Introduction

So many versions of the Divine Comedy exist in English that a new one might well seem needless. But most of these translations are in verse, and the intellectual temper of our time is impatient of a transmutation in which substance is sacrificed for form’s sake, and the new form is itself different from the original. The conditions of verse in different languages vary so widely as to make any versified translation of a poem but an imperfect reproduction of the archetype. It is like an imperfect mirror that renders but a partial likeness, in which essential features are blurred or distorted. Dante himself, the first modern critic, declared that “nothing harmonized by a musical bond can be transmuted from its own speech without losing all its sweetness and harmony,” and every fresh attempt at translation affords a new proof of the truth of his assertion. Each language exhibits its own special genius in its poetic forms. Even when they are closely similar in rhythmical method their poetic effect is essentially different, their individuality is distinct. The hexameter of the Iliad is not the hexameter of the Aeneid. And if this be the case in respect to related forms, it is even more obvious in respect to forms peculiar to one language, like the terza rima of the Italian, for which it is impossible to find a satisfactory equivalent in another tongue.

So many English versions of the Divine Comedy exist that a new one might well seem unnecessary. But most are in verse. The intellectual spirit of our time is impatient with a transformation that sacrifices substance for form. It is all the more impatient when the new form differs from the original. The demands of verse vary so widely between languages that any verse translation is an imperfect reproduction of the original poem. It is like an imperfect mirror that gives only a partial likeness and blurs or distorts essential features. Dante himself, the first modern critic, declared that “nothing harmonized by a musical bond can be transmuted from its own speech without losing all its sweetness and harmony.” Every new attempt at translation offers further proof that he was right. Each language expresses its own special genius in its poetic forms. Even when languages use closely similar rhythms, their poetic effects are essentially different. Each has its own distinct character. The hexameter of the Iliad is not the hexameter of the Aeneid. If this is true of related forms, it is even more obvious with forms unique to one language. One example is Italian terza rima, for which it is impossible to find a satisfactory equivalent in another language.

If, then, the attempt be vain to reproduce the form or to represent its effect in a translation, yet the substance of a poem may have such worth that it deserves to be known by readers who must read it in their own tongue or not at all. In this case the aim of the translator should be to render the substance fully, exactly, and with as close a correspondence to the tone and style of the original as is possible between prose and poetry. Of the charm, of the power of the poem such a translation can give but an inadequate suggestion; the musical bond was of its essence, and the loss of the musical bond is the loss of the beauty to which form and substance mutually contributed, and in which they were both alike harmonized and sublimated. The rhythmic life of the original is its vital spirit, and the translation losing this vital spirit is at best as the dull plaster cast to the living marble or the breathing bronze. The intellectual substance is there; and if the work be good, something of the emotional quality may be conveyed; the imagination may mould the prose as it moulded the verse,—but, after all, “translations are but as turn-coated things at best,” as Howell said in one of his Familiar Letters.

Even if an attempt to reproduce a poem’s form or convey its effect in translation is futile, its substance may still be worth knowing. Some readers must read the poem in their own language or not at all. In such cases, the translator should convey the substance fully and exactly. The translation should also match the original’s tone and style as closely as prose can match poetry. Such a translation can offer only a poor suggestion of the poem’s charm and power. Its musical unity was essential to it. Losing that unity means losing the beauty that both form and substance helped create. In that beauty, form and substance were brought into harmony and lifted to a higher level. The rhythm of the original is its vital spirit. Without that spirit, a translation is at best like a dull plaster cast beside living marble or breathing bronze. The intellectual substance is still there. If the translation is good, it may also convey something of the emotional quality. Imagination may shape the prose as it shaped the verse. But, after all, “translations are but as turn-coated things at best,” as Howell said in one of his Familiar Letters.

No poem in any tongue is more informed with rhythmic life than the Divine Comedy. And yet, such is its extraordinary distinction, no poem has an intellectual and emotional substance more independent of its metrical form. Its complex structure, its elaborate measure and rhyme, highly artificial as they are, are so mastered by the genius of the poet as to become the most natural expression of the spirit by which the poem is inspired; while at the same time the thought and sentiment embodied in the verse is of such import, and the narrative of such interest, that they do not lose their worth when expressed in the prose of another tongue; they still have power to quicken imagination, and to evoke sympathy.

