No More Learning

Who are you,
weak
you
should
imagine yourself capable of devising and executing greater deeds
of evil, than God can make you will and accomplish in the cause
of good ? What can God do with you ? Pardon you! save you!
finish in you the work of redemption! Are not these things noble
and worthy of him ? Oh, just think! if I, a humble and feeble
creature, so worthless and full of myself — I, such as I am, long
so ardently for your salvation, that for its sake I would joyfully
give (and he is my witness! ) the few days that still remain to
me,-oh, think what and how great must be the love of Him
who inspires me with this imperfect but ardent affection; how
must He love you, what must He desire for you, who has bid
and enabled me to regard you with a charity that consumes
me! »
While these words fell from his lips, his face, his expression,
his whole manner, evinced his deep feeling of what he uttered.
The countenance of his auditor changed from a wild and con-
vulsive look, first to astonishment and attention, and then gradu-
ally yielded to deeper and less painful emotions; his eyes, which
from infancy had been unaccustomed to weep, became suffused;
and when the words ceased, he covered his face with his hands
and burst into a flood of tears. It was the only and most evi.
dent reply.
“Great and good God! ” exclaimed Federigo, raising his hands
and eyes to heaven, “what have I ever done, an unprofitable
servant, an idle shepherd, that thou shouldest call me to this
banquet of grace! that thou shouldest make me worthy of being
an instrument in so joyful a miracle ! ” So saying, he extended
his hand to take that of the Unnamed.
"No! ” cried the penitent nobleman; “no! keep away from
me: defile not that innocent and beneficent hand. You don't
know all that the one you would grasp has committed. ”
“Suffer me,” said Federigo, taking it with affectionate vio-
lence, “suffer me to press the hand which will repair so many
(c


## p. 9691 (#99) ############################################

ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9691
more
wrongs, dispense so many benefits, comfort so many afflicted, and
be extended — disarmed, peacefully, and humbly - to so many
enemies. ”
« It is too much! ” said the Unnamed sobbing: “leave me, my
lord; good Federigo, leave me! A crowded assembly awaits you;
so many good people, so many innocent creatures, so many come
from a distance, to see you for once, to hear you: and you are
staying to talk — with whom ! »
“We will leave the ninety-and-nine sheep,” replied the Cardi-
nal: "they are in safety upon the mountain; I wish to remain
with that which was lost. Their minds are perhaps now
satisfied than if they were seeing their poor bishop. Perhaps
God, who has wrought in you this miracle of mercy, is diffusing
in their hearts a joy of which they know not yet the reason.
These people are perhaps united to us without being aware of
it; perchance the Spirit may be instilling into their hearts an
undefined feeling of charity, a petition which he will grant
for you, an offering of gratitude of which you are as yet the
unknown object. ” So saying, he threw his arms around the neck
of the Unnamed; who, after attempting to disengage himself, and
making a momentary resistance, yielded, completely overcome by
this vehement expression of affection, embraced the Cardinal in
his turn, and buried in his shoulder his trembling and altered
face. His burning tears dropped upon the stainless purple of
Federigo, while the guiltless hands of the holy bishop affection-
ately pressed those members, and touched that garment, which
had been accustomed to hold the weapons of violence and treach-
ery.
Disengaging himself at length from this embrace, the Un.
named again covered his eyes with his hands, and raising his face
to heaven, exclaimed:-"God is indeed great! God is indeed
,
good! I know myself now, now I understand what I am; my
sins are present before me, and I shudder at the thought of
myself; yet! - yet I feel an alleviation, a joy - yes, even a joy,
such as I have never before known during the whole of my hor-
rible life!
«It is a little taste," said Federigo, “which God gives you, to
incline you to his service, and encourage you resolutely to enter
upon the new course of life which lies before you, and in which
you will have so much to undo, so much to repair, so much to
mourn over ! »


## p. 9692 (#100) ###########################################

9692
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
(
((
(
"Unhappy man that I am! ” exclaimed the Signor: "how
» "
many, oh, how many — things for which I can do nothing besides
mourn! But at least I have undertakings scarcely set on foot
which I can break off in the midst, if nothing more: one there
is which I can quickly arrest, which I can easily undo and repair. ”
Federigo listened attentively while the Unnamed briefly
related, in terms of perhaps deeper execration than we have
employed, his attempt upon Lucia, the sufferings and terrors
of the unhappy girl, her importunate entreaties, the frenzy that
these 'entreaties had aroused within him, and how she was still
in the castle.
"Ah, then let us lose no time! ” exclaimed Federigo, breath-
less with eagerness and compassion. You are indeed blessed!
This is an earnest of God's forgiveness! He makes you capable
of becoming the instrument of safety to one whom you intended
to ruin. God bless you! Nay, he has blessed you! Do you
know where our unhappy protégée comes from ? ”
The Signor named Lucia's village.
It's not far from this,” said the Cardinal, “God be praised;
and probably – So saying, he went towards a little table and
a
rang a bell. The cross-bearing chaplain immediately attended the
summons with a look of anxiety, and instantly glanced towards
the Unnamed. At the sight of his altered countenance, and his
eyes still red with weeping, he turned an inquiring gaze upon
the Cardinal; and perceiving, amidst the invariable composure
of his countenance, a look of solemn pleasure and unusual solici-
tude, he would have stood with open mouth in a sort of ecstasy,
had not the Cardinal quickly aroused him from his contempla-
tions by asking whether, among the parish priests assembled in
the next room, there was one from
« There is, your illustrious Grace,” replied the chaplain.
“Let him come in directly,” said Federigo, “and with him the
priest of this parish. ”
The chaplain quitted the room, and on entering the hall where
the clergy were assembled, all eyes were immediately turned upon
him; while, with a look of blank astonishment, and a countenance
in which was still depicted the rapture he had felt, he lifted up
his hands, and waving them in the air, exclaimed, “Signori!
Signori! Hæc mutatio dextera Excelsi” [This change is from
the right hand of the Almighty). And he stood for a moment
without uttering another word.


