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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7f7c063 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69078 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69078) diff --git a/old/69078-0.txt b/old/69078-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cbf9a86..0000000 --- a/old/69078-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5387 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Post mortem, by C. MacLaurin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Post mortem - Essays, historical and medical - -Author: C. MacLaurin - -Release Date: September 30, 2022 [eBook #69078] - -Language: English - -Produced by: MWS, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POST MORTEM *** - - - - - -Post Mortem - - -[Illustration: [_Photo, Anderson._ - - THE EMPEROR CHARLES V. - From a portrait by Titian (Madrid, Prado).] - - - - - Post Mortem - Essays, Historical and Medical - - C. MacLaurin - M.B.C.M., F.R.C.S.E., LL.D. - - _Lecturer in Clinical Surgery - University of Sydney, etc._ - - - New York: - George H. Doran Company - - - - - _Made and Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, - _Frome and London_ - - - - -Preface - - -Whether the “great man” has had any real influence on the world, or -whether history is merely a matter of ideas and tendencies among -mankind, are still questions open to solution; but there is no doubt -that great persons are still interesting; and it is the aim of this -series of essays to throw such light upon them as is possible as -regards their physical condition; and to consider how far their -actions were influenced by their health. There are many remarkable -people in history about whom we know too little to dogmatize, though -we may strongly suspect that their mental and physical conditions were -abnormal when they were driven to take actions which have passed into -history; for instances, Mahomet and St. Paul. Such I have purposely -omitted. But there were far more whose actions were clearly the result -of their state of health; and some of these who happen to have been -leaders at critical epochs I have ventured to study from the point of -view of a doctor. This point of view appears to have been strangely -neglected by historians and others. If the background against which it -shows its heroes and heroines should appear unsentimental and harsh, -at least it appears to medical opinion as probably true; and it is our -duty to seek Truth. If it appears to assume an iconoclastic attitude -towards many ideals I am sorry, and can only wish that the patina cast -upon their characters were more sentimental and beautiful. - -Jeanne d’Arc and the Emperor Charles V were undoubtedly heroic -figures who have been almost worshipped by many millions of people; -yet undoubtedly they were human and subject to the unhappy frailties -of other people. This in no way detracts from their renown. I must -apologize for treating Don Quixote as a real person; he was quite as -much a living individual as anyone in history. Through his glamour we -can get a real glimpse of the character of Cervantes. - -In Australia we have no access to the original sources of European -history; we must rely upon the “printed word” as it appears in standard -monographs and essays. - -I owe many thanks to Miss Kibble, of the research department of the -Sydney Public Library, without whose help this work could never have -been undertaken. - -SYDNEY, 1922. - - - - -Contents - - - PAGE - - THE CASE OF ANNE BOLEYN 13 - - THE PROBLEM OF JEANNE D’ARC 34 - - THE EMPRESS THEODORA 65 - - THE EMPEROR CHARLES V 88 - - DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA, CERVANTES, AND DON QUIXOTE 114 - - PHILIP II; AND THE ARTERIO-SCLEROSIS OF STATESMEN 144 - - MR. AND MRS. PEPYS 157 - - EDWARD GIBBON 180 - - JEAN PAUL MARAT 191 - - NAPOLEON I 204 - - BENVENUTO CELLINI 226 - - DEATH 232 - - - - -Illustrations - - - The Emperor Charles V _Frontispiece_ - - Mary Tudor _Face p._ 16 - - The Empress Theodora ” 72 - - Perseus and the Gorgon’s Head ” 228 - - - - -The Case of Anne Boleyn - - -There is something Greek, something akin to Œdipus and Thyestes, in -the tragedy of Anne Boleyn. It is difficult to believe, as we read it, -that we are viewing the actions of real people subject to passions -violent indeed yet common to those of mankind, and not the creatures of -a nightmare. Yet I believe that the conduct of the three protagonists, -Henry, Catherine, and Anne, can all be explained if we appreciate the -facts and interpret them with the aid of a little medical knowledge -and insight. Let us search for this explanation. Needless to say we -shall not get it in the strongly Bowdlerized sketches that most of us -have learnt at school; it is a pity that such rubbish should be taught, -because this period is one of the most important in English history; -the actors played vital parts; and upon the drama that they played has -depended the history of England ever since. - -In considering an historical drama one has to remember the curtain -of gauze which Time has drawn before us, and to allow for its colour -and density. In the case of Henry VIII and his time, though the -actual materials are enormous, yet everything