had already beheld a thousand times, as from the hope, common to the
afflicted, of coming to terms with my misfortunes by a change of
scene.[28] ..............
* * * * *
The preceding brief autobiography, written at the close of his
life,[29] does not extend beyond Petrarch's forty-seventh year, and
in spite of its peculiar interest it is but a very imperfect sketch,
which must be supplemented by the abundant data scattered through the
correspondence. In order that the reader may approach the letters with
a fuller understanding of the circumstances in which they were written,
it is therefore desirable to touch upon certain points which Petrarch
neglected in his account of himself, and then to trace his life from
his return to Vaucluse in 1351, the last event mentioned in the _Letter
to Posterity_ to his death, twenty-three years later.
Of his parents he tells us but little. His father had, before his
exile, held a responsible position in the Florentine Republic, and his
readiness of speech had caused him to be chosen upon more than one
occasion to perform important public missions. His name, _Petracco_,
was changed by his son to _Petrarca;_ why, we do not know. It has
been suggested that Francesco invented the latter as more rhythmical,
or adopted it on account of some hidden symbolic meaning, as four
centuries later young Arouet mysteriously chose to call himself
Voltaire. It is perhaps safer to look upon the alteration as merely an
instance of the Latinisation of proper names, which was quite natural
and almost necessary at a time when Latin was so generally employed.
Petracco _père_ was a friend of Dante while they lived in Florence
together, and when it pleased the citizens of that most beautiful and
most famous daughter of Rome to cast them out from her sweet bosom,
and they were, as Dante tells us, borne to divers ports "by the dry
wind that blows from grievous poverty,"[30] the bonds of friendship
were knit the closer, for a community of misfortune as well as of
tastes and interests served to bring them together. Petrarch's father
was, however, forced by the care of his family to give up his studies.
We know nothing of his literary tastes, except that he was an ardent
admirer of Cicero; and, although his interest was probably legal
rather than literary, his son confidently assumes that, had he been
permitted by circumstances to continue his intellectual pursuits, he
would have reached a high degree of scholarship.[31] Almost the only
anecdote recorded of him is a trifling instance of his personal vanity.
When somewhat past his fiftieth birthday, he was one day horrified to
discover, upon looking into the glass, a single hair verging upon grey.
Amazed at this indication of premature decay, he not only filled his
own home but roused the whole neighbourhood with his laments. Petrarch
adds, with an air of conscious virtue, that his own hair began to grow
grey before he reached five and twenty.[32]
The only other kinsman to whom we need refer is Petrarch's brother,
Gherardo, who was apparently two or three years his junior. A
considerable number of the letters are addressed to him. The two
spent much of their early life together, but Gherardo, when about
thirty-five years old, turned his back upon the world and entered a
Carthusian monastery. Some years later the elder brother felicitated
him upon his escape from the exacting cares of a life of fashion: he no
longer suffered the "piratical tortures" of the curling-iron, and his
close-cropped hair left eyes and ears free to perform their functions;
the elaborate costume of the fourteenth-century dandy, whose scrupulous
folds were liable to be discomposed by every careless movement, had
been exchanged for a simple monastic garment, readily donned or laid
aside, and affording its wearer no anxiety. Petrarch admits that he is
himself still held in bondage, that he still has a partiality for good
clothes, though this passion grows hopefully less from day to day. He
had, however, worse sins to reflect upon than the elaborate coiffures
and tight boots of their frivolous days at Avignon. "What," he asks,
for example, "have trivial verses, tilled with the false and offensive
praise of women,[33] in common with songs of praise and holy vigils?"