## p. 9693 (#101) ###########################################

ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9693
AN EPISODE OF THE PLAGUE IN MILAN
From "The Betrothed
[The hero of the novel, young Renzo Tramaglino, enters Milan on foot,
seeking his lost betrothed, Lucia Mondella. Among the scenes of suffering
and horror which continually meet his eyes is the following. )
R
Enzo had already gone some distance on his way through the
midst of this desolation, when he heard, proceeding from
a street a few yards off, into which he had been directed
to turn, a confused noise, in which he readily distinguished the
usual horrible tinkling.
At the entrance of the street, which was one of the most
spacious, he perceived four carts standing in the middle: and as
in a corn market there is a constant hurrying to and fro of people,
and an emptying and filling of sacks, such was the bustle here,
- monatti intruding into houses, monatti coming out, bearing
a burden upon their shoulders, which they placed upon one or
other of the carts;. some in red livery, others without that distinc-
tion; many with another still more odious,-plumes and cloaks of
various colors, which these miserable wretches wore in the midst
of the general mourning, as if in honor of a festival. From time
to time the mournful cry resounded from one of the windows,
«Here, monatti! ” And with a still more wretched sound, a harsh
voice rose from this horrible source in reply, “Coming directly! »
Or else there were lamentations nearer at hand, or entreaties to
make haste; to which the monatti responded with oaths.
Having entered the street, Renzo quickened his steps, trying
not to look at these obstacles further than was necessary to
avoid them: his attention, however, was arrested by a remarkable
object of pity, - such pity as inclines to the contemplation of its
object; so that he came to a pause almost without determining
to do so.
Coming down the steps of one of the doorways, and advan-
cing towards the convoy, he beheld a woman, whose appearance
announced still remaining though somewhat advanced youthful-
ness; a veiled and dimmed but not destroyed beauty was still
apparent, in spite of much suffering and a fatal languor,— that
delicate and at the same time majestic beauty which is con-
spicuous in the Lombard blood. Her gait was weary, but not
tottering; no tears fell from her eyes, though they bore tokens of
having shed many; there was something peaceful and profound


## p. 9694 (#102) ###########################################

9694
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
in her sorrow, which indicated a mind fully conscious and sensi-
tive enough to feel it. But it was not merely her own appear-
ance which in the midst of so much misery marked her out
so especially as an object of commiseration, and revived in her
behalf a feeling now exhausted - extinguished — in men's hearts.
-
She carried in her arms a little child, about nine years old, now
a lifeless body; but laid out and arranged, with her hair parted
on her forehead, and in a white and remarkably clean dress,
as if those hands had decked her out for a long-promised feast,
granted as a reward. Nor was she lying there, but upheld and
adjusted on one arm, with her breast reclining against her
mother's, like a living creature; save that a delicate little hand,
as white as wax, hung from one side with a kind of inanimate
weight, and the head rested upon her mother's shoulder with an
abandonment deeper than that of sleep; - her mother; for even
if their likeness to each other had not given assurance of the
fact, the countenance which could still display any emotion would
have clearly revealed it.
A horrible-looking monatto approached the woman, and at-
tempted to take the burden from her arms; with a kind of unusual
respect, however, and with involuntary hesitation. But she, slightly
drawing back, yet with the air of one who shows neither scorn
nor displeasure, said, “No! don't take her from me yet: I must
place her myself on this cart - here. » So saying, she opened her
hand, displayed a purse which she held in it, and dropped it into
that which the monatto extended towards her. She then con.
tinued: «Promise me not to take a thread from around her, nor
to let any one else do so, and to lay her in the ground thus. ”
The monatto laid his right hand on his heart; and then, zeal-
ously and almost obsequiously,- rather from the new feeling
by which he was, as it were, subdued, than on account of the
unlooked-for reward, — hastened to make a little room on the car
for the infant dead. The lady, giving it a kiss on the forehead,
laid it on the spot prepared for it, as upon a bed, arranged it
there, covering it with a pure white linen cloth, and pronounced
these parting words:— “Farewell, Cecilia! rest in peace! This
evening we too will join you, to rest together forever. In the
mean while pray for us; for I will pray for you and the others. ”
Then, turning again to the monatto, “You,” said she, “when you
pass this way in the evening, may come to fetch me too; and
not me only. "
>


## p. 9695 (#103) ###########################################

ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9695
nance.
So saying, she re-entered the house, and after an instant
appeared at the window, holding in her arms another more dearly
loved one, still living, but with the marks of death on its counte-
She remained to contemplate these so unworthy obsequies
of the first child, from the time the car started until it was out
of sight, and then disappeared. And what remained for her to
do but to lay upon the bed the only one that was left her, and
to stretch herself beside it, that they might die together? as the
flower already full blown upon the stem falls together with the
bud still infolded in its calyx, under the scythe which levels alike
all the herbage of the field.
"O Lord ! ” exclaimed Renzo, “hear her! take her to thyself,
her and that little infant one: they have suffered enough! surely,
they have suffered enough! ”
CHORUS
IN THE COUNT OF CARMAGNOLA'
(
From Modern Italian Poets,' by W. D. Howells. Copyright 1887, by
Harper & Brothers
O
N THE right hand a trumpet is sounding,
On the left hand a trumpet replying,
The field upon all sides resounding
With the tramping of foot and of horse.
Yonder flashes a flag; yonder, flying
Through the still air, a bannerol glances;
Here a squadron embattled advances,
There another that threatens its course.
The space 'twixt the foes now beneath them
Is hid, and on swords the sword ringeth;
In the hearts of each other they sheathe them;
Blood runs, — they redouble their blows.
Who are these ? To our fair fields what bringeth,
To make war upon us, this stranger ?
Which is he that hath sworn to avenge her,
The land of his birth, on her foes ?
They are all of one land and one nation,
One speech; and the foreigner names them
All brothers, of one generation;
In each visage their kindred is seen:


