After hearing the stories of Piccarda and Constance, Dante is left with questions he cannot resolve. Beatrice, who can read his mind, understands what he wants to know. With the case of Piccarda and Constance in mind, his first question concerns whether a person forced to do something can be held responsible for the act. A second question relates to Plato’s Timaeus, and whether our souls return to their proper stars after our death. Beatrice calls this latter question the more “poisonous,” and answers it first. Then she returns to the question of vows forcibly broken and discusses the difference between Absolute and Conditioned Will. Overcome with gratitude at Beatrice’s willingness to instruct him, Dante is emboldened to ask a further question: whether one can compensate for a broken vow by good works.
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Struggling with my questions, I was like a man who might starve because he can’t decide which of two equidistant foods he should eat first. I was the tender lamb trapped by fear between two snarling wolves. I was the dog chasing two deer who then quickly veer one to the right and one to the left. So, if I stood there before Beatrice, don’t blame me if I was made dumb by equal doubts. Yet on my face was written the page of what I so strongly desired to ask but could not express in words.[1]At the end of the previous canto, Piccarda, Constance, and the others with them faded into the substance of the moon, leaving Dante both dazzled by the radiance of Beatrice and filled with questions. … Continue reading
At this point, she became for me the like prophet Daniel, who turned the wrathful Nebuchadnezzar from his cruel intentions by interpreting his conflicted dreams. “It’s clear to me,” she said, “how your questions torment you with the desire for answers, so that even your words are bound up by your eagerness to speak. On the one hand, you’re thinking: ‘If my vows remain intact, how can I be held responsible if someone forces me by violence to break them?’ And a second question plagues you with equal intensity: whether, as Plato states, each soul returns to its own star after death. Both questions are equally weighty and equally fuel your desire to know, so let me answer the more poisonous question first.[2]Dante’s mention of the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar seems odd here, except that both the king and Dante were faced with needing clear interpretations for their visions when none seemed … Continue reading
“Neither the highest of the Seraphic angels, nor Moses or the Prophets, or any of the Johns – I assure you, not even Mary has been positioned at any other place in heaven than the spirits you just spoke with here. All of them rejoice eternally in equal bliss; the Empyrean itself is made even more glorious by their collected beauty; and they share the same eternal life, though diversely to the extent that they feel the eternal breath of God.[3]Starting with the highest of all created beings, the Seraphim who are the closest angels to God, and moving to less exalted saints and holy people – including the Virgin Mary, Beatrice tells Dante … Continue reading
“You did not see the spirits who manifested themselves to you here because this sphere of the Moon has been assigned to them. No, they appeared to you here merely as a sign or symbol of their lesser degree of exaltedness. I explain this in terms like these because your mind only works on what it takes from your senses. Thus, even the Bible adapts to your intellectual ability by giving God limbs like hands and feet. And the Church, too, gives human features to Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael who restored sight to Tobias.[4]Now comes the moment of clarity about the Moon (and, as we will discover, about all the other spheres in the heavens). Piccarda, Constance, and the others with them have not been assigned to the … Continue reading)
“If you take literally what Plato’s Timaeus says about the soul, it’s not the same as what you’ve seen here. He thinks that souls are separated from their stars when they’re born and return there at death. But if one were to bend his doctrine somewhat, there may be something in it that’s worth considering. If it was interpreted to mean that the stars might have some influence on human behavior, then some truth might be found in what he believes. But misunderstood, as it has been, his belief has led people mistakenly to name planets Jove, Mercury, Mars, and the like.[5]Beatrice makes it clear here that a literal interpretation of Timaeus’s doctrine on the soul is outright heresy. (It had been condemned by the Council of Constantinople in 540 AD.) This should be … Continue reading
“Now, the other question that so captivates your thinking right now is not as poisonous as the first one. In spite of its danger, it would never really cause you to wander away from me. The fact that you might think heavenly justice is unjust concerns your faith, but it’s not heretical. However, since this is a truth that your mind will comprehend easily, I will explain it to you.[6]Dante’s “other question” had to do with the justice of placing Piccarda and Constance in the Moon among the Inconstant because they were forced to break their vows against their will. Unlike … Continue reading
