Poi fummo dentro al soglio de la porta
che 'l mal amor de l'anime disusa,
perché fa parer dritta la via torta,
sonando la senti' esser richiusa;
e s'io avesse li occhi vòlti ad essa,
qual fora stata al fallo degna scusa?
Noi salavam per una pietra fessa,
che si moveva e d'una e d'altra parte,
sì come l'onda che fugge e s'appressa.
“Qui si conviene usare un poco d'arte,”
cominciò 'l duca mio, “in accostarsi
or quinci, or quindi al lato che si parte.”
E questo fece i nostri passi scarsi,
tanto che pria lo scemo de la luna
rigiunse al letto suo per ricorcarsi,
che noi fossimo fuor di quella cruna;
ma quando fummo liberi e aperti
sù dove il monte in dietro si rauna,
ïo stancato e amendue incerti
di nostra via, restammo in su un piano
solingo più che strade per diserti.
Da la sua sponda, ove confina il vano,
al piè de l'alta ripa che pur sale,
misurrebbe in tre volte un corpo umano;
e quanto l'occhio mio potea trar d'ale,
or dal sinistro e or dal destro fianco,
questa cornice mi parea cotale.
Là sù non eran mossi i piè nostri anco,
quand' io conobbi quella ripa intorno
che dritto di salita aveva manco,
esser di marmo candido e addorno
d'intagli sì, che non pur Policleto,
ma la natura lì avrebbe scorno.
L'angel che venne in terra col decreto
de la molt' anni lagrimata pace,
ch'aperse il ciel del suo lungo divieto,
dinanzi a noi pareva sì verace
quivi intagliato in un atto soave,
che non sembiava imagine che tace.
Giurato si saria ch'el dicesse “Ave!”;
perché iv' era imaginata quella
ch'ad aprir l'alto amor volse la chiave;
e avea in atto impressa esta favella
“Ecce ancilla Deï,” propriamente
come figura in cera si suggella.
“Non tener pur ad un loco la mente,”
disse 'l dolce maestro, che m'avea
da quella parte onde 'l cuore ha la gente.
Per ch'i' mi mossi col viso, e vedea
di retro da Maria, da quella costa
onde m'era colui che mi movea,
un'altra storia ne la roccia imposta;
per ch'io varcai Virgilio, e fe'mi presso,
acciò che fosse a li occhi miei disposta.
Era intagliato lì nel marmo stesso
lo carro e ' buoi, traendo l'arca santa,
per che si teme officio non commesso.
Dinanzi parea gente; e tutta quanta,
partita in sette cori, a' due mie' sensi
faceva dir l'un “No,” l'altro “Sì, canta.”
Similemente al fummo de li 'ncensi
che v'era imaginato, li occhi e 'l naso
e al sì e al no discordi fensi.
Lì precedeva al benedetto vaso,
trescando alzato, l'umile salmista,
e più e men che re era in quel caso.
Di contra, effigïata ad una vista
d'un gran palazzo, Micòl ammirava
sì come donna dispettosa e trista.
I' mossi i piè del loco dov' io stava,
per avvisar da presso un'altra istoria,
che di dietro a Micòl mi biancheggiava.
Quiv' era storïata l'alta gloria
del roman principato, il cui valore
mosse Gregorio a la sua gran vittoria;
i' dico di Traiano imperadore;
e una vedovella li era al freno,
di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.
Intorno a lui parea calcato e pieno
di cavalieri, e l'aguglie ne l'oro
sovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.
La miserella intra tutti costoro
pareva dir: “Segnor, fammi vendetta
di mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond' io m'accoro”;
ed elli a lei rispondere: “Or aspetta
tanto ch'i' torni”; e quella: “Segnor mio,”
come persona in cui dolor s'affretta,
“se tu non torni?”; ed ei: “Chi fia dov' io,
la ti farà”; ed ella: “L'altrui bene
a te che fia, se 'l tuo metti in oblio?”;
ond' elli: “Or ti conforta; ch'ei convene
ch'i' solva il mio dovere anzi ch'i' mova:
giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritene.”
Colui che mai non vide cosa nova
produsse esto visibile parlare,
novello a noi perché qui non si trova.
Mentr' io mi dilettava di guardare
l'imagini di tante umilitadi,
e per lo fabbro loro a veder care,
“Ecco di qua, ma fanno i passi radi,”
mormorava il poeta, “molte genti:
questi ne 'nvïeranno a li alti gradi.”
Li occhi miei, ch'a mirare eran contenti
per veder novitadi ond' e' son vaghi,
volgendosi ver' lui non furon lenti.
Non vo' però, lettor, che tu ti smaghi
di buon proponimento per udire
come Dio vuol che 'l debito si paghi.
Non attender la forma del martìre:
pensa la succession; pensa ch'al peggio
oltre la gran sentenza non può ire.
Io cominciai: “Maestro, quel ch'io veggio
muovere a noi, non mi sembian persone,
e non so che, sì nel veder vaneggio.”
Ed elli a me: “La grave condizione
di lor tormento a terra li rannicchia,
sì che ' miei occhi pria n'ebber tencione.
Ma guarda fiso là, e disviticchia
col viso quel che vien sotto a quei sassi:
già scorger puoi come ciascun si picchia.”
O superbi cristian, miseri lassi,
che, de la vista de la mente infermi,
fidanza avete ne' retrosi passi,
non v'accorgete voi che noi siam vermi
nati a formar l'angelica farfalla,
che vola a la giustizia sanza schermi?
Di che l'animo vostro in alto galla,
poi siete quasi antomata in difetto,
sì come vermo in cui formazion falla?
Come per sostentar solaio o tetto,
per mensola talvolta una figura
si vede giugner le ginocchia al petto,
la qual fa del non ver vera rancura
nascere 'n chi la vede; così fatti
vid' io color, quando puosi ben cura.
Vero è che più e meno eran contratti
secondo ch'avien più e meno a dosso;
e qual più pazïenza avea ne li atti,
piangendo parea dicer: “Più non posso.”
When we had crossed the threshold of the door
Which the perverted love of souls disuses,
Because it makes the crooked way seem straight,
Re-echoing I heard it closed again;
And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it,
What for my failing had been fit excuse?
We mounted upward through a rifted rock,
Which undulated to this side and that,
Even as a wave receding and advancing.
"Here it behoves us use a little art,"
Began my Leader, "to adapt ourselves
Now here, now there, to the receding side."
And this our footsteps so infrequent made,
That sooner had the moon's decreasing disk
Regained its bed to sink again to rest,
Than we were forth from out that needle's eye;
But when we free and in the open were,
There where the mountain backward piles itself,
I wearied out, and both of us uncertain
About our way, we stopped upon a plain
More desolate than roads across the deserts.
From where its margin borders on the void,
To foot of the high bank that ever rises,
A human body three times told would measure;
And far as eye of mine could wing its flight,
Now on the left, and on the right flank now,
The same this cornice did appear to me.
Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet,
When I perceived the embankment round about,
Which all right of ascent had interdicted,
To be of marble white, and so adorned
With sculptures, that not only Polycletus,
But Nature's self, had there been put to shame.
The Angel, who came down to earth with tidings
Of peace, that had been wept for many a year,
And opened Heaven from its long interdict,
In front of us appeared so truthfully
There sculptured in a gracious attitude,
He did not seem an image that is silent.
One would have sworn that he was saying, "Ave;"
For she was there in effigy portrayed
Who turned the key to ope the exalted love,
And in her mien this language had impressed,
"Ecce ancilla Dei," as distinctly
As any figure stamps itself in wax.
"Keep not thy mind upon one place alone,"
The gentle Master said, who had me standing
Upon that side where people have their hearts;
Whereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheld
In rear of Mary, and upon that side
Where he was standing who conducted me,
Another story on the rock imposed;
Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near,
So that before mine eyes it might be set.
There sculptured in the self-same marble were
The cart and oxen, drawing the holy ark,
Wherefore one dreads an office not appointed.
People appeared in front, and all of them
In seven choirs divided, of two senses
Made one say "No," the other, "Yes, they sing."
Likewise unto the smoke of the frankincense,
Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and nose
Were in the yes and no discordant made.
Preceded there the vessel benedight,
Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist,
And more and less than King was he in this.
Opposite, represented at the window
Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him,
Even as a woman scornful and afflicted.
I moved my feet from where I had been standing,
To examine near at hand another story,
Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.
There the high glory of the Roman Prince
Was chronicled, whose great beneficence
Moved Gregory to his great victory;
'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;
And a poor widow at his bridle stood,
In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full
Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold
Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these
Seemed to be saying: "Give me vengeance, Lord,
For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking."
And he to answer her: "Now wait until
I shall return." And she: "My Lord," like one
In whom grief is impatient, "shouldst thou not
Return?" And he: "Who shall be where I am
Will give it thee." And she: "Good deed of others
What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?"
Whence he: "Now comfort thee, for it behoves me
That I discharge my duty ere I move;
Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me."
He who on no new thing has ever looked
Was the creator of this visible language,
Novel to us, for here it is not found.
While I delighted me in contemplating
The images of such humility,
And dear to look on for their Maker's sake,
"Behold, upon this side, but rare they make
Their steps," the Poet murmured, "many people;
These will direct us to the lofty stairs."
Mine eyes, that in beholding were intent
To see new things, of which they curious are,
In turning round towards him were not slow.
But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve
From thy good purposes, because thou hearest
How God ordaineth that the debt be paid;
Attend not to the fashion of the torment,
Think of what follows; think that at the worst
It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence.
"Master," began I, "that which I behold
Moving towards us seems to me not persons,
And what I know not, so in sight I waver."
And he to me: "The grievous quality
Of this their torment bows them so to earth,
That my own eyes at first contended with it;
But look there fixedly, and disentangle
By sight what cometh underneath those stones;
Already canst thou see how each is stricken."
O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones!
Who, in the vision of the mind infirm
Confidence have in your backsliding steps,
Do ye not comprehend that we are worms,
Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly
That flieth unto judgment without screen?
Why floats aloft your spirit high in air?
Like are ye unto insects undeveloped,
Even as the worm in whom formation fails!
As to sustain a ceiling or a roof,
In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure
Is seen to join its knees unto its breast,
Which makes of the unreal real anguish
Arise in him who sees it, fashioned thus
Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed.
True is it, they were more or less bent down,
According as they more or less were laden;
And he who had most patience in his looks
Weeping did seem to say, "I can no more!"
The opening verses of the canto tell us that Dante is obeying the angel's warning (Purg. IX.132) not to look back (in this potentially resembling one of the disciples of Jesus even more than Lot's wife or Orpheus – see the note to Purg. IX.131-132) and that the gate of purgatory makes such noise because it is so infrequently opened, since most human beings prefer to pretend that their crooked way is straight and spend eternity in hell as a result. This last image will be reinforced immediately by the undulating path through the rock that the travelers must follow, reminiscent of the sinful life they have left behind, and eventually, as Singleton points out (comm. to verse 3), by the misconception that what is in fact crooked is straight in Dante's dream of the Siren (Purg. XIX.7-15).
Poletto's commentary (1894) to this passage reminds the reader of the total contrast between the solitary state of Dante and his guide, both when they approached the angelic warder and now, having proceeded farther up the mountain (see verse 21), and the vast crowds of damned sinners found both inside the gate of hell and before Minos in Inferno III.119-120 and V.12.
On the question of the relationship between the protagonist here and Orpheus, Lot's wife, and/or one of Jesus's disciples, the commentary tradition is particularly various. Of those who claim the relevance of one relationship or another (some two dozen), almost all do so in their glosses to Purgatorio IX.132, while only three do so here. More cite the Bible, especially Luke 9:62, than anything else, with the reference to Lot's wife, whether in Genesis (19:26) or in Luke (17:32), somewhat less present, and that to Orpheus least. It is curious that Pietro di Dante in his comment to Purgatorio IX (Pietro1, to vv. 131-132) cites only the first passage in Luke, Jesus's words to his disciples, while in his comment to this passage he refers only to Lot and Orpheus. Similarly inconsistent, Fallani (comm. to Purg. IX.131-132) at first refers to all three; when he reaches this passage (comm. to vv. 5-6) he has decided that the reference is to Luke, specifically rejecting Orpheus (and not even mentioning Lot). It is clear that all three references fit the context, but it is probably also true, as Fallani evidently realized, that the passage in Luke fits better than the others, for at least two reasons. Dante is uniquely referred to here because he, as a still-mortal being, alone can be ejected from purgatory for improper behavior and denied his forward trajectory into a very special fellowship, while Orpheus wants to return to his past in the present, a quite different ambition. Lot only seems to fit as well as Jesus's putative disciple, since he is told by God to head for the mountains to escape destruction (Genesis 19:17-26), but successfully wheedles his Lord into letting him move from Sodom to Zoar instead (apparently preferring the suburbs to rural isolation), and it is only once Lot is safely inside the new city that his wife, hanging back, is caught in the firestorm that destroyed the cities of the plain. That context does not fit as well as does that of the first passage in Luke, as neither Lot nor his wife seems much interested in the genuinely new life that God's mountain betokened.
As opposed to the wide and easy entrance to hell (Inf. V.20), that to purgatory is narrow and difficult. For the reference to the 'needle's eye' [verse 16]), see Christ's words to the disciples (Matthew 19:24): 'And further I say to you, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.'
Virgil insists on the need for arte, or skill in navigating a tight spot, apparently so as not to allow Dante to be wounded by the sharp edges of the rock's outcroppings, and thus in not following the shortest path along this labyrinthine passageway, but the one that moves back and forth from the farther wall in order to avoid the protuberances on the nearer.
His reference to the waning moon (see Inf. XX.127, where we learn the moon was full on Thursday night) portrays the dark crescent in that body as leading it toward the horizon as it sets. It is now Monday morning; the moon was full 3.5 days ago and set in the western sky exactly at sunrise. With four days of retardation, 50 minutes per day, it is now setting approximately three hours and twenty minutes after sunrise. Since Dante awoke before the gate just after 8am (Purg. IX.44), it is perhaps slightly more than an hour later. In that time he has been admitted by the warder and made his way with Virgil through the 'eye of the needle.'
This verse distances Virgil from Dante by insisting on his freedom from the body's weight and yet equates the two travelers as being equally uninformed as to their impending choices. We have known that Virgil is not proficient in the ways of purgatory from the outset (Purg. II.61-63); now that we are in true purgatory the point is underlined.
