‘To be sure, some qualities are always good in any language: for example, fluency, correct sequences, richness, well-constructed periods and harmonious clauses. On the other hand, affectation, like everything else that contradicts what I have just said, is deplorable. Admittedly, there are certain words that remain good for some time, and then grow stale and lose their charm, as there are others that acquire new force and come into favour. Just as the seasons of the year divest the earth of its flowers and fruits, and then adorn it again with others, so time causes those first words to decline and then usage gives life to others, endowing them with grace and dignity until, gradually worn away by the envious depredations of time, they also go to their death; for, at the last, we and all our possessions are mortal. For example, we no longer have any knowledge of the Oscan language. And Provençal, which we may say only a short while ago was honoured by the most eminent writers, is now unknown by the people of that region. I think therefore that as the Magnifico so rightly said, if Petrarch and Boccaccio were living now they would discard many of the words to be found in their writings; and so it does not seem right to me to copy the words they use. I certainly yield to no one in praising those who know how to imitate what should be imitated; nevertheless, I think it is possible to write perfectly well even without imitation, and especially in our own language in which we can be guided by usage, which I would not venture to say of Latin.’
Then Federico asked: ‘Why, would you have usage more highly regarded in the vernacular than in Latin?’
‘No,’ replied the Count, ‘I maintain that usage rules both. But since those to whom Latin was as natural as the vernacular is to us are no longer living we must go to what they wrote to learn what they learned from usage. And when we refer to the language of the ancient world all we mean is the usage of the ancient world in its language. It would be foolish to love the language of the classical world for no other reason than to want to speak as was the custom then rather than as we do now.’
‘Then you mean,’ asked Federico, ‘that the men of that time did not practise imitation?’
‘I believe,’ the Count replied, ‘that there were many who did so, but not in everything. For if Virgil had slavishly imitated Hesiod10 he would not have surpassed him; neither would Cicero have surpassed Crassus, nor Ennius those who preceded him. Remember that Homer lived so long ago that he is believed by many to have been the first heroic poet in point of time as well as excellence of style; and whom do you think he can have imitated?’
‘Someone else,’ said Federico, ‘still earlier than he, of whom we lack knowledge since it was so long ago.’
‘Who was it, then,’ the Count went on, ‘that provided a model for Petrarch and Boccaccio who, we may say, wrote only the day before yesterday?’
‘I have no idea,’ Federico answered. ‘But we can be sure that they were also intent on imitating someone, although we do not know who it was.’
Then the Count said: ‘We can also rest assured that those who were copied were superior to their imitators; and it would be too astonishing for words if their names and reputations, if they were good, had been utterly forgotten so soon. For myself, I believe that their true teacher was their own instinctive judgement and genius; and no one should be surprised by this, since in every sphere one can almost always reach the height of perfection in various ways. Nor is there anything which does not contain various elements which are related but dissimilar, and all of which merit equal praise. In music, for example, the strains are now solemn and slow, now very fast and different in mood and manner. Yet the performance is always agreeable, though for varying reasons. For example, Bidon’s style of singing is so skilful, quick, vehement and passionate, and of such melodious variety, that the spirits of those listening are excited and aroused, and feel so exalted that they seem to be drawn up to heaven. Then the singing of our own Marchetto Cara is just as moving, but its harmonies are softer; his voice is so serene and so full of plaintive sweetness that he gently touches and penetrates our souls, and they respond with great delight and emotion.11 Similarly, our eyes are equally delighted by spectacles of various kinds, so that it is difficult to decide what pleases them best. In painting, for example, Leonardo da Vinci, Mantegna, Raphael, Michelangelo and Giorgio da Castelfranco are all outstanding; nevertheless, they are all unlike each other in their work. So considered separately, none of them seems to lack anything, since each is perfect in his own personal style. The same holds good for many Greek and Latin poets, all writing in different ways, yet all of equal merit. Orators, too, have always been so different the one from the other that almost every age has produced and revered those whose talents were peculiar to their time and who could be distinguished not only from their predecessors but also from each other, as we find it written of Isocrates, Lysias, Aeschines and many others among the Greeks, who were all outstanding and each of whom resembled only himself. Again, among the Romans, Carbo, Laelius, Scipio Africanus, Galba, Sulpicius, Cotta, Gracchus, Marcus Antonius, Crassus and so many others that it would take too long to name them, were all good yet all very dissimilar.12 In consequence, if we were to be able to study all those that have ever lived we would find as many different styles of oratory as there have been orators. Moreover, I seem to remember that somewhere Cicero has Marcus Antonius say to Sulpicius that there are many who imitate no one and yet reach the highest pitch of excellence; and he speaks of certain orators who had introduced a new form and fashion of speech-making, which was beautiful but unusual for its time, in which they followed no one but themselves. And he also affirms that teachers should study the disposition of their pupils and, guided by that, direct and assist them along the path to which they are inclined by their own instincts and genius. Therefore, my dear Federico, I believe that it is wrong to force an author to imitate someone for whom he feels no natural affinity; for his creative vigour will be weakened and frustrated by being turned from the path which it might otherwise have followed to advantage. Therefore I do not understand how it can be right, instead of enriching our language and giving it its own genius, grandeur and insight, to make it impoverished, meagre, abject and obscure, and to try to cramp it by insisting that everyone should imitate only Boccaccio and Petrarch and refuse to place any confidence in Politian, Lorenzo de’ Medici, Francesco Diacceto13 and several others who are also Tuscan and no doubt just as learned and judicious as Boccaccio and Petrarch. Surely it would be a great shame to stop and refuse to go beyond that which the very earliest of our writers may have achieved, and to despair of the possibility of so many highly talented men finding more than one beautiful way of expressing themselves in their own natural language. Yet today there are certain pedants who make such an ineffable mystery and cult of this Tuscan language of theirs that they frighten those who hear them and thereby make even many noble and learned men nervous of opening their mouths and ready to confess that they do not understand the language they learned from their nursemaids when they were still in swaddling clothes. But now I think we have said more than enough on this subject; so let us continue with our discussion of the courtier.’
