it can be traced directly to Cicero and Quintilian, but now and then
it occurs in a passage that seems to tell of his own keen delight in
the sensuous side of language; as in _Fam_., viii., 7, where he says
to 'Socrates': 'Ubi ... dulciter intermicantes colores rhetoricos
quærebamus, nil nisi dolentis interjectiones ... aspicimus.' This
quotation, and the entire letter above, concerning the young Humanist,
are but two among very many indications, scattered through the whole
correspondence, that Petrarch had thought long and carefully about
literary art, and had formulated to himself all of its principles, down
to the very least. His judgment and feeling concerning literature were
unerring, except when he was led astray by his allegorising tendency
and by a mediæval fondness for senseless plays upon words. Yet outside
of his own art he seems to have been decidedly crude æsthetically, as
has been the case with many another great man of letters, before and
since.
IV
TRAVELS
Ulysseos errores erroribus meis confer: profecto si
nominis et rerum claritas una foret, nec diutius erravit
ille, nec latius.--_Præfatio._
The Italians were probably the first among modern peoples to discover
the outer world to be something beautiful in itself. "Would that you
could know," Petrarch writes to a friend, "with what delight I wander,
free and alone, among the mountains, forests, and streams." He spent
many years, as we have seen, in his simple rustic home at Vaucluse, and
throughout his life he was in the habit of retiring now and then to the
seclusion of the country. In no way did his tastes more nearly approach
our modern predilections than in his love of nature and his passion for
travel.
He was once invited to accompany a friend upon a pilgrimage to the
Holy Land, but he discreetly refused the invitation; not that he
feared the perils of the deep, but he could not overcome his horror
of sea-sickness, which he had several times experienced upon the
Mediterranean. Instead of joining his friend, he prepared a little
guide-book[1] for him, which might serve to call his attention to the
noteworthy objects upon the long journey from Genoa to Jerusalem. It
is significant that Petrarch deals principally in his little manual
not with the half-legendary attractions of the Orient, but with the
familiar beauties of their own Italy. He does not forget, at the very
opening of the journey, the lovely valleys of the Riviera, with their
tumbling brooks, and the pleasing contrast of wildness and verdure on
the hills to the east of Genoa. But, like a true lover of nature, he
felt himself powerless adequately to describe the scene, and contented
himself with commending to his friend's admiration the beauties which
no mortal pen could depict.[2] The four letters which follow have been
chosen with the aim of illustrating Petrarch's attitude toward the
world about him.
1: _Itinerarium Syriacum, Opera_, pp. 556 _sqq_.
2: "Quæ multo facilius tibi sit mirari quam cuiquam hominum stylo
amplecti." _Itinerarium Syriacum, Opera_, p. 557.
_An Excursion to Paris, the Netherlands, and the Rhine._
_To Cardinal Giovanni Colonna._[1]
I have lately been travelling through France, not on business, as
you know, but simply from a youthful curiosity to see the country.
I finally penetrated into Germany, to the banks of the Rhine itself.
I have carefully noted the customs of the people, and have been much
interested in observing the characteristics of a country hitherto
unknown to me, and in comparing the things I saw with those at home.
While I found much to admire in both countries, I in no way regretted
my Italian origin. Indeed, the more I travel, the more my admiration
for Italy grows. If Plato, as he himself says, thanked the immortal
gods, among other things, for making him a Greek and not a barbarian,
why should not we too thank the Lord for the land of our birth, unless
to be born a Greek be considered more noble than to be born an Italian.
This, however, would be to assert that the slave was above his master.
No Greekling, however shameless, would dare to make such a claim, if he
but recollected that long before Rome was founded and had by superior
strength established her sway, long before the world yet knew of the
Romans, "men of the toga, lords of the earth," a beggarly fourth part
of Italy, a region desert and uninhabited, was nevertheless styled by
its Greek colonists "Greater Greece." If that scanty area could then be
called great, how very great, how immense, must the Roman power have
seemed after Corinth had fallen, after Ætolia had been devastated and
Argos, Mycenæ, and other cities had been taken, after the Macedonian
kings had been captured, Pyrrhus vanquished, and Thermopylæ a second
time drenched with Asiatic blood! Certainly no one can deny that it
is a trifle more distinguished to be an Italian than a Greek. This,
however, is a matter which we may perhaps take up elsewhere.
