"Sonny," why, I do not know, unless by antiphrasis, as I have sometimes
suspected in other instances; for the peak in question would seem to be
the father of all the surrounding ones. On its top is a little level
place, and here we could at last rest our tired bodies.
Now, my father, since you have followed the thoughts that spurred me
on in my ascent, listen to the rest of the story, and devote one hour,
I pray you, to reviewing the experiences of my entire day. At first,
owing to the unaccustomed quality of the air and the effect of the
great sweep of view spread out before me, I stood like one dazed. I
beheld the clouds under our feet, and what I had read of Athos and
Olympus seemed less incredible as I myself witnessed the same things
from a mountain of less fame. I turned my eyes toward Italy, whither
my heart most inclined. The Alps, rugged and snow-capped, seemed to
rise close by, although they were really at a great distance; the
very same Alps through which that fierce enemy of the Roman name once
made his way, bursting the rocks, if we may believe the report, by
the application of vinegar. I sighed, I must confess, for the skies
of Italy, which I beheld rather with my mind than with my eyes. An
inexpressible longing came over me to see once more my friend and my
country. At the same time I reproached myself for this double weakness,
springing, as it did, from a soul not yet steeled to manly resistance.
And yet there were excuses for both of these cravings, and a number of
distinguished writers might be summoned to support me.
Then a new idea took possession of me, and I shifted my thoughts to
a consideration of time rather than place. "To-day it is ten years
since, having completed thy youthful studies, thou didst leave Bologna.
Eternal God! In the name of immutable wisdom, think what alterations
in thy character this intervening period has beheld! I pass over a
thousand instances. I am not yet in a safe harbour where I can calmly
recall past storms. The time may come when I can review in due order
all the experiences of the past, saying with St. Augustine, 'I desire
to recall my foul actions and the carnal corruption of my soul, not
because I love them, but that I may the more love thee, O my God.' Much
that is doubtful and evil still clings to me, but what I once loved,
that I love no longer. And yet what am I saying? I still love it, but
with shame, but with heaviness of heart. Now, at last, I have confessed
the truth. So it is. I love, but love what I would not love, what I
would that I might hate. Though loath to do so, though constrained,
though sad and sorrowing, still I do love, and I feel in my miserable
self the truth of the well known words, 'I will hate if I can; if not,
I will love against my will.' Three years have not yet passed since
that perverse and wicked passion[4] which had a firm grasp upon me
and held undisputed sway in my heart began to discover a rebellious
opponent, who was unwilling longer to yield obedience. These two
adversaries have joined in close combat for the supremacy, and for a
long time now a harassing and doubtful war has been waged in the field
of my thoughts."
Thus I turned over the last ten years in my mind, and then, fixing
my anxious gaze on the future, I asked myself, "If, perchance, thou
shouldst prolong this uncertain life of thine for yet two lustres, and
shouldst make an advance toward virtue proportionate to the distance
to which thou hast departed from thine original infatuation during
the past two years, since the new longing first encountered the old,
couldst thou, on reaching thy fortieth year, face death, if not with
complete assurance, at least with hopefulness, calmly dismissing from
thy thoughts the residuum of life as it faded into old age?"
These and similar reflections occurred to me, my father. I rejoiced
in my progress, mourned my weaknesses, and commiserated the universal
instability of human conduct. I had well-nigh forgotten where I was
and our object in coming; but at last I dismissed my anxieties, which
were better suited to other surroundings, and resolved to look about me
and see what we had come to see. The sinking sun and the lengthening
shadows of the mountain were already warning us that the time was near
at hand when we must go. As if suddenly wakened from sleep, I turned
about and gazed toward the west. I was unable to discern the summits
of the Pyrenees, which form the barrier between France and Spain; not
because of any intervening obstacle that I know of but owing simply to
the insufficiency of our mortal vision. But I could see with the utmost
clearness, off to the right, the mountains of the region about Lyons,
and to the left the bay of Marseilles and the waters that lash the
shores of Aigues Mortes, altho' all these places were so distant that
it would require a journey of several days to reach them. Under our
very eyes flowed the Rhone.
