the gate of the Conciergerie, to a City all on tip-toe, the fatal Cart
issues; seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in red smock of
Murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life; journeying toward
death,--alone amid the World. Many take off their hats, saluting
reverently; for what heart but must be touched? Others growl and howl.
Adam Lux, of Mentz, declares that she is greater than Brutus; that it
were beautiful to die with her; the head of this young man seems
turned. At the Place de la Revolution, the countenance of Charlotte
wears the same still smile. The executioners proceed to bind her feet;
she resists, thinking it meant as an insult; on a word of explanation,
she submits with cheerful apology. As the last act, all being now
ready, they take the neckerchief from her neck, a blush of maidenly
shame overspreads her fair face and neck; the cheeks were still tinged
with it when the executioner lifted the severed head, to show it to
the people. "It is most true," says Forster, "that he struck the cheek
insultingly; for I saw it with my eyes; the Police imprisoned him for
it."
In this manner have the Beautifulest and the Squalidest come in
collision, and extinguished one another. Jean-Paul Marat and
Marie-Anne Charlotte Corday both, suddenly, are no more. "Day of the
Preparation of Peace"? Alas, how were peace possible or preparable,
while for example, the hearts of lovely Maidens, in their
convent-stillness, are dreaming not of Love-paradises and the light of
Life, but of Codrus's-sacrifices and Death well-earned? That
twenty-five million hearts have got to such temper, this _is_ the
Anarchy; the soul of it lies in this, whereof not peace can be the
embodiment! The death of Marat, whetting old animosities tenfold, will
be worse than any life. O ye hapless Two, mutually extinctive, the
Beautiful and the Squalid, sleep ye well,--in the Mother's bosom that
bore you both!
This is the History of Charlotte Corday; most definite, most complete:
angelic-demonic: like a Star!
THE SCAPEGOAT
From the 'French Revolution'
To this conclusion, then, hast thou come, O hapless Louis! The Son of
Sixty Kings is to die on the Scaffold by form of Law. Under Sixty
Kings this same form of Law, form of Society, has been fashioning
itself together these thousand years; and has become, one way and
other, a most strange Machine. Surely, if needful, it is also
frightful, this Machine; dead, blind; not what it should be; which,
with swift stroke, or by cold slow torture, has wasted the lives and
souls of innumerable men. And behold now a King himself, or say rather
King-hood in his person, is to expire here in cruel tortures,--like a
Phalaris shut in the belly of his own red-heated Brazen Bull! It is
ever so; and thou shouldst know it, O haughty tyrannous man; injustice
breeds injustice; curses and falsehoods do verily return "always
_home_," wide as they may wander. Innocent Louis bears the sins of
many generations: he too experiences that man's tribunal is not in
this Earth; that if he had no Higher one, it were not well with him.
A King dying by such violence appeals impressively to the imagination;
as the like must do, and ought to do. And yet at bottom it is not the
King dying, but the man! Kingship is a coat: the grand loss is of the
skin. The man from whom you take his Life, to him can the whole
combined world do _more_? Lally went on his hurdle; his mouth filled
with a gag. Miserablest mortals, doomed for picking pockets, have a
whole five-act Tragedy in them, in that dumb pain, as they go to the
gallows, unregarded; they consume the cup of trembling down to the
lees. For Kings and for Beggars, for the justly doomed and the
unjustly, it is a hard thing to die. Pity them all: thy utmost pity,
with all aids and appliances and throne-and-scaffold contrasts, how
far short is it of the thing pitied!
* * * * *
A Confessor has come; Abbe Edgeworth, of Irish extraction, whom the
King knew by good report, has come promptly on this solemn mission.
Leave the Earth alone, then, thou hapless King; it with its malice
will go its way, thou also canst go thine. A hard scene yet remains:
the parting with our loved ones. Kind hearts, environed in the same
grim peril with us; to be left _here_! Let the Reader look with the
eyes of Valet Clery through these glass-doors, where also the
Municipality watches; and see the cruelest of scenes:--
"At half-past eight, the door of the ante-room opened: the Queen
appeared first, leading her Son by the hand; then Madame Royale and
Madame Elizabeth: they all flung themselves into the arms of the King.
Silence reigned for some minutes; interrupted only by sobs. The Queen
made a movement to lead his Majesty towards the inner room, where M.
Edgeworth was waiting unknown to them: 'No', said the King, 'let us go
into the dining-room; it is there only that I can see you.' They
entered there; I shut the door of it, which was of glass. The King sat
down, the Queen on his left hand, Madame Elizabeth on his right,
Madame Royale almost in front; the young Prince remained standing
between his Father's legs. They all leaned toward him, and often held
him embraced. This scene of woe lasted an hour and three-quarters;
during which we could hear nothing; we could see only that always when
the King spoke, the sobbing of the Princesses redoubled, continued for
some minutes; and that then the King began again to speak." And so our
meetings and our partings do now end! The sorrows we gave each other;
the poor joys we faithfully shared, and all our lovings and our
sufferings, and confused toilings under the earthly Sun, are over.
Thou good soul, I shall never, never through all ages of Time, see
thee any more!--NEVER! O Reader, knowest thou that hard word?
For nearly two hours this agony lasts; then they tear themselves
asunder. "Promise that you will see us on the morrow." He
promises:--Ah yes, yes; yet once; and go now, ye loved ones; cry to
God for yourselves and me!--It was a hard scene, but it is over. He
will not see them on the morrow. The Queen, in passing through the
ante-room, glanced at the Cerberus Municipals; and with woman's
vehemence, said through her tears, "_Vous etes tous des scelerats_".
King Louis slept sound, till five in the morning, when Clery, as he
had been ordered, awoke him. Clery dressed his hair: while this went
forward, Louis took a ring from his watch, and kept trying it on his
finger; it was his wedding-ring, which he is now to return to the
Queen as a mute farewell. At half-past six, he took the Sacrament; and
continued in devotion, and conference with Abbe Edgeworth. He will not
see his Family: it were too hard to bear.
At eight, the Municipals enter: the King gives them his Will, and
messages and effects; which they at first brutally refuse to take
charge of; he gives them a roll of gold pieces, 125 louis; these are
to be returned to Malesherbes, who had lent them. At nine, Santerre
says the hour is come. The King begs yet to retire for three minutes.
At the end of three minutes, Santerre again says the hour is come.
"Stamping on the ground with his right foot, Louis answers:
'_Partons_' (Let us go)."--How the rolling of those drums comes in,
through the Temple bastions and bulwarks, on the heart of a queenly
wife; soon to be a widow! He is gone, then, and has not seen us? A
Queen weeps bitterly; a King's Sister and Children. Over all these
Four does Death also hover: all shall perish miserably save one; she,
as Duchesse d'Angouleme, will live,--not happily.
At the Temple gate were some faint cries, perhaps from voices of
pitiful women: "_Grace! Grace!_" Through the rest of the streets there
is silence as of the grave. No man not armed is allowed to be there:
the armed, did any even pity, dare not express it, each man overawed
by all his neighbors. All windows are down, none seen looking through
them. All shops are shut. No wheel-carriage rolls, this morning, in
these streets, but one only. Eighty thousand armed men stand ranked,
like armed statues of men; cannons bristle, cannoneers with match
burning, but no word or movement: it is as a city enchanted into
silence and stone: one carriage with its escort, slowly rumbling, is
the only sound. Louis reads, in his Book of Devotion, the Prayers of
the Dying: clatter of this death-march falls sharp on the ear in the
great silence; but the thought would fain struggle heavenward, and
forget the Earth.
As the clocks strike ten, behold the Place de la Revolution, once
Place de Louis Quinze: the Guillotine, mounted near the old Pedestal
where once stood the Statue of that Louis! Far round, all bristles
with cannons and armed men: spectators crowding in the rear; D'Orleans
Egalite there in cabriolet. Swift messengers, _hoquetons_, speed to
the Town-hall, every three minutes: near by is the Convention
sitting,--vengeful for Lepelletier. Heedless of all, Louis reads his
Prayers of the Dying; not till five minutes yet has he finished; then
the Carriage opens. What temper he is in? Ten different witnesses will
give ten different accounts of it. He is in the collision of all
tempers; arrived now at the black Maelstrom and descent of Death: in
sorrow, in indignation, in resignation struggling to be resigned.
"Take care of M. Edgeworth," he straitly charges the Lieutenant who is
sitting with them: then they two descend.
The drums are beating: "_Taisez-vous_ (Silence)!" he cries "in a
terrible voice (_d'une voix terrible_)." He mounts the scaffold, not
without delay; he is in puce coat, breeches of gray, white stockings.
He strips off the coat; stands disclosed in a sleeve-waistcoat of
white flannel. The Executioners approach to bind him: he spurns,
resists; Abbe Edgeworth has to remind him how the Savior, in whom men
trust, submitted to be bound. His hands are tied, his head bare; the
fatal moment is come. He advances to the edge of the Scaffold, "his
face very red," and says: "Frenchmen, I die innocent: it is from the
Scaffold and near appearing before God that I tell you so. I pardon my
enemies; I desire that France--" A General on horseback, Santerre or
another, prances out, with uplifted hand: "_Tambours_!" The drums
drown the voice. "Executioners, do your duty!" The Executioners,
desperate lest themselves be murdered (for Santerre and his Armed
Ranks will strike, if they do not), seize the hapless Louis: six of
them desperate, him singly desperate, struggling there; and bind him
to their plank. Abbe Edgeworth, stooping, bespeaks him: "Son of Saint
Louis, ascend to Heaven." The Axe clanks down; a King's Life is shorn
away. It is Monday, the 21st of January, 1793. He was aged
Thirty-eight years four months and twenty-eight days.
Executioner Samson shows the Head: fierce shout of _Vive la
Republique_ rises, and swells; caps raised on bayonets, hats waving:
students of the College of Four Nations take it up, on the far Quais;
fling it over Paris. D'Orleans drives off in his cabriolet: the
Town-hall Councillors rub their hands, saying, "It is done, It is
done." There is dipping of handkerchiefs, of pike-points in the blood.
Headsman Samson, though he afterward denied it, sells locks of the
hair: fractions of the puce coat are long after worn in rings. And so,
in some half-hour it is done; and the multitude has all departed.
Pastry-cooks, coffee-sellers, milkmen sing out their trivial quotidian
cries, the world wags on, as if this were a common day. In the
coffee-houses that evening, says Prudhomme, Patriot shook hands with
Patriot in a more cordial manner than usual. Not till some days after,
according to Mercier, did public men see what a grave thing it was.
