If many readers have responded to the previous canto – for some the most labored and unwelcoming of the entire poem – with a certain impatience (e.g., if Paradiso is going to be like this, I'd prefer to spend my time in Inferno and/or Purgatorio), here they are placed on notice that, for Dante, Beatrice's instruction in spiritual astronomy is more aesthetically pleasing than any possible worldly attraction. It is notable that each of the verses of this tercet contains words or phrases that are often associated with sensual or aesthetic pleasure (amor, scaldò il petto, bella, dolce), yet here conjoined with the language of Scholastic argumentation (see the note to vv. 2-3, below).

It is not surprising, given its Christian valence, that Dante should have used the Sun as metaphoric equivalent for Beatrice (it is a nice touch that the professor in the matter pertaining to, in the phrasing of St. Francis's Laudes creaturarum, “Sister Moon” should be her “brother,” the Sun).

This evident recollection of the first significant events recorded in the second chapter of the Vita nuova, Beatrice's appearance to the nearly nine-year-old Dante and his immediate innamoramento, sets the stage for the entrance of his newly reconstituted instructor and guide (“Bëatrice, dolce guida e cara!” [my sweet beloved guide] of Par. XXIII.34) to the next 28 cantos. She will illumine his intellect as she first stirred all his soul. Or, as Benvenuto da Imola puts it, “idest que primo amoravit cor meum carnaliter, deinde mentaliter” [that is, who first set my heart in carnal affection, then in intellectual love]). It is not that she has changed in any way; what has changed is his ability to comprehend the deeper truths available from her. Such a transformation – from physical to intellectual love – has roots in Plato's Phaedrus, surely unknown to Dante by direct encounter, but perhaps having some influence on him and on others in his time (those who wrote of the ennobling potential of carnal love) at least from its diffusion through a lengthy and various tradition (see Joseph A. Mazzeo, “Dante and the Phaedrus Tradition of Poetic Inspiration,” in Structure and Thought in the “Paradiso” [Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1958], pp. 1-24).

The development of the opening metaphor (Beatrice as Sun) has it that the light of his guide illumines the truth behind the conundrum of the causes of the Moon's dark spots as the light in a lover's eyes makes beautiful the face of his beloved. The poet is joining the two main aspects of his Beatricean versifying, that based on appreciations of her physical beauty and that dependent upon a spiritual understanding of a more lasting attraction. It is jarring, perhaps, but exhilarating to watch the “old poetry” being conjoined with the new, the rhymes of carnal love being forced into collaboration with the language of Scholastic discourse, “provando e riprovando” (by proof and refutation). The words clearly refer, in reverse order, to Beatrice's refutation of Dante's erroneous ideas (Par. II.61-105) and to her truthful assertions (Par. II.112-117). It is a curious fact that some of Galileo's seventeenth-century followers took up this phrase, in a patently anti-Scholastic and thus inherently anti-Dantean gesture, for the motto of the Accademia del Cimento, in Florence, changing its meaning to “experimenting and then experimenting again,” according to Manfredi Porena (comm. to Par. I.1-3).

Dante presents himself as both rebuked and corrected (the terms relate to provando and riprovando in verse 3) in this “confession.” His previous confession (Purg. XXXI.1-42) involved recanting his past improper loves. That this scene marks the beginning, in Paradiso, of what has been described as “the correction of Dante's intellect” in a program that began with the correction and perfection of his will (Inferno and most of Purgatorio) seems likely (see the note to Purg. XXVII.139-141). This process will carry through until St. Bernard appears and the program of the perfection of Dante's intellect is begun.

Dante's confession is once again impeded (see Purg. XXXI.7-9). This time, however, not through any failing on his part, but because his attention has been drawn to higher things. (Further, Beatrice already knows his thoughts and so expression of them is not necessary.)

This is the first (and only other) time we find the two words confessione (verse 9) and confessare (verse 4) together in a canto since Purgatorio XXXI (vv. 6 and 38).

What is the precise character of the sight (visïone) appearing to him? Is it a dream? Is it an experience of the noumenal world in a Pauline face-to-face encounter? From the prose of the Vita nuova onward, these have been the two kinds of “visions” that weave their way through Dante's works. It would thus seem here that what he is seeing is actual, not dreamed; and it would further seem that, in seeing his first saved souls as they are for eternity (if not yet with their bodies [see Par. XXV.127-129]), he is experiencing a higher form of vision than he has previously known, gazing on the presence of two heavenly souls in the very Moon, a collocation that causes, as we shall see, considerable difficulty in a reader's attempt to comprehend the ground rules governing the appearances of the saved in the spheres of the heavens.

