The Irreversible Step: How to Choose the Right Direction in Life
(Paradiso, Canto V): Vows, Iphigenia and the beauty of our understanding
Christians, proceed with greater gravity:
do not be like a feather at each wind,
nor think that all immersions wash you clean.
~ Dante, The Divine Comedy, Paradise, Canto V
Welcome to Dante Read-Along! ✨
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Welcome to Dante Book Club, where you and I descend into Hell and Purgatory to be able to ascend to Paradise. Our guide in Paradise is Beatrice, and in this fifth Canto of the Paradiso, we learn more of vows and travel to Mercury. You can find the main page of the read-along right here, reading schedule here, and the list of chat threads here.
In each post you can find a brief summary of the canto, philosophical exercises that you can draw from it, themes, character, and symbolism explanations.
All the wonderful illustrations are done specially for the Dante Read-Along by the one and only Luana Montebello.
This Week’s Circle ⭕️
Sphere of the Moon, continued - Beatrice grows brighter, Dante grows in radiance - Beatrice’s speech on the nature of vows and their two components - The thing promised and the vow itself - Laws around transferring a vow - Ascent to the second celestial sphere of Mercury - The bright souls of the next realm - Dante meets the soul of the Emperor Justinian.
Canto V Summary:
Beatrice, still on the sphere of the moon, and having given her speech answering Dante’s questions regarding the nature of external forces upon vows, as well as on the movement of souls within the spheres in comparison with Plato’s Timaeus, spoke.
She shone with such a radiance of love and truth that Dante had been forced to look away or be overwhelmed; that light was proof of the clarity and perfection of her vision, which only grew greater the closer she moved toward God in the highest Empyrean realm. Clear vision grew step by step—with one foot of intellect and one foot of will—toward the highest. That process was beginning to have its effect on Dante as well, and she saw his own light shining more brightly.
Indeed I see that in your intellect
now shines the never-ending light; once seen,
that light, alone and always, kindles love.
v.7-9
Even when led astray by lesser loves, earthly loves, that could be the case only because those things held within them something recognizable, and had hints of that divine light shining within them:
Unworthy things mislead the love of you mortals (vostro amor), not because they are evil, but because they have in them some ‘trace’ of the ‘eternal light.’1
Beatrice restated the question that Dante had asked at the end of canto iv; could those who left their vows unfulfilled due to outside forces offer something else in its place, and still have the promise be fulfilled?
For Dante, a vow, far from being a piece of superstitious bargaining, is a supreme act of freedom. So it is here…that Beatrice develops the notion of free will first expounded by Virgil in Purgatorio 17 and 18. In the terms that Beatrice now employs, free will is far more than a capacity for self-motivation and self-control. It is, rather, the very ground of the highest relationship (as revealed in faith) that can be established between God as Creator and the human creature.2
Beatrice continued; free will, in being the highest gift bestowed upon humanity, was also the highest thing a person could offer as a sacrifice—a sacrifice of their own desires, that is—a vow to the church made by those who took holy orders, such as Piccarda and Constance. Being of the highest nature, this faculty is only possessed by angels and mankind, and so precious that a vow offering it without a pure heart was disdainful.
It becomes equally clear that this liberty, or this principle of all our liberty, is God’s most precious gift to human nature, for by it we are made happy here as men, and happy as gods in the beyond.
Dante de Monarchia I.xii.6
In making a vow, God and the human being freely enter into a contract. Divine consent, in this particular instance, is at one with human consent.3
Since the vow to the holy orders was the highest part of oneself that a person could offer, how could anything be substituted for it that would be as valuable? Even good works could not reach the level of the gift of the free will:
What then, can be a fitting compensation?
To use again what you had offered, would
mean seeking to do good with ill-got gains.
v.31-33
Here Beatrice conceded a counterpoint to her argument, acknowledging that on earth, the clergy were well known to have taken payment for the ‘removal’ of the binding of vows, but she made clear that this was not the proper function on either end of that bargain, for the priest giving it, or for the penitent freeing themselves of it. Reconciling the existence of this misuse would take some thought and understanding from Dante, in the form of digesting an indigestible meal.
To really understand the composition and function of the act of a vow—any vow, not just holy orders—it was important to understand the elements of it, and Beatrice went on to explain these.
