Purgatorio (102 page)

69.
   Virgil’s phrasing here relies on the notion that bodies of light themselves attract light.
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70.
   The word
ardore
is, for Wlassics (Wlas.1989.1), p. 166, the key word of this canto, uniting the notions of flame and of affection in its main significations.
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77.
   Beatrice’s second naming in
Purgatorio
(see VI.46; XVIII.48). In her first nominal appearance (after
Inf
. II.70 and II.103, where she is first named by Virgil and then herself), she first seems to be associated with hope (VI.32; 35); in her third, with faith (XVIII.48). Is she here associated with charity? If she is, what is the consequence for the traditional identification of Beatrice as “Revelation” or “Theology” (and of Virgil as “Reason”)? (Beatrice is named sixty-three times in all in the poem; Virgil, 31.) See note to
Purgatorio
XVIII.46–48.
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79–81.
   The clear reference here to the erasure of the second P earlier on calls attention to the problem that Dante has set for us, to determine exactly when this happened. See note to vv. 38–39.
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82–84.
   Dante’s failure to respond to Virgil here perhaps prepares us for his more dramatic inability to communicate with his guide at the sudden appearance of Beatrice (
Purg
. XXX.43–51). It also has the effect of underlining the totally present and commanding nature of what he experiences in his
raptus:
there is nothing else that can hold his attention.

We now probably expect, on the basis of the experience we have had of the first two terraces, a description of the terrace upon which the travelers have just set foot (
Purg
. X.20–33, XIII.1–9). Its suppression here is obviously deliberate (we will find it, postponed as it is, only at the end of the canto at vv. 139–145 and then continuing into the next canto). In this way the poet underlines the heightened importance of the visionary experience granted to the protagonist on this terrace.
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85–114.
   The three visions that follow are set off from the narrative by a precise vocabulary of vision, one that Dante had established as early as in his
Vita nuova
(see Hollander [Holl.1974.1], pp. 3–7). This begins at once with the verse “Ivi mi parve in una visione …” (There it seemed to me … in a … vision…). The next line adds two crucial terms, the adjective
estatica
(ecstatic) and the verb
esser tratto
(to be drawn up). These technical terms, the first of which occurs only once in the poem’s universe, establish the radical difference between this visionary experience and that obtained in conventional dreams, for here what is at stake is the sort of sight that was given to such as Paul and John in the New Testament (and, as we shall see in a few lines, to St. Stephen as well).

In Dante the verb
parere
can have two quite different meanings: “seem” (thus expressing a potentially limited or even nonexistent truthfulness) or “appeared” (to indicate something perceived that is actually present). The verbs
parere
and
apparire
are used throughout this passage (vv. 85, 93, 94, 102) to indicate presences that are experienced as being in fact present to the beholder in his ecstatic seeing; this is true as well of the verb
vedere
(vv. 87, 106, 109), used each time to indicate what has truly been made manifest to the beholder.
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85–86.
   Pietro di Dante (1340) offers the following bit of medieval etymologizing for the word “ecstasy”
(extasis)
: “ab ex, quod est extra, et stasis, quod est status, quasi extra suum statum” (from
ex
, that is, outside, and
stasis
, that is, state: as though outside oneself). The word
visïone
modified by
estatica
denotes a very special kind of seeing, one that the poem will return to only with its final vision in the Empyrean. Thus the mode of presentation of the exemplars of meekness is, within the fiction, a preparation of the protagonist for his eventual opportunity to see God “face to face.” Outside the fiction, it is a test of the reader’s capacity to understand the nature of Dantean poetics, reliant upon claims that are, to say the very least, unusual for a poet to make for his poem, one that will finally offer us precisely
una visïone estatica
. Here the text offers us a foretaste of that final visionary moment.
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87–93.
   The first exemplar is, as we have learned to expect, Mary. The narrative that clearly lies behind Dante’s condensation of it is found in Luke’s gospel (Luke 2:40–48). Mary, Joseph, and the twelve-year-old Jesus travel to Jerusalem at Passover and then the parents leave the city. In a remarkable moment, reflected in contemporary accounts of children left behind in cars or on school buses, they assume the boy is among their traveling companions and finally, discovering that he is not, return to Jerusalem to seek him out. Three days later they find him in the temple, explaining a thing or two to the rabbis.

Jesus as young genius is so palpably present that we need to remind ourselves that he is not the exemplary figure here; that is, indeed, his mother, who scolds him as gently as a scold may scold—as any former child will testify, remembering similar encounters with sterner mothers.
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94–105.
   The second exemplar, once again a parent, is the sixth-century
B
.
C
. Athenian tyrant Pisistratus, known to Dante in this particular, according to many commentators (perhaps beginning with Pietro di Dante [1340]), from Valerius Maximus, author of that first-century compendium of classical history and lore,
Facta et dicta memorabilia
, who tells the tale almost precisely as Dante retells it here.

