Purgatorio (90 page)

19.
   The formulaic expression (
mi parea
+
vedere
) is an earmark of Dante’s description of seeing in dream; see also
Inferno
XXXIII.36;
Purgatorio
XV.85–87; XXVII.97–98. For the consistency in Dante’s oneiric vocabulary, dating back to the
Vita nuova
, see Hollander (Holl.1974.1), pp. 3–4. For studies in English of the three purgatorial dreams see Hollander (Holl.1969.1), pp. 136–58; Cervigni (Cerv.1986.1), pp. 95–180; Bara´nski (Bara.1989.1); see also Stefanini (Stef.1985.1).
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20–21.
   The reality corresponding to the eagle outside the dream is, naturally, St. Lucy (identified by Virgil in verse 55), who is bearing Dante higher up the mountain while he sleeps in her arms. But does this eagle have a symbolic valence? Some early commentators (the Ottimo the earliest) read the text strictly literally: the eagle is the bird of Jove (or, perhaps, Jove in the shape of an eagle). However, beginning with Pietro di Dante the eagle is allegorized as divine grace, and then, by various commentators up to and including Giacalone (1968), as one form of grace or another (e.g., prevenient, illuminating, etc.). In the twentieth century there was a vogue for a quite different allegorical reading, the eagle as symbol of empire. (To be sure, this is often, even usually, true in this highly political poem; in this context, however, it seems a forced reading.) It would seem most likely that a literal reading is the best procedure here, following the Ottimo (1333), and simply noting that this eagle is the one who flew off with Ganymede, as the context allows and encourages, i.e., Dante dreams that he was carried off by Jove.
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22–24.
   John of Serravalle (1416), following Benvenuto, allegorizes the eagle as divine grace and then equates Dante and Ganymede, thus making Dante “one who lived with the gods.” Casini/Barbi suggest that Dante had in mind Virgil’s phrase in
Georgics
I.24–25, “deorum / concilia” (company of the gods) when he wrote “al sommo consistoro”; whether he did or not, his meaning seems clear. Within the dream there is a certain aura of violence and fear (implicit reference to the forcible rape of Ganymede by Jove as eagle—see
Aen
. V.252–257) masking the happier nature of the event: Dante being carried aloft gently by Lucy, and indeed, in a still happier understanding, on the way to the Empyrean, where he will, for a while, share the company of the immortal blessed.
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25–27.
   The protagonist’s thought within his dream is striking. Since, within the dream, Dante is “thinking like Ganymede,” his thought refers to a place elevated from the normal, e.g., on this mountain near Troy. (Some commentators want to keep the usual imperial valence of the eagle by associating this Mt. Ida with Troy and thus empire; however, the point would rather seem to be that the place is elevated, not that it is Trojan.) And thus Dante would be thinking that only such extraordinary, i.e., “higher,” mortals like Ganymede and Dante Alighieri are chosen by the gods for their delight. And this thought, perfectly in accord with what we will find out on the first terrace of purgatory proper, associates Dante with the sin of pride. Once again, however, the “reality” tells a different story: the true God is not interested in Dante’s curly locks, but in his Christian soul; and He will pluck Dante up from the mount of purgatory for reasons better than those that motivated Jove.

The issue of Jove’s homosexual desire for Ganymede is mainly avoided in the commentaries. It is, nonetheless, noteworthy that, of the many myths available to Dante that might express the love of the gods for a particular mortal, he has chosen this one. For the question of Dante’s attitudes toward homosexuality see Hollander (Holl.1996.1). Durling (Durl.1996.1), pp. 559–60, on the basis of no known evidence, is of the opinion that Dante was of homosexual predisposition but had never acted on his desires. While that is probably more than can be shown to be true, the question of Dante’s rather “unmedieval” view of homosexuality (see concluding note to
Inf
. XVI) has not been dealt with as openly as it ought to be.
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28–30.
   The eagle’s descent may have still another Virgilian provenance:
Aeneid
XII.247–250, as Tommaseo (1837) was perhaps the first to suggest; he has been followed by a number of others. In that scene an eagle, described as “Jove’s golden bird,” offers an omen (arranged by Turnus’s sister, the nymph Juturna) when it dives from the sky to snatch a swan out of the water and carries it off as its prey. (This much of the drama bodes ill for the Trojans, but they are heartened, unfortunately for them, in the final result, when the rest of the waterfowl attack the eagle and it drops the swan.) The language is pertinent: Jove’s golden bird is attacking the “litoreas … avis turbamque sonantem / agminis aligeri” (the fowl along the shore, the clamorous crowd in their wingèd band). From among this
agmen aliger
the eagle picks one. For the pun available to Dante on his family name (Alighieri/
aliger
) see the note to
Inferno
XXVI.1–3. It seems possible that here Dante is conflating the two Virgilian passages in which a Jovian eagle seizes its prey and enjoying the coincidence that, in the last of them, that prey is associated with his own name, since he, too, while dreaming, is being lifted skyward in the talons of Jove.

