1373-1375
ILLNESS AND DEATH
That illness which brought those lectures on the _Divine Comedy_
so swiftly to an end in the winter of 1373 was no new thing; for
long, as we have seen, Boccaccio had had a troubled spirit. If he
had recovered from his grief at the death of Fiammetta, he had never
wholly been himself since his conversion. The disease which then
declared itself was no new thing. In his versatile and athletic
spirit there had always been a strain of melancholy that had shown
itself even in his earliest childhood, when he imagined he was
persecuted; on his arrival in Naples as a boy, when only a kiss
could restore his confidence; in the long years of his troubled and
unstable love and in the loneliness of his manhood; with old age at
his elbow it needed but little for his spirit, so easily joyful, to
be lost in a strange darkness.
Already before he had been appointed to that lectureship in Florence
he had felt himself seriously ill. Writing at the end of August,
1373, to Messer Maghinardo de' Cavalcanti he had excused himself for
his long delay in answering his letter, pleading the "long infirmity
which prevented me from writing to you ... and which only in the last
few days has given me a little respite. Since the last time I saw
you ... every hour of my life has been very like death, afflicted,
tedious, and full of weariness to myself.... First of all I was
beset by a continuous and burning itching, and a dry scab, to scratch
the dry scales and the flakes of which I had scarce nails enough day
or night; then I was afflicted by a heaviness, a sluggishness of the
bowels, a perpetual agony of the veins, swelling of the spleen, a
burning bile, a suffocating cough and hoarseness, heaviness of head,
and indeed more maladies than I know how to enumerate; all my body
languished, and all its humours were at war. And so it happened that
I looked on the sky without happiness; my body was weary, my steps
vacillating, my hand trembled; I was deathly pale, cared nothing
for food, but held it all in abhorrence. Letters were odious to
me, my books, once so delightful to me, could not please me, the
forces of the soul were relaxed, my memory almost gone, my energy
seemed drugged, and my thoughts were all turned to the grave and to
death."[641]
But this was not all. He had scarcely got so far in his letter, he
writes, when on August 12 a new ill befell him. At sunset a burning
fever attacked him so fiercely that he could not leave his bed. As
the night advanced the fever increased, his head ached violently,
and without respite he turned and turned again in his bed, wearily
looking thus for some relief. He was alone with only an old servant,
who could do nothing but weep. Day came and with it some friends, who
would have sent for a physician; but Boccaccio, with less gentleness
than Petrarch showed, refused, till at last, utterly worn out, he
allowed himself to be persuaded. The doctor who came to him was "a
country doctor, accustomed to attend the peasants," as he says, "but
kind and thoughtful." He told Boccaccio that unless he could rid
himself of the poison which was killing him he would be dead in a
few days. He brought in a cautery, a furnace, and other terrible
instruments used then in medical practice. He then proceeded to use
them, burning the patient largely, in many places cutting him with a
razor and slashing his skin. He suffered dreadfully, but the doctor
told him he was healed. And, it might seem by a direct miracle of
God, he was saved out of the hands of this criminal lunatic; he
slept, and little by little recovered. He was, however, very feeble.
Nothing he can say against doctors can seem absurd, or exaggerated,
or less than just when we remember that he had the unhappiness to
fall at last into their hands.[642]
[Illustration: CERTALDO
_Alinari_]
It is possible that his friends in Florence heard of his miseries and
his poverty--for he was very poor, and it was really on his behalf
the _Cathedra Dantesca_ was founded. However that may be, it might
have seemed impossible that one in his case could have accepted it,
yet in spite of his weakness he left Certaldo and went to Florence,
where, as we have seen, in accordance with the decree of the Signoria
he began to lecture in October. That he broke down is not surprising;
it is only wonderful that he got as far as he did. But that brief
burst of energy was his last; in the winter of 1373 he returned to
Certaldo really to die.
