_A Manual of_
_Italian Literature_
BY
FRANCIS HENRY CLIFFE
LONDON: JOHN MACQUEEN
1896
CONTENTS.
I. INTRODUCTION
II. DANTE
III. PETRARCH
IV. BOCCACCIO AND THE PROSE WRITERS OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY
V. WRITERS OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY
VI. ARIOSTO
VII. POETS CONTEMPORARY WITH ARIOSTO
VIII. MACHIAVELLI AND THE PROSE WRITERS OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY
IX. BERNARDO AND TORQUATO TASSO
X. MARINO, CHIABRERA, FILICAIA, AND OTHER POETS OF
THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
XI. GALILEO AND THE PROSE WRITERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
XII. CHARACTERISTICS OF THE WRITERS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
XIII. METASTASIO
XIV. PARIMI
XV. ALFIERI
XVI. OTHER POETS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
XVII. PROSE WRITERS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
XVIII. CHARACTERISTICS OF THE WRITERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
XIX. LEOPARDI
XX. MANZONI
XXI. SILVIO PELLICO
XXII. POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
XXIII. PROSE WRITERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
XXIV. CONCLUSION
INDEX
_A Manual of_
_Italian Literature_
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION.
Whoever examines a map of Europe, and sees the position occupied by
Italy, must, even without knowledge of history, come to the conclusion
that a country situated in so central a position and favoured in so
many respects by Nature, cannot have failed to command an exalted
rank in the hierarchy of nations. But the most daring conjectures
would probably fall short of the brilliant reality. The rise and the
dominion of Rome would be regarded in a romance as too improbable for
the credulity of the simplest reader, but as a well-established fact in
the annals of mankind, it becomes a phenomenon of the most striking
importance and interest. That a solitary city should produce brave and
distinguished men, and even, aided by wealth and courage, establish
settlements in remote countries, is not wonderful; Carthage and Tyre
did so at an earlier period, Venice and Genoa did so in times nearer
the present; but that a solitary city should play a part reserved
apparently only for a great nation, should draw to itself, as in a
magic circle, all Italy, should conquer Gaul, Greece, Africa, Spain,
Britain, Asia Minor, and even threaten Persia and India, is indeed
marvellous. Nor were the conquests of Rome transient conflagrations
whose fury was soon exhausted; they were as durable as they were
brilliant, and the subjugated races speedily learned the language and
the manners of their masters. Only one nation, though politically
enslaved, remained intellectually free. Greece had produced poets so
sublime, philosophers so profound, historians so brilliant, that even
in the darkest hour of degradation, even when Memmius was despoiling
Corinth of the works of the greatest of statuaries, even when Sulla
was slaughtering the helpless inhabitants of Athens, she had the
satisfaction of seeing the master minds of Rome coming as humble
disciples to the sources of art and wisdom that took their origin only
on her soil.
Indeed, it is scarcely far-fetched to say that Greece was avenged
for her slavery by the not less complete slavery of Rome to her
intellectual supremacy. The Roman poets, dazzled by the brilliancy
of their Athenian prototypes, fancied that only by imitating, could
they hope to excel. A more unfortunate idea never took possession of a
nation. It destroyed everything in their writings that was spontaneous
and redolent of their native soil. Whatever is really endowed with
life and intrinsic value in their works, has had to struggle into
existence through the suffocating atmosphere of foreign fashions and
foreign trains of thought. This evil was apparent in other branches
of literature, but it was very far from injuring them as it injured
poetry. Virgil was assuredly one of the greatest poets that ever lived,
and yet how much of his poetry is second-hand, or, at best, adapted
from others. The adaptations are often executed with marvellous skill,
but this fact only enhances our regret that he should have made of his
_Æneid_ but an echo of Homer; and of his _Eclogues_ but a repetition of
Theocritus. His _Georgia,_ indeed, escaped being only a decoction from
Greek herbs, because in them he wrote of what he had actually seen and
experienced, and they are, in truth, his masterpiece. Indeed, if we
deduct the extraordinary beauty of the style, which is above praise,
what is there of great value in the _Eclogues,_ except some images of
rural beauty, and some outbursts of exquisite tenderness? Or in the
_Æneid,_ except those passages where he praises the greatness of Italy
and Rome, expatiates on his philosophy, and depicts with tenderness
and fire, such as no other ancient poet could command, the passion of
love? Better, far better, would it have been for him if he had never
heard of Homer, and had never studied Theocritus. This great poet
would then have been compelled to rely on his own resources, and would
have produced works, different it may be, but far more striking and
profound, than those we now possess.