While I was thus dividing my thoughts, now turning my attention to
some terrestrial object that lay before me, now raising my soul, as
I had done my body, to higher planes, it occurred to me to look into
my copy of St. Augustine's _Confessions_, a gift that I owe to your
love, and that I always have about me, in memory of both the author
and the giver. I opened the compact little volume, small indeed in
size, but of infinite charm, with the intention of reading whatever
came to hand, for I could happen upon nothing that would be otherwise
than edifying and devout. Now it chanced that the tenth book presented
itself. My brother, waiting to hear something of St. Augustine's from
my lips, stood attentively by. I call him, and God too, to witness
that where I first fixed my eyes it was written: "And men go about to
wonder at the heights of the mountains, and the mighty waves of the
sea, and the wide sweep of rivers, and the circuit of the ocean, and
the revolution of the stars, but themselves they consider not." I was
abashed, and, asking my brother (who was anxious to hear more), not
to annoy me, I closed the book, angry with myself that I should still
be admiring earthly things who might long ago have learned from even
the pagan philosophers that nothing is wonderful but the soul, which,
when great itself, finds nothing great outside itself. Then, in truth,
I was satisfied that I had seen enough of the mountain; I turned my
inward eye upon myself, and from that time not a syllable fell from
my lips until we reached the bottom again. Those words had given me
occupation enough, for I could not believe that it was by a mere
accident that I happened upon them. What I had there read I believed
to be addressed to me and to no other, remembering that St. Augustine
had once suspected the same thing in his own case, when, on opening
the book of the Apostle, as he himself tells us, the first words that
he saw there were, "Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering
and wantoness, not in strife and envying. But put you on the Lord Jesus
Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts
thereof."
The same thing happened earlier to St. Anthony, when he was listening
to the Gospel where it is written, "If thou wilt be perfect, go and
sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure
in heaven: and come and follow me." Believing this scripture to have
been read for his especial benefit, as his biographer Athanasius says,
he guided himself by its aid to the Kingdom of Heaven. And as Anthony
on hearing these words waited for nothing more, and as Augustine upon
reading the Apostle's admonition sought no farther, so I concluded my
reading in the few words which I have given. I thought in silence of
the lack of good counsel in us mortals, who neglect what is noblest in
ourselves, scatter our energies in all directions, and waste ourselves
in a vain show, because we look about us for what is to be found only
within. I wondered at the natural nobility of our soul, save when it
debases itself of its own free will, and deserts its original estate,
turning what God has given it for its honour into dishonour. How many
times, think you, did I turn back that day, to glance at the summit
of the mountain, which seemed scarcely a cubit high compared with the
range of human contemplation,--when it is not immersed in the foul mire
of earth? With every downward step I asked myself this: If we are ready
to endure so much sweat and labour in order that we may bring our
bodies a little nearer heaven, how can a soul struggling toward God, up
the steeps of human pride and human destiny, fear any cross or prison
or sting of fortune? How few, I thought, but are diverted from their
path by the fear of difficulties or the love of ease! How happy the lot
of those few, if any such there be! It is of them, assuredly, that the
poet was thinking, when he wrote:
Happy the man who is skilled to understand
Nature's hid causes; who beneath his feet
All terrors casts, and death's relentless doom,
And the loud roar of greedy Acheron.[5]
How earnestly should we strive, not to stand on mountain-tops, but
to trample beneath us those appetites which spring from earthly
impulses.[6]
With no consciousness of the difficulties of the way, amidst these
preoccupations which I have so frankly revealed, we came, long after
dark, but with the full moon lending us its friendly light, to the
little inn which we had left that morning before dawn. The time during
which the servants have been occupied in preparing our supper, I
have spent in a secluded part of the house, hurriedly jotting down
these experiences on the spur of the moment, lest, in case my task
were postponed, my mood should change on leaving the place, and so my
interest in writing flag.
