La Civiltà Italiana – Italian Civilization: May 2016

[Francesco Petrarca, “Invectiva contra eum qui aledixit Italia”, March 1, 1373.]

Chapter I.

Recently, while I was busy with other things, and had long since forgotten about the dispute, my friend, you brought me a letter, having traveled a long way to visit me in this small house of yours. Written by some Scholastic, this letter was in fact a book, or more truthfully, a massive and maladroit sermon, quite obviously composed at the cost of much sweat and a great waste of time. I scarcely had time for a fleeting glance to skim this vast heap of nonsense, much of which deserves silent ridicule rather than any reply. But a few passages stuck in my memory, and I thought I must reply to them in order to reveal the author to himself.

Now, since I don’t know this fellow either by sight or by name, and thus whose blows I am returning, you may undeservedly pay the price. Of course, it’s nothing new for one person to be punished for another’s offense. Merely conveying poisons has harmed some people, and what was devised to take one person’s life has caused another’s destruction. By bearing his letter, which sought to ruin me, you have ruined yourself. He burdened you with his verbiage and cloying boorishness; and whatever he omitted, I shall supply. While you are young in years, you are old in character and are a professor of law; so I ask you to sit between us and judge. If your Italian birth renders you suspect to the Gauls, let the truth itself and any just judge pass judgment.

To begin with, I wonder why this question arises now, and what noonday demon inspires it. For unless I am mistaken, it has been four years since I sent to the Roman pontiff Urban V, of holy and happy memory, a letter which this defender of Gaul and attacker of Italy has chosen to tear apart, which is quite a difficult task. Now, if this orator remained silent for so many years, and has only now reared his head, can there be any reason but this: that he had little faith then in the justice of his cause, just as now he cannot contain his anger? Some people feel pain and rage when they are stung by the truth. But like weary combatants, they put off the battle, hoping later to take revenge secretly on their unwary opponents.

This was clearly the reason for his long silence and his untimely address. Back then, the bright light of the truth overwhelmed him and struck him dumb, so that he stood fast, afraid that he had joined a mismatched battle. But eventually, by begging door to door, he called up mercenary reserves, as it were, and led into battle all the books he could find—or rather one volume, A Handful of Flowers, a truly Gallic work which the shallow Gauls consider a substitute for all other books. Then he dared enter the Weld of battle, and without openly declaring war on his adversary, he shot his fragile arrows from an unexpected quarter. To avoid seeming insufficiently Scholastic, he laced his nonsense with paragraphs, chapters, and a long series of extraneous quotations. As a result of his great effort, his ridiculous labor caused nearly everyone who heard it or read it to break into sweat, even though it was midwinter.

I feel sorry for a man who labors so anxiously against the truth. And yet, strange to say, no matter how this controversy turns out, he has already taken revenge on his adversaries by disgusting them. He can be defeated, but he will not go unavenged. He so tormented everyone, pommeling their brains, that each cried out in Nero’s words, “Would that I couldn’t read!” And everyone said the same thing. There is nothing more nauseating than an educated fool. He has the means of venting and spreading his madness, whereas people without such means spare us their insanity.

But to set a limit now to my preface, this prosecutor speaks not like a letter-writer but like a preacher, taking as the theme of his sermon that familiar passage in the Gospel: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho,” etc. Woe is me! What is this I hear, and coming from the mouth of a learned man? May God protect me, what a silly and shameful way to start a tale! Have we sunk to such misery and madness that when a Christian—indeed, the Roman pontiff—leaves Avignon to go to Rome, he is said to “go down from Jerusalem to Jericho”? Shouldn’t we rather say that he has gone up to Jerusalem from the deepest dregs of all vices, or indeed from the very hell of the living? Have we sunk so far that Avignon—that immense disgrace and extreme stench of the earth—should be called Jerusalem, while Rome—the capital of the world, the queen of cities, the seat of empire, the citadel of the Catholic faith, and the source of all remarkable models of virtue— should be named Jericho?

O heart of stone! O slippery and unbridled tongue! What monstrous products of bestial license are these? What is this rashness, not to say frenzy, in your speech or (more precisely) your blathering? To use Homer’s expression, “What word has crossed the hedge of your teeth?” Your voice should have stuck in your throat, and not burst out into the open, stirring the displeasure of all learned and pious men. I shall state plainly what I think. If the man had any intelligence, shame would have wrested the pen from his hands, and kept him from laying such a foundation for his foul speech that nothing good could be built on it. Pray, can someone utter anything but the worst rubbish, when from the very outset he disparages Rome, the see of Peter, in empty words, and then strives to praise to the sky the dregs of the world and its filthy barbarism?

Indeed, I sensed from the words of this man, who goes down to Jericho, or rather dwells there, and who makes the Roman pontiff go there, that he finds the name of barbarian painful and unpleasant. In the same way, unattractive women like to be called beautiful, and to appear so; and no woman is so ugly that she does not take as an affront any reproach of her ugliness. But the true state of affairs is not altered by human feelings. Otherwise, wouldn’t every one of us be well endowed with the blessings of nature and fortune? This fellow has no reason to be angry with me, and I’ll explain why. If the name of barbarian angers him, let him not be angry with me—I didn’t invent the name—but with all our historians and cosmographers, who are so many that they can scarcely be named in a single epistle. Is there any one of them who does not call the Gauls barbarians? I leave it to him to explore the question, which will put his industry to the test. Let him peruse the history books. I think he will find reason for being reconciled with me.

Yet with his multitudinous words, this rhetorician attempts to shake off the barbarism bred in his bones by expatiating at length about the elegance of Gallic behavior. You may judge the truth of his other arguments by the fact that he begins by citing the Gauls’ moderation in eating. This is such an obvious falsehood that I thought he was mocking them rather than praising them. For isn’t it mockery to praise someone for a quality when the public knows just the opposite is true? So let him ask the entire human race. With one voice, everyone will say just the opposite. If he only trusts his countrymen, let him consult Sulpicius Severus. He will find that this man—who in my opinion was the most eloquent of the Gauls—reproaches the voracity of the Gauls. Unless I am mistaken, voracity is the antithesis of the moderation in eating praised by this barbarian.

I say no more than this, for I am not condemning Gallic behavior. I think I fully expressed my opinion concerning them in my letter to Urban. Although they were once called Franks because of their feral behavior, and were considered quite fierce, they are now completely different. They are a lightheaded and lighthearted people, whose company is easygoing and cheerful. They gladly indulge in pleasures, and drive away their cares by playing, laughing, singing, eating and drinking. I think they take literally the counsel given by the Jewish Sage. Not content with saying this once, he often repeated it: “There is nothing better for a man than to eat and drink and show his soul the goods of his labors.” And again: “For every man who eats and drinks and sees the good of his labor, this is the gift of God.” And once more: “Thus it seemed good to me for to eat and drink and take joy from one’s labor.” Further he says: “Go then and eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart.” And not only because this is good, but the only good, he adds: “Therefore I praised joy, for there is nothing better under the sun but to eat and drink and be merry, and this alone shall he take with him from his labor.” Who, I ask, on this great man’s advice would not gladly eat and drink and be merry? The sages of Gaul, endowed with their own wisdom and believing the ancient sages, converted these words into their custom and their nature. But when in the same book it says “I thought in my heart to withdraw my flesh from wine,” they oppose and reject the passage as contrary to their Gallic laws.

Chapter II.

Let this suffice to defend the opening of my letter, which he declares “improper and inept.” For my part, since I was writing to the highest of men about the greatest matter, I confess I could find no more proper beginning. Even now, I fail to see what could be said more appropriately on the subject or more aptly in the situation, unless it was his man going down from Jerusalem to Jericho. Nor do I understand at all what was missing from my exordium, except perhaps for the authority of the writer. Let the Gauls in vent and believe what they choose about themselves. We are all free to construct favorable and exaggerated notions about ourselves and our affairs. Indeed, people who do so are “happy in their own error,” as the poet says. Truly there is no race more prone to this than the Gauls. In any case, let him believe as he pleases. They are still barbarians, and among the learned there has never been any doubt about this. Still, I would not deny one thing, nor do I think it can be denied. Of all the barbarians, the Gauls are the mildest.

But this barbarian mixes his criticisms of my views with his own praises in a confused order that betrays more rage than anger. Unable to control his bile, he has vomited many charges against me, apparently considering himself someone great who is licensed by the wickedness of our times to disparage the greatest men with impunity. I intentionally pass over a large part of these charges, for I don’t think they deserve my attention, much less a reply.

First of all, he cites the vicissitudes suffered by the city of Rome, which he details with a ridiculous extreme of pedantry, comparing the Roman state to various phases of the moon, as if Rome alone changed constantly—and not all cities and realms, and even more, individual persons—and as if we were not all subject to the vicissitudes of time until we pass to eternity. Ancient Babylon collapsed utterly; so did Troy and Carthage, as well as Athens, Sparta, and Corinth; and today they are absolutely nothing but mere names. But Rome did not entirely collapse, and even though severely diminished, she is still more than a mere name. True, her walls and palaces have fallen; but the glory of her name is immortal.

Why did he need to cite so many phases of the moon, as if this were an unusual case, except to prove that he is an astrologer, or rather a lunatic? Let the Gaul vent his indignation as he likes. The fame of our kindly mother city will last as long as the globe. Rome will always be the highest summit of the world. Even if envy, hatred, indolence, or other reasons cause Rome’s pontiffs and princes to desert her, glory will still attend her. And no matter where they are or whence they come, they will be called Roman pontiffs and Roman princes. Why is this Gaul bawling? Why is this barbarian howling? Do I lie? Will he deny that Rome was something great, when even after so many centuries her ruins are still so vast that neither Gaul nor Germany nor any barbarous nation dares rival their glory? He won’t presume as much, I believe, even though his nation despises others and admires itself.

But what will he do, then? I know. He will praise the taverns of Gaul. Fine praise from a sober fellow! Yet on a recent trip there, I found them ruined and deserted. He will praise the quiet of his homeland. Yet it was utterly confused and unquiet when I saw it. “But there is no change of fortune in Gaul as great as that in Rome.” Does anyone fail to see this, and the reason for it? Minor things can suffer no major ruin, and are far removed from fearing this. Nothing that lies in the depths can fall from a height. Rome fell from her height, but Avignon will not fall. Whence could she fall? Or how could she decrease, when she is nothing?

I confess that his delusion fills me with shame. For although he appears to have done some reading, he did not blush to compare the lowest and basest things with the highest and grandest, and more foolishly, to prefer the former. But in any case he may be excused by the charm of his native clime—a feminine charm, not a manly one—as well as by the force of habit, which wields great power over the affairs of men, especially the ignorant. Aided by virtue, outstanding men overcome all obstacles. Clearly there have been great men who were born and raised in the midst of barbarism, but who were ashamed of their origin and chose to be called Romans, proud of this splendid name. Yet since they are known to everyone, there is no point in listing them.

