On his return, he found that Giacomo Colonna was not to blame; he having repaired to Rome by command of the pope, that he might pacify the discontented citizens, and quell the disturbances occasioned by the insurgent nobles. Petrarch did not immediately join his friend: he had a duty to perform towards cardinal Colonna; and the chains which Laura threw around him, made him slow to quit a city which she inhabited. 1335.
Ætat.
31. At length he embarked, and proceeded by sea to Cività Vecchia. The troubled state of the country around Rome rendered it unsafe for a solitary traveller. Petrarch took refuge in the romantic castle of Capranica, and wrote to his friends, announcing his arrival. They came instantly to welcome and escort him. Petrarch at length reached the city of his dreams. His excited imagination had painted the fallen mistress of the world in splendid colours; and, warned by his friends, he had feared disappointment. But the sight of Rome produced no such effect: he was too real a poet, not to look with awe and reverence on the mighty and beautiful remains which meet the wanderer's eye at every turn in the streets of Rome. Petrarch's admiration grew, instead of diminishing. He found the eternal city greater and more majestic in her ruins than he had before figured; and, instead of wondering how it was that she had given laws to the whole earth, he was only surprised that her supremacy had not been more speedily acknowledged.[40]
He found inexhaustible gratification in contemplating the magnificent ruins scattered around. He was accompanied in his researches by Giovanni da San Vito, brother of Stefano Colonna, who, enveloped in the exile of his family, had wandered for many years in Persia, Arabia, and Egypt. Stefano Colonna himself resided in the capital; and Petrarch found in him an image of those majestic heroes who illustrated the annals of ancient Rome.
On leaving Italy, Petrarch gratified his avidity for travel by a long journey through Spain to Cadiz, and northward, by the sea-shore, as far as the coasts of England. He went to escape from the chains which awaited him at Avignon; and, seeking a cure for the wounds which his heart had received, he endeavoured to obtain health and liberty by visiting distant countries. It is thus that he speaks of this tour in his letters. But, though he went far, he did not stay long; for, on the l6th of August of the same year, he returned to Avignon.
He came back with the same feelings; and grew more and more dissatisfied with himself, and the state of agitation and slavery to which the vicinity of Laura reduced him. The young wife was now the mother of a family, and more disinclined than ever to tarnish her good name, or to endanger her peace, by the sad vicissitudes of illicit passion. Disturbed, and struggling with himself, Petrarch sought various remedies for the ill that beset him. April 20.
1336.
Ætat.
32. Among other attempts to divert his thoughts, he made an excursion to Mont Ventoux, one of the highest mountains Europe; which, placed in a country where every other hill is much lower, commands a splendid and extensive view. There is a letter of his to his friend and spiritual director, father Dionisio Robertis, of San Sepolcro, whom he knew in Paris, giving an account of the expedition. It was a work of labour to climb the precipitous mountain; with difficulty, and after many fatiguing deviations from the right road, he reached its summit. He gazed around on the earth, spread like a map below; he fixed his eyes on the Alps, which divided him from Italy; and then, reverting to himself, he thought—"Ten years ago you quitted Bologna: how are you changed since then!" The purity of the air, and the vast prospect before him, gave subtlety and quickness to his perceptions. He reflected on the agitation of his soul, but not yet arrived in port, he felt that he ought not to let his thoughts dwell on the tempests that shook his nature. He thought of her he loved, not, as before, with hope and animation, but with a sad struggling love, for which he blushed. He would have changed his feeling to hate; but such an attempt were vain: he felt ashamed and desperate, as he repeated the verse of Ovid—
"Odero, si potero; si non, invitus amabo."
