BESSARION CARDINAL OF NICAEA, MONODY ON THE DEATH OF EMPEROR MANUEL PALAEOLOGUS
(Translated by Nicolaus Perottus, Archbishop of Siponto. Cf. Bzovius, Contin. Annal. Baron., ad an. 1472, n. LVI; the Greek exists in the Biblioteca Marciana, Venice, cod. 535.)
A If it is ever permissible to weep and to compose songs of sorrowful companionship, I do not see what time could be better suited to this than the present, in which everything that was of joy, gladness, and pleasure has been taken away and extinguished, and in its place has succeeded pain, sadness, and lamentation. What comfort can there now be for us further, what hope of better fortune, what remedy for such great unhappiness? Let the whole world now be shorn, let all change their garments, let all assume a mournful habit, and with one voice lament so signal a calamity. For we have not suffered a mediocre loss, nor have we endured an evil for which a remedy could be applied. Taken from us suddenly is the divine emperor, the glory of the whole world; who, by a certain gift of Providence, had taken up the helm of affairs so that he might provide tranquility, quiet, and happiness for all; so that he might be the common father of all; so that human affairs might flourish in dignity and glory. Now all fortune is changed: everything is slipping toward the worse, and things are returning to their former state. Wretched me! How great a loss have human affairs suffered by the death of one man! He has departed and passed from life: he has left us nothing but sighs, mourning, and tears. He has taken from us all gladness, he has taken away happiness, he has taken away liberty, and—what was the most beautiful thing of all—he has taken away himself. Alas, who is so constant, or rather so hard and truly adamant, who could refrain from tears; who is not moved in his soul and does not shudder in his entire body; who does not seek the departed, and with his groaning, if it were possible, strive to recall him to life? Why did you fly from us so suddenly, most pious emperor? Why did you not wish to remain with us longer? Why is the royal harmony of your virtues no longer permitted for us to enjoy? You have hitherto taken every care for us, and so that we might live safe and free from labor, you alone always strove most greatly. All peoples testify to this; all provinces testify; the whole earth and all the seas testify. Now, however, you have departed, taking all good things with you. How can life now be B or rather, how can we live at all without you, as bodies from which the head has been removed? We all seem dead already, and we have been reduced to nothing. O Sun, you who illuminate the works of the lands with your shining rays, alas! how unfortunate and unhappy a day you have caused to shine upon us! Alas! how bitter, unworthy, and miserable a spectacle you yourself have witnessed! It would have certainly been better for you, while wandering merely beneath the earth, to leave us in eternal darkness than to illuminate the upper regions with the splendor of your rays, so that our unhappy eyes might behold this tomb of the imperial body, which had so often endured such labors, such vigils, and such perils for our sake. O what rays did you emit while setting, what rays did you emit while rising again! The best emperor was seized by illness; his body was so worn and debilitated, not only by age but also by various labors, that all soon began to suspect what has happened, and so great a fear suddenly invaded the minds of all that nothing seemed more unworthy to be endured.
Alas! how many prayers, how many supplications, how many vows there were for his health, or rather for the safety of the whole world, of all kinds, ages, and ranks! There was no one who would rather live while he was dead than live while he was alive. Each one placed the emperor's safety before his own; they knew indeed that while their personal safety pertained to individual men, his safety was common to all mortals and to the whole world. For he supported the whole world as if it were some very firm column, and he did not allow it to be shaken, vexed, or overturned by any kind of storm; but by the equal tempering of all the virtues with which he was endowed, he governed it firm and stable in the midst. O by what arts, with what labor did he found the empire; with what virtue did he strengthen and stabilize liberty; with what clemency did he increase the fortunes of his people, their quiet, their happiness! C O the admirable virtues of an excellent prince, by which he surpassed everyone in all things—in prudence he conquered the strong, and in fortitude the prudent.