But our Gaul, I see, would prefer to remain a barbarian, and is happy to stay in the mud where he was reared. We must forgive the weakness of his mind, which is weighed down by custom and unable to rise up: for hogs love mud, frogs love the swamp, and bats love darkness. But who could forgive or tolerate it, when in his zeal for this vile place he disparages excellent and noble cities, and when in his confused and senseless devotion he attempts to suppress the truth? He poses questions as if he didn’t know what is known to all Christians. I only wish the facts were unknown to the Saracens and pagans, so that we weren’t a laughing-stock throughout the world.

“I have certainly not heard that the Church suffered any distress in Gaul,” he writes. A person must be hard of hearing, or rather completely deaf, if he can’t hear thunder. Then he goes on at length about the tranquil and prosperous state of the Church, groping in that sewer. O carnal little man who lack any shred of spirituality, you are truly one of the herd described by Cicero: “They could see nothing with the mind, but judged everything by their eyes.” So is there no distress or discomfort, except when the body is cast into chains and prison? What if the mind is constrained by the bonds of sin, and submits to the yoke of wretched servitude? This barbarian gives it no thought. He has not seen or heard any of this, no doubt because his eyes and ears were trapped in the flesh. Using the eyes and ears of the spirit, he would have seen and heard astounding and appalling forms of distress that no harsh chains or prison could equal. He would have seen the ruin of ancient morals, which is far more serious and deadly than the ruin of ancient walls.

He asks what distress the Church suffered in Gaul, as if he were the only pilgrim in his Jerusalem. But I ask this: where in the world could the Church have suffered such distress? How many thoughts occur to my pen! Yet I must keep my pen from venturing where it is improper to go—or rather, where it is proper to go, but pointless, for one simple reason. As Cicero writes in his Letters to Atticus: “Hippocrates forbids administering medicine to the desperately ill.” Telling the odious truth has already stirred up enough hatred against me. So rather than beginning to lie, I shall be silent, and gladly pass over this part of his treatise. Now, if this fellow, who vaunts the title of master, has the intelligence of a good pupil, a few words will oVer him many indications of what distress the Roman Church suffered in Gaul; and he will confess that I spoke the truth, even if he does so unwillingly and in silence.

Still, this eulogist displays a certain cunning which is scarcely dull-witted, in keeping with current customs. And well he may. With his base flattery, he sets his traps for a fine position—a bishopric. Still, he should know that he will need other nets, not merely verbal ones, to obtain the post. In this cause, not only his witty and empty trifles, but even all of Cicero’s eloquence would suffer defeat. One thing alone would help him. He might be named a bishop, so that I am proved a liar. Should this happen, I shall rejoice that I have aided him, even if I opposed him in words. When it is in their power, people should not weary of aiding others. Indeed, the less goodwill he enjoys, and the weaker the bonds of friendship or blood, the greater is his merit. So let him become a bishop, with my approval. And let him defile the so-called “candid toga” of his official garb with black and unseemly stains. By using base and flattering lies, false praise, and unbecoming flattery, let him attain the rank he desires with the favor of such means, and with hatred of me and the truth. Let him become bishop of Piacenza or Lodi, bishop of Metz, or bishop of Adula; and let him earn the miter that is assigned to counterfeiters. For myself, I never desired a bishopric: preferring freedom to all riches, I often refused the office when it was offered to me, and even thrust upon me. Hence, I have no use for flattery, and speak more freely. Hatred bred by the truth is dearer to me than any high rank bought with lies will be to that barbarian, if he succeeds.

Chapter III.

Leaving this topic, I come to the slurs that this reviler mutters against the city of Rome. Here’s an oddity. Vulgar and weak-brained people take seriously the insults and slights that affect them, but ignore those that affect others. When I called his people barbarians—an observation that was not flattering, but was just— he cried out as if he had been struck by a sword. Burning with anger against me, as the high priest once raged at Christ, he said: “You have heard his blasphemy.” Although he wishes to appear learned, he doesn’t realize that blasphemy can only be uttered against the Divinity. But this same man, who inflicts the contumely of his poisonous detractions on our kindly mother city, believes he will be pardoned—so great and so intemperate is this barbarian’s presumption! Unlike him, I do not call it blasphemy, but something near blasphemy, when his profane insults tear at the holy city.

How great is the temerity and impudence of slaves, once they have slipped from the bonds of their masters! Unable to take revenge in any other way, they rise up with curses against their masters, pour forth to the winds the pain of their ulcerated spirit, and bark like dogs paralyzed with fear. Our barbarian recalls his ancient servitude. With his neck still callous from the Roman yoke, this fugitive slave trembles as he slanders his mistress from afar. If only omnipotent God would grant peace and brotherly harmony to her sons—her oldest sons, I mean—how quickly and easily Rome would reduce the rebellious barbarians to their ancient yoke, aided as of old by Italian forces!

If this was unclear before, it recently took shape when one man—a person of obscure origin, without wealth, and possessing (as events showed) more courage than constancy—dared to support the state on his weak shoulders and to proclaim the defense of the tottering empire. How suddenly all of Italy was aroused! What great terror and rumors, inspired by the name of Rome, spread to the ends of the earth! And how much greater the effect would have been, if persevering in his plan had been as easy as undertaking it! Since I was in Gaul at the time, I know what I heard, what I saw, and what I read in the words and the eyes of those who are considered great. Today they might deny it: when the rack has been removed, it is quite easy to deny the facts. But at the time, fright truly took hold of everyone and everything, for Rome still means something! But no more on this subject. If my barbarian were to examine closely the true nature of Italy and his own barbarous land, measuring them by a true standard, he would find how unequal and disproportionate they are, and fright would drive him to desperation.

All the same, how can I believe that he has any correct ideas or knowledge, when at one point in his treatise he asks what I mean by the “holy city”? He seems not to have heard the stipulation of the civil law that wherever a body is buried—the body not only of a free man, but of a slave, and not merely an entire body, but even part of one—that place is considered “religious.” How religious, then, the city of Rome must appear! In it repose the integral remains of so many valorous and illustrious men and rulers! In it, indeed, there lies at rest—and this I consider the crowning point that makes Rome the holy city par excellence—a mighty host of glorious apostles, sainted martyrs, kindly pontiffs and doctors, and holy virgins.

A person must be completely ignorant of all holiness and indeed entirely profane to doubt or marvel that Rome is justly called “sacred.” Clearly, if in civil justice laws are called most “sacrosanct”—and no one in his right mind ever contested the fact—then the city of Rome can be called “sacred,” since she is the most venerable home of laws, and the mother or nurse of all the jurists who framed our Latin laws! Why should we search for proofs of this well-known fact, when Seneca expressly calls the city “most sacred and most temperate,” and when civil law calls her “the most sacrosanct” of cities? But this fellow will perhaps despise the civil law because it was not dictated at Avignon by the pope’s protonotaries, or at Paris, if you please, by the masters of parliament.

But how can you deal with such stupidity? Our Gaul asks very curiously why I praised Urban’s happiness. Was it because our sole happiness consists in acting virtuously, or because he moved the exiled Church back to its own home? He admits the first reason, but denies the second. O stiff-necked obstinacy, hateful both to God and to humankind! O proud and crested Gaulish heads, ready to assert what is false and to deny what is true! I admit both reasons. Living virtuously is both our happiness in this life, and the path to our happiness in the next life. And I say that no one could have acted more virtuously than this pope. For if only he had carried out his noble and holy plan, he would have freed from bloodshed the very Church for which Christ shed his own blood, and would have plucked it from the mud and led it back to its seat. Why shouldn’t I admire the man’s virtue? It was so great that it seemed impossible that such a man had been born in that barbarous land, if I hadn’t learned from the Satirist:

“Men of high distinction and destined to set great examples May be born in a dullard air and in the land of mutton-heads.”

Nor was I unaware that the Creator of the human race and of all things has equal power everywhere, and that time and place neither aid nor hinder him in exercising his power.

But so that this barbarian knows how strongly I disagree with his opinion, I admire the man’s virtue and particularly his holy project. (Anyone who thinks the opposite I regard as having the brain not of a sane person, but of a rooster suffering from a severe case of the pip.) I think that the only thing the pope lacked was constancy.

Often now, when he returns to my memory, I address him with a sharp but devoted reproach: “Alas, blessed father, what have you done? Whence comes this weakness? Who cast a spell on you to make you desert your great undertaking? Who would have been more renowned than you, if only you had persisted in your plan, so gloriously begun, to your final breath? And who more renowned if, as you approached your end—which was clearly at hand—you had ordered your bed carried to the altar of Peter (whose guest and successor you were), had rendered thanks to him and to Christ (who had given you this courage and counsel), and had released your happy soul in that most holy place? Who, pray, would have lived more honorably? Who would have died more serenely? If anyone after you had brought the Church back to that obscene brothel, the guilty party would have accounted to Christ for his misdeed; while you, conscious of your lofty deed, would have gone straight to heaven. But now you (alas, who corrupted you?)—yes, you!—and I shall speak my mind—have yourself of your own will returned to that vomit, and did not hear Peter again exclaiming “Lord, where are you going?”

In my mind, I scold him with these and similar laments, which I intended to write—I had already begun a letter—if only he had put off dying a little longer. For even if I didn’t know him personally, I loved him greatly. Or more truly, I loved his virtue, which was known to me and to the whole world, and I had formed as close a friendship with him as the great disparity in our conditions allowed. I had therefore decided to take full advantage of his patience and humanity, two qualities that I had happily experienced while he lingered in that miserable place. At that time, he received a rather sharp letter of mine not merely with patience, but with gratitude and courtesy; and having read it through carefully, he replied that it contained “many fine and elegant things”—I am quoting his very words—and that he found it praiseworthy both for my choice of words and for the gravity of my thoughts.

And in conclusion (I say this to stir the bile of our Gaul), he deigned to commend in many ways my “wisdom and eloquence”— these were his words, although I don’t profess to claim such qualities—as well as my zeal for the common good, which he cited and which I don’t disguise. He declared that he was eager to meet me, and was disposed to shower me with kindnesses and favors. Clearly he wouldn’t say this, or wouldn’t have said this, if in reproving his lingering on in that evil and filthy place—a matter that concerned him personally—and in urging him to move to the seat worthy of himself and the Church, I spoke as ill as it seems to this barbarian, whom it does not concern. I keep this apostolic letter with me like a treasure, and shall keep it as long as I live, not because it is the pope’s letter, but because it is the letter of a noble and saintly man, and not because it sings my praises, but because it bears unmistakable witness to the man’s pious intentions.

Chapter IV.

Then a year later, when he traveled to Rome, and I saw my wish fulfilled, I sent the pope another epistle—one that drives our Gaul into a rage—and he wrote to me again. In his letter, he briefly complained that I had been slow to visit him after learning of his wishes, but he forgave my slowness with the excuse of my ill health. In the end, this man who was wont to command kings asked me to come to him as soon as I could without incurring personal danger or inconvenience: for he said that he desired to see me and intended to set my soul at ease. Eager to obey, I would have gone to him, if a terrible mishap had not forced me to turn back halfway in my journey.