From that moment all his melancholy seems to have returned to him
with fourfold strength: he who had taken his fill of life, now could
no more look happily on the sky, he was a dying man and he knew
it. He groped about far from Petrarch looking for some appalling
certainty. He seems to have thought he could find it in the monastic
life, and his solitude must have been not less profound. Death and
thoughts about death haunted him, as they are wont to do imaginative
people. It must have been in some such darkness as that which then
fell upon him that he wrote more than one of the sonnets in which he
seems to have sought in verse the power to realise what it was that
was about to befall him.
"Dura cosa è ed orribile assai
La morte ad aspettare e paurosa,
Ma così certa ed infallibil cosa
Nè fu, nè è, nè credo sarà mai;
E 'l corso della vita è breve c' hai,
E volger non si può nè dargli posa;
Nè qui si vede cosa sì gioiosa
Che il suo fine non sia lacrime e guai.
Dunque perchè con operar valore
Non c' ingegnamo di stender la fama,
E con quella far lunghi i brevi giorni?
Questa ne dà questa ne serva onore,
Questa ne lieva dagli anni la squama,
Questa ne fa di lunga vita adorni."[643]
In the summer of 1374 a new blow fell upon him. Petrarch was
dead.[644] He heard the news first as a rumour, and then, some three
months after his friend had passed away, in a letter from Francesco
da Brossano, the poet's son-in-law, whom he had met at Venice. That
he had already heard of his loss when he got Franceschino's letter we
gather from his reply, written in the beginning of November:--
"I received your sorrowful letter, most well beloved brother, on the
31st October,"[645] he writes, "and not knowing the writing I broke
the seal and looked for the name of the writer, and as soon as I
read your name I knew what news you had to tell me, that is to say,
the happy passing of our illustrious father and master, Francesco
Petrarch, from the earthly Babylon to the heavenly Jerusalem.
Although none of my friends had written me save you, since every one
spoke of it I had known it for some time--to my great sorrow--and
during many days I wept almost without ceasing--not at his ascension,
but for myself thus unhappy and abandoned. And that is not wonderful,
for no one in the world loved him more than I. And so to acquit
myself, my intention was to go at once to mix my tears with yours,
to lament with you and to say a last farewell at the tomb of this
illustrious father. But more than ten months ago now[646] a malady,
rather long and wearying than dangerous, surprised me in my native
city [patria], where I was publicly expounding the _Comedy_ of
Dante. And because for four months, at the request of my friends, I
followed the advice, I will not say of the doctors, but of charlatans
[fabulonum], my malady did nothing but increase. The potions and
the diet so upset all nutrition that unless you saw me you would
not believe how weak I am become, and my appearance only too well
confirms it. Wretched man that I am, you would no longer recognise
him whom you saw in Venice. My skin, lately well filled, is empty
now, my colour is changed, my sight dulled, while my knees shake
and my hands tremble. It follows that, far from crossing the proud
summits of the Apennine, on the advice of some of my friends I have
just been able to return from my native city into the country of my
ancestors at Certaldo. It is there I am now, half dead and restless,
utterly idle and uncertain of myself, waiting only on God, who is
able to heal me. But enough about myself.
"The sight and the reading of your letter having renewed my sorrow,
I wept anew almost all night long. It is not Petrarch for whom I
weep, for in recalling his integrity, his way of life, his youth,
his old age, his prayers, his innate piety, his love of God and of
his neighbour, I am assured that, delivered from the anguish of this
miserable life, he has flown away to the heavenly Father, where he
joys in Christ and the glory everlasting; it is for myself I weep and
for his friends left in this tempestuous world like ships without
rudders, driven by the winds and the waves into the midst of rocks.
And in considering thus the innumerable agitations of my soul, I can
easily divine what are your feelings and those of Tullia, my dear
sister and your wife, whom I will always honour. I am sure you must
feel a still keener bitterness than I ... but this you know too if
you are wise, as I believe you to be, that we are all born to die.
Our Silvanus has done what we shall do too in a little while. He is
dead who was full of years. What do I say? He is not dead, but he
has gone before us. Seated among the just, he pities our miseries,
praying the Father of Mercy that He will give us strength to combat
our faults during our pilgrimage, that when death comes He will give
us a perfect end pleasing to Him; and that notwithstanding the snares
of our adversary, He will lead us to Himself. I will say no more,
for, as you will think I am sure, those who love this great man ought
not only to cease from weeping, but to think only of the joy and
hope of their coming salvation. I pray you then, in the name of your
fidelity and of our friendship, offer this consolation to Tullia.