A grave thing it indisputably is; and will have consequences. On the
morrow morning, Roland, so long steeped to the lips in disgust and
chagrin, sends in his demission. His accounts lie all ready, correct
in black-on-white to the utmost farthing: these he wants but to have
audited, that he might retire to remote obscurity, to the country and
his books. They will never be audited, those accounts: he will never
get retired thither.
It was on Tuesday that Roland demitted. On Thursday comes Lepelletier
St.-Fargeau's Funeral, and passage to the Pantheon of Great Men.
Notable as the wild pageant of a winter day. The Body is borne aloft,
half-bare; the winding-sheet disclosing the death-wound; sabre and
bloody clothes parade themselves; a "lugubrious music" wailing harsh
naeniae. Oak-crowns shower down from windows; President Vergniaud walks
there, with Convention, with Jacobin Society, and all Patriots of
every color, all mourning brother-like.
Notable also for another thing this Burial of Lepelletier; it was the
last act these men ever did with concert! All parties and figures of
Opinion, that agitate this distracted France and its Convention, now
stand, as it were, face to face, and dagger to dagger; the King's
Life, round which they all struck and battled, being hurled down.
Dumouriez, conquering Holland, growls ominous discontent, at the head
of Armies. Men say Dumouriez will have a King; that young D'Orleans
Egalite shall be his King. Deputy Fauchet, in the Journal des Amis,
curses his day more bitterly than Job did; invokes the poniards of
Regicides, of "Arras Vipers" or Robespierres, of Pluto Dantons, of
horrid Butchers Legendre and Simulacra d'Herbois, to send him swiftly
to another world than _theirs_. This is Te-Deum Fauchet, of the
Bastille Victory, of the Cercle Social. Sharp was the death-hail
rattling round one's Flag-of-truce, on that Bastille day: but it was
soft to such wreckage of high Hope as this; one's New Golden Era going
down in leaden dross, and sulphurous black of the Everlasting
Darkness!
BLISS CARMAN
(1861-)
BY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
[Illustration: BLISS CARMAN]
Bliss Carman was born at Fredericton, New Brunswick, on April 15th,
1861. On both sides of the house he belongs to that United Empire
Loyalist stock which at the time of the American Revolution sacrificed
wealth and ease to a principle, and angrily withdrew from the young
republic to carve out new commonwealths in the wilds of Canada. His
father was William Carman, Clerk of the Pleas, a man of influence and
distinction in his Province. His mother was one of the Blisses of
Fredericton, the Loyalist branch of that Connecticut family to which
Emerson's mother belonged. Mr. Carman was educated at the Collegiate
School and the University of New Brunswick, both at Fredericton. He
distinguished himself in classics and mathematics, took his B. A. in
1881, his M. A. in 1884, and afterwards took partial courses at
Edinburgh and Harvard. He has been connected editorially with several
American periodicals, the Independent and the Chap-Book among them,
but now devotes himself exclusively to literature. He divides his time
between Boston and Washington, returning to the Maritime Provinces for
the hot months of each year. Mr. Carman issued his first volume of
poems in 1893, when he had already won reputation as a contributor to
the magazines. The volume was called 'Low Tide on Grand Pre: a Book of
Lyrics.' It was published in New York and London, and ran quickly into
a second edition. Equally successful was the volume called 'Songs from
Vagabondia,' published in 1894. About half the poems in this volume
are by Mr. Richard Hovey, whose name appears on the title-page with
that of Mr. Carman. In 1895 appeared 'Behind the Arras: a Book of the
Unseen.' Much of Mr. Carman's known work remains still uncollected.
In that outburst of intellectual energy which has of late won for
Canada a measure of recognition in the world of letters, Mr. Carman's
work has played a large part. The characteristics of the Canadian
school may perhaps be defined as a certain semi-Sufristic worship of
nature, combined with freshness of vision and keenness to interpret
the significance of the external world. These characteristics find
intense expression in Mr. Carman's poems. And they find expression in
an utterance so new and so distinctive that its influence is already
active in the verse of his contemporaries.
There are two terms which apply pre-eminently to Mr. Carman. These are
Lyrist and Symbolist. His note is always the lyric note. The "lyric
cry" thrills all his cadences. If it be true that poetry is the
rhythmical expression in words of thought fused in emotion, then in
his work we are impressed by the completeness of the fusion. Every
phrase is filled with lyric passion. At its best, the result is a poem
which not only haunts the ear with its harmonies but at the same time
makes appeal to the heart and intellect. When the result is less
successful it seems sometimes as if the thought were too much diluted
with words,--as if, in fact, verbal music and verbal coloring were
allowed to take the place of the legitimate thought-process. Even in
such cases, the verse, however nebulous in meaning, is rarely without
some subtlety of technique, some charm of diction, to justify its
existence. But there are poems of Mr. Carman's, wherein what seems at
first to be the obscurity of an over-attenuated thought is really an
attempt to express thought in terms of pure music or pure color. In a
curious and beautiful poem called 'Beyond the Gamut' he elaborates a
theory of the oneness and interchangeability of form, sound, and
color.
In the matter of conception and interpretation Mr. Carman is a
symbolist. This word is not used here in any restricted sense, and
must be divorced from all association with the shibboleths of warring
schools. The true symbolist--and all the supreme artists of the world
have been in this sense symbolists--recognizes that there are truths
too vast and too subtle to endure definition in scientific phrase.
They elude set words; as a faint star, at the coming on of evening,
eludes the eye which seeks for it directly, while unveiling itself to
a side glance. Mr. Carman conveys to us, by the suggestion of
thrilling color or inimitable phrase, perceptions and emotions which a
more strictly defined method could never capture.
In subject-matter Mr. Carman is simple and elemental. He looks at his
themes curiously, often whimsically; but the themes are those of
universal and eternal import,--life, love, and death, the broad
aspects of the outer world, the "deep heart of man," and the spirit
that informs them all. His song is sometimes in a minor key, plangent
and piercing; sometimes in a large and virile major,--as for instance
when he sings the 'War-song of Gamelba.' To his gifts of imagination,
insight, and lyric passion he adds a fine humor, the outflowing
of a broad and tolerant humanity. This is well exemplified in
'Resignation' and 'A More Ancient Mariner.' His chief defects, besides
the occasional obscurity already referred to, are a tendency to
looseness of structure in his longer poems, and once in a while, as in
parts of 'The Silent Lodger,' a Browningesque lapse into hardness and
baldness when the effect aimed at is colloquial simplicity.
[Signature: Charles G. D. Roberts]
HACK AND HEW
Hack and Hew were the sons of God
In the earlier earth than now;
One at his right hand, one at his left,
To obey as he taught them how.
And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb,
But both had the wild, wild heart;
And God's calm will was their burning will,
And the gist of their toil was art.
They made the moon and the belted stars,
They set the sun to ride;
They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea,
The wind and the purple tide.
Both flower and beast beneath their hands
To beauty and speed outgrew,--
The furious fumbling hand of Hack,
And the glorying hand of Hew.
Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man,
And painted him rosy brown;
And God himself blew hard in his eyes:
"Let them burn till they smolder down!"
And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew,
"We'll rest, for our toil is done."
But "Nay," the Master Workman said,
"For your toil is just begun.
"And ye who served me of old as God
Shall serve me anew as man,
Till I compass the dream that is in my heart
And perfect the vaster plan."
And still the craftsman over his craft,
In the vague white light of dawn,
With God's calm will for his burning will
While the mounting day comes on,
Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild,
Toils with those shadowy two,--
The faltering restless hand of Hack,
And the tireless hand of Hew.
From 'Behind the Arras': copyrighted 1895, by Lamson,
Wolffe and Company
AT THE GRANITE GATE
There paused to shut the door
A fellow called the Wind.
With mystery before,
And reticence behind,
A portal waits me too
In the glad house of spring;
One day I shall pass through
And leave you wondering.
It lies beyond the marge
Of evening or of prime,
Silent and dim and large,
The gateway of all time.
There troop by night and day
My brothers of the field;
And I shall know the way
Their wood-songs have revealed.
The dusk will hold some trace
Of all my radiant crew
Who vanished to that place,
Ephemeral as dew.
Into the twilight dun,
Blue moth and dragon-fly
Adventuring alone,--
Shall be more brave than I?
There innocents shall bloom,
And the white cherry tree,
With birch and willow plume
To strew the road for me.
The wilding orioles then
Shall make the golden air
Heavy with joy again,
And the dark heart shall dare
Resume the old desire,--
The exigence of spring
To be the orange fire
That tips the world's gray wing.
And the lone wood-bird--Hark!
The whippoorwill, night-long,
Threshing the summer dark
With his dim flail of song!--
Shall be the lyric lift,
When all my senses creep,
To bear me through the rift
In the blue range of sleep.
And so I pass beyond
The solace of your hand.
But ah, so brave and fond!
Within that morrow-land,
Where deed and daring fail,
But joy forevermore
Shall tremble and prevail
Against the narrow door,
Where sorrow knocks too late,
And grief is overdue,
Beyond the granite gate
There will be thoughts of you.
From 'Behind the Arras': copyrighted 1895, by Lamson,
Wolffe and Company
A SEA CHILD
The lover of child Marjory
Had one white hour of life brim full;
Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,
Hath him to lull.
The daughter of child Marjory
Hath in her veins, to beat and run,
The glad indomitable sea,
The strong white sun.
Copyrighted by Bliss Carman.
LEWIS CARROLL
(CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON)
(1832-)
That the author of the best nonsense-writing in the language should be
a professional mathematician and logician, is not a paradox but a
sequence. A gymnast cannot divert us by pretending to lose his balance
unless perfectly able to keep his balance. Actors who counterfeit
insanity must be acutely sane. Only a competent classical scholar can
write good macaronics; only a good poet can write clever doggerel. The
only ones who can use slang effectively are those who do not need to
use it at all. Nor is the tone and temper of mind evinced by these dry
and severe studies out of keeping with the airiest play of fancy or
the maddest fun. The one is indeed a frequent relief from the other,
and no intellectual bent is related in the least to any special
temperament. Extravagant drollery can be mated to an aptitude for
geometry or a passion for analysis as well as to a love of pictures or
of horses.
But the parentage of 'Alice in Wonderland' and its fellows is closer
to their creator's intellectual being even than this. A very slight
glance at their matter and mechanism shows that they are the work of
one trained to use words with the finest precision, to teach others to
use them so, to criticize keenly any inconsistency or slovenliness in
their use, and to mock mercilessly any vagueness or incoherence in
thought or diction. The fantastic framework and inconsequent scenes of
these wonder-stories mask from the popular view the qualities which
give them their superlative rank and enduring charm.
