waged in his bosom between the monk and the lover. He was forced, if
he would find rest, to reconcile, or decide between, the mediæval
ecclesiastical and the modern secular conception of man's love for
woman. By the ecclesiastical or monkish view of love is meant, of
course, the belief in its essential depravity and inherent sinfulness,
quite regardless of the particular relations between the lover and his
beloved. Petrarch, although quite averse to theology, held some of the
great Church Fathers, especially Augustine, in high esteem, and their
doctrines of the close association of sexual love and original sin
were familiar to him. He was, moreover, a priest himself and a devout
adherent of the traditional faith of his Church. On the other hand he
knew his classics well, and loved and revered the authors of antiquity
to whom love was no sin. He revolted by nature against the theory that
the deep and permanent fascination which woman exercises over man is
devilish in its origin, as was taught by the mediæval preachers and
illustrated by many a coarse and licentious tale; and in the dialogue,
to which we now turn, he hotly defends the higher and purer conception
of his affection. His veneration for Augustine, who consistently
maintains the debasing nature of earthly love is, however, too profound
to permit him in the end to repudiate altogether the teachings of
asceticism.
To return to the dialogue. Augustine would finally strike off two
golden manacles, love and fame, whose specious glitter so dazzles the
poor captive that he reckons them his most precious possessions. None
of his aspirations have ever seemed to him more noble than the very
ones Augustine now reproaches him for. "What have I done to you,"
Francesco indignantly asks, "that you should seek to deprive me of
my most glorious preoccupations and condemn to perpetual night the
brightest portions of my soul?" It seems to him that his Confessor is
indiscriminately condemning two quite different things when he declares
love to be the maddest of all forms of madness. If love is sometimes
the lowest form of passion it may also be the noblest activity of the
soul. He can imagine nothing happier than the attraction which a truly
noble woman has exercised over him. He has never loved aught but the
beautiful, and if he is mistaken in his conception of love he prefers
to remain so. To Augustine's ready objection that one may love even the
beautiful shamefully, he replies, with ill-timed levity, that he has
sinned neither in noun nor adverb and that Augustine must prove him to
be ill before he tries his remedies, since physic has often undone a
well man.
Augustine expresses his frank astonishment that a person of such parts
should have allowed himself to be deceived by false blandishments
during no less than sixteen years past. His lady's eyes will, however,
one day be closed by death, then the lover will recall with shame his
infatuation for the poor perishable body. Sickness and successive
trials have already told upon her, and her lovely person has lost much
of its pristine vigour. He does not question her virtues. He will grant
that she is a queen, a saint, a goddess,--Phoebus's own sister, if
her lover will have it so. Her supreme qualities, however, furnish no
excuse for Francesco's errors. Obviously the most virtuous may be the
object of an unworthy passion.
One thing at least I will say [Francesco exclaims],
whatever I have achieved is due to her. I should never
have been what I am, if there be any distinction or glory
in that, had not the scattered seeds of virtue, which
nature implanted in this breast, been cultivated by her
through my noble attachment. She restrained my youthful
spirit from every shameful act;... she led me to look
toward higher things. Is it wonderful [he continues], that
her noble fame has provoked in me a longing for a like
reputation and has lightened the strenuous effort with
which I pursued my object? How could I have done better
in my youthful days than to please her who alone pleased
me? For I cast aside a thousand seductions of pleasure in
order to take up the serious tasks of life before my time.
You know this well and yet you command me to forget, or
love in only a half-hearted fashion, her who separated me
from the vulgar company and guided me in all my chosen
paths, stimulating my sluggish nature and rousing my dull
intellect.[4]
To all this Augustine has two objections. In the first place, although
Francesco's love may have saved him from minor errors, his anxiety for
fame, which he attributes to it, has put him on the shortest road to
spiritual death. In the second place, it is vain for him to maintain
that he loves chiefly the soul; that he would have loved her spirit in
even "a foul and knotty body (_in squalido et nodoso corpore_)," for he
has but to interrogate the past to see that he has steadily degenerated
since first he met his lady. She, indeed, has done all she could to
keep him right. In spite of his prayers and allurements she maintained
her womanly integrity, and although their ages and circumstances
would have shaken the stoutest resolutions, she remained firm and
unapproachable. In his effort to absolve and exalt her Petrarch of
course condemns himself, and so justifies Augustine's contention.