For women are less able to support such shocks as this than we, and
have therefore need of the firmer stay of men. But you have without
doubt already done so.
[Illustration: BOCCACCIO'S HOUSE IN CERTALDO
_Alinari_]
"You say that he has ended his days at the village of Arquà in the
_contado_ of Padua; that he wished his ashes to remain always in
that village, and that, to commemorate him for ever, a rich and
splendid tomb is there to be built. Alas, I admit my crime, if it can
be called a crime. I who am a Florentine grudge Arquà this shining
good fortune that has befallen her rather through his humility than
through her merit: the guardianship of the body of the man whose
soul has been the favourite dwelling-place of the Muses and of all
Helicon, the sanctuary of philosophy, the splendid ornament of the
liberal arts,--of the man who above all others was possessed of
Ciceronian eloquence as his writings show, has been confided to
her. It follows that not only Arquà, almost unknown even to the
Paduans, will now be known by all foreign nations however far off,
but that her name will be held in honour by the whole universe. One
will honour thee, Arquà, as, without seeing them, we honour in our
thoughts the hill of Posilipo, at the foot of which are placed the
bones of Virgil; ... and Smyrna, where Homer sleeps, and other like
places.... I do not doubt that the sailor returning laden with riches
from the farthest shores of the sea, sailing the Adriatic and seeing
afar the venerable summits of the Euganean Hills, will say to himself
or to his friends: 'Those hills guard in their breast the glory of
the universe, him who was once the triumph of all knowledge, Petrarch
the poet of sweet words, who by the Consular Senate was crowned in
the Mother City with the laurel of triumph, and whose many beautiful
works still proclaim his inviolable renown.' The black Indian, the
fierce Spaniard ... seized with admiration for this sacred name,
will one day come and before the tomb of so great a man salute with
respect and piety the ashes which it holds, complaining the while
of their misfortune that they should not have seen him living whom
dead they visit. Alas, my unhappy city, to whom it has not been given
to guard the ashes of so illustrious a son, to whom so splendid a
glory has been refused, it is true that thou art unworthy of such an
honour, thou hast neglected to draw him to thee when he was alive
and to give him that place in thy heart which he merited. Ah, had he
been an artisan of crimes, a contriver of treasons, a past master
in avarice, envy, and ingratitude, thou wouldst have called him to
thee. Yet even as thou art I should prefer that this honour had been
accorded thee rather than Arquà. But it is thus is justified the old
saying, 'A prophet is not without honour save in his own country.'
For he always knew how to avoid it, that he might imitate Christ his
Master and Redeemer in humility, Who preferred to be born according
to the flesh at Nazareth rather than at Jerusalem, and Who loved
better to have for mother a poor virgin who was holy than the most
proud and powerful queens of His time. And so, since God has wished
it, let the name of Arquà live through the centuries and let her
inhabitants preserve always an honour for which they should indeed be
thankful.
"But I am glad that a tomb is to be erected, for the splendour of
his name and the magnificence of his works render him worthy of it.
It is very probable, however, that it will seem of little importance
to the eyes of the learned, who consider rather the qualities of the
dead than the honours done to their bodies, to whom he has manifested
himself in many volumes, outshining the sun. But that tomb will be
a means of impressing the ignorant, whose books are sculptures and
paintings....
"As for his generosity towards his friends and to myself, I cannot
briefly tell it over, and so I leave it for another time, should it
offer, contenting myself for the moment with these words. I have
known by his many benefits towards me in time past how much he loved
me while he lived. I see now by his actions[647] that his friendship
has followed me even in his death, and unless in a better life after
this passage that we call death one loses one's friends, I think he
will love me still. He will love me not because I have merited it,
but because he is always faithful to him whom he has once adopted
for his own, and I have been his during forty years and more.[648]
And now, when he can no longer show his affection by words or by
writings, he has wished to number me among his heirs, so you write
me, leaving me a very ample portion of his wealth. How happy I am,
and how I rejoice that he has acted as he has done, but I regret
to be forced to come so soon into possession of his legacy that I
shall accept with joy. I should like better to see him live and to
be deprived of his gift; but this is a pious wish, and in thanking
you for your affection I accept as the supreme gift and legacy of his
kindness what you sent me some days ago.
