THE RENAISSANCE
There is something dark and wintry about the atmosphere of the later
Middle Ages. The poems of Villon produce the impression of some bleak,
desolate landscape of snow-covered roofs and frozen streets, shut in by
mists, and with a menacing shiver in the air. It is--
sur la morte saison,
Que les loups se vivent de vent,
Et qu'on se tient en sa maison,
Pour le frimas, près du tison.
Then all at once the grey gloom lifts, and we are among the colours, the
sunshine, and the bursting vitality of spring.
The great intellectual and spiritual change which came over western
Europe at the beginning of the sixteenth century was the result of a
number of converging causes, of which the most important were the
diffusion of classical literature consequent upon the break-up of the
Byzantine Empire at the hands of the Turks, the brilliant civilization
of the Italian city-states, and the establishment, in France, Spain and
England, of powerful monarchies whose existence ensured the maintenance
of order and internal peace. Thus it happened that the splendid
literature of the Ancient World--so rich in beauty and so significant in
thought--came into hands worthy of receiving it. Scholars, artists and
thinkers seized upon the wondrous heritage and found in it a whole
unimagined universe of instruction and delight. At the same time the
physical discoveries of explorers and men of science opened out vast
fresh regions of speculation and adventure. Men saw with astonishment
the old world of their fathers vanishing away, and, within them and
without them, the dawning of a new heaven and a new earth. The effect on
literature of these combined forces was enormous. In France
particularly, under the strong and brilliant government of Francis I,
there was an outburst of original and vital writing. This literature,
which begins, in effect, what may be called the distinctively _modern_
literature of France, differs in two striking respects from that of the
Middle Ages. Both in their attitude towards art and in their attitude
towards thought, the great writers of the Renaissance inaugurated a new
era in French literature.
The new artistic views of the age first appeared, as was natural, in the
domain of poetry. The change was one towards consciousness and
deliberate, self-critical effort. The medieval poets had sung with
beauty; but that was not enough for the poets of the Renaissance: they
determined to sing not only with beauty, but with care. The movement
began in the verse of MAROT, whose clear, civilized, worldly poetry
shows for the first time that tendency to select and to refine, that
love of ease and sincerity, and that endeavour to say nothing that is
not said well, which were to become the fundamental characteristics of
all that was best in French poetry for the next three hundred years. In
such an exquisite little work of art as his epistle in three-syllabled
verse--'À une Damoyselle Malade', beginning--
Ma mignonne,
Je vous donne
Le bonjour,
we already have, in all its completeness, that tone of mingled
distinction, gaiety and grace which is one of the unique products of the
mature poetical genius of France. But Marot's gift was not wide enough
for the voluminous energies of the age; and it was not until a
generation later, in the work of the _Pléiade_--a group of writers of
whom RONSARD was the chief, and who flourished about the middle of the
sixteenth century--that the poetical spirit of the French Renaissance
found its full expression.
The mere fact that the _Pléiade_ formed a definite school, with common
principles and a fixed poetical creed, differentiates them in a striking
way from the poets who had preceded them. They worked with no casual
purpose, no merely professional art, but with a high sense of the glory
of their calling and a noble determination to give to the Muses whom
they worshipped only of their best. They boldly asserted--in Du Bellay's
admirable essay, _La Défense et Illustration de la Langue
Française_--the right of the French language to stand beside those of
the ancients, as a means of poetical expression; and they devoted their
lives to the proof of their doctrine. But their respect for their own
tongue by no means implied a neglect of the Classics. On the contrary,
they shared to the full the adoration of their contemporaries for the
learning and the literature of the Ancient World. They were scholars as
well as poets; and their great object was to create a tradition in the
poetry of France which should bring it into accord with the immortal
models of Greece and Rome. This desire to imitate classical literature
led to two results. In the first place, it led to the invention of a
great number of new poetical forms, and the abandonment of the old
narrow and complicated conventions which had dominated the poetry of
the Middle Ages. With the free and ample forms of the Classics before
them, Ronsard and his school enfranchised French verse. Their technical
ability was very great; and it is hardly too much to say that the result
of their efforts was the creation of something hitherto lacking in
French literature--a poetical instrument which, in its strength, its
freedom, its variety of metrical resources, and its artistic finish, was
really adequate to fulfil the highest demands of genius. In this
direction their most important single achievement was their elevation of
the 'Alexandrine' verse--the great twelve-syllabled rhyming couplet--to
that place of undisputed superiority over all other metres which it has
ever since held in French poetry.
But the _Pléiade's_ respect for classical models led to another and a
far less fortunate result. They allowed their erudition to impinge upon
their poetry, and, in their eagerness to echo the voice of antiquity,
they too often failed to realize the true bent either of their own
language or their own powers. This is especially obvious in the longer
poems of Ronsard--his _Odes_ and his _Françiade_--where all the effort
and skill of the poet have not been enough to save his verse from tedium
and inflation. The Classics swam into the ken of these early discoverers
in such a blaze of glory that their eyes were dazzled and their feet
misled. It was owing to their very eagerness to imitate their great
models exactly--to 'ape the outward form of majesty'--that they failed
to realize the true inward spirit of Classical Art.