To revert to my travels in France,--I visited the capital of the
kingdom, Paris, which claims Julius Cæsar as its founder. I must have
felt much the same upon entering the town as did Apuleius when he
wandered about Hypata in Thessaly. I spent no little time there, in
open-mouthed wonder; and I was so full of interest and eagerness to
know the truth about what I had heard of the place that when daylight
failed me I even prolonged my investigations into the night. After
loitering about for a long time, gaping at the sights, I at last
satisfied myself that I had discovered the point where truth left off
and fiction began. But it is a long story, and not suited for a letter,
and I must wait until I see you and can rehearse my experiences at
length.
To pass over the intervening events, I also visited Ghent, which
proudly claims the same illustrious founder as Paris, and I saw
something of the people of Flanders and Brabant, who devote themselves
to preparing and weaving wool. I also visited Liège, which is noted for
its clergy, and Aix-la-Chapelle, Charles's capital, where in a marble
church I saw the tomb of that great prince, which is very properly an
object of veneration to the barbarian nations....[2]
I did not leave Aix-la-Chapelle until I had bathed in the waters, which
are warm like those at Baiæ. It is from them that the town is said
to derive its name.[3] I then proceeded to Cologne, which lies on the
left bank of the Rhine, and is noted for its situation, its river, and
its inhabitants. I was astonished to find such a degree of culture
in a barbarous land. The appearance of the city, the dignity of the
men, the attractiveness of the women, all surprised me. The day of my
arrival happened to be the feast of St. John the Baptist. It was nearly
sunset when I reached the city. On the advice of the friends whom my
reputation, rather than any true merit, had won for me even there, I
allowed myself to be led immediately from the inn to the river, to
witness a curious sight. And I was not disappointed, for I found the
river-bank lined with a multitude of remarkably comely women. Ye gods,
what faces and forms! And how well attired! One whose heart was not
already occupied might well have met his fate here.
I took my stand upon a little rise of ground where I could easily
follow what was going on. There was a dense mass of people, but no
disorder of any kind. They knelt down in quick succession on the
bank, half hidden by the fragrant grass, and turning up their sleeves
above the elbow they bathed their hands and white arms in the eddying
stream. As they talked together, with an indescribably soft foreign
murmur, I felt that I had never better appreciated Cicero's remark,
which, like the old proverb, reminds us that we are all deaf and dumb
when we have to do with an unknown tongue. I, however, had the aid of
kind interpreters, for--and this was not the least surprising thing I
noted there--these skies, too, give nurture to Pierian spirits. So when
Juvenal wonders that
Fluent Gaul has taught the British advocate,[4]
let him marvel, too, that
Learned Germany many a clear-voiced bard sustained.
But, lest you should be misled by my words, I hasten to add that
there are no Virgils here, although many Ovids,[5] so that you would
say that the latter author was justified in his reliance upon his
genius or the affection of posterity, when he placed at the end of his
_Metamorphoses_ that audacious prophecy where he ventures to claim that
as far as the power of Rome shall extend,--nay, as far as the very name
of Roman shall penetrate in a conquered world,--so widely shall his
works be read by enthusiastic admirers.
When anything was to be heard or said I had to rely upon my companions
to furnish both ears and tongue. Not understanding the scene, and being
deeply interested in it, I asked an explanation from one of my friends,
employing the Virgilian lines:
... What means the crowded shore?
What seek these eager spirits?[6]
He told me that this was an old custom among the people, and that the
lower classes, especially the women, have the greatest confidence that
the threatening calamities of the coming year can be washed away by
bathing on this day in the river, and a happier fate be so assured.
Consequently this annual ablution has always been conscientiously
performed, and always will be. I smiled at this explanation, and
replied, "Those who dwell by Father Rhine are fortunate indeed if he
washes their misfortunes away with him; I fear that neither Po nor
Tiber could ever free us of ours. You send your ills to the Britons, by
the river; we would gladly ship ours off to the Africans or Illyrians."
But I was given to understand that our rivers were too sluggish. There
was a great laugh over this, and then, as it was getting late, we left
the spot and returned home.
