_Enciclopedia Dantesca_, Bassano, 1877.
16: _E.g._, Book i., chap, xliii.: on the possession of a library.
17: Conradini has edited the work in _Padova a Petrarca_, 1874, and
there are now two Italian versions and one in French.
18: Edited by A. Razzolini, Bologna, 1874-9, in _Collezione di Opere
Inedite o Rare_. Vols. 34-36. The _Life of Cæsar_ was carefully
edited by Schneider (Leipzig, 1827), with a discussion of Petrarch's
divergences from classical Latin.
19: For this whole subject see Ferrazzi, _op. cit_., especially p.
760. An excellent analysis of the Latin works may be found in Körting,
_Petrarca's Leben u. Werke_, Leipzig, 1878, pp. 542 _sqq_.
20: _De Rem. Utriusq. Fortunæ_, i., 43; _Opera_ (1581), p. 43.
21: _Rerum Mem_., i., 2, as corrected by M. de Nolhac: _Pétrarque et
l'Humanisme_, p. 268.
22: _Cf_. de Nolhac, _op. cit_., p. 99.
23: _Sen_., v., 1; _Opera_ (1581), p. 792. Compare, on the general
subject, G. H. Putnam's _Books and their Makers in the Middle Ages_,
New York, 1896.
24: _Epistolæ de Rebus Familiaribus_, xvi., 1 (Fracassetti's edition,
vol. ii., p. 363).
25: The Latin original, transcribed from the archives of Venice, is to
be found in de Nolhac, _op. cit_., p. 80.
26: _Petrarcha Redivivus_, 2d ed. (Padua, 1650), p. 72.
27: _Cf. Fam_., xxiv., 1 (vol. iii., p. 250).
28: _Fam_., iv., 15.
29: _Il Convito_, iv., 16. For the conceptions of grammar in the
thirteenth century see Turot's remarkable study in the _Notices et
Extraits des MSS_., vol. 22.
30: Migne, _Patrologia Lat_., vol. 82, pp. 408, 426.
31: "De Sui ipsius et Multorum Ignorantia," _Opera_ (1581), pp. 1042,
1043.
32: _Opera_ (1581), p. 1038. Steele's extracts from Bartholomew
Anglicus, in _Mediæval Lore_ (Stock, London), give a good idea of the
popular science of the thirteenth century.
33: _Cf_. Rashdall, _Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages_,
Oxford, 1895.
34: _Sen_., iii., 1; _Opera_ (1581), pp. 768, 769.
35: See below, p. 68. (by the incomparable Giacomo Colonna,...)
36: _Fam_. v., 7.
37: _Cf. De Recuperatione Terre Sancte_, excellently edited by Ch.-V.
Langlois, Paris, 1891.
38: _Lettres de F. Nelli_, ed. Cochin. Paris, 1892, p. 166.
39: He says distinctly in one letter: Ad epistolæ tuæ finem de
familiaribus curis stilo alio et seorsum loquar, ut soleo. _Fam._, xx.,
2 (vol. iii., p. 11). Again we find: Quidquid hodie æconomicum mihi
domus attulit, seorsum altera perleges papyro. _Fam_., xviii., 7 (vol.
ii., p. 486). _Cf._ below, p. 230 _sq_.
40: There is one possible exception, a short address upon the death of
the Archbishop of Milan, delivered in 1354; given by Hortis, _Scritti
Inediti_, pp. 335 _sqq_. The reader will find a discussion of the
editing of the letters below, p. 150 _sqq_ (Well, this which I dedicate
to you, my brother,...).
41: _Fam_., xiii., 5 (vol. ii. pp. 232, 233).
42: _Fam_., xx., 6 (vol. iii., p. 25).
43: Perhaps with a hope that simple notes would escape the fate of his
more polished missives.
44: _Opera_ (1581), p. 546 _sq._
45: M. Victor Develay has turned a part of the correspondence into
French, with conscientious fidelity to the original.] I
BIOGRAPHICAL
Vestro de grege unus fui autem, mortalis homuncio.
_Epistola ad Posteros._
_Francesco Petrarca to Posterity._
Greeting.--It is possible that some word of me may have come to you,
though even this is doubtful, since an insignificant and obscure name
will scarcely penetrate far in either time or space. If, however, you
should have heard of me, you may desire to know what manner of man I
was, or what was the outcome of my labours, especially those of which
some description or, at any rate, the bare titles may have reached you.