No poem in any language has more rhythmic life than the Divine Comedy. Yet the poem is also remarkable for another reason. No poem has intellectual and emotional substance that is more independent of its poetic form. Its complex structure and elaborate meter and rhyme are highly artificial. But the poet’s genius masters them so completely that they become the most natural expression of the spirit inspiring the poem. At the same time, the thoughts and feelings in the verse are so important, and the story so compelling, that they retain their value when expressed in prose in another language. They still have the power to stir the imagination and evoke sympathy.

In English there is an excellent prose translation of the Inferno, by Dr. John Carlyle, a man well known to the reader of his brother’s Correspondence. It was published forty years ago, but it is still contemporaneous enough in style to answer every need, and had Dr. Carlyle made a version of the whole poem I should hardly have cared to attempt a new one. In my translation of the Inferno I am often Dr. Carlyle’s debtor. His conception of what a translation should be is very much the same as my own. Of the Purgatorio there is a prose version which has excellent qualities, by Mr. W. S. Dugdale. Another version of great merit, of both the Purgatorio and Paradiso, is that of Mr. A. J. Butler. It is accompanied by a scholarly and valuable comment, and I owe much to Mr. Butler’s work. But through what seems to me occasional excess of literal fidelity his English is now and then somewhat crabbed. “He overacts the office of an interpreter,” I cite again from Howell, “who doth enslave himself too strictly to words or phrases. One may be so over-punctual in words that he may mar the matter.”

There is an excellent English prose translation of the Inferno by Dr. John Carlyle. Readers of his brother’s Correspondence know him well. It was published forty years ago, but its style is still modern enough to serve every need. If Dr. Carlyle had translated the whole poem, I would hardly have cared to attempt a new version. In my translation of the Inferno, I often owe a debt to Dr. Carlyle. His idea of what a translation should be is very much like mine. Mr. W. S. Dugdale’s prose version of the Purgatorio has excellent qualities. Mr. A. J. Butler’s version of both the Purgatorio and Paradiso also has great merit. It comes with a scholarly and valuable commentary, and I owe much to Mr. Butler’s work. But at times his English is somewhat awkward because, it seems to me, he follows the original too literally. To quote Howell again, “An interpreter goes too far when he ties himself too strictly to words or phrases. A person can be so exact about words that he spoils the meaning.”

I have tried to be as literal in my translation as was consistent with good English, and to render Dante’s own words in words as nearly correspondent to them as the difference in the languages would permit. But it is to be remembered that the familiar uses and subtle associations which give to words their full meaning are never absolutely the same in two languages. Love in English not only SOUNDS but IS different from amor in Latin, or amore in Italian. Even the most felicitous prose translation must fail therefore at times to afford the entire and precise meaning of the original.

I have tried to translate as literally as good English allows. I have chosen words as close to Dante’s own as the differences between the languages permit. But we must remember that words gain their full meaning from familiar uses and subtle associations. These are never exactly the same in two languages. Love in English not only SOUNDS different from amor in Latin or amore in Italian, but IS different. Therefore, even the most successful prose translation must sometimes fail to convey the full and precise meaning of the original.

Moreover, there are difficulties in Dante’s poem for Italians, and there are difficulties in the translation for English readers. These, where it seemed needful, I have endeavored to explain in brief footnotes. But I have desired to avoid distracting the attention of the reader from the narrative, and have mainly left the understanding of it to his good sense and perspicacity. The clearness of Dante’s imaginative vision is so complete, and the character of his narration of it so direct and simple, that the difficulties in understanding his intention are comparatively few.

Moreover, Dante’s poem presents difficulties for Italians, and the translation presents difficulties for English readers. Where it seemed necessary, I have tried to explain these difficulties in brief footnotes. But I have wanted to avoid distracting readers from the narrative. I have mostly relied on their good sense and insight to understand it. Dante’s imaginative vision is so clear, and his account of it so direct and simple, that his intention is comparatively easy to understand.

It is a noticeable fact that in by far the greater number of passages where a doubt in regard to the interpretation exists, the obscurity lies in the rhyme-word. For with all the abundant resources of the Italian tongue in rhyme, and with all Dante’s mastery of them, the truth still is that his triple rhyme often compelled him to exact from words such service as they did not naturally render and as no other poet had required of them. The compiler of the Ottimo Commento records, in an often-cited passage, that “I, the writer, heard Dante say that never a rhyme had led him to say other than he would, but that many a time and oft he had made words say for him what they were not wont to express for other poets.” The sentence has a double truth, for it indicates not only Dante’s incomparable power to compel words to give out their full meaning, but also his invention of new uses for them, his employment of them in unusual significations or in forms hardly elsewhere to be found. These devices occasionally interfere with the limpid flow of his diction, but the difficulties of interpretation to which they give rise serve rather to mark the prevailing clearness and simplicity of his expression than seriously to impede its easy and unperplexed current. There are few sentences in the Divina Commedia in which a difficulty is occasioned by lack of definiteness of thought or distinctness of image.

