Petrarch's Letters to Classical Authors. Франческо Петрарка
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copyists, or perhaps because copyists were not admitted into the Chapter Library, Petrarch was obliged to transcribe the large volume himself, in spite of his physical debility at the time. This volume later injured Petrarch in a peculiar way, and it is interesting to hear the story from his own lips. In Fam., XXI, 10, dated October 15, 1358 or 1359, he says (Vol. III, pp. 87, 88):
But to return to Cicero, of whom I had begun to speak. You know that from early boyhood Cicero has always been dear to me, and that I have always treated him well. Now listen to what a shabby trick he has recently played me. I possess a large volume of his letters, which I copied years ago with my own hand because the original was unintelligible to the copyists. I was very low in health at the time; but my great love for the author, the pleasure I took in reading his work, and my great eagerness to possess a copy proved superior to my physical infirmities and to the arduous task of transcription. That this volume may always be at hand, I am wont to keep it at the door of my library leaning against the door-post, where you have often seen it. The other day, while entering the room with my mind occupied on other matters (as is customary with me), it happened that the fringe of my gown became caught in the book. In falling, the volume struck my left leg just a little above the ankle. It was a very slight blow. And I, addressing it playfully, said: “What is the matter, my Cicero, why do you injure me?” Of course there was no answer. The next day as I passed the same spot, it again struck me, and again I returned it to its place jestingly. To cut a long story short, after being struck a third and a fourth time, I at last bestirred myself, and supposing that Cicero could ill brook being kept on the floor, I raised him to a higher station. By this time the skin above my ankle had been cut open by the frequent repetition of blows on the same spot, and an irritation had set in that was by no means to be despised. And yet I did despise it, thinking of the cause of the injury rather than of the injury itself. Consequently I abstained neither from bathing nor riding about, nor enjoying long walks, supposing that the wound would heal of itself in time. Gradually the injured spot began to swell, seeming offended at having been thus neglected; and then the flesh about it became discolored as if poisoned. Finally, when the pain had put an end, not only to my jesting, but also to my sleep and rest, I was forced to call in the doctors. Further neglect would have been madness, not bravery. It is now many days that they have been attending to my wound, which is no longer a laughing matter. Nor is their treatment without pain, and they say there is danger of my losing the use of the injured limb. I believe you know well enough what little faith I place in their statements one way or the other. And yet, I am weighed down with warm poultices, I am forbidden my usual food, and am constrained to an inactivity to which I am quite unaccustomed. I have grown to hate everything, and am particularly vexed at this, that I am compelled to eat dinners that are fit only for gourmands. Still, I am now on my way to recovery, so that you too will have learned of my convalescence before you had any knowledge of my accident.
This letter portrays Petrarch’s love for Cicero so clearly, and gives us so vivid a picture of the human side of our author, that we cannot resist the temptation to quote from another letter written about a year later, which completes the story of the offending volume. He writes to Boccaccio (Var., 25, Milan, August 18, 1360):
I greatly enjoyed the next portion of your letter, where you say that I was undeservedly injured by Cicero because (as you very neatly put it) of my too great familiarity with him. You are right: those with whom we live on the most intimate terms are the ones who most often molest us. It is a most rare and unusual thing indeed for a Hindoo to offend a Spaniard. And so it goes. Whence it happens that we are not surprised when we read of the wars of the Athenians against the Spartans, and when we witness our own wars against our neighbors. Much less do we marvel at civil wars and internal dissensions. Indeed, experience has made these so much a matter of course that it is peace and harmony rather that have become a source of wonder. If, on the other hand, we read of a Scythian king waging war with the monarchs of Egypt, or of Alexander the Macedon fighting his way into the heart of India, we are overcome by amazement, which ceases the moment we recollect the examples offered by our own history and recall the glorious and valorous expeditions of the Romans into the most distant lands. Your arguments proved to be of consolation to me, in so far as I was hurt by Cicero, with whom I most ardently desire to live on intimate terms. But I hope that I shall never be injured either by Hippocrates or by Albumazar.