The vigorous mind of Lucretius suffered but little from reliance on
Greek models. But this was partly owing to the nature of his subject.
A philosopher is assisted, his mind is enriched, by the speculations
of his predecessors; and the fact of his writing in verse is but an
accident which in no way detracts from the truth of this remark. His
strength of mind and matchless powers of description make his poem
one of the finest monuments in the Latin language. Catullus had so
much sweetness and tenderness, a cast of thought at once so fiery and
so natural, that even the study of the most laboured performances
of Alexandrian pedants could not rob him of his spontaneity and
freshness. With Horace the case is somewhat different. He was deeply
read in the poets of Greece, and that course of study is visible in
every line he wrote. But he had the wisdom to select as models only
the sublimest passages of the noblest writers, and he adapted what he
borrowed from them with such exquisite art to his Roman surroundings,
that we may well ask whether he did not positively gain by having
Pindar, Alcæus and Sappho constantly before him. Still, the result is
artificial in a high degree, and the emotions that greater poets really
feel, he too often only simulates.
If we except many tender passages from Tibullus, many picturesque
passages from Ovid, and many vigorous passages from Lucan, Roman
Poetry presents us for centuries with nothing but feeble echoes of
Greek models, and those models too often the pedantic and lifeless
productions of Alexandria. A genuine Roman Drama may be said never to
have existed. Plautus and Terence are but pale reflections of the Attic
comedies; the tragedies attributed to Seneca, the only specimens that
have come down to us of Roman Tragedy, are but clumsy imitations, or
rather travesties, of Sophocles and Euripides. In the declining ages
of Roman Literature, Claudian was the only poet who showed genuine
originality and freshness of thought, and he, strange to say, was an
Alexandrian by birth, to whom the Latin language was not natural, but
acquired.
I know of no other instance of a great nation, victorious and dominant
over the whole civilised world, humbly sitting as a disciple at the
feet of one of her captives, and that not only for a short time,
but for the whole course of her intellectual development. Spain, in
the Sixteenth Century, borrowed many of her literary fashions from
Italy; England, in the Seventeenth Century, modelled her productions
in many respects on France, as did Germany somewhat later; but these
were merely transient fashions, not deep-rooted customs, and produced
no very lasting effect. Rome was alone, and has been since, in her
deference to a foreign model, nor can it be said in extenuation that
she had only the choice of having poetry on that model or no poetry at
all. She had plenty of indigenous material, and Niebuhr has well said
that the true poetry of Rome must be found in her history and in her
early legends rather than in the finished productions of her literary
poets.
This is all the more remarkable, as her greatness was such that it
could not fail to inspire even the least susceptible of minds. It made
itself felt from the shores of the Baltic to the Persian Gulf, and is
attested by ruins more substantial than the uninjured structures of
feebler races. Such was its inherent strength, that it withstood the
bloodiest civil wars and the most crushing despotism; nor is it easy
to surmise what could have undermined it, had not the immigration of
barbarian tribes from the mysterious and unexplored regions of the
North given shock after shock to that stately system, the work of so
many warriors and legislators. It may truly be said that the walls of
Rome fell at the blast of the Gothic trumpet.
When Constantine removed the seat of Empire to Constantinople, he broke
the spell that had for so many ages held the nations captive. The
partition of the Empire into East and West finished what the removal
began. Nor had Rome only the rivalry of Constantinople to dread. Milan,
and then Ravenna, became the scene of Imperial splendour ind the centre
of Imperial policy. Rome would, indeed, have been deserted but for her
Bishop, who was gradually establishing for himself and his successors a
dominion not less brilliant and more durable than that of the Cæsars.
