a true artist, and cared only for perfecting his art. When he first
invented the italic type he was almost beside himself with delight, and
instantly applied to the Council of Ten for letters patent to forbid any
imitation of his work during ten years. The petition is curious, for
Aldus went as far as to suggest to the Ten the penalties to be incurred
by any one who defrauded him of his rights, and they were by no means
light.
He dreamed of never allowing any work to leave his press which was less
than perfect at all points. When he meditated the printing of a Greek
classic, he gathered about him all the most conscientious men of letters
in Venice; such men as Sabellico and Sanudo, the highly accomplished
Cardinal Bembo, and Andrea Navagero all worked at comparing the best
texts, in order to produce one that should be beyond criticism. In the
course of such profound study, learned discussions arose and conclusions
were reached which were destined to influence all scholarship down to
modern times. Little by little, and without any artificial encouragement
or intention, the workshop of Aldus became the gravest of classical
‘academies’; a vast amount of work was done there, and a very small
number of books were very wonderfully well printed.
In two years five publications appeared, among which was the first Greek
edition of Aristotle’s works. That Aldus might have done better is
possible, and every reader of ancient Greek must deplore the selection
of type he made for printing in that language. It is ugly, unpractical,
and utterly inartistic, but such was the man’s influence that he imposed
it upon scholars, and it is by far the most commonly used type to this
day. Aldus might have done better; but, on the other hand, the
unquestionable fact stands out that no one, in those days, did half so
well, and that if his Greek type is unpleasing, his italic is beautiful
and has never been surpassed; finally, good copies of his best
publications bring high prices at every modern sale.
He and his friends were busy men, and spent whole days shut up together,
thereby rousing much curiosity, and attracting many unwelcome visitors.
At last Aldus was wearied by their importunity, and the loss of time
they caused became a serious matter. He composed the following notice
and put it up outside his press:--
‘Quisquis es, rogat te Aldus etiam atque etiam: ut si quid est quod a se
velis perpaucis agas, deinde actutum abeas: nisi tanquam Hercules
defesso Atlante, veneris suppositurus humeros. Semper enim erit quod et
tu agas, et quotquot huc attulerunt pedes.’
I quote the Latin from Didot. It is hardly worthy of the editor,
printer, and publisher of Aristotle, but Aldus himself printed it in the
preface, addressed to Andrea Navagero, which precedes the edition of
Cicero’s _Rhetoric_, published in 1514. Here is a translation of it:--
‘Whoever you are, Aldus begs you again and again, if you want anything
of him, to do your business with few words and then to go away quickly;
unless, indeed, you come as Hercules to tired Atlas, to place your
shoulders under the burden. For there will always be something to do
even for you, and for as many as bend their steps hither.’
The story even goes so far as to say that Erasmus came one day to
Aldus’s door with the manuscript of his _Adagia_ under his arm, but that
he was disconcerted by the notice and was going away, when the great
printer himself caught sight of him and made him come in.
Aldus, who was not a Venetian, was not a man of business, and did not
grow rich by his work. He gave his time lavishly, for no true artist,
such as he was, ever said that time was money; and his expenses were
very heavy, not the least being that incurred for the fine cotton paper
he got from Padua. On the other hand, he hoped to encourage learning and
to disseminate a general love of the classics. Some of his prices,
however, were very high; for instance, a complete Aristotle sold for
eleven silver ducats, which Didot considers equal to over ninety francs
in modern French money. But a copy of the Musæus, which would perhaps
sell to-day for forty pounds sterling, could be bought for a little more
than one ‘marcello.’
