The great mystical procession has come to a stop directly opposite where Dante and his two companions stand. Those ahead of the chariot expectantly turn around to face it now, waiting for someone to appear there. A hundred angels rise up from the chariot showering roses, and from within that rain of flowers the veiled figure of Beatrice appears. Dante senses that it is she and turns around to tell Virgil, but Virgil disappeared the moment Beatrice arrived. Dante is grief-stricken, but his grief is made worse when Beatrice sternly calls out his name and proceeds to dress him down for having abandoned her after she died.
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When the great candlesticks leading the procession stopped – they were like those stars in the heavens that guide us–everyone else stopped. Then the ones following directly behind those lights turned around to face the chariot; and one of them, as though sent from Heaven, sang Veni, sponsa, de Libano, three times, and all the others followed him in singing. And as all the blest will rise up from their tombs at the sound of the final trumpet, singing Alleluias with their new bodies, so there above that glorious chariot a hundred heavenly spirits rose up ad vocem tanti senis, shouting together: Benedictus qui venis! while sending up a rain of flowers into the air, Manibus, O, date lelia plenis![1]Dante begins this canto with the mystical procession stopped in front of him just across the stream of Lethe. Directly in front of him–at the midpoint of the procession–is the triumphal chariot … Continue reading
Just before sunrise, I have watched the entire eastern horizon turn rose in color as the early morning mists allow one to look unguarded at the rising sun. So now, within that rain of flowers that flew up from those angels’ hands and then fluttered down upon the chariot, there appeared a lady. Her white veil was crowned with olive leaves, her cloak was green, and her gown was the color of living flame.[2]In the rain of flowers thrown up by the host of angels, Beatrice appears at last, descending from Heaven onto the magnificent chariot. In this great moment in the Poem she completes the cast of the … Continue reading)
Let me tell you now, though many years had passed since I stood before her, trembling and stunned by her beauty, within my spirit I was once again prostrate before the power of her love. And no sooner was I struck again by that high virtue I had known as a young man, than I turned to my left with the confidence of a frightened child as though to its mother, saying to my dear Virgil: “There isn’t a single drop of blood within me that doesn’t tremble now. I know the signs of this ancient flame.” But … Virgil was gone! There we were, left without him. Virgil, my sweet father! It was you to whom I entrusted my soul that I might find salvation. Nothing in this paradise around me, lost by our ancient mother, could keep my face, once washed in the dew far below, dry from the tears I now shed.[3]First of all, we have to remember that Dante and Beatrice were neighbors when they were young, and that though she married into a wealthy and powerful family he never lost his great affection for … Continue reading
“Dante! Though Virgil has left you, do not weep. Soon you will weep from another wound. But do not weep yet.” I turned around quickly when I heard my name called. Like an admiral who, whether in the bow or the stern, watches and encourages his men working on nearby ships, so I saw standing at the chariot’s left rail the lady who appeared amid that downpour of angels’ flowers, looking at me from across the stream. Though I couldn’t get a clear view of her because of the veil that covered her head, crowned with Minerva’s leaves, I could sense her stern, regal stare as she continued to speak like someone who saves for the end their harshest words.[4]Beatrice now addresses Dante directly from the chariot–the only time in the poem that his name is used. The dramatic effect of this should not be short-changed. In some cultures and circumstances, … Continue reading
“Look at me! Yes, look here. I am Beatrice! Have you finally decided to climb this mountain? Have you finally discovered that here one can be happy?”
