this paper and bring our work to you to have it corrected.
_What should be Avoided in Writing_
_Teacher._ You have done rightly. Show it. In the future
let there be a greater space between the lines so that
I may be able to alter your mistakes and correct them.
These letters are too unequal, an ugly fault in writing.
Notice how much greater _n_ is than _e_ and _o_ than the
circle you make of it. For the bodies of all the letters
ought to be equal.
_Mend._ Tell us, pray, what do you mean by “bodies”?
VIII. _Forming Letters in Writing_
_Teacher._ The middle part of the letters, the part
besides the little heads and feet, if they have any; _b_
and _l_ have heads, _p_ and _q_ have feet. In this _m_
the legs (or sides) are not equal in length. The first
is shorter than the middle. It has also too long a tail,
even as that _a_ has. You don’t sufficiently press the
pen on the paper. The ink scarcely sticks, nor can you
clearly distinguish what the beginnings of the letters
are. Since you have tried to change these letters into
others, having erased parts with the pointed end of
your knife, you have disfigured your writing. It would
have been better to draw a thin stroke through it. Then
you should have transferred what remains of the word at
the end of one line to the beginning of the next, only
preserving the syllables always as wholes, for the law of
Latin writing does not suffer them to be cut into. It is
said that the Emperor Augustus did not have the custom
of dividing words, nor did he transfer the overflowing
letters of the end of his lines on to the next, but that
he put them immediately under the line and round about it.
_Manr._ We will gladly imitate that, as it is the example
of a king.
_Teacher._ You may well do so. For how could you
otherwise satisfy yourselves that you had any connection
with him (lit., that you are sprung from his blood)?
But you must not join all the letters, nor must you
separate all. There are those which must be ranged with
one another, as those with tails, _e.g._, _a_, _l_,
_u_, together with others, and so the speared letters,
_e.g._, _f_ and _t_. There are others which don’t permit
of this, viz., the circle-shaped _p_, _o_, _b_. As much
as possible keep your head erect in writing, for if you
bend and stoop, humours flow down on to the forehead and
eyes, whence many diseases are born and whence too may
come weakness of eyes. Now receive another copy and put
it on paper for to-morrow, God willing (_Deo propitio_).
As Ovid says (_Remedia Amoris_, 93):
Sed propera, nec te venturas differ in horas,
Qui non est hodie, cras minus aptus erit.[46]
and as Martial says (_de Notario_):
Currant verba licet, manus est velocior illis,
Nondum lingua suum, dextra peregit opus.[47]
_Mend._ Do you wish that we should imitate this blur?
_Teacher._ The blurs of correction certainly—and what
else is marked.
_Mend._ In the meantime we wish you the best of health.
XI
VESTITUS ET DEAMBULATIO MATUTINA—_Getting Dressed and the Morning
Constitutional_
BELLINUS, MALVENDA, JOANNIUS, GOMEZULUS
This dialogue (as its inscription indicates) has two divisions. The
earlier part is a paraphrase of the first dialogue, for he treats of
almost the same things as there, but more copiously: he describes the
manner of putting on one’s clothes or dressing one’s self, and the
kinds of clothes. The second part contains the morning constitutional,
and includes a noteworthy description of spring as it reveals itself to
all the senses.
First Part
_Mal._
Nempe haec adsidue? Iam clarum mane fenestras intrat et
angustas extendit lumine rimas: stertimus indomitum quod
despumare Falernum sufficiat.[48] (_Persius_, iii. 1–1.)
_Bell._ It is plain to be seen that you are not in
possession of your senses, for if you were, you would not
be awake so long before morning, nor pour out verses,
like a satyr’s, by which you disclose your frenzy.
_Mal._ Then hear some epigrammatic verses, with no bite
in them and yet full of salt (_edentulos et salsos_).
Surgite iam pueris vendit ientacula pistor
Cristataeque sonant undique lucis aves.[49].
