letter I will say nothing, both because your treatment is quite
exhaustive, and because the language of religious discussion could
have little weight in the mouth of a sinful and miserable man, such
as I. I content myself with admiring in silence the constancy of your
mind and the vigour of your style. It is plain that you have had a
very different preceptor in the monastery from what you found in the
world. It is not surprising that he who could teach you to will and
to act could also teach you to speak, for speech follows the mind and
actions closely. You have, in a brief space, altered greatly as to both
the inner and the outer man. This would surprise me more had I not
learned the power of the Most High to change the heart of man. For he
can with equal ease affect the disposition of the race or of a single
individual; he can move the earth or change the whole face of nature.
You have sought out for me a noble array of passages from the Fathers,
and ordered them so artfully that I am led to admire your arrangement
almost as much as the sentiments themselves. Skilful composition
frequently brings home to us what we should otherwise miss, as we learn
when we study the art of poetry. You will forgive me one suggestion.
You are extremely modest, perhaps too modest, and wanting in proper
self-confidence. You would do well to trust, for a time at least, more
to your own powers; nor be afraid that the same spirit which made the
Fathers wise will not aid you. For it is written, "It is not ye who
speak, but the spirit of my Father which speaks in you." You may give
utterance to truths of your own, perhaps very many, which will benefit
not only yourself but others as well.
Coming finally to myself, who have been, by reason of the storms
which rage about me, a serious source of brotherly solicitude and
apprehension to you, I can only say that you are justified in
cherishing a lively hope, if riot the complete assurance, of my safety.
I have not forgotten the counsel you gave when you left me. I cannot
maintain that I have actually reached the haven, but, like sailors
caught in a storm out at sea, I have found my way to the leeward of
an island, so to speak, where I am protected from the wind and waves.
Here I lie and wait until I may make a safer harbour. On what do I base
my hope? you will ask. With Christ's help, I have sought to fulfil
the three duties which you recommended to me, and have, with all my
might, tried to carry them out more and more fully each day. I do not
tell this for my own glory, for I am still afflicted by many ills and
misgivings, and have much to regret in the past, much to trouble me
in the present, and much to fear in the future, but I send you word
of my progress in order that you may rejoice in the first fruits of
your efforts, and that the greater the hopes you have of me, the more
frequently you may pray for my salvation.
In the three following respects I have complied with your injunctions.
In the first place, I have, by means of solitary confession, laid open
the secret uncleanness of my transgressions, which would otherwise have
fatally putrified, through neglect and long silence. I have learned to
do this frequently, and have accustomed myself to submit the secret
wounds of my soul to the healing balm of Heaven. Next, I have learned
to send up songs of praise to Christ, not only by day but in the night.
And following your admonitions I have put away habits of sloth, so
that even in these short summer nights the dawn never finds me asleep
or silent, however wearied I am by the vigils of the evening before.
I have taken the words of the Psalmist to heart, "Seven times a day
do I praise thee"; and never since I began this custom have I allowed
anything to distract me from my daily devotions. I observe, likewise,
the admonition, "At midnight I will rise to give thanks unto thee."
When the hour arrives I feel a mysterious stimulus which will not allow
me to sleep, however oppressed I may be with weariness.
In the third place, I have learned to fear more than death itself that
association with women which I once thought I could not live without.
And, although I am still subject to severe and frequent temptations,
I have but to recollect what woman really is, in order to dispel all
temptation and return to my normal peace and liberty. In such straits
I believe myself aided by your loving prayers, and I trust and beg
that you will continue your good offices, in the name of him who had
mercy on you, and led you from the darkness of your errors into the
brightness of his day. In all this you are most happy, and show a most
consistent contempt for false and fleeting joys. May God uphold you. Do
not forget me in your prayers.
IN SOLITUDE. June 11 (1352).
1: _Fam_., x., 5.
2: Four or five pages of somewhat trite reflections are here omitted,
as they cast no real light upon the writer's attitude toward religion.