See Tobia Toscano (“Canto X,” in Lectura Dantis Neapolitana: “Purgatorio,” ed. Pompeo Giannantonio [Naples: Loffredo, 1989]), pp. 207-8, on two debates among the commentators: Does this wall make a right or an obtuse angle with the smooth pavement? Do the penitents observe what is sculpted on the wall or not? Toscano strongly supports the notion that the wall is set at an obtuse angle so that the penitents are able to see what is depicted on it. If this were not the case, he continues, God's art would be wasted on them, unable to move their heads high enough to see the instructive decoration, which would, without their observation, be mere ornament. If the terraces are cut into the side of the mountain and if this verse, as many commentators believe, indicates that the inner bank of every terrace is part of the tapered shape of the mountain as a whole, then Toscano is correct. However, should we ever be forced to decide that, as Pietrobono (1946), Mattalia (1960), and Vazzana (“Il Canto X del Purgatorio,” in Nuove letture dantesche, vol. IV [Florence: Le Monnier, 1970], pp. 65-67) believe, this terrace (and every other one?) has a perpendicular wall as its inner border, we would also probably deduce that, in God's realm, even stiff-necked penitents will somehow be able to see all of the sculpting that is put there for their instruction. (Dante's illustrators are not much help in this respect; if one examines the two illustrations of the purgatorial mount found in the Dante Encyclopedia [ed. R. Lansing, New York: Garland, 2000], pp. 725 and 729, one finds that one shows the first condition, the other, the second.) Since Dante never clarified this point and since the manuscript tradition of the line (verse 30) crucial to its interpretation itself has caused much uncertainty, we really cannot say what the meaning is. Bosco/Reggio (1979) contrive a compromise: the lower part of the wall is slanted, but the rest of it is perpendicular. This might solve certain problems, but cannot be supported by the text.
For some of the problems associated with this verse see the note to vv. 22-23.
Art is clearly a major theme of this canto. We hear now of the aesthetic superiority of God's intaglios over the work of the sculptor Polycletus or the creative genius of nature herself. At verse 97 we learn, not of Dante's instruction, but of his delight in the intaglios. Near the canto's close we are told in a simile of the genuine distress that can be caused by our looking at a sculpted figure of a crunched human shape in a corbel (vv. 131-134). All these aesthetic moments have at their root the experience of art as moving its audience by its mimetic capacity. The morality of the art found on this terrace is not to be doubted, but in this canto (as opposed to the next) we at first find art treasured for purely aesthetic reasons (but see the note to vv. 97-99).
The words that make their way through the three descriptions of intaglios in vv. 31-81 insist on the artistic nature of what the protagonist sees: forms of intaglio: 32, 38, 55; of imagine: 39, 41, 62; of storia: 52, 71, 73. This art of God, which some commentators have looked upon as uncannily predicting the eventual sculpture of Michelangelo, may be more advanced than that of mere mortals, and even of nature, but it somehow does not seem very far removed from that of Dante himself. See Barolini (Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984]), p. 275: 'The exaltation of divine art at the expense of human art paradoxically leads to the exaltation of that human artist who most closely imitates divine art, who writes a poem to which heaven and earth contribute, and who by way of being only a scribe becomes the greatest of poets.' Mazzotta (Dante, Poet of the Desert [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979], pp. 237-52) frames his discussion of this canto in Dante's supposed 'ambiguity' about the value of fame. For a spirited and dubious reply to Mazzotta's compulsion to find 'ambiguity' nearly everywhere in Dante's work and as the hallmark of his way of thinking and writing, see Mastrobuono (review article of Mazzotta's book), “Criticism on Ambiguity,” Italian Culture 5 (1984), pointing out, by listing the over-abundance of assertions of this view (pp. 16-17), its tendency to distort the problem it examines. One might also wonder why in his monograph Mazzotta never even discusses Dante's own early statement that at least certain elements of poems can be understood plainly because their authors know what they mean when they resort to rhetorical figures which they are fully capable of explaining clearly (VN XXV.10).
Polycletus, Athenian sculptor of the fifth century B.C., for Dante represented the height of classical Greek art. Torraca (1905), in his gloss to vv. 32-33, points out that previous thirteenth-century Italian writers cited him in a similar way. Sources of information about him were found in Cicero, Quintilian, and Pliny. And Aristotle, mentioning him in the Nichomachean Ethics, brought him to the attention of St. Thomas. And so, even if Italian vernacular writers of this period had never seen his work, they could refer to it as Dante does here. Benvenuto (comm. to vv. 28-33) tells the interesting tale that he, in a private house in Florence, saw a marble statue of naked Venus that was supposed to have been done by Polycletus, but says that he does not believe it actually was, since, on the (erroneous) authority of Pliny, Polycletus worked in bronze, not in marble. He adds that Dante really should have named Praxiteles here.
The first example of each virtue (here Humility), opposed to the capital vice purged on each of the seven terraces, is always Mary. These four tercets are spare and central in their presentation of the Annunciation: only Gabriel and Mary are seen, minus the 'background' expected by any medieval reader, familiar with the iconography of this moment: dove, ray of light, garden, etc. As the Ottimo (comm. to vv. 34-44) has it, the 'long-standing ban' had been in effect since the time recorded in Genesis 3 (the Fall) and was only rescinded when Christ harrowed hell.
The sculpted forms are so vivid that they actually seem to speak. Thus does Dante recast the key spoken moments of Luke 1:26-38, Gabriel's charge and Mary's humble acceptance of it.
As for a tradition of renditions of 'visible speech' in painting see Fengler and Stephany (“The Visual Arts: A Basis for Dante's Imagery in Purgatory and Paradise,” The Michigan Academician 10 [1977]), p. 132: Simone Martini's Uffizi Annunciation (1333 – but reflecting a pre-existent tradition), where the angel's words are depicted on a horizontal line on the painting's gold background.
Bosco/Reggio (comm. to vv. 22-54) make explicit what is almost said by many of those commentators who deal with the phrase in verse 53, 'varcai Virgilio' (I went past Virgil): it is a fine, realistic detail with no further significance. Yet this entire passage, in which Virgil gets Dante to stop enjoying so deeply the representation of Gabriel and Mary and to make himself available to more of God's art, has certain overtones that might cast a different light on the relationship between the two poets here. The Annunciation was nearly, we might reflect, the subject of Virgil's fourth Eclogue, the child to be born to a virgin that, had he only known which child and which virgin, might have saved him. It is this scene from which Virgil, in all innocence, pulls Dante away. And, while what follows merely describes Dante's moving past Virgil, who had been standing between him and the first intaglio, from left to right, so as better to inspect the next work, it also describes physically what has a moral status, that is, Dante surpasses Virgil as an artist because he is more available to the meaning of God's art. In this vein see Barolini (Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984]), p. 278.
As Inferno has readied us to observe, Dante will now couple his subordinate exemplary figures as scriptural and classical, more specifically Old Testament and Roman. This passage consolidates key elements of the narrative concerning David's bringing the Ark of the Covenant into Jerusalem: his dancing before it, his wife Michal's scorn, and her resultant barrenness (II Samuel 6:1-23).
Uzzah's presumption in attempting to assist Him who requires no help of any kind is related in II Samuel 6:6-7: he tried to steady the Ark when the movement of the oxen seemed about to topple it; for this God strikes him down immediately, killing him for his prideful insistence on a mission not enjoined. For Dante's complex and amusing acknowledgment, both here and, more specifically, in his eleventh Epistle that he is, in some ways, the 'new Uzzah,' see Teodolinda Barolini (The Undivine “Comedy”: Detheologizing Dante [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992]), p. 132, and Hollander (“Dante as Uzzah? [Purg. X 57 and Epistle XI 9-12],” in Sotto il segno di Dante: Scritti in onore di Francesco Mazzoni, ed. L. Coglievina & D. De Robertis [Florence: Le Lettere, 1999], pp. 143-51).
The protagonist's ears assure him that the seven choirs in this panel are not singing, yet his eyes insist that they are. Just so his nose smells no perfume of incense, while his eyes can see that the smoke indeed has an aroma.
Perhaps no passage in a poem that refers to David more than to any other personage from the Old Testament (see Hollander, “Dante's Use of the Fiftieth Psalm,” Dante Studies 91 [1973], pp. 145-50) is more compelling in establishing the 'figural relationship' between the two poets. Dante, too, is a 'humble psalmist,' David's modern counterpart. It seems just to say that no one has developed this observation as well as has Barolini (see especially Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984], pp. 275-78). In 1837 Tommaseo (comm. to vv. 64-66) had dealt with this scene as a metaphor for great Dante's low vernacular poetry performed beneath the scornful gaze of pedantry: 'But Dante is more than poet in certain respects, because he does not fear to appear less than poet and dances with his robe hitched up; but princess Michal – I might call her “pedantry” – sniffs from the window.'
Singleton, in his commentary to verse 75, cites a passage from Gregory the Great's Moralia for David's humility: 'What is thought by others of his doings, I know not; I am more [amazed] at David dancing, than fighting. For by fighting he subdued his enemies; but by dancing before the Lord he overcame himself.'
Where David, down among the common people and dancing without kingly dignity, reflects the low comedic world, Michal, high above the crowd and separate from it, scornful, seems to represent the lofty, 'tragic,' or noble view. David here serves as a forerunner for Jesus, who will identify himself with humility, while Michal seems to be associated with all those who resist humility in the name of pride.
The longest of these three scenes concerns Trajan, emperor of Rome in the years 98-117. Of those whom Dante depicts as being saved to whom all or most Christians would deny, or at least question, that status (Cato [Purg. I.75], Statius [Purg. XXII.73], Trajan [Par. XX.44], and Ripheus [Par. XX.68]), only for Trajan does there exist a tradition that considered him saved. This result of St. Gregory's prayers is even allowed as possible by St. Thomas, in what seems an unusually latitudinarian gesture, recorded in the Summa theologica (as was perhaps first noted by Lombardi [1791], comm. to vv. 74-75): ST III, Suppl., quaest. 71, art. 5, obj. 5 [for the text in English see Singleton's note to verse 75]). That what seems to modern ears an unbelievable story should have had the support of so rigorous a thinker as Thomas still astounds readers. Yet, if one looks closely, one sees that Thomas does hedge his bet: Trajan's salvation by Gregory's intervention is 'probable' (potest probabiliter aestimari); further, according to Thomas, 'as others say' (secundum quosdam), Trajan may have only had his punishment put back until Judgment Day. Dante betrays no such hesitation: the salvation of Trajan is Gregory's 'great victory' (verse 75). Dante is in an enviable position, both possessing Thomas's support and being able to outdo him in enthusiasm.
For some of the many medieval texts that support the miraculous salvation of Trajan and for an array of possible sources for the dialogue between Trajan and the widow, including Trajan's column in Rome, see Nancy Vickers, “Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 (1983), pp. 70-72, 75-79.
For Dante's reliance on two back-to-back parables in Luke (Luke 18:1-8; 18:9-14) see Vickers, pp. 73-75. Lombardi (comm. to verse 32) was perhaps the first to apply Luke 18:14 ('qui se exaltat humiliabitur, et qui se humiliat exaltabitur' [for every one that exalts himself shall be abased; and he that humbles himself shall be exalted]) to this scene.
For the term storïata see Singleton (comm. to vv. 49-52): 'a depiction in art, even as stained-glass windows or initial letters in manuscripts or frescoed walls were said to be “historiated”' with historical or legendary material.
Saint Gregory, known as Gregory the Great, was pope from 590 to 604. His lengthy commentary on the Book of Job (the Moralia), one of the most influential writings of the earlier middle ages, offers a different and happier understanding of Job's story than is prevalent today, insisting that it has a truly 'comic' resolution, rebinding Job to God and restoring his family. Dante mentions Gregory twice, here and in Paradiso XX.106-117, in connection with the salvation of Trajan, and he is referred to in the last sphere of the heavens as one of the saved (Par. XXVIII.133), despite the fact that he had made small errors in listing the orders of the angelic hierarchy (as had Dante himself in Conv. II.v.6) in the Moralia.
For information about which popes are saved and which are damned according to the Commedia see the note to Inferno VII.46-48.
Having been told of Gregory's 'great victory,' we are now told in what it consisted: the pope has saved a (dead) pagan emperor. The way the text is handled reminds us of Dante's continuing hostility to the Church's insistence on the hierocrat position, in which the emperor is seen as totally dependent upon the Church for his authority. Gregory's intervention for a great Roman emperor has, in Dante's eyes, a different style and sets a better standard.
The rapid strokes that fill in the details of this intaglio show that Dante is fully capable of producing the scene in pictures. But in the following dozen verses, pushing the limits of the art he attributes to God, but which he has invented, he reports only the 'visible speech' wrought by what he saw, that is, the words induced by the carving rather than the carving itself.
The exchange between the widow and Trajan, a sort of polite tenzone, involves six speeches. The widow seeks, Trajan denies; she seeks again and is again denied; she appeals to Trajan's moral character and he accedes, touched in those two treasured Roman inner qualities, respect for iustitia and pietas. Francesco da Buti (comm. to vv. 28-45) was of the opinion that, just as those who are prideful are so against their superiors, their equals, or their inferiors, so those who are humble may be so in the same relationships. Thus Mary is humble before her superior, God; David before his equals, the priests; and Trajan before his inferior, the widow.
What is new to Dante is not so to God (but this does not reduce the novelty or the excitement of it for Dante [see verse 104] or for us).
Hollander (Allegory in Dante's “Commedia” [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969]), pp. 297-300, points out that this passage, with its 'speech made visible,' connects with two other similar moments in the poem, Inferno III.1-9 (the writing over the gate of hell) and Paradiso XVIII.91-93 (the 'skywriting' in the heaven of Jupiter), and suggests that all of them may be thought of as representing 'visible speech,' as was suggested by one of his students, Gregory Curfman (Princeton '68). Curfman also suggested that each passage was further related by containing a focal word, giustizia (Inf. III.4; Purg. X.93; Par. XVIII.91–now in Latin, iustitiam) and then still further by involving Trajan. This formulation works easily for the last two passages, but requires a contorted argument (along a path that travels through Hezekiah and Roman triumphal arches) to attach Trajan to the gate of hell.
Mestica was perhaps the first commentator to apply widely and frequently his perception of the significance of the term visibile parlare for Dante's art (as compared with Virgil's) throughout the poem, beginning with the description of Charon in Inferno III.82-99: 'Comparing Charon as portrayed by Virgil and Dante quickly reveals the remarkable artistry used by the pupil when he imitated his teacher, as well as the originality and power of his style. Virgil paints descriptively, employing ample displays of images and colors; Dante sculpts, using speech made visible.' Mestica deploys the phrase fourteen more times in his commentary as he marvels at the power of Dante's art.
For the program in the intaglios see H.D. Austin (“The Arrangement of Dante's Purgatorial Reliefs,” PMLA 47 [1932], pp. 1-9); for ekphrasis in this canto see James A.W. Heffernan (Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993], pp. 37-45).
These images of humility reflect the pattern that we will find on each terrace: first exempla of the virtue that directly opposes the vice repented (here humility and pride), ultimately exempla of the vice itself (see Purg. XII.25-63). Thus the penitents are at first encouraged and finally warned lest they backslide.
