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CHAPTER VIII.

ASCENT OF MONT VENTOUX.

It is impossible, within the limits of this little volume, to include the variety of details suggested by these letters, amounting to nearly 500 in number, for 183 additional letters are now added to the collection by the researches of Signor Fracassetti; for in truth, almost all we know of the true character and life of Petrarch is comprised in them. I shall select from them at least one complete specimen of those familiar narratives of his life at Vaucluse, which is, I think, of peculiar charm and interest.

The Mons Ventosus, as it was called in Petrarch's language, better known as the Mont Ventoux, is a mountain about 7000 feet in height, situated to the northeast of Avignon, and at no great distance from Vaucluse. It is visible all over the country, and as the modern railway traveller passes swiftly down the valley of the Rhone, the blanched rocks of old Ventoux still frown across the plain. This mountain Petrarch resolved to ascend. On the 26th April 1335 he made the expedition; and on his return he sent the following vivid de

scription of it to his spiritual adviser, Father Denis di Borgo San Sepolcro :1

"I have this day ascended the highest mountain in this district, which is very deservedly called Le Ventoux, for the sake of seeing the remarkable altitude of the place. I have cherished this project for many years. You know that from my boyhood, whilst fate has been disposing of the affairs of men, I have been passing my time here. This mountain, which is visible from a great distance, was always before my eyes, but it was long before I could find any one to accompany me, till I opened the matter to my only younger brother, whom you know; and as he was delighted at my proposal, so I was pleased to have a friend and a brother for my companion. On the appointed day we left home, and we got to Malaucène in the evening.2 This place is at the foot of the mountain towards the north. We stayed there one day, and this morning we started, with some servants, on our ascent, which we did not complete without much difficulty, for the mountain is extremely steep, and an almost inaccessible mass of rock. The poet, however, says rightly, 'Labor omnia vincit improbus.' The day was long, the air

1 No two men could be more unlike, divided as they were by five centuries of time, and by a chasm of opinions wider than the centuries, than Francis Petrarch and John Stuart Mill. Yet a singular chance led them both to choose a retreat nearly at the same spot, within a short distance of Avignon. Mill, who was a great pedestrian and botanist, must have explored every part of the country once so familiar to Petrarch, including probably the Mont Ventoux ; and what is still more remarkable, both of them were attached to the place by an enthusiastic and undying attachment to the memory of a woman passionately beloved, invested with all the glories of an ideal worship, and buried at Avignon. It would be curious to know if Mill had read Petrarch's letters, which in some outward circumstances bear a resemblance to the incidents of his own life.

2 Malaucène is a town of about 2700 inhabitants (at the present time), situated at the foot of Le Ventoux, and upon the river Grausel.

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balmy, we were supported by the vigour of our minds, and such bodily strength and, activity as we possess, so that the nature of the place was the only obstacle. We met with an old shepherd in one of the dells of the mountain, who did all he could to dissuade us from our attempt, telling us that some fifty years before he had been invited to go to the summit by the ardour of youth, that he had got nothing by it but discouragement and fatigue, and that his body as well as his cloak were torn by the rocks and brambles; he added that he never heard of any similar enterprise being undertaken either before or since. Whilst he was vociferating all this, our desire to proceed (for thus it is with the incredulous minds of young men) increased with the objections he made. When the old man perceived that all his remarks were vain, he accompanied us a little way amongst the rocks, and pointed out a made path, giving us at the same time a vast deal of good advice, and making repeated signs to us after we were gone. We threw off such of our garments as might have embarrassed us, and began the ascent with great vigour and gaiety. But, as usually happens, fatigue very soon follows great efforts. We soon sat down upon a rock, whence we again started at a more moderate pace, I more especially lessened my mountaineering enthusiasm, and whilst my brother was seeking for short cuts over the steepest parts of the mountain, I more warily kept below, and when he pointed out the path to me, I answered that I hoped to find an easier access, and that I willingly went round in order to advance on more level ground. But whilst I was alleging this excuse for my laziness, the others got far above me, and I was wandering in the gullies of the mountain, where my path was far from being easier, so that the way was lengthened, and my useless labour became more and more irksome. As it was too late to repent of my error, I determined to go straight up, and I at last rejoined my brother, whom I had lost from sight, and who had been quietly resting on a rock, after much toil and anxiety, so that we again started together. The same thing, however, happened again and again in a few hours, and I began to find that human ingenuity was not a match for the

