speaker identifies himself, if by circumlocution, as Pier della Vigna (or 'delle Vigne'): 'Petrus de Vinea, minister of the Emperor Frederick II, born at Capua ca. 1190; after studying at Bologna, he received an appointment at the court of Frederick II as notary, and thenceforward he rapidly rose to distinction. He was made judge and protonotary, and for more than twenty years he was the trusted minister and confidant of the Emperor. He was at the height of his power in 1247, but two years later he was accused of treachery, and was thrown into prison and blinded; and soon after he committed suicide (April, 1249)' (Paget Toynbee, “Pier della Vigna,” Concise Dante Dictionary [Oxford: Clarendon, 1914 (1898)]). For the numerous and widely various accounts of the manner of his death see Fabrizio Franceschini, “Le dieci morti di Pier della Vigna: commenti danteschi e itinerari medievali,” Waib: Quaderni di cultura ghibellina in Italia (Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2000), pp. 47-64. Further information about the emperor Frederick II may be found in the note to Inf. X.119.
Holding the keys to the emperor's heart, the 'promised land' of any self-seeking courtier, this Peter is a parodic version of St. Peter, who, in the Christian tradition, holds the keys (one for mercy, one for judgment) that unlock or lock the Kingdom of Heaven. For the original Biblical image of the two keys see Isaiah 22:22.
This 'slut' is commonly recognized as envy, the sin of hoping that one's happy neighbor will be made unhappy.
Pier is trying to establish his innocence of the charges that he betrayed his lord by stealing from his treasury. We now know that he was in fact guilty of that fault; however, it is far from clear that Dante knew what we know. See Cassell's gathering of evidence for the case against Pier's barratry (Dante's Fearful Art of Justice [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984], pp. 38-42).
'Augustus,' the emperor par excellence, is Pier's title for his emperor, Frederick.
Pier's disdegnoso gusto, whether pleasure in self-hatred (see Steno Vazzana, “Il 'disdegnoso gusto' di Pier de le Vigne,” L'Alighieri 11 [1998], pp. 91-94, for this reading) or pleasure in imagining his vengeance upon his enemies (see Higgins [“Cicero, Aquinas, and St. Matthew in Inferno XIII,” Dante Studies 93 (1975)], p. 72), is presented as the motive for his suicide.
For a reading of these climactic words of Pier's oration, his oath, sworn on 'this tree's new-sprung roots,' that he did not break faith with Frederick, see the endnote to this canto. For discussion of the word nove, which has been understood variously as meaning 'recent,' 'strange,' 'singular,' and even 'nine,' see Claudia Villa, “'Per le nove radici d'esto legno': Pier della Vigna, Nicola della Rocca (e Dante): anamorfosi e riconversione di una metafora,” Strumenti critici 15 (1991), pp. 131-44. Here the word nove, would seem most naturally to refer to the new 'roots' of his 'body,' replacing those that God and nature had given him for his natural life.
How are we meant to respond to Pier, an unquestionably imposing figure? Here is Attilio Momigliano, in his commentary to this passage (XIII.55-78): '[Pier's] way of speaking, with its lofty sense of fidelity, with its steady clearsightedness, with its manly rebellion against the injustice of fate, with that indestructible sense of his honor and the desire to redeem it, even in death – all of these dressed in the folds of an austerely embellished eloquence – dwells in our memory like a solemn portrait of a courtier and makes us forget the fault of the suicide, as the words of Francesca, Brunetto, or Ugolino make us forget adultery, sodomy, betrayal. These virtues or passions that redeem, even in hell, a great sin are among the most noble and suggestive inventions of the Comedy.' Such a view of the 'great sinners' of the Inferno is attractive, no doubt, in part because it makes Dante a much less 'judgmental' poet than in fact he is. However, it is probably better to see that, in the case of Pier (as well as in that of the others mentioned by Momigliano), the sinner speaks of himself in such a way as to condemn himself in his own words, at least if we learn to read him from the ironic angle of vision that the split between consciousness of the slowly-evolving protagonist and the knowledgeable poet surely seems to call for.
It was centuries ago that a reader first thought of Judas when he read of Pier. Pietro di Dante, in the second redaction of his commentary (Pietro2 to XIII.16-51), cites St. Jerome's comment on Psalm 8: 'Judas offended God more greatly by hanging himself than by betraying Him.' Dante's son, however, never developed the importance of Judas as the quintessential suicide in the controlling image of this canto. In our own time perhaps the first to do so was Gianvito Resta (“Il canto XIII dell'Inferno,” in “Inferno”: letture degli anni 1973-1976, ed. S. Zennaro [Rome: Bonacci, 1977], pp. 335-36); a fuller expression of this insight was developed by Anthony Cassell (Dante's Fearful Art of Justice [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984], pp. 46-56). While Cassell's reading mainly involves Pier's betrayal of Frederick, the perhaps better understanding is to allow Pier his proclaimed fealty to his emperor, but to realize that his very words reveal that, if his temporal allegiances were respected, they had displaced his only truly significant loyalty, that owed to his only meaningful Lord, Jesus Christ (see Dennis Looney, “Believing in the Poet: Inferno XIII,” Allegorica 13 [1992], p. 39). The denial of Christ's authority was much a part of the behaviors of the emperor whom he served, Frederick II, revealed as punished for his heresy a few cantos earlier (Inf. X.119). It is difficult to read his words in any other way: 'I give my oath: not once did I break faith with my true lord.' Even if we allow Pier his claim (and we do not find him punished in the ninth Circle, where such a sin might have located him for eternity), a deeper reading of his 'oath' should make us see that, like Judas, he did betray his Lord, as Stephany has shown, precisely in his loyalty to the emperor, whom he treats, in his eulogy of Frederick, as in his own kingly person being all the Christ one needed. And thus, in imitation of Judas, he will have his body hanging on a tree for eternity. (For two articles about Frederick, Pier, and the court life that they shaped and shared, see Christie Fengler and William Stephany, “The Capuan Gate and Pier della Vigna,” Dante Studies 99 [1981], pp. 145-57; and Stephany, “Pier della Vigna's Self-fulfilling Prophecies: the 'Eulogy' of Frederick II and Inferno 13,” Traditio 38 [1982], pp. 193-212.)