As though to reward us for having had to deal with his theologized poetry, Dante now engages us in a pleasing aesthetic moment (so often associated in the poem with similes, a mode offering Dante the very stuff of lyric expression). It is charged with the erotic energy of thirteenth-century Italian and Provençal lyric. What is perhaps surprising is the fact that this poet is able to bring that energy to bear here, in the highest realm. At the same time, we should note the way in which he twice in this canto invites us to carnal impressions of love, only to warn us that these are valuable only if they are markers of a higher form of affection. These lines and the earlier verses that also seem erotically charged (vv. 1-3) look forward to the stories of two nuns who are delighted to renounce sexuality. They also glance back to Beatrice's explanation of the moonspots.

It takes a lot of confidence in one's own abilities and in one's audience's answering understanding to write so self-consciously about such things.

See Freccero's meditation (“Moon Shadows: Paradiso III,” in Studies for Dante: Essays in Honor of Dante Della Terza, ed. F. Fido et al. [Fiesole: Cadmo, 1998], pp. 89-101) upon this simile and its presentation of the optics of transparency and reflection as a means of discussing some theoretical dimensions of Dante's poetics.

The “opposite error” into which Dante falls results from the fact that, where Narcissus looked into a mirroring surface of water and thought the beautiful visage he saw in it was that of someone else, Dante believes that the faces before him are reflections of those who are now suddenly present alongside of him and Beatrice, not these actual new beings themselves. See Bernardino Daniello (comm. to Par. III.17-18): “...quelle faccie, ch'erano vere, gli paresser false, et a Narciso la falsa, vera pareva” (those faces, which were real, seemed to him to be false, while to Narcissus the false seemed real).

For the “Narcissus program” in the poem as a whole (Inf. XXX; Purg. XXX; Par. III, XXX, XXXIII), see the note to Inf. XXX.126-129 and articles by Brownlee (“Dante and Narcissus [Purg. XXX, 76-99],” Dante Studies 96 [1978]: 201-6) and Shoaf (Dante, Chaucer, and the Currency of the Word [Norman, Oklahoma: Pilgrim Books, 1983], pp. 21-100). Chiarenza (“The Imageless Vision and Dante's Paradiso,” Dante Studies 90 [1972]: 87-89) speaks of the relevance to this passage of Hugh of St. Cher's meditation on the nature of St. Paul's vision of God (II Cor.12:1-4). Hugh, discussing the differences among various kinds of vision, speaks of Narcissus's failure to grasp the nature of the image of himself that he contemplates with such fascination.

Dante, bending his eye on vacancy, allows Beatrice the chance to get off a good schoolmarmish rebuke of her pupil, whose actions mirror those of untutored humankind, unable to read the very facts of human relations – e.g., who is standing where; who is reflected, who is not.

For Dante's puerizia and subsequent “childish” behavior, see Purgatorio XXX.40-54. Francesco da Buti's comment to that passage (comm. to Purg. XXX.37-51) shares elements with his comment (to vv. 19-33) on this one, which has it that between the ages of one and seven a male is a child (fanciullo), while between eight and fourteen he is a boy (garzone). The commentator continues by saying that Beatrice means to associate her confused pupil with the latter stage of development. In the garden of Eden his failings were portrayed as being based on affectional disorder; here, as is always the case after his tasting of Lethe and Eunoe (and his moral coming of age – belated though it may have been), it is his intellect that is behaving in a juvenile manner.

Dante's misprision has set up Beatrice's explanation, central to our understanding of the epistemology of the heavenly spheres. All whom we meet here are the living souls of real people with real histories (i.e., they are not part of some “symbolic” or otherwise less “real” manifestation) and a place in Heaven, i.e., the Empyrean, not one of the lower spheres, where they manifest themselves to Dante only on the occasion of his Pauline visit to the heavens. It is this last detail to which particular attention must be paid, since later discussion in this canto might lead one to believe that the souls whom we meet in the Moon are indeed its permanent residents. See vv. 49-50, 55-57, 64-66, 73-75, 88-90, 97, and 121-123 (and discussion in the accompanying notes). Virgil describes himself, in the only previous (and only other) use of the verb in the poem (Purg. XXI.18), as situated in the Limbus, which “mi rilega nell'etterno essilio” (confines me in eternal exile), hardly envisioned as a temporary state. (The form “rilegollo” has, by common consent, a different meaning; at Inf. XXV.7, his blasphemous act of freedom required that Vanni Fucci be bound again.) But what exactly does rilegare (or relegare, a form that shows up in some manuscripts) mean? Either “relegate” or “bind fast,” according to Andrea Mariani (“rilegare,” ED IV [1973], p. 929). And, as Simone Marchesi has suggested in conversation, whether the form that Dante used was “relegato” or “rilegato,” the word may refer to the Roman punishment of “relegation,” the lesser form of exile (because it was not necessarily permanent). This description would surely fit the condition of Piccarda and Constance rather well.

