Eager to listen, have been following
Behind my ship, that singing sails along,
Turn back to look again upon your shores;
In losing me, you might yourselves be lost.
The sea I sail has never yet been passed.
Minerva breathes, and pilots me Apollo,
And Muses nine point out to me the Bears.
Ye other few, who have the neck uplifted
Betimes to th' bread of Angels upon which
One liveth here and grows not sated by it,
Well may you launch upon the deep salt-sea
Your vessel, keeping still my wake before you
Upon the water that grows smooth again.
Those glorious ones who unto Colchos passed
Were not so wonder-struck as you shall be,
When Jason they beheld a ploughman made."
(II, 1.)
The song which Dante sings in the Paradiso is the eternal happiness of
man in vision, love and enjoyment united to his Creator. In preparation
for this final consummation the poet, as he ascends to the Empyrean,
gives a most beautiful epitome of the principal mysteries of religion
and of some of the tenets of scholastic philosophy, treating especially
the Fall of Man, Predestination, Free Will, the Redemption, the
Immortality of the Soul and the theory of Human Knowledge. Allegorically
considered, the poem is a veil, under which we see the ideal life of man
upon earth, exercising virtue and gaining virtue's rewards.
To exhibit man's supreme, happiness in the next life, the Christian
poet, insisting that his purpose is the inculcation of truth, both to
save and to adorn the soul, must base his theme upon the doctrines of
the Church. The definition of some of those dogmas Dante anticipated.
All may be summed up in the following statement:
"It is of Catholic faith that the souls of the blessed see God directly
and face to face and this vision is Supernatural; that there are degrees
of this vision, corresponding to the merits of the elect; that to see
God in His Essence, the intellect is supernaturally perfected; that the
Beatific Vision is not deferred to the Day of Judgment, but is possessed
at once after death but the Just, in whom there is no stain of sin or
who have no temporal punishment to be expiated; and, furthermore, that
all human beings at the end of the world will arise with their own
bodies."
How will the poet bring home those incomprehensible truths to his
readers? He has to treat a subject wholly transcendent and supernatural.
Though his vision be celestial, his langauge must be terrestrial. He
must visualize states of the soul which are alien to the eyes of the
body and translate into terms of the senses things which are wholly
non-sensuous. Dante is aware that no poet ever essayed that feat before:
"The sea I sail has never yet been passed." (1, 8.) He knows, also, that
shoals and rocks, seemingly impassable and a sea which may engulf his
genius, are before him. "It is no coastwise voyage for a little barque,
this sea through which the intrepid prow goes cleaving nor for a pilot
who would spare himself." (XXIII, 67.)
And yet he will attempt the impossible, he will endeavor to sing not of
the scenes but of the states of suprasensible spiritual joys--joys which
Bishop Norris says "are without example, above experience and beyond
imagination, for which the whole creation wants a comparison, we an
apprehension and even the word of God, a revelation." Conscious of all
that, Dante confesses the impotency of speech, the inadequacy of memory,
the helplessness of imagination for the task to which he sets himself.
He tells us that the sublime songs of the elect "have lapsed and fallen
out of my memory"--"that to represent and transhumanize in words
impossible were." (I, 71.)
"And what was the sun wherein I entered,
Apparent, not by color, but by light
I, though I call on genius, art and practice
Cannot so tell that it could be imagined."
(X, 41.)
So by the very nature of the subject visualization can be only
partial--only "the shadow of the blessed realm," can be shown. But what
human nature can do, even if its feat seems solitary and unique, Dante
has accomplished in a failure which constitutes the most wonderful
achievement in the domain of the sublime in literature, an achievement
leaving us with a sense of his own ineffable bliss and of the
inexpressible joys of the Elect--an achievement which came to pass, say
some readers, because his poem is an account of a supernatural
vision--and Dante hints that he thinks he was so favored, or because it
is a work to which both heaven and earth have set their hand, showing
him, as Emerson observes, "all imagination," or, as James Russell Lowell
says, "The highest spiritual nature which has expressed itself in
rhythmical form."