"This letter should have finished there, but friendship constrains
me to add something more. I should have learned with pleasure what
has been done with the library--so very precious as it is--of this
illustrious man, for with us opinion is divided. But what worries
me most is to know what is become of the works he composed, and
especially his _Africa_, which I consider as an inspired work. Does
it still exist, and will it be preserved, or has it been burned,
as when he was alive you know well this severe critic of his own
work threatened? I learn that the examination of this work and of
others has been confided, by I know not whom, to certain persons. I
am astonished at the ignorance of him who has had the management of
this affair, but still more do I wonder at the temerity and lightness
of those who have undertaken the examination. Who would dare to
criticise what our illustrious master has approved? Not Cicero
himself, if he returned, nor Horace, nor Virgil, would dare to do so.
Alas, I fear that this examination has been confided to the jurists,
who because they know law, just those by which they impudently live,
imagine they know everything. I pray God that He take notice of it,
and that He protect the poems and other sacred inventions of our
master. Let me hear if the cause is yet submitted to these judges,
and if those who desire can approach these men. Tell me too what
is become of the other works, and especially of the book of the
_Trionfi_, which, according to some, has been burnt on the advice
of the judges ... than whom learning has no more ignorant enemies.
Besides, I know how many envies still attack the reputation of this
most eminent man. Certainly, if they can, they will spoil his works,
they will hide them, they will condemn them; they do not understand,
and they will make every effort that they may be lost to us. Prevent
this with all your vigilance, for the best men now and in the future
of Italy will be deprived of a great advantage if all these works
remain at the mercy of the ignorant and the envious....
"I have finished this letter at Certaldo, the 7th November,[649] and
as you see, I cannot say I have written in haste, I have taken almost
three whole days to write this short epistle, with a few intervals to
allow me to rest my exhausted body.
"Your Giovanni Boccaccio, if he still exists."
That letter was in truth his swan song. In the previous August he had
made his Will,[650] and lonely in the dark house in Certaldo,[651]
he had little else to do than to pray "the Father of Mercy
to lead him to Himself." In those last months, at any rate, he
seems to have given himself up almost with passion to religious
contemplation. He who had been so scornful of relics filled his
house with them, eagerly collecting them whenever he could in spite
of his poverty.[652] He seems too to have consoled himself, as many
another has done, with the perfect beauty of the Divine Office, for
a Breviary was among his books, and is named in his Will. That is
almost all we know or may conjecture concerning those last days,
which he passed, it seems, almost in solitude[653] on that hill of
Certaldo--a magician, as was said of Virgil and Ovid by the folk of
Naples and Sulmona, knowing all the secrets of Nature.
[Illustration: ROOM IN BOCCACCIO'S HOUSE AT CERTALDO
_Alinari_]
Infirm and ill as he was, he must often have looked from his room
over the world that lay there as fair as any in Tuscany, a land of
hills about a quiet valley where the olives are tossed to silver in
the wind, and the grapes are kissed by the sun into gold and purple,
where the corn whispers between the vines--till for him too at last
the grasshopper was become a burden. There, on December 21, 1375,
he died and was buried, as he had ordained in his testament, in the
church of SS. Jacopo e Filippo, leaving, as it is said, the following
verses for his epitaph:--
"Hac sub mole jacent cineres ac ossa Johannis;
Mens sedet ante Deum meritis ornata laborum
Mortalis vitæ. Genitor Bocchaccius illi;
Patria Certaldum, studium fuit alma poesis."
There beside the quiet waters of the Elsa, which puts all to sleep,
lies the greatest story-teller in the world.