Beatrice's words may easily be understood as verifying that the souls in the heaven of the Moon are indeed permanently here, as Francesco da Buti believed (comm. to vv. 19-33): “sono nell'ultimo grado di sotto (di Dio) in vita eterna” (they are on the last level farthest from God in the life eternal). As we move through the relevant passages, it will be clear that Dante is far from having shut the door on such an explanation – but that is precisely what he will do in the next canto (in Par. IV.28-39). In consequence, one would be excused for believing that Beatrice means that Piccarda, Constance, and other Moon-dwellers are rilegate (bound, or, as in our translation, “assigned”) here on a permanent basis. See also the note to Paradiso IX.119-123.

Having potentially undermined the authority of the next speaker by pointing out that she was one who had broken her vows, Beatrice quickly restores it in these words that guarantee her ability to speak God's truth and nothing but that truth.

The use of the word ombra (shade) to identify a saved soul is puzzling. We expect it and find it, amply present, in Inferno (some two dozen occurrences) for the damned. It is surprising to find that its use to indicate the souls of the dead, now saved, increases in Purgatorio. While it appears there 49 times in all, it is present with this meaning 34 times. Here, in paradise, to see the first saved soul whom we meet in this cantica referred to as a “shade” is disconcerting. The term that becomes normative in Paradiso is vita, generally translated “living soul” (Par. IX.7; XII.127; XIV.6; XX.100; XXI.55; XXV.29). It is perhaps the association of those present in the first three heavens with flawed activities (broken vows, ambition, and lust) that moved Dante to begin his descriptions of the inhabitants of paradise with the word that would surely seem to connect them with the damned; it is repeated at verse 67, in the plural, to refer to all the souls found in the Moon. The souls who appear in Mercury (Par V.107) will be the next and the last heavenly presences to be referred to as ombre.

The soul whom we meet will shortly (at verse 49) be identified as Piccarda Donati. It seems clear from her eagerness to speak with Dante that we are meant to understand that she has recognized him from their days in Florence.

Piccarda joins a select few, those personages who appear at the opening of their respective canticles as the first representative of sin and then of redemption: Celestine V (if it is indeed he, as seems nearly certainly to be the case) in Inferno III, Manfred in the third canto of Purgatorio, and now Piccarda. Each of these figures is a surprise, and was surely meant to be one: a damned pope, a saved libertine and possible murderer, and a woman who, no matter how unwilling her subjection to the world, was certainly no St. Clare.

The protagonist's “muddled” condition results, in the opinion of Manfredi Porena (comm. to verse 36) from his excitement at being able, for the first time, to speak with a soul who lives in Heaven.

While it is impossible to tell from the text, it would seem that Piccarda, unlike Beatrice and heavenly souls we meet farther along, does not read Dante's mind, but needs to have a question spoken in order to respond (see vv. 91-96). Dante will also voice questions to Justinian (Par. V.127-129), to Charles Martel (Par. VIII.44; 91-93), and to Cunizza (Par. IX.19-21). It is only when he encounters Folquet of Marseille (Par. IX.73-79) that he expects anyone other than Beatrice to read his thoughts. This is another detail setting those who are encountered below the heaven of the Sun apart from the more exalted souls of Paradise, for Dante never has to verbalize another question, although Cacciaguida wants to savor his unnecessary voicing of one (see Par. XV.64-69).

Piccarda is a spirit who is “ben creato” (spirit made for bliss), in sharp opposition to those in Hell referred to as being “mal nati” (“ill-born souls” at Inf. XVIII.76; “born for sorrow” at Inf. XXX.48).

One of Dante's straightforward questions, that concerning the “lot” of these souls found in the Moon, will turn out to require a more complex answer than the protagonist probably intended.

While there is much that is personal in the interaction between Dante and Piccarda, her first words show how “impersonal” the feelings of the saved are, both for one another and for this very special visitor. They are more than glad to welcome him, and his coming increases the love they feel in general (see Par. V.105) by adding one more soul for them to love. Nonetheless (with the major exception of Cacciaguida, whose familial ties to the protagonist are much [some might say shamelessly] exploited), almost all of the exchanges between Dante and the blessed show that they are at a post-personal level of development. If we keep in mind some of the great scenes of personal remembrance found in the first two cantiche (e.g., those presenting Ciacco, Cavalcante, Brunetto, Casella, Belacqua, and Forese), the starkness of the contrast is evident.