When at last the old order of things had so completely collapsed
that the phantom Emperor was no longer allowed to retain his phantom
title, it must have been obvious to all thinking men that changes
so far reaching had come over Italy as to make it almost another
world. The invaders had mingled largely with the conquered nation,
inter-marriages were frequent; and it must, in justice to the
barbarians, be admitted that they rapidly assumed the manners, and,
indeed, the thoughts, of civilisation. If we compare the Court of
Theodoric to that of Honorius, or even to that of Valentinian III,
the superiority of the Gothic ruler in statesmanship, and even in
superficial attainments, is manifest. But wars and invasions desolated
the unhappy country. Belisarius defeated the Goths and regained Sicily
and the South of Italy for the Emperors of the East. Although the
Byzantine dominion was not of long duration, traces of its existence
may still be found in those regions by the curious. It must not be
forgotten that the Goths introduced new blood into the country, and
that every new invasion tended to modify, if not to alter, the national
character of the Peninsula.
But while Italy was suffering for ages from the invasions of the
Lombards, the Saracens, and the Normans, it must not be forgotten
that she was steadily increasing in wealth, until, in the Thirteenth
Century, she became the great money market of the world, and retained
that position until shortly after the discovery of America. Wealth
produced its usual effect of giving men ample leisure, and leisure
created the demand for intellectual and artistic gratifications.
Sicily was the favourite abode of the Emperor Frederick II, and at
his brilliant Court poets were encouraged and minstrels rewarded.
The Troubadours of Provence offered to Italy in noble verse that
chivalric spirit of gallantry and love so congenial to the taste of
the age. What the Italians so much admired, they naturally desired to
emulate. But in order to do so they required a language capable of
expressing thoughts with accuracy and adorning them with splendour.
It is no exaggeration to say that from the decadence of the Latin
language arose, not one tongue, but many dialects. These dialects were
fostered by the division of the Peninsula into many principalities,
townships, republics, and kingdoms. It was, therefore, incumbent upon
the Italians to combine from existing materials a literary language.
By a fortunate coincidence, the most gifted writers arose in Tuscany,
where the most promising of these dialects was spoken. Thus it happened
that the Tuscan idiom became the standard for literary composition. It
was felt, even by the least discerning, that the Latin language, no
longer the living property of the nation, was not suited to express the
inspirations of contemporary poets, however advantageously it might be
retained for legal, theological, and historical works.
At the end of the Thirteenth Century, GUINICELLI of Bologna and
CAVALCANTI of Florence gave greater finish and regularity, more
scholarly perfection, and more literary merit to that style of amorous
poetry which they, in common with their contemporaries, so greatly
admired in the Troubadours. Even in prose, valuable works were
produced. The _Chronicle_ of DINO COMPAGNI has many passages deserving
the highest praise. Those writers were worthy predecessors of the poet
who was to give the _Divine Comedy_ to the world, and first among the
moderns was to equal, if, indeed, he did not in some respects excel,
the greatest poets of antiquity.
CHAPTER II.
DANTE.
DURANTE (a name afterwards called for shortness DANTE) was born in
Florence in the month of May, 1265, the son of Aldighiero Aldighieri
and Bella, his wife. "Of his ancestors, this much is evident through
the mists of a very nebulous antiquity," says Symonds, in his
_Introduction to the Study of Dante,_ "that they were well-placed
among the citizens of Florence, and it seems that their primitive name
was not Aldighieri, but Elisei. Tradition differs about the origin of
the Elisei. Some of Dante's biographers trace them to Roman colonists
of Florence in the time of Julius Cæsar. Others, and these are the
majority, derive them from one Eliseo, of the noble Roman house of
Frangipani, or bread-breakers--so called by reason of some eminent act
of public charity--who is said to have settled at Florence in the days
of Charlemagne, or soon after. In any case, the Elisei were honourable
in Florence, possessing castles in the country round and towered houses
in the city. They dwelt within the old Pomoerium, or primitive walled
circuit, in the Via degli Speziali, near the Mercato Vecchio; this
in itself was a sign of ancient blood. Dante prided himself upon his
descent from the purest blood of Florentine citizens. The change in
the name of Dante's family from Elisei to Aldighieri took place thus:
Cacciaguida degli Elisei, who was born in 1106, married Aldighiera
degli Aldigheri of Ferrara, and he had a son by her whom he called
Aldighiero. This son gave his Christian name to his descendants, whilst
a brother of Cacciaguida continued the line and name of the Elisei.
Cacciaguida followed Conrad III to the Crusades in 1147, was knighted
by him, and died, at the age of forty-two, in the Holy Land."