MARTIAL, 223.
_Bell._ The call of breakfast would drive off sleep from
me more quickly than any din of thine.
_Mal._ Most happy jester, I wish you good morning.
_Bell._ And I wish you good night, and a good brain to be
able to sleep as well as you speak with fluent oratory.
_Mal._ I beg you, answer me seriously, if you are ever
able to answer seriously, what o’clock do you think it is
now?
_Bell._ Midnight, or a little after.
_Mal._ By what clock?
_Bell._ That in my house.
_Mal._ Where is your house-clock? You would have to get
or see a clock which had every hour for sleeping, eating,
and playing, but which had none for studying.
_Bell._ Yet I have a clock by me.
_Mal._ Where? Produce it.
_Bell._ In my eyes. See, such as cannot be opened by any
force. I beg of you, fall asleep again, or at least be
quiet.
_Mal._ What in the name of evil is this drowsiness or,
more truly, lethargy, and, in a certain sense, death? How
long do you think we have slept?
_Bell._ Two hours, or at the most three.
_Mal._ Three times three.
_Bell._ How is this possible?
_Mal._ Gomezulus, run along to the sun-dial of the
Franciscans and see what hour it is.
_Bell._ Sun-dial, forsooth! When the sun has not as yet
risen.
_Mal._ Risen, indeed! Come here, boy. Open that glass
window that the sun with his beams may fall upon this
fellow’s eyes. Everything is full of the sun and the
shadows are getting less.
_Bell._ What has the rising or setting of the sun to do
with you? Let it rise earlier than you, since it has a
longer day’s journey to accomplish than you have.
_Mal._ Gomezulus, run quickly to St. Peter’s, and
there look both on the mechanical clock (_horologio
machinali_), and on the style of the sun-dial to tell
what time it is.
_Gom._ I have looked at both. By the sun-clock the shadow
is yet a little distant from the second line. By the
mechanical clock the hand points to a little after the
hour of five.
_Bell._ What do you say? What else remains for you to
do but fetch me the blacksmith from Stone Street, that
he may separate my eye-lids by pincers so firmly stuck
together? Tell him, that he has to force a door lever,
from which the key has been lost.
_Gom._ Where does he live?
_Mal._ The boy will be going in earnest. Leave off joking
and get up.
_Bell._ Well, let us get up, since you are so obstinate
in mind. Ah! what a vexatious companion you are! Rouse me
up, Christ, from the sleep of sin to the watchfulness of
justice! Take me from the night of death into the light
of life. Amen.
_Mal._ May this day proceed happily for you!
_Bell._ And for you, too, the same, and very many more as
joyful and prosperous, _i.e._, may you so pass through
it that you neither harm the virtue of any one, nor may
any one harm yours. Boy, bring me a clean shirt, for this
one I have already worn for six whole days. There, snatch
that flea on the leap. Now leave off the hunt. How small
a matter it would be to have killed a single flea in this
chamber!
_Mal._ As much as to take a drop of water out of the
river Dilia (at Louvain).
_Bell._ Or yet from the ocean-sea itself. I won’t have
the shirt with the creased collar, but the other one with
the smooth collar. For what are these creases otherwise
at this time of the year than nests or receptacles for
lice and fleas.
_Mal._ Stupid! You will then suddenly become rich,
possessing both white and black stock.
_Bell._ Property abounding in quantity rather than of
value in itself, and companions I would rather see in the
neighbourhood than in my house! Order the maid to sew
again the side of this shirt, and that with silk thread.
_Gom._ She hasn’t any.
_Bell._ Then with flax or with wool, or even if she
pleases with hemp. Never has this maid what is
necessary; of what is unnecessary she has more than
enough. But you, Gomezulus, I don’t want you to be a
prophet. Carry out my order and report to me. Don’t
foretell what will happen. Shake the dust out of the
stockings and then clean them carefully with that hard
fly-brush. Give me clean socks, for these are now moist
and smell of the feet. φεῦ, take them away, the smell
annoys me terribly.
