Exil und Heimatferne in der Literatur des Humanismus von Petrarca bis zum Anfang des 16. Jahrhunderts
a Graecus, and as he was producing writings in both languages and seeking prominence in more literary genres than anybody else, the issue whether it was possible to equal, let alone surpass the ancients, is answered by Filelfo by producing his own versatile oeuvre, not by settling any quarrel about Latin and volgare.17
Only once, in a letter sent to Lorenzo de’ Medici on 29 May 1473 (PhE·37.02), does Filelfo briefly mention Boccaccio, along with Guido Cavalcanti, Guido Guinizelli, Dante, Petrarch, and Cecco d’Ascoli. While he is praising all these writers, the context is one in which Filelfo adamantly denies that the ancient Romans could ever have spoken anything like “this vulgar language which is now used all over Italy,” for if they did, there would be traces of it, that is, “poetry or prose writings such have been produced in a most learned and elegant way by the writers of our times, and which will never be erased from human memory.” Therefore, the modern-day vernacular has nothing whatsoever in common with the language used in Cicero’s times.18
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While it might thus be doubted that Filelfo had an interest in Italian vernacular literature great enough to see him really engaging in literary imitatio and aemulatio with it, the presentation of the Chrysoloras anecdote as a gathering of friends leaving Florence during a plague epidemic, within the whole narrative concept of a ten-day frame story, must almost inevitably have summoned a recollection of the Decameron in the mind of Filelfo’s readers. A more interesting parallel, though, beyond the decadal formalism, is in my opinion the immediate cause of the escape to the countryside. The plague that is driving away both Boccaccio’s bunch in the Decameron and Chrysoloras with Palla from Florence, has a metaphoric counterpart in the Commentationes as a whole. When describing how the aristocrats’ exile came about, Filelfo relates how the imminent fall of the aristocratic republic in Florence was first avoided by the noble class, who “resolved to come to the rescue of the failing state and quench the crisis as if it were a public plague (et eam veluti publicam pestem extinguere) by the moderate punishment of a single individual. Therefore, they banned for ten years to the Veneto the hottest spark and instigator of all those fires, Cosimo de’ Medici, son of Giovanni, without bloodshed, torture, proscription, or loss besides” (1, 8). Yet after Cosimo had been banned, Filelfo continues, “without warning that clever and crafty old fox, Cosimo de’ Medici – that deceiver, poisoner, and blasphemer, than whom no one, in my opinion, is more dangerous or criminal or more skilled at every kind of villainy and evil – when he met with his kindred spirit Giovanni Vitelleschi, who, as patriarch of Alexandria and likewise cardinal, condottiere or rather monstrous beast (atrocissima belua) in the service of Pope Eugenius, just now suffered due punishment – Cosimo de’ Medici, I say, that unholy criminal, relying not so much on the daring and strength as the deceit and intrigue of the aforementioned Giovanni Vitelleschi, whom he easily bribed, once again roused, kindled, and raised the deadly fires of civil feuds (pestiferos civilium bellorum ignis), strife, sedition and war that by now were slumbering and practically snuffed out, and he cast the state into such woes that by now it is all but enslaved, nay, it is manifestly enslaved, as you see” (1, 11).
Halfway through the first book, when describing the fatal danger of riches without virtue, Filelfo cites the telling example of Cosimo de’ Medici: “There is no need for us to recall for this purpose the examples of our ancestors. In this very city of ours we have seen many [examples of riches without virtue] at various times, but in our time we have the greatest example of all in Cosimo de’ Medici, who, through the power of the money he has procured and continues to procure for himself by all manner of outrage and crime, has inflicted upon the republic innumerable disasters, conflagrations, and plagues (quantas pestes)! Were he stripped of his money, he would have done no harm, and not only would he have been able to do no harm, but perhaps he would not even have desired to do so. For when he understood that his efforts would be in vain, he would clearly have preferred to follow reason rather than impulse so as to take better care of himself and his interests (rationem quam libidinem sequi, quo rectius rebus suis sibique consuleret)” (1, 99).