Aldus had established himself in Venice about 1490. Eight years later, a
visitation of the plague decimated the population, and the great printer
himself sickened of it. Believing himself all but lost, he vowed that if
he recovered he would abandon his art, which would be by far the
greatest thing he could give up, and would enter holy orders. He
recovered, but the sacrifice was greater than he could make, though he
was a good man, of devout mind. He at once addressed a petition to the
Pope, begging to be released from his vow, and M. Didot discovered in
the Archives of the Council of Ten the favourable answer returned by
Alexander VI., who, it will be remembered, was the Borgia Pope, of evil
fame. It was, of course, addressed to the Patriarch, and it reads as
follows:--
Venerable Brother:
Our beloved son Aldus Manutius, a citizen of Rome, set forth to us
some time ago that when the plague was raging he, being in danger
of death, took an oath that if he escaped he would enter the holy
orders of priesthood. Seeing that since he has recovered his
health, he does not persist in his vow, and seeing that in his
condition of poverty he cannot subsist otherwise than by the work
of his hands, whereby he earned his living, now therefore he
desires to remain a layman, and we have granted his petition. We
commission you therefore and command your fraternity to absolve in
our name the said Aldus from the vow he took, if he humbly requests
you to do so, and if things stand as he says, requiring of him a
return by such other acts of piety as it shall seem good to your
conscience to impose, and this if there be no other obstacle.
Given in Rome, August the eleventh, 1498, in the sixth year of our
Pontificate.
It is characteristic of the far-reaching power of the Council of Ten
that this curious document should have been found in their Archives.
One year after having been released from his vow, Aldus married Maria,
daughter of Andrea Torresano. I do not knew whether an attachment which
perhaps dated from before the plague could have had anything to do with
the great printer’s aversion to fulfilling his vow; if so, the world is
deeply indebted to his wife. There was, however, a considerable interval
in his career after 1498, during which no books were issued by the
Aldine press, and those belonging to the first period have a much higher
value than the rest.
Possibly children were born to the couple and died between the time of
their marriage and the birth of their son Paulus Manutius in 1512, three
years before the death of his father Aldus. The dates show the absurdity
of the story that Aldus brought up his son to be a scholar and a printer
like himself. He died when that son, who was destined to be famous also,
was less than four years old. He breathed his last on the sixth of
January 1516, being not yet sixty-seven years old, surrounded by his
faithful friends and his manuscripts. Owing to his having married so
late, and to his son not having been born till thirteen years after his
marriage, the lives of the father and son cover the period between 1449
and 1574, no less than one hundred and twenty-five years.
Prince Pio, his former pupil and one of the most distinguished members
of the Aldine Academy, claimed the honour of burying him at Carpi, a
feudal holding of the Pio family. His body was carried thither with
great pomp, and he was laid in state in the church of Saint Patrinian,
surrounded by books, and was finally buried in the Prince’s family
vault.
Another and very original type of scholar was Marin Sanudo, whose name
occurs so constantly in all writings that deal with the sixteenth
century in Venice. He was of a patrician family, and
[Sidenote: _Marin Sanudo, Diario; Mutinelli, Annali._]
was so early predisposed to observe and note everything of interest that
when he was only eight years old he copied the inscriptions which
Petrarch had written under the pictures in the hall of the Great
Council, and it is thanks to his childish industry that we know the
nature of those great works which were destroyed in the fire of 1474.
As the child grew up he cultivated the habit of making notes of all he
saw and heard; and, though he strictly adheres to the principle of
relating daily events briefly and clearly, he constantly reveals himself
to us as a man of broad views and keen sight, cautious, slightly
sceptical, and thoroughly independent. As soon as he had attained the
required age he was admitted to the Council, and he kept a journal of
everything that happened there. It is surprising to find that a
government which knew everything should allow any one such full liberty
to make notes. Possibly the value of his work was not at first
understood, but when it was, the manner in which appreciation showed
itself was not flattering to the chronicler.
The Republic always employed a regular official historian whose business
it was to narrate the deeds and misdeeds of the government in a manner
uniformly pleasant to Venetian vanity. One of the most successful
writers in this manner was the untrustworthy Sabellico, and when he died
Marin Sanudo aspired to succeed him, being in poor circumstances, and
having on several occasions rendered services to the Republic. But to
his infinite mortification Cardinal Bembo was appointed to the post,
and, as if to add insult to injury, Sanudo was requested to place his
valuable diaries at the disposal of the new public historian. Sanudo was
deeply hurt, as may be imagined, but he was poor and in debt, and the
paternal government of his business-like country easily drove him to the
wall. For the use of his diary, and for his promise to bequeath it to
the State at his death, he accepted a pension of one hundred and fifty
ducats (£112) yearly. This small stipend was not enough to lift him out
of poverty. The expense of the paper which he used for his notes was a
serious item in his little budget, and the binder’s bill was a constant
source of anxiety. He was often obliged to borrow money, and once he was
imprisoned for debt. On the latter occasion he made the following entry
in his journal:--
‘December eighteenth, 1516.--On this day in the morning a dreadful thing
happened to me. I was going to Saint Mark’s to hear mass as usual when I
was recognised by that traitor Giovanni Soranzo, to whom I have owed a
hundred ducats for ten years, and forty-seven for a debt before that.