## p. 9696 (#104) ###########################################

9696
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
This land is the mother that claims them,
This land that their life-blood is steeping,
That God, from all other lands keeping,
Set the seas and the mountains between.
Ah, which drew the first blade among them,
To strike at the heart of his brother ?
What wrong or what insult hath stung them
To wipe out what stain, or to die?
They know not: to slay one another
They come in a course none hath told them;
A chief that was purchased hath sold them;
They combat for him, nor ask why.
Ah, woe for the mothers that bare them,
For the wives of the warriors maddened!
Why come not their loved ones to tear them
Away from the infamous field ?
Their sires, whom long years have saddened,
And thoughts of the sepulchre chastened,
In warning why have they not hastened
To bid them to hold and to yield ?
As under the vine that embowers
His own happy threshold, the smiling
Clown watches the tempest that lowers
On the furrows his plow has not turned,
So each waits in safety, beguiling
The time with his count of those falling
Afar in the fight, and the appalling
Flames of towns and of villages burned.
There, intent on the lips of their mothers,
Thou shalt hear little children with scorning,
Learn to follow and flout at the brothers
Whose blood they shall go forth to shed;
Thou shalt see wives and maidens adorning
Their bosoms and hair with the splendor
Of gems but now torn from the tender
Hapless daughters and wives of the dead.
Oh, disaster, disaster, disaster!
With the slain the earth's hidden already;
With blood reeks the whole plain, and vaster
And fiercer the strife than before!


## p. 9697 (#105) ###########################################

ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9697
But along the ranks, rent and unsteady,
Many waver, — they yield,- they are flying!
With the last hope of victory dying,
The love of life rises again.
As out of the fan, when it tosses
The grain in its breath, the grain flashes,
So over the field of their losses
Fly the vanquished. But now in their course
Starts a squadron that suddenly dashes
Athwart their wild fight and that stays them,
While hard on the hindmost dismays them
The pursuit of the enemy's horse.
At the feet of the foe they fall trembling,
And yield life and sword to his keeping;
In the shouts of the victors assembling,
The moans of the dying are drowned.
To the saddle a courier leaping,
Takes a missive, and through all resistance,
Spurs, lashes, devours the distance;
Every hamlet awake at the sound.
Ah, why from their rest and their labor
To the hoof-beaten road do they gather?
Why turns every one to his neighbor
The jubilant tidings to hear ?
Thou know'st whence he comes, wretched father!
And thou long'st for his news, hapless mother!
In fight brother fell upon brother!
These terrible tidings I bring.
All around I hear cries of rejoicing;
The temples are decked; the song swelleth
From the hearts of the fratricides, voicing
Praise and thanks that are hateful to God.
Meantime from the Alps where he dwelleth
The stranger turns hither his vision,
And numbers with cruel derision
The brave that have bitten the sod.
Leave your games, leave your songs and exulting;
Fill again your battalions, and rally
Again to your banner! Insulting
The stranger descends, he is come!
XVII-607


## p. 9698 (#106) ###########################################

9693
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
Are ye feeble and few in your sally,
Ye victors ? For this he descendeth!
'Tis for this that his challenge he sendeth
From the fields where your brothers lie dumb!
Thou that strait to thy children appearedst,
Thou that knew'st not in peace how to tend them,
Fatal land! now the stranger thou fearedst
Receive, with the judgment he brings!
A foe unprovoked to offend them
At thy board sitteth down and derideth,
The spoil of thy foolish divideth,
Strips the sword from the hand of thy kings.
Foolish he, too! What people was ever
For the bloodshedding blest, or oppression ?
To the vanquished alone comes harm never;
To tears turns the wrong-doer's joy!
Though he 'scape through the years' long progression,
Yet the vengeance eternal o'ertaketh
Him surely; it waiteth and waketh;
It seizes him at the last sigh!
We are all made in one likeness holy,
Ransomed all by one only redemption
Near or far, rich or poor, high or lowly,
Wherever we breathe in life's air;
We are brothers by one great pre-emption
Bound all; and accursed be its wronger,
Who would ruin by right of the stronger,
Wring the hearts of the weak with despair.
Translation of William D. Howells
THE FIFTH OF MAY
From Modern Italian Poets,' by W. D. Howells. Copyright 1887, by
Harper & Brothers
H
Н
E PASSED: and as immovable
As, with the last sigh given,
Lay his own clay, oblivious,
From that great spirit riven,
So the world stricken and wondering
Stands at the tidings dread;


## p. 9699 (#107) ###########################################

ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9699
Mutely pondering the ultimate
Hour of that fateful being,
And in the vast futurity
No peer of his foreseeing
Among the countless myriads
Her blood-stained dust that tread.
Him on his throne and glorious
Silent saw I, that never —
When with awful vicissitude
He sank, rose, fell forever -
Mixed my voice with the numberless
Voices that pealed on high ;
Guiltless of servile flattery
And of the scorn of coward,
Come I when darkness suddenly
On so great light hath lowered,
And offer a song at his sepulchre
That haply shall not die.
From the Alps unto the Pyramids,
From Rhine to Manzanares,
Unfailingly the thunderstroke
His lightning purpose carries;
Bursts from Scylla to Tanais,-
From one to the other sea.
Was it true glory? – Posterity,
Thine be the hard decision;
Bow we before the mightiest,
Who willed in him the vision
Of his creative majesty
Most grandly traced should be.
The eager and tempestuous
Joy of the great plan's hour,
The throe of the heart that controllessly
Burns with a dream of power,
And wins it, and seizes victory
It had seemed folly to hope,
All he hath known: the infinite
Rapture after the danger,
The flight, the throne of sovereignty,
The salt bread of the stranger;
Twice 'neath the feet of the worshipers,
Twice 'neath the altar's cope.