The mere machinery, ingenious and amusing as it is, would not
entertain beyond a single reading; it can be and has often been
imitated, along with the incarnated nursery rhymes and old saws. Yet
these grotesque chimeras, under Lewis Carroll's touch, are as living
to us as any characters in Dickens or the 'Ingoldsby Legends,' and
even more so to the elders than the children. Who does not know and
delight in the King and Queen and Knave of Hearts, the elegant White
Rabbit and the conceited and monosyllabic Caterpillar, the Cheshire
Cat and the Mock-Turtle, the March Hare and the Hatter and the
Dormouse; or the chess White King and the Queens and the White Knight,
the Walrus and the Carpenter, of Looking-Glass Land?
The very genesis of many of these is the logical analysis of a popular
comparison into sober fact, as "grinning like a Cheshire cat," "mad as
a hatter" or "March hare," "sleeping like a dormouse," etc.; and a
large part of their wit and fun consists in plays on ambiguous terms
in current use, like the classic "jam every other day," "French,
music, and washing," "The name of the song is called--" or in parodies
on familiar verses (or on the spirit of ballads rather than the
wording, as in 'Jabberwocky'), or in heaps of versified
_non-sequiturs_, like the exquisite "poem" read at the trial of the
Knave of Hearts. The analyst and the logician is as patent in 'Alice'
as in the class lectures the author gave or the technical works he has
issued; only turning his criticism and his _reductiones ad absurdum_
into bases for witty fooling instead of serious lessons or didactic
works. Hence, while his wonder-books are nominally for children, and
please the children through their cheaper and commoner qualities,
their real audience is the most cultivated and keen-minded part of the
mature world; to whom indeed he speaks almost exclusively in such
passages as the Rabelaisian satire of the jury trial in 'Alice in
Wonderland,' or the mob in 'Sylvie and Bruno' yelling "Less bread!
More taxes!" before the Lord Chancellor's house, or the infinitely
touching pathos of the Outlandish Watch.
'Alice in Wonderland' appeared in 1865; it received universal
admiration at once, and was translated into many languages. By the
rarest of good fortune, it was illustrated by an artist (John Tenniel)
who entered into its spirit so thoroughly that the characters in
popular memory are as much identified with his pictures as with Lewis
Carroll's text, and no other representation of them would be endured.
'Through the Looking-Glass' followed in 1871; its prose matter was
almost equal to that of its predecessor,--the chapter of the White
Knight is fully equal to the best of the other,--and its verse is
superior. Part of the first book was based on the game of cards; the
whole setting of the second is based on chess moves, and Alice's
progress to queenship along the board. He has published several books
of humorous prose and verse since; some of the verse equal to the best
of his two best books, but the prose generally spoiled by conscious
didacticism, as in 'Sylvie and Bruno,' which however contains some of
his happiest nonsense verse. 'The Hunting of the Snark' is a nonsense
tale in verse, but oddly the best things in it are his prose tags.
'Rhyme and Reason' is a collection of verse, some of it of high merit
in its kind: 'The Three Voices' is spun out and ill-ended, but has
some passages which deserve to be classic.
Lewis Carroll is in fact the Rev. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, who
(disliking publicity) lives in retirement at Oxford, and the world
knows little of him. He was born in 1833 and received his degree in
Christ Church, Oxford, with high honors in mathematics. In 1861 he
took orders in the Church of England. From 1855 to 1881 he was
mathematical lecturer at Christ Church, Oxford. He has published
several works on mathematics, including 'Euclid and His Modern
Rivals,' and 'Mathematica Curiosa,' a very valuable work. 'A Tangled
Tale,' 'Pillow Problems,' and a 'Game of Logic' are scientific and
humorous, but are only appreciated by experts in mathematics and
logic. Delighted with 'Alice in Wonderland' on its appearance, Queen
Victoria asked Mr. Dodgson for his other works; and in response "Lewis
Carroll" sent her his 'Elementary Treatise on Determinants' and other
mathematical works. It is seldom that the dualism of a mind--writing
now nonsense so thoroughly and vigorously witty, and now exploring the
intricacies of higher mathematics--has a more curious illustration.
Certainly the illustration is seldom as diverting to the public.
ALICE, THE PIG-BABY, AND THE CHESHIRE CAT
From 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'
"Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!" said the Duchess to
Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. "I must go and get ready
to play croquet with the Queen," and she hurried out of the room. The
cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went, but it just missed her.
Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a
queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all
directions,--"just like a star-fish," thought Alice. The poor little
thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept
doubling itself up and straightening itself out again; so that
altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could
do to hold it.
As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was
to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its
right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself), she
carried it out into the open air. "If I don't take this child away
with me," thought Alice, "they're sure to kill it in a day or two:
wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?" She said the last words out
loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing
by this time). "Don't grunt," said Alice: "that's not at all the
proper way of expressing yourself."
The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face
to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it
had a _very_ turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose;
also its eyes were getting extremely small, for a baby: altogether,
Alice did not like the look of the thing at all,--"but perhaps it was
only sobbing," she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if
there were any tears.
No, there were no tears. "If you're going to turn into a pig, my
dear," said Alice, seriously, "I'll have nothing more to do with you.
Mind now!" The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was
impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence.
Alice was just beginning to think to herself, "Now, what am I to do
with this creature when I get it home?" when it grunted again, so
violently that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time
there could be _no_ mistake about it: it was neither more nor less
than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to
carry it any further.
So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it
trot away quietly into the wood. "If it had grown up," she said to
herself, "it would have been a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes
rather a handsome pig, I think." And she began thinking over other
children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying
to herself, "If one only knew the right way to change them--" when she
was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of
a tree a few yards off.
The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she
thought: still it had _very_ long claws and a great many teeth, so she
felt it ought to be treated with respect.
"Cheshire Puss," she began,--rather timidly, as she did not at all
know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little
wider. "Come, it's pleased so far," thought Alice, and she went on:
"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to walk from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.
"I don't much care where--" said Alice.
"Then it doesn't matter which way you walk," said the Cat.
"--so long as I get _somewhere_," Alice added as an explanation.
"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long
enough."
Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another
question. "What sort of people live about here?"
"In _that_ direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round,
"lives a Hatter; and in _that_ direction," waving the other paw,
"lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad."
"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we are all mad here. I'm
mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."
Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on, "And
how do you know that you're mad?"
"To begin with," said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?"
"I suppose so," said Alice.
"Well then," the Cat went on, "you see a dog growls when it's angry,
and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now _I_ growl when I'm pleased,
and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad."
"_I_ call it purring, not growling," said Alice.
"Call it what you like," said the Cat. "Do you play croquet with the
Queen to-day?"
"I should like it very much," said Alice, "but I haven't been invited
yet."
"You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished.
Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so well used to
queer things happening. While she was still looking at the place where
it had been, it suddenly appeared again.
"By-the-by, what became of the baby?" said the Cat. "I'd nearly
forgotten to ask."
"It turned into a pig," Alice answered very quietly, just as if the
Cat had come back in a natural way.
"I thought it would," said the Cat, and vanished again.
Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not
appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in
which the March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she
said to herself: "the March Hare will be much the most interesting,
and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so
mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there
was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree.
"Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat.
"I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing
and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy."
"All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly,
beginning with the end of the tail and ending with the grin, which
remained some time after the rest of it had gone.
"Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a
grin without a cat!--it's the most curious thing I ever saw in all my
life!"
THE MOCK-TURTLE'S EDUCATION
From 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'
"When we were little," the Mock-Turtle went on at last, more calmly,
though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the
sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--"
"Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked.
"We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock-Turtle
angrily; "really you are very dull!"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple
question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked
at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the
Gryphon said to the Mock-Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all
day about it!" and he went on in these words:--
"Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--"
"I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice.
"You did," said the Mock-Turtle.
"Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again.
The Mock-Turtle went on.
"We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every
day--"
"_I've_ been to a day-school too," said Alice; "you needn't be so
proud as all that."
"With extras?" asked the Mock-Turtle a little anxiously.
"Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music."
"And washing?" said the Mock-Turtle.
"Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly.
"Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock-Turtle in
a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the
bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'"
"You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom
of the sea."
"I couldn't afford to learn it," said the Mock-Turtle with a sigh. "I
only took the regular course."
"What was that?" inquired Alice.
"Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock-Turtle
replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition,
Distraction, Uglification, and Derision."
"I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is
it?"
The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "Never heard of
uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Alice, doubtfully; "it
means--to--make--anything--prettier."
"Well then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify
is, you _are_ a simpleton."
Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so
she turned to the Mock-Turtle and said, "What else had you to learn?"
"Well, there was Mystery," the Mock-Turtle replied, counting off the
subjects on his flappers,--"Mystery, ancient and modern, with
Seaography; then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel,
that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching,
and Fainting in Coils."
"What was _that_ like?" said Alice.
"Well, I can't show it you, myself," the Mock-Turtle said: "I'm too
stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it."
"Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classical master,
though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."
"I never went to him," the Mock-Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught
Laughing and Grief, they used to say."
"So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn, and
both creatures hid their faces in their paws.
"And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry
to change the subject.
"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock-Turtle: "nine the next, and
so on."
"What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice.
"That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked:
"because they lessen from day to day."
This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little
before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been
a holiday?"
"Of course it was," said the Mock-Turtle.
"And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly.
"That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very
decided tone.
A CLEAR STATEMENT
From 'Alice in Wonderland'
They told me you had been to her,
And mentioned me to him:
She gave me a good character,
But said I could not swim.
He sent them word I had not gone
(We know it to be true);
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?
I gave her one, they gave him two,
You gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.
If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
Exactly as we were.
My notion was that you had been
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle that came between
Him, and ourselves, and it.
Don't let him know she liked them best,
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
From 'Through the Looking-Glass'
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky.
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it _would_ be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar beside
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on _us_!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said:
"Do you admire the view?"
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but--
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said;
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
THE BAKER'S TALE
From 'The Hunting of the Snark'
They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice--
They roused him with mustard and cress--
They roused him with jam and judicious advice--
They set him conundrums to guess.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
And excitedly tingled his bell.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe
In an antediluvian tone.
"My father and mother were honest, though poor--"
"Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste.
"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark--
We have hardly a minute to waste!"
"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,
"And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
To help you in hunting the Snark.
"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
Remarked when I bade him farewell--"
"Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed,
As he angrily tingled his bell.
"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,--
"'If your Snark be a Snark that is right,
Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens,
And it's handy for striking a light.
