The Inferno

by Dante

  151. Francesco de’ Cavalcanti (the identification is not certain) who, murdered by inhabitants of the town of Gaville, in the upper Arno valley, was avenged by his relations. [return to English / Italian]

  ENDNOTE: TABLE OF METAMORPHOSES, INFERNO XXIV & XXV

  Vanni Fucci Agnello & Cianfa Buoso & Francesco

  (XXIV.97–120) (XXV.49–78) (XXV.79–141)

  serpent bites neck and shoulders from rear six-footed serpent bites head from in front four-footed serpent bites belly from front

  burns to ashes and returns in same nature immediately turn into a new creature of shared nature exchange their natures

  resurrection mutation transmutation

  three comparisons: three comparisons: three comparisons:

  o/i ivy on tree lizard in path

  phoenix hot waxes blending man in sleep/fever

  epileptic burning parchment snail’s horns

  Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theol. II, II, q. 66, a. 6: on aggravated theft, cited by Filomusi Guelfi (Filo.1911.1), pp. 199–206:

  Sacrilegio: theft of church property Peculato: theft of goods commonly held Plagio: theft from fellow men

  INFERNO XXVI

  1–3. Matching the ironic apostrophe of Pistoia that follows the departure of Vanni Fucci in the last canto, vv. 10–12, this one of Florence comes in the wake of the poem’s departure from the five Florentine thieves. The image of Florence as winged has caused some puzzlement. While commentators, beginning perhaps with Scartazzini/Vandelli, point out that Dante’s words most probably echo the Latin inscription, dating to 1255, on the façade of the Florentine Palazzo del Podestà, proclaiming that Florence is in possession of the sea, the land, indeed the entire world, we are still left to speculate on Dante’s reasons for presenting her as winged. Whatever his reason, we might want to reflect that he thought of himself as the “wingèd one” because of the easy pun available from his surname, Alighieri, in Latin “aliger” (wingèd). See Shan.1975.1 and Shan.1977.1. In this canto the apostrophized city and the seafaring Ulysses are both associated with “wings” (“in our mad flight we turned our oars to wings” [v. 125]); at least intrinsically, the protagonist is also. He is on a better-purposed “flight.” For these motifs and another related one see Corti (Cort.1990.1). [return to English / Italian]

  7. The text alludes to the classical and medieval belief that morning dreams were more truthful in their content than any others. Guido da Pisa is the first (but hardly the last) to refer to a text in Ovid to this effect (Heroides XIX.195–196). On the subject see Speroni’s article (Sper.1948.1). And see, for the same view of morning dreams, Purgatorio IX.16–18. [return to English / Italian]

  8–12. The passage about Prato has caused two interpretive problems: (1) Does it refer to the anger felt by Cardinal Niccolò da Prato when he failed to bring peace between the warring Florentine factions in 1304, or to the rebellion of the town of Prato in 1309, when Florence’s small neighbor cast out its Black Guelphs? (2) Is Dante heartened or heartsick as he contemplates this “future” event?

  It was only in the eighteenth century that a commentator suggested a reference to the cardinal (Venturi). Further, since the second event was probably roughly contemporaneous to the writing of this canto, it seems likely that Dante would have enjoyed having so recent a piece of news as confirmation of his “prophecy.” As to his emotions, it seems more reasonable to reflect that Dante is admitting that he will only be happy once the power of the Black Guelphs of Florence is destroyed; he is in pain as he awaits that liberation. In other words, this is not an expression of sadness for the city’s coming tribulation, but a desire to see them come to pass—and that is the common view of the early commentators. [return to English / Italian]

  14. While we do not believe that Dante says here what Petrocchi says he does, we have, as always, followed his text, which reads iborni (pallid, the color and coolness of ivory) and not, as the text had previously stood, i borni (the outcroppings of the rocks). In our opinion the “old” reading is the superior one. Instead of “on those stairs that turned us pale when we came down” we would say “on the stairs the jutting rocks had made for our descent.” [return to English / Italian]

  19–24. According to Pertile (Pert.1979.1), those who propose a negative view of Ulysses fail to acknowledge the importance of these verses, which reveal the poet’s sympathy for the Greek hero even now as he writes of him. He cites (p. 37) Ovid (Metam. XIII.135–139) in support of his argument. However, that text offers Ulysses’ vaunt of his own worthiness to receive the arms of Achilles (denying the claims of Ajax), and the entire passage gives us the portrait of a figure full of pride and self-love. See Hollander (Holl.1969.1), pp. 115–16, arguing that Dante, in this passage, is fully conscious of his previous “Ulyssean” efforts, undertaken by his venturesome and prideful intellect, and now hopes to keep them under control. Castelvetro’s reading of the passage is in this vein; according to him the poet grieves “for having improperly put to use my genius.” Dante hopes, in other words, to be exactly unlike Ulysses. [return to English / Italian]