## p. 9700 (#108) ###########################################

ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9700
He spoke his name; two centuries,
Armed and threatening either,
Turned unto him submissively,
As waiting fate together;
He made a silence, and arbiter
He sat between the two.
He vanished; his days in the idleness
Of his island prison spending,
Mark of immense malignity,
And of a pity unending,
Of hatred inappeasable,
Of deathless love and true.
As on the head of the mariner,
Its weight some billow heaping,
Falls, even while the castaway,
With strained sight far sweeping,
Scanneth the empty distances
For some dim sail in vain :
So over his soul the memories
Billowed and gathered ever;
How oft to tell posterity
Himself he did endeavor,
And on the pages helplessly
Fell his weary hand again.
How many times, when listlessly
In the long dull day's declining –
Downcast those glances fulminant,
His arms on his breast entwining –
He stood assailed by the memories
Of days that were passed away;
He thought of the camps, the arduous
Assaults, the shock of forces,
The lightning-flash of the infantry,
The billowy rush of horses,
The thrill in his supremacy,
The eagerness to obey.
Ah, haply in so great agony
His panting soul had ended
Despairing, but that potently
A hand, from heaven extended,
Into a clearer atmosphere
In mercy lifted him.


## p. 9701 (#109) ###########################################

ALESSANDRO MANZONI
9701
And led him on by blossoming
Pathways of hope ascending
To deathless fields, to happiness
All earthly dreams transcending,
Where in the glory celestial
Earth's fame is dumb and dim.
Beautiful, deathless, beneficent
Faith! used to triumphs, even
This also write exultantly:
No loftier pride 'neath Heaven
Unto the shame of Calvary
Stooped ever yet its crest.
Thou from his weary mortality
Disperse all bitter passions:
The God that humbleth and hearteneth,
That comforts and that chastens,
Upon the pillow else desolate
To his pale lips lay pressed!
Translation of William D. Howells.


## p. 9702 (#110) ###########################################

9702
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
(1492-1549)
M
(
ARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME, or as she is often styled, Marguerite
de Navarre, or Marguerite de Valois, is chiefly known as a
writer by the collection of stories entitled the Heptameron,'
(in imitation of the Decameron' of Boccaccio,) her only prose
work. But a considerable number of poetic writings of hers remain :
moralities,” pastorals, sad comedies and serious “farces,” – in
Polonius's phrase, “scenes individable and poems unlimited,” with
epistles in verse, and many dixains, chan-
sons, and rondeaux. There are also two
volumes of her Letters.
In all this literary production, there is
but little that can now or could ever win
much applause; but it wins the better meed
of sympathy. Marguerite was no artist; she
had no sense of form, she had no high
aims in literature, she wrote with extraor-
dinary carelessness and prolixity. It is only
at moments that her style has grace and
color, and still more rarely that it has force.
But the feeling that moves her to write is
MARGARET OF NAVARRE always sincere. Her thoughts always spring
from her own intelligence: and therefore
while her writings have no touch of egotism, they reveal to a remark-
able extent her inner life; and it is a life of peculiar interest. Her
reader listens rather than reads as he turns her pages, and what he
hears comes not merely from the printed word.
She made constant use of the dramatic form,- of dialogue, - and
evidently from the same motive that Montaigne ascribes to Plato: “to
utter with more decorum, through diverse mouths, the diversity and
variations of her own thoughts. ” There is great interest in discover-
ing her own thoughts” amid these diverse expressions, and this can
only be done by becoming familiar with her life. The events in which
she was concerned throw an important and touching light on her
writings, — the only light by which they can be read intelligently.
In this light her famous book Heptameron completely changes its



## p. 9703 (#111) ###########################################

MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
9703
character, and instead of being a collection of somewhat coarse and
somewhat tedious stories set in a mere frame of dialogues, it becomes
a series of interesting and suggestive conversations circling about
historic tales.
A sketch of her life is therefore the proper introduction to her
writings.
She must be distinguished from her great-niece, the daughter of
Henri Deux, with whom she is sometimes confused, - another Mar-
guerite de Valois, and a later Queen of Navarre, - who also was a
writer of some importance. The first Marguerite was the sister of
Francis the First. In this fact lies the key to the intimacies of her
nature. All the affections the human heart is capable of centred for
her in Francis. He was not only her brother and her friend, but he
was respected by her like a father, and cared for by her like a son;
he was (with a weight of meaning difficult of conception by modern
ininds) supremely her King; he was at moments almost her God.
He repaid this fervor of devotion with a brotherly regard that satis-
fied her; but her content was a proof of her generosity.
Their youth was passed together in the pleasant Château d'Am-
boise; and their careful education – the education of the Renais-
sance — happily fostered in them inherited tastes for literature and
art.
Marguerite was married at seventeen (in 1509) to the Duke d'Alen-
çon, the first prince of the blood; and when, six years later, Francis
became king, she was in a position and of an age to be conspicuous
at court, where her intellectual vivacity and social grace made her
eminent. Free and gay in speech, eager and joyous in spirit, she
amused herself with the brilliant life and with her would-be lovers;
and at other hours occupied herself with her books, — books often of
divinity,-- studies that were molding her character. « Elle s'adonna
fort aux lettres en son jeune aage,” says one who knew her; and her
interest also in the men who wrote the books of her day was great
even then. From the first, she discerned and divined and recognized
the most remarkable of the men who surrounded her.
But the startling contrasts that marked the career of King Francis
all found their reverberating echo in the heart of Margaret, and made
her something very different from a merely intellectual woman. In
1520 came the Field of the Cloth of Gold; in 1525 the battle of Pavia
and Francis's imprisonment and illness at Madrid.
Again, 1520
brought the appearance of Luther, and the next year the beginning
of persecutions in France; but it was not till the King had gone to
Italy that heretics were burned at the stake. That this comparative
leniency was greatly due to Margaret's personal influence with the
King is as unquestionable as that it is an error to consider her as