* * * * *
In spite, however, of the conventional and even ardent respect which
Petrarch paid to the monkishness of his age, he was, after all, too
genuine and independent a thinker not to turn against some of its
implications. For instance, he would never consent to give up his
secular literary pursuits, or admit that they were unholy. He was
always ready to defend the study of the classics, and, as we have
seen, he vigorously dissuaded his more impressionable friend Boccaccio
from yielding to spiritual intimidation. He frankly admits, moreover,
that he could never overcome the longing for personal glory, which he
hoped to secure by his Latin writings. The proud boasts of Horace and
Ovid, who claimed immortality for their works, suggested to his eager,
restless spirit something very different from the self-annihilation
of the cloister. Whether he really believed such aspirations to be
utterly incompatible with Christian humility, is difficult to decide.
Late in life he did not hesitate to celebrate the "Triumph of Glory"
in Italian verse, but in his earlier days he was less confident of the
righteousness of merely earthly aspirations.
Most of us would nowadays doubtless agree that few things in this
world are on the whole less vain than fame. At the least, the pursuit
of it seems to us in no way ignoble; it is, as Petrarch says, a
"splendid preoccupation." The reader will have noted from time to time
references in the letters to Petrarch's longing for undying renown. It
is one of the chief themes of the _Secret_, to which we shall turn in a
moment.
The letter which follows deals with this matter; it is the earliest
which we have from his hand, and was written, probably, in 1326, while
he was still a student at Bologna. His views at the age of twenty-two
were not essentially different from those which he held at seventy.
_On the Impossibility of Acquiring Fame during one's Lifetime._
_To Tommaso di Messina._[1]
No wise man will regard as peculiar to himself a source of
dissatisfaction which is common to all. Each of us has quite enough to
complain of at home; a great deal too much, in fact. Do you think that
no one ever had your experience before? You are mistaken,--it is the
common fate of all. Scarcely anyone ever did or wrote anything which
was regarded with admiration while he still lived. Death first gives
rise to praise,--and for a very simple reason; jealousy lives and dies
with the body. "But," you reply, "the writings of so many are lauded
to the skies, that, if it be permissible to boast,..." Here you stop,
and, as is the habit of those who are irritated, you leave your auditor
in suspense by dropping your sentence half finished. But I easily
guess your half-expressed thought, and know what you would say. Many
productions are received with enthusiasm which, compared with yours,
deserve neither praise nor readers, and yet yours fail to receive any
attention. You will certainly recognise in my words your own indignant
reasoning, which would be quite justifiable if, instead of applying it
exclusively to yourself, you extended it to all those who have been,
are, or shall be, seized by this passionate and diseased craving to
write.
Let us look for a moment at those whose writings have become famous.
Where are the writers themselves? They have turned to dust and ashes
these many years. And you long for praise? Then you, too, must die.
The favour of humanity begins with the author's decease; the end of
life is the beginning of glory. If it begins earlier, it is abnormal
and untimely. Moreover, so long as any of your contemporaries still
live, although you may begin to get possession of what you desire,
you may not have its full enjoyment. Only when the ashes of a whole
generation have been consigned to the funeral urn do men begin to pass
an unblassed judgment, free from personal jealousy. Let the present age
harbour any opinion it will of us. If it be just, let us receive it
with equanimity; if unjust, we must appeal to unprejudiced judges,--to
posterity, seeing that a fair-minded verdict can be obtained nowhere
else.
Personal intercourse is a most delicate matter, disturbed by the merest
trifles. Actual contact with a person is peculiarly disastrous to his
glory. Intercourse and familiarity are sure to beget contempt.[2]
When we turn to the scholars--and we are all familiar with that
half-starved, overworked breed--we find that, in spite of all their
toil, they, too, are totally wanting in critical ability. They read a
deal, but never subject what they read to criticism; and it certainly
would never occur to them to examine the merits of a man's work if
they thought they knew the man himself. They all follow one law; let
them but cast their eyes on the author, his works invariably weary and
disgust them. But you will say, "This may happen to the less highly
gifted; a really great genius will, however, overcome all obstacles."
But if you will bring back Pythagoras I will see that his detractors
are not wanting. Suppose Plato to return to Greece, Homer and Aristotle
to rise from the dead, Varro and Livy to appear again in Italy, and
Cicero to flourish once more,--they would find not only lukewarm
admirers but jealous and virulent calumniators, such as each found in
his own generation. Who among all Latin writers is more truly great
than Virgil? Let him appear among us, and he would be a poet no longer,
but a low-lived plagiarist, or a mere translator. He, however, dared to
rely upon his own genius and the patronage of a judge like Augustus,
and so disdained from the bottom of his heart the carpings of envious
contemporaries.