Hearing her address me like that, I lowered my head and focused on the stream there in front of me. But there was my shamed face looking back at me, so I looked at the grass. She was the angry mother, and in guilt I stood there before her like an abject child hearing her harsh words that weren’t yet gentle.[5]This canto is laden with emotion, from the height of Dante’s excitement at the spectacular arrival of Beatrice, to his lament at Virgil’s disappearance, and now his scolding by an angry … Continue reading
It was the angels, then, who interceded with a Psalm, singing In te, Domine, speravi, though they stopped at pedes meos. As snow frozen atop the Apennines will melt quickly in the winds that blow hot from the south, just so were tears and sighs frozen within me until I heard the singing of those angels, whose music is tuned to the heavenly spheres. And when I felt the pity in what they sang–as though they said: “Dear Lady, why do you shame him like this?”–only then did my heart break the ice that held it firm and I burst forth with great cries of anguish.[6]What happens here is completely unexpected. Whether they intercede or interrupt, the angels who are still there around Beatrice and the chariot seem to take advantage of the pause between her sharp … Continue reading
But still standing there in that chariot, unmoved, she addressed herself to those pitying angels: “Since you see by the light of the eternal day, nothing on earth can be hidden from your sight. So, my purpose in speaking to you is to make that man over there see the truth and grieve in measure with his guilt.[7]Leaving Dante to his weeping and unaffected by his tears, Beatrice begins the next part of her confrontation by addressing the angels in a long speech, during which we will learn a great deal about … Continue reading
“I tell you, there was never a man so fully endowed as a youth with the potential of God’s gifts as that one there; and if he had allowed them to grow fully within him, how fully would he have reaped their abundance. But the richer the soil, the more luxuriant the weeds that must be pulled to keep them from overtaking the garden. For a time, it was enough that he could look into my young eyes and find there the strength he needed to pursue his goals.[8]Continuing to address the angels, but pointing her words at Dante as well, Beatrice refers to him in the past tense as though he weren’t even there–another way to embarrass him. But, then, she is … Continue reading
“Then, after I passed from earthly life into the realm of Heaven, that man over there abandoned me and wandered after others. I became more beautiful, more virtuous, in that new life, but he loved me less and no longer took pleasure in me. As a result, he strayed from the path of truth in pursuit of lesser things, which can never give what they promise.[9]We know from Dante’s Convivio that he gave himself up to the study (love) of philosophy, not to mention his poetry. Dante the Poet, through Beatrice, is probably allegorizing here his love for … Continue reading
“How many times I prayed for him, that he would be inspired in some way. But it was useless, he didn’t care anymore. Sad to say, he sank to such depths that, in the end, there was no way to save him except to make him travel through the kingdom of the damned in Hell. So, I went down into that realm, and with many tears pleaded with the one who, until just now, has been his guide.[10]The reader might rightly wonder if Beatrice’s list of Dante’s failings will come to an end. As expected, it will continue in the next canto. But in all of this, Beatrice reveals much about … Continue reading
“Understand this: God’s highest laws would be rendered meaningless if that man crossed the Lethe here, and drank its sweet waters, without admitting his guilt and doing penance in tears.”[11]In the end, Beatrice’s plan seems simple enough. Remember that during the entirety of this long speech (42 lines in the Italian text) she has had two audiences: the angels surrounding her and the … Continue reading [12]Here, begging the indulgence of the reader, but offering, at the same time, the reward of such excellent commentaries on this canto, let me present a few paragraphs from Dorothy Sayers and Mark Musa … Continue reading
Notes & Commentary
| ↑1 | Dante begins this canto with the mystical procession stopped in front of him just across the stream of Lethe. Directly in front of him–at the midpoint of the procession–is the triumphal chariot (empty at this moment) drawn by the griffin. He compares the seven great candlesticks with their streaming lights–representing the seven-fold Spirit of God–to the seven stars of the constellation Ursa Major–the Big Dipper. This is the most recognized constellation in the sky. Its outer edge points to Polaris, the North Star, which never moves, and which has been a navigational guide in the northern hemisphere for time immemorial. As the seven gifts of the eternal Spirit guide us spiritually, so do the seven stars of the Dipper guide us here on earth. As God’s Spirit is eternal, so the stars, the oldest objects in creation, seem eternal.
