upon the strongest backs, and upon those in the prime of life, for
youth is the suitable time for work, old age for repose. Surely there
is among all your important and sacred duties none more pressing than
that you should restore gentle peace once more to Italy. This task
alone is worthy of your manly strength; others are too slight to occupy
so great and generous a spirit. Do this first, and the rest will find
an appropriate time. Indeed, I cannot but feel that little or nothing
would remain to be done when peace and order were again established in
Italy.
Picture to yourself the Genius of the city of Rome, presenting herself
before you. Imagine a matron, with the dignity of age, but with her
grey locks dishevelled, her garments rent, and her face overspread with
the pallor of misery; and yet with an unbroken spirit, and unforgetful
of the majesty of former days, she addresses you as follows: "Lest thou
shouldst angrily scorn me, Cæsar, know that once I was powerful, and
performed great deeds. I ordained laws, and established the divisions
of the year. I taught the art of war. I maintained myself for five
hundred years in Italy; then, as many a witness will testify, I carried
war and victory into Asia, Africa, and Europe, finally compassing
the whole world, and by gigantic effort, by wisdom and the shedding
of much blood, I laid the foundation of the rising Empire.[3] ... At
last the ocean, which I had dyed with the blood of both my enemies
and my children, was subjected to our fleets, in order that from the
seeds of war the flower of perpetual peace might spring; and by the
work of many hands the Empire might be so established that it should
endure until thy time. Nor was I disappointed in my hopes; my wish was
granted, and I beheld everything beneath my feet. But then, I know not
why, unless it is not fitting that the works of mortals should prove
themselves immortal, my magnificent structure fell a prey to sloth and
indifference.
"I need not relate again the sad story of its decline; thou canst
behold the state to which it is reduced. Thou, who hast been chosen to
succour me when hope had well-nigh deserted me, why dost thou loiter,
why dost thou vainly hesitate and consider? Assuredly, I never stood
in more dire need of assistance, nor hast thou ever been better placed
to bear aid. Never was the Roman pontiff more mildly inclined, nor
the favour of God and man more propitious; never did greater deeds
await the doing. Dost thou still defer? Delay has always been most
fatal to great princes. Would that thou mightest be moved to emulate
the illustrious example of those who left nothing for old age, but
straightway grasped an opportunity which might offer itself but once.
Alexander of Macedon had at thine age traversed the whole Orient, and,
burning to extend his kingdom over alien races, knocked at the gates
of India. Dost thou, who wouldst only recover thine own, hesitate to
enter thy devoted Italy? At thine age Scipio Africanus crossed into
Africa, in spite of the adverse counsels of older men, and supported
with pious hands an empire tottering upon the verge of ruin. With an
incredible display of valour he freed me from the impending yoke of
Carthage. His was a mighty task, and, by reason of its unheard-of
dangers, memorable to all generations. While war was bitterly waging in
our country he invaded the land of the enemy. Hannibal, conqueror of
Italy, Gaul, and Spain (who was already contemplating, in his dreadful
ambition, the dominion of the whole earth), Scipio cast out of Italy
and vanquished upon his own soil. But thou hast no seas to cross nor
a Hannibal to defeat; the way is free from difficulty, all is open
and accessible. Should obstacles present themselves, as some fear, thy
presence will shatter them as with a thunderbolt. A vast field of fresh
glory spreads out before thee, if thou dost not refuse to enter it.
Press bravely, confidently forward. God, the companion and present help
of the righteous prince, will be with thee. The armed cohorts of the
good and upright will gather about thee, demanding to regain under thy
leadership their lost liberty.
"I might urge thee on by examples of another character, of those who
by death or by some other insuperable check were unable to bring their
glorious undertakings to an end. But we need not look abroad for
instances when such excellent illustrations are to be had at home.
Without searching the annals, a single example, most familiar to thee,
will serve for all, that of Henry VII., thy most serene grandfather of
glorious memory. Had his life been spared to accomplish what his noble
mind had conceived, how different would have been the fate of Italy!
He would have driven his enemies to despair, and would have left me
once more queen of a free and happy people. From where he now dwells in
heaven he looks down upon thee and considers thy conduct. He counts the
days and the hours, and joins me in chiding thy delay.
