The times were ripe for Frederick’s experiment. Starting in Provence, the popular love poetry had spread to the other European communities, especially the French and German, and had been warmly welcomed. Only when its zenith was almost overpast did it find its way to Italy, for Italy had lagged far behind the other European countries in evolving a native language of its own, probably because no other country had remained so closely in touch with Latin. The realisation that the spoken tongue had ceased to be the speech of Rome, and had become an independent idiom, scarcely came before the thirteenth century. A feeling of Italian nationality, whose prophet Dante was to be, began to dawn about the same time—later than in other countries, delayed by the same misconception that Italian and Latin were one. Since the rise of a national self-consciousness and a national language are closely related we need not wonder that an Italian dialect first attained the dignity of a popular language in the South Italian State of Frederick II, that is, in that section of Italy in which national feeling had been first and most strongly awakened.
The question what “put it into Frederick’s head” to utilise the native Sicilian dialect of Apulia for his poems in the Provençal style is childish. The sufficient explanation is that he was a statesman, and the founder of a nation. It is reported of the Normans, those highly gifted statesmen, that they had made the attempt, albeit prematurely and unsuccessfully, to unify the Sicilian people by introducing French: gens efficiatur ut una. Their hope was to introduce uniformity of speech by popularising the language of the court, for in the middle of the twelfth century French was the language of the royal capital of Palermo. Frederick had transferred the focus of his kingdom from the polyglot island with its confusion of tongues to the mainland of one speech, and it was characteristic of him that he did not seek to import a foreign language for courtly poetry and festivity, but seized for his experiment the raw material that lay to hand, and moulded it to his purpose. Dante is the witness for his success: “For although the native born Apulians in general speak coarsely, some of their distinguished people spoke in a refined manner, blending courtly turns of speech into their songs.” By the refinement and cultivation of the common speech Frederick and his school elevated the local dialect to that volgare illustre of court and literature. He thus recognised Sicilian as an independent tongue, and established a common tie between the people and their ruler “of the new breed.” How far Frederick acted with the conscious intention of establishing a unity of speech and race is unimportant beside the fact itself that he was the most important pioneer, as Dante was the actual creator, of modern Italian. Such an achievement by an Emperor is unique.
The problems created by the existence of two languages, which was, of course, a commonplace in other countries (Frederick was the first to issue an imperial decree in German as well as Latin) still remained in the southern Hohenstaufen State. The sacred Latin was indispensable to the Roman Imperator on account of its universal validity, and Frederick did not dream of using for his “Holy Constitution,” his “Revelations,” his imperial decrees, any but the language of the Caesars, which his Chancery handled with such consummate skill. The vernacular was not stately enough for the eternal verities; even Dante still distinguishes between the immutable Latin, the master, and the changeable, ephemeral vernacular, the servant. The imperial sanctities were meant for immortality, but attempts were already being made in Italy to lend a consecration to the vulgar tongue which Dante’s poema sacro finally achieved. Almost simultaneously with the first songs of Frederick, Francis of Assisi, the “minstrel of the Lord” had begun to sing. His was a rude vernacular, still strongly Latin-ridden, but he was writing from an inner compulsion which the Sicilians lacked. Frederick II used Sicilian as a light and living speech for secular and courtly merriment, he did not ask of it seriousness or solemnity. His songs are nothing more than an expression of joie de vivre and courtly life, born of the moment and serving the moment. In comparison with Provençal there is scarcely a new thought or feeling in the Sicilian songs: their sole aim was to sound merry at the festive gathering; the important thing was not what was sung, but that there should be singing in the speech of the people and the language of one’s neighbours. Frederick borrowed from the singers of Auvergne, Limousin and Provence not only metre and content, but—what was even more vital—their joy in life, which awakened a response in people, court and Emperor.