During the few days following I wandered about the city, under the
guidance of my friends, from morning until night. I enjoyed these
rambles not so much for what I actually saw as on account of the
reminiscences of our ancestors, who have left such extraordinary
monuments to the Roman power in this far-distant country. Marcus
Agrippa came, perhaps, most prominently before me. He was the founder
of this colony, to which, in preference to all his other great works
whether at home or abroad, he gave his own name. He was a great builder
as well as a distinguished warrior. His fame was such that he was
chosen by Augustus as the most desirable son-in-law in the world. His
wife, whatever else we may say of her, was at least a remarkable
woman, the Emperor's only child and very dear to him. I beheld the
bodies of the thousands of holy virgins who had suffered together, and
the ground dedicated to these noble relics--ground which they say will
of its own accord reject an unworthy corpse. I beheld the Capitol,
which is an imitation of ours. But in place of our senate, meeting to
consider the exigencies of peace and war, here one finds beautiful boys
and girls ever lifting up together their harmonious voices in nightly
hymns of praise to God. There one might hear the rattle of arms, the
rolling chariots and the groans of captives; but here are peace and
happiness and the voice of mirth. There it was the warrior who made his
triumphal entry; here it is the Prince of Peace.
I saw, too, the great church in the very centre of the town. It is very
beautiful, although still uncompleted, and is not unjustly regarded
by the inhabitants as the finest building of its kind in the world. I
looked with reverence upon the relics of the Three Kings, who, as we
read, came once upon a time, bringing presents, to worship at the feet
of a Heavenly King as he lay wailing in the manger. Their bodies were
brought from the East to the West in three great leaps.[7]
You may perhaps think, noble father, that I have gone too far just
here, and dwelt upon unimportant details. I readily admit it, but it
is because I have nothing more at heart than to obey your commands.
Among the many instructions which you gave me, as I was leaving, the
last one was that I should write to you as fully about the countries I
visited and the various things I saw and heard as I should tell about
them, were we face to face. I was not to spare the pen, nor to strive
for elegance or terseness of expression. Everything was to be included,
not simply the more picturesque incidents. In Cicero's words, you told
me to write "whatever might come into the cheek." I promised to do
this, and from the numerous letters which I have despatched on the way
it would seem that I had kept my engagement. If you had desired me to
treat of higher things I should have done what I could; but it seems to
me in the present case that the object of my letter should be rather to
instruct the reader than to give consequence to the writer. If you and
I wish to appear before the public we can do so in books, but in our
letters let us just talk with one another.
But to continue, I left Cologne June 30, in such heat and dust that
I sighed for Virgil's "Alpine snows and the rigours of the Rhine." I
next passed through the Forest of Ardennes, alone, and, as you will
be surprised to hear, in time of war. But God, it is said, grants
especial protection to the unwary. I had long known something of this
region from books; it seemed to me a very wild and dismal place indeed.
However, I will not undertake with my pen a journey which I have but
just completed with my horse. After many wanderings I reached Lyons
to-day. It, too, is a noble Roman colony, a little older even than
Cologne. From this point two well known rivers flow together into our
ocean,--the Rhone here joining the Arar, or, as the inhabitants now
call it, the Saône. But I need not tell you more about them, for they
are hurrying on, one led by the other, down to Avignon, where the Roman
pontiff detains you and the whole human race.
This morning when I arrived here I ran across one of your servants by
accident, and plied him, as those newly arrived from foreign parts
are wont to do, with a thousand questions. He knew nothing, however,
except that your noble brother, whom I was hastening to join, had gone
on to Rome without me. On hearing this my anxiety to proceed suddenly
abated. It is now my purpose to wait here until the heat too shall
abate somewhat, and until I regain my vigour by a little rest. I had
not realised that I had suffered from either source until I met your
servant; no kind of weariness indeed is so keenly felt as that of the
mind. If the journey promises to seem tedious to me I shall float
down the Rhone. In the meantime I am glad to know that your faithful
servant will see that this reaches you, and that you will know where
I am. As for your brother, who was to be my guide, and who now (my
disappointment must be my excuse for saying it) has deserted me, I feel
that my expostulations must be addressed to him directly. I beg that
you will see that the enclosed message[8] reaches him as soon as may
be. Farewell. Remember your friend.
