except the discovery that I am still so ill understood by you who, as
I firmly believed, knew me thoroughly. You think, then, that I do not
take pleasure in the praises of illustrious men and glory in them?
Believe me, nothing is more foreign to me than jealousy; there is no
scourge of which I know less. On the contrary, in order that you may
see how far I am from such feelings, I call upon Him before whom all
hearts are open to witness that few things in life have caused me more
pain than to see the meritorious passed by, utterly without recognition
or reward. Not that I am deploring my own lot, or looking for personal
gain; I am mourning the common fate of mankind, as I behold the reward
of the nobler arts falling to the meaner. I am not unaware that
although the reputation which attaches to right conduct may stimulate
the mind to deserve it, true virtue is, as the philosophers say, a
stimulus to itself; it is its own reward, its own guide, its own end
and aim. Nevertheless, now that you have yourself suggested a theme
which I should not voluntarily have chosen, I shall proceed to refute
for you, and through you for others, the commonly accepted notion of my
judgment of this poet. It is not only false, as Quintilian says of the
construction put upon his criticism of Seneca,[20] but it is insidious
and, with many, out-and-out malevolent. My enemies say that I hate
and despise him, and in this way stir up the common herd against me,
for with them he is extremely popular. This is indeed a novel kind of
perversity, and shows a marvellous aptitude for harming others. But
truth herself shall defend me.
In the first place, there can be no possible cause for ill-will
towards a man whom I never saw but once, and that in my very earliest
childhood. He lived with my grandfather and my father,[21] being
younger than the former, but older than my father, with whom, on the
same day and by the same civil commotion, he was driven from his
country into exile. At such a time strong friendships are often formed
between companions in misery. This proved especially true of these
two men, since in their case not only a similar fate but a community
of taste and a love for the same studies, served to bring them
together. My father, however, forced by other cares and by regard for
his family, succumbed to the natural influences of exile, while his
friend resisted, throwing himself, indeed, with even greater ardour
into what he had undertaken, neglecting everything else and desirous
alone of future fame. In this I can scarce admire and praise him
enough,--that neither the injustice of his fellow-citizens, nor exile,
nor poverty, nor the attacks of his enemies, neither the love of wife,
nor solicitude for his children, could divert him from the path he
had once decided upon, when so many who are highly endowed are yet so
weak of purpose that they are swerved from their course by the least
disturbance. And this most often happens to writers of verse, for
silence and quiet are especially requisite for those who have to care
not only for the thought and the words but the felicitous turn as well.
Thus you will see that my supposed hate for this poet, which has been
trumped up by I know not whom, is an odious and ridiculous invention,
since there is absolutely no reason for such repugnance, but, on
the contrary, every reason for partiality, on account of our common
country, his friendship with my father, his genius, and his style, the
best of its kind, which must always raise him far above contempt.
This brings us to the second reproach cast upon me, which is based
upon the fact that, although in my early years I was very eager in my
search for books of all kinds, I never possessed a copy of this poet's
work, which would naturally have attracted me most at that age. While
exceedingly anxious to obtain other books which I had little hope of
finding, I showed a strange indifference, quite foreign to me, towards
this one, although it was readily procurable. The fact I admit, but I
deny the motives which are urged by my enemies. At that time I too was
devoting my powers to compositions in the vernacular; I was convinced
that nothing could be finer, and had not yet learned to look higher.
I feared, however, in view of the impressionableness of youth and its
readiness to admire everything, that, if I should imbue myself with his
or any other writer's verses, I might perhaps unconsciously and against
my will come to be an imitator. In the ardour of youth this thought
filled me with aversion. Such was my self-confidence and enthusiasm
that I deemed my own powers quite sufficient, without any mortal aid,
to produce an original style all my own, in the species of production
upon which I was engaged. It is for others to judge whether I was right
in this. But I must add that if anything should be discovered in my
Italian writings resembling, or even identical with, what has been
said by him or others, it cannot be attributed to secret or conscious
imitation. This rock I have always endeavoured to avoid, especially in
my writings in the vernacular, although it is possible that, either
by accident or, as Cicero says, owing to similar ways of thinking, I
may ignorantly have traversed the same path as others.[22] If you ever
believe me, believe me now; accept this as the real explanation of
my conduct. Nothing can be more strictly true; and if my modesty and
sense of propriety did not seem to you sufficient to vouch for this, my
youthful pride at any rate certainly might have explained it.
