The Best of the World's Classics, Restricted to Prose, Vol. VII (of X)—Continental Europe I
by unknown · English · Gutenberg #24563 · 404,646 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Best of the World's Classics, Restricted to Prose, Vol. VII (of X)—Continental Europe I
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Best of the World's Classics, Restricted to Prose, Vol. VII (of X)—Continental Europe I
Editor: Henry Cabot Lodge
Francis W. Halsey
Release date: February 9, 2008 [eBook #24563]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24563
Credits: E-text prepared by Joseph R. Hauser, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEST OF THE WORLD'S CLASSICS, RESTRICTED TO PROSE, VOL. VII (OF X)—CONTINENTAL EUROPE I ***
E-text prepared by Joseph R. Hauser, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 24563-h.htm or 24563-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/5/6/24563/24563-h/24563-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/5/6/24563/24563-h.zip)
THE BEST
_of the_
WORLD'S CLASSICS
RESTRICTED TO PROSE
HENRY CABOT LODGE
Editor-in-Chief
FRANCIS W. HALSEY
Associate Editor
With an Introduction, Biographical and Explanatory Notes, etc.
In Ten Volumes
Vol. VII
CONTINENTAL EUROPE--I
[Illustration: RABELAIS, VOLTAIRE, HUGO, MONTAIGNE]
Funk & Wagnalls Company
New York and London
Copyright, 1909, by
Funk & Wagnalls Company
The Best of the World's Classics
VOL. VII
CONTINENTAL EUROPE--I
CONTENTS
VOL. VII--CONTINENTAL EUROPE--I
EARLY CONTINENTAL WRITERS
354--1380
ST. AURELIUS AUGUSTINE--(Born in Numidia, Africa, in 354; died in 430.)
Imperial Power for Good and Bad Men.
(From Book IV, Chapter III, of "De Civitate Dei")
ANICIUS BOETHIUS--(Born about 475, died about 524.)
The Highest Happiness.
(From "The Consolations of Philosophy." Translated by Alfred the
Great)
ST. THOMAS AQUINAS--(Born near Aquino, Italy, probably in 1225; died in
1274.)
A Definition of Happiness.
(From the "Ethics")
THOMAS À KEMPIS--(Born in Rhenish Prussia about 1380, died in the
Netherlands in 1471.)
Of Eternal Life and of Striving for It.
(From "The Imitation of Christ")
FRANCE
Twelfth Century--1885
GEOFFREY DE VILLE-HARDOUIN--(Born between 1150 and 1165; died in 1212.)
The Sack of Constantinople.
(From "The Chronicles." Translated by Eric Arthur Bell)
JEAN DE JOINVILLE--(Born in 1224, died in 1317.)
Greek Fire in Battle.
(From "The Memoirs of Louis IX, King of France." Translated by Thomas
Johnes)
"AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE."
(A French romance of the 12th Century, the author's name unknown)
JEAN FROISSART--(Born in 1337, died in 1410.)
The Battle of Crécy (1346).
(From the "Chronicles." Translated by Thomas Johnes)
PHILIPPE DE COMINES--(Born in France about 1445, died in 1511.)
Of the Character of Louis XI
(From the "Memoirs." Translated by Andrew R. Scoble)
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME--(Born in 1492, died in 1549.)
Of Husbands Who Are Unfaithful.
(From the "Heptameron")
FRANÇOIS RABELAIS--(Born in 1495, died in 1553.)
I Gargantua in His Childhood.
(From "The Inestimable Life of the Great Gargantua." Translated by
Urquhart and Motteux)
II Gargantua's Education.
(From "The Inestimable Life of the Great Gargantua." Translated by
Urquhart and Motteux)
III Of the Founding of an Ideal Abbey.
(From "The Inestimable Life of the Great Gargantua." Translated by
Urquhart and Motteux)
JOHN CALVIN--(Born in 1509, died in 1564.)
Of Freedom for the Will.
(From the "Institutes")
JOACHIM DU BELLAY--(Born about 1524, died in 1560.)
Why Old French Was Not as Rich as Greek and Latin.
(From the "Défense et Illustration de la Langue Françoise."
Translated by Eric Arthur Bell)
MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE--(Born in 1533, died in 1592.)
I A Word to His Readers.
(From the preface to the "Essays." Translated by John Florio)
II Of Society and Solitude.
(From the essay entitled "Of Three Commerces." The Cotton translation,
revised by W. C. Hazlitt)
III Of His Own Library.
(From the essay entitled "Of Three Commerces." The Cotton translation,
revised by W. C. Hazlitt)
IV That the Soul Discharges Her Passions upon False Objects Where
True Ones Are Wanting.
(From the essay with that title. The Cotton translation)
V That Men Are Not to Judge of Our Happiness Till After Death.
(From the essay with that title. The Cotton translation)
RENÉ DESCARTES--(Born in 1596, died in 1650.)
Of Material Things and of the Existence of God.
(From the "Meditations." Translated by John Veitch)
DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD--(Born in France in 1613, died in 1680.)
Selections from the "Maxims."
(Translated by Willis Bund and Hain Friswell)
BLAISE PASCAL--(Born in 1623, died in 1662.)
Of the Prevalence of Self-Love.
(From the "Thoughts." Translated by C. Kegan Paul)
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ--(Born in Paris in 1626, died in 1696.)
I Great News from Paris.
(From a letter dated Paris, December 15, 1670)
II An Imposing Funeral Described.
(From a letter to her daughter, dated Paris, May 6,1672)
ALAIN RENÉ LE SAGE--(Born in 1668, died in 1747.)
I In the Service of Dr. Sangrado.
(From "Gil Blas." Translated by Tobias Smollett)
II As an Archbishop's Favorite.
(From "Gil Blas." Translated by Tobias Smollett)
DUC DE SAINT-SIMON--(Born in 1675, died in 1755.)
I The Death of the Dauphin.
(From the "Memoirs." Translated by Bayle St. John)
II The Public Watching the King and Madame.
(From the "Memoirs." Translated by Bayle St. John)
BARON DE MONTESQUIEU--(Born in 1689, died in 1755.)
I Of the Causes Which Destroyed Rome.
(From the "Grandeur and Decadence of the Romans")
II Of the Relation of Laws to Human Beings.
(From the "Spirit of Laws." Translated by Thomas Nugent)
FRANÇOIS AROUET VOLTAIRE--(Born in Paris in 1694, died in 1778.)
I Of Bacon's Greatness.
(From the "Letters on England")
II England's Regard for Men of Letters.
(From the "Letters on England")
JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU--(Born in 1712, died in 1778.)
I Of Christ and Socrates
II Of the Management of Children.
(From the "New Héloïse")
MADAME DE STAËL--(Born in 1763, died in 1817.)
Of Napoleon Bonaparte.
(From "Considerations on the French Revolution")
VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND--(Born in 1768, died in 1848.)
In an American Forest.
(From the "Historical Essay on Revolutions")
FRANÇOIS GUIZOT--(Born in 1787, died in 1874.)
Shakespeare as an Example of Civilization.
(From "Shakespeare and His Times")
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE--(Born in 1790, died in 1869.)
Of Mirabeau's Origin and Place in History.
(From Book I of the "History of the Girondists."
Translated by T. Ryde)
LOUIS ADOLPH THIERS--(Born in 1797, died in 1877.)
The Burning of Moscow.
(From the "History of the Consulate and the Empire")
HONORÉ DE BALZAC--(Born in 1799, died in 1850.)
I The Death of Père Goriot.
(From the concluding chapter of "Père Goriot." Translated by Helen
Marriàge)
II Birotteau's Early Married Life.
(From "The Rise and Fall of César Birotteau." Translated by
Helen Marriàge)
ALFRED DE VIGNY--(Born in 1799, died in 1863.)
Richelieu's Way with His Master.
(From "Cinq-Mars; or, The Conspiracy under Louis XIII." Translated by
William C. Hazlitt)
VICTOR HUGO--(Born in France in 1802, died in 1885.)
I The Battle of Waterloo.
(From Chapter XV of "Cosette," in "Les Misérables." Translated
by Lascelles Wraxall)
II The Beginnings and Expansions of Paris.
(From Book III, Chapter II, of "Notre-Dame de Paris")
ALEXANDER DUMAS--(Born in 1802, died in 1870.)
The Shoulder, the Belt and the Handkerchief.
(From "The Three Musketeers")
GEORGE SAND--(Born in 1804, died in 1876.)
Lélia and the Poet.
(From "Lélia")
EARLY CONTINENTAL WRITERS
354 A.D.--1471 A.D.
ST. AURELIUS AUGUSTINE
Born in Numidia, Africa, in 354 A.D., died in 430; educated
at Carthage; taught rhetoric at Carthage; removed to Rome in
383; going thence to Milan in 384, where he became a friend
of St. Ambrose; converted from Manicheanism to Christianity
by his mother Monica, and baptized by St. Ambrose in 387;
made Bishop of Hippo in North Africa in 395; became a
champion of orthodoxy and the most celebrated of the fathers
of the Latin branch of the Church; his "Confessions"
published in 397.
IMPERIAL POWER FOR GOOD AND BAD MEN[1]
Let us examine the nature of the spaciousness and continuance of
empire, for which men give their gods such great thanks; to whom also
they exhibited plays (that were so filthy both in actors and the
action) without any offense of honesty. But, first, I would make a
little inquiry, seeing you can not show such estates to be anyway
happy, as are in continual wars, being still in terror, trouble, and
guilt of shedding human blood, tho it be their foes; what reason then
or what wisdom shall any man show in glorying in the largeness of
empire, all their joy being but as a glass, bright and brittle, and
evermore in fear and danger of breaking? To dive the deeper into this
matter, let us not give the sails of our souls to every air of human
breath, nor suffer our understanding's eye to be smoked up with the
fumes of vain words, concerning kingdoms, provinces, nations, or so.
No, let us take two men, let us imagine the one to be poor, or but of
a mean estate, the other potent and wealthy; but withal, let my
wealthy man take with him fears, sorrows, covetousness, suspicion,
disquiet, contentions,--let these be the books for him to hold in the
augmentation of his estate, and with all the increase of those cares,
together with his estate; and let my poor man take with him,
sufficiency with little, love of kindred, neighbors, friends, joyous
peace, peaceful religion, soundness of body, sincereness of heart,
abstinence of diet, chastity of carriage, and security of conscience.
[Footnote 1: From "De Civitate Dei," Book IV, Chapter III, published
in 426. This work, "as Englisshed" by J. Healey, was published is
1610.]
Where should a man find any one so sottish as would make a doubt which
of these to prefer in his choice? Well, then, even as we have done
with these two men, so let us do with two families, two nations, or
two kingdoms. Lay them both to the line of equity; which done, and
duly considered, when it is done, here doth vanity lie bare to the
view, and there shines felicity. Wherefore it is more convenient that
such as fear and follow the law of the true God should have the
swaying of such empires; not so much for themselves, their piety and
their honesty (God's admired gifts) will suffice them, both to the
enjoying of true felicity in this life and the attaining of that
eternal and true felicity in the next. So that here upon earth, the
rule and regality that is given to the good man does not return him so
much good as it does to those that are under this his rule and
regality. But, contrariwise, the government of the wicked harms
themselves far more than their subjects, for it gives themselves the
greater liberty to exercise their lusts; but for their subjects, they
have none but their own iniquities to answer for; for what injury
soever the unrighteous master does to the righteous servant, it is no
scourge for his guilt, but a trial of his virtue. And therefore he
that is good is free, tho he be a slave; and he that is evil, a slave
tho he be king. Nor is he slave to one man, but that which is worst of
all, unto as many masters as he affects vices; according to the
Scriptures, speaking thus hereof: "Of whatsoever a man is overcome, to
that he is in bondage."
ANICIUS BOETHIUS
Born in Rome about 475, died about 524; consul in 510 and
magister officiorum in the court of Theodoric the Goth; put
to death by Theodoric without trial on the charge of treason
and magic; his famous work "De Consolatione Philosophiæ"
probably written while in prison in Pavia; parts of that
work translated by Alfred the Great and Chaucer; secured
much influence for the works of Aristotle by his
translations and commentaries.
THE HIGHEST HAPPINESS[2]
When Wisdom had sung this lay he ceased the song and was silent a
while. Then he began to think deeply in his mind's thought, and spoke
thus: Every mortal man troubles himself with various and manifold
anxieties, and yet all desire, through various paths, to come to one
end; that is, they desire, by different means, to arrive at one
happiness; that is, to know God! He is the beginning and the end of
every good, and He is the highest happiness.
[Footnote 2: From "The Consolations of Philosophy." The translation of
Alfred the Great, modernized. Boethius is not usually classed as a
Roman author, altho Gibbon said of him that he was "the last Roman
whom Cato or Cicero could have recognized as his countryman." Chaucer
made a translation of Boethius, which was printed by Caxton. John
Walton made a version in 1410, which was printed at a monastery in
1525. Another early version made by George Coluile was published in
1556. Several others appeared in the sixteenth century.]
Then said the Mind: This, methinks, must be the highest good, so that
man should need no other good, nor moreover be solicitous beyond
that--since he possesses that which is the roof of all other goods;
for it includes all other goods, and has all of them within it. It
would not be the highest good if any good were external to it, because
it would then have to desire some good which itself had not.
Then answered Reason, and said: It is very evident that this is the
highest happiness, for it is both the roof and floor of all good. What
is that, then, but the best happiness, which gathers the other
felicities all within it, and includes, and holds them within it; and
to it there is a deficiency of none, neither has it need of any; but
they all come from it, and again all return to it; as all waters come
from the sea, and again all come to the sea? There is none in the
little fountain which does not seek the sea, and again, from the sea
it arrives at the earth, and so it flows gradually through the earth,
till it again comes to the same fountain that it before flowed from,
and so again to the sea.
Now this is an example of the true goods which all mortal men desire
to obtain, tho they by various ways think to arrive at them. For every
man has natural good in himself, because every man desires to obtain
the true good; but it is hindered by the transitory goods, because it
is more prone thereto. For some men think that it is the best
happiness that a man be so rich that he have need of nothing more; and
they choose life accordingly. Some men think that this is the highest
good, that he be among his fellows the most honorable of his fellows,
and they with all energy seek this. Some think that the supreme good
is in the highest power. These desire, either for themselves to rule,
or else to associate themselves in friendship with their rulers. Some
persuade themselves that it is the best that a man be illustrious and
celebrated, and have good fame; they therefore seek this both in peace
and in war. Many reckon it for the greatest good and for the greatest
happiness, that a man be always blithe in this present life, and
fulfil all his lusts. Some, indeed, who desire these riches, are
desirous thereof, because they would have the greater power, that they
may the more securely enjoy these worldly lusts, and also the riches.
Many there are of those who desire power because they would gather
overmuch money; or, again, they are desirous to spread the celebrity
of their name.
On account of such and other like frail and perishable advantages, the
thought of every human mind is troubled with solicitude and with
anxiety. It then imagines that it has obtained some exalted goods when
it has won the flattery of the people; and methinks that it has bought
a very false greatness. Some with much anxiety seek wives, that
thereby they may, above all things, have children, and also live
happily. True friends, then, I say, are the most precious things of
all these worldly felicities. They are not, indeed, to be reckoned as
worldly goods, but as divine; for deceitful fortune does not produce
them, but God, who naturally formed them as relations. For of every
other thing in this world man is desirous, either that he may through
it attain to power, or else some worldly lust; except of the true
friend, whom he loves sometimes for affection and for fidelity, tho
he expect to himself no other rewards. Nature joins and cements
friends together with inseparable love. But with these worldly goods,
and with this present wealth, men make oftener enemies than friends.
By these and by many such things it may be evident to all men that all
the bodily goods are inferior to the faculties of the soul.
We indeed think that a man is the stronger because he is great in his
body. The fairness, moreover, and the vigor of the body, rejoices and
delights the man, and health makes him cheerful. In all these bodily
felicities, men seek simple happiness, as it seems to them. For
whatsoever every man chiefly loves above all other things, that he
persuades himself is best for him, and that is his highest good. When,
therefore, he has acquired that, he imagines that he may be very
happy. I do not deny that these goods and this happiness are the
highest good of this present life. For every man considers that thing
best which he chiefly loves above other things; and therefore he
persuades himself that he is very happy if he can obtain what he then
most desires. Is not now clearly enough shown to thee the form of the
false goods, that is, then, possessions, dignity, and power, and
glory, and pleasure? Concerning pleasure Epicurus the philosopher
said, when he inquired concerning all those other goods which we
before mentioned; then said he that pleasure was the highest good,
because all the other goods which we before mentioned gratify the mind
and delight it, but pleasure alone chiefly gratifies the body.
But we will still speak concerning the nature of men, and concerning
their pursuits. Tho, then, their mind and their nature be now dimmed,
and they are by that fall sunk down to evil, and thither inclined, yet
they are desirous, so far as they can and may, of the highest good. As
a drunken man knows that he should go to his house and to his rest,
and yet is not able to find the way thither, so is it also with the
mind when it is weighed down by the anxieties of this world. It is
sometimes intoxicated and misled by them, so far that it can not
rightly find out good. Nor yet does it appear to those men that they
at all err, who are desirous to obtain this, that they need labor
after nothing more. But they think that they are able to collect
together all these goods, so that none may be excluded from the
number. They therefore know no other good than the collecting of all
the most precious things into their power that they may have need of
nothing besides them. But there is no one that has not need of some
addition, except God alone. He has of His own enough, nor has He need
of anything but that which He has in Himself.
Dost thou think, however, that they foolishly imagine that that thing
is best deserving of all estimation which they may consider most
desirable? No, no. I know that it is not to be despised. How can that
be evil which the mind of every man considers to be good, and strives
after, and desires to obtain? No, it is not evil; it is the highest
good. Why is not power to be reckoned one of the highest goods of this
present life? Is that to be esteemed vain and useless which is the
most useful of all those worldly things, that is, power? Is good fame
and renown to be accounted nothing? No, no. It is not fit that any
one account it nothing; for every man thinks that best which he most
loves. Do we not know that no anxiety, or difficulties, or trouble, or
pain, or sorrow, is happiness? What more, then, need we say about
these felicities? Does not every man know what they are, and also know
that they are the highest good? And yet almost every man seeks in very
little things the best felicities; because he thinks that he may have
them all if he have that which he then chiefly wishes to obtain. This
is, then, what they chiefly wish to obtain, wealth, and dignity, and
authority, and this world's glory, and ostentation, and worldly lust.
Of all this they are desirous because they think that, through these
things, they may obtain: that there be not to them a deficiency of
anything wished; neither of dignity, nor of power, nor of renown, nor
of bliss. They wish for all this, and they do well that they desire
it, tho they seek it variously. By these things we may clearly
perceive that every man is desirous of this, that, he may obtain the
highest good, if they were able to discover it, or knew how to seek it
rightly. But they do not seek it in the most right way. It is not of
this world.
ST. THOMAS AQUINAS
Born near Aquino, Italy, probably in 1225, died in 1274;
entered the Dominican order; studied at Cologne under
Albertus Magnus; taught at Cologne, Paris, Rome and Bologna;
his chief work the "Summa Theologiæ"; his complete writings
collected in 1787.
A DEFINITION OF HAPPINESS[3]
The word end has two meanings. In one meaning it stands for the thing
itself which we desire to gain: thus the miser's end is money. In
another meaning it stands for the near attainment, or possession, or
use, or enjoyment of the thing desired, as if one should say that the
possession of money is the miser's end, or the enjoyment of something
pleasant the end of the sensualist. In the first meaning of the word,
therefore, the end of man is the Uncreated Good, namely God, who alone
of His infinite goodness can perfectly satisfy the will of man. But
according to the second meaning, the last end of man is something
created, existing in himself, which is nothing else than the
attainment or enjoyment of the last end. Now the last end is called
happiness. If therefore the happiness of a man is considered in its
cause or object, in that way it is something uncreated; but if it is
considered in essence, in that way happiness is a created thing.
[Footnote 3: From the "Ethics." The complete works of Aquinas were
published in 1787; but a new and notable edition was compiled in 1883
under the intimate patronage of Pope Leo XIII, to whom is given credit
for a modern revival of interest in his writings.]
Happiness is said to be the sovereign good of man, because it is the
attainment or enjoyment of the sovereign good. So far as the happiness
of man is something created, existing in the man himself, we must say
that the happiness of man is an act. For happiness is the last
perfection of man. But everything is perfect so far as it is in act;
for potentiality without actuality is imperfect. Happiness, therefore,
must consist in the last and crowning act of man. But it is manifest
that activity is the last and crowning act of an active being; whence
also it is called by the philosopher "the second act." And hence it is
that each thing is said to be for the sake of its activity. It needs
must be therefore that the happiness of man is a certain activity.
