Purgatorio (104 page)

64–66.
   Marco’s earlier view of human depravity is obviously now deepened by the knowledge that most humans are not very bright, either, if even this specially selected mortal can ask such a stupid question.
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67–129.
   Marco’s speech, the only object of possible attention in the darkness, twenty-one
terzine
of moral philosophy, may be paraphrased as follows: If the heavens moved all things, there would be no free will; even if they did, you would still have the power to resist and conquer (67–78); to a greater power and better nature than the celestial heavens you, free, are subject, and that creates the mind [the rational soul] in you, which has nothing to do with those revolving spheres (79–83); let me expand: God lovingly created the (rational) soul in each of you; at its birth, since it was made by Him, even if it is a tabula rasa, it loves; and it loves anything at all if it is not guided or restrained; therefore, a leader and laws are necessary (84–96); laws exist, but who administers them? no one, because the pope is involved in temporal affairs and thus gives the wrong example that is much imitated (97–102); thus you can see that bad guidance and not corrupt human nature accounts for the wickedness of the world; Rome, which once made the world good, used then to have two suns which lit each path, secular and sacred (103–108); now, since the regal and pastoral functions have been conjoined, ill ensues—by their fruits shall you know them (109–114); in northern Italy, which once was the home of courtesy and valor before the Church opposed Frederick II, there are now but three good men, all of them old (115–126); thus you must make it known that the Church of Rome is befouled and befouling, arrogating unto itself both governments (127–129).
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67–78.
   Marco’s immediate and angry response (but his anger is meant to be taken as virtuous, as the righteous indignation of the just) lays the issue bare. “The fault is in the stars” was an earlier day’s way of claiming “the dog [or computer] ate my homework” or “the devil made me do it.” The celestial spheres, forming our tendencies, do incline us to various sensuous and sensual activities, but we are not forced to follow our appetites, since we have our will to direct our appetites. The concept of free will does not receive its full exposition until Beatrice’s discourse upon it in
Paradiso
V.19–84, a moment marked by heavy seriousness because this concept lies at the very core of any Christian moral assertion. In Platonic (and Aristotelian) terms, our sensitive soul, which responds to such stimuli, is (or should be) governed by our rational soul.
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79–81.
   The great Christian paradox of our free submission to God’s will stands before the reader here. Singleton (1973) suggests the relevance of Jesus’ reference to himself as a yoke to be borne by his followers (Matthew 11:29) and Dante’s own paradoxical formulation, “iugum libertatis” (the yoke of liberty) in his epistle (
Epist
. VI.5) to the Florentines who were in opposition to the emperor (Henry VII) in the autumn of 1310. God, the greater force and better nature, creates the third (rational) soul in us; it is
not
bound by celestial influences.
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82–84.
   Concluding the grand design of his argument, Marco triumphantly puts forward his
ergo
: any fault that we find when we examine human activity lies in us, not in our stars. And now he will expatiate on this paradigmatic equation.
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85–90.
   The image of the female child (its gender matching that of the word
anima
[soul]) heedless in her playfulness picks up the train of such images of youthful ebullience from the last canto, where the sun was disporting himself like a little boy (see note to
Purg
. XV.1–6). The rational soul, as yet unknowing, turns to anything that delights it without measuring the worth of that delight.
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91–93.
   This “ladder” of physically attractive objects, beginning with trifling goods, was earlier described by Dante in
Convivio
IV.xii.14–18, as was apparently first noted by Scartazzini (1900), when we begin, as children, longing for an apple, a little bird, pretty garments, then a horse, a mistress, riches, then greater riches, and finally enormous wealth. So does the corrupt human soul move from childhood to its “maturity”—unless such appetites are controlled.
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94–96.
   The “ruler” that Marco (not to mention Dante) seems to have in mind would not appear to be anything but secular. Some commentators recognize how radical an idea this is, while several of them (e.g., Benvenuto, Lombardi) simply assume that Dante must here be speaking of a religious leader. But the language is clear: the poet here is speaking of an emperor who, guiding our race as its leader (the
guida
[guide] of verse 93) and upholding the laws (the
fren
[rein] of that verse), will allow us to see at least the tower of the “true city.” The question of whether this is meant to be understood as the City of God on earth or in Heaven, or indeed of an ideal secular city, draws some dispute. Whatever the solution of that part of the riddle, the forceful and (at least potentially) disturbing fact is that Dante, in search of moral leadership for mankind (rather than for individual humans), here looks to the state rather than to the Church.
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97–99.
   This tercet explains the vigorous and unusual Ghibelline turn in the preceding verses. The laws, left us by Justinian, exist but are not enforced. And this blame is laid upon the Church for keeping the emperor from power, since the pope may indeed ruminate, but does not distinguish between ecclesiastical and secular power. Tozer (1901) explains the reference as follows: “The terms here used refer to the tests by which beasts were determined to be clean under the Mosaic law, i.e., that they should chew the cud and divide the hoof (Leviticus 11:3). As applied to the Heads of the Church, the allegorical meaning of ‘chewing the cud’ seems to be the acquisition of wisdom by pondering on sources of knowledge; but in respect of ‘dividing the hoof’ the symbolism is twofold.… First, it signifies the practice of good morals,…and it is applied in this sense in vv. 100–105, where it is explained that it was the unprincipled conduct of the Roman Court which had demoralized the world. Secondly, the dividing of the hoof represents the separation of the temporal and spiritual powers, which principle the popes had ignored. This interpretation is found in vv. 127–129, where the Church of Rome is spoken of as a beast of burden, which falls in the mud in consequence of its not distinguishing between these two spheres of government, the reference obviously being to the support given to such animals in slippery ground by the divided hoof. The two allegorical applications are not wholly unconnected with one another, because it was greed of worldly gains which led to the appropriation of the temporal power by the Papacy.”
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100–102.
   The reason that Dante here hopes only for temporal moral leadership is now completely clear: the current papacy leads mankind only in the example of unbridled appetite. Thus the Church, which is not to interfere with the City of Man on Earth (Augustine’s negative phrase turned to a Dantean positive), cannot show the way to the City of God, either, and that task is turned over, in Dante’s asseverations here, to the emperor. It is perhaps impossible to believe that he would have written such lines without having Henry VII in mind as the one who must accomplish these tasks of leadership. If Dante is writing between 1310 and 1313, it is more than likely that he did.
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106–108.
   The culminating image in Marco’s discourse returns to the “good old days” when the early Church and the empire each performed their functions separately.