Love, in spite of our illusions about it, is but a passion for temporal
things, and nothing so surely separates man from God. Let Francesco
consider its pestiferous effects in his own case; how, suddenly, his
life was dissolved in tears and sighs, how he spent sleepless nights
with the name of the beloved ever on his lips; how he despised his
usual pursuits, hated life, fled his fellow-beings and longed for sad
death. Wasted and pale and restless, his eyes ever moist, his mind
confused, his voice weak and hoarse,--no more miserable and distracted
creature could be imagined.
Not contented with her living face [Augustine continues],
you must forsooth seek out a famous painter,[5] in order
that you might carry about her image, fearful lest your
tears might otherwise cease. And to cap your follies
you showed yourself as completely captivated with the
splendour of her name as with that of her person, and
cherished with incredible levity everything that sounded
like it. And this is the reason you so ardently desired
the Imperial or poet's laurel [_laurea_], for that was her
name, and from the moment you first met her hardly a song
has escaped you without mention of the laurel. Finally,
since you could not hope for the Imperial you set your
heart upon the poet's crown, of which the distinction
of your learning held out a promise. And you loved and
longed for that with as little modesty as you had longed
for Lady Laura herself.
Francesco would object that he began his poetical studies before he
knew Laura, and had coveted the laurel chaplet from boyhood, and that
without the inspiration of her name he would scarcely have overcome
the many obstacles which stood between him and his coronation at Rome.
This, his Confessor declares, is but one of the excuses which passion
always finds; it is unworthy of a serious answer. The miserable results
of love have been sufficiently illustrated, of which the chief is that
it separates us from God and things divine, for how can a soul bent
under the burden of such evils drag itself to the one pure fountain of
true good?
"I am worsted," Francesco exclaims,--_Victus sum fateor_--"all these
ills which you have depicted are, I perceive, but excerpts from my own
book of experience. What am I to do?"
It is needless for Augustine to say that the subject of the remedies of
love has been treated by famous philosophers and poets; there are whole
books on the question. It would, too, be an insult to one who professes
himself a master of ancient literature to indicate to him where these
works may be found.
Cicero's suggestion, and Ovid's, that an old passion may be driven
out by a new one, _tanquam clavum clavo_, is not without its dangers,
and, moreover, Francesco asserts that he can never love another than
Laura. Then let him seek distraction in travel. Francesco replies that
he has tried this resource repeatedly; while he has assigned various
motives for his endless wanderings and his frequent sojourns in the
country, liberty was always his real object. He had sought it far and
wide but in vain, for he always carried his trouble with him. Augustine
admits that a previous change of heart is after all indispensable. He
would, nevertheless better leave Avignon at least and betake himself
to his Italy, whose skies and hills exercise over him an unrivalled
fascination. He has too long been an exile from his country and himself.
"Have you looked into your mirror lately?" Augustine abruptly asks.
"Does not your face change from day to day? Are there not already
scattered grey hairs about your temples?" Francesco has noted these,
but he sees the same thing when he looks at those of the same age about
him. He does not know why people grow old sooner than they once did.
Here Petrarch characteristically mentions a few instances of early
grey hairs among the ancients. Augustine regards these examples as
worse than irrelevant and as tending to lead one to disregard the signs
of approaching death. He says impatiently that if he had referred to
baldness, doubtless Francesco would have instanced Julius Cæsar. Of
course he would have mentioned Cæsar, Petrarch replies; and if he had
but one eye, he would take pleasure in recalling Hannibal and Philip
of Macedon. He uses these examples, like his household furniture, to
afford him simple daily comfort. "Had you upbraided me for being afraid
of thunder, since I could not deny that I was, I should have replied
that Augustus Cæsar suffered from the same trouble. Indeed, herein lies
by no means the least important reason for my cherishing the laurel,
which they say is never struck by lightning."