Life has two meanings. One way it means the very being of the living,
and in that way happiness is not life; for of God alone can it be said
that His own being is His happiness. In another way life is taken to
mean the activity on the part of the living thing by which activity
the principle of life is reduced to act. Thus we speak of an active or
contemplative life, or of a life of pleasure; and in this way the last
end is called life everlasting, as is clear from the text: "This is
life everlasting, that they know Thee, the only true God."
By the definition of Boethius, that happiness is "a state made perfect
by the aggregate sum of all things good," nothing else is meant than
that the happy man is in a state of perfect good. But Aristotle has
exprest the proper essence of happiness, showing by what it is that
man is constituted in such a state, namely, by a certain activity.
Action is two-fold. There is one variety that proceeds from the agent
to exterior matter, as the action of cutting and burning, and such an
activity can not be happiness, for such activity is not an act and
perfection of the agent, but rather of the patient. There is another
action immanent, or remaining in the agent himself, as feeling,
understanding, and willing. Such action is a perfection and act of the
agent, and an activity of this sort may possibly be happiness.
Since happiness means some manner of final perfection, happiness must
have different meanings according to the different grades of
perfection that there are attainable by different beings capable of
happiness. In God is happiness by essence, because His very being is
His activity, because He does not enjoy any other thing than Himself.
In the angels final perfection is by way of a certain activity,
whereby they are united to the uncreated good; and this activity is in
them one and everlasting. In men, in the state of the present life,
final perfection is by way of an activity whereby they are united to
God. But this activity can not be everlasting or continuous, and by
consequence it is not one, because an act is multiplied by
interruption; and, therefore, in this state of the present life,
perfect happiness is not to be had by man.
Hence the philosopher, placing the happiness of man in this life, says
that it is imperfect, and after much discussion he comes to this
conclusion: "We call them happy, so far as happiness can be
predicated of men." But we have a promise from God of perfect
happiness, when we shall be "like the angels in heaven." As regards
this perfect happiness, the objection drops, because in this state of
happiness the mind of man is united to God by one continuous and
everlasting activity. But in the present life, so far as we fall short
of the unity and continuity of such an activity, so much do we lose of
the perfection of happiness. There is, however, granted us a certain
participation in happiness, and the more continuous and undivided the
activity can be the more will it come up to the idea of happiness. And
therefore in the active life, which is busied with many things, there
is less of the essence of happiness than in the contemplative life,
which is busy with the one occupation of the contemplation of truth.
THOMAS À KEMPIS
Born in Rhenish Prussia about 1380, died in the Netherlands
in 1471; his real name Thomas Hammerken; entered an
Augustinian convent near Zwolle in 1407; became sub-prior of
the convent in 1423 and again in 1447; generally accepted as
the author of "The Imitation of Christ."
OF ETERNAL LIFE AND OF STRIVING FOR IT[4]
Son, when thou perceivest the desire of eternal bliss to be infused
into thee from above, and thou wouldst fain go out of the tabernacle
of this body, that thou mightest contemplate My brightness without any
shadow of change--enlarge thy heart, and receive this holy inspiration
with thy whole desire.
[Footnote 4: From "The Imitation of Christ." Altho commonly ascribed
to Thomas à Kempis, there has been much controversy as to the real
authorship of this famous work. Many early editions bear the name of
Thomas, including one of the year 1471, which is sometimes thought to
be the first. As against his authorship it is contended that he was a
professional copyist, and that the use of his name in the first
edition conformed to a custom that belonged more to a transcriber than
to an author. One of the earliest English versions of Thomas à Kempis
was made by Wyllyam Atkynson and printed by Wykyns de Worde in 1502. A
translation by Edward Hake appeared in 1567. Many other early English
editions are known.]
Return the greatest thanks to the Supreme Goodness, which dealeth so
condescendingly with thee, mercifully visiteth thee, ardently inciteth
thee, and powerfully raiseth thee up, lest by thy own weight thou
fall down to the things of earth.
For it is not by thy own thoughtfulness or endeavor that thou
receivest this, but by the mere condescension of heavenly grace and
divine regard; that so thou mayest advance in virtues and greater
humility, and prepare thyself for future conflicts, and labor with the
whole affection of thy heart to keep close to Me, and serve Me with a
fervent will.
Son, the fire often burneth, but the flame ascendeth not without
smoke.
And so the desires of some are on fire after heavenly things, and yet
they are not free from the temptation of carnal affection.
Therefore is it not altogether purely for God's honor that they act,
when they so earnestly petition Him.
Such also is oftentimes thy desire, which thou hast profest to be so
importunate.
For that is not pure and perfect which, is alloyed with self-interest.
Ask not that which is pleasant and convenient, but that which is
acceptable to Me and My honor; for if thou judgest rightly, thou
oughtest to prefer and to follow My appointment rather than thine own
desire or any other desirable thing.
I know thy desire, and I have often heard thy groanings.
Thou wouldst wish to be already in the liberty of the glory of the
children of God.
Now doth the eternal dwelling, and the heavenly country full of
festivity, delight thee.
But that hour is not yet come; for there is yet another time, a time
of war, a time of labor and of probation.
Thou desirest to be filled with the Sovereign Good, but thou canst not
at present attain to it.
I am He: wait for Me, saith the Lord, until the kingdom of God come.
Thou hast yet to be tried upon earth and exercised in many things.
Consolation shall sometimes be given thee, but abundant satiety shall
not be granted thee.
Take courage, therefore, and be valiant, as well in doing as in
suffering things repugnant to nature.
Thou must put on the new man, and be changed into another person.
That which thou wouldst not, thou must oftentimes do; and that which
thou wouldst, thou must leave undone.
What pleaseth others shall prosper, what is pleasing to thee shall not
succeed.
What others say shall be harkened to; what thou sayest shall be
reckoned as naught.
Others shall ask, and shall receive; thou shalt ask, and not obtain.
Others shall be great in the esteem of men; about thee nothing shall
be said.
To others this or that shall be committed; but thou shalt be accounted
as of no use.
At this nature will sometimes repine, and it will be a great matter if
thou bear it with silence.
In these, and many such-like things, the faithful servant of the Lord
is wont to be tried how far he can deny and break himself in all
things.
There is scarce anything in which thou standest so much in need of
dying to thyself as in seeing and suffering things that are contrary
to thy will, and more especially when those things are commanded which
seem to thee inconvenient and of little use.
And because, being under authority, thou darest not resist the higher
power, therefore it seemeth to thee hard to walk at the beck of
another, and wholly to give up thy own opinion.
But consider, son, the fruit of these labors, their speedy
termination, and their reward exceeding great; and thou wilt not hence
derive affliction, but the most strengthening consolation in thy
suffering.
For in regard to that little of thy will which thou now willingly
forsakest, thou shalt forever have thy will in heaven.
For there thou shalt find all that thou willest, all that thou canst
desire.
There shall be to thee the possession of every good, without fear of
losing it.
There thy will, always one with Me, shall not covet any extraneous or
private thing. There no one shall resist thee, no one complain of
thee, no one obstruct thee, nothing shall stand in thy way; but every
desirable good shall be present at the same moment, shall replenish
all thy affections and satiate them to the full.
There I will give thee glory for the contumely thou hast suffered; a
garment of praise for thy sorrow; and for having been seated here in
the lowest place, the throne of My kingdom forever.
There will the fruit of obedience appear, there will the labor of
penance rejoice, and humble subjection shall be gloriously crowned.
Now, therefore, bow thyself down humbly under the hands of all, and
heed not who it was that said or commanded this.
But let it be thy great care, that whether thy superior or inferior or
equal require anything of thee, or hint at anything, thou take all in
good part, and labor with a sincere will to perform it.
Let one seek this, another that; let this man glory in this thing,
another in that, and be praised a thousand thousand times: but thou,
for thy part, rejoice neither in this nor in that, but in the contempt
of thyself, and in My good pleasure and honor alone.
This is what thou hast to wish for, that whether in life or in death,
God may be always glorified in thee.
FRANCE
TWELFTH CENTURY--1885
GEOFFREY DE VILLE-HARDOUIN
Born between 1150 and 1165, died in 1212; marshal of
Champagne in 1191; joined the Crusade in 1199 under
Theobault III; negotiated successfully with Venice for the
transfer of the Crusaders by sea to the Holy Land; followed
the Crusade and chronicled all its events from 1198 to 1207.
THE SACK OF CONSTANTINOPLE[5]
(1204)
This night passed and the day came which was Thursday morning (13
April, 1204), and then every one in the camp armed themselves, the
knights and the soldiers, and each one joined his battle corps. The
Marquis of Montferrat advanced toward the palace of Bucoleon; and
having occupied it, determined to spare the lives of all those he
found therein. There were found there women of the highest rank, and
of the most honorable character; the sister of the King of France who
had been an empress; and the sister of the King of Hungary, and other
women of quality. Of the treasure that there was in the palace, I can
not speak; for there was so much that it was without end or measure.
Besides this palace which was surrendered to the Marquis Boniface of
Montferrat, that of Blachem was surrendered to Henry, brother of Count
Baldwin of Flanders.
[Footnote 5: From the "Chronicles." This work is important; first, as
a record, generally accepted as eminently trustworthy, and second, for
its literary excellence, in which sense it has been held in peculiar
esteem. George Saintsbury remarks that those chronicles "are by
universal consent among the most attractive works of the Middle Ages."
They comprize one of the oldest extant examples of French prose. The
passage here given was translated for this collection from the old
French by Eric Arthur Bell. A translation by T. Smith was published in
1829.
This sack of Constantinople followed what is known as the Latin
Conquest. More than thirty sieges of the city have occurred. After the
conquest here referred to Constantinople was occupied by the Latins.
It was finally wrested from them by Michael Palæologus. The conquest
of 1204 was achieved during the Fourth Crusade. By Latin Conquest is
meant a conquest by Western Christians as against its long-time Greek
rulers. This conquest was also inspired by the commercial ambition of
the Venetians, who had long coveted what were believed to be the
fabulous riches of the city. The Latin Empire survived for fifty-six
years in a state of almost constant weakness. The conquest had no
direct relation to the original purpose of the Crusades, which was the
recovery of Jerusalem from the hands of the infidels.]
The booty that was found here was so great that it can only be
compared to that which was found in Bucoleon.[6] Each soldier filled
the room that was assigned to him with plunder and had the treasure
guarded; and the others who were scattered through the city also had
their share of spoil. And the booty obtained was so great that it is
impossible for me to estimate it,--gold and silver and plate and
precious stones,--rich altar cloths and vestments of silk and robes of
ermine, and treasure that had been buried under the ground. And truly
doth testify Geoffrey of Ville-Hardouin, Marshal of Champagne, when he
says that never in the whole of history had a city yielded so much
plunder. Every man took as much as he could carry, and there was
enough for every one.
[Footnote 6: One of the districts into which the city was divided.]
Thus fared the Crusaders and the Venetians, and so great was the joy
and the honor of the victory that God had given them, that those who
had been in poverty were rich and living in luxury. Thus was passed
Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday in the honor and joy which God had
granted them. And they had good cause to be grateful to our Lord, for
they had no more than twenty thousand armed men among them all, and by
the grace of God they had captured four hundred thousand or more, and
that in the strongest city in the world (that is to say, city of any
size), and the best fortified.
Then it was announced throughout the whole army by the Marquis
Boniface of Montferrat, who was head of the army, and by the barons
and the Doge of Venice, that all the booty should be collected and
assessed under pain of excommunication. And the places were chosen in
three churches; and they put over them as guards French and Venetians,
the most loyal that they could find, and then each man began to bring
his booty and put it together. Some acted uprightly and others not,
for covetousness which is the root of all evil, prevented them; but
the covetous began from this moment to keep things back and our Lord
began to like them less. Oh God, how loyally they had behaved up to
that moment, and the Lord God had shown them that in everything He had
honored and favored them above all other people, and now the righteous
began to suffer for the wicked.
The plunder and the booty were collected; and you must know that it
was not all equally divided, for there were a number of those who
retained a share in spite of the dread of Papal excommunication.
Whatever was brought to the churches was collected and divided between
the French and Venetians equally as had been arranged. And you must
know that the Crusaders, when they had divided, paid on their part
fifty thousand marks of silver to the Venetians, and as for themselves
they divided a good hundred thousand among their own people. And do
you know how it was divided? Each horseman received double the share
of a foot soldier, and each knight double the share of a horseman. And
you must know that never did a man, either through his rank and
prowess receive anything more than had been arranged, unless it was
stolen.
As for the thefts, those who were convicted of guilt, you must know
were dealt with summarily and there were enough people hung. The Count
of St. Paul hung one of his knights with his horse collar round his
neck, because he had kept something back, and there were a number who
kept things back, much and little, but this is not known for certain.
You may be assured that the booty was great, for not counting what was
stolen and the share that fell to the Venetians, a good four hundred
thousand marks of silver were brought back, and as many as ten
thousand animals of one kind and another. The plunder of
Constantinople was divided thus as you have heard.
JEAN DE JOINVILLE
Born about 1224; died in 1317; attended Louis IX in the
Seventh Crusade, spending six years in the East; his
"Memoirs of Louis IX," presented by him in 1309 to the great
grandson of Louis, and first published in 1547.
GREEK FIRE IN BATTLE[7]
Not long after this, the chief of the Turks, before named, crost with
his army into the island that lies between the Rexi and Damietta
branches, where our army was encamped, and formed a line of battle,
extending from one bank of the river to the other. The Count d'Anjou,
who was on the spot, attacked the Turks, and defeated them so
completely that they took to flight, and numbers were drowned in each
of the branches of the Nile.
[Footnote 7: From the "Memoirs of Louis IX, King of France," commonly
called St. Louis. The passage here given is from Joinville's account
of a battle between Christians and Saracens, fought near the Damietta
branch of the Nile in 1240. Mr. Saintsbury remarks that Joinville's
work "is one of the most circumstantial records we have of medieval
life and thought." It was translated by Thomas Johnes, of Hafod, and
is now printed in Bohn's library.]
A large body, however, kept their ground, whom we dared not attack, on
account of their numerous machines, by which they did us great injury
with the divers things cast from them. During the attack on the Turks
by the Count d'Anjou, the Count Guy de Ferrois, who was in his company
galloped through the Turkish force, attended by his knights, until
they came to another battalion of Saracens, where they performed
wonders. But at last he was thrown to the ground with a broken leg,
and was led back by two of his knights, supporting him by the arms.
You must know there was difficulty in withdrawing the Count d'Anjou
from this attack, wherein he was frequently in the utmost danger, and
was ever after greatly honored for it.
Another large body of Turks made an attack on the Count de Poitiers
and me; but be assured they were very well received, and served in
like manner. It was well for them that they found their way back by
which they had come; but they left behind great numbers of slain. We
returned safely to our camp scarcely having lost any of our men.
One night the Turks brought forward an engine, called by them La
Perriere, a terrible engine to do mischief, and placed it opposite to
the chas-chateils, which Sir Walter De Curel and I were guarding by
night. From this engine they flung such quantities of Greek fire, that
it was the most horrible sight ever witnessed. When my companion, the
good Sir Walter, saw this shower of fire, he cried out, "Gentlemen, we
are all lost without remedy; for should they set fire to our
chas-chateils we must be burnt; and if we quit our post we are for
ever dishonored; from which I conclude, that no one can possibly save
us from this peril but God, our benignant Creator; I therefore advise
all of you, whenever they throw any of this Greek fire, to cast
yourselves on your hands and knees, and cry for mercy to our Lord, in
whom alone resides all power."
As soon, therefore, as the Turks threw their fires, we flung ourselves
on our hands and knees, as the wise man had advised; and this time
they fell between our two cats into a hole in front, which our people
had made to extinguish them; and they were instantly put out by a man
appointed for that purpose. This Greek fire, in appearance, was like a
large tun, and its tail was of the length of a long spear; the noise
which it made was like to thunder; and it seemed a great dragon of
fire flying through the air, giving so great a light with its flame,
that we saw in our camp as clearly as in broad day. Thrice this night
did they throw the fire from La Perriere, and four times from
cross-bows.
Each time that our good King St. Louis heard them make these
discharges of fire, he cast himself on the ground, and with extended
arms and eyes turned to the heavens, cried with a loud voice to our
Lord, and shedding heavy tears, said "Good Lord God Jesus Christ,
preserve thou me, and all my people"; and believe me, his sincere
prayers were of great service to us. At every time the fire fell near
us, he sent one of his knights to know how we were, and if the fire
had hurt us. One of the discharges from the Turks fell beside a
chas-chateil, guarded by the men of the Lord Courtenay, struck the
bank of the river in front, and ran on the ground toward them, burning
with flame. One of the knights of this guard instantly came to me,
crying out, "Help us, my lord, or we are burnt; for there is a long
train of Greek fire, which the Saracens have discharged, that is
running straight for our castle."
AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE
"Aucassin and Nicolette" is the title of a French romance of
the thirteenth century, the name of the author being
unknown. The only extant manuscript of the story is
preserved in the National Library of France. Several
translations into English are well known, among them those
by Augustus R. MacDonough, F. W. Bourdillon and Andrew Lang.
How the Count Bougart of Valence made war on Count Garin of
Beaucaire,--war so great, so marvelous, and so mortal that never a day
dawned but always he was there, by the gates and walls and barriers of
the town, with a hundred knights, and ten thousand men-at-arms,
horsemen and footmen: so burned he the count's land, and spoiled his
country, and slew his men. Now, the Count Garin de Beaucaire was old
and frail, and his good days were gone over. No heir had he, neither
son nor daughter, save one young man only; such an one as I shall tell
you. Aucassin was the name of the damoiseau: fair was he, goodly, and
great, and featly fashioned of his body and limbs. His hair was
yellow, in little curls, his eyes blue-gray and laughing, his face
beautiful and shapely, his nose high and well set, and so richly seen
was he in all things good, that in him was none evil at all. But so
suddenly was he overtaken of Love, who is a great master, that he
would not, of his will, be a knight, nor take arms, nor follow
tourneys, nor do whatsoever him beseemed. Therefore his father and
mother said to him:
"Son, go take thine arms, mount thine horse, and hold thy land, and
help thy men, for if they see thee among them, more stoutly will they
keep in battle their lives and lands, and thine and mine."
"Father," answered Aucassin, "what are you saying now? Never may God
give me aught of my desire, if I be a knight, or mount my horse, or
face stour and battle wherein knights smite and are smitten again,
unless thou give me Nicolette, my true love, that I love so well."
"Son," said the father, "this may not be. Let Nicolette go. A
slave-girl is she, out of a strange land, and the viscount of this
town bought her of the Saracens, and carried her hither, and hath
reared her and had her christened, and made her his god-daughter, and
one day will find a young man for her, to win her bread honorably.
Herein hast thou naught to make nor mend; but if a wife thou wilt
have, I will give thee the daughter of a king, or a count. There is no
man so rich in France, but if thou desire his daughter, thou shall
have her."
"Faith! my father," said Aucassin, "tell me where is the place so high
in all the world, that Nicolette, my sweet lady and love, would not
grace it well? If she were Empress of Constantinople or of Germany, or
Queen of France or England, it were little enough for her; so gentle
is she and courteous, and debonnaire, and compact of all good
qualities."
When Count Garin de Beaucaire knew that he would not avail to withdraw
Aucassin, his son, from the love of Nicolette, he went to the viscount
of the city, who was his man, and spake to him saying: "Sir Count:
away with Nicolette, thy daughter in God; curst be the land whence she
was brought into this country, for by reason of her do I lose
Aucassin, that will neither be a knight, nor do aught of the things
that fall to him to be done. And wit ye well," he said, "that if I
might have her at my will, I would turn her in a fire, and yourself
might well be sore adread."
"Sir," said the viscount, "this is grievous to me that he comes and
goes and hath speech with her. I had bought the maid at mine own
charges, and nourished her, and baptized, and made her my daughter in
God. Yea, I would have given her to a young man that should win her
bread honorably. With this had Aucassin, thy son, naught to make or
mend. But sith it is thy will and thy pleasure, I will send her into
that land and that country where never will he see her with his eyes."
"Have a heed to thyself," said the Count Garin: "thence might great
evil come on thee."