For the view that Piccarda's fate may have represented for Dante “a variation on the theme of his own exile,” see Lansing (“Piccarda and the Poetics of Paradox: A Reading of Paradiso III,” Dante Studies 105 [1987]: 74).

“Piccarda, daughter of Simone Donati, of the celebrated Florentine family of that name, and sister of Corso and Forese Donati. Piccarda was a connection by marriage of Dante, he having married Gemma, daughter of Manetto Donati.... The commentators state that Piccarda was forced from her convent by her brother Corso, while he was Podestà of Bologna (i.e., in 1283 or 1288), in order to marry her to a Florentine, Rossellino della Tosa, and that she died soon after her marriage...” (Toynbee [Concise Dante Dictionary, “Piccarda”]).

It is a “post-Proustian” touch that here the recognition of things past is not tinged by the tragic sense of mortality, of age that strips the loveliness from the human form, but rather is complicated by the souls having become more beautiful, and almost unrecognizable for that reason. We may remember what her brother, Forese, said of Piccarda: “I cannot say whether my sister was more virtuous / than she was beautiful” (Purg. XXIV.13-14). In her new life she is more of both.

For the absence of the three Theological Virtues in their perfected forms in those who display themselves in the sub-solar planets (i.e., Moon, Mercury, and Venus), see Ordiway (“In the Earth's Shadow: The Theological Virtues Marred,” Dante Studies 100 [1982]: 77-92.). But see Carroll's introduction to Paradiso and proem to Canto X, for a much earlier version of this thesis. And see Andreoli (comm. Par. III.16): “The fact is that it is only in the fourth heaven that we shall begin to find souls that are completely without reproach.” Bosco/Reggio rightly point out (comm. Par. XIV.68) that, beginning in the Sun, the souls who appear take on definite shapes: circle, cross, eagle, ladder, thus further distinguishing themselves from those who appear in the first three sub-solar heavens. And now see Gabriele Muresu (“Piccarda e la luna [Par. III],” L'Alighieri 26 [2005]: 6-8), on this topic, if without reference to Carroll or Ordiway.

Naming herself (and thus answering the first of Dante's questions), Piccarda for a second time speaks of her placement in this heaven as though it might be permanent. See the other relevant passages indicated in the note to vv. 29-30.

The Moon is “the slowest of these spheres” because, in Dante's astronomy, each successive heaven, of the nine revolving around the earth, is moving at a faster rate of speed. See the apparently contradictory datum (Par. XXVIII.22-39) in which the nine ranks of angels, each associated with one of the planetary spheres, rotating around the point that represents the Godhead, rotate faster the nearer they are to that point.

A difficult tercet because it is hard to be certain whether the piacere associated with the Holy Spirit is directed by the souls toward the Spirit or by the Spirit toward the souls. We are in accord with that branch of the tradition, a majority, represented by Francesco da Buti's gloss (to vv. 46-57), in which the souls whom we see in the Moon “altro desiderio non ànno, se non di piacere allo Spirito Santo dal quale procede la carità” (have no other care except to be pleasing to the Holy Spirit, from whom holy love comes forth).

For the nature of love represented by the earthly (and now heavenly) Piccarda, see Lucia Battaglia Ricci (“Piccarda, o della carità: lettura del terzo canto del Paradiso,” Critica e filologia 14 [1989]: 51-65, 68-70), pointing out that Dante is probably relying on various expressions of mystical devotion, especially those found in the Epistula ad Severinum de caritate by one “frate Ivo.” For brief discussion and some bibliography of the “question” of “Brother Ivo” with relation to Dante's definition of the dolce stil novo, see Hollander (“Dante's 'dolce stil novo' and the Comedy,” in Dante: mito e poesia. Atti del secondo Seminario dantesco internazionale, ed. M. Picone and T. Crivelli [Florence: Cesati, 1999], p. 265n.).

The “lot” of these souls reflects their earthly failings (as will also be true of those we meet in each of the next two heavens), their failure to maintain the strict sense of their vows. While this is a particularly monastic concern, since vows were a part of the requirements for entrance, as it were, and while the only beings we hear about here were in fact nuns, the failing is probably not meant to be understood as being limited to the clergy.

On yet another occasion, the phrasing at the very least admits the possibility that Piccarda's “lot” (sorte) is permanently to be present in the Moon. See discussions indicated in the note to vv. 29-30.