It is worth noting that in the vast majority of passages open to interpretation, the uncertainty centers on the rhyming word. Italian offers abundant resources for rhyme, and Dante had mastered them all. Even so, his triple rhyme often forced him to make words do work they did not naturally do and that no other poet had asked of them. The compiler of the Ottimo Commento records in an often quoted passage: “I, the writer, heard Dante say that rhyme had never led him to say anything he did not intend. But many times he had made words express things they were not used to expressing for other poets.” The statement is true in two ways. It points to Dante’s unmatched power to draw the full meaning from words. It also points to his invention of new uses for words. He gave them unusual meanings or used forms hardly found anywhere else. These devices sometimes interrupt the clear flow of his language. But the difficulties they create for interpretation do not seriously impede its easy, untroubled flow. Instead, they highlight the clarity and simplicity that generally characterize his expression. Few sentences in the Divina Commedia are difficult because the thought is not precise or the image is not distinct.

A far deeper-lying and more pervading source of imperfect comprehension of the poem than any verbal difficulty exists in the double or triple meaning that runs through it. The narrative of the poet’s spiritual journey is so vivid and consistent that it has all the reality of an account of an actual experience; but within and beneath runs a stream of allegory not less consistent and hardly less continuous than the narrative itself. To the illustration and carrying out of this interior meaning even the minutest details of external incident are made to contribute, with an appropriateness of significance, and with a freedom from forced interpretation or artificiality of construction such as no other writer of allegory has succeeded in attaining. The poem may be read with interest as a record of experience without attention to its inner meaning, but its full interest is only felt when this inner meaning is traced, and the moral significance of the incidents of the story apprehended by the alert intelligence. The allegory is the soul of the poem, but like the soul within the body it does not show itself in independent existence. It is, in scholastic phrase, the form of the body, giving to it its special individuality. Thus in order truly to understand and rightly appreciate the poem the reader must follow its course with a double intelligence. “Taken literally,” as Dante declares in his Letter to Can Grande, “the subject is the state of the soul after death, simply considered. But, allegorically taken, its subject is man, according as by his good or ill deserts he renders himself liable to the reward or punishment of Justice.” It is the allegory of human life; and not of human life as an abstraction, but of the individual life; and herein, as Mr. Lowell, whose phrase I borrow, has said, “lie its profound meaning and its permanent force.”¹ And herein too lie its perennial freshness of interest, and the actuality which makes it contemporaneous with every successive generation. The increase of knowledge, the loss of belief in doctrines that were fundamental in Dante’s creed, the changes in the order of society, the new thoughts of the world, have not lessened the moral import of the poem, any more than they have lessened its excellence as a work of art. Its real substance is as independent as its artistic beauty, of science, of creed, and of institutions. Human nature has not changed; the motives of action are the same, though their relative force and the desires and ideals by which they are inspired vary from generation to generation. And thus it is that the moral judgments of life framed by a great poet whose imagination penetrates to the core of things, and who, from his very nature as poet, conceives and sets forth the issues of life not in a treatise of abstract morality, but by means of sensible types and images, never lose interest, and have a perpetual contemporaneousness. They deal with the permanent and unalterable elements of the soul of man.