  25–30. The first of two elaborate similes in prologue to the appearance of Ulysses deals with the number of false counselors: they are as numerous as fireflies. Dante, as peasant (il villano) resting on his hillside (poggio—Frankel [Fran.1986.1, pp. 102–5], contrasts his “humble” hillock with Ulysses’ “prideful” mountain [v. 133]), looks out upon this valley full of fireflies. This peaceful scene lulls many readers into a sort of moral exemption for Ulysses; if he looks so pleasant, how can he be seen as sinful? In fact, the distancing effect of the simile makes Ulysses seem small and relatively insignificant. We can imagine how he might feel, told that he had been compared to a firefly.

  Many readers are rightly reminded of the previous simile involving a rustic (lo villanello) at Inferno XXIV.7–15. [return to English / Italian]

  31. For the flames as reminiscent of the Epistle of James (3:4–6) see Bates and Rendall (Bate.1989.1) and Cornish (Corn.1989.1): “Behold also the ships, which though they be so great, and are driven by fierce winds, yet are turned about with a very small helm, wherever the steersman pleases. Even so the tongue is a little member, and boasts many things. Behold how great a matter a little fire kindles! And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the tongue among our members, that it defiles the whole body, and sets on fire the course of nature, and it is set on fire of hell.” Pietro di Dante was the first to cite this passage in connection with Dante’s description of the flames here. [return to English / Italian]

  34–42. The second Ulyssean simile describes the flame-wrapped appearance of Ulysses in terms of Elijah’s fiery ascent to heaven. Perhaps the first extended discussion of the biblical text behind the passage was offered by Frankel (Fran. 1986.1), pp. 110–16, who argues that, while Elijah is seen as antithetical to Ulysses (see Cass.1984.1, pp. 88–93), Dante is also seen as related to the negative aspect of Elisha (his pride in taking on the prophet’s mantle)—see II Kings 2:9–12. She is answered by Ferretti Cuomo (Ferr. 1995.1), who sees Elisha as only a positive figure of Dante, similarly accepting his role as successor prophet. For the same view see Hollander (Holl. 1969.1), p. 117.

  Elisha was avenged by the bears in that the forty-two children who mocked his prophetic calling, addressing him as “Baldy” (calve), were attacked and lacerated by two bears (II Kings 2:23–24). Dante refers to this incident in Epistle VI.16. [return to English / Italian]

  43–45. The protagonist’s excitement at the prospect of seeing Ulysses is evident (Ulysses has not been identified yet, but the poet seems to be taking a liberty in allowing his character to fathom who is about to appear). In his reckless abandon to gain experience of this great sinner, he resembles Ulysses himself. [return to English / Italian]

  48. Virgil’s point seems to be that each of the flame-enclosed sinners is covered by the external sign of their inner ardor, their longing to captivate the minds of those upon whom they practiced their fraudulent work. [r
eturn to English / Italian]

  52–54. Almost all commentators point to the passage in Statius’s Thebaid (XII. 429–432) that describes the immolation of the corpses of the two warring brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, whose enmity was the root of the civil war in Thebes and is manifest now even in their death, as the smoke from their burning bodies will not join. Among the early commentators only Pietro di Dante noticed that the same scene is reported in similar ways in Lucan as well (Phars. I.551–552). [return to English / Italian]