FOOTNOTES:
[641] Cf. CORAZZINI, _op. cit._, p. 281. The disease which Boccaccio
thus describes has been thought to be a form of diabetes. Cf. COCHIN,
_Études Italiennes Boccace_, p. 167, n. 1. Petrarch too suffered from
_la scabbia_.
[642] In a letter to Maghinardo, September 13, 1373, he thanks him
with effusion for sending him a vase of gold full of gold pieces.
Thanks to that, he says, he can buy a cloak for his poor feverish
body. Cf. CORAZZINI, _op. cit._, p. 287. Villani is apparently
wrong when he says he had many friends, but that none came to his
assistance. One did. All the early biographies agree about his
poverty.
[643] _Rime, ed. cit._, sonnet xxxvi. "It is a hard thing and a very
horrible to wait for death; it is a thing which fills one with fear:
yet death is more certain and infallible than anything else that has
been, that is, or that will ever be. The course of life is short and
one cannot return along it, and on earth there is no joy so great
that it does not end in tears and regrets. Then why should we not
seek to extend by work our renown, and by that to make long our days
so short? This thought gives me and keeps me in courage. It spares
me the regret of the years which are fled away, it gives me the
splendour of a long life."
[644] Petrarch died at Arquà on July 18, 1374. The news was known in
Florence on July 25, when Coluccio Salutati wrote to Benvenuto da
Imola and mentioned it.
[645] Cf. CORAZZINI, _op. cit._, p. 377. He received Franceschino's
letter "pridie XIII kalendas novembris," that is October 31.
[646] "Verum jam decimus elapsus est mensis, postquam in patria
publice legentem Comoediam Dantis magis longa, atque tædiosa, quam
discrimine aliquo dubia ægritudo oppressit...." The letter was
written about November 7, ten months before which was January 7. Thus
we know it was in the winter of 1373 (Fl. St.), or January, 1374,
that he broke down.
[647] This refers doubtless to Petrarch's Will, by which he left
Boccaccio fifty florins of gold with which to buy a warm cloak to
cover himself in the nights of study.
[648] This is hard to explain. So far as we know, Boccaccio first met
Petrarch in 1350 in Florence, but see _supra_, p. 153, n. 2.
[649] "Scribendi finis Certaldi datus tertio nonas novembris."
[650] See Appendix V.
[651] Cf. ROSSELLINI, _Della casa di G. B. in Certaldo_ in
_Antologia_ (1825), n. lix.
[652] He leaves to the Friars of Santa Maria di Santo Sepolchro dal
Pogetto or della Campora outside the walls of Florence "all and
singular Holy Relics which the said dominus Johannes in a great
while and with much labour has procured from divers parts of the
world." (S. Maria della Campora is outside the Porta Romana of
Florence; there are still frescoes of the school of Giotto there.)
To the church of S. Jacopo of Certaldo he leaves an alabaster plaque
of the Blessed Virgin, a chasuble, stole, and maniple of red silk,
and a small altar pallium of red Lucca cloth, an altar cushion of
the same cloth, and three cases for corporals; a vase of pewter for
holy water, and a small cloak of yellow silk and cloth. He leaves a
diptych in which is painted on the one side Our Lady with her Son in
her arms and on the other a skull to Madonna Sandra, "who to-day is
wife of Franciesco di Lapo Buonamichi." This extraordinary collection
of things, which would only be in place in the house of a priest
one might think, leads us to ask whether Boccaccio had received
any Order. We cannot answer. Suares says he saw a papal bull that
permitted him to receive Holy Orders in spite of his illegitimacy,
and in his Will he is called "Dominus" and "Venerabilis." It is
perhaps in place to note that, like Dante and S. Francis, Boccaccio
has been claimed as a Protestant born out of due time. This amazing
nonsense was set forth in a book by one HAGER, entitled _Programmata
III de Joanne Boccatio veritatis evangelicæ teste_ (Chemnic, 1765).
[653] He may not have been utterly alone. In his Will he leaves to
"Bruna, daughter of the late Ciango da Montemagno, who has long been
with me, the bed she was used to sleep in at Certaldo," and other
things.