A vow was composed of two parts; first that which was promised or sacrificed, and the second being the actual vow itself, the binding intention, apart from what was given or gotten in exchange.
The last can never be annulled until
the compact is fulfilled: it is of this
that I have spoken to you so precisely.
v.46-48
The binding word must be fulfilled in order to be resolved and weighed even in the balance, even if what was sacrificed was acceptable to be changed due to circumstances. The thing offered can be transferred to another thing out of necessity and that fulfilled, but only when approved of by the church. Beatrice gave the example of the Hebrews in the Old Testament, whose laws regarding the justification of vows, sacrifices, and tithes, and the substitution of what was given by necessity was laid out.
Both the white key of mercy and the yellow key of justice had to be present for the substitution to hold merit, and what was to be offered instead must be greater than the original vow. The thing substituted had to be a certain percentage greater in value than the original substance of the vow in spirit, if not in letter, indicated by the ‘four in six.’ This was an important part of understanding the theology behind the customs of the church.
let him see that any change is senseless,
unless the thing one sets aside can be
contained in one’s new weight, as four in six,
v.58-60
The new pledge’s worth must be 150% of what was first offered. This seems a nearly impossible condition to fulfill without trivializing the nature of the initial vow. It is probably fair to say that this is exactly Beatrice’s (and Dante’s!) point, for she wants essentially to ban all negotiations with God on the part of scheming prelates and, for that matter, of those selfish members of their flocks.4
In like manner a person who takes a vow makes a law for himself as it were, and binds himself to do something which in itself and in the majority of cases is a good. But it may happen that in some particular case this is simply evil, or useless, or a hindrance to a greater good: and this is essentially contrary to that which is the matter of a vow, as is clear from what has been said above. Therefore it is necessary, in such a case, to decide that the vow is not to be observed.
And if it be decided absolutely that a particular vow is not to be observed, this is called a dispensation from that vow; but if some other obligation be imposed in lieu of that which was to have been observed, the vow is said to be commuted. Hence it is less to commute a vow than to dispense from a vow: both, however, are in the power of the Church.
Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica II-II, q.88.a.10.resp
Beatrice explained rash or unreasonable vows, whose end result caused more damage than good.
Jephthah, in the Old Testament book of Judges, led the Israelites against the Ammonites in battle over land and passage. He vowed to the Lord that if they were granted victory, he would sacrifice by burnt offering the first thing that came out of his house to meet him on his return home:
And Jephthah came to Mizpeh unto his house, and, behold, his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances: and she was his only child; beside her he had neither son nor daughter. And it came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent his clothes, and said, Alas, my daughter! thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one of them that trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go back. Judges 11:34-35
She willingly went to sacrifice in order to aid her father in fulfilling that vow, but how bitter a fulfillment! Beatrice confirmed that it would be permissible to say “I did amiss” (67) for such a vow to prevent a greater wrong. The other example from classical antiquity was of the figure of Agamemnon, the leader of the Greeks in the Trojan War, begun when his brother Menelaus’ wife Helen was abducted by Paris, a Prince of Troy. There is more than one version of this tale, with different endings.
The goddess Diana was angered by Agamemnon’s having killed a deer in her sacred grove, and becalmed the waters surrounding the Greek fleet of ships so that they could not embark to Troy. Diana demanded that Agamemnon offer his daughter Iphigenia as a sacrifice, if she were to lift her curse of the doldrums at sea. In Ovid’s version, Diana had compassion for Iphigenia and substituted a deer in her place, even at the very moment of death. Dante’s source for this story was probably Cicero however, who was familiar with the version in which Iphigenia was killed, and who wrote:
And once more; when Agamemnon had vowed to Diana the most beautiful creature born that year within his realm, he was brought to sacrifice Iphigenia; for in that year nothing was born more beautiful than she. He ought to have broken his vow rather than commit so horrible a crime. Promises are, therefore, sometimes not to be kept.
Cicero De officiis III.xxv.95
Blood was your means for placating the winds—for you slaughtered a virgin
When you were first on your way, you Danaäns, to Ilium’s coastline,
Blood is the price, if you want to go home, and the sacrifice human.
Virgil, Aeneid ii.116-118
Beatrice then turned her address to the general reader, admonishing them to be forthright with their vows and to fulfill them properly without deviation, not attempting to get out of the obligation. She finished her speech on vows by telling the reader not to be led astray like sheep, or foolish lambs, who, without thinking, bring harm to themselves.