Dante is here, within the confines of a single tercet, entering polemically into one of the great political/theological debates of his time, the relative authority of emperor and pope. Against the hierocrats, who warmly supported papal claims to supremacy, Dante argues, on the basis of a revision in the hierocrats’ central and polemical metaphor (pope as “sun,” emperor as subordinate “moon”), that the two authorities are both supreme and have their authority independent of one another, both being established by the direct will of God. Singleton (1973) remembers, in this context, Dante’s earlier and later precisions (
Conv
. IV.v.3–8;
Mon
. I.xvi.1–2) that when Christ was born under the rule of Augustus the world experienced a moment of perfection, what St. Paul calls
plenitudinem temporis
(“the fullness of time”—Galatians 4:4). Dante will later develop the metaphor of the “two suns” in a key chapter of
Monarchia
(III.iv). (For the date of
Monarchia
see the brief summary of the debate in Hollander [Holl.2001.1], pp. 150–51. Most currently interested in the problem believe that the work was composed ca. 1317, i.e., after the death of Henry VII, and after Dante had composed the early cantos of his
Paradiso
, since in
Monarchia
I.xii.6 he says “sicut in Paradiso Comoedie iam dixi” [as I have said in the
Paradiso
of my
Comedy
], referring to
Paradiso
V.19–24.)

On the entire subject of the authority of the emperor see the still essential work of Ernst Kantorowicz (Kant.1957.1).
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109–114.
   Dante laments the fact that now the Church’s pastoral crook has taken into itself the imperial sword; his image, though of inanimate things, makes the resultant object seem a horrific animate hybrid, as does the reference to Matthew 7:16 or 7:20: “by their fruits you shall know them” (words spoken by Jesus to impugn false teachers).
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115–120.
   Dante’s geographical reference is to the northeastern sector of Italy, not the territories associated with the presence of the emperor Frederick, but Marco’s home ground. For Dante, Frederick was the last emperor to take his role as emperor of all Europe seriously (see
Conv
. IV.iii.6, as Pietrobono [1946] suggests, where he is described as “the last emperor of the Romans”). It may seem strange that Dante should here support the kingship of Frederick II, seen among the heretics in hell (
Inf
. X.119). The issue, however, is not Frederick’s personal worth, but his rights and privileges as emperor. These were grounds for contention between Frederick and the Church throughout his reign (1212–50).
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121–126.
   Marco’s three
vecchi
, all still alive in 1300, offer a Lombard counterpart to Cacciaguida’s forty or so Florentine families from the “good old days” in that city that are listed in
Paradiso
XVI: Currado da Palazzo, from Brescia; Gherardo da Camino, from Padua; and Guido da Castello, from Reggio Emilia. All three of them had Guelph affiliations. Dante praises the last two in
Convivio
when he is discussing true nobility (
Conv
. IV.xiv.12; IV.xvi.6).
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127–129.
   Marco’s antipapal charge to Dante will be echoed and amplified in that given him by Beatrice in
Purgatorio
XXXII.103–105.
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131–132.
   Dante shows his agreement with Marco’s analysis of the church/state problem in contemporary Christendom in ancient Hebrew terms: the family of Levi, because they were, like the sons of Aaron, in a priestly function for Israel, were denied any right to inherit land because of their priestly privileges. See Numbers 18:20–32.
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133–140.
   The protagonist’s ignorance of Gherardo’s virtues offers Marco (and the poet) a chance to replay the theme of the moment, that things are not what they used to be. The early commentators are uncertain whether or not the mention of Gaia is meant to be to her praise or blame. Jacopo della Lana (1324) and Benvenuto say she was well known as a loose woman. However, Benvenuto’s self-proclaimed student, John of Serravalle (1416), who generally supports his
maestro
’s opinions, has only good to speak of her (and even claims that she wrote vernacular poetry). Most modern commentators argue that, since the argument at hand is that the old times bore at least some notable virtue while the present day is lacking in that respect, it would only make sense for Gaia’s name to represent a descent from virtue. As several commentators suggest, until such time as some clearer evidence for Dante’s opinion of Gaia is unearthed, it is impossible to be sure of the tone of the reference, wholehearted or ironic. The only two other uses of the word
gaio
(joyful) in the poem are, however, totally positive: see
Paradiso
XV.60 and XXVI.102.
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