  55–57. Ulysses and Diomedes are clearly indicated as suffering the punishment of God for their fraudulent acts; yet this indictment has not kept readers from admiring them—or at least Ulysses. Perhaps the central problem in the large debate that has surrounded Dante’s version of the Greek hero in the last century-and-a-half is how sympathetically we are meant to respond to him. To put that another way, what is the nature of Ulysses’ sin, and how urgently is it meant to govern the reader’s sense of his worth? And a further complication is of more recent vintage: what should we make of the at least apparent similarity between Ulysses and Dante himself? Chiavacci Leonardi has made a useful distinction between the two essential attitudes that distinguish divergent readings of the undoubtedly heroic figure (Chia.1991.1, p. 762): (1) Ulysses is marked by greatness; he is unfortunate but guiltless; (2) he is characterized by the sin of pride, like Adam. For an example of the first view see Francesco De Sanctis in 1870: Dante “erects a statue to this precursor of Christopher Columbus, a pyramid set in the mud of hell” (DeSa.1949.1), pp. 201–2. For similar views see Croce (Croc.1921.1), p. 98, and Fubini (Fubi.1966.1). Attilio Momigliano, in his comment to vv. 64–69, throws all caution to the wind. He complains that the first sixty-three verses of the canto are too dry and erudite. Now that Ulysses is on the scene, we breathe the air of true and enthusiastic poetry. “Appearances notwithstanding,” he says, “Dante not only does not condemn the fraudulent acts of Ulysses and Diomedes, he exalts them.” The negative view in modern discussions was enunciated clearly by Bruno Nardi (Nard.1942.1). See also Wilhelm (Wilh.1960.1); Padoan (Pado.1977.1); Hollander (Holl.1969.1), pp. 114–23; Scott (Scot.1971.1); Iannucci (Iann.1976.1). Recently a third “school” has opened its doors, one that finds Ulysses less than totally admirable and yet associated with Dante, who presents himself, just beneath the lines of his text, as a trespassing voyager himself. See Mazzotta (Mazz.1975.1), p. 41; Stierle (Stie.1988.1); Barolini (Baro.1992.1), passim; Bloom (Bloo.1994.1), pp. 85–89. For a rejoinder to the position of these critics see Stull and Hollander (Stul.1991.1 [1997]), pp. 43–52. [return to English / Italian]

  58–63. Virgil lists the sins of the two heroes: the stratagem of the troop-hiding Trojan horse (with which Ulysses, if not Diomedes, is associated in Virgil, Aen. II); Ulysses’ trickery in getting Achilles to join the war against Troy, thus abandoning, on the isle of Scyros, his beloved Deidamia (as recounted in Statius’s unfinished Achilleid), who subsequently died of grief at the news of his death in Troy; the joint adventure in which they stole the Palladium, image of Athena, a large wooden statue, in return for which the horse served as a fraudulent peace-offering (Aen. II.163–169). Those who, like Momigliano, believe that the fraudulent acts of Ulysses and Diomedes are exalted by Dante, should be reminded that Virgil, in the Aeneid, is pretty hard on them. Diomedes, for his part in the theft of the Palladium, is impious (impius—Aen. II.163) while Ulysses is called an “inventor of crimes” (scelerum … inventor—Aen. II.164). It seems more than likely that Dante would have shared Virgil’s views of these matters. For the recovery of the notion, widespread in the ancient commentators, that Ulysses is best described as “astutus” (in the sense of possessing low cunning) see Kay.1980.1; Aher.1982.1.

  Sources for Dante’s Ulysses are found nearly everywhere, so much so that one has a feeling that more are called than should be chosen: Virgil (Loga.1964.1; Pado.1977.1; Thom.1967.1, pp. 44–46; Thom.1974.1, pp. 52–61); Ovid (Pico.1991.2); Persius (Chie.1998.1); Statius’s Achilleid (Pado.1977.1, pp. 173–76; Hage.1997.1); Lucan (Stul.1991.1); Tacitus (VonR.1986.2); the Alexander cycle (Aval.1966.1; VonR.1986.1); as built on negative correspondences with Moses (Porc.1997.1, pp. 20–25). There are of course many more. For three Latin passages (from Cicero, Horace, and Seneca) that may have helped shape Dante’s conception of Ulysses see Singleton’s comment to vv. 90–120.

  For the vast bibliography of work devoted to Dante’s Ulysses see Cass.1981.1 and Seri.1994.1, pp. 155–91. [return to English / Italian]

  64–69. Now that Dante knows that the flame contains Ulysses, his ardor to hear him speak is nearly overwhelming. [return to English / Italian]

  70–75. See Donno (Donn.1973.1) for the notion that here Virgil actually speaks Greek (if not assuming the role of Homer, as some have argued) because of a fable, which Dante might have known, that had it that Diomedes, forced back into wandering when his homecoming is ruined by news of his wife’s infidelity, went off to Daunia (Apulia?) and eventually died thereabouts. Some of the birds that dwelled there became known as “Diomedian birds.” Their main trait was to be hostile to all barbarians and friendly to all Greeks (pp. 30–31). On the basis of this fable, Donno argues, Virgil chooses to address Diomedes and Ulysses in Greek. The argument may be forced, but it is interesting. The passage is puzzling and its difficulty is compounded by what is found at Inferno XXVII.20, when Guido da Montefeltro says that he has heard Virgil speaking Lombard dialect to Ulysses. [return to English / Italian]