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Nothing gives Frederick such unique distinction in the gallery of famous monarchs as the unruffled cheerfulness which he maintained through all vicissitudes: that intellectual cheerfulness of the man who feels himself equal to every emergency, whose glance scans the earth from Olympian heights and shrinks not from contemplation of himself. This quality derives its name from Jupiter. It is called “jovialitas” or “serenity” in the official language of the court. This cheerful serenity demands, beside a princely spirit, a certain maturity, and a complete, established, measurable world. It is rare amongst rulers: amongst monarchs of this stature perhaps only to be met with in Julius Caesar. After Frederick II none of the great men of action have displayed it to the same degree. Clever and witty kings are not uncommon; lighthearted merry ones are found in France; Henry IV, drawing with his first breath the bouquet of the wines of Gascony. They are far removed from the lofty, imperial cheerfulness of Frederick. Cheerfulness, and joy in living, a sense of song and rhythm in spite of the burdens of responsibility. No other German stock achieved this lighthearted freedom of spirit so fully as the Hohenstaufen, and no other Hohenstaufen in the same measure as Frederick II, who even retained it in the midst of Empire. Frederick handed on this quality to his handsome sons, none destined to be Emperors. They also sang, even when tragic fate was overtaking them. Henry, the first born, the rebel who ended his life in his father’s dungeon, did not cease his singing even as the chamberlain stripped him of the royal insignia he had wantonly forfeited—“In the morning he sang, and in the evening wept.” Manfred, with irresponsible folly, forgot his kingdom for his song. The old Occursius, who had served both the imperial father and the son, turned to Manfred shortly before they both were slain in the battle of Benevento, reproachful yet moved: “Where now are your fiddlers, where your poets, whom you loved more than knights and esquires, who hoped the foe would dance to their sweet tones!” Enzio, in the Bologna dungeon, touched and cheered his very gaolers with his cheerful songs. And the amiable and knightly Frederick of Antioch, whom men called the King of Tuscany, sang like his brothers; and, lastly, his grandson Conradin sang his own death and the death of his house in a sweet song of mourning. Not frivolity nor royal fashion is here, but an incomparable vigour of the blood, which even in ruin demands glory and fame. Their very beauty betrayed Manfred and Enzio to the foe. The whole of Hohenstaufen art and all Frederick’s own compositions are steeped in this joy of living: a happy harvest of the world he ruled and represented, a poetry of love springing from the joy of the happy man “who understood the art of making and of singing songs.”
The new poetry was not confined to the Hohenstaufen family, though without them it would have been unthinkable. The art exercised wide influence because Frederick the poet was Frederick the Emperor, and the court provided a responsive audience on festive occasions. The personality of Frederick II and of Manfred counted for much, and cannot better be explained than by Dante’s praise when he breaks forth in wrath against his contemporary nobles, especially the successor of the Sicilian Hohenstaufen, Frederick II of Aragon and Charles II of Anjou. “The (literary) fame of Trinacria, if we read the signs aright, remains only to the shame of the Italian princes who, unlike heroes but like plebeians, follow their own conceit. The illustrious heroes Kaiser Frederick, and Manfred his not unworthy son, revealed the nobility and rightness of their mind, and as long as fortune favoured them they pursued the truly humane and despised the bestial. Hence all such princes as were of noble heart and lofty spirit clung to them, and in their time all the distinguished minds of the day amongst the Latins fir
st blossomed forth at the court of such kings. And since Sicily was the royal seat everything which our predecessors produced in the vulgar tongue has been called Sicilian; and we continue to say Sicilian, and our successors will not be able to alter this. But alas! alas! what poetry do we hear from this later Frederick? What tinkle of bells from this second Charles? What sound of horns from John and Azzo the mighty margraves? save ‘Come, ye oppressors! Come, ye double-dealers! Come, ye disciples of greed!’”