To begin with myself, then, the utterances of men concerning me will
differ widely, since in passing judgment almost every one is influenced
not so much by truth as by preference, and good and evil report alike
know no bounds. I was, in truth, a poor mortal like yourself, neither
very exalted in my origin, nor, on the other hand, of the most humble
birth, but belonging, as Augustus Cæsar says of himself, to an ancient
family. As to my disposition, I was not naturally perverse or wanting
in modesty, however the contagion of evil associations may have
corrupted me. My youth was gone before I realised it; I was carried
away by the strength of manhood; but a riper age brought me to my
senses and taught me by experience the truth I had long before read in
books, that youth and pleasure are vanity--nay, that the Author of all
ages and times permits us miserable mortals, puffed up with emptiness,
thus to wander about, until finally, coming to a tardy consciousness of
our sins, we shall learn to know ourselves. In my prime I was blessed
with a quick and active body, although not exceptionally strong; and
while I do not lay claim to remarkable personal beauty, I was comely
enough in my best days.[1] I was possessed of a clear complexion,
between light and dark, lively eyes, and for long years a keen vision,
which however deserted me, contrary to my hopes, after I reached my
sixtieth birthday, and forced me, to my great annoyance, to resort to
glasses.[2] Although I had previously enjoyed perfect health, old age
brought with it the usual array of discomforts.
My parents were honourable folk, Florentine in their origin, of
medium fortune, or, I may as well admit it, in a condition verging
upon poverty. They had been expelled from their native city,[3] and
consequently I was born in exile, at Arezzo, in the year 1304 of this
latter age which begins with Christ's birth, July the twentieth, on
a Monday, at dawn. I have always possessed an extreme contempt for
wealth; not that riches are not desirable in themselves, but because
I hate the anxiety and care which are invariably associated with
them. I certainly do not long to be able to give gorgeous banquets. I
have, on the contrary, led a happier existence with plain living and
ordinary fare than all the followers of Apicius, with their elaborate
dainties. So-called _convivia_, which are but vulgar bouts, sinning
against sobriety and good manners, have always been repugnant to me.
I have ever felt that it was irksome and profitless to invite others
to such affairs, and not less so to be bidden to them myself. On the
other hand, the pleasure of dining with one's friends is so great that
nothing has ever given me more delight than their unexpected arrival,
nor have I ever willingly sat down to table without a companion.
Nothing displeases me more than display, for not only is it bad in
itself, and opposed to humility, but it is troublesome and distracting.
I struggled in my younger days with a keen but constant and pure
attachment, and would have struggled with it longer had not the
sinking flame been extinguished by death--premature and bitter, but
salutary.[4] I should be glad to be able to say that I had always been
entirely free from irregular desires, but I should lie if I did so.
I can, however, conscientiously claim that, although I may have been
carried away by the fire of youth or by my ardent temperament, I have
always abhorred such sins from the depths of my soul. As I approached
the age of forty, while my powers were unimpaired and my passions were
still strong, I not only abruptly threw off my bad habits, but even the
very recollection of them, as if I had never looked upon a woman. This
I mention as among the greatest of my blessings, and I render thanks to
God, who freed me, while still sound and vigorous, from a disgusting
slavery which had always been hateful to me.[5] But let us turn to
other matters.
I have taken pride in others, never in myself, and however
insignificant I may have been, I have always been still less important
in my own judgment. My anger has very often injured myself, but never
others. I have always been most desirous of honourable friendships,
and have faithfully cherished them. I make this boast without fear,
since I am confident that I speak truly. While I am very prone to take
offence, I am equally quick to forget injuries, and have a memory
tenacious of benefits. In my familiar associations with kings and
princes, and in my friendship with noble personages, my good fortune
has been such as to excite envy. But it is the cruel fate of those who
are growing old that they can commonly only weep for friends who have
passed away. The greatest kings of this age have loved and courted
me. They may know why; I certainly do not. With some of them I was on
such terms that they seemed in a certain sense my guests rather than
I theirs; their lofty position in no way embarrassing me, but, on the
contrary, bringing with it many advantages. I fled, however, from many
of those to whom I was greatly attached; and such was my innate longing
for liberty, that I studiously avoided those whose very name seemed
incompatible with the freedom that I loved.