  79–84. Virgil identifies himself as Ulysses’ (and Diomedes’) “author.” Now this is strictly true, since both of them appear (if rather unfavorably) in the Aeneid. Nonetheless, one can understand why some commentators have imagined that Virgil is pretending to be Homer as he addresses Ulysses and Diomedes. However, that he refers to his work as li alti versi (“my lofty verses”) probably connects with his earlier description of his Aeneid, “l’alta mia tragedìa” (my lofty tragedy), at Inferno XX.113. It seems most sensible to believe that Virgil is speaking whatever language he usually speaks. [return to English / Italian]

  90–93. Ulysses’ speech begins, like classical epic, in medias res (in the midst of the action, i.e., not at its beginning). Dante would seem to be portraying him as the author of his own self-celebrating song, a “mini-epic,” as it were. He makes it sound as though staying with Circe, the enchantress, were less culpable than it probably was, in Dante’s eyes. His next gesture is to boast that he had come to Gaeta before Aeneas did, which city Aeneas names after his dead nurse, who died and was buried there (Aen. VII.2). Thus does Ulysses put himself forward as a rivalrous competitor of Virgil’s hero. [return to English / Italian]

  94–99. Ulysses’ aim, to discover the truth about the world and about mankind, sounds acceptable or even heroic to many contemporary readers. When we examine the prologue to this thought, in which he denies his family feeling for Telemachus, Laertes, and Penelope in order to make his voyage, we may begin to see the inverted parallelism to the hero whom he would emulate and best, Aeneas, loyal to Ascanius, Anchises, and Creusa. If Ulysses is venturesome, Aeneas is, as Virgil hardly tires of calling him, pius, a “family man” if ever there was one. [return to English / Italian]

  100–111. He and his crew of aging, tired sailors head out across the Mediterranean from Italy and reach the gates of Hercules, the very sign, even as Ulysses reports it, of the end of the known world. While Dante does not refer to it (nor to the previous voyages of Marco Polo), a number of recent commentators speculate that he was aware of the voyage of the Vivaldi brothers in 1291. They, in search of India, sailed out through the Strait of Gibraltar, having passed Spain and Africa, and were never heard from again. [return to English / Italian]

  112–113. It is a commonplace in the commentaries to believe that the opening words of Ulysses’ speech to his men reflect the first words of Aeneas to his men (Aen. I.198). Several, however, also refer to the similar passage in Lucan (Phars. I.299), but without making any further case for Lucan
’s greater appositeness here. Stull and Hollander (Stul.1991.1), pp. 8–12, argue that Caesar’s infamous words to his men, urging them to march on Rome, are cited far more precisely: the phrase “che per cento milia / perigli” (through a hundred thousand perils) mirrors nearly exactly Lucan’s “qui mille pericula” (through a thousand perils) except for the added touch that Ulysses is even more grandiloquent than Lucan’s florid Julius. The result seems fairly devastating to all those who argue for a positive valence for Dante’s Ulysses, which is close to impossible to assert if the essential model for the hero is Julius Caesar, portrayed in Lucan as the worst of rabble-rousing, self-admiring leaders, here at the moment that begins the civil war that will destroy the republic. For Lucan, and for Dante, this is one of the most terrible moments in Roman history. Stull and Hollander explore a series of resonances of Lucan’s text in this canto. [return to English / Italian]

  118–120. Ulysses’ final flourish not only won over his flagging shipmates, it has become a rallying cry of Romantic readers of this scene, from Tennyson to Primo Levi. What can be wrong with such desires, so fully human? Alessandra Colangeli, a student at the University of Rome, suggested, after she heard a lecture on this canto on 10 March 1997, that Ulysses’ words seemed to echo those of the serpent in the Garden to Adam and Eve, promising that, if they were to eat the forbidden fruit, they would become like gods, knowing good and evil (Gen. 3:5). For a similar if more general view of Ulysses as the tempter see Cassell (Cass.1984.1), p. 86. Since Adam’s later words to Dante (Par. XXVI.115–117) rehearse both the scene in the Garden and Ulysses’ transgression, the eating from the tree and the trespass of an established limit, the association has some grounding in Dante’s text. Baldelli (Bald.1998.1) is the latest to argue that the speech is the locus of Ulysses’ fraudulent counsel, since he, anticipating the reckless adventure of the Vivaldi brothers, urges his men to go beyond the known limits in search of experience.