This inexorable passion has such a hold upon me that pen, ink, and
paper, and work prolonged far into the night, are more to my liking
than repose and sleep. In short, I find myself always in a sad and
languishing state when I am not writing, and, anomalous though it
seems, I labour when I rest, and find my rest in labour. My mind is
hard as rock, and you might well think that it really sprang from one
of Deucalion's stones. Let this tireless spirit pore eagerly over
the parchment, until it has exhausted both fingers and eyes by the
long strain, yet it feels neither heat nor cold, but would seem to be
reclining upon the softest down. It is only fearful that it may be
dragged away, and holds fast the mutinous members. Only when sheer
necessity has compelled it to quit does it begin to flag. It takes a
recess as a lazy ass takes his pack when he is ordered up a sharp hill,
and comes back again to its task as a tired ass to his well-filled
manger. My mind finds itself refreshed by prolonged exercise, as the
beast of burden by his food and rest. What then am I to do, since I
cannot stop writing, or bear even the thought of rest? I write to you,
not because what I have to say touches you nearly, but because there
is no one so accessible just now who is at the same time so eager for
news, especially about me, and so intelligently interested in strange
and mysterious phenomena, and ready to investigate them.
I have just told you something of my condition and of my indefatigable
brain, but I will tell you now an incident which may surprise you even
more, and will at the same time prove the truth of what I have said.
It happened at a time when, after a long period of neglect, I had just
taken up my _Africa_ again, and that with an ardour like that of the
African sun itself. This is the task which, if anything will help me,
I trust may some time moderate or assuage my insatiable thirst for
work. One of my very dearest friends, seeing that I was almost done for
with my immoderate toil, suddenly asked me to grant him a very simple
favour. Although I was unaware of the nature of his request, I could
not refuse one who I knew would ask nothing except in the friendliest
spirit. He thereupon demanded the key of my cabinet. I gave it to him,
wondering what he would do, when he proceeded to gather together and
lock up carefully all my books and writing materials. Then, turning
away, he prescribed ten days of rest, and ordered me, in view of my
promise, neither to read nor write during that time. I saw his trick;
to him I now seemed to be resting, although in reality I felt as if I
were bound hand and foot. That day passed wearily, seeming as long
as a year. The next day I had a headache from morning till night. The
third day dawned and I began to feel the first signs of fever, when my
friend returned, and seeing my plight gave me back the keys. I quickly
recovered, and perceiving that I lived on work, as he expressed it, he
never repeated his request.
Is it then true that this disease of writing, like other malignant
disorders, is, as the Satirist claims, incurable, and, as I begin
to fear, contagious as well? How many, do you reckon, have caught
it from me? Within our memory, it was rare enough for people to
write verses.[2] But now there is no one who does not write them;
few indeed write anything else. Some think that the fault, so far as
our contemporaries are concerned, is largely mine. I have heard this
from many, but I solemnly declare, as I hope some time to be granted
immunity from the other ills of the soul--for I look for none from
this--that I am now at last suddenly awakened for the first time by
warning signs to a consciousness that this may perhaps be true; while
intent only upon my own welfare, I may have been unwittingly injuring,
at the same time, myself and others. I fear that the reproaches of an
aged father, who unexpectedly came to me, with a long face and almost
in tears, may not be without foundation. "While I," he said, "have
always honoured your name, see the return you make in compassing the
ruin of my only son!" I stood for a time in embarrassed silence, for
the age of the man and the expression of his face, which told of great
sorrow, went to my heart. Then, recovering myself, I replied, as was
quite true, that I was unacquainted either with him or his son. "What
matters it," the old man answered, "whether you know him or not? He
certainly knows you. I have spent a great deal in providing instruction
for him in the civil law, but he declares that he wishes to follow in
your footsteps. My fondest hopes have been disappointed, and I presume
that he will never be either a lawyer or a poet." At this neither I
nor the others present could refrain from laughter, and he went off
none the better humoured. But now I recognise that this merriment was
ill-timed, and that the poor old man deserved our consolation, for his
complaints and his reproaches were not ungrounded. Our sons formerly
employed themselves in preparing such papers as might be useful to
themselves or their friends, relating to family affairs, business,
or the wordy din of the courts. Now we are all engaged in the same
occupation, and it is literally true, as Horace says, "learned or
unlearned, we are all writing verses alike."