There are two methods of representing man's supreme happiness, relative
and absolute: one is to depict nature at her best, untouched by sin, and
to show man free from every defect and blemish, in the full perfection
of his being. Naturally the imagery in this case is the imagery born of
finite human experiences. The other method describes, as we said, not
scenes of happiness but transcendent conditions of the soul as it is
brought into ultimate communion with Supreme Goodness--the finite
possessing and enjoying the Infinite. Here the human mind, let us repeat
it, finds earthly images powerless to translate its thought, for it hath
not entered into the heart of man to conceive the glory of the spiritual
world. These two methods Dante follows successively.
His Eden on the summit of Purgatory is literally the earthly Paradise of
Adam and Eve. It is pictured in moving imagery as man's "native country
of delights," a "lofty garden" of ineffable loveliness, high above all
the physical and moral disturbances of earth, its waters, its winds, its
flowers and its music all coming from supernatural sources, its bliss
springing from the perfect harmony of man's animal, intellectual and
spiritual powers in full and perfect accord with reason. It is Paradise
Regained by man's climbing the mountain of Purgatory, and its
significance is understood if we remember that Dante would teach us
that the present life can be made dual, a life worth while in itself,
full of service and godliness as well as a preparation for the unending
life of Heaven.
For Dante there must be, also, the Celestial Paradise where man's
supernatural destiny will be realized in joys which the eye has not seen
and in music which the ear has not heard. His Paradiso has been called
the Ten Heavens, but in reality there is in his plan only one Heaven,
the Empyrean, the abode of the angels, of the blessed spirits and of
God. It is high above the planets and the stars, beyond time and space.
The Church has never answered the question: Where is Heaven?
Theologians, however, have put forth various opinions. "Some say,"
writes Father Honthein, that "Heaven is everywhere, as God is
everywhere, the blessed being free to move freely in every part of the
universe while still remaining with God and seeing Him everywhere."
Others hold that Heaven is "a special place with definite limits.
Naturally this place is held to exist, not within the earth, but in
accordance with the expressions of Scripture, 'without and beyond its
limits.'" (Cath. Encycl., VII, 170.)
According to Dante's conception, Heaven, being non-spatial and
non-temporal, is not a place but a state of spiritual life. As an aid in
depicting that state he makes use of a unique literary device. He
poetically creates nine Heavens, the Moon, Mercury, Venus, the Sun,
Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, the Fixed Stars, the Primum Mobile or First
Movement. These, according to the Ptolemaic system which our poet
follows, are concentric with the earth, around which as their center
they revolve, while the earth remains fixed and motionless. The motion
of each of these nine spheres, originally coming from the Primum Mobile,
is communicated to it by the love of the angelic guardians, a literal
application of the common saying that "love makes the world go around."
As a poetic fiction necessary for him to enter finally the true Heaven
Dante is required to pass through these nine spheres, the fiction being
used by him as an artist to declare the glories of the heavens and as a
teacher to inculcate doctrines for the instruction and edification of
mankind. In each of the nine Heavens groups of the blessed are
represented as coming to meet him "as he returns to God as to the port
whence (he) set out when (he) first entered upon the sea of this life."
This peerless rhetorical figure is explained in the Banquet, where he
says: "As his fellow-citizens come forth to meet him who returns from a
long journey even before he enters the gates of his city; so to the
noble soul come forth the citizens of the eternal Life." This apparition
of the blessed spirits to greet the mystic traveller as he mounts from
sphere to sphere has several advantages: "it peoples with hosts of
spirits, the immense lonely spaces through which the journey lies"; it
affords the poet the opportunity of asking them "many things which have
great utility and delight"; it finally gives him a sensible sign of the
degree of beatitude which they possess in that realm of many mansions
where each is rewarded according to his merit and capacity, the capacity
of each spirit being in proportion to its degree of knowledge and love.
This is stressed by the poet's representing the apparitions first as
faint yet beautiful outlines of human features, then as ascent is made
to the other Heavens, the spirits make themselves known by increasing
manifestations of light so dazzling finally that the splendor would
blind Dante if his vision were not divinely adapted to its supernatural
needs.
