and will freely tell you the whole secret of my poor wounded heart. I
can never see enough of this land of Italy; but, by Hercules! I am so
utterly disgusted with Italian affairs that, as I recently wrote to our
Simonides, I must confess that I have sometimes harboured the idea of
betaking myself--not to Germany, certainly, but to some secluded part
of the world. There I might hope to escape this eternal hubbub, as well
as the storms of jealousy to which I am exposed not so much by my lot
in life (which to my thinking might rather excite contempt than envy)
as by a certain renown which I have acquired in some way or other.
Thus secluded I should have done what I could to live an upright life
and die a righteous death. This design I should have carried out had
not fortune prevented. But as to turning my thoughts northward, that
was by no means done with the intention which you imagine. I did not
think of seeking repose in that barbarous and uninviting land, with
its inclement sky. I was only submitting, from motives of respect and
propriety, to the solicitations of our Emperor, who had repeatedly
urged me to come and see him, with such insistence that my refusal to
visit him, for a short time at least, might have been regarded as an
exhibition of pride and rebellion, or even as a species of sacrilege.
For, as you have read in Valerius, our ancestors were wont to regard
those who could not venerate princes as capable of any form of crime.
But you may dismiss your fears, and cease your laments; for--to my
not very great regret--I have found this road, too, blocked by war.
Anomalously enough, I am glad not to go where I should with even
greater gladness have gone if I had been able. To have wished to go is
enough to satisfy both my ruler's desires and my own scruples; for the
rest fortune was responsible.
Leaving this matter, I come back to that part of your letter which so
affected me on first reading. You say that a certain Peter, a native of
Sienna, noted for his piety and for the miracles which he performed,
has recently died; that on his death-bed, among many predictions
relating to various persons, he had something to say of both of us;
and that, moreover, he sent a messenger to you to communicate his last
words. When you inquired how this holy man, of whom we had never heard,
happened to know so much about us, the messenger replied that the
deceased had, it is understood, undertaken a certain work of piety; but
when, having been told as I surmise that death was near, he saw himself
unable to accomplish his proposed mission, he prayed a prayer of great
efficacy, which could not fail to make its way to Heaven, that proper
substitutes might be designated, who should bring to a successful close
the chosen task which it was not the will of God that he himself should
complete. With that intimacy of intercourse which exists between God
and the soul of the just, Heaven ordained that he should see Christ in
person, and thus know that his petition had been heard and granted. And
in Christ's face it was conceded to him to read "_the things that are,
the things that have been, and the things that are to come_," not as
Proteus does in Virgil, but far more perfectly, clearly, and fully; for
what could escape one who was permitted to look upon the face of him to
whom all things owe their being?
It is certainly a most astounding thing, this seeing Christ with
mortal eyes, if only it be true. For it is an old and much-used device,
to drape one's own lying inventions with the veil of religion and
sanctity, in order to give the appearance of divine sanction to human
fraud. But I cannot pronounce upon this case at present, nor until the
messenger of the deceased presents himself to me in person. For you
tell me that he visited you first because you were nearest, and, having
delivered his message, departed for Naples, intending to go thence by
sea to France and England, and lastly to visit me and impart such of
his instructions as related to my case. I can then see for myself how
much faith he succeeds in arousing in me. I shall closely interrogate
everything about him,--his age, face, eyes, dress, bearing, gait, even
his tone of voice, movements, style of address, and, above all, his
apparent object and the upshot of his discourse.
The gist of the whole matter is then, as I infer, that the holy man
as he was dying had a vision of us two, and along with us of several
others as well, and intrusted certain secret messages for us all to
this zealous and, as he seems to you, faithful executor of his last
wishes. Now what messages the other persons may have received we do
not know. But you yourself received the following communications, both
relating to the general course and conduct of your life. If there
were others you suppress them. You were first informed that your life
is approaching its end, and that but a few years remain to you.[2]
Secondly, you were bidden to renounce the study of poetry. Hence your
consternation and sorrow, which I shared at first as I read, but which
a little reflection served to efface, as it will in your case too, if
you will but lend me your ears, or listen to the utterances of your own
better reason. You will see that, instead of being a source of grief,
the message ought to give you joy.