Monody on the Death of the Emperor Manuel Palaiologos
A Or, to speak more correctly, he surpassed those who were shrewd in counsel and strong in might. But in temperance, no one was his equal. In justice, he was held to be more eminent than all who have ever presided over the Roman Empire. Why should I commemorate his fidelity? Why his approachability? Why his genius? Why his excellent knowledge of all things? Why his liberality? Why his greatness of soul? Why his humanity, gentleness, and courtesy? Wretched me! I am so weakened by tears and grief that, on account of my excessive sorrow, I cannot report the excellence of his virtues. Of all these things we, the most unfortunate of men, are now deprived. Alas! How great a loss has not just one nation, nor the people of one city, but the entire race of Christians sustained at this present time! O miserable human condition! O vain hopes! O once-sweet name of empire! O liberty of the Greeks, so often desired and at last restored! O inviolable right and most holy laws! Have all things at last receded to this point? Alas! To what have we come? Alas! To what depths of misery and calamity have we been reduced? Now the senate mourns, the princes lament, all provinces complain, the cities weep, the municipalities wail, the colonies are desolate, homes are afflicted, and even the fields themselves seem to follow such a gentle, pious, and salutary prince with sighs, tears, and weeping. O time! Was it necessary to add this final disaster—the greatest and most ignominious of all we have ever suffered—to our previous evils? Was it necessary to obscure the fame and memory of all other evils with the magnitude of this last one? For whatever adversities happened to us before this, such as wars, conflicts, slaughter, pillage, and other things that usually follow from these, were amended for the better by that divine wisdom of the Emperor. But now, abandoned by him, to whom else can we turn, whom can we call upon, whose protection can we implore? We have arrived at the extremity of all evils. We have become as orphans bereft of a father, upon whom our whole life depended, and through whose assiduous labor we led the most pleasant lives free from all toil. Truly, it would be far better for us to die than to live in such calamity and misery. For as the poet says, to live miserably is a laborious thing. O great and intolerable pain, which has invaded all equally and left no one untouched; not man, nor woman, not youth, nor old age! O that mournful and least-desirable report which, spreading everywhere, roused all to the funeral of the most pious emperor! O most unhappy death of him upon whose life the salvation of the orb of the earth depended! O sighs, O tears, O sobs, O most bitter voices, O most bitter cries, O groanings, O weepings, O mourning of every sex, age, order, and condition! Some sought a master, others a father of the fatherland, others an emperor, others a patron, others a teacher, others a founder of justice and laws, but all sought him who, as he himself said, had become all things to all. O grave and harsh contention among those who were present! Each vied to appear superior in weeping. O the torrent of tears...
B The earth was carried along, drowned by that funeral flood, preceding the tombs of the nobles. But a multitude of citizens and foreigners flowed in from everywhere, filling the streets and filling the air and the heavens with piteous wailing. There was one voice for all, one cry, one groan. But he lay silent and dead, neither sensing what was being done nor understanding the cries of men. Nothing was seen but an empty corpse, and he was as completely destitute of all sense as if he had never been born, or had never ruled, or had not lived for so many years. Indeed, an account was demanded of him as to why he wished to leave us; the response was silence. O hated silence, so unlooked-for by us! Where is that tongue, so learned, so sweet, from which speech sweeter than honey used to flow, at whose movement all things seemed to thunder, whose richness opened up every question, solved every doubt, and who taught all things so truly, and so often roused his listeners, that he seemed not so much to persuade as to place the matter before their eyes, and not so much to inflame others as to be on fire himself? Whence now such sudden silence? Whence such sudden change? Could the cruelty of death overcome you also, O excellent emperor, whom the Atlantic sea saw in danger for our sake, whom Italy beheld, and the western nations that lie beyond Italy? To whom, when you had gone for the sake of seeking aid against the Barbarians, you were held in the greatest honor. From which we easily perceived that the strength of the empire is not contained in a multitude of money or number of troops, but in the virtue, moderation, and wisdom of the prince. O singular prudence, which the Latins—by nature and experience of many things the most prudent of men—were accustomed to admire in bewilderment, by which, applying the sinews of his own eloquence, he easily induced the Medes and Persians to take up arms against that impious emperor of the Turks, for which, after a short time had passed, having been defeated and routed, he paid the deserved penalties for his crimes. I am silent about how many times, without arms, by authority and prudence alone—which is the most beautiful kind of victory—he overcame enemies, and how, when the matter required it, he used arms as well, so that he was deservedly considered both most brave and most skilled in the art of war. How many cities, recently, how many towns—by status and the nature of their locations most fortified—did he receive back into the Peloponnese? C Did he not also add the greatest part of Thessaly to his empire? He was both strenuous in arms and provident in counsel; for he had Thucydides with him, and Xenophon, and whoever else was like them, whose counsel he used continuously; from which it happened that, as Homer says, he was both the best king and the bravest warrior, and, which we add, a most eloquent orator. But where are all these things now? Where are the applause, and the praises, and the commendations? Where is that ineffable pleasure of the peoples which they felt in the virtue, moderation, and clemency of the prince, to the point that, with him ruling the empire, they seemed to themselves to be most blessed? O supreme tranquility of things! While he labored for our sake, we enjoyed leisure. Who will now restore to us...