“Just because the person violated did not consent to the violation, this is not enough to excuse them. Our free will – even if it does not act – cannot be quenched. Think of a flame, whose nature is to rise upward. Even though it be forced down by violent winds, it still rises upward. By giving in to the violent act, even just a little, the will actually cooperates with the forceful act. This is the case with those you spoke to moments ago. They could have returned to the cloister when their circumstances changed, but they didn’t. If they kept their wills strong – following the example of St. Lawrence on the gridiron, or Mucius who thrust his hand into the flames – it would have compelled them to return to the convent once they were no longer bound by force. But it is not often that one finds such a strong will as this. So, if you’ve listened carefully to my explanations, you will agree that I’ve overcome the arguments that otherwise would have left you restless in your doubts.[7]In general, the argument that will be presented by Beatrice has to do with a form of duress under which a person is forced to do something under threat of violence to themselves. In modern times, … Continue reading
“Nevertheless,” she continued to instruct me, “there appears before you now an even greater obstacle that by yourself you cannot overcome. I have made it clear that the spirits here cannot lie because they now live forever looking upon the Eternal Truth. But you might think, my brother, that Piccarda contradicted me when she told you of the love for the veil that Constance kept throughout her life. It is often the case that people will do things they never should have done in order to prevent something worse from happening. Look at the example of cruel Alcmeon who, in order to keep his word to his dying father, murdered his own mother as an act of filial piety![8]Reading Dante’s mind, Beatrice sees that his thinking is leading him into a corner because he seems to have misunderstood both her and Piccarda. As we will soon see, at issue here are two different … Continue reading
“Considering this example carefully, you can see how both will and violence can join, and lead to acts that can never be justified. Absolute Will can never consent to wrongdoing, but it will do so if it fears that by holding back something worse will happen. In her explanation to you, it was Absolute Will that Piccarda was referring to. I was referring to the Conditioned Will. But both of us were speaking the truth.”[9]This is the arrival point of Beatrice’s lecture. She wants Dante to understand the distinction between Absolute Will and Conditioned Will, and to see, in the end, that the two nuns were both aiming … Continue reading
At this point, having been instructed by Beatrice, I was freed from both of my doubts by the stream that flows from the sacred Fountain of Truth Itself. “O god-like beloved of the First Love,” I began, “your words, like a bath, surround and warm me and awaken me to the real life. Though my love for you is profound, it is still not deep enough to find within it the thanks your gracious care for me deserves. May the One who sees and knows all things make answer for me. It’s clear to me that the human intellect can never find fulfillment unless it be enlightened by that Truth beyond which there is no other. Within that Truth – once our minds find it – we rest content in it like a wild beast becalmed within its lair. And I am certain that it can be reached. Otherwise all our strivings are in vain. Truth is a great tree, and our doubts grow beneath it like tender shoots reaching always to higher heights.[10]Dante’s lovely acclamation of Beatrice comes in response to what she has taught him here which, in turn, has enabled him to see and love her more. And the more he learns, the more he thirsts to … Continue reading
“This, my dear lady, is what gives me the courage to pursue yet another question in search of the truth that is still not completely clear to me. With reverence and respect, I wish to know if it’s possible for those who break their vows to compensate for this by good works that would once again balance the scales within your court?”[11]Here is a perfect segue into the next canto. Several issues have been raised since Dante arrived in the moon, and they’ve all been discussed and answered. He now knows that the souls here are not … Continue reading
As my troubling question came to rest, Beatrice looked at me with those eyes of hers so sparkling with divine love, that my sight began to fail, and looking down, I felt myself grow weak.[12]In Inferno 2:55, Virgil told Dante that Beatrice’s eyes were filled with “light more bright than any star.” In the Purgatorio (31:116), her eyes are referred to as emeralds. Here, if seeing … Continue reading
Notes & Commentary
