Not contented with her living face [Augustine continues], you must forsooth seek out a famous painter,[5] in order that you might carry about her image, fearful lest your tears might otherwise cease. And to cap your follies you showed yourself as completely captivated with the splendour of her name as with that of her person, and cherished with incredible levity everything that sounded like it. And this is the reason you so ardently desired the Imperial or poet's laurel [laurea], for that was her name, and from the moment you first met her hardly a song has escaped you without mention of the laurel. Finally, since you could not hope for the Imperial you set your heart upon the poet's crown, of which the distinction of your learning held out a promise. And you loved and longed for that with as little modesty as you had longed for Lady Laura herself.
Francesco would object that he began his poetical studies before he knew Laura, and had coveted the laurel chaplet from boyhood, and that without the inspiration of her name he would scarcely have overcome the many obstacles which stood between him and his coronation at Rome. This, his Confessor declares, is but one of the excuses which passion always finds; it is unworthy of a serious answer. The miserable results of love have been sufficiently illustrated, of which the chief is that it separates us from God and things divine, for how can a soul bent under the burden of such evils drag itself to the one pure fountain of true good?
"I am worsted," Francesco exclaims,—Victus sum fateor—"all these ills which you have depicted are, I perceive, but excerpts from my own book of experience. What am I to do?"
It is needless for Augustine to say that the subject of the remedies of love has been treated by famous philosophers and poets; there are whole books on the question. It would, too, be an insult to one who professes himself a master of ancient literature to indicate to him where these works may be found.
Cicero's suggestion, and Ovid's, that an old passion may be driven out by a new one, tanquam clavum clavo, is not without its dangers, and, moreover, Francesco asserts that he can never love another than Laura. Then let him seek distraction in travel. Francesco replies that he has tried this resource repeatedly; while he has assigned various motives for his endless wanderings and his frequent sojourns in the country, liberty was always his real object. He had sought it far and wide but in vain, for he always carried his trouble with him. Augustine admits that a previous change of heart is after all indispensable. He would, nevertheless better leave Avignon at least and betake himself to his Italy, whose skies and hills exercise over him an unrivalled fascination. He has too long been an exile from his country and himself.
"Have you looked into your mirror lately?" Augustine abruptly asks. "Does not your face change from day to day? Are there not already scattered grey hairs about your temples?" Francesco has noted these, but he sees the same thing when he looks at those of the same age about him. He does not know why people grow old sooner than they once did. Here Petrarch characteristically mentions a few instances of early grey hairs among the ancients. Augustine regards these examples as worse than irrelevant and as tending to lead one to disregard the signs of approaching death. He says impatiently that if he had referred to baldness, doubtless Francesco would have instanced Julius Cæsar. Of course he would have mentioned Cæsar, Petrarch replies; and if he had but one eye, he would take pleasure in recalling Hannibal and Philip of Macedon. He uses these examples, like his household furniture, to afford him simple daily comfort. "Had you upbraided me for being afraid of thunder, since I could not deny that I was, I should have replied that Augustus Cæsar suffered from the same trouble. Indeed, herein lies by no means the least important reason for my cherishing the laurel, which they say is never struck by lightning."
Consider, Augustine urges in conclusion, not only the uncertainty of life and the imminence of death.
Think shame to yourself that you are pointed at and have become a subject of gossip with the common herd. Think how ill your morals harmonise with your profession. Think how your mistress has injured you in soul, body, and estate. Consider how much you have needlessly suffered for her sake. Think how often you have been deluded, despised, and neglected; what blandishments, tears, and lamentations you have poured out, and of the haughty, ungrateful arrogance with which she received them. If there was the least indication of humanity in her conduct, how trifling it was, more fleeting than the summer breeze. Consider how you have added to her fame and what she has taken from your life; how anxious you have been for her good name, how careless of your welfare she has always shown herself. Think how through her you have been alienated from the love of God.... Consider the useful and honourable tasks which you have so long neglected, the many incomplete works which lie before you and which demand your whole energy, not merely the odd moments which your passion leaves free.... If the honour of true glory does not attract you nor ignominy deter you, let the shame of others induce you to make a change in your life. You should guard your good name, if for no other reason, at least to save your friends the disgrace of telling lies for your sake.
Lastly, what is it that you long for so ardently? Consider it intently, practically. Few there be who when once they have imbibed the sweet poison of desire, really manfully, I will not say consistently, dwell upon the foulness of woman's person. Their minds consequently easily relapse, under the pressure of nature, into the old habits. Forget the past. Importune heaven with your prayers and permit no day or night to pass without tearful supplication, for perchance Omnipotence may take compassion upon you and bring your trial to an end.[6]
Augustine now turns to Francesco's longing for fame, which, with his passion for Laura, is the most inveterate and uncontrollable of his moral disorders. This yearning beyond measure for glory among men and an undying name may block his way to true immortality. He has no more grievous fault, although he may have uglier ones. What is fame? Nothing whatever but the general talk of the multitude about one; it is but a breath and, what is worse, the breath of the crowd. "I know whom I am addressing," Augustine continues.
You ordinarily regard nothing as more disgusting than the manners and doings of the common herd. What a want of consistency that you should habitually condemn the conduct of those whose chattering so delights you, nay more, to whom you look for the very consummation of your happiness! To what end are your unceasing labours, your tireless vigils, and excessive attention to study? You may answer that you are learning what will help you to live better. But you long ago learned all that was necessary for both life and death. You would, therefore, better put the knowledge you have acquired into practice; better try experience rather than laborious ratiocination, which ever opens up new and inaccessible vistas; for there is no end to vain research. Recollect farther that you have given your attention to those things first and foremost which might be expected to gratify the public, and have sought to please them by a means especially distasteful to yourself, namely, by picking out from this poet and that historian such choice bits as might tickle the ears of your listeners.