I do not belittle the authority of prophecy. What comes to us from
Christ must indeed be true. Truth itself cannot lie. But I venture to
question whether Christ was the author of this particular prophecy,
whether it may not be, as often happens, a fabrication attributed
to him in order to insure its acceptance. And what of the fact that
similar phenomena have been recorded among those who are quite ignorant
of his name? If we may believe the pagan poets and philosophers, it
was not at all unusual for dying men to utter prophecies; both the
Greek literature and our own mention many such instances. Note, for
example, that Homer makes Hector foretell the death of Achilles; Virgil
tells us how Rhodes warns Mezentius of his doom; Cicero mentions the
same prophetic power in the cases of Theramenes, who foresaw the death
of Critias, and of Calanus, who foretold that of Alexander. Another
example, more like that which troubles you, is mentioned by Posidonius,
the most celebrated philosopher of his time. He tells us of a certain
inhabitant of Rhodes who, on his death-bed, indicated six of his
contemporaries who were shortly to follow him to the grave; and, what
is more, he actually foretold the order in which those people would
die. This is not the place to consider either the authenticity or the
explanation of such cases. Suppose, though, that we do grant their
trustworthiness, as well as that of other similar prophecies which
are reported to us, including the one by which you have recently been
terrified; what is there, after all, which need fill you with such
apprehension? We are usually indifferent to those things with which we
are familiar, and are excited and disturbed only by the unexpected. Did
you not know well enough, without hearing it from this man, that you
had but a short span of life before you?...[3]
I might commend to you, in your perplexity, the reflections of
Virgil,[4] as not only helpful but as the only advice to be followed
at this juncture, were it not that I wished to spare the ears of one
to whom poetry is absolutely forbidden. This prohibition filled me
with much more astonishment than the first part of the dying man's
message. If it had been addressed to an old man who was, so to speak,
just learning his letters, I might have put up with it, but I cannot
understand why such advice should be given to an educated person in
the full possession of his faculties, ... one who realises what can
be derived from such studies for the fuller understanding of natural
things, for the advancement of morals and of eloquence, and for the
defence of our religion. (We have seen with what signal success those
whom I have just enumerated[5] used their learning.) I am speaking
now only of the man of ripe years, who knows what is due to Jupiter
the adulterer, Mercury the pander, Mars the man-slayer, Hercules the
brigand, and--to cite the less guilty--to the leech Æsculapius, and
his father, Apollo the cither-player, to the smith Vulcan, the spinner
Minerva; and, on the other hand, to Mary the virgin-mother, and to her
son, our Redeemer, very God and very man. If, indeed, we must avoid the
poets and other writers who did not know of Christ, and consequently do
not mention his name, how much more dangerous must it be to read the
books of heretics, who only speak of Christ to attack him. Nevertheless
the defenders of the true faith do read them, and with the greatest
attention.
Believe me, many things are attributed to gravity and wisdom which are
really due to incapacity and sloth. Men often despise what they despair
of obtaining. It is in the very nature of ignorance to scorn what it
cannot understand, and to desire to keep others from attaining what it
cannot reach. Hence the false judgments upon matters of which we know
nothing, by which we evince our envy quite as clearly as our stupidity.
Neither exhortations to virtue nor the argument of approaching death
should divert us from literature; for in a good mind it excites the
love of virtue, and dissipates, or at least diminishes, the fear of
death. To desert our studies shows want of self-confidence rather than
wisdom, for letters do not hinder but aid the properly constituted mind
which possesses them; they facilitate our life, they do not retard
it. Just as many kinds of food which lie heavy on an enfeebled and
nauseated stomach furnish excellent nourishment for one who is well
but famishing, so in our studies many things which are deadly to the
weak mind may prove most salutary to an acute and healthy intellect,
especially if in our use of both food and learning we exercise proper
discretion. If it were otherwise, surely the zeal of certain persons
who persevered to the end could not have roused such admiration. Cato,
I never forget, acquainted himself with Latin literature as he was
growing old, and Greek when he had really become an old man. Varro, who
reached his hundredth year still reading and writing, parted from life
sooner than from his love of study. Livius Drusus, although weakened by
age and afflicted with blindness, did not give up his interpretation
of the civil law, which he carried on to the great advantage of the
state....
Besides these and innumerable others like them, have not all those of
our own religion whom we should wish most to imitate devoted their
whole lives to literature, and grown old and died in the same pursuit?
Some, indeed, were overtaken by death while still at work reading or
writing. To none of them, so far as I know, did it prove a disadvantage
to be noted for secular learning, except to Jerome, whom I mentioned
above; while to many, and Jerome himself not least, it was a source
of glory. I do not forget that Benedict was praised by Gregory for
deserting the studies which he had begun, to devote himself to a
solitary and ascetic mode of life. Benedict, however, had renounced,
not the poets especially, but literature altogether. Moreover, I very
much doubt if his admirer would have been himself admired had he
proceeded to adopt the same plan. It is one thing to have learned,
another to be in the process of learning. It is only the hope of
acquisition which the boy renounces,--quite a different thing from
the learning itself, which an older person gives up; the former but
turns away from an obstacle, while the latter sacrifices an ornament.