Now I had solemnly promised that I would pay him the money, but in order
to shame me he had me imprisoned till next day in San Cassian. I vow to
be avenged upon him with my own hands.’
Having vented his wrath on paper, Sanudo promptly forgot his sombre
vows of vengeance. For many years afterwards he went backwards and
forwards
[Illustration: S. GIACOMO IN ORIO]
between the ducal palace and his own house at San Giacomo in Orio, where
he had collected books and prints to a very great value. He was almost
forgotten until very recent times, when he was rediscovered in his
diary, and treated with the honour he deserves by his own countrymen.
There was no university in Venice, but the government encouraged those
teachers who established themselves in the city and gave instruction in
their own homes. In this way they formed little schools which quarrelled
with each other over definitions, syllogisms, and etymologies in the
most approved fashion. There is a good instance of one of these
miniature civil wars in connection with the historian Sabellico. He was
[Sidenote: _Cicogna, Iscrizioni, i. 341._]
ferociously jealous of a certain learned priest called Ignatius, who
taught literature, as he did, and had many more scholars. In his
lectures Sabellico attacked Ignatius furiously, and did his best to
destroy his reputation. The priest on his side held his tongue, and
waited for a chance of giving his hot-headed adversary a lesson. At last
Sabellico published a very indifferent work, of which the priest wrote
such a keen criticism that the book was a dead failure. The State
historian’s rage broke out in the most violent invectives, and from that
time Ignatius was his nightmare, and the mere mention of his name drove
him into uncontrollable fury, until, dying at last, Sabellico realised
that his hatred of the priest had been the mortal sin of his life, and
on his deathbed he sent for him and asked for a reconciliation. Ignatius
freely pardoned him, and even delivered a very flattering funeral
oration over his body a few days later.
A distinguished man of this period who deserves mention was Federigo
Badoer, who may almost be said
[Illustration: DOORWAY OF THE SACRISTY, S. GIACOMO IN ORIO]
to have been educated in the printing press of Aldus, and afterwards
became the friend of Paulus Manutius. Like all Venetian nobles, he
learned from his boyhood how he was to serve the State, and became
acquainted with the working of its administration, and he was soon
struck by the condition of the Code. The laws had multiplied too much,
and were often obscure, and the whole system was in great need of
revision. Badoer conceived the idea of founding an academy for the
purpose of editing and printing the whole body of
[Sidenote: _Mutinelli, Annali._]
Venetian Law; the Council of Ten gave him their approval, and he founded
the Academy of ‘La Fama’--of Fame--with the singularly inappropriate
motto, ‘I fly to heaven and rest in God.’ The printing of the new Code
was entrusted to Paulus Manutius.
My perspicuous reader, having recovered from his astonishment at the
unexpected liberality of the Council of Ten, has already divined that
such a fit could not last long, and that Badoer and his noble academy
were doomed to failure. Badoer was not rich enough to bear the expense
of such an undertaking alone, and the Ten had no intention of helping
him. Moreover, he and the scholars of his academy kept up a continual
correspondence with doctors of law in other countries. It would have
seemed narrow-minded, however, to suppress the academy by a decree; it
was more in accordance with the methods of the Council to accuse Badoer
of some imaginary misdeed for which he could be brought to trial.
Accordingly, though he had sacrificed his own fortune in the attempt, he
was accused of having embezzled the academy’s funds, and in three years
from the time of his setting to work the
[Illustration: FONDAMENTA SANUDO]
academy was crushed out of existence, and he was a ruined man.
