Paradiso (90 page)

51.
   The verb
par[e]
(seems) begins to open the door to Dante’s attempt to hedge his attack on certain of Plato’s views in vv. 55–60.
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54.
   
The reference to “form” here indicates, in language reflective of Scholastic terminology, an individuated human soul that inhabits a specific body.
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55–63.
   Dante opens the question of the potential truth to be found in Plato’s literally untrue teachings. Here again (see the note to vv. 13–15) the reader will want to turn to the
Epistola a Cangrande
, again near its conclusion (84): “For we perceive many things by the intellect for which language has no terms—a fact which Plato indicates plainly enough in his books by his employment of metaphors; for he perceived many things by the light of the intellect which his everyday language was inadequate to express” (tr. P. Toynbee).

Dante’s view of Plato would seem to indicate great respect (if not as much as for Aristotle, given greater praise than his teacher in
Inferno
IV), a sense that some of his teaching was potentially or actually heretical, and a further sense of admiration, perhaps based principally on what in Plato he found most poetlike, his use of metaphor to express truth slantwise. In both major moments in which Dante discusses Plato, here and in the
Epistle
, the salient subject is, indeed, Plato’s use of metaphor. It is possible that Dante is fervently opposed to those who read Plato as a teller of literal truth (in which reading he is nothing short of a heretic
avant-la-lettre
, as are, on historical grounds, the neoplatonists, in Dante’s view). It seems possible, however, that Dante is willing to allow the philosopher himself a potential escape route; he may have seemed to him, in the end, more like a poet than a philosopher. Dante’s teacher, Thomas Aquinas, is cited by Oelsner (comm. to verse 51) as allowing for the possibility, just as we have seen Dante do here, of a possible metaphoric truth in some of Plato’s
dicta
that are literally untrue.
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55–57.
   Bosco/Reggio, in their comment on this passage, point out that its source may lie in Albertus Magnus,
De natura et origine animae
(II.7), since that is a sure source for the embryology of
Purgatorio
XXV, as was established by Bruno Nardi (“L’origine dell’anima umana secondo Dante” [1931–32], repr. in Nard.1960.2). Should that be true (and, as they argue, it seems likely that it is, since there is little to suggest Dante really knew any Plato directly, even in Latin translation), it would deeply undercut the notion that Dante’s acquaintance with the
Timaeus
was firsthand. And this would also reveal that Dante had a noted precursor in trying at least to open the question of Plato’s possible acceptability to Christian thinkers, as one tradition has even no less a rigorist than Thomas Aquinas doing (see the last sentence of the note to vv. 55–63).
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55.
   