You also, I know, are confident of your powers, but where will you find
a judge like Augustus, who, as is well known, assiduously encouraged
every kind of talent in his time? Our kings can pass judgment on the
flavour of a dish, or the flight of a hawk; but on human qualities they
can offer no opinion, and, should they try, their insolent pride would
blind them or keep their eyes from the truth. Lest they should seem to
respect anything in their own age, they profess an admiration for the
ancients, about whom, however, they scorn to learn anything. So with
them the praise of the dead entails an affront to the living. It is
among such critics that we must live and die, and, what is hardest,
hold our peace.
Where, I asked, are you to find a judge like Augustus? Italy rejoices
in one, indeed. Yes, there is one such on earth, Robert, the Sicilian
king. Happy Naples! which enjoys the unequalled good fortune of
possessing the single ornament of our age. Happy and most enviable
Naples, the august home of literature! If thou once seemedst sweet to
Virgil, how much greater thy charm since the most equitable of censors
of talent and learning lives within thy borders! All who have faith
in their powers flee to him. Nor should they delay, for delay is
dangerous. He is well advanced in age; the world has long deserved to
lose him, while he has well earned the title to happier realms. I fear
that I myself may be storing up unavailing regrets by my delay. It is
always shameful to put off a good thing, and deliberation may be so
prolonged as to become blameworthy. The opportunity should be improved,
and that which could not be accomplished earlier should be done now,
without further delay. As for myself, I have resolved to hasten with
all possible speed, and to dedicate all my powers to him (as Cicero
says, in one of his letters, of Cæsar). It may come to pass that, by
ardent application, I may yet reach the goal. As a belated traveller,
although he has overslept, may yet, with speed, reach his destination
earlier than if he had spent the night on the road, so I, late as I
have been in offering my homage to this man, may still make up for
lost time by increased diligence. As for you, you must adopt your own
expedients, since it is not simply the narrow strait, but war, which
forms the obstacle between you and this monarch. Your country, which
has no more loyal citizen than yourself, now lies under the dominion of
a hostile ruler,[3] or tyrant, as I might say, did I not fear to offend
your ears. But such a mighty question as this is to be decided, not by
our pens, but by the swords of those interested.
Reverting now to our original discussion, to-day [we see about us,
among others,] the lawyers, in whom the passion for self-glorification
is universal, and those fellows who spend their whole time in
disputations and dialectic subtleties, forever wrangling over some
trivial question:--hear my verdict upon the whole pack of them. Their
fame will surely die with them; a single grave will suffice for their
name and their bones. When death shall have forced their own paralysed
tongues to silence, those of others will be equally silent in regard
to all that concerns them. ... But what is it, after all, that we are
so anxiously striving for? The fame we reach after is but a breath, a
mist, a shadow, a nothing. A sharp and penetrating mind will therefore
easily learn to scorn it. But if, perchance,--since it is a pest which
commonly pursues the generous soul,--thou canst not radically extirpate
this longing, thou mayest at least check its growth with the sickle of
reason. Accept the laws of time and circumstances. Finally, to sum up
my advice in a word, seek virtue while thou livest, and thou shalt find
fame in thy grave. Adieu.
BOLOGNA, April 18th.
1: _Fam_., i., 1.
2: Dante's reasoning in the _Convito_ (cap. iii. _sq_.) offers an
interesting analogy to that of Petrarch. "I have," he says, "gone
through almost all the land in which this language [Italian] lives,--a
pilgrim, almost a mendicant;... and I have appeared despicable in the
eyes of many who perhaps, through some report, had imagined me in other
guise; in the sight of whom not only did my person become contemptible,
but my works, both those that were completed and those that remained to
be done, appeared less worthy." Dante adds a philosophical explanation
of this.
3: Sicily, it will be remembered, had revolted from the rule of
Charles of Anjou, at the time of the Sicilian Vespers, 1282, and still
remained under rulers belonging to a branch of the house of Aragon.