Pier, as many have noted, has important attributes in common with Dante. Both were political figures who ended up losing the goals of their highly energized activity; both were poets. Yet it seems clear that, for all the fellow-feeling that Dante must have felt for the ruined chancellor, he is more interested in the crucial errors he made in directing his political life to the sharing and taking of power and to that alone. For Dante, the political life can only be lived justly under the sign of the true 'emperor,' God.
The protagonist, like many readers, has been won over by Pier's oratory. As was the case in his meeting with Farinata and Cavalcante in Inferno X, he began in fear, then turned to pity. Neither is an attitude recommended by the moral setting of the poem that contains this currently piteous protagonist. Again, see the endnote to this canto.
Responding to the first of Virgil's two questions on Dante's behalf (the nature of the punishment accorded the suicides), Pier describes the process by which a suicidal soul is turned, not into an airy resemblance of its former human self, but into a thing, a thornbush tortured by Harpies (the despair that led it to self-destruction in the first place). The commentary of Durling and Martinez (ad loc., Oxford, 1996) suggests that the imprisoned Pier stands in polar relation to the similarly imprisoned Boethius, who reacted with fortitude and philosophic calm in the face of the injustice of his emperor. As for the image of the 'seed' of the suicide's soul taking root where it is flung down in this 'forest,' a student at Princeton, Kyle Corcoran '03, has recently suggested that there is a relationship here, by contraries, to the parable of the sower in Luke's gospel (8:4-15).
The second of Virgil's questions regarded the eventual disposition of the incarcerated soul. It will be reincarnated after the Last Judgment, and then hang upon the bush it is contained by now.
This self-contained unit of twenty-seven verses is devoted to a second class of those violent against themselves. These wastrels were 'prodigal' in so thoroughly intentional a way that they did not casually toss away their possessions, but willfully destroyed them in a sort of 'material suicide.' Once again we note the line that Dante has drawn between the incontinent form of a sin (prodigality, punished in Inferno VII) and its 'malicious' version.
Paget Toynbee describes the two sinners found here as follows: 'Lano [Arcolano Maconi], gentleman of Siena, placed by Dante, together with Jacomo da sant' Andrea, among those who have squandered their substance.... Lano is said to have been a member of the “Spendthrift Brigade” of Siena, and to have squandered all his property in riotous living. He took part in an expedition of the Florentines and Sienese against Arezzo in 1288, which ended in the Sienese force falling into an ambush and being cut to pieces by the Aretines under Buonconte da Montefeltro at... Pieve al Toppo. Lano, being ruined and desperate, chose to fight and be killed, rather than run away and make his escape; hence the allusion of Jacomo in the text.... Jacomo [and not Dante's 'Jacopo'] della Cappella di sant' Andrea of Padua, the son of Odorico Fontana da Monselice and Speronella Delesmanini, a very wealthy lady, whose fortune Jacomo inherited, and squandered in the most senseless acts of prodigality. He is supposed to have been put to death by order of Ezzolino da Romano [see Inf. XII.102] in 1239' (cited from “Lano” and “Jacomo da sant' Andrea,” in Toynbee's Concise Dante Dictionary [Oxford: Clarendon, 1914 (1898)]).
The relatively minor figure we now encounter, a cespuglio (bush) and not the gran pruno (tall thornbush – Inf. XIII.32) that holds the soul of Pier delle Vigne, complains against the unintentional despoiling of his leaves by the exhausted Jacomo, who had huddled up against him in order to escape the pursuing hounds. Various of the early commentators identify him as either Lotto degli Agli or Rocco de' Mozzi (for review see Berthier, comm. to Inf. XIII.151; and for reasons to believe it is the latter who is referred to see Vincenzo Presta, “In margine al canto XIII dell'Inferno,” Dante Studies 90 [1972], pp.19-20), yet some of these commentators also suggest that Dante left the name 'open' because so many Florentines committed suicide in this way that he wanted to suggest the frequency of the phenomenon in his native city.
The nameless suicide, now more careful of his 'body' than he had been when he took his own life, asks to have his torn-off leaves returned to him. He identifies himself as Florentine by referring to the city's first patron, Mars, the god of war, whose replacement by John the Baptist in Christian times had weakened her, according to his not very reliable view. (Dante's sources seem to have confused Attila with Totila, who had in fact besieged the city in 542.)
The phrase strazio disonesto (shameless carnage) that describes the condition of the ruined bush probably reflects the description of the mutilated visage of Deiphobus (Aen. VI.497): inhonesto volnere (shameful wound), as Pompeo Venturi (comm. to XIII.140) seems to have been the first to suggest.
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