It is in their shorter poems--when the stress of classical imitation is
forgotten in the ebullition of individual genius--that Ronsard and his
followers really come to their own. These beautiful lyrics possess the
freshness and charm of some clear April morning, with its delicate
flowers and its carolling birds. It is the voice of youth that sings in
light and varied measures, composed with such an exquisite happiness,
such an unlaboured art. The songs are of Love and of Nature, of roses,
skylarks and kisses, of blue skies and natural joys. Sometimes there is
a sadder note; and the tender music reminds us of the ending of
pleasures and the hurrying steps of Time. But with what a different
accent from that of the dark and relentless Villon! These gentle singers
had no words for such brutalities.
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle--
so Ronsard addresses his mistress; and the image is a charming one of
quiet and refined old age, with its half-smiling memories of vanished
loves. What had become, in the hands of Villon, a subject for grim jests
and horrible descriptions, gave to Ronsard simply an opportunity for the
delicate pathos of regret. Then again the note changes, and the pure,
tense passion of Louise Labé--
Oh! si j'étais en ce beau sein ravie
De celui-là pour lequel vais mourant--
falls upon our ears. And then, in the great sonnet sequence of Du
Bellay--_Les Antiquités de Rome_--we hear a splendid sound unknown
before in French poetry--the sonorous boom of proud and pompous verse.
Contemporary with the poetry of the _Pléiade_, the influence of the
Renaissance spirit upon French literature appeared with even more
striking force in the prose of RABELAIS. The great achievement of the
_Pléiade_ had been the establishment, once and for all, of the doctrine
that literature was something essentially artistic; it was Rabelais who
showed that it possessed another quality--that it was a mighty
instrument of thought. The intellectual effort of the Middle Ages had
very rarely clothed itself in an artistic literary form. Men laughed or
wept in the poetry or prose of their own tongue; but they thought in
scholastic Latin. The work of Jean de Meung was an exception; but, even
there, the poetical form was rough and feeble; the artistic and the
intellectual principles had not coalesced. The union was accomplished by
Rabelais. Far outstripping Jean de Meung in the comprehensiveness and
vigour of his thought, he at the same time infinitely surpassed him as
an artist. At first sight, indeed, his great book hardly conveys such an
impression; to a careless reader it might appear to be simply the work
of a buffoon or a madman. But such a conception of it would be totally
mistaken. The more closely one examines it, the more forcibly one must
be struck alike by its immense powers of intellect and its consummate
literary ability. The whole vast spirit of the Renaissance is gathered
within its pages: the tremendous vitality, the enormous erudition, the
dazzling optimism, the courage, the inventiveness, the humanity, of that
extraordinary age. And these qualities are conveyed to us, not by some
mere conscientious pedant, or some clumsy enthusiast, but by a born
writer--a man whose whole being was fixed and concentrated in an
astonishing command of words. It is in the multitude of his words that
the fertility of Rabelais' spirit most obviously shows itself. His book
is an orgy of words; they pour out helter-skelter, wildly, into swirling
sentences and huge catalogues that, in serried columns, overflow the
page. Not quite wildly, though; for, amid all the rush and bluster,
there is a powerful underlying art. The rhythms of this extraordinary
prose are long and complex, but they exist; and they are controlled with
the absolute skill of a master.
The purpose of Rabelais' book cannot be summed up in a sentence. It may
be described as the presentment of a point of view: but _what_ point of
view? There lies the crux of the question, and numberless critics have
wrangled over the solution of it. The truth is, that the only complete
description of the point of view is to be found--in the book itself; it
is too wide and variegated for any other habitation. Yet, if it would be
vain to attempt an accurate and exhaustive account of Rabelais'
philosophy, the main outlines of that philosophy are nevertheless
visible enough. Alike in the giant-hero, Pantagruel, in his father,
Gargantua, and in his follower and boon-companion, Panurge, one can
discern the spirit of the Renaissance--expansive, humorous, powerful,
and, above all else, alive. Rabelais' book is the incarnation of the
great reaction of his epoch against the superstitious gloom and the
narrow asceticism of the Middle Ages. He proclaims, in his rich
re-echoing voice, a new conception of the world; he denies that it is
the vale of sorrows envisioned by the teachers of the past; he declares
that it is abounding in glorious energy, abounding in splendid hope,
and, by its very nature, good. With a generous hatred of stupidity, he
flies full tilt at the pedantic education of the monasteries, and
asserts the highest ideals of science and humanity. With an equal
loathing of asceticism, he satirizes the monks themselves, and sketches
out, in his description of the Abbey of Theleme, a glowing vision of
the Utopian convent. His thought was bold; but he lived in a time when
the mildest speculation was fraught with danger; and he says what he has
to say in the shifting and ambiguous forms of jest and allegory. Yet it
was by no means simply for the sake of concealment that he made his work
into the singular mixture that it is, of rambling narrative,
disconnected incident, capricious disquisition, and coarse humour. That,
no doubt, was the very manner in which his mind worked; and the
essential element of his spirit resides precisely in this haphazard and
various looseness. His exceeding coarseness is itself an expression of
one of the most fundamental qualities of his mind--its jovial acceptance
of the physical facts of life. Another side of the same characteristic
appears in his glorification of eating and drinking: such things were
part of the natural constitution of man, therefore let man enjoy them to
the full. Who knows? Perhaps the Riddle of the Universe would be solved
by the oracle of _la dive Bouteille_.
