No More Learning

Issacher put carefully to the pale lips a spoon filled with
some strong-smelling essence. The sufferer turned his head
away with an effort. "Leave me in peace,” he groaned: "you
,
are the governor's physician as well, and closed his eyes again.
The Jew looked at the tyrant as if to beg forgiveness for this
suspicion. «Will he return to life? ” asked Ezzelin. “I think
so,” replied the Jew, but not for long; I fear he will not live
to see the sun go down. ”
The tyrant took advantage of the moment to speak to the
monk, who was exerting himself to the utmost to restore his
father.
>>


## p. 9972 (#380) ###########################################

9972
KONRAD FERDINAND MEYER
((
»
(
"And whither' do your own thoughts tend, monk ? ” he in-
quired.
« They are unchanged and persistent; yet, God forgive me, I
would my father never woke again, that I should be forced to
oppose him so cruelly. If he had but received extreme unction! ”
He kissed passionately the cheek of the fainting man; who
thereupon returned to consciousness, and heaving a deep sigh,
raised his weary eyelids, from under whose gray bushy brows he
directed toward the monk a supplicating look. “How is it? ” he
asked: “to what hast thou doomed me, dearest, - to heaven, or to
hell ? ”
«Father,” prayed Astorre in a tremulous voice, "thy time has
come; only a short hour remains: banish all earthly cares and
interests, think of thy soul. See, thy priests” (he meant those
,
of the parish church) are gathered together waiting to perform
the last sacrament. ”
It was so! The door of the adjacent room had softly opened,
in which the faint glimmer of lighted candles was perceptible,
whilst a choir was intoning a prelude, and the gentle vibration of
a bell became audible.
Now the old man, who already felt his knees sinking into
Lethe's flood, clung to the monk, as once St. Peter to the Sav-
ior on the Sea of Gennesaret. “Thou wilt do it for my sake ? "
he stammered.
"If I could; if I dared,” sighed the monk. “By all that is
holy, my father, think on eternity; leave the earthly. Thine hour
is come! ”
This veiled refusal kindled the last spark of life in the old
man to a blaze. « Disobedient, ungrateful one! ” he cried.
Astorre beckoned to the priests.
"By all the devils, spare me your kneadings and salvings,"
raved the dying man. “I have nothing to gain; I am already
like one of the damned, and must remain so in the midst of
Paradise, if my son wantonly repudiates me and destroy's my
germ of life. ”
The horror-struck monk, thrilled to the soul by this frightful
blasphemy, pictured his father doomed to eternal perdition. (This
was his thought, and he was as firmly convinced of the truth of
it as I should have been in his place. ) He fell on his knees
before the old man, and in utter despair, bursting into tears,
said: “Father, I beseech thee, have pity on thyself and on me! »
D


## p. 9973 (#381) ###########################################

KONRAD FERDINAND MEYER
9973
>
“Let the crafty one go his way,” whispered the tyrant.
The monk did not hear him. Again he gave the astounded
priests a sign, and the litany for the dying was about to begin.
At this the old man doubled himself up like a refractory child,
and shook his head.
“Let the sly fox go where he must,” admonished Ezzelin in
a louder tone.
"Father, father! ” sobbed the monk, his whole soul dissolved
in pity.
“Illustrious signor and Christian brother,” said the priest with
unsteady voice, “are you in the frame of mind to meet your
Creator and Savior? ” The old man took no notice.
"Are you firm as a believer in the Holy Trinity ? Answer
me, signor,” said the priest; and then turned pale as a sheet, for
«Cursed and denied be it for ever and ever,” fell from the dying
man's lips. “Cursed and— »
“No more,” cried the monk, springing to his feet. Father, I
resign myself to thy will. Do with me what you choose, if only
you will not throw yourself into the flames of hell. ”
The old man gasped as after some terrible exertion; then
gazed about him with an air of relief,- I had almost said, of
pleasure. Groping, he seized the blond hair of Diana, lifted her
up from her knees, took her right hand, - which she did not
refuse,- opened the cramped hand of the monk, and laid the
two together.
“Binding, in presence of the most holy sacrament! ” he ex-
claimed triumphantly, and blessed the pair. The monk did not
gainsay it; while Diana closed her eyes,
Now quick, reverend fathers: there is need of haste, I think,
and I am now in a Christian frame of mind. ”
The monk and his affianced bride would fain have stepped
behind the train of priests. “Stay,” muttered the dying man;
stay where my comforted eyes may look upon you until they
close in death. " Astorre and Diana were thus with clasped hands
obliged to wait and watch the expiring glance of the obstinate
old man.
The latter murmured a short confession, received the last
sacrament, and breathed his final breath as they were anointing
his feet, while the priests uttered in his already deaf ears those
sublime words, Rise, Christian Soul. ” The dead face bore the
unmistakable expression of triumphant cunning.