Thus, although I didn’t get to see that great father, I could at least love and revere him, and praise his actions—especially the one action that our barbarian neither wants to praise nor dares to blame. (Still, I sense that he would gladly blame it, except that he hasn’t yet completely lost his sense of shame. Even barbarians have a modicum of respect, if scarcely a drop of virtue.) I would praise the pope even more lavishly, if I hadn’t witnessed his lack of perseverance. Still, despite his silence I hear him answer that by himself he was no match for the mutterers who conspire against Christ and his Church. I neither accept nor reject this excuse: for I know that it is true. If the pope had stood on a foundation of solid rock, I don’t doubt that he would have been able to despise their blustery pride.

May Christ spare this man, who was overcome by trepidation while doing the Lord’s business. And let those rejoice and triumph who now drink the wine of Beaune in their living hell, and who do not hear the prophet’s cry: “Wake up, you drunkards, and weep; and wail, all you wine-drinkers, over the sweet wine, for it is cut off from your mouth.” In his prophetic way, he describes a future event as present, or rather as past, and what must necessarily occur as having already occurred. Even if the wine is not yet cut off, it will soon be cut off. For it is time that the sweetness turned to bitterness. Am I perhaps blind—as this fellow calls me—when I see these things as if they were present? Isn’t it he, rather, who is sightless because he is enthralled by the splendor of the cloth, and sees nothing but a bishopric which, confident in his lies, he foolishly and avidly anticipates usurping? It is hard to describe how much this fellow’s genius delighted me, when he so justly and properly cited the words of the Pharisees. In response to a man who proclaimed the truth and God’s works, they said “‘You were born entirely in sin, and you would teach us?’ and then they drove him out.” I ask you, could our staunch defender of this sect have spoken more aptly, deafening with words an enemy he cannot defeat with facts, so that he might achieve by shame what he could not achieve through the love of heaven or the fear of hell?

Let our Gaul take this for my reply, when he asks why I called Pope Urban happy, precisely when his virtuous deeds rendered both him and the entire Church happy. And to show him that I remain firm in my opinion, I shall add one more point, on condition that I cannot be accused of lèse majesté. I am not so mad as to legislate to the Roman pontiff, who is himself the legislator for all Christians; nor would I determine the pope’s see, when he is the lord of all sees. If the Cordovan poet tells us that “when Camillus lived at Veii, Rome was there,” then how much more should I recognize as Rome the place where the Roman pontiff lives? I would only wish for one thing, if heaven would grant it. Just as Camillus left Veii and returned to Rome as soon as he could, so too may the pontiff!

Speaking boldly but loyally, and truthfully, unless I am mistaken, I am bold to say that if the idea pleased the pope, to whom divine power assigned the decision, he would live there not only with greater honor and sanctity, but also with greater safety than anywhere else on earth. And he would not be forced to ransom his liberty and that of the Church by paying an immense sum to brigands, as his predecessor did in holy Avignon—an outrage that he earnestly bewailed in consistory, and that I mentioned in writing to him. Didn’t our Gaul behold the distress of the Roman see, when he spread his unfledged wings with great effort to sing the felicities of Avignon? But he believed that others had forgotten its recent great misery, or he had himself forgotten it.

Let me now add a further remark, made with equal loyalty and sincerity. The Roman pontiff had no need, and has no need, to travel to Rome under armed guard. His authority protects him better than swords, and his sanctity better than breastplates. The arms of priests are their prayers, tears, and fasts as well as their virtues and good morals: abstinence, chastity, humanity, and mildness in words and deeds. Why do they need military ensigns? The cross of Christ is enough: before it demons tremble, and mankind worships. Why do they need trumpets and bugles? The Alleluia is enough. We know that Julius Caesar, after his many wars and many victories, did not enter the city of Rome armed, but entered as an unarmed victor with an unarmed army. I mention Caesar as a most effective argument on the present topic. For if Caesar came unarmed, what shall we think of Peter?

But I know what our slanderer will object. “Peter came unarmed,” he will say, “and therefore was killed.” In a passage of his Apology, he writes that Rome slaughtered many innocent men, and is therefore rightly called “fierce” by the Satirist. This fellow— not to call him an ignoramus—doesn’t know that “fierce” is often used to mean “great,” as in Book One of the Aeneid:

“Where under the spear of Aeacides fierce Hector lies prostrate.”

Everyone knows that Hector was great, not cruel. In the same poem, he writes:

“Aeneas fierce in his mother’s armor.”

Everywhere else, he calls Aeneas “pious,” but here he wrote “fierce,” meaning “great.”

Then there is an objection which is clearly not ingenious, but utterly insidious and hostile. “Many holy men,” he says, “died in Rome.” But many also died in other cities. “Yet more died in Rome.” Who doesn’t see why? More people were gathered there, for it was the capital of the world and the seat of the empire.And the cause of their death was not the hatefulness of the region, but the hatred of their religion. It was with the martyrs’ abundant blood that Christ chose to consecrate as his own this city, which he had already made the mistress of temporal affairs and which he was preparing to make mistress of things spiritual.

I don’t deny that Nero, who killed Peter, was a Roman. But those who killed Nero were also Romans. And the same may be said of Domitian and others. Let this detractor direct his wit and hatred wherever he likes. He will find few Romans who condemned the saints, and many who avenged them. As the avenger not only of the Apostles and martyrs, but also of his own blood, Christ chose a Roman, if one unaware of his role. Christ’s avenger was a Roman, then, but his scourger was a Gaul, as I shall later show.

Chapter V.

Now let us hear our Gallic rooster, or more truly, our raven, who has blackened his white feathers with dark lies and learned to hail Caesar and Antony. Let us hear him croaking, I say, and repeating his madness in hoarse squawks. Since I disparage the wine of Burgundy, as he says—and I admit that I don’t love it—he again exclaims: “You have heard his blasphemy!” What an utterly shameful exclamation, unworthy of a man! Yet it is perhaps less improper than the first. Do we know whether this fellow is one of those “whose God is their stomach,” as the Apostle says? If this is the case, someone who speaks against wine also speaks against the stomach, and thus against his God; and this can appear to be a sort of blasphemy.

Now, I say nothing against wine or any other gift of God, since all things created by God are good. But I blame drunkenness and gluttony, which were not created by God but by man’s wickedness. It has been found that some good things, through the fault of those who misuse them, often furnished material for evil—as wine for drunkenness, gold for greed, iron for cruelty, and beauty for lust. And since certain men’s pernicious thirst for the wine of Burgundy was harmful to the Church and could not be slaked in any other way, I wished that we could get rid of the very wine that caused this problem.

Our illustrious toper calls this blasphemy, as if I had said something against Christ. Heaven forbid! It is because of my reverence and love for Him that I detest this wine—I confess it—no matter how good it is in itself. But what this angry Gaul croaks at me deserves to be heard. “O noble vintage,” he says, “O precious poison!” (This last word alone may be apt, in the sense that it poisons the mind, rather than the body.) Then he adds: “More than all other wines, it is sweet, healthful, and delicious.” A statement that is not only foolish, but false as well. But let us stop talking about wine, lest we imitate a man we despise.

“What a wretched and foolish pretext for your slanders!” he says. O how dolefully he endures this affront to his happiness! Go now, and deny that a barrel of wine can speak. Deny that he is the priest of Bacchus, since he calls blasphemer anyone who dares speak out against his wine and his delights. O heaven, O earth, O human race, O Catholics faithful to Christ! This fellow prefers the wine of Burgundy to our God and his faith; and to decide the greatest matters, he summons not the glory or will of Christ, but the merits of his wine. And for detesting this cause of such great evil, I nearly stand charged with sacrilege, although my accusations were not aimed at wine alone. There are other things which Plato and shame forbid me to mention. Instead, let us move on, and hear what curse this inflamed little friar utters to avenge himself and his highest good.

He writes: “Enter not into his mouth, then, and let not your sweet savor pass through his throat.” What do my readers think of this? Hasn’t he avenged himself splendidly? Truly, he could wish me nothing worse than what he judged worst for himself. But this curse has little effect on someone with different views and tastes. If I never drank any Burgundy, or any other wine at all, I would still live happily. I may boldly answer about this taste, as St. Augustine did about the sense of smell, nearly borrowing Cicero’s words: “I don’t bother much about the charms of perfumes. When there are none, I don’t seek them; when there are some, I don’t avoid them; but I am always prepared to forego them. This is how I feel, unless perhaps I am deceived.” And thus I too seem to feel about all wines, although I too may be more easily deceived. From my own experience, from the example of the holy Fathers, and from Seneca, I have learned that bread and water suffice for human life—for life, I say, not gluttony. And Seneca’s nephew Lucan expressed the same view in his poem:

“A river and Ceres suffice for the peoples.”

But not for the peoples of Gaul. And if I were a Gaul, I would not say this, but would defend the wine of Burgundy as the greatest happiness in life, and would celebrate it in hymns, poems, and songs.

Chapter VI.

In fact, I am Italian by birth, and glory in being a Roman citizen, just as the rulers and lords of the world gloried, and even the apostle Paul, the same man who said: “Here we have no lasting city.” He makes the city of Rome his homeland, and in moments of great danger recalls that he is a Roman citizen, not a Gaul—a fact that helped save him. Yet in order to disparage the sacred city, which cannot be praised sufficiently by the tongues of all eloquent men or by all the world’s books, this barbarian has dared to open his impure mouth, saying many things that are not even worth repeating.

As the gravest wound to Rome’s glory, he introduces St. Bernard to attack her, armed with harsh rebukes. The story is well-known. Perhaps if Bernard had considered all the facts more carefully in writing his On Consideration, he might have been more moderate in defaming the most famous people on earth. But he defamed them, and he was clearly entitled to write down whatever occurred to him. What can I say about this? I would not like to speak against a saintly man, especially a man whom on occasion I have highly praised in some of my writings. If he weren’t a saint, no matter how great he was in other respects, answering him would be an easy and effortless matter. But as it is now, nothing forbids me to speak about this saint, if not against him. As I speak and write, may things now return to my mind that I thought had faded away.

This Bernard of whom we are speaking was the abbot of Clairvaux. As I now recall, he once condemned a certain man of letters named Peter Abelard. Angry at this, Berengar of Poitiers, who was himself an eloquent man and Abelard’s student, wrote a book against Bernard—not a long book, but one filled with enormous bitterness. Later, when many reproached Berengar, he apologized by saying that he had written as a young man and that he had not yet fully recognized Bernard’s saintliness. Neither of these excuses applies to me, for I have no doubts about Bernard’s saintliness, and I ceased to be young a long time ago. But I say this. Bernard is doubtless a saint today, but he was perhaps not yet a saint when he wrote to pope Eugene. For like other virtues, saintliness is not innate in a person, but is acquired; it increases with practice, and becomes a habit through repeated actions. So I borrow another passage that this same Berengar wrote in an apologetic letter to the bishop of Mende: “Isn’t an abbot a man? Doesn’t he sail with us through ‘this great and wide sea, wherein are things creeping innumerable’? Even if his ship makes a prosperous voyage, the calm of the sea is in doubt.”