Dante's delectation has delayed the travelers long enough so that even this slow-moving band of penitents, coming along behind them, can become visible to Virgil (but not to the art-absorbed Dante), even though the path was totally bare when the two poets arrived on it (vv. 25-26). It is a curious fact of this art-filled canto that, of the two poets, Virgil has clearly the shortest attention span to give to art. He feels he has to urge Dante to take his eyes off Gabriel and Mary (verse 46) in order to examine David, and now interrupts Dante's delectation in the images of Trajan and the widow in order to get him to look at real souls. (He is obviously himself not nearly so absorbed by God's art.) It is a bit difficult to know what to make of these moments. Virgil resembles the less art-responsive member of a couple in a museum, waiting for his friend, totally absorbed, to finish looking so that their tour may continue. Further, the word used to describe Virgil's distracting locution is mormorava (murmured). Dante uses it seven other times in the poem (Inf. XXVI.86, Purg. XXIV.37, Purg. XXIV.47, Purg. XXXII.37, Par. XX.19, Par. XX.26, Par. XXV.21), and it usually denotes some form of less-than-clear speech, uttered in this way because the speaker is in pain or distracted (in the only preceding occurrence, Inf. XXVI.86, it is the riven, speaking flame of Ulysses that murmurs). For Dante to put together the very word that for him most stands for eloquence, poeta, with 'murmured' is striking. The commentators are mainly silent in response to Virgil's murmuring. Benvenuto (comm. to verse 101), the only one before the twentieth century to pay the word significant notice, says this: Seeing Dante so rapt in aesthetic pleasure, Virgil interrupts him smilingly in a low voice to indicate that now his pupil can observe some real purgation (aliam purgationem veram). Torraca (comm. to verse 101) tries a different tack: Virgil murmurs because he is puzzled by the nature of these new things moving toward him. Trucchi (comm. to verse 101) and Pietrobono (comm. to verse 101) suggest that the words are said by Virgil half to himself because he is absorbed in what he is seeing and afflicted by the problem of how to proceed in his guidance. The last seems a reasonable explanation. Yet no one has, with the exception of Vickers, paid attention to the curious and disturbing notion that Virgil, of all people, should murmur. Here is her formulation, in partial response to that word: 'The placing of Virgil face to face with divine assurance of the salvation of Trajan, a man of no more faith than he, cannot but emphasize the enigma of Virgil's situation' (Nancy Vickers, “Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], p. 72). She goes on to speculate that the salvation of Trajan by intervention of Gregory inevitably brings to mind another great medieval legend, that of St. Paul praying for the soul of Virgil at his tomb near Naples, a potential intervention on behalf of damned Virgil that, as far as everyone who has dealt with it is concerned, failed.
Vickers (“Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 [1983]), pp. 80-81, discusses Benvenuto's connecting the historiated walls of the temple of Juno at Carthage, with their account of the fall of Troy in Aeneid I.453-495, and this scene, and then goes on to suggest that 'Aeneas is rapt in the esthetic experience and weeps; Dante the pilgrim is rapt and delights. The one reads defeat (emptiness); the other triumphs (fullness).'
Dante's third address to us, his readers, is an appeal that we accept the necessity of treatment for our ills before we are eventually free of them. Since the 'punishments' of the saved do not seem, at first blush, all that much more pleasant than the pains of the damned, the poet wishes to emphasize the great gulf that separates them: those in hell are eternal; these here are timebound and will cease at least by the Day of Judgment.
This passage has caused much discussion but is in fact not as difficult as it has been made to seem. The purpose of the entire passage is to get Dante to understand that what he is looking at is human and not merely a procession of mobile rocks. Virgil says he, too, had trouble making this fact out at first, but eventually could see that there were beings moving beneath the rocks. A single gesture makes this clear: they beat their breasts. And it is a gesture that accords with the penitential feelings of the penitent prideful, as Moore (Studies in Dante, First Series: Scripture and Classical Authors in Dante [Oxford: Clarendon, 1969 (1896)]), p. 49, clearly pointed out, citing Luke 18:13, where the publican beats his breast in humility. Nonetheless, Ignazio Baldelli (“L'angariatissimo 'si picchia' / 'si nicchia' [Purg., X 120],” Filologia e critica 15 [1990]), pp. 480-84, argues, against Petrocchi, for si nicchia (and not si picchia). While he does not follow the path of those who argue for nicchia as meaning 'lament' (a meaning that is found in the appearance of that verb in Inf. XVIII.103) which, as Petrocchi says, is not a probable reading given that one is less likely to see than to hear lamentation, he does argue for the somewhat more recondite meaning of the verb, 'hides itself,' 'settles in its niche,' 'is in its nest,' etc. While Baldelli's negative arguments against Petrocchi and others are sound, they are not eventually convincing because the action of the verb is too confining and slight to describe what we see, souls crushed down under the heavy weight of stone. And thus the traditional reading, si picchia, i.e., beating themselves on their breasts, seems still the best. Chiavacci Leonardi (Purgatorio, con il commento di A. M. C. L. [Milan: Mondadori, 1994]), p. 310, suggests that it would be difficult to carry out this self-inflicted punishment beneath the heavy rocks and wants to return to the minority view found in Jacopo della Lana, namely, that these sinners are being beaten, castigated, by God. Torraca (comm. to vv. 118-120) had already argued that, with their knees already pushed up against their chests, they would not have space to beat into (but this is said of the similetic figure of the man on a corbel, not of the penitents) and that they would have had to use their hands and arms to steady the weights upon their backs (but Dante never tells us that this is so; again, the nature of the place allows for phenomena that may not occur in the 'real world'). Just as it does not make sense to argue about whether or not the penitent prideful can see the exemplary figures displayed upon the mountain's side from under their stones if the wall on which these figures are shown is at right angles (see the note to Purg. X.23), it does not make sense here to argue that their arms and hands are not free to pummel their chests, as the poem is a poem and this space in it, like the entire mountain above the portal in the ninth canto, is a magic mountain, without always observing natural physical laws. Thus the souls can see what needs to be seen and pummel themselves at will. There is a useful summary of these arguments up to the twentieth century in Scartazzini (comm. to verse 120). He argues forcefully for this reading. Further confirmation comes from the likely citation of Luke (Luke 18:13), where the publican beats his breast, a text that has solid connections to this scene (see the last paragraph of the note to Purg. X.73-93). Michele Barbi (Problemi di critica dantesca [Florence: Sansoni, 1934], pp. 224-225) is on this side of the argument. Further, Dante spends (and with any other hypothesis, wastes) five verses (Purg. X.115-119) having Virgil say how hard it is to make out this gesture but that, once you disentangle their bodies from the stones, you will see that they are human and not things. Thus simple analysis of the content of the verses probably should have long ago disbarred any hypothesis that did not show how the human sign offered by the souls identified them as human. The only hypothesis that meets this criterion is the most popular one, which also has iconography on its side. See Moore (Studies in Dante, First Series: Scripture and Classical Authors in Dante [Oxford: Clarendon, 1969 (1896)]), p. 49.
The poet's second apostrophe of the canto (see vv. 106-111 for the first) is not, strictly speaking, an address to the reader but rather a castigation of all those Christians (and thus, one would expect, not all his readers) who have turned away from God.
One of the most celebrated metaphors of the poem, the 'angelic butterfly' that each of us has as a potential destiny, is what most of us will not become. Hugh Shankland (“Dante 'Aliger,'” Modern Language Review 70 [1975], pp. 764-85) suggests a relationship between Dante's name and the Latin word aliger (a Virgilian coinage, according to him, as a poetic alternative for alatus), first used (at Aen. I.663) for Cupid, then again (Aen. XII.249) for the 'winged flock' of waterfowl sent scrambling by Jove's golden eagle. Guglielmo Gorni (Lettera nome numero: L'ordine delle cose in Dante [Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990]), pp. 185-86, makes a similar observation, mistakenly believing that no one had proceeded him in doing so.
While God wills that we, caterpillars that we are, become butterflies, Heaven-bound souls, we choose to be even less than those worms that are capable of that transformation, and have bent our wills to be such. As commentators have shown, antomata is Dante's version of Aristotle's creatures born, not of other creatures, but of the putrefaction of vegetable matter, as when the sun beats down on the mud – see De generatione animalium III.1, as cited by Benvenuto, comm. to vv. 124-129). See also Aristotle's Historia animalium V.19, as cited by Pasquini/Quaglio (comm. to vv. 128-129), where Aristotle distinguishes, as Dante does here, between worms that can turn into butterflies and those, defective, which cannot. The meaning clearly seems to be that we are born worms, but turn ourselves into still lesser beings, formally imperfect worms, as though we had not been bred by creatures with rational souls. Benvenuto concludes by quoting Job (but actually the Psalms [21:7 (22:6)]): 'Vermis sum ego et non homo' (I am a worm, not a man). He may have conflated that passage with Job 25:6.
In a canto so concerned with art, and highly mimetic art in particular, it seems only natural that the poet would have wanted to conclude with a simile, one of this artisan's specialties. We may be surprised to realize that this is the first one in this canto, that we have not seen one since well back in the last canto (Purg. IX.34-42). A corbel is a sculpted human figure, often crudely realistic, and thus part of the low-mimetic tradition, used to decorate the element that joins a weight-bearing column to the roof- or floor-beam that it supports.
The notion that an artifact can be so 'realistic' that, although it is not real, but a fiction, as it were, it can cause an observer real distress, continues the mimetic concern so evident in this canto and also stands as a sort of emblem of the poem as a whole, with its insistence on its literal truth dizzyingly countered by its less evident but clear admission that it is in fact invented by a poet, if one who will only write fictions that seem (and claim) to be utterly true. For discussion of this passage in this light see Barolini (The Undivine “Comedy”: Detheologizing Dante [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992]), pp. 125-26.
We learn that, just as in hell there were sinners punished in differing degrees for the same sin, so in purging themselves penitents also reflect the degree of their former sinfulness.
A small but continuing dispute in the commentaries debates whether pazïenza should be interpreted as 'suffering' or 'patience.' Philologically there is probably no advantage to either solution. However, poetic logic points to a simple explanation (one shared by the vast majority of the commentators): what we face here is a relation of paradox rather than similarity. Even the most stoical of the sinners seemed to be expressing the thought (another case of 'speech made visible') 'I can no more.' Of course the one who suffered most would be saying such a thing; that would not be worth mentioning. The point is that even the penitent least crushed by the weight of his former pride is suffering as much as one can possibly suffer.
Gerard Manley Hopkins offered, whether he wished to or not, a perfectly Dantean gloss to this verse. In his 'terrible sonnet' named 'Carrion Comfort' by Robert Bridges, Hopkins, more likely citing Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (IV.xv.59) than Dante, has his speaking voice cry out, 'Not, I'll not... cry I can no more. I can.' While Antony says 'I can no more' and dies, Hopkins' persona does not give in to despair and continues to strive toward God. Here, the penitents all seem to insist that they are at the end of their strength, yet all continue on the road toward making restitution to God by giving satisfaction for their sins and thus eventually obtain their final absolution.
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Poi fummo dentro al soglio de la porta
che 'l mal amor de l'anime disusa,
perché fa parer dritta la via torta,
sonando la senti' esser richiusa;
e s'io avesse li occhi vòlti ad essa,
qual fora stata al fallo degna scusa?
Noi salavam per una pietra fessa,
che si moveva e d'una e d'altra parte,
sì come l'onda che fugge e s'appressa.
“Qui si conviene usare un poco d'arte,”
cominciò 'l duca mio, “in accostarsi
or quinci, or quindi al lato che si parte.”
E questo fece i nostri passi scarsi,
tanto che pria lo scemo de la luna
rigiunse al letto suo per ricorcarsi,
che noi fossimo fuor di quella cruna;
ma quando fummo liberi e aperti
sù dove il monte in dietro si rauna,
ïo stancato e amendue incerti
di nostra via, restammo in su un piano
solingo più che strade per diserti.
Da la sua sponda, ove confina il vano,
al piè de l'alta ripa che pur sale,
misurrebbe in tre volte un corpo umano;
e quanto l'occhio mio potea trar d'ale,
or dal sinistro e or dal destro fianco,
questa cornice mi parea cotale.
Là sù non eran mossi i piè nostri anco,
quand' io conobbi quella ripa intorno
che dritto di salita aveva manco,
esser di marmo candido e addorno
d'intagli sì, che non pur Policleto,
ma la natura lì avrebbe scorno.
L'angel che venne in terra col decreto
de la molt' anni lagrimata pace,
ch'aperse il ciel del suo lungo divieto,
dinanzi a noi pareva sì verace
quivi intagliato in un atto soave,
che non sembiava imagine che tace.
Giurato si saria ch'el dicesse “Ave!”;
perché iv' era imaginata quella
ch'ad aprir l'alto amor volse la chiave;
e avea in atto impressa esta favella
“Ecce ancilla Deï,” propriamente
come figura in cera si suggella.
“Non tener pur ad un loco la mente,”
disse 'l dolce maestro, che m'avea
da quella parte onde 'l cuore ha la gente.
Per ch'i' mi mossi col viso, e vedea
di retro da Maria, da quella costa
onde m'era colui che mi movea,
un'altra storia ne la roccia imposta;
per ch'io varcai Virgilio, e fe'mi presso,
acciò che fosse a li occhi miei disposta.
Era intagliato lì nel marmo stesso
lo carro e ' buoi, traendo l'arca santa,
per che si teme officio non commesso.
Dinanzi parea gente; e tutta quanta,
partita in sette cori, a' due mie' sensi
faceva dir l'un “No,” l'altro “Sì, canta.”
Similemente al fummo de li 'ncensi
che v'era imaginato, li occhi e 'l naso
e al sì e al no discordi fensi.
Lì precedeva al benedetto vaso,
trescando alzato, l'umile salmista,
e più e men che re era in quel caso.
Di contra, effigïata ad una vista
d'un gran palazzo, Micòl ammirava
sì come donna dispettosa e trista.
I' mossi i piè del loco dov' io stava,
per avvisar da presso un'altra istoria,
che di dietro a Micòl mi biancheggiava.
Quiv' era storïata l'alta gloria
del roman principato, il cui valore
mosse Gregorio a la sua gran vittoria;
i' dico di Traiano imperadore;
e una vedovella li era al freno,
di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.
Intorno a lui parea calcato e pieno
di cavalieri, e l'aguglie ne l'oro
sovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.
La miserella intra tutti costoro
pareva dir: “Segnor, fammi vendetta
di mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond' io m'accoro”;
ed elli a lei rispondere: “Or aspetta
tanto ch'i' torni”; e quella: “Segnor mio,”
come persona in cui dolor s'affretta,
“se tu non torni?”; ed ei: “Chi fia dov' io,
la ti farà”; ed ella: “L'altrui bene
a te che fia, se 'l tuo metti in oblio?”;
ond' elli: “Or ti conforta; ch'ei convene
ch'i' solva il mio dovere anzi ch'i' mova:
giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritene.”
Colui che mai non vide cosa nova
produsse esto visibile parlare,
novello a noi perché qui non si trova.
Mentr' io mi dilettava di guardare
l'imagini di tante umilitadi,
e per lo fabbro loro a veder care,
“Ecco di qua, ma fanno i passi radi,”
mormorava il poeta, “molte genti:
questi ne 'nvïeranno a li alti gradi.”
Li occhi miei, ch'a mirare eran contenti
per veder novitadi ond' e' son vaghi,
volgendosi ver' lui non furon lenti.
Non vo' però, lettor, che tu ti smaghi
di buon proponimento per udire
come Dio vuol che 'l debito si paghi.
Non attender la forma del martìre:
pensa la succession; pensa ch'al peggio
oltre la gran sentenza non può ire.
Io cominciai: “Maestro, quel ch'io veggio
muovere a noi, non mi sembian persone,
e non so che, sì nel veder vaneggio.”
Ed elli a me: “La grave condizione
di lor tormento a terra li rannicchia,
sì che ' miei occhi pria n'ebber tencione.
Ma guarda fiso là, e disviticchia
col viso quel che vien sotto a quei sassi:
già scorger puoi come ciascun si picchia.”