Another shortlived but celebrated literary society was that of the
‘Pellegrini,’ the ‘Pilgrims,’ whose pilgrimage led them only from their
solemn palaces in Venice to the pleasant groves of Murano, and was
performed by moonlight when possible. The pilgrims were Titian,
Sansovino, Navagero, Gaspara Stampa, the old Trifone, Collaltino di
Collalto, and some others, and it is very unlikely that their evening
meetings had any object except pleasant converse and intellectual
relaxation. We know something about the lovely Gaspara and Collalto, at
all events, and it can be safely said that they were more pleasantly
occupied than in conspiracy, and that what they said to each other
concerned neither the Doge nor the Council of Ten.
Though there was no university in Venice, the Republic possessed one of
the most renowned in Europe by right of having conquered and annexed
Padua; and it is interesting to note that because that great institution
of learning was not situated in Venice itself, it was allowed a degree
of liberty altogether beyond Venetian traditions.
Padua was temporarily obliged to submit to Louis XII. of France at the
beginning of the sixteenth century, but the Republic took it again in
1509, and from that date until 1797 there was never the least
interruption in the academic courses. The only influence exercised upon
the university by the Venetian government was intended to give it a more
patriotically Venetian character. In earlier times the Bishop of Padua
had been _ex officio_ the Rector of the university; he was now deprived
of this dignity, which was conferred jointly on three Venetian nobles,
who were elected for two years, and were required to reside in Venice
and not in Padua, lest they should be exposed to influences foreign to
the spirit of the Republic. Their title was ‘Riformatori dell’
Università,’ and great care was exercised in choosing them. They were
also the official inspectors of the Venetian schools and of the national
libraries, and it was their business to examine candidates for the
position of teachers in any authorised institution.
They were no doubt terrible pedants, inwardly much dignified by a sense
of their great responsibilities, and to this day, in northern Italy, it
is said of a man who wearies his family and his acquaintances with
perpetual ‘nagging’--there is no dictionary word for it--that he is like
a ‘Riformatore’ of the University of Padua, though the good people who
use the phrase have no clear idea of what it means.
These three patricians had an official dress of their own, which was a
long robe, sometimes black and
[Sidenote: _Yriarte, Vie; Rom. iv. 449._]
sometimes of a violet colour, changing according to some regulation
which is not known, but always made with sleeves of the ‘ducal’ pattern;
and they put on a black stole over it. If one of them was a Knight of
the Golden Stole, as often happened, his robe was of velvet and his
stole was of cloth of gold.
The Holy See was not much pleased by the way in which the Republic
treated the Bishop of Padua, and constantly complained that the students
of the University were allowed too much license to express opinions
that ill accorded with Catholic dogma. Like all commercial countries,
Venice was Protestant in so far as any direct interference of the
Vatican was concerned. Mr. Brooks Adams was, I think, the first to point
out the inseparable connection between Protestantism and commercial
enterprise, in his extraordinary study, _The Law of Civilization and
Decay_. The peculiarity of Venice’s religious position was that it
combined an excessive, if not superstitious, devotion to the rites of
the Church with something approaching to contempt of the Pope’s power.
The University of Padua was resorted to by students of all nations,
including many English gentlemen. In the Archives of the Ten a petition
has been found signed by a number of foreign students in Padua to be
allowed to wear arms, and we find that the
[Sidenote: _Rom. iv. 449, note 5._]
necessary permission for this was granted in 1548 to Sir Thomas Wyatt,
‘a Knight of the English Court,’ Sir---- Cotton, Sir John Arundel,
Christopher Mayne, Henry Williams, and John Schyer (?).
It is amusing to find that the French students in Padua excelled in
fencing, riding, dancing, and music, but apparently not in subjects more
generally considered academic.
I cannot close this chapter without saying a few words about Galileo
Galilei, who was for some time in the employ of the Republic. I quote
from his life, written by his pupil Viviani, but not published till
1826.