By now, I am sure, Bernard’s ship has safely reached port, but clearly it had not yet reached port when he wrote. He was human and, dwelling in the flesh, he may have been subject to passions. Everyone knows what John Chrysostom said not only about saints, but about the apostles themselves: “Even if they are saints, they are still human. Even if they are nearly spiritual and cannot be overcome by the flesh, they are still carnal and can be stirred by it.” It may be that Bernard wrote this after being provoked by some insult. Angry men say many things that later they regret. Well and good. Let us leave anger aside, since it is a sudden emotion that springs from some insult. Doesn’t hatred naturally exist between certain nations? Indeed, in Sallust we read that the people of Gaul hated the name of Rome. And in Livy we read of the ferocity of the Gauls and of their hatred toward the name of Rome—something that our experience bears out in reality.

But let us leave all these charges aside, and suppose that Bernard was not motivated by anger or hatred, but was a perfect saint when he wrote. This contradicts the observation of Ambrose, who writes: “Who among the living can accept praise safely and without fear who has memories of the past that trouble him, or foresees future events that scare him? What human being, dwelling in this little body, ought to claim any merits for himself?” The rest of the passage is well-known. But if in life Bernard was truly a saint, what reply can I find? I shall not reproach him, but must rebut him by citing even greater eulogists—even if this disparager objects indignantly.

In his preface to the Epistle to the Romans, Ambrose writes of them: “They are the head of all nations.” How very strange! He made no exception for the Gauls! Then in his commentary on the text, he says that the Apostle expresses his joy that the Romans bowed to the Christian faith, even though they ruled the world— and he made no exception for Gaul. But our Gaul will say: “He is praising the might and empire of the Romans, not their virtue.” Then let him hear what follows: “They were notable for their learning, and eager to do good works, and more zealous for good deeds than fine words.” But here too our Gaul will squawk that we must not believe a domestic witness: for Ambrose was a Roman citizen, a fact that no one can deny. Still, I don’t see why an angry enemy should be more trustworthy than a calm citizen.

And what objection can he make against Jerome, who praises Rome and notes that she is praised by the Apostle? Since I wrote about this in my letter to Urban, I say no more now, but add a further remark that Jerome makes in Book Two of his commentary on Galatians. “The faith of the Roman populace is praised here,” he writes. “Where else do people flock to churches and martyrs’ tombs with such zeal and in such numbers? Where does the ‘Amen’ ring out like heavenly thunder, and where are the vacant temples of idols demolished? It is not that the Romans’ faith differs from that of all believers in Christ’s Church, but that they have greater devotion and sincerity in believing.”

What does our Gaul say to this? Does he agree here with Bernard, especially when he first calls the Romans unbelieving, then impious toward God, and finally traitors? This last charge is overly hostile, if I may say so. For where is their treason? Rather, where do we not see the Romans keeping faith—both publicly and privately, to friend and foe alike—the faith that fills our histories? And when Bernard adds that the Romans are careless about what is sacred, this runs contrary to nearly all written records, which make gravity their chief attribute. For can anything be less compatible with carelessness than gravity? But I seem to hear our Gaul protesting here: “Unless you summon an enemy of Rome to testify, I shall not believe you.” Praise from the mouth of an enemy is immense, and Virgil rightly says:

“Even the foe often lauded the Trojans with highest praise.”

Now let our Gaul open his ears, and lower his insolent cockscomb, so that he can begin to hear the truth for a while, rather than always hear what he likes. To make room for true beliefs, let him shake off the dust of error that has accumulated on the tail-feathers of his Gallic shallowness. An enemy of the Roman people, King Pyrrhus of Epirus, once sent the great scholar Cineas, a man famous for his remarkable memory, to Rome to negotiate a peace. When the mission failed and Cineas returned, Pyrrhus asked him what Rome was like. Cineas replied that he had seen a city of kings, or (as others report) a country of kings. In other words, nearly everyone at Rome resembled Pyrrhus of Greece, who was recognized as the best and mildest of kings.

Let our Gaul see, and let Bernard see too, what difference there is between the best and mildest kings of Rome—those least hateful both to friends and foes alike—and their own intractable people, who are so inhuman to foreigners. When Bernard says that the Romans are jealous of their neighbors, he is directly contradicted by the Book of Maccabees, where we read that there is no envy or jealousy among the Romans. But I don’t intend to transcribe Bernard’s book for my Gaul, even if he transcribes Justin for me, which wasn’t necessary, to tell you the truth. It would have sufficed to indicate the passage. But let him now read Book Thirty-one, Chapter Eight, in Justin’s work. There he will find both the virtue and power of the Romans abundantly praised.

Next he charges that the Romans accompanied their pompous words with petty deeds. I would never say that Bernard spoke improperly; but I do say that our barbarian rehashes the charge improperly and ineptly. Grandiloquence is associated with the Greeks. And I add the Gauls to the Greeks: for while inferior in wit, they are superior in boasting and loquacity. But this vice is incompatible with the Romans, who—to repeat what I quoted above—were eager to do good works, and more zealous for good deeds than fine words. We read of them: “The best citizens preferred action to words.” And to smear them with the second charge—petty deeds—is completely ridiculous. I dare say this, since I am certain that I speak the truth; and while I am used to affirming nothing lightly, I affirm this: Rome is the supreme domicile of all human magnificence, and no one even in the farthest corner of the world would deny this fact. If our barbarian doesn’t know this, he is either dull-witted, snoring in his sleep, or utterly demented and crazed.

For who, I ask, has ever read or heard of anything magnificent that didn’t involve the name and glory of Rome, ever since that city was founded and began to grow? About this age we read:

“And now fame has it that Dardanian Rome is rising . . . A city than which none greater is or shall be, or has been in past ages.”

And a poet of greater genius wrote:

“That glorious Rome
Shall bound her empire by earth, her pride by Olympus;
And with a single city’s wall shall enclose her seven hills,
Blessed in her brood of men.”

And he also wrote:

“But this city has reared her head as high among all others
As cypresses oft do among the bending osiers.”

And another great man wrote of her: “No republic was ever greater, or holier, or richer in noble examples.”

I’d like to know what our Gaul will do now. But in fact I know full well: he is gawking at these unfamiliar things, which cannot be learned from cocks or hens, but only from historians, poets and writers. Not only does he gawk, but he is angry that such great things are not written about Avignon and Paris. The former has no “significator” in the heavens, while the latter is praised by Architrenius, about whom we shall see later.

Chapter VII.

Yet before I proceed to other praises, I must answer further insults, two of which remain, unless I am mistaken. This saint says that the Romans are shameless in asking favors, and ungrateful in accepting them. I was leaving out another charge, namely, their effrontery in refusing requests. Unless my counting is wrong, these are the sum of his accusations.

He adds that they are a people unaccustomed to peace, but accustomed to uprisings and wars. Now, if I tried to deny this, the very temple of Janus would concede that its doors were closed only three times between the reigns of Numa Pompilius and the emperor Augustus. In waging wars, their valor was so great, in victory and defeat, that everyone knows—except for this barbarian, who is cowardly and evasive in the manner of his countrymen— there has never been anything like it on earth, and, I would confidently add, there never will be. In all of Rome’s wars, justice seemed to vie with courage, and we see the truth of what is written in genuine histories: “All nations should know that the Roman people start and end just wars.” The Roman people faced every kind of fortune with the same spirit; indeed, “the greatness of the Roman people is nearly more admirable in adversity than in prosperity.” As an enemy observed: “The Roman people are invincible because in prosperity they remember to act with wisdom and prudence; and it would be surprising if they did otherwise. When people’s good fortune is new to them, its novelty makes them lose control and go mad in their elation. But the joys of victory are usual and almost worn-out for the Roman people, and they have increased their dominion nearly more by sparing the vanquished than by conquering them.”

But why should I review these minor details? If I wished to include every one of them, I would have to transcribe all the illustrious books of the pagan authors. For what is all of history but the praise of Rome? Among others, there is one point that I intend not only to accept, but to pile onto to the list. Lest the greatness of the Roman empire prove me wrong for denying it, I confess that the Romans were a people unused to subjection, but used to subjecting and governing others. And although at the hands of the barbarians this empire was reduced, weakened, and nearly destroyed, in the hands of the Romans it was so great that in comparison all the world’s empires seem like childish games and empty names.

Of course, I am not unaware that some shallow Greeks, who “favored the glory of the Parthians to spite the name of Rome,” as Livy writes, were fond of repeating that the Roman people could not bear comparison with the majesty of Alexander the Great, who was practically unknown at Rome except by some faint rumors. In other words, so many outstanding generals, and so many thousands of wise and courageous men, could not stand up to one crazed youth! The shallow Greeks were not alone in saying this. What Livy could not have known is that a very shallow and vain Gaul has recently said the same thing. And all sense of shame has so utterly perished that he not only committed this bit of nonsense to writing, but even versified it in a poem. I don’t know why he did this, unless he recognized Alexander as a notable toper, in this respect more Gallic than Greek. Thus similar habits breed friendships, and afterwards nourish them.

Despite my anger, I jest. In fact, I know that there is another reason. So great is their hatred of the name of Rome that they would prefer not only Alexander, but even Sardanapalus to Julius Caesar. In fact, they only know the first two by rumor, whereas they have felt the latter’s sword cut through their sores and punish their insolence. But let them be cut to ribbons, and sputter in our midst. The truth will never be shaken by their viperous hissing. More solid than a mountain of diamond, the glory of Rome will always resound throughout the world; and the name of those who envy her will always be inglorious, or rather infamous. But enough on this topic, lest I digress too long: for the entire subject has been brilliantly discussed in Book Nine of Livy’s History of Rome. Let this barbarian read it, and he will sputter with rage.

Leaving aside the charge of the Romans’ warlike spirit, which I concede, I return to those I shall deny. The Romans are accused of shamelessness in asking favors, and ingratitude in accepting them. Certainly, these are two great vices, if they are true. Now, who can answer such great charges but naked Truth? Against the first charge, we have a thousand witnesses; but let three peoples and two kings suffice for the moment. During the second Punic War, when the Roman state had been nearly destroyed and the treasury depleted, the people of Naples sent envoys to Rome with gifts, including forty massive goblets of gold. Having carried the gifts to the Capitol and set them at the feet of the senators, the envoys begged them to accept this gift—which, though small in itself, was an immense token of the donors’ devotion—and to use all of the Neapolitans’ possessions as their own. The senators thanked the people of Naples, and sent the envoys back with gifts; but they accepted only a single goblet, and the smallest one at that, so that they would not seem to disdain a gift from their allies. Around the same time, envoys from Paestum also brought golden goblets, and were sent back with thanks; but none of their gold was accepted.