| ↑1 | At the end of the previous canto, Piccarda, Constance, and the others with them faded into the substance of the moon, leaving Dante both dazzled by the radiance of Beatrice and filled with questions. Reflecting on his immediate experience, he’s not sure which question to ask first. His subtle inclusion of the Reader here is also a clever way of “passing the blame” because we have probably experienced the same dilemma: with several (in this case, two) questions in mind, which do I ask first? It seems that the primary source of Dante’s images here is St. Thomas Aquinas in his Summa Theologiae (I-II, q. 13, a. 6): “If any two things are absolutely equal, a man is not moved to the one more than to the other; just as a starving man, if he has food equally appetizing in different directions and at an equal distance, is not moved to the one more than to the other.” Some commentators also point to the source of the problem known as “Buridan’s ass.” Jean Buridan was a 14th century philosopher, and the paradox goes this way: if you place a hungry donkey between two equidistant bales of hay, it will not be able to choose which one to eat from, and therefore starve to death. And a similar problem is attributed to Aristotle (De caelo II, 13). The “problem” suggested by this paradox is not just a matter of choice but, as we shall see in the rest of this canto, it is a problem of the will. Robert Hollander lays the issue out clearly in his commentary here: “Piccarda’s words to Dante in Canto III have aroused in him two doubts or questions. One revolves around the idea that although Piccarda and Constance broke their vows against their will, they seem to be penalized for vow-breaking by being accorded a lesser degree of excellence in the hierarchy of Paradise. The other doubt stems from Piccarda’s remark that she and Constance have been assigned to the moon. Taken literally, this would appear to confirm Plato’s assertion that, at death, we go back into the planets from which we came.” |
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| ↑2 | Dante’s mention of the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar seems odd here, except that both the king and Dante were faced with needing clear interpretations for their visions when none seemed forthcoming (see the Book of Daniel 2:1-45). Having threatened to kill all his wizards, it was Daniel who satisfied him. Interestingly, Nebuchadnezzar wanted his interpreters to first tell him what the dream was. That, of course, was impossible, and Dante the Poet wants us to see that for Dante the Pilgrim, answers to his questions also seem impossible. Thus his apparent anxiety. No killing is threatened here, but Beatrice plays the role of Daniel by clearly laying out the Poet’s questions. This is helpful for the Reader because the clever Poet hasn’t spoken them, though Beatrice can read his mind. Then she answers them, dealing with the second one first because it is potentially more dangerous. On the surface, Dante’s first question seems simple enough: Why should I be blamed or punished for something I was forced to do? Piccarda told Dante that she and Constance were violently taken from their respective convents and forced into marriage, thus breaking their vows of chastity. She actually answered this question but Dante seemed to have lost sight of it in his concern that the two women were being “punished” by being situated in the Sphere of the Moon (the “lowest” place) in the cosmos through no fault of their own. In a sense, this is really a question of merit. If these women always willed the good, in other words, if they lived a virtuous life and hoped to return to the convent, how is it that they end up in what seems to be a low place in Heaven? And this leads to the second (more dangerous) problem. In his dialogue, the Timaeus, Plato held that souls, before they were born, pre-existed in the stars. After descending into bodily life, the soul could return to its original star after death and be happy forever – provided it lived justly. If not, it entered further cycles of reincarnation until purified. This teaching was considered heretical by the Church because it denied the gift of free will. Now, while Dante didn’t believe in Plato’s teaching, it obviously came to his mind as he considered what he thought was the lowest placement of Piccarda and Constance among the heavenly spheres. Recall, also, how Dante and Marco the Lombard had already discussed this idea of the stars’ influence in Canto 16 of the Purgatorio. More on this later. |
| ↑3 | Starting with the highest of all created beings, the Seraphim who are the closest angels to God, and moving to less exalted saints and holy people – including the Virgin Mary, Beatrice tells Dante that all of these have the same place in the Empyrean, the abode of God, as do Piccarda and Constance. Everyone in Heaven, she implies, is equally and eternally happy, all share equally in the glory of eternity, and all share in the “breath of God” according to their diverse capacities. One thinks here of the creation of Adam in Genesis 3 and God breathing life into him. Here, Heaven is imagined as an ongoing, life-giving act of creation, ever new, ever more glorious, the in-spiration, the breathing in of God’s own breath! An image I find useful with my students is to visualize a series of different-sized glasses. Some are larger than others, some smaller. But all of them are filled to their respective capacities. |