After lecturing in Pisa for three years Galileo was appointed by the
Venetian government to be professor of mathematics in Padua for a term
of six years, during which he invented several
[Sidenote: _1592._]
machines for the service of the Republic. Copies of his writings and
lectures of this time were scattered by his pupils throughout Italy,
Germany, France, and England, often without his name, for he thought
them of such little importance that he did not even protest when
impostors claimed to be the authors of them. During this period, says
Viviani, he invented ‘the thermometers (_sic_) ... which wonderful
invention was perfected in modern times by the sublime genius of our
great Ferdinand II., our most serene reigning sovereign ...,’ the
Cardinal Grand Duke who poisoned his brother and Bianca Cappello.
At the end of his term Galileo was re-appointed for six years more, and
during this time he observed a comet in the Dragon, and made experiments
[Sidenote: _1599._]
with the magnet. He was re-appointed again and again with an increase of
salary.
In April or May, in 1609, when he was in Venice, it was reported that a
certain Dutchman had presented Maurice of Nassau with a sort of eyeglass
which made distant objects seem near. This was all that was known of the
invention, but Galileo was so much interested by the story that he
returned to Padua at once, and in the course of a single night succeeded
in constructing his first telescope, in spite of the poor quality of the
lenses he had, and on the following day he returned to Venice and
showed the instrument to his astonished friends. After perfecting it he
resolved to present it to the reigning Doge, Leonardo Donà, and to the
whole Venetian Senate.
I translate literally the letter he wrote to the Doge to accompany the
gift.
Most Serene Prince: Galileo Galilei, your Serenity’s most humble
servant, labouring assiduously and with all his heart not only to
do his duty as lecturer on mathematics in the University of Padua,
but also to bring your Serenity some extraordinary advantage by
means of some useful and signal discovery, now appears before you
with a new device of eyeglass, the result of the most recondite
theories of perspective; the which [invention] brings objects to be
visible so near the eye and shows them so large and distinct, that
what is distant, for instance, nine miles, seems as if it were only
one mile away, a fact which may be of inestimable service for every
business and enterprise by land and sea; for it is thus possible,
at sea, to discover the enemy’s vessels and sails at a far greater
distance than is customary, so that we can see him two hours and
more before he can see us, and by distinguishing the number and
nature of his vessels, we can judge of his forces and prepare for a
pursuit, or a battle, or for flight. In the same manner, on land,
the quarters and the defences of the enemy within a strong place
can be descried from an eminence, even if far away; and even in the
open country, it is possible with great advantage to make out every
movement and preparation; moreover, every judicious person will
clearly perceive many uses [for the telescope]. Therefore, deeming
it worthy to be received and considered very useful by your
Serenity, he [Galileo] has determined to present it to you, and to
leave it to your judgment to determine and provide concerning this
invention, in order that, as may seem best to your prudence, others
should or should not be constructed. And this the aforesaid Galilei
presents to your Serenity as one of the fruits of the science which
he has now professed in the University of Padua during more than
seventeen years, trusting that he is on the eve of offering you
still greater things, if it please the Lord God and your Serenity
that he, as he desires, may spend the rest of his life in the
service of your Serenity, before whom he humbly bows, praying the
Divine Majesty to grant you the fulness of all happiness.
The letter is not dated, but on the twenty-fifth of August 1609 the
Signory appointed the astronomer professor for life, with ‘three times
the highest pay ever granted to any lecturer on mathematics.’
It was in Padua that Galileo invented the microscope, observed the
moon’s surface, and the spots on the sun, discovered that the milky way
and the nebulæ consist of many small fixed stars, discovered Jupiter’s
moons, Saturn’s rings, and the fact that Venus revolves round the sun,
‘and not below it, as Ptolemy believed.’
Much has been written of late about Galileo, but most of what has
appeared seems to be founded on this life by his pupil Viviani.
[Illustration]
VII
THE TRIUMPHANT CITY
When Philippe de Commines came to Venice in 1495 as ambassador of
Charles VIII. he wrote: ‘This is the most triumphant city that ever I
saw.’
He meant what he said figuratively, no doubt, for in that day there was
something overwhelming about the wealth and splendour, and the vast
success of the Republic. But he meant it literally too, for no state or
city of the world celebrated its own victories with such pomp and
magnificence as Venice.