Dante wrote what Beatrice had dictated, as would a scribe, so faithful was he to his role. But here she finished and turned toward the high heavens and the light of the sun. Her argument complete, her beauty grew and transformed into something even greater as Dante watched, new questions ever forming in his mind at each new experience.
Swift as an arrow they flew toward the next celestial sphere, the Heaven of Mercury. So beautiful was Beatrice, that Mercury itself became more beautiful for her presence in it. Dante wondered at the changes wrought in himself that he could not yet see.
And if the planet changed and smiled, what then
did I—who by my very nature am
given to every sort of change—become?
v.97-99
The souls of Mercury approached as would a crowd of curious and hungry fish, gathering close together and all gazing toward them; this time Dante did not mistake them, as he had in the Moon. The souls shone, calling out with joy at the idea of the transformation that greater love, as represented by the approach of Beatrice and Dante, would bring them.
In this second heaven a mere semblance of the body is still present, though very faint; in fact, joy on the part of the soul can cause it to be so resplendent that the light hides this semblance-as will soon be seen to happen. Thereafter, all souls become simply ‘splendori’, and any semblance of a human body that they might have is concealed by the light emanating from them.5
Dante addressed the reader and anticipated how adrift and full of suspense they would now feel if he were to end his description there, at the moment of revealing such delights. One of the souls addressed Dante:
O you born unto gladness, whom God’s grace
allows to see the thrones of eternal
triumph before your war of life is ended,
the light that kindles us is that same light
which spreads through all of heaven; thus if you
would know us, sate yourself as you may please.
v.115-120
Beatrice urged Dante to question the spirit, as yet unnamed, but who will be introduced in the next canto as Justinian, the sixth-century Roman Emperor. Dante looked to his brightness, and questioned who he was and why he was placed into the sphere of Mercury—which we will also find is the sphere of ambition—the one that is often hidden from sight on earth in the light of the sun.
And the heaven of Mercury may be compared to dialectic in terms of two properties, for Mercury is the smallest star in the sky…the other property is that it is more veiled by the rays of the Sun than any other star. Dante, Convivio II.xiii.11
So bright did the light emanating from this soul radiate, that anything left of his human shape was hidden in a halo of light, just as the sun is lost behind a mist yet still glows, radiant.
💭 Philosophical Exercises
You should take no action unwillingly, selfishly, uncritically, or with conflicting motives.
~ Marcus Aurelius
It’s hard not to begin each Philosophical Exercise without praising Dante and the beauty of how he conveys complex ideas to us. Just take these lines from this canto:
Open your mind to what I shall disclose, and hold it fast within you; he who hears, but does not hold what he has heard, learns nothing.
Beautiful. It reminds me of an Armenian saying that sounds like this: Asoghin, lsogha petk (The one who speaks needs a listener.) The one who explains needs someone willing to understand. Beatrice invokes Dante not to merely hear her beautiful words, but to ‘hold what he has heard’. Hold - for true understanding requires not only grasping the meaning, but keeping it close to the heart, protecting it from forgetfulness or deviation.
But, my reader may correct me if I am exaggerating Dante’s beautiful words, here he says:
and even as an arrow that has struck the mark before the bow-cord comes to rest, so did we race to reach the second realm. ~ 91-93
Dante beautifully anticipates what modern neuroscientists attempt to unveil about the workings of the human intellect. He invokes the image of Apollo’s arrow piercing its target, and our mind, he suggests, operates in a similar way. When we understand something, it feels like a sudden arrow striking the centre. But the moment of comprehension does not end there: like the reverberation of the bowstring after the arrow has flown, that insight echoes throughout the mind, resonating long after the target has been hit.
Understanding can change the way we see everything. Just like a child who once thought the moon was a small light in the sky, but then learns it’s a massive sphere far away - nothing in the sky has changed, but their way of seeing has.
Real understanding doesn’t always change the world around us, it changes how we relate to it. It deepens our perception. It gives shape to things that once felt vague or distant.
I. Vows
Dante raises the delicate question of unfulfilled vows and whether, if someone fails to keep a promise made to God, they can still ask for forgiveness.
Beatrice’s explanation of the nature of vows made my mind experience that precise arrow piercing the target and my mind began to reverberate when I understood the meaning behind words.