Like the first of these three examplary scenes, this one also begins with the portrait of a mother. Where the parents of Jesus are united in benevolence, those of the daughter of Pisistratus are divided; this mother, reminiscent of the haughty Michal (see
Purg
. X.65 and note), leaves the performance of a loving forgiveness to her husband.
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97–99.
   The wife of Pisistratus refers to the myth of the naming of Athens which Pietro di Dante (1340) says derives from Augustine’s retelling of the myth, found earlier in Varro, in
De civitate Dei
XVIII.9. During the kingship of Cecrops, when Athena (Minerva) and Poseidon (Neptune) both wanted to name the city, the other gods chose Athena because her gift was the olive tree, seen as more useful to humans than Poseidon’s gift of a spring. Pietro also refers to the version of the tale found in Ovid (
Metam
. VI.70–102).
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106–114.
   The artistry of Dante’s treatment of the third and final exemplar, St. Stephen, the first martyr (Acts 7:54–59), is greatly admired. Among the three narratives exemplifying meekness, this is the only one in which that meekness is found in the youthful protagonist of the exemplary tale rather than in a parent. Arnaldo Bonaventura (Bona.1902.1), p. 29, sees that the progression of figures that benefit from the forgiveness which runs counter to wrath has a purposeful order: from a beloved son, to a relative stranger, to one’s enemies. Anyone would forgive the twelve-year-old Jesus his “night out” in the temple; anyone, upon reflection, should perhaps forgive the youthful flamboyance of the amorous pursuer of a king’s daughter; hardly anyone would choose to forgive his murderers.
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107.
   The youthfulness of Dante’s portrayal of Stephen (as
giovinetto
) has caused controversy, beginning with Scartazzini’s (1900) objection that here Dante had fallen into a small error, since the Book of Acts portrayed Stephen as a mature man (
homo, vir
: e.g., Acts 6:5, 6:13). In Scartazzini’s view, in a lapse of memory Dante had conflated the descriptions of Stephen and St. Paul, present as the youthful
(adulescentis)
Saul as a witness to the martyrdom (Acts 7:57). To this argument Poletto (1894) objects, demonstrating that in Dante adolescence lasted until one is 25, while youth included the period between 25 and 45 (
Conv
. IV.xxiv.1–3), and also pointing out that Scipio and Pompey (
Par
. VI.52) are described as “youths”
(giovanetti)
, 33 and 25 years old, respectively, at the time of those great victories to which Dante refers. Sarolli, “Stefano” (
ED
V [1976]), is also in this camp.
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108.
   In Acts the words of the maddened crowd supplied here by Dante are not given. Wlassics (Wlas.1989.1), p. 170, argues that Stephen’s persecutors shout to themselves, not to one another, as almost all commentators (and translators) insist. Before him Casini/Barbi (1921) do allow for this possibility, but only Mattalia (1960) had previously chosen this option. This interpretation is supported by at least one pressing consideration: in the source text (Acts 7:56) the stoners of Stephen are specifically described as, having stopped up their ears, crying out with a loud voice and rushing upon their victim. They are shouting rather to screw up their courage than to exhort one another—they are shouting as do those who charge in battle, wrestling with their fear. Our translation preserves this understanding of the verse.
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111.
   What is seen by “the eyes that are open to Heaven” is described in the source text in Stephen’s own words (it is notable that Dante suppresses the words spoken by the protomartyr and adds those spoken by his persecutors). Here is what he says he sees (Acts 7:56): “Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” It is precisely these words, reporting his vision, that cause his murderers to stop up their ears and attack him in their offended rage. In this moment in the poem, we may reflect, Dante’s eyes (referred to, just before the visions begin, as
luci vaghe
[eager eyes] at verse 84) are as open to Stephen’s martyrdom as Stephen’s are to
his
heavenly vision.
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112–114.
   The final action of these exemplary protagonists of mercy is obviously the most dramatic in the program: Stephen forgiving his murderers even as they murder him. His “look” would “unlock compassion” in anyone who beheld it—perhaps even his persecutors, but surely in any decent Christian soul witnessing his martyrdom, including, just now, the protagonist.
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115–138.
   On each terrace there is poetic space reserved for some sort of reaction on the part of the poet or protagonist (and, at times, his guide) to the experience of exemplarity. Of the thirteen other passages devoted to these transitional moments none is even nearly as lengthy as this one, twenty-four verses; in fact only once is such a passage as long as three tercets, while this one extends over eight. It is clear that the poet wanted to direct our attention to the importance of this exchange between guide and protagonist.

Virgil’s reactions give rise to a number of questions. Does or does not Virgil see the visions vouchsafed Dante? Is his response (vv. 120–123) evidence that he does
not
understand the nature of Dante’s experience (as Dante seems to believe at vv. 125–126)? If a reader believes that to be the case, how does that reader respond to Virgil’s insistence that he indeed knows Dante’s innermost thoughts (vv. 127–138)?

The structure of the fifteenth canto is formed by three moments of Virgilian interpretation of phenomena:

10–39
:  Dante cannot behold the angel: Virgil explains the nature of the problem;

40–81
:  Dante did not understand Guido del Duca’s words in the last canto: Virgil gives the necessary commentary, acknowledging Beatrice’s higher authority;

115–138
:  Dante has a series of ecstatic visions: Virgil insists on explaining that he knows very well what they involved and says that he only calls attention to Dante’s condition in order to spur him on.

In the first two scenes Virgil is clearly correct and thoroughly in control of the situation; in this last sequence he does not exactly issue triumphant.
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115–117.
   The literal sense is not difficult: Dante was not seeing that which was present before his fleshly eyes; from that point of view (the merely physical one) he is delusional, is seeing what does not exist, seeing erroneous phantasms instead of what his physical eyes would report. But such “errors” as these are the very heart of truth, or, in an extreme case of litotes (deliberate understatement), are, at the very least, “not false.” See the discussion in Barolini (Baro.1992.1), pp. 151–53.
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