Once again the nature of heavenly transfiguration is alluded to (see vv. 47-48). Only after he knows her story can Dante begin to recognize the features of the earthly woman he once knew. That even this much “physicality” is possible is singular; Dante will not recognize anyone else whom he once knew or is related to and whom he meets in the various heavens, not Charles Martel (Par. VIII), not his ancestor, Cacciaguida (Par. XV). From this, we may choose to believe that only here, in the Moon, is there even the slightest amount of physical resemblance of a soul to its earlier mortal self. Dante, however, does not choose to raise (or to answer) this question for us. But see Par. XXXI.46-48, where St. Bernard tells Dante that the heavenly infants are recognizable as such.

In 1981, Luisa Saffiotti, a student at Princeton, suggested the resonance of John 10:3-5 and 10:16, Christ recognized by His disciples only by His voice.

It is clear that the protagonist believes that Piccarda and the other souls with her are bound in the Moon for eternity unless the desire he attributes to them to be closer to God should one day be consummated. This, of course, is the opinion of the protagonist and is not necessarily shared by the poet. See the note to vv. 29-30.

See the discussion of the use of the word ombra (shade) in Paradiso (in the note to verse 34).

The exact nature of the love displayed by Piccarda is a subject for disagreement among the commentators, some arguing that the phrase is to be understood as indicating the “first fire of love,” i.e., the first enamorment of a young woman; others understand that the phrase rather indicates the fire of divine love, that given expression through the Holy Spirit. Those who hold to this second view find confirming evidence in the phrase found both at Inferno III.6 and Paradiso VI.11, “primal Love” (primo amor), referring to the love expressed in the Holy Spirit, forcing the phrase to be understood (or translated) as “love in the First Fire,” i.e., the Holy Spirit. While this is surely a possible explanation, it does require a somewhat forced understanding of the verse. Would it be so strange for Piccarda, burning with reciprocal affection for God's love of her, to seem to Dante like a young woman just fallen into love? It is hard to see the harm in such a reading. See the similar views of Bosco/Reggio (comm. vv. 67-69). One might also be reminded of the distance between this scene and the one containing Dante's recognition of the love felt for him by Matelda (Purg. XXVIII.43-51). In that passage, Dante imagines that Matelda is amorously disposed toward him in the normal mortal way; there he is incorrect. Here he is fully aware of the kind of love that motivates Piccarda, but sees it in terms reminiscent of our mortal sort of loving.

The bulk of Piccarda's answer to Dante's question (vv. 64-66) begins with the word frate (brother), the word that was nearly absent from Hell (eleven uses, predominantly to indicate a member of a religious order [nomenclature that the Infernal context makes obviously suspect at once], and only once to express human fraternity [by Ulysses, addressing his shipmates, at Inf. XXVI.112 – with, according to some readers (see the note to Inf. XXVI.112-113), an unmistakable whiff of Julius Caesar's fulsome address to his soldiers, captatio benevolentiae on all fours, as it were]). It frequently appeared as a term of address in Purgatorio (thirteen times): IV.127; XI.82; XIII.94; XVI.65; XIX.133; XXI.13; XXI.131; XXIII.97; XXIII.112; XXIV.55; XXVI.115; XXIX.15; XXXIII.23). Now, in the heavens, it appears less frequently as a term of address, first here and then in IV.100; VII.58; VII.130; XXII.61) and a total of four other times. In a sense it contains a central message of Piccarda's speech in that it insists on the relationship that binds all saved Christians in their fellowship in God, a sense that overcomes the inevitable hierarchical distinctions found among them in this life. The love that governs their will is nothing less than charity, with the result that it is impossible for them to want an advantage over their brothers and sisters in grace. To wish things other than they are, to desire one's own “advancement,” is nothing less than to oppose the will of God. And thus all members of this community observe the gradations among themselves, but find in them the expression of their general and personal happiness.

Verses 80-85 return to forms for the word volontà (will), which opened (at verse 70) Piccarda's concluding discourse as its main subject, five times (voglia, voglie, voler, 'nvoglia, volontade), underlining the importance of the will's direction of human love to divine ends. The celestial form of will in brotherhood is vastly different from the will that destroys fraternity here on earth. But it is as natural in the realms of Paradise as it is absent from Hell (and rarely enough found on earth).

At first reading, a certain indeterminacy seems possible. Does Piccarda mean “higher in the heavens” or “higher in the Rose”? Since the concluding words of the tercet, “that which assigns us to this place,” seems to refer to the sphere of the Moon, it is difficult to conclude that she means other than in a higher heaven. See, again, the note to vv. 29-30.

Our translation reflects Harold Weatherby's discussion (The Keen Delight: The Christian Poet in the Modern World [Athens: University of Georgia Press], p. 24), of the Scholastic nature of the term forma. Thus our choice of “essence” (in the sense of “formative principle”).

