[VII]
PETRARCH'S CONFESSIONS
Est autem aliqua propositi mei ratio. Earn enim quam his sperare licet gloriam, his quoque manenti quaerendam esse persuadeo ipse mihi. Illa maiore in coelo fruendum erit, quo qui pervenerit hanc terrenam ne cogitare quidem velit. Itaque istum esse ordinem ut mortalium rerum inter mortales prima sit cura: transitoriis aeterna succedant: quod ex his ad illa sit ordinatissimus progressus. Secretum, in Ed. of 1496, Colloquium tertii diei, k (the pages are unnumbered).
The art of self-revelation is no easy one to acquire and when acquired it must be practiced with circumspection. It is however possible to talk of oneself with good grace and to get others to listen. Indeed a man's opinion of himself—if only we can come at it—is rarely indifferent to us. We have an almost morbid anxiety to know what others think of themselves, if only they can and will tell us. We all like to take our turn behind the grating of the confessional. Artistic confessing is essentially a very modern accomplishment. While the nineteenth century furnishes us many charming examples, the instances of satisfactory self-exposure before Rousseau's unblushing success are really rare. Probably Augustine is the first name that will occur to us. Job's case and that of the far more ancient Egyptian who has left his weary reflection on life are hardly in point. The Greek and Roman writers have left us plenty of comments on the inner life, but no one tells us his own individual intimate story, unless it be Marcus Aurelius. In the Middle Ages Peter Damianus, Abelard and Héloïse, and others shed abundant tears over their evil thoughts, without however giving us any complete pictures of their varied emotions and ambitions. Nor does Dante succeed in doing this; although he may be dimly seen through a mist of allegory. Petrarch's Secret is the earliest unmistakable example of cool, fair, honest and comprehensive self-analysis that we possess.
Few have suffered more keenly than Petrarch from a troublesome form of self-consciousness. He was, as we have seen, ever concerned with his conduct, ever fearful lest his high pursuits were vain, if not unequivocally wicked. He was half-ashamed of his noblest sentiments; even his popularity disturbed him.
. . . . . . . onde sovente
Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno.
His love for Laura long tormented his conscience: he even doubted whether his craving for literary fame were not a fatal propensity which might endanger his eternal welfare.