The inequalities of bliss are also symbolized by the sphere in which the
spirits appear to him; those in the sphere of the moon, e.g., are less
favored than those in the Heaven of Mercury. The inequality of merit,
and therefore of reward, is also declared by the difference in both the
quickness of the spirits' movement and their clearness of vision into
the essence of God. The Empyrean, it is worth while repeating, is the
only true Paradise, the nine Heavens being only myths or poetic devices.
If spirits are seen there, they have come forth only from the Empyrean
and will quickly return there after preparing the poet for the eternal
Light of Light.
The materials out of which Dante constructs his Paradiso are not, as we
are already aware, fantastic images such as he employed for the first
two parts of the Divina Commedia, but are things of the spirit, viz.,
knowledge, beauty, faith, love, joy; and he is aided in making visible
those invisible entities of the spiritual life by such intangible things
as sound, motion and light.
Light, indeed, is one of the leading elements in the Paradiso. The poem
begins with a reference to the light of God's glory, and its last line
speaks of "the Love which moves the Sun and the other stars." And
between this beginning and this end in thirty-three cantiche light is
represented not only by degrees of increasing intensity and variety of
unlocked for movements but as surrounding the spirits, living flames,
and constituting, symbolically, the beatitude of Heaven.
Dean Church, in his classic essay on Dante, has a beautiful paragraph
that here calls for quotation: "Light in general is his special and
chosen source of poetic beauty. No poet that we know has shown such
singular sensibility to its varied appearances.... Light everywhere--in
the sky and earth and sea--in the stars, the flames, the lamp, the
gems--broken in the water, reflected from the mirror, transmitted
through the glass, or colored through the edge of the fractured
emerald--dimmed in the mist. The halo, the deep water--streaming through
the rent cloud, glowing in the coal, quivering in the lightning,
flashing in the topaz and the ruby, veiled behind the pure alabaster,
mellowed and clouding itself in the pearl-light contrasted with shadow,
shading off and copying itself in the double rainbow like voice and
echo--light seen within light--light from every source and in all its
shapes illuminates, irradiates, gives glory to the Commedia.... And when
he (Dante) rises beyond the regions of earthly day, light, simple and
unalloyed, unshadowed and eternal, lifts the creations of his thought
above all affinity to time and matter; light never fails him, as the
expression of the gradations of bliss; never reappears the same, never
refuses the new shapes of his invention, never becomes confused or dim,
though it is seldom thrown into distinct figure and still more seldom
colored."
In making light such a central feature of Heaven and symbolically in
identifying light with God and the angels and the blessed, Dante is only
expressing--but expressing beautifully and supremely--the thought which
pagan oracles proclaimed and Holy Writ and the Church made known. From
the earliest ages the sun which vivifies and illuminates the world was
regarded by many nations as the symbol of the Deity--and by still other
nations it was adored. The psalmist, addressing God, says: "Thou art
clothed with light as with a garment." (Ps., CIII, 2.) St. Paul declares
that the Lord of Lords "inhabiteth light inaccessible." (1 Tim., VI,
16.) The Seer of Patmos tells us that the heavenly Jerusalem has no need
of the light of the sun and the moon to shine upon it, "for the glory of
God hath enlightened it and the Lamb is the lamp thereof." (Apoc., XX,
23.) "I am the light of the world," declares Christ, and with that
revelation ringing in his ears the Beloved Disciple does not hesitate to
say: "and this is the declaration which we have heard--that God is
light." (I John, I, 5.) In narrating his vision of Heaven, Ezechial
compares the light emanating from and enveloping the Deity, to fire. "I
saw the likeness as of the appearance of fire, as the appearance of
brightness." (XXIV, 17.) Moses on the mountain saw the Lord in the midst
of fire, and on another mountain Christ, "the brightness of his Father's
glory was transfigured before his apostles and his face did shine as the
Sun and his garments became shining or glittering." (Matt., XVII, 2.)
Small wonder then that the Nicaean creed declares that Christ is "God of
God, Light of light." Not only with God, but with His saints is the idea
of visible light intimately associated. The prophet Daniel tells us
that "They that are learned shall shine as the brightness of the
firmament, and they that instruct many unto justice, as stars to all
eternity." (XII, 3.) And it is Christ Himself who says: "Then shall the
just shine as the sun, in the kingdom of their Father." (Matt., XIII,
43.)