The poet introduces this ancestor in one of the finest passages of the
_Paradiso._
Dante was educated by BRUNETTO LATINI, the author of a curious poem,
entitled the _Tesoro,_ in which the germ of many thoughts of the
_Divine Comedy_ may be traced. He was subsequently placed by his
grateful pupil in the centre of Hell. Dante possessed a thorough
knowledge of the science of his day, and we may give his instructor
credit for having carefully developed the brilliant abilities of his
pupil. He is said to have studied music and to have shown decided
skill in painting.
His father died when he was nine or ten years of age. Shortly before
his death, he introduced his son to Folco Portinari, a rich citizen
of Florence, and to his daughter, Beatrice, who was his first, and
probably his only, love. Although but a child, he was struck by
her beauty. "Her dress on that day," he says, "was of a most noble
colour, a subdued and goodly crimson, girdled and adorned as best
suited with her very tender age." Beatrice died when Dante was in his
twenty-sixth year, and the blow was so great that it was long before
he was comforted by philosophy and study. She became, in his mind, the
personification of everything great and noble. In the _Divine Comedy_
she appears as his guide from the summit of Purgatory to Paradise.
In 1292, he married Gemma Donati, by whom he had seven children. Thus,
it can hardly have been an unhappy marriage; but as she did not follow
him into exile, and as he never mentions her in any of his extant
letters, we may suppose there was no very ardent affection on either
side.
The latter part of Dante's life was destined to be marked with many
sorrows and disasters. He was dragged into the vortex of faction and
civil war, and was wrecked with many less noteworthy mariners.
He was made Prior of Florence in 1300, and so eminent was he that
he was appointed one of the four ambassadors who were sent to Pope
Boniface Viii to complain of the French intervention under Charles of
Valois. Before they returned, Charles had entered Florence; Dante and
his companions were outlawed, his property was confiscated, his house
pillaged, and he never again was suffered to return to the city of his
birth.
Tradition says, and I think it is supported by the internal evidence
of the poem, that he wrote the first seven cantos of the _Inferno_ in
Florence before his exile, and that the beginning of the eighth canto:
"Io dico, seguitando,"
is a proof that the poem was continued after having been laid aside
for a time, otherwise the word "seguitando" would be unnecessary to
the sense, and it is not in Dante's style to admit unnecessary words
into his lines. If this reasoning hold good, we can determine pretty
accurately the date of the _Divine Comedy._ The poet feigns that he
descended into the infernal regions on Good Friday of the year 1300;
his exile began in 1301; therefore, the latter part of 1300 very
probably saw him write the first seven cantos of the work. In the
sixth canto there is an allusion to his exile, and to the defeat of
his party; but that may have been inserted afterwards.
Cruel was the blow that fell upon him, doubly cruel after so many years
of prosperity and honour. He had to consort with unworthy companions;
he had to eat the bitter bread of dependence; he was severed from those
whom he loved most dearly; and, as he makes Cacciaguida foretell in
Paradise, "this was the first arrow with which the bow of exile struck
him."
"Tu lascerai ogni cosa diletta
Più caramente; e questo è quello strale
Che l'arco dell esilio pria saetta."
The reader may peruse in the seventeenth canto of the _Paradiso,_
his concise and pathetic account of the sorrows of his later years.
Clad in the form of prophecy, it constitutes one of the grandest
passages in the whole poem. Some letters, written during his exile,
are still extant and breathe a spirit so lofty that versification
alone is wanting to equal them to his sublimest inspirations. Amid all
the troubles of his eventful life, he still found leisure to study,
meditate, and write, and when he died in Ravenna in 1321, the first
great poem of modern times was completed.
"Many volumes have been written," says Carlyle, "by way of commentary
on Dante and his book; yet, on the whole, with no great result. His
biography is, as it were, irrecoverably lost for us. An unimportant,
wandering, sorrow-stricken man, not much note was taken of him while he
lived; and the most of that has vanished, in the long space that now
intervenes. It is five centuries since he ceased writing and living
here. After all commentaries, the Book itself is mainly what we know
of him. The Book, and one might add, that Portrait commonly attributed
to Giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot help inclining to think
genuine, whoever did it. To me it is a most touching face; perhaps
of all faces that I know, the most so. Lonely there, painted as on
vacancy, with the simple laurel wound round it; the deathless sorrow
and pain, the known victory which is also deathless; significant of
the whole history of Dante. I think it is the mournfullest face that
ever was painted from reality; an altogether tragic, heart-affecting
face. There is in it, as foundation of it, the softness, tenderness,
gentle affection as of a child; but all this is as if congealed into
sharp contradiction, into abnegation, isolation, proud, hopeless
pain. A soft, ethereal soul, looking out so stern, implacable, grim,
trenchant, as from imprisonment of thick-ribbed ice. Withal it is a
silent pain, too, a silent, scornful one; the lip is curled in a kind
of god-like disdain of the thing that is eating out his heart, as if
it were withal a mean insignificant thing, as if he whom it had power
to torture and strangle, were greater than it. The face of one wholly
in protest, and life-long unsurrendering battle against the world.
