John T. Slattery - Dante: The Central Man of All the World

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Showing temptation in Ante-Purgatorio, the poet gives us a picture of
souls protected by two angels against the serpent. Here is the scene:

"Now was the hour that wakens fond desire
In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart
Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell,
And pilgrim newly on his road with love
Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day":
A band of souls approach:
"I saw that gentle band silently next
Look up, as if in expectation held,
Pale and in lowly guise; and, from on high,
I saw, forth issuing descend beneath,
Two angels, with two flame-illumined swords,
Broken and mutilated of their points.
Green as the tender leaves but newly born,
Their vesture was, the which, by wings as green
Beaten, they drew behind them, fann'd in air.
A little over us one took his stand;
The other lighted on the opposing hill;
So that the troop were in the midst contain'd.
But in their visages the dazzled eye
Was lost, as faculty that by too much
Is overpower'd. 'From Mary's bosom both
Are come,' exclaimed Sordello, 'as a guard
Over the vale, 'gainst him, who hither tends,
The serpent.' Whence, not knowing by which path
He came, I turn'd me round; and closely press'd,
All frozen, to my leader's trusted side."

After describing an interview with one of the souls, the poet continues
his narrative:

"While yet he spoke, Sordello to himself
Drew him, and cried: 'Lo there our enemy!'
And with his hand pointed that way to look
Along the side, where barrier none arose
Around the little vale, a serpent lay,
Such haply as gave Eve the bitter food.
Between the grass and flowers, the evil snake
Came on, reverting oft his lifted head;
And, as a beast that smooths its polish'd coat.
Licking his back. I saw not, nor can tell,
How those celestial falcons from their seat
Moved, but in motion each one well described.
Hearing the air cut by their verdant plumes,
The serpent fled; and, to their stations, back
The angels up return'd with equal flight."
(Purg., VIII.)

A third picture of temptation is furnished by the episode of one of the
Sirens who appears first repulsive and then seems to the poet sweet and
alluring. Only when Virgil discloses her hideous nature does Dante see
how easily he might have fallen a victim to her wiles. He tells us that
in his sleep there appeared to him a woman with stammering utterance,
squinting eyes, deformed hands. "I gazed at her, and as the sun restores
the cold limbs made heavy by night, thus my look loosened her tongue,
then straightened her all out in a little while and colored her wan face
as love demands. When her speech was thus unbound she began to sing so
that I could hardly have turned my attention from her. 'I am,' she sang,
'I am sweet Siren who bewitch sailors by mid-sea, so full am I of charm
to hear. By my song I turned Ulysses from his wandering way. And
whosoever abides with me seldom departs, so wholly do I satisfy him.'
Her lips were not yet closed when a lady, swift and holy, appeared at my
side to confound the other. 'O Virgil, Virgil, who is this?' she said
proudly; and he advanced with his eyes fixed only on this modest woman."
Virgil (Reason called by Conscience) comes to the rescue of the
entranced poet and reveals the Siren in all her foul ugliness. At that
Dante awakes from his dream more than ever convinced of the evil of sin
and its hideousness. (Purg., XIX, 9.)

Our poet, as we said, is firmly convinced that sin will be punished in
Hell. But where is Hell? Popular tradition attributing an infernal
connection with volcanic phenomena and moved by those passages in Holy
Scripture which describe Hell as a place to which the reprobate descend,
locates Hell in the interior of the earth. Dante not only follows this
tradition for his Hell, but he does what no other writer before or after
him ever did--he constructs a Hell with such rare architectural skill
that the awful structure stands forth in startling reality, visualized
easily as to form an atmosphere, and with a finish of detail that is
amazing. Covered by a crust of earth it is situated under Jerusalem and
extends in funnel shape to the very center of the earth.

How it got this shape is told by the poet. When Lucifer was hurled from
Heaven by the justice of God, he kept falling until he reached the
center of earth, whence further motion downward was impossible. At the
approach of Lucifer the earth is represented as recoiling and so making
the cavity of Hell. The earth dislodged by the cataclysm was forced
through an opening, a kind of nozzle of the funnel of Hell, to the
antipodes and it there emerged, forming a mountain, which became the
site of the Garden of Eden and Purgatory. The phenomenon made land in
the northern and water in the southern hemisphere. Here is the
description:

"Upon this side he fell down out of heaven
And all the land, that whilom here emerged
For fear of him made of the sea a veil
And came to our hemisphere; and peradventure
To flee from him, what on this side
Left the place vacant here and back recoiled."
(Inf., XXXIV, 121.)