The fire alluded to here is the ring of fire that was believed to surround the closer-to-earth sphere of air, just before one might reach the moon. That this is the “tanto … del cielo acceso” (so much of the sky set afire) of
Paradiso
I.79 was possibly first suggested by Lombardi (1791). Thereafter it became a commonplace in the commentaries.
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31–33.
   Once again the negative version of events put forth in the dream has a better meaning. It seemed that the eagle and Dante were consumed in the ring of fire high above the earth, while actually Dante and Lucia have risen to the gate of purgatory, as we shall shortly find out, and Dante is being awakened, not by the pain of death, but by the late-morning sun on his eyelids (verse 44). If there is a further significance to this detail, it would seem to refer to Dante’s eventual arrival at the true “sphere of fire,” the Empyrean.
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34–42.
   The poet describes the narrator’s awakening in terms that recall Statius’s text (
Ach
. I.247–250), describing the stratagem employed by Thetis, Achilles’ mother, in order to keep him from being “drafted” into the Trojan War. Taking him from the care of his tutor, the centaur Chiron (see
Inf
. XII.71), Thetis carries him in her arms, sleeping, to the island of Scyros. Again Dante adverts to a mythic narrative that has a tragic result; Thetis’s benevolent caution will not prevent the coming of Ulysses and Diomedes to Scyros and the eventual death of Achilles in the war. Dante’s “comic” reality counters the Statian tragedy: Achilles is carried down from his mountain homeland to an island from which he will go off to his death; Dante is carried up a mountain situated on an island toward his eventual homeland and eternal life. Rarely in the
Commedia
is the contrast between classical and Christian views, between tragedy and comedy, more present than in these classicizing passages that open this canto. It is also true that the protagonist, as he experiences these new things, behaves very much as the “old” man that he still is, and assumes that terror is a valid response to these miraculous events that, the reader can see, speak only of God’s love and protection for even such a sinner as Dante.
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43–45.
   Dante and Virgil have left their companions behind, down the mountain’s slope, and are facing the east, the sun in their faces as the morning advances.
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52–63.
   As though to remind the reader that all the material relating to Dante’s dream did have a counterpart in reality, Virgil’s explanation “glosses” the dream as it explains the coming of Lucy, while Dante slept, at the solar aurora, nine hours after he had seen the lunar aurora. Sometime after dawn she began her ascent with Dante in her arms, leaving their companions in ante-purgatory.
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55.
   St. Lucy remains one of the more problematic presences in Dante’s poem. Exactly who is she and why is she so important to him? Most commentators take her to be the early-fourth-century martyr from Syracuse, killed while Diocletian was emperor ca.
A
.
D
. 304. She is usually associated with the well-being of the eyes, and this may have had some resonance for Dante who, in
Convivio
III.ix.15, reports a severe bout of eye trouble in the same year that he was composing his ode “Amor che ne la mente mi ragiona.” For whatever reason (and we shall probably never know it), Dante was obviously particularly devoted to the cult of this saint. She has a presence in three major scenes in the work, the “prologue in heaven” (
Inf
. II.97–108), the transport of Dante while he sleeps in this canto, and the prospect of the inhabitants of the “stadium-rose” (
Par
. XXXII.137).

Moore (Moor.1917.1), pp. 235–55, addresses the problem of an allegorical understanding of Lucy. Does she represent “illuminating grace”? “cooperating grace”? Gradually Moore undermines both these allegorical formulations and moves toward the notion of Lucy as Dante’s “patron saint” (p. 241), offering in evidence the phrase “il tuo fedele” (
Inf
. II.98) that reappears variously (Dante as Beatrice’s “fedele” in
Purg
. XXXI.134; Bernard as Mary’s “faithful one” in
Par
. XXXI.102) to suggest that the expression “implies the relation of one person to another person
as such
, and not as a symbol or type” (p. 243).
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64–67.
   A final simile prepares us for the entrance to purgatory proper, comparing Dante to one who moves from dubiety to confidence, a movement that required that he reinterpret the dream and his associations in a positive light.
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70–72.
   At almost the precise midpoint of the canto Dante situates his second address to the reader of this
cantica
(see
Purg
. VIII.19–21 for the first). It has caused two major interpretive problems, twice dividing its readers into two basic groups. First, there are those who believe that it speaks of an increase of quality in the artistry employed by the poet, while others contend that it speaks rather of an increase of quantity. This dispute is most readily understood by referring to translations of the poem; those in the first group have Dante say that he will employ better art; those in the second, more of it.

A second question remains: does this heightening reflect just the scene that follows (as in the opinion of a minority) or all of the
Purgatorio
that is to come? For the latter opinion see Francesco da Buti (1385), who argues that, since the subject is now penitence,
that
is the higher matter that requires more art; in one form or another, this is the position taken by most commentators. In the opinion of this writer, the address to the reader refers to the description of the gate, its warder, and the three steps in the rite of confession, all of which need to be understood in the tradition of the allegory of the poets, as we shall see. It regards, in other words, matter both local and temporary. In a similar vein see Vazzana (Vazz.1981.1), pp. 177–80, arguing that what is at stake is the allegorical nature of what immediately follows.
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80.
   The angel is seated not
upon
(as some translate) the highest step but
above
it, as will become clear from verse 104, where we learn that he is seated on the threshold of the gate with his feet upon the third step.
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81.
   Beginning with Scartazzini/Vandelli, commentators resort to Matthew 28:3 for the stern brightness of the angelic countenance: “Erat autem aspectus ejus sicut fulgur” (His countenance was as the lightning).
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82.
   The warder’s sword is “the sign of one who has authority to pronounce sentence,” in the words of Singleton (1973), citing Benvenuto da Imola. Singleton goes on to add that it is also “reminiscent of the Cherubim with the flaming sword that were placed to guard Eden after Adam and Eve were driven forth.”
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85.
   The warder’s words of challenge, “Dite costinci” (Say it from there) repeat, as many note, the challenge of one of the centaurs to the approach of Virgil and Dante (
Inf
. XII.63) and, like that one, probably reflect Charon’s similar words (fare age … iam istinc [tell me … right where you are]) to the invading Aeneas in
Aeneid
VI.389, as Daniello (1568) was perhaps the first to note.
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