Italia Mia

From Petrarch’s letters: Rerum Vulgarium Fragmenta, CXXVIII
(1344?) This translation from James Harvey Robinson and H. W. Rolfe,
Petrarch: The First Modern Scholar and Man of Letters
(New York, 1898).

Editorial note from William Fredlund: This letter was probably written
in 1344 from Parma. At that moment, Parma was in the middle of a war
of overlords with troops from Milan about to lay siege to the valuable
city. The letter is noteworthy for a number of reasons. First, it
documents the continuous wars that ripped Italy apart during the fourteenth
century, wars that disturbed the minds of Italian thinkers such as
Petrarch. The Florentine poet was deeply concerned about the fratricidal
chaos that was weakening the political structure of the peninsula.
Second, the letter makes it clear that contrary to much that has been
written about the absence of a sense of Italian identity until much
later (some say as late as the nineteenth century), here in 1344 one
of the most influential Italian literary figures writes an unabashedly
patriotic cry for Italian unity and Italian solidarity against the
northern "barbarians." The clear evidence for this feeling
changes how we interpret the period immediately before the Renaissance.
It suggests that the Renaissance itself may have had at its core an
intense Italian self-awareness that contributed to the radically new
cultural movement that we now call the Renaissance.  Petrarch
was an "Italian;" he knew what "Italy" was; he
wept over Italians killing Italians; and he dreamt of the day when
Italy would be a unified entity.

Here follows the text of Petrarch’s letter now known as "Italia
Mia:"

My Italy, although talking does not serve to heal the mortal wounds
which I see so thick on your fair body, it pleases me at least that
my sighs are such as the Tiber hopes for, and the Arno, and the Po,
where I now sit heavy with grief. Ruler of heaven, I ask that the
pity which led you to earth may turn you to your dearly beloved country:
see , Gracious Lord, what cruel war springs from what slight causes.
Open, Father, and soften and untie the hearts that fierce and haughty
Mars harden and locks up. Make truth be heard there – whatever
I may be – through my tongue.

You, in whose hands fortune has put control of our fair country,
no pity for which seems to constrain you, what are so many foreign
swords doing here? [NB: Petrarch here refers to foreign mercenaries
being used in the current wars.] Why is the verdant earth covered
with the blood of barbarians? A vain error deludes you; you see little
and think you see much, for you seek love or faith in venal hearts.
He who possesses the most forces is most entangled by his enemies.
O deluge gathered from what wild desert to inundate our gentle fields!
If this happens to us by our own hands. Who will there now be to save
us?

Nature provided well for us when she placed the shield of the Alps
between us and the German frenzy, but blind greed clashing with its
own good, has now so contrived as to cause sores on the healthy body.
Now within a single cage wild animals and tame flocks nestle together
in such a way that the better always suffers; and t our greater grief,
this is from the descendants of the people without law, whose side
(as we read) was so laid open by Marius that the memory of the deed
is still alive, when thirsty and tired he drank as much blood as water
from the river [NB: Here Petrarch evokes Roman history from 102 B.C.
during which the Roman – i.e.. "Italian"- general Marius
fought the northern "barbarians," the same barbarians now
fighting as mercenaries for Italian powers, and killed many of the
Germans, so many that the rivers ran red. In this paragraph we see
Petrarch’s tough Italian patriotism erupting at the expense of the
northern "barbarians."]

I’ll say nothing of Caesar, who on every shore where he sent our
iron made the grass bloody from their veins. Now it seems – I
know not through what evil star – that heaven has us, thanks
to you to whom so much was entrusted. Your divided wills lay waste
he most beautiful part of the world. What sin, what judgment, what
destiny causes you to oppress your poor neighbor, and to pursue his
afflicted and scattered fortunes, and to seek our forces in foreign
countries and to be pleased that blood is shed and souls sold for
a price? I talk to say the truth, not out of hatred or scorn of others.

After so many proofs are you still unaware of the deceit of the Bavarian,
who raising a finger trifles with death? But your blood rains more
freely, for a different rage lashes you on. For a few hours think
of yourselves and you will see how dear he who holds himself cheap
holds others. Noble Latin blood, remove from yourself these harmful
burdens; do not make an idol of an empty name; for that the fury from
up there, a backward people, overcomes us in intelligence, is no natural
thing but our own fault.

Is it not this the ground that I first touched? Is not this my nest,
where I was so sweetly nurtured? Is not this the homeland in which
I trust, the benign, devout mother that covers both my parents? For
the love of God, let such thoughts sometimes move you, and look with
pity on the tears of the grieving people, that for repose puts its
hope in you alone, after God; and provided you just show some sign
of pity, vertú will take arms against fury and the battle
will be brief, for the ancient valor is not yet dead in Italian hearts.

Lords, look how time flies, and how life flees and death is at our
shoulders. You are here now; think of your departure, for the soul,
naked and alone, must arrive at that uncertain path. In passing through
this valley may it please you to put down hatred and disdain, winds
contrary to the serene life, and let the time which is spent in causing
others pain be converted to some worthy act of hand or mind, to something
praiseworthy, to some honorable pursuit. In this way one is glad here
below and finds the way open to heaven.

Song, I enjoin you to tell your meaning courteously, for you must
go among haughty people, and their wills are already full of the worst
old habits ever hostile to the truth. You will try your luck among
the magnanimous few to whom the good is pleasing. Say to them: "Who
will give me assurance? I go crying: Peace, peace, peace."