To-day, however, I have left these anxieties far behind, and,
having done so, I am freed from my former apprehension, and can now
unreservedly admire other writers, him above all. At that time I was
submitting work of my own to the verdict of others, whereas now I am
merely passing my own silent verdicts upon my fellows. I find that
my opinion varies as regards all the rest, but in his case there can
be no room for doubt; without hesitation I yield him the palm for
skill in the use of the vulgar tongue. They lie, then, who assert
that I carp at his renown; I, who probably understand better than the
majority of these foolish and immoderate admirers of his what it is
that merely tickles their ears, without their knowing why, but cannot
penetrate their thick heads, because the avenues of intelligence are
obstructed. They belong to the same class that Cicero brands in his
_Rhetoric_, who "read fine orations or beautiful poems, and praise
the orators or poets, and yet do not know what it is that has aroused
their admiration, for they lack the ability to see where the thing is
that most pleases them, or what it is, or how it is produced." If this
happens with Demosthenes and Cicero, Homer and Virgil, among learned
men and in the schools, how will it fare with our poet among the rude
fellows who frequent the taverns and public squares?
As for me, far from scorning his work, I admire and love him, and in
justice to myself I may venture to add that if he had been permitted to
live until this time he would have found few friends more devoted to
him than myself, provided, of course, that I had found his character as
attractive as his genius. On the other hand, there are none to whom
he would have been more obnoxious than these same silly admirers, who,
in general, know equally little about what they praise and what they
condemn, and who so mispronounce and lacerate his verses that they do
him the greatest injury that a poet can suffer. I might even strive to
the best of my powers to rescue him from this abuse, did not my own
productions give me enough to think about. As it is, I can only give
voice to my irritation, when I hear the common herd befouling with
their stupid mouths the noble beauty of his lines.
Just here it may not be out of place to say that this was not the least
of the considerations which led me to give up a style of composition
to which I devoted myself in my early years. I feared for my writings
the same fate which I had seen overtake those of others, especially
those of the poet of whom we are speaking. I could not in my own
case look for more musical tongues or more flexible minds among the
common people than I noted in the rendering of those authors whom long
favour and habit have made popular in the theatres and public squares.
That my apprehensions were not idle is clear from the fact that I am
continually tortured by the tongues of the people, as they sing the few
productions which I allowed to escape me in my youth. I indignantly
reject and hate what I once loved; and day by day walk the streets with
vexation and execrate my own talents. Everywhere a crowd of ignorant
fellows, everywhere I find my Damœtas ready at the street corner "to
murder with his screeching reed" my poor song.
However, I have already said more than enough concerning a trifling
matter which I ought not to have taken so seriously, for this hour,
which will never return, should have been devoted to other things.
And yet your excuse did seem to me to have just a little in common
with the accusations of these critics, some of whom are constantly
asserting that I hate, some that I despise, this person,--whose name I
have intentionally refrained to-day from mentioning, lest the mob, who
catch up everything without understanding it, should cry out that I was
defaming it. Others again claim that I am actuated by envy;--men who
are jealous of me and my fame; for, although I scarcely am an object
for envy, I yet have noticed late in life that there are those who
entertain this feeling towards me, a thing that at one time I could
not have believed possible. In answer to this charge of envy brought
against me, I might reply that, many years ago, in the ardour of
youth, and with an approving conscience, I ventured to assert, not in
any ordinary manner, but in a poem addressed to a certain illustrious
personage, that I envied no man.[23] Suppose, though, that I am not
worthy of belief. Still, even then, what probability is there that
I should be jealous of a writer who devoted his whole life to those
things which with me were but the flower and first-fruits of my youth.