Each time we take a vow to ourselves we surrender a path in life. Let me illustrate this in a less beautiful form, but in a more modern example:
Think of a vow like stepping onto a train that starts moving the instant the doors slide shut. Your ticket is your free will handed over; the track beneath you is the pact; the seat you chose is the object.
You might, with the conductor’s permission, swap to a better seat, but you can’t pretend you never boarded. The platform is already behind you, the landscape is changing, and your time and energy are being spent by the motion itself.
That’s why bad or careless vows sting: you feel the pull of the track you chose, and turning back now means stopping the train with help, paying the cost, and re-plotting the journey, never just “undoing” what’s already in motion.
II.
If we look at this through a secular lens, we see that what we sacrifice is our time, and time is our life. It’s like boarding the wrong train: halfway through the journey, you realise your mistake, but you cannot reclaim the time already lost. A vow works in much the same way.
Dante the poet illustrates this by referencing two sources: one biblical, the other classical.
The biblical example is Jephthah, who, in a desperate plea to win a war, vowed to God: “If I win, I will offer up the first to come out of my house.” Tragically, it was his beloved daughter who first stepped out. A rash vow led to catastrophe.
What seemed like a victory turned into heartbreak.
The classical example is that of Iphigenia. Agamemnon, eager to set sail from the port of Aulis, was hindered by unfavourable winds. He was told that the goddess Artemis demanded the sacrifice of Iphigenia in exchange for his unchecked ambition. Under the false promise of a marriage to Achilles, he lured his own daughter to her death. In Dante’s retelling, Iphigenia perishes.
Every ambition, every vow, every goal demands a sacrifice and a poorly considered, hasty vow can lead to ruin.
III.
Christians, proceed with greater gravity: do not be like a feather at each wind, nor think that all immersions wash you clean. ~ Dante, The Divine Comedy, Paradise, Canto V
One could have forgiven Agamemnon, for he, like Virgil, was blind to the Christian revelation. One could even cautiously speculate that Virgil and Agamemnon knew only of the truths of Inferno, and perhaps, dimly, of Purgatorio. The wisdom that my reader and I now explore in Paradiso was hidden from them; they were not aware of the full spiritual consequences that a rash or thoughtless vow could bring.
But we, Christians or just those who are armed with the moral and spiritual wisdom of both the Old and New Testaments, have been told. We have been taught the gravity of our choices, the weight of our commitments. And thus, we have fewer excuses. With knowledge comes responsibility: we are to avoid the fate of Agamemnon and Jephthah, precisely because we have been warned.
IV.
The last piece of wisdom of this canto (by last I mean the last I have space to explore) is that sometimes it’s better not to board a train at all than to board a train that will take you in the wrong direction. It is better to check the timetable once again, check you are on the right platform, and once again have a careful look to see if you’re holding the correct ticket.
This Week’s Sinners and Virtuous 🎭
(Themes, Quotes, Terms and Characters)
I. Choosing Dante Read-Along
One of the ways I’ve come to understand the theme of this canto is through the choice Lisa and I made at the beginning of the year to read The Divine Comedy together.
Committing to this Read-Along meant sacrificing the time we could have spent on many other beautiful books. Imagine, for the sake of contrast, if we had chosen to read Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code instead. It’s highly likely we would have abandoned that “vow” rather quickly, realising the journey wasn’t worth the time.
But even within the world of great literature, the choice mattered. Reading The Divine Comedy meant we could not do a Virgil Read-Along, or a Homer Read-Along this year. Each vow closes a thousand other doors, but this is precisely what gives it meaning.
II. From Vision to Acting
beyond the measure visible on earth,
so that I overcome your vision’s force,
you need not wonder; I am so because
of my perfected vision—as I grasp
the good, so I approach the good in actThe opening lines of this canto reveal the slow transition from being able to see clearly to learning how to act well.
Quotes 🖋️
(The ones I keep in my journal as reminders of eternal wisdom):
Open your mind to what I shall disclose,
and hold it fast within you; he who hears,
but does not hold what he has heard, learns nothing.
~ lines 40-42, Paradiso, Canto V
Charles S. Singleton, Commentary on Paradiso 98
Robin Kirkpatrick, Paradiso 345
Kirkpatrick 345
Robert Hollander, Paradiso 137
Singleton 109