1537-1612.
Battista Guarani was descended from a family illustrious for its
literary merits. One of his ancestors, known as Guarino of Verona, was
conspicuous among the restorers of learning of the fifteenth century;
and his descendants emulated his labours. Battista was born at Ferrara,
in 1537. His mother was Orsolina, the daughter of count Baldassare
Machiavelli. We are nearly in ignorance with regard to any of the
circumstances of the early youth of Guarini. He studied at Pisa and
Padua, and visited Rome while very young. On his return to Ferrara, he
gave lectures on Aristotle in the university. He was made professor of
belles lettres, and was already known to his friends as a poet. He
married young, Taddea Bendedei, of a noble Ferrarese family.
But Guarini was not contented with a life of literary labour, and
preferred the distinction of a court to poetic fame. There is a letter
of his, dated 1565, which gives token that he had already made the
paltry ambition of serving a prince the aim of his life. This letter is
written to a friend at Pisa, who had asked his advice on the subject of
whether he should enter on the service of his sovereign. Guarini
establishes the doctrine, that in private life a man is as far from
tranquillity as in public; he is equally pursued by envy and pride,
without the compensation he might find in courtly favour. In his own
person he acted on these ideas, and reaped the usual harvest of
disappointment and mortification. His wishes were, however, at first
gratified. He was sent, by the duke Alfonso, to Venice, about this very
time, to congratulate the new doge, Pietro Loredano; and, his oration
being printed, he acquired a reputation for talent and learning. He was
for some time resident at Turin, as ambassador to Emanuel Philibert,
duke of Savoy. In 1573, he was sent to Rome, to pay homage to Gregory
XIII., who had succeeded to Pius V. He arrived in the evening, after a
hasty journey, and passed the night in composing his speech, which he
delivered the next morning in consistory. Two years afterwards, the duke
sent him to Poland, to congratulate Henry of Valois on his accession to
the throne. On his return, he was named counsellor and secretary of
state. After an interval, he was a second time sent to Poland, on a
mission of the highest importance. Henry of Valois succeeded to the
crown of France, and Alfonso was desirous of being chosen in his room to
the Polish throne. Guarini was sent to negotiate his election. He felt
the weight and responsibility of his errand fall heavily on him. His
letter to his wife during the journey has been several times quoted, but
it is too interesting to be omitted here. It is dated from Warsaw,
November 25. 1575, and is as follows:--
"This which you read is my letter and not my letter; it is mine, for I
dictate it,--it is not mine, because I do not write it. But you must not
so much grieve that I have not a hand to write with, as rejoice that I
have a tongue to recount that which, from vain compassion or negligence,
another might conceal. I know you must have been complaining of my
dilatoriness in writing, but I shall find no difficulty in excusing
myself, since the cause has been worse than the effect; and, instead of
lamenting my silence, you may thank God that you at last hear from me. I
set out, as you know, more in the fashion of a courier than an
ambassador; and it would have been well if my body alone had laboured,
while my mind reposed. But the hand used by day to whip on my horses,
was put to service at night in turning over papers. Thus, formerly, I
arrived at Rome in the evening by post, and the next day presented
myself at the consistory. Nature gave way under the double fatigue of
body and mind, especially as I travelled by the road that passes through
Saravalle and Ampez, which is inexpressibly disagreeable and
incommodious, as well from the rudeness of the inhabitants as the state
of the country; the want of horses, scarcity of provisions, and, in
short, of every necessary of life; so that, on my arrival at Hala, I
fell ill of a fever, in spite of which I hurried on to Vienna. I leave
you to imagine what I suffered from fever, weariness, and thirst: unable
to procure remedies or medical treatment; cast upon bad lodgings, bad
food, and into beds that smothered me with their feathers; devoid of all
those conveniences and comforts which are necessary to the sick. My
malady increased, and my strength grew less; and every thing, except
wine, became distasteful to me, so that I had small hopes of life, and
turned with disgust even from the few days I expected to live. While I
navigated the Danube, we were nearly overwhelmed by a rapid and
dangerous stream, and should not have escaped had not the sailors made
use of the assistance of the strong and active men of the country, who
are accustomed to contend with this danger, being always on the spot to
give aid, and who, by force of oars, stemmed the torrent. But for their
help no vessel could escape wreck; and the place is worthy of the
infamous reputation it has gained, and the name of the Pass of Death,
which is bestowed on it. The boldest travellers fear the passage, and
disembark, and proceed by land, till the boat has got beyond the danger,
for it is really frightful; but I was so ill, that I had lost all sense
of peril, and remained on board with the brave boatmen,--I will not say
whether from stupidity or intrepidity,--yet I may say that I was
intrepid, since I felt no fear when but two steps from certain death.
