Chapter I: To M. T. Cicero

(_Fam._, XXIV, 3)

I have read thy letters through to the end most eagerly--letters for which I had diligently searched far and wide, and which I finally came upon where I least expected. I have heard thee speak on many subjects, give voice to many laments, and waver frequently in thy opinions, O Marcus Tullius. Hitherto I knew what true counsel thou gavest to others; now, at last, I have learned to what degree thou didst prove mentor to thyself.[1]

Wherever thou mayest be, hearken in turn to this--I shall not call it advice--but lament, a lament springing from sincere love and uttered, not without tears, by one of thy descendants who most dearly cherishes thy name. O thou ever restless and distressed spirit, or, that thou mayest recognize thine own words, O thou rash and unfortunate old man![2] Why such countless enmities and rivalries bound to prove of absolutely no benefit to thee? Wherefore didst thou forsake that peaceful ease so befitting a man of thy years, and of thy vocation, and of thy station in life?[3] What false luster of glory involved thee, although weighed down with years, in the wrangles and frays proper to youths and, driving thee hither and thither through all the vicissitudes of fortune, hurried thee to an end unworthy of a philosopher? Alas, forgetful of the admonitions of thy brother,[4] forgetful of thy own numerous and wholesome precepts, like a traveler in the night didst thou bear the light in the darkness, and didst enlighten for those following thee the path on which thou thyself didst stumble most wretchedly.[5]

I forbear to speak of Dionysius; I shall make no mention of thy brother, nor of thy nephew, and, if it pleases thee, I shall pass over Dolabella too--men whom thou dost praise to the skies at one moment, and the next dost rail at in sudden wrath. Such examples of thy inconstancy may, perhaps, be excused.[6] I omit mention of Julius Caesar, even, whose oft-tested mercy proved a haven of refuge for those very persons who had assailed him. I shall say naught of the great Pompey, with whom it seemed that thou couldst accomplish anything thou didst set thy heart upon, such was the friendship between you. But what madness arrayed thee against Antony? Love for the Republic, I suppose thou wouldst answer. But (as thou thyself didst assert) the Republic had already been destroyed root and branch.[7] If, however, it was pure loyalty, if it was love of liberty that impelled thee (and we are justified in thinking thus of so great a man as thou), what meant such intimacy with Augustus? Indeed, what possible answer canst thou give to thy Brutus? “If,” says he, “thou dost embrace the cause of Octavius, the evident conclusion will be, not that thou hast rid thyself of a master, but rather that thou hast sought a kindlier lord.”[8]

There still remained this lamentable, finishing stroke, O Cicero, that thou shouldst speak ill of that very man, notwithstanding thy previous high praise. And on what grounds? Not because he was doing thee any wrong, but merely because he did not oppose those who were.

I grieve at thy lot, my friend; I am ashamed of thy many, great shortcomings, and take compassion on them. And so, even as did Brutus, I attach no importance to that knowledge with which I know that thou wert so thoroughly imbued.[9] Forsooth, what boots it to instruct others, of what profit to discourse eternally on the virtues, and that too in most eloquent terms, if, at the same time, one turns a deaf ear to his own instructions? Ah, how much better had it been for a man of declining years, and especially for one devoted to studies, even as thou, to have lived his last days in the quiet of the country, meditating (as thou thyself hast said somewhere) on that everlasting life, and not on this fleeting one.[10] How much better had it been never to have held office, never to have longed for triumphs,[11] never to have vaunted of crushing such men as Catiline. But ’tis vain indeed to talk thus. Farewell forever, my Cicero.

_Written in the land of the living, on the right bank of the river Adige, in Verona, a city of Transpadane Italy, on the sixteenth day before the Kalends of Quintilis (June 16), in the thirteen hundred and forty-fifth year from the birth of that God whom thou never knewest._

NOTES ON _Fam._, XXIV, 3, TO CICERO

[1]. In 1345 Petrarch discovered in the Cathedral Library of Verona a manuscript containing the sixteen books of Cicero’s letters _ad Atticum_, the three books _ad Quintum_, the two _ad Brutum_, and the apocryphal letter to Octavianus. It has been proved that he did not discover the _ad Familiares_, an honor which belongs to Coluccio Salutati (P. de Nolhac, I, pp. 222, 255).