## p. 9704 (#112) ###########################################

9704
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
-
herself belonging to the party of the Reformers. Her generous nat-
ure could protect the Protestants all her life long, and sympathize
with them so keenly as to cause her personal anguish, without shar-
ing their beliefs. This exceptional largeness and liberality has caused
Margaret's relation to the Reformation to be constantly and greatly
misunderstood. Her personal character - her own nature — was less
akin to the spirit of the Reformation than to that of the Renaissance.
The year 1524 was marked by domestic sorrows. Queen Claude
died, truly lamented by her husband and his mother and sister; and
two months later one of her little motherless girls died in Margaret's
arms. It was probably the first time she had seen death: she had
been summoned to the Queen's death-bed, and had hurriedly traveled
thither, but had arrived too late. The death of little eight-year old
Madame Charlotte after weeks of weary illness, spent by her aunt
in tender watching, made a profound impression upon Margaret, and
was the occasion of a poetical composition - the earliest in date of
her extant writings- a dialogue "en forme de vision nocturne » be-
tween herself and “l'âme saincte de defuncte Madame Charlotte de
France” concerning the happiness of the blessed dead.
In her somewhat mystical mind death was always a subject of
meditation; and it is told of her that she once sat long by the bed-
side of one of her waiting-women whom she loved, who was near
death; and she gazed upon her fixedly till the last breath was drawn.
And when asked why she had thus eagerly watched, it appeared that
she had longed to catch some sight, some sound, of the departing
soul; “and she added,” says the contemporary account, “that if her
faith were not very firm, she should not know what to think of this
separation of the soul from the body; but that she would believe
what God and his Church commanded without indulging in vain
curiosity. And indeed she was a woman as devout as could be found,
and who often spoke of God and truly feared him. ”
Within three months of the death of the Queen and Madame
Charlotte, the King was a prisoner. Margaret's religious faith, put to
the utmost test, supported her through days of measureless misery, of
which there are very touching outbreaks and outpourings among her
poems. Again two months, and her husband, the Duke d'Alençon,
died. Many years later she wrote a touching and affectionate narra-
tive in verse of the scenes she then witnessed.
The agony of her suffering at the King's defeat and imprisonment
was in some measure lightened by being sent officially to him at
Madrid, and empowered to enter into negotiations with Charles the
Fifth for his release. Again we find the reflection of these events in
her verses. Her position attracted wide interest, and a letter written
to her by Erasmus expresses the general feeling :--


## p. 9705 (#113) ###########################################

MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
9705
"I have been encouraged,” he says (in effect), “to address some con-
dolences to you in the midst of the tempest of misfortune which now assails
you.
Long have I admired the many excellent gifts that God has
endowed you with. He has given you prudence, chastity, modesty, piety,
invincible strength of mind, and a marvelous contempt for temporal things.
Therefore I am inspired with the desire to congratulate you rather
than offer you consolation. Your misfortune is great, I acknowledge; but no
event is terrible enough to overthrow a courage founded upon the rock of
belief in Jesus Christ.
This letter, written in Latin, did not need to be translated to
Margaret. And not only did she read Latin easily, but she was
familiar with the Greek dramatists and with Plato in the original.
Another period of Margaret's life opened in 1527, when her second
marriage took place, with Henri d'Albret, the young King of Navarre
(the nominal King), eleven years younger than herself. It was a
marriage of passionate affection on her side, inspired in part, one may
be sure, by the misfortunes of this valiant youth, who, taken captive
with her brother, had been a prisoner like him for many months, and
who had then presented himself at the French court, poor and
friendless, but famed for his kindness and justice to his Béarnais
subjects. He cannot but have been easily moved to ardent admiration
for the sweet, attractive widow of thirty-five, whose recent remark-
able sojourn at Madrid had made her famous; still more, she was
the sister of the King of France, his liege lord, and recognized as
the King's constant counselor. No question his wooing was vigorous.
How strong Margaret's wishes must have been is shown by her with-
standing the opposition of her brother for the only time in her life.
From the moment of this union date the unspeakable sorrows of
Margaret's heart. The position she henceforth occupied as the queen
of an outcast and mendicant king, and also as the wife of a soon
alienated husband, was one burdened with tragic perplexities public
and private. It involved among other bitter trials that of an enforced
separation from her only child, Jeanne d'Albret.
The court Marguerite created at Pau and at Nérac, in the impor-
erished princedom of Béarn, was the meeting-ground of scholars and
of poets, of charming women and light-hearted men. Even more, it
the refuge of men persecuted. She possessed the supreme
womanly power that when herself in pain, she could comfort; when
weak, she could protect; when poor, she could enrich. Her benevo-
lence was one with beneficence. She was the great Consoler of her
fellow countrymen,- and not of them alone. Her heart-beats sent
vital force to all the numberless unknown suppliants whose eyes were
turned toward her, as well as to her oppressed friends who safely put
their trust in her.
was