Affection all converted into indignation; slow, equable, silent, like
that of a god. The eye, too, it looks out as in a kind of _surprise,_ a
kind of inquiry, why the world was of such a sort? This is Dante, so he
looks, this 'voice of ten silent centuries,' and sing us his 'mystic,
unfathomable song.'"
Dante is one of those authors who concentrate all their greatness
in one stupendous work. The _Vita Nuova_ has many beauties, the
_Convito_ deserves to be read, the Latin Treatises offer numerous
points of interest, but it is only in the _Divina Commedia_ that he
rises to the height of his sublimity. He was singularly judicious,
both in the choice of his subject and in the form of his verse. The
Terza Rima carries the reader onwards in its progress, calmly, nobly,
irresistibly. Had the work been written in prose, it would not have
commanded the attention of future ages, so great is the embalming power
of verse. A fine prose work may be neglected in the course of ages; a
fine poetical work, never. Had the work been written in Latin verse, as
indeed it was begun, it would only be a study for the curious and not
a possession for all humanity.
The vivid power of Dante's imagination, the intense and rugged strength
of his thoughts, and the graphic realism with which he presents the
scenes of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven to his readers, are above praise
and can find no parallel in the works of other poets. Milton surpasses
him in sustained grandeur, but in picturesqueness the English poet does
not attempt to rival the Florentine.
Dante's Poem is so well known that it is needless to insist upon
particular beauties. All cultivated readers are familiar with them, if
not in the original, at least in translations. If any fault is to be
found in the poem, it is that it somewhat falls off; the _Purgatorio_
is not quite so fine as the _Inferno_; the _Paradiso,_ not quite
so fine as the _Purgatorio._ The poet sometimes has an unfortunate
tendency only to hint at the histories of the spirits he meets, so that
we are indebted to his commentators rather than to himself for stories
worthy to be chronicled in immortal verse. His style is not always
free from coarseness on the one hand, and from obscurity on the other.
But in so noble an achievement it would be mean to dwell on occasional
blemishes, instead of being grateful to the poet who has presented us
with a work, perhaps in many respects, the noblest production of the
human mind.
As a specimen of Dante's Poem, I quote the last canto of the _Inferno,_
in Cary's translation. The reader will notice the curious passage that
seems to prove that Dante was aware, four hundred years before Newton,
of the law of gravitation:
CANTO XXXIV.
"The banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth
Towards us; therefore look," so spake my guide,
"If thou discern him." As when breathes a cloud
Heavy and dense, or when the shades of night
Fall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far
A windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round,
Such was the fabric then methought I saw.
To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew
Behind my guide: no covert else was there.
Now came I (and with fear I bid my strain
Record the marvel) where the souls were all
Whelmed underneath, transparent, as through glass
Pellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid,
Others stood upright, this upon the soles,
That on his head, a third with face to feet
Arched like a bow. When to the point we came
Whereat my guide was pleas'd that I should see
The creature eminent in beauty once,
He from before me stepp'd and made me pause.
"Lo!" he exclaimed, "lo Dis! and lo the place
Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with
strength."
How frozen and how faint I then became,
Ask me not, reader! for I write it not,
Since words would fail to tell thee of my state.
I was not dead nor living. Think thyself,
If quick conception work in thee at all,
How I did feel. That Emperor who sways
The Realm of Sorrow, at mid breast from th' ice
Stood forth; and I in stature am more like
A giant, than the giants are his arms.
Mark now how great that whole must be, which suits
With such a part. If he were beautiful
As he is hideous now, and yet did dare
To scowl upon his Maker, well from him
May all our misery flow. Oh what a sight!