We can readily imagine Petrarch’s eagerness to possess a copy of the precious manuscript. Owing, however, to the lack of intelligent 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.”
... After long discussion, and at a late hour, we arose and
departed, leaving the issue still undecided. But the last thing
before separating for the evening, you exacted from me the
promise to send to you a copy of those two letters the moment I
should arrive at a more fixed abode--for there was no time that
day.... I hereby send them to you.

[2]. Unfortunately for the commentator, Petrarch considered as authentic the letter _ad Octavianum_, which was included in the manuscript he discovered at Verona (see n. [1]). The letter is now generally considered apocryphal. In sec. 6 occurs the phrase referred to by Petrarch: “O meam calamitosam ac praecipitem senectutem!”

[3]. _Rer. mem._, i, 1, p. 393, “De ocio,” has the following paragraph on Cicero:

But I am done with leaders in war. I shall now speak of M.
Tullius Cicero. After countless hardships suffered in the
course of his career, after such numerous dangers incurred
during that most stormy consulship and in his immortal
fight against unprincipled men, when the liberty of his
fellow-citizens had at last been destroyed, Cicero escaped
as if from a sinking ship, and, stripped of all his honors,
retired into a life of seclusion. And now, in roving about
from one country home to another, as he himself says (_De
off._, iii, 1, 1), he found himself alone quite frequently.
But what activity in public life, I ask, was comparable to his
leisure? What crowded assemblies to his isolation? Although
Cicero may be pardoned for weeping bitterly over the fate of
his fatherland, still from out of that solitude there spread
abroad to all nations monumental products of his divine genius.
Indeed, as Cicero himself says (_De off._, iii, 1, 4), more
works were struck off in that brief period than in the many
years while the Republic was still standing. But his powers did
not avail him in warding off his destiny. He was safe in the
midst of dangers; but when at last in the haven he suffered
shipwreck.

(Consult the notes of H. A. Holden, in his edition of the _De officiis_.)

[4]. This story is given more fully in _Rer. mem._, iii, 3, p. 440, “De sapienter dictis vel factis, Q. Cicero”:

The following proves clearly how much easier it is for a man to
give good advice to others than to himself. Quintus Cicero once
offered advice to Marcus Cicero, his brother, and if Marcus had
accepted it, he would perhaps have died in his own bed, and
his body might have been laid to rest unmutilated. The advice
was that Marcus should consider carefully the wretched end of
his illustrious contemporaries, and should examine closely the
dangers by which he himself was beset; after which he should
beware of becoming involved in strifes and conflicts which
could bring no relief to the State, but which would, in the
end, bring destruction upon him. Most prudent counsel indeed!
For what is more fatuous than to become entangled in unending
quarrels, especially when one already despairs of attaining
the desired goal? Tullius himself somewhere admits that this
brotherly advice was both sensible and wise. But we all know
how wisely he followed it! Perchance it was the force of
destiny which urged him on--a compelling force which I know not
whether it was possible to resist. At any rate, such resistance
must have proved very difficult. And this fact is impressed
upon my mind by the subject of the following sketch.

[5]. Dante, _Purg._, XXII, 64-70 (tr. by Longfellow):

And he to him: “Thou first directedst me
Towards Parnassus, in its grots to drink,
And first concerning God didst me enlighten.
Thou didst as he who walketh in the night,
Who bears his light behind, which helps him not,
But wary makes the persons after him,
When thou didst say,”....

[6]. In _Fam._, XXIV, 2 (a letter from which we have already quoted in n. 1) there are some passages fairly parallel to this one. The first is (Vol. III, p. 258):

You may remember that Cicero’s name chanced to be mentioned
among us, as so often happens among learned men. This put
a stop to the desultory conversation in which we had been
engaged up to that time. We all became engrossed with this one
topic, and nothing else but Cicero was talked of thereafter.
We gathered round and each in turn sang the praises of Cicero
as seemed best to him. But nothing in this world is perfect
(as everyone knows), and there is no one in whom even a gentle
critic cannot find just cause for censure. And so it happened
that though nearly everything pleases me in Cicero--a man whom
I cherish beyond all my other friends--and though I expressed
admiration for his golden eloquence and divine intellect,
I could not praise the fickleness of his character and his
inconstancy, which I had detected in many instances.