Some time later during the same war, the Carthaginians sent envoys to Spain with an immense horde of gold and silver for the hiring of mercenary troops. These envoys were captured by the people of Saguntum, who sent them and all their booty to Rome escorted by their own legates. The Romans thanked them, and since the gold and silver intended to harm them had been seized from the enemy, they claimed it by rights and gave it back to the Saguntine legates, adding other gifts besides. Only the enemy envoys were detained and thrown into prison, to show that the Romans had acted not from greed, but as a nation at war.

When Pyrrhus, whom I mentioned before, heard that the Romans were invincible in battle, he decided to assail them with gifts. So when he sent Cineas to negotiate a peace, he furnished him with great treasures with which to tempt first the patricians and senate, then the order of knights, and finally the lowly plebeians. What happened? He found that no one opened his door to such gifts. (Had he been sent to Avignon, I think he would have found the door open!) Around the same time, King Ptolemy of Egypt sent huge gifts to some visiting Roman envoys, who nobly refused the gifts. The next day, the king invited them to a dinner, where he presented each of them with a golden crown, which they accepted in honor of their great ally and host. But the following day, they placed these crowns on the king’s statues so that everyone could see that they had accepted his friendship and homage, but not his gold. How were they shameless in asking for what was denied them, when in fact they were obstinate in refusing what was offered them? Let their accuser decide.

As for the second charge—namely, their ingratitude toward people who didn’t deserve it—here too, many kings and peoples bear witness. First of all, there is king Massinissa of Numidia, then Attalus and Eumenes of Pergamum, Hieron of Sicily, Deiotarus of Armenia Minor, the Mamertines, the people of Tusculum, and countless others whom it would be tedious to mention. In short, although Rome, like a severe father, was undeniably harsher towards some citizens than was required by the honor of the republic or the merits of their case, still no one was ever more grateful than the Roman people to their friends, including not only kings and nations, but even the lowliest persons. It has been written with great truth that “The senate and the Roman people is wont to remember both a benefit and an injury.” And further: “Intent on their domestic and military affairs, the Romans made haste, prepared, encouraged one another, went to meet the enemy, and defended their freedom, their country, and their parents under arms. Later, when their valor had averted the danger, they lent aid to their allies and friends, and won friendships more by conferring benefits than by receiving them.” And again: “Let this thought sink into your heart: the Roman people has never been outdone in kindness; its prowess in war you know.”

Let our Gaul consider these words addressed to him.He knows this fact; and if he doesn’t know it, let him ask his ancestors, who were experienced soldiers. They will tell him, especially about the famous Vercingetorix, who is described as “a man fearfully built and armed, whose very name seemed devised to inspire fear.” This king of the Gauls, who came from the tribe of the Arverni, tried his fortune in many great battles and contests, but in the end he was forced to surrender. He arrived at the Roman camp as a suppliant—paying the greatest honor to the victor—and cast his armor and medals at Caesar’s feet, saying, “They are yours: you have conquered a brave man, o bravest of men.” I have changed nothing in this account: the words are those of the illustrious historian Florus.

One last charge remains: the Romans’ harshness or, to use Bernard’s word, their effrontery in refusing requests. It is quite difficult to make a universal pronouncement, for human behavior is so various. From so many thousands, I shall cite two great Roman rulers whose singular merits dispel this collective accusation: Julius Caesar and the emperor Titus. About Caesar, we read: “He had schooled himself to work hard and sleep little, to devote himself to the welfare of his friends and neglect his own, to refuse nothing that was worth giving.” And Titus was likewise accustomed to refusing no request, and “used to say: ‘No one should ever go away sad after speaking with the ruler.’ Indeed, once when he recalled at dinner that he had given no gifts the entire day, he uttered that memorable and truly praiseworthy sentence: ‘Friends, I have lost a day.’” That’s what is written about him. And again: “He refused nothing that anyone asked, and himself urged others to ask for what they wished.” I shall not go into detail about the clemency and charming nature of both men. It suffices that I have answered the charge of Roman harshness. But this fellow will reply, saying “Not all of them are like this.” Of course. If everyone were like them, their glory would not be so great. Rarity is a great distinction in people and things, and singularity is a great ornament. If all were equal, no one would excel. But let my adversary cite one Gaul or even one barbarian similar to these two, and he will win the argument.

Chapter VIII.

I don’t know whether I have answered all Bernard’s charges, nor do I value them enough to spend much time in this inquiry. If it were possible, I would wish that this great man had more carefully examined not only what he said, but against whom he said it. In that case, he would perhaps have remained silent, and not branded a mark of infamy on those who didn’t deserve it. But if the spoken word is irrevocable, how much more irrevocable is the written word, especially after the death of the writer. Thus, what is written, is written. Let him proceed as he is able, and let the truth of the facts rely on its own strength to combat the contradictions of rash tongues. I doubt not that, with impartial judges, the truth will conquer, and contemn the opinions of others. “A saint could not err.” But if he had erred as a human being, a Gaul, a Burgundian, or an angry man, we would not count this as a miracle, I suspect.

Besides, no matter which way the question turns, this barbarian cannot cancel what is written in a famous passage of our Civil Law: “The supreme guardianship of the republic, which springs from two things—arms and laws—and derives its force from them, has in ages past, and with God’s aid shall forever, set the happy race of the Romans above all nations to dominate them.” How very strange! It says Romans, and not Gauls. Likewise, “according to the text of Salvius Julianus, which indicates that all cities should follow the custom” and law “of Rome, which is the capital of the whole world, and not vice versa.” It says Rome, not Paris, and speaks, not of the legal code of Avignon, but of the “temple of Roman justice.” Indeed, it ascribes the “origin of laws” and the “crown of the supreme Pontiff” to Rome. It says that no one doubts this. For when it calls this city the “homeland of laws and source of the priesthood,” it does not know of this barbarian who doubts all this and indeed resists it with brazen impudence. By your leave, I shall call this sinking Jerusalem— from which the pope went down to Rome, and which would have been most fortunate if he had never returned—the “homeland of topers and the source of many wines.” Now compare their claims to distinction. Avignon will win, especially if I add the others known to all the world, and known to me since childhood, but modesty urges me to remain silent.

But little by little I begin to tire as I compile these eulogies of the city of Rome. I realize that, if I chose to dwell longer on this subject, I would sooner run out of time than material. Both the author and his reader should be spared such tedium. Above all, I must spare this barbarian, who sees and hears my words with such bitterness and gloom, and who would cancel my name from every book if he had the chance. I know this as if I saw him with my own eyes: so well do I think I understand him from his haughty address. In a single person, I have found a cock’s comb and a goose’s tongue—O monstrous species!—combined with the stubbornness of his contentious nation, and I can hear him cry out: “Such things were true when they were written, but the times have changed.”

Changed are the times, I admit; changed are the people, and all things are changed—for the worse, I confess. Who has not heard the words of the lyric poet?

“What do the ravages of time not injure?
Our parents’ age, worse than our grandsires’,
Has borne us, more wicked still, and destined soon
To yield yet more depraved offspring.”

This change is a universal one, even if, as I have said, it necessarily appears greater in greater things, not only over many centuries, but even within a few years. In our own age, there has been a miraculous and miserable change; and if things continue as they have begun, I think we are quickly nearing the end of the world. Is there anyone, not just a Gallic rooster, but even a jackass, who is ignorant of this? And if he could speak, he would admit the fact.

For myself, while reading about the changes in our times, I was sometimes slow to believe it; but after what I recently saw with my own eyes, I no longer find anything incredible. Yet even in the present state of affairs, I may speak from experience and say that I have found that, even now, the men of Rome are good. If you treat them in a friendly or paternal manner, rather than as enemies or tyrants, they are quite courteous. I have spent many years with them in Rome and elsewhere, and I admit that on one point they are more intransigent than the Knights of Jerusalem on the Rhone. They will not patiently allow their wives to be taken from them, and will suffer anything rather than this disgrace. Indeed, the ancient cry of their citizen Icilius stills rings in their ears: “Vent your rage upon our backs and our necks; let our chastity at least be safe.” But this statement, most worthy of hearing in all the world, never reached Gaul or the banks of the Rhone, perhaps because of the distance.

Not content with Bernard’s insults, this calumniator reproaches the Romans for their avarice, and says they are always intent on temporal profits, and neither think nor dream of anything else. By his leave, I say that there is nothing falser than this falsehood. No people is less devoted to profit; in no other great city will you find so few merchants, and practically no moneylenders. Except for their rulers, who are more numerous than our Gaul thinks, and their leading citizens, there are hardly any rich men in their vast population. If only they pursued pleasures as little as they do profit! So much, then, for the men of Rome. As for the matrons of Rome, if the Gauls choose to compare them to their own lame and tippling dancing-girls, the sun will be eclipsed, the sea will churn, the earth will tremble, and I shall fall silent as if thunderstruck.

Let our Gaul think and think again. Let him remove the veil of hatred from his mind’s eyes. Perhaps then he will begin to see the difference between Roman gravity and Gallic levity. Yet I surmise that he himself has always been afraid of Rome, as his writings indicate. Hence, his judgment was deficient, like one of those people of whom the Psalmist says: “There were they in great fear, where no fear was.” For the Romans are not terrifying, but kindly, to their friends. Our Gaul, who hated them for no reason but a sort of hereditary birthright, supposed that they could not love him. Not an unjust fear, I confess, but it is an unjust hatred when he hates those who have done him no harm. To be sure, his ancestors were conquered and subdued by their ancestors, who triumphed over them and made them pay tribute. But these events have long since passed away, and are no reason for hatred, unless you are a “bad mind, bad heart,” as the comic poet says, implacable, inflexible, and stubborn in your malevolence. Since there is no place for love, I only wish this hatred were mutual and equal! Then we would hate them, just as they hate us—with all their heart, with all their soul, and with all their mind. Either I am mistaken in my prediction, or all these quarrels would soon end in the same way as they did for our ancestors.

Chapter IX.

But I proceed following my own order, rather than his. What does he do now, this restless fellow who cannot stand the truth? What do you think? He heaps up further accusations, and piles on more blasphemies. First, I am accused of calling his people “barbarous,” but I could not justly have called them anything else, unless I had chosen to assign them new names. I am also accused of blaspheming the wine of Burgundy—about which enough has been said— and the Rhone river. It’s a wonder that amid so many blasphemies he didn’t tear his clothes. In fact, I in no way blasphemed. I only hoped that the causes of enormous ills—the poisonous and ruinous harvest of this unhappy exile—could be eliminated. What does our Gaul squawk now? “What exile,” he asks, “did the Church suffer in Avignon?” The answer is troubling but not troublesome; so let him answer himself. What does one know at all, if one doesn’t know this? And he surely knows. Still, with barbaric cunning he pushes me to a precipitous height, hoping to make me fall.