"I arrived at last at Vienna, where a physician, without considering the
symptoms of my illness, gave me a medicine that poisoned me, and my
malady grew worse. You will all say that I ought to have stopped short,
and taken care of my life: my common sense, my sufferings, the failure
of strength, and a natural wish to live, love for my fellow creatures
and my family, suggested the same counsel; but my honour forced me to
proceed, and obliged me, since I was at the head of this embassy, and as
the whole weight of so important a negotiation rested on me, to prefer
the interests of my prince to my own safety; and I acted so that I might
testify to all Poland my fidelity to my sovereign by my death, rather
than, by preserving my life, give room to the suspicion that I feigned
an illness so to break my promises, the fulfilment of which was expected
with anxiety; which false notion among those selfish and distrustful men
would at once have discredited our negotiation, and deprived our prince
of the crown which we are endeavouring to place on his head.
"It is impossible to form an idea of what I suffered during a journey of
more than 600 miles, from Vienna to Warsaw; dragged and torn along,
rather than conveyed, by my incommodious carriage. I do not know how I
survived: beset by continual fever, without rest, or food, or remedies;
enduring excessive cold and infinite inconveniences, while I passed
through an uninhabited country, where I often found it better to remain
for the night in my uncomfortable carriage, than to expose myself to the
stench of the inns or, rather, stables, where the dog, the cat, the
fowls, the geese, the pigs, the calves, and sometimes squalling
children, kept me awake all night. The difficulties of the journey were
increased also by the robbers, who, during this interregnum, infest the
country, robbing whatever they can; so that it was impossible to proceed
without a strong escort; and, although I took infinite pains to avoid
them, I had twice nearly fallen into their hands, escaping rather
through Divine Providence than human foresight. I arrived at last at
Warsaw, a great deal more dead than alive; nor have I gained any relief
to my sufferings by being here, except that I am no longer in movement,
nor dragged along by my carriage; for the rest, I enjoy no repose,
either night or day. My fever is now my least evil; the objects by which
I am surrounded are worse: the place, the season, the food, the drink,
the medicines, the physicians, the servants, the inquietude of my mind,
and other troubles, are greater ills than the fever, which would soon
quit me but for these annoyances. Indeed, I have not yet discovered
whether my sleepless nights arise from illness, or the constant noise
around me. Imagine a whole nation assembled in a little village, and I
lodged in the middle of it. There is no spot above, below, to the right
nor to the left,--there is no room by day or by night, that is not full
of noise and disturbance. No particular time is set apart for business
here; they are always at work, because they are always drinking, and
without wine all transactions grow cold. When business is ended visits
begin, and when these are over, drums, trumpets, cannons, shouts, cries,
quarrels, and every other species of tumult, fill up the interval till I
am distracted. If I suffered these things for the glory and love of God,
it would be called a martyrdom; and yet, to render service without hope
of reward, almost deserves the same name. God knows what is to become of
me! I should feel that my life was no longer in danger if I could take
any care of myself. Prepare your mind for every evil. It is the part of
a silly woman to lament a husband who is content to die. Let others
honour my memory with their tears; do you honour it by your courage. I
recommend our children to you; for if I die, you must be a father as
well as a mother to them. Arm yourself with reflection and manly
fortitude; guarding them from those who have reduced me to this state,
and teaching them to imitate their father in any thing rather than in
his fortunes."[34]
This letter presents a lively picture of Guarini's disposition;--his
energy in struggling with evils; his ambition to please his prince, and
his fears lest he should not be fitly recompensed; the fervour of
imagination, which magnified ill fortune, and which, while it gave him
strength to meet it, yet doubled its power over him. Although he failed
in the object of the embassy, yet, after all the dangers to which he had
exposed himself, he felt that he had sacrificed his life to his prince,
and yet that he should go unrewarded. He was not deceived; but he was
incapable of meeting the fulfilment of his anticipations with any
patience or fortitude.