O superbi cristian, miseri lassi,
che, de la vista de la mente infermi,
fidanza avete ne' retrosi passi,
non v'accorgete voi che noi siam vermi
nati a formar l'angelica farfalla,
che vola a la giustizia sanza schermi?
Di che l'animo vostro in alto galla,
poi siete quasi antomata in difetto,
sì come vermo in cui formazion falla?
Come per sostentar solaio o tetto,
per mensola talvolta una figura
si vede giugner le ginocchia al petto,
la qual fa del non ver vera rancura
nascere 'n chi la vede; così fatti
vid' io color, quando puosi ben cura.
Vero è che più e meno eran contratti
secondo ch'avien più e meno a dosso;
e qual più pazïenza avea ne li atti,
piangendo parea dicer: “Più non posso.”
When we had crossed the threshold of the door
Which the perverted love of souls disuses,
Because it makes the crooked way seem straight,
Re-echoing I heard it closed again;
And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it,
What for my failing had been fit excuse?
We mounted upward through a rifted rock,
Which undulated to this side and that,
Even as a wave receding and advancing.
"Here it behoves us use a little art,"
Began my Leader, "to adapt ourselves
Now here, now there, to the receding side."
And this our footsteps so infrequent made,
That sooner had the moon's decreasing disk
Regained its bed to sink again to rest,
Than we were forth from out that needle's eye;
But when we free and in the open were,
There where the mountain backward piles itself,
I wearied out, and both of us uncertain
About our way, we stopped upon a plain
More desolate than roads across the deserts.
From where its margin borders on the void,
To foot of the high bank that ever rises,
A human body three times told would measure;
And far as eye of mine could wing its flight,
Now on the left, and on the right flank now,
The same this cornice did appear to me.
Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet,
When I perceived the embankment round about,
Which all right of ascent had interdicted,
To be of marble white, and so adorned
With sculptures, that not only Polycletus,
But Nature's self, had there been put to shame.
The Angel, who came down to earth with tidings
Of peace, that had been wept for many a year,
And opened Heaven from its long interdict,
In front of us appeared so truthfully
There sculptured in a gracious attitude,
He did not seem an image that is silent.
One would have sworn that he was saying, "Ave;"
For she was there in effigy portrayed
Who turned the key to ope the exalted love,
And in her mien this language had impressed,
"Ecce ancilla Dei," as distinctly
As any figure stamps itself in wax.
"Keep not thy mind upon one place alone,"
The gentle Master said, who had me standing
Upon that side where people have their hearts;
Whereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheld
In rear of Mary, and upon that side
Where he was standing who conducted me,
Another story on the rock imposed;
Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near,
So that before mine eyes it might be set.
There sculptured in the self-same marble were
The cart and oxen, drawing the holy ark,
Wherefore one dreads an office not appointed.
People appeared in front, and all of them
In seven choirs divided, of two senses
Made one say "No," the other, "Yes, they sing."
Likewise unto the smoke of the frankincense,
Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and nose
Were in the yes and no discordant made.
Preceded there the vessel benedight,
Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist,
And more and less than King was he in this.
Opposite, represented at the window
Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him,
Even as a woman scornful and afflicted.
I moved my feet from where I had been standing,
To examine near at hand another story,
Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.
There the high glory of the Roman Prince
Was chronicled, whose great beneficence
Moved Gregory to his great victory;
'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;
And a poor widow at his bridle stood,
In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full
Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold
Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these
Seemed to be saying: "Give me vengeance, Lord,
For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking."
And he to answer her: "Now wait until
I shall return." And she: "My Lord," like one
In whom grief is impatient, "shouldst thou not
Return?" And he: "Who shall be where I am
Will give it thee." And she: "Good deed of others
What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?"
Whence he: "Now comfort thee, for it behoves me
That I discharge my duty ere I move;
Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me."
He who on no new thing has ever looked
Was the creator of this visible language,
Novel to us, for here it is not found.
While I delighted me in contemplating
The images of such humility,
And dear to look on for their Maker's sake,
"Behold, upon this side, but rare they make
Their steps," the Poet murmured, "many people;
These will direct us to the lofty stairs."
Mine eyes, that in beholding were intent
To see new things, of which they curious are,
In turning round towards him were not slow.
But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve
From thy good purposes, because thou hearest
How God ordaineth that the debt be paid;
Attend not to the fashion of the torment,
Think of what follows; think that at the worst
It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence.
"Master," began I, "that which I behold
Moving towards us seems to me not persons,
And what I know not, so in sight I waver."
And he to me: "The grievous quality
Of this their torment bows them so to earth,
That my own eyes at first contended with it;
But look there fixedly, and disentangle
By sight what cometh underneath those stones;
Already canst thou see how each is stricken."
O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones!
Who, in the vision of the mind infirm
Confidence have in your backsliding steps,
Do ye not comprehend that we are worms,
Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly
That flieth unto judgment without screen?
Why floats aloft your spirit high in air?
Like are ye unto insects undeveloped,
Even as the worm in whom formation fails!
As to sustain a ceiling or a roof,
In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure
Is seen to join its knees unto its breast,
Which makes of the unreal real anguish
Arise in him who sees it, fashioned thus
Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed.
True is it, they were more or less bent down,
According as they more or less were laden;
And he who had most patience in his looks
Weeping did seem to say, "I can no more!"
The opening verses of the canto tell us that Dante is obeying the angel's warning (Purg. IX.132) not to look back (in this potentially resembling one of the disciples of Jesus even more than Lot's wife or Orpheus – see the note to Purg. IX.131-132) and that the gate of purgatory makes such noise because it is so infrequently opened, since most human beings prefer to pretend that their crooked way is straight and spend eternity in hell as a result. This last image will be reinforced immediately by the undulating path through the rock that the travelers must follow, reminiscent of the sinful life they have left behind, and eventually, as Singleton points out (comm. to verse 3), by the misconception that what is in fact crooked is straight in Dante's dream of the Siren (Purg. XIX.7-15).
Poletto's commentary (1894) to this passage reminds the reader of the total contrast between the solitary state of Dante and his guide, both when they approached the angelic warder and now, having proceeded farther up the mountain (see verse 21), and the vast crowds of damned sinners found both inside the gate of hell and before Minos in Inferno III.119-120 and V.12.
On the question of the relationship between the protagonist here and Orpheus, Lot's wife, and/or one of Jesus's disciples, the commentary tradition is particularly various. Of those who claim the relevance of one relationship or another (some two dozen), almost all do so in their glosses to Purgatorio IX.132, while only three do so here. More cite the Bible, especially Luke 9:62, than anything else, with the reference to Lot's wife, whether in Genesis (19:26) or in Luke (17:32), somewhat less present, and that to Orpheus least. It is curious that Pietro di Dante in his comment to Purgatorio IX (Pietro1, to vv. 131-132) cites only the first passage in Luke, Jesus's words to his disciples, while in his comment to this passage he refers only to Lot and Orpheus. Similarly inconsistent, Fallani (comm. to Purg. IX.131-132) at first refers to all three; when he reaches this passage (comm. to vv. 5-6) he has decided that the reference is to Luke, specifically rejecting Orpheus (and not even mentioning Lot). It is clear that all three references fit the context, but it is probably also true, as Fallani evidently realized, that the passage in Luke fits better than the others, for at least two reasons. Dante is uniquely referred to here because he, as a still-mortal being, alone can be ejected from purgatory for improper behavior and denied his forward trajectory into a very special fellowship, while Orpheus wants to return to his past in the present, a quite different ambition. Lot only seems to fit as well as Jesus's putative disciple, since he is told by God to head for the mountains to escape destruction (Genesis 19:17-26), but successfully wheedles his Lord into letting him move from Sodom to Zoar instead (apparently preferring the suburbs to rural isolation), and it is only once Lot is safely inside the new city that his wife, hanging back, is caught in the firestorm that destroyed the cities of the plain. That context does not fit as well as does that of the first passage in Luke, as neither Lot nor his wife seems much interested in the genuinely new life that God's mountain betokened.
As opposed to the wide and easy entrance to hell (Inf. V.20), that to purgatory is narrow and difficult. For the reference to the 'needle's eye' [verse 16]), see Christ's words to the disciples (Matthew 19:24): 'And further I say to you, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.'
Virgil insists on the need for arte, or skill in navigating a tight spot, apparently so as not to allow Dante to be wounded by the sharp edges of the rock's outcroppings, and thus in not following the shortest path along this labyrinthine passageway, but the one that moves back and forth from the farther wall in order to avoid the protuberances on the nearer.
His reference to the waning moon (see Inf. XX.127, where we learn the moon was full on Thursday night) portrays the dark crescent in that body as leading it toward the horizon as it sets. It is now Monday morning; the moon was full 3.5 days ago and set in the western sky exactly at sunrise. With four days of retardation, 50 minutes per day, it is now setting approximately three hours and twenty minutes after sunrise. Since Dante awoke before the gate just after 8am (Purg. IX.44), it is perhaps slightly more than an hour later. In that time he has been admitted by the warder and made his way with Virgil through the 'eye of the needle.'
This verse distances Virgil from Dante by insisting on his freedom from the body's weight and yet equates the two travelers as being equally uninformed as to their impending choices. We have known that Virgil is not proficient in the ways of purgatory from the outset (Purg. II.61-63); now that we are in true purgatory the point is underlined.
See Tobia Toscano (“Canto X,” in Lectura Dantis Neapolitana: “Purgatorio,” ed. Pompeo Giannantonio [Naples: Loffredo, 1989]), pp. 207-8, on two debates among the commentators: Does this wall make a right or an obtuse angle with the smooth pavement? Do the penitents observe what is sculpted on the wall or not? Toscano strongly supports the notion that the wall is set at an obtuse angle so that the penitents are able to see what is depicted on it. If this were not the case, he continues, God's art would be wasted on them, unable to move their heads high enough to see the instructive decoration, which would, without their observation, be mere ornament. If the terraces are cut into the side of the mountain and if this verse, as many commentators believe, indicates that the inner bank of every terrace is part of the tapered shape of the mountain as a whole, then Toscano is correct. However, should we ever be forced to decide that, as Pietrobono (1946), Mattalia (1960), and Vazzana (“Il Canto X del Purgatorio,” in Nuove letture dantesche, vol. IV [Florence: Le Monnier, 1970], pp. 65-67) believe, this terrace (and every other one?) has a perpendicular wall as its inner border, we would also probably deduce that, in God's realm, even stiff-necked penitents will somehow be able to see all of the sculpting that is put there for their instruction. (Dante's illustrators are not much help in this respect; if one examines the two illustrations of the purgatorial mount found in the Dante Encyclopedia [ed. R. Lansing, New York: Garland, 2000], pp. 725 and 729, one finds that one shows the first condition, the other, the second.) Since Dante never clarified this point and since the manuscript tradition of the line (verse 30) crucial to its interpretation itself has caused much uncertainty, we really cannot say what the meaning is. Bosco/Reggio (1979) contrive a compromise: the lower part of the wall is slanted, but the rest of it is perpendicular. This might solve certain problems, but cannot be supported by the text.
For some of the problems associated with this verse see the note to vv. 22-23.
Art is clearly a major theme of this canto. We hear now of the aesthetic superiority of God's intaglios over the work of the sculptor Polycletus or the creative genius of nature herself. At verse 97 we learn, not of Dante's instruction, but of his delight in the intaglios. Near the canto's close we are told in a simile of the genuine distress that can be caused by our looking at a sculpted figure of a crunched human shape in a corbel (vv. 131-134). All these aesthetic moments have at their root the experience of art as moving its audience by its mimetic capacity. The morality of the art found on this terrace is not to be doubted, but in this canto (as opposed to the next) we at first find art treasured for purely aesthetic reasons (but see the note to vv. 97-99).
The words that make their way through the three descriptions of intaglios in vv. 31-81 insist on the artistic nature of what the protagonist sees: forms of intaglio: 32, 38, 55; of imagine: 39, 41, 62; of storia: 52, 71, 73. This art of God, which some commentators have looked upon as uncannily predicting the eventual sculpture of Michelangelo, may be more advanced than that of mere mortals, and even of nature, but it somehow does not seem very far removed from that of Dante himself. See Barolini (Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984]), p. 275: 'The exaltation of divine art at the expense of human art paradoxically leads to the exaltation of that human artist who most closely imitates divine art, who writes a poem to which heaven and earth contribute, and who by way of being only a scribe becomes the greatest of poets.' Mazzotta (Dante, Poet of the Desert [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979], pp. 237-52) frames his discussion of this canto in Dante's supposed 'ambiguity' about the value of fame. For a spirited and dubious reply to Mazzotta's compulsion to find 'ambiguity' nearly everywhere in Dante's work and as the hallmark of his way of thinking and writing, see Mastrobuono (review article of Mazzotta's book), “Criticism on Ambiguity,” Italian Culture 5 (1984), pointing out, by listing the over-abundance of assertions of this view (pp. 16-17), its tendency to distort the problem it examines. One might also wonder why in his monograph Mazzotta never even discusses Dante's own early statement that at least certain elements of poems can be understood plainly because their authors know what they mean when they resort to rhetorical figures which they are fully capable of explaining clearly (VN XXV.10).
Polycletus, Athenian sculptor of the fifth century B.C., for Dante represented the height of classical Greek art. Torraca (1905), in his gloss to vv. 32-33, points out that previous thirteenth-century Italian writers cited him in a similar way. Sources of information about him were found in Cicero, Quintilian, and Pliny. And Aristotle, mentioning him in the Nichomachean Ethics, brought him to the attention of St. Thomas. And so, even if Italian vernacular writers of this period had never seen his work, they could refer to it as Dante does here. Benvenuto (comm. to vv. 28-33) tells the interesting tale that he, in a private house in Florence, saw a marble statue of naked Venus that was supposed to have been done by Polycletus, but says that he does not believe it actually was, since, on the (erroneous) authority of Pliny, Polycletus worked in bronze, not in marble. He adds that Dante really should have named Praxiteles here.
The first example of each virtue (here Humility), opposed to the capital vice purged on each of the seven terraces, is always Mary. These four tercets are spare and central in their presentation of the Annunciation: only Gabriel and Mary are seen, minus the 'background' expected by any medieval reader, familiar with the iconography of this moment: dove, ray of light, garden, etc. As the Ottimo (comm. to vv. 34-44) has it, the 'long-standing ban' had been in effect since the time recorded in Genesis 3 (the Fall) and was only rescinded when Christ harrowed hell.
The sculpted forms are so vivid that they actually seem to speak. Thus does Dante recast the key spoken moments of Luke 1:26-38, Gabriel's charge and Mary's humble acceptance of it.
As for a tradition of renditions of 'visible speech' in painting see Fengler and Stephany (“The Visual Arts: A Basis for Dante's Imagery in Purgatory and Paradise,” The Michigan Academician 10 [1977]), p. 132: Simone Martini's Uffizi Annunciation (1333 – but reflecting a pre-existent tradition), where the angel's words are depicted on a horizontal line on the painting's gold background.