However, Federico replied: ‘I should like to add just a little more, namely, that I certainly don’t deny that men possess varying opinions and talents; nor do I believe that a man who has an emotional and assertive nature should set himself to write about restful subjects or still less a serious and grave man write in a frivolous way. For as far as this is concerned it seems to me reasonable that everyone should follow his own inclination. And this, I think, was what Cicero meant when he said that teachers should pay regard to the nature of their pupils and not act like stupid farmers who would sometimes sow grain in ground fit only for vines. But I cannot for the life of me understand why, when it is a matter of a particular language which is not common to all men (as are speaking and thinking and many other functions), but an invention with rules and limit, it should not be more reasonable to imitate those who speak it well than to speak at random; or why, just as
in Latin one should strive to emulate the language of Virgil and Cicero rather than that of Silius or Cornelius Tacitus, it should not be better in the vernacular to emulate that of Petrarch and Boccaccio rather than anyone else. Certainly, one should express one’s own thoughts and in so doing follow one’s natural inclinations, as Cicero teaches. In this way it will be found that the difference which you say exists among good orators consists in the sense of what they say and not the language they use.’
In response to this, the Count said: ‘I’m afraid we are now entering a very wide field of discussion and losing sight of our original theme. Still, let me ask you: what does the genius of language consist in?’
‘In carefully observing its proprieties,’ answered Federico, ‘in adopting the same meanings, and using the same style and rhythms, as all the best writers.’
‘I should like to know,’ asked the Count, ‘if that style and those rhythms belong to the thoughts expressed or to the words themselves.’
‘To the words,’ replied Federico.
‘Then,’ the Count went on, ‘do you not think that the words in Silius and Cornelius Tacitus are the same as those used by Virgil and Cicero, and carry the same meaning?’
‘Indeed yes,’ said Federico, ‘they are the same, but some of them have been corrupted and are used in a different sense.’
The Count replied: ‘So if one removed from books by Tacitus and Silius those very few words used in a different sense from what they have in Virgil and Cicero, would you not then agree that as a writer Tacitus was the equal of Cicero and Silius of Virgil, and that it would be right to imitate their style?’
At this point, signora Emilia interrupted: ‘It seems to me that this argument of yours has grown too protracted and tedious. So it would be as well to postpone it to another time.’
Federico started to answer all the same, but signora Emilia refused to let him; and eventually the Count remarked:
‘There are many who want to judge style and discuss the rhythms of language and the question of imitation, yet cannot explain to me what style and rhythm are, or how to define imitation, or why things taken from Homer or someone else read so well in Virgil that they seem improved rather than plagiarized. Perhaps the reason for this is that I am not capable of understanding them. But since it is a convincing proof of whether a man understands something that he has the ability to teach it, I fear that they understand it very little themselves, and that they praise both Virgil and Cicero because they are aware that many others praise them and not because they recognize the difference between them and the rest. For certainly the difference does not consist in their preserving a few words or so in a usage different from that of the others. In Sallust, in Caesar, in Varro and in other good writers we find several terms used differently from the way Cicero employs them; yet both ways are perfectly acceptable, since the strength and genius of a language does not consist in such trifles: as Demosthenes rightly said to Aeschines, who asked him sarcastically whether some of the words he had used, which were not Attic, were monsters or portents; and Demosthenes simply laughed at this and replied that the fortunes of Greece hardly depended on that.14 So what cause should I have to worry if some Tuscan or other reproved me for saying satisfatto rather than sodisfatto, ono-revole rather than orrevole, causa rather than cagione, populo rather than popolo and so forth?’*
At this Federico stood up and exclaimed: ‘Now I beg you, listen to me for a moment.’