His mind was naturally turned to poetry; but he pretended to disdain
such occupation. On the subject of his Pastor Fido, he writes to a
friend:--"This is the work of one who does not profess the poetic art,
but writes for his own amusement, as a recreation from more serious
studies; and who would willingly burn his works when they do not appear
good to good judges." The fame and favour which Tasso was enjoying made
him depreciate himself, since he could not excel his rival. Tasso and he
had been friends for many years; they quarrelled at this time, but the
discord did not result from any literary contest, but from rivalship in
the favour of a lady. They both loved the countess of Scandiano. Tasso
wrote a sonnet, accusing Guarini of lightness and inconstancy in his
passion, as well as of the greater sin of boasting of his triumphs over
the ladies of his love. Guarini replied, with bitterness, in another
sonnet, accusing his rival of uttering falsehoods that mirrored his own
faithlessness, which enabled him to nourish love for two objects at the
same time.[35] This contention broke off their friendship; but Guarini
was no ungenerous enemy; he possessed a loyal and noble spirit, and
never did any thing to injure his unfortunate rival. On the contrary,
some years after, when the Gerusalemme Liberata of Tasso was about to be
published in a very defective and erroneous state, he took great pains
to furnish a correct copy.
[Sidenote: 1582.
Ætat.
45.]
After struggling with his discontents at court for some time, he
requested his dismissal from the duke; and retired to his villa in the
Polesine of Rovigo, named La Guarina, having been bestowed upon an
ancestor by a former duke of Ferrara. He now congratulated himself on
having escaped from the tempests of public life into port; yet his
disappointments, and the duke's ingratitude, rankled at his heart, and
overflowed upon paper, even when the subject immediately before him was
not in accord with the pervading feeling of his mind. He occupied
himself at La Guarina by writing the Pastor Fido; and he makes one of
the characters of the pastoral complain of wrongs similar to his own.
Carino, narrating his story, says,--
How I forsook
Elis and Pisa after, and betook
Myself to Argos and Mycene, where
An earthly God I worshipped, with what there
I suffered in that hard captivity,
Would be too long for thee to hear, for me
Too sad to utter. Only thus much know;--
I lost my labour, and in sand did sow:
I writ, wept, sung; hot and cold fits I had;
I rid, I stood, I bore, now sad, now glad,
Now high, now low, now in esteem, now scorn'd;
And as the Delphic iron, which is turned
Now to heroic, now to mechanic use,
I fear'd no danger--did no pains refuse;
Was all things--and was nothing; changed my hair,
Condition, custom, thoughts, and life--but ne'er
Could change my fortune. Then I knew at last,
And panted after my sweet freedom past.
So, flying smoky Argos, and the great
Storms that attend on greatness, my retreat
I made to Pisa--my thought's quiet port.
* * * * *
Who would have dreamed 'midst plenty to grow poor?
Or to be less, by toiling to be more?
I thought, by how much more in prince's courts
Men did excel in titles and supports,
So much the more obliging they would be,
The best enamel of nobility.
But now the contrary by proofs I've seen:
Courtiers in name, and courteous in their mien
They are; but in their actions I could spy
Not the least transient spark of courtesy.
People, in show smooth as the calmed waves,
Yet cruel as the ocean when it raves:
Men in appearance only did I find,
Love in the face, but malice in the mind:
With a straight look and tortuous heart, and least
Fidelity where greatest was protest.
That which elsewhere is virtue, is vice there:
Plain truth, fair dealing, love unfeign'd, sincere
Compassion, faith inviolable, and
An innocence both of the heart and hand,
They count the folly of a soul that's vile
And poor,--a vanity worthy their smile.
To cheat, to lie, deceit and theft to use,
And under show of pity to abuse;
To rise upon the ruins of their brothers,
And seek their own by robbing praise from others,
The virtues are of that perfidious race.
No worth, no valour, no respect of place,
Of age, or law--bridle of modesty,
No tie of love, or blood, nor memory
Of good received; nothing's so venerable,
Sacred, or just, that is inviolable
By that vast thirst of riches, and desire
Unquenchable of still ascending higher.
Now I, not fearing, since I meant not ill,
And in court-craft not having any skill,
Wearing my thoughts charactered on my brow,
And a glass window in my heart--judge thou
How open and how fair a mark my heart
Lay to their envy's unsuspected dart.