## p. 9706 (#114) ###########################################

9706
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
This exceptional womanliness is to be felt in her writings; and of
them as of her life it may be said:
« If her heart at high flood swamped her brain now and then
'Twas but richer for that when the tide ebbed agen. ”
>>
She died in 1549, killed by her brother's death two years before.
It was in those last years that Rabelais addressed her as
«Abstracted spirit, rapt in ecstasies,
Seeking thy birthplace, the familiar skies; »
but in the same breath he solicited her to listen to the joyous
deeds of good Pantagruel. Nothing could more vividly note than
this the various qualities that met in Margaret, —of sad mysticism
and gay humor, of constant withdrawal from the world's vanities and
unfailing interest in the world's intellectual achievements.
She has never been so well known, so intelligently understood, so
carefully judged, and never so highly honored, as in our own genera-
tion. The French scholars of to-day have assigned to her her true
place in history, and it is a noble one. But in her lifetime she was
loved even more than she was honored: and still and always she will
be loved by those who shall know her.
A FRAGMENT
G
RIEF has given me such a wound
By an unbearable sorrow,
That almost my, body dies
From the pain it feels in secret.
My spirit is in torment,
But it leans
On Him who gives the pain;
Who, causing the pain, comforts it.
My heart, which lived on love alone,
Is by sorrow wasted.
It resisted not since the fatal day
That it felt the stroke of death;
For of its life
From it was ravished,
The more than half
Joined to it in perfect friendship.
Lord, who knowest me,
I have no voice to cry to Thee,


## p. 9707 (#115) ###########################################

MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
9707
Nor can find words
Worthy to pray Thee with.
Thyself, O Lord,
May it please Thee Thyself to say
To Thyself what I would say.
Speak Thou, pray Thou,
And answer Thou for me.
DIXAINS
O
R NEAR, so near that in one bed our bodies lie,
And our wills become as one,
And our two hearts, if may be, touch,
And all is common to us both;
Or far, so far that importuning Love
May never tidings of you tell to me,
W see you not, nor hear your voice, nor write,
So that for you my heart may cease to ache;
Thus it is that my desire is toward you,
For between these two, save dead, I cannot be.
[Ou près, si près que en un liet nos corps couchent,
Et nos vouloirs soyent uniz en un.
Et nos deux cours, si possible est, se touchent,
Et nostre tout soit à nous deux commun;
Ou loing, si loing que amour tant importun
De vos nouvelles à moy ne puisse dire,
Povre de veoir, de parler, et d'escrire,
Tant que de vous soit mon cœur insensible;
Voilà comment vivre avecq vous desire,
Car entre deux, sans mort, m'est impossible.
II
Not near, so near that you could lie
Within my bed, shall ever be,
Or by love my heart or body touch,
Nor weight my honor by a whit.
If far, very far you go, I promise you
To hinder nowise your long wandering:
For neither near nor far have I the heart to love
Save with that love we all are fain to feel.


## p. 9708 (#116) ###########################################

9708
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
To be so near or far is no desire of a sage:
Please you, be loved between the two.
[Ne près, si près que vous puissiez coucher
Dedans mon lict, il n'adviendra jamais,
Ou par amour mon corps ou caur toucher,
Ny adjouster à mon honneur un mais.
Si loing, bien loing allez, je vous prometz
De n'empescher en rien vostre voyaige,
Car près ne loing d'aymer je n'ay couraige
Fors d'un amour dont chascun aymer veulx.
Soit près ou loing n'est desir d'homme saige:
Contentez vous d'estre aymé entre deux. ]
FROM THE HEPTAMERON)
I
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
Parlemente 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 :
“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 gift
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


## p. 9709 (#117) ###########################################

MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
9709
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 read-
ing; 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. ”
Her nine companions are not quite of this pious mind, and pray
her to remember that when they are at home the men have hunt-
ing and hawking, and the ladies have their household affairs and
needlework, and sometimes dancing; and that they need something to
take the place of all these things. At last it is decided that in the
morning the Lady Oisille should read to them of the life led by Our
Lord Jesus Christ; and in the afternoon, from after dinner to vespers,
they should tell tales like those of Boccaccio.
II
One of the tales opens thus:
-
“IN THE city of Saragossa there was a rich merchant who,
seeing his death draw nigh, and that he could no longer retain
his possessions, which perhaps he had acquired with bad faith,
thought that by making some little present to God he might
satisfy in part for his sins, after his death, -as if God gave his
grace for money. "
So he ordered his wife to sell a fine Spanish horse he had,
soon as he was gone, and give its price to the poor. But when the
burial was over, the wife, “who was as little of a simpleton as Span-
ish women are wont to be, told her man-servant to sell the horse
indeed, but to sell him for a ducat, while the purchaser must at
as


