Opera postuma

It seems incredible that twelve volumes of medical works written in Morgagni's own handwriting should have been completely lost to sight until 1952, when Professor Adalberto Pazni, combing through the catalogues in the Laurenziana Library in Florence for the names of medieval doctors, should have discovered them by chance. How they came to be there is a story full of interest, a detective story told by Pazzini with verve. The manuscripts had passed through various private libraries in Italy until, in 1842, they were sent, as part of the property of a Veronese nobleman, for sale in Paris. Through this sale the manuscripts came into the hands of the famous bibliophile and thief, Guglielmo Libri, who later, to save his skin, fled to London and disposed of his collection to Lord Ashburnham, the British Museum and the University of Turin having declined to buy it. When Lord Ashburnham died and his son, to pay off his debts, sold the entire library to the Laurenziana, the interest of scholars was focused on the incomparable riches of its medieval section, the illuminated antiphonaries, the Books ofHours, the copies of Vergil, Tacitus, Boethius, and so on, whilst the medical manuscripts hardly merited a glance. So it was that the autographs of Morgagni's published writings and several volumes of his commentaries on Galen, Avicenna, and Hippocrates lay unnoticed for the best part of a century. Not least among the treasures to be found in these volumes are the four autobiographies, which finally close the door to all the errors, myths, and exaggerations which have slipped into previous accounts of his life. From a psychological point of view these autobiographies, written in the third person, are a revelation. Readers will surely be astonished at their patent egoism, their tone of self-aggrandizement, and their open assumption of superiority. He revelled in his successes, whether in the lecture hall, his medical practice, or in his writings. He positively wallowed in the recognition given to his talents by other scholars and meticulously noted down all the references made to his books in the works of other writers. Every page number, where his name or ideas were mentioned, was scrupulously listed with something akin to glee. Yet he was, in his way, very modest and candid, the proof lying in the fact that he seldom gave offence to others. He was always affable, courteous in manner, dignified, and ever ready to listen to the opinions of those less talented than himself. On the other hand, his aloofness towards his own family was, to say the least, disconcerting. All his eight daughters were put into convents at the early age of five and left there to follow the religious life until they died. The same fate was reserved for his second son, though he made a concession to his eldest boy, who was allowed to marry in order to preserve the family name. His reaction to bereavements was equally unfeeling. After the funeral of one of his fifteen children he went straight home and gave a lecture to his students in his house. When his wife died and he