Refreshment and Rebirth
Canto I of Purgatorio
Friends,
When we last left Dante-pilgrim and Virgil, they had just reemerged from their infernal sojourn to see the stars once again. After traveling nearly all night—from deepest Judecca in icy Cocytus, across Satan’s lower body past the center of the earth, through a long tunnel by a little stream, up a round opening to the clear surface—they are exhausted and filthy, but grateful and relieved. They are also somewhere new: the Mountain of Purgatory, at the Antipodes of Jerusalem, in the Southern Hemisphere. This will provide the setting for Purgatorio, the second canticle of The Divine Comedy. At the start of today’s canto, Dante-poet sets the stage in an exordium that offers an orientation toward what awaits us in this realm (lines 1-18).
To course across better waters
the little boat of my wit now lifts her sails,
leaving behind a sea so cruel,
and I will sing of that second kingdom,
where the human spirit is purged of sin
and becomes worthy to ascend to Heaven.
But here may dead poetry rise again,
O holy Muses, since I am yours;
and may Calliope rise somewhat here,
accompanying my song with that music
of which the poor Magpies felt such a blow
that they despaired of pardon.
The gentle hue of eastern sapphire
in which the sky’s serenity was steeped—
its aspect pure as far as the horizon—
brought back joy to my eyes again
as I had left behind the dead air
that had afflicted with sorrow my eyes and breast.
Even amidst the formal elements of these opening lines (the articulation of the subject matter, followed by the invocation of the Muses) there is a feeling of lightness and vibrancy that wells up into hope. Poetry, beauty, joy, even the air itself—all of these have, in a real sense, risen from the dead. They now replace the distorted confusion, brutish ugliness, agonizing despair, and stifling atmosphere of Hell. They thus reflect and imitate, and in a way participate in, the resurrection of Christ, just like Dante-pilgrim does. If you’ll recall, he entered Hell’s Gate on the evening of Good Friday and spent all of Holy Saturday traversing its nine circles. Now, he has resurfaced right before dawn on Easter Sunday.
While Dante takes in this stunning view, which includes stars that he has never observed in the Northern Hemisphere, he sees an old man approach. The majority of the canto is devoted to narrating a conversation (conducted by Virgil) with this as-yet-unidentified figure, whose stately appearance immediately inspires reverence. But their encounter does not get off to a great start, for he thinks that Dante and Virgil are trespassers who have unlawfully escaped from the damnation that they still deserve. Therefore, he wants to know who they are, how they got from Hell to Purgatory (logistically), and how they think they’re going to move forward (legally).
As usual, Virgil is the one who responds to a challenge regarding their authorization. First, he forcefully pushes the pilgrim to his knees, gesturing for him to bow his head. Then, he addresses each of the items of concern that their interrogator has identified: they are traveling with divine sanction, having been directly commissioned by a heavenly lady; one of them is a living man who was in dire need of serious instruction, and the other is his virtuous pagan spirit guide; and their precise path to their present location (the next stage of the required lesson) was the necessary one, though telling the full details of their journey would be a long story!
So far, so good: Virgil has effectively given an admirable summary of all the essential information. Yet he opts to continue beyond this initial task. Having discerned the identity of the elderly patriarch—Cato the Younger, the great orator, moralist, and public official who remained loyal to the Roman Republic until the bitter end—he now attempts to curry further favor through flattery. First, Virgil appeals to their shared values, drawing a connection between Cato’s zeal for political freedom and Dante’s pursuit of moral freedom: “Now may it please you to approve his coming; he goes in search of liberty—so precious, as he who gives his life for it must know” (70-72). Then, he mentions that Limbo is his usual place of residence, and that one of his neighbors there is Cato’s wife, Marcia: “for her love, then, incline to us. Allow our journey through your seven realms. I shall bring back kind greetings from you to her” (81-83).
Virgil is laying it on pretty thick here, but before we hear Cato’s response, I think it is appropriate to wonder at the sheer surprise of Cato’s presence. There are three reasons why that should shock us:
First, Cato was not a Christian. He was a Stoic philosopher who lived before the incarnation. This means that, according to the logic that we’ve seen at work throughout Inferno, the best that he should be able to hope for is a spot in Limbo with the other virtuous pagans.
Furthermore, Cato engaged in vehement opposition to the rise of Julius Caesar, whom Dante-person considered to be the second-most important human being in history (after Jesus Christ). The last time that we witnessed other opponents of Caesar, it was a gruesome spectacle (Brutus and Cassius, alongside Judas Iscariot, were being chewed up by the Devil). This would not seem to bode well for Cato.
Finally, and most importantly, Cato’s life ended by his own hand. When it became clear that Caesar would win the Roman civil war, therefore ending the republic, Cato preferred suicide to begging for amnesty from a man whom he considered a tyrant. For all that we know, then, he should be doomed to the seventh circle’s wood of poisoned thorns with others who committed violence against themselves.
Yet none of these tragic fates has come to pass for Cato. Indeed, quite the opposite is the case: not only has he not been damned, but he has actually been granted a role of immense honor as the superintendent over Purgatory. It seems that Dante-person both admired his many virtues and considered his death to be a matter of self-sacrifice on behalf of many others. In his estimation, then, Cato prefigured Christ, and Cato was one of the souls whom Christ rescued during the Harrowing of Hell.
Back to the conversation: Cato responds to Virgil by acknowledging the bond that he shared with Marcia during their life together. He clarifies, however, that those days are over. Because they now reside in different realms, she can no longer affect him in any way. In any case, the heavenly warrant conferred on them by Beatrice is good enough for him. Cato chides that “there is no need for flattery” (92). Virgil has badly miscalculated; he should have known that someone of such steadfast character and moral probity would not be swayed by any kind of cheap rhetorical trick.
Cato gives them instructions on how to prepare for the ascent and what path to take forward. Then, he disappears. Chastened, Virgil reasserts his own authority: “Son, follow my steps” (112). Together, they make their way down to the sea, where a bunch of rushes are planted in the soft mud. Virgil wets his hands in the morning dew and tenderly wipes away the hellish grime from Dante’s tear-stained face. Finally, he plucks a rush and girds it around Dante (finally replacing the belt that had been sacrificed to summon Geryon for the terrifying ride to Malebolge). The canto then ends with a minor, but nonetheless marvelous, miracle: “Oh wonder! For as he plucked the humble plant, it was suddenly reborn, identical, where he had uprooted it” (134-136). It is yet another hopeful sign—even the flora of Purgatory participates in the renewal made possible by the resurrection of Christ.
We’re off to a good start. For now, let’s rest and delight in the unexpected joys that greet us. We’ll pick up at Purgatorio Canto 2 on Wednesday.
Yours on the journey,
Joshua
“On a Drop of Dew” by Andrew Marvell (1681)
See how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where ’twas born
Round in itself incloses:
And in its little globe’s extent,
Frames as it can its native element.
How it the purple flow’r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies,
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and unsecure,
Trembling lest it grow impure,
Till the warm sun pity its pain,
And to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flow’r be seen,
Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,
And recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away:
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day,
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go,
How girt and ready to ascend,
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna’s sacred dew distill,
White and entire, though congealed and chill,
Congealed on earth: but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of th’ almighty sun.
Cato’s philosophical commitment and ongoing legacy
It really is very pleasant to be out of hell! 😊