Rabelais' book is a history of giants, and it is itself gigantic; it is
as broad as Gargantua himself. It seems to belong to the morning of the
world--a time of mirth, and a time of expectation; when the earth was
teeming with a miraculous richness, and the gods walked among men.
In the Essays of MONTAIGNE, written about a generation later, the spirit
of the Renaissance, which had filled the pages of Rabelais with such a
superabundant energy, appears in a quieter and more cultivated form. The
first fine rapture was over; and the impulsive ardours of creative
thought were replaced by the calm serenity of criticism and reflection.
Montaigne has none of the coarseness, none of the rollicking fun, none
of the exuberant optimism, of Rabelais; he is a refined gentleman, who
wishes to charm rather than to electrify, who writes in the quiet, easy
tone of familiar conversation, who smiles, who broods, and who doubts.
The form of the detached essay, which he was the first to use, precisely
suited his habit of thought. In that loose shape--admitting of the most
indefinite structure, and of any variety of length, from three pages to
three hundred--he could say all that he wished to say, in his own
desultory, inconsecutive, and unelaborate manner. His book flows on like
a prattling brook, winding through pleasant meadows. Everywhere the
fruits of wide reading are manifest, and numberless Latin quotations
strew his pages. He touches on every side of life--from the slightest
and most superficial topics of literature or manners to the profoundest
questions that beset humanity; and always with the same tact and
happiness, the same wealth of learned illustration, the same engaging
grace.
The Essays are concerned fundamentally with two subjects only. First,
they illustrate in every variety of way Montaigne's general philosophy
of life. That philosophy was an absolutely sceptical one. Amid the mass
of conflicting opinions, amid the furious oppositions of creeds, amid
the flat contradictions of loudly-asseverated dogmas, Montaigne held a
middle course of calm neutrality. _Que Sçais-je?_ was his constant
motto; and his Essays are a collection of numberless variations on this
one dominating theme. The _Apologie de Raimond Sebond_, the largest and
the most elaborate of them, contains an immense and searching review of
the errors, the incoherences, and the ignorance of humanity, from which
Montaigne draws his inevitable conclusion of universal doubt. Whatever
the purely philosophical value of this doctrine may be, its importance
as an influence in practical life was very great. If no opinion had any
certainty whatever, then it followed that persecution for the sake of
opinion was simply a wicked folly. Montaigne thus stands out as one of
the earliest of the opponents of fanaticism and the apostles of
toleration in the history of European thought.
The other subject treated of in the Essays, with an equal persistence
and an equal wealth of illustration, is Montaigne himself. The least
reticent of writers, he furnishes his readers with every conceivable
piece of information concerning his history, his character, his
appearance, his health, his habits and his tastes. Here lies the
peculiar charm of his book--the endless garrulity of its confidences,
which, with their combined humour, suavity, and irresponsibility, bring
one right into the intimate presence of a fascinating man.
For this reason, doubtless, no writer has ever been so gushed over as
Montaigne; and no writer, we may be sure, would be so horrified as he at
such a treatment. Indeed, the adulation of his worshippers has perhaps
somewhat obscured the real position that he fills in literature. It is
impossible to deny that, both as a writer and as a thinker, he has
faults--and grave ones. His style, with all its delightful abundance,
its inimitable ease, and its pleasant flavour of antiquity, yet lacks
form; he did not possess the supreme mastery of language which alone can
lead to the creation of great works of literary art. His scepticism is
not important as a contribution to philosophical thought, for his mind
was devoid both of the method and of the force necessary for the pursuit
and discovery of really significant intellectual truths. To claim for
him such titles of distinction is to overshoot the mark, and to distract
attention from his true eminence. Montaigne was neither a great artist
nor a great philosopher; he was not _great_ at all. He was a charming,
admirable human being, with the most engaging gift for conversing
endlessly and confidentially through the medium of the printed page ever
possessed by any man before or after him. Even in his self-revelations
he is not profound. How superficial, how insignificant his rambling
ingenuous outspokenness appears beside the tremendous introspections of
Rousseau! He was probably a better man than Rousseau; he was certainly a
more delightful one; but he was far less interesting. It was in the
gentle, personal, everyday things of life that his nature triumphed.
Here and there in his Essays, this simple goodness wells up clear and
pure; and in the wonderful pages on Friendship, one sees, in all its
charm and all its sweetness, that beautiful humanity which is the inward
essence of Montaigne.