It is after all but a poor consolation to have companions in misery.
I should prefer to be ill by myself. Now I am involved in others'
ill-fortune as well as in my own, and am hardly given time to take
breath. For every day letters and poems from every corner of our land
come showering down upon my devoted head. Nor does this satisfy my
foreign friends. I am overwhelmed by floods of missives, no longer
from France alone, but from Greece, from Germany, from England. I am
unable to judge even my own work, and yet I am called upon to be the
universal critic of others! Were I to answer the requests in detail, I
should be the busiest of mortals. If I condemn the composition, I am a
jealous carper at the good work of others; if I say a good word for the
thing, it is attributed to a mendacious desire to be agreeable; if I
keep silence altogether, it is because I am a rude, pert fellow. They
are afraid, I infer, that my disease will not make way with me promptly
enough. Between their goading and my own madness I shall doubtless
gratify their wishes.
But all this would be nothing if, incredible as it may seem, this
subtle poison had not just now begun to show its effects in the Roman
Curia itself. What do you think the lawyers and doctors are up to?
Justinian and Æsculapius have palled upon them. The sick and the
litigious cry in vain for their help, for they are deafened by the
thunder of Homer's and Virgil's names, and wander oblivious in the
woody valleys of Cirrha, by the purling waters of the Aonian fountain.
But it is hardly necessary to speak of these lesser prodigies. Even
carpenters, fullers, and ploughmen leave the implements of their
calling to talk of Apollo and the Muses. I cannot say how far the
plague, which lately was confined to a few, has now spread.
If you would find an explanation for all this, you must recollect that
although the delights of poetry are most exquisite, they can be fully
understood only by the rarest geniuses, who are careless of wealth
and possess a marked contempt for the things of this world, and who
are by nature especially endowed with a peculiar elevation and freedom
of soul.[3] Consequently, as experience and the authority of the most
learned writers agree, in no branch of art can mere industry and
application accomplish so little. Hence--and you may find it comical
although it disgusts me--all the poets are nowadays to be found on the
street corner, and we can descry scarcely one on Helicon itself. They
are all nibbling at the Pierian honeycomb, but no one can manage to
digest it. How delightful indeed must this gift be to those who really
possess it, when it can exercise such a fascination over sluggish
minds, and in our vain and degenerate age can induce even the most
avaricious to leave the pursuit of gain! On one thing, at least, our
country may be congratulated: in spite of all the tares and sterile
stalks which cumber the earth, some signs of true youthful genius are
to be discovered. Some, if I am not misled by my hopes, will not drink
in vain of the Castalian spring.--I felicitate thee, Mantua, beloved of
the Muses, thee, Padua, thee, Verona, thee, Cimbria,[4] thee, Sulmo,
and thee, Parthenope, home of Maro, when I see elsewhere the thirsty
herd of upstart poetasters wandering drearily among uncertain byways!
It pricks my conscience that I should be responsible in great part for
fostering all these forms of literary madness, and should have misled
others through my example,--by no means the least of offences. I fear
lest those laurel leaves, which in my eagerness I tore prematurely
from the branch, may in a way be answerable for the trouble. While, as
many believe, they have been the means of bringing true dreams to me,
they have caused in others a multitude of delusive visions, which were
allowed to escape while all the world was asleep, through the ivory
gates, into the autumnal air. But never mind, I suffer for my sins,
for I am in a rage if I stay at home, and yet hardly dare nowadays to
venture into the street. If I do, wild fellows rush up from every side
and seize upon me, asking advice, giving me suggestions, disputing and
fighting among themselves. They discover meanings in the poets of which
the Mantuan shepherd, or the old blind man of Mœonia never dreamed. I
become more and more irritated, and at last begin to fear that I may be
dragged off before a magistrate for breaking the peace.
