Paradiso (172 page)

103–111.
   This long but essentially simple simile links Dante once again with a pilgrim arriving at his destination, in this case Rome, where the Veronica, a most holy relic, was preserved. Veronica was supposedly a woman of Jerusalem who offered Jesus a cloth (
sudarium
) to wipe the blood and sweat from His face on the way to Calvary. His features remained on the cloth, which was eventually taken to St. Peter’s in Rome, where it was displayed to the faithful on certain occasions. That her name was actually Veronica is doubtful, since her name itself means “true likeness” (
vera icona
). The whole history of this image (and of other relics like it, particularly the Shroud of Turin) is controversial. But for Dante, there was not even a question of its authenticity. See his earlier reference, at the climactic moment of the
Vita nuova
(XL.1), to pilgrims on their way to Rome to see the Veronica, a moment fulfilled here in this poem by Dante’s pilgrimage to “that Rome where Christ Himself is Roman” (
Purg.
XXXII.102).

See Lansing (Lans.1977.1), pp. 137–40, for consideration of three
consecutive similes in this canto (see also vv. 31–40 and 43–48) dedicated to the theme of completion of a pilgrimage.
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103.
   Croatia, for Dante’s audience, represented a very distant and “foreign” place, as in the more recent expression “from here to Timbuktu.”
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109–111.
   See Singleton (comm. on these verses): “Bernard’s two principal qualifications to serve as final guide in the journey stem from his special devotion to the Virgin Mary and from his fame as one dedicated to mystical contemplation with special emphasis on the affective movement of the mind as it rises to God, an emphasis which later Franciscan thought and devotion adopted and stressed. It was believed that Bernard, in such meditation, had a foretaste of the peace of Heaven. In the
Meditationes piissimae
(XIV, 36–37), ascribed to Bernard, there is a rhapsody on the joys of contemplation. See also Bernard,
Sermones in Cantica Canticorum
, XXIII, 15–16. As noted above, Dante in his
Letter to Can Grande
(
Epist.
XIII, 80) refers the reader of his
Paradiso
to Bernard’s work
De contemplatione
.”
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112–117.
   Dante, in fixing his gaze on Bernard, who has descended from his seat in the Rose upon Beatrice’s urging (see verse 66), has fixated on a lesser version of the good and true than that which Bernard will eventually bring him to see. At least for now the Virgin is the best sight available to him, and she is at the very highest point, in the top row of the stadium-rose.
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115–117.
   How many souls are seated in the Rose? Dante keeps his counsel on that question. The Apocalypse numbers the saved as 144,000 (Apoc. 7:1, 7:4; 14:1, 14:3). Landino (comm. to
Par.
XXX.133–138) reports that some say that the number of blessed is equivalent to the number of fallen angels, while others are of the opinion that it is the same as that of the remaining good angels. (For Dante’s previous opinion on a related matter, see the note to
Paradiso
XXIX.50.) Landino concludes that only God knows the number of angels, as Aquinas says.
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118–142.
   This passage is seamless, a single action, Dante’s raising his eyes (verse 118) at Bernard’s command and seeing Mary, surrounded by angels and admired by the rest of the blessed. It is like a painting of the Virgin seated in glory. However, since it is only
like
a painting, the poet introduces his central scene with a double simile, each element of which begins “e come.”

Until now, we have been shown the Empyrean with a long-range perspective, seeing all the Rose as a unit divided into many parts. Now we focus on a single part of it and are presented with a new sense of graduated selectivity, in which the things that are nearest Mary are brightest, while those farthest from her gradually fade from view.
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118–123.
   The first simile pairs Mary with the brightness of the Sun at its rising, as compared with the entire rim of the sky. We are asked to imagine a 360° view: The east and the parts of the horizon nearest it are brightest, the west, where the Sun lit up the horizon the evening before, the darkest. As we will see, this arrangement is perfectly mirrored in the varying brightness of parts of the Rose.
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124–129.
   In the second simile, the brightness at the
locus
of the rising Sun is contrasted with the diminished light on either side of it, and is compared either to all the Rose or to Mary (see the note to verse 127).

Once again, as in the first of these conjoined similes (vv. 118–123), the varied lightness in parts of the Rose is insisted on.
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124.
   Rhyme forces Dante into synecdoche, the part
temo
(yoke-beam, or chariot-pole [i.e., that to which the horses are attached]) for the whole (chariot). For other occurrences of this word (
timone
in modern Italian), see
Purgatorio
XXII.119; XXXII.49, 140, 144;
Paradiso
XIII.9.
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125.
   We last heard of Phaeton, a frequent presence in the poem, in
Paradiso
XVII.3 (see the note to XVII.1–6). Why Dante wants to recall that tragic adventure here is not immediately evident.
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127.
   This arresting oxymoron, “peaceful oriflamme” (or “battle flag of peace”), has a varied history in the commentaries. Most trace its origin to the French royal battle standard. Scott (Scot.2002.1), p. 488, points out that, whereas many contemporary commentators say that this banner of the French kings, maintained at St. Denis, was red, it was actually red and gold, as its Latin derivation makes plain (
auri fiamma
[golden flame]). See Oelsner’s brief exposition (comm. to this verse), which, however, reverses the more usual relations between the red and the gold: “The Oriflamme (
aurea flamma
) was the standard given by the Angel Gabriel to the ancient kings of France, representing a [red] flame on a golden ground. No one who fought under it could be conquered. The golden glow of heaven is the invincible ensign not of war but peace.”