has to be viewed -through an _odium theologicum_ that is unparalleled since the days of -Theodora. In the eyes of the Catholics, Henry was, if not the actual -devil incarnate, at all events the next thing; and their opinion has -survived among many people who ought to know better to the present day. -Decidedly we must make a great deal of allowance. - -Henry succeeded to the throne, nineteen years of age, handsome, rather -free-living, full of _joie-de-vivre_, charming, and with every promise -of greatness and happiness. He died at fifty-five, unhappy, worn down -with illness, at enmity with his people, with the Church, and with the -world in general, leaving a memory in the popular mind of a murderous -concupiscence that has become a byword. About the time that he was -a young man, syphilis, which is supposed to have been introduced by -Columbus’ men, ran like a whirlwind through Europe. Hardly anyone seems -to have escaped, and it was said that even the Pope upon the throne of -St. Peter went the way of most other people, though it is possible that -this accusation was as unreliable as many other accusations against -the popes. Be that as it may, the foundations were then laid for that -syphilization which has transformed the disease into its present -mildness. It is impossible to doubt that Henry contracted it in his -youth[1]; the evidence will become clear to any doctor as we proceed. - -The first act of his reign was to marry for political reasons Catherine -of Aragon, who was the widow of his elder brother Arthur. She was -daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, and, though far from -beautiful, proved herself to possess a great and noble soul and a -courage of well-tempered steel. The English people took her to their -hearts, and when unmerited misfortune fell upon her never lost the -love they had felt for her when she was a happy young woman. Though -she was six years older than Henry, the two lived happily together for -many years. Seven months after marriage Catherine was delivered of -a daughter, still-born. Eight months later she had a son, who lived -three days. Two years later she had a still-born son. Nine months -later she had a son, who died in early infancy, and eighteen months -afterwards the infant was born who was to live to be Queen Mary. Henry -was intensely disappointed, and for the first time turned against his -wife. It was all important to produce an heir to the throne, for -it was thought that no woman could rule England. No woman had ever -ruled England, save only Matilda, and her precedent was not alluring. -So Henry longed desperately for a son; nevertheless as the little -Mary grew up--a sickly child--he became passionately devoted to her. -She grew up, as one can see from her well-known portrait, probably -an hereditary syphilitic. For a time Henry had thought of divorcing -Catherine, but his affection for Mary probably turned the scale in her -mother’s favour. Catherine had several more miscarriages, and by the -time she was forty-two ceased to menstruate; it became clear that she -would have no more children and could never produce an heir to the -throne. - -[Illustration: [_Photo, Anderson._ - - MARY TUDOR. - From a portrait by Moro Antonio (Madrid, Prado).] - -During these years Henry’s morals had been no worse than those of any -other prince in Europe; certainly better than Louis XIV and XV, who -were to come after him, or Charles II. He met Mary Boleyn, daughter -of a rich London merchant, and made her his mistress. Later on he -met Anne Boleyn, her sister, a girl of sixteen, and fell in love. We -have a very good description of her, and several portraits. She was -of medium stature, not handsome, with a long neck, wide mouth, bosom -“not much raised,” eyes black and beautiful and a knowledge of how -to use them. Her hair was long, and it appears that she used to wear -it long and flowing in the house. It was not so very long since Joan -of Arc had been burnt largely because she went about without a wimple, -and Mistress Anne’s conduct with regard to her hair was probably -worse in those days than for a girl to be seen smoking cigarettes -when driving a motor-car to-day. At any rate, she acquired demerit by -it, and everybody was on the look-out for more serious false steps. -The truth seems to be--so far as one can ascertain truth from reports -which, even if unprejudiced, came from people who knew nothing about a -woman’s heart--that she was a bold and ambitious girl who laid herself -out to capture Henry, and succeeded. Mary Boleyn was thrust aside, and -Henry paid violent court in his own enormous and impassioned way to -Anne. We have some of his love letters; there can be no doubt of his -sincerity, or that his love for Anne was, while it lasted, the great -passion of his life. Had she behaved herself she might have retained -that love. She repulsed him for several years, and we can see the idea -of divorce gradually growing in his mind. He appealed to Pope Clement -VII to help him. Catherine defended herself bravely, and stirred Europe -in her cause. The Pope hesitated, crushed between the hammer and the -anvil, between Henry and the Emperor Charles V. Henry discovered that -his marriage with Catherine had come within the