But how I am running on! I have spun a whole letter out of mere
trifles....[5] I have just arrived here,[6] and will await you as
long as I possibly can. I know not whether it be that the air here
renders the mind less susceptible to foreign impressions, or whether
this "closed valley" does, as its name indicates, shut out alien
preoccupations, but certain it is that, although I have from my
earliest manhood spent many years here, none of the inhabitants have
yet become poets through contagious contact with me, with the sole
exception of one of my farm-hands. Although advanced in years he, as
Persius hath it, is beginning to dream on the two-peaked Parnassus.
If the disease spreads I am undone. Shepherds, fishermen, hunters,
ploughboys,--all would be carried away, even the cows would low in
numbers and ruminate sonnets. Do not forget me. Farewell.
FOUNTAIN OF THE SORGUE.
_The Visit to the Goldsmith at Bergamo_
_To Neri Morando_[7]
Enough has been said of my own trifling experiences, and the story of
the wound inflicted upon me by Cicero has reached an unconscionable
length.[8] But I will add another incident to prove that Cicero is not
the only one who enjoyed the affection of those who had never seen him.
Although an old story to you, it may nevertheless arouse new interest
when you hear it again.
From here I have always in sight a certain Alpine town, the Italian
Pergamum,[9] to distinguish it from an Asiatic city of the same name,
which, as you know, was once the capital of Attalus, who bequeathed
his possessions to Rome. In our Pergamum there lives a certain man,
who, while he has but a slight knowledge of literature, possesses a
good mind,--had he earlier applied himself to study. By profession he
is a goldsmith, remarkably successful in the practice of his art; he
enjoys moreover the best gift that nature can bestow, for he is an
admirer and lover of all that is good and beautiful. The gold in which
he works, and other forms of worldly wealth, appeal to him only in so
far as they are means to higher ends. This old man, having heard of me
by reputation, was immediately seized with a most ardent desire to win
my friendship.
It would be a long story were I to recount all the devices he used in
order to gratify this modest wish. By constant, courteous attentions
and compliments to me and to those about me, he at last succeeded in
his ardent efforts to bridge the chasm between us. While I had never
seen him before, I knew his name and object, indeed his longing was
plainly depicted in his face and expression. No one surely would have
been so rude and surly as to refuse to see him under the circumstances.
How could I have done otherwise? I was completely vanquished by the
man's attractive countenance and his sincere and persistent attentions,
and received him with hearty and unreserved good-will; indeed, it would
have been inhuman to have rejected such proofs of genuine affection.
His exultation and pride were at once obvious in every accent and
gesture. He seemed to have reached the very summit of his fondest
hopes and to be metamorphosed by his joy.
He began long ago to spend no small part of his patrimony in my honour.
In every corner of his house he placed the arms, name, and portrait
of his new friend, whose face was even more deeply graven in his
heart. Another portion of his wealth he devoted to procuring copies of
anything of mine which he could get hold of, no matter what might be
its character. I could not be very hard-hearted when it came to letting
so enthusiastic and novel a collector have what I certainly would have
denied a man of more consequence. He moreover gradually weaned himself
from his previous life, habits, and interests, and so completely
altered his whole former self as to be a source of utter astonishment
to his friends.
In one matter, however, he refused to be guided by me, and, in spite
of my opposition and frequent admonitions that he should not, at so
late a day, exchange his customary vocations for a life of study, he
finally left his shop and began to frequent the schools and cultivate
teachers of the liberal arts. He took the greatest delight in his new
life and was extremely sanguine as to the results. I cannot say how
he actually got along, but he certainly merited the highest degree
of success in his fond undertaking. No one could have shown greater
ardour in a good cause, or more contempt for the less worthy objects of
desire. He was at least equipped with a good mind and great enthusiasm,
and could find plenty of teachers in his city. His age seemed to be
the only obstacle, although I well know that Plato took up the study
of philosophy late in life, and Cato made no little progress in Greek
literature when he was already an old man. Perhaps it is but right that
this man should for this very reason find a niche in some of my works.