But signora Emilia said with a laugh: ‘No, I shall be most displeased with any one of you who continues with this subject at the moment, for I wish the discussion to be postponed until another evening. But you, my dear Count, please continue with your discussion of the courtier, and show us what a good memory you have, because I think that if you can begin where you left off it will be quite a feat.’
‘I fear,’ answered the Count, ‘that I have lost the thread. However, unless I am mistaken, we were saying that the taint of affectation always robs everything of grace and that the highest degree of grace is conferred by simplicity and nonchalance, in praise of which, and in condemnation of affectation, much more could be said. However, I want to add just one more thing and that is all. Now, every woman is extremely anxious to be beautiful or at least, failing that, to appear so. So when Nature has fallen short in some way, she endeavours to remedy the failure by artificial means. That is why we have women beautifying their faces so carefully and sometimes painfully, plucking their eyebrows and forehead, and using all those tricks and suffering all those little agonies which you ladies imagine men know nothing about but which they know only too well.’
Here, madonna Costanza Fregoso laughed and said: ‘It would be far more courteous of you to continue with your discussion and to say what is the source of grace and speak of courtiership, rather than seek to expose the faults of women to no purpose.’
’ On the contrary, it is very much to the purpose,’ answered the Count, ‘because these faults of yours that I mention rob you of grace, seeing that they spring only from affectation, through which you make it clear to everyone that you are excessively anxious to be beautiful. Surely you realize how much more graceful a woman is who, if indeed she wishes to do so, paints herself so sparingly and so little that whoever looks at her is unsure whether she is made-up or not, in comparison with one whose face is so encrusted that she seems to be wearing a mask and who dare not laugh for fear of causing it to crack, and who changes colour only when she dresses in the morning, after which she stays stock-still all the rest of the day, like a wooden statue, letting herself be seen only by torchlight, in the way a wily merchant shows his cloth in a dark corner. How much more attractive than all the others is a pretty woman who is quite clearly wearing no make-up on her face, which is neither too pallid nor too red, and whose own colouring is natural and somewhat pale (but who occasionally blushes openly from embarrassment or for some other reason), who lets her unadorned hair fall casually and unarranged, and whose gestures are simple and natural, betraying no effort or anxiety to be beautiful. Such is the uncontrived simplicity which is most attractive to the eyes and minds of men, who are always afraid of being tricked by art. In a woman, lovely teeth are always very pleasing, for since they are hidden from view most of the time, unlike the rest of the face, it can be believed that less effort has been spent on making them look beautiful; and yet those who laugh to no purpose and merely to display their teeth, betray their artificiality, and however good-looking they may be would seem to everyone most ungraceful, like Catullus’ Egnatius.15 The same is true of the hands which, if they are delicate and fine, and are uncovered at the right time, when there is need to use and not just to display their beauty, leave one with a great desire to see more of them, especially after they have been covered again with gloves. For it appears that the person who covers them hardly cares or worries whether they are seen or not, and has beautiful hands more by Nature than through any effort or design. Surely, too, you have sometimes noticed when a woman, passing along the street on her way perhaps to church, happens, in play or for some other reason, to raise just enough of her skirts to reveal her foot and often a little of her leg as well. Does it not strike you as a truly graceful sight if she is seen just at that moment, delightfully feminine, showing her velvet ribbons and pretty stockings? Certainly I find it very agreeable, as I’m sure you all do, because everyone assumes that elegance in a place where it is generally hidden from view must be uncontrived and natural rather than carefully calculated, and that it cannot be intended to win admiration.
‘In this way affectation is avoided or hidden; and now you can see how incompatible it is with gracefulness and how it robs of charm every movement of the body or of the soul, about which, admittedly, we have so far said very little. However, we should not neglect it; for, as the soul is far more worthy than the body, it deserves to be all the more cultivated and adorned. As for what our courtier ought to do in this respect, we shall leave aside the precepts of all the many wise philosop
hers who have written on the subject, defining the virtues of the soul and discussing their worth with such subtlety; instead, keeping to our purpose, we shall state very simply that it is enough if he is, as we say, a man of honour and integrity. For this includes prudence, goodness, fortitude and temperance of soul, and all the other qualities proper to so honourable a name. And I believe that he alone is a true moral philosopher who wishes to be good; and for this he needs few precepts other than the ambition itself. Therefore Socrates was perfectly right in affirming that in his opinion his teaching bore good fruit when it encouraged someone to strive to know and understand virtue; for those who have reached the stage where they desire nothing more eagerly than to be good have no trouble in learning all that is necessary. So I shall say no more about this.
The Book of the Courtier Page 9