The material structure of the Inferno is a series of nine concentric
circles--darkness brooding over the whole region,--with ledges, chasms,
pits, swamps and rivers. The rivers, though different in name and
aspect, appear to be one and the same stream winding its way through the
various circles. We see it first as the boundary of Hell proper and it
is known as the Acheron. It comes again to view in the fourth circle and
is called the Styx. In the seventh circle, second round, it emerges as
the red blood stream of Phlegethon. In the very depths of Hell it forms
the frozen lake of Cocytus. The circles of Hell, distant from one
another, decrease in circumference as descent is made--the top circle
being the widest. Galileo estimates that Dante's Hell is about 4,000
miles in depth and as many in breadth at its widest diameter. Its
opening is near the forest at the Fauces Averni, near Cuma, Italy, where
Virgil places the site of the entrance of his Inferno.

Dante's Hell in its moral aspect is Aristotelian. Sins are divided into
three great classes, incontinence, bestiality and malice. Incontinence
is punished in the five upper circles; bestiality and malice in the City
of Dis, lower Hell. More particularly stated, Dante's scheme of
punishment in the underworld, not considering the vestibule of Hell,
where neutrals are confined, is as follows: 1, Limbo; 2, The Circle of
Lust; 3, Gluttony; 4, Avarice and Prodigality; 5, Anger, Rage and Fury;
6, Unbelief and Heresy; 7, Violence; 8, Fraud; 9, Treason.

In regard to this plan of punishment three things are to be noted: (a)
Though generally following the teaching of St. Thomas Aquinas, here
Dante, in his conception of Limbo, differs from his master. Our poet's
Limbo, wherein are the souls of unbaptized children and others who died
stained with original sin, but without personal grievous guilt, is a
much more severe abode than that of the Angelic Doctor. The latter
teaches that Limbo is a place or a state, not merely of exemption from
suffering and sorrow, but of perfect natural happiness unbroken even by
a knowledge of a higher, a supernatural destiny that has never been
given. Dante's Limbo, on the other hand, represents the souls in sadness
brought about by their constant desire and hope never realizable, of
seeing God. They suffer no pain of sense, but they are baffled in their
endless yearning for the Beatific Vision. To quote Dante:

"There, in so far as I had power to hear,
Were lamentations none, but only sighs
That tremulous made the everlasting air.
And this arose from sorrow without torment,
Which the crowds had, that many were and great,
Of infants and of women and of men.
To me the Master good: 'Thou dost not ask
What spirits these may be, which thou beholdest?
Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther,
That they sinned not; and if they merit had,
'T is not enough, because they had not baptism,
Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest;
And if they were before Christianity,
In the right manner they adored not God;
And among such as these am I myself.
For such defects, and not for other guilt,
Lost are we, and are only so far punished,
That without hope we live on in desire.'"
(IV, 25.)

(b) Our poet represents a soul as punished but for one sin, though it
may be guilt-dyed by its having broken all the commandments. Even so, it
is placed in one particular circle wherein a certain sin is punished and
we are not told that it passes to other circles. In explanation of this
we have only to remember that Dante, for our instruction, is showing us
object lessons of evil, types of certain sins. Judas, for example, whose
name is synonymous with traitor, is exhibited as suffering in the ninth
circle, the circle of treason, the poet taking no notice of other sins,
v.g., sacrilege, avarice, suicide, of which the fallen apostle may have
been guilty. Furthermore, Dante as a master psychologist and moralist
would teach us the lesson that the evil doer may come to damnation
through one sin if that acquires such an ascendency over his will as to
become a capital sin or predominant passion of his life. Then the
besetting passion is the father of an innumerable progeny of evil. This
is seen (Purg., XX, 103) in the case of Pygmalion, whose predominant
passion, avarice, made him a traitor, a thief and a parricide.