The trials and uncertainties of acquisition are alone surrendered in
one case; in the other the man sacrifices the sure and sweet fruit of
long, laborious years, and turns his back upon the precious treasure of
learning which he has gathered together with great effort.
While I know that many have become famous for piety without learning,
at the same time I know of no one who has been prevented by literature
from following the path of holiness. The apostle Paul was, to be sure,
accused of having his head turned by study, but the world has long
ago passed its verdict upon this accusation. If I may be allowed to
speak for myself, it seems to me that, although the path to virtue
by the way of ignorance may be plain, it fosters sloth. The goal of
all good people is the same but the ways of reaching it are many and
various. Some advance slowly, others with more spirit; some obscurely,
others again conspicuously. One takes a lower, another a higher path.
Although all alike are on the road to happiness, certainly the more
elevated path is the more glorious. Hence ignorance, however devout, is
by no means to be put on a plane with the enlightened devoutness of one
familiar with literature. Nor can you pick me out from the whole array
of unlettered saints, an example so holy that I cannot match it with a
still holier one from the other group.
But I will trouble you no longer with these matters, as I have already
been led by the nature of the subject to discuss them often. I will
add only this: if you persist in your resolution to give up those
studies which I turned my back upon so long ago, as well as literature
in general, and, by scattering your books, to rid yourself of the very
means of study,--if this is your firm intention, I am glad indeed that
you have decided to give me the preference before everyone else in this
sale. As you say, I am most covetous of books. I could hardly venture
to deny that without being refuted by my works. Although I might seem
in a sense to be purchasing what is already my own, I should not like
to see the books of such a distinguished man scattered here and there,
or falling, as will often happen, into profane hands. In this way,
just as we have been of one mind, although separated in the flesh, I
trust that our instruments of study may, if God will grant my prayer,
be deposited all together in some sacred spot where they may remain
a perpetual memorial to us both.[6] I came to this decision upon the
day on which he died who I hoped might succeed me in my studies.[7] I
cannot, however, fix the prices of the books, as you most kindly would
have me do. I do not know their titles and number, or their value. You
can arrange this by letter, and on the understanding that if it should
ever occur to you to spend with me the little time which remains to us,
as I have always wished, and you at one time seemed to promise, you
will find the books you send with those that I have recently gathered
together here, all of them equally yours, so that you will seem to have
lost nothing, but rather gained, by the transaction.
Lastly, you assert that you owe money to many, to me among others.
I deny that it is true in my case. I am surprised at so unfounded
and even absurd a scruple of conscience on your part. I might apply
Terence's saying, that you seem "to be looking for a joint in a reed."
You owe me nothing but love, and not even that, since you long ago paid
me in full,--unless it be that you always are owing, because you are
always receiving. Still, one who pays back so promptly cannot properly
be said ever to owe.
As to the complaint of poverty, which I have frequently heard from you
before, I will not attempt to furnish any consolation or to cite any
illustrious examples of indigence. You know them already. I will only
say plainly what I have always said: I congratulate you for preferring
liberty of mind and tranquil poverty to the opulence which I might
have procured for you, even though tardily.[8] But I cannot praise you
for scorning the oft-repeated invitation of a friend. I am not in a
position to endow you. If I were, I should not confine myself to pen
or words, but should address you with the thing itself. But I am amply
supplied with all that two would need, if, with a single heart, they
dwelt beneath a single roof. You insult me if you scorn my offers,
still more so, if you are suspicious of their sincerity.
PADUA, May 28 (1362).
1: _Sen_., i, 4.
2: Boccaccio at this time was about fifty-one years old.
3: Here follows a series of reflections upon the brevity of life and
the inevitability of death, supported by excerpts from Ambrose and
Cicero. Petrarch often reverts to this subject in his letters.
4: To wit, the lines, "Stat sua cuique dies ... sed famam extendere
factis, Hoc virtutis opus."
5: _Viz_., Lactantius, Augustine, and Jerome.
6: In regard to Petrarch's library see above, pp. 28 _sqq_. "Each copy
of a work had...)
7: It is not known to whom Petrarch refers here; de Nolhac suggests
his son Giovanni, who died a year before this was written. _Cf. op.
cit_., p. 68, note 1.
8: The pope had asked Petrarch to suggest someone for a papal
secretaryship. He had offered the place to Boccaccio, who however
refused it.
* * * * *
The following letter is one of Petrarch's most unreserved confessions
of confidence in Christian asceticism.