"'Beloved grandson,' he pleads, 'in whom the good place their hope,
and in whom I seem still to live, listen to our Rome, give heed to her
tears and noble prayers. Carry out my plan of reforming the state,
which my death interrupted, working thereby greater harm to the world
than to me. Imitate my zeal, fruitless as it was, and mayest thou, with
like ardour, bring thy task to a happier and more joyful issue. Begin,
lest thou shouldst be prevented; mindful of me, know that thou, too,
art mortal. Up, then; surmount the passes! Joyful at thy approach,
Rome summons her bridegroom, Italy her saviour, yearning to hear thy
footsteps. The hills and rivers await thy coming in glad anticipation;
the cities and towns await thee, as do the hearts of all good men. If
there were no other motive for thy departure, a sufficient reason would
be found in the opinion of evil men, in whose eyes thou canst never
linger too long, and in the belief of the good, that thy coming cannot
be unduly hastened. For the sake of both, delay no longer; let the
virtuous receive their reward; bring retribution upon the evil, or, if
they come to their senses, grant them thy forgiveness. To thee alone
God Omnipotent has granted the final glory of my interrupted purpose.'"
* * * * *
Charles finally decided that it would be to his advantage to visit
Italy and receive the imperial crown at Rome. His motives, however,
had little in common with those which are set forth in the preceding
letter. He arrived in Lombardy in the autumn of 1354; and after
adjusting, temporarily at least, his complicated diplomatic relations
with the states of northern Italy, he called Petrarch to him, in the
bitter cold of December.
1: _Fam_., x., 1. This letter may with confidence be dated Padua, Feb.
24, 1350. _Cf._ Gregorovius, _op. cit._, vi., 341.
2: That is, King John of Bohemia, who perished romantically in the
battle of Crécy. He made an expedition into Italy in 1329, to which
Petrarch here refers.
3: A page is here omitted which briefly reviews the gradual extension
of the Roman power.
* * * * *
_His Audience with the Emperor._
_To "Lælius."_[1]
... On the fourth day after leaving Milan I arrived at Mantua, where I
was received by the successor of our Cæsars with a cordiality hardly to
be expected from a Cæsar, and with a graciousness more than imperial.
Omitting details, I may say that we two sometimes spent the whole
evening, from the time the lights were first lit until an unseasonably
late hour of the night, in conversation and discussion. Nothing, in a
word, could be more refined and engaging than the dignified manners
of this prince. So much, at least, I know; but I must defer a final
judgment upon his other traits, in accordance with the dictum of the
Satirist, "Trust not the face." We must wait! We must, if I mistake
not, take counsel of the acts of the man and their outcome, not of his
face and words, if we would determine how far he merits the title of
Cæsar. Nor did I hesitate frankly to tell him this.
The conversation happening to descend to my works, the Emperor
requested copies of some of them, especially of that one which I
have entitled _Lives of Famous Men_. I replied that the latter was
still unfinished, and that time and leisure were necessary to its
completion. Upon asking me to agree to send it to him later, he met
with an example of my customary freedom of speech when talking with
persons of rank. This frankness, which I had by nature, becomes more
pronounced as the years go on, and by the time I reach old age it will
doubtless exceed all bounds. "I promise that you shall have it," I
answered, "if your valour approves itself, and my life is spared."? As
he asked, in surprise, for an explanation, I replied that as far as I
was concerned I might properly demand that a suitable period be granted
me for the completion of so considerable a work, as it was especially
difficult to set forth the history of great deeds in a limited space.
"As for you, Cæsar," I continued, "you will know yourself to be worthy
of this gift, and of a book bearing such a title, when you shall be
distinguished not in name only, and by the possession of a diadem,
insignificant in itself, but also by your deeds; and when, by the
greatness of your character, you shall have placed yourself upon a
level with the illustrious men of the past. You must so live that
posterity shall read of your great deeds as you read of those of the
ancients."
That my utterance met with his ready approval was clearly shown by
the sparkle of his eye and the inclination of his august head; and it
seemed to me that the time had come to carry out something which I had
long planned. Following up the opportunity afforded by my words, I
presented him with some gold and silver coins, which I held very dear.