So parted they each from the other. Now the viscount was a right rich
man: so had he a rich palace with a garden in face of it; in an upper
chamber thereof he had Nicolette placed, with one old woman to keep
her company, and in that chamber put bread and meat and wine and such,
things as were needful. Then he had the door sealed, that none might
come in or go forth, save that there was one window, over against the
garden, and quite strait, through which came to them a little air....
Aucassin was cast into prison as ye have heard tell, and Nicolette, of
her part, was in the chamber. Now it was summer-time, the month of
May, when days are warm, and long, and clear, and the nights still and
serene. Nicolette lay one night on her bed, and saw the moon shine
clear through a window, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden,
and she minded her of Aucassin her friend, whom she loved so well.
Then fell she to thoughts of Count Garin of Beaucaire, that he hated
her to death; and therefore deemed she that there she would no longer
abide, for that, if she were told of, and the count knew where she
lay, an ill death he would make her die. She saw that the old woman
was sleeping, who held her company. Then she arose, and clad her in a
mantle of silk she had by her, very goodly, and took sheets of the bed
and towels and knotted one to the other, and made therewith a cord as
long as she might, and knotted it to a pillar in the window, and let
herself slip down into the garden; then caught up her raiment in both
hands, behind and before, and kilted up her kirtle, because of the dew
that she saw lying deep on the grass, and so went on her way down
through the garden.
Her locks were yellow and curled, her eyes blue-gray and smiling, her
face featly fashioned, the nose high and fairly set, the lips more red
than cherry or rose in time of summer, her teeth white and small; and
her breasts so firm that they bore up the folds of her bodice as they
had been two walnuts; so slim was she in the waist that your two hands
might have clipt her; and the daisy flowers that brake beneath her as
she went tiptoe, and that bent above her instep, seemed black against
her feet and ankles, so white was the maiden. She came to the
postern-gate, and unbarred it, and went out through the streets of
Beaucaire, keeping always on the shadowy side, for the moon was
shining right clear, and so wandered she till she came to the tower
where her lover lay. The tower was flanked with pillars, and she
cowered under one of them, wrapt in her mantle. Then thrust she her
head through a crevice of the tower, that was old and worn, and heard
Aucassin, who was weeping within, and making dole and lament for the
sweet friend he loved so well. And when she had listened to him some
time she began to speak....
When Aucassin heard Nicolette say that she would pass into a far
country, he was all in wrath.
"Fair, sweet friend," quoth he, "thou shalt not go, for then wouldst
thou be my death. And the first man that saw thee and had the might
withal, would take thee straightway into his bed to be his leman. And
once thou camest into a man's bed, and that bed not mine, wit ye well
that I would not tarry till I had found a knife to pierce my heart and
slay myself. Nay, verily, wait so long I would not; but would hurl
myself so far as I might see a wall, or a black stone, and I would
dash my head against it so mightily that the eyes would start and my
brain burst. Rather would I die even such a death than know that thou
hadst lain in a man's bed, and that bed not mine."
"Aucassin," she said, "I trow thou lovest me not as much as thou
sayest, but I love thee more than thou lovest me."
"Ah, fair, sweet friend," said Aucassin, "it may not be that thou
shouldest love me even as I love thee. Woman may not love man as man
loves woman; for a woman's love lies in her eye, and the bud of her
breast, and her foot's tiptoe, but the love of a man is in his heart
planted, whence it can never issue forth and pass away."
Now when Aucassin and Nicolette were holding this parley together, the
town's watchmen were coming down a street, with swords drawn beneath
their cloaks, for Count Garin had charged them that if they could take
her, they should slay her. But the sentinel that was on the tower saw
them coming, and heard them speaking of Nicolette as they went, and
threatening to slay her.
"God," quoth he, "this were great pity to slay so fair a maid! Right
great charity it were if I could say aught to her, and they perceive
it not, and she should be on her guard against them, for if they slay
her, then were Aucassin, my damoiseau, dead, and that were great
pity."...
Aucassin fared through the forest from path to path after Nicolette,
and his horse bare him furiously. Think ye not that the thorns him
spared, nor the briers, nay, not so, but tare his raiment, that scarce
a knot might be tied with the soundest part thereof, and the blood
spurted from his arms, and flanks, and legs, in forty places, or
thirty, so that behind the Childe men might follow on the track of his
blood in the grass. But so much he went in thoughts of Nicolette, his
lady sweet, that he felt no pain nor torment, and all the day hurled
through the forest in this fashion nor heard no word of her. And when
he saw vespers draw nigh, he began to weep for that he found her not.
All down an old road, and grass-grown, he fared, when anon, looking
along the way before him, he saw such an one as I shall tell you. Tall
was he, and great of growth, ugly and hideous: his head huge, and
blacker than charcoal, and more than the breadth of a hand between his
two eyes; and he had great cheeks, and a big nose and flat, big
nostrils and wide, and thick lips redder than steak, and great teeth
yellow and ugly, and he was shod with hosen and shoon of ox-hide,
bound with cords of bark up over the knee, and all about him a great
cloak two-fold; and he leaned upon a grievous cudgel, and Aucassin
came unto him, and was afraid when he beheld him.
So they parted from each other, and Aucassin rode on; the night was
fair and still, and so long he went that he came to the lodge of
boughs that Nicolette had builded and woven within and without, over
and under, with flowers, and it was the fairest lodge that might be
seen. When Aucassin was ware of it, he stopt suddenly, and the light
of the moon fell therein.
"Forsooth!" quoth Aucassin, "here was Nicolette, my sweet lady, and
this lodge builded she with her fair hands. For the sweetness of it,
and for love of her, will I now alight, and rest here this night
long."
He drew forth his foot from the stirrup to alight, and the steed was
great and tall. He dreamed so much on Nicolette, his right sweet
friend, that he fell heavily upon a stone, and drave his shoulder out
of its place. Then knew he that he was hurt sore; nathless he bore him
with that force he might, and fastened his horse with the other hand
to a thorn. Then turned he on his side, and crept backwise into the
lodge of boughs. And he looked through a gap in the lodge and saw the
stars in heaven, and one that was brighter than the rest; so began he
to speak....
When Nicolette heard Aucassin, she came to him, for she was not far
away. She passed within the lodge, and threw her arms about his neck,
clipt him and kissed him.
"Fair, sweet friend, welcome be thou!"
"And thou, fair, sweet love, be thou welcome!"
So either kissed and clipt the other, and fair joy was them between.
"Ha! sweet love," quoth Aucassin, "but now was I sore hurt, and my
shoulder wried, but I take no heed of it, nor have no hurt therefrom,
since I have thee."
Right so felt she his shoulder and found it was wried from its place.
And she so handled it with her white hands, and so wrought in her
surgery, that by God's will who loveth lovers, it went back into its
place. Then took she flowers, and fresh grass, and leaves green, and
bound them on the hurt with a strip of her smock, and he was all
healed....
When all they of the court heard her speak thus, that she was daughter
to the King of Carthage, they knew well that she spake truly; so made
they great joy of her, and led her to the castle with great honor, as
a king's daughter. And they would have given her to her lord a king of
Paynim, but she had no mind to marry. There dwelt she three days or
four. And she considered by what device she might seek for Aucassin.
Then she got her a viol, and learned to play on it; till they would
have married her one day to a rich king of Paynim, and she stole
forth by night, and came to the seaport, and dwelt with a poor woman
thereby. Then took she a certain herb, and therewith smeared her head
and her face, till she was all brown and stained. And she had a coat,
and mantle, and smock, and breeches made, and attired herself as if
she had been a minstrel. So took she the viol and went to a mariner,
and so wrought on him that he took her aboard his vessel. Then hoisted
they sail, and fared on the high seas even till they came to the land
of Provence. And Nicolette went forth and took the viol, and went
playing through all the country, even till she came to the castle of
Beaucaire, where Aucassin was.
JEAN FROISSART
Born in France in 1337, died in 1410; went to England in
1360 by invitation of Queen Philippa, a French woman;
visited Scotland in 1365 and Italy in 1368, where he met
Petrarch, and Chaucer; published his "Chronicles," covering
events from 1325 until about 1400, at the close of the
fifteenth century, the same being one of the first books
printed from movable types; the modern edition comprizes
twenty-five volumes.
THE BATTLE OF CRÉCY[8]
(1346)
The Englishmen, who were in three battles lying on the ground to rest
them, as soon as they saw the Frenchmen approach, they rose upon their
feet fair and easily without any haste, and arranged their battles.
The first, which was the Prince's battle, the archers there stood in
manner of a herse and the men of arms in the bottom of the battle. The
Earl of Northampton and the Earl of Arundel with the second battle
were on a wing in good order, ready to comfort the Prince's battle, if
need were.
[Footnote 8: The field of Crécy lies about thirty miles northwest of
Amiens, in France. The English under Edward III, numbering about
40,000 men, here defeated the French under Philip VI, numbering 80,000
men, the French loss being commonly placed at 30,000.
Of the merits of Froissart, only one opinion has prevailed. He drew a
faithful and vivid picture of events which in the main were personally
known to him. "No more graphic account exists of any age," says one
writer. Froissart was first translated into English in 1525 by
Bourchier, Lord Berners, That translation was superseded later by
others. In 1802-1805 Thomas Johnes made another translation, which has
since been the one chiefly read.]
The lords and knights of France came not to the assembly together in
good order, for some came before and some came after, in such haste
and evil order that one of them did trouble another. When the French
King saw the Englishmen his blood changed, and said to his marshals,
"Make the Genoways go on before, and begin the battle, in the name of
God and St. Denis." There were of the Genoways' cross-bows about a
fifteen thousand, but they were so weary of going afoot that day a six
leagues armed with their cross-bows, that they said to their
constables, "We be not well ordered to fight this day, for we be not
in the case to do any great deed of arms: we have more need of rest."
These words came to the Earl of Alençon, who said, "A man is well at
ease to be charged with such a sort of rascals, to be faint and fail
now at most need." Also the same season there fell a great rain and a
clipse with a terrible thunder, and before the rain there came flying
over both battles a great number of crows for fear of the tempest
coming.
Then anon the air began to wax clear, and the sun to shine fair and
bright, the which was right in the Frenchmen's eyen and on the
Englishmen's backs. When the Genoways were assembled together and
began to approach, they made a great leap and cry to abash the
Englishmen, but they stood still and stirred not for all that; then
the Genoways again the second time made another leap and a fell cry,
and stept forward a little, and the Englishmen removed not one foot;
thirdly, again they leapt and cried, and went forth till they came
within shot; then they shot fiercely with their cross-bows. Then the
English archers stept forth one pace and let fly their arrows so
wholly and so thick, that it seemed snow. When the Genoways felt the
arrows piercing through heads, arms, and breasts, many of them cast
down their cross-bows, and did cut their strings and returned
discomfited. When the French King saw them fly away, he said, "Slay
these rascals, for they shall let and trouble us without reason."
Then ye should have seen the men of arms dash in among them and killed
a great number of them; and ever still the Englishmen shot whereas
they saw thickest press the sharp arrows ran into the men of arms and
into their horses, and many fell, horse and men, among the Genoways,
and when they were down, they could not relieve again; the press was
so thick that one overthrew another. And also among the Englishmen
there were certain rascals that went afoot with great knives, and they
went in among the men of arms and slew and murdered many as they lay
on the ground, both earls, barons, knights, and squires; whereof the
King of England was after displeased, for he had rather they had been
taken prisoners.
The valiant King of Bohemia called Charles of Luxembourg, son to the
noble Emperor Henry of Luxembourg, for all that he was nigh blind,
when he understood the order of the battle, he said to them about him,
"Where is the Lord Charles my son?" His men said, "Sir, we can not
tell; we think he be fighting." Then he said, "Sirs, ye are my men, my
companions and friends in this journey: I require you bring me so far
forward that I may strike one stroke with my sword." They said they
would do his commandment, and to the intent that they should not lose
him in the press, they tied all their reins of their bridles each to
other and set the King before to accomplish his desire, and so they
went on their enemies. The Lord Charles of Bohemia his son, who wrote
himself King of Almaine and bare the arms, he came in good order to
the battle; but when he saw that the matter went awry on their party,
he departed, I can not tell you which way. The King his father was so
far forward that he strake a stroke with his sword, yea, and more than
four, and fought valiantly, and so did his company; and they
adventured themselves so forward that they were there all slain, and
the next day they were found in the place about the King, and all
their horses tied each to other.
The Earl of Alençon came to the battle right ordinately and fought
with the Englishmen, and the Earl of Flanders also on his part. These
two lords with their companies coasted the English archers and came to
the Prince's battle, and there fought valiantly long. The French King
would fain have come thither, when he saw their banners, but there was
a great hedge of archers before him. The same day the French King had
given a great black courser to Sir John of Hainault, and he made the
Lord Thierry of Senzeille to ride on him and to bear his banner. The
same horse took the bridle in the teeth and brought him through all
the currours of the Englishmen, and as he would have returned again,
he fell in a great dike and was sore hurt, and had been there dead,
and his page had not been, who followed him through all the battles
and saw where his master lay in the dike, and had none other let but
for his horse; for the Englishmen would not issue out of their battle
for taking of any prisoner. Then the page alighted and relieved his
master: then he went not back again the same way that they came; there
was too many in his way.
This battle between Broye and Crécy this Saturday was right cruel and
fell, and many a feat of arms done that came not to my knowledge. In
the night divers knights and squires lost their masters, and sometime
came on the Englishmen, who received them in such wise that they were
ever nigh slain; for there was none taken to mercy nor to ransom, for
so the Englishmen were determined.
In the morning the day of the battle certain Frenchmen and Almains
perforce opened the archers of the Prince's battle, and came and
fought with the men of arms hand to hand. Then the second battle of
the Englishmen came to succor the Prince's battle, the which was time,
for they had as then much ado; and they with the Prince sent a
messenger to the King, who was on a little windmill hill. Then the
knight said to the King, "Sir, the Earl of Warwick and the Earl of
Oxford, Sir Raynold Cobham and other, such as be about the Prince your
son, are fiercely fought withal and are sore handled; wherefore they
desire you that you and your battle will come and aid them; for if the
Frenchmen increase, as they doubt they will, your son and they shall
have much ado." Then the King said, "Is my son dead, or hurt, or on
the earth felled?" "No, sir," quoth the knight, "but he is hardly
matched; wherefore he hath need of your aid." "Well," said the King,
"return to him and to them that sent you hither, and say to them that
they send no more to me for any adventure that falleth, as long as my
son is alive: and also say to them that they suffer him this day to
win his spurs; for if God be pleased, I will this journey be his and
the honor thereof, and to them that be about him." Then the knight
returned again to them and shewed the King's words, the which, greatly
encouraged them, and repined in that they had sent to the King as they
did.
Sir Godfrey of Harcourt would gladly that the Earl of Harcourt, his
brother, might have been saved; for he heard say by them that saw his
banner how that he was there in the field on the French party: but Sir
Godfrey could not come to him betimes, for he was slain or he could
come at him, and so was also the Earl of Aumale his nephew. In another
place the Earl of Alençon and the Earl of Flanders fought valiantly,
every lord under his own banner; but finally they could not resist
against the puissance of the Englishmen, and so there they were also
slain, and divers other knights and squires. Also the Earl Louis of
Blois, nephew to the French King, and the Duke of Lorraine, fought
under their banners; but at last they were closed in among a company
of Englishmen and Welshmen, and there were slain for all their
prowess. Also there was slain the Earl of Auxerre, the Earl of
Saint-Pol, and many other.
In the evening the French King, who had left about him no more than a
threescore persons, one and other, whereof Sir John of Hainault was
one, who had remounted once the King, for his horse was slain with an
arrow, then he said to the King, "Sir, depart hence, for it is time;
lose not yourself willfully: if ye have loss at this time, ye shall
recover it again another season." And so he took the King's horse by
the bridle and led him away in a manner perforce. Then the King rode
till he came to the castle of Broye. The gate was closed, because it
was by that time dark: then the King called the captain, who came to
the walls and said, "Who is that calleth there this time of night?"
Then the King said, "Open your gate quickly, for this is the fortune
of France." The captain knew then it was the King, and opened the gate
and let down the bridge. Then the King entered, and he had with him
but five barons, Sir John of Hainault, Sir Charles of Montmorency, the
Lord of Beaujeu, the Lord d'Aubigny, and the Lord of Montsault. The
King would not tarry there, but drank and departed thence about
midnight, and so rode by such guides as knew the country till he came
in the morning to Amiens, and there he rested.
This Saturday the Englishmen never departed from their battles for
chasing of any man, but kept still their field, and ever defended
themselves against all such as came to assail them This battle ended
about evensong time.
PHILIPPE DE COMINES
Born in France about 1445, died in 1511; after serving
Charles the Bold, went over to Louis XI, in whose household
he was a confidant and adviser; arrested on political
charges in 1486 and imprisoned more than two years; arrested
later by Charles VIII and exiled for ten years; returning to
court, he fell into disgrace, went into retirement and wrote
his "Memoirs," the first series covering the history of
France between 1464 and 1483, the second, the period from
1494 to 1498.
OF THE CHARACTER OF LOUIS XI[9]
I have seen many deceptions in this world, especially in servants
toward their masters; and I have always found that proud and stately
princes who will hear but few, are more liable to be imposed upon than
those who are open and accessible: but of all the princes that I ever
knew, the wisest and most dexterous to extricate himself out of any
danger or difficulty in time of adversity was our master King Louis
XI. He was the humblest in his conversation and habit, and the most
painful and indefatigable to win over any man to his side that he
thought capable of doing him either mischief or service: tho he was
often refused, he would never give over a man that he wished to gain,
but still prest and continued his insinuations, promising him largely,
and presenting him with such sums and honors as he knew would gratify
his ambition; and for such as he had discarded in time of peace and
prosperity, he paid dear (when he had occasion for them) to recover
them again; but when he had once reconciled them, he retained no
enmity toward them for what has passed, but employed them freely for
the future. He was naturally kind and indulgent to persons of mean
estate, and hostile to all great men who had no need of him.
[Footnote 9: From the "Memoirs." Louis reigned from 1461 to 1483. It
was he, more than any other king, who represt the power of the feudal
princes and consolidated their territories under the French monarchy.
Comines has been called "the father of modern history." Hallam says
his work "almost makes an epoch in historical literature"; while
Sainte-Beuve has declared that from it "all political history takes
its rise." Comines was translated into English by T. Banett in 1596.
The best-known modern translation is the one in Bohn's Library, made
by Andrew R. Scoble.]
Never prince was so conversable nor so inquisitive as he, for his
desire was to know everybody he could; and indeed he knew all persons
of any authority or worth in England, Spain, Portugal, and Italy, in
the territories of the Dukes of Burgundy and Bretagne, and among his
own subjects: and by those qualities he preserved the crown upon his
head, which was in much danger by the enemies he had created to
himself upon his accession to the throne.
But above all, his great bounty and liberality did him the greatest
service: and yet, as he behaved himself wisely in time of distress, so
when he thought himself a little out of danger, tho it were but by a
truce, he would disoblige the servants and officers of his court by
mean and petty ways which were little to his advantage; and as for
peace, he could hardly endure the thoughts of it. He spoke slightingly
of most people, and rather before their faces than behind their
backs; unless he was afraid of them, and of that sort there were a
great many, for he was naturally somewhat timorous. When he had done
himself any prejudice by his talk, or was apprehensive he should do
so, and wished to make amends, he would say to the person whom he had
disobliged, "I am sensible my tongue has done me a good deal of
mischief; but on the other hand, it has sometimes done me much good:
however, it is but reason I should make some reparation for the
injury." And he never used this kind of apologies to any person but he
granted some favor to the person to whom he made it, and it was always
of considerable amount.
It is certainly a great blessing from God upon any prince to have
experienced adversity as well as prosperity, good as well as evil, and
especially if the good outweighs the evil, as it did in the King our
master. I am of opinion that the troubles he was involved in in his
youth, when he fled from his father and resided six years together
with Philip, Duke of Burgundy, were of great service to him; for there
he learned to be complaisant to such as he had occasion to use, which
was no slight advantage of adversity. As soon as he found himself a
powerful and crowned king, his mind was wholly bent upon revenge; but
he quickly found the inconvenience of this, repented by degrees of his
indiscretion, and made sufficient reparation for his folly and error
by regaining those he had injured. Besides, I am very confident that
if his education had not been different from the usual education of
such nobles as I have seen in France, he could not so easily have
worked himself out of his troubles: for they are brought up to
nothing but to make themselves ridiculous, both in their clothes and
discourse; they have no knowledge of letters; no wise man is suffered
to come near them, to improve their understandings; they have
governors who manage their business, but they do nothing themselves:
nay, there are some nobles who tho they have an income of thirteen
livres, will take pride to bid you "Go to my servants and let them
answer you," thinking by such speeches to imitate the state and
grandeur of a prince; and I have seen their servants take great
advantage of them, giving them to understand they were fools; and if
afterward they came to apply their minds to business and attempted to
manage their own affairs, they began so late they could make nothing
of it. And it is certain that all those who have performed any great
or memorable action worthy to be recorded in history, began always in
their youth; and this is to be attributed to the method of their
education, or some particular blessing of God....