LYONS, August 9.
1: _Fam_., i., 3, 4. The two letters in which Petrarch describes his
journey to the north are here given together. The first is dated from
Aix-la-Chapelle, June 21 [1333], and the second from Lyons, August 9,
of the same year.
2: This first letter closes here with a legend of Charles the Great
which Petrarch heard at Aix-la-Chapelle.
3: _I.e._, Aquisgrana.
4: _Sat_., xv., 111.
5: The context would seem to indicate (as Fracassetti and de Nolhac
[_op. cit._, p. 148] assume) that Petrarch means that many copies of
Ovid but none of Virgil were to be found at Cologne.
6: _Æneid_, vi., 318 _sq._
7: Namely, to Constantinople, then to Milan, and finally to Cologne.
8: This letter to the Bishop of Lombez is preserved, and is to be
found next in order in Fracassetti's collection. _Fam_., i., 5.
* * * * *
A good deal has been written about Petrarch's famous ascent of Mount
Ventoux. Körting assuredly exaggerates its significance when he
declares it "an epoch-making deed" which would by itself substantiate
Petrarch's title to be called the first modern man.[1] The reader
will observe that, however modern may have been the spirit in which
the excursion was undertaken, the relapse into mediæval sentiment was
speedy and complete. As we shall find, Petrarch had no sooner reached
the top than he bethought himself of his Augustine, before whose stern
dictum the wide landscape quickly lost its fascination.
* * * * *
_The Ascent of Mount Ventoux._
_To Dionisio da Borgo San Sepolcro._[2]
To-day I made the ascent of the highest mountain in this region, which
is not improperly called Ventosum.[3] My only motive was the wish to
see what so great an elevation had to offer. I have had the expedition
in mind for many years; for, as you know, I have lived in this region
from infancy, having been cast here by that fate which determines the
affairs of men. Consequently the mountain, which is visible from a
great distance, was ever before my eyes, and I conceived the plan of
some time doing what I have at last accomplished to-day. The idea took
hold upon me with especial force when, in re-reading Livy's _History of
Rome_, yesterday, I happened upon the place where Philip of Macedon,
the same who waged war against the Romans, ascended Mount Hæmus in
Thessaly, from whose summit he was able, it is said, to see two seas,
the Adriatic and the Euxine. Whether this be true or false I have not
been able to determine, for the mountain is too far away, and writers
disagree. Pomponius Mela, the cosmographer--not to mention others who
have spoken of this occurrence--admits its truth without hesitation;
Titus Livius, on the other hand, considers it false. I, assuredly,
should not have left the question long in doubt, had that mountain been
as easy to explore as this one. Let us leave this matter one side,
however, and return to my mountain here,--it seems to me that a young
man in private life may well be excused for attempting what an aged
king could undertake without arousing criticism.
When I came to look about for a companion I found, strangely enough,
that hardly one among my friends seemed suitable, so rarely do we meet
with just the right combination of personal tastes and characteristics,
even among those who are dearest to us. This one was too apathetic,
that one over-anxious; this one too slow, that one too hasty; one
was too sad, another over-cheerful; one more simple, another more
sagacious, than I desired. I feared this one's taciturnity and that
one's loquacity. The heavy deliberation of some repelled me as much
as the lean incapacity of others. I rejected those who were likely to
irritate me by a cold want of interest, as well as those who might
weary me by their excessive enthusiasm. Such defects, however grave,
could be borne with at home, for charity suffereth all things, and
friendship accepts any burden; but it is quite otherwise on a journey,
where every weakness becomes much more serious. So, as I was bent
upon pleasure and anxious that my enjoyment should be unalloyed, I
looked about me with unusual care, balanced against one another the
various characteristics of my friends, and without committing any
breach of friendship I silently condemned every trait which might prove
disagreeable on the way. And--would you believe it?--I finally turned
homeward for aid, and proposed the ascent to my only brother, who is
younger than I, and with whom you are well acquainted. He was delighted
and gratified beyond measure by the thought of holding the place of a
friend as well as of a brother.