We shall refer later to these letters addressed to Gherardo, for they
afford a convenient illustration of Petrarch's views of that most
cherished of mediæval ideals, the monastic life.[34]
Petrarch, like Erasmus and Voltaire, had no place that he could call
home, unless it were the hated Avignon, whither he was taken when
about nine years old. This migration to Provence, to which Avignon
then belonged, important as it was in the life of our poet, did not
involve so complete a separation from Italian influences as would at
first sight appear. The boy had in his earliest years learned the
Tuscan dialect, which, Dante impatiently declares, was unreasonably
held by the Florentines to be the highest form of Italian.[35] There
was on the Rhone a considerable Italian colony, with which Petrarch's
family associated, and at Carpentras, not far from Avignon, whither
the family moved on account of the cheaper living, the little Checco,
as he was familiarly called, had an Italian schoolmaster from Prato.
Moreover, his later friends and patrons of the noble Roman house of
Colonna undoubtedly maintained their national traditions, in spite of
the growing French influences at the papal court.
At school (1315-19) Petrarch soon discovered an extraordinary fondness
for Latin. While the other boys were still struggling with the simple
Æsop, he was poring over Cicero's works, which fascinated him with
their sonorous periods before he could grasp their meaning.[36] His
old schoolmaster, Convennevole, was very proud of his pupil, and
singled him out as the most illustrious of those whom he had instructed
during his sixty years as pedagogue.
Petracco was anxious to provide a career for his son, and not
unnaturally chose for him his own profession of the law. Like so many
other notable literary spirits since his day, Petrarch began his career
in a law school, first at the neighbouring University of Montpellier,
and later at Bologna. But while Schumann began composing symphonies
at Heidelberg, and intercalated a waltz "here and there between
Justinian's Institutes and the Pandects," Petrarch appears to have made
some progress in his uncongenial subject, and to have gained the esteem
of one at least of his teachers. Of his four years at Montpellier we
know practically nothing. The boy was only about nineteen when he
removed to Bologna, the greatest of mediæval law schools. His three
years here were pleasantly spent with the congenial friends he made
among his fellow-students. They took long excursions into the country,
often not returning until late at night, but such was the happy
security of the time that, even if the gates were closed, they had
no difficulty in getting over the dilapidated fortifications, which
presented no very formidable barrier to active young students. It was
during this period that he first visited Venice, then at the height of
her glory.
The motives that induced Petrarch promptly to give up the law as soon
as he heard of his father's death, are not far to seek. Some of them
are noted in his _Letter to Posterity,_ One of his professors, whom
in later life he sharply criticised for his ignorance of classical
philology, accused him, in turn, of cowardly desertion. He replied
that it was never wise to oppose nature, who had made him a devotee of
solitude, not of the courts; and while he conceded it to be a happy
circumstance that he had spent some time in Bologna, he believed
himself to have been equally fortunate in leaving it when he did.[37]
As an old man, however, he judged these seven years at the universities
to have been "not so much spent, as totally wasted."[38]
Once at least (in 1335) Petrarch put his legal knowledge to the test,
by acting as counsel for the Correggi in a case involving the control
of the city of Parma. The merits of the case need not occupy us;
Petrarch believed the claims of his client to be just, and he assures
us that only the fairest means were employed in his successful defence
before the papal consistory.[39] He certainly won the friendship of
Azzo di Correggio; and his cordial relations with this equivocal person
afford the first example of the sympathetic intercourse which he
maintained throughout his life with the distinguished despots of the
time.
It is probable that Petrarch's mother soon followed his father to the
grave. The modest property which Petracco had accumulated in exile
was dishonestly appropriated by the executors, and the brothers were
left to shift for themselves. Petrarch almost immediately took orders,
but probably did not, as has been generally supposed, ever become
a priest.[40] He had to face the same problem that in succeeding
centuries confronted those who wished to devote themselves to
literature. At a time when an author could expect no remuneration for
his work, except perhaps for dedications, he might secure a livelihood
by putting himself in the way of preferments in the church, or, as
was the custom of the Humanists of the fifteenth century, he might
rely upon the patronage of some great prince or prelate. Petrarch
enjoyed the advantages of both these sources of income. He was, very
early in life, so fortunate as to gain the esteem of the Colonnesi,
the most influential of the noble Italian families at the papal court.