They bore the effigies of some of our rulers,--one of them, a most
lifelike head of Cæsar Augustus,--and were inscribed with exceedingly
minute ancient characters. "Behold, Cæsar, those whose successor you
are," I exclaimed, "those whom you should admire and emulate, and with
whose image you may well compare your own. To no one but you would
I have given these coins, but your rank and authority induces me to
part with them. I know the name, the character, and the history, of
each of those who are there depicted, but you have not merely to know
their history, you must follow in their footsteps;--the coins should,
therefore, belong to you." Thereupon I gave him the briefest outline of
the great events in the life of each of the persons represented, adding
such words as might stimulate his courage and his desire to imitate
their conduct. He exhibited great delight, and seemed never to have
received a present which afforded him more satisfaction.
But why should I linger upon these details? Among the many things we
discussed I will mention only one matter, which will, I think, surprise
you. The Emperor desired to hear, in due order, the history--or
shall I say the romance?--of my life, from the day of my birth to
the present time. Although I protested that the story was long and
by no means diverting, he listened to me through it all with grave
attention, and when, from forgetfulness or a desire to hasten on, I
omitted some event, he straightway supplied it, seeming often to be
better acquainted with my past than I myself. I was astonished that any
wind was strong enough to have wafted such trifles across the Alps,
and that they had caught the eye of one whose attention was absorbed
by the cares of state. When I finally reached the present time in my
narrative I paused, but the Emperor pressed me to tell him something
of my plans for the future. "Continue," he said; "what of the future?
What objects have you now in view?" "My intentions are of the best,
Cæsar," I replied, "although I have been unable to bring my work to the
state of perfection I should have desired. The habits of the past are
strong, and prevail in the conflict with the good intentions of the
present. The heart opposes a new determination, as the sea which has
been driven by a steady breeze rises up against a contrary wind." "I
can well believe you," he answered, "but my question really referred
to a different matter, namely, to the kind of life which pleases you
best." "The life of solitude," I promptly and boldly answered, "for no
existence can be safer, or more peaceful and happy. It transcends, in
my opinion, even the glory and eminence of your sovereign position. I
love to pursue solitude, when I may, into her own proper haunts,--the
forests and mountains. Often in the past have I done this, and when,
as at present, it is impossible, I do the best I can, and seek such
seclusion as is to be found in the city itself." He smiled, and said,
"All this I well know, and have intentionally led you step by step,
by my questions, to this confession. While I agree with many of your
opinions, I must deprecate this notion of yours."
And so a great discussion arose between us, which I did not hesitate
to interrupt by exclaiming: "Beware, Cæsar, of your course! for in this
conflict your arms are by no means equal to mine. This is a debate in
which not only are you predestined to defeat, but a very Chrysippus,
armed with syllogisms, would have no chance of victory. I have for a
long time meditated upon nothing else, and my head is full of arguments
and illustrations. Experience, the mistress of the world, sides with
me, although the stupid and ignorant multitude oppose my view. I refuse
to engage with you, Cæsar, for I should inevitably be declared the
victor by any fair-minded person, although he were himself a dweller in
the city. Indeed, I am so absorbed by the subject that I have recently
issued a little book which treats of some small part of it." Here he
interrupted me, declaring that he knew of the book, and that, should it
ever fall into his hands, he would promptly commit it to the flames. I
told him, in reply, that I should see to it that it never came in his
way. Thus our discussion was protracted by many a merry sally, and I
must confess that, among all those whom I have heard attack the life of
seclusion, I have never found one who advanced more weighty arguments.
The outcome was, if I do not deceive myself, that the Emperor was
worsted (if it is permissible to say or think that an Emperor can be
worsted), both by my arguments and by reason, but in his own opinion he
was not only undefeated but remained clearly the victor.
In conclusion, he requested me to accompany him to Rome. This request
was, he explained, his primary motive in subjecting one who held
quiet in such esteem to the discomforts of this inclement season.
He desired to behold the famous city not only with his own but, so
to speak, with my eyes. He needed my presence, he said, in certain
Tuscan cities,--of which he spoke in a way that would have led one to
believe him an Italian, or possessed, at least, of an Italian mind.