Consider, Augustine urges in conclusion, not only the uncertainty of
life and the imminence of death.
Think shame to yourself that you are pointed at and have
become a subject of gossip with the common herd. Think
how ill your morals harmonise with your profession. Think
how your mistress has injured you in soul, body, and
estate. Consider how much you have needlessly suffered
for her sake. Think how often you have been deluded,
despised, and neglected; what blandishments, tears, and
lamentations you have poured out, and of the haughty,
ungrateful arrogance with which she received them. If
there was the least indication of humanity in her conduct,
how trifling it was, more fleeting than the summer
breeze. Consider how you have added to her fame and what
she has taken from your life; how anxious you have been
for her good name, how careless of your welfare she has
always shown herself. Think how through her you have been
alienated from the love of God.... Consider the useful
and honourable tasks which you have so long neglected,
the many incomplete works which lie before you and which
demand your whole energy, not merely the odd moments which
your passion leaves free.... If the honour of true glory
does not attract you nor ignominy deter you, let the shame
of others induce you to make a change in your life. You
should guard your good name, if for no other reason, at
least to save your friends the disgrace of telling lies
for your sake.
Lastly, what is it that you long for so ardently? Consider
it intently, practically. Few there be who when once they
have imbibed the sweet poison of desire, really manfully,
I will not say consistently, dwell upon the foulness of
woman's person. Their minds consequently easily relapse,
under the pressure of nature, into the old habits. Forget
the past. Importune heaven with your prayers and permit
no day or night to pass without tearful supplication, for
perchance Omnipotence may take compassion upon you and
bring your trial to an end.[6]
Augustine now turns to Francesco's longing for fame, which, with his
passion for Laura, is the most inveterate and uncontrollable of his
moral disorders. This yearning beyond measure for glory among men and
an undying name may block his way to true immortality. He has no more
grievous fault, although he may have uglier ones. What is fame? Nothing
whatever but the general talk of the multitude about one; it is but a
breath and, what is worse, the breath of the crowd. "I know whom I am
addressing," Augustine continues.
You ordinarily regard nothing as more disgusting than
the manners and doings of the common herd. What a want
of consistency that you should habitually condemn the
conduct of those whose chattering so delights you, nay
more, to whom you look for the very consummation of your
happiness! To what end are your unceasing labours, your
tireless vigils, and excessive attention to study? You may
answer that you are learning what will help you to live
better. But you long ago learned all that was necessary
for both life and death. You would, therefore, better
put the knowledge you have acquired into practice; better
try experience rather than laborious ratiocination, which
ever opens up new and inaccessible vistas; for there is
no end to vain research. Recollect farther that you have
given your attention to those things first and foremost
which might be expected to gratify the public, and have
sought to please them by a means especially distasteful to
yourself, namely, by picking out from this poet and that
historian such choice bits as might tickle the ears of
your listeners.
This accusation naturally irritates the scholar, who has from boyhood
scorned anthologies and favourite quotations. He cannot deny, however,
that he does sometimes store up for the benefit of his friends and
associates choice passages which he meets with. Augustine proceeds:
Not content with this daily occupation, which, although it
took a great deal of time, promised you only a reputation
among your contemporaries, you conceived of a fame which
should reach posterity. Hence you undertook an historical
work, covering the period from King Romulus to the Emperor
Titus, a tremendous task requiring infinite patience
and labour. Then, before this was done, infatuated by
this craving for fame you set off on the wings of the
poet for Africa. Now you diligently devote yourself to
the several cantos of your poem by that name, without,
however, giving up the other tasks, and so your life is
divided into two great streams at least, not to speak of
innumerable undercurrents. Prodigal of your most precious
and irretrievable time, you write of others and forget
yourself. Who knows but death may snatch the weary pen
from your hand before either work is done?
The last source of apprehension is by no means new to Francesco.--He
cannot bear to think of another laying hand to his _Africa_, and he
confesses that in periods of bitter discouragement he has been on
the point of burning the uncompleted manuscript. Augustine naturally
recalls to him the melancholy truth that even if, granting the most
favourable circumstances, he should succeed in producing a "rare and
distinguished work," its fame could not reach far in time or space.