How passing strange it seem'd when I did spy
Upon his head three faces: one in front
Of hue vermilion, th' other two with this
Midway each shoulder join'd and at the crest;
The right 'twixt wan and yellow seem'd: the left
To look on, such as come from whence old Nile
Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth
Two mighty wings, enormous as became
A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw
Outstretch'd on the wide sea. No plumes had they,
But were in texture like a bat, and these
He flapp'd i' th' air, that from him issued still
Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth
Was frozen. At six eyes he wept; the tears
Adown three chins distill'd with bloody foam.
At every mouth his teeth a sinner champ'd
Bruis'd as with pond'rous engine, so that three
Were in this guise tormented. But far more
Than from that gnawing, was the foremost pang'd
By the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back
Was stript of all its skin. "That upper spirit,
Who hath worse punishment," so spake my guide,
"Is Judas, he that hath his head within
And plies the feet without. Of th' other two,
Whose heads are under, from the murky jaw
Who hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe
And speaks not! Th' other Cassius, that appears
So large of limb. But night now re-ascends,
And it is time for parting. All is seen."
I clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade;
And noting time and place, he, when the wings
Enough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides,
And down from pile to pile descending stept
Between the thick fell and the jagged ice.
Soon as he reached the point whereat the thigh
Upon the swelling of the haunches turns,
My leader there with pain and struggling hard
Turn'd round his head, where his feet stood before,
And grappled at the fell, as one who mounts,
That into hell methought we turned again.
"Expect that by such stairs as these," thus spake
The teacher, panting like a man forespent,
"We must depart from evil so extreme."
Then at a rocky opening issued forth,
And placed me on a brink to sit, next join'd
With wary step my side. I raised mine eyes,
Believing that I Lucifer should see
Where he was lately left, but saw him now
With legs held upward. Let the grosser sort,
Who see not what the point was I had pass'd,
Bethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then.
"Arise," my master cried, "upon thy feet.
The way is long, and much uncouth the road;
And now within one hour and half of noon
The sun returns." It was no palace hall
Lofty and luminous wherein we stood.
But natural dungeon where ill footing was
And scant supply of light. "Ere from th' abyss
I sep'rate," thus when risen I began,
"My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free
From error's thraldom. Where is now the ice?
How standeth he in posture thus reversed?
And how from eve to morn in space so brief
Hath the sun made his transit?" He in few
Thus answering spake: "Thou deemest thou art still
On th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd
Th' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world.
Thou wast on th' other side so long as I
Descended; when I turn'd, thou didst o'erpass
That point, to which from every part is dragg'd
All heavy substance. Thou art now arriv'd
Under the hemisphere opposed to that,
Which the great continent doth overspread,
And underneath whose canopy expir'd
The Man, that was born sinless, and so liv'd.
Thy feet are planted on the smallest sphere,
Whose other aspect is Judecca. Morn
Here rises, when there evening sets: and he,
Whose shaggy pile was scal'd, yet standeth fix'd,
As at the first. On this part he fell down
From heav'n; and th' earth, here prominent before,
Through fear of him did veil her with the sea,
And to our hemisphere retir'd. Perchance
To shun him was the vacant space left here
By what of firm land on this side appears,
That sprang aloof." There is a place beneath,
From Belzebub as distant, as extends
The vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight,
But by the sound of brooklet, that descends
This way along the hollow of a rock,
Which, as it winds with no impetuous course,
The wave hath eaten. By that hidden way
My guide and I did enter, to return
To the fair world: and heedless of repose
We climb'd, he first, I following his steps,
Till on our view the beauteous lights of heav'n
Dawn'd through a circular opening in the cave.
Thence issuing we again beheld the stars.
CHAPTER III.
PETRARCH.
Unlike the life of Dante, of which so few particulars have come down
to us that our curiosity is rather excited than satisfied by the
information we possess, the life of PETRARCH is illustrated in its
minutest details by extracts from his works and correspondence.