| ↑4 | Now comes the moment of clarity about the Moon (and, as we will discover, about all the other spheres in the heavens). Piccarda, Constance, and the others with them have not been assigned to the Moon. They simply appeared here for the Poet’s benefit as a symbol of their lesser capacities, to use the image I noted above. Beatrice tells Dante that this is the only way the human intellect can grasp the deep structure of Paradise – that is, via the senses, in this case by what he sees. It has nothing to do with Plato’s Timaeus. Thus, it should be clear to Dante why Piccarda and the others were not in the least concerned about appearing to Dante in the Moon. In his commentary here, Charles Singleton takes the opportunity to explain why all of this confusion makes sense: “The poet’s invention of this whole scheme is noteworthy, and the reader has only to consider how unsatisfactory (if not impossible) it would have been had the pilgrim risen immediately and directly to the Empyrean, in the first canto of the Paradiso, and remained there for thirty-two cantos! By [doing it this way], instead, his journey can pass eventfully upwards by degrees or stages, each stage higher than the last, like so many rungs of a ladder, reaching upward all the way to God.” At the same time, he makes an important point about sensory perception from Aristotle that Dante knew well: “This is the essentially Aristotelian doctrine often stated as the tenet nihil est in intellectu quin prius fuerit in sensu (‘nothing is in the intellect unless it is first in sense experience’), a doctrine of great importance to a poet who is committed to rendering his experience in concrete imagery. The reader should connect this same tenet with the question, left open, as to whether the pilgrim makes this upward journey through the spheres in his body or not (see Par. 1:73-75). He would appear to be having ‘sensible’ experience here, even as he had during his journey through Inferno and Purgatory, where he did move with his body. Thus, by indirection (but never explicitly), the poet suggests that he did indeed traverse the heavens in his body, even though this is a great mystery (cf. Par. 2:37-42). And Heaven, as it were, condescends to speak to him through sensible experience in each of the spheres of the upward way.” Finally, Beatrice (Dante) definitely has St. Thomas Aquinas in mind as she remarks how the Church anthropomorphizes God and the angels. Aquinas writes: “It befits Holy Scripture to teach divine and Spiritual things under the similitude of corporeal things. For God provides for all creatures according to the nature of each. But it is natural to man to come to things of the intellect through things apprehended by the senses; because all our knowledge has its beginning from sense. Hence in Holy Scripture spiritual things are fittingly conveyed to us under metaphors of corporeal things.” (Summa theologiae I,q.1,a.9 |
| ↑5 | Beatrice makes it clear here that a literal interpretation of Timaeus’s doctrine on the soul is outright heresy. (It had been condemned by the Council of Constantinople in 540 AD.) This should be clear to Dante from what he’s seen and learned in Heaven so far. The souls he has and will encounter in Heaven are neither from the spheres (stars) originally, nor will they return there. All souls in Paradise reside in the Empyrean, the abode of God. Many will simply appear to Dante throughout his ascent as an accommodation to his inferior (earthly) intellect. (It should be noted here that Jews, Christians, and Muslims all believe that our souls are created by God.) On the other hand, Beatrice notes, there may be some value in a non-literal understanding of Timaeus’s teaching. In other words, there may be some astral influence upon us, but implied in this is what Marco the Lombard (aka Dante the Poet) had clearly stated for the Pilgrim in the Purgatorio: “You men on earth attribute everything / to the spheres’ influence alone, as if / with some predestined plan they moved all things. If this were true, then our Free Will would be / annihilated: it would not be just / to render bliss for good or pain for evil. The spheres initiate your tendencies: / not all of them – but even if they did, / you have the light that shows you right from wrong, and your Free Will, which, though it may grow faint / in its first struggles with the heavens, can still /surmount all obstacles if nurtured well. You are free subjects of a greater power, / a nobler nature that creates your mind, / and over this the spheres have no control.” (16:67-81). |
| ↑6 | Dante’s “other question” had to do with the justice of placing Piccarda and Constance in the Moon among the Inconstant because they were forced to break their vows against their will. Unlike the Timaeus issue, this doubt about heavenly justice was not heretical, and so it would not lead him away from Beatrice, who represents truth and divine revelation. Nevertheless, his questioning divine Justice indicates a deficiency in his faith. It also shows that he lacks a clear understanding of the nature of vows and the nature of the will. Basically, he’s still thinking in earthly terms. These errors Beatrice now sets out to remedy. |
| ↑7 | In general, the argument that will be presented by Beatrice has to do with a form of duress under which a person is forced to do something under threat of violence to themselves. In modern times, more often than not, the claim of duress and its attendant legal complications, has to do with a person being forced to commit a crime under immanent threat of death or other grave consequence to themselves. In the case of Piccarda and Constance, they were forced to break their vows, though no technical crime was committed, and the question of immanent harm to themselves probably only involved their being kidnapped from their convents for the sole purpose of an alliance by marriage. (The question remains whether the marriages were legal since the brides were forced into them.) In this case, the larger question has to do with the will, not the drama of being kidnaped from the convent. Robert Hollander forcefully summarizes the issue in his commentary here: “Beatrice is brutally clear: Since the will by its very nature always seeks the good, any capitulation to external force is a violation of God’s love. A modern reader may sense a certain outrage at this line of thought. It would seem to call for martyrdom as the only adequate response if another would divert us from our true path by use of force or the threat of force. As the…examples [of St. Lawrence and the Roman Mucius] will make plain, that is exactly what is called for. If we fail to keep our absolute will intact, allowing it to be swayed by fear, we are guilty of the sin that afflicted both Piccarda and Constance, who should have found some way to return to the cloister, no matter what harm they thought they might have faced in so doing. Dante’s doctrine is as simple and as terrifying as that.” We will see how this plays out as Beatrice makes her case. In the mean time, her image of free will as the flame that always burns upward should be kept in mind. And the stories of St. Lawrence and Mucius are striking examples of the kind of “martyrdom” Hollander noted above. St. Lawrence was a deacon in Rome during a time of persecution. Arrested by the Prefect, he was commanded to show him the treasure of the Church. St. Lawrence brought him to the poor! Outraged, the Prefect ordered him to be roasted alive on a grill. Having suffered the fire for a while, he is said to have told the Prefect, “Turn me over now. I’m done on this side!” Mucius attempted to kill the Etruscan king, Porsena, who was attacking Rome. Having killed the wrong man, he was caught and brought before the king. Porsena ordered him to be burnt, but Mucius defiantly thrust his hand into a sacrificial fire near the king and held it there without flinching. Porsena released him and eventually sued for peace. These extraordinary examples of unflinching will power in the face of death may be suggested by Beatrice to emphasize the fact that neither Piccarda nor Constance faced such dire circumstances; her point being that they could have returned to the convent at a later time if they hadn’t loosened the reins of their will in the first place. |
| ↑8 | Reading Dante’s mind, Beatrice sees that his thinking is leading him into a corner because he seems to have misunderstood both her and Piccarda. As we will soon see, at issue here are two different kinds of will: absolute will and conditioned will. On the surface, Beatrice’s example of Alcmeon seems to obscure the issue. Alcmeon’s father, the seer Amphiarus, foresaw that he would be killed in the Trojan war and hid himself to prevent his being involved. Unfortunately, his wife, Eryphile, betrayed his secret out of sheer vanity, and he was dragged into the war and killed. Before he died, however, Amphiarus made Alcmeon promise that he would kill his mother for what she had done. Having done that, he was driven mad by the Furies. At this point, it’s not yet clear how this example follows from Beatrice’s previous statement: “It is often the case that people will do things they never should have done in order to prevent something worse from happening.” It’s not clear what worse thing was prevented from happening by killing Eryphile. Though his matricide was motivated by filial piety, he could not have known before-hand that he would go mad as a result. It seems more likely that the Alcmeon reference is really about the tragic consequences of not breaking a vow. |
| ↑9 | This is the arrival point of Beatrice’s lecture. She wants Dante to understand the distinction between Absolute Will and Conditioned Will, and to see, in the end, that the two nuns were both aiming to solve the problem in their own ways. Perhaps to (dangerously) simplify matters, let us consider that the “wrongdoing” in this situation has to do with Piccarda and Constance leaving the convent and thus breaking their vows. Now, according to Beatrice, the Absolute Will never consents to wrongdoing (or seeks only to do the right thing). In other words, it never consents to doing something wrong that has been forced upon it. But insofar as it fears something worse happening if it should refrain from doing the wrong, it does consent. The fear leads one to consent to the wrongdoing. In the Absolute sense, the two nuns honored their vows. But, given the fact that they faced either death or marriage and chose marriage, this was the working of their Conditional Will. One can think of Absolute Will as being rock-solid, and Conditioned Will as will conditioned by circumstances. And so the apparent confusion over Piccarda’s earlier saying that Constance always wanted to return to the convent (an example of Absolute Will) and the fact that she left and married out of fear (an example of the Conditional Will) is cleared up. In summary: Absolute Will never consents to coercive force (though it may draw back or give in for fear that something worse may happen). Conditioned Will, in the face of force, wills out of fear or a false sense of obligation, and bends (is conditioned) by circumstances; it reacts to fear or violence, and may choose what it perceives to be a lesser evil in order to avoid a greater one. |
