Petrarch, the Sun's chariot and the passing of time in a manuscript of the Triumphs

There were an Italian, a Frenchman and an Austrian

When I was young, before the European Union, there were many jokes that always began the same way: "There was a German, a Frenchman, and an Italian..."

Looking at the history of this manuscript of Petrarch's Triumphs, it almost makes you smile, because it seems to begin the same way. There's an Italian, Petrarch, who writes an allegorical work on the destiny of man. There's a French court culture that translates it, reworks it, and adorns it with images. There's Lorraine, with its dukes and refined libraries. There's Eugene of Savoy, a military leader and collector, a figure already European in his own right. There's Vienna, where the codex enters the imperial collections. And then comes Napoleon, who takes the manuscript to Paris, before it finally returns to Vienna.

It sounds like an old-fashioned joke, but it's actually a little European story.

And perhaps this is the codex's primary appeal: before even opening it, before even looking at its illuminations, the manuscript has already traveled. It has encountered courts, princes, collectors, emperors, wars, requisitions, and returns. A manuscript dedicated to the Triumphs has, in turn, had an almost triumphal and adventurous life.

A different Petrarch than the one we remember

For us Italians, Petrarch is above all the author of the Canzoniere.

He is the poet of Laura, of unpossessed love, of memory, of inner restlessness. He is the man who looks within himself and transforms desire into poetry. We remember him for his sonnets, for his inner conflict, for that very modern voice that still seems to speak today of the contradictions of the heart.

But Petrarch is not only this.

Alongside the lyrical, intimate, and amorous Petrarch, there exists another Petrarch: moral, allegorical, and visionary. He is the Petrarch of the Triumphs.

The Trionfi are a work less popular today than the Canzoniere, but extraordinary in its ambition.

Petrarch imagines a series of symbolic victories: Love triumphs over men, but is defeated by Chastity; Chastity is defeated by Death; Death by Fame; Fame by Time; and finally Time is overcome by Eternity.

It is a great moral procession. A theater of the soul. Every force seems invincible until it encounters something greater. Love dominates men, but virtue can conquer it. Death seems to destroy everything, but fame prolongs memory. Fame seems to save man from oblivion, but time eventually consumes even fame. Only eternity, in the end, can conquer time.

This structure lent itself magnificently to miniature painting. Triumphal chariots, historical figures, ancient heroes, famous lovers, philosophers, kings, leaders, biblical and mythological figures: everything could become an image. And that's exactly what happens in the magnificent manuscript now preserved at the Austrian National Library in Vienna, codex 2582.

A French, Lorraine and Viennese Petrarch

Codex 2582 is part of a pair of volumes dedicated to the Triumphs of Francesco Petrarca, preserved in Vienna. This isn't a Petrarch simply copied into Italian. This is a Petrarch who traveled, translated, adapted, and absorbed court culture.

The manuscript is linked to the work's French success. Tradition attributes the translation of the Triumphs to Simon Bougouyn, or Bourgoin, but the Viennese codex does not simply preserve that verse version: it contains a French prose version instead. This detail is important because it shows us that the work was not simply transcribed: it was interpreted.

The second volume, codex 2582, contains 66 large miniatures. The images are enclosed in architectural frames: columns, pilasters, architraves, tympanums, and gilded structures that transform each scene into a kind of miniature theater.

These miniatures are not simple illustrations. They do not simply show the allegorical floats of the Triumphs. They expand the narrative, develop episodes, and bring ancient history, mythology, the Bible, medieval memory, and the moral culture of the time onto the page.

The result is fascinating: the manuscript becomes a kind of visual encyclopedia of European memory.

The eventful history of the manuscript

Even the origin of the code seems to have come from a novel.

The manuscript belonged to the library of the Dukes of Lorraine. The commentary recalls the connection with René II of Lorraine and his successor Antoine; a 1544 inventory mentions two illustrated volumes by Petrarch, described as parchment books, handwritten, historiated, covered in purple velvet and adorned with gilded silver.

The codex then passed into the hands of Prince Eugene of Savoy. After his death, along with his collections, it entered the collections of Emperor Charles VI in 1738. From there, it reached the Vienna Library.

But the story doesn't end on the imperial shelves. In 1809, Napoleon brought the manuscript to Paris. Only after the fall of the Empire, between 1814 and 1815, did the codex return to Vienna.

That's why the image of the old joke works so well. There's Petrarch, an Italian. There's France, which translates and reinvents him. There's Lorraine, which safeguards him. There's Eugene of Savoy, who collects him. There's Imperial Austria, which acquires him. There's Napoleon, who takes him away. And there's Vienna, which welcomes him back.

Few manuscripts so effectively convey how European culture has always been a web of languages, travel, wars, libraries, dynastic ambitions, and unexpected returns.