Francesco Petrarca was born at Arezzo on the twentieth of July,
1304. His family originally came from the little village of Ancisa,
fifteen miles from Florence, but for many years his ancestors had been
settled in that city. His father, Pietro di Parenzo, was familiarly
called Petracco, in Latin, Petracchus, whence his son was designated
"Petracchi filius," and thus the poet evolved the more euphonious name
of Petrarca. His father was a Notary Public, and seems to have held
some responsible posts, but he belonged to the party of the "Bianchi,"
and was exiled in 1302 with Dante and many others. His property was
confiscated, and he never returned to the city of his birth. In 1313,
he went with his wife and children to Avignon, where the Popes then
held their court. He sent his children to the quieter neighbourhood
of Carpentras, and there, under an able master, Petrarch studied
Latin, and the acquaintance of the ancient writers kindled him in an
enthusiasm that only ended with his life. He was destined for the study
of the law, and in 1318 he went to Montpellier, and in 1322 to Bologna,
but he felt little inclination for this science, and on the death
of his father in 1326 he returned to Avignon and devoted himself to
literature and society.
His name is inseparably connected with that of Laura, and it was on
Good Friday of the year 1327 that he met her for the first time.
"Era il giorno, ch'ai Sol si scoloraro
Per la pietà del suo Fattore i rai,
Quando i' fuipreso, e non me ne guardai,
Che i he' vostr' occhi, Donna, mi legaro."
SONNET 3.
From the researches of her descendant, the Abbé de Sade, there can be
no doubt that Laura was the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the daughter of
Audibert de Noves. She died in 1348 of the Black Death, which was then
devastating Europe, and her loss inspired the poet with some of his
noblest effusions. The attachment was perfectly platonic, nor does it
seem to have excited any adverse comments among his contemporaries,
for similar homage had been paid by poetry to beauty from the first
appearance of the Troubadours.
Petrarch was fortunate in acquiring the friendship and favour of some
of the most eminent men of his time. Jacopo Colonna, Bishop of Lombés,
invited him to his palace at the foot of the Pyrenees. He gratified
his intense desire to see the world by travelling through France and
Germany, and subsequently visiting many cities of Italy. In Rome he
was welcomed by Stefano Colonna, the head of that illustrious family,
but Rome was then deserted and lonely, and Petrarch soon returned to
the more brilliant circles of Avignon. He found a delicious retreat
fifteen miles from Avignon, at Vaucluse, a pleasant valley, watered by
the river Sorga. Here he produced some of his loveliest Italian poems,
and some of his most elaborate Latin compositions. So uncertain are
the vicissitudes of literary taste, and so little do even great poets
know where their real strength lies, that Petrarch treated his sonnets
and canzoni, to which alone he is indebted for his immortality, as the
amusement of his leisure hours, and devoted all his care and study to
those Latin works which are now read only by the curious. He composed
a ponderous epic poem in Latin hexameters, and gave it to the world
under the title of _Africa._ It procured for him an immense reputation.
The whole literary world read it with avidity, and all Europe resounded
with his praises. Paris and Rome simultaneously invited him to be
crowned with the laurel within their walls. He decided to accept the
invitation of Rome; but before the ceremony he went to Naples, where
he was received with enthusiasm by King Robert, who was so enraptured
with the _Africa_ that he begged it should be dedicated to himself.
This request the poet gladly granted, and he left for Rome laden with
signs of Royal favour. He was crowned in the Capitol by the Senator
Orso dell' Anguillara, on the 8th of April, 1341, and the laurel wreath
bestowed upon him he hung up as a votive offering in the Church of St.
Peter.
Petrarch was one of those who succeed in everything; and, as if the
distinctions already showered upon him were not enough, he was, when
visiting Parma, invited to the Court by Azzo da Correggio, and within a
short time sent as his envoy to Clement VI at Avignon. He wrote a Latin
poem advising the Pope to return to Rome, and his Holiness, though
he did not take the advice, was so delighted with the poem that he
bestowed a valuable benefice on its author.
From the end of May, 1342, until September, 1343, Petrarch resided
chiefly at Vaucluse, with occasional visits to Avignon. He was occupied
writing his work, _De Contemptu Mundi,_ and studying Greek under
Barlaam, who was one of those emigrants from Greece willing to impart
their language to the few desirous of acquiring it. No more zealous
disciple could have been found than Petrarch. He spent large sums, like
his friend, Boccaccio, in collecting manuscripts, and he even copied
many rare works with his own hand. He seems to have been in possession
of some productions of classical writers, which were subsequently lost
during the interval between his death and the invention of printing.
When Rome rose against the tyranny of the noble houses, Colonna
and Orsini, and when Cola di Rienzi proclaimed himself the Tribune
of the People, Petrarch's imagination took fire, and he hailed the
deliverer in prose and verse. Cardinal Colonna was deeply offended at
his taking the part of one whom he regarded as a rebel and a traitor.