A much deeper and more pervasive obstacle to understanding the poem than any difficulty with its words lies in its double or triple meanings. The account of the poet’s spiritual journey is so vivid and consistent that it seems entirely real, like an account of an actual experience. But within and beneath the story runs a stream of allegory. It is just as consistent as the story and hardly less continuous. Even the smallest details of the outward events help develop and illustrate this inner meaning. Their significance is fitting, without forced interpretation or artificial construction, to a degree no other writer of allegory has achieved. The poem can be read with interest as an account of experience, without attention to its inner meaning. But its full interest is felt only when an alert reader traces that meaning and grasps the moral significance of the story’s events. The allegory is the soul of the poem, but like the soul within the body, it has no visible, independent existence. In scholastic terms, it is the form of the body, giving it its distinctive individuality. To understand and appreciate the poem fully, then, the reader must follow it on two levels. As Dante declares in his Letter to Can Grande, “Taken literally, the subject is the state of the soul after death, considered simply. But taken allegorically, its subject is a person who, through good or bad actions, becomes deserving of Justice’s reward or punishment.” The poem is an allegory of human life, not as an abstraction, but as the life of an individual. Here, as Mr. Lowell has said in a phrase I borrow, “lie its profound meaning and its lasting force.”¹ Here too lie its continually fresh interest and its relevance to every successive generation. Knowledge has increased, belief in doctrines fundamental to Dante’s creed has faded, society has changed, and the world has developed new ideas. Yet none of these changes has diminished the poem’s moral significance, any more than they have diminished its excellence as a work of art. Its true substance, like its artistic beauty, is independent of science, creed, and institutions. Human nature has not changed. The motives for action remain the same, though their relative strength varies from generation to generation, as do the desires and ideals that inspire them. This is why the moral judgments about life made by a great poet never lose their interest and remain relevant in every age. Such a poet’s imagination penetrates to the heart of things. By the nature of a poet, such a writer conceives and presents the issues of life through tangible types and images, not in a treatise on abstract morality. These judgments deal with the permanent and unalterable elements of the human soul.

The scene of the poem is the spiritual world, of which we are members even while still denizens of the world of time. In the spiritual world the results of sin or perverted love, and of virtue or right love, in this life of probation, are manifest. The life to come is but the fulfilment of the life that now is. This is the truth that Dante sought to enforce. The allegory in which he cloaked it is of a character that separates the Divine Comedy from all other works of similar intent. In The Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, the personages introduced are mere simulacra of men and women, the types of moral qualities or religious dispositions. They are abstractions which the genius of Bunyan fails to inform with vitality sufficient to kindle the imagination of the reader with a sense of their actual, living and breathing existence. But in the Divine Comedy the personages are all from real life, they are men and women with their natural passions and emotions, and they are undergoing an actual experience. The allegory consists in making their characters and their fates, what all human characters and fates really are, the types and images of spiritual law. Virgil and Beatrice, whose nature as depicted in the poem makes nearest approach to purely abstract and typical existence, are always consistently presented as living individuals, exalted indeed in wisdom and power, but with hardly less definite and concrete humanity than that of Dante himself.

The poem takes place in the spiritual world. We belong to that world even while we still live in the world of time. In the spiritual world, we can see the results of sin, or love gone wrong, and virtue, or love rightly directed. Both take shape in this life, a time of testing. The life to come is simply the fulfillment of the life we live now. This is the truth Dante sought to emphasize. The kind of allegory Dante used to express this truth sets the Divine Comedy apart from all other works with a similar purpose. In The Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, the characters are mere imitations of men and women. They represent moral qualities or religious attitudes. They are abstractions, and Bunyan’s genius cannot bring them fully to life. They do not kindle the reader’s imagination with a sense that they actually live and breathe. But in the Divine Comedy, all the characters come from real life. They are men and women with natural passions and emotions, and they are going through real experiences. The allegory makes their characters and fates examples and images of spiritual law. In fact, all human characters and fates are examples and images of spiritual law. Virgil and Beatrice come closest to being purely abstract, symbolic figures in the poem. Yet they are always presented as living individuals. They are indeed exalted in wisdom and power, but their humanity is hardly less distinct and concrete than Dante’s own.

The scheme of the created Universe held by the Christians of the Middle Ages was comparatively simple, and so definite that Dante, in accepting it in its main features without modification, was provided with the limited stage that was requisite for his design, and of which the general disposition was familiar to all his readers. The three spiritual realms had their local bounds marked out as clearly as those of time earth itself. Their cosmography was but an extension of the largely hypothetical geography of the tune.

The Christian view of the created universe in the Middle Ages was relatively simple and clearly defined. Dante accepted its main features without changing them. This gave him the limited stage he needed for his design, whose general layout was familiar to all his readers. The three spiritual realms had boundaries as clearly defined as those of the earth itself. Medieval cosmography was simply an extension of the largely hypothetical geography of the time.

The Earth was the centre of the Universe, and its northern hemisphere was the abode of man. At the middle point of this hemisphere stood Jerusalem, equidistant from the Pillars of Hercules on the West, and the Ganges on the East.

Earth was the center of the Universe, and people lived in its northern hemisphere. Jerusalem stood at the center of the northern hemisphere. It was equally distant from the Pillars of Hercules in the west and the Ganges in the east.