## p. 9974 (#382) ###########################################

9974
KONRAD FERDINAND MEYER
((
The tyrant sat, whilst all around were upon their knees;
and with calm attention observed the performance of the sacred
office, much like a savant studying on a sarcophagus the repre-
sentation of some religious rites of an ancient people. He now
approached the dead man and closed his eyes.
He then turned to Diana. "Noble lady,” said he, "let us
go home: your parents, even if assured of your safety, will long
to see you. "
“Prince, I thank you, and will follow,” she answered; but she
did not withdraw her hand from that of the monk, whose eyes
until then she had avoided. Now she looked her betrothed full
in the face, and said in a deep but melodious voice, whilst her
cheeks glowed:-"My lord and master, we could not let your
father's soul perish: thus have I become yours. Hold your faith
to me better than to the cloister. Your brother did not love me;
forgive me for saying it, - I speak the simple truth. You will
have in me a good and obedient wife; but I have two peculiari-
ties which you must treat with indulgence. I am hot with anger
if any attack is made on my honor or my rights, and I am most
exacting in regard to the fulfillment of a promise once made.
Even as a child I was so I have few wishes, and desire noth-
ing unreasonable: but when a thing has once been shown and
promised me, I insist upon possessing it; and I lose my faith,
and resent injustice more than other women, if the promise I
have received is not faithfully kept. But how can I allow my-
self to talk in this way to you, my lord, whom I scarcely know?
I have done. Farewell, my husband; grant me nine days to
mourn your brother. " At this she slowly released her hand from
his and disappeared with the tyrant.
Meanwhile the band of priests had borne away the corpse to
place it upon a bier in the palace chapel, and to bless it.
[In thus yielding to his father's importunities Astorre has weakened the
mainstays of his character; and if one vow may be broken, so may another
also. He loves a fair shy girl, Antiope, and marries her; but the imperious
and implacable Diana insists upon her prior rights. Contemptuously she con-
descends to return her betrothal ring if Antiope will come to her in humble
supplication. Astorre's sense of justice leads him to give his consent to this
humiliation, and Antiope now prepares to obey his wishes. This brings about
the final catastrophe. )
Antiope now hastily completed her toilet. Even the frivolous
Sotte was frightened at the pallor of the face reflected in the


## p. 9975 (#383) ###########################################

KONRAD FERDINAND MEYER
9975
(
<
glass. There was no sign of life in it, save the terror in the
eyes and the glistening of the firmly set teeth. A red stripe,
A
caused by Diana's blow, was visible upon her white brow.
When at last arrayed, Astorre's wife rose with beating pulse
and throbbing temples; and leaving her safe chamber, hurried
through the halls to find Diana. She was urged on by the
excitement of both hope and fear. She would fly back jubilantly,
after she had recovered the ring, to meet her husband, whom she
wished to spare the sight of her humiliation.
Soon among the masqueraders she distinguished the conspicu-
ous figure of the goddess of the chase, recognized her enemy,
and followed, as with measured steps she passed through the
main hall and retired into one of the dimly lighted small side
rooms. It seemed the goddess desired not public humiliation,
but lowliness of heart.
Quickly Antiope bowed before Diana, and forced her lips to
utter, “Will you give me the ring ? ” while she touched the pow-
erful finger.
“Humbly and penitently ? ” asked Diana.
"How else ? ” the unhappy child said feverishly. But you
trifle with me; cruelly — you have doubled up your finger! ”
Whether Antiope imagined it, or whether Diana really was
trifling with her, a finger is so easily curved! Cangrande, you
have accused me of injustice. I will not decide.
Enough! the Vicedomini raised her willowy figure, and with
flaming eyes fixed on the severe face of Diana, cried out, Will
you torture a wife, maiden ? ” Then she bent down again, and
tried with both hands to pull the ring off her finger. Like a
flash of lightning a sharp pain went through her. The aven-
ging Diana, while surrendering to her the left hand, had with
the right drawn an arrow from her quiver and plunged it into
Antiope's heart. She swayed first to the left, then to the right,
turned a little, and fell with the arrow still deep in her warm
flesh.
The monk, who, after bidding farewell to his rustic guests,
hastened back and eagerly sought his wife, found her lifeless.
With a shriek of horror he threw himself upon her and drew the
arrow from her side; a stream of blood followed. Astorre dropped
senseless.
When he recovered from his swoon, Germano was standing
over him with crossed arms. "Are you the murderer ? ” asked
(C