"'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care;
You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway share;
You may charm it with smiles and soap--'"
("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold
In a hasty parenthesis cried:--
"That's exactly the way I have always been told
That the capture of Snarks should be tried!")
"'But oh, beamish nephew! beware of the day
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
And never be met with again!'
"It is this, it is this, that oppresses my soul
When I think of my uncle's last words;
And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
Brimming over with quivering curds!
"It is this, it is this"--"We have had that before!"
The Bellman indignantly said.
And the Baker replied: "Let me say it once more;
It is this, it is this that I dread!
"I engage with the Snark--every night after dark--
In a dreamy delirious fight;
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
And I use it for striking a light:
"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
In a moment (of this I am sure),
I shall softly and silently vanish away--
And the notion I cannot endure!"
YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM
From 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
Pray what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
Allow me to sell you a couple."
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak:
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever:
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"
CASANOVA
(JEAN JACQUES CASANOVA DE SEINGALT)
(1725-1803)
The unique figure of Casanova stands out as a type of all that was
most vicious and most brilliant in the eighteenth century. The
pre-revolutionary philosophies, filtering through society, were
weakening religious restraints and producing a hypocritical conformity
to tradition and a new uncertainty which inclined people to present
enjoyment and epicureanism. But even the court aristocracy, to whom
self-indulgence was the rule of life, were astounded at the
unrestraint of Casanova's pleasure-seeking. He professed himself a
Christian, but during all his vicious career was never influenced by a
conscientious scruple. In a period when social graces were extolled
above all others, when conversation was cultivated as a fine art, and
when the salon was perhaps the greatest power in France, he was
pre-eminent for talent and charm. His physical beauty fascinated both
men and women; his fearlessness, often running into a mad bravado
which lost no chance to fight, won him the respect of men. He could be
witty in many tongues; he was an adept in fashionable fads of the day;
was supposed to have a gift for mesmerism, and to be something of a
sorcerer.
He could adapt himself to any society, appearing both as the idol of
European courts and a boon companion in low taverns. He had countless
duels and love affairs, and concluded one after another with the same
cynical heartlessness: always a gay soldier of fortune, experimenting
with his various talents; now a diplomat, now an abbe or popular
preacher, and now a writer of political essays.
When Casanova's father, a man of gentle birth, became an actor and
married a pretty actress, Zanetta Farusi, the daughter of an Italian
shoemaker, he hopelessly alienated his family. Jean-Jacques, their
first child, was born in Venice, and during their professional travels
was left there with his grandmother. Her earnest desire was to educate
the beautiful and precocious child; and she economized from her scanty
means until she was able to send him to the Seminary of Saint Cyprian
in Venice. He passed his entrance examinations, and studied there for
a time, exhibiting unusual ability. Then at sixteen he was expelled
for a disgraceful intrigue, which would have consigned him to prison
but for his mother, whose influence secured him the protection of
Cardinal Acquaviva and a position in his household, which the boy soon
resigned for a gayer life.
After this came a long series of adventurous years, during which he
visited Rome, Naples, Constantinople, and other places, and was
admitted to many orders of chivalry. During these wanderings he became
acquainted with Rousseau and Voltaire; visited the court of Frederick
the Great; went to Russia, where he was smiled upon by the Empress
Catharine II. At Versailles, where he was a familiar figure, Louis XV.
honored him with a personal interview. But even in a society disposed
to be lenient to any one who was amusing, Casanova incurred disgrace.
After becoming notorious over Europe as a trickster at cards, and for
his dissipations, he returned to Venice in 1755.
There he was as gay and as dissolute as ever, but in his intervals of
spare time he wrote a refutation of a work by Amelot de la Houssaye
upon the condition of the Republic. He had hoped it would reinstate
him in public opinion, but it failed to do so, and before long he was
denounced to the government as a spy and thrown into prison. In the
'Recit de sa Captivite' (1788) he himself has told the dramatic story
of his confinement in the garret of a ducal palace, and of his
wonderful escape. The hot Italian sun beating down on the leaden roof
added to his discomfort, and he was too daring and too ingenious to
suffer long in patience. With the aid of an iron bolt which he had
sharpened, he bored a hole through the wall of his cell and gained
access to another prisoner, Father Balbi. For a long time they plotted
together, and at last after many efforts and dangers they extricated
themselves by way of the roofs.
This feat added greatly to his fame. He was feted and courted
everywhere, and his extravagances set the fashions for years. But in
spite of the admiration he excited, he was too dangerous a citizen to
be allowed long in a place. He was expelled from Varsovia in
consequence of a duel. Then Paris, and later Madrid, drove him away.
His life of excesses had broken his health, when in 1782 he attached
himself to the Count of Waldstein, a German prince whom he followed
into Bohemia. Soon after, he began the famous 'Memoires,' his chief
literary achievement. He wrote several historical works, a translation
in verse of the Iliad, and many political sketches. Others of his
writings, such as 'Eighty Years Spent among the Inhabitants of the
Interior of the Globe,' show him possessed of a lively imagination.
But he evinced especial zest in the preparation of the 'Memoires.' In
a style as audacious as his life, strong and sparkling with wit, he
told the strange story of his career. He reflects the social habits of
his time, the contemporary point of view.
He lived on in Bohemia until he was seventy-eight, and then he died at
Dux, retaining to the end what Janin terms "his marvelous instinct for
vice and corruption."
CASANOVA'S ESCAPE FROM THE DUCAL PALACE
From 'The Escapes of Casanova and Latude from Prison'
The greatest comfort to a man in suffering is the hope of a speedy
release. He sighs for the moment when he shall see the end of his
woes; he fancies that his wishes can hasten it on, and would do
anything on earth to know what hour is fixed for the cessation of his
misery: but no one can tell at what moment an event will happen which
depends on the determination of another, unless that person has
announced it. But the sufferer, who is weak and impatient, is
predisposed to be superstitious. "God," says he, "must know the very
moment when my pain will cease; and God may permit that it should be
revealed to me, never mind how." When he has once fallen into this
train of argument, he no longer hesitates to try his fortune by any
means his fancy may dictate, if he is more or less inclined to believe
in the revelations of the oracle he happens to select. This frame of
mind is not conspicuously unlike that of the greater number of those
who were wont to consult the Pythia, or the oaks of Dodona, or of
those who, even in our own day, study the Cabbala, or seek the
revelation they hope for in a verse of the Bible or a line of
Virgil;--this indeed has made the _Sortes Virgilianae_ famous, of which
many writers tell us; or finally, of those who are firmly convinced
that their difficulties will all be solved by the fortuitous or
premeditated arrangement of a mere pack of cards.
I was in this state of mind. But not knowing what means to employ to
compel Fate to reveal through the Bible the end in store for me--that
is to say, the hour at which I should recover the incomparable
blessing of liberty--I resolved to consult the divine poem of Messer
Ludovico Ariosto, 'Orlando Furioso,' which I knew by heart, and in
which I delighted up in my cell. I worshiped the genius of that great
poet, and thought him far better fitted than Virgil to tell my
fortune. With this idea I wrote down a question addressed to the
imaginary intelligence, asking in which canto of Ariosto's poem I
should find the day of my deliverance prophesied. Afterwards I
composed an inverted pyramid of the numbers derived from the words in
the question, and by subtracting nine from each pair of figures I had
nine for a remainder. I concluded that the prophecy I sought must be
in the ninth canto. I pursued the same method to arrive at the line
and stanza containing the oracle, and I found _seven_ as the number of
the stanza, and _one_ for the line.
I took up the poem, my heart beating as though I really had the most
entire confidence in this oracle. I opened it, turned over the leaves,
and read these words:--
"Fra il fin d'Ottobre e il capo di Novembre."
The perfect appropriateness of the line struck me as so remarkable
that, though I cannot say that I altogether believed in the oracle,
the reader will forgive me if I confess I did my utmost to verify it.
The curious part of the matter is, that between the last of October
and the beginning of November there is but the one instant of
midnight; and it was exactly as the clock struck midnight on the 31st
of October that I quitted my prison, as the reader will presently
learn....
The hour strikes. Hark! the angel!
Soradaci was about to fall on his face, but I assured him that this
was superfluous. In three minutes the hole was pierced through; the
board fell at my feet, and Father Balbi slid into my arms.
"Your task is done," said I, "and now mine begins."
We embraced, and he gave me my crowbar and a pair of scissors. I
desired Soradaci to trim our beards, but I could not help laughing as
I saw the creature, open-mouthed, staring at this strange angel, who
looked more like a demon. Though utterly bewildered, he cut our beards
to perfection.
Being impatient to survey the locality, I desired the monk to remain
with Soradaci, for I would not leave him alone, and I went out. I
found the hole rather narrow; however, I got through. I got above the
cell in which the Count lay; I went down and cordially embraced the
venerable gentleman. I saw a man of a figure ill suited to surmount
the difficulties of such an escape over a steep roof covered with
sheet lead. He asked me what my plan was, and told me that he thought
I had been rather heedless in my action.
"I only want to go on," said I, "step by step to liberty or death."
"If you imagine," said he, "that you can pierce the roof and find a
way along the leads,--from which, too, you must get down,--I do not
see how you can possibly succeed unless you have wings. I have not
courage enough to accompany you. I shall stay where I am and pray to
God for you."
I left him to inspect the outer roof, getting as close as I could to
the outer side of the loft. Having succeeded in touching the inside of
the rafters at the part where it was lowest, I perched myself on a
beam, such as are to be found under the roof of every large palace. I
poked at the rafters with the end of my bar, and to my joy found them
half-rotten; at each touch the wood fell in dust. Being sure,
therefore, that I could make a large enough opening in less than an
hour, I returned to my cell and spent the next four hours in cutting
up sheets, counterpanes, and mattress covers, to make ropes of. I took
care to tie all the knots myself, to be sure of their firmness, for a
single knot badly tied would have cost us our life. When all was done
I found we had about a hundred yards of rope. There are certain things
in every great enterprise which are of the highest importance, and for
which a leader worthy of the name trusts no one.
When the rope was finished, I made a bundle of my coat, my silk cloak,
some shirts, stockings, and handkerchiefs, and we all three went into
the Count's cell. This worthy man first congratulated Soradaci on
having been so lucky as to be put in the same room with me, and being
so soon enabled to recover his freedom. The man's stupid amazement
almost made me laugh. I no longer attempted any concealment, for I had
thrown off the mask of Tartuffe, which I had found most inconvenient
while this villain had compelled me to wear it. I saw that he was
convinced I had deceived him, but he could not understand how; for he
could not imagine how I had communicated with the sham angel so as to
make him come and go at fixed hours. He was listening eagerly to the
Count, who declared we were rushing on our fate; and, coward that he
was, he was revolving in his mind a scheme for avoiding the perilous
attempt. I told the monk to collect his things while I went to make
the hole in the roof of the loft.