This diversity of opinion seems to have induced him to leave the Papal
Court, and for some years he resided in various towns of Italy. He was
in Parma, where he had just received a valuable benefice attached to
the Cathedral, when he heard of the death of his beloved Laura. The
blow was terrible, and he long refused to be comforted. But if he lost
his love, he gained a friend, for in the year of Jubilee, 1350, on his
way to Rome, he made the acquaintance of Boccaccio at Florence. This
was his first visit to the Tuscan city, and the Florentines offered
to restore his father's confiscated property, on condition that he
should lecture at their newly-founded University. But this he refused,
and nothing came of the offer. For many years he lived in Milan, the
favoured guest of the Visconti. There is a pretty story of Galleazzo
Visconti telling his little son in jest, at a brilliant entertainment
he was giving, to find out the wisest man present, and to bring him
forward. The child looked at the assembled company, and then went up to
Petrarch and led him to his father, to the admiration of all beholders.
"So clearly," says Schopenhauer, who quotes the anecdote, "does Nature
stamp the greatness of the mind on the countenance, that even a child
can perceive it."
Petrarch was sent by the Visconti to Prague, as envoy to the Emperor
Charles IV, and afterwards in the same capacity to King John of France.
He subsequently resided in Padua and Venice, and in 1370 he retired to
the village of Arqua, in the Euganean mountains, where he was destined
to pass the remainder of his days. He was found on the morning of the
18th of July, 1374, dead in his library, with his head resting on a
book.
The host of imitators who, without a spark of Petrarch's genius,
mimicked his mannerisms for centuries, produced at last the inevitable
reaction, and of recent years many censors have insisted on his faults,
while ignoring his beauties. But Petrarch was assuredly one of the
greatest lyric poets that ever lived. The melody of his sonnets and the
splendour of his odes are unrivalled in the literature of his country,
nor did any Italian lyrist rise to an equal height until in the
Nineteenth Century Leopardi combined inspiration no less ardent with a
style more natural, simple and direct. Petrarch is one of those poets
who present nothing to their readers in a sharp and graphic style, but
everything involved in a rich haze of trope and metaphor. From this
tendency, it cannot be denied, he becomes occasionally artificial and
forced, but he is far more frequently soul-stirring and magnificent.
Unlike Dante, whose chief inspirers were hatred and indignation, he is
prompted by love and reverence: love for his country and for Laura, and
reverence for all that is noble and heroic. His sublime ode, _Spirto
gentil,_ addressed to Rienzi, rouses the spirit like a trumpet, even
after the lapse of so many centuries. How noble is the invocation to
the heroes of ancient Rome: "O grandi Scipioni! O fedel Bruto!" And
the conclusion is superb:
"Sopra il monte Tarpeo, Canzon, vedrai,
Un cavalier[1] ch' Italia tutta onora,
Pensoso più d'altrui che di sè stesso.
Digli: Un che non ti vide ancor da presso,
Se non come per fama uom s'innamora,
Dice che Roma ogni ora,
Con gli occhi di dolor bagnati e molli
Ti chier mercè da tutti sette i colli."
Magnificent is the Ode to Italy, _Italia Mia,_ and even superior, if
possible, is the poem addressed to Giacomo Colonna in favour of another
Crusade. Marvellous in their delicate beauty are the Odes addressed
to Laura, _In quella parte dov' Amor mi sprona,_ and, _Di pensier
in pensier, di monte in monte._ But to enumerate the poems in which
extraordinary beauties are to be found would be to enumerate nearly
the whole collection. The tenderness and fire, the melody and richness
of his style are equalled by no poet in any language unless it be by
Tennyson in his finest lyric effusions, especially in the _In Memoriam._
That Petrarch brought the Sonnet to the highest point of perfection is
universally allowed, and to those readers who wish to enter into the
details of the subject, I can recommend _The Sonnet, its origin and
history,_ by CHARLES TOMLINSON.
Dante was altogether a man of the Middle Ages, dwelling upon the past,
and scarcely bestowing a thought upon the future; but Petrarch was in
many respects surprisingly modern, and both in his Latin Prose and in
his Italian Verse we can find many passages instinct with the fire of
hope and the belief in progress.
[Footnote 1: Rienzi.]