Most who write about this verse play up the opposed values of the two elements in this image, Mary’s peaceful conquest as opposed to the French (or any) king’s military exploits. However, we should remember that this gathering, too, is an army, if now a triumphant one, with all but a final battle (that of the returning Christ against Antichrist at the end of days) behind it. (For a view in absolute disagreement with this one, see Porena [comm. to this verse].) While there is some dispute about whether the
oriafiamma
is Mary alone, all the Rose (including her), or some portion of the blessed souls distinct from her, see Trucchi (comm. to vv. 124–129) for an interesting solution. The
oriafiamma
is the entire Rose, Mary is the golden flame, the rest of the blessed (the petals of the “rose”) the red background. While this is not in accord with the minority explanation of what is figure, what background, it surely is worth serious consideration for its complete explanation of all the elements in the image. However, it is clear that Mary is the light referred to as the Sun in both similes. She is at the center (
nel mezzo
) of things as the protagonist now sees them.
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130–132.
   Around Mary, the central object in this picture, the protagonist sees an assemblage of angels, apparently of all nine orders, since they seem differentiated from one another in how bright they shine and in what they do.
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136–138.
   The
topos
of the inexpressibility of great beauty, now that it is no longer needed for Beatrice (see the note to
Par.
XXX.22–27), is made to accompany Mary.
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137.
   Dante’s verb
imaginar
(referring to the mind’s ability to receive and store images received from outside it) is quite different from the more modern instance of the word, with its clear reference to invention of things not previously seen by the imaginer. See the note to
Purgatorio
XVII.13–18.
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139–142.
   The canto concludes with Bernard, famous as the “lover-poet” of Mary, gazing, alongside her newest “lover-poet,” Dante Alighieri. His awareness of Bernard’s affection for her makes his own all the more ardent.

For a recent discussion of whether or not Dante is to be considered “a mystic,” see Botterill (Bott.2003.1), who is mainly in the affirmative. It is difficult to believe that the final cantos of the poem, so obviously reflective of a great mystic, St. Bernard, and so triumphantly presenting a final
vision, can be thought of as separate from the tradition of Western mysticism. At the same time, it is difficult to think of the earlier ninety-seven cantos of the poem as being essentially mystical in character. Thus the best answer seems to be “no” and “yes”—in that order. But see Scott (Scot.2004.2), pp. 407–8, for a cautious denial of even this much mysticism in Dante’s poetry. One supposes that some (who find Dante’s poetry more like Blake’s than not) think of him as a mystic, while others (who do not so find) deny that he is one.
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140.
   The phrase
fissi e attenti
(fixed and intent) is repeated here for the third time. We heard it first in
Purgatorio
II.118, used
in malo
, for Dante and the newly arrived souls who are seduced by Casella’s song and require Cato’s reprimand in order to get back on their path toward God. It then appears in
Purgatorio
XXXII.1, where it describes Dante’s gaze, fixed on Beatrice, trying to slake his ten-year “thirst” for her presence. That repetition was perhaps intended to counter the first instance, the context of which was the song that Dante had composed in favor of Beatrice’s rival, the Lady Philosophy (her identity at least according to the
Convivio
[first at II.xii.9]). Now it is used a second time
in bono
, here referring to Dante’s new “lady,” the Virgin. Unlike the last one, this ocular gesture does not reflect the rejection of one lady in favor of another. In Heaven there may be no marrying, but there is no limit to the number of objects of one’s affection.
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1.
   
The opening verse of this canto has caused considerable difficulty. Without reviewing the various responses (for which see Scartazzini [comm. to this verse]), we should say that we have followed fairly freely Scartazzini’s basic understanding, which takes “affetto” as being, here, a Latinism, formed out of the past participle (
adfectus
) of the deponent verb
adficior
(influence), and thus, loosely here, “intent upon” or “absorbed in.” As for the noun
piacer
, we take it here not as “beauty” but as Bernard’s “delight” in Mary. See also Tozer (comm. to vv. 1–2).

Perhaps the most compelling gloss to this opening word of the canto is found in Aversano’s commentary (Aver.2000.2), p. 165. He, as did several modern commentators before him (e.g., Mestica and Mattalia [comms. to this verse]), traces the source of
affetto
to the past participle of the verb
afficere
, with the resulting sense of being affixed, or conjoined. Aversano attributes this sense of the word to St. Bernard on two occasions (
PL
CLXXXIII.1297, CLXXXIII.1384).
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2–3.
   Porena (comm. to vv. 1–2) suggests that Bernard does not interrupt his personal adoration of Mary in order to carry out his new responsibility, as
doctor
(teacher), but names the inhabitants of the Rose from memory. This task, along with allied concerns, will occupy vv. 4–87 of the canto.

As Aversano points out, the adjective
santo
(holy) occurs more often in this canto than in any other. In fact, it occurs here seven times.
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4–18.
   For discussion of Dante’s choice of the Hebrew women he included in the Rose, see Di Scipio (Disc.1983.2). See also the remarks of Carroll (comm. to vv. 8–10).
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4–6.
   Dante’s use of the trope
hysteron proteron
is widely noticed. It offers an “instant replay” run backward, undoing the universal effect of the wound of Original Sin, incurred by Eve’s eating of the forbidden fruit, when Mary gave birth to Jesus. Mary’s position in the Rose, seated with Eve at her feet, reinforces that understanding.
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