Giacomo, the youngest of the seven sons of old Stephano Colonna, had
been struck by Petrarch's appearance when they were students together
at Bologna, and on returning to Avignon and learning of Petrarch's
situation he made advances which led to one of the most enthusiastic
friendships which the poet records. With his aid and that of his eldest
brother, Cardinal Giovanni Colonna, the young writer gained immediate
recognition, and did not thereafter want for friends and admirers. It
was through the influence of Cardinal Colonna that he received his
first benefice, in 1335.
Although Petrarch had, as Dante says of himself, "drunk the waters
of the Arno before he had cut his teeth," fate made him, like Dante,
a citizen of the world.[41] His life was interrupted by frequently
recurring journeys and changes of residence. Scarcely two years had
elapsed after his return to Avignon before an invitation from Giacomo
Colonna, newly appointed Bishop of Lombez, enabled him to visit
Toulouse and spend a "celestial summer" within sight of the Pyrenees.
But before we trace his various pilgrimages, a word must be said of the
curious city in which he and several of his most intimate friends spent
much of their life. Avignon, although a town of no great importance
when Petracco first brought his wife and family thither, was destined
to become one of the great European capitals. Clement V., a Gascon,
who had been chosen pope in 1305, summoned the cardinals to Lyons to
celebrate his coronation, instead of going himself to Rome. During his
pontificate he held his court at various French towns, and resided for
a time in the Dominican cloister at Avignon. He was succeeded by the
energetic old Frenchman, John XXII. (1316-1334), who was followed by
six other French popes, all of whom maintained their court at Avignon.
Although they appear to have been, upon the whole, good and upright
men, they were all Frenchmen, and deliberately chose to reside in
a city but just across the Rhone from France; they thus inevitably
sacrificed the cosmopolitan character that their predecessors had
enjoyed at Rome. Moreover, the college of cardinals became largely
French, so that the curia soon came to be regarded as a servile
exponent of French interests. The national jealousy in Germany was
augmented by the long struggle between the popes and Louis of Bavaria,
while the outbreak of the Hundred Years' War produced in England a
revolt against the claims not only of "French popes," but of popes in
general. An added explanation of the ill-repute into which the head of
the Church fell is to be found in the extortions of the papal treasury;
for it became necessary to repair in some way the deficiency caused by
the diminution of the Italian revenue, and to meet the ever-increasing
expenses of a scandalously luxurious court. The most loudly decried of
the financial expedients of the popes owe their origin, or at least
their outrageous extension, to this period.
Petrarch's span of life exactly coincided with the exile of the popes
from Rome, and his "fate or his sins" made him a most unwilling citizen
of their new home, "the Babylon of the West." He never tires of
execrating the city, but we may safely assume that he paints too lurid
a picture of its condition when he declares that it was "filled with
every kind of confusion, the horror of darkness overspreading it, and
contained everything fearful which had ever existed or been imagined
by a disordered mind." Although the popes were building a magnificent
palace, calling a Giotto to aid in their artistic undertakings, and
collecting a large library,[42] Petrarch describes their capital as "a
hell on earth," and no longer what it was in his earlier days, although
even then the most foul and filthy of places.[43] But doubtless he owed
more to his residence in the "windy city" than he was ready to admit.
He was willing to share in the good things at the pope's disposal,
so long as no duties were involved which would interfere with his
cherished freedom. To his sojourn in this great centre of international
intercourse may be ascribed, in large part, his wide acquaintance
with men of all nations, as well as the profound influence which he
exercised over his contemporaries.