And if I called the Rhone a place of exile, he should not be amazed, as if he knew nothing about the facts. It is shameful when a man of learning is amazed by what is common knowledge. Let him read Bede’s Chronology; let him read Flavius Josephus; and finally let him leaf through the Scholastic History that is familiar to everyone. He will find that Herod’s son Archelaus was condemned by Augustus and sent into exile for his crimes. Where was he banished? Why, to Vienne, a city on the Rhone. Then let our Gaul proceed further, and he will see that the Herod who was surnamed Antipas was likewise banished. Where shall we suppose, if not to Vienne, that place of exile? Now let him proceed even further, and he will see that the other Herod, the tetrarch, was banished by the emperor Caligula to Lyon on the Rhone, where he died a wretched death, together with his wife, who in her conjugal devotion had followed him into exile. But I am going too fast. Where did we leave Pontius Pilate who, already guilty of great crimes, was likewise banished to Lyon by Tiberius?

Now let our Gaul, for all his glibness, declare that I lied when in my letter to Pope Urban I wrote that the Rhone was not the seat of the Roman pontiffs, but of criminals condemned to exile! I don’t deny that the Roman pontiff may, if he chooses, live not only in Gaul, but even in Spain or Britain. Yet in his wisdom Urban clearly had no doubts about what was convenient and honorable. Still, I fear the mutterings of the Curia. For if they could shake an old man from his personal viewpoint, how much more easily can they make a young man adhere to their common view! Yet Christ will see to this, since it is his affair. For my part, since I can do no more, I shall at least not remain silent while I am still able to speak. The pope’s presence may make Avignon the capital of the world. Why not? He is the vicar of almighty God and the head of the Christian people. Still, if he chooses to make Avignon the equal of Rome in glory and honor and the devotion of the faithful, he will need God’s help, I think, for “He alone does great wonders.”

As often happens, while I am speaking, something occurs to me that I never imagined when I began. So let the Gauls now rejoice and exult! They usually rejoice for small and trivial reasons, but I have discovered a great fact—or rather, the greatest fact of all. Let them rejoice, I say. And since they boast in their cups, let them boast when the historians mention the exile of Pontius Pilate in Lyon in these words: “For all these reasons, he was sent into exile in Lyon, whence he had come, so that his death would bring his people greater shame.” Can the discovery of such a great citizen be a minor reason for rejoicing? How forgetful and shortsighted the human mind is! When I used to read the Gospel account of Christ’s passion, I wondered how Pontius Pilate could wash his hands so quickly, as if he were innocent of a just man’s blood. He would never have been able to do this, if he hadn’t been a Gaul, for they are a clever, glib, and witty race. I am surprised that, once he had washed his hands, he didn’t take a drink, in order to seem more innocent.

In my youth, I knew that Pontius Pilate was a Gaul. With time, he faded away, only to return to me at the right moment, so that I could share my joy with this herald of the Gauls and congratulate the Gallic nations on their great and noble leader. By comparison, Rome speaks in vain of her Caesars and of men like Scipio, Aemilius, Marcellus, Fabius, Metellus, Pompey, Cato, Curius, Fabricius, Corvinus, Decius, Torquatus, Flaminius, Valerius, Appius, Papirius, and Camillus. Pontius Pilate is a match for these men and all the others. He did not triumph over Hannibal and the Carthaginians, over Pyrrhus and the Macedonians, over the Gauls, Germans, Britons, Spanish, or over the Volscians and Samnites in close combat. But Pilate triumphed over Jesus of Nazareth with clean hands and an unclean heart. I must personally congratulate our Gaul for declaring war on me and on Italy and on the truth. Yet I think he will not triumph over us anywhere, except perhaps under the arches of the Petit Pont and in the Street of Straw—the most notorious places in the entire world today. There the foolish women and children will applaud, unanimously praising whatever he says against Italy.

O happy nation, which has the highest opinion of itself and the lowest of all other nations, and which is always cheered at least by a gratifying falsehood! But isn’t it unfair of me to belittle the fame of the Gallic nation, as if Pontius Pilate were its only illustrious citizen? Indeed, there are many others whom this angry Gaul thrusts before my eyes, complaining that I said “There is no one of learning in Gaul.” When would I have said this about such a great province, and one distinguished for its many studies? I am not yet mad enough to say such a thing! Still, when I discussed those four Doctors who, after the apostles and evangelists, are the holy Church’s foremost guides in faith, I said that none of them was born or educated in Gaul.

What, then—was I mistaken? Our Gaul clearly understands me; but he knowingly contrives to slander me when he asks whether I have forgotten Hilary of Poitiers. A great man, to be sure, but not one of the four Doctors! Then he marshals a host of plebeian names from his people, who I believe are unknown outside their own neighborhoods. I felt sorry for the fellow, struggling with this great dearth of famous names. How many people shall we think have been driven to stealing by their poverty, rather than by greed! Thus, among several men whom he reluctantly presses into service to glorify Gaul, one is Hugh of St. Victor. But if he had read the inscription on his tomb, he would know that he was a Saxon, not a Gaul—unless perhaps some barbaric affinity moves him to call all barbarians Gauls. But this shrewd debater should have observed that not every proposition can be reversed. Clearly, every Gaul is a barbarian, but not every barbarian is a Gaul. Or perhaps he less regard for the person than for his university, so that anyone who has studied in Paris is a Gaul.

I am loathe to speak, but the truth compels me. Paris is indeed a fine city, and one ennobled by the king’s presence. As for the university, it is like a rustic basket into which exotic and precious fruits are gathered from many places. We read that it was founded by Charlemagne’s tutor Alcuin, but to my knowledge no Parisian since that time has ever become famous there. If any were famous men, they were in fact foreigners. And unless hatred shuts this barbarian’s eyes, the majority of them were Italians: Peter Lombard of Novara—whom they like to call Peter Lombardi, so that his surname seems to be his father’s rather than his country’s—Thomas of Aquino, Bonaventure of Bagnoregio, Giles of Rome, and many others.

But lest I continually accuse the Gauls, I won’t deny that they may be excused if their learning is but modest. To strive against nature is always a bootless effort; and by nature the Gauls are unteachable. Now my barbarian is angry. But let him direct his anger not at me, but at his own Hilary, who was the first to say this, as Jerome bears witness in Book Two of his commentary on Galatians. Perhaps he will admit what he can’t deny. But then he will counter: “Even if the Gauls are unteachable and untaught, they still have other virtues, for happiness does not consist solely in learning. They are very brave and victorious men.” By heaven, I only wish this were true. For if no barbarian is truly lovable, less hateful are those who restrain their barbarous behavior. Yet the contrary has often been the case, both long ago and especially in recent times. In our age, we have experienced the truth of what Julius Celsus wrote in Book Three of the Gallic War: “Just as the temper of the Gauls is impetuous, ready to engage in war, so their mind is weak and by no means resolute in enduring calamities.” And what does the prince of historians say? “All their strength and courage lie in attacking, but they languish as soon as there is a slight delay.”

But wait, don’t hurry. Let us hear Justin. Now, I won’t object by citing Augustine, even though in Book Four of his City of God he mentions Justin and Trogus, whom Justin abridged, and says: “Other more reliable sources show that they sometimes lied.” Instead, let us suppose that they didn’t lie, and that everything is true that this barbarian crams into his fable. What will he prove by this? Let him read and re-read as much as he wants. He will find no great praises there, except that the population of the Gallic race was so immense that Gaul could not contain them all. What is praiseworthy in that, I ask? Clearly, there are many flies and gnats and ants, but only a few lions and very few elephants. The phoenix is unique, and in general rarity is a mark of nobility. And in this vast nation, I ask, did even one or two become illustrious? Let him re-read the passage in Justin’s history, and report any that he finds to us, who know of none.

Another glorious achievement of this multitude was their service as mercenaries for Eastern kings. Yet no life is more wretched than that of hired soldiers, who sell their bodies and souls for a pittance. Let him go now, and in his zeal for comparisons let him set these wretches beside the “Romans, lords of the world and the nation of the toga.”

Still, the Gauls, he reminds us, traversed many provinces, and put everything to the sword. This may be true, but wise men bid us consider the end result. Of those who came to Italy, absolutely none survived. In three great battles, they were wiped out to a man. In this way, as Florus says, “none would survive to boast of burning the city of Rome.” And the fate of those who went on to Greece was no better. They all perished, overcome first by wine—a custom peculiar to this nation—and then by the sword. Their leader Brennus, who alone is named in that cesspool of humankind, ran himself through with a sword, unable to bear his wounds. The others fled; and wearied and wasted from many hardships, they were overtaken by the enemy and perished. “Thus, none of this vast army, which had lately been so confident in its own strength as to despise the very gods, survived even to commemorate its great defeat.” I call to the stand the very witness cited by my opponent, Justin. Here is the conclusion of his Book Twenty-Four: “These were the expeditions of the Gauls, and their military glories: fury instead of valor, and ruin after their fury.”

I believe that our barbarian now regrets having chosen to engage in this contest. For unless he has the brain of an ox and the ears of an ass, he senses that he must properly concede defeat. What can he do, then, except what besieged people do when they lack the courage to defend their city? He will seek refuge in the citadel. Unable to defend all of Gaul, he will defend its one famous and fabulous city. Good God, what trifling reinforcements he calls up in its defense! By far, I would prefer to be unsung, rather than praised by such a praiser. What I am about to say seems true to me, if not very polite. Of all the authors I have read, no one anywhere is as tedious as the famed Architrenius, whom he summons, like a second Cicero or Virgil, to sing the praises of Paris. What monstrosities of speech, what a pounding din of words! They not only give the reader nausea and a headache, but provoke his laughter and sweat. So little does he say by trying to say everything! We need only sample one phrase from many to form an idea of the whole: “Rose of the world, balsam of the globe.” O fetid balsam, O malodorous rose! Since my youth, I have toured many cities, whether on business or from a desire to see and learn. And of all these, I have seen none more malodorous than Paris, with the sole exception of Avignon, which takes first place in this regard.

By now, we should be ashamed of contesting a well-known truth, lest we expose not so much the obscurity of the question as the blindness of the one who contests it. I am reluctant to reply to his madness. Since I found fault with Avignon, he praises Marseilles. I admit that Marseilles is a noble city that deserves praise for its tranquil harbor and its view of the sea, as well as for its fidelity and devotion to Rome. Without its aid, Cicero says, our Roman generals would never have triumphed beyond the Alps. But how, I ask, how does this prudent man proceed? To lend his barbarians an air of learning, he introduces the origin of Marseilles, which is completely irrelevant. As often happens to the ignorant, this narrative turns against him. For it describes the savage tribes of Gauls and their Gallic savagery. Then it relates how the arrival of people from Marseilles domesticated their Gallic barbarity, so that, as the historian puts it, “rather than Greece migrating to Gaul, Gaul seemed transformed into Greece.” In his Consolation to his Mother Helvia, Seneca discusses this migration and says that the people of Marseilles “established themselves in the midst of what were then the most savage and uncivilized peoples of Gaul.”