Piccarda's last tercet makes her point with two differing linguistic gestures, this first a summarizing citation, the second a powerful metaphor. Exactly which text she is citing is a matter for consideration, but a list of suggested candidates includes Luke 2:14 (“Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis” [And on earth peace to men of good will]); Ephesians 2:15 (“Ipse enim est pax noster” [For he (Christ Jesus) is our peace]); Augustine's Confessions XIII.9 (“In bona voluntate pax nobis est” [Our peace lies in willing the good]). The greater closeness of the last (“E 'n la la sua voluntade è nostra pace” [And in His will we find our peace]) makes it the most likely to have been on Dante's mind as he created his Piccarda. Grandgent (comm. to this verse), followed by Singleton in his commentary to this line, cites the passage from Ephesians. John Sinclair (Dante's “Paradiso” [New York: Oxford, 1961 {1946}], p. 59), cites the passage from Augustine. Readers of these notes may remark upon the parallel then found between Francesca and Piccarda, each quoting a crucial text of St. Augustine as the climactic gesture of her speech; see Inferno V.138 and the note thereto.

Piccarda's metaphor for the totality of the peace found in God reverses our normal sense of the proclivity of bodies to descend or to ascend (a phenomenon that is almost the trade-mark of Paradiso, beginning with Beatrice's explanation that it here is as natural to be drawn up toward God as on earth to be drawn down by gravity; see Par. I.136-141). In Paradiso I.113 Beatrice has used the phrase “lo gran mar de l'essere” (the vastness of the sea of being) to refer to all of God's creation, both here and above. Now Piccarda redeploys this metaphor to apply it only to God Himself, seen as the ocean to which all creation, whether direct or indirect, flows up.

While many commentators, moved by Piccarda, think of Francesca da Rimini, only Singleton (comm. to these verses) adverts to Francesca's very words (Inf. V.98-99) as being remembered here. Both ladies use watery metaphors to express the peace that they either long for or enjoy.

Piccarda's words have finally made it plain to Dante how one can be nearer or closer to God in Heaven and yet feel equally blessed with all who share beatitude, disregarding the matter of relative rank. Once again the phrasing, now representing not so much the response of the protagonist (see vv. 64-66) as the understanding of the poet, raises the question that is necessarily so persistent for a reader of this canto: Do references to paradisal “placement” speak of the ranked order of the saved in the Rose in the Empyrean or of their presences in the celestial spheres? Once we arrive in the Rose (Par. XXXII), we will see that there is a ranking (by one's row in the Rose bowl); on the other hand, there does not seem to be much in the way of ranking going on within each sphere (there may be some in Jupiter), if the spheres themselves are ranked, progressing from lowest to most exalted. Again, see the note to vv. 29-30.

The second simile of the canto (see vv. 10-18 for the first) is an elaborate way of describing the protagonist's reminder to his colloquist that she had not fully answered his second question (verse 41), the one dealing with her and her companions' “lot” in the afterworld. As is frequent in the post-Convivial Paradiso, the material for the simile proper is drawn from alimentation. In a real sense, as Robin McCallister suggested in a paper in 1968, for Dante the Paradiso offered him the opportunity to complete the Convivio, now in better, more “orthodox,” form.

The as-yet-unexpressed portion of Piccarda's self-explanation is, in metaphor, compared to the unfinished portion of a woven fabric, an image that undoubtedly reflects the Florence of Dante's day, in the heart of which the wool merchants plied their trade, as one is reminded each time one visits the Società Dantesca Italiana in the Palagio della Lana.

Piccarda is referring to the companion and fellow citizen of St. Francis of Assisi, founder (in collaboration with Francis) of her own order in 1212, the Clarisse, St. Clare (1194-1253). “[S]he was canonized by [Pope] Alexander IV in 1255. The rule of her order, which was confirmed in 1247, and again in 1253, two days before her death, by Pope Innocent IV, was characterized by extreme austerity” (Toynbee [Concise Dante Dictionary], “Chiara, Santa”).

As Lauren Scancarelli Seem suggested in conversation many years ago, Piccarda's reference to St. Clare, as being loftier than she, parallels, in opposition, Francesca's reference to her husband, Gianciotto, as being fated to a place lower in Hell than she (see Inf. V.107). And see the note to Purgatorio XXIV.13-15. The resemblances and differences among the first three women in the three cantiche (Francesca in Inf. V, Pia de' Tolomei in Purg. V, and Piccarda) have offered occasion for frequent comment. See Ruggero Stefanini (“Piccarda e la luna,” Lectura Dantis [virginiana] 11 [Fall 1992]: 26-31) for a study of structural similarities in these three narratives.