Bosco/Reggio (comm. to vv. 22-54) make explicit what is almost said by many of those commentators who deal with the phrase in verse 53, 'varcai Virgilio' (I went past Virgil): it is a fine, realistic detail with no further significance. Yet this entire passage, in which Virgil gets Dante to stop enjoying so deeply the representation of Gabriel and Mary and to make himself available to more of God's art, has certain overtones that might cast a different light on the relationship between the two poets here. The Annunciation was nearly, we might reflect, the subject of Virgil's fourth Eclogue, the child to be born to a virgin that, had he only known which child and which virgin, might have saved him. It is this scene from which Virgil, in all innocence, pulls Dante away. And, while what follows merely describes Dante's moving past Virgil, who had been standing between him and the first intaglio, from left to right, so as better to inspect the next work, it also describes physically what has a moral status, that is, Dante surpasses Virgil as an artist because he is more available to the meaning of God's art. In this vein see Barolini (Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984]), p. 278.
As Inferno has readied us to observe, Dante will now couple his subordinate exemplary figures as scriptural and classical, more specifically Old Testament and Roman. This passage consolidates key elements of the narrative concerning David's bringing the Ark of the Covenant into Jerusalem: his dancing before it, his wife Michal's scorn, and her resultant barrenness (II Samuel 6:1-23).
Uzzah's presumption in attempting to assist Him who requires no help of any kind is related in II Samuel 6:6-7: he tried to steady the Ark when the movement of the oxen seemed about to topple it; for this God strikes him down immediately, killing him for his prideful insistence on a mission not enjoined. For Dante's complex and amusing acknowledgment, both here and, more specifically, in his eleventh Epistle that he is, in some ways, the 'new Uzzah,' see Teodolinda Barolini (The Undivine “Comedy”: Detheologizing Dante [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992]), p. 132, and Hollander (“Dante as Uzzah? [Purg. X 57 and Epistle XI 9-12],” in Sotto il segno di Dante: Scritti in onore di Francesco Mazzoni, ed. L. Coglievina & D. De Robertis [Florence: Le Lettere, 1999], pp. 143-51).
The protagonist's ears assure him that the seven choirs in this panel are not singing, yet his eyes insist that they are. Just so his nose smells no perfume of incense, while his eyes can see that the smoke indeed has an aroma.
Perhaps no passage in a poem that refers to David more than to any other personage from the Old Testament (see Hollander, “Dante's Use of the Fiftieth Psalm,” Dante Studies 91 [1973], pp. 145-50) is more compelling in establishing the 'figural relationship' between the two poets. Dante, too, is a 'humble psalmist,' David's modern counterpart. It seems just to say that no one has developed this observation as well as has Barolini (see especially Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984], pp. 275-78). In 1837 Tommaseo (comm. to vv. 64-66) had dealt with this scene as a metaphor for great Dante's low vernacular poetry performed beneath the scornful gaze of pedantry: 'But Dante is more than poet in certain respects, because he does not fear to appear less than poet and dances with his robe hitched up; but princess Michal – I might call her “pedantry” – sniffs from the window.'
Singleton, in his commentary to verse 75, cites a passage from Gregory the Great's Moralia for David's humility: 'What is thought by others of his doings, I know not; I am more [amazed] at David dancing, than fighting. For by fighting he subdued his enemies; but by dancing before the Lord he overcame himself.'
Where David, down among the common people and dancing without kingly dignity, reflects the low comedic world, Michal, high above the crowd and separate from it, scornful, seems to represent the lofty, 'tragic,' or noble view. David here serves as a forerunner for Jesus, who will identify himself with humility, while Michal seems to be associated with all those who resist humility in the name of pride.
The longest of these three scenes concerns Trajan, emperor of Rome in the years 98-117. Of those whom Dante depicts as being saved to whom all or most Christians would deny, or at least question, that status (Cato [Purg. I.75], Statius [Purg. XXII.73], Trajan [Par. XX.44], and Ripheus [Par. XX.68]), only for Trajan does there exist a tradition that considered him saved. This result of St. Gregory's prayers is even allowed as possible by St. Thomas, in what seems an unusually latitudinarian gesture, recorded in the Summa theologica (as was perhaps first noted by Lombardi [1791], comm. to vv. 74-75): ST III, Suppl., quaest. 71, art. 5, obj. 5 [for the text in English see Singleton's note to verse 75]). That what seems to modern ears an unbelievable story should have had the support of so rigorous a thinker as Thomas still astounds readers. Yet, if one looks closely, one sees that Thomas does hedge his bet: Trajan's salvation by Gregory's intervention is 'probable' (potest probabiliter aestimari); further, according to Thomas, 'as others say' (secundum quosdam), Trajan may have only had his punishment put back until Judgment Day. Dante betrays no such hesitation: the salvation of Trajan is Gregory's 'great victory' (verse 75). Dante is in an enviable position, both possessing Thomas's support and being able to outdo him in enthusiasm.
For some of the many medieval texts that support the miraculous salvation of Trajan and for an array of possible sources for the dialogue between Trajan and the widow, including Trajan's column in Rome, see Nancy Vickers, “Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 (1983), pp. 70-72, 75-79.
For Dante's reliance on two back-to-back parables in Luke (Luke 18:1-8; 18:9-14) see Vickers, pp. 73-75. Lombardi (comm. to verse 32) was perhaps the first to apply Luke 18:14 ('qui se exaltat humiliabitur, et qui se humiliat exaltabitur' [for every one that exalts himself shall be abased; and he that humbles himself shall be exalted]) to this scene.
For the term storïata see Singleton (comm. to vv. 49-52): 'a depiction in art, even as stained-glass windows or initial letters in manuscripts or frescoed walls were said to be “historiated”' with historical or legendary material.
Saint Gregory, known as Gregory the Great, was pope from 590 to 604. His lengthy commentary on the Book of Job (the Moralia), one of the most influential writings of the earlier middle ages, offers a different and happier understanding of Job's story than is prevalent today, insisting that it has a truly 'comic' resolution, rebinding Job to God and restoring his family. Dante mentions Gregory twice, here and in Paradiso XX.106-117, in connection with the salvation of Trajan, and he is referred to in the last sphere of the heavens as one of the saved (Par. XXVIII.133), despite the fact that he had made small errors in listing the orders of the angelic hierarchy (as had Dante himself in Conv. II.v.6) in the Moralia.
For information about which popes are saved and which are damned according to the Commedia see the note to Inferno VII.46-48.
Having been told of Gregory's 'great victory,' we are now told in what it consisted: the pope has saved a (dead) pagan emperor. The way the text is handled reminds us of Dante's continuing hostility to the Church's insistence on the hierocrat position, in which the emperor is seen as totally dependent upon the Church for his authority. Gregory's intervention for a great Roman emperor has, in Dante's eyes, a different style and sets a better standard.
The rapid strokes that fill in the details of this intaglio show that Dante is fully capable of producing the scene in pictures. But in the following dozen verses, pushing the limits of the art he attributes to God, but which he has invented, he reports only the 'visible speech' wrought by what he saw, that is, the words induced by the carving rather than the carving itself.
The exchange between the widow and Trajan, a sort of polite tenzone, involves six speeches. The widow seeks, Trajan denies; she seeks again and is again denied; she appeals to Trajan's moral character and he accedes, touched in those two treasured Roman inner qualities, respect for iustitia and pietas. Francesco da Buti (comm. to vv. 28-45) was of the opinion that, just as those who are prideful are so against their superiors, their equals, or their inferiors, so those who are humble may be so in the same relationships. Thus Mary is humble before her superior, God; David before his equals, the priests; and Trajan before his inferior, the widow.
What is new to Dante is not so to God (but this does not reduce the novelty or the excitement of it for Dante [see verse 104] or for us).
Hollander (Allegory in Dante's “Commedia” [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969]), pp. 297-300, points out that this passage, with its 'speech made visible,' connects with two other similar moments in the poem, Inferno III.1-9 (the writing over the gate of hell) and Paradiso XVIII.91-93 (the 'skywriting' in the heaven of Jupiter), and suggests that all of them may be thought of as representing 'visible speech,' as was suggested by one of his students, Gregory Curfman (Princeton '68). Curfman also suggested that each passage was further related by containing a focal word, giustizia (Inf. III.4; Purg. X.93; Par. XVIII.91–now in Latin, iustitiam) and then still further by involving Trajan. This formulation works easily for the last two passages, but requires a contorted argument (along a path that travels through Hezekiah and Roman triumphal arches) to attach Trajan to the gate of hell.
Mestica was perhaps the first commentator to apply widely and frequently his perception of the significance of the term visibile parlare for Dante's art (as compared with Virgil's) throughout the poem, beginning with the description of Charon in Inferno III.82-99: 'Comparing Charon as portrayed by Virgil and Dante quickly reveals the remarkable artistry used by the pupil when he imitated his teacher, as well as the originality and power of his style. Virgil paints descriptively, employing ample displays of images and colors; Dante sculpts, using speech made visible.' Mestica deploys the phrase fourteen more times in his commentary as he marvels at the power of Dante's art.
For the program in the intaglios see H.D. Austin (“The Arrangement of Dante's Purgatorial Reliefs,” PMLA 47 [1932], pp. 1-9); for ekphrasis in this canto see James A.W. Heffernan (Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993], pp. 37-45).
These images of humility reflect the pattern that we will find on each terrace: first exempla of the virtue that directly opposes the vice repented (here humility and pride), ultimately exempla of the vice itself (see Purg. XII.25-63). Thus the penitents are at first encouraged and finally warned lest they backslide.
Dante's delectation has delayed the travelers long enough so that even this slow-moving band of penitents, coming along behind them, can become visible to Virgil (but not to the art-absorbed Dante), even though the path was totally bare when the two poets arrived on it (vv. 25-26). It is a curious fact of this art-filled canto that, of the two poets, Virgil has clearly the shortest attention span to give to art. He feels he has to urge Dante to take his eyes off Gabriel and Mary (verse 46) in order to examine David, and now interrupts Dante's delectation in the images of Trajan and the widow in order to get him to look at real souls. (He is obviously himself not nearly so absorbed by God's art.) It is a bit difficult to know what to make of these moments. Virgil resembles the less art-responsive member of a couple in a museum, waiting for his friend, totally absorbed, to finish looking so that their tour may continue. Further, the word used to describe Virgil's distracting locution is mormorava (murmured). Dante uses it seven other times in the poem (Inf. XXVI.86, Purg. XXIV.37, Purg. XXIV.47, Purg. XXXII.37, Par. XX.19, Par. XX.26, Par. XXV.21), and it usually denotes some form of less-than-clear speech, uttered in this way because the speaker is in pain or distracted (in the only preceding occurrence, Inf. XXVI.86, it is the riven, speaking flame of Ulysses that murmurs). For Dante to put together the very word that for him most stands for eloquence, poeta, with 'murmured' is striking. The commentators are mainly silent in response to Virgil's murmuring. Benvenuto (comm. to verse 101), the only one before the twentieth century to pay the word significant notice, says this: Seeing Dante so rapt in aesthetic pleasure, Virgil interrupts him smilingly in a low voice to indicate that now his pupil can observe some real purgation (aliam purgationem veram). Torraca (comm. to verse 101) tries a different tack: Virgil murmurs because he is puzzled by the nature of these new things moving toward him. Trucchi (comm. to verse 101) and Pietrobono (comm. to verse 101) suggest that the words are said by Virgil half to himself because he is absorbed in what he is seeing and afflicted by the problem of how to proceed in his guidance. The last seems a reasonable explanation. Yet no one has, with the exception of Vickers, paid attention to the curious and disturbing notion that Virgil, of all people, should murmur. Here is her formulation, in partial response to that word: 'The placing of Virgil face to face with divine assurance of the salvation of Trajan, a man of no more faith than he, cannot but emphasize the enigma of Virgil's situation' (Nancy Vickers, “Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], p. 72). She goes on to speculate that the salvation of Trajan by intervention of Gregory inevitably brings to mind another great medieval legend, that of St. Paul praying for the soul of Virgil at his tomb near Naples, a potential intervention on behalf of damned Virgil that, as far as everyone who has dealt with it is concerned, failed.
Vickers (“Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 [1983]), pp. 80-81, discusses Benvenuto's connecting the historiated walls of the temple of Juno at Carthage, with their account of the fall of Troy in Aeneid I.453-495, and this scene, and then goes on to suggest that 'Aeneas is rapt in the esthetic experience and weeps; Dante the pilgrim is rapt and delights. The one reads defeat (emptiness); the other triumphs (fullness).'
Dante's third address to us, his readers, is an appeal that we accept the necessity of treatment for our ills before we are eventually free of them. Since the 'punishments' of the saved do not seem, at first blush, all that much more pleasant than the pains of the damned, the poet wishes to emphasize the great gulf that separates them: those in hell are eternal; these here are timebound and will cease at least by the Day of Judgment.
This passage has caused much discussion but is in fact not as difficult as it has been made to seem. The purpose of the entire passage is to get Dante to understand that what he is looking at is human and not merely a procession of mobile rocks. Virgil says he, too, had trouble making this fact out at first, but eventually could see that there were beings moving beneath the rocks. A single gesture makes this clear: they beat their breasts. And it is a gesture that accords with the penitential feelings of the penitent prideful, as Moore (Studies in Dante, First Series: Scripture and Classical Authors in Dante [Oxford: Clarendon, 1969 (1896)]), p. 49, clearly pointed out, citing Luke 18:13, where the publican beats his breast in humility. Nonetheless, Ignazio Baldelli (“L'angariatissimo 'si picchia' / 'si nicchia' [Purg., X 120],” Filologia e critica 15 [1990]), pp. 480-84, argues, against Petrocchi, for si nicchia (and not si picchia). While he does not follow the path of those who argue for nicchia as meaning 'lament' (a meaning that is found in the appearance of that verb in Inf. XVIII.103) which, as Petrocchi says, is not a probable reading given that one is less likely to see than to hear lamentation, he does argue for the somewhat more recondite meaning of the verb, 'hides itself,' 'settles in its niche,' 'is in its nest,' etc. While Baldelli's negative arguments against Petrocchi and others are sound, they are not eventually convincing because the action of the verb is too confining and slight to describe what we see, souls crushed down under the heavy weight of stone. And thus the traditional reading, si picchia, i.e., beating themselves on their breasts, seems still the best. Chiavacci Leonardi (Purgatorio, con il commento di A. M. C. L. [Milan: Mondadori, 1994]), p. 310, suggests that it would be difficult to carry out this self-inflicted punishment beneath the heavy rocks and wants to return to the minority view found in Jacopo della Lana, namely, that these sinners are being beaten, castigated, by God. Torraca (comm. to vv. 118-120) had already argued that, with their knees already pushed up against their chests, they would not have space to beat into (but this is said of the similetic figure of the man on a corbel, not of the penitents) and that they would have had to use their hands and arms to steady the weights upon their backs (but Dante never tells us that this is so; again, the nature of the place allows for phenomena that may not occur in the 'real world'). Just as it does not make sense to argue about whether or not the penitent prideful can see the exemplary figures displayed upon the mountain's side from under their stones if the wall on which these figures are shown is at right angles (see the note to Purg. X.23), it does not make sense here to argue that their arms and hands are not free to pummel their chests, as the poem is a poem and this space in it, like the entire mountain above the portal in the ninth canto, is a magic mountain, without always observing natural physical laws. Thus the souls can see what needs to be seen and pummel themselves at will. There is a useful summary of these arguments up to the twentieth century in Scartazzini (comm. to verse 120). He argues forcefully for this reading. Further confirmation comes from the likely citation of Luke (Luke 18:13), where the publican beats his breast, a text that has solid connections to this scene (see the last paragraph of the note to Purg. X.73-93). Michele Barbi (Problemi di critica dantesca [Florence: Sansoni, 1934], pp. 224-225) is on this side of the argument. Further, Dante spends (and with any other hypothesis, wastes) five verses (Purg. X.115-119) having Virgil say how hard it is to make out this gesture but that, once you disentangle their bodies from the stones, you will see that they are human and not things. Thus simple analysis of the content of the verses probably should have long ago disbarred any hypothesis that did not show how the human sign offered by the souls identified them as human. The only hypothesis that meets this criterion is the most popular one, which also has iconography on its side. See Moore (Studies in Dante, First Series: Scripture and Classical Authors in Dante [Oxford: Clarendon, 1969 (1896)]), p. 49.