Our wily disputant fails to see this, and is content to voice many arguments, heedless of their quality. For example, as if anyone he steals from Italy becomes one of his people, he cites two non-Italian poets, namely, Statius and Claudian, and tries to make the latter a native of Vienne. As I read this, I laughed and said to myself: “How poorly you conceal your ignorance, unless you cover it in a veil of silence! It’s like trying to conceal a cough or the mange. You’ll be discovered, betrayed by your own testimony.” Claudian was from Vienne, you say? Our Gaul is in error on a Gaulish question. No, Claudian was from Lyon. But the proximity of the two cities excuses his error. What is inexcusable is that he talks about things he fails to understand. There were two Claudians. One was a pagan poet, and the other a Christian priest. The priest was from Lyon, I admit, and a sharp disputant who detected the errors of many men, including Hilary of Poitiers. As for the poet, I won’t say where he was from, although I know, lest our Gaul insults me for exploiting a citizen-poet to ennoble my homeland, which is quite flourishing, thank God.

I don’t deny that Statius was of Gallic origin. If you like, I may add that Lucan was from Spain. But wherever they came from, their style is Italian, nor could it be otherwise. Indeed, we perceive the truth of what I wrote in an early pastoral poem:

“In the Welds by the Tiber
They all learned to speak Latin.”

Hence, in many passages Lucan wishes to appear Roman. I suspect that he considered it the gravest offense possible when, if the report is true, his uncle prefaced his epic poem with the phrase:

“Cordoba gave me birth.”

For he knew how much nobler a citizen of Rome is than a citizen of Cordoba. And when Statius concludes his epic, he urges it to follow our Italian poet at a distance and “always worship his footsteps.”

So what does our Gaul want? Doesn’t he see how foreigners felt about themselves and our countrymen? He need only read the Anticlaudianus by his countryman Alan of Lille, which is slightly less tedious than his Architrenius. Both these barbaric poets are greatly prolix and pointlessly contorted, and it is no wonder if they sweat a great deal. Let him be content with these authors, and not trouble himself about the other Claudian.

And what kind of argument is his next one? In order to distinguish between the Romans and the Latins, and thus to rob the Romans of the glory of Latin literature, he says that there were dissensions between them! He’s not mistaken. But what difference does this make, when there were dissensions and civil wars between the Romans within their own city walls? Does this mean that they weren’t all Romans? Feuds and dissensions do not change one’s city or country, even if they weaken or destroy the bonds of amity. Indeed, when Livy describes a war between the two peoples, he says: “Both sides prepared for a war with the greatest energy—a civil war, as if between fathers and sons.” In fact, whenever we read of armed conflict between these two peoples, reference is made to one people rather than two, and to “civil war.” If our Gaul wants another witness, let him hear Augustine’s discussion of Greek history near the beginning of Book Eighteen of his City of God: “Those who have explored the descent of the Roman people from their most ancient origins have traced their succession through the Greeks to the Latins, then to the Romans, who themselves are Latins.” And he also writes “from the Greeks and from the Latins, where Rome itself is.”

I find that the Latin alphabet was invented by Carmenta, the mother of King Evander, presumably on the Palatine, which is one of the seven hills enclosed today by Rome’s city walls. For it was the dwelling of her son even before Rome existed. In all their speech and writing, moreover, learned men call Roman eloquence Latin, and vice versa, so that the two names refer to one thing. Be that as it may, suppose our Gaul proves his point, that we use Latin letters, not Roman ones. What will he accomplish by this? Both peoples are Italian. If their alphabet is not Roman, it is still Italian. And in my letter, which he has singled out for attack, I said that this alphabet arose in Italy, not in Rome. Eager to combat, he strikes his well-armed adversary with but a leaden dagger, to avoid seeming idle.

In turn, how can I deal with what I no longer call folly, but insanity? So great is his ardor, so great his vehemence in disparaging, that he pays no attention to what he is saying. “Tell me,” he asks, “where do we read about Cicero’s Physics or Varro’s Metaphysics?” What a stupid question! This insolent barbarian delights in Greek words, but then speaks of Aristotle, who wrote these books, as if he were a Gaul. Now, I have read a book by a certain Franciscan titled Prosodion. In this little work on grammar, the friar wanders far from his subject and is so drunk with vain patriotism that he says that Aristotle was a Spaniard. And now our madman apparently makes him a Gaul. His words can only mean that he dismisses Cicero, an Italian and a Roman, by citing this alleged Gaul, Aristotle—who I am sure never saw or even heard of Gaul, since he was Greek or Macedonian by birth, and a native of Stagira!

Now, our Gaul admits that “Italy is a large and goodly part of the globe.” I transcribe his own words, although he may not be speaking sincerely, but merely out of Gallic politeness. Let us thank our Gaul, or rather the truth, which forces him to admit things that irk him when expressed by someone else, and to praise strongly what he violently detests. He further admits that some Italians have written many books that are useful to human life, but are “far inferior to Aristotle’s Ethics.” What a strange kind of battle! I had entered a duel with one man. But now that he is weary and staggering, he sends a stronger combatant against me, as if I wouldn’t notice. What does Aristotle’s Ethics have in common with the ignorance of the Gauls? Suppose Aristotle wins: what does this have to do with the Gauls? Unless his intense hatred claims as its own everything he strips from his adversary. Yet I am not shaken by this foreign and formidable warrior, but hold fast to my own opinion, which I believe is confirmed by experience and truth. Since I recently spoke at length about this, as the occasion required, I shall only briefly touch on it here.

I know that Aristotle’s Ethics and his other works are the products of a great mind. But if we look at the purpose for which the ethical branch of philosophy was devised—namely, to become good, which is his own definition—I deny that any secular books are superior or even equal to those of our Latin authors. I believe the absolute truth of what Cicero affirms in many passages, but especially in this one: “It has always been my conviction that our countrymen have shown more wisdom everywhere than Greeks, either in making discoveries for themselves, or else in improving upon what they had received from Greece, in such subjects at least as they had judged worthy of the devotion of their efforts.” This is my view too, and it is no less true because this Gaul may disagree. Aristotle teaches more, but Cicero moves our minds more. Aristotle’s books on ethics hold greater insights; Cicero’s have a greater effect. Aristotle teaches the nature of virtue more precisely; Cicero urges the pursuit of virtue more persuasively. Let our Gaul define for himself which is more useful to human life.

Next to Cicero, I place Seneca, of whom the great Greek Plutarch confessed that Greece had produced no comparable thinker in moral philosophy. But our Gaul will confront me and say that Seneca’s origins were Spanish. I shall reply that his rank and social circles, as well as his style and his studies, made him a Roman; and that it is enough for me that he was no Gaul, just as it is enough for my opponent that Aristotle was no Italian. “Cicero wrote no Physics.” And no Ethics, I would add. “Varro wrote no Metaphysics.” And no Problems, I would add. For we are not Greeks or barbarians; we are Italians and Latins. Yet Cicero wrote books On Moral Duties, which are his Ethics. He wrote works on house-holding, or on his home, which are his Economics. He wrote On the Republic and works on military science, which are his Politics.

But our little Gaul loves Greek titles; and although he may have no Greek or Latin learning, he thinks he is someone great when he belches forth the word “Physics” or spits out “Metaphysics.” Cicero wrote no Physics, but he wrote On Laws, On the Academics, and a book In Praise of Philosophy. Augustine candidly states that this last work helped guide him toward the right path in life and toward the pursuit of truth. This is something he never said about Aristotle, and I don’t know whether he ever said this about a Gallic philosopher. Perhaps my opponent knows, since he tirelessly hunts for praises of Gaul. Cicero wrote no Physics, but he wrote On the Essence of the Universe, On the Nature of the Gods, On Divination, On Fate, On Old Age, On Friendship, On Consolation, On Glory, Tusculan Disputations, On the Ultimate Good, Rhetorical Partitions, Topics, On the Orator, On the Best Kind of Orator, On the Best Kind of Style, two volumes of Rhetoric, three volumes of Letters, and countless speeches whose eloquence has never been equalled.

Hearing these strange names, our Gaul is dumbfounded, even though I only cited a few from his many works, and the brilliance of their content far outshines their titles. What if Varro wrote no Metaphysics? Truly a prodigious charge against this great scholar! All the same, he wrote twenty-five books on human institutions, and sixteen on divine ones. “But in the latter he compiled many falsehoods at odds with the worship of the true divinity.” Let our Gaul thank divine providence and God’s mercy, which kept him for a better age and a knowledge of the true God, releasing him from ancient errors. For he is aware that his ancestors were Druid priests who, mired in a vast host of false gods and in the vainest superstition, asserted that all the Gauls were descended from Dis—an empty assertion that won their people’s credulity. The truth of divine things could in no wise appear to people who were not yet illuminated by the true sun of justice.

Yet even among their errors some intellects shone forth. Their eyesight, although enshrouded in darkness and dense fog, was still vigorous, so that we should not display hatred for their error, but compassion for their undeserved plight. As Jerome says, if they served idols, we must ascribe this to ignorance rather than to obstinacy. They were great men, but placed in the depths. We are small, but placed on the heights, thanks to God. They lived in the dead of night; we live in a bright noonday. We cannot therefore claim to be superior—for we are without merit—but merely more fortunate. I consider that this applies not only to the two authors I have before me, but to all the pagan philosophers and poets, whose mind’s eyes were blocked by an impenetrable cloud from any vision of the truth.

But I return to Varro. He wrote no Metaphysics, but he wrote about philosophy, poetics, the Latin language, and the lives of the Roman fathers. Where does this lead me? Have I forgotten the words of Terentian cited by Augustine? “Varro was most learned in every Weld. He read so much that we are amazed that he had time to write, and wrote so much that we can hardly believe anyone could read it.” There is reason, then, for my indignation. O illustrious men, O shining stars of Latin eloquence, O fate implacable to every genius and to all our affairs! Have all your toils and vigils come to this: that you are found guilty by barbarian judges in a Gallic tribunal, simply because you wrote no Physics or Metaphysics?

Chapter XI.

But I no longer pursue his delirious ravings. He adduces countless examples that are completely irrelevant. Like an indigent peddler, he displays all his wares at once, transcribing inter alia long excerpts from his beloved Justin. He lists the founders of Italian cities, a subject to which a certain Hyginus dedicated an entire book. But let him read Seneca’s book to Helvia, which I mentioned earlier, where he will find that nearly all nations descend from others. Like heavenly bodies, earthly affairs have their cycles.

“Many foreigners established cities in Italy.” Who doesn’t know this? But what difference does it make? Is there any part of the world where Italians did not found cities? As Seneca says: “The Roman empire itself, in fact, looks back to an exile as its founder—a refugee from his captured city who, taking along a small remnant of his people and driven by fear of the victor to seek a distant land, was brought by destiny into Italy.” Then see what he adds: “This people, in turn—how many colonies has it sent to every province! Wherever the Roman conquers, there he dwells.” Thus Seneca writes. And where, I ask, did it not conquer, except perhaps in Gaul? In Italy, Rome was founded by Trojans; but who founded Troy? In fact, it was an Italian from Tuscany. This accounts for Virgil’s phrase describing the Trojans’ arrival in Italy:

“Hence was Dardanus sprung,
And hither he returns.”