At two hours after sunset the hole was finished; I had worked the
rafters to powder, and the opening was twice as large as was needful.
I could touch the sheet of lead outside. I could not raise it
single-handed, because it was riveted; the friar helped me, and by
pushing the crowbar between the gutter and the sheet of lead I
detached it; then raising it on our shoulders, we bent it up high
enough to allow of our squeezing through the opening. Putting my head
out to reconnoitre, I saw with dismay how bright the moon was, now in
the first quarter. It was a check which we must endure with patience,
and wait till midnight to escape, when the moon would have gone to
light up the Antipodes. On such a glorious night all Venice would be
out on the Piazza below, and we dared not venture out on the roof; our
shadows cast on the ground would have attracted attention; our
extraordinary appearance up there would excite general curiosity, and
above all, that of Messer Grande and his spies, the sole guards of
Venice. Our fine scheme would soon have been disturbed by their odious
interference. I therefore decided positively that we were not to creep
out till the moon had set....
It was time to be off. The moon had set. I hung half the rope round
Balbi's neck on one side and his bundle of clothes on the other
shoulder. I did the same for myself; and both, in our waistcoats with
our hats on, went to the opening in the roof.
"And issuing forth we then beheld the stars."--DANTE.
I crept out first; Balbi followed me. Soradaci, who had accompanied us
to the roof, was ordered to pull the sheet of lead down again and then
to go and pray to his saint. Crawling on my knees on all fours, I
clutched my crowbar firmly, and stretching as far as I could, I
slipped it obliquely between the points of the sheets; then, grasping
the end of the sheet I had turned up, I dragged myself up to the ridge
of the roof. The friar, to follow me, inserted the fingers of his
right hand into the belt of my breeches. Thus I had the double task of
a beast which drags and carries both at once, and that on a steep
roof, made slippery by a dense fog. Half-way up this dreadful climb,
Balbi bid me stop, for one of his parcels had fallen, and he hoped it
might not have gone further than the gutter. My first impulse was to
give him a kick and send him after his bundle; but God be praised, I
had enough self-command not to do this, for the punishment would have
been too severe for both of us, since I alone could never have
escaped. I asked him whether it was the packet of ropes, but as he
replied that it was only his bundle, in which he had a manuscript he
had found in the loft, and which he had hoped would make his fortune,
I told him he must take patience; for that a step backwards would be
fatal. The poor monk sighed, and clinging still to my waist-band, we
climbed on again.
After having got over fifteen or sixteen sheets of lead with immense
difficulty, we reached the ridge, on which I perched myself astride,
and Balbi did the same. We had our backs to the island of San Giorgio
Maggiore, and two hundred yards in front of us we saw the numerous
cupolas of the church of Saint Mark, which is in fact part of the
Ducal Palace; for the church of Saint Mark is, properly speaking, no
more than the Doge's chapel, and certainly no sovereign can boast of a
finer one. I began by relieving myself of my load, and desired my
companion to follow my example. He tucked his bundle of ropes under
him as best he might, but wanting to take off his hat, which
inconvenienced him, he managed so badly that it rolled from ledge to
ledge, and went to join the bundle of clothes in the canal. My poor
comrade was in despair.
"A bad omen!" he exclaimed. "Here I am at once without a shirt,
without a hat, and bereft of a precious manuscript containing a most
curious and unknown history of the festivals at the Ducal Palace."
I, less disposed to be fierce than I had been when I was climbing,
calmly assured him that these two little accidents had nothing so
extraordinary about them as that a superstitious spirit should regard
them as ominous; that I did not think them so, and that they did not
in the least discourage me.
"They should serve you, my good fellow," said I, "as a warning to be
prudent and wise, and to suggest to you that God certainly protects
us; for if your hat, instead of tumbling to the right, had slipped off
to the left, we should have been lost. It would have fallen into the
courtyard, where the guards must have found it, and it would of course
have told them that there must be some one on the roof. We should have
been recaptured at once."
After sitting some minutes looking about me, I desired the monk to
remain motionless till I should return, and I made my way forward,
shuffling along astride on the roof without any difficulty, my bolt in
my hand. I spent above an hour going about the roof, examining and
observing every corner, but in vain; nowhere did I see anything to
which I could attach a cord. I was in the greatest perplexity. I
could not for a moment think of the canal, nor of the palace
courtyard, and among the many cupolas of the church I saw nothing but
precipitous walls leading to no open space. To get beyond the church
to the Canonica I should have had to surmount such steep slopes that I
had no hope of achieving it, and it was natural that I should reject
as impossible everything that did not seem feasible. The situation in
which I found myself required daring, but absolutely no rashness. It
was such a dilemma as I imagine can have no parallel for difficulty in
any moral question.
However, I had to come to some conclusion: I must either get away or
return to my cell, never probably to leave it again; or again, throw
myself into the canal. In this predicament a great deal must be left
to chance, and I must begin somewhere. I fixed my eyes on a dormer
window on the side towards the canal, and about two-thirds of the way
down. It was far enough from the spot we had started from to make me
think that the loft it lighted was not connected with the prison I had
broken out of. It could light only an attic, inhabited or vacant, over
some room in the palace, where, when day should dawn, the doors no
doubt would be opened. I was morally certain that the attendants in
the palace, even those of the Doge himself, who should happen to see
us, would be eager to favor our escape rather than place us in the
hands of justice, even if they had recognized us as the greatest of
state criminals; so horrible was the inquisition in their eyes.
With this idea I decided on inspecting that window; so, letting myself
slip gently down, I soon was astride on the little roof. Then resting
my hands on the edge, I stretched my head out and succeeded in seeing
and touching a little barred grating, behind which there was a window
glazed with small panes set in lead. The window did not trouble me,
but the grating, slight as it was, seemed to me an insurmountable
difficulty, for without a file I could not get through the bars, and I
only had my crowbar. I was checked, and began to lose heart, when a
perfectly simple and natural incident revived my spirit....
It was the clock of Saint Mark's at this moment striking midnight
which roused my spirit, and by a sudden shock brought me out of the
perplexed frame of mind in which I found myself. That clock reminded
me that the morning about to dawn was that of All Saints' Day; that
consequently of my saint's day--if indeed I had a patron saint--and
my Jesuit confessor's prophecy recurred to my mind. But I own that
what tended most to restore my courage, and really increased my
physical powers, was the profaner oracle of my beloved Ariosto:--
"Between the end of October and the beginning of November."
If a great misfortune sometimes makes a small mind devout, it is
almost impossible that superstition should not have some share in the
matter. The sound of the clock seemed to me a spoken charm which bade
me act and promised me success. Lying flat on the roof with my head
over the edge, I pushed my bar in above the frame which held the
grating, determined to dislodge it bodily. In a quarter of an hour I
had succeeded; the grating was in my hands unbroken, and having laid
it by the side of the dormer I had no difficulty in breaking in the
window, though the blood was flowing from a wound I had made in my
left hand.
By the help of my bar I got back to the ridge of the roof in the same
way as before, and made my way back to where I had left my companion.
I found him desperate and raging; he abused me foully for having left
him there so long. He declared he was only waiting for seven to strike
to go back to prison.
"What did you think had become of me?"
"I thought you had fallen down some roof or wall."
"And you have no better way of expressing your joy at my return than
by abusing me?"
"What have you been doing all this time?"
"Come with me and you will see."
Having gathered up my bundles, I made my way back to the window. When
we were just over it I explained to Balbi exactly what I had done, and
consulted him as to how we were to get into the loft through the
window. The thing was quite easy for one of us; the other could let
him down. But I did not see how the second man was to follow him, as
there was no way of fixing the rope above the window. By going in and
letting myself drop I might break my legs and arms, for I did not know
the height of the window above the floor. To this wise argument,
spoken with perfect friendliness, the brute replied in these words:--
"Let me down, at any rate, and when I am in there you will have plenty
of time to find out how you can follow me."
I confess that in my first impulse of indignation I was ready to stab
him with my crowbar. A good genius saved me from doing so, and I did
not even utter one word of reproach for his selfishness and baseness.
On the contrary, I at once unrolled my bundle of rope, and fastening
it firmly under his arm-pits I made him lie flat on his face, his feet
outwards, and then let him down on to the roof of the dormer. When he
was there, I made him go over the edge and into the window as far as
his hips, leaving his arms on the sill. I next slipped down to the
little roof, as I had done before, lay down on my stomach, and holding
the rope firmly, told the monk to let himself go without fear. When he
had landed on the floor of the attic he undid the rope, and I, pulling
it up, found that the height was above fifty feet. To jump this was
too great a risk. As for the monk, now he was safe after nearly two
hours of anguish on a roof, where, I must own, his situation was far
from comfortable, he called out to me to throw in the ropes and he
would take care of them. I, as may be supposed, took good care not to
follow this absurd injunction.
Not knowing what to do, and awaiting some inspiration, I clambered
once more to the ridge; and my eye falling on a spot near a cupola,
which I had not yet examined, I made my way thither. I saw a little
terrace or platform covered with lead, close to a large window closed
with shutters. There was here a tub full of wet mortar with a trowel,
and by the side a ladder, which I thought would be long enough to
enable me to get down into the attic where my comrade was. This
settled the question. I slipped my rope through the top rung, and
dragged this awkward load as far as the window. I then had to get the
clumsy mass into the window; it was above twelve yards long. The
difficulty I had in doing it made me repent of having deprived myself
of Balbi's assistance. I pushed the ladder along till one end was on
the level of the dormer and the other projected by a third beyond the
gutter. Then I slid down on to the dormer roof; I drew the ladder
close to my side and fastened the rope to the eighth rung, after which
I again allowed it to slip till it was parallel with the window. Then
I did all I could to make it slip into the window, but I could not get
it beyond the fifth rung because the end caught against the inner roof
of the dormer, and no power on earth could get it any further without
breaking either the ladder or the roof. There was nothing for it but
to tilt the outer end; then the slope would allow it to slide in by
its own weight. I might have placed the ladder across the window and
have fastened the rope to it to let myself down, without any risk; but
the ladder would have remained there, and next morning would have
guided the archers and Lorenzo to the spot where we might still be
hiding.