Of all diversions he loved hunting and hawking in their seasons; but
his chief delight was in dogs. In hunting, his eagerness and pain were
equal to his pleasure, for his chase was the stag, which he always ran
down. He rose very early in the morning, rode sometimes a great
distance, and would not leave his sport, let the weather be never so
bad; and when he came home at night he was often very weary, and
generally in a violent passion with some of his courtiers or huntsmen;
for hunting is a sport not always to be managed according to the
master's direction; yet in the opinion of most people, he understood
it as well as any prince of his time. He was continually at these
sports, lodging in the country villages to which his recreations led
him, till he was interrupted by business; for during the most part of
the summer there was constantly war between him and Charles, Duke of
Burgundy, and in the winter they made truces; so that he had but a
little time during the whole year to spend in pleasure, and even then
the fatigues he underwent were excessive. When his body was at rest
his mind was at work, for he had affairs in several places at once,
and would concern himself as much in those of his neighbors as in his
own; putting officers of his own over all the great families, and
endeavoring to divide their authority as much as possible. When he was
at war he labored for a peace or a truce, and when he had obtained it
he was impatient for war again. He troubled himself with many trifles
in his government which he had better have left alone: but it was his
temper, and he could not help it; besides, he had a prodigious memory,
and he forgot nothing, but knew everybody, as well in other countries
as in his own.
And in truth he seemed better fitted to rule a world than to govern a
single kingdom. I speak not of his minority, for then I was not with
him; but when he was eleven years he was, by the advice of some of the
nobility and others of his kingdom, embroiled in a war with his
father, Charles VII, which lasted not long, and was called the
Praguerie. When he was arrived at man's estate he was married, much
against his inclination, to the King of Scotland's daughter; and he
regretted her existence during the whole course of her life.
Afterward, by reason of the broils and factions in his father's court,
he retired into Dauphiny (which was his own), whither many persons of
quality followed him, and indeed more than he could entertain. During
his residence in Dauphiny he married the Duke of Savoy's daughter, and
not long after he had great disputes with his father-in-law, and a
terrible war was begun between them.
His father, King Charles VII, seeing his son attended by so many good
officers and raising men at his pleasure, resolved to go in person
against him with a considerable body of forces, in order to disperse
them. While he was upon his march he put out proclamations, requiring
them all as his subjects, under great penalties, to repair to him; and
many obeyed, to the great displeasure of the Dauphin, who finding his
father incensed, tho he was strong enough to resist, resolved to
retire and leave that country to him; and accordingly he removed with
but a slender retinue into Burgundy to Duke Philip's court, who
received him honorably, furnished him nobly, and maintained him and
his principal servants by way of pensions; and to the rest he gave
presents as he saw occasion during the whole time of their residence
there. However, the Dauphin entertained so many at his own expense
that his money often failed, to his great disgust and mortification;
for he was forced to borrow, or his people would have forsaken him;
which is certainly a great affliction to a prince who was utterly
unaccustomed to those straits. So that during his residence at the
court of Burgundy he had his anxieties, for he was constrained to
cajole the duke and his ministers, lest they should think he was too
burdensome and had laid too long upon their hands; for he had been
with them six years, and his father, King Charles, was constantly
pressing and soliciting the Duke of Burgundy, by his ambassadors,
either to deliver him up to him or to banish him out of his dominions.
And this, you may believe, gave the Dauphin some uneasy thoughts and
would not suffer him to be idle. In which season of his life, then,
was it that he may be said to have enjoyed himself? I believe from his
infancy and innocence to his death, his whole life was nothing but one
continued scene of troubles and fatigues; and I am of opinion that if
all the days of his life were computed in which his joys and pleasures
outweighed his pain and trouble, they would be found so few that there
would be twenty mournful ones to one pleasant.
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
Born in France in 1492, died in 1549; sister of Francis I;
married in 1509 Due d'Alençon, and later Henri d'Albret,
King of Navarre; assumed the direction of government after
the death of the King in 1554; wrote poems and letters, the
latter published in 1841-42; her "Heptameron" modeled on the
"Decameron" of Boccaccio, published in 1558 after her death,
its authorship perhaps collaborative.
OF HUSBANDS WHO ARE UNFAITHFUL[10]
A little company of five ladies and five noble gentlemen have been
interrupted in their travels by heavy rains and great floods, and find
themselves together in a hospitable abbey. They while away the time as
best they can, and the second day Parlamente says to the old Lady
Oisille, "Madame, I wonder that you who have so much experience do not
think of some pastime to sweeten the gloom that our long delay here
causes us." The other ladies echo her wishes, and all the gentlemen
agree with them, and beg the Lady Oisille to be pleased to direct how
they shall amuse themselves. She answers them:
[Footnote 10: From the "Heptameron," of which a translation by R.
Codrington appeared in London in 1654.]
"My children, you ask of me something that I find very difficult,--to
teach you a pastime that can deliver you from your sadness; for having
sought some such remedy all my life I have never found but one--the
reading of Holy Writ; in which is found the true and perfect joy of
the mind, from which proceed the comfort and health of the body. And
if you ask me what keeps me so joyous and so healthy in my old age, it
is that as soon as I rise I take and read the Holy Scriptures, seeing
and contemplating the will of God, who for our sakes sent His son on
earth to announce this holy word and good news, by which He promises
remission of sins, satisfaction for all duties by the gifts He makes
us of His love, passion and merits. This consideration gives me so
much joy that I take my Psalter and as humbly as I can I sing with my
heart and pronounce with my tongue the beautiful psalms and canticles
that the Holy Spirit wrote in the heart of David and of other authors.
And this contentment that I have in them does me so much good that the
ills that every day may happen to me seem to me to be blessings,
seeing that I have in my heart, by faith, Him who has borne them for
me. Likewise, before supper, I retire, to pasture my soul in reading;
and then, in the evening, I call to mind what I have done in the past
day, in order to ask pardon for my faults, and to thank Him for His
kindnesses, and in His love, fear and peace I repose, assured against
all ills. Wherefore, my children, this is the pastime in which I have
long stayed my steps, after having searched all things, where I found
no content for my spirit. It seems to me that if every morning you
will give an hour to reading, and then, during mass, devoutly say your
prayers, you will find in this desert the same beauty as in cities;
for he who knows God, sees all beautiful things in Him, and without
Him all is ugliness....
"I beg you, ladies," continues the narrator, "if God give you such
husbands,[11] not to despair till you have long tried every means to
reclaim them; for there are twenty-four hours in a day in which a man
may change his way of thinking, and a woman should deem herself
happier to have won her husband by patience and long effort than if
fortune and her parents had given her a more perfect one." "Yes," said
Oisille, "this is an example for all married women."--"Let her follow
this example who will," said Parlamente: "but as for me, it would not
be possible for me to have such long patience; for, however true it
may be that in all estates patience is a fine virtue, it's my opinion
that in marriage it brings about at last unfriendliness; because,
suffering unkindness from a fellow being, one is forced to separate
from him as far as possible, and from this separation arises a
contempt for the fault of the disloyal one, and in this contempt
little by little love diminishes; for it is what is valued that is
loved."--"But there is danger," said Ennarsuite, "that the impatient
wife may find a furious husband, who would give her pain in lieu of
patience."--"But what could a husband do," said Parlamente, "save what
has been recounted in this story?"--"What could he do?" said
Ennarsuite, "he could beat his wife."...
[Footnote 11: That is, unfaithful husbands.]
"I think," said Parlamente, "that a good woman would not be so grieved
in being beaten out of anger, as in being contemptuously treated by a
man who does not care for her, and after having endured the suffering
of the loss of his friendship, nothing the husband might do would
cause her much concern. And besides, the story says that the trouble
she took to draw him back to her was because of her love for her
children, and I believe it."--"And do you think it was so very patient
of her," said Nomerfide, "to set fire to the bed in which her husband
was sleeping?"--"Yes," said Longarine, "for when she saw the smoke she
awoke him; and that was just the thing where she was most in fault,
for of such husbands as those the ashes are good to make lye for the
washtub."--"You are cruel, Longarine," said Oisille, "and you did not
live in such fashion with your husband."--"No," said Longarine, "for,
God be thanked, he never gave me such occasion, but reason to regret
him all my life, instead of to complain of him."--"And if he had
treated you in this way," said Nomerfide, "what would you have
done?"--"I loved him so much," said Longarine, "that I think I should
have killed him and then killed myself; for to die after such
vengeance would be pleasanter to me than to live faithfully with a
faithless husband."
"As far as I see," said Hircan, "you love your husbands only for
yourselves. If they are good after your own heart, you love them well;
if they commit toward you the least fault in the world, they have lost
their week's work by a Saturday. The long and the short is that you
want to be mistresses; for my part I am of your mind, provided all the
husbands also agree to it."--"It is reasonable," said Parlamente,
"that the man rule us as our head, but not that he desert us or
ill-treat us."--"God," said Oisille, "has set in such due order the
man and the woman that if the marriage estate is not abused, I hold it
to be one of the most beautiful and stable conditions in the World;
and I am sure that all those here present, whatever air they assume,
think no less highly of it. And forasmuch as men say they are wiser
than women, they should be more sharply punished when the fault is on
their side. But we have talked enough on this subject."
FRANÇOIS RABELAIS
Born in Touraine in 1495, died in Paris in 1553; educated at
an abbey and spent fifteen or more years as a monk; Studied
medicine in 1530 and practised in Lyons; traveled in Italy;
in charge of a parish at Meudon in 1550-52; composed
almanacs and edited old medical books; published
"Pantagruel" in 1533 and "Gargantua" in 1535, the success of
which led to several sequels, the last appearing in the year
of his death.
I
GARGANTUA IN HIS CHILDHOOD[12]
Gargantua, from three years to five, was nourished and instructed in
all proper discipline by the commandment of his father, and spent that
time like the other little children of the country,--that is, in
drinking, eating, and sleeping; in eating, sleeping, and drinking; and
in sleeping, drinking, and eating. Still he wallowed in the mire,
blackened his face, trod down his shoes at heel; at the flies he did
oftentimes yawn, and willingly run after the butterflies, the empire
whereof belonged to his father. He sharpened his teeth with a slipper,
washed his hands with his broth, combed his head with a bowl, sat down
between two stools and came to the ground, covered himself with a wet
sack, drank while eating his soup, ate his cake without bread, would
bite in laughing, laugh in biting, hide himself in the water for fear
of rain, go cross, fall into dumps, look demure, skin the fox, say the
ape's _paternoster_, return to his sheep, turn the sows into the hay,
beat the dog before the lion, put the cart before the horse, scratch
where he did not itch, shoe the grasshopper, tickle himself to make
himself laugh, know flies in milk, scrape paper, blur parchment, then
run away, pull at the kid's leather, reckon without his host, beat the
bushes without catching the birds, and thought that bladders were
lanterns. He always looked a gift-horse in the mouth, hoped to catch
larks if ever the heavens should fall, and made a virtue of necessity.
Every morning his father's puppies ate out of the dish with him, and
he with them. He would bite their ears, and they would scratch his
nose. The good man Grangousier said to Gargantua's governesses:
[Footnote 12: From Book I, Chapter XI, of "The Inestimable Life of the
Great Gargantua, Father of Pantagruel." The basis of all English
translations of Rabelais is the work begun by Sir Thomas Urquhart and
completed by Peter A. Motteux. Urquhart was a Scotchman, who was born
in 1611 and died in 1660. Motteux was a Frenchman, who settled in
England after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and was the
author of several plays. This translation has been called "one of the
most perfect that ever man accomplished." Other and later versions
have usually been based on Urquhart and Motteux, but have been
expurgated, as is the case with the passages given here. An earlier
version of "Pantagruel," published in London in 1620, was ascribed to
"Democritus Pseudomantio."
Rabelais, by common, consent, has a place among the greatest prose
writers of the world. In his knowledge of human nature and his
literary excellence, he is often ranked as inferior only to
Shakespeare. As an exponent of the sentiments and atmosphere of his
own time, we find in him what is found only in a few of the world's
greatest writers. That he has not been more widely read in modern
times, is attributed chiefly to the extraordinary coarseness of
language which he constantly introduces into his pages. This
coarseness is, in fact, so pervasive that expurgation is made
extremely difficult to any one who would preserve some fair remnant of
the original.]
"Philip, King of Macedon, knew the wit of his son Alexander, by his
skilful managing of a horse;[13] for the said horse was so fierce and
unruly that none durst adventure to ride him, because he gave a fall
to all his riders, breaking the neck of this man, the leg of that, the
brain of one, and the jawbone of another. This by Alexander being
considered, one day in the hippodrome (which was a place appointed for
the walking and running of horses), he perceived that the fury of the
horse proceeded merely from the fear he had of his own shadow;
whereupon, getting on his back he ran him against the sun, so that the
shadow fell behind, and by that means tamed the horse and brought him
to his hand. Whereby his father recognized the divine judgment that
was in him, and caused him most carefully to be instructed by
Aristotle, who at that time was highly renowned above all the
philosophers of Greece. After the same manner I tell you, that as
regards my son Gargantua, I know that his understanding doth
participate of some divinity,--so keen, subtle, profound, and clear do
I find him; and if he be well taught, he will attain to a sovereign
degree of wisdom. Therefore will I commit him to some learned man, to
have him indoctrinated according to his capacity, and will spare no
cost."
[Footnote 13: The famous horse Bucephalus is here referred to.]
Whereupon they appointed him a great sophister-doctor, called Maître
Tubal Holophernes, who taught him his A B C so well that he could say
it by heart backward; and about this he was five years and three
months. Then read he to him Donat, Facet, Theodolet, and Alanus _in
parabolis_. About this he was thirteen years, six months, and two
weeks. But you must remark that in the mean time he did learn to write
in Gothic characters, and that he wrote all his books,--for the art of
printing was not then in use. After that he read unto him the book "De
Modis Significandi," with the commentaries of Hurtebise, of Fasquin,
of Tropditeux, of Gaulehaut, of John le Veau, of Billonio, of
Brelingandus, and a rabble of others; and herein he spent more than
eighteen years and eleven months, and was so well versed in it that at
the examination he would recite it by heart backward, and did
sometimes prove on his fingers to his mother _quod de modis
significandi non erat scientia_. Then did he read to him the
"Compost," on which he spent sixteen years and two months, and that
justly at the time his said preceptor died, which was in the year one
thousand four hundred and twenty.
Afterward he got another old fellow with a cough to teach him, named
Maître Jobelin Bridé, who read unto him Hugutio, Hebrard's "Grécisme,"
the "Doctrinal," the "Parts," the "Quid Est," the "Supplementum";
Marmoquet "De Moribus in Mensa Servandis"; Seneca "De Quatour
Virtutibus Cardinalibus"; Passavantus "Cum Commento" and "Dormi
Securé," for the holidays; and some other of such-like stuff, by
reading whereof he became as wise as any we have ever baked in an
oven.
At the last his father perceived that indeed he studied hard, and that
altho he spent all his time in it, he did nevertheless profit
nothing, but which is worse, grew thereby foolish, simple, doted, and
blockish: whereof making a heavy regret to Don Philip des Marays,
Viceroy of Papeligose, he found that it were better for him to learn
nothing at all than to be taught such-like books under such
schoolmasters; because their knowledge was nothing but brutishness,
and their wisdom but toys, bastardizing good and noble spirits and
corrupting the flower of youth. "That it is so, take," said he, "any
young boy of the present time, who hath only studied two years: if he
have not a better judgment, a better discourse, and that exprest in
better terms, than your son, with a completer carriage and civility to
all manner of persons, account me forever a chawbacon of La Brène."
This pleased Grangousier very well, and he commanded that it should be
done. At night at supper, the said Des Marays brought in a young page
of his from Ville-gouges, called Eudemon, so well combed, so well
drest, so well brushed, so sweet in his behavior, that he resembled a
little angel more than a human creature. Then he said to Grangousier,
"Do you see this child? He is not as yet full twelve years old. Let us
try, if it pleaseth you, what difference there is betwixt the
knowledge of the doting dreamers of old time and the young lads that
are now."
The trial pleased Grangousier, and he commanded the page to begin.
Then Eudemon, asking leave of the viceroy, his master, so to do, with
his cap in his hand, a clear and open countenance, ruddy lips, his
eyes steady, and his looks fixt upon Gargantua, with a youthful
modesty, stood up straight on his feet and began to commend and
magnify him, first, for his virtue and good manners; secondly, for his
knowledge; thirdly, for his nobility; fourthly, for his bodily beauty;
and in the fifth place, sweetly exhorted him to reverence his father
with all observancy, who was so careful to have him well brought up.
In the end he prayed him that he would vouchsafe to admit of him
amongst the least of his servants; for other favor at that time
desired he none of heaven but that he might do him some grateful and
acceptable service.
All this was by him delivered with gestures so proper, pronunciation
so distinct, a voice so eloquent, language so well turned, and in such
good Latin, that he seemed rather a Gracchus, a Cicero, an Æmilius of
the time past than a youth of his age. But all the countenance that
Gargantua kept was that he fell to crying like a cow, and cast down
his face, hiding it with his cap; nor could they possibly draw one
word from him. Whereat his father was so grievously vexed that he
would have killed Maître Jobelin; but the said Des Marays withheld him
from it by fair persuasions, so that at length he pacified his wrath.
The Grangousier commanded he should be paid his wages, that they
should make him drink theologically, after which he was to go to all
the devils. "At least," said he, "to-day shall it not cost his host
much, if by chance he should die as drunk as an Englishman."
II
GARGANTUA'S EDUCATION[14]
Maître Jobelin being gone out of the house, Grangousier consulted with
the viceroy what tutor they should choose for Gargantua; and it was
betwixt them resolved that Ponocrates, the tutor of Eudemon, should
have the charge, and that they should all go together to Paris to know
what was the study of the young men of France at that time....
[Footnote 14: From Book I of "The Inestimable Life of the Great
Gargantua, Father of Pantagruel." The Urquhart-Motteux translation.]
Ponocrates appointed that for the beginning he should do as he had
been accustomed; to the end he might understand by what means, for so
long a time, his old masters had made him so foolish, simple, and
ignorant. He disposed, therefore, of his time in such fashion that
ordinarily he did awake between eight and nine o'clock, whether it was
day or not; for so had his ancient governors ordained, alleging that
which David saith, _Vanum est vobis ante lucem surgere_. Then did he
tumble and wallow in the bed some time, the better to stir up his
vital spirits, and appareled himself according to the season; but
willingly he would wear a great long gown of thick frieze, lined with
fox fur. Afterward he combed his head with the German comb, which is
the four fingers and the thumb; for his preceptors said that to comb
himself otherwise, to wash and make himself neat was to lose time in
this world. Then to suppress the dew and bad air, he breakfasted on
fair fried tripe, fair grilled meats, fair hams, fair hashed capon,
and store of sipped brewis.
Ponocrates showed him that he ought not to eat so soon after rising
out of his bed, unless he had performed some exercise beforehand.
Gargantua answered: "What! have not I sufficiently well exercised
myself? I rolled myself six or seven turns in my bed before I rose. Is
not that enough? Pope Alexander did so, by the advice of a Jew, his
physician; and lived till his dying day in despite of the envious. My
first masters have used me to it, saying that breakfast makes a good
memory; wherefore they drank first. I am very well after it, and dine
but the better. And Maître Tubal, who was the first licentiate at
Paris, told me that it is not everything to run a pace, but to set
forth well betimes: so doth not the total welfare of our humanity
depend upon perpetual drinking _atas_, _atas_, like ducks, but on
drinking well in the morning; whence the verse----
"'To rise betimes is no good hour,
To drink betimes is better sure.'"