This would have been most agreeable to me, and the two words "Rome" and
"Cæsar" rang most gratefully in my ears; nothing, I thought, could be
more delightful than to accompany Cæsar to Rome; nevertheless I felt
obliged, for many good reasons, and owing to unavoidable circumstances,
to refuse him.
A new discussion ensued in regard to this matter, which lasted many
days and did not end until the last adieux were said. For as the
Emperor left Milan I accompanied him to the fifth milestone beyond the
walls of Piacenza, and even then it was only after a long struggle of
opposing arguments that I could tear myself away. As I was about to
depart a certain Tuscan soldier in the imperial guards took me by the
hand, and, turning to the Emperor, addressed him in a bold but solemn
voice. "Here is he," he said, "of whom I have often spoken to you. If
you shall do anything worthy of praise, he will not allow your name to
be silently forgotten; otherwise, he will know when to speak and when
to keep his peace."
But to return to our first subject.[2] I do not, as you can see,
repudiate the honour you ascribe to me, because it is distasteful, but
because truth is dearer to me than all else. I did not negotiate the
peace, though I ardently desired it; I was not deputed to bring it
about, but only aided with exhortations and words of encouragement. I
was not present at the beginning but only at the close, since Cæsar and
my good fortune decreed my presence at the solemn public ratification
of the treaty which followed its conclusion.
Assuredly no Italian has ever received such tributes as I have at this
juncture. I have been summoned by Cæsar and urged to be his companion;
I have been permitted to jest and argue with him. The tyrant Dionysius,
as Pliny tells us, once sent a ship covered with garlands to fetch
Plato, the disciple of wisdom; and as he disembarked he was received
upon the shore by the prince himself, in a chariot drawn by four white
horses. These things are spoken of as magnificent tributes to Plato,
and as redounding to his glory. You see now, my dear Lælius, whither I
am tending, and that I omit no opportunity which promises distinction.
What might I not venture, who do not fear to compare myself to
Plato?...[3]
* * * * *
The hasty, undignified retreat of Charles from Italy, and the bitter
reproaches which Petrarch sent after him, did not prevent a resumption
of the intercourse begun in 1350.[4] A year after the Emperor's
departure Petrarch went to Prague, as ambassador of the Visconti, but
we hear no particulars of his sojourn at that new centre of culture. In
a letter written after this visit we find the graceful acknowledgment
of the gift of a golden cup from the Emperor, who continued to urge
the poet to make his home in Prague? Petrarch at last reluctantly
prepared to obey the summons, but was happily prevented by the military
occupation of the Alpine passes from undertaking a journey which he
little relished. He continued to press the return of the Emperor as
Italy's saviour until, finally, "hoarse" with repeated cries for help,
he sent his last vain appeal,[5] some ten years after Charles departure.
1: _Fam_., xix., 3. The first part of the letter, describing, among
other things, the severe cold, is omitted.
2: The rumour had reached Lælius that Petrarch had been deputed by the
Milanese government to negotiate a peace with Charles.
3: The closing paragraph is omitted.
4: Fourteen letters to Charles are preserved in all.
5 _Fam_., xxiii., 21.
VI
THE CONFLICT OF MONASTIC AND SECULAR IDEALS
Non sumus aut exhortatione virtutis aut vicinæ mortis
obtentu a litteris deterendi.--_Sen_., i., 4.
The tendencies toward Paganism which the enthusiastic and exclusive
study of the ancient classics produced among the Italian Humanists
of the fifteenth century are so well known that it is natural to ask
what was the attitude of the founder of Humanism toward the generally
accepted religious beliefs of his day.
The question of the propriety of reading pagan works had agitated the
Church from the first, and the views of the devout had varied greatly.
There had always been distinguished leaders, like Augustine, who made
due use of pagan learning and eloquence, and defended a discriminating
study of the heathen writers; while others, among whom Gregory the
Great was preëminent, had harshly condemned "the idle vanities of
secular learning," for the reason "that the same mouth singeth not the
praises of Jove and the praises of Christ."[1] Many timid churchmen
were fearful, like Jack Cade, of those who talked of "a noun and a
verb and such abominable words as no Christian can endure to hear."