Marcus Agrippa, the son-in-law of Augustus, founded Colonia Agrippina on the left bank of the Rhine, and many other colonies too throughout the world, although only this one still retains its founder’s name. A Roman citizen named Plancus built Lyon, about which I have said a great deal today. The Scipios founded Tarragona in Spain. Julius Caesar is believed to have established the city of Paris; and I nearly envy the Gauls for this great founder of their capital. I heard the same about Ghent from its citizens when I was there as a young man; such was the tradition handed down by their forefathers. In addition, I find that the entire Rhine valley was populated by colonists sent by Augustus.

Yet such a change of settlement changes the people who migrate, rather than the country to which they migrate. Hence, the Gauls migrating to Asia Minor became Asians; and the Italians migrating to Phrygia became Phrygians, but reverted to Italians when they returned to Italy after the fall of Troy. Thus, our own Italians who moved to Gaul or Germany have imbibed the nature of those regions and their barbaric customs. But the inhabitants of Milan, whose city was founded by Gauls and who were themselves formerly Gauls, are now the gentlest people on earth, and retain no trace of their ancient past. So much does the power of the heavens dominate and influence human minds. No one can count all the cities that the Romans founded in Italy: Bologna, Modena, Potenza, Parma, Cremona, Piacenza, and that glory of our cities, Florence. I don’t want to force my pen to traverse other parts of the world, or to pursue this fellow’s pedantry any further, lest others mock me for what I mock in another.

But where does he lead us now? He says that the people of Marseilles sent gold to ransom Rome from the Gauls. An absurdity, like many of his statements! He speaks as if he attributes Rome’s survival to Marseilles, and reproaches the Romans for this shameful ransom. Now, I don’t deny that they sent gold, an act that proves the unfailing allegiance of Marseilles to Rome, which I have already mentioned. But while I grant that Rome was captured and burned, I deny that it was ransomed with gold; in fact it was ransomed with iron and expiated with Gallic blood. Let our Gaul read the father of history, who was a native of the city from which I write. This milky font of eloquence was visited in Rome by noblemen from furthest Spain and Gaul, who preferred viewing this one man to the imperial city. Let our Gaul read Livy, I say, and he will see his error more clearly than daylight.

Chapter XII.

He also says that many bad men lived in Rome, and still live there. Who doesn’t know this? There were once just three men in the world, and one of them was bad. There were twelve men in the company of Him who created the world, and one was His betrayer. Has our Gaul forgotten the words of Julius Caesar quoted by Sallust? “In a great city, there are many different natures.” The Romans were ungrateful, I don’t deny it. But such behavior is no more peculiar to the Roman people than to other peoples. What people was ever grateful? Gratitude is practiced by a few, not by all. “They were ungrateful.” But to whom? “Towards their worthiest citizens.” But where did these citizens come from? All of them had one homeland—Rome. Both good and bad men people lived there. “But more bad ones.” Where, I ask, has anyone seen the opposite? Where in the world hasn’t a single good individual been outnumbered—not only by many bad ones, as I wish I could say, but by thousands, as I perforce must say? “As traitor to his country, Rome had Catiline,” and others listed by this Gaul, driven by his hatred. On whom did the traitors count for support more than the Gauls? Despite their deep-rooted enmity, this race dared not act on their own against the hated city of Rome, but had to be goaded by Roman citizens into daring.

“Rome had Catiline.” But it also had Cato, who pronounced sentence on the traitors. It also had Cicero, the vigilant consul who carried out the sentence. And it had thousands of others, whom the entire globe could not equal. “But Gaul had no Catiline.” I truly believe it. Despite his evil and corrupt nature, Catiline possessed great mental and physical strength. Such strength does not dwell among the Gauls. The natures of that region are frail and feeble, and neither good nor bad men win any fame. As in other nations, there are bad people, but they remain obscure. For how should the bad be recognized where even good people are unknown? Great fame is banished from pleasure’s domain.

Let our barbarian cease now, I pray, to compare the lowly with the lofty, and the drab with the illustrious. Isn’t he off the mark, when he says that an Italian satirist complains about Roman behavior? Would the satirist have been more justified in complaining about the behavior of the Indians or Chinese? He complains about the behavior that he knows and that affects him.Was there ever a father who never complained at times about his son’s behavior?

Then our Gaul adds that there were two panders in Rome at the time, Artorius and Catulus. At first, I thought he meant two lions (as was written), and I wondered what lions were doing here. But I quickly understood that he was talking about panders, and I said with a smile: “May I succumb to this barbarian— however unwillingly—if there aren’t eleven panders in little Avignon for the two panders in great Rome!” He himself knows what great opportunities the trade finds there. I only wish that others didn’t know!

Among many other charges, he reproaches us for our tolerance of tyrants. I would like to deny this but can’t, at least for certain parts of Italy. Yet in other regions there is more freedom than exists in the rest of the world, as far as I know. There is no true and perfect freedom, I confess, as long as we live in this exile. But if this boaster will show me a place on earth that knows no tyranny, I shall at once pack my bags and move there, and choose to live the rest of my life and be buried there. In this matter, he should know that I am not easily deceived, since from childhood I was raised in those places that he regards as the seat of happiness. And if in fact I chose to explain the different kinds of tyranny, the subject would prove too vast and too odious for my pen. Let it suffice that I am understood even in my silence.

Now, when he says he was amazed to see a marble equestrian statue—which he calls an “idol”—placed above a divine altar in Milan, his amazement is that of a boor. He didn’t see the statue above the altar, but in a private chapel to one side. How much more justly should I be amazed, for I have seen the choirs of famous churches in Paris so crowded with tombs of sinners, both men and—even more revolting—women, that there is scarcely room to kneel or approach the altar. If this reply fails to satisfy our Gaul, who is a rigid censor of others’ affairs, but soft on his own nation, let him ask the man portrayed in the statue, who will reply brusquely, for he is ready to reply to even greater authorities.

But this is enough, and more than enough, on the subject. I must be careful not to chase after the nonsense of this fool and thus become more foolish myself. Madness is a contagious disease. In the end, this Gaul will cry out so that the herd of the ignorant will hear him and call him the defender of Gallic glory. He will say that I told many lies. Yet whether he wants to or not, deep inside he will confess distinctly that no greater truth can be told, even though he is ready to do anything. For example, he did not scruple to condemn the actions of Brutus, who loved virtue, liberty, and his country so much that he forgot himself and renounced all his paternal affection for his sons. Forsooth, I cannot imagine a more manly deed than this one. But our Gaul disparages it, relying on the witness of Orosius, a writer who is by no means inelegant, but who expends nearly all his wit on disparaging the Romans, as his readers will easily discover. He did this with good intentions perhaps—since he sought to ennoble our faith in Christ, although neither he nor anyone else can sufficiently praise it—but pointlessly, since the truth had no need of lies, neither his nor anyone else’s. Unlike Bernard, he has no sainthood to awe me, even though he wrote at the request of St. Augustine.

Then Romulus is reproached for celebrating nuptials by force and for his extreme ardor in other matters. The charge is easier to excuse than to deny. Necessity itself practically excuses the forced nuptials. If someone starving to death humbly asked for bread and was refused, would he would not steal it if he could? In fact, we read that Romulus’s people consisted only of men, all of the same age: marriage was necessary to perpetuate the race. The neighboring peoples refused such marriages not only harshly but with insults. (I believe these neighbors foresaw that this new city would give rise to a race that would subjugate them, together with the rest of humankind and the entire world.) This refusal and rebuff provoked the strong and great-spirited Romans. Seizing the first opportunity, the Romans abducted the young women who had been denied them, not to rape but to marry them and to make them partners in their human and divine family.

What horrible sin is this, I ask? Was this perhaps the first abduction of young women, or an unusual one? Didn’t the tribes of Benjamin seize wives for themselves in this way, as their elders advised them, and prepare an answer to the protests of the fathers and brothers? “When we asked, you did not give them, and so you incurred the guilt.” This was first done in Judaea, and later in Rome. Both cases were dictated by necessity. In how many other cities, which I need not name, have we heard of brides abducted by adulterers and their husbands repudiated! Why is Romulus alone accused? Is it because “it will hurt no one’s feelings to hear how Achilles was slain?”

Florus excuses Romulus’s ardor in other matters: “Was anyone as ardent as Romulus? Such a man was needed to usurp the kingdom.” Indeed, any kingdom we see anywhere in any age was either established by the ardor of a usurping king or through the cowardice of a passive population. Industry created the first kings, not nature. When our Gaul remarks that Camillus was banished from his country, how can I reply? I can only cite Cicero’s phrase: “A novel crime, never before heard of !” I say, exile is truly a novel and amazing crime!

Chapter XIII.

See, then, how many arguments this learned man piles up in defense of a falsehood which he ought rather to have attacked with all his might. But falsehood is a friend of the Gauls, and no one attacks a friend. For my part, I would think myself a poor friend of the truth, if I did not seek to defend her faithfully against all her enemies, as heaven allows me, and if in my love for her I did not endure the hatred and enmity of many powerful opponents. Having begun to act thus in my youth, I shall not desist in my old age.

My friend, you shall see that my words come to the attention of this barbarian. Since he did not write directly to me, I shall not write back to him, but shall content myself with having crushed his arrogance in this letter to you. I believe that he lives in the realm of flattery and falsehood, where (God willing) you never go. But if you chance to see him, warn him not as a barbarian, but as a human being, to avoid open lies whenever he writes something in his quest for glory, as he has done now. Statements made contrary to reason or without good reason can sometimes be defended in speech, but no speech can defend what is patently false. Rather childishly, this fellow cites an incomplete and irrelevant verse by Lucan which needs no proof:

“for the sake of a few the human race lives.”

He wants to prove the familiar saying that “nature is content with little.”

While not in itself contradicting the meaning he gives it, this verse has a completely different sense in its original context. In fact, it means that the human race lives “for the sake of a few,” that is, obedient to a few, meaning kings and rulers, who are few in number. Indeed, the phrase is spoken by Caesar, who more expressly touches on this subject in another passage. There he says that there is but one lord of the world, Caesar himself, rather than a few: he wants to show that the human race should not live under a few, but under one man:

“In vain with civil war
Have I convulsed the world, if there is any power on earth
Beside Caesar’s, if any land belongs to more than one.”

Caesar’s spirit was Roman, not Gallic. Hence, our man of learning errs in taking the noun “few” as an ablative, when it is a dative. And when he says that Numitor was killed by his nephews, let me observe, with all due respect, that this great man slips up in a detail of well-known history. It was Numitor’s brother Amulius who was killed, whereas Numitor was restored to the kingdom from which his brother had banished him.

I believe there are similar errors in his work, but these are the first that strike a reader. He hoped to speak to his fellow barbarians, I presume, and thus supposed he could write anything for people who would not distinguish between what is true or false in actual fact. Farewell now. With impartial ears, hear both my lengthy discourse and the squawking of our Gaul.

Girolamo Tiraboschi

Invective Against a Detractor of Italy