After he had thoroughly broken his fast, he went to church; and they
carried for him, in a great basket, a huge breviary. There he heard
six-and-twenty or thirty masses. This while, to the same place came
his sayer of hours, lapped up about the chin like a tufted whoop, and
his breath perfumed with good store of sirup. With him he mumbled all
his kyriels, which he so curiously picked that there fell not so much
as one grain to the ground. As he went from the church, they brought
him, upon a dray drawn by oxen, a heap of paternosters of Sanct
Claude, every one of them being of the bigness of a hat-block; and
thus walking through the cloisters, galleries, or garden, he said more
in turning them over than sixteen hermits would have done. Then did he
study for some paltry half-hour with his eyes fixt upon his book; but
as the comic saith, his mind was in the kitchen. Then he sat down at
table; and because he was naturally phlegmatic, he began his meal with
some dozens of hams, dried meats' tongues, mullet's roe, chitterlings,
and such other forerunners of wine.
In the meanwhile, four of his folks did cast into his mouth, one after
another continually, mustard by whole shovelfuls. Immediately after
that he drank a horrific draft of white wine for the ease of his
kidneys. When that was done, he ate according to the season meat
agreeable to his appetite, and then left off eating when he was like
to crack for fulness. As for his drinking, he had neither end nor
rule. For he was wont to say, that the limits and bounds of drinking
were when the cork of the shoes of him that drinketh swelleth up half
a foot high.
Then heavily mumbling a scurvy grace, he washed his hands in fresh
wine, picked his teeth with the foot of a pig, and talked jovially
with his attendants. Then the carpet being spread, they brought great
store of cards, dice, and chessboards.
After having well played, reveled, passed and spent his time, it was
proper to drink a little, and that was eleven goblets the man; and
immediately after making good cheer again, he would stretch himself
upon a fair bench, or a good large bed, and there sleep two or three
hours together without thinking or speaking any hurt. After he was
awakened he would shake his ears a little. In the mean time they
brought him fresh wine. Then he drank better than ever. Ponocrates
showed him that it was an ill diet to drink so after sleeping. "It
is," answered Gargantua, "the very life of the Fathers; for naturally
I sleep salt, and my sleep hath been to me instead of so much ham."
Then began he to study a little, and the paternosters first, which the
better and more formally to dispatch, he got up on an old mule which
had served nine kings; and so mumbling with his mouth, doddling his
head, would go see a coney caught in a net. At his return he went into
the kitchen to know what roast meat was on the spit; and supped very
well, upon my conscience, and commonly did invite some of his
neighbors that were good drinkers; with whom carousing, they told
stories of all sorts, from the old to the new. After supper were
brought in upon the place the fair wooden gospels--that is to say,
many pairs of tables and cards--with little small banquets, intermined
with collations and reer-suppers. Then did he sleep without unbridling
until eight o'clock in the next morning.
When Ponocrates knew Gargantua's vicious manner of living, he resolved
to bring him up in another kind; but for a while he bore with him,
considering that nature does not endure sudden changes without great
violence. Therefore, to begin his work the better, he requested a
learned physician of that time, called Maître Theodorus, seriously to
perpend, if it were possible, how to bring Gargantua unto a better
course. The said physician purged him canonically with Anticyran
hellebore, by which medicine he cleansed all the alteration and
perverse habitude of his brain. By this means also Ponocrates made him
forget all that he had learned under his ancient preceptors. To do
this better, they brought him into the company of learned men who were
there, in emulation of whom a great desire and affection came to him
to study otherwise, and to improve his parts. Afterward he put himself
into such a train of study that he lost not any hour in the day, but
employed all his time in learning and honest knowledge. Gargantua
awaked then about four o'clock in the morning.
While they were rubbing him, there was read unto him some chapter of
the Holy Scripture aloud and clearly, with a pronunciation fit for the
matter; and hereunto was appointed a young page born in Basché, named
Anagnostes. According to the purpose and argument of that lesson, he
oftentimes gave himself to revere, adore, pray, and send up his
supplications to what good God whose word did show His majesty and
marvelous judgments. Then his master repeated what had been read,
expounding unto him the most obscure and difficult points. They then
considered the face of the sky, if it was such as they had observed it
the night before, and into what signs the sun was entering, as also
the moon for that day. This done, he was appareled, combed, curled,
trimmed, and perfumed, during which time they repeated to him the
lessons of the day before. He himself said them by heart, and upon
them grounded practical cases concerning the estate of man; which he
would prosecute sometimes two or three hours, but ordinarily they
ceased as soon as he was fully clothed. Then for three good hours
there was reading. This done, they went forth, still conferring of the
substance of the reading, and disported themselves at ball, tennis, or
the _pile trigone_; gallantly exercising their bodies, as before they
had done their minds. All their play was but in liberty, for they left
off when they pleased; and that was commonly when they did sweat, or
were otherwise weary. Then were they very well dried and rubbed,
shifted their shirts, and walking soberly, went to see if dinner was
ready. While they stayed for that, they did clearly and eloquently
recite some sentences that they had retained of the lecture.
In the mean time Master Appetite came, and then very orderly sat they
down at table. At the beginning of the meal there was read some
pleasant history of ancient prowess, until he had taken his wine. Then
if they thought good, they continued reading, or began to discourse
merrily together; speaking first of the virtue, propriety, efficacy,
and nature of all that was served in at that table; of bread, of wine,
of water, of salt, of flesh, fish, fruits, herbs, roots, and of their
dressing. By means whereof, he learned in a little time all the
passages that on these subject are to be found in Pliny, Athenæus,
Dioscorides, Julius Pollux, Gallen, Porphyrius, Oppian, Polybius,
Heliodorus, Aristotle, Ælian, and others. While they talked of these
things, many times, to be more the certain, they caused the very books
to be brought to the table; and so well and perfectly did he in his
memory retain the things above said, that in that time there was not a
physician that knew half so much as he did. Afterward they conferred
of the lessons read in the morning; and ending their repast with some
conserve of quince, he washed his hands and eyes with fair fresh
water, and gave thanks unto God in some fine canticle, made in praise
of the divine bounty and munificence.
This done, they brought in cards, not to play, but to learn a thousand
pretty tricks and new inventions, which were all grounded upon
arithmetic. By this means he fell in love with that numerical science;
and every day after dinner and supper he passed his time in it as
pleasantly as he was wont to do at cards and dice: so that at last he
understood so well both the theory and practise thereof, that Tonstal
the Englishman, who had written very largely of that purpose, confest
that verily in comparison of him he understood nothing but double
Dutch; and not only in that, but in the other mathematical sciences,
as geometry, astronomy, music. For while waiting for the digestion of
his food, they made a thousand joyous instruments and geometrical
figures, and at the same time practised the astronomical canons.
After this they recreated themselves with singing musically, in four
or five parts, or upon a set theme, as it best pleased them. In matter
of musical instruments, he learned to play the lute, the spinet, the
harp, the German flute, the flute with nine holes, the violin, and the
sackbut. This hour thus spent, he betook himself to his principal
study for three hours together, or more, as well to repeat his
matutinal lectures as to proceed in the book wherein he was; as also
to write handsomely, to draw and form the antique and Roman letters.
This being done, they went out of their house, and with them a young
gentleman of Touraine, named Gymnast, who taught him the art of
riding.
Changing then his clothes, he mounted on any kind of a horse, which he
made to bound in the air, to jump the ditch, to leap the palisade, and
to turn short in a ring both to the right and left hand. There he
broke not his lance; for it is the greatest foolishness in the world
to say, I have broken ten lances at tilts or in fight. A carpenter can
do even as much. But it is a glorious and praiseworthy action with one
lance to break and overthrow ten enemies. Therefore with a sharp,
strong, and stiff lance would he usually force a door, pierce a
harness, uproot a tree, carry away the ring, lift up a saddle, with
the mail-coat and gantlet. All this he did in complete arms from head
to foot. He was singularly skilful in leaping nimbly from one horse to
another without putting foot to ground. He could likewise from either
side, with a lance in his hand, leap on horseback without stirrups,
and rule the horse at his pleasure without a bridle; for such things
are useful in military engagements. Another day he exercised the
battle-ax, which he so dextrously wielded that he was passed knight of
arms in the field.
Then tossed he the pike, played with the two-handed sword, with the
back sword, with the Spanish tuck, the dagger, poniard, armed,
unarmed, with a buckler, with a cloak, with a target. Then would he
hunt the hart, the roebuck, the bear, the fallow deer, the wild boar,
the hare, the pheasant, the partridge, and the bustard. He played at
the great ball, and made it bound in the air, both with fist and foot.
He wrestled, ran, jumped, not at three steps and a leap, nor a
hopping, nor yet at the German jump; "for," said Gymnast, "these jumps
are for the wars altogether unprofitable, and of no use": but at one
leap he would skip over a ditch, spring over a hedge, mount six paces
upon a wall, climb after this fashion up against a window, the height
of a lance.
He did swim in deep waters on his face, on his back, sidewise, with
all his body, with his feet only, with one hand in the air, wherein he
held a book, crossing thus the breadth of the river Seine without
wetting, and dragging along his cloak with his teeth, as did Julius
Cæsar; then with the help of one hand he entered forcibly into a boat,
from whence he cast himself again headlong into the water, sounded the
depths, hollowed the rocks, and plunged into the pits and gulfs. Then
turned he the boat about, governed it, led it swiftly or slowly with
the stream and against the stream, stopt it in its course, guided it
with one hand, and with the other laid hard about him with a huge
great oar, hoisted the sail, hied up along the mast by the shrouds,
ran upon the bulwarks, set the compass, tackled the bowlines, and
steered the helm. Coming out of the water, he ran furiously up
against a hill, and with the same alacrity and swiftness ran down
again. He climbed up trees like a cat, leaped from the one to the
other like a squirrel. He did pull down the great boughs and branches,
like another Milo: then with two sharp well-steeled daggers, and two
tried bodkins, would he run up by the wall to the very top of a house
like a rat; then suddenly come down from the top to the bottom, with
such an even disposal of members that by the fall he would catch no
harm.
He did cast the dart, throw the bar, put the stone, practise the
javelin, the boar-spear or partizan, and the halbert. He broke the
strongest bows in drawing, bended against his breast the greatest
cross-bows of steel, took his aim by the eye with the hand-gun,
traversed the cannon; shot at the butts, at the pape-gay, before him,
sidewise, and behind him, like the Parthians. They tied a cable-rope
to the top of a high tower, by one end whereof hanging near the ground
he wrought himself with his hands to the very top; then came down
again so sturdily and firmly that you could not on a plain meadow have
run with more assurance. They set up a great pole fixt upon two trees.
There would he hang by his hands, and with them alone, his feet
touching at nothing, would go back and fore along the aforesaid rope
with so great swiftness, that hardly could one overtake him with
running.
III
OF THE FOUNDING OF AN IDEAL ABBEY[15]
There was left only the monk to provide for; whom Gargantua would have
made Abbot of Seuillé, but he refused it. He would have given him the
Abbey of Bourgueil, or of Sanct Florent, which was better, or both if
it pleased him; but the monk gave him a very peremptory answer, that
he would never take upon him the charge nor government of monks. "For
how shall I be able," said he, "to rule over others, that have not
full power and command of myself? If you think I have done you, or may
hereafter do you any acceptable service, give me leave to found an
abbey after my own mind and fancy." The motion pleased Gargantua very
well; who thereupon offered him all the country of Thelema by the
river Loire, till within two leagues of the great forest of
Port-Huaut. The monk then requested Gargantua to institute his
religious order contrary to all others.
[Footnote 15: From Book I of "The Inestimable Life of the Great
Gargantua, Father of Pantagruel." The Urquhart-Motteux translation.]
"First, then," said Gargantua, "you must not build a wall about your
convent, for all other abbeys are strongly walled and mured about."
Moreover, seeing there are certain convents in the world whereof the
custom is, if any women come in--I mean honorable and honest
women--they immediately sweep the ground which they have trod upon;
therefore was it ordained that if any man or woman, entered into
religious orders, should by chance come within this new abbey, all the
rooms should be thoroughly washed and cleansed through which they had
passed.
And because in other monasteries all is compassed, limited, and
regulated by hours, it was decreed that in this new structure there
should, be neither clock nor dial, but that according to the
opportunities, and incident occasions, all their works should be
disposed of; "for," said Gargantua, "the greatest loss of time that I
know is to count the hours. What good comes of it? Nor can there be
any greater folly in the world than for one to guide and direct his
courses by the sound of a bell, and not by his own judgment and
discretion."
_Item_, Because at that time they put no women into nunneries but such
as were either one-eyed, lame, humpbacked, ill-favored, misshapen,
foolish, senseless, spoiled, or corrupt; nor encloistered any men but
those that were either sickly, ill-bred, clownish, and the trouble of
the house:
("Apropos," said the monk--"a woman that is neither fair nor good, to
what use serves she?" "To make a nun of," said Gargantua. "Yes," said
the monk, "and to make shirts.")
Therefore, Gargantua said, was it ordained, that into this religious
order should be admitted no women that were not fair, well-featured,
and of a sweet disposition; nor men that were not comely, personable,
and also of a sweet disposition.
_Item_, Because in the convents of women men come not but underhand,
privily, and by stealth? it was therefore enacted that in this house
there shall be no women in case there be not men, nor men in case
there be not women.
_Item_, Because both men and women that are received into religious
orders after the year of their novitiates were constrained and forced
perpetually to stay there all the days of their life: it was ordered
that all of whatever kind, men or women, admitted within this abbey,
should have full leave to depart with peace and contentment whensoever
it should seem good to them so to do.
_Item_, For that the religious men and women did ordinarily make three
vows--to wit, those of chastity, poverty, and obedience: it was
therefore constituted and appointed that in this convent they might be
honorably married, that they might be rich, and live at liberty. In
regard to the legitimate age, the women were to be admitted from ten
till fifteen, and the men from twelve till eighteen.
For the fabric and furniture of the abbey, Gargantua caused to be
delivered out in ready money twenty-seven hundred thousand eight
hundred and one-and-thirty of those long-wooled rams; and for every
year until the whole work was completed he allotted threescore nine
thousand gold crowns, and as many of the seven stars, to be charged
all upon the receipt of the river Dive. For the foundation and
maintenance thereof he settled in perpetuity three-and-twenty hundred
threescore and nine thousand five hundred and fourteen rose nobles,
taxes exempted from all in landed rents, and payable every year at the
gate of the abbey; and for this gave them fair letters patent.
The building was hexagonal, and in such a fashion that in every one of
the six corners there was built a great round tower, sixty paces in
diameter, and were all of a like form and bigness. Upon the north side
ran the river Loire, on the bank whereof was situated the tower called
Arctic. Going toward the east there was another called Calær, the next
following Anatole, the next Mesembrine, the next Hesperia, and the
last Criere. Between each two towers was the space of three hundred
and twelve paces. The whole edifice was built in six stories,
reckoning the cellars underground for one. The second was vaulted
after the fashion of a basket-handle; the rest were coated with
Flanders plaster, in the form of a lamp foot. It was roofed with fine
slates of lead, carrying figures of baskets and animals; the ridge
gilt, together with the gutters, which issued without the wall between
the windows, painted diagonally in gold and blue down to the ground,
where they ended in great canals, which carried away the water below
the house into the river.
This same building was a hundred times more sumptuous and magnificent
than ever was Bonivet; for there were in it nine thousand three
hundred and two-and-thirty chambers, every one whereof had a
withdrawing-room, a closet, a wardrobe, a chapel, and a passage into a
great hall. Between every tower, in the midst of the said body of
building, there was a winding stair, whereof the steps were part of
porphyry, which is a dark-red marble spotted with white, part of
Numidian stone, and part of serpentine marble; each of those steps
being two-and-twenty feet in length and three fingers thick, and the
just number of twelve betwixt every landing-place. On every landing
were two fair antique arcades where the light came in; and by those
they went into a cabinet, made even with, and of the breadth of the
said winding, and they mounted above the roof and ended in a pavilion.
By this winding they entered on every side into a great hall, and from
the halls into the chambers. From the Arctic tower unto the Criere
were fair great libraries in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, French, Italian,
and Spanish, respectively distributed on different stories, according
to their languages. In the midst there was a wonderful winding stair,
the entry whereof was without the house, in an arch six fathoms broad.
It was made in such symmetry and largeness that six men-at-arms, lance
on thigh, might ride abreast all up to the very top of all the palace.
From the tower Anatole to the Mesembrine were fair great galleries,
all painted with the ancient prowess, histories, and descriptions of
the world. In the midst thereof there was likewise such another ascent
and gate as we said there was on the river-side.
In the middle of the lower court there was a stately fountain of fair
alabaster. Upon the top thereof stood the three Graces, with horns of
abundance, and did jet out the water at their breasts, mouth, ears,
and eyes. The inside of the buildings in this lower court stood upon
great pillars of Cassydonian stone, and porphyry in fair ancient
arches. Within these were spacious galleries, long and large, adorned
with curious pictures--the horns of bucks and unicorns; of the
rhinoceros and the hippopotamus; the teeth and tusks of elephants, and
other things well worth the beholding. The lodging of the ladies took
up all from the tower Arctic unto the gate Mesembrine. The men possest
the rest. Before the said lodging of the ladies, that they might have
their recreation, between the two first towers, on the outside, were
placed the tilt-yard, the hippodrome, the theater, the swimming-bath,
with most admirable baths in three stages, well furnished with all
necessary accommodation, and store of myrtle-water. By the river-side
was the fair garden of pleasure, and in the midst of that a fair
labyrinth. Between the two other towers were the tennis and fives
courts. Toward the tower Criere stood the orchard full of all
fruit-trees, set and ranged in a quincunx. At the end of that was the
great park, abounding with all sort of game. Betwixt the third couple
of towers were the butts for arquebus, crossbow, and arbalist. The
stables were beyond the offices, and before them stood the falconry,
managed by falconers very expert in the art; and it was yearly
supplied by the Candians, Venetians, Sarmatians, with all sorts of
excellent birds, eagles, gerfalcons, goshawks, falcons, sparrow-hawks,
merlins, and other kinds of them, so gentle and perfectly well trained
that, flying from the castle for their own disport, they would not
fail to catch whatever they encountered. The venery was a little
further off, drawing toward the park.
All the halls, chambers, and cabinets were hung with tapestry of
divers sorts, according to the seasons of the year. All the pavements
were covered with green cloth. The beds were embroidered. In every
back chamber there was a looking-glass of pure crystal, set in a frame
of fine gold garnished with pearls, and of such greatness that it
would represent to the full the whole person. At the going out of the
halls belonging to the ladies' lodgings were the perfumers and
hair-dressers, through whose hands the gallants passed when they were
to visit the ladies. These did every morning furnish the ladies'
chambers with rose-water, musk, and angelica; and to each of them gave
a little smelling-bottle breathing the choicest aromatical scents.
The ladies on the foundation of this order were appareled after their
own pleasure and liking. But since, of their own free will, they were
reformed in manner as followeth:
They wore stockings of scarlet which reached just three inches above
the knee, having the border beautified with embroideries and trimming.
Their garters were of the color of their bracelets, and circled the
knee both over and under. Their shoes and slippers were either of red,
violet, or crimson velvet, cut _à barbe d'écrévisse_.
Next to their smock they put on a fair corset of pure silk camblet;
above that went the petticoat of white, red tawny, or gray taffeta.
Above this was the _cotte_ in cloth of silver, with needlework either
(according to the temperature and disposition of the weather) of
satin, damask, velvet, orange, tawny, green, ash-colored, blue,
yellow, crimson, cloth of gold, cloth of silver, or some other choice
stuff, according to the day.
Their gowns, correspondent to the season, were either of cloth of gold
with silver edging, of red satin covered with gold purl, of taffeta,
white, blue, black, or tawny, of silk serge, silk camblet, velvet,
cloth of silver, silver tissue, cloth of gold, or figured satin with
golden threads.
In the summer, some days, instead of gowns, they wore fair mantles of
the above-named stuff, or capes of violet velvet with edging of gold,
or with knotted cordwork of gold embroidery, garnished with little
Indian pearls. They always carried a fair plume of feathers, of the
color of their muff, bravely adorned with spangles of gold. In the
winter-time they had their taffeta gowns of all colors, as above
named, and those lined with the rich furrings of wolves, weasels,
Calabrian martlet, sables, and other costly furs. Their beads, rings,
bracelets, and collars were of precious stones, such as carbuncles,
rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emerald, turquoises, garnets, agates,
beryls, and pearls.