Within the body of this hemisphere was hell, shared as a vast cone, of which the apex was the centre of the globe; and here, according to Dante, was the seat of Lucifer. The concave of Hell had been formed by his fall, when a portion of the solid earth, through fear of him, ran back to the southern uninhabited hemisphere, and formed there, directly antipodal to Jerusalem, the mountain of Purgatory which rose from the waste of waters that covered this half of the globe. Purgatory was shaped as a cone, of similar dimensions to that of Hell, amid at its summit was the Terrestrial Paradise.

Inside this hemisphere was Hell, shaped like a vast cone. Its point was at the center of the globe, where Dante placed Lucifer. Hell’s hollow had been formed by Lucifer’s fall. In fear of him, part of the solid earth had retreated to the uninhabited southern hemisphere. There, it formed the mountain of Purgatory, directly opposite Jerusalem on the globe. The mountain rose from the vast waters covering that half of the globe. Purgatory was shaped like a cone, similar in size to Hell, and the Terrestrial Paradise lay at its summit.

Immediately surrounding the atmosphere of the Earth was the sphere of elemental fire. Around this was the Heaven of the Moon, and encircling this, in order, were the Heavens of Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jove, Saturn, the Fixed Stars, and the Crystalline or first moving Heaven. These nine concentric Heavens revolved continually around the Earth, and in proportion to their distance from it was time greater swiftness of each. Encircling all was the Empyrean, increate, incorporeal, motionless, unbounded in time or space, the proper seat of God, the home of the Angels, the abode of the Elect.

Immediately surrounding Earth’s atmosphere was the sphere of elemental fire. Around that was the Heaven of the Moon. Beyond it, in order, were the Heavens of Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jove, Saturn, and the Fixed Stars. Next came the Crystalline or first moving Heaven. These nine concentric Heavens revolved continually around Earth. The farther each Heaven was from Earth, the faster it moved. Surrounding all of them was the Empyrean, uncreated, without a body, motionless, and unlimited by time or space. It was the proper seat of God, the home of the Angels, and the dwelling place of the Elect.

The Angelic Hierarchy consisted of nine orders, corresponding to the nine moving heavens. Their blessedness and the swiftness of time motion with which in unending delight they circled around God were in proportion to their nearness to Him, —first the Seraphs, then the Cherubs, Thrones, Dominations, Virtues, Powers, Princes, Archangels, and Angels. Through them, under the general name of Intelligences, the Divine influence was transmitted to the Heavens, giving to them their circular motion, which was the expression of their longing to be united with the source of their creation. The Heavens in their turn streamed down upon the Earth the Divine influence thus distributed among them, in varying proportion and power, producing divers effects in the generation and corruption of material things, and in the dispositions and the lives of men.

The Angelic Hierarchy consisted of nine orders, corresponding to the nine moving heavens. The closer they were to God, the greater their blessedness and the faster they circled around him in endless delight. First came the Seraphs, then the Cherubs, Thrones, Dominations, Virtues, Powers, Princes, Archangels, and Angels. These orders, known collectively as Intelligences, transmitted the divine influence to the Heavens. This influence gave the Heavens their circular motion, which expressed their longing to unite with the source of their creation. The Heavens, in turn, sent this divine influence down to Earth in varying amounts and strengths. It produced different effects in the creation and decay of material things, and in the temperaments and lives of men.

Such was the general scheme of the Universe. The intention of God in its creation was to communicate of his own perfection to the creatures endowed with souls, that is, to men and to angels, and the proper end of every such creature was to seek its own perfection in likeness to the Divine. This end was attained through that knowledge of God of which the soul was capable, and through love which was in proportion to knowledge. Virtue depended on the free will of man; it was the good use of that will directed to a right object of love. Two lights were given to the soul for guidance of the will: the light of reason for natural things and for the direction of the will to moral virtue the light of grace for things supernatural, and for the direction of the will to spiritual virtue. Sin was the opposite of virtue, the choice by the will of false objects of love; it involved the misuse of reason, and the absence of grace. As the end of virtue was blessedness, so the end of sin was misery.

Such was the general design of the universe. God created it to share his own perfection with creatures that have souls, namely, humans and angels. The proper goal of each such creature was to seek its own perfection by becoming like God. Each reached this goal through as much knowledge of God as its soul could attain, and through love that matched that knowledge. Virtue depended on human free will. It meant using that will well, directing it toward a worthy object of love. The soul was given two lights to guide the will. The light of reason guided it in natural matters and directed the will toward moral virtue. The light of grace guided it in supernatural matters and directed the will toward spiritual virtue. Sin was the opposite of virtue. It was the will’s choice of unworthy objects of love, and it involved the misuse of reason and the absence of grace. Just as virtue led to blessedness, sin led to misery.