I would not run the risk of losing by such an act of imprudence the
fruit of so much labor and peril, and to conceal all our traces the
ladder must be got entirely into the window. Having no one to help me,
I decided on getting down to the gutter to tilt it, and attain my end.
This in fact I did, but at so great a risk that but for a sort of
miracle I should have paid for my daring with my life. I ventured to
let go of the cord that was attached to the ladder without any fear of
its falling into the canal, because it was caught on the gutter by the
third rung. Then, with my crowbar in my hand, I cautiously let myself
slide down to the gutter by the side of the ladder; the marble ledge
was against my toes, for I let myself down with my face to the roof.
In this attitude I found strength enough to lift the ladder a few
inches, and I had the satisfaction of seeing it go a foot further in.
As the reader will understand, this diminished its weight very
perceptibly. What I now wanted was to get it two feet further in, by
lifting it enough; for after that I felt sure that by climbing up to
the roof of the dormer once more, I could, with the help of the rope,
get it all the way in. To achieve this I raised myself from my knees;
but the force I was obliged to use to succeed made me slip, so that I
suddenly found myself over the edge of the roof as far as my chest,
supported only by my elbows.
It was an awful moment, which to this day I shudder to think of, and
which it is perhaps impossible to conceive of in all its horror. The
natural instinct of self-preservation made me almost unconsciously
lean with all my weight, supporting myself on my ribs, and I
succeeded--miraculously, I felt inclined to say. Taking care not to
relax my hold, I managed to raise myself with all the strength of my
wrists, leaning at the same time on my stomach. Happily there was
nothing to fear for the ladder, for the lucky--or rather the
unlucky--push which had cost me so dear, had sent it in more than
three feet, which fixed it firmly. Finding myself resting on the
gutter literally on my wrists and my groin, I found that by moving my
right side I could raise first one knee and then the other on to the
parapet. Then I should be safe.
However, my troubles were not yet over, for the strain I was obliged
to exert in order to succeed gave me such a nervous spasm that a
violent attack of painful cramp seemed to cripple me completely. I did
not lose my head, and remained perfectly still till the spasm was
over, knowing that perfect stillness is the best cure for nervous
cramps--I had often found it so. It was a frightful moment. A few
minutes after, I gradually renewed my efforts. I succeeded in getting
my knees against the gutter, and as soon as I had recovered my breath
I carefully raised the ladder, and at last got it to the angle where
it was parallel with the window. Knowing enough of the laws of
equilibrium and the lever, I now picked up my crowbar; and climbing in
my old fashion, I hauled myself up to the roof and easily succeeded in
tilting in the ladder, which the monk below received in his arms. I
then flung in my clothes, the ropes and the broken pieces, and got
down into the attic, where Balbi received me very heartily and took
care to remove the ladder.
Arm in arm, we surveyed the dark room in which we found ourselves; it
was thirty paces long by about twenty wide. At one end we felt a
double door formed of iron bars. This was unpromising, but laying my
hand on the latch in the middle it yielded to the pressure, and the
door opened. We first felt our way round this fresh room, and then,
trying to cross it, ran up against a table with arm-chairs and stools
around it. We returned to the side where we had felt windows, and
having opened one, by the dim starlight we could see nothing but steep
roofs between domes. I did not for an instant think of escaping by the
window; I must know where I was going, and I did not recognize the
spot where we were. So I closed the window, and we went back to the
first room, where we had left our baggage. Quite worn out, I let
myself drop on to the floor, and putting a bundle of rope under my
head, utterly bereft of all power of body or of mind, I fell into a
sweet sleep. I gave myself up to it so passively, that even if I had
known that death must be the end of it I could not have resisted it;
and I remember distinctly that the pleasure of that sleep was
perfectly delicious.
BARTOLOMEO DE LAS CASAS
(1474-1566)
[Illustration: BARTOLOMEO DE LAS CASAS]
Bartolomeo de las Casas, the Apostle of the Indians, was one of the
first to protest by speech and pen against the hideous cruelties
inflicted upon native West Indians by the invading Spaniards; and he
left in his writings the record of a bondage compared with which negro
slavery was mild. Bartolomeo, the son of Antonio de las Casas, a
companion of Columbus on his first voyage of discovery, was born in
Seville in 1474. While yet a student at the University of Salamanca he
became interested in the natives, through a young Indian whom he owned
as slave. He first visited the New World as one of the followers of
Columbus in 149-, returning after some years with Nicholas de Ovando,
the governor of the Indies. Here his sympathies were fully aroused, as
he witnessed the savage treatment of the simple natives and the
incessant butcheries and slavery in the mines, which were rapidly
depopulating the islands. In 1510 he took holy orders, being probably
the first priest ordained in the New World.
Las Casas at first was himself a slave-owner, willing to enrich
himself by the toil of the red men, though from the very beginning he
sympathized with their sufferings. But a sudden illumination came to
him as he was preparing to preach a sermon on the Feast of Pentecost,
in 1514, taking for his text the 34th chapter of Ecclesiasticus,
verses 18 to 22. He awoke to the iniquity of slavery, set free his own
Indians, and for forty years thereafter devoted himself heart and soul
to the interests of the red men. It was at times a bitter task and
made him many enemies among the invaders, who thought themselves
curtailed in their natural rights as the superior race. Happily for
his cause, Las Casas had powerful friends in Spain, chief among whom
was the Emperor Charles V. The good priest crossed the ocean a dozen
times to see that monarch on Indian affairs, following him even into
Germany and Austria. Finally in 1547, when past his seventieth year,
he settled down in Valladolid, in Spain, but still wrote and talked in
behalf of the oppressed race. While on an errand for them to Madrid in
1566, he died at the ripe age of ninety-two, with bodily faculties
unimpaired.
The earliest work of Las Casas, 'A Very Short Account of the Ruin of
the Indies,' written in 1542, first disclosed to Europe the cruelties
practiced beyond the sea. It was frequently reprinted, and made a
great impression. Other short treatises followed, equally powerful and
effective. They were collected in 1552 and translated into several
languages. His chief work however is a 'General History of the
Indies,' from 1492 to 1520, begun by him in 1527, unfinished in 1561.
He ordered that no portion should be printed until forty years after
his death, but it remained in manuscript for three hundred years,
being published at Madrid in 1875. It has been called the corner-stone
of the history of the American continent. Las Casas possessed
important documents, among them the papers of Columbus, now lost. In
his long life, moreover, he knew many of the early discoverers and
many statesmen, as Columbus, Cortes, Ximenes, Pizarro, Gattinora, and
he was the contemporary of three sovereigns interested in the West
Indies,--King Ferdinand the Catholic, the Emperor Charles V., and King
Philip II. of Spain.
Las Casas is sometimes taxed with having brought negro slavery into
America. In his profound compassion for the Indians he maintained that
the negroes were better fitted for slave labor than the more delicate
natives. But the Portuguese had imported African slaves into the
colonies long before Las Casas suggested it, while he in time
renounced his error, and frankly confesses it in his history.
He was a large-hearted, large-brained man, unprejudiced in an age of
bigotry; of unwearied industry and remarkable powers of physical
endurance that enabled him to live a life of many-sided activities, as
priest and missionary, colonist, man of business, and man of letters.
As a historian he was a keen observer of men and of nature, and
chronicled with great exactness the social and physical conditions of
the countries he traversed. His merits are summed up in the following
words by John Fiske, in his 'Discovery of America':--
"He was one of the best historians of his time, and wrote a
most attractive Spanish style, quaint, pithy, and nervous,--a
style which goes straight to the mark and rings like true
metal. I do not mean to be understood as calling it a
_literary_ style. It is not graceful like that of great
masters of expression such as Pascal or Voltaire. It is not
seldom cumbrous and awkward, usually through trying to say
too much at once. But in spite of this it is far more
attractive than many a truly artistic literary style. There
is a great charm in reading what comes from a man brimful of
knowledge and utterly unselfish and honest. The crisp
shrewdness, the gleams of gentle humor and occasional sharp
flashes of wit, and the fervid earnestness, in the books of
Las Casas, combine to make them very delightful. It was the
unfailing sense of humor, which is so often wanting in
reformers, that kept Las Casas from developing into a
fanatic.... In contemplating such a life as that of Las
Casas, all words of eulogy seem weak and frivolous. The
historian can only bow in reverent awe before a figure which
is in some respects the most beautiful and sublime in the
annals of Christianity since the Apostolic age. When now and
then in the course of the centuries God's providence brings
such a life into this world, the memory of it must be
cherished by mankind as one of its most precious and sacred
possessions. For the thoughts, the words, the deeds of such
men there is no death; the sphere of their influence goes on
widening forever. They bud, they blossom, they bear fruit,
from age to age."
OF THE ISLAND OF CUBA
From 'A Relation of the First Voyage'
The Spaniards passed, in the year 1511, into the Island of Cuba, which
contains as much ground in length as from Valladolid to Rome. There
were formerly fine and flourishing provinces to be seen, filled with
vast numbers of people, who met with no milder or kinder treatment
from the Spaniards than the rest. On the contrary, they seemed to have
redoubled their cruelty upon those people. There happened divers
things in this island that deserve to be remarked. A rich and potent
Cacique named Hatbuey was retired to the Island of Cuba to avoid that
slavery and death with which the Spaniards menaced him; and being
informed that his persecutors were upon the point of landing in this
island, he assembled all his subjects and domestics together, and made
a speech to 'em after this manner:--"You know," said he, "the report
that is spread abroad that the Spaniards are ready to invade this
island; and you are not ignorant of the ill usage our friends and
countrymen have met with at their hands, and the cruelties they have
committed at Hayei." (So Hispaniola is called in their language.)
"They are now coming hither with a design to exercise the same
outrages and persecutions upon us. Are you ignorant," says he, "of the
ill intentions of the people of whom I am speaking?" "We know not,"
say they all with one voice, "upon what account they come hither, but
we know they are a very wicked and cruel people." "I'll tell you
then," replied the Cacique, "that these Europeans worship a very
covetous sort of god, so that 'tis difficult to satisfy him; and to
perform the worship they render to this idol, they'll exact immense
treasures of us, and will use their utmost endeavor to reduce us to a
miserable state of slavery, or else to put us to death." Upon which he
took a box full of gold and valuable jewels which he had with him; and
exposing it to their view,--"Here is," says he, "the god of the
Spaniards, whom we must honor with our sports and dances, to see if we
can appease him, and render him propitious to us, that so he may
command the Spaniards not to offer us any injury." They all applauded
this speech, and fell a-leaping and dancing round the box, till they
had quite tired and spent themselves. After which the Cacique Hatbuey,
resuming his discourse, continued to speak to them in these terms: "If
we keep this God," says he, "till he's taken away from us, he'll
certainly cause our lives to be taken from us; and therefore I am of
the opinion 'twill be the best way to cast him into the river." They
all approved of this advice, and went all together with one accord to
throw this pretended god into the river.