And again, at the end of the same letter (Vol. III, p. 261), Petrarch says:

As regards Cicero, I have known him as the best of consuls,
vigilantly providing for the welfare of the State, and as a
citizen who always evinced the highest love of country. But
what more? I cannot bestow praise upon the instability of his
friendships, nor upon the serious disagreements arising from
slight causes and bringing destruction upon him and benefit
to none, nor upon a judgment which, when brought to bear upon
questions of private and public affairs, did not well accord
with his remarkable acumen in other directions. Above all, I
cannot praise, in a philosopher weighed down with years, an
inclination for wrangling which is proper to youths and utterly
of no avail. Of all this, however, remember that neither you
nor anyone else can be in a fit position to judge, until you
will have read, and carefully, all the letters of Cicero; for
it is these which gave rise to the whole discussion.

[7]. Petrarch has here paraphrased the words of Cicero, who employs such expressions as “maximo in discrimine res publica versatur” (_ad Br._, i, 12, 1); “ferre praesidium labenti et inclinatae paene rei publicae” (_op. cit._, i, 18, 2); “res existimabatur in extremum adducta discrimen” (_ibid._, ii, 1, 1, and ii, 2, 2); “desperatam et afflictam rem publicam” (pseudo-Cic., _ad Octavianum_, 4); and “mortua re publica” (_ibid._, 7).

[8]. Cic., _ad Brutum_, i, 16 (written by Brutus at Athens, May, 43 B. C.):

I have read an extract (sent to me by Atticus) of the letter
which you wrote to Octavius.... I am most deeply afflicted by
that portion of your letter to Octavius which concerns us. You
give him thanks for the welfare of the State, and--what shall
I say? The conditions imposed by my present lot bring shame
upon me, but still the words must be written--you suppliantly
and submissively commend our safety to his mercy.... For my
part I do not believe that all the gods have abandoned their
protection of the Roman people to such an extent that Octavius
is to be implored for the safety of any citizen whatsoever,
much less, then, for that of the liberators of the entire
world.... And can you, Cicero, who confess that Octavius has
this power, can you still remain his friend?... For if you are
pleased with Octavius, of whom our safety is to be implored,
you will seem, not to have rid yourself of a master, but rather
to have sought a kindlier lord.

[9]. Cic., _ad Brutum_, i, 17, 5 (Brutus to Atticus, 43 B. C.): “I, in truth, attach no importance to that knowledge with which I know that Cicero was so thoroughly imbued. For what profited him to discourse, and at such great length, on his country’s freedom, on dignity, on death, on exile, and on poverty?”

[10]. The reference is very indefinite: “in tranquillo rure senuisse, de perpetua illa, ut ipse quodam loco ais, non de hac iam exigua vita cogitantem” (Vol. III, p. 263). The passages which Petrarch had in mind may have been _De sen._, 49: “If, however, we have something that may serve as food (so to speak) for study and learning, there is nothing more pleasant than a leisurely old age;” and 51: “I come now to the pleasures of a country life, with which I am infinitely delighted. None of these finds an obstruction in old age, and they are pleasures which appear to me to be most nearly suited to the life of a philosopher.” These two passages affirm that the sage should live a leisurely and studious old age in the country. As to meditating on the eternal life, Petrarch may have been thinking of _Acad. pr._, ii, 127:

By no means, however, do I hold that the studies of the natural
philosophers should be excluded. Indeed, a consideration
and contemplation of nature constitutes the natural food
(so to speak) for our minds and talents. We are elevated
thereby, and we seem to rise to a higher state of being. We
disdain human affairs; and, in meditating on the higher and
heavenly things, we scorn earthly matters as being small and
insignificant--“cogitantesque supera atque caelestia haec
nostra ut exigua et minima contemnimus.”