To draw out the spiritual guidance theme a bit more, Dante actually compares the candlesticks to what he calls “the Septentrion of the First Heaven.” The Septentrion (“the seven-ox plow”) is an archaic word for both Dippers, the Big one and the Little one, both composed of seven stars. But for Dante, the First Heaven is the Empyrean, that place beyond the cosmos which is Heaven proper. The implication here is that the Septentrion of the First Heaven is an image of the seven-fold Spirit of God which guides the soul from on high, as the Dipper(s) that we see guide navigators in the earthly realm. With the procession stopped, the twenty-four elders who were first (behind the candlesticks) turn around and face the chariot, which itself, recall, is surrounded by the four creatures with wings full of eyes. Since the chariot represents the Church/Christ and all the souls in heaven, see here how Dante places the books of the Hebrew Bible as looking “toward” the Church–Christ to come, and the books of the New Testament looking at Christ having come already. With everyone in the procession facing the chariot, note the points of a triangle that is formed by the books of the Hebrew Bible, the books of the New Testament, and Dante. Now one of the elders, representing the Song of Songs, authored by King Solomon, begins to sing one of the verses from that book. The theme of this particular book is the marriage of God and Israel (the bride), and the elder sings from chapter 4, verse 8: “Veni, sponsa, de Libano,” “Come to me from Lebanon, my spouse.” The image here is first of God calling the soul forth into divine union, a fitting sentiment here in the Earthly Paradise and so close to Heaven itself. Another significant image is the marriage of Christ and the Church, sometimes referred to as the Bride of Christ. Three times this verse is sung, joined in by all the elders, and note how the “Veni” (come) repeated three times echoes the “Holy, Holy, Holy” in the Mass just before the consecration of the bread and wine. In this way, Dante keeps the liturgical/ritual theme threaded throughout these last cantos of the Purgatorio, and at the same he heightens the tension of anticipation in the song of the Elders, “Veni!” We are not to be disappointed. If the mystical procession were not enough, Dante is about to outdo himself in the scene that begins to unfold. At times, he has asked the Reader to pay special attention to what is about to happen. Here he does this by suggesting that this is the Last Day, the end of the world, the day of resurrection. The final trumpet is sounding, tombs are opened, and all the just rise up to Heaven singing “Alleluia” as they put on their resurrection bodies. The scene that ensues is Dante’s adaptation of chapter 19 in the Book of Revelation where, as it were, all of creation sings “Alleluia!” in celebration. Suddenly, a throng of angels appear at the chariot. Dante tells us the number is 100, but we are intended to imagine that it’s a huge number. And they appear ad vocem tanti senis, “at the voice of so great an elder.” The Latin phrase is Dante’s own, and he obviously means to call our attention to the fact that the appearance of the angels is related to the song of the Elder, Veni, sponsa di Libano, which is itself a summons that will be answered shortly with the arrival of Beatrice. Now Dante does something quite unusual to mark this extraordinary moment. He has told us that the angels rose up singing at the voice of a great elder. As they sing, they send up a rain of flowers into the air that fall down upon the chariot. And what are they singing? Benedictus qui venis! and Manibus, O, date lelia plenis! The first sentence, “Blessed is he who comes (in the name of the Lord),” was shouted by the crowds when Jesus entered Jerusalem a few days before he was killed. It comes from St. Mark’s Gospel (11:9-f). A Latin scholar might say that the word benedictus here is a mistake because this is the masculine form of the word. Given the context, it should be benedicta. But Robert Hollander shows us clearly what Dante is up to here in his commentary: “Dante could just as easily have said “benedicta” as “benedictus“; neither rhyme nor meter forced his hand. We must therefore understand that the scandalous re-gendering of Beatrice caused by the correct citation of Mark’s Gospel is deliberate. It seems clear that the poet wants his reader to realize that her meaning, her eventual identity, is totally involved in Christ. And thus she comes as Christ, not as herself.” One needs to pause for a moment to appreciate the significance of what the Poet is doing here. Beatrice represents Christ himself. And most scholars will also say that, allegorically, she also represents the Eucharist. As I noted in the previous canto, Dante also has in mind here the feast of Corpus Christi during which the Eucharist is carried in solemn procession around the church and even out into the streets. But this is just half of what the angels are singing. The sentence, Manibus, O, date lelia plenis (“O, give lilies with full hands”), comes from Virgil’s Aeneid (VI: 883). In the Elysian Fields, Aeneas meets the shade of his father, Anchises, who points out, among other heroes, the shade of Marcellus, nephew and adopted son of the Emperor Augustus. It was intended by Augustus that Marcellus follow him as emperor, but he caught a fever and died as a young man. Anchises mourns the tragedy of Marcellus’s death and would, if he were alive then, place handfuls of lilies and other flowers on his tomb. What the Poet has done here is to merge Scripture with the Aeneid: Benedictus qui venis! Manibus, O, date lelia plenis! With the full authority of his Poem, with his own authority (author-ity), he does what is almost unthinkable–except this is poetry–to mark the arrival of his beloved Beatrice. Robert Martinez comments on this in his commentary: “That the angels should quote Virgil’s line is a striking and powerful tribute to the Roman poet, but it is important to note the violent wrenching of Virgil’s expression of pagan mourning to Christian rejoicing. While one may see an analogy between the early death of Marcellus and that of Beatrice, the context asserts the Christian victory over death; in Christian terms, lilies are associated with the Bride and with the Resurrection.” In the end, this is, perhaps, the highest tribute he can pay to Virgil, who has guided him to this moment, by putting his words on the same level with words from the Gospel. |