In using such a subtle, dazzling element as light so generally and in
such countless varieties throughout his Paradiso, Dante is exposed to
the danger of palling his readers with brightness and making them lose
interest in things glorious and supernal. But the genius of the man
saves the artist. By a conception of matchless beauty he binds the light
of heaven to the human, making the smile in the eye of his beloved
guide, Beatrice, express his own personal heaven, in the light that
enters his mind and the ardor which quickens his heart. As he mounts
with her the stairway of the heavens leading to the Eternal Palace and
his motion is brought about simply by his gazing into her eyes, she
makes known to him by her increasing brightness both his own mounting
knowledge and his ascent nearer the Empyrean.
As Dante represents the increase of light and love deepening and
expanding in him as he rises empyreanward all by the loved smile of his
beloved Beatrice, it is well that we bear in mind the significance of
the symbolism as expounded by the poet in his Banquet. (III, 15.)
Beatrice being Revelation or Wisdom made known to the world, "in her
face appear things that tell of the pleasures of Paradise and ... the
place wherein this appears is in her eyes and her smile. And here it
should be known that the eyes of Wisdom are the two demonstrations by
which is seen the truth most certainly; and her smile is her persuasion
by which is shown forth the interior light of Wisdom under some veil;
and in these two things is felt the highest pleasure of beatitude, which
is the greatest good of Paradise."
Beatrice--Revealed Truth--remains the poet's guide until he comes to
behold the Beatific Vision. Then, no longer needed, she withdraws in
favor of the contemplative St. Bernard as guide, just as Virgil had
withdrawn when he was powerless and when Beatrice was needed.
The question here presents itself: In what does Dante place the
happiness of Heaven? Does he paint such a Heaven that it shows
principally the rectifications of the inequalities of this life--a
Heaven of such happiness, e.g., that the poor will love poverty or be
resigned to it in the hope of possessing the riches of this Eternity? Is
Dante's Heaven one in which happiness is so alluring that innocence will
gladly submit to calumny and faith will lovingly welcome the sword or
stake, in the certain confidence of gaining unending glory or bliss?
The Paradiso does reward poverty, crown innocence, glorify martyrdom,
but it was never intended to be an account of what takes place in the
real Heaven, or to be a description of the particular acts of goodness
which win Heaven for the soul, or a rapturous picture appealing to the
emotions of the believer and alluring him from earth.
Does Dante place the happiness of Heaven in the bliss and glorification
of family reunion?
He is too good a theologian to place the essential happiness of Heaven
merely in the joy of family reunion. He does not ignore that feature of
eternity, but he does not stress it, because temperamentally he is moved
less by sentiment of family and ties of friendship than by his curiosity
for knowledge, by his yearnings to behold Eternal Wisdom. Only once does
he mention Heaven as the state of reunion of families and friends, and
that is when he comments upon the action of the twenty-three spirits in
the Heaven of the Sun, in expressing their agreement with Soloman's
discourse as to the participation which the human body will have, after
the Resurrection in the glories of Paradise:
"So ready and so cordial an Amen
Follow'd from either choir, as plainly spoke
Desire of their dead bodies; yet perchance
Not for themselves, but for their kindred dear,
Mothers and sires and those whom best they loved,
Ere they were made imperishable flames."
(XIV, 65.)
For Dante, Heaven must be the beatitude of the intellect and that
primarily by the intellect's having an intuition full of joy in the
Divine Essence, and secondly by its possessing full light on all those
vexatious problems and mysteries which baffle us in this life.
"Well I perceive that never sated is
Our intellect unless Truth illumines it,
Beyond which nothing true expands itself.
It rests therein, as wild beast in his lair
When it attains it and it can attain it."
(IV, 125.)
In insisting upon the power of the mind to know the truth and to find
perfect happiness in the supernatural act of beholding God face to face,
Dante is not in agreement with Pragmatism, Hegelianism and the "new
Realist" theory--all which make truth elusive to the mind; but he is in
full accord with the teaching of the Catholic Church, which defends the
rights of reason holding, e.g., that "by the natural light of reason
God can be known with certainty, by means of created things" (Vatican
Council), and proclaiming that "all the saints in Heaven have seen and
do see the Divine Essence by direct intuition and face to face in such
wise that nothing created intervenes as an object of vision; ... that
the Divine Essence presents itself to their immediate gaze, unveiled,
clearly and openly; that in this vision they enjoy the Divine Essence,
and in virtue of this vision and this enjoyment they are truly blessed
and possess eternal life and eternal rest." (Benedict XII, Cath.