So I will add that he is called Henry, his surname being Capra,[10] a
most energetic and lively animal, fond of leaves and always climbing
upwards. For these reasons Varro believes that the name is, by a
transposition of letters, derived from this animal's tendency to
_nibble_ twigs, and certainly _carpa_ and _capra_ are not very unlike.
If anyone ever deserved the name it is our friend, who, if he had got
at the woods in the morning would have returned with a full paunch and
plenty of milk. All this you yourself have heard often enough, but I
tell it for the benefit of others.[11] The rest of my story you do not
yet know.
This fellow, whose character and devotion to me I have so carefully
portrayed, had long been urging me to honour him and his lares with
a visit, and by a sojourn of at least a single day to render him, as
he put it, happy and renowned to all future generations. I continued,
however, not without difficulty, to postpone his desire for several
years. But at last, influenced by the nearness of the place, and
overcome not only by prayers but by objurations and tears, I consented
to accompany him, in spite of the objections of my more haughty
friends, to whom he seemed unworthy of the honour.
I reached Bergamo on the evening of October thirteenth. My host had
accompanied me the whole of the way, and, in constant fear lest I might
perhaps change my mind, he and those with him exerted all their powers
of invention to discover topics of conversation which might make the
way less wearisome. Thus we traversed a short and easy road without
fatigue. A few gentlemen had accompanied me with the special purpose of
finding out what this enthusiastic person might have in store.
Well, when we approached the town I was cordially received by friends
who had come out to meet me. They, with the Podestà, the Captain of
the People, and other local magistrates, vied with each other in
urging me to put up at the palazzo or at some gentleman's house. All
this time my poor goldsmith was trembling for fear I might give in
to such insistence. But I did what I believed to be proper under the
circumstances, and alighted with my companions at the house of my more
humble friend. There I was received with great pomp, and sat down
to a kingly banquet rather than to the good cheer of an artisan or
philosopher. My couch of purple was spread in a room glittering with
gold, where, as my host swore by all that was holy, no one else had
ever slept or ever would sleep. The books I found were not technical,
but such as would be dear to a student and a lover of good literature.
Here I passed the night. Certainly no one ever enjoyed the hospitality
of so delighted a host. In fact his delight was so great that his
friends began to fear for his sanity, or lest, as has happened to not a
few, he should actually die of joy.
The next day I departed, loaded with honours and surrounded by a great
crowd. The Podestà and many others whose society I did not care for
accompanied me much farther on my way than was agreeable. It was late
before I had finally shaken off my fervid host and was again at my
country place.
You have now heard, good Neri, what I had in mind to tell you, and this
nocturnal epistle must come to an end,--for my anxiety to get my letter
done has kept me writing straight on until nearly dawn. I am weary now
and the morning quiet invites me to enjoy the best part of the night
for slumber. Farewell, remember your friend.
Written with a rural pen, just before light, on October 15.
* * * * *
The three following letters furnish a very clear expression of
Petrarch's feelings towards the Italian language and his great
collaborators in its formation, Dante and Boccaccio.