Their head-dressing varied with the season of the year. In winter it
was of the French fashion; in the spring of the Spanish; in summer of
the fashion of Tuscany, except only upon the holidays and Sundays, at
which times they were accoutered in the French mode, because they
accounted it more honorable, better befitting the modesty of a matron.
The men were appareled after their fashion. Their stockings were of
worsted or of serge, of white, black, or scarlet. Their breeches were
of velvet, of the same color with their stockings, or very near,
embroidered and cut according to their fancy. Their doublet was of
cloth of gold, cloth of silver, velvet, satin, damask, or taffeta, of
the same colors, cut embroidered, and trimmed up in the same manner.
The points were of silk of the same colors, the tags were of gold
enameled. Their coats and jerkins were of cloth of gold, cloth of
silver, gold tissue, or velvet embroidered, as they thought fit. Their
gowns were every whit as costly as those of the ladies. Their girdles
were of silk, of the color of their doublets. Every one had a gallant
sword by his side, the hilt and handle whereof were gilt, and the
scabbard of velvet, of the color of his breeches, the end in gold, and
goldsmith's work. The dagger of the same. Their caps were of black
velvet, adorned with jewels and buttons of gold. Upon that they wore a
white plume, most prettily and minion-like parted by so many rows of
gold spangles, at the end whereof hung dangling fair rubies, emeralds,
etc.
But so great was the sympathy between the gallants and the ladies,
that every day they were appareled in the same livery. And that they
might not miss, there were certain gentlemen appointed to tell the
youths every morning what colors the ladies would on that day wear;
for all was done according to the pleasure of the ladies. In these so
handsome clothes, and habiliments so rich, think not that either one
or other of either sex did waste any time at all; for the masters of
the wardrobes had all their raiments and apparel so ready for every
morning, and the chamber-ladies were so well skilled, that in a trice
they would be drest, and completely in their clothes from head to
foot. And to have these accouterments with the more conveniency, there
was about the wood of Thelema a row of houses half a league long, very
neat and cleanly, wherein dwelt the goldsmiths, lapidaries,
embroiderers, tailors, gold-drawers, velvet-weavers, tapestry-makers,
and upholsterers, who wrought there every one in his own trade, and
all for the aforesaid friars and nuns. They were furnished with matter
and stuff from the hands of Lord Nausiclete, who every year brought
them seven ships from the Perlas and Cannibal Islands, laden with
ingots of gold, with raw silk, with pearls and precious stones. And if
any pearls began to grow old, and lose somewhat of their natural
whiteness and luster, those by their art they did renew by tendering
them to cocks to be eaten, as they used to give casting unto hawks.
All their life was spent not in laws, statutes, or rules, but
according to their own free will and pleasure. They rose out of their
beds when they thought good; they did eat, drink, labor, sleep, when
they had a mind to it, and were disposed for it. None did awake them,
none did constrain them to eat, drink, nor do any other thing; for so
had Gargantua established it. In all their rule, and strictest tie of
their order, there was but this one clause to be observed: _Fay ce que
vouldras_.
Because men that are free, well born, well bred, and conversant in
honest companies, have naturally an instinct and spur that prompteth
them unto virtuous actions and withdraws them from vice, which is
called honor. Those same men, when by base subjection and constraint
they are brought under and kept down, turn aside from that noble
disposition by which they formerly were inclined to virtue, to shake
off the bond of servitude; for it is agreeable with the nature of man
to long after things forbidden.
JOHN CALVIN
Born in France in 1509, died in Geneva in 1564; studied in
Paris and Orleans; became identified with the Reformation
about 1528; banished from Paris in 1533; published his
"Institutes," his most famous work, in Latin at Basel in
1536, and in French in 1540; settled at Geneva in 1536;
banished from Geneva in 1538; returned to Geneva in 1541;
had a memorable controversy with Servetus in 1553; founded
the Academy of Geneva in 1559.
OF FREEDOM FOR THE WILL[16]
God has provided the soul of man with intellect, by which he might
discern good from evil, just from unjust, and might know what to
follow or to shun, Reason going before with her lamp; whence
philosophers, in reference to her directing power have called [Greek:
to hêgemonichon]. To this he has joined will, to which choice belongs.
Man excelled in these noble endowments in his primitive condition,
when reason, intelligence, prudence, and judgment not only sufficed
for the government of his earthly life, but also enabled him to rise
up to God and eternal happiness. Thereafter choice was added to direct
the appetites and temper all the organic motions; the will being thus
perfectly submissive to the authority of reason.
[Footnote 16: From "The Institutes." Calvin's work was translated into
English by Thomas Norton and published in 1561. An abridgment,
translated by Christopher Fetherstone, was published in Edinburgh in
1585, and another abridgment by H. Holland in London in 1596. Many
other translations of Calvin's writings appeared in the sixteenth
century. John Allen issued a version of the "Institutes" in 1830,
which has been held in esteem.]
In this upright state, man possest freedom of will, by which if he
chose he was able to obtain eternal life.
It were here unseasonable to introduce the question concerning the
secret predestination of God, because we are not considering what
might or might not happen, but what the nature of man truly was. Adam,
therefore, might have stood if he chose, since it was only by his own
will that he fell; but it was because his will was pliable in either
direction, and he had not received constancy to persevere, that he so
easily fell. Still he had a free choice of good and evil; and not only
so, but in the mind and will there was the highest rectitude, and all
the organic parts were duly framed to obedience, until man corrupted
its good properties, and destroyed himself. Hence the great darkness
of philosophers who have looked for a complete building in a ruin, and
fit arrangement in disorder. The principle they set out with was, that
man could not be a rational animal unless he had a free choice of good
and evil. They also imagined that the distinction between virtue and
vice was destroyed, if man did not of his own counsel arrange his
life. So far well, had there been no change in man. This being unknown
to them, it is not surprizing that they throw everything into
confusion. But those who, while they profess to be the disciples of
Christ, still seek for free-will in man, notwithstanding of his being
lost and drowned in spiritual destruction, labor under manifold
delusion, making a heterogeneous mixture of inspired doctrine and
philosophical opinions, and so erring as to both.
But it will be better to leave these things to their own place. At
present it is necessary only to remember that man at his first
creation was very different from all his posterity; who, deriving
their origin from him after he was corrupted, received a hereditary
taint. At first every part of the soul was formed to rectitude. There
was soundness of mind and freedom of will to choose the good. If any
one objects that it was placed, as it were, in a slippery position
because its power was weak, I answer, that the degree conferred was
sufficient to take away every excuse. For surely the Deity could not
be tied down to this condition,--to make man such that he either could
not or would not sin. Such a nature might have been more excellent;
but to expostulate with God as if he had been bound to confer this
nature on man, is more than unjust, seeing he had full right to
determine how much or how little he would give. Why he did not sustain
him by the virtue of perseverance is hidden in his counsel; it is ours
to keep within the bounds of soberness. Man had received the power, if
he had the will, but he had not the will which would have given the
power; for this will would have been followed by perseverance. Still,
after he had received so much, there is no excuse for his having
spontaneously brought death upon himself. No necessity was laid upon
God to give him more than that intermediate and even transient will,
that out of man's fall he might extract materials for his own glory.
JOACHIM DU BELLAY
Born about 1524, died in 1560; surnamed "The French Ovid"
and "The Apollo of the Pléiade"; noted as poet and prose
writer; a cousin of Cardinal du Bellay and for a time his
secretary; wrote forty-seven sonnets on the antiquities of
Rome; his most notable work in prose is his "Défense et
Illustration de la Langue Françoise."
WHY OLD FRENCH WAS NOT AS RICH AS GREEK AND LATIN[17]
If our language is not as copious or rich as the Greek or Latin, this
must not be laid to their charge, assuming that our language is not
capable in itself of being barren and sterile; but it should rather be
attributed to the ignorance of our ancestors, who, having (as some one
says, speaking of the ancient Romans) held good doing in greater
estimation than good talking and preferred to leave to their posterity
examples of virtue rather than precepts, have deprived themselves of
the glory of their great deeds, and us of their imitation; and by the
same means have left our tongue so poor and bare that it has need of
ornament and (if we may be allowed the phrase) of borrowed plumage.
[Footnote 17: From the "Défence et Illustration de la Langue
Françoise." Translated for this collection by Eric Arthur Bell. Du
Bellay belonged to a group of sixteenth-century writers known as the
Pléiade, who took upon themselves the mission of reducing the French
language, in its literary forms, to something comparable to Greek and
Latin. Mr. Saintsbury says they "made modern French--made it, we may
say, twice over"; by which he means that French, in their time, was
revolutionized, and that, in the Romantic movement of 1830, Hugo and
his associates were armed by the work of the Pléiade for their revolt
against the restraints of rule and language that had been imposed by
the eighteenth century.]
But who is willing to admit that the Greek and Roman tongues have
always possest that excellence which characterized them at the time of
Homer, Demosthenes, Virgil, and Cicero? And if these authors were of
the opinion that a little diligence and culture were incapable of
producing greater fruit, why did they make such efforts to bring it to
the pitch of perfection it is in to-day? I can say the same thing of
our language, which is now beginning to bloom without bearing fruit,
like a plant which has not yet flowered, waiting till it can produce
all the fruit possible. This is certainly not the fault of nature who
has rendered it more sterile than the others, but the fault of those
who have tended it, and have not cultivated it sufficiently. Like a
wild plant which grows in the desert, without ever being watered or
pruned or protected by the trees and shrubs which give it shade, it
fades and almost dies.
If the ancient Romans had been so negligent of the culture of their
language when first they began to develop it, it is certain that they
could not have become so great in so short a time. But they, in the
guise of good agriculturists, first of all transplanted it from a wild
locality to a cultivated one, and then in order that it might bear
fruit earlier and better, cut away several useless shoots and
substituted exotic and domestic ones, mostly drawn from the Greek
language, which have grafted so well on to the trunk that they appear
no longer adopted but natural. Out of these have sprung, from the
Latin tongue, flowers and colored fruits in great number and of much
eloquence, all of which things, not so much from its own nature but
artificially, every tongue is wont to produce. And if the Greeks and
Romans, more diligent in the culture of their tongue than we are in
ours, found an eloquence in their language only after much labor and
industry, are we for this reason, even if our vernacular is not as
rich as it might be, to condemn it as something vile and of little
value?
The time will come perhaps, and I hope it will be for the good of the
French, when the language of this noble and powerful kingdom (unless
with France the whole French language is to be buried),[18] which is
already beginning to throw out its roots, will shoot out of the ground
and rise to such a height and size that it will even emulate that of
the Greeks and the Romans, producing like them, Homers, Demostheneses,
Virgils, and Ciceros, in the same way that France has already produced
her Pericles, Alcibiades, Themistocles, and Scipio.
[Footnote 18: Du Bellay here refers to the unhappy political state of
France during his short life of thirty-six years. He was born one year
before the defeat of Francis I at Pavia. When twenty years old, Henry
VIII in league with Charles V had invaded France. Fourteen years later
the country was distracted by disastrous religious wars which led up
to the massacre of St. Bartholomew a few years after his death.]
MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE
Born in France in 1583, died in 1592; educated at a college
in Bordeaux; studied law; attached to the court of Francis
II in 1559, and to the person of Henry III in 1571; traveled
in Germany, Italy and Switzerland in 1580; made mayor of
Bordeaux in 1581; published his "Essays" in 1580, the first
English translation, made by Florio, appearing in 1603.
I
A WORD TO HIS READERS[19]
Reader, loe here a well-meaning Booke. It doth at the first entrance
forewarne thee, that in contriving the same, I have proposed unto my
selfe no other than a familiar and private end: I have no respect or
consideration at all, either to thy service, or to my glory; my forces
are not capable of any such desseigne. I have vowed the same to the
particular commodity of my kinsfolks and friends: to the end, that
losing me (which they are likely to do ere long) they may therein
find some lineaments of my conditions and humors, and by that meanes
reserve more whole, and more lively foster, the knowledge and
acquaintance they have had of me. Had my intention beene to forestal
and purchase the worlds opinion and favor, I would surely have adorned
my selfe more quaintly, or kept a more grave and solemne march. I
desire therein to be delineated in mine owne genuine, simple and
ordinarie fashion, without contention, art or study; for it is my
selfe I pourtray. My imperfections shall therein be read to the life,
and my naturall forme discerned, so farre-forth as publike reverence
hath permitted me. For if my fortune had beene to have lived among
those nations, which yet are said to live under the sweet liberty of
Natures first and uncorrupted lawes, I assure thee, I would most
willingly have pourtrayed my selfe fully and naked. Thus, gentle
Reader, my selfe am the groundworke of my booke: It is then no reason
thou shouldest employ thy time about so frivolous and vaine a Subject.
Therefore farewell.
[Footnote 19: From the preface to the "Essays," as translated by John
Florio. A copy of Florio's "Montaigne" is known to have been in the
library of Shakespeare, one of the few extant autographs of the poet
being in a copy of this translation now preserved in the library of
the British Museum.
Montaigne is usually linked with Rabelais as to his important place in
the history of French prose. The two have come down to us very much as
Chaucer has come down in English literature--as a "well undefiled."
Montaigne secured in his own lifetime a popularity which he has never
lost, if, indeed, it has not been increased.]
II
OF SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE[20]
There are some particular natures that are private and retired: my
natural way is proper for communication, and apt to lay me open; I am
all without and in sight, born for society and friendship. The
solitude that I love myself and recommend to others, is chiefly no
other than to withdraw my thoughts and affections into myself; to
restrain and check, not my steps, but my own cares and desires,
resigning all foreign solicitude, and mortally avoiding servitude and
obligation, and not so much the crowd of men, as the crowd of
business. Local solitude, to say the truth, rather gives me more room,
and sets me more at large; I more readily throw myself upon the
affairs of state and the world, when I am alone; at the Louvre, and in
the bustle of the court, I fold myself within my own skin; the crowd
thrusts me upon myself; and I never entertain myself so wantonly, with
so much license, or so especially, as in places of respect and
ceremonious prudence: our follies do not make me laugh, but our wisdom
does. I am naturally no enemy to a court life; I have therein passed a
good part of my own, and am of a humor cheerfully to frequent great
company, provided it be by intervals and at my own time: but this
softness of judgment whereof I speak, ties me perforce to solitude.
Even at home, amidst a numerous family, and in a house sufficiently
frequented, I see people enough, but rarely such with whom I delight
to converse; and I there reserve both for myself and others an unusual
liberty: there is in my house no such thing as ceremony, ushering, or
waiting upon people down to the coach, and such other troublesome
ceremonies as our courtesy enjoins (O servile and importunate custom!)
Every one there governs himself according to his own method; let who
will speak his thoughts, I sit mute, meditating and shut up in my
closet, without any offense to my guests.
[Footnote 20: From the Essay entitled "Of Three Commerces," in Book
III, Chapter III; translated by Charles Cotton, as revised by William
Carew Hazlitt.]
The men, whose society and familiarity I covet, are those they call
sincere and able men; and the image of these makes me disrelish the
rest. It is, if rightly taken, the rarest of our forms, and a form
that we chiefly owe to nature. The end of this commerce is simply
privacy, frequentation and conference, the exercise of souls, without
other fruit. In our discourse, all subjects are alike to me; let there
be neither weight, nor depth, 'tis all one: there is yet grace and
pertinency; all there is tinted with a mature and constant judgment,
and mixt with goodness, freedom, gaiety, and friendship. 'Tis not only
in talking of the affairs of kings and state, that our wits discover
their force and beauty, but every whit as much in private conferences.
I understand my men even by their silence and smiles; and better
discover them, perhaps, at table, than in the council. Hippomachus
said very well, "that he could know the good wrestlers by only seeing
them walk in the street." If learning please to step into our talk,
it shall not be rejected, not magisterial, imperious, and importunate,
as it commonly is, but suffragan and docile itself; we there only seek
to pass away our time; when we have a mind to be instructed and
preached to, we will go seek this in its throne; please let it humble
itself to us for the nonce; for, useful and profitable as it is, I
imagine that, at need, we may manage well enough without it, and do
our business without its assistance. A well-descended soul, and
practised in the conversation of men, will of herself render herself
sufficiently agreeable; art is nothing but the counterpart and
register of what such souls produce.
III
OF HIS OWN LIBRARY[21]
It goes side by side with me in my whole course, and everywhere is
assisting me: it comforts me in my old age and solitude; it eases me
of a troublesome weight of idleness, and delivers me at all hours from
company that I dislike: it blunts the point of griefs, if they are not
extreme, and have not got an entire possession of my soul. To divert
myself from a troublesome fancy, 'tis but to run to my books; they
presently fix me to them and drive the other out of my thoughts; and
do not mutiny at seeing that I have only recourse to them for want of
other more real, natural, and lively commodities; they always receive
me with the same kindness. He may well go afoot, they say, who leads
his horse in his hand; and our James, King of Naples and Sicily, who,
handsome, young and healthful, caused himself to be carried about on a
barrow, extended upon a pitiful mattress in a poor robe of gray cloth,
and a cap of the same, but attended withal by a royal train of
litters, led horses of all sorts, gentlemen and officers, did yet
herein represent a tender and unsteady authority: "The sick man is not
to be pitied, who has his cure in his sleeve." In the experience and
practise of this maxim, which is a very true one, consists all the
benefit I reap from books; and yet I make as little use of them,
almost, as those who know them not: I enjoy them as a miser does his
money, in knowing that I may enjoy them when I please: my mind is
satisfied with this right of possession. I never travel without books,
either in peace or war; and yet sometimes I pass over several days,
and sometimes months, without looking on them: I will read by and by,
say I to myself, or to-morrow, or when I please; and in the interim,
time steals away without any inconvenience. For it is not to be
imagined to what degree I please myself and rest content in this
consideration, that I have them by me to divert myself with them when
I am disposed, and to call to mind what a refreshment they are to my
life. 'Tis the best viaticum I have yet found out for this human
journey, and I very much pity those men of understanding who are
unprovided of it. I the rather accept of any other sort of diversion,
how light soever, because this can never fail me.
[Footnote 21: From the essay entitled "Of Three Commerces," Book III,
Chapter III. The translation of Charles Cotton, as revised by William
Carew Hazlitt.]
When at home, I a little more frequent my library, whence I overlook
at once all the concerns of my family. 'Tis situated at the entrance
into my house, and I thence see under me my garden, court, and
base-court, and almost all parts of the building. There I turn over
now one book, and then another, on various subjects without method or
design. One while I meditate, another I record and dictate, as I walk
to and fro, such whimsies as these I present to you here. 'Tis in the
third story of a tower, of which the ground room is my chapel, the
second story a chamber with a withdrawing-room and closet, where I
often lie, to be more retired; and above is a great wardrobe. This
formerly was the most useless part of the house. I there pass away
both most of the days of my life and most of the hours of those days.
In the night I am never there. There is by the side of it a cabinet
handsome enough, with a fireplace very commodiously contrived, and
plenty of light: and were I not more afraid of the trouble than the
expense--the trouble that frights me from all business, I could very
easily adjoin on either side, and on the same floor, a gallery of an
hundred paces long, and twelve broad, having found walls already
raised for some other design, to the requisite height.
Every place of retirement requires a walk: my thoughts sleep if I sit
still; my fancy does not go by itself, as when my legs move it: and
all those who study without a book are in the same condition. The
figure of my study is round, and there is no more open wall than what
is taken up by my table and my chair, so that the remaining parts of
the circle present me a view of all my books at once, ranged upon five
rows of shelves around about me. It has three noble and free
prospects, and is sixteen paces in diameter I am not so continually
there in winter; for my house is built upon an eminence, as its name
imports, and no part of it is so much exposed to the wind and weather
as this, which pleases me the better, as being of more difficult
access and a little remote, as well upon the account of exercise, as
also being there more retired from the crowd. 'Tis there that I am in
my kingdom, and there I endeavor to make myself an absolute monarch,
and to sequester this one corner from all society, conjugal, filial,
and civil; elsewhere I have but verbal authority only, and of a
confused essence. That man, in my opinion, is very miserable, who has
not a home where to be by himself, where to entertain himself alone,
or to conceal himself from others. Ambition sufficiently plagues her
proselytes, by keeping them always in show, like the statue of a
public square: "Magna servitus est magna fortuna." They can not so
much as be private in the water-closet. I have thought nothing so
severe in the austerity of life that our monks affect, as what I have
observed in some of their communities; namely, by rule to have a
perpetual society of place, and numerous persons present in every
action whatever: and think it much more supportable to be always
alone, than never to be so.