_Gom._ Do you wish an under-garment?
_Bell._ No, for by the light of the sun I gather that the
day will be hot. But reach me that velvet doublet with
the half sleeves of silken cloth, and the light tunic of
British cloth with long cloth cords.
_Mal._ Or rather German cloth. But what is the meaning
of all this, whereby you think of making yourself so
extraordinarily smart, beyond your custom—especially
when it is not a feast-day? And you ask also for country
shoe-straps.
_Bell._ And you? Why have you put on your smooth
silk, fresh from the tailor’s, although you have your
goat’s-hair clothes and your well-worn clothes of
Damascus.
_Mal._ I have sent them to be repaired.
_Bell._ I indeed rather consider ease in my clothes than
ornament. These little hooks and knobs are out of their
place. You always loosen them wrongly and thoughtlessly.
_Mal._ I rather use buttons and holes, which are more
of an ornament, and less burdensome for putting on and
taking off one’s clothes.
_Bell._ Every one has not the same judgment on this any
more than on other matters. Put down this breast-covering
here in the box, and don’t bring it out again during the
whole of the summer. These straps have quite lost their
strength. This belt is unsewn and torn to pieces. See
that it is mended, but take care that no unshapely knots
are sewn on.
_Gom._ This will not be done for at least an hour and a
half.
_Bell._ Then stick a needle through it, so that it
doesn’t hang down. Give me the garters.
_Gom._ Here they are! I have got ready for you your shoes
and the sandals with the long latchets. I have shaken off
the dust from them well.
_Bell._ Rather wipe off the dirt from the shoes and
polish them.
_Mal._ Is the _ligula_ (shoe latchet) in the shoe?
Concerning this word there has been a very sharp
controversy amongst grammarians, as there usually is
about everything, whether it should be called _ligula_ or
_lingula_ (a little tongue).
_Bell._ The strap is sewn on the Spanish shoes over the
top of the sole. Here they do not wear it so.
_Mal._ And in Spain they have given up arranging it so,
because they now wear their shoes in the French fashion.
_Bell._ Let me have your ivory comb.
_Mal._ Where is your wooden one—the one from Paris?
_Bell._ Did you not hear me yesterday scolding Gomezulus?
_Mal._ Do you call beating a person scolding him?
_Bell._ This was the reason. He had broken five or six of
the thick and of the thin teeth of the comb—almost broken
them all to pieces.
_Mal._ I have lately read that a certain author stated
that we should comb the head with an ivory comb forty
times from the forehead to the top and then to the back
of the head. What are you doing? That is not combing but
stroking. Let me have the comb.
_Bell._ Nor is that combing, but shaving or sweeping. I
think your head is made of bricks.
_Mal._ And I think yours is of butter—so that you dare
not touch it closely.
_Bell._ Are you willing, then, that we should have a
butting match with our heads?
_Mal._ I am not willing to have a senseless contest with
you, nor to engage my good mind against your witless
one. Now at length wash well your hands and face, but
especially the mouth, that you may speak more clearly.
_Bell._ Would that I could cleanse my mind as quickly as
my hands! Give me the wash-hand-basin.
_Mal._ Rub together more diligently the knuckles of your
hands, to which there sticks the thickest dirt.
_Bell._ You are mistaken, for I think it is rather
discoloured and wrinkled skin. Pour the water in these
hand-basins, Gomezulus, into that sink and give me
that net-bag and that striped cap. Bring now my boots
(_ocreas_, lit. _greaves_).
_Gom._ Travelling boots?
_Bell._ No, my city boots.
_Gom._ Do you wish your Spanish cap and the long mantle?
_Bell._ Are we going out of doors?
_Mal._ Why not?
_Bell._ Bring then the travelling cloak.