I possessed a well-balanced rather than a keen intellect, one prone
to all kinds of good and wholesome study, but especially inclined to
moral philosophy and the art of poetry. The latter, indeed, I neglected
as time went on, and took delight in sacred literature. Finding in
that a hidden sweetness which I had once esteemed but lightly, I came
to regard the works of the poets as only amenities. Among the many
subjects which interested me, I dwelt especially upon antiquity, for
our own age has always repelled me, so that, had it not been for the
love of those dear to me, I should have preferred to have been born
in any other period than our own. In order to forget my own time,
I have constantly striven to place myself in spirit in other ages,
and consequently I delighted in history; not that the conflicting
statements did not offend me, but when in doubt I accepted what
appeared to me most probable, or yielded to the authority of the writer.
My style, as many claimed, was clear and forcible; but to me it seemed
weak and obscure. In ordinary conversation with friends, or with those
about me, I never gave any thought to my language, and I have always
wondered that Augustus Cæsar should have taken such pains in this
respect. When, however, the subject itself, or the place or listener,
seemed to demand it, I gave some attention to style, with what success
I cannot pretend to say; let them judge in whose presence I spoke. If
only I have lived well, it matters little to me how I talked. Mere
elegance of language can produce at best but an empty renown.
My life up to the present has, either through fate or my own choice,
fallen into the following divisions. A part only of my first year
was spent at Arezzo, where I first saw the light. The six following
years were, owing to the recall of my mother from exile, spent upon
my father's estate at Ancisa, about fourteen miles above Florence. I
passed my eighth year at Pisa,[6] the ninth and following years in
Farther Gaul, at Avignon, on the left bank of the Rhone, where the
Roman Pontiff holds and has long held the Church of Christ in shameful
exile. It seemed a few years ago as if Urban V. was on the point of
restoring the Church to its ancient seat, but it is clear that nothing
is coming of this effort, and, what is to me the worst of all, the Pope
seems to have repented him of his good work, for failure came while he
was still living. Had he lived but a little longer, he would certainly
have learned how I regarded his retreat.[7] My pen was in my hand
when he abruptly surrendered at once his exalted office and his life.
Unhappy man, who might have died before the altar of Saint Peter and in
his own habitation! Had his successors remained in their capital he
would have been looked upon as the cause of this benign change, while,
had they left Rome, his virtue would have been all the more conspicuous
in contrast with their fault.[8]
But such laments are somewhat remote from my subject. On the windy
banks of the river Rhone I spent my boyhood, guided by my parents,
and then, guided by my own fancies, the whole of my youth. Yet there
were long intervals spent elsewhere, for I first passed four years at
the little town of Carpentras, somewhat to the east of Avignon: in
these two places I learned as much of grammar, logic, and rhetoric as
my age permitted, or rather, as much as it is customary to teach in
school: how little that is, dear reader, thou knowest. I then set out
for Montpellier to study law, and spent four years there, then three
at Bologna. I heard the whole body of the civil law, and would, as
many thought, have distinguished myself later, had I but continued my
studies. I gave up the subject altogether, however, so soon as it was
no longer necessary to consult the wishes of my parents.[9] My reason
was that, although the dignity of the law, which is doubtless very
great, and especially the numerous references it contains to Roman
antiquity, did not fail to delight me, I felt it to be habitually
degraded by those who practise it. It went against me painfully to
acquire an art which I would not practise dishonestly, and could
hardly hope to exercise otherwise. Had I made the latter attempt, my
scrupulousness would doubtless have been ascribed to simplicity.