You will see, my dearest father, that I wish nothing to be concealed
from you, for I am careful to describe to you not only my life in
general but even my individual reflections. And I beseech you, in
turn, to pray that these vague and wandering thoughts of mine may some
time become firmly fixed, and, after having been vainly tossed about
from one interest to another, may direct themselves at last toward the
single, true, certain, and everlasting good.
MALAUCÈNE, April 26.
1: _Op. cit_., p. 105.
2: _Fam_., iv., 1. This letter, written when Petrarch was about
thirty-two years old, is addressed to an Augustinian monk, professor
of divinity and philosophy in the University of Paris, which drew
several of its most famous teachers from Italy. It was probably in
Paris, during the journey described above, that Petrarch first met
him. The poet, we may infer from the present letter, made him his
spiritual confidant, confessed to him his sinful love for Laura, whom
he had first met six years before, and received from the monk, in
addition to the natural spiritual counsels, a copy of St. Augustine's
_Confessions_, to which he refers below. Dionysius was called in
1339 to Naples, and proved an agreeable companion for the sage ruler
of that kingdom, not only on account of his distinguished moral and
intellectual qualities, but by reason of his proficiency in the theory
and practice of astrology, in which Robert took a profound interest.
This branch of his knowledge is--to the surprise of one familiar with
his views--sympathetically dwelt upon by Petrarch, in a poetic epistle
(i., 13) addressed to Robert on the death of their common friend in
1342. Petrarch nevertheless often fiercely attacks the astrological
arts, and is distinguished in this respect from even the most
enlightened men of his time, including Boccaccio. _Cf._ Fracassetti,
_Let. delle Cose Fam_., i., p. 425.
3: That is, Windy.
4: This is a reference, we may assume, to his love for Laura. See the
note at the opening of this letter.
5: _Georgics_, ii., 490 _sqq_. The version here given is based upon
that of Rhoades.
6: It is but fair to the translators to note that Petrarch's style is
at its worst when he falls into a train of moralising.
* * * * *
_THE CHARMS OF PAVIA._
_To Boccacio._[1]
You have done well to visit me by letter, since you either would not
or could not come to see me in person. On hearing that you had crossed
the Alps to see the Babylon of the West, worse than the ancient city of
that name because nearer to us, I was in a constant state of anxiety
until I learned of your safe return. For I well know the difficulties
of the route, having traversed it frequently, and I thought, too, of
your heaviness of body, and of your seriousness of mind, so favourable
to scholarly leisure and so averse to the responsibilities which you
had assumed. Worried by these considerations, I enjoyed no peace,
day or night, and I thank God that you are back safe and sound. The
greater the perils of the sea that you have escaped, the greater is my
gratitude for your return.
But, unless you were in a very great hurry, it would have been very
easy for you, on reaching Genoa, to have turned this way. It would have
required but two days to come to see me--whom indeed you see always and
wherever you go,--and you would also have seen this city of Ticinum,
on the banks of the Ticino, which I believe you have never visited. It
is now called Pavia, which the grammarians tell us means admirable, or
wonderful. It was long the celebrated capital of the Lombards. Still
earlier than their time I find that Cæsar Augustus took up his quarters
here, on the eve of the German war. I suppose he wished to be nearer
the scene of action. He had sent his step-son on into Germany; where he
was performing the most glorious deeds of prowess. From here Augustus
could observe the campaign as from a watch-tower, stimulating the
leader, and ready, should one of the reverses so common in war occur,
to bring to his succour all the imperial forces, as well as the majesty
of his own name.
You would have seen where the Carthaginian leader gained his first
victory over our generals, in a conflict during which the Roman
commander was snatched from the enemy's weapons and saved from imminent
death by his son, scarcely more than a boy,--a striking presage that
the lad would himself one day become a great leader. You would have
seen where St. Augustine is buried, and where Boethius found a fitting
place of exile in which to spend his old age and to die. They now
repose together in two urns, under the same roof with King Luitprand,
who transferred the body of St. Augustine[2] from Sardinia to this
city. This is indeed a pious and devout concourse of illustrious
men. One might think that Boethius followed in the footsteps of St.