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| ↑2 | In the rain of flowers thrown up by the host of angels, Beatrice appears at last, descending from Heaven onto the magnificent chariot. In this great moment in the Poem she completes the cast of the mystical pageant. And in a lovely simile, Dante compares her apparition to the rising of a rose-colored sun on a misty morning–the mist enabling one to see it before it becomes too bright (and dangerous) to look at. As we will see, Beatrice’s face is also veiled. The rising sun, of course, is also a symbol of the coming of Christ, a role Beatrice will assume shortly. Through Hell to its very bottom and up to this Earthly Paradise atop the Mountain of Purgatory she has been an often unseen but driving force of the Poem. She is clothed in all three of the colors we have seen separately in the pageant: the white veil of faith, the green cloak of hope, and the red gown of love. And she wears the crown of olive leaves, signifying peace and wisdom. (On occasion, one of my students will ask if it is a coincidence that the flag of the Republic of Italy is composed of the same colors. Yes, it is a coincidence, but virtually every city in Italy has a street and/or a piazza and statue of Dante. |
| ↑3 | First of all, we have to remember that Dante and Beatrice were neighbors when they were young, and that though she married into a wealthy and powerful family he never lost his great affection for her. When she died at the young age of twenty-five, Dante was broken-hearted. However, in death she became his muse, the inspiration for his poetry, and the driving force behind the entire Commedia. We must remember here that the figure he sees descending into the chariot is veiled. But this vision brings with it a revelation–symbolically it is Revelation itself–and he cannot help but know that this is Beatrice. And so, seeing her again, after such a long time, in this moment of apotheosis, here in the Earthly Paradise, at the climax and center of the mystical pageant, as an image of Christ and the Eucharist, the rising sun, the joining of time past, present, and future, is it any wonder that he is grasped in the depths of his spirit by the force of love that emanates from her and that illuminates his memory, rekindling it with the power of his youthful ardor? He tells us with such certainty: “I know the signs of this ancient flame.” Aha, but perhaps this is also his last act of homage to his mentor, Virgil, because these words are the same ones Dido, the queen of Carthage, used to tell her sister that she had fallen in love with Aeneas (Aeneid IV:23).
What happens next is not what we expect, and stands as the saddest moment in the Poem. Standing just a bit in front of him, Dante turns to Virgil with the same trust and confidence a frightened child would turn to its mother (here, Dante uses the Italian word mamma), to share his elation in this moment of revelation, only to discover that he has disappeared. He is not there! At the point when divine revelation appeared in the person of Beatrice, human reason in the person of Virgil who led him to this point, was no longer needed, and Virgil returned to Limbo, his role played out to perfection over the course of two-thirds of the Poem. Dante’s sad lament, the intensity of emotion as he cries out desperately for his father, is heart-wrenching. This is a moment of death, a moment of utter loss in which he expresses in a single phrase the entire purpose of Virgil’s role in the Poem: “…you to whom I entrusted my soul that I might find salvation.” After letting him experience such exaltation in this paradise that Eve lost, the Poet dashes the Pilgrim into bitter sorrow and tears at the point of his greatest vulnerability. From the moment of his “coronation” at the threshold of this Earthly Paradise, Dante the Pilgrim has wandered in awe enjoying the mysterious beauty of this place. Like no other living human, he has been privileged to witness the mystical procession with all its symbolic features and characters. He could only have dreamed–did he dream it?–that his reunion with Beatrice would take place in such an environment–so mystical, so glorified. Robert Hollander remarks in his commentary here: “Not even the man who wrote of Beatrice can encompass the fact of her miraculous nature now that he finally experiences it directly and completely.” Finally, let me return for a moment to the verse from the Aeneid discussed above: Manibus, O, date lelia plenis! Charles Singleton, in his commentary on this verse writes the following: “This most remarkable farewell verse, taken from Aeneid VI, 883, is turned toward Virgil, though it serves in the literal meaning as an utterance of the welcoming angels, who, as will be seen, toss flowers for Beatrice. It bears the haunting sadness of its context in the Aeneid and functions as a climax to the whole strain of pathos that has attached to the figure of the “sweet father,” as he will now be called when suddenly he is no longer by Dante’s side.” |
| ↑4 | Beatrice now addresses Dante directly from the chariot–the only time in the poem that his name is used. The dramatic effect of this should not be short-changed. In some cultures and circumstances, the naming of a person or of some thing indicates control over it and, as we see here, her commanding demeanor reminds him of an admiral–a somewhat disturbing image of Beatrice, yet clearly in keeping with what is to come. What modulates the image of the stern admiral, though, is that this one “watches and encourages his men” as they work. And we’ll want to pay careful attention to how this “admiral” will behave. Note again the masculine image attached to Beatrice. The direct address of Dante is a way of putting his signature on this moment. He, not us, is being called to account by Beatrice, and yet, somehow, we cannot abandon him here. Suddenly, this is not quite the reunion Dante was expecting. As Robert Hollander notes here, “His ‘vacation’ in the Garden of Eden is over.”