When a poet of Dante’s rank and courage celebrates in such language the humanity of the “illustrious heroes” this must have been an unusual phenomenon, as indeed it was. Not the least remarkable thing was the school of poets itself. Princes of taste have frequently “patronised poetry” at their courts, attracting players and travelling singers by largesse. This was not Frederick’s way. Rather the reverse. Frederick distrusted the nomad minstrel, did not encourage him in his kingdom, and at a feast in Germany actually commanded that not so much money should be wasted on the wandering folk. The amazing thing was that Frederick produced all these early poets without exception at his own imperial court. Following the Emperor’s example, the officials suddenly burst into rhyme. The Renaissance Princes bestowed office on poets, painters and sculptors, so also Karl August on Goethe. This was the exact opposite of Frederick’s procedure: Frederick made no man a state official because he happened to be a poet, but the “compelling necessity of things” evoked poetic skill from the officials of this Emperor. Surely a phenomenon unique in history: one of the greatest statesmen and lawgivers creates the literary language of a whole people, and not that alone, but during two or three generations evoked the poets of a century. This reinforces the essential truth of Damon’s saying that the laws of a State cannot be altered without altering those also of the Muses.
It was natural that although the impetus of the new poetry was given by the Emperor it was primarily the younger generation, not Frederick’s own contemporaries, who practised the new art. None of the officials seem to have written verse before 1231, and the heyday of the movement was a full ten years later. The Emperor’s own songs, which were more important in influence than in number, must have dated from before the Crusade. The King of Jerusalem, John of Brienne, Re Giovanni, was then at Frederick’s court, and a poem of his in the Sicilian vernacular is preserved, which cannot well be of later date. The chronology is best established by considering who the poets were. And since it is not a question of learned art, but of courtly and knightly verse, we must seek the authors amongst the aristocratic officials, especially those who, during their impressionable years, had come most strongly under the influence of the Court.
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No less than three members of the noble family of Aquino are amongst the poets: Reginald, Jacob and Monaldo. Reginald was page and falconer of the Emperor in 1240 and a few years later held a certain post at Court. He wrote numerous poems, a line of which Dante once quoted. We have no record of his cousin Jacob’s having been a page, but Jacob’s elder brother certainly was. When the father was killed in the Emperor’s service Frederick expressly wrote that he proposed to make himself specially responsible for the two boys, so we may safely assume that Jacob of Aquino also belonged to the group of noble boys educated at Court. We know nothing of Monaldo beyond the fact that he belonged to the school of poets. Reginald of Aquino vainly sought to lure to court his younger brother Thomas—by far the most gifted of the family. Piero della Vigna seconded his efforts, but the young Dominican, Thomas Aquinas, was not to be enticed. Even Frederick himself secretly supplemented their attempts, for he liked to dissuade gifted young noblemen from joining the mendicant orders, which were attracting them in scores. We know that he similarly sought to influence a young noble of Parma.
The name of Jacob of Aquino is linked by an interchange of canzones with that of Jacopo Mostacci, one of the younger poets, who with his brother is recorded as a page of Frederick’s, about 1240. He was later in Manfred’s service as ambassador at the Court of Aragon. A Morra, son of the Grand Justiciar, and elder brother of one of the pages of 1240, also appears among the court poets. Jacob of Morra was already, at this date, Captain of the duchy of Spoleto, and on account of his father’s high position was one of the most trusted intimates of Frederick II, one of those whom the Emperor had “brought up as sons and from whom nothing was concealed.” Jacob of Morra had made a thorough-going study of Provençal. One of the troubadours, probably Hugh of St. Circq, wrote for him the earliest Provençal grammar that we possess, and some of the loveliest lyrics of the Sicilian School bear the name of “Giacomino Pugliese.” He was entrusted with one of the highest posts in Frederick’s gift, reserved for his special favourites, and made Vicar General of the Ancona March. In this position he betrayed his master and allowed himself to be entangled in a conspiracy.
Another poet, Roger de Amicis, met a similar fate. He also was amongst the highest officials, Grand Justiciar or Captain of Sicily, and amongst other verses of his we know an interchange of poems between him and his younger friend, Reginald of Aquino. Roger de Amicis, one of the Emperor’s intimates, was a nobleman of Calabria. He was sent on one occasion as ambassador to Cairo to the Egyptian court. Folco Ruffo, also a poet, came from the same neighbourhood. He is frequently mentioned in the later days as in Frederick’s train, and must still have been quite a young man when he witnessed the dying Emperor’s last will and testament. He belonged to the famous family of the Ruffi, one of whom was head of the imperial stables, and another of whom wrote, at the Emperor’s request, a book on veterinary science. Lastly, we meet Reginald of Palermo, also a page in 1240, a Sicilian feudal baron, and perhaps he is the author of the poems preserved under the name of Rainer of Palermo of whom nothing is known.