Petrarch is not just the author: he enters the manuscript

One of the most beautiful features of this manuscript is that Petrarch is not only the author of the work.

Petrarch becomes part of the manuscript.

It's no longer just the voice that composed the Triumphs. It's a figure who enters the illuminated space, inhabits the images, observes the scenes, dreams, contemplates, and points. The book doesn't simply transmit Petrarch: it stages him. It transforms him into a character, almost a visual guide for the reader.

This choice creates a dual level of interpretation. On one side, there is the historical and literary Petrarch, the author of the work. On the other, there is the illuminated Petrarch, dressed in red, set within the landscape, called to witness the allegories he himself imagined.
Petrarch looks at what Petrarch wrote.

This is not a minor detail. In the Triumphs, the poetic experience is also a moral experience. The poet doesn't simply recount a sequence of allegories: he meditates on the meaning of life, love, death, fame, time, and eternity.

This is why Petrarch's presence in the miniatures is so intense. He is our conduit. We look at the scene through him. And, in some cases, we watch him look.

This is what happens in one of the most evocative images of the codex: sheet 231.

A sheet of paper to be read on both sides

To truly understand this miniature, it is not enough to look at the illustrated side of the sheet.

You have to turn it over.

Folio 231 recto features a page of text in French, introduced by the rubric "du temps": "of time." It's a seemingly less spectacular page than the miniature. There are no horses, no blue sky, no gilded frames. There's only the neat, dense writing, which sets the tone for the image.

Yet it is precisely here that the miniature finds its key.

The text discusses the Sun, the soul, the glorious body, and the fame of man. The Sun is presented as a powerful star: it moves across the sky, illuminates the world, and produces effects on material reality. But it is not the ultimate measure of things. The soul surpasses it. The glorious body surpasses it. Spiritual light is higher than physical light. The Sun produces material and corruptible effects; the soul produces spiritual effects: intellect, love, joy, possession, and enjoyment.

This page tells us something fundamental: the Sun is immense, but it is not absolute.

Thus, when on the back we see Petrarch pointing to the solar chariot, we better understand his gesture. He isn't simply pointing to a star. He's indicating the edge of the visible world. The Sun dominates the sky, but it also belongs to time. Even its course, however magnificent, is movement, succession, passage.

The front and back of the sheet interact with each other.

On the obverse is the thought: the Sun, the soul, fame, the superiority of the spiritual over the material.

On the back is the image: Petrarch, the earthly landscape, the chariot of the Sun, time running in the sky.

It's as if the manuscript functions in two stages. First it offers us meditation, then vision. First it tells us that the Sun alone is not enough to explain man's destiny; then it shows us Petrarch pointing to that Sun with an almost sly look, as if he has understood the mechanism and invites us to understand it too.

For this reason, the back is not at all secondary. It is the silent part that gives depth to the miniature. Without the text, we would only see a beautiful celestial scene. With the text, we understand that the chariot of the Sun is also a moral lesson: time passes, the material world is corruptible, human fame is fragile, but the soul belongs to a higher order.

The written page and the illuminated page are two sides of the same meditation.

On the one hand, the manuscript speaks. On the other, Petrarch indicates.

Sheet 231v: Petrarch in front of the chariot of the Sun

The miniature on folio 231 verso belongs to the Triumph of Time; the commentary identifies it as "Petrarch contemplates the chariot of the sun drawn by four horses".

The scene is seemingly simple.

Below, in a green, hilly landscape, Petrarch stands. He wears a long red robe trimmed with gold. Behind him rise rocks, trees, houses, and small buildings, a populated yet silent landscape. High in the sky, the chariot of the Sun races, drawn by four horses.

The sky is crossed by wavy clouds; the solar disk appears as a great burning presence.

But the strength of the image does not lie only in the Sun.

It is in Petrarch's face and gesture.

Petrarch points to the sun, but he doesn't seem surprised. He doesn't widen his eyes, he doesn't step back, he doesn't appear surprised by a miracle. His gaze is composed, intelligent, almost sly. There's something slightly amused in his expression, as if he's already grasped what we're still trying to understand.

It doesn't seem to say, "Look how wonderful it is."

It seems to say: "Be careful."

The finger pointing toward the Sun's chariot isn't just a descriptive gesture. It's a warning.

Petrarch does not point to the Sun to show us a celestial phenomenon, but to remind us of a deeper truth: time passes, and it passes for everyone.

It's as if he were saying, "See? He's running. And he's running for you too."

The Sun's Chariot: Movement, Not Astronomy

Looking at the miniature, a curious question arises: does the Sun's chariot pull the Sun, push it, accompany it?