nature of things, and that it was impossible to gain heights by moving downwards. Passing, however, with the readiness of thought from corporeal to incorporeal things, I could not help apostrophising myself in the following words: The very thing which has happened to thee in the ascent of this mountain, happens to thee and to many of those who seek to arrive at final beatitude, though it is less evident, because the motions of the body are palpable and open, those of the mind are invisible and concealed. The life of the blest is indeed set on a high place, strait is the path which leads to it, many are the hills which intervene, and the pilgrim must advance with great strides from virtue to virtue. Lofty is the end of all things, the termination of life, to which our peregrination tends. We all wish to arrive thither, but, as Naso has it—

'Velle parum est, cupias ut re potiaris oportet.'

But thou, certainly, unless in this as in many things thou art self-deceived not only wishest, but deservest. What, then, retains thee? nothing, indeed, but the apparent ease and advantage of that path which lies through earthly and low pleasures, wherein when thou hast gone astray, thou must either mount straight to the summit under all the weight of thy misspent toil, or thou must lie thee down in the trenched valleys of thy sins to be haunted by the shadows and darkness of death, and to pass an eternal night in perpetual torture. This reflection seemed to reanimate my sinking vigour, and enabled me to complete my ascent. I only wish that I may accomplish that journey of the soul, for which I daily and nightly sigh, as well as I have done this day's journey of the feet, after having overcome so many difficulties. And I do not know whether that pilgrimage, which is performed by an active and immortal soul, in the twinkling of an eye, without any local motion, be not easier than that which is carried on in a body worn out by the attacks of death and of decay, and laden with the weight of heavy members.

"The highest peak of all is called 'Le petit-fils,' by a sort of antiphrasis, for it seems rather to be the father of all the mountains in the neighbourhood. There is a little plot upon

REFLECTIONS ON MONT VENTOUX.

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the summit, where we were all very glad to sit down. Since, father, thou hast read of all the perils of our ascent, vouchsafe to listen to the rest, and to the remaining occurrences of this one day of my life. At first, I was so affected by the unaccustomed spirit of the air, and by the free prospect, that I stood as one stupefied. I look back; clouds were beneath my feet. I began to understand Athos and Olympus, since I found that what I heard and read of them was true of a mountain of far less celebrity. I turn my eyes to that Italian region to which my soul most inclines, and the great rugged Alps (through which, we are told, that the greatest enemy of Rome made his way with vinegar), seemed quite close to me, though they really were at a great distance. I confess that I sighed for that Italian air, more sensible to the soul than to the eyes, and an intense longing came upon me, to behold my friends and my country once more. Then a new reflection arose in my mind, I passed from place to time. I recollected that on this day ten years had elapsed since I terminated my youthful studies in Bologna, and, O immortal God, O immutable Wisdom, how many changes has that interval witnessed! . . . I wished to recollect my past uncleanness, and the carnal corruptions of my soul, not because I love them, but because I love Thee, O my God. . . . Whilst I was rejoicing in my heart, father, at my advancement in years, I wept over my imperfections, I mourned the common mutability of human actions, I forgot the place I was in and the reason of my coming thither, till, deferring my meditations to a fitter opportunity, I looked about to discern that which I came to see. The frontier of France, and the Pyrenees of Spain were not to be descried (though nothing, that I know of, intervened) by reason of the impotence of mortal sight. But I could very clearly see the mountains about Lyons on the right, and on the left the Bay of Marseilles, which is distant some days' journey. The Rhone flowed beneath our eyes. But whilst I was admiring so many individual objects of the earth, and that my soul rose to lofty contemplations, by the example of the body, it occurred to me that I would look into the book of Augustine's 'Confessions,' which I owe

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