VII
PETRARCH'S CONFESSIONS
Est autem aliqua propositi mei ratio. Earn enim quam his
sperare licet gloriam, his quoque manenti quaerendam
esse persuadeo ipse mihi. Illa maiore in coelo fruendum
erit, quo qui pervenerit hanc terrenam ne cogitare quidem
velit. Itaque istum esse ordinem ut mortalium rerum inter
mortales prima sit cura: transitoriis aeterna succedant:
quod ex his ad illa sit ordinatissimus progressus.
_Secretum_, in Ed. of 1496, _Colloquium tertii diei_, k
(the pages are unnumbered).
The art of self-revelation is no easy one to acquire and when acquired
it must be practiced with circumspection. It is however possible to
talk of oneself with good grace and to get others to listen. Indeed
a man's opinion of himself--if only we can come at it--is rarely
indifferent to us. We have an almost morbid anxiety to know what others
think of themselves, if only they can and will tell us. We all like
to take our turn behind the grating of the confessional. Artistic
confessing is essentially a very modern accomplishment. While the
nineteenth century furnishes us many charming examples, the instances
of satisfactory self-exposure before Rousseau's unblushing success are
really rare. Probably Augustine is the first name that will occur to
us. Job's case and that of the far more ancient Egyptian who has left
his weary reflection on life are hardly in point. The Greek and Roman
writers have left us plenty of comments on the inner life, but no
one tells us his own individual intimate story, unless it be Marcus
Aurelius. In the Middle Ages Peter Damianus, Abelard and Héloïse,
and others shed abundant tears over their evil thoughts, without
however giving us any complete pictures of their varied emotions and
ambitions. Nor does Dante succeed in doing this; although he may be
dimly seen through a mist of allegory. Petrarch's _Secret_ is the
earliest unmistakable example of cool, fair, honest and comprehensive
self-analysis that we possess.
Few have suffered more keenly than Petrarch from a troublesome form
of self-consciousness. He was, as we have seen, ever concerned with
his conduct, ever fearful lest his high pursuits were vain, if not
unequivocally wicked. He was half-ashamed of his noblest sentiments;
even his popularity disturbed him.
. . . . . . . . onde sovente
Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno.
His love for Laura long tormented his conscience: he even doubted
whether his craving for literary fame were not a fatal propensity which
might endanger his eternal welfare.
With a view of getting clearly before himself all the questions which
were constantly harassing him he prepared an imaginary dialogue,
suggesting somewhat Boethius's _Consolation of Philosophy_, in order
to do full justice to the claims of each and all of his conflicting
desires and emotions.
One day, he tells us, as he was meditating upon the confused mysteries
of life, there appeared before him a wondrous Lady, whom, after his
eyes had recovered from the dazzling light about her, he recognised as
Truth. With her came a venerable person of profoundly religious mien,
in whom Petrarch immediately discovered his favorite ghostly comforter,
Saint Augustine. The Lady, having perceived the straits in which the
poet was, had taken pity on him in his moral illness and had brought
with her her cherished devotee, to whom she now commends him.
Having all retired to a secluded spot, they join in a consultation,
which was prolonged during three days. Much was said of the evils of
the age and of mortal perversity in general, but the discussion of his
own sins made the deepest impression upon Petrarch. "And lest this
friendly conference should fade from my mind," he says, "I resolved
to write it down and have filled this little book with it. Not that I
would wish it to be reckoned with my other works, nor do I write it
for fame's sake (I am now dealing with higher matters), but solely in
order that I may revive at will the delight which I then derived from
our converse. Therefore, little book, thou wilt avoid the intercourse
of men and wilt contentedly abide with me, not forgetful of thy name:
for thou art 'My Secret' and so thou shalt be called."