It was not long after his return from Bologna that Petrarch first saw
his Laura. Twenty-one years later he made a note upon a fly-leaf of
his favourite copy of Virgil, in which he was accustomed to record his
bereavements. Placed apart from the others, in order that it might
often catch his eye, it reads as follows: "Laura, who was distinguished
by her own virtues, and widely celebrated by my songs, first appeared
to my eyes in my early manhood, in the year of our Lord 1327, upon
the sixth day of April, at the first hour, in the church of Santa
Clara at Avignon; in the same city, in the same month of April, on the
same sixth day, at the same first hour, in the year 1348, that light
was taken from our day, while I was by chance at Verona, ignorant,
alas! of my fate. The unhappy news reached me at Parma, in a letter
from my friend Ludovico, on the morning of the nineteenth of May, of
the same year. Her chaste and lovely form was laid in the church of
the Franciscans, on the evening of the day upon which she died. I am
persuaded that her soul returned, as Seneca says of Scipio Africanus,
to the heaven whence it came. I have experienced a certain satisfaction
in writing this bitter record of a cruel event, especially in this
place where it will often come under my eye, for so I may be led to
reflect that life can afford me no farther pleasures; and, the most
serious of my temptations being removed, I may be admonished by the
frequent study of these lines, and by the thought of my vanishing
years, that it is high time to flee from Babylon. This, with God's
grace, will be easy, as I frankly and manfully consider the needless
anxieties of the past, with its empty hopes and unforeseen issue."[44]
This meagre notice contains all that we really know of the woman whose
name is associated for all time with that of Francesco Petrarca. While
she is, it is hardly necessary to say, the theme of nearly all his
Italian lyrics, little or no reference is made to her in the Latin
works, with two notable exceptions, to be spoken of later. In the
vast collection of prose letters two or three vague allusions to his
love for her may be found. Once only is Laura mentioned by name,--in
a letter to Giacomo Colonna, who had begun to suspect that the much
besung sweetheart was but a play upon words--a personification of
the longed-for poet's laurel (_Laurea_). "Would that your humorous
suggestion were true," Petrarch replies; "would to God it were all
a pretence, and not a madness!"[45] From none of these sources do
we learn anything of the lady herself. Many ingenious theories have
been based upon the descriptions in the _Canzoniere,_ which, though
often sufficiently detailed, are however poetic, allegorical, and
conflicting. The futility of such deductions can be made clear by a
single example. Upon no other topic does the poet dwell with more
evident pleasure, or more varied detail, than the eyes of his mistress;
yet it cannot be determined whether these were blue or dark.[46]
While it must, therefore, be acknowledged that attempts to learn more
of the object of Petrarch's devotion have proved unavailing, it is
possible, from the material at our disposal, to study satisfactorily
and profitably the poet's attitude toward one great preoccupation of
humanity, the love of woman. The genuineness of the passion that fills
the sonnets, no one who reads the Latin works can doubt, although
it is touched upon in only a very few instances. Its reality is
attested by two passages of considerable length, which also serve
to explain the conflict of emotions depicted in the Italian lyrics.
One of these, a Latin metrical epistle to Giacomo Colonna, we may
neglect[47]; the other bit of self-analysis it behooves us to examine
somewhat carefully, since it casts a flood of light, not only upon the
extraordinary man with whom we are dealing, but upon a fundamental
contrast between mediæval and modern thought.[48]
Petrarch was, as we have seen, engaged in a lifelong struggle to
reconcile the opposing ideals, both moral and intellectual, toward
which he felt himself drawn. During his best years the most terrible of
his inward conflicts was that between the monk and the self-respecting
lover; between the mediæval, ecclesiastical, and the modern, secular,
conception of love. By the ecclesiastical, or monkish, conception,
we mean the belief in the inherent sinfulness of love, regardless of
the relations that may exist between the lover and the object of his
affection. This belief was, of course, part of a complex theological
system, which owes its formulation, in large measure, to Petrarch's
spiritual guide, St. Augustine.[49] A great deal of the unnatural and
often indecent twaddle about women which fills the theological works
of the Middle Ages may be traced more or less directly to him. It was
woman who brought sin into the world in the beginning; it is she who
is responsible for its propagation ever since. Man, it is assumed,
would be a pure, God-fearing, well-nigh angelic being were it not for
the perverse seductions of the other sex. The most scandalous tales
were not considered out of place by the preachers of the thirteenth
century, to illustrate the diabolical origin of woman's charms and
the disastrous effects of the only kind of love of which a Jacques
de Vitry or the retired inquisitor, Stephen of Bourbon, could form a
conception.[50]
In order to discuss the matter in all its bearings, Petrarch chose the
form of an imaginary dialogue, his _Secret_, between himself and his
favourite ghostly adviser, St. Augustine; and a most extraordinary bit
of modern introspective and psychological acumen it is.