The poet's second apostrophe of the canto (see vv. 106-111 for the first) is not, strictly speaking, an address to the reader but rather a castigation of all those Christians (and thus, one would expect, not all his readers) who have turned away from God.
One of the most celebrated metaphors of the poem, the 'angelic butterfly' that each of us has as a potential destiny, is what most of us will not become. Hugh Shankland (“Dante 'Aliger,'” Modern Language Review 70 [1975], pp. 764-85) suggests a relationship between Dante's name and the Latin word aliger (a Virgilian coinage, according to him, as a poetic alternative for alatus), first used (at Aen. I.663) for Cupid, then again (Aen. XII.249) for the 'winged flock' of waterfowl sent scrambling by Jove's golden eagle. Guglielmo Gorni (Lettera nome numero: L'ordine delle cose in Dante [Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990]), pp. 185-86, makes a similar observation, mistakenly believing that no one had proceeded him in doing so.
While God wills that we, caterpillars that we are, become butterflies, Heaven-bound souls, we choose to be even less than those worms that are capable of that transformation, and have bent our wills to be such. As commentators have shown, antomata is Dante's version of Aristotle's creatures born, not of other creatures, but of the putrefaction of vegetable matter, as when the sun beats down on the mud – see De generatione animalium III.1, as cited by Benvenuto, comm. to vv. 124-129). See also Aristotle's Historia animalium V.19, as cited by Pasquini/Quaglio (comm. to vv. 128-129), where Aristotle distinguishes, as Dante does here, between worms that can turn into butterflies and those, defective, which cannot. The meaning clearly seems to be that we are born worms, but turn ourselves into still lesser beings, formally imperfect worms, as though we had not been bred by creatures with rational souls. Benvenuto concludes by quoting Job (but actually the Psalms [21:7 (22:6)]): 'Vermis sum ego et non homo' (I am a worm, not a man). He may have conflated that passage with Job 25:6.
In a canto so concerned with art, and highly mimetic art in particular, it seems only natural that the poet would have wanted to conclude with a simile, one of this artisan's specialties. We may be surprised to realize that this is the first one in this canto, that we have not seen one since well back in the last canto (Purg. IX.34-42). A corbel is a sculpted human figure, often crudely realistic, and thus part of the low-mimetic tradition, used to decorate the element that joins a weight-bearing column to the roof- or floor-beam that it supports.
The notion that an artifact can be so 'realistic' that, although it is not real, but a fiction, as it were, it can cause an observer real distress, continues the mimetic concern so evident in this canto and also stands as a sort of emblem of the poem as a whole, with its insistence on its literal truth dizzyingly countered by its less evident but clear admission that it is in fact invented by a poet, if one who will only write fictions that seem (and claim) to be utterly true. For discussion of this passage in this light see Barolini (The Undivine “Comedy”: Detheologizing Dante [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992]), pp. 125-26.
We learn that, just as in hell there were sinners punished in differing degrees for the same sin, so in purging themselves penitents also reflect the degree of their former sinfulness.
A small but continuing dispute in the commentaries debates whether pazïenza should be interpreted as 'suffering' or 'patience.' Philologically there is probably no advantage to either solution. However, poetic logic points to a simple explanation (one shared by the vast majority of the commentators): what we face here is a relation of paradox rather than similarity. Even the most stoical of the sinners seemed to be expressing the thought (another case of 'speech made visible') 'I can no more.' Of course the one who suffered most would be saying such a thing; that would not be worth mentioning. The point is that even the penitent least crushed by the weight of his former pride is suffering as much as one can possibly suffer.
Gerard Manley Hopkins offered, whether he wished to or not, a perfectly Dantean gloss to this verse. In his 'terrible sonnet' named 'Carrion Comfort' by Robert Bridges, Hopkins, more likely citing Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (IV.xv.59) than Dante, has his speaking voice cry out, 'Not, I'll not... cry I can no more. I can.' While Antony says 'I can no more' and dies, Hopkins' persona does not give in to despair and continues to strive toward God. Here, the penitents all seem to insist that they are at the end of their strength, yet all continue on the road toward making restitution to God by giving satisfaction for their sins and thus eventually obtain their final absolution.
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Poi fummo dentro al soglio de la porta
che 'l mal amor de l'anime disusa,
perché fa parer dritta la via torta,
sonando la senti' esser richiusa;
e s'io avesse li occhi vòlti ad essa,
qual fora stata al fallo degna scusa?
Noi salavam per una pietra fessa,
che si moveva e d'una e d'altra parte,
sì come l'onda che fugge e s'appressa.
“Qui si conviene usare un poco d'arte,”
cominciò 'l duca mio, “in accostarsi
or quinci, or quindi al lato che si parte.”
E questo fece i nostri passi scarsi,
tanto che pria lo scemo de la luna
rigiunse al letto suo per ricorcarsi,
che noi fossimo fuor di quella cruna;
ma quando fummo liberi e aperti
sù dove il monte in dietro si rauna,
ïo stancato e amendue incerti
di nostra via, restammo in su un piano
solingo più che strade per diserti.
Da la sua sponda, ove confina il vano,
al piè de l'alta ripa che pur sale,
misurrebbe in tre volte un corpo umano;
e quanto l'occhio mio potea trar d'ale,
or dal sinistro e or dal destro fianco,
questa cornice mi parea cotale.
Là sù non eran mossi i piè nostri anco,
quand' io conobbi quella ripa intorno
che dritto di salita aveva manco,
esser di marmo candido e addorno
d'intagli sì, che non pur Policleto,
ma la natura lì avrebbe scorno.
L'angel che venne in terra col decreto
de la molt' anni lagrimata pace,
ch'aperse il ciel del suo lungo divieto,
dinanzi a noi pareva sì verace
quivi intagliato in un atto soave,
che non sembiava imagine che tace.
Giurato si saria ch'el dicesse “Ave!”;
perché iv' era imaginata quella
ch'ad aprir l'alto amor volse la chiave;
e avea in atto impressa esta favella
“Ecce ancilla Deï,” propriamente
come figura in cera si suggella.
“Non tener pur ad un loco la mente,”
disse 'l dolce maestro, che m'avea
da quella parte onde 'l cuore ha la gente.
Per ch'i' mi mossi col viso, e vedea
di retro da Maria, da quella costa
onde m'era colui che mi movea,
un'altra storia ne la roccia imposta;
per ch'io varcai Virgilio, e fe'mi presso,
acciò che fosse a li occhi miei disposta.
Era intagliato lì nel marmo stesso
lo carro e ' buoi, traendo l'arca santa,
per che si teme officio non commesso.
Dinanzi parea gente; e tutta quanta,
partita in sette cori, a' due mie' sensi
faceva dir l'un “No,” l'altro “Sì, canta.”
Similemente al fummo de li 'ncensi
che v'era imaginato, li occhi e 'l naso
e al sì e al no discordi fensi.
Lì precedeva al benedetto vaso,
trescando alzato, l'umile salmista,
e più e men che re era in quel caso.
Di contra, effigïata ad una vista
d'un gran palazzo, Micòl ammirava
sì come donna dispettosa e trista.
I' mossi i piè del loco dov' io stava,
per avvisar da presso un'altra istoria,
che di dietro a Micòl mi biancheggiava.
Quiv' era storïata l'alta gloria
del roman principato, il cui valore
mosse Gregorio a la sua gran vittoria;
i' dico di Traiano imperadore;
e una vedovella li era al freno,
di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.
Intorno a lui parea calcato e pieno
di cavalieri, e l'aguglie ne l'oro
sovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.
La miserella intra tutti costoro
pareva dir: “Segnor, fammi vendetta
di mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond' io m'accoro”;
ed elli a lei rispondere: “Or aspetta
tanto ch'i' torni”; e quella: “Segnor mio,”
come persona in cui dolor s'affretta,
“se tu non torni?”; ed ei: “Chi fia dov' io,
la ti farà”; ed ella: “L'altrui bene
a te che fia, se 'l tuo metti in oblio?”;
ond' elli: “Or ti conforta; ch'ei convene
ch'i' solva il mio dovere anzi ch'i' mova:
giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritene.”
Colui che mai non vide cosa nova
produsse esto visibile parlare,
novello a noi perché qui non si trova.
Mentr' io mi dilettava di guardare
l'imagini di tante umilitadi,
e per lo fabbro loro a veder care,
“Ecco di qua, ma fanno i passi radi,”
mormorava il poeta, “molte genti:
questi ne 'nvïeranno a li alti gradi.”
Li occhi miei, ch'a mirare eran contenti
per veder novitadi ond' e' son vaghi,
volgendosi ver' lui non furon lenti.
Non vo' però, lettor, che tu ti smaghi
di buon proponimento per udire
come Dio vuol che 'l debito si paghi.
Non attender la forma del martìre:
pensa la succession; pensa ch'al peggio
oltre la gran sentenza non può ire.
Io cominciai: “Maestro, quel ch'io veggio
muovere a noi, non mi sembian persone,
e non so che, sì nel veder vaneggio.”
Ed elli a me: “La grave condizione
di lor tormento a terra li rannicchia,
sì che ' miei occhi pria n'ebber tencione.
Ma guarda fiso là, e disviticchia
col viso quel che vien sotto a quei sassi:
già scorger puoi come ciascun si picchia.”
O superbi cristian, miseri lassi,
che, de la vista de la mente infermi,
fidanza avete ne' retrosi passi,
non v'accorgete voi che noi siam vermi
nati a formar l'angelica farfalla,
che vola a la giustizia sanza schermi?
Di che l'animo vostro in alto galla,
poi siete quasi antomata in difetto,
sì come vermo in cui formazion falla?
Come per sostentar solaio o tetto,
per mensola talvolta una figura
si vede giugner le ginocchia al petto,
la qual fa del non ver vera rancura
nascere 'n chi la vede; così fatti
vid' io color, quando puosi ben cura.
Vero è che più e meno eran contratti
secondo ch'avien più e meno a dosso;
e qual più pazïenza avea ne li atti,
piangendo parea dicer: “Più non posso.”
When we had crossed the threshold of the door
Which the perverted love of souls disuses,
Because it makes the crooked way seem straight,
Re-echoing I heard it closed again;
And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it,
What for my failing had been fit excuse?
We mounted upward through a rifted rock,
Which undulated to this side and that,
Even as a wave receding and advancing.
"Here it behoves us use a little art,"
Began my Leader, "to adapt ourselves
Now here, now there, to the receding side."
And this our footsteps so infrequent made,
That sooner had the moon's decreasing disk
Regained its bed to sink again to rest,
Than we were forth from out that needle's eye;
But when we free and in the open were,
There where the mountain backward piles itself,
I wearied out, and both of us uncertain
About our way, we stopped upon a plain
More desolate than roads across the deserts.
From where its margin borders on the void,
To foot of the high bank that ever rises,
A human body three times told would measure;
And far as eye of mine could wing its flight,
Now on the left, and on the right flank now,
The same this cornice did appear to me.
Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet,
When I perceived the embankment round about,
Which all right of ascent had interdicted,
To be of marble white, and so adorned
With sculptures, that not only Polycletus,
But Nature's self, had there been put to shame.
The Angel, who came down to earth with tidings
Of peace, that had been wept for many a year,
And opened Heaven from its long interdict,
In front of us appeared so truthfully
There sculptured in a gracious attitude,
He did not seem an image that is silent.
One would have sworn that he was saying, "Ave;"
For she was there in effigy portrayed
Who turned the key to ope the exalted love,
And in her mien this language had impressed,
"Ecce ancilla Dei," as distinctly
As any figure stamps itself in wax.
"Keep not thy mind upon one place alone,"
The gentle Master said, who had me standing
Upon that side where people have their hearts;
Whereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheld
In rear of Mary, and upon that side
Where he was standing who conducted me,
Another story on the rock imposed;
Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near,
So that before mine eyes it might be set.
There sculptured in the self-same marble were
The cart and oxen, drawing the holy ark,
Wherefore one dreads an office not appointed.
People appeared in front, and all of them
In seven choirs divided, of two senses
Made one say "No," the other, "Yes, they sing."
Likewise unto the smoke of the frankincense,
Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and nose
Were in the yes and no discordant made.
Preceded there the vessel benedight,
Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist,
And more and less than King was he in this.
Opposite, represented at the window
Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him,
Even as a woman scornful and afflicted.
I moved my feet from where I had been standing,
To examine near at hand another story,
Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.
There the high glory of the Roman Prince
Was chronicled, whose great beneficence
Moved Gregory to his great victory;
'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;
And a poor widow at his bridle stood,
In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full
Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold
Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these
Seemed to be saying: "Give me vengeance, Lord,
For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking."
And he to answer her: "Now wait until
I shall return." And she: "My Lord," like one
In whom grief is impatient, "shouldst thou not
Return?" And he: "Who shall be where I am
Will give it thee." And she: "Good deed of others
What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?"
Whence he: "Now comfort thee, for it behoves me
That I discharge my duty ere I move;
Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me."
He who on no new thing has ever looked
Was the creator of this visible language,
Novel to us, for here it is not found.
While I delighted me in contemplating
The images of such humility,
And dear to look on for their Maker's sake,
"Behold, upon this side, but rare they make
Their steps," the Poet murmured, "many people;
These will direct us to the lofty stairs."
Mine eyes, that in beholding were intent
To see new things, of which they curious are,
In turning round towards him were not slow.
But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve
From thy good purposes, because thou hearest
How God ordaineth that the debt be paid;
Attend not to the fashion of the torment,
Think of what follows; think that at the worst
It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence.
"Master," began I, "that which I behold
Moving towards us seems to me not persons,
And what I know not, so in sight I waver."
And he to me: "The grievous quality
Of this their torment bows them so to earth,
That my own eyes at first contended with it;
But look there fixedly, and disentangle
By sight what cometh underneath those stones;
Already canst thou see how each is stricken."
O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones!
Who, in the vision of the mind infirm
Confidence have in your backsliding steps,
Do ye not comprehend that we are worms,
Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly
That flieth unto judgment without screen?
Why floats aloft your spirit high in air?
Like are ye unto insects undeveloped,
Even as the worm in whom formation fails!
As to sustain a ceiling or a roof,
In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure
Is seen to join its knees unto its breast,
Which makes of the unreal real anguish
Arise in him who sees it, fashioned thus
Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed.