If any one shall tell me that it is to undervalue the muses, to make
use of them only for sport and to pass away the time, I shall tell
him, that he does not know, so well as I, the value of the sport, the
pleasure, and the pastime; I can hardly forbear to add that all other
end is ridiculous. I live from hand to mouth, and, with reverence be
it spoken, I only live for myself; there all my designs terminate. I
studied, when young, for ostentation; since, to make myself a little
wiser; and now for my diversion, but never for any profit. A vain and
prodigal humor I had after this sort of furniture, not only for the
supplying my own need, but, moreover, for ornament and outward show, I
have since quite cured myself of.
Books have many charming qualities to such as know how to choose them;
but every good has its ill; 'tis a pleasure that is not pure and
clean, no more than others: it has its inconveniences, and great ones
too. The soul indeed is exercised therein; but the body, the care of
which I must withal never neglect, remains in the mean time without
action, and grows heavy and somber. I know no excess more prejudicial
to me, nor more to be avoided in this my declining age.
IV
THAT THE SOUL DISCHARGES HER PASSIONS UPON FALSE OBJECTS WHERE TRUE
ONES ARE WANTING[22]
A gentleman of my country, who was very often tormented with the gout,
being importun'd by his physicians totally to reclaim his appetite
from all manner of salt meats, was wont presently to reply that he
must needs have something to quarrel with in the extremity of his
fits, and that he fancy'd that railing at and cursing one while the
Bologna sausages, and another the dry'd tongues and the hams, was some
mitigation to his pain. And in good earnest, as the arm when it is
advanced to strike, if it fail of meeting with that upon which it was
design'd to discharge the blow, and spends itself in vain, does offend
the striker himself; and as also, that to make a pleasant prospect the
sight should not be lost and dilated in a vast extent of empty air,
but have some bounds to limit and circumscribe it at a reasonable
distance:
"As winds do lose their strength, unless withstood
By some dark grove of strong opposing wood."
[Footnote 22: The translation of Cotton before it was revised by
Hazlitt.]
So it appears that the soul, being transported and discompos'd, turns
its violence upon itself, if not supply'd with something to oppose it,
and therefore always requires an enemy as an object on which to
discharge its fury and resentment. Plutarch says very well of those
who are delighted with little dogs and monkeys, that the amorous part
which is in us, for want of a legitimate object, rather than lie idle,
does after that manner forge, and create one frivolous and false; as
we see that the soul in the exercise of its passions inclines rather
to deceive itself, by creating a false and fantastical subject, even
contrary to its own relief, than not to have something to work upon.
And after this manner brute beasts direct their fury to fall upon the
stone or weapon that has hurt them, and with their teeth even execute
their revenge upon themselves, for the injury they have receiv'd from
another.
So the fierce bear, made fiercer by the smart
Of the bold Lybian's mortal guided dart,
Turns round upon the wound, and the tough spear
Contorted o'er her breast does flying bear
Down....
--_Claudian_.
What causes of the misadventures that befall us do we not invent? What
is it that we do not lay the fault to right or wrong, that we may have
something to quarrel with? Those beautiful tresses, young lady, you
may so liberally tear off, are no way guilty, nor is it the whiteness
of those delicate breasts you so unmercifully beat, that with an
unlucky bullet has slain your beloved brother: quarrel with something
else. Livy, Dec. 3, l. 5., speaking of the Roman army in Spain, says
that for the loss of two brothers, who were both great captains,
"_Flere omnes repente et offensare capita_," that they all wept, and
tore their hair. 'Tis the common practise of affliction. And the
philosopher Bion said pleasantly of the king, who by handfuls pull'd
his hair off his head for sorrow, "Does this man think that baldness
is a remedy for grief?" Who has not seen peevish gamesters worry the
cards with their teeth, and swallow whole bales of dice in revenge for
the loss of their money? Xerxes whipt the sea, and wrote a challenge
to Mount Athos; Cyrus employ'd a whole army several days at work, to
revenge himself of the river Gnidus, for the fright it had put him
into in passing over; and Caligula demolish'd a very beautiful palace
for the pleasure his mother had once enjoy'd there. I remember there
was a story current, when I was a boy, that one of our neighboring
kings, having receiv'd a blow from the hand of God, swore he would be
reveng'd, and in order to it, made proclamation that for ten years to
come no one should pray to him, or so much as mention him throughout
his dominions; by which we are not so much to take measure of the
folly, as the vain-glory of the nation of which this tale was told.
They are vices that, indeed, always go together; but such actions as
these have in them more of presumption than want of wit. Augustus
Cæsar, having been tost with a tempest at sea, fell to defying
Neptune, and in the pomp of the Circensian games, to be reveng'd,
depos'd his statue from the place it had amongst the other deities.
Wherein he was less excusable than the former, and less than he was
afterward, when having lost a battle under Quintilius Varus in
Germany, in rage and despair he went running his head against the
walls, and crying out, O Varus! give me my men again! for this exceeds
all folly, for as much as impiety is joined with it, invading God
himself, or at least Fortune, as if she had ears that were subject to
our batteries; like the Thracians, who, when it thunders, or lightens,
fall to shooting against heaven with Titanian madness, as if by
flights of arrows they intended to reduce God Almighty to reason. Tho
the ancient poet in Plutarch tells us,
"We must not quarrel heaven in our affairs."
But we can never enough decry nor sufficiently condemn the senseless
and ridiculous sallies of our unruly passions.
V
THAT MEN ARE NOT TO JUDGE OF OUR HAPPINESS TILL AFTER DEATH[23]
Every one is acquainted with the story of King Croesus to this
purpose, who being taken prisoner by Cyrus, and by him condemn'd to
die, as he was going to execution, cry'd out, "O Solon, Solon!" which
being presently reported to Cyrus, and he sending to inquire what it
meant, Croesus gave him to understand that he now found the
advertisement Solon had formerly given him true to his cost, which
was, "That men, however fortune may smile upon them, could never be
said to be happy, till they had been seen to pass over the last day
of their lives, by reason of the uncertainty and mutability of human
things, which upon very light and trivial occasions are subject to be
totally chang'd into a quite contrary condition."
[Footnote 23: The translation of Cotton, before it was revised by
Hazlitt.]
And therefore it was, that Agesilaus made answer to one that was
saying, "What a happy young man the King of Persia was to come so
young to so mighty a kingdom." "'Tis true [said he], but neither was
Priam unhappy at his years." In a short time, of kings of Macedon,
successors to that mighty Alexander, were made joyners and scriveners
at Rome; of a tyrant of Sicily, a pedant at Corinth; of a conqueror of
one-half of the world, and general of so many armies, a miserable
suppliant to the rascally officers of a king of Egypt. So much the
prolongation of five or six months of life cost the great and noble
Pompey, and no longer since than our fathers' days, Ludovico Sforza,
the tenth duke of Milan, whom all Italy had so long truckled under,
was seen to die a wretched prisoner at Loches, but not till he had
lived ten years in captivity, which was the worst part of his fortune.
The fairest of all queens (Mary, Queen of Scots), widow to the
greatest king in Europe,[24] did she not come to die by the hand of an
executioner? Unworthy and barbarous cruelty! and a thousand more
examples there are of the same kind; for it seems that as storms and
tempests have a malice to the proud and overtow'ring heights of our
lofty buildings, there are also spirits above that are envious of the
grandeurs here below.
[Footnote 24: Francis II of France, to whom she was married in 1558
and who died two years afterward.]
_Usque adeo res humanas vis abdita quædam
Obterit, et pulchros fasces, sævasque secures
Proculcare ac ludibrio sibi habere videtur._
--_Lucret._, l. 5.
And it should seem also that Fortune sometimes lies in wait to
surprize the last hour of our lives, to show the power she has in a
moment to overthrow what she was so many years in building, making us
cry out with Laborius, "_Nimirum hac die una plus vixi mihi quam
vivendum fuit._"--Macrob., l. 2., c. 2. "I have liv'd longer by this
one day than I ought to have done." And in this sense, this good
advice of Solon may reasonably be taken; but he being a philosopher,
with which sort of men the favors and disgraces of fortune stand for
nothing, either to the making a man happy or unhappy, and with whom
grandeurs and powers, accidents of quality, are upon the matter
indifferent: I am apt to think that he had some further aim, and that
his meaning was that the very felicity of life itself, which depends
upon the tranquillity and contentment of a well-descended spirit, and
the resolution and assurance of a well-order'd soul, ought never to be
attributed to any man, till he has first been seen to play the last,
and doubtless the hardest act of his part, because there may be
disguise and dissimulation in all the rest, where these fine
philosophical discourses are only put on; and where accidents do not
touch us to the quick, they give us leisure to maintain the same sober
gravity; but in this last scene of death, there is no more
counterfeiting; we must speak plain, and must discover what there is
of pure and clean in the bottom.
_Nam veræ voces tum demum pectore ab imo
Ejiciuntur, et eripitur persona manet res._
--_Lucret._, l. 3.
"Then that at last truth issues from the heart.
The vizor's gone, we act our own true part."
Wherefore at this last all the other actions of our life ought to be
try'd and sifted. 'Tis the master-day, 'tis the day that is judge of
all the rest, 'tis the day (says one of the ancients) that ought to
judge of all my foregoing years. To death do I refer the essay of the
fruit of all my studies. We shall then see whether my discourses came
only from my mouth or from my heart. I have seen many by their death
give a good or an ill repute to their whole life. Scipio, the
father-in-law of Pompey the Great, in dying well, wip'd away the ill
opinion that till then every one had conceived of him. Epaminondas
being ask'd which of the three he had in the greatest esteem,
Chabrias, Iphicrates, or himself; "You must first see us die (said he)
before that question can be resolv'd": and, in truth, he would
infinitely wrong that great man, who would weigh him without the honor
and grandeur of his end.
God Almightly had order'd all things as it has best pleased Him; but I
have in my time seen three of the most execrable persons that ever I
knew in all manners of abominable living, and the most infamous to
boot, who all dy'd a very regular death, and in all circumstances
compos'd even to perfection. There are brave, and fortunate deaths. I
have seen death cut the thread of the progress of a prodigious
advancement, and in the height and flower of its increase of a certain
person, with so glorious an end, that in my opinion his ambitious and
generous designs had nothing in them so high and great as their
interruption; and he arrived without completing his course, at the
place to which his ambition pretended with greater glory than he could
himself either hope or desire, and anticipated by his fall the name
and power to which he aspir'd, by perfecting his career. In the
judgment I make of another man's life, I always observe how he carried
himself at his death; and the principal concern I have for my own is
that I may die handsomely; that is, patiently and without noise.
RENÉ DESCARTES
Born in Touraine in 1596, died in Stockholm in 1650; founder
of modern general philosophy; educated at a Jesuit college
in France; lived in Paris in 1613-18; at the siege of La
Rochelle in 1628; in retirement in Holland in 1629-49;
defending his philosophical ideas; his first famous work,
"Discours de la Methode," published in Leyden in 1637;
published "Meditations of Philosophy" in 1641; a treatise on
the passion of love in 1649; other works published after his
death; famous as a mathematician as well as philosopher, his
geometry being still standard in Europe.
OF MATERIAL THINGS AND OF THE EXISTENCE OF GOD[25]
Several questions remain for consideration respecting the attributes
of God and my own nature or mind. I will, however, on some other
occasion perhaps resume the investigation of these. Meanwhile, as I
have discovered what must be done and what avoided to arrive at the
knowledge of truth, what I have chiefly to do is to essay to emerge
from the state of doubt in which I have for some time been, and to
discover whether anything can be known with certainty regarding
material objects. But before considering whether such objects as I
conceive exist without me, I must examine their ideas in so far as
these are to be found in my consciousness, and discover which of them
are distinct and which confused.
[Footnote 25: From the "Meditations," translated by John Veitch.]
In the first place, I distinctly imagine that quantity which the
philosophers commonly call continuous, or the extension in length,
breadth, and depth that is in this quantity, or rather in the object
to which it is attributed. Further, I can enumerate in it many diverse
parts, and attribute to each of these all sorts of sizes, figures,
situations, and local motions; and, in fine, I can assign to each of
these motions all degrees of duration. And I not only distinctly know
these things when I thus consider them in general; but besides, by a
little attention, I discover innumerable particulars respecting
figures, numbers, motion, and the like, which are so evidently true,
and so accordant with my nature, that when I now discover them I do
not so much appear to learn anything new as to call to remembrance
what I before knew, or for the first time to remark what was before in
my mind, but to which I had not hitherto directed my attention. And
what I here find of most importance is, that I discover in my mind
innumerable ideas of certain objects, which can not be esteemed pure
negations, altho perhaps they possess no reality beyond my thought,
and which are not framed by me, tho it may be in my power to think, or
not to think them, but possess true and immutable natures of their
own.
As, for example, when I imagine a triangle, altho there is not perhaps
and never was in any place in the universe apart from my thought one
such figure, it remains true, nevertheless, that this figure possesses
a certain determinate nature, form, or essence, which is immutable and
eternal, and not framed by me, nor in any degree dependent on my
thought; as appears from the circumstance, that diverse properties of
the triangle may be demonstrated, viz., that its three angles are
equal to two right, that its greatest side is subtended by its
greatest angle, and the like, which, whether I will or not, I now
clearly discern to belong to it, altho before I did not at all think
of them, when, for the first time, I imagined a triangle, and which
accordingly can not be said to have been invented by me.
Nor is it a valid objection to allege that perhaps this idea of a
triangle came into my mind by the medium of the senses, through my
having seen bodies of a triangular figure; for I am able to form in
thought an innumerable variety of figures with regard to which it can
not be supposed that they were ever objects of sense, and I can
nevertheless demonstrate diverse properties of their nature no less
than of the triangle, all of which are assuredly true since I clearly
conceive them: and they are therefore something, and not mere
negations; for it is highly evident that all that is true is something
(truth being identical with existence); and I have already fully shown
the truth of the principle, that whatever is clearly and distinctly
known is true. And altho this had not been demonstrated, yet the
nature of my mind is such as to compel me to assent to what I clearly
conceive while I so conceive it; and I recollect that even when I
still strongly adhered to the objects of sense, I reckoned among the
number of the most certain truths those I clearly conceived relating
to figures, numbers, and other matters that pertain to arithmetic and
geometry, and in general to the pure mathematics.
But now if because I can draw from my thought the idea of an object it
follows that all I clearly and distinctly apprehend to pertain to this
object does in truth belong to it, may I not from this derive an
argument for the existence of God? It is certain that I no less find
the idea of a God in my consciousness, that is, the idea of a being
supremely perfect, than that of any figure or number whatever: and I
know with not less clearness and distinctness that an (actual and
eternal) existence pertains to his nature than that all which is
demonstrable of any figure or number really belongs to the nature of
that figure or number; and, therefore, altho all the conclusions of
the preceding "Meditations" were false, the existence of God would
pass with me for a truth at least as certain as I ever judged any
truth of mathematics to be, altho indeed such a doctrine may at first
sight appear to contain more sophistry than truth. For, as I have been
accustomed in every other matter to distinguish between existence and
essence, I easily believe that the existence can be separated from the
essence of God, and that thus God may be conceived as not actually
existing. But, nevertheless, when I think of it more attentively, it
appears that the existence can no more be separated from the essence
of God than the idea of a mountain from that of a valley, or the
equality of its three angles to two right angles, from the essence of
a (rectilineal) triangle; so that it is not less impossible to
conceive a God, that is, a being supremely perfect, to whom existence
is wanting, or who is devoid of a certain perfection, than to conceive
a mountain without a valley.
But tho, in truth, I can not conceive a God unless as existing, any
more than I can a mountain without a valley, yet, just as it does not
follow that there is any mountain in the world merely because I
conceive a mountain with a valley, so likewise, tho I conceive God as
existing, it does not seem to follow on that account that God exists;
for my thought imposes no necessity on things; and as I may imagine a
winged horse, tho there be none such, so I could perhaps attribute
existence to God, tho no God existed. But the cases are not analogous,
and a fallacy lurks under the semblance of this objection: for because
I can not conceive a mountain without a valley, it does not follow
that there is any mountain or valley in existence, but simply that the
mountain or valley, whether they do or do not exist, are inseparable
from each other; whereas, on the other hand, because I can not
conceive God unless as existing, it follows that existence is
inseparable from Him, and therefore that He really exists: not that
this is brought about by my thought, or that it imposes any necessity
on things, but, on the contrary, the necessity which lies in the thing
itself, that is, the necessity of the existence of God, determines me
to think in this way: for it is not in my power to conceive a God
without existence, that is, a being supremely perfect, and yet devoid
of an absolute perfection, as I am free to imagine a horse with or
without wings.
DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
Born in 1613, died in 1680; a duke and prince of distinction
in his own day, but now known through his "Maxims,"
"Memoirs" and "Letters"; his "Maxims" first issued
anonymously in 1665; a sixth edition, published in 1693,
contains fifty additional maxims; his Letters not published
until 1818.
A SELECTION FROM THE "MAXIMS"[26]
The contempt of riches in philosophers was only a hidden desire to
avenge their merit upon the injustice of fortune, by despising the
very goods of which fortune had deprived them; it was a secret to
guard themselves against the degradation of poverty; it was a back way
by which to arrive at that distinction which they could not gain by
riches.
[Footnote 26: From the translation by J. W. Willis Bund and J. Hain
Friswell. At least eight English translations of La Rochefoucauld had
appeared before 1870--including the years 1689, 1694, 1706, 1749, 1799
and 1815. Besides these, Swedish, Spanish and Italian translations
have been made. The first English version (1689), appears to have been
made by Mrs. Aphra Behn, the barber's daughter, upon whom has been
conferred the distinction of being "the first female writer who lived
by her pen in England." One of the later translations is by A. S.
Bolton. The translation by Messrs. Bund and Friswell includes fifty
additional maxims attributed to La Rochefoucauld.]
Perfect valor is to do without witnesses what one would do before all
the world.
As it is the mark of great minds to say many things in a few words,
so it is that of little minds to use many words to say nothing.
Who lives without folly is not so wise as he thinks.
There is no disguise which can long hide love where it exists, nor
feign it where it does not.
The gratitude of most men is but a secret desire of receiving greater
benefits.
Almost all the world takes pleasure in paying small debts; many people
show gratitude for trifling, but there is hardly one who does not show
ingratitude for great favors.
Nothing is rarer than true good nature; those who think they have it
are generally only pliant or weak.
There is no less eloquence in the voice, in the eyes and in the air of
a speaker than in his choice of words.
True eloquence consists in saying all that should be, not all that
could be said.
There are people whose faults become them, others whose very virtues
disgrace them.
We are never so happy or so unhappy as we suppose.
Our enemies come nearer the truth in the opinions they form of us than
we do in our opinion of ourselves.
Most people judge men only by success or by fortune.
Love of glory, fear of shame, greed of fortune, the desire to make
life agreeable and comfortable, and the wish to depreciate others are
often causes of that bravery so vaunted among men.
The fame of great men ought always to be estimated by the means used
to acquire it.
If we never flattered ourselves the flattery of others would not hurt
us.
When great men permit themselves to be cast down by the continuance of
misfortune, they show us that they were only sustained by ambition,
and not by their mind; so that _plus_ a great vanity, heroes are made
like other men.
We may forgive those who bore us, we can not forgive those whom we
bore.
To praise good actions heartily is in some measure to take part in
them.
There is a kind of greatness which does not depend upon fortune: it is
a certain manner that distinguishes us, and which seems to destine us
for great things: it is the value we insensibly set upon ourselves; it
is by this quality that we gain the deference of other men, and it is
this which commonly raises us more above them than birth, rank, or
even merit itself.
The cause why the majority of women are so little given to friendship
is, that it is insipid after having felt love.
Women can not be completely severe unless they hate.
The praise we give to new comers into the world arises from the envy
we bear to those who are established.
Little minds are too much wounded by little things; great minds see
all and are not even hurt.
Most young people think they are natural when they are only boorish
and rude.
To establish ourselves in the world we do everything to appear as if
we were established.
Why we hate with so much bitterness those who deceive us is because
they think themselves more clever than we are.
Too great a hurry to discharge an obligation is a kind of ingratitude.
The moderation of those who are happy arises from the calm which good
fortune bestows upon their temper.
Pride is much the same in all men; the only difference is the method
and manner of showing it.
The constancy of the wise is only the talent of concealing the
agitation of their hearts.
Whatever difference there appears in our fortunes, there is
nevertheless a certain compensation of good and evil which renders
them equal.
