The fact is, however, that the idea of describing the adventures and sights encountered by a denizen of this world, or his travels through the world beyond the tomb, was exceedingly common in the century preceding Dante; and we find it reproduced in many different forms. And in all probability the story of Guerrino was popular long before it was written in the earliest shape in which we now have it.
The contents are of the ordinary staple of the romances of chivalry, unreadable enough for the most part. Crescimbeni declares[16] that the story is comparable to the Odyssey; while the more critical Mazzuchelli finds it "full of improbabilities, utterly contrary to history, chronology, and geography."[17]
Tullia's own view of her work, and her account of her motives in writing it, as set forth in her preface, are more to our present purpose. She begins by observing, that whereas all other pleasures either require the ministration of others, whose services we may not always be able to command, or are of such a nature as to be of short duration, like eating and drinking, or again bring with them dangers, expense, anxiety, and often mischief,—such as travelling, gambling, love–making, and such–like; reading alone is open to none of these inconveniences. Accordingly everybody above the lowest classes, says Tullia, reads now–a–days; and for women it is a resource especially useful and necessary, as Giovanni Boccaccio well knew, who informed us that he wrote almost entirely for the ladies. And had he only done one thing which he has left undone, and left undone one which he has done, his book would have been all that could have been desired. The first is to have put his tales into verse, which it cannot be doubted, says our poetess, is much more pleasant reading than prose. The other matter, which should have been avoided, is the quantity of "improper, indecent, and truly abominable things which are found from one end to the other of that book, in which no respect is paid to the honour of married women, nor of widows, nor of nuns, nor of secular damsels, nor of godmothers or godfathers, nor of friends, nor of priests, nor of friars, and, lastly, not even of bishops. So that it is truly a thing to wonder at that not only princes and superiors, but even thieves and felons, who call themselves Christians, can bear to hear his name mentioned, without signing themselves with the Holy Cross, and stopping their ears as against the most horrible and abominable thing that human ears could listen to. Yet so utterly corrupt is our nature, that not only is this book not avoided as an abomination, but every one runs after it."
Poor dear Tullia's virtue fresh taken up from grass, runs away with her a little! It is quite clear that there are to be no more cakes and ale for any body, now that her junketing days are done!
HER PROPRIETY.
She goes on to complain that all the romance writers, "even Ariosto himself," are disfigured by the same fault. She therefore, intent on finding some pleasant reading with no offence in it, met with this "exquisite book in the Spanish tongue, in which so many and various matters are treated of, that I assuredly know of none so pleasant in that language or any other. And then it is throughout perfectly chaste, perfectly pure, thoroughly Christian; and neither in the facts nor diction is there anything which any respectable and holy man or woman, married or single, nun or widow, may not read at all hours."
This treasure of a book therefore she determines to clothe with verse, the only thing wanting to make it perfect. It is for you therefore, "my gentle readers, to accept my good intention, and give all the praise to God alone, from whom comes all good, and to whom alone I am thankful for the great grace which has so enlightened me while yet not over–ripe, but youthful and fresh in age,—in questa mia età non ancor soverchiamente matura, ma giovenile e fresca,—as to bring back my heart to Him, and make me wish and strive, as far as in me lies, that all others, both men and women, may have like grace."
How delightfully the vein of natural womanhood crops out from under the thick overlying strata of propriety and devoutness! Poor Tullia! And to think of that wretch of a biography–man Zilioli, talking of "half–old–womanhood in years and in appearance," in speaking of a period anterior to this!
It might be supposed, on the principle of setting a thief to catch a thief, that our Sappho sanctified, animated with the excellent dispositions she manifests, would have avoided the faults she so furiously inveighs against. But that hallucination of her "not yet over–ripe age" would seem to have come upon her so strongly at times, as to have caused her to think the old thoughts and talk the old Bohème talk of her youth, in total forgetfulness of her present character, and all the promises of her preface. Mazzuchelli, in noticing this preface of hers, briefly and gravely remarks that certain passages of her poem, which he refers to, show that she has not attained the object she aimed at. It is, however, difficult to say what Tullia may have deemed proper reading for nuns and damsels at all hours. And if any English readers wish to judge of this for themselves, they may be satisfied by consulting the tenth canto of the poem; which contains matters that would among us be considered very undesirable reading for any section of the community at any hours.
To this reformed period of Tullia's life belongs also her dialogue "On the infinity of Love." It professes to be the report of a conversation that took place at her house in Florence, between herself and Benedetto Varchi, the historian and philosopher; and it no doubt in a great degree resembles the style of talk affected at the quasi–academic meetings of friends, which constituted the then fashionable form of social intercourse. It was first printed at Venice in 1547, in a small volume of some two or three hundred pages, with a preface by Girolamo Muzio, one of Tullia's most fervent and most constant adorers. He commences his preface by drawing a distinction between spiritual and material love, and declares that his affection for the authoress of the dialogue is purely of the former kind. The work was sent to him, he says, by Tullia, without any idea of publication; and he had ventured to send it to the press without her knowledge. In the manuscript, as it reached him, the name "Sabina" stood as Varchi's interlocutor, in the place of "Tullia;" "doubtless," says Muzio, "because the writer's modesty was shocked at writing in her own name all the praises that Varchi is made to bestow on her in the course of the work." But he, Muzio, thinking that a feigned name could not with propriety be introduced in conjunction with the real name of Varchi, had decided on inserting the name of Tullia.