Augustine, during his life, by his spirit and writings, especially
those on the Trinity,[3] which he composed after the example of
Augustine, and in death, because his remains share the same tomb. You
would wish that your mortal remains might have been destined to lie
near such good and learned men. Finally, you would have seen a city
famous in the mouths of men for its age. It is true that no reference
to it occurs, so far as I can recollect, earlier than the period of the
second Punic war, of which I just spoke. Indeed, if my memory does not
play me false, even in connection with that period Livy only mentions
the river and not the town. However, the similarity of the names--the
river, _Ticinus_, and the town, _Ticinum_--might easily lead to the
confusion of one with the other.[4]
But I will leave one side all such doubtful matters and confine
myself to what is certain. You would find the air of the place very
salubrious. I have now spent three summers here, and I do not remember
to have experienced ever anywhere else such frequent and plentiful
showers with so little thunder and lightning, such freedom from
heat, and such steady, refreshing breezes. You would find the city
beautifully situated. The Ligurians, of old a notable race and to
this day a very powerful people, occupy the greater part of northern
Italy, and the city lies in the midst of their territory. Commandingly
situated on a slight elevation, and on the margin of gently sloping
banks, it raises its crown of towers into the clouds, and enjoys a
wide and free prospect on all sides, one which, so far as I know,
is not exceeded in extent or beauty by that of any town which lies
thus in a plain. By turning one's head ever so little one can see
in one direction the snowy crest of the Alps, and in the other the
wooded Apennines. The Ticino itself, descending in graceful curves
and hastening to join the Po, flows close by the walls, and, as it is
written, makes glad the city by its swift waters. Its two banks are
joined by as fine a bridge as you would wish to see. It is the clearest
of streams, both in reputation and in fact, and flows very rapidly,
although just here, as if tired after its long journey and perturbed by
the neighbourhood of a more famous river, it moves more deliberately,
and has been deprived of some of its natural purity by the brooks
which join it. It is, in short, very much like my Transalpine Sorgue,
save that the Ticino is larger, while the Sorgue, on account of the
nearness of its source, is cooler in summer and warmer in winter.
You would see, also, one of those works in which you have such
an interest, and in which I, too, take the greatest delight,--an
equestrian statue in gilded bronze. It stands in the middle of the
market-place, and seems to be just on the point of reaching, with a
spirited bound, the summit of an eminence. The figure is said to have
been carried off from your dear people of Ravenna. Those best trained
in sculpture and painting declare it to be second to none.
Lastly, in order of time, though not of importance, you would see the
huge palace, situated on the highest point of the city; an admirable
building, which cost a vast amount. It was built by the princely
Galeazzo, the younger of the Visconti,[5] the rulers of Milan, Pavia,
and many neighbouring towns, a man who surpasses others in many ways,
and in the magnificence of his buildings fairly excels himself. I am
convinced, unless I be misled by my partiality for the founder, that,
with your good taste in such matters, you would declare this to be the
most noble production of modern art.
So if you had come you would not only have seen your friend, which I
hope, and indeed know, would have been most agreeable to you, but you
would have been delighted also by the spectacle, not, as Virgil says,
of wonderful little things, but of a multitude of great and glorious
objects. I must confess that in my own case these objects are a source
of supreme pleasure, and would keep me here, were it not that other
interests call me away. I leave here shortly, but very gladly return to
pass the summer months--if fate grant me more summer months....[6]
1: _Sen_., v., 1, written probably in 1365, the year in which
Boccaccio undertook the embassy to Avignon to which Petrarch refers
below.
2: It was the body not of Augustine but of Boethius which was
transferred from Sardinia. See Rashdall's _Hist. of the Universities_,
i., 34, n. 1.
3: Boethius was probably not a Christian, although he was until recent
times regarded almost as one of the Church Fathers. It is hardly
necessary to say that the theological works attributed to him are by
some other hand.