What to him was, if not his only occupation, certainly the supreme
object of his life, to me was mere sport, a pastime, the first essay of
my powers.[24]
What occasion is there here for rancour? What ground is there for even
a suspicion of jealousy? When you say, in praising him, that he might
have devoted himself to another kind of composition, had he wished, I
heartily agree with you. I have the highest opinion of his ability,
for it is obvious from what he has done that he would have succeeded
in anything he might have chosen to undertake. But suppose that he had
turned his powers in another direction, and successfully--what then?
What would there be in that to make me jealous? Why should it not
rather be a source of satisfaction to me? Who indeed could excite envy
in me, who do not envy even Virgil?--unless perhaps I should be jealous
of the hoarse applause which our poet enjoys from the tavern-keepers,
fullers, butchers, and others of that class, who dishonour those whom
they would praise. But, far from desiring such popular recognition,
I congratulate myself, on the contrary, that, along with Virgil and
Homer, I am free from it, inasmuch as I fully realise how little the
plaudits of the unschooled multitude weigh with scholars. Should it
be suggested that the citizen of Mantua is, when all is said, dearer
to me than my fellow-citizen of Florence, I must urge that, although
I will not deny that jealousy does flourish most rankly between
neighbours, the mere fact of common origin cannot by itself justify
such an inference. Indeed the simple fact of our belonging to different
generations would make this latter supposition absurd, for as one has
elegantly said, who never speaks otherwise than elegantly, "The dead
are neither hated nor envied."
You will accept my solemn affirmation that I delight in both the
thought and style of our poet, nor do I ever refer to him except with
the greatest admiration. It is true that I have sometimes said to
those who wished to know precisely what I thought, that his style was
unequal, for he rises to a higher plane of excellence in the vernacular
than in poetry and prose.[25] But you will not deny this, nor will it,
if rightly understood, carry with it any disparagement of his fame and
glory. Who, indeed--I will not say at the present time, when eloquence
has so long been mourned as dead, but at the time when it flourished
most--who, I say, ever excelled in all its various branches? Witness
Seneca's _Declamations!_[26] No one dreams of attributing inexhaustible
versatility even to Cicero, Virgil, Sallust, or Plato. Who would lay
claim to a degree of praise which must be denied even to such genius?
It is enough to have excelled in one kind of composition. This being
true, let those be silent who attempt to twist my words into calumnies,
and let those who have believed my calumniators read here, if they
will, my opinion of them.
Having disposed thus of one matter which has been troubling me, I come
now to a second. You thank me for my solicitude for your health. While
you do this from courtesy, and in accordance with conventional usage,
you well know that such acknowledgment is quite unnecessary. For who is
ever thanked for his interest in himself, or his own affairs? and you,
dear friend, are part and parcel of myself.
Although, next to virtue, friendship is the most sacred, the most
God-like and divine thing in human intercourse, yet I think that it
makes a difference whether one begins by loving or by being loved,
and that those friendships should be more carefully fostered where
we return love for love than where we simply receive it. I have been
overwhelmed in a thousand instances by your kindness and friendly
offices, but among them all there is one that I can never forget.
In days gone by, I was hurrying across central Italy in mid-winter;
you hastened to greet me, not only with affectionate longings, which
are the wings of the soul, but in person, impelled by a wondrous
desire to behold one whom you had never yet seen,[27] but whom you
were nevertheless resolved to love. You had sent before you a piece
of beautiful verse, thus showing me first the aspect of your genius,
and then of your person. It was evening, and the light was fading,
when, returning from my long exile,[28] I found myself at last within
my native walls. You welcomed me with a courtesy and respect greater
than I merited, recalling the poetic meeting of Anchises and the King
of Arcadia, who, "in the ardour of youth, longed to speak with the
hero and to press his hand."[29] Although I did not, like him, stand
"above all others," but rather beneath, your zeal was none the less
ardent. You introduced me, not within the walls of Pheneus, but into
the sacred penetralia of your friendship. Nor did I present you with
"a superb quiver and arrows of Lycia," but rather with my sincere and
unchangeable affection. While acknowledging my inferiority in many
respects, I will never willingly concede it in this, either to Nisus,
or to Pythias, or to Lælius. Farewell.
1: _Fam_., xiii., 7. This is the only letter that is preserved of
Petrarch to this person.