## p. 9976 (#384) ###########################################

9976
KONRAD FERDINAND MEYER
the monk. "I murder no women,” replied the other sadly. "It
is my sister who has demanded justice. ”
Astorre groped for the arrow and found it. Springing up
with a bound, and grasping the long weapon with the bloody
point, he fell in blind rage upon his old playfellow. The war.
rior shuddered slightly before the ghastly figure in black, with
disheveled hair, and crimson-stained arrow in his hand.
He retreated a step. Drawing the short sword which in place
of armor he was wearing, and warding off the arrow with it, he
said compassionately, “Go back to your cloister, Astorre, which
you should never have left. ”
Suddenly he perceived the tyrant, who, followed by the entire
company, was just entering the door opposite to them.
Ezzelin stretched out his right hand and commanded peace.
Germano dutifully lowered his weapon before his chief. The
infuriated monk seized the moment, and plunged the arrow into
the breast of the knight, whose eyes were directed toward Ezze-
lin. But he also met his death pierced by the soldier's sword,
which had been raised again with the speed of lightning.
Germano sank to the ground. The monk, supported by As
canio, made a few tottering steps toward his wife, and laying
himself by her side, mouth to mouth, expired.
The wedding guests gathered about the husband and wife,
Ezzelin gazed upon them for a moment; then knelt upon one
knee, and closed first Antiope's and then Astorre's eyes. In the
hush, through the open windows came the sound of revelry. Out
of the darkness was heard the words, “Now slumbers the monk
Astorre beside his wife Antiope,” and a distant shout of laughter.
(
»
Dante arose. "I have paid for my place by the fire,” he said,
and will now seek the blessing of sleep. May the God of peace
be with you! ” He turned and stepped toward the door, which
the page had opened, All eyes followed him, as by the dim
light of a flickering torch he slowly ascended the staircase.
Translation of Miss Sarah Holland Adams,


## p. 9976 (#385) ###########################################



## p. 9976 (#386) ###########################################


MICHEL ANGELO.


## p. 9976 (#387) ###########################################

{ {(،r ;)'
. ܛܳܢܳܐ'i:"
1; ;)": ; " ;, £} F4
1
' . ' "' [" ' ;. : i܃ ܃܇ ·
IN
1
' ::r:: ,
« ܙ ;: ' .
'r- ! :. ,!
1


## p. 9976 (#388) ###########################################


CIEL ANGELO


## p. 9977 (#389) ###########################################

9977
MICHEL ANGELO
(1475-1564)
WHE most famous of Florentine artists, whose literary fame
rests on his sonnets and his letters, was born in Caprese,
Italy, March 6th, 1475. His father was Ludovico Buonarotti,
a poor gentleman of Florence, who loved to boast that he had never
added to his impoverished estates by mercantile pursuits. The story
of Michel Angelo's career as painter, sculptor, and architect, belongs
to the history of art. Under the patronage of Lorenzo de' Medici,
Angelo Doni, Pope Julius II. , and Pope Paul III. , his genius flow-
ered. In the decoration of the Sistine Chapel he seems to have put
forth his greatest energy both as poet and as painter. He described
the discomforts of working on this ceiling in a humorous sonnet
addressed to Giovanni da Pistoja; on the margin of which he drew a
little caricature of himself, lying upon his back and using his brush.
For a long time after these paintings were completed, he could read
only by holding the page above his head and raising his eyes. His
impaired sight occasioned a medical treatise on the eyes, which is
preserved in the MSS. of the Vatican. The twelve years between
1522 and 1534 he spent in Florence, occupied with sculpture and
architecture, under the capricious patronage of the Medici family.
His fine allegory of Night, sculptured upon the Medici tomb, was
celebrated in verse by the poets of the day. To Strozzi this quatrain
is attributed:-
« La Notte, che tu vedi in si dolci atti,
Dormire, fu da un angelo scolpita
In questo sasso: e perche dorme, ha vita;
Destala, se no'l credi, e parleratti. ”
[This Night, which you see sleeping in such sweet abandon, was sculptured
by an angel. She is living, although she sleeps in marble. If you doubt,
wake her: she then will speak. ]
Michel Angelo replied thus:-
«Grato mi e il sonno, e piu d'esser di sasso;
Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura,
Non veder, non sentir m'e gran ventura;
Pero non mi destar; deh! parla basso. ”
[It is sweet to sleep, sweeter to be of marble. While evil and shame live:
it is my happiness to hear nothing and to feel nothing. Ah! speak softly, and
wake me not. )


## p. 9978 (#390) ###########################################

9978
MICHEL ANGELO
sea.
1
In 1535 he removed to Rome, where he spent the rest of his life;
dying there in 1564 at the ripe age of eighty-nine. During this period
he executed the Last Judgment,' and built the Farnese Palace.
Although Symonds considers his literary work merely “a scholastic
exercise upon the emotions, and says that “his stock in trade con-
sists of a few Platonic notions and a few Petrarchian antitheses,” the
Italian critics place Michel Angelo's sonnets immediately after those
of Dante and Petrarch. It may be mentioned here that the sculptor
was a devoted student of Dante, as his sonnets to the great poet
show. Not only did he translate into painting much symbolical
imagery of the Inferno,' but he illustrated the Divina Commedia'
in a magnificent series of drawings, which unfortunately perished at
The popular interest in so universal a genius lies not in descrip-
tions of his personality and traits of character, but in his theories
of art and life, and in those psychological moods which explain the
source of the intellectual and spiritual power expressed in his mys-
tical conceptions. These moods have free utterance in his poems,
written at all periods of his life.
The name most frequently associated with his poetry is that of
Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa di Pescara, whom he met in Rome after
he had passed the meridian of life. She had been for two years a
widow; and refusing to reward Michel Angelo's devotion by the
gift of her hand, finally entered a convent. Their friendship lasted
from 1527 to her death in 1547. Whether she was the Egeria of his
spiritual life, or a romantic love, has long been the subject of criti-
cal speculation. The first editor of Michel Angelo's poems attributed
most of his sonnets and madrigals to her inspiration; but only a few
may be thus credited with certainty. His extravagant admiration for
Tommaso dei Cavalieri, a young Roman gentleman of extraordinary
physical beauty and grace of manner,—the only person of whom
Michel Angelo ever drew a cartoon portrait,- is expressed with as
much devotion. Symonds speaks thus of Michel Angelo's ambiguous
beauty-worship: “Whether a man or a woman is in the case (for both
were probably the objects of his æsthetical admiration), the tone of
feeling, the language, and the philosophy do not vary. He uses the
same imagery, the same conceits, the same abstract ideas, for both
sexes; and adapts the leading motive which he had invented for a
person of one sex to a person of the other when it suits his purpose. ”
In his art too is found no imaginative feeling for what is specifically
feminine. With few exceptions, his women, as compared with those
of Raphael, Correggio, Titian, and Tintoretto, are really colossal
companions for primeval gods; such as, for example, his Sibyls and
Fates, which are Titanic in their majesty. Although tranquil women
of maturity exist by means of his marvelous brush and chisel, to
woman in the magic of youthful beauty his art seems insensible.


## p. 9979 (#391) ###########################################

MICHEL ANGELO
9979
The inference is, that emotionally he never feels the feminine spirit,
and reverences alone that of eternal and abstract beauty.
The literature that clusters around the name of Michel Angelo is
enormous. The chief storehouse of material is preserved in the Casa
Buonarotti in Florence. This consists of letters, poems, and memo-
randa in Michel Angelo's autograph; copies of his sonnets made by
his grandnephew and Michel Angelo the younger; and his corre-
spondence with famous contemporaries. In 1859 the British Museum
purchased a large manuscript collection of memoranda, used first
by Hermann Grimm in his Leben Michelangelos) (1860), the fifth
edition of which was published in Hanover in 1875. Public and pri-
vate libraries possess valuable data and manuscripts, more or less
employed by the latest biographers.
To celebrate Michel Angelo's
fourth centenary, a volume of his Letters) was edited by Gaetano
Milanesi and published in Florence in 1875. The first edition of the
artist's poems was published in 1623 by Michel Angelo the younger,
as 'Le Rime di Michelangelo Buonarotti'; and they were known only
to the world in this distorted form until 1863, when a new edition
was brought out in Florence by Cesare Guasti. This is considered
the first classical and valuable presentation of his poetry. The
earliest lives of Michel Angelo are by Vasari, in his first edition of
the Lives of Italian Artists,' published in 1550, enlarged and repub-
lished in 1579; and by Condovi, who published his biography in 1553,
while his master was still living. Other important biographies are
by Aurelio Gotti in two volumes (Florence, 1875); by Charles Heath
Wilson (London, 1876); and by John Addington Symonds (two vol-
umes, London, 1892), which contains a bibliography, a portrait, and
valuable guidance for research upon Michel Angelo's genius, works,
and character. The same author translated his sonnets, and pub-
lished them with those of Campanella (London, 1878). His transla-
tions are used in the following selections.
A PRAYER FOR STRENGTH
B
URDENED with years and full of sinfulness,
With evil custom grown inveterate,
Both deaths I dread that close before me wait,
Yet feed my heart on poisonous thoughts no less.
No strength I find in my own feebleness
To change or life, or love, or use, or fate,
Unless Thy heavenly guidance come, though late,
Which only helps and stays our nothingness.


## p. 9980 (#392) ###########################################

9980
MICHEL ANGELO
Tis not enough, dear Lord, to make me yearn
For that celestial home where yet my soul
May be new-made, and not, as erst, of naught:
Nay, ere thou strip her mortal vestment, turn
My steps toward the steep ascent, that whole
And pure before thy face she may be brought.
THE IMPEACHMENT OF NIGHT
W"
HAT time bright Phoebus doth not stretch and bend
His shining arms around this terrene sphere,
The people call that season dark and drear,
Night, — for the cause they do not comprehend.
So weak is Night that if our hand extend
A glimmering torch, her shadows disappear,
Leaving her dead; like frailest gossamere,
Tinder and steel her mantle rive and rend.
Nay, if this Night be anything at all,
Sure she is daughter of the sun and earth;
This holds, the other spreads that shadowy pall.
Howbeit, they err who praise this gloomy birth,
So frail and desolate and void of mirth
That one poor firefly can her might appall.
LOVE, THE LIFE-GIVER
To TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI
W""
Ith your fair eyes a charming light I see,
For which my own blind eyes would peer in vain;
Stayed by your feet, the burden I sustain
Which my lame feet find all too strong for me;
Wingless, upon your pinions forth I fly;
Heavenward your spirit stirreth me to strain,
E'en as you will, I blush and blanch again,
Freeze in the sun, burn 'neath a frosty sky.
Your will includes and is the lord of mine;
Life to my thoughts within your heart is given;
My words begin to breathe upon your breath:
Like to the moon am I, that cannot shine
Alone; for lo! our eyes see naught in heaven
Save what the living sun illumineth.


## p. 9981 (#393) ###########################################

MICHEL ANGELO
9981
IRREPARABLE LOSS
AFTER THE DEATH OF VITTORIA COLONNA
W"
HEN my rude hammer to the stubborn stone
Gives human shape, now that, now this, at will,
Following his hand who wields and guides it still,
It moves upon another's feet alone:
But that which dwells in heaven, the world doth fill
With beauty by pure motions of its own;
And since tools fashion tools which else were none,
Its life makes all that lives with living skill.
Now, for that every stroke excels the more
The higher at the forge it doth ascend,
Her soul that fashioned mine hath sought the skies:
Wherefore unfinished I must meet my end,
If God, the great Artificer, denies
That aid which was unique on earth before.


## p. 9982 (#394) ###########################################

9982
)
JULES MICHELET
(1798-1874)
BY GRACE KING
M
»
-
ICHELET said of himself: “My book created me; it was I that
was its work. The book he referred to was his Histoire
de France, in sixteen volumes, the laborious task of forty
years; the work of his life, the work that was his life. His other
books were accessory to it; the sprouts, as it were, from its roots in
the over-rich soil of his mind. “I have been much favored by des-
tiny,” he continued. "I have possessed two rare gifts which have
made this work: First, liberty, which was
the soul of it; then, useful duties, which,
by dragging it out and retarding its execu-
tion, made it more reflective and stronger,
-gave it the solidity, the robust foundation
of time. . I was free, by my solitude,
by my poverty, and by my teaching.
I had but one master, Vico. His principle
of vital force — Humanity, which created
itself — made my book and made my edu-
cation. ”
Michelet's life confirms this personal tes-
timony. He was born in 1798, of humble
JULES MICHELET
parentage; and his childhood was a hard,
sad, poverty-stricken one. His father and
uncle were printers; and he himself, as soon as he was old enough,
was apprenticed to the same trade. But at the same time he began
his other apprenticeship to the spiritual head of printing - Litera-
ture; and while learning to set type he made his first efforts at
study under an old librarian, an ex-schoolmaster. It was proposed to
his family to enter him in the "Imprimerie Royale. ” This his father
not only refused, but on the contrary employed his last meagre
resources to enter the youth in the Lycée Charlemagne. Here Miche-
let began his career at once by hard study, and received his degree
in 1821 after passing a brilliant examination. This obtained for him
a professorship of history in the Collège Rollin, where he remained
until 1826. His first writings date from this period, and were sketches
and chronological tables of modern history. Although elementary in

-


## p. 9983 (#395) ###########################################

JULES MICHELET
9983
character and purpose, and precise in style, they give evidence of the
latent tendencies, the personal coloring, which became the distinguish-
ing force of his later work. In 1827 he was appointed “Maître de
Conférences » at the École Normale; and in 1831 he wrote an “Intro-
duction to Universal History,' in which his literary originality appears
still more marked, and his confidence in his own erudition assured.
The revolution of 1830, by putting in power his old professors,
Guizot and Villemain, secured him the position of “Chef de la Sec-
tion Historiques aux Archives”; and he became Guizot's deputy in
the professorship of history in the University. He also obtained a
chair of history in the Collège de France, from which he delivered a
course of lectures, attended by all the students of the day. It was
from this chair that he also gained popular acclamation by his attack
upon ecclesiasticism and the Jesuits, denouncing the latter for their
intrigues and encroachments. The History of France) had already
been begun in 1833. The results of his lectures were published in
1843 as 'Le Prêtre) (The Priest), "La Femme (Woman), 'La Famille )
(The Family), Le Peuple' (The People). By the influence of the
clergy, Michelet's course of lectures was suspended, and his career
seemed permanently arrested. The revolution of 1848 favored him,
and he could have obtained reinstatement in his chair; but he re-
fused to avail himself of the opportunity, having resolved to devote
himself thenceforth to his studies and his work. As he has said, his
history henceforth became his life; interrupted again and again by
other work, but always resumed with increasing ardor and passion.
Augustin Thierry,” he said, “called history narrative; Guizot called
it analysis: but I call it resurrection. ” And to quote him again, as
his own master authority :-“I had a fine disease that clouded my
youth, but one very proper to a historian. I loved death. I lived
nine years at the gates of Père la Chaise, and there was my only
promenade. Then I lived near La Bièvre, in the midst of great con-
vent gardens; more tombs. I lived a life that the world would have
called buried, with no society but the past, my only friends buried
people. The gift that St. Louis asked, and did not obtain, I had, -
the gift of tears. All those I wept over — peoples and gods — revived
I had no other art. »
All the criticism that has been written about Michelet is little
more than sermons from this text, furnished by himself. In it he
himself furnishes all the commentary needed upon his work; it is a
résumé of all his talent, and of his faults, — which are only the faults
of this talent, as Taine points out. Michelet's exalted sensibility he
calls imagination of the heart. ” To summarize Taine's conclusions:
for me.
« His impressionable imagination is touched by general as well as by par-
ticular facts, and he sympathizes with the life of centuries as with the life of


## p. 9984 (#396) ###########################################

9984
JULES MICHELET
men.
He sees the passions of an epoch as clearly as the passions of a man,
and paints the Middle Age or the Renaissance with as much vivacity as Phi-
lippe le Bel or François 1. . . . Every picture or print he sees, every
document he reads, touches and impresses his imagination; vividly moved and
eloquent himself, he cannot fail to move others. His book, the History,
seizes the mind fast at the first page; in vain you try to resist it, you read to
the end. You think of the dialogue where Plato describes the god drawing
to himself the soul of the poet, and the soul of the poet drawing to himself
the souls of his auditors.
Is it possible, where facts and men impress
themselves so vividly upon an inflamed imagination, to keep the tone of nar.
ration ? No, the author ends by believing them real; – he sees them alive, he
speaks to them. Michelet's emotions thus become his convictions; history
unrolls before him like a vision, and his language rises to Apocalyptic. ”
.
>
(
In his first design or vision of the History of France, Michelet
saw men and facts not chained to one another, and to past and
future, by chains of logical sequence, he saw them as episodes
rising in each period to a culminating and dramatic point of inter-
est; and however interrupted his work was, he pursued his original
design. Hence his volumes bear the titles of episodes: The Renais-
sance,' (The Reformation,' 'Religious Wars,' 'The League and Henry
IV. ,' (Henry IV. and Richelieu,' Richelieu and the Fronde,' Louis
XIV. ,' (The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes,' (Louis XV. ,' 'Louis
XV. and Louis XVI. ,' (The French Revolution. The Renaissance he
incarnated in Michel Angelo, the Revolution in Danton. He in fact
breathed a human soul into every epoch, period, and event that came
under his pen: and “a soul,” he says, weighs infinitely more than a
kingdom or an empire; at times, more than the human race. ” He
wrote as Delacroix painted,” Taine says: «risking the crudest color-
ing; seeking means of expression in the gutter mud itself; borrowing
from the language of medicine, and the slang of the vulgar, details
and terms which shock and frighten one. ” His prolific suggestions
swarm and multiply over the diseased tissue of a character, in the
tainted spot of a heart, until, as in the description of the moral
decadence of Louis XV. , the imaginative reader shudders and stops
reading; for suggestion has suggested what it is unbearable to think.
It is to the perfect happiness of his marriage to a second wife -
an incomparable companion — that we owe that series of books whose
dithyrambic strains were poured out under the silvery light of a
continuous honey-moon, as a biographer expresses it: L'Oiseau,'
L'Insecte,' L'Amour,' 'La Mer,' to which later a fifth, La Mon-
tagne,' was added; and which Taine says adds him to the three
great poets of France during the century,- De Musset, Lamartine,
and Hugo: «for art and genius, his prose is worth their poetry. ”
The Bible of Humanity, and some volumes of collected essays com-
plete the series of his published writings.


## p. 9985 (#397) ###########################################

JULES MICHELET
9985
In 1870 the Franco-Prussian war called out his France before
Europe,' a passionate appeal to the common fraternity of all peoples.
He was ardently engaged upon a history of the nineteenth century,
his last return to his History of France,' when he died in 1874 of
heart disease contracted during the Prussian invasion of his country.
He lies buried in Père la Chaise, where in youth he used to wander
among the dead he loved so well; who, responding to the passionate
evocation of his imagination, resumed their being before his mental
vision with such vivified reality, that in their turn they evoked from
his heart the genius that was henceforth to be his life.
Grace Tug
THE
THE DEATH OF JEANNE D'ARC
From the History of France)
He end of the sad journey was the Vieux-Marché, the fish-
market. Three scaffolds had been erected. Upon one were
the episcopal and royal chairs, and the throne of the car-
dinal of England amid the seats of his prelates. On the other
were to figure the personages of the dismal drama: the preacher,
the judges, the bailiff, and lastly the condemned one. Apart
was seen a large scaffold of masonry, loaded and overloaded with
wood. As to the pyre, there was nothing to complain of: it
frightened by its height. This was not merely to make the exe-
cution more solemn: there was an intention in it; it was that
the pile being built so high, the executioner could only reach
the bottom portion to light it, and thus he could not abridge the
martyrdom nor expedite the end, as he sometimes did to others,
sparing them the flame. Here there was no idea of defrauding
justice, or giving a dead body to the fire; they wished her to
be well burned, alive, and so that, placed on the summit of this
mountain of wood, and dominating the circle of lances and swords
around her, she could be seen from all parts of the place. Slowly
burned under the eyes of a curious crowd, there was
to believe that at the end she would be surprised into some
weakness, that something would escape her that might pass as
a disavowal; at the least, confused words to be interpreted, low
prayers, humiliating cries for mercy, as from a distracted woman.
XVII-625
reason


## p. 9986 (#398) ###########################################

9986
JULES MICHELET
The ghastly ceremony began by a sermon. Master Nicolay
Midy, one of the lights of the University of Paris, preached on
this edifying text: “When a member of the Church is ill, the
whole Church is ill. ” This poor Church could only cure itself
by cutting off a member. He concluded by the formula, "Jeanne,
go in peace: the Church cannot defend you. "
Then the judge of the Church, the bishop of Beauvais, be-
nignly exhorted her to think of her soul, and to recall all her
misdeeds in order to excite herself to contrition. The Assertors
had judged that it was according to law to read to her her abju-
ration: the bishop did not do anything of the kind, - he feared
her denials, her reclamations. But the poor girl did not dream
of thus quibbling for her life: she had far other thoughts.
Before they could even exhort her to contrition, she was on her
knees invoking God, the Virgin, St. Michael, and St. Catherine;
forgiving everybody, and asking forgiveness; saying to the assist-
ants, “Pray for me. " She requested each of the priests, particu-
larly, to say a mass for her soul. All this in such a devout
fashion, so humble, so touching, that emotion spreading, no one
could control himself: the bishop of Beauvais began to weep, he
of Boulogne sobbed; and behold the English themselves crying
and weeping also — Winchester with the others.
But the judges, who had for a moment lost countenance, recov-
ered and hardened themselves. The bishop of Beauvais, wiping his
eyes, began to read the condemnation. He reminded the culprit
of her crimes,- schism, idolatry, invocation of demons; how she
had been admitted to penitence; and how, seduced by the Prince
of Lies, she had fallen again - oh sorrow! - like the dog which
returns to his vomit. « Therefore we pronounce you a rotten
member, and as such, cut off from the Church. We deliver you
over to the secular power, praying it nevertheless to moderate
its judgment, by sparing you death and the mutilation of your
members. »
Thus forsaken by the Church, she committed herself in all
confidence to God. She asked for the cross. An Englishman
passed to her a cross, which he made of sticks: she received it
none the less devoutly; she kissed it, and placed it, this rough
cross, beneath her clothes and on her flesh. But she wished
to hold the Church's cross before her eyes till death; and the
good bailiff Massieu and brother Isambart were so moved by
her insistence that they brought her that of the parish church
of Saint-Sauveur. As she was embracing this cross and being


## p. 9987 (#399) ###########################################

JULES MICHELET
9987
couraged by Isambart, the English began to find all this very
long: it must be at least midday; the soldiers grumbled, the
cap-
tains said, “How, priest, will you make us dine here ? ” Then
losing patience, and not awaiting the order of the bailiff, who
nevertheless alone had authority to send her to death, they made
two soldiers climb up to remove her out of the priests' hands.
At the foot of the tribunal she was seized by armed men, who
dragged her to the executioner and said to him, “Do your
work. ” This fury of the soldiers caused horror; several of the
assistants, even the judges, fled in order not to see more. When
she found herself below in the open square amid these English-
men, who laid hands on her, nature suffered and the flesh was
troubled; she cried anew, "O Rouen! you will then be my last
dwelling-place. ” She said no more, and sinned not by her lips
even in this moment of terror and trouble; she accused neither
her king nor his saints. But, the top of the pile reached, seeing
that great city, that immovable and silent crowd, she could not
keep from saying, “O Rouen! Rouen! I have a great fear that
you will have to suffer for my death! ” She who had saved the
people and whom the people abandoned, expressed in dying only
admirable sweetness of soul, only compassion for them.
She was
tied beneath the infamous writing, crowned with a mitre, on
which was to be read, “Heretic, pervert, apostate, idolater ” — and
then the executioner lighted the fire. She saw it from above, and
uttered a cry. Then, as the brother who was exhorting her paid
no attention to the flames, she feared for him; forgetting herself,
she made him go down.
Which well proves that up to then she had retracted noth-
ing expressedly; and that the unfortunate Cauchon was obliged,
no doubt by the high Satanic will which presided, to come to
the foot of the pyre, to front the face of his victim, to try to
draw out some word. He only obtained one despairing one.
She said to him with sweetness what she had already said:
“Bishop, I die by your hand. If you had put me in the Church's
prisons this would not have happened. ” They had doubtless
hoped that believing herself abandoned by her king, she would
at the last accuse him, say something against him. She still
defended him. “Whether I did well or ill, my king had nothing
to do with it; it was not he who counseled me. ”
But the flame rose. At the moment it touched her, the un-
fortunate one shuddered, and asked for holy water; for water-
C
»


## p. 9988 (#400) ###########################################

9988
JULES MICHELET
it was apparently the cry of fright. But recovering herself
instantly, she no longer named any but God, his angels and his
saints. She testified, “Yes, my voices were from God; my voices
did not deceive me! This vanishing of all doubt, in the flames,
should make us believe that she accepted death as the deliv-
erance promised; that she no longer understood salvation in a
Judaistic and material sense, as she had done till then; that
she saw clear at last, and that coming out of the shadows, she
obtained that which she still lacked of light and holiness.
Ten thousand men wept. A secretary of the King of Eng-
land said aloud, on returning from the execution, "We are lost:
we have burned a saint! This word escaped from an enemy is
none the less grave. It will remain. The future will not con-
tradict it. Yes, according to Religion, according to Patriotism,
Jeanne d'Arc was a saint.
What legend more beautiful than this incontestable history!
But we should take care not to make a legend of it: every
feature, even the most human, should be piously preserved; the
touching and terrible reality of it should be respected. Let the
spirit of romance touch it if it dare: poetry never will do it.
And what could it add ? The idea which all during the Middle
Ages it had followed from legend to legend - this idea
found at last to be a person; this dream was tangible. The
helping Virgin of battles, upon whom the soldiers called, whom
they awaited from on high — she was here below.
-
In whom!
This is the marvel. In that which was despised, in that which
was of the humblest, - in a child, in a simple girl of the fields,
of the poor people of France. For there was a people, there
a France. This last figure of their Past was also the first
of the time that was beginning. In her appeared at the same
time the Virgin and already the country.
Such is the poetry of this great fact; such is the philosophy,
the high truth of it. But the historical reality is not the less
certain; it was only too positively and too cruelly established.
This living enigma, this mysterious creature whom all judged
to be supernatural, this angel or demon who according to some
would fly away some morning, was found to be a young woman,
a young girl: she had no wings, but, attached like us to a
mortal body, she was to suffer, die; and what a hideous death!
But it is just in this reality, which seems degrading, in this sad
trial of nature, that the ideal is found again and shines out. The
was
was


## p. 9989 (#401) ###########################################

JULES MICHELET
9989
contemporaries themselves recognized in it Christ among the
Pharisees. Yet we should see in it still another thing: the pas-
sion of the Virgin, the martyrdom of purity.
There have been many martyrs; history cites innumerable
ones, more or less pure, more or less glorious. Pride has had its
own, and hatred, and the spirit of dispute. No century has lacked
fighting martyrs, who no doubt died with good grace when they
could not kill. These fanatics have nothing to see here. The
holy maid is not of them; she had a different sign,-goodness,
charity, sweetness of soul. She had the gentleness of the ancient
martyrs, but with a difference. The early Christians only re-
mained sweet and pure by fleeing from action, by sparing them-
selves the struggle and trial of the world. This one remained
sweet in the bitterest struggle of good amid the bad; peaceful
even in war,— that triumph of the Devil, — she carried into it the
spirit of God. She took arms when she knew “the pity there
was in the kingdom of France. ” She could not see French blood
flow. This tenderness of heart she had for all men; she wept
after victories, and nursed the wounded English. Purity, sweet-
ness, heroic goodness — that these supreme beauties of soul should
be met in a girl of France may astonish strangers, who only like
to judge our nation by the lightness of its manners.
to them (and without self-partiality, since to-day all this is so far
from us) that beneath this lightness of manner, amid her follies
and her vices, old France was none the less the people of love
and of grace.
The savior of France was to be a woman. France was a
woman herself. She had the nobility of one; but also the ami-
able sweetness, the facile and charming pity, the excellence at
least of impulse. Even when she delighted in vain elegances
and exterior refinements, she still remained at the bottom nearer
to nature. The Frenchman, even when vicious, kept more than
any one else his good sense and good heart. May new France
not forget the word of old France: Only great hearts know
how much glory there is in being good.