Francesco impatiently asks to be spared the old trite reflections of
the philosophers. "If you have anything better to urge, pray produce
it; all this sounds very fine but I have never found that it helped me.
I do not ask to be God and possess eternity and fill heaven and earth.
Human glory is enough for me. I do long for that. I am a mortal and I
desire only the mortal." To Augustine's horrified deprecation of such
doctrine and his condemnation of the rashness of those who recklessly
postpone their supreme interests to their last failing years,
Francesco sturdily replies:
There is a certain justification for my plan of life.
It may be only glory that we seek here, but I persuade
myself that, so long as we remain here, that is right.
Another glory awaits us in heaven and he who reaches there
will not wish even to think of earthly fame. So this is
the natural order, that among mortals the care of things
mortal should come first; to the transitory will then
succeed the eternal; from the first to the second is the
natural progression.[7]
After this audacious and historically remarkable statement of the
Humanists' creed, Francesco humbly asks if Augustine would have him
forsake his studies altogether and lead an inglorious existence, or
shall he pursue some middle course. His Confessor replies that we do
not live inglorious lives although we follow, not fame but virtue;
for true fame is but the shadow of virtue. "Throw off the burden of
your proposed _Roman History_," Augustine exclaims, "lay aside your
_Africa_, which cannot increase the fame of your Scipio or yourself....
Turn your thoughts upon Death! Let everything about you recall your
pending fate. The heavens, the earth, and the sea all change; what
chance that man, the weakest of creatures, should hold his own? Let
the setting sun and the waning moon teach their lesson of mortality.
Contemplate the graves of your friends. _Hoc iter est in patriam_."
Petrarch does not deny that this is wholesome advice, but he firmly
refuses to give up his literary tasks, which he cannot with equanimity
leave half done. He promises sedulously to die unto himself, and will
hasten to complete his books in order to devote himself exclusively to
religious contemplation. It will be seen that he found little to urge
against Augustine's views, but that he nevertheless refused to follow
his advice, except so far as he might do so without interfering with
what he rightly considered his life's work.
So, without ability to defend completely the modern belief that earnest
toil is presumably a far more rational preparation for death, than
is a paralysing contemplation of its horrors, Petrarch still worked
bravely on until the pen dropped from his hand. There is something
noble and pathetic in this sturdy, unflagging industry in the face of
the discomforting suggestions of monasticism. His life transcended and
belied those ideals of his age from which in his less exuberant moments
he was unable entirely to free himself.
1: The following analysis of the Confessions was published in the
_Romanic Review_, vol. i., Nos. 3-4, 1910. Since its appearance a
complete English version of the little work has appeared, _Petrarch's
Secret_, translated by William H. Draper, London, 1911.
2: The classical term _aegritudo_ is scarcely more to the point
than the mediæval expression. It is often used by Cicero in one of
his _Tusculan Disputations_, but it is not the bitterness of spirit
with which Petrarch suffered. Seneca's little work upon _Peace of
Mind_ may, as Voigt has suggested, have influenced this portion of
the Confessions. But while Petrarch resembled Seneca in more than
one respect and was drawn to his writings by an obvious spiritual
affinity, his personal experiences were far too genuine and spontaneous
to require the example of another to bring them to light. No one can
compare the Roman's treatise with the Confessions without quickly
absolving Petrarch from any attempt consciously or unconsciously to
imitate Seneca. Our conception of the nature of the poet's mental
disquiet must be sought in the dialogue itself.
3: See above, p. 87 _sqq_. (...the horror of darkness...)
4: The same idea is expressed in the canzone beginning, Perchè la vita.
5: _I.e._ Simone Memrai. _Cf._ sonnet Per mirar.
6: See above, page 96, for reflections on Petrarch's attitude in this
matter. (It is only by remembering...)
7: The original words of this paragraph are given above, p. 412. (Est
autem aliqua propositi mei ratio...)