True is it, they were more or less bent down,
According as they more or less were laden;
And he who had most patience in his looks
Weeping did seem to say, "I can no more!"
The opening verses of the canto tell us that Dante is obeying the angel's warning (Purg. IX.132) not to look back (in this potentially resembling one of the disciples of Jesus even more than Lot's wife or Orpheus – see the note to Purg. IX.131-132) and that the gate of purgatory makes such noise because it is so infrequently opened, since most human beings prefer to pretend that their crooked way is straight and spend eternity in hell as a result. This last image will be reinforced immediately by the undulating path through the rock that the travelers must follow, reminiscent of the sinful life they have left behind, and eventually, as Singleton points out (comm. to verse 3), by the misconception that what is in fact crooked is straight in Dante's dream of the Siren (Purg. XIX.7-15).
Poletto's commentary (1894) to this passage reminds the reader of the total contrast between the solitary state of Dante and his guide, both when they approached the angelic warder and now, having proceeded farther up the mountain (see verse 21), and the vast crowds of damned sinners found both inside the gate of hell and before Minos in Inferno III.119-120 and V.12.
On the question of the relationship between the protagonist here and Orpheus, Lot's wife, and/or one of Jesus's disciples, the commentary tradition is particularly various. Of those who claim the relevance of one relationship or another (some two dozen), almost all do so in their glosses to Purgatorio IX.132, while only three do so here. More cite the Bible, especially Luke 9:62, than anything else, with the reference to Lot's wife, whether in Genesis (19:26) or in Luke (17:32), somewhat less present, and that to Orpheus least. It is curious that Pietro di Dante in his comment to Purgatorio IX (Pietro1, to vv. 131-132) cites only the first passage in Luke, Jesus's words to his disciples, while in his comment to this passage he refers only to Lot and Orpheus. Similarly inconsistent, Fallani (comm. to Purg. IX.131-132) at first refers to all three; when he reaches this passage (comm. to vv. 5-6) he has decided that the reference is to Luke, specifically rejecting Orpheus (and not even mentioning Lot). It is clear that all three references fit the context, but it is probably also true, as Fallani evidently realized, that the passage in Luke fits better than the others, for at least two reasons. Dante is uniquely referred to here because he, as a still-mortal being, alone can be ejected from purgatory for improper behavior and denied his forward trajectory into a very special fellowship, while Orpheus wants to return to his past in the present, a quite different ambition. Lot only seems to fit as well as Jesus's putative disciple, since he is told by God to head for the mountains to escape destruction (Genesis 19:17-26), but successfully wheedles his Lord into letting him move from Sodom to Zoar instead (apparently preferring the suburbs to rural isolation), and it is only once Lot is safely inside the new city that his wife, hanging back, is caught in the firestorm that destroyed the cities of the plain. That context does not fit as well as does that of the first passage in Luke, as neither Lot nor his wife seems much interested in the genuinely new life that God's mountain betokened.
As opposed to the wide and easy entrance to hell (Inf. V.20), that to purgatory is narrow and difficult. For the reference to the 'needle's eye' [verse 16]), see Christ's words to the disciples (Matthew 19:24): 'And further I say to you, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.'
Virgil insists on the need for arte, or skill in navigating a tight spot, apparently so as not to allow Dante to be wounded by the sharp edges of the rock's outcroppings, and thus in not following the shortest path along this labyrinthine passageway, but the one that moves back and forth from the farther wall in order to avoid the protuberances on the nearer.
His reference to the waning moon (see Inf. XX.127, where we learn the moon was full on Thursday night) portrays the dark crescent in that body as leading it toward the horizon as it sets. It is now Monday morning; the moon was full 3.5 days ago and set in the western sky exactly at sunrise. With four days of retardation, 50 minutes per day, it is now setting approximately three hours and twenty minutes after sunrise. Since Dante awoke before the gate just after 8am (Purg. IX.44), it is perhaps slightly more than an hour later. In that time he has been admitted by the warder and made his way with Virgil through the 'eye of the needle.'
This verse distances Virgil from Dante by insisting on his freedom from the body's weight and yet equates the two travelers as being equally uninformed as to their impending choices. We have known that Virgil is not proficient in the ways of purgatory from the outset (Purg. II.61-63); now that we are in true purgatory the point is underlined.
See Tobia Toscano (“Canto X,” in Lectura Dantis Neapolitana: “Purgatorio,” ed. Pompeo Giannantonio [Naples: Loffredo, 1989]), pp. 207-8, on two debates among the commentators: Does this wall make a right or an obtuse angle with the smooth pavement? Do the penitents observe what is sculpted on the wall or not? Toscano strongly supports the notion that the wall is set at an obtuse angle so that the penitents are able to see what is depicted on it. If this were not the case, he continues, God's art would be wasted on them, unable to move their heads high enough to see the instructive decoration, which would, without their observation, be mere ornament. If the terraces are cut into the side of the mountain and if this verse, as many commentators believe, indicates that the inner bank of every terrace is part of the tapered shape of the mountain as a whole, then Toscano is correct. However, should we ever be forced to decide that, as Pietrobono (1946), Mattalia (1960), and Vazzana (“Il Canto X del Purgatorio,” in Nuove letture dantesche, vol. IV [Florence: Le Monnier, 1970], pp. 65-67) believe, this terrace (and every other one?) has a perpendicular wall as its inner border, we would also probably deduce that, in God's realm, even stiff-necked penitents will somehow be able to see all of the sculpting that is put there for their instruction. (Dante's illustrators are not much help in this respect; if one examines the two illustrations of the purgatorial mount found in the Dante Encyclopedia [ed. R. Lansing, New York: Garland, 2000], pp. 725 and 729, one finds that one shows the first condition, the other, the second.) Since Dante never clarified this point and since the manuscript tradition of the line (verse 30) crucial to its interpretation itself has caused much uncertainty, we really cannot say what the meaning is. Bosco/Reggio (1979) contrive a compromise: the lower part of the wall is slanted, but the rest of it is perpendicular. This might solve certain problems, but cannot be supported by the text.
For some of the problems associated with this verse see the note to vv. 22-23.
Art is clearly a major theme of this canto. We hear now of the aesthetic superiority of God's intaglios over the work of the sculptor Polycletus or the creative genius of nature herself. At verse 97 we learn, not of Dante's instruction, but of his delight in the intaglios. Near the canto's close we are told in a simile of the genuine distress that can be caused by our looking at a sculpted figure of a crunched human shape in a corbel (vv. 131-134). All these aesthetic moments have at their root the experience of art as moving its audience by its mimetic capacity. The morality of the art found on this terrace is not to be doubted, but in this canto (as opposed to the next) we at first find art treasured for purely aesthetic reasons (but see the note to vv. 97-99).
The words that make their way through the three descriptions of intaglios in vv. 31-81 insist on the artistic nature of what the protagonist sees: forms of intaglio: 32, 38, 55; of imagine: 39, 41, 62; of storia: 52, 71, 73. This art of God, which some commentators have looked upon as uncannily predicting the eventual sculpture of Michelangelo, may be more advanced than that of mere mortals, and even of nature, but it somehow does not seem very far removed from that of Dante himself. See Barolini (Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984]), p. 275: 'The exaltation of divine art at the expense of human art paradoxically leads to the exaltation of that human artist who most closely imitates divine art, who writes a poem to which heaven and earth contribute, and who by way of being only a scribe becomes the greatest of poets.' Mazzotta (Dante, Poet of the Desert [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979], pp. 237-52) frames his discussion of this canto in Dante's supposed 'ambiguity' about the value of fame. For a spirited and dubious reply to Mazzotta's compulsion to find 'ambiguity' nearly everywhere in Dante's work and as the hallmark of his way of thinking and writing, see Mastrobuono (review article of Mazzotta's book), “Criticism on Ambiguity,” Italian Culture 5 (1984), pointing out, by listing the over-abundance of assertions of this view (pp. 16-17), its tendency to distort the problem it examines. One might also wonder why in his monograph Mazzotta never even discusses Dante's own early statement that at least certain elements of poems can be understood plainly because their authors know what they mean when they resort to rhetorical figures which they are fully capable of explaining clearly (VN XXV.10).
Polycletus, Athenian sculptor of the fifth century B.C., for Dante represented the height of classical Greek art. Torraca (1905), in his gloss to vv. 32-33, points out that previous thirteenth-century Italian writers cited him in a similar way. Sources of information about him were found in Cicero, Quintilian, and Pliny. And Aristotle, mentioning him in the Nichomachean Ethics, brought him to the attention of St. Thomas. And so, even if Italian vernacular writers of this period had never seen his work, they could refer to it as Dante does here. Benvenuto (comm. to vv. 28-33) tells the interesting tale that he, in a private house in Florence, saw a marble statue of naked Venus that was supposed to have been done by Polycletus, but says that he does not believe it actually was, since, on the (erroneous) authority of Pliny, Polycletus worked in bronze, not in marble. He adds that Dante really should have named Praxiteles here.
The first example of each virtue (here Humility), opposed to the capital vice purged on each of the seven terraces, is always Mary. These four tercets are spare and central in their presentation of the Annunciation: only Gabriel and Mary are seen, minus the 'background' expected by any medieval reader, familiar with the iconography of this moment: dove, ray of light, garden, etc. As the Ottimo (comm. to vv. 34-44) has it, the 'long-standing ban' had been in effect since the time recorded in Genesis 3 (the Fall) and was only rescinded when Christ harrowed hell.
The sculpted forms are so vivid that they actually seem to speak. Thus does Dante recast the key spoken moments of Luke 1:26-38, Gabriel's charge and Mary's humble acceptance of it.
As for a tradition of renditions of 'visible speech' in painting see Fengler and Stephany (“The Visual Arts: A Basis for Dante's Imagery in Purgatory and Paradise,” The Michigan Academician 10 [1977]), p. 132: Simone Martini's Uffizi Annunciation (1333 – but reflecting a pre-existent tradition), where the angel's words are depicted on a horizontal line on the painting's gold background.
Bosco/Reggio (comm. to vv. 22-54) make explicit what is almost said by many of those commentators who deal with the phrase in verse 53, 'varcai Virgilio' (I went past Virgil): it is a fine, realistic detail with no further significance. Yet this entire passage, in which Virgil gets Dante to stop enjoying so deeply the representation of Gabriel and Mary and to make himself available to more of God's art, has certain overtones that might cast a different light on the relationship between the two poets here. The Annunciation was nearly, we might reflect, the subject of Virgil's fourth Eclogue, the child to be born to a virgin that, had he only known which child and which virgin, might have saved him. It is this scene from which Virgil, in all innocence, pulls Dante away. And, while what follows merely describes Dante's moving past Virgil, who had been standing between him and the first intaglio, from left to right, so as better to inspect the next work, it also describes physically what has a moral status, that is, Dante surpasses Virgil as an artist because he is more available to the meaning of God's art. In this vein see Barolini (Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984]), p. 278.
As Inferno has readied us to observe, Dante will now couple his subordinate exemplary figures as scriptural and classical, more specifically Old Testament and Roman. This passage consolidates key elements of the narrative concerning David's bringing the Ark of the Covenant into Jerusalem: his dancing before it, his wife Michal's scorn, and her resultant barrenness (II Samuel 6:1-23).
Uzzah's presumption in attempting to assist Him who requires no help of any kind is related in II Samuel 6:6-7: he tried to steady the Ark when the movement of the oxen seemed about to topple it; for this God strikes him down immediately, killing him for his prideful insistence on a mission not enjoined. For Dante's complex and amusing acknowledgment, both here and, more specifically, in his eleventh Epistle that he is, in some ways, the 'new Uzzah,' see Teodolinda Barolini (The Undivine “Comedy”: Detheologizing Dante [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992]), p. 132, and Hollander (“Dante as Uzzah? [Purg. X 57 and Epistle XI 9-12],” in Sotto il segno di Dante: Scritti in onore di Francesco Mazzoni, ed. L. Coglievina & D. De Robertis [Florence: Le Lettere, 1999], pp. 143-51).
The protagonist's ears assure him that the seven choirs in this panel are not singing, yet his eyes insist that they are. Just so his nose smells no perfume of incense, while his eyes can see that the smoke indeed has an aroma.
Perhaps no passage in a poem that refers to David more than to any other personage from the Old Testament (see Hollander, “Dante's Use of the Fiftieth Psalm,” Dante Studies 91 [1973], pp. 145-50) is more compelling in establishing the 'figural relationship' between the two poets. Dante, too, is a 'humble psalmist,' David's modern counterpart. It seems just to say that no one has developed this observation as well as has Barolini (see especially Dante's Poets [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984], pp. 275-78). In 1837 Tommaseo (comm. to vv. 64-66) had dealt with this scene as a metaphor for great Dante's low vernacular poetry performed beneath the scornful gaze of pedantry: 'But Dante is more than poet in certain respects, because he does not fear to appear less than poet and dances with his robe hitched up; but princess Michal – I might call her “pedantry” – sniffs from the window.'
Singleton, in his commentary to verse 75, cites a passage from Gregory the Great's Moralia for David's humility: 'What is thought by others of his doings, I know not; I am more [amazed] at David dancing, than fighting. For by fighting he subdued his enemies; but by dancing before the Lord he overcame himself.'
Where David, down among the common people and dancing without kingly dignity, reflects the low comedic world, Michal, high above the crowd and separate from it, scornful, seems to represent the lofty, 'tragic,' or noble view. David here serves as a forerunner for Jesus, who will identify himself with humility, while Michal seems to be associated with all those who resist humility in the name of pride.
The longest of these three scenes concerns Trajan, emperor of Rome in the years 98-117. Of those whom Dante depicts as being saved to whom all or most Christians would deny, or at least question, that status (Cato [Purg. I.75], Statius [Purg. XXII.73], Trajan [Par. XX.44], and Ripheus [Par. XX.68]), only for Trajan does there exist a tradition that considered him saved. This result of St. Gregory's prayers is even allowed as possible by St. Thomas, in what seems an unusually latitudinarian gesture, recorded in the Summa theologica (as was perhaps first noted by Lombardi [1791], comm. to vv. 74-75): ST III, Suppl., quaest. 71, art. 5, obj. 5 [for the text in English see Singleton's note to verse 75]). That what seems to modern ears an unbelievable story should have had the support of so rigorous a thinker as Thomas still astounds readers. Yet, if one looks closely, one sees that Thomas does hedge his bet: Trajan's salvation by Gregory's intervention is 'probable' (potest probabiliter aestimari); further, according to Thomas, 'as others say' (secundum quosdam), Trajan may have only had his punishment put back until Judgment Day. Dante betrays no such hesitation: the salvation of Trajan is Gregory's 'great victory' (verse 75). Dante is in an enviable position, both possessing Thomas's support and being able to outdo him in enthusiasm.
For some of the many medieval texts that support the miraculous salvation of Trajan and for an array of possible sources for the dialogue between Trajan and the widow, including Trajan's column in Rome, see Nancy Vickers, “Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 (1983), pp. 70-72, 75-79.
For Dante's reliance on two back-to-back parables in Luke (Luke 18:1-8; 18:9-14) see Vickers, pp. 73-75. Lombardi (comm. to verse 32) was perhaps the first to apply Luke 18:14 ('qui se exaltat humiliabitur, et qui se humiliat exaltabitur' [for every one that exalts himself shall be abased; and he that humbles himself shall be exalted]) to this scene.