There is a marked similarity between the two passages, both in the thought and the wording. As to the latter we must remember that Petrarch was quoting from memory and not from an open book, an inference which (we believe) may be justly drawn from his “ut ipse quodam loco ais.” It is needless to add that the similarity of the two passages lies only in the letter, and that the spirit of Cicero’s words was thoroughly pagan. With Petrarch, in this instance, the wish was father to the thought. Still he could not deceive himself on this point, as is evidenced by the dating of this letter. Elsewhere, too, he expresses his sincere regret, and regards Cicero as a potential Christian, if we may use the phrase. In a letter written to Neri Morando and dated October 15, 1358 or 1359, Petrarch is full and explicit. He says (_Fam._, XXI, 10, Vol. III, pp. 85-87):

I am living in the country not far from the banks of the Adda.
I know that I am not more solicitous of your welfare than
you of mine. I suppose, therefore, you will be astonished at
hearing how I am spending my time. You are well aware that from
early boyhood of all the writers of all ages and of all races
the one author whom I most admire and love is Cicero. You agree
with me in this respect as well as in so many others. I am not
afraid of being considered a poor Christian by declaring myself
so much of a Ciceronian. To my knowledge, Cicero never wrote
one word that would conflict with the principles proclaimed by
Christ. If, perchance, his works contained anything contrary to
Christ’s doctrine, that one fact would be sufficient to destroy
my belief in Cicero, and in Aristotle, too, and in Plato. For
how could I place faith in man, I who should believe not
even an angel, relying on the words of the Apostle who says,
in the Epistle to the Galatians (1:8): “But though we, or an
angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that
which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed.” But to
return to Cicero. He frequently makes mention of the gods,
following, of course, the custom of his times. He devotes an
entire volume, it is true, to a discussion of the nature of
the gods. If you read beneath the surface, however, you will
be convinced that he does not so much pay honor to this throng
of gods with their empty names, but rather exposes them to
ridicule. Where he seriously expresses his own opinion Cicero
asserts that there is but one God, and that He is the Prince
and Ruler of the universe. I have often pointed out, both in
speech and in writing, that in this respect Cicero was fully
aware of the danger attending his statement of the truth. And
yet, somewhere, he has clearly stated that it is not befitting
a philosopher to say that there are many gods. Who, therefore,
will declare Cicero hostile to the true faith, or who, because
of his crass ignorance of the facts, will cast upon Cicero the
opprobrium of stranger and enemy? Christ is my God; Cicero, on
the other hand, is the prince of the language I use. I grant
you that these ideas are widely separated, but I deny that they
are at conflict one with the other. Christ is the Word, and the
Virtue, and the Wisdom of God the Father. Cicero has written
much on the speech of men, on the virtues of men, and on the
wisdom of men--statements that are true and therefore surely
acceptable to the God of truth. For since God is the living
Truth, and since, as St. Augustine says, all truth proceeds
from Him who is the Truth, then surely whatever truth is
spoken proceeds from God. I should desire to emphasize the fact
that Cicero could not have known Christ, having been called
from this world shortly before Christ God became man. Oh,
lamentable lot! For, considering his noble and almost divine
intellect, if Cicero had seen Christ or had merely heard of
His name, not only (in my opinion) would he have embraced the
faith, but, with his incomparable eloquence, would most ably
have spread the teachings of Christ.

[11]. Cic., _ad Att._, vii, 2, 6 (50 B. C.):

Indeed, I never cherished the slightest desire for a triumph
till I saw that Bibulus’ most shameless letters succeeded in
winning for him the decree of a thanksgiving. If he had really
performed the deeds he wrote of in his letters, I should
rejoice and be favorably disposed to the honor decreed him. But
that honors should be showered upon him, who never advanced one
step beyond the gate so long as the enemy remained on this side
of the Euphrates, and that I, in whose forces lay all the hope
of his army, should be denied the same honors, is an insult to
both of us, to both, I say, including you too in my disgrace.
Therefore I shall leave no stone unturned, and, I hope, success
will crown my efforts.