| ↑10 | Dante’s lovely acclamation of Beatrice comes in response to what she has taught him here which, in turn, has enabled him to see and love her more. And the more he learns, the more he thirsts to know. Like a stream of living water – a metaphor for divine Truth – she quenches the thirst of his curiosity and tames him in the lair of God. The image of the great tree of Truth takes on added meaning here as it nourishes the saplings of doubt as they grow in ever greater understanding. This growth is also a way of viewing Dante’s journey through the heavens where, at each stop along the way, he learns more until he is able to see the beatific vision himself. Of course, in all of this he is preparing his beloved for yet another one of his questions. |
| ↑11 | Here is a perfect segue into the next canto. Several issues have been raised since Dante arrived in the moon, and they’ve all been discussed and answered. He now knows that the souls here are not reflections. He now realizes that his concerns about higher and lower places in Heaven were misguided. Everyone in Heaven enjoys the beatific vision according to their diverse capacities. No one is “punished” by appearing in a seemingly lower place. He understands that everyone he will encounter along his journey is in the Empyrean, the abode of God. They merely appear to him where they do as a symbol to help his earthly understanding. And he has learned about the workings of the will from the stories of Piccarda and Constance. But one issue remains. If Piccarda and Constance didn’t sin by allowing (willing) themselves to be kidnapped and married, they still broke their vows. And the question now is whether one can make restitution for a broken vow, perhaps by some good work, so that the mysterious workings of divine Justice are satisfied. Why does Dante ask this question? On the one hand, it seems to follow naturally enough from what has already been discussed and learned in this canto. On the other hand, while he certainly did not know Constance personally, he did know Piccarda as the sister of his best friend, Forese. They were neighbors and related by marriage. As such, Dante must have known that Piccarda became a nun, and given the drama of the story, he must have known that her wicked older brother, Corso, a political enemy of his, had forced her out of the convent and into a marriage of alliance. According to Paget Toynbee, in his Dictionary, this happened between 1283 and 1288. In 1288 Dante would have been 23, long before he wrote the Paradiso. If Piccarda died shortly after her forced marriage to Rosselino della Tosa, Dante would certainly have known about it. One wonders, then, whether he may have written this canto with a certain sympathy for Piccarda, and in light of the tragedy that led to her death, whether there might have been a way to repair the vows she broke. On the other hand, Robert Hollander in his commentary here looks at Dante’s last question, not from the standpoint of sympathy, but of forgiveness, by raising a question about something the general reader may not be aware of. He begins by telling us: “We do know that Dante had made at least one vow that he had spectacularly failed to fulfill. In his Vita nuova (XLII.2) he had made a solemn promise: ‘Accordingly, if it be the pleasure of Him through whom all things live that my life continue for a few more years, I hope to write of her that which has never been written of any other woman.’” The question Dante asks Beatrice, then, is whether “…God can ever forgive his not making good the vow he made to honor her at the end of the Vita nuova, only to write Convivio instead, a work in which she is abandoned for the Lady Philosophy. Dante…wonders whether or not he might still make amends for his broken promise with this poem in Beatrice’s honor. Such a decision…belongs to the Father. He has obviously decided in favor of the claimant, otherwise the voyage would not have been granted him.” This spotlights backward Beatrice’s long and harsh rebuke of Dante that takes up the last half of Canto 30 in the Purgatorio and lets us see behind the veil of her rebuke precisely why it was necessary for Dante to repent before he could approach her. In the end, then, he may have raised the question both out of sympathy for Piccarda and forgiveness for himself. Relative to the making and keeping of vows, in his commentary here, Ronald Martinez offers the reader some useful historical information as a context for Dante’s question: “In an age when all Christian denominations face an unprecedented and long-term crisis of recruitment, one tends to forget how universal and serious the concern with vows was in the Middle Ages—not only among the enormous numbers of religious of both sexes (vowed to chastity, poverty, and obedience whether in convents or, like the mendicant orders, in the cities), but also among countless lay persons of all ranks in society: out of spontaneous devotion or when sick or in danger, they made vows to practice abstinence, to perform penitence or devotions to a particular saint, to go on pilgrimages or crusades, to help finance religious causes, to give children as oblates to monasteries or to the priesthood, or to enter monasteries themselves. The clergy were often vigilant to see publicly made vows fulfilled, especially if made by rulers.” |
| ↑12 | In Inferno 2:55, Virgil told Dante that Beatrice’s eyes were filled with “light more bright than any star.” In the Purgatorio (31:116), her eyes are referred to as emeralds. Here, if seeing leads to knowing, looking at Beatrice’s magnificent eyes Dante knows without the need for words the depth of her love as her eyes reflect the love of God for him. In the end, this is more than he can bear to look at. |