2: _Hæc_, here used, we may safely infer, means verses.
3: _I.e._, a soul able to free itself from the influence of the mere
word and perceive the hidden allegorical meaning which to Petrarch was
the essence of real poetry. See below, p. 233 _sqq_. (Such remarks,
which are not infrequent,...)
4: This name is perhaps incorrect, owing to some error in the MSS.
upon which Fracassetti based his edition.
5: About a page is omitted here relating to some lucrative or
honourable appointment which Petrarch's friends were anxious to obtain
for him.
6: _I.e._ at Vaucluse.
7: _Fam_., xxi., 11. The events here narrated probably occurred in
1359.
8: Petrarch had just finished one letter to Morando, in which he had
told him of a wound received on the heel from a great copy of Cicero's
works, which had fallen down and struck him.
9: Bergamo.
10: Namely, she-goat.
11: ... sed noscenda aliis dicta sint. Petrarch always wished his
letters to be complete even at the risk of repetition. We have here a
frank confession that he was not writing for the benefit of the friend
alone to whom the letter was addressed. Fracassetti has perversely
translated this passage, _odi adesso quel che ancora non sai._
12: A MS. of the _Divine Comedy_ in the Vatican has, it would appear,
been at last satisfactorily proven to be the very one which Boccaccio
sent. See Pakscher's scholarly paper in _Zeitschrift für romanische
Philologie_, vol. x., p. 226 _sqq_. De Nolhac has reached the same
conclusion; _cf. La Bibliothèque de Fulvio Orsini_, p. 304.
13: The little poem closes with the lines:
"Hunc oro, mi care nimis spesque unica nostrûm,
. . . . . . . .
Concivem doctumque satis pariterque poetam
Suscipe, junge tuis, lauda, cole, perlege. Nam si
Feceris hoc, magnis, et te decorabis et illum
Laudibus, O nostræ eximium decus urbis et orbis."
Corazzini, _Le Lettere di Boccaccio_, p. 54. Also in Fracassetti's
_Let. delle Cos. Fam_., iv., pp. 399, 400.
14: "Rerum Memorandum," _Opera_, p. 427. The misprints in the Basle
editions give the anecdotes an ill-natured turn which Petrarch did
not intend. The opening of the passage should read: _Dante Algherius
et ipse concivus nuper meus, vir vulgari eloquio clarissimus fuit sed
moribus parumper contumacior_ [the Basle editions have _parum per
contumaciam_] _et oratione liberior quam delicatis et fastidiosis
ætatis nostræ principum auribus atque oculis acceptum fuit,_ etc. See
Hortis, _Studi sulle Opere Latine del Boccaccio_, Trieste, 1879, p. 303.
15: See the close of the fourth canto of the "Inferno," and especially
the _Convito_, iv., ch. 4.
16: Carducci, _Studi Letterari_, 2d ed., p. 334.
17: The best edition is that of Dr. Moore (Clarendon Press, Oxford).
18: _Fam_., xxi., 15 (probably written in 1359).
19: This refers to the poem, spoken of above, with which Boccaccio
accompanied his copy of Dante.
20: Quintilian's strictures on Seneca's style had given rise to the
opinion that he not only disapproved of Seneca's works, but hated him
personally. He refutes (_Institutes_, x., i) that "vulgatam falso de me
opinionem, qua damnare eum [sc. Senecam] et invisum quoque habere sum
creditus." This naturally seemed to Petrarch a very exact analogy to
the charges of jealousy brought against him.
21: Cum avo patreque meo vixit. The reader is left to conjecture how
intimate Dante and Petracco may have been when they lived together in
Florence. Petrarch, in a reference to his father in _Sen_., x., 2,
would lead us to infer that he was born about 1252, twelve or thirteen
years before Dante. There seems to be no means of deciding whether that
statement or the one given in this letter, which makes Dante the older,
is nearer the truth.
22: This matter of plagiarism is a subject to which Petrarch often
reverts in his letters. He realised the difficulty of producing
anything essentially new after the great works of classical antiquity.