Dante's coinage, inciela (inheavens, “set[s] in a higher sphere”), again raises the issue of whether he refers to the Empyrean (in which Clare [whom we do not see there] is seated higher in the Rose than Piccarda) or to yet another heavenly sphere (e.g., that of the Sun, where we learn of St. Francis in Canto XI). It is very difficult to be certain, despite Bosco/Reggio's assurances that all is under control (see their note to vv. 28-30). The second alternative, however, does seem more likely (i.e., St. Clare, in Piccarda's view [the poet's also?], is in the Sun [or perhaps in Saturn]). Once more, see the note to vv. 29-30.

Piccarda's language recollects various biblical passages equating the love of God with marriage to Christ. Cf. the Song of Solomon, passim, as read by Christian interpreters; Matthew 9:15 and 25:1-12; Mark 2:19; Luke 5:34, but in particular the parable of the wise and foolish virgins in Matthew 25.

This celebrated tercet condenses a moment of horror followed by a life of despondency into a single unit of verse. As for the events to which Piccarda refers, the most frequent understanding among the commentators is that her brother, Corso, wanted to marry her off to one Rossellino della Tosa (see Singleton, comm. to Purg. XXIV.10) in order to further his political/financial ambition and, for this reason, had her abducted from her convent.

Constance of Sicily is the only companion mentioned by Piccarda (and one wonders, here and elsewhere, why, if the souls appear in the spheres only for the instruction of visiting Dante, they always seem to be accompanied by crowds of anonymous others, who are thus temporarily deprived of the joys of the Empyrean).

Bosco/Reggio offer a succinct account of the significant facts about her as they were known to Dante (in their comment to verse 118): “Constance, daughter of Roger II, king of Sicily, born in 1154, last heir of the Norman kingdom of Naples and Sicily, in 1185 married Henry VI of Swabia, son of Frederick Barbarossa. By marrying her, the emperor was finally obtaining dominion over southern Italy, which he had in vain attempted to conquer by force of arms. In 1194 Frederick II was born of this marriage. Constance, widowed in 1197, until her death in 1198, knew how to govern the kingdom with a shrewd sort of wisdom. With sure political instinct, sensing that she was near death, she named Pope Innocent III guardian of her three-year-old son, Frederick. During the time that the latter was emperor, the Guelphs spread the story that Constance had been made a nun against her will and that, at the age of 52, taken from the convent by the archbishop of Palermo, she had been joined in matrimony to Henry VI. Frederick II, the 'Antichrist,' would then have been born to an ex-nun who was at the same time a woman of a certain age, and thus opposing the precepts of every law, whether human or divine. In this way did Guelph propaganda attempt to discredit the emperor. Constance, in fact, had never been a nun and had married Henry at the age of 31. Dante accepted the story that she had become a nun, but omitted any negative elements from it, thus being able to illumine the figure of the empress in a lofty poetic light, making her the innocent victim of political machinations and violent acts. The halo of light that surrounds her, the refulgence in her of all of the light of this heaven, the attributes accorded her, all these tell us of Dante's high esteem for the 'Great Norman,' with the negative elements of Guelph propaganda transformed into a luminous attestation of the poet's reverence.”

Piccarda's remarks at vv. 112-117 will puzzle Dante in the next canto (Par. IV.19-21).

For a study of Piccarda and Costanza see Enrico Malato (“Il difetto della volontà che 'non s'ammorza': Piccarda e Costanza: Lettura del canto III del Paradiso,” Filologia e critica 20 [1995]: 278-317).

This is the first time the word “splendor” (splendore) is used to describe the appearance of a soul in Paradiso (but see also at least Par. V.103; IX.13; XI.39; XIV.95; XXI.32; XXIII.82; XXV.106; XXIX.138). In the heaven of the Sun we learn that the souls are enclosed in their own light (e.g., Par. XIII.48), thus explaining why we would not be able to recognize them even had we previously known them – as well as why Dante can recognize the features of Piccarda, i.e., she still possesses features, if they are but faint. Thus for Constance to be treated in this way, as though she were appearing in a higher heaven, tells us a good deal about Dante's admiration for her.

Her name, Constance, plays with and against her former weakness, inconstancy, in that, if she was inconstant in her vows when forced (as she was at least in Dante's sense of her life) back into the world, she was also constant in her heart (see verse 117). It is also interesting that there are reports that the name assumed by Piccarda, in the convent of the Clarisse, was Constance (see Lombardi (comm. to Purg. XXIV.10 and 49). In Purgatorio III.113 Constance is remembered with great affection by her grandson, Manfred (like his grandmother in this, not mentioning the name of the magnificent but hated “last of the Roman emperors,” Frederick II [see Conv. IV.iii.6]). As has been suggested (see the note to Purg. III.143), that canto is also a “canto of two Constances.”