So at the age of two and twenty[10] I returned home. I call my place
of exile home, Avignon, where I had been since childhood; for habit
has almost the potency of nature itself. I had already begun to be
known there, and my friendship was sought by prominent men; wherefore I
cannot say. I confess this is now a source of surprise to me, although
it seemed natural enough at an age when we are used to regard ourselves
as worthy of the highest respect. I was courted first and foremost by
that very distinguished and noble family, the Colonnesi, who, at that
period, adorned the Roman Curia with their presence. However it might
be now, I was at that time certainly quite unworthy of the esteem in
which I was held by them. I was especially honoured by the incomparable
Giacomo Colonna, then Bishop of Lombez,[11] whose peer I know not
whether I have ever seen or ever shall see, and was taken by him to
Gascony; there I spent such a divine summer among the foot-hills of
the Pyrenees, in happy intercourse with my master and the members of
our company, that I can never recall the experience without a sigh of
regret.[12]
Returning thence, I passed many years in the house of Giacomo's
brother, Cardinal Giovanni Colonna, not as if he were my lord
and master, but rather my father, or better, a most affectionate
brother--nay, it was as if I were in my own home.[13] About this time,
a youthful desire impelled me to visit France and Germany. While I
invented certain reasons to satisfy my elders of the propriety of the
journey, the real explanation was a great inclination and longing to
see new sights. I first visited Paris, as I was anxious to discover
what was true and what fabulous in the accounts I had heard of that
city.[14] On my return from this journey I went to Rome,[15] which I
had since my infancy ardently desired to visit. There I soon came to
venerate Stephano, the noble head of the family of the Colonnesi, like
some ancient hero, and was in turn treated by him in every respect like
a son. The love and good-will of this excellent man toward me remained
constant to the end of his life, and lives in me still, nor will it
cease until I myself pass away.
On my return, since I experienced a deep-seated and innate repugnance
to town life, especially in that disgusting city of Avignon which
I heartily abhorred, I sought some means of escape. I fortunately
discovered, about fifteen miles from Avignon, a delightful valley,
narrow and secluded, called Vaucluse, where the Sorgue, the prince
of streams, takes its rise. Captivated by the charms of the place, I
transferred thither myself and my books. Were I to describe what I did
there during many years, it would prove a long story. Indeed, almost
every bit of writing which I have put forth was either accomplished or
begun, or at least conceived, there, and my undertakings have been so
numerous that they still continue to vex and weary me. My mind, like my
body, is characterised by a certain versatility and readiness, rather
than by strength, so that many tasks that were easy of conception have
been given up by reason of the difficulty of their execution. The
character of my surroundings suggested the composition of a sylvan or
bucolic song. I also dedicated a work in two books upon _The Life of
Solitude,_[16] to Philip, now exalted to the Cardinal-bishopric of
Sabina. Although always a great man, he was, at the time of which I
speak, only the humble Bishop of Cavaillon.[17] He is the only one of
my old friends who is still left to me, and he has always loved and
treated me not as a bishop (as Ambrose did Augustine), but as a brother.
While I was wandering in those mountains upon a Friday in Holy Week,
the strong desire seized me to write an epic in an heroic strain,
taking as my theme Scipio Africanus the Great, who had, strange to say,
been dear to me from my childhood. But although I began the execution
of this project with enthusiasm, I straightway abandoned it, owing to
a variety of distractions. The poem was, however, christened _Africa_,
from the name of its hero, and, whether from his fortunes or mine, it
did not fail to arouse the interest of many before they had seen it.
While leading a leisurely existence in this region, I received,
remarkable as it may seem, upon one and the same day,[18] letters both
from the Senate at Rome and the Chancellor of the University of Paris,
pressing me to appear in Rome and Paris, respectively, to receive the
poet's crown of laurel. In my youthful elation I convinced myself that
I was quite worthy of this honour; the recognition came from eminent
judges, and I accepted their verdict rather than that of my own better
judgment. I hesitated for a time which I should give ear to, and sent
a letter to Cardinal Giovanni Colonna, of whom I have already spoken,
asking his opinion. He was so near that, although I wrote late in
the day, I received his reply before the third hour on the morrow. I
followed his advice, and recognised the claims of Rome as superior to
all others. My acceptance of his counsel is shown by my twofold letter
to him on that occasion, which I still keep. I set off accordingly; but
although, after the fashion of youth, I was a most indulgent judge of
my own work, I still blushed to accept in my own case the verdict even
of such men as those who summoned me, despite the fact that they would
certainly not have honoured me in this way, had they not believed me
worthy.[19]
So I decided, first to visit Naples, and that celebrated king and
philosopher, Robert, who was not more distinguished as a ruler than as
a man of culture.[20] He was, indeed, the only monarch of our age who
was the friend at once of learning and of virtue, and I trusted that
he might correct such things as he found to criticise in my work. The
way in which he received and welcomed me is a source of astonishment
to me now, and, I doubt not, to the reader also, if he happens to
know anything of the matter. Having learned the reason of my coming,
the King seemed mightily pleased. He was gratified, doubtless, by my
youthful faith in him, and felt, perhaps, that he shared in a way the
glory of my coronation, since I had chosen him from all others as the
only suitable critic. After talking over a great many things, I showed
him my _Africa_ which so delighted him that he asked that it might be
dedicated to him in consideration of a handsome reward.[21] This was a
request that I could not well refuse, nor, indeed, would I have wished
to refuse it, had it been in my power. He then fixed a day upon which
we could consider the object of my visit. This occupied us from noon
until evening, and the time proving too short, on account of the many
matters which arose for discussion, we passed the two following days
in the same manner. Having thus tested my poor attainments for three
days, the King at last pronounced me worthy of the laurel. He offered
to bestow that honour upon me at Naples, and urged me to consent
to receive it there, but my veneration for Rome prevailed over the
insistence of even so great a monarch as Robert. At length, seeing
that I was inflexible in my purpose, he sent me on my way accompanied
by royal messengers and letters to the Roman Senate, in which he gave
enthusiastic expression to his flattering opinion of me. This royal
estimate was, indeed, quite in accord with that of many others, and
especially with my own, but to-day I cannot approve either his or my
own verdict. In his case, affection and the natural partiality to youth
were stronger than his devotion to truth.