What we term virtue is often but a mass of various actions and divers
interests, which fortune, or our own industry, manage to arrange; and
it is not always from valor or from chastity that men are brave, and
women chaste.
Most men expose themselves in battle enough to save their honor, few
wish to do so more than sufficiently, or than is necessary to make the
design for which they expose themselves succeed.
If we never flattered ourselves we should have but scant pleasure.
Sincerity is an openness of heart; we find it in very few people; what
we usually see is only an artful dissimulation to win the confidence
of others.
We may find women who have never indulged in an intrigue, but it is
rare to find those who have intrigued but once.
Every one blames his memory, no one blames his judgment.
In the intercourse of life, we please more by our faults than by our
good qualities.
We are easily consoled at the misfortunes of our friends when they
enable us to prove our tenderness for them.
Virtue in woman is often the love of reputation and repose.
He is a truly good man who desires always to bear the inspection of
good men.
We frequently do good to enable us with impunity to do evil.
Every one praises his heart, none dare praise their understanding.
He is really wise who is nettled at nothing.
Hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue.[27]
In the adversity of our best friends we always find something which is
not wholly displeasing to us.[28]
[Footnote 27: A maxim similar to this has been found in the writings
of other men. Thus Massillon, in one of his sermons, said, "Vice pays
homage to virtue in doing honor to her appearance"; and Junius,
writing to the Duke of Grafton, said, "You have done as much mischief
to the community as Machiavel, if Machiavel had not known that an
appearance of morals and religion are useful in society." Both,
however, lived in a period subsequent to that in which La
Rochefoucauld wrote.]
[Footnote 28: This maxim, which more than any other has caused La
Rochefoucauld to be criticized severely as a cynic, if not a
misanthrope, appeared only in the first two editions of the book. In
the others, published in the author's lifetime, it was supprest. In
defense of the author, it has been maintained that what he meant by
the saying was that the pleasure derived from a friend's misfortunes
has its origin in the opportunity thus afforded to give him help. The
reader should compare this saying with another that is included in
these selections, "We are easily consoled at the misfortunes of our
friends when they enable us to prove our tenderness for them."]
The confidence we have in ourselves arises in a great measure from
that that we have in others.
Women for the most part surrender themselves more from weakness than
from passion. Whence it is that bold and pushing men succeed better
than others, altho they are not so lovable.
The great ones of the earth can neither command health of body nor
repose of mind, and they buy always at too dear a price the good they
can acquire.
Few things are needed to make a wise man happy; nothing can make a
fool content; that is why most men are miserable.
The harm that others do us is often less than that we do ourselves.
Magnanimity is a noble effort of pride which makes a man master of
himself, to make him master of all things.
BLAISE PASCAL
Born in France in 1623, died in 1662; educated in Paris;
became celebrated at seventeen for a work on conic sections;
became connected with the monastery at Port Royal, whose
doctrines he defended against the Jesuits; published
"Entretien sur Epictéte et Montaigne" in 1655; wrote his
"Provincial Letters" in 1656-57; in his last days engaged on
an "Apologie de la Religion Catholique" which, uncompleted,
was published in 1670 as his "Pensées."
OF THE PREVALENCE OF SELF-LOVE[29]
Self is hateful. You, Milton, conceal self, but do not thereby destroy
it; therefore you are still hateful. Not so, for in acting as we do,
to oblige everybody, we give no reason for hating us. True, if we only
hated in self the vexation which it causes us. But if I hate it
because it is unjust, and because it makes itself the center of all, I
shall always hate it.
[Footnote 29: From the "Thoughts." Many translations have been made of
Pascal's "Thoughts"--one in 1680 by J. Walker, one in 1704 by Basil
Kennet, one in 1825 by Edward Craig. A more modern one is by C. Kegan
Paul, the London publisher, who was also a man of letters. Early
translations from the older French, Italian and other Continental
writers have frequently come down to us without mention of
translators' names on title-pages or in the prefatory matter.]
In one word, Self has two qualities: it is unjust in its essence,
because it makes itself the center of all; it is inconvenient to
others, in that it would bring them into subjection, for each "I" is
the enemy, and would fain be the tyrant of all others. You take away
the inconvenience, but not the injustice, and thus you do not render
it lovable to those who hate injustice; you render it lovable only to
the unjust, who find in it an enemy no longer. Thus you remain unjust
and can please none but the unjust.
OF SELF-LOVE.--The nature of self-love and of this human "I" is to
love self only, and consider self only. But what can it do? It can not
prevent the object it loves from being full of faults and miseries;
man would fain be great and sees that he is little; would fain be
happy, and sees that he is miserable; would fain be perfect, and sees
that he is full of imperfections; would fain be the object of the love
and esteem of men, and sees that his faults merit only their aversion
and contempt. The embarrassment wherein he finds himself produces in
him the most unjust and criminal passion imaginable. For he conceives
a mortal hatred against that truth which blames him and convinces him
of his faults. Desiring to annihilate it, yet unable to destroy it in
its essence, he destroys it as much as he can in his own knowledge,
and in that of others; that is to say, he devotes all his care to the
concealment of his faults, both from others and from himself, and he
can neither bear that others should show them to him, nor that they
should see them.
It is no doubt an evil to be full of faults, but it is a greater evil
to be full of them, yet unwilling to recognize them, because that is
to add the further fault of a voluntary illusion. We do not like
others to deceive us, we do not think it just in them to require more
esteem from us than they deserve; it is therefore unjust that we
should deceive them, desiring more esteem from them than we deserve.
Thus if they discover no more imperfections and vices in us than we
really have, it is plain they do us no wrong, since it is not they who
cause them; but rather they who do us a service, since they help us to
deliver ourselves from an evil, the ignorance of these imperfections.
We ought not to be troubled that they know our faults and despise us,
since it is but just they should know us as we are, and despise us if
we are despicable.
Such are the sentiments which would arise in a heart full of equity
and justice. What should we say then of our own heart, finding in it a
wholly contrary disposition? For is it not true that we hate truth,
and those who tell it us, and that we would wish them to have an
erroneously favorable opinion of us, and to esteem us other than
indeed we are?
One proof of this fills me with dismay. The Catholic religion does not
oblige us to tell out our sins indiscriminately to all; it allows us
to remain hidden from men in general; but she excepts one alone, to
whom she commands us to open the very depths of our hearts, and to
show ourselves to him as we are. There is but this one man in the
world whom she orders us to undeceive; she binds him to an inviolable
secrecy, so that this knowledge is to him as tho it were not. We can
imagine nothing more charitable and more tender. Yet such is the
corruption of man, that he finds even this law harsh, and it is one of
the main reasons which has set a large portion of Europe in revolt
against the Church.
How unjust and unreasonable is the human heart which finds it hard to
be obliged to do in regard to one man what in some degree it were just
to do to all men. For is it just that we should deceive them?
There are different degrees in this dislike to the truth, but it may
be said that all have it in some degree, for it is inseparable from
self-love. This false delicacy causes those who must needs reprove
others to choose so many windings and modifications in order to avoid
shocking them. They must needs lessen our faults, seem to excuse them,
mix praises with their blame, give evidences of affection and esteem.
Yet this medicine is bitter to self-love, which takes as little as it
can, always with disgust, often with a secret anger.
Hence it happens that if any desire our love, they avoid doing us a
service which they know to be disagreeable; they treat us as we would
wish to be treated: we hate the truth, and they hide it from us; we
wish to be flattered, they flatter us; we love to be deceived, they
deceive us.
Thus each degree of good fortune which raises us in the world removes
us further from truth, because we fear most to wound those whose
affection is most useful, and whose dislike is most dangerous. A
prince may be the byword of all Europe, yet he alone know nothing of
it. I am not surprized; to speak the truth is useful to whom it is
spoken, but disadvantageous to those who speak it, since it makes them
hated. Now those who live with princes love their own interests more
than that of the prince they serve, and thus they take care not to
benefit him so as to do themselves a disservice.
This misfortune is, no doubt, greater and more common in the higher
classes, but lesser men are not exempt from it, since there is always
an interest in making men love us. Thus human life is but a perpetual
illusion, an interchange of deceit and flattery. No one speaks of us
in our presence as in our absence. The society of men is founded on
this universal deceit; few friendships would last if every man knew
what his friend said of him behind his back, tho he then spoke in
sincerity and without passion.
Man is, then, only disguise, falsehood, and hypocrisy, both in himself
and with regard to others. He will not be told the truth; he avoids
telling it to others; and all these tendencies, so far removed from
justice and reason, have their natural roots in his heart.
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
Born in Paris in 1626, died in 1696; married in 1644 to the
Marquis de Sévigné, who was killed in a duel in 1651; lived
late in life in Brittany; wrote to her married daughter,
Madame de Grigman, the famous letters from which has
proceeded her fame.
I
GREAT NEWS FROM PARIS[30]
I am going to tell you a thing, the most astonishing, the most
surprizing, the most marvelous, the most miraculous, the most
magnificent, the most confounding, the most unheard-of, the most
singular, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most
unforeseen, the greatest, the least, the rarest, the most common, the
most public, the most private till to-day, the most brilliant, the
most inevitable; in short, a thing of which there is but one example
in past ages, and that not an exact one either; a thing that we can
not believe at Paris; how, then, will it gain credence at Lyons? a
thing which makes everybody cry, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" a thing
which causes the greatest joy to Madame de Rohan and Madame de
Hauterive; a thing, in fine, which is to happen on Sunday next, when
those who are present will doubt the evidence of their senses; a thing
which, tho it is to be done on Sunday, yet perhaps will not be
finished on Monday.
[Footnote 30: From a letter dated Paris, December 15, 1670. George
Saintsbury has described Madame de Sévigné as "the most charming of
all letter-writers in all languages." Translations of these letters
into English were made in 1732, 1745, 1764, and other years, including
a version by Mackie in 1802.]
I can not bring myself to tell you; guess what it is. I give you three
times to do it in. What, not a word to throw at a dog? Well, then, I
find I must tell you. Monsieur de Lauzun is to be married next Sunday
at the Louvre, to--pray guess to whom! I give you four times to do it
in,--I give you six,--I give you a hundred. Says Madame de Coulanges:
"It is really very hard to guess; perhaps it is Madame de la
Vallière."
Indeed madame, it is not. "It is Mademoiselle de Retz, then." No, nor she
either; you are extremely provincial. "Lord bless me," say you, "what
stupid wretches we are! it is Mademoiselle de Colbert all the while." Nay,
now you are still further from the mark. "Why, then, it must certainly be
Mademoiselle de Crequy." You have it not yet. Well, I find I must tell you
at last. He is to be married next Sunday at the Louvre, with the King's
leave, to Mademoiselle--Mademoiselle de--Mademoiselle--guess, pray guess
her name; he is to be married to Mademoiselle, the great Mademoiselle;
Mademoiselle, daughter of the late Monsieur; Mademoiselle, granddaughter of
Henry IV; Mademoiselle d'Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle de
Montpensier, Mademoiselle d'Orleans, Mademoiselle, the King's
cousin-german--Mademoiselle, destined to the throne--Mademoiselle, the only
match in France that was worthy of Monsieur.
What glorious matter for talk! If you should burst forth like a
bedlamite, say we have told you a lie, that it is false, that we are
making a jest of you, and that a pretty jest it is, without wit or
invention; in short, if you abuse us, we shall think you are quite in
the right; for we have done just the same things ourselves. Farewell,
you will find by the letters you receive this post whether we tell you
truth or not.
II
AN IMPOSING FUNERAL DESCRIBED[31]
I must return to narration, it is a folly I can never resist. Prepare,
therefore, for a description. I was yesterday at a service performed
in honor of the Chancellor Segnier at the Oratory. Painting,
sculpture, music, rhetoric--in a word, the four liberal arts--were at
the expense of it. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the decorations;
they were finely imagined, and designed by Le Brun. The mausoleum
reached to the top of the dome, adorned with a thousand lamps, and a
variety of figures characteristic of him in whose honor it was
erected. Beneath were four figures of Death, bearing the marks of his
several dignities, as having taken away his honors with his life. One
of them held his helmet, another his ducal coronet, another the
ensigns of his order, another his chancellor's mace. The four sister
arts, painting, music, eloquence and sculpture, were represented in
deep distress, bewailing the loss of their protector. The first
representation was supported by the four virtues, fortitude,
temperance, justice, and religion. Above these, four angels, or genii,
received the soul of the deceased, and seemed preening their purple
wings to bear their precious charge to heaven. The mausoleum was
adorned with a variety of little seraphs who supported an illuminated
shrine, which was fixt to the top of the cupola. Nothing so
magnificent or so well imagined was ever seen; it is Le Brun's
masterpiece. The whole church was adorned with pictures, devices, and
emblems, which all bore some relation to the life, or office of the
chancellor; and some of his noblest actions were represented in
painting. Madame de Verneuil offered to purchase all the decoration at
a great price; but it was unanimously resolved by those who had
contributed to it to adorn a gallery with it, and to consecrate it as
an everlasting monument of their gratitude and magnificence. The
assembly was grand and numerous, but without confusion. I sat next to
Monsieur de Tulle, Madame Colbert and the Duke of Monmouth, who is as
handsome as when we saw him at the _palais royal_. (Let me tell you in
a parenthesis that he is going to the army to join the King.) A young
father of the Oratory came to speak the funeral oration. I desired
Monsieur de Tulle to bid him come down, and to mount the pulpit in his
place; since nothing could sustain the beauty of the spectacle, and
the excellence of the music but the force of his eloquence.
[Footnote 31: From a letter to her daughter, dated Paris, May 6,
1672.]
My child, this young man trembled when he began, and we all trembled
for him. Our ears were at first struck with a provincial accent; he is
of Marseilles, and called Lené. But as he recovered from his
confusion, he became so brilliant; established himself so well, gave
so just a measure of praise to the deceased; touched with so much
address and delicacy all the passages in his life where delicacy was
required! placed in so true a light all that was most worthy of
admiration; employed all the charms of expression, all the masterly
strokes of eloquence with so much propriety and so much grace that
every one present, without exception, burst into applause, charmed
with so perfect, so finished a performance. He is twenty-eight years
of age, the intimate friend of M. de Tulle, who accompanied him when
he left the assembly. We were for naming him the Chevalier Mascaron,
and I think he will even surpass his friend. As for the music, it was
fine beyond all description. Baptiste exerted himself to the utmost,
and was assisted by all the King's musicians. There was an addition
made to that fine "Miserere," and there was a "Libera" which filled
the eyes of the whole assembly with tears; I do not think the music in
heaven could exceed it. There were several prelates present. I desired
Guitaut to look for the good Bishop of Marseilles, but we could not
see him. I whispered him that if it had been the funeral oration of
any person living to whom he might have made his court by it he would
not have failed to have been there. This little pleasantry made us
laugh, in spite of the solemnity of the ceremony. My dear child, what
a strange letter is this! I fancy I have almost lost my senses! What
is this long account to you? To tell the truth, I have satisfied my
love of description.
ALAIN RENÉ LE SAGE
Born in France in 1668, died in 1747; studied philosophy and
law in Paris; wrote many novels and plays, some of them
borrowed from Spanish originals; published his chief work,
"Gil Blas," in 1715-35.
I
IN THE SERVICE OF DR. SANGRADO[32]
I determined to throw myself in the way of Sigñor Arias de Londona,
and to look out for a new berth in his register; but as I was on my
way to No Thoroughfare, who should come across me but Doctor Sangrado,
whom I had not seen since the day of my master's death. I took the
liberty of touching my hat. He kenned me in a twinkling, tho I had
changed my dress; and with as much warmth as his temperament would
allow him, "Heyday!" said he, "the very lad I wanted to see; you have
never been out of my thought. I have occasion for a clever fellow
about me, and pitched upon you as the very thing, if you can read and
write." "Sir," replied I, "if that is all you require, I am your man."
"In that case," rejoined he, "we need look no further. Come home with
me: it will be all comfort; I shall behave to you like a brother. You
will have no wages, but everything will be found you. You shall eat
and drink according to the true faith, and be taught to cure all
diseases. In a word, you shall rather be my young Sangrado than my
footman."
[Footnote 32: From "Gil Blas," which is perhaps as well known in
English as in French, innumerable translations having been made. The
best known is the one by Tobias Smollett, which has survived in favor
to the present time. A translation by P. Proctor appeared in 1774, one
by Martin Smart in 1807, and one by Benjamin H. Malkin in 1809.]
I closed in with the doctor's proposal, in the hope of becoming an
Esculapius under so inspired a master. He carried me home on the spur
of the occasion, to install me in my honorable employment; which
honorable employment consisted in writing down the name and residence
of the patients who sent for him in his absence. There had indeed been
a register for this purpose, kept by an old domestic; but she had not
the gift of spelling accurately, and wrote a most perplexing hand.
This account I was to keep. It might truly be called a bill of
mortality; for my members all went from bad to worse during the short
time they continued in this system. I was a sort of bookkeeper for the
other world, to take places in the stage, and to see that the first
come were the first served. My pen was always in my hand, for Doctor
Sangrado had more practise than any physician of his time in
Valladolid. He had got into reputation with the public by a certain
professional slang, humored by a medical face, and some extraordinary
cases more honored by implicit faith than scrupulous investigation.
He was in no want of patients, nor consequently of property. He did
not keep the best house in the world: we lived with some little
attention to economy. The usual bill of fare consisted of peas,
beans, boiled apples or cheese. He considered this food as best suited
to the human stomach; that is to say, as most amenable to the
grinders, whence it was to encounter the process of digestion.
Nevertheless, easy as was their passage, he was not for stopping the
way with too much of them; and to be sure, he was in the right. But
tho he cautioned the maid and me against repletion in respect of
solids, it was made up by free permission to drink as much water as we
liked. Far from prescribing us any limits in that direction, he would
tell us sometimes: "Drink, my children: health consists in the
pliability and moisture of the parts. Drink water by pailfuls: it is a
universal dissolvent; water liquefies all the salts. Is the course of
the blood a little sluggish? this grand principle sets it forward: too
rapid? its career is checked." Our doctor was so orthodox on this head
that the advanced in years, he drank nothing himself but water. He
defined old age to be a natural consumption which dries us up and
wastes us away: on this principle he deplored the ignorance of those
who call wine "old men's milk." He maintained that wine wears them out
and corrodes them; and pleaded with all the force of his eloquence
against that liquor, fatal in common both to the young and old--that
friend with a serpent in its bosom--that pleasure with a dagger under
its girdle.
In spite of these fine arguments, at the end of a week a looseness
ensued, with some twinges, which I was blasphemous enough to saddle on
the universal dissolvent and the new-fangled diet. I stated my
symptoms to my master, in the hope that he would relax the rigor of
his regimen and qualify my meals with a little wine; but his hostility
to that liquor was inflexible. "If you have not philosophy enough,"
said he, "for pure water, there are innocent infusions to strengthen
the stomach against the nausea of aqueous quaffings. Sage, for
example, has a very pretty flavor; and if you wish to heighten it into
a debauch, it is only mixing rosemary, wild poppy, and other simples
with it--but no compounds."
In vain did he crack off his water, and teach me the secret of
composing delicious messes. I was so abstemious that, remarking my
moderation, he said: "In good sooth, Gil Bias, I marvel not that you
are no better than you are: you do not drink enough, my friend. Water
taken in a small quantity serves only to separate the particles of
bile and set them in action; but our practise is to drown them in a
copious drench. Fear not, my good lad, lest a superabundance of liquid
should either weaken or chill your stomach; far from thy better
judgment be that silly fear of unadulterated drink. I will insure you
against all consequences; and if my authority will not serve your
turn, read Celsus. That oracle of the ancient makes an admirable
panegyric on water; in short, he says in plain terms that those who
plead an inconstant stomach in favor of wine, publish a libel on their
own viscera, and make their constitution a pretense for their
sensuality."
As it would have been ungenteel in me to run riot on my entrance into
the career of practise, I affected thorough conviction; indeed, I
thought there was something in it. I therefore went on drinking water
on the authority of Celsus, or to speak in scientific terms, I began
to drown the bile in copious drenches of that unadulterated liquor;
and tho I felt myself more out of order from day to day, prejudice won
the cause against experience. It is evident therefore that I was in
the right road to the practise of physic. Yet I could not always be
insensible to the qualms which increased in my frame, to that degree
as to determine me on quitting Doctor Sangrado. But he invested me
with a new office which changed my tone. "Hark you, my child," said he
to me one day: "I am not one of those hard and ungrateful masters who
leave their household to grow gray in service without a suitable
reward. I am well pleased with you
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/24563