But to be serious, you must know that that wound which was caused by Cicero and of which I had begun to jest, soon turned my sport to grief. Almost a year slipped by, and the condition of the wound was still going from bad to worse, while I was growing gray in the midst of pain and discomforts, doctors and poultices. Finally, when my restlessness had become intolerable and I had become tired of life, I resolved to dismiss the doctors and to await the outcome, no matter what it was, preferring to entrust myself to God and to nature rather than to those white-washers who were experimenting the tricks of their trade to my detriment. And I lived up to my resolution. I showed them the door, and placed full reliance in the aid of the Divine Preserver. The youth who waits upon me, thanks to my wound and at my expense, turned doctor. And I, remembering which of the many remedies had been of real benefit to me, made use of those only. To help nature I was careful of my diet; and so very, very gradually I am regaining the health which I lost in such short order. Now you have the story complete. Let me add one word more, that this life is an arena for toils and griefs in which I have often combated against strange mishaps, strange not in themselves, but in that they should have fallen to my lot. No one, I assure you, seeks peace more than I; no one shuns such encounters more readily than I; and never have I, hitherto, suffered such a strange calamity, whether you consider its peculiar cause, or the pain which resulted therefrom, or its long continuance. My Cicero wished to leave upon my memory an imperishable and lasting impression. I always should have remembered him, I vow; but lest I might possibly forget him, Cicero has now taken due precautions—both internal and external. And here again, what do you wish me to say? To repeat, I now perceive that life is in itself a serious work.
So much for the tome itself; now as to the inspiration received from its contents. The present letter to Cicero bears the date Verona, June 16, 1345. Hence it is clear that before leaving the city in which he had made the discovery, Petrarch had been prompted to address this letter to his favorite author. In fact we have his own testimony to this effect (see Introduction). Both this letter to Cicero and the following (Fam., XXIV, 4) are mentioned again in Fam., XXIV, 2, dated May 13, 1351. Petrarch here records for Pulice di Vicenza the various details of a heated discussion they had had with an old gentleman who was an idolatrous worshiper of Cicero. The story runs that Petrarch had chanced to refer to the inconstancy of Cicero, bringing utter dismay to his astonished opponents. He continues (Vol. III, pp. 258 ff.):
The situation demanded that I draw forth from my traveling-case the volume containing my correspondence. But this only heaped coals upon the fire. For, among the numerous letters to my contemporaries, there are a few which, for the sake of variety, I have addressed to the more distinguished characters of antiquity—a pleasant diversion, so to speak, from my wonted labors. The reader, if not forewarned, would be greatly astonished at finding such illustrious and ancient names mingled with those of today. Two of these letters are to Cicero himself; one of them censures his life, the second praises his genius. After you had read them to the attentive gathering, the friendly discussion was renewed with spirit. My writings found favor with some, who acknowledged that Cicero had been criticized justly. That venerable gentleman alone fought on and on with ever-increasing obstinacy. Being held captive by the splendor of the name and his love for the author, he preferred to laud even the shortcomings of Cicero, and to accept the vices of his friend together with his virtues. He did not wish to make any discrimination, lest he might seem to cast even the slightest aspersions on so praiseworthy an author. He could make no other answer to me and the rest, except to oppose to all our arguments the mere splendor of Cicero’s name. Authority had driven out reason. Stretching out his hand, he exclaimed time and again: “Have mercy on my Cicero, I beg of you; be more merciful.” And when asked whether Cicero could be said to have erred at all, he closed his eyes as if struck by the word, and turning away his face groaned: “Woe is me! And is it my Cicero who is thus reproved?” as if he were speaking, not of a mortal but of some deity. Hence we asked of him whether he judged Tullius a man or a god. Instantly came the reply: “A god.”