(c) Let us not be surprised that Dante is so lenient in the punishment
of carnal sinners. He assigns a lighter punishment to the unchaste than
to the unjust. Back of his plan is a sound theological doctrine. Guilt
is to be estimated not simply from the gravity of the matter prohibited
to conscience and the knowledge that one has of the evil, but more
especially from the malice displayed by the will in its voluntary
choosing and embracing the evil. Now impurity, it is held, is often a
sin of impulse. It springs from concupiscence, a common human
inclination, wrong only when there is inordinateness. Then though a man
freely consents to the temptation and thereby commits a grievous sin,
his will generally is not overcast with perversion or affected with
malice. That being so, Dante in assigning punishment for sins against
the virtue of purity is moved by the thought that such sins deserve a
milder punishment in Hell, because they may be oftener surprises than
infidelities.

To make known the nature of the particular sin he depicts Dante shows us
the evil in various phases. First of all it is personified in repulsive
demons, the guardians of the circles of Hell. At the very entrance,
sits, symbolizing the evil conscience, the sinners' judge "Minos
horrific and grins. The ill-born spirit comes before him, confesses all
and that sin-discerner (Minos) sees what place in Hell is for it, and
with his tail makes as many circles round himself as the degrees he will
have it descend." (Inf., V, 2.) In the circle of Gluttony, the sin is
symbolized by the three-headed monster Cerberus, "who clutches the
spirits, flays and piecemeal rends them."

Plutus, the ancient god of riches--"a cursed wolf"--commands the circle
of Avarice. Phlegyas, who in fury set fire to Apollo's temple, is head
of the circle of Anger. Symbolizing remorse, the three Furies, in the
semblance of women girt with green water snakes, with snakes for hair,
and the Gorgon Medusa, representing the heart-hardening effect of
sensual pleasures, are found on the fire-glowing towers of the City of
Dis, Inner Hell. In the seventh circle presides Minotaur, half-man,
half-bull, the symbol of bloodthirsty violence and brutal lust.

Fraud is typified by Geryon, having the face of an honest man and the
body of a dragon. Further down giants are seen, emblematic of the
enormity of crime. At the very lowest point of Hell is Lucifer, "emperor
of the Realm of Sorrow." A gigantic monster, he is imprisoned in ice
formed from rivers which freeze by the movements of his bat-like wings
flapping in vain efforts to raise himself. To him, as to the source of
all evil, flow back all the streams of guilt. As he sinned against the
Tri-une God, he is represented with three faces, one crimson, another
between white and yellow, and the third black. (XXXIV, 55.)

Not only by such terrible monsters, but by the environment of the
condemned sinner, does our poet reveal the hideousness of sin. To
mention only the three great divisions of Hell, the abodes of
incontinence, bestiality and malice, we find in murky gloom the
incontinent whose sin had darkened their understanding. In the City of
Dis, red with fire, are the violent and the bestial, who in this life
had burned either with consuming rage or unnatural passion; in the
frozen circle of malice are those whose sins had congealed human
sympathy and love into cold, calculating destruction of trust reposed in
them.

But it is principally by depicting the intellectual, the moral and the
physical sufferings of the damned that Dante would teach us the nature
of sin. To depict physical sufferings the poet was under the necessity
of creating provisional bodies for his damned. Without such a poetic
device the souls of the reprobate before the resurrection of their
bodies cannot be conceived to suffer physically, since they lack the
senses and organs of pain. So Dante pictures the damned united to forms
shadowy yet real, palpable and visible. They sometimes lose the human
semblance and assume more sinister shapes, grovelling as hideous
serpents, bleeding and wailing from shrubs and trees, or bubbling in a
slushing stream.

In such forms the souls are seen in punishment fitting their sin, on the
principle that "by what things a man sinneth by the same he is
tormented." (Wisdom XI, 17.) The unchaste because they allowed their
reason to be subjected to the hot blasts of passion are now driven by "a
hellish storm which never rests; whirling and smiting, it vexes them."
(Inf., V, 31.) The gluttonous howl like dogs as hail and rain and snow
beat down upon them and Cerberus attacks and rends them. The misers and
spendthrifts to whom money was king, now are occupied in rolling huge
stones in opposite directions. The wrathful, all muddy and naked, assail
and tear one another.

The sullen are fixed in slime and gurgle a dismal chant. The materialist
and the heretic, whose existence, Dante holds, was only a living death,
are confined in blazing tombs. Murderers and tyrants are immersed in
boiling blood.

With poetic justice, suicides are represented as stunted trees lacerated
by the beaks of foul harpies. The violent lie supine on a plain of dry
and dense sand, upon which descend flakes of fire like "snow in the
Alps, without a wind." Usurers--should we call them profiteers?--suffer
also from a rain of fire and carry about their necks money bags stamped
with armorial designs. Thieves, to remind them of their sneaking trade,
are repeatedly transformed from men into snakes, hissing and creeping.
Hypocrites march in slow procession with faces painted and with leaden
cloaks all glittering with gold on the outside. With such realism does
Dante declare the nature of sin and its inevitable consequences.

Let us now accompany Dante through the Underworld. The scene opens at
dawn in a dark and tangled wood. Dante, the type of humanity, is unable
to ascend the Hill of the Lord, as we said before, because his way is
barred successively by a leopard, a lion and a wolf, representing the
passions of life. Virgil (Reason), sent by Beatrice (Revelation), offers
to conduct the poet by another road. It is a way which leads through
Hell and Purgatory. Through the heavens Beatrice herself will be the
guide. Descending through the earth the two poets come to the Vestibule
of Hell. On the gate appears this inscription:

"Through me you pass into the city of woe
Through me you pass into eternal pain
Through me among the people lost for aye
Justice, the founder of my fabric, moved
To rear me was the task of Power divine,
Supremest wisdom and primeval Love
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

It may be said in passing that in these nine lines Dante attains an
effect for which Milton, with all his heavy description of the gateway
of Hell, labors in vain. Contrast with the Florentine's the words of the
author of Paradise Lost:

"Hell bounds high reaching to the horrid roof
And thrice three fold the gates: three folds were brass,
Three iron, three of adamantine rock.
Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire,
Yet unconsumed. Before the gate there sat
On either side a formidable shape," etc.

Not by gigantic images which only astonish the reader, but by words
which burn into the brain and leave him dismayed, does our poet drive
home his thought.

Passing through a crowd of neutrals the poets come to the river Acheron,
where assemble those who die in mortal sin, to be ferried over by the
demon Charon. He refuses passage to Dante: "By other ways, by other
ferries, shalt thou pass over, a lighter boat must carry thee." (Inf.,
III, 91.) An earthquake occurs, accompanied with wind and lightning, and
Dante falls into a state of insensibility. Upon coming to consciousness
he finds himself on the brink of the Abyss, whence the poets enter
Limbo. Here Christ descended, Virgil says, and "drew from us the shade
of our first parent, of Abel, his son; that of Noah, of Moses, the
lawgiver, the obedient; patriarch Abraham and King David; Israel, with
his father, and with his sons and with Rachel, for whom he wrought much,
and many others and made them blessed." (Inf., IV, 55.)

In the second circle, where carnal sinners are punished, Dante sees,
among others, Semiramis, Dido, Cleopatra, Helen, Achilles, Paris. The
poet's attention is suddenly attracted by two spirits, who prove to be
Francesca da Rimini and her lover, Paolo, murdered by her husband when
Dante was twenty-four years old. The scandal of their illicit love and
the penalty they paid by their lives must have been so generally known
that Dante, though attached to her family by the memory of hospitality
received from her nephew, Guido Novello da Polenta, the lord of Ravenna,
is dominated by the necessity of declaring in Francesca and Paolo the
operation of the unalterable law which rules the terrible consequences
of crime unforgiven by Heaven. Was it gratitude for kindness extended to
him, an exile, by the Lord of Ravenna, or was it the memory of
association with the brother of Francesca, at the battle of Campaldino,
that led our poet to treat the whole episode of the fatal liaison with
such tender sympathy for the unfortunate lady that he hoped to
rehabilitate her memory? In any event, the poet represents himself as
gracious and benign when addressing Francesca, and she, moved by his
friendly attitude, tells the story of her intrigue, in lines justly
regarded as the most beautiful ever written in verse. The reader will
not fail to observe that the fatal denouement is only hinted, not
told--the line, "that day we read no more," making what is admitted to
be the finest ellipsis in all the literature of the world.

"Then turning, I to them, my speech address'd
And thus began: 'Francesca! Your sad fate
Even to tears my grief and pity moves.
But tell me, in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what and how Love granted that ye knew
Your yet uncertain wishes.' She replied:
'No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when misery is at hand. Yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root
From whence our love gat being, I will do
As one who weeps and tells his tale. One day
For our delight, we read of Lancelot,
How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Oft times by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile, we read,
The wish'd smile so rapturously kiss'd
By one so deep in love, then he who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day
We read no more.' While thus one spirit spake,
The other wail'd so sorely, that heart-struck
I through compassion fainting, seem'd not far
From death, and like a corse fell to the ground."

In the next circle where, with faces to the ground, the gluttons suffer
in a ceaseles storm, the shade of Ciacco, the Florentine, sits up as he
recognizes a fellow-citizen:

"He said to me: 'Thy City which is filled
With envy, like a sack that overflows,
Once held me in its tranquil life, well skilled
In dainties, and a glutton, and by those
Who dwelt there Ciacco called, but now the blows
Of this fierce rain avenge my wasteful sin.
Sad as I am, full many another knows
For a like crime like penalty within
This circle', and more word he spake not." (VI, 49.)

In the fourth circle the poet sees the souls of the prodigal and
avaricious rolling heavy stones, against each other with mutual
recriminations:

"Almighty Justice! in what store thou heap'st
New pains, new troubles, as I here beheld,
Wherefore doth fault of ours bring us to this?
E'en as a billow, on Charybdis rising
Against encountered billow dashing breaks;
Such is the dance this wretched race must lead
Whom more than elsewhere numerous here I found."
(VII, 19.)

The next is the circle of the wrathful and the sullen. Following is the
circle of the materialists and heretics, all covered with burning
sepulchres:

"Soon as I was within, I cast around
My eyes and saw extend on either hand
A spacious plain, that echoed to the sound
Of grief and torment sore; as o'er the land
At Aries where Rhone's vast waters stagnant stand
Or Pola, near Quarnero Bay, that bounds
And bathes the line of Italy, expand
Plains rough and heaving with supulchral mounds,
'Tis thus the plain, wherein I stood, with tombs abounds,
Save that the buried were more grimly treated.
For twixt the graves were scattered tongues of fire
By which to such a pitch the place was heated
That iron could no fiercer flame require
For art to mould it: lamentation dire
Issued from each unlidded vault, and seemed
The voice of those in torment."

From one of these fiery tombs, the Florentine freethinker, the haughty
Farinata, rises "with breast and brow erect, as holding Hell in great
contempt," and tells Dante that the souls of the lost have no knowledge
concerning things that are actually passing on earth, though they know
the past and see the future. He foretells the duration of the poet's
exile and boasts that he himself saved Florence from being razed to the
ground.

"When all decreed that Florence should be laid
in ruin I alone with fearless face defended her."
(X, 91.)

In the seventh circle Virgil leads Dante to the river of blood, "in
which boils every one who by violence injures others." Centaurs, half
horses and half men, are there. "Around the fosse they go by thousands,
piercing with their arrows whatever spirit wrenches itself out of the
blood farther than its guilt has allotted for it." (XII, 73.) With
characteristic realism the poet describes Chiron, one of the leaders of
the Centaurs, pushing back with an arrow his beard as he prepares to
speak:

"Chiron took an arrow, and with the notch put back his beard upon
his jaws. When he had uncovered his great mouth, he said to his
companions: 'Have ye perceived that the one behind (Dante) moves
what he touches? The feet of the dead are not wont to do so.'"
(XII, 76.)

In the third round of Circle VII Dante meets his friend Brunetto Latini,
punished for unnatural offences.

"I remembered him and toward his face
My hand inclining, answered: Ser Brunetto!
And are ye here? He thus to me: 'My son!
Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto
Latini but a little space with thee
Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.'
I thus to him replied: 'Much as I can,
I thereto pray thee: and if thou be willing
That I here seat me with thee, I consent:
His leave with whom I journey, first obtain'd.'
'O Son,' said he, 'whoever of this throng
One instant stops, lies then a hundred years,
No fan to ventilate him, when the fire
Smitest sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close
Will at thy garments walk and then rejoin
My troup, who go mourning their endless doom.'"

* * * * *

"Were all my wish fulfill'd," I straight replied,
Thou from the confines of man's nature yet
Hadst not been driven forth; for in my mind
Is fix'd, and now strikes full upon my heart,
The dear, benign, paternal image, such
As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me
The way for man to win eternity:
And how I prized the lesson, it behoves,
That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak.
(XV, 28.)

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