From a symbolic perspective, perhaps the question shouldn't be answered mechanically. We're not looking at the technical drawing of a celestial vehicle, but rather at a poetic image. The chariot, the horses, and the solar disk all belong to the same visual idea: the path of the Sun across the sky.

The miniaturist deliberately creates dynamism. The horses advance in sequence, the chariot is offset to the right, the large luminous disk seems to be projected forward. The sky is vibrant, full of blue lines and waves. Everything suggests speed, movement, acceleration.

The chariot isn't meant to explain astronomy. It's meant to make us feel the passing of the days.

Above, the sky runs.

Below, Petrarch remains still.

The contrast is beautiful. The poet cannot stop the sun, cannot hold back the day, cannot stop time from flowing. But he can look at it, he can understand it, he can transform fleetingness into thought and thought into poetry.

The small building in the greenery

Below, almost hidden in the landscape, a small building can be seen among the greenery: a house, perhaps a small rural building or a country chapel. It doesn't appear, at least at first glance, to be identifiable with certainty as a historical site or specific event.

But its very apparent marginality is interesting.

That building represents the human world. It is small, quiet, immersed in nature. Near it are other houses, towers, walls, and buildings. They are signs of earthly life: dwelling, building, defending oneself, leaving traces. They are the things humans do to last.

But above all this runs the chariot of the Sun.

The small building in the greenery thus becomes a visual counterpoint. On one side, cosmic motion, on the other, the fragility of human constructions. On one side, the sky, on the other, the earth. On one side, the passing of time, on the other, what we would like to stop.

And in the middle there is Petrarch.

That raised finger

The most fascinating thing about the miniature is perhaps that raised finger.

With that gesture, Petrarch connects heaven and earth, the chariot of the Sun and the landscape, cosmic motion and the reader's life. He is within the miniature, but he also seems to turn outside the miniature, toward us.

In this sense, the poet is not just a character on the stage. He becomes a guide. His gesture permeates the page. He points to the Sun, of course; but in reality, he points to the human condition.

Almost ironically, Petrarch seems to remind us that we humans build houses, castles, libraries, collections, enterprises, memories; and meanwhile, above us, the chariot of the Sun continues its course, time passes inexorably.

His gaze isn't desperate. It's more intelligent than melancholic. It's the gaze of someone who knows the game of the world: everything that appears stable is actually temporary; everything that seems ours is slowly being taken away from us by time.

Yet this very awareness does not destroy him. On the contrary, it makes him more lucid. Petrarch cannot stop the sun, but he can point to it. He cannot conquer time with force, but he can understand it with poetry.

The passing of time and what remains

In "The Triumph of Time," Petrarch reflects on the fleeting nature of things and days. It's futile, the poet essentially says, to bind our hearts to what time consumes. The more we hold on to things, the more they slip away from us. Mortal life is short, and even fame, which seemed capable of conquering death, is ultimately swept away by time.

The Sun's chariot thus becomes the perfect image of the passing of time. Every day the Sun crosses the sky. Every day seems the same, yet every day takes something away from us. Its course is regular, luminous, magnificent; but precisely for this reason, it is inexorable.

And yet folio 231r had already prepared us for a more subtle conclusion. The Sun is great, but it is not everything. Physical light is not the final light. The mortal body passes away, fame can fade, the material world is corruptible; but the soul belongs to a higher dimension.

Here's the point: Time conquers earthly things, but it doesn't have the last word.

After the Triumph of Time comes the Triumph of Eternity. The miniature is not just a melancholy meditation on transience. It is also a threshold. Petrarch points to the Sun, but beyond the Sun he invites us to contemplate something the Sun cannot contain.

A small philosophical machine

This page is much more than a beautiful miniature image.

It's a small philosophical machine. It brings together the ancient myth of the solar chariot, the poetry of Petrarch, French court culture, medieval cosmology, Christian meditation on the soul, and a universal reflection on time.

Above is the Sun running.

Below is the human world which seems stable, but is not.

On the front there is the text that reasons.

On the back there is Petrarch pointing.

And then there are us, many centuries later, observing the same scene. We too see the sun pass every day. We too know that time does not stand still. We too build houses, libraries, businesses, memories, hoping that something will last.

Perhaps this is why this miniature still speaks to us. Not because it belongs to the past, but because it speaks of something that has never passed: our silent struggle with time.
The manuscript, after all, is material proof of this. It has passed through courts, wars, collections, empires, requisitions, and restitutions. It has seen dukes, princes, emperors, and Napoleon. They all have passed. The manuscript is still here.

And Petrarch, in his red robe, continues to point to the Sun.

Not with amazement, but with awareness.

With a barely perceptible smile, like someone who has known the truth for a long time and finally invites us to look at it, even in our catalog:

Discover the complete sheet and purchase your copy in the Antiquus catalogue.