The Spaniards were no sooner arrived in the Isle of Cuba but this
Cacique, who knew 'em too well, began to think of retreating to secure
himself from their fury, and resolved to defend himself by force of
arms if he should happen to meet with them; but he unfortunately fell
into their hands; and because he had taken all the precautions he
could to avoid the persecutions of so cruel and impious a people, and
had taken arms to defend his own life, as well as the lives of his
subjects, this was made a capital crime in him, for he was burned
alive. While he was in the midst of the flames, tied to a stake, a
certain Franciscan friar of great piety and virtue took upon him to
speak to him of God and our religion, and to explain to him some
articles of the Catholic faith, of which he had never heard a word
before; promising him eternal life if he would believe, and
threatening him with eternal torment if he continued obstinate in his
infidelity. Hatbuey, reflecting on the matter as much as the place and
condition in which he was would permit, asked the friar that
instructed him whether the gate of heaven was opened to the Spaniards;
and being answered that such of them as were good men might hope for
entrance there, the Cacique without any further deliberation told him
he had no mind to go to heaven, for fear of meeting with such cruel
and wicked company as they were; but would much rather choose to go to
hell, where he might be delivered from the troublesome sight of such
kind of people: to so great a degree have the wicked actions and
cruelties of the Spaniards dishonored God and his religion in the
minds of the Americans.
One day there came to us a great number of the inhabitants of a famous
city, situate about ten leagues from the place where we lodged, to
compliment us and bring us all sort of provisions and refreshments,
which they presented us with great marks of joy, caressing us after
the most obliging manner they could. But that evil spirit that
possessed the Spaniards put 'em into such a sudden fury against 'em,
that they fell upon 'em and massacred above three thousand of 'em,
both men and women, upon the spot, without having received the least
offense and provocation from 'em. I was an eye-witness of this
barbarity: and whatever endeavors were used to appease these inhuman
creatures, 'twas impossible to reduce 'em to reason; so resolutely
were they bent to satiate their brutal rage by this barbarous action.
Soon after this I sent messengers to the most noted Indians of the
Province of Havane, to encourage and engage 'em to continue in their
country, and not to trouble themselves to seek remote places to hide
in; and advised 'em to come to us with assurance of our protection.
They knew well enough what authority I had over the Spaniards, and I
gave 'em my word no injury should be offered 'em: for the past
cruelties and massacres their countrymen had suffered, had spread fear
and terror through all the country; and this assurance I gave 'em was
with the consent and advice of the captains and the officers. When we
entered into this province, two-and-twenty of their chiefs came to us,
and the very next morning the commander of our troops, without any
regard to the promise that had been made 'em, would needs sentence 'em
to be burnt, pretending 'twas best to put these people to death,
because they might one time or other use some stratagem to surprise
and destroy us: and I had all the difficulty in the world to prevent
'em from throwing 'em into the fire.
The Indians of Havane, seeing themselves reduced to a state of severe
slavery, and that there was no remedy left, but they were
irrecoverably undone, began to take refuge in the deserts and
mountains to secure themselves if possible from death; some strangled
themselves in despair. Parents hanged themselves together with their
children, to put the speedier end to their misery by death. Above two
hundred Indians perished here after this manner to avoid the cruelty
of the Spaniards, and abundance of them afterwards voluntarily
condemned themselves to this kind of death, hoping thus in a moment to
put a period to the miseries their persecutors inflicted on 'em.
A certain Spaniard, who had the title of Sovereign in this island and
had three hundred Indians in his service, destroyed a hundred and
sixty of them in less than three months by the excessive labor he
continually exacted of them. The recruits he took to fill up their
places were destroyed after the same manner; and he would in a short
time have unpeopled the whole island if death, which took him out of
the way, very happily for those poor wretches, had not sheltered 'em
from his cruelties. I saw with my own eyes above six thousand children
die in the space of three or four months, their parents being forced
to abandon 'em, being condemned to the mines. After this the Spaniards
took up a resolution to pursue those Indians that were retired into
the mountains, and massacred multitudes of 'em; so that this island
was depopulated and laid waste in a very little time. And it is a most
lamentable spectacle to see so fine a country thus miserably ruined
and unpeopled.
BALDASSARE CASTIGLIONE
(1478-1529)
[Illustration: CASTIGLIONE]
The interest to be found in the literary work of "il conte Baldassare
Castiglione"--in the one prose volume he wrote, 'Il Cortegiano' (The
Courtier)--arises not only from the historical value it now has, but
from its representing the charming character of a gentleman. And it
does this not merely by intentionally describing the ideal gentleman
of the fifteenth century, but by unconsciously revealing the character
of its author. Castiglione was himself distinctively a gentleman.
Without eminent abilities or position, his life unmarked by any
remarkable deeds or any striking events, he yet deserves remembrance
as making vivid to us those admirable qualities and conditions which
are the result, in individuals, of the long moral and intellectual
cultivation of a large group of men and women.
He was one of the group that made famous the court of Urbino, not at
the time of its greatest glory under Duke Frederic II., but just
afterward, when the duchy was ruled by Frederic's son Guidobaldo--an
estimable invalid--and the court was presided over by Guidobaldo's
wife, the much beloved and admired Duchess Elisabetta, one of the
great Gonzaga family. Castiglione's own sketch of this court (see
translation below) renders any other delineation of it supererogatory;
but his silence regarding himself personally makes it necessary to
gather knowledge of his life from other sources. His person is made
known to us by Raffael's interesting portrait of him, now in the
Louvre, painted in 1515. It is a portrait by a friend. Raffael was
only five years younger than Castiglione, and their affectionate
relations were of long standing.
Castiglione was the son of a valorous soldier who fought by the side
of the Marquis Francesco Gonzaga of Mantua, but his early youth was
spent not at Mantua but at Milan, where he received from famous
scholars--Demetrio Calcondile and his peers--a brilliant classical
education, rather than the training one would look for in his father's
son. His father's death in 1494 obliged him, in those troublous times,
to seek a protector. As his mother was distantly connected with his
father's friends, the rulers of Mantua, it was to them that his eyes
turned, and in 1499 he was one of the suite of the Marquis on the
occasion of the triumphal entrance of Louis XII. of France into Milan
after his conquest in three weeks of the duchy; a triumph followed by
the hideous ten-years' "caging" of Lodovico il Moro, Milan's duke.
Such spectacles as this triumph and this imprisonment, which the boy
of twenty-one now beheld, were to be familiar to him all his life. The
king-like pope Alexander VI. and his son Caesar Borgia, the warrior
Julius II., the Medici Leo X., the soon-dead Adrian VI., and the
irresolute Clement VII., successively ruled in Rome, or rather dwelt
in Rome, the Cloaca Maxima of Italy, whose pollution sapped the
strength of all the land. The sack of Rome in 1527 was among the last
of the long series of Italian woes Castiglione witnessed. He was not
in Italy at that moment. The last five years of his life were spent at
Madrid as papal nuncio at the court of Charles V. He went thither on
the eve of the battle of Pavia, and the imprisonment there of Francis
I. soon followed; an imprisonment that seems a terrible echo of that
of the enemy of France a quarter of a century before.
'Il Cortegiano' was written in the intervals of military and
diplomatic services, rendered first to Guidobaldo of Urbino and later
to Frederic of Mantua, the son of Francesco. The book was begun
probably about 1514; it received the last touches in 1524, but it was
not published until 1528.
The dialogues that compose the book are feigned to have occurred in
the winter of 1506-7. At that time the author was in England, an envoy
from the Duke of Urbino to Henry VII., sent as the Duke's proxy to be
installed as Companion of the Garter. He carried with him splendid
gifts for the King, fine falcons, beautiful horses, and a picture by
Raffael--St. George and the Dragon, in which St. George wears "the
Garter."
Castiglione's public labors had made him well known, when between him
and his high-born friends there was talk of his marriage with a
daughter of the house of Medici; but political influences caused her
to be given by preference to a Strozzi. Had this alliance been formed,
Castiglione would have found himself, in later years, the nephew of
two popes and the uncle of a queen of France. But better luck was in
keeping for him. In 1516 he had the singular good fortune to make a
marriage of tender affection; but his wife died only four years later:
from that time his chief pleasure was in the society of his friends.
They numbered all the most distinguished Italians of his day; men
whose intellectual powers found artistic expression alike in words,
or the painter's canvas, or the sculptor's marble, or the architect's
stone: and it is the reflection of this wide and varied companionship
that gives charm and also weight to the pages of 'Il Cortegiano.' A
more delicate delightfulness comes from the tone of liberal refinement
with which the impression is conveyed of singularly ennobling
intercourse with women.
Castiglione was the contemporary and the friend of the famous
Marchioness of Pescara, Vittoria Colonna; of the brilliant Isabella
d'Este, Marchioness of Mantua, whose daughter, the beautiful Duchess
of Urbino, is immortalized by Titian's many portraits of her, both as
she was in youth and in age, and also as in youth he saw her
idealized. This Duchess of Urbino was the niece of Castiglione's own
Duchess Elisabetta; and by marriage with the nephew of Guidobaldo she
became the successor of Elisabetta. These great ladies were involved
by family ties in all the stirring events of their times. Isabella
d'Este was the aunt of Constable Bourbon and the sister-in-law of
Lucrezia Borgia. Vittoria Colonna's husband was the cousin of the
famous Alfonso d'Avalos (Marquis del Vasto) of Spain: and in the
entangled interests of these personages and of the rulers of Urbino,
Castiglione was constantly concerned and occupied.
His counsels were also sought by Giuliano de' Medici--styled, like his
father, "Il Magnifico"--sitting now, ever, in helpless dignity on his
San Lorenzo tomb, "mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura"; and by the
unfortunate Doge of Genoa, Ottaviano Fregoso; or by the participants
in the learned discussions carried on by Cardinal Bembo, with whom he
made a gay excursion to Tivoli in 1516, in company with Raffael and
the illustrious Venetian Andrea Navigero and his friend Agostino
Beazzano, whose portraits on the same canvas are one of Raffael's
masterpieces. Another ecclesiastical friend was Cardinal Bibbiena, who
appears nowhere to more advantage than in a letter to the Marchioness
of Mantua, describing Castiglione's grief, and that of his friends, at
the news that the Marchioness herself had sent them of the death of
Castiglione's wife. The same year the Cardinal himself died. It was
the year of Raffael's death also, and Castiglione felt himself greatly
bereft. The Italian Bishop of Bayeux, Ludovico Canossa,--papal nuncio
in France and French ambassador at Venice,--was a cousin of
Castiglione's mother and in constant relations with the son; and it is
to him that in what may be called the "drama" of 'Il Cortegiano' is
gayly assigned the task of making the first sketch of "the perfect
courtier".