In short, the effects produced upon the religious convictions by a
study of Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Seneca, and Lucretius have always
varied with the mental make-up, the maturity and surroundings, of
the individual, just as nowadays a study of science may or may not
influence the faith of the believer. In notable instances, scientific
pursuits not only leave the student's religious system essentially
unimpaired but may even serve to fortify a traditional form of
theology. On the other hand, an absorbing interest in scientific
investigation often produces religious indifference. In still other
minds such research will arouse opposition to what comes to seem to
them a vicious and degraded form of superstition. This opposition
will vary from dignified but uncompromising negation to a frantic
belligerency not unlike that of the ecclesiastical opponents of
"poetry" in the middle ages.
Turning to Petrarch, we may at first be tempted to infer that his
religious beliefs were in no way affected by his sympathetic study of
pagan literature. His writings prove beyond a peradventure that he was
a devout Catholic, even an ardent defender of orthodoxy. He composed
several devotional works, unimpeachably sound in their teaching,
as, for example, the tract upon _True Wisdom_, and his _Penitential
Psalms_. He was deeply incensed by the defection of the young men who
accepted the doctrines of Averroes, and prepared a refutation of their
heresies, as we have seen.[2] And he was no exception to the rule, for
there were few, if any, among the first generation of Humanists who
affected the paganism characteristic of the later Renaissance.[3] But
Petrarch not only refused to question the authority of the Church;
he went much farther, and, in, theory at least, heartily accepted
the prevalent ascetic ideals. He freely, acknowledges the superior
perfection of the monastic life; it is, he feels, the only sure road to
Heaven. In writing to Gherardo, who had become a Carthusian monk, he
begs him not to despair of his salvation although, he still remains in
the world. His sins, however great, are still finite, while the divine
clemency upon which he relies is boundless.[4]
But such reflections as fill the letter from which we quote are, the
writer explicitly tells us, not his own, for it is the pen of another
self, a "monastic pen," which records them. He speaks truly; he had no
real love for a consistent life of seclusion and maceration, yet when
his spirit was heavy, when the vanity of earthly ambition was more than
usually oppressive, he might long for the irresponsible routine of the
monastery. Sometimes, too, he seems unconsciously to have confused a
scholar's desire for leisure and retirement with the quite different
claims of the cloister.[5]
1: _Ep_., ix., 54.
2: _I.e., De Suiipsius et Multorum Ignorantia_. See above, pp. 215,
216. (During his residence in Venice...)
3: _Cf_. Pastor, _Geschichte der Päpste_, vol. i., p. 1 _sqq_.
4: _Fam_., x., 3.
5: Once, upon his return from a visit to the Carthusian monastery
which Gherardo had selected, Petrarch wrote a eulogy of monastic life,
_De Otio Religiosorum_, which may be found among his works.
* * * * *
The following letter to Boccaccio explains itself.
_Religion does not Require us to Give up Literature._
_To Boccaccio._[1]
Your letter, my brother, filled me with the saddest forebodings.
As I ran through it amazement and profound grief struggled for the
supremacy in my heart, but when I had finished, both gave way to other
feelings. As long as I was ignorant of the facts, and attended only to
the words, how indeed could I read, with dry eyes, of your tears and
approaching death? For at first glance I quite failed to see the real
state of affairs. A little thought, however, served to put me in quite
a different frame of mind, and to banish both grief and surprise.
But before I proceed I must touch upon the matter to which you refer in
the earlier part of your letter. You dare not deprecate, you say with
the utmost deference, the plan of your illustrious master--as you too
humbly call me--for migrating to Germany, or far-off Sarmatia (I quote
your words), carrying with me, as you would have it, all the Muses, and
Helicon itself, as if I deemed the Italians unworthy longer to enjoy
my presence or the fruits of my labour. You well know, however, that I
have never been other than an obscure and lowly dweller on Helicon, and
that I have been so distracted by outside cares as to have become by
this time almost an exile. I must admit that your method of holding me
back from such a venture is more efficacious than a flood of satirical
eloquence would have been. I am much gratified by such tokens of your
esteem, and by the keen interest you exhibit. I should much prefer
to see signs of exaggerated apprehension on your part (_omnia tuta
timens_, as Virgil says) than any suggestion of waning affection.