At the same time, the mystical (in this instance, the numerological) import of Dante’s catching sight of “the lady who appeared,” adds to the significance of this moment as John Ciardi points out in his commentary here: “There are thirty-four Cantos in the Inferno and this is the thirtieth of the Purgatorio, hence the sixty-fourth Canto of the Commedia. This is the sixty-fourth line of the sixty-fourth Canto. In Dante’s numerology such correspondences are always meaningful. Six plus four equals ten and ten equals the sum of the square of trinity and unity (oneness). Obviously there can be no conclusive way of establishing intent in such a structure of mystic numbering, but it certainly is worth noting that the line begins with “that lady….And the lady, of course, is Beatrice.” Acknowledging that Virgil has disappeared, Beatrice redirects Dante’s tears to another wound that will also cause him suffering. That he will soon weep–or, perhaps will be made to weep–is made all the more significant because she uses the word three times in two lines in the Italian text. Just over a decade after Dante’s death, we read the following in the Ottimo Commento of 1333: “It was necessary for the lady to call him by name for two reasons: first, to make it clear who among so many persons was being addressed; second, because, just as human speech is sweeter when a person to whom affection is being shown is called by name, so reproaches are sharper when the one being reproached is named by the reproacher.” All of this happens so quickly that Dante has to assure himself (and his reader) that this is, in fact, the same exalted woman he just saw descend into the chariot amid the rain of flowers. And yet note that he still can’t see her clearly because her head is covered with the white veil of faith, crowned with Minerva’s leaves–olive leaves, symbols of peace and wisdom. This lack of clear sight, his near blindness, is also symbolic of what is still to come. And, finally, if he can’t quite make out her face, he can definitely sense her commanding superiority. That he expects harsh words from her leads us directly to the next scene. |
| ↑5 | This canto is laden with emotion, from the height of Dante’s excitement at the spectacular arrival of Beatrice, to his lament at Virgil’s disappearance, and now his scolding by an angry mother.
At last, Beatrice identifies herself, jabbing at Dante’s feeble attempts to see her clearly. As noted above, this is not the reunion Dante had expected. Reminding him subtly that it was she who commissioned Virgil to bring him here, one can imagine her saying: “Have you learned nothing on your journey?” Her sarcasm cuts him like a sword, and shamed by it the hapless Pilgrim looks away, feeling the sting of guilt. In a touch of irony, even Lethe, the stream of forgetfulness, reflects his guilty face right back at him. |
| ↑6 | What happens here is completely unexpected. Whether they intercede or interrupt, the angels who are still there around Beatrice and the chariot seem to take advantage of the pause between her sharp words and Dante’s embarrassment. Seeing him in such a state, they begin singing (a heavenly version of?) the first nine verses of Psalm 31 in which the soul seeks refuge in the Lord. The words In te, Domine, speravi translate as “In you, Lord, I place my trust.” The angels stop at verse nine with the words pedes meos, “my feet.” That is: “You will not abandon me into enemy hands, but will set my feet in a free and open space.” Note the significance of this verse in light of how Beatrice (at the behest of the Virgin Mary) has saved him from Hell and brought him to this Earthly Paradise. The intent of this merciful intervention by the angels may have been to sway Beatrice toward more compassion, yet Dante seems to hear the intent more loudly than the actual words of the Psalm: “Dear Lady, why do you shame him like this?” In the end, Dante hears the words the angels sing and interprets them emotionally as pity. This has the effect of melting his apparently hardened heart (the snow atop the Apennines) and he breaks down in tears–exactly what Beatrice wants. |
| ↑7 | Leaving Dante to his weeping and unaffected by his tears, Beatrice begins the next part of her confrontation by addressing the angels in a long speech, during which we will learn a great deal about the Pilgrim and why she is so harsh with him. Since she is also in heaven with the angels, she understands that their nature enables them to see into Dante’s soul. But, as Robert Hollander notes in his commentary, they already see Dante as a saved soul. She does too, but she also sees him as a formerly sinful one, and she insists that the only way he can be truly saved is by making a full confession and admitting his guilt. |
| ↑8 | Continuing to address the angels, but pointing her words at Dante as well, Beatrice refers to him in the past tense as though he weren’t even there–another way to embarrass him. But, then, she is also reminiscing. As a citizen of heaven, she obviously followed his life very closely because she knew (as she will remind him again) that he was on the road to Hell. The reason she was sent to commission Virgil as Dante’s guide (Inf. 2) was so that he could lead Dante back to the right path (and to her) through Hell and Purgatory.