_Mal._ Then at last we will go out, so as not to let slip
by the time for having a walk.
_Second Part_
_Bell._ Lead us, Christ, in the ways which are pleasing
to Thee, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Spirit. Amen. Oh, how beautiful is the dawn! truly rosy
and golden, as the poets call it. How I rejoice to have
arisen. Let us go out of the city.
_Mal._ Yes, let us go. For I have not stepped foot out
of the city gate for a whole week. But whither shall we
first go, and after that which way shall we take?
_Bell._ To the citadel, or to the Carthusian Monastery?
_Mal._ Or to the meadows of St. James?
_Bell._ No, not there in the morning; rather in the
evening.
_Mal._ To the Carthusian Monastery, then, past the
Franciscan Monastery and the Recreation Grounds, thence
through the Brussels gate, then we will return by the
Carthusian Monastery to divine service. See, here is
Joannius. A greeting to you, Joannius!
_Joan._ The warmest of greetings to you! What an unusual
thing is this that you should be stirring so early?
_Bell._ I was bound in the deepest sleep, but Malvenda
here, by shouting and pinching me, tore me from my bed.
_Joan._ He did rightly, for this walk in the country will
revive you and freshen you up. Let us go on the green
walk (the _Pomerium_). O marvellous and adorable Creator
of beauty so great; this world is not inappropriately
called Mundus and by the Greeks Κόσμος, as if it were
decked and made elegant with beauty.
_Mal._ Don’t let us take our walk as if in a rush,
but slowly and gently. Please let us make the circuit
of the city walls twice or three times so that we may
contemplate so splendid a view the more peacefully and
freely.
_Description of Spring_—1. _Sight_. 2. _Hearing_
_Joan._ Observe, there is no sense which has not a
lordly enjoyment! First, the eyes! What varied colours,
what clothing of the earth and trees, what tapestry!
What paintings are comparable with this view? Here
are natural and real things; the representations are
artificial and false. Not without truth has the Spanish
poet, Juan de Mena, called May the painter of the Earth.
Then, the ear. How delightful to hear the singing of
birds, and especially the nightingale! Listen to her
as she sings in the thicket, from whom, as Pliny says,
issues the modulated sound of the completed science of
music. Attend accurately and you will note all varieties
of sounds. At one time there is no pause in them, but
continuously, with breath held equably over a long time
without change, the bird sings on. Now it changes tone!
Now it sings in shorter and sharper tones! Now it draws
in its tones and, as it were, makes its voice tremulous!
Now it stretches out its voice and now it calls it back!
At other times it sings long and, as it were, heroical
verses; at other times, short sapphics, and at intervals
very short, as in adonics. In very fact you have, as
it were, the whole study and school of music in the
nightingale. The little ones ponder and listen to the
verses, which they imitate. The little bird listens with
keen intentness (would that our teachers received like
attention!) and gives back the sound. And then, again,
they are silent.
3. _Smell_. 4. _Taste_. 5. _Touch_
The correction by example and a certain criticism from
the teacher-bird are closely observed. But Nature leads
them aright, whilst human beings exercise their will
wrongly. Add to this there is a sweet scent breathing in
from every side, from the meadows, from the crops, and
from the trees, even from the fallow-land and neglected
fields! Whatsoever you lift to your mouth has its relish,
as even from the very air itself, like the earliest and
softest honey.
_Mal._ This seems to me to be accounted for by what I
have heard said by some, that in the month of May, bees
are wont to gather their honey from celestial dew.
_Joan._ This was the opinion of many. If you wish
anything to be offered to the touch, what softer or more
healthful than the air we breathe on every side? For by
its bracing breath it infuses itself through the veins
and the whole body. Some verses of Vergil on spring come
into my mind which I will hum to you, if you can listen
to my voice, which I am afraid sounds more like that of
a goose than of a swan—although, for my part, I would
rather have a goose’s voice than that of a swan, who only
sings sweetly if he is just approaching his fate.