prohibited degrees, -and that she had never been his wife at all. It was a matter of doubt -then--and I believe still is--whether the Pope’s dispensation could -acquit them of mortal sin. Apparently even his Holiness’ influence -would not have been sufficient to counterbalance the crime of marrying -his deceased brother’s widow; nevertheless it was rather remarkable -that, if Henry were really such a stickler for the forms of canon law -as he now wished to make out, he never troubled to raise the question -until after he had fallen in love with some one else. He definitely -promised Anne that he would divorce Catherine, marry Anne, and make her -Queen of England. Secure in his promise, Anne yielded to her lover, -seeing radiant visions of glory before her. How foolish would any girl -be who let slip the chance--nay, the certainty--of being the Queen! -Yet she was to discover that even queens can be bitterly unhappy. -Anne sprang joyfully into the unknown, as many a girl has done before -her and since, trusting to her power to charm her lover; and became -pregnant. Meanwhile the struggle for the divorce proceeded, the Pope -swaying this way and that, and Catherine defending her honour and -her throne with splendid courage. The nurses and astrologers declared -that the fœtus was a son, and the lovers, mad with joy, were married -in secret, divorce or no divorce. The obliging Archbishop Cranmer -pronounced that the marriage with Catherine was null and void, as the -Pope would not do so. - -The time came for Anne to fulfil her promise and provide an heir. King -and queen anticipated the event in the wildest excitement. There had -been several lovers’ quarrels, which had been made up in the usual -manner; once Henry was heard to say passionately that he would rather -beg his bread in the streets than desert her. Yet it is doubtful -whether Anne Boleyn was ever anything more than an ambitious courtesan; -it is doubtful whether she ever felt anything towards him but her -natural wish to be queen. In due course her baby was born, and it was a -girl--the girl who afterwards became Queen Elizabeth. - -Henry’s disappointment was tragic, and for the first time Anne began to -realize the terror of her position. She was detested by the people and -the Court, who were emphatically on the side of the noble woman whom -she had supplanted. She had estranged everybody by her vain-glory and -arrogance in the hour of her triumph; and it began to be whispered -that even if her own marriage were legal while Catherine was still -alive, yet it was illegal by the canon law, for Mary Boleyn, her -sister, had been Henry’s wife in all but name. Canonically speaking, -Henry had done no better by marrying her than by marrying Catherine. -A horrible story went around that he had been familiar with her -mother first, and that Anne was his own daughter, and moreover that -he knew it. I think we can definitely and at once put this aside as -an ecclesiastical lie; there is absolutely no evidence for it and it -is impossible to conceive two persons more unlike than the little -lively brunette and the great fresh-faced “bluff King Hal.” Moreover, -Henry denied the story absolutely, and whatever else he was, he was a -man who was never afraid to tell the truth. Most of the difficulties -in understanding this complex period of our history disappear if we -believe Henry’s own simple statements; but these suffer from the -incredulity which Bismarck found three hundred years later when he told -his rivals the plain unvarnished truth. - -Let us anticipate events a little and narrate the death of Catherine, -which took place in 1536, nearly three years after the birth of -Elizabeth. The very brief and sketchy accounts which have survived give -me the impression that she died of uræmia, but no definite opinion -can be given. Henry, of course, lay under the immediate charge of -having poisoned her, but I do not know that anybody believed it very -seriously. So died this unhappy and well-beloved lady, to whom life -meant little but a series of bitter misfortunes. - -After Elizabeth was born the tragedy began to move with terrible -impetus towards its climax. Henry developed an intractable ulcer on -his thigh, which persisted till his death, and frequently caused him -severe agony whenever the sinus closed. He became corpulent, the result -of over-eating and over-drinking. He had been immensely worried for -years over the affair of Catherine; as a result his blood-pressure -seems to have risen, so that he was affected by frightful headaches, -which often incapacitated him from work for days together. He gave up -the athleticism which had distinguished his resplendent youth, aged -rapidly, and became a harassed, violent, ill-tempered middle-aged -man--not at all the sort of man to turn into a cuckold. - -Yet this is precisely what Anne did. Less than a month after Elizabeth -was born--while she was still in the puerperal state--she solicited Sir -Henry Norreys, the most intimate friend of the King, to be her lover. -A week later, on October 17th, 1533, he yielded. During the next -couple of years Anne seems to have gone absolutely out of her senses, -if the contemporary stories are true. She seems to have solicited -several prominent men of the Court, and even to have stooped to one -of the musicians; worst of all, it was said that she had committed -incest with her brother, Lord Rocheford. Nor did she behave with the -ordinary consideration for the feelings of others that might have -brought her hosts of friends--remember, she was a queen!