Numerous members of the Beneventan family of the Monteneri were amongst Frederick’s higher officials. Reginald of Montenero was one of the poets, and is described in a novel which relates his adventures as a minstrel in Sardinia as “kavaliere di corte.” The kingdom of Sardinia belonged to Enzio, and so this Montenero must, in some capacity or other, have been his subordinate. As the imperial administration gradually extended to the whole of Italy, and Sicilian officials were in charge everywhere, the northward spread of vernacular poetry is no matter for surprise. It is noteworthy that at first only the imperial, that is Ghibelline towns, like Pisa, Arezzo, Siena, Lucca and Florence, produced poets.
The story goes that the cultured youth of Bologna used frequently to visit King Enzio when he was imprisoned there. It is unlikely that Enzio made any secret of his poems, which he valued enough to mention in his will. Guido Guinizelli may well have been one of the visitors who will have heard them read. Enzio’s name is often quoted in relation to the poems of the notary, Semprebene of Bologna, one of the earliest vernacular poets of northern Italy, and who is also counted of the Sicilian school. A few other North Italians belong to the same school, aristocratic officials of the Emperor, who were closely in touch with the court. Arrigo Testa is one, a knight of Arezzo, who was frequently posted as podesta in imperial towns, and then spent some time in prison in Florence, where Frederick of Antioch lived when officiating as Vicar General of Tuscany. Frederick of Antioch was most exceptionally gifted, and his poems signed “Re Federigo” have often been confused with his father’s. Percival Doria, podesta in Avignon, and later in Parma under Frederick, was a Genoese. He was Captain of the March under Manfred till he was drowned on active service in one of Manfred’s campaigns. None of King Manfred’s songs have been preserved, though he was always surrounded by a horde of German “fiddlers” (in Tuscany they used to sing a song that ran: “Horses we get from Spain, and clothes from France, and here we sing and dance in Provençal style to new instruments from Germany”). The songs of his High Chamberlain have fared no better, Count Manfred Maletta, “who was great and powerful at the court of the king, rich and beloved of Manfred… who was the best (poet) and perfect in inventing canzones and melodies and had not his like in the world for
playing of stringed instruments.”
The town-bred jurists took a hand with the princely and knightly singers in this vernacular verse-making, the first courtly art which really united royalty, aristocracy and citizens. These lawyer poets were fewer in number than their princely rivals, but carried the more weight, for Piero della Vigna was one of the first to write songs in Sicilian. He may even have been the rallying point of the poetical school, and numbers of the younger poets exchanged poems with him. As he had not come into prominence much before the Crusade, and this verse-mongering belongs to his later period, it is not unlikely that he too owed his inspiration to the Emperor. Whether or not, he is one of the rare poets of Frederick’s own generation. In this, as in other matters, Frederick and della Vigna are closely bound together.
Through Piero della Vigna the new art spread to the jurists. They were intellectually the most highly trained, and linguistically the most expert men of their time, and the most qualified to make this new art their own and to carry it on, when after a time the knightly poets found no disciples in their own ranks. Thus poetry began in Italy to find its home in the towns, just as it had in Germany, where knightly Minnesang was succeeded by the burghers’ Meistersang, until at last it became wholly wooden and mechanical. The same danger existed in Italy. We have probably to thank the lawyers’ cultivated sense of style for the discovery of new strophe forms—Piero della Vigna is said to have constructed the first sonnet—but the increasing ossification and emaciation of poetry were due no less to their excessive learning. At last the barren waste of legal and philosophical versification that flooded northern and central Italy was forgotten in the “sweet new style” of Dante.
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