_Bell._ I, indeed, as far as I may answer on my own
behalf, have a keen desire to hear the verses, with any
voice you like, if only you will give us an explanation
of the verses.
_Mal._ My opinion is not otherwise from that of Bellinus.
_Joan._
Non alios prima crescentis origine mundi
Inluxisse dies, aliumve habuisse tenorem
Crediderim: ver illud erat: ver magnus agebat
Orbis, et hybernis parcebant flatibus Euri,
Quum primae lucem pecudes hausêre, virumque
Terrea progenies duris caput extulit arvis,
Immissaeque ferae sylvis et sidera caelo.
Nec res hunc tenerae possent perferre laborem
Si non tanta quies iret frigusque caloremque
Inter, et exciperet caeli indulgentia terras.[50]
_Georgics_, ii. 336–336.
_Bell._ I have not quite followed it.
_Mal._ And I still less, as I think.
_Joan._ Learn the verses thoroughly, or you won’t
understand them, for they are taken from the depths of
philosophy, as are very many others of that poet.
_Mal._ We will question the schoolmaster Orbilius about
them, for here he is coming to meet us.
_The Mind_
_Joan._ He is by no means the man to meet the difficulty.
Let us just salute him and let him go his way, for he
is a fierce man, fond of flogging (_plagosus_), imbued
with a vast haughtiness, instead of being learned in
literature, although he has seriously persuaded himself
that he is the Alpha of learned teachers. Moreover, we
have only spoken of the body. How greatly are the soul
and mind exhilarated and aroused by such an early morning
as this! There is no time so suitable for good learning,
for observing things, and for attentively listening to
what is said, and whatever you read; nor is it otherwise
with reflection and with thinking a problem out, whatever
it may be. You can give your mind to it. Not undeservedly
has it been said: “The dawn (_Aurora_) is most pleasing
to the Muses.”
_Bell._ But let me tell you I’m famishing with hunger.
Let us get back home to breakfast.
_Mal._ What then will you have?
_Bell._ Bread, butter, cherries, waxen-coloured prunes,
which so greatly seem to have pleased our Spaniards that
they call all plums by this name.[51] Or should they not
have such food at home, we will pluck some leaves of the
ox-tongue (_buglossa_), and we will add some sage in
place of butter.
_Mal._ Shall we have wine to drink?
_Bell._ By no means—but beer, and that of the weakest, of
yellow Lyons, or else pure and liquid water, drawn from
the Latin or Greek well.
_Mal._ Which do you call the Latin well and the Greek
well?
_Bell._ Vives is accustomed to call the well close to the
gate the Greek well; that one farther off he calls the
Latin well. He will give you his reasons for the names
when you meet him.
XII
DOMUS—_The New House_
JOCUNDUS, LEO, VITRUVIUS
In this dialogue Vives describes the whole house and its parts, one
by one, through the logical form of distribution of the whole into
its parts. Concerning the details, _see_ the books of Vitruvius on
architecture, and Grapaldus.
The interlocutors were distinguished architects. Vitruvius is an author
of antiquity; the other two are more recent. The one, Johannes Jocundus
Veronensis, wrote, amongst other monuments of a not inelegant mind,
a work on the _Commentaries of Julius Caesar_. The other, Baptista
Albertus Leo, distinguished himself in an equally great degree.
_Joc._ Have you any knowledge of the occupier of this
spacious and elegant house?
_Leo._ Most certainly; for he is a relation of the
man-servant of my father.
_Joc._ We will ask him to open the whole house to us,
for they say that nothing could be more pleasant and
delightful.
_Leo._ Let us go to it, and ring the little bell at the
door, so as not to burst in unexpected. (Tat-tat.)
_Vitruvius Insularius._[52] Who is there?
_Leo._ It is I.
_Vitr._ Hail! most welcome, sweetest boy! What brings you
here now?