_On a Religious Life._
_To his Brother Gherardo, a Carthusian Monk._[1]
Your double gift,--the boxwood box, which you yourself in your leisure
moments had polished so carefully on the lathe, and the very edifying
letter, built up and strengthened by a vast number of quotations from
the Fathers, and testifying a truly religious spirit,--reached me
yesterday evening. I was delighted to receive them both, but as I read
the letter I was, I must confess, affected by strangely conflicting
emotions, now warmed by generous impulses, now paralysed by chilling
fear. Your admirable example aroused in me the longing to lead a better
life, and supplied the incentive; it loosed the hold which the present
exercised over me, enabling me to see more clearly where I really
stood. You showed me the road which I must follow, and the distance
which still separates me, miserable sinner that I am, from our other
home, the New Jerusalem, for which we must always sigh, unless this
dark and noisome dungeon of exile has destroyed all recollection of our
true selves.
Well, I congratulate both of us,--you, that you have such a soul,
myself, that I have such a brother. Yet, in spite of this, one thing
fills me with pain and regret,--that while we had the same parents we
should not have been born under the same star. We are sprung from the
same womb; but how unlike, how unequal! This serves to show us that our
natures are the gift, not of our earthly parents, but of our Eternal
Father. We were begotten in carnal depravity by our father; to our
mother we owe this vile body; but from God we receive our soul, our
life, our intellect, our desire for good, our free will. All that is
holy, religious, devout, or excellent in human nature comes directly
from him.
So your letter at once comforted and distressed me. I rejoiced in
you and blushed for myself. I can only say in reply to it that what
you write is all very good and helpful, though it would have been
quite as true even if you had not supported it so abundantly by high
authorities. Take, for example, the opinion, which you call in St.
Augustine to defend, that our endeavours, as well as our desires, are
often at variance with one another.--I should like, however, if you
will permit me, to express my own views upon this matter before coming
to Augustine's. By so doing I shall gratify myself without, perhaps,
annoying you.
The aims of mankind as a whole, and even those of the individual,
are conflicting. This must be admitted; I know others and myself all
too well to deny it. I have looked at the race as a whole, and have
examined individuals in detail. What can, in truth, be said that will
apply to all; or who can possibly enumerate the infinite diversities
which distinguish mortals from one another, so that men do not seem to
belong to the same species or even to the same genus?...[2] This, I
confess, surprises me, but it is much more astonishing that the wishes
of one and the same man should so ill agree. Who of us, indeed, desires
the same thing when he is old that he craved as a youth? Or, what is
still stranger, who wants in the winter what he wished in the summer?
Nay, who of us would have to-day what we longed for yesterday, or this
evening what we sought only this morning? As for that, we can see the
vacillation from hour to hour, from minute to minute. Yes, there are
more desires in man than minutes to realise them. This is a constant
source of wonder to me, and I marvel that everyone should not find it
so. But I am losing myself, and must return to you and your Augustine.
That the same individual may at the same moment be in disagreement
with himself in regard to the same object--a truth which you call St.
Augustine to witness, although you do not express yourself in exactly
his words--is a source of the most profound astonishment to me. How
common, nevertheless, is this species of madness,--to desire to
continue our journey but without reaching the end, to wish to go and
stay at the same time, to live and yet never die! Yet it is written
in the Psalms, "What man is he that liveth and shall not see death?"
Still, we harbour these contradictory desires. In our blindness and
incredible perversity we yearn for life, and execrate its outcome,
death. These wishes are, however, thoroughly at variance with each
other, and mutually exclusive. Not only does death necessarily follow
life, but, as Cicero says,--in whose opinion on this point I have,
for some reason, almost more confidence than in that of Catholic
writers,--" What we call our life is in reality death." So it falls
out that we both hate and love death above all things, and are fitly
described in the words of the comic poet,--_Volo nolo, nolo volo._
But let us leave aside for the time being these philosophical
reflections, which, although perhaps inopportune, are none the less
true, and deal with this matter as a common man might. Let us accept
this life as it is generally conceived and so fondly cherished; let us
suppose it to begin to-day--what does it really promise us? Surely
anyone can readily infer the answer who reviews the experience of
the years already passed, and uses the same measure for the future,
although in his imagination he may extend his hopes and cares to a full
century of life. What, may I ask, is the prospect for those who are
already advanced in years? What is past is certainly dead and gone, and
for the future we can only rely upon the assurances of a fleeting and
precarious existence. Even if its promises should be fulfilled, the
stubborn fact remains that the same number of years seems in old age,
for some reason which I cannot explain, shorter than in the first part
of our life. Who, then, can doubt the full truth of your assertions,
that we are constantly occupied in a fervid quest for happiness and
prosperous days, when neither happiness nor prosperous days are to be
found? Nor can we hope for rest or safety, or life itself, or anything
except a hard and weary journey toward the eternal home for which we
look; or, if we neglect our salvation, an equally pleasureless way to
eternal death. Should we not, then, seek our true welfare while we
still have time, in the only place where the good and perfect can be
found?