For the term storïata see Singleton (comm. to vv. 49-52): 'a depiction in art, even as stained-glass windows or initial letters in manuscripts or frescoed walls were said to be “historiated”' with historical or legendary material.
Saint Gregory, known as Gregory the Great, was pope from 590 to 604. His lengthy commentary on the Book of Job (the Moralia), one of the most influential writings of the earlier middle ages, offers a different and happier understanding of Job's story than is prevalent today, insisting that it has a truly 'comic' resolution, rebinding Job to God and restoring his family. Dante mentions Gregory twice, here and in Paradiso XX.106-117, in connection with the salvation of Trajan, and he is referred to in the last sphere of the heavens as one of the saved (Par. XXVIII.133), despite the fact that he had made small errors in listing the orders of the angelic hierarchy (as had Dante himself in Conv. II.v.6) in the Moralia.
For information about which popes are saved and which are damned according to the Commedia see the note to Inferno VII.46-48.
Having been told of Gregory's 'great victory,' we are now told in what it consisted: the pope has saved a (dead) pagan emperor. The way the text is handled reminds us of Dante's continuing hostility to the Church's insistence on the hierocrat position, in which the emperor is seen as totally dependent upon the Church for his authority. Gregory's intervention for a great Roman emperor has, in Dante's eyes, a different style and sets a better standard.
The rapid strokes that fill in the details of this intaglio show that Dante is fully capable of producing the scene in pictures. But in the following dozen verses, pushing the limits of the art he attributes to God, but which he has invented, he reports only the 'visible speech' wrought by what he saw, that is, the words induced by the carving rather than the carving itself.
The exchange between the widow and Trajan, a sort of polite tenzone, involves six speeches. The widow seeks, Trajan denies; she seeks again and is again denied; she appeals to Trajan's moral character and he accedes, touched in those two treasured Roman inner qualities, respect for iustitia and pietas. Francesco da Buti (comm. to vv. 28-45) was of the opinion that, just as those who are prideful are so against their superiors, their equals, or their inferiors, so those who are humble may be so in the same relationships. Thus Mary is humble before her superior, God; David before his equals, the priests; and Trajan before his inferior, the widow.
What is new to Dante is not so to God (but this does not reduce the novelty or the excitement of it for Dante [see verse 104] or for us).
Hollander (Allegory in Dante's “Commedia” [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969]), pp. 297-300, points out that this passage, with its 'speech made visible,' connects with two other similar moments in the poem, Inferno III.1-9 (the writing over the gate of hell) and Paradiso XVIII.91-93 (the 'skywriting' in the heaven of Jupiter), and suggests that all of them may be thought of as representing 'visible speech,' as was suggested by one of his students, Gregory Curfman (Princeton '68). Curfman also suggested that each passage was further related by containing a focal word, giustizia (Inf. III.4; Purg. X.93; Par. XVIII.91–now in Latin, iustitiam) and then still further by involving Trajan. This formulation works easily for the last two passages, but requires a contorted argument (along a path that travels through Hezekiah and Roman triumphal arches) to attach Trajan to the gate of hell.
Mestica was perhaps the first commentator to apply widely and frequently his perception of the significance of the term visibile parlare for Dante's art (as compared with Virgil's) throughout the poem, beginning with the description of Charon in Inferno III.82-99: 'Comparing Charon as portrayed by Virgil and Dante quickly reveals the remarkable artistry used by the pupil when he imitated his teacher, as well as the originality and power of his style. Virgil paints descriptively, employing ample displays of images and colors; Dante sculpts, using speech made visible.' Mestica deploys the phrase fourteen more times in his commentary as he marvels at the power of Dante's art.
For the program in the intaglios see H.D. Austin (“The Arrangement of Dante's Purgatorial Reliefs,” PMLA 47 [1932], pp. 1-9); for ekphrasis in this canto see James A.W. Heffernan (Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993], pp. 37-45).
These images of humility reflect the pattern that we will find on each terrace: first exempla of the virtue that directly opposes the vice repented (here humility and pride), ultimately exempla of the vice itself (see Purg. XII.25-63). Thus the penitents are at first encouraged and finally warned lest they backslide.
Dante's delectation has delayed the travelers long enough so that even this slow-moving band of penitents, coming along behind them, can become visible to Virgil (but not to the art-absorbed Dante), even though the path was totally bare when the two poets arrived on it (vv. 25-26). It is a curious fact of this art-filled canto that, of the two poets, Virgil has clearly the shortest attention span to give to art. He feels he has to urge Dante to take his eyes off Gabriel and Mary (verse 46) in order to examine David, and now interrupts Dante's delectation in the images of Trajan and the widow in order to get him to look at real souls. (He is obviously himself not nearly so absorbed by God's art.) It is a bit difficult to know what to make of these moments. Virgil resembles the less art-responsive member of a couple in a museum, waiting for his friend, totally absorbed, to finish looking so that their tour may continue. Further, the word used to describe Virgil's distracting locution is mormorava (murmured). Dante uses it seven other times in the poem (Inf. XXVI.86, Purg. XXIV.37, Purg. XXIV.47, Purg. XXXII.37, Par. XX.19, Par. XX.26, Par. XXV.21), and it usually denotes some form of less-than-clear speech, uttered in this way because the speaker is in pain or distracted (in the only preceding occurrence, Inf. XXVI.86, it is the riven, speaking flame of Ulysses that murmurs). For Dante to put together the very word that for him most stands for eloquence, poeta, with 'murmured' is striking. The commentators are mainly silent in response to Virgil's murmuring. Benvenuto (comm. to verse 101), the only one before the twentieth century to pay the word significant notice, says this: Seeing Dante so rapt in aesthetic pleasure, Virgil interrupts him smilingly in a low voice to indicate that now his pupil can observe some real purgation (aliam purgationem veram). Torraca (comm. to verse 101) tries a different tack: Virgil murmurs because he is puzzled by the nature of these new things moving toward him. Trucchi (comm. to verse 101) and Pietrobono (comm. to verse 101) suggest that the words are said by Virgil half to himself because he is absorbed in what he is seeing and afflicted by the problem of how to proceed in his guidance. The last seems a reasonable explanation. Yet no one has, with the exception of Vickers, paid attention to the curious and disturbing notion that Virgil, of all people, should murmur. Here is her formulation, in partial response to that word: 'The placing of Virgil face to face with divine assurance of the salvation of Trajan, a man of no more faith than he, cannot but emphasize the enigma of Virgil's situation' (Nancy Vickers, “Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 [1983], p. 72). She goes on to speculate that the salvation of Trajan by intervention of Gregory inevitably brings to mind another great medieval legend, that of St. Paul praying for the soul of Virgil at his tomb near Naples, a potential intervention on behalf of damned Virgil that, as far as everyone who has dealt with it is concerned, failed.
Vickers (“Seeing is Believing: Gregory, Trajan, and Dante's Art,” Dante Studies 101 [1983]), pp. 80-81, discusses Benvenuto's connecting the historiated walls of the temple of Juno at Carthage, with their account of the fall of Troy in Aeneid I.453-495, and this scene, and then goes on to suggest that 'Aeneas is rapt in the esthetic experience and weeps; Dante the pilgrim is rapt and delights. The one reads defeat (emptiness); the other triumphs (fullness).'
Dante's third address to us, his readers, is an appeal that we accept the necessity of treatment for our ills before we are eventually free of them. Since the 'punishments' of the saved do not seem, at first blush, all that much more pleasant than the pains of the damned, the poet wishes to emphasize the great gulf that separates them: those in hell are eternal; these here are timebound and will cease at least by the Day of Judgment.
This passage has caused much discussion but is in fact not as difficult as it has been made to seem. The purpose of the entire passage is to get Dante to understand that what he is looking at is human and not merely a procession of mobile rocks. Virgil says he, too, had trouble making this fact out at first, but eventually could see that there were beings moving beneath the rocks. A single gesture makes this clear: they beat their breasts. And it is a gesture that accords with the penitential feelings of the penitent prideful, as Moore (Studies in Dante, First Series: Scripture and Classical Authors in Dante [Oxford: Clarendon, 1969 (1896)]), p. 49, clearly pointed out, citing Luke 18:13, where the publican beats his breast in humility. Nonetheless, Ignazio Baldelli (“L'angariatissimo 'si picchia' / 'si nicchia' [Purg., X 120],” Filologia e critica 15 [1990]), pp. 480-84, argues, against Petrocchi, for si nicchia (and not si picchia). While he does not follow the path of those who argue for nicchia as meaning 'lament' (a meaning that is found in the appearance of that verb in Inf. XVIII.103) which, as Petrocchi says, is not a probable reading given that one is less likely to see than to hear lamentation, he does argue for the somewhat more recondite meaning of the verb, 'hides itself,' 'settles in its niche,' 'is in its nest,' etc. While Baldelli's negative arguments against Petrocchi and others are sound, they are not eventually convincing because the action of the verb is too confining and slight to describe what we see, souls crushed down under the heavy weight of stone. And thus the traditional reading, si picchia, i.e., beating themselves on their breasts, seems still the best. Chiavacci Leonardi (Purgatorio, con il commento di A. M. C. L. [Milan: Mondadori, 1994]), p. 310, suggests that it would be difficult to carry out this self-inflicted punishment beneath the heavy rocks and wants to return to the minority view found in Jacopo della Lana, namely, that these sinners are being beaten, castigated, by God. Torraca (comm. to vv. 118-120) had already argued that, with their knees already pushed up against their chests, they would not have space to beat into (but this is said of the similetic figure of the man on a corbel, not of the penitents) and that they would have had to use their hands and arms to steady the weights upon their backs (but Dante never tells us that this is so; again, the nature of the place allows for phenomena that may not occur in the 'real world'). Just as it does not make sense to argue about whether or not the penitent prideful can see the exemplary figures displayed upon the mountain's side from under their stones if the wall on which these figures are shown is at right angles (see the note to Purg. X.23), it does not make sense here to argue that their arms and hands are not free to pummel their chests, as the poem is a poem and this space in it, like the entire mountain above the portal in the ninth canto, is a magic mountain, without always observing natural physical laws. Thus the souls can see what needs to be seen and pummel themselves at will. There is a useful summary of these arguments up to the twentieth century in Scartazzini (comm. to verse 120). He argues forcefully for this reading. Further confirmation comes from the likely citation of Luke (Luke 18:13), where the publican beats his breast, a text that has solid connections to this scene (see the last paragraph of the note to Purg. X.73-93). Michele Barbi (Problemi di critica dantesca [Florence: Sansoni, 1934], pp. 224-225) is on this side of the argument. Further, Dante spends (and with any other hypothesis, wastes) five verses (Purg. X.115-119) having Virgil say how hard it is to make out this gesture but that, once you disentangle their bodies from the stones, you will see that they are human and not things. Thus simple analysis of the content of the verses probably should have long ago disbarred any hypothesis that did not show how the human sign offered by the souls identified them as human. The only hypothesis that meets this criterion is the most popular one, which also has iconography on its side. See Moore (Studies in Dante, First Series: Scripture and Classical Authors in Dante [Oxford: Clarendon, 1969 (1896)]), p. 49.
The poet's second apostrophe of the canto (see vv. 106-111 for the first) is not, strictly speaking, an address to the reader but rather a castigation of all those Christians (and thus, one would expect, not all his readers) who have turned away from God.
One of the most celebrated metaphors of the poem, the 'angelic butterfly' that each of us has as a potential destiny, is what most of us will not become. Hugh Shankland (“Dante 'Aliger,'” Modern Language Review 70 [1975], pp. 764-85) suggests a relationship between Dante's name and the Latin word aliger (a Virgilian coinage, according to him, as a poetic alternative for alatus), first used (at Aen. I.663) for Cupid, then again (Aen. XII.249) for the 'winged flock' of waterfowl sent scrambling by Jove's golden eagle. Guglielmo Gorni (Lettera nome numero: L'ordine delle cose in Dante [Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990]), pp. 185-86, makes a similar observation, mistakenly believing that no one had proceeded him in doing so.
While God wills that we, caterpillars that we are, become butterflies, Heaven-bound souls, we choose to be even less than those worms that are capable of that transformation, and have bent our wills to be such. As commentators have shown, antomata is Dante's version of Aristotle's creatures born, not of other creatures, but of the putrefaction of vegetable matter, as when the sun beats down on the mud – see De generatione animalium III.1, as cited by Benvenuto, comm. to vv. 124-129). See also Aristotle's Historia animalium V.19, as cited by Pasquini/Quaglio (comm. to vv. 128-129), where Aristotle distinguishes, as Dante does here, between worms that can turn into butterflies and those, defective, which cannot. The meaning clearly seems to be that we are born worms, but turn ourselves into still lesser beings, formally imperfect worms, as though we had not been bred by creatures with rational souls. Benvenuto concludes by quoting Job (but actually the Psalms [21:7 (22:6)]): 'Vermis sum ego et non homo' (I am a worm, not a man). He may have conflated that passage with Job 25:6.
In a canto so concerned with art, and highly mimetic art in particular, it seems only natural that the poet would have wanted to conclude with a simile, one of this artisan's specialties. We may be surprised to realize that this is the first one in this canto, that we have not seen one since well back in the last canto (Purg. IX.34-42). A corbel is a sculpted human figure, often crudely realistic, and thus part of the low-mimetic tradition, used to decorate the element that joins a weight-bearing column to the roof- or floor-beam that it supports.
The notion that an artifact can be so 'realistic' that, although it is not real, but a fiction, as it were, it can cause an observer real distress, continues the mimetic concern so evident in this canto and also stands as a sort of emblem of the poem as a whole, with its insistence on its literal truth dizzyingly countered by its less evident but clear admission that it is in fact invented by a poet, if one who will only write fictions that seem (and claim) to be utterly true. For discussion of this passage in this light see Barolini (The Undivine “Comedy”: Detheologizing Dante [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992]), pp. 125-26.
We learn that, just as in hell there were sinners punished in differing degrees for the same sin, so in purging themselves penitents also reflect the degree of their former sinfulness.
A small but continuing dispute in the commentaries debates whether pazïenza should be interpreted as 'suffering' or 'patience.' Philologically there is probably no advantage to either solution. However, poetic logic points to a simple explanation (one shared by the vast majority of the commentators): what we face here is a relation of paradox rather than similarity. Even the most stoical of the sinners seemed to be expressing the thought (another case of 'speech made visible') 'I can no more.' Of course the one who suffered most would be saying such a thing; that would not be worth mentioning. The point is that even the penitent least crushed by the weight of his former pride is suffering as much as one can possibly suffer.
Gerard Manley Hopkins offered, whether he wished to or not, a perfectly Dantean gloss to this verse. In his 'terrible sonnet' named 'Carrion Comfort' by Robert Bridges, Hopkins, more likely citing Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (IV.xv.59) than Dante, has his speaking voice cry out, 'Not, I'll not... cry I can no more. I can.' While Antony says 'I can no more' and dies, Hopkins' persona does not give in to despair and continues to strive toward God. Here, the penitents all seem to insist that they are at the end of their strength, yet all continue on the road toward making restitution to God by giving satisfaction for their sins and thus eventually obtain their final absolution.
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