VIII
FINALE
Nulla calamo agilior est sarcina, nulla jucundior,
voluptates aliæ fugiunt et mulcendo lædunt, calamus et in
manus sumptus mulcet et depositus delectat, ac prodest non
domino suo tantum sed aliis multis sæpe etiam absentibus,
nonnunquam et posteris post annorum millorum.--_Sen_.,
xvi., 2.
_Petrarch's Intention to Work until the Last._
_To Boccaccio._[1]
...[2] I certainly will not reject the praise you bestow upon me for
having stimulated in many instances, not only in Italy but perhaps
beyond its confines also, the pursuit of studies such as ours, which
have suffered neglect for so many centuries; I am, indeed, almost the
oldest of those among us who are engaged in the cultivation of these
subjects. But I cannot accept the conclusion you draw from this,
namely, that I should give place to younger minds, and, interrupting
the plan of work on which I am engaged, give others an opportunity to
write something, if they will, and not seem longer to desire to reserve
everything for my own pen. How radically do our opinions differ,
although, at bottom, our object is the same! I seem to you to have
written everything, or at least a great deal, while to myself I appear
to have produced almost nothing.
But let us admit that I have written much, and shall continue to
write;--what better means have I of exhorting those who are following
my example to continued perseverance? Example is often more potent
than words. The aged veteran Camillus, going into battle like a young
man, assuredly aroused more enthusiasm in the younger warriors than
if, after drawing them up in line of battle and telling them what
was to be done, he had left them and withdrawn to his tent. The fear
you appear to harbour, that I shall cover the whole field and leave
nothing for others to write, recalls the ridiculous apprehensions which
Alexander of Macedon is reported to have entertained, lest his father,
Philip, by conquering the whole world, should deprive him of any chance
of military renown. Foolish boy! He little realised what wars still
remained for him to fight, if he lived, even though the Orient were
quite subjugated; he had, perhaps, never heard of Papirius Cursor,
or the Marsian generals. Seneca has, however, delivered us from this
anxiety, in a letter to Lucilius, where he says, "Much still remains
to be done; much will always remain, and even a thousand years hence
no one of our descendants need be denied the opportunity of adding his
something."
You, my friend, by a strange confusion of arguments, try to dissuade
me from continuing my chosen work by urging, on the one hand, the
hopelessness of bringing my task to completion, and by dwelling, on
the other, upon the glory which I have already acquired. Then, after
asserting that I have filled the world with my writings, you ask me if
I expect to equal the number of volumes written by Origen or Augustine.
No one, it seems to me, can hope to equal Augustine. Who, nowadays,
could hope to equal one who, in my judgment, was the greatest in an age
fertile in great minds? As for Origen, you know that I am wont to value
quality rather than quantity, and I should prefer to have produced a
very few irreproachable works rather than numberless volumes such as
those of Origen, which are filled with grave and intolerable errors.
It is certainly impossible, as you say, for me to equal either of
these, although for very different reasons in the two cases. And yet
you contradict yourself, for, though your pen invites me to repose,
you cite the names of certain active old men,--Socrates, Sophocles,
and, among our own people, Cato the Censor,--as if you had some quite
different end in view. How many more names you might have recalled,
except that one does not consciously argue long against himself!
Searching desperately for some excuse for your advice and my weakness,
you urge that perhaps their temperaments differed from mine. I readily
grant you this, although my constitution has sometimes been pronounced
very vigorous by those who claim to be experienced in such matters;
still, old age will triumph.
You assert, too, that I have sacrificed a great deal of time in the
service of princes. But that you may no longer labour under a delusion
in this matter, here is the truth. I have lived nominally with princes,
in reality, the princes lived with me. I was present sometimes at
their councils, and, very rarely, at their banquets. I should never
have submitted to any conditions which would, in any degree, have
interfered with my liberty or my studies. When everyone else sought the
palace, I hied me to the woods, or spent my time quietly in my room,
among my books. To say that I have never lost a day would be false. I
have lost many days (please God, not all) through inertia, or sickness,
or distress of mind,--evils which no one is so fortunate as to escape
entirely. What time I have lost in the service of princes you shall
hear, for, like Seneca, I keep an account of my outlays.