--should the -time ever come when she should need them. It does not require any great -amount of civility on the part of a queen to win friends. Arrogant -and overbearing, she estranged everybody at Court; she acted like -a beggar on horseback, and was left without a friend in the place. -And she, who owed her husband such a world, behaved towards him with -the same arrogance as she showed to others, and in addition jealousy -both concerning other women whom she feared and concerning the King’s -beloved daughter, Mary. She spoke to the Duke of Norfolk--her uncle on -the mother’s side, and one of the greatest peers of the realm--“like a -dog”; as he turned away he muttered that she was “une grande putaine.” -The most polite interpretation of the French word is “strumpet.” When -the Duke used such a word to his own niece, what sort of reputation -must have been gathering about her? - -She had two more miscarriages. After the second the King’s fury flamed -out, and he told her plainly that he deeply regretted having married -her. He must have indeed been sorry; he had abandoned a good woman for -a bad; for her he had quarrelled with the Pope and with many of his -subjects; whatever conscience he had must have been tormenting him: -all these things for the sake of an heir, which seemed as hopelessly -unprocurable as ever. Both the women seemed affected by some fate which -condemned them to perpetual miscarriages; this fate, of course, was -Henry’s own syphilis, even supposing that neither wife had contracted -it independently. (It is much to Anne Boleyn’s credit or discredit, -that to a syphilitic husband she bore a daughter so vigorous as -Elizabeth, though Professor Chamberlin does not appear to think very -highly of her health.) - -Meanwhile all sorts of scandalous rumours were flying about; and -finally a maid of honour, whose chastity had been impugned, told a -Privy Councillor that no doubt she herself was no better than she -should be, but that at any rate her Majesty Queen Anne was far worse. -The Privy Councillor related this to Thomas Cromwell; he, the rumours -being thus focussed, dared to tell the King. Henry changed colour, and -ordered a secret inquiry to be held. At this inquiry the ladies of -the bedchamber were strictly cross-examined, but nothing was allowed -to happen for a few days, when a secret commission was appointed, -consisting of the Chancellor, the judges, Thomas Cromwell, and other -members of the Council. Sir William Brereton was first sent to the -Tower, then the musician Smeaton. Next day there was a tournament at -Greenwich, in the midst of which Henry suddenly rose and left the -scene, taking Norreys with him. Anne was brought before the Commission -next day, and committed to the Tower, where she found that Sir Francis -Weston had preceded her. Lord Rocheford, her brother, joined her almost -immediately on the charge of incest. - -The Grand Juries of Kent and Middlesex returned true bills on the -cases, and the Commission drew up an indictment, giving names, places, -and dates for every alleged act. The four commoners were put on -trial at Westminster Hall. Anne’s father, Lord Wiltshire, though he -volunteered to sit, was excused attendance, since a verdict of guilty -against the men would necessarily involve his daughter. One may read -this either way, against or in favour of Anne. Either Wiltshire was -enraged at her folly, and merely wished to end her disgrace; or it may -be that he thought he would be able to sway the Court in her favour. -Possibly he was afraid of the King and wished to show that he at least -was on his royal side, however badly Anne may have behaved. In dealing -with a harsh and tyrannical man like Henry VIII it is difficult to -assess human motives, and one prefers to think that Wiltshire was -trying to do his best for his daughter. Smeaton the musician confessed -under torture; the other three protested their innocence, but were -found guilty and were sentenced to death. Thomas Cromwell, in a -letter, said that the evidence was so abominable that it could not be -published. Evidently the Court of England had suddenly become squeamish. - -Anne was next brought to trial before twenty-five peers of the realm, -her uncle the Duke of Norfolk being in the chair. Probably, if the -story just related were true, the Duke’s influence would not be exerted -very strongly in her favour, and she was convicted and sentenced to -be hanged or burnt at the King’s pleasure; her brother was tried -separately and also convicted. It is said that her father and uncle -concurred in the verdict; they may have been afraid of their own -heads. On the other hand, it is possible that Anne was really guilty; -unfortunately the evidence has perished. The five men were executed -on Tower Hill in the presence of the woman, whose death was postponed -from day to day. In the meantime Henry procured his divorce from her, -while Anne, in a state of violent hysteria, continuