Purgatorio (91 page)

86–93.
   This scene represents an epitomizing replay of Virgil’s and Dante’s encounter with the guardian of all purgatory, Cato (
Purg
. I.40–93): challenge by the guarding presence, who wants to know if some higher authority permits this visit; Virgil’s response indicating a female who had sent these “pilgrims” on their journey (this time with no attempt to flatter the warder); the warder’s courteous acceptance of the aspirants’ desire to enter a sacred precinct.
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94–102.
   The allegory of the three steps should be less difficult than it has proven to be. Considering this problem, Carroll (1904) cites Milton, describing the gate of heaven (
Paradise Lost
, III.516): “Each stair mysteriously was meant.” But what exactly does each of Dante’s steps “mean”? Catholic doctrine, as variously expressed, presents the path to absolution from sin as running, in the Sacrament of Penance, from
contrition
(the recognition and heartfelt rejection of a sin) to
confession
(of the sin, voiced to a priest), to
satisfaction
(in the promise to perform an act of penance as ordered by that priest, thus showing the genuineness of the confession). This is the psychologically correct order as well as the one given by “Scholastic and other Church writers uniformly” (Moore [Moor.1899.1], p. 47), i.e., one is contrite, confesses, and then performs acts that will lead to
absolution
, in the culmination of the sacrament. Dante’s first commentators are, however, more or less evenly divided as to whether the three steps found here represent, in sequence, (1) contrition, (2) confession, (3) satisfaction (this group is saving Dante from himself, as it were, i.e., they record what he
should
have said) or (1) confession, (2) contrition, (3) satisfaction. However, it is fairly clear from the text that Dante has reinvented the order to suit his own purpose, beginning with confession and only then proceeding to contrition. That this is almost certainly true is confirmed by a later text.
Purgatorio
XXXI.31–90 offers a carefully orchestrated presentation of Dante’s own penance before Beatrice, with the steps of that paralleling the steps found here, namely, confession, contrition, satisfaction, in that order. Moore also points out that Dante’s presentation of the third stage, satisfaction, is unorthodox, since he represents it as the love that came from Christ’s self-sacrifice. Thus, in Dante’s scheme, the sinner first confesses his sin, then feels true contrition for it, and then moves beyond it in his imitation of and love for Christ. Why he should have wanted to repackage the elements of what was a standard body of doctrine and belief is not a subject that has received adequate attention. But we should not be surprised to find that this poet remakes any text or any doctrine to his own liking and for his own reasons. The one element that does run through Dante’s version of this sacrament is that its priestly element is curtailed in favor of inward recognition and performance on the part of the sinner, i.e., confession in Dante seems more a private form of self-recognition than is generally the case, contrition contains mainly internal elements (if it must eventually be given voice), and satisfaction seems more attitudinal than performative. It also seems that Dante has moved elements of satisfaction into the second stage of the process, contrition.
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94–96.
   The first step, of white marble, serves as a mirror to the protagonist and thus seems associated with confession.
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97–99.
   The second, darker than the purple-black of the color perse and broken by a cruciform crack, represents the sinner’s recognition of his “broken” state.
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100–102.
   The third, red with the color of spurting blood reminiscent of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, is, like the first, of a stone of lofty character, porphyry (the second seems to be humble geological matter indeed), and suggests the sacrifice the sinner must make in imitation of the great sacrifice made by Christ.
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103–105.
   Only recently have commentators (Mattalia [1960], Fallani [1965], Bosco [1979]) turned, for the source of Dante’s
diamante
, to Ezechiel’s
adamantem
, when God gives his prophet a stony forehead to wear against his enemies (Ezechiel 3:9). And since the priestly angel, seated upon the adamant threshold, is iconographically related to St. Peter, a number of commentators think of Matthew 16:18, “You are Peter and upon this rock will I build my church.”
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109.
   Either in December 1310 at Vercelli or in January 1311 at Milano, Dante was apparently presented to the new emperor, Henry VII (see Frugoni’s notes in his edition of Dante’s
Epistles
, p. 564). Dante himself reports that he embraced the emperor’s feet (
Epist
. VII.9). It is at least conceivable that this verse remembers that experience, especially since, if it was written after the event, it was probably written soon after it. Once again we are unable to be certain, because of the uncertainties that attend dating the stages of the poem’s composition.
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111.
   Dante’s threefold beating of his chest has been glossed, since the time of the Ottimo (1333), as signifying “mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” Andrea Lancia (the probable author of that commentary) proceeds, followed in this, as well, by many later commentators, to say that these three in turn signify three kinds of sin: sins of thought, of the tongue, and in deed.
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112.
   The seven P’s, generally understood as deriving from the first letter of
peccata
(sins), evidently stand for the seven mortal sins (or capital vices), but here, since the protagonist has learned to hate sin, they stand for what remains of the predisposition to these seven vices that is inherited by every mortal through Adam’s (and Eve’s) original sin. For the P’s as deriving from the letter
tau
see Sarolli (Saro.1957.1), arguing for a source in Ezekiel 9:2–6, where God commands a scribe to write that letter—as a positive sign in that case—on the foreheads of all the inhabitants of Jerusalem who repent the abominations done in the city. In the following slaughter of the rest of the inhabitants, only Jeremiah and the other just Jerusalemites are preserved. See also Apocalypse 7:3, for the true believers who bear the sign of God on their foreheads, and Apocalypse 13:16 and 20:4, where those who worship the Beast have
his
sign on their foreheads.