* * * * *
The Confessions are, as their author tells us, not very
voluminous--less than 30,000 words. They consist of the three dialogues
that took place upon the three successive days; the conversation
is spirited and natural throughout and infinitely superior to the
pseudo-dialogues of the better known _Remedies for both Good and Evil
Fortune_ by the same author. We have no means of determining exactly
when the Confessions were written. As Petrarch was accustomed to revise
his work over and over again, it is probable that several years elapsed
after the plan was once conceived before the little book received the
finishing touches. There is, however, sufficient internal and external
evidence to indicate that the work was written between the years
1342 and 1353; that is, at a time when its author's literary powers
may be assumed to have been at their height. He must have been about
thirty-eight years old when he began it, and had perhaps reached his
fiftieth birthday before he laid it aside in the form that it has come
down to us. In the printed editions the Confessions are called _De
Contemptu Mundi_, a title that is at once misleading and unsupported
by Petrarch's own authority. A much more pertinent heading is found
in most of the manuscripts, namely, _De secreto Conflictu curarum
suarum_,--the inward struggle between the monastic and secular ideals
of life.[1]
It would be a grave misapprehension to suppose that the dialogue does
not reflect a very real contradiction in the soul of the writer. No
careful reader can fail to see in it the bitterness of a spirit at
odds with itself. Indeed its whole significance lies in the sturdy and
heartfelt defence of the intrinsic virtue of the more noble temporal
ambitions, especially those of a man of letters, against the deadening
suggestions of monasticism. The dialogues were written after Petrarch
had outgrown his youthful unquestioning exuberance and before he had
reached the philosophic calm of his later years. Even if he gives way,
often reluctantly indeed and doubtfully, before Augustine's reasoning,
his habitual conduct and his attitude of mind in old age prove that he
was not vanquished. In the long run, the modern, or, if you will, the
classical, spirit was destined to prevail, as we shall later see.
In this three-days' conference the first two days are devoted to the
nature and cause of man's earthly misery, and its cure. "You remember,"
Augustine inquires, "that you are mortal?" Francesco replies that he
not only remembers it but that the thought never fails to fill him with
a certain horror. "If this be so it is well," his Confessor rejoins,
"it will much lighten my duties; for it is certainly true that nothing
is so efficacious against the seductions of this life and so potent to
strengthen the soul amid the tempests of the world as the recollection
of our own misery and meditation upon death; but this thought should
produce no light and fleeting impression; it must sink into our very
bones and marrow. I very much fear that in this respect, as in many
other ways that I have observed, you deceive yourself."
Francesco replies that he does not think the remedy for human misery
so simple as that suggested by Augustine, but admits that he
does not altogether understand his reasoning. "I thought you had
a better-developed mind," Augustine sharply rejoins; "it had not
occurred to me that we should have to go back to first principles. Had
you committed to memory the truths and salutary injunctions of the
philosophers which you have often encountered in my works, and (if you
will permit me to say it) had you laboured for yourself rather than for
others and made the result of so much reading the rule of your life
instead of an idle boast to gain the empty plaudits of the common herd,
you would not be guilty of such crude and silly utterances."
No one is unhappy or can become so except voluntarily, Augustine
continues. Cicero and the other philosophers amply prove that only that
which is opposed to virtue can make us truly unhappy. "I remember,"
Francesco replies, "that these are the doctrines of the Stoics, but
they are opposed to popular belief, and are better in theory than
in practice (_veritati propinquiora quam usui_)." All vice begins
voluntarily, he admits, yet he has seen many a man, himself included,
who would gladly throw off the yoke of sin but who tries to do so in
vain. In spite of the Stoics' cold comfort they remain the miserable
victims of evil their lives long. He does not deceive himself as to
the serious nature of his condition; on the contrary, he sheds many
a bitter tear but finds no relief. Augustine replies that he himself
experienced the same trials at the time of his own conversion, his
account of which is doubtless familiar to Petrarch. The fundamental
difficulty lies in our indifference to spiritual liberty. We do not, as
Petrarch readily agrees, really desire to be free from our sins.
"No one can be dominated absolutely by this desire unless he puts
an end to all other desires; for you well know how many and various
are the objects of our wishes in life, all of which must come to
be reckoned of no value if one would rise to the true yearning for
the highest happiness.... Who is there indeed who could succeed in
extinguishing all his desires,--it would be a long task even to
enumerate them, to say nothing of conquering them,--in order that he
might some day hope to guide his soul by the reins of reason, and dare
to say 'I have nothing in common with the body; all that once seemed
pleasing has become vile in my sight: I aspire to higher things,'" Such
an one is rare enough, Francesco concedes. "But what in your opinion,"
he asks, "must we do in order that we may cast off our earthly shackles
and rise to heaven?"