4: This is an interesting illustration of Petrarch's careful reading
of the classics. He evinces a modern conscientiousness in examining the
evidences of the city's age.
5: Galeazzo's rule was divided with his elder brother Bernabo.
6: The description of Pavia closes here.
V
POLITICAL OPINIONS
RIENZO AND CHARLES IV
Principum ac regum familiaritatibus et nobilium amicitiis
usque ad invidiam fortunatus fui.... Maximi regum meæ
ætatis amarunt et coluerunt me; cur autem nescio; ipsi
viderint: et ita cum quibusdam fui, ut ipsi quodam modo
mecum essent, et eminentiæ eorum nullum tædium, commoda
multa perceperim.
_Epistola ad Posteros._
Petrarch exhibits in his letters a deep and constant interest in public
affairs, albeit, like others of his time, he views political problems
somewhat broadly, with a generous disregard not only of technical
detail but of human nature itself. He tells us that his intercourse
with kings and princes and his friendship with noble personages was
such as to excite envy in the less fortunate. His international fame,
seconded by his own tastes and ambition, brought him into intimate
association during a great part of his life with the potentates of
his day, not only of Italy but of France and Germany,--even with
the Emperor of the East. While he did not actually participate in
the government, even during his stay at Milan, we find him sent
upon important public missions. He prepared and delivered political
addresses, and wrote letters to rulers and public men, with a hope of
influencing their policy; he composed a considerable treatise upon the
art of government;[1] he even participated, as a consulting expert, in
drafting a constitution for the city of Rome.
Petrarch's interest in political reform is doubtless attributable in
no small part to the patriotic enthusiasm aroused by the study of his
nation's glorious past. Romans were to him but earlier Italians. Scipio
Africanus was a national hero; Virgil, the great national poet; the
Cæsars, the Italian rulers of the world. On visiting Cologne nothing
so fascinated him as the vestiges of his forefathers. Moreover, he had
ever before him in his fellow-countryman, Cicero, a literary spirit and
philosopher like himself, who had not hesitated to devote his energies
to public affairs.
The history of Italy under the rule of their Roman ancestors took on
a celestial radiance in the eyes of those who viewed the sad decline
of their country's greatness. Petrarch would, he says, have preferred
any age to his own. His sole consolation lay in the rooted conviction
that times were going rapidly from bad to worse. He saw upon every hand
examples of the terrible inadequacy of the existing system to yield
even the most primitive benefit of government,--the reasonable security
of person and property. Disorder, robbery, and murder were every-day
occurrences. When he first visited Rome, his friends deemed a hundred
horsemen a necessary escort to protect him from the Orsini on his way
to the city.[2] Upon the occasion of his coronation the representative
of the King of Naples, who was to accompany him, failed to reach Rome;
he had been captured by bandits.[3] Petrarch himself was attacked as
he left the city, and was obliged to return within its walls.[4] The
danger upon the highroads kept him in a constant state of apprehension
when he or his friends undertook a journey. Even the peaceful retreat
at Vaucluse was at last plundered and burned, and the poet declared
that nowhere was one any longer sheltered from the ferocious robber
bands which moved about with the precision of regular armies, and which
the walls of fortified towns and the arms of their rulers were alike
powerless to check.[5]
This lawlessness was naturally attributed to Italian disunion. The
subdivision of Italy into a multitude of practically independent
states and urban communities stimulated the development of personal
political ambition and produced the "age of despots." The tyrants,
in their struggle to maintain their power at home and increase their
prestige abroad, inevitably resorted to the approved expedient of the
usurper, territorial aggrandisement. The discomfiture or subjugation
of their neighbours became the absorbing object of the foreign policy
of Milan, Venice, and Florence, and of the lesser states as well.
Peace, the natural enemy of the usurper, was thoroughly banished from
Italy, and a perpetual state of war prevailed. There were few serious,
decisive conflicts, it is true, but there was an all-pervading,
self-perpetuating, Ishmaelitish antagonism between the various
countries, which precluded all hope of national cooperation. "Servile
Italy," indeed, "ship without a pilot!"[6]