Frederick is referred to as the third powerful figure in the line of Frederick Barbarossa and Henry VI, the three Swabian emperors. See Grandgent (comm. to verse 119): “The Swabian Emperors are called 'blasts' because of the violence and the brief duration of their activity. Frederick I (Barbarossa) was the first; the 'second wind' was Constance's husband, Henry VI; the third and last was her son, Frederick II.”

Where do these two Constances go after they recede from view? Opinions are divided, some more recent commentators (beginning with Costa in 1819 [comm. to verse 122] claiming that they head back to the Empyrean (as will, apparently, many souls encountered later in the cantica); others are of the opinion that they go deep into the mass of the Moon (e.g., Benvenuto [comm. to vv. 115-123]: “disparuit in corpore lunae frigido” [disappeared into the cold matter of the Moon]). This is also maintained by Francesco da Buti (comm. to vv. 121-130): “profondò nel corpo lunare” (sank deep into the matter of the Moon). Most, however, do not even raise the question of where Piccarda (not to mention Constance or, indeed, any of their companions) is headed.

This is the last passage in the canto that makes the reader confront the problem of the permanent residence of the souls we see in the Moon (see the note to vv. 29-30). Here, the sense of descent would seem to make the second hypothesis more likely. The fact that, among the early commentators, only Benvenuto and Francesco da Buti tried to assign a destination to their departure makes the problematic nature of the passage apparent. In the later nineteenth century, Scartazzini (comm. to verse 123) and Campi (comm. to this tercet) also draw the conclusion that Costa did, basing it on what the next canto (vv. 28-39) will make clear: The souls are all in the Empyrean and descend from there to manifest themselves in the planets (or so Dante called both Moon and Sun along with those to which we reserve that appellation). However, twentieth-century exegetes preferred to admire the aesthetic attractiveness of the passage rather than apply themselves to this little conundrum. The result is that there is no “official” view of the problem, which remains unsolved. Dante should have shown Piccarda and the others going up, returning to God; he did not, and we have either, like Scartazzini, tried to be more correct than our author or, like Benvenuto, followed our poetic sense to make Dante seem to violate his own rules – at least the rules that he would lay down in the next canto. There is, according to an Italian proverb, always a third way (“C'è sempre una terza via”). In this case, that has proven more popular than the first two, the way of avoidance, whether knowingly chosen or not.

For the program of song in the last cantica, see the note to Paradiso XXI.58-60.

In the wake of the disappearance of the two nuns, the poet prepares us for the answers to the questions to which they have given rise. These lines could, without disrupting the reader's sense of order, have been moved forward into the next canto. As we have seen (since at least Inferno VIII, which opens with the often noted self-consciousness of the words “Io dico, seguitando...” [To continue, let me say...]), the reader experiences a sense that there was a kind of willful and arbitrary process at work in the poet's decisions about how a given canto should begin (or end). That Dante was increasingly amused by this practical poetic problem is evidenced in the growing number of ungainly narrative re-starts as we move into Purgatorio. While such decisions are not easily made or agreed with, perhaps a list of “unstable” or otherwise problematical beginnings might include Inferno VIII, XIII, XIV, XXI, XXV, XXVII, XXIX, XXXI, XXXIII; Purgatorio III, V, VII, X, XII, XVII, XIX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XXIV, XXV, XXVI, XXIX, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII; Paradiso III, VI, IX, XII, XV, XVIII, XXI, XXII, XXXII, XXXIII.) Dante obviously enjoyed playfully challenging our sense of proper beginnings and endings. For a similar assessment of the chapter beginnings and endings in Don Quijote, see R.S. Willis (The Phantom Chapters of the “Quijote” [New York: Hispanic Institute in the United States, 1953]).

Battaglia Ricci (“Piccarda, o della carità: lettura del terzo canto del Paradiso,” Critica e filologia 14 [1989]: 29), cites with approval Marti's argument (“Il canto III del Paradiso,” in Letture dantesche. III. “Paradiso,” ed. G. Getto [Florence: Sansoni, 1964 {1961}], p. 1385) for the circular movement of the canto, from Beatrice as Sun to Beatrice as Sun (Dante is in the first case rewarded with an understanding of the dark places in the Moon; in the second he is promised an answer [if in rather disquieting terms] to the two questions that his interview with Piccarda has given rise to in him. Marti characterizes the first Beatrice as the “sun of love” and the second as the “sun of knowledge”).