INFERNO

...this contemplation. Two things are noted about the Mountain: it is elevated and closer to heaven. This admonishes us that all our inquiry and research should be concerning high and celestial things, and not the lowest and earthly ones. Likewise, it is steep because one does not arrive at such contemplation without difficulty. Nor has this poet alone used the mountain to represent such contemplation; many writers of sacred letters also place it in a similar figure, especially the poetic prophet David in the psalm where he says: original Latin: "Quis ascendet in monte domini aut quis stabit in loco sancto eius." "Who shall ascend the mountain of the Lord, or truly, who shall stand in his holy place?" He asks nothing else but who shall arrive at this knowledge. He ascended the mountain with the aid of the sun, which showed it to him; for without the sun—that is, without Reason, which is the true guide of human virtue and the queen of our aid—one cannot perceive the path that leads us to contemplation. This sun is that which conducts us to salvation through every path, which is to say, every way. For none of our actions can be perfect if reason does not show it to us and judge it to be so. Nor can a person in any way operate in the active life or investigate in the contemplative life in a form that achieves the proper end, except through reason. We shall treat this more distinctly when the occasion arises. Nor is it a new thing for him to place the sun for reason, as it is also found among sacred writers: original Latin: "ne occidat sol super iracundiam vestram." "let not the sun go down upon your wrath."

THEN the fear was somewhat quieted: excellently put, because when reason begins to shine within us to show us the mountain—that is, the road that goes to the end of salvation—fear does not cease entirely. For although we have seen the way, we are not yet upon it. Nonetheless, the mind is somewhat appeased, and fear diminishes, because hope of being able to arrive at the end is born in us, seeing now the true way.

WHICH IN THE LAKE of my heart had endured: The human heart has three ventricles. In the middle one, nourishment reaches its perfection. And of the two extremes, one is the receptacle of the blood, which it draws from the liver; the other is the receptacle of the spirit, drawn from the lungs. In the heart is the principle of life. And because the spirit—which, like a craftsman, forms the limbs—would perish as soon as it is created if it did not have a certain seat in which it could receive the increase of its essence and generation, the heart is created in the body of the animal before any other member as the seat of the spirit. All principal heat and virtue come from the heart; hence, according to the quality and quantity of the heart, greatness of soul is born, and likewise timidity. We have disputed this more prolixly in our second dialogue On the Soul, written in the Latin language. And for this reason, the poet said "in the lake of the heart." Note that this fear lasted a great while, from the time he noticed he was off the true path until the sun gave him hope of being able to return to it.

THE NIGHT: That is, all the past age which, deprived of the light of reason and obscured by ignorance, is deservedly called "night."

ANGUISH [PIETA]: Lamentation. It is first to be noted that in the Florentine language, one finds pietà with a grave accent on the last syllable, meaning "compassion" In modern Italian, pietà means pity or mercy.; as below, "Here pity lives when it is well dead." A reference to Inferno XX, 28, where Dante plays on the double meaning of pietà as pity and piety. Likewise, pieta with an acute accent on the penultimate syllable means "lamentation" apt to move one to compassion, and it is in this sense the poet uses it here. Nor is it without reason that he says THE NIGHT I passed with such anguish: because he wants to demonstrate that when he realized he had lost the way, he grieved for it. And by this, we understand that although he was in vice, he had not yet made a firm habit of it; therefore, he could more easily extricate himself from it. He was, then, not intemperate, but incontinent.

So that this may be more clearly understood, let us say there is a virtue called temperance; in which one who has formed a habit is restrained and abstains from every pleasure and vicious, dishonest lust, such that no difficulty hinders him, nor is abstaining troublesome to him. Likewise, one who has formed a habit in the vice of intemperance gives himself entirely to a lascivious and voluptuous life, and to every lust without any hindrance of shame or remorse of conscience. And for this, we say that the former is true virtue and the latter, intemperance, is true vice, because in each there is a "habit," without which there can be neither virtue nor vice. But before a man contracts such habits of temperance or intemperance, we have two dispositions through which we slip into the habit. One leads us to virtue and is called continence. For the continent person wants to abstain from a lascivious life, but he does not restrain himself without great effort because he has not yet formed the habit of temperance. But persevering in this continence through long practice, he forms a habit and thereafter restrains himself without difficulty; he is no longer "continent," but "temperate." The other leads us to vice. For the incontinent person also would prefer not to fall into vice and fights against lust just as the continent person fought; but he does not conquer it as the continent person does, but lets himself be conquered. And after many times, he forms a habit in lust and no longer fights, but willingly follows it and becomes intemperate.

Therefore, following the fiction of Virgil, Dido in the beginning when she saw Aeneas was temperate, and willingly and without effort abstained from all lasciviousness. Hence he says: original Latin: "Tum breviter Dido vultu demissa profatur" "Then briefly Dido, with eyes downcast, speaks." Afterward, after the banquet, beginning now to incline toward love, from temperate she became continent; for as the flames grew, she inclined toward love, but even though it was difficult for her, she nonetheless abstained from lustful acts. Therefore she was no longer temperate, but had become continent, and fought with vice but still conquered it. Wherefore she says: original Latin: "Si mihi non animo fixum immotumque sederet / Ne cui me vinclo vellem sociare iugali / Huic uni forsan potui succumbere culpae" "If it were not fixed and unmovable in my mind / that I would not wish to join myself to any in the bond of marriage / perhaps I could have succumbed to this one fault." And a little further down: original Latin: "Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae" "I recognize the traces of the old flame." She is, then, buffeted by love, but still conquers it. Wherefore she concludes that she would rather be struck by Jove's lightning than violate her chastity. But not much later, she becomes incontinent. For as love continued to torment her, she finally let herself be conquered, though unwillingly, especially by the persuasions of her sister. Nor did she stop falling to the bottom until she became intemperate, because having now formed a habit in lasciviousness, she willingly gave herself to it. This the poet shows by saying: original Latin: "Nec iam furtivum Dido meditatur amorem" "No longer does Dido contemplate a secret love." You see, then, what things are Temperance, Continence, Incontinence, and Intemperance. Therefore, returning to the subject, Dante was not intemperate because he had not made a habit of vice, but incontinent because although he fought with vice, he nonetheless allowed himself to be conquered.

And as he who, with panting breath,
having escaped from the deep sea to the shore,
turns to the dangerous water and gazes;
So my mind, which was still fleeing,
turned back to look again upon the pass
that never yet left any person alive.
After I had rested my weary body a little,
I took up my way again across the deserted slope,
so that the firm foot was always the lower one.

AN excellent comparison and true similitude: that having exited the forest, he looked back at the forest, considering the danger into which he had run, no differently than a man does who, having been shipwrecked and finally brought to shore, looks back at the sea and considers the grave danger he escaped. And truly, the soul is in no less vexation and agitation when, having lost every rudder and sail of reason, it is transported by the impetuous waves of the sea—that is, by furious perturbations and passions that proceed from appetite and sensuality. These cause it to break upon the rocks of vice, from which one can bring oneself to shore only with the greatest difficulty. And certainly, while our soul, having lost its reason, is transported by disordered appetite—whether by vain joy, or grave sorrow, or too much fear, or immeasurable greed—it is like a ship in a heavy storm. This I demonstrated quite clearly in my Camaldolese Disputations in the allegory of the Virgilian storm.