For the view that the meaning of
sentenza
here must be “intention,” see Sanguineti (Sang.1999.2). But Dante’s usual practice and the likely significance of this tercet point rather in the direction of “meaning,” as any number of commentators believe. And see, for a previous use of the word in this canto, verse 24, “secondo la sentenza di Platone” (in accord with Plato’s teaching).
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58–60.
   The nature of Dante’s own “modified astrology” has already been made clear in Marco Lombardo’s discussion of free will and its relationship to astral influence, particularly in
Purgatorio
XVI.67–84. While any astrology at all seems mere foolishness to most modern readers, Dante’s position, which mirrors that of St. Augustine, is that whatever influence the stars have on us, it in no way reduces our ability to choose the good. Our birth stars may incline us in one direction or another (see
Par
. VIII.122–135), but we remain totally responsible for our choices, our actions.
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61–63.
   The “unenlightened” theory of astral influence sponsored by the ancients (and possibly by Plato) resulted in the naming of the planets for the powers (and limitations) they conferred on human beings. Dante’s version supersedes that theory and restores free will to human conduct.
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62.
   The exceptions among the ancients were, naturally, the monotheistic Hebrews.
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64–117.
   Dante’s first question, dealt with second because it has less “venom” in it (verse 27), finally has its day in court. That it is less potentially dangerous to the health of the soul does not mean that it is not worrisome, as the amount of space it receives now (over fifty lines) attests. It, too, centrally involves freedom of the will.
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64–66.
   Beatrice suggests that the protagonist’s failure to understand the precise rules that govern the keeping of vows, unlike the larger issue of freedom of the will, is less likely to interfere with his love for her, his guide to the truth found in God. His potential problem with his second “doubt” is a total one, while this one is only partial.
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67–69.
   Beatrice offers up another paradox (see her argument in
Purg
. XXXIII.94–99 that Dante’s inability to remember his sins is the very proof that he committed them): For mortals
not
to understand divine justice is
evidence (the probable meaning of
argomento
here, though there is debate on the point) that it exists.
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70–72.
   Because the nature of this question concerning vows is not so lofty that a closer-to-divine intelligence is required for its solution, Beatrice will be able to explain it fully to mortal Dante.
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73–81.
   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 following examples will make plain (vv. 82–87), that is exactly what is called for. If we fail to keep our absolute will intact (the term is employed at verse 109; see the note to that passage, vv. 109–114), 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. For discussion of these questions, see Singleton’s commentary to vv. 73–74; 76–78.
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77–78.
   The image of the flame that, temporarily twisted by external force from its natural upright position, will always by its very nature raise itself back up underlines the natural propensity of the will to the good, despite the force that may be used against it.
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82–87.
   As he did so often in
Purgatorio
, Dante combines a Christian and a pagan exemplary figure to make his point: “St. Lawrence, a deacon of the Church of Rome, said to have been a native of Huesca in Spain who suffered martyrdom under the Emperor Valerian, Aug. 10, 258. The tradition is that, being commanded by the prefect of Rome to deliver up the treasures of the Church which had been entrusted to his charge by Pope Sixtus II, he replied that in three days he would produce them. On the expiration of the appointed time he presented to the prefect all the sick and poor to whom he had given alms, with the words ‘Behold the treasures of Christ’s Church.’ The prefect thereupon directed St. Lawrence to be tortured, in order to make him reveal where the treasures were hidden. But, torture proving ineffectual, he was stretched on an iron frame with bars, like a gridiron, beneath which a fire was kindled so that his body was gradually
consumed. In the midst of his agony he is said to have remained steadfast, and to have mocked his executioners, bidding them to turn his body that it might be equally roasted on both sides (cf. Prudentius,
Peristephanon liber
401–9)”
(T)
. “Gaius Mucius Scaevola, Roman citizen who, when Lars Porsena of Clusium was besieging Rome, made his way into the enemy’s camp with the intention of killing Porsena; by mistake, however, he stabbed the king’s secretary instead of the king himself. Being seized, Mucius was ordered by the king to be burned alive, whereupon he thrust his right hand into a fire, which was already lighted for a sacrifice, and held it in the flames without flinching. Porsena, struck with admiration at his fortitude, ordered him to be set free; in return Mucius informed him that there were 300 noble youths in Rome who had sworn to take the king’s life, that the lot had fallen upon him to make the first attempt, and that his example would be followed by the others, each as his turn came. Porsena, impressed with this account of the determination of the Romans, made proposals of peace and withdrew from the siege. From the circumstance of the loss of his right hand, Mucius was thenceforward known as Scaevola (‘left-handed’). Dante [also] mentions Mucius in connexion with this incident [in]
Conv
. IV.v.13; and, with a reference to Livy (
Ab urbe
II.12) as his authority in
Mon
. II.v.14”
(T)
. Will so firm as that, however, is rarely found. Nonetheless, willingness to accept even martyrdom remains the only eventual solution for this problem. And the example of Scaevola makes the message even more painful: One must be prepared to do violence even against oneself in the service of liberty.
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89–90.
   For Beatrice’s paraphrase of Dante’s unthinking analysis of the problem addressed here, see vv. 19–21. It has now been “canceled” and should trouble him no more.
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91–99.
   Beatrice now offers a sort of corollary to the message she has just delivered, anticipating Dante’s further question: How can Piccarda be telling the truth when she says that neither she nor Constance ever ceased wanting to be back in their convents (
Par
. III.112–117), if what Beatrice has just said is true?
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94–96.
   This passage makes crystal clear what has surely been evident earlier (most recently at
Par
. III.31–33, but as early as the second canto of
Inferno
, when we see Beatrice through Virgil’s eyes, in his description of her and her “vere parole” [
Inf
. II.135]): The souls of those in bliss never tell less than the absolute truth.
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100–108.
   
Starting with a general remark, Beatrice attempts to clarify her position. Humans frequently do things they know they should not do, both against their own will and to escape from harm. The example she adduces, that of Alcmaeon, does not, however, seem to fulfill the second part of her precision. Further, Dante seems to have muddled his version of the story of Alcmaeon, nearly certainly derived from Statius (
Thebaid
II.265–305). (And see also Ovid,
Metamorphoses
IX.406–415.) In Statius, Alcmaeon is the son of Amphiaraus and Eriphyle; he avenged his father’s death by killing his mother, who, bought off by the gift of a necklace, revealed Amphiaraus’s hiding place to those who wanted to take him into battle with them and, because of her intervention, succeeded in doing so (see
Purg
. XII.49–51 [and note]).

Beatrice’s description, in any case, does fit Piccarda’s tale perfectly. She did something she did not want to do (leaving her convent) and did not return from fear of what might be done to her if she tried to—at least that is what Dante would seem to want us to believe.
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109–114.
   Beatrice’s distinction is between the absolute will (the Latin term,
absoluta voluntas
, reflects its root in the verb
absolvere
, to release from obligation) and another will, unnamed, that theologians refer to as the “conditioned” (or “conditional”) will, that is, a will conditioned by circumstance. “
Assoluta
here means ‘absolute’ as contrasted with ‘relative.’ Independently of the circumstances (i.e., of the pressure of fear) the will does not consent to the wrong forced upon it; but when affected by fear of worse suffering in case of withdrawing itself from the pressure of that force, so far it does consent. So Piccarda, when she speaks of Constance’s life, does not take into account her yielding to fear, while Beatrice does take it into account, and therefore regards her as defective in the observance of her vows. Thus both their statements are true” (Tozer to vv. 109–114). For example, one wants desperately to stop smoking but, like Svevo’s Zeno, continually yields to the abysmal need to smoke one last cigarette. Piccarda’s absolute will was always to desire the life of her convent; her conditioned will was to accept the marriage into which she was forced. And thus there is no contradiction between what she says of herself and what Beatrice describes as a blameworthy failure in her vows. They are speaking of two differing aspects of willing.
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