the emperor, who will restore the father, the patron, the defender, the master of our morals and of our life, the lord so beneficent and salutary? Let the Christian commonwealth now mourn, whose most splendid eye has been extinguished. Let the earth now begin its mournful song; the pillar has fallen by which it was accustomed to be supported. Let all now put on sackcloth and be sprinkled with ashes. This calamity has no remedy. Who will now hold the keys of so great an empire? Who will be able to hold the rudders of the whole world? O letters, weep for your cultivator! He has perished who raised you up as you lay in mud and filth and recalled you, as it were, from darkness to light; who pursued you with such love that neither public nor private business, nor cares or anxieties, nor any pleasure B nor sleep could distract him from your company. And just as he pursued you with incredible zeal and diligence, so he stirred up others to do the same; he exhorted not only the young, but even the old to discipline. From this it came to pass that many whose age was already advancing, moved by the example of the best emperor, applied themselves to the study of the best arts. For it is thus established by nature, that such as the princes are, such also do the subjects become; and just as things which princes abhor are an object of mockery for everyone, so those things which they honor are cultivated by everyone and held in esteem. O laws, O judges, O forum, O benches, O tribunals, weep for the lost prince who had granted you the right to possess these titles most justly on account of the administration of justice and equity. O citizens and nobles of the cities, mourn the emperor taken from you, who spoke with you of all matters with such ease and prudence! O poor, weep for the patron who protected, relieved, and fed you! O whatever blood of the Greeks there is anywhere, fill all things, as you are doing, with tears and sorrow, since you are deprived of your governor, who protected you from every assault and storm of fortune, and who often averted the threatening C whirlwinds of wars, now with arms and war, and now by his sole prudence and authority. For indeed, this was above all the property of the most wise emperor: to be ignorant of neither time, nor measure, nor the arts of war and peace. I believe that even his enemies and foes highly esteem him and mingle with us in such grave and bitter grief. The virtue of the prince conquered everyone, the power of which is so great that it is honored even by enemies. O Byzantium, Byzantium! most renowned light of all cities, ornament of the world, port of the shipwrecked, refuge of the wretched, fortress of all good things, what an emperor, endowed with such wisdom, piety, and clemency, have you had until now! You who restored to it its pristine liberty, dignity, fortunes, empire; who subdued to you your enemies accustomed to dominate; who gave laws of peace beyond everyone's hope. Alas! Into what tribulations have you now fallen! Unhappy city! You have lost that ornament and decoration which you had, the most beautiful of all. Where now is that golden hair of yours, where the aspect pleasing to all mortals? Alas, what hair D was yours, and with what virtues intertwined, which impious death has plucked away! What an eye it took, what a head it severed, and left you half-dead and half-living, or rather, altogether dead and motionless! Alas! How wide and how spacious a field of tears and grief it has proposed for you, least of all desirable to you. Nevertheless, so it has happened, and you suffer these things; for what can you do, when God so commands? We, your children, stand here now, having put on a miserable habit, and beginning a mournful song. O varied and manifold discourses in his mind, placed, as it were, in a venerable inn, and flowing thence as if from a most abundant fountain! They truly extolled faith, piety, and religion; they adorned temples, sacrifices, and feast days; others disputed about virtue and morals; some inveighed against vices; most discourses treated of what should be done and what avoided, with incredible ease, splendor, and grace. Witnesses are his books that still exist, bearing witness to his supreme learning, singular intellect, and divine wisdom, although it was far better for us, unhappy that we are, to admire him living and speaking, than to conjecture about his life, virtue, and morals from his writings after his ashes. All have certainly suffered a great loss, but we especially, who, being still adolescents, have lost such a man before we could almost know him. We were not permitted to hear him often as he prayed, not to return applause when he spoke, not to offer him the first fruits of our intellect, such as they might be, before he departed from life. But now, wretched and unhappy that I am, I am forced to offer the first fruits of grief, tears, and mourning. Alas! Into what times have we been reserved, what a bitter struggle, envious death, have you proposed for us! O disaster greater than all disasters which have ever been! How shall we be able to live any longer! How carry this unhappy soul, however little of life may remain, in such great grief and sorrow! Where now is that royal eye for us, always vigilant, which sleep could never conquer, the subduer of all things, as Homer says? He used to watch whole nights, either meditating on something or reading; he consumed his days in discourses and business. Most excellent emperor! How can you endure such great leisure under this bitter stone, you who, having wings, as it were, were accustomed to fly around the whole world? How can you bear such lasting silence, whose speech, like the song of the Sirens, used to soothe the ears of men, and like a magnet, always drew iron wherever it wished? But you have indeed departed, and called to better dwellings have migrated to heaven, where you had prepared for yourself an everlasting seat by faith, religion, and virtue. But why have you left us in such grief and sorrow and tears? Why, departing, did you not call us all? For it would have been more convenient to die with you than to live without you!