And so, while Beatrice compliments Dante’s potential by noting how gifted he was, she sharply criticizes the fact that he seems to have wasted those gifts by allowing “weeds” to grow in the garden of his many gifts. Moreover, while she was alive, she notes, he could find in her the strength to follow the path toward his potential without losing his way. Sadly, even this didn’t always seem to work, and he lost his focus in other pursuits. Here, Dante isn’t looking at what happened to other souls as he and Virgil encountered them. He’s being forced to look at himself, at himself in the eyes of someone who tried to help him but failed. But has she failed? |
| ↑9 | We know from Dante’s Convivio that he gave himself up to the study (love) of philosophy, not to mention his poetry. Dante the Poet, through Beatrice, is probably allegorizing here his love for these pursuits as though he had literally fallen in love with another woman (or women). And it may be that she’s forcing him to admit and repent for trying to find consolation in pursuits that seemed to be worthwhile, but weren’t, after she died. Since she now plays a theological role, as Divine Revelation, she wants him to see that his salvation rests ultimately in what she represents, not in worldly pursuits that will weaken both his resolve and his faith. Think back to the opening lines (1-12) of the Inferno: “In the middle of the journey of our life, I woke and found myself in a dark wood, for I had wandered away from the straight path. It’s hard to tell what that wood was like–wild, savage, stubborn–the thought of which brings back all my old fears. What a bitter place it was! Death could hardly be worse….I have no idea how I came to be there except that I had become so sleepy, and I just strayed off the path of truth.” |
| ↑10 | The reader might rightly wonder if Beatrice’s list of Dante’s failings will come to an end. As expected, it will continue in the next canto. But in all of this, Beatrice reveals much about herself as well. Not only was she a source of inspiration for him, but she also prayed for him that he would “see the light” and mend his ways. It is, in great measure, her disappointment that fuels her harsh criticism. Not only that, she reveals in her words the pain one feels for someone they love who rushes, despite warnings, headlong into ruin.
But she hasn’t given up on him. Referencing Canto 2 of the Inferno (only a few days ago), Dante hears again, this time from her own lips, the grand plan she set in motion to save him when all else seemed lost. Here, 64 cantos later, we come to realize that Dante has been sliding down the moral slope, as it were, for several years. Recall (noted just above) that he had no clear idea of how he came to be in the Dark Wood. Since at least after her death, Beatrice had observed Dante’s back-sliding, until the Virgin Mary summoned her, through St. Lucy, to commission Virgil to guide him in this last chance to save his soul. Now, at last, and after a deep exposure to the nature of sin and its effects (Inferno and Purgagorio), the Pilgrim is ready for judgment. |
| ↑11 | In the end, Beatrice’s plan seems simple enough. Remember that during the entirety of this long speech (42 lines in the Italian text) she has had two audiences: the angels surrounding her and the chariot, and Dante, on the other side of the stream. Throughout her speech, which is really an explanation of her cold behavior when the angels called for compassion and pity, she has spoken directly to the angels about Dante, not to him. As though presenting her case in a court of law, Beatrice sums up for the jury in this final sentence: if Dante is allowed to cross the Lethe (wherein one loses all memory of sin) without admitting his guilt and doing penance, then the highest laws of God will be rendered meaningless. In other words, even though he was cleansed of the grime of Hell shortly after he emerged from it, even though he was admitted through the Gate of Purgatory after the ritual of the three steps, even though he considered himself liable to suffer some of the punishments he witnessed on the Mountain, and even though he passed through the flames just hours ago, one act is still missing. He must make a personal and public act of contrition. Otherwise, his journey through Purgatory has been a pious travelog.