For some time now a debate among the commentators has involved the question of whether or not others on the mountain possess these P’s (i.e., whether or not the P’s on Dante’s forehead are unique). Two differing reasons help us to be fairly certain that they are in fact unique to him, the first one positive: Dante is the sole visitor to purgatory who climbs there in the flesh; his uniqueness thus has this further sign. Second, and arguing from negative evidence, one may say that, since no other character is ever observed bearing these stigmata, one may reasonably conclude that none has them. See note to
Purgatorio
XXI.22–24.
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114.
   Sin as a “wound” is a biblical topos (see Isaiah 1:6 [first noted by Scartazzini in his comment to
Par
. VII.28]; Psalms 38:11 [39:10—as noted by Singleton commenting on this verse]).
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115–116.
   The color of the warder’s garments is the gray of ashes and gives expression to his humility, despite his high office.
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117–126.
   Sensible allegorical expositions of the two keys are found variously, but of particular use is Poletto’s gloss to vv. 115–117. The golden key denotes the authority to absolve granted by Christ directly; the silver, the judgment necessary in the priest to be sure the penitent is truly deserving of absolution. Poletto cites passages in St. Thomas to show Dante’s closeness to them in this part of his description of the process of entering purgatory (
ST
III, Suppl., qq. 17–20). Once the priest has judged the penitent ready for absolution (using his silver key), he then uses the golden one to complete the opening of the door. The priest, of course, may err in wanting to allow an unfit soul to enter; in that case the golden key will not turn in the lock—but even so, God is disposed to err on the side of mercy and will overrule a prelate who is niggardly in pardoning.

The fact that a priest may err in his judgment makes it disturbing that this figure is presented as being literally an angel (who thus should be free of such weak discernment). It would seem more logical if we dealt here with an allegorical figure, Priestliness, the Petrine warder of the gate, a composite figure representing a class, not a particular historical being. And, indeed, the angel does not behave in any other way.
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131–132.
   See Christ’s words to his disciples (Luke 9:62): “Nemo mittens manum suam ad aratrum, et respiciens retro, aptus est regno Dei” (No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God). This apt passage has been cited in this connection since the time of Pietro di Dante (1340). While Lot’s wife (Genesis 19:17, 19:26) may also be remembered here, the passage from Luke’s gospel is more closely related. The same may be said for the resonance of Orpheus’s backward glance at Eurydice.
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133–138.
   This is the first part of one of the most difficult canto endings in the
Divine Comedy
. These lines remember a terrible moment of Roman history, while the second part (vv. 139–145) reflects the musical practice of Dante’s day.

For hundreds of years Rome had kept a part of its treasure secure from any use, locked behind a portal that was never opened, until Caesar, in order to fund his pursuit of Pompey and Cato in 49
B
.
C
., broke into the treasury and looted it, overcoming the resistance of a single brave republican, Metellus, loyal to Pompey. Dante’s source here is the violently republican Lucan (
Phars
. III.108–168). It is worth reading the entire passage, which most commentators apparently do not do, for it drips with sarcasm about Julius Caesar, from its inception, in which Caesar, having marched on Rome and conquered by arms, has become everything and the senate has become a mouthpiece for this “private man,” to its conclusion, in which the city is portrayed as being poorer than the one man who rules her as a result of his plundering the temple of Saturn, her treasury. There is nothing good here about Caesar, despite Dante’s respect for him as the person he considered the first emperor of Rome (see Stull and Hollander [Stul.1991.1], pp. 33–43, for Dante’s mainly negative, if mixed, views of Julius in the poem). And thus the sound that sounds so shrilly at Dante’s entrance into purgatory is reminiscent of what, for Lucan and for Dante, is perhaps the nadir of Roman history, the accession of Caesar and the destruction of the republic. (For Dante’s fervent belief in the republican virtues and form of government see Hollander and Rossi [Holl.1986.1].) Along with the passage in Lucan, undoubtedly Dante’s main source here, Tommaseo (1837) brings into play
Aeneid
VI.573–574: “tum demum horrisono stridentes cardine sacrae / panduntur portae” (then at last, grating on their hinges, the impious gates swing open). Virgil is describing the gates of Tartarus, swinging open (the Sibyl and Aeneas do not enter, but she does tell him of the horrors of the punishments therein). Here, too, we can see how Dante has juxtaposed two similar objects, the gates of Tartarus, the pagans’ hell, and those of purgatory, and make the reader aware of the crucial similarity that marks their utter difference.

What is the effect of such negative reminiscences as the protagonist begins to attain the Promised Land? One must conclude that we are dealing here with antithesis: as brutally shrill as was the sound of the squealing doors of the temple of Saturn, of the gates of Tartarus, exactly so terribly loud is the rare victory of a penitent being allowed to enter the kingdom of Heaven—or its vestibule. What was tragic in its consequence for Rome is marked by a sound exactly as loud and grating as this one that announces the victory of a new (and better) Caesar who enters not against the will of the warder, but in accord with it. Only the sounds are similar; all else is changed. And, as we have seen occur several times in the first half of this canto, tragic classical myth or history gives way to comic Christian narrative. In the words of Jesus (Luke 12:34), “There where your treasure is, there your heart is also.” Caesar’s treasure is far different from the treasure in Heaven sought and found by only relatively few Christians, their low numbers suggested by the infrequent screechings of this gate.

As for the positive resolution for the unpleasant sound of the opening gate, Heilbronn (Heil.1984.1) points out that medieval concepts of musical “sweetness” had more to do with harmony than with the sounds themselves. She (p. 4) gives the examples of the hurdy-gurdy and drum, both of which would hardly seem to be “sweet” to modern ears, but did to those of the time who recorded their responses. This point is a pivotal one for those who cannot bring themselves to see how the grating screech of a gate can be in harmony with another sound. Yet when we reflect, along with Heilbronn, that what the gate’s sound announces is very sweet indeed, we may begin to understand Dante’s strategy here.
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