_Leo._ I come from school.
_Vitr._ But for what reason are you here?
_Leo._ My friend here and I would very much like to see
over your house.
_Vitr._ Why, haven’t you seen it before now?
_Leo._ No, not all of it.
_The Vestibulum_—_The Door_—_The Threshold_
_Vitr._ Come in. Eh! boy, bring me the key for the
doors of the house. First, this is the entrance-hall
(_vestibulum_). It stands open the whole day, without
guard, for it is not within the house, yet also it is
not outside, though it is closed at night. Observe the
magnificent door, the leaves of which are of oak and
fitted with brass, and both the foot-piece and head-piece
of the doorway are made of alabaster marble. In former
times Hercules was set up at the door of the house to
ward off mischief (ἀλεξίκακος). But here we place Christ,
the true God, for Hercules was but a cruel and evil man.
With Christ as guard no evil will enter into the house.
_Joc._ Οὐδὲ οὖν δεσπότης αὐτός (so not even its master).
_Vitr._ What is that he said in Greek?
_Joc._ Why should so many evil persons enter in?
_Vitr._ Well, if evil persons do get in, they can then
bring nothing evil in with them.
_Leo._ Don’t you have any door-angels?
_Vitr._ The custom has gone out in some nations.
_The Door_—_The Hall_
Next comes the door of the entrance hall, which the hall
servant (_atriensis servus_) answers. He is the chief
of the servants, as the house-boy (_mediastinus_) is
the least in position. Then comes the spacious hall for
walking in, and in it are numerous and varied pictures.
_Joc._ Please, what are they all about?
_Vitr._ That is a representation of the foundations of
the heavens (_coeli facies ichnographica_). That shows
the plan of the earth and sea. There you have the world
newly discovered by Spanish navigations. In that picture
you see Lucretia as she is killing herself.[53]
_Joc._ Please, what is she saying, for even as she is
dying she seems to say something?
_Vitr._ “Many are astounded at my deed because it is not
every one who has suffered such a grief.”
_Joc._ I understand what she says.
_Leo._ What is the meaning of this picture delineated
with such varied figures?
_Vitr._ It is a sketch of this house. Draw back the
covering from that picture. There!
_Joc._ What does it represent? A little old man who is
sucking his wife’s breast?
_The Staircase_
_Vitr._ Hast thou not read of this subject in the chapter
on Piety in Valerius Maximus.[54]
_Joc._ What does she say?
_Vitr._ “I do not yet pay back as much as I have
received.”
_Joc._ What does the old man say?
_Winding Stairs_—_The Floor_—_The Upper Story_
_Vitr._ “I rejoice that I have been born.” Let us step up
these winding-stairs. The steps one by one, as you see,
are broad and were made of whole pieces of basalt-marble.
This first story is the dwelling of the master, the upper
story is for guests; not as if my master had a garret on
lease far away, but there it is furnished for his guest
friends always in order and free, unless filled already
with guests. This is the dining-room.
_The Dining-Room_—_The Window_
_Joc._ Good Christ! what transparent window panes these
are and how artistically painted they are in shaded
outlines! What colours! How life-like! What pictures,
what statues, what wainscoting! What is the story
pourtrayed on the panes?
_Vitr._ The fall of Griselda, which John Boccaccio wrote
so aptly and skilfully; but my master has decided to add
a true story to this fiction, which excels the story of
Griselda, viz., that of Godelina of Flanders and the
English Queen Catharine of Aragon. The first of the
statues is the Apostle Paul.
_Joc._ What is the inscription of the sculpture?
_Vitr._ “How much we owe thee, O Christ.”
_Joc._ What does he say himself?
_Vitr._ “By the grace of God I am what I am and His
grace which was bestowed on me, was not in vain.” The
other statue is Mutius Scaevola.
_Joc._ But he is not mute even if he is called Mutius.
What is the inscription on his statue?