## p. 9710 (#118) ###########################################

9710
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
the same time buy her cat, and for the cat must be paid ninety-nine
ducats. So said, so done; and the Mendicant Friars received one
ducat, and she and her children ninety-and-nine.
»
"In your opinion,” asks Namerfide in conclusion, "was not
this woman much wiser than her husband ? and should she have
cared as much for his conscience as for the good of her house-
hold ? ”—“I think,” said Parlamente, “that she loved her husband
well, but seeing that most men are not of sound mind on their
death-beds, she, who knew his intention, chose to interpret it for
the profit of his children, which I think very wise. ”—“But,” said
Gebaron, “don't you think it a great fault to fail to carry out
the wills of dead friends ? ” — Indeed I do,” said Parlamente,
“
provided the testator is of good sense and of sound mind. ” -
“Do you call it not being of sound mind to give our goods to
the Church and the Mendicant Friars ? » «I don't call it want.
ing in sound-mindedness,” said Parlamente, “when a man dis-
tributes among the poor what God has put in his power; but to
give alms with what belongs to others I do not consider high
wisdom, for you will see constantly the greatest usurers there
are, build the most beautiful and sumptuous chapels that can be
seen, wishing to appease God for a hundred thousand ducats'
worth of robbery by ten thousand ducats' worth of buildings, as
if God did not know how to count. ”
“Truly I have often marveled at this,” said Oisille; how do
they think to appease God by the things that he himself, when
on earth, reprobated, such as great buildings, gildings, decora-
tions, and paintings? But, if they rightly understood what God
has said in one passage, that for all sacrifice he asks of us a con-
trite and humble heart, and in another St. Paul says we are the
temple of God in which he desires to dwell, they would have
taken pains to adorn their consciences while they were alive; not
waiting for the hour when a man can no longer do either well
or ill, and even what is worse, burdening those who survive them
with giving their alms to those they would not have deigned to
look at while they were alive. But He who knows the heart can-
not be deceived, and will judge them, not only according to their
works, but according to the faith and charity they have had in
Him. ” “Why is it then,” said Gebaron, that these Gray Friars
and Mendicant Friars sing no other song to us on our death-beds
save that we should give much wealth. to their monasteries,
)
((


## p. 9711 (#119) ###########################################

MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
9711
assuring us that that will carry us to Paradise, willy-nilly ? ” ”
"Ah! Gebaron," said Hircan, “have you forgotten the wickedness
that you yourself have related to us of the Gray Friars, that you
ask how it is possible for such people to lie? I declare to you
that I do not think that there can be in the world greater lies
than theirs. And yet those men cannot be blamed who speak
for the good of the whole community, but there are those who
forget their vow of poverty to satisfy their avarice. ” “It seems
to me, Hircan,” said Nomerfide, “that you know something about
such a one; I pray you, if it be worthy of this company, that
you will be pleased to tell it to us. ” "I am willing,” said Hir.
can, “although I dislike to speak of this sort of people, for it
seems to me that they are of the same kind as those of whom
Virgil said to Dante, Pass on, and heed them not? (Passe oul-
tre et n'en tiens compte '). ”
(
III
The following conversation contains the comments on a tale told
of the virtuous young wife of an unfaithful husband, who by dint of
patience and discretion regained his affection; so that they lived to-
gether in such great friendship that even his just faults by the good
they had brought about increased their contentment. ”
(
(
“I beg you, ladies,” continues the narrator, “if God give you
such husbands, 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 mar-
riage it brings about at last unfriendliness; because, suffering un-
kindness 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. ”
there is danger," said Ennarsuite, “that the impatient wife may
find a furious husband, who would give her pain in lieu of
« But
»


## p. 9712 (#120) ###########################################

9712
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
2
(
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. ”
“I think," said Parlamente, “that a good woman would not
be so grieved in being beaten out of anger, as in being con-
temptuously 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, Lon-
garine,” 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 towards 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
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 as-
sume, 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. ”
C
us
»


## p. 9713 (#121) ###########################################

MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
9713
IV
»
"IT SEEMS to me, since the passage from one life to another
is inevitable, that the shortest death is the best. I consider for-
I
tunate those who do not dwell in the suburbs of death, and who
from that felicity which alone in this world can be called felicity
pass suddenly to that which is eternal. ” “What do you call the
suburbs of death ? ” said Simortault. — “I mean that those who
have many tribulations, and those also who have long been sick,
those who by extremity of bodily or mental pain, have come to
hold death in contempt and to find its hour too tardy,- all these
have wandered in the suburbs of death, and will tell you the hos-
telries where they have more wept than slept. ”
V
(
»
((
“Do you count as nothing the shame she underwent, and her
imprisonment ? »
I think that one who loves perfectly, with a love in harmony
with the commands of God, knows neither shame nor dishonor
save when the perfection of her love fails or is diminished; for
the glory of true loves knows not shame: and as to the imprison-
ment of her body, I believe that through the freedom of her
heart which was united with God and with her husband, she did
not feel it, but considered its solitude very great liberty; for to
one who cannot see the beloved, there is no greater good than
to think incessantly of him, and the prison is never narrow where
the thought can range at will. "
VI
C
"In Good faith I am astonished at the diversity in the nature
of women's love: and I see clearly that those who have most
love have most virtue; but those who have less love, dissimulate,
wishing to feign virtue. ”
"It is true," said Parlamente, “that a heart pure towards God
and man, loves more strongly than one that is vicious, and it
fears not to have its very thoughts known. ”
S111-605