Grieved by a certain indifference which his friend exhibited towards
Dante, Boccaccio, soon after his return from a visit to Petrarch, sent
him a copy of the _Divine Comedy_.[12] Accompanying the volume was a
Latin poem, in which he requested that Petrarch read the work of his
distinguished fellow-citizen and place it among his other books.[13]
The letter that Petrarch wrote in acknowledgment of the gift is one of
the most important in his correspondence. Strangely enough, there are
but two in all the vast collection of prose letters in which he makes
any allusions to Dante, and then never by name. In one of his lesser
works he narrates one or two anecdotes of Dante's brusqueness towards
the despots whose hospitality he enjoyed.[14] It is nevertheless
probably unfair to accuse Petrarch of jealousy. In the first place,
the assumption that he had never read the _Divine Comedy_ is hardly
justifiable. It is true that he did not possess a copy of the work, and
that Boccaccio urged him to read and cherish it. But he must assuredly
have been acquainted with the writings of an author whom he declared to
be without question the greatest master of the vernacular. The reader
can, however, reach his own conclusions, as all the data which we have
are given below. He should remember that Petrarch was placed in a
trying position. It is impossible to appear wholly unconstrained and
natural when one is meeting the charge of jealousy towards a popular
contemporary. Then, a scholar or an author may not be completely or
enthusiastically in sympathy with some of his fellow-workers to whom he
would nevertheless accord a very high rank. We may safely infer that
Petrarch was not drawn towards Dante, although he frankly acknowledged
his greatness. The two men had much in common, their Christian humanism
for example,[15] but Dante's devotion to mediæval theology and science
must have repelled the younger poet, whose studies were exclusively
literary, including perhaps moral philosophy and history, but utterly
foreign to the lucubrations of Peter Lombard or Thomas Aquinas. An able
Italian critic[16] has suggested that we may find an analogy between
Petrarch's attitude toward Dante, and that of Erasmus toward Luther, or
Voltaire's toward Rousseau. Once, when but eight years old, he had seen
the dark, emaciated poet of the Ghibellines. The harsh manner and the
haughty profile of the man may, as Carducci says, have impressed the
rosy youngster with fear and created a feeling of dislike which he did
not entirely outgrow.
The second letter to Boccaccio upon the Italian poets was written
some five years after the one of which we have been speaking, and
a difference in the tone of the references to Dante is perhaps
perceptible. The _Trionfi_, the latest of Petrarch's Italian poems,
somewhat resemble in style the _Divine Comedy_, and were perhaps
written partly with the aim of showing that he could rise to the same
high strain.
Petrarch entertained much less regard for the vulgar tongue than
Dante and Boccaccio, because more completely engrossed by the
strength of the Latin. To him "prose and verse," as we shall see,
meant compositions in Latin, which was alone adapted to the highest
purposes of expression. From his scornful treatment of the Italian
language the reader will naturally turn to the first book of Dante's
_Convito_,[17] or to his little treatise, _The Vernacular_ (_De Vulgari
Eloquio_), where the advantages and weaknesses of the mother tongue are
sympathetically discussed.
_Petrarch Disclaims all Jealousy of Dante_
_To Boccaccio_[18]
There are many things in your letter which do not require any answer;
those, for example, which we have lately settled face to face. Two
points there were, however, which it seemed to me should not be passed
over in silence, and I will briefly write down such reflections
concerning them as may occur to me. In the first place, you excuse
yourself with some heat for seeming to praise unduly a certain poet,
a fellow-citizen of ours, who in point of style is very popular, and
who has certainly chosen a noble theme. You beg my pardon for this,
as if I regarded anything said in his, or anyone else's praise, as
detracting from my own. You assert, for instance, that if I will only
look closely at what you say of him, I shall find that it all reflects
glory upon me. You take pains to explain, in extenuation of your
favourable attitude towards him, that he was your first light and guide
in your early studies. Your praise is certainly only a just and dutiful
acknowledgment of his services, an expression of what I may call filial
piety. If we owe all to those who begot and brought us forth, and much
to those who are the authors of our fortunes, what shall we say of our
debt to the parents and fashioners of our minds? How much more, indeed,
is due to those who refine the mind than to those who tend the body, he
will perceive who assigns to each its just value; for the one, it will
be seen, is an immortal gift, the other, corruptible and destined to
pass away.
Continue, then, not by my sufferance simply, but with my approbation,
to extol and cherish this poet, the guiding star of your intellect,
who has afforded you courage and light in the arduous way by which you
are pressing stoutly on towards a most glorious goal. He has long been
buffeted and wearied by the windy plaudits of the multitude. Honour
him now and exalt him by sincere praise worthy alike of you and of
him, and, you may be sure, not unpleasing to me. He is worthy of such
a herald, while you, as you say, are the natural one to assume the
office. I therefore accept your song of praise with all my heart, and
join with you in extolling the poet you celebrate therein.[19]