At the time fixed we left the house, and by evening reached Malaucène,
which lies at the foot of the mountain, to the north. Having rested
there a day, we finally made the ascent this morning, with no
companions except two servants; and a most difficult task it was. The
mountain is a very steep and almost inaccessible mass of stony soil.
But, as the poet has well said, "Remorseless toil conquers all." It
was a long day, the air fine. We enjoyed the advantages of vigour of
mind and strength and agility of body, and everything else essential to
those engaged in such an undertaking, and so had no other difficulties
to face than those of the region itself. We found an old shepherd in
one of the mountain dales, who tried, at great length, to dissuade us
from the ascent, saying that some fifty years before he had, in the
same ardour of youth, reached the summit, but had gotten for his pains
nothing except fatigue and regret, and clothes and body torn by the
rocks and briars. No one, so far as he or his companions knew, had ever
tried the ascent before or after him. But his counsels increased rather
than diminished our desire to proceed, since youth is suspicious of
warnings. So the old man, finding that his efforts were in vain, went
a little way with us, and pointed out a rough path among the rocks,
uttering many admonitions, which he continued to send after us even
after we had left him behind. Surrendering to him all such garments or
other possessions as might prove burdensome to us, we made ready for
the ascent, and started off at a good pace. But, as usually happens,
fatigue quickly followed upon our excessive exertion, and we soon came
to a halt at the top of a certain cliff. Upon starting on again we went
more slowly, and I especially advanced along the rocky way with a more
deliberate step. While my brother chose a direct path straight up the
ridge, I weakly took an easier one which really descended. When I was
called back, and the right road was shown me, I replied that I hoped
to find a better way round on the other side, and that I did not mind
going farther if the path were only less steep. This was just an excuse
for my laziness; and when the others had already reached a considerable
height I was still wandering in the valleys. I had failed to find an
easier path, and had only increased the distance and difficulty of
the ascent. At last I became disgusted with the intricate way I had
chosen, and resolved to ascend without more ado. When I reached my
brother, who, while waiting for me, had had ample opportunity for rest,
I was tired and irritated. We walked along together for a time, but
hardly had we passed the first spur when I forgot about the circuitous
route which I had just tried, and took a lower one again. Once more I
followed an easy, roundabout path through winding valleys, only to
find myself soon in my old difficulty. I was simply trying to avoid the
exertion of the ascent; but no human ingenuity can alter the nature of
things, or cause anything to reach a height by going down. Suffice it
to say that, much to my vexation and my brother's amusement, I made
this same mistake three times or more during a few hours.
After being frequently misled in this way, I finally sat down in a
valley and transferred my winged thoughts from things corporeal to the
immaterial, addressing myself as follows:--"What thou hast repeatedly
experienced to-day in the ascent of this mountain, happens to thee, as
to many, in the journey toward the blessed life. But this is not so
readily perceived by men, since the motions of the body are obvious
and external while those of the soul are invisible and hidden. Yes,
the life which we call blessed is to be sought for on a high eminence,
and strait is the way that leads to it. Many, also, are the hills that
lie between, and we must ascend, by a glorious stairway, from strength
to strength. At the top is at once the end of our struggles and the
goal for which we are bound. All wish to reach this goal, but, as Ovid
says, 'To wish is little; we must long with the utmost eagerness to
gain our end.' Thou certainly dost ardently desire, as well as simply
wish, unless thou deceivest thyself in this matter, as in so many
others. What, then, doth hold thee back? Nothing, assuredly, except
that thou wouldst take a path which seems, at first thought, more easy,
leading through low and worldly pleasures. But nevertheless in the end,
after long wanderings, thou must perforce either climb the steeper
path, under the burden of tasks foolishly deferred, to its blessed
culmination, or lie down in the valley of thy sins, and (I shudder to
think of it!), if the shadow of death overtake thee, spend an eternal
night amid constant torments." These thoughts stimulated both body
and mind in a wonderful degree for facing the difficulties which yet
remained. Oh, that I might traverse in spirit that other road for which
I long day and night, even as to-day I overcame material obstacles by
my bodily exertions! And I know not why it should not be far easier,
since the swift immortal soul can reach its goal in the twinkling of
an eye, without passing through space, while my progress to-day was
necessarily slow, dependent as I was upon a failing body weighed down
by heavy members.