Encycl., VII, 171.)
It is interesting to see how Dante's Master, St. Thomas Aquinas,
demonstrates the proposition that the beatitude of man consists in the
vision of the Divine Essence. With his usual lucidity of thought he
writes: "The last and perfect happiness of man cannot be otherwise than
in the vision of the Divine Essence. In evidence of this statement two
points are to be considered: first, that man is not perfectly happy so
long as there remains anything for him to desire and seek; secondly,
that the perfection of every power is determined by the nature of its
object. Now the object of the intellect is the essence of a thing; hence
the intellect attains to perfection so far as it knows the Essence of
what is before it. And therefore, when a man knows an effect and knows
that it has a cause, there is in him an outstanding natural desire of
knowing the essence of the cause. If, therefore, a human intellect knows
the essence of a created effect without knowing aught of God beyond the
fact of His existence, the perfection of that intellect does not yet
adequately reach the First Cause, but the intellect has an outstanding
natural desire of searching into the said Cause; hence it is not yet
perfectly happy. For perfect happiness, therefore, it is necesary that
the intellect shall reach as far as the very essence of the First
Cause." (Rickaby, Aquinas Ethicus I, 2 q., 3 a, 8.)
This masterly exposition is after all only the philosophical development
of what every Catholic child learns from one of the first questions of
the little Catechism: "Why did God make you? God made me to know Him, to
love Him, and to serve Him in this life, and to be happy with Him
forever in the next." With the satisfaction of the intellect's boundless
yearning for knowledge attained by intuition of the Essence of God, a
consummation that will somewhat deify us--"Who shall be made like to
him, because we shall see him as he is" (I John, III, 2.), the happiness
of man will be primarily intellectual, being as Dante beautifully says:
"Light intellectual full of love, love of the true good, full of joy,
joy that transcendeth all sweetness." (XXX, 40.)
His Heaven, then, is no Nirvana, for each spirit will for eternity have
its individuality, and its activity will be unremitting in seeing God
face to face--a vision that will cause the spirit increasing wonder in
an act that will have no flagging nor satiety. "What, after all, is
Heaven," says Bulwer Lytton, "but a transition from dim guesses to the
fullness of wisdom, from ignorance to knowledge, but knowledge of what
order?" To that exclamation of the nineteenth century writer the
medieval seer answers with conviction that the _summum bonum_ is to be
found only in the intellect's attaining Truth.
Let us now join Dante in his mystic journey to the Heavenly Kingdom. We
left him after three days and three nights in Purgatory, standing with
Beatrice on the summit of the mountain in the Earthly Paradise, where he
remained six hours. At noon he begins his ascent through space, a feat
accomplished by Beatrice's looking up to the Heavens and by Dante's
fixing his eyes upon her. At once his human nature is supposed to take
on agility, the supernatural quality which makes the body independent of
space, and he begins to rise with incomprehensible velocity. Though they
are travelling without conscious movement at the rate of 84,000 miles a
second, there is time for Dante's mind to operate in desire to know how
he can ascend counter to gravitation and for Beatrice to discourse upon
the law--Dante's invention--of universal (material and spiritual)
gravitation.
"The newness of the sound and the great light
Kindled in me a longing for their cause
Never before with such acuteness felt.
And she began: 'Thou makest thyself so dull
With false imagining, that thou sees not
What thou wouldst see if thou hadst shaken it off.
Thou are not upon earth as thou believest;
But lightning, fleeing its appropriate site,
Ne'er ran as thou, who thitherward returnest.'"
(I, 88.)
She explains the order established by Providence by force of which
created beings seek their natural habitat, earthly things being
attracted downward, spiritual entities being drawn upward irresistibly
if they do not oppose this innate inclination to good. "It is as natural
for a man purged of all evil to ascend to God," she declares, "as it is
for a stream from a mountain height to fall into a valley."