The same opinion about the risks of riches without virtue is expressed in a passage in book 3, where Filelfo points out that Jesus Christ possessed nothing on earth and taught us that the kingdom of heaven belongs to the poor, while hell is the destiny of the rich: “It is worthwhile for us to be poor in our spirit but rich in the Spirit of God if we should wish to achieve true blessedness. It is appropriate for us to be poor in all those matters by which we are provoked to destructive emotions, which are like savage beasts in the body (quibus in pestiferas animi permotiones quasi efferatas corporis beluas irritamur). No one doubts that the riches of the world are among them, since they draw people into other diseases of base appetite, but especially into pride” (3, 96).
Although the comment is generic, it is not far-fetched to consider it an echo of the criticism of the immensely rich Cosimo: in both passages the allegation is that those following the savage beasts that are their raging emotions, and of their greed in particular, rather than reason, are suffering a disease, a plague that makes it impossible for them to be virtuous persons.
Apart from conveying the plague image as a symbol for the pernicious role of Cosimo de’ Medici and his confederates, Filelfo also uses it for depicting the condition humaine and our relegation to this earthly prison in general. He evokes it when describing the ordeals of life – the fear of which, however, is nothing else than a self-inflicted punishment. “For the mind, being subject to pain and pleasure, fear and desire, is afflicted day and night as if by some savage inner demons (intimis quibusdam et efferatis beluis). For even if the mind were to alleviate its diseases (eas pestes) somewhat with the pharmacopeia of reason, yet it can never be rid of its torments altogether; for as long as it is housed in the body, it can never be free of the passions it receives from the body” (1, 189).
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The associatively layered imagery of Florence suffering the plague called Cosimo, who himself, as an extremely rich man, falls inevitably victim to the plague of his virtue-inhibiting emotions, is a recurring theme in Filelfo’s letter collection as well.19
Filelfo himself had to flee in exile from Florence, but in the year before the political turmoil that made him do so came about, on 1 May 1433, when they were still on speaking terms, Filelfo wrote one of his three letters to Cosimo de’ Medici himself. While the letter (PhE·02.42) mainly concerns the troubles which Filelfo’s rivals Niccolò Niccoli and Carlo Marsuppini were causing him, there is a quite interesting passage where Filelfo moves from a reference to an actual plague epidemic that made Cosimo and his family take refuge in Verona to an elaborate metaphorical use of the plague imagery. Filelfo wishes that the plague would have been locked up in the city of Florence, which would then have contained its “pestiferous poison”. Yet that is not how things went: Cosimo was followed by two men whose souls are “more pestiferous than any plague,” Niccolò Niccoli and Carlo Marsuppini, who infected Cosimo himself with their “pestiferous disease” and so to speak put a spell on him, so that they had Cosimo in their power, which made him comply with whatever those two flatterers and scoundrels wanted him to do.20
The second and last letter (PhE·02.31) to Niccolò Niccoli that was included in the epistolarium is dated to a few weeks earlier, to wit 13 April 1433. Filelfo urges Niccoli to drop his unfounded accusations and agitation against him and he accuses Niccoli of “considering it an honour to manage to ban all good and learned men from Florence” and of “being proud of having chased Manuel Chrysoloras and kicked out Guarino and Giovanni Aurispa, leaving only Filelfo to be shortly exiled or harmed.”21
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Not long afterwards, Filelfo was indeed forced to leave Florence. He describes his motivations for moving in two letters sent from Siena, where he first took refuge: on 28 February 1436 to Giuliano Cesarini (PhE·02.66), declining the cardinal’s invitation for him to act as interpreter at the Ecclesiastical Council if it were held in Basel or anywhere else outside Italy. “However, if the possibility exists that the council will take place in Italy, I will follow your advice and accept your kind offer, provided that it is safe for me to attend. For Florence I must avoid like the plague (Florentia mihi non secus vitanda est quam