On arriving at Rome, I continued, in spite of my unworthiness, to rely
upon the judgment of so eminent a critic, and, to the great delight of
the Romans who were present, I who had been hitherto a simple student
received the laurel crown.[22] This occasion is described elsewhere in
my letters, both in prose and verse.[23] The laurel, however, in no way
increased my wisdom, although it did arouse some jealousy--but this is
too long a story to be told here.
On leaving Rome, I went to Parma, and spent some time with the members
of the house of Correggio, who, while they were most kind and generous
towards me, agreed but ill among themselves. They governed Parma,
however, in a way unknown to that city within the memory of man, and
the like of which it will hardly again enjoy in this present age.
I was conscious of the honour which I had but just received, and
fearful lest it might seem to have been granted to one unworthy of the
distinction; consequently, as I was walking one day in the mountains,
and chanced to cross the river Enza to a place called Selva Piana, in
the territory of Reggio, struck by the beauty of the spot, I began
to write again upon the _Africa_, which I had laid aside. In my
enthusiasm, which had seemed quite dead, I wrote some lines that very
day, and some each day until I returned to Parma. Here I happened upon
a quiet and retired house, which I afterwards bought, and which still
belongs to me. I continued my task with such ardour, and completed
the work in so short a space of time, that I cannot but marvel now at
my despatch.[24] I had already passed my thirty-fourth year when I
returned thence to the Fountain of the Sorgue, and to my Transalpine
solitude. I had made a long stay both in Parma and Verona,[25] and
everywhere I had, I am thankful to say, been treated with much greater
esteem than I merited.
Some time after this, my growing reputation procured for me the
good-will of a most excellent man, Giacomo the Younger, of Carrara,
whose equal I do not know among the rulers of his time. For years he
wearied me with messengers and letters when I was beyond the Alps,
and with his petitions whenever I happened to be in Italy, urging me
to accept his friendship. At last, although I anticipated little
satisfaction from the venture, I determined to go to him and see what
this insistence on the part of a person so eminent, and at the same
time a stranger to me, might really mean. I appeared, though tardily,
at Padua,[26] where I was received by him of illustrious memory, not as
a mortal, but as the blessed are greeted in heaven--with such delight
and such unspeakable affection and esteem, that I cannot adequately
describe my welcome in words, and must, therefore, be silent. Among
other things, learning that I had led a clerical life from boyhood,
he had me made a canon of Padua, in order to bind me the closer to
himself and his city. In fine, had his life been spared, I should have
found there an end to all my wanderings. But alas! nothing mortal is
enduring, and there is nothing sweet which does not presently end in
bitterness. Scarcely two years was he spared to me, to his country,
and to the world. God, who had given him to us, took him again.[27]
Without being blinded by my love for him, I feel that neither I, nor
his country, nor the world was worthy of him. Although his son, who
succeeded him, was in every way a prudent and distinguished man, who,
following his father's example, always loved and honoured me, I could
not remain after the death of him with whom, by reason especially of
the similarity of our ages, I had been much more closely united.