The cornerstone of Dante’s moral system was the Freedom of the Will; in other words, the right of private judgment with the condition of accountability. This is the liberty which Dante, that is man, goes seeking in his journey through the spiritual world. This liberty is to be attained through the right use of reason, illuminated by Divine Grace; it consists in the perfect accord of the will of man with the will of God.

The foundation of Dante’s moral system was freedom of the will. In other words, people have the right to make their own judgments, but are accountable for them. This is the freedom Dante, who represents humanity, seeks on his journey through the spiritual world. This freedom is attained through the proper use of reason, enlightened by Divine Grace. It consists in bringing the human will into perfect agreement with the will of God.

With this view of the nature and end of man Dante’s conception of the history of the race could not be other than that its course was providentially ordered. The fall of man had made him a just object of the vengeance of God; but the elect were to be redeemed, and for their redemption the history of the world from the beginning was directed. Not only in his dealings with the Jews, but in his dealings with the heathen was God preparing for the reconciliation of man, to be finally accomplished in his sacrifice of Himself for them. The Roman Empire was foreordained and established for this end. It was to prepare the way for the establishment of the Roman Church. It was the appointed instrument for the political government of men. Empire and Church were alike divine institutions for the guidance of man on earth.

Given his view of human nature and purpose, Dante could only see human history as guided by divine providence. The fall of man had made humanity a just object of God’s vengeance. But the elect were to be redeemed, and world history had been directed toward their redemption from the beginning. God was preparing for humanity’s reconciliation not only through his dealings with the Jews, but also through his dealings with the heathen. This reconciliation would finally be accomplished through his sacrifice of himself for humanity. The Roman Empire was ordained and established in advance for this purpose. It was to prepare the way for the establishment of the Roman Church. It was the appointed instrument for the political government of humanity. Both Empire and Church were divine institutions meant to guide humanity on earth.

The aim of Dante in the Divine Comedy was to set forth these truths in such wise as to affect the imaginations and touch the hearts of men, so that they should turn to righteousness. His conviction of these truths was no mere matter of belief; it had the ardor and certainty of faith. They had appeared to him in all their fulness as a revelation of the Divine wisdom. It was his work as poet, as poet with a divine commission, to make this revelation known. His work was a work of faith; it was sacred; to it both Heaven and Earth had set their hands.

Dante’s aim in the Divine Comedy was to present these truths in a way that would stir people’s imaginations and touch their hearts, so that they would turn to righteousness. His conviction was more than mere belief. It had the passion and certainty of faith. These truths had appeared to him in all their fullness as a revelation of divine wisdom. As a poet with a divine commission, his task was to make this revelation known. His work was an act of faith. It was sacred, and both Heaven and Earth had a hand in it.

To this work, as I have said, the definiteness and the limits of the generally accepted theory of the Universe gave the required frame. The very narrowness of this scheme made Dante’s design practicable. He had had the experience of a man on earth. He had been lured by false objects of desire from the pursuit of the true good. But Divine Grace, in the form of Beatrice, who had of old on earth led him aright, now intervened and sent to his aid Virgil, who, as the type of Human Reason, should bring him safe through Hell, showing to him the eternal consequences of sin, and then should conduct him, penitent, up the height of Purgatory, till on its summit, in the Earthly Paradise, Beatrice should appear once more to him. Thence she, as the type of that knowledge through which comes the love of God, should lead him, through the Heavens up to the Empyrean, to the consummation of his course in the actual vision of God.

As I have said, the generally accepted theory of the Universe provided the framework this work needed. The theory was clearly defined and had clear limits. Its very narrowness made Dante’s design possible. Dante had experienced life as a man on earth. False objects of desire had lured him away from the pursuit of the true good. But Divine Grace intervened in the form of Beatrice, who had guided him on earth in earlier days. She sent Virgil to help him. Virgil, representing Human Reason, would lead him safely through Hell, showing him the eternal consequences of sin. Then he would guide the penitent Dante up the heights of Purgatory. At the summit, in the Earthly Paradise, Beatrice would appear to him again. From there, she would lead him through the Heavens to the Empyrean. She represents the knowledge through which love of God comes. Dante’s journey would end there with the actual vision of God.