From such social relations came Castiglione's wide familiarity and
sound judgment respecting the various worlds of men, of women, and of
art. The higher qualities his book gives evidence of--the love of
simplicity, purity, sincerity, serenity, kindness, courtesy,
moderation, modesty, the appreciation of what is graceful, gay,
delicate,--these qualities were truly his own: we know not whence he
derived them.
Something should be said of the style in which the book is written.
Its author tells us that one of the principal criticisms made upon it
while it circulated for many years in manuscript, was that its
language was not the language of Boccaccio, who was then accepted as
the model for Italian prose-writers. Castiglione did not bind himself
to the manner of the Tuscan speech. He was of Lombard birth and habit,
and he chose--in the faith of which Montaigne is the great
defender--the words, the phrases, the constructions that best fitted
his thought, no matter whence he gathered them, if only they were
familiar and expressive. He thus gained the force of freedom and the
grace of variety, while the customary elegance and the habitual
long-windedness of all Italian writers molds his sentences and makes
them difficult of translation.
There have been few translations made of his book; none (published) as
yet, of any literary value; and Castiglione has not been much known
out of Italy. One of the few mentions of him in English literature is
to be found in Donne, Satire v., and it touches on a characteristic
page of his book, for it notes:--
"He which did lay
Rules to make courtiers (he, being understood,
May make good courtiers, but who courtiers good?)
Frees from the sting of jests all who in extreme
Are wretched or wicked."
In his own country Castiglione's fame has always been considerable.
Ariosto--to whose brother Alfonso, "Messer Alfonso carissimo," the
four books of 'Il Cortegiano' are dedicated and at whose desire it was
written--Ariosto in his great poem speaks of Castiglione more than
once; but a passage in Tasso's dialogue 'Della Corte' does him fit
honor:--"I do not deem that Castiglione wrote for the men of his own
day only:... the beauty of his writings deserves that in all ages they
should be read and praised; and as long as courts shall endure, as
long as princes, ladies, and noble gentlemen shall meet together, as
long as valor and courtesy shall abide in our hearts, the name of
Castiglione will be valued."
OF THE COURT OF URBINO
From 'Il Cortegiano'
On the slopes of the Apennines, towards the Adriatic Sea, almost in
the centre of Italy, there lies (as every one knows) the little city
of Urbino. Although surrounded by mountains, and rougher ones than
perhaps some others that we see in many places, it has yet enjoyed
such favor of heaven that the country round about is very fertile and
rich in crops; so that besides the salubrity of the air, there is
great abundance of everything needful for human life. But among the
greatest blessings that can be attributed to it, this I think to be
the chief, that for a long time it has ever been ruled by the best of
lords; insomuch that in the universal calamities of the wars of Italy,
it still for a space remained exempt. But without seeking further, we
can give good proof of this in the glorious memory of the Duke
Federigo, who in his day was the light of Italy; nor is there lack of
credible and abundant witnesses, who are still living, to his
prudence, humanity, justice, liberality, unconquered courage, and
military discipline; which are conspicuously attested by his numerous
victories, his capture of impregnable places, the sudden swiftness of
his expeditions, the frequency with which he put to flight large and
formidable armies by means of a very small force, and by his loss of
no single battle whatever; so that we may not unreasonably compare him
to many famous ancients.
Among his other praiseworthy deeds, the Duke Federigo built on the
rugged site of Urbino a palace, regarded by many as the most beautiful
to be found in all Italy: and he so well furnished it with every
suitable thing, that it seemed not a palace but a city in the form of
a palace; and not merely with what is ordinarily used,--such as silver
vases, hangings of richest cloth of gold and silk, and other similar
things,--but for ornament he added an infinity of antique statues in
marble and bronze, pictures most choice, and musical instruments of
every sort; nor would he admit anything there that was not very rare
and excellent. Then at very large cost he collected a great number of
most excellent and rare books in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, all of
which he adorned with gold and with silver, esteeming this to be the
supreme excellence of his great palace.
Following at last the course of nature, and already sixty-five years
old, he died as he had lived, gloriously; and he left as his successor
a little motherless boy of ten years, his only son Guidobaldo. Heir to
his father's state, he seemed to be heir also to all his father's
virtues, and soon his noble nature gave such promise as seemed not to
be hoped for from mortal man; so that men esteemed none among the
extraordinary deeds of the Duke Federigo to be greater than to have
begotten such a son. But envious of so much virtue, fortune thwarted
this glorious beginning with all her might; so that before Duke Guido
reached the age of twenty years he fell ill of the gout, which grew
upon him with grievous pain, and in a short space of time so crippled
all his limbs that he could neither stand upon his feet nor move; and
thus one of the most beautiful and active forms in the world was
disfigured and spoiled in tender youth.
And not yet content with this, fortune was so adverse to him in all
his plans that he could seldom carry to a conclusion anything that he
desired; and although he was most wise of counsel and unconquered in
spirit, it seemed that what he undertook, both in war and in
everything else, whether small or great, always ended ill for him: and
proof of this is given in his many and diverse calamities, which he
ever bore with such strength of mind that his spirit was never
vanquished by fortune; nay, scorning her assaults with unbroken
courage, he lived in weakness as though strong, and in adversity as
though fortunate, with perfect dignity and universal esteem, so that
although he was thus infirm of body, he fought with most honorable
rank in the service of their Serene Highnesses the Kings of Naples,
Alfonso and Fernando the Younger; later with Pope Alexander VI., and
with the Venetian and Florentine nobles.
After the accession of Julius II. to the Pontificate, he was made
Captain of the Church; at which time, following his accustomed style,
above all else he took care to fill his household with very noble and
valiant gentlemen, with whom he lived most familiarly, delighting in
their conversation; wherein the pleasure he gave to others was not
less than that he received from others, he being well versed in both
the learned languages, and uniting affability and agreeableness to a
knowledge of things without number; and besides this, the greatness of
his spirit so animated him that although he could not practice in
person the exercises of horsemanship, as he once had done, yet he took
the utmost pleasure in seeing them in others; and by his words, now
correcting, now praising each according to desert, he clearly showed
how much judgment he had in those matters; wherefore in jousts and
tournaments, in riding, in the handling of every sort of weapon, as
well as in pastimes, games, and music,--in short, in all the exercises
proper to noble gentlemen,--every one strove so to carry himself as to
merit being deemed worthy of such noble fellowship.
All the hours of the day were assigned to honorable and pleasant
exercises, as well for the body as for the mind; but since my lord
Duke was always wont by reason of his infirmity to retire to sleep
very early after supper, every one usually betook himself at that hour
to the presence of my lady Duchess, Elisabetta Gonzaga; where also was
ever to be found my lady Emilia Pia, who was endowed with such lively
wit and sound judgment that, as you know, she seemed the mistress of
us all, and that every one gained wisdom and worth from her. Here,
then, gentle discussions and innocent pleasantries were heard, and on
the face of every one a jocund gayety was seen depicted, so that the
house could truly be called the very abode of mirth: nor ever
elsewhere, I think, was so relished, as once was here, how great may
be the sweetness of dear and cherished companionship; for apart from
the honor it was to each of us to serve such a lord as he of whom I
have just spoken, there was born in the hearts of all a supreme
contentment every time we came into the presence of my lady Duchess;
and it seemed as though this contentment were a chain that held us all
united in love, so that never was concord of will or cordial love
between brothers greater than that which here was between us all.
The same was it among the ladies, with whom there was intercourse most
free and honorable; for every one was permitted to talk, sit, jest,
and laugh with whom he pleased; but such was the reverence paid to the
wish of my lady Duchess, that this same liberty was a very great
check; nor was there any one who did not esteem it the utmost pleasure
he could have in the world to please her, and the utmost pain to
displease her. And thus most decorous manners were here joined with
the greatest liberty, and games and laughter in her presence were
seasoned not only with keenest wit, but with gracious and sober
dignity; for that purity and loftiness which governed all the acts,
words, and gestures of my lady Duchess, bantering and laughing, were
such that she would have been known for a lady of noblest rank by any
one who saw her even but once. And impressing herself thus upon those
about her, she seemed to attune us all to her own quality and pitch:
accordingly each strove to follow this example, taking as it were a
pattern of beautiful behavior from the bearing of so great and
virtuous a lady; whose highest qualities I do not now purpose to
recount, they not being my theme and being well known to all the
world, and far more because I could not express them with either
tongue or pen; and those that perhaps might have been somewhat hid,
fortune, as though wondering at such rare virtue, chose to reveal
through many adversities and stings of calamity; so as to give proof
that in the tender breast of a woman, in company with singular beauty,
there may abide prudence and strength of soul and all those virtues
that even among stern men are very rare.
But continuing, I say that the custom of all the gentlemen of the
household was to betake themselves straightway after supper to my lady
Duchess; where, among the other pleasant pastimes and music and
dancing that continually were practiced, sometimes entertaining
questions were proposed, sometimes ingenious games were devised with
one or another as arbiter, in which under various disguises the
company disclosed their thoughts figuratively to whomsoever pleased
them best. Sometimes other discussions arose about different matters,
or biting retorts passed lightly back and forth; often _imprese_, as
we now call them, were displayed. And in these verbal contests there
was wonderful diversion, the household being (as I have said) full of
very noble talents; among whom (as you know) the most famous were my
lord Ottaviano Fregoso, his brother Messer Federigo, the Magnifico
Giuliano de' Medici, Messer Pietro Bembo, Messer Cesare Gonzaga, the
Count Ludovico da Canossa, my lord Gaspar Pallavicino, my lord
Ludovico Pio, my lord Morello da Ortona, Pietro da Napoli, Messer
Roberto da Bari, and countless other very noble gentlemen. Moreover
there were many who, though usually they did not remain there
constantly, yet spent most of the time there; like Messer Bernardo
Bibbiena, the Unico Aretino, Joan Cristoforo Romano, Pietro Monte,
Terpandro, Messer Nicolo Frisio; so that there always flocked thither
poets, musicians, and all kinds of agreeable men, and the most eminent
in ability that were to be found in Italy.
CATO THE CENSOR
(234-149 B.C.)