23: This is probably a reference, as M. Develay suggests, to a
metrical epistle addressed to Giacomo Colonna, the Bishop of Lombez, in
which the following lines occur:
_Nil usquam invideo, nullum ferventius odi,_
_Nullum despicio nisi me...._
24: Namely, literary productions in the Italian tongue.
25: Quod in vulgari eloquio, quam in carminibus aut prosa clarior
atque altior assurgit. The literal form is retained in the rendering
above, as Petrarch's very language is significant of his contempt for
the Italian. Prose and verse could only be Latin.
26: The work here referred to, which Petrarch supposed to be an
inferior production of Seneca the Philosopher, is now attributed to his
father, the Rhetor, of whose existence Petrarch was unaware.
27: This would seem sufficient proof that Petrarch and Boccaccio first
met on this occasion of Petrarch's visit to Florence.
28: Petrarch had never been in Florence before, although reckoned
as a Florentine. He uses here the phrase _longo postliminio
redeuntem_,--referring to the right in the Roman law to return home and
resume one's former rank and privileges--a reminiscence possibly of the
law school.
29: _Cf_. the _Æneid_, viii., 162 _sqq_., for this and the succeeding
allusions.
* * * * *
_The Story of Griselda_
_To Boccaccio_[1]
Your book, written in our mother tongue and published, I presume,
during your early years, has fallen into my hands, I know not whence
or how. If I told you that I had read it, I should deceive you. It
is a very big volume, written in prose and for the multitude. I have
been, moreover, occupied with more serious business, and much pressed
for time. You can easily imagine the unrest caused by the warlike stir
about me, for, far as I have been from actual participation in the
disturbances, I could not but be affected by the critical condition of
the state. What I did was to run through your book, like a traveller
who, while hastening forward, looks about him here and there, without
pausing. I have heard somewhere that your volume was attacked by the
teeth of certain hounds, but that you defended it valiantly with staff
and voice. This did not surprise me, for not only do I well know your
ability, but I have learned from experience of the existence of an
insolent and cowardly class who attack in the work of others everything
which they do not happen to fancy or be familiar with, or which they
cannot themselves accomplish. Their insight and capabilities extend no
farther; on all other themes they are silent.
My hasty perusal afforded me much pleasure. If the humour is a little
too free at times, this may be excused in view of the age at which you
wrote, the style and language which you employ, and the frivolity of
the subjects, and of the persons who are likely to read such tales. It
is important to know for whom we are writing, and a difference in the
character of one's listeners justifies a difference in style. Along
with much that was light and amusing, I discovered some serious and
edifying things as well, but I can pass no definite judgment upon them,
since I have not examined the work thoroughly.
As usual, when one looks hastily through a book, I read somewhat more
carefully at the beginning and at the end. At the beginning you have,
it seeing to me, accurately described and eloquently lamented the
condition of our country during that siege of pestilence which forms
so dark and melancholy a period in our century. At the close you have
placed a story which differs entirely from most that precede it, and
which so delighted and fascinated me that, in spite of cares which
made me almost oblivious of myself, I was seized with a desire to
learn it by heart, so that I might have the pleasure of recalling it
for my own benefit, and of relating it to my friends in conversation.
When an opportunity for telling it offered itself shortly after, I
found that my auditors were delighted. Later it suddenly occurred to
me that others, perhaps, who were unacquainted with our tongue, might
be pleased with so charming a story, as it had delighted me ever
since I first heard it some years ago, and as you had not considered
it unworthy of presentation in the mother tongue, and had placed it,
moreover, at the end of your book, where, according to the principles
of rhetoric, the most effective part of the composition belongs. So
one fine day when, as usual, my mind was distracted by a variety of
occupations, discontented with myself and my surroundings, I suddenly
sent everything flying, and, snatching my pen, I attacked this story
of yours. I sincerely trust that it will gratify you that I have of my
own free-will undertaken to translate your work, something I should
certainly never think of doing for anyone else, but which I was induced
to do in this instance by my partiality for you and for the story.
Not neglecting the precept of Horace in his _Art of Poetry_ that the
careful translator should not attempt to render word for word, I have
told your tale in my own language, in some places changing or even
adding a few words, for I felt that you would not only permit, but
would approve, such alterations.[2]