Underlying all of this, we must remember that Beatrice not only represents Divine Revelation, but she is also an allegorical representation of the Eucharist and of Christ himself. As the very food of forgiveness, Beatrice as the Eucharist offers Dante a place at the table of communion where his long absence can be reconciled. |
| ↑12 | Here, begging the indulgence of the reader, but offering, at the same time, the reward of such excellent commentaries on this canto, let me present a few paragraphs from Dorothy Sayers and Mark Musa that frame the significance of Beatrice and her motivation in this canto.
First Dorothy Sayers: “If, throughout the whole course of the poem, our minds had not been insistently prepared for the coming of Beatrice, the whole symbolism of the Masque, and particularly the chanting of the Benedictus, would lead us to expect the appearance upon the car of the Holy Host Itself. And both expectations are quite right. “What appears is indeed Beatrice, as we had been led to suppose: the unmistakable Beatrice whom Dante had loved in Florence. But she is also, in the allegory of the Masque, the Image of the Host. In this august and moving moment, Dante brings together all the ‘significations’ of Beatrice, showing her as the particular type and figure of that whole sacramental principle of which the Host Itself is the greater Image. “Bearing in mind the four levels at which Dante meant his poem to be interpreted, we see that she is here: (1) Literally: the Florentine woman whom Dante loved. (2) Morally (i.e. as regards the way of salvation of the individual soul): the type of whatever is, for each of us, the “God-bearing image” which manifests the glory of God in His creation, and becomes a personal sacramental experience. (3) Historically (i.e. in the world of human society): the Sacrament of the Altar. (And those who say that Beatrice here represents the Church are not wrong: for Dante has in mind that ancient and apostolic conception of the Eucharist which looks upon it, not only as the commemoration of God’s single act in time, but as the perpetual presentation to God in Christ of Christ’s true Body the Church–the verum corpus–which is made in the offertory of the bread and wine; so that, as St. Augustine says, ‘being joined to His Body and made His members, we may be what we receive.’) (4) Mystically (i.e. as regards the way of the soul’s union with God): the whole principle of Affirmation, whereby that union is effected in and through all the images. Having said thus much, we may admire the poetic tact with which Dante leaves the whole weight of this allegorical structure to be carried on the framework of the Masque, so that he is free to conduct the interview between Dante and Beatrice throughout in those human and personal terms which make the story dramatically effective.” Next, Mark Musa: “As she approaches the end of her address, Beatrice makes it clear that she believes that the young Dante had reached a stage of utter degeneration. But she still refuses to state explicitly the nature of his sin. She accuses her lover of none of the seven deadly sins; she mentions only his confusion after her death, which induced him to lower his standards. Beatrice’s words are a demonstration of a general truth, of which her lover offers the perfect exemplum. ‘Imagine,’ she is saying, ‘a young man endowed by God with unique gifts and privileged to have as guide one who represents the goal of the Supreme Good. But he loses this guidance and abandons this goal. His must become not only a worthless life but a destructive one: destructive of the gifts with which he had been endowed. This abuse of his talent can lead only to degradation.’ “We have seen the range of emotions experienced by the Pilgrim in this canto: his grief over the loss of Virgil; his fascination with the beauty and power of Beatrice once she reveals herself; the bittersweet surge of adoration for a beloved being he has lost; his shame and timidity; the writhings of an inarticulate contrition; and, finally, the relief, induced by the angels’ pity, that takes the form of a torrent of anguished tears. It is this individual–whose feelings, caused by the exceptional circumstances in which he finds himself, have been presented so vividly–that Beatrice addresses in such impersonal terms. Beatrice can be stern in her judgment because she is engaged in a demonstration of a supreme truth; she is interested in Dante not as a suffering individual but as a means to an end: his past conduct is evidence of the truth of her words. And if, at the very end, she reveals her awareness of the Pilgrim’s suffering, she also reveals her satisfaction over his punishment, which means that he has not been allowed to break ‘the highest laws of God.’ There is no room for a note of pity in her peroration.” |