## p. 9714 (#122) ###########################################

9714
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
(1564-1593)
was a
wo months before the birth of William Shakespeare, on Feb-
ruary 26th, 1564, John Marlowe, shoemaker in the ancient
town of Canterbury, carried a baby boy, his first son, to
be baptized in the Church of St. George the Martyr. John Marlowe
clarke of Saint Marie's church, and member of the Shoe-
makers' and Tanners' Guild. He may have been a man of sufficient
means to give his son a liberal education; or some rich gentleman,
Sir John Manwood perhaps, may have interested himself in the gifted
lad. At any rate Christopher went to the King's School, Canterbury,
where fifty pupils were taught gratuitously and allowed £4 a year
each; and there he was a diligent scholar, for it is recorded that in
1579 he received an allowance of £1 for each of the first three terms.
From school he was sent to Benet- now Corpus Christi — College,
Cambridge; where he obtained the degree of B. A. in 1583, a:id that
of M. A. in 1587. His translations of Ovid's elegies were probably
begun, if not completed, during his years at the university. There
are slight indications in his poems that he may have been a soldier
for a time, and served during the Netherlands campaign. Probably,
however, he went at once to London from Cambridge,—"a boy in
years, a man in genius, a god in ambition,” as Swinburne says,- and
began his struggle for fame and fortune. Like many another young
poet, he may have gone on the stage; but it is said that he was soon
after incapacitated for acting, by an accident which lamed him. He
attached himself as playwright to a prominent dramatic company, -
that of the Earl of Nottingham, the Lord Admiral.
He was a dashing fellow, witty and daring, “the darling of the
town, and with a gift for making friends. He was a protégé of
Thomas Walsingham, and gallant Sir Walter Raleigh found him a
congenial spirit. He knew Kyd, Nash, Greene, Chapman, and very
likely Shakespeare too. Of all the brilliant group that glorify Eliza-
bethan literature, there is no more striking or typical figure than
Marlowe's own. He was the very embodiment of the Renascence
spirit, with energies all vitalized and athirst for both spiritual and
sensual satisfactions. His gay-hearted, passionate, undisciplined nature
was too exorbitant in demand to find content. To his pagan soul
beauty and pleasure were ultimate aims, orthodox faith and observ-
ances impossible. So for a few mad years he dreamed and wrote,
a
>>>


## p. 9715 (#123) ###########################################

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9715
loved and feasted, starved sometimes, perhaps; and then at twenty-
nine, when he had tried all possible experiences, his wild, brilliant
young life suddenly ended. His irreligious scoffing, doubtless exag-
gerated from mouth to mouth, led finally to a warrant for his arrest.
Evading this, he had gone to the small town of Deptford, and there,
June 1593, while at the tavern, he became engaged in a drunken
scuffle in which he was fatally stabbed.
Marlowe's first play, “Tamburlaine,' must have been written before
he was twenty-four. Like many of his contemporaries, he always bor-
rowed his plots; and this one he took from Foreste,' a translation
from the Spanish made by Thomas Fortescue. His treatment of it
was a conscious effort to revolutionize dramatic poetry; for «jiggling
veins of rhyming mother wits” to substitute “high astounding terms”;
and it is his great distinction that with “Tamburlaine) he established
blank verse in the English drama. From the appearance of (Gorbo-
duc) in 1562 there had been blank or rimeless verse; but the customary
form of dramatic expression was in tediously monotonous heroic coup-
lets, whether they suited the subject or not. Marlowe was the first
of the English dramatists to understand that thought and expression
should be in harmony. His original spirit refused dictation; and he
developed a rich sonorous line, the beauty of which was recognized
at once. His musical ear and poetic instinct guided him to hitherto
forbidden licenses, — variety in the management of the cæsura, femi-
nine rhymes, run-on lines, the introduction of other than iambic
measures; and thus he secured an elasticity of metre which perma-
nently enriched English poetry. His creative daring stifled a cold
and formal classicism, inaugurated our romantic drama, and served as
guiding indication to Shakespeare himself. But although certain
verses of Tamburlaine) cling to the reader's memory as perfect in
poetic feeling and harmony, the greater part of it is mere “bombast »
to modern taste. Even in Marlowe's day his exaggerations excited
ridicule, and quotations from his dramas became town catchwords.
But the spontaneous passion of his impossible conceptions gave them
a force which impressed the public. Tamburlaine was immensely
popular, and the sequel or Part Second was enthusiastically received.
Many critics since Ben Jonson have discussed “Marlowe's mighty
line » and honored its influence; and his fellow writers were quick to
follow his example.
The Faust legend, traceable back to the sixth century, finally
drifted over to England, where in ballad form, founded upon the
Volksbuch' by Spiess, it appeared in 1587, and probably soon caught
Marlowe's attention. His play of Dr. Faustus' was given in 1588,
and was very highly praised. It is said that Goethe, who thought of
translating it, exclaimed admiringly, “How greatly it is all planned ! »
((


## p. 9716 (#124) ###########################################

9716
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Compared with the harmonic unity of form and matter in Goethe's
(Faust,' Marlowe's work seems childish in construction, uneven and
faulty in expression. But there are certain passages — for example,
the thrilling passion of the invocation to Helen, and the final despair
of Faustus — of positive poetic splendor.
In the Jew of Malta' there are fine passages which show Mar-
lowe's increasing mastery of his line. But in spite of its descriptive
color and force, and keen touches of characterization, it was less
successful than “Tamburlaine,' and is perhaps most noteworthy now
for the obvious parallelism of certain scenes with those of the later
Merchant of Venice. '
(Edward II. ,' founded upon Robert Fabyan's Chronicle or Con-
cordance of Histories,' is structurally the best of Marlowe's plays,
and contains finely pathetic verse which bears comparison with that
of Shakespeare's historical dramas. The poet as he grows older
seems to take a broader, more sympathetic view of life; and there-
fore he begins to understand feelings more normal than the infinite
ambitions of Faustus and Tamburlaine, and becomes more skillful in
the portrayal of character. There is little of his earlier exaggeration.
The two shorter dramas — 'The Massacre of Paris,' and Dido,
Queen of Carthage) were written in collaboration with other play-
wrights.
No one can read Marlowe carefully without feeling that the social
influences of his time made him a dramatist, and that he was by
nature a lyric poet. He was intensely subjective, and incapable of
taking an impersonal and comprehensive point of view. He always
expresses his own aspiration for fame, or joy, or satisfaction, tran-
scending anything earth can offer. « That like I best that Aies be-
yond my reach.