For three years this passion had reigned over him without control: he now combated it; but his struggles saddened, while they sobered him. Again he turned his eyes from his own heart to the scene around. As the sun declined, he regarded the vast expanse of the distant Mediterranean, the long chain of mountains which divides France from Spain, and the Rhone which flowed at his feet. He feasted his eyes long on this glorious spectacle, while pious emotions filled his bosom. He had taken with him (for Petrarch was never without a book) the volume of St. Augustin's Confessions: he opened it by chance, and his eyes fell on the following passage:—-"Men make journeys to visit the summits of mountains, the waves of the sea, the course of rivers, and the immensity of ocean, while they neglect their own souls." Struck by the coincidence, Petrarch turned his thoughts inward, and prayed that he might be enabled to vanquish himself. The moon shone upon their descent from the mountain (he was accompanied by his brother Gerard, whom he had selected from among his friends to join him in his excursion); and arriving at Maulaçene, a town at the foot of Mont Ventoux, Petrarch relieved his mind by pouring out his heart in a letter to Dionisio Robertis.
The immediate result of the reflections thus awakened, was his retirement to Vaucluse. When a boy, he had visited this picturesque valley and its fountain, in company with his father, mother, and brother. He had then been charmed by its beauty and seclusion: and now, weary of travelling, and resolved to fly from Laura, he took refuge in the solitude he could here command.
He bought a small house and field, removed his books, and established himself. Since then Vaucluse has been often visited for his sake; and he who was enchanted by its loneliness and beauty, has described, in letters and verses, with fond and glowing expressions, the charm that it possessed for him. The valley is narrow, as its name testifies—shut in by high and craggy hills; the river Sorgue traverses its depth; and on one side, a vast cavern in the precipitous rock presents itself, from which the fountain flows, that is the source of the river. Within the cave, the shadows are black as night; the hills are clothed by umbrageous trees, under whose shadow the tender grass, starred by innumerable flowers, offers agreeable repose. The murmur of the torrent is perennial: that, and the song of the birds, are the only sounds heard. Such was the retreat that the poet chose. He saw none but the peasants who took care of his house and tended his little farm. The only woman near was the hard-working wife of the peasant, old and withered. No sounds of music visited his ears: he heard, instead, the carolling of the birds, and the brawling waters. Often he remained in silence from morning till night, wandering among the hills while the sun was yet low; and taking refuge, during the heat of the day, in his shady garden, which, sloping down towards the Sorgue, was terminated on one side by inaccessible rocks. At night, after performing his clerical duties (for he was canon of Lombes), he rambled among the hills; often entering, at midnight, the cavern, whose gloom, even during the day, struck the soul with awe.
The peasantry about him were poor and hard-working. His food was usually black bread; and he was so abstemious, that the servant he brought with him from Avignon quitted him, unable to endure the solitude and privations of his retreat. He was then waited on by the neighbouring cottager, a fisherman, whose life had been spent among fountains and rivers, deriving his subsistence from the rocks. "To call this man faithful," says Petrarch, "is a tame expression: he was fidelity itself." Without being able to read, he revered and cherished the books his master loved; and, all rude and illiterate, his pious regard for the poet raised him almost to the rank of a friend. His wife was yet more rustic. Her skin was burned by the sun till it resembled nothing human. She was humble, faithful, and laborious; passing her life in the fields, working under the noonday sun; while the evening was dedicated to indoor labour. She never complained, nor ever showed any mark of discontent. She slept on straw: her food was the coarsest black bread; her drink water, in which she mingled a little wine, as sour as vinegar.
It was here that Petrarch hoped to subdue his passion, and to forget Laura. "Fool that I was!" he exclaims in after-life, "not to have remembered the first schoolboy lesson—that solitude is the nurse of love!" How, with his thoughts for his sole companions, preying perpetually on his own heart, could he forget her who occupied him exclusively in courts and cities? And thus he tells, in musical and thrilling accents, how, amidst woods, and hills, and murmuring waves, her image was painted on every object, and contemplated by him till he forgot himself to stone, more dead than the living rocks among which he wandered. It is almost impossible to translate Petrarch's poetry; for his subtle and delicate thoughts, when generalised, seem common-place; and his harmony and grace, which have never been equalled, are inimitable. The only translations which retain the spirit of the original, are by lady Dacre; and we extract her version of one of the canzoni, as a specimen of his style, and as affording a vivid picture of his wild melancholy life among the solitary mountains.