In this dialogue, of which some account is given later in this volume,
Petrarch defends, with refreshing earnestness, the higher conception
of love; but his respect for Augustine, who vigorously asserts the
debasing nature of the passion, is too great to permit him ultimately
to reject the monkish notions. Much he freely confesses to the Bishop;
much is extorted from him by a clever process of cross-questioning.
This love for a woman, together with his longing for fame,[51]
Augustine declares to be the poet's most conspicuous failings, which
serve to bar his way to a higher life. Upon Augustine's expressing his
astonishment that so superior a mind should languish for so many years
in the shameful bonds of love, Francesco passionately declares that it
is the soul, the innate celestial goodness, that he loves and admires;
that he owes all to her, who has preserved him from sin and stimulated
him to develop his greatest powers.[52] These arguments are, however,
easily met. The poet is forced to acknowledge that his life has shown
only degeneration since he first saw Laura; it was her virtue, not his,
which maintained a purely platonic relation between them. His confessor
points out that if he looks in the glass he cannot fail to see how the
fire of passion and the loss of sleep have made him old before his
time. However, he must not despair; let him travel, that may furnish a
remedy. But Petrarch has already vainly fled from temptation. Then let
him meditate upon the infirmity of the body, and the shortness of life.
"Think shame of yourself," his mentor exclaims, "that you are pointed
at, and have become a subject of gossip with the common herd! Think how
ill your morals correspond with your profession; how this passion has
injured you in soul, body, and estate; how much you have needlessly
suffered on its account; how often you have been deluded, despised,
and neglected! Think how proud and distant your mistress has always
shown herself toward you, how you have made her famous and yet have
sacrificed yourself, solicitous for her good name when she spent no
thought upon your welfare! Separated from God by this earthly love, you
have subjected yourself to a thousand miseries. Consider the useful and
honourable tasks that you have so long neglected, the many incompleted
works that lie before you and that demand your whole energy, not merely
the odd moments which your passion leaves free." "Few indeed there be,"
Augustine characteristically remarks, "who, having once imbibed the
sweet passion of desire, manfully endeavour to grasp the truly foul
character of woman's person."[53] Consequently they easily relapse with
every new temptation. If the poor victim would be free, he must banish
the past from his thoughts; no day or night must elapse without tearful
prayers which may, perchance, at last bring divine relief.
It is only by remembering the general condemnation of the love of woman
among the ecclesiastical class, which was, up to Petrarch's time,
nearly synonymous with the literary class, that we can understand
the general form which the discussion takes in the dialogue just
outlined. It is his pure affection for a pure woman that fills Petrarch
with apprehension. He studiously neglects all other considerations,
however important. One possible vague reference to his connection
with the church occurs[54]; but there is none at all to the fact that
the object of his devotion was, as we may assume, a married woman.
If Laura was unmarried, the arguments against the attachment become
still more unnatural, as measured by a modern or secular standard. Of
that _liaison_ which resulted in two illegitimate children no notice
is taken, although it would seem a natural subject for criticism upon
the part of a confessor like Augustine. The dialogue is therefore a
discussion of love at its best. The arguments which Petrarch puts
in the mouth of St. Augustine are mainly conventional and monastic,
with some suggestions of the interference with work which a literary
bachelor would be likely to apprehend.[55] The defence, on the other
hand, is purely modern,--modern enough fully to grasp, and even defend
against the perversions of monasticism and the current theological
speculation, one of the noblest of man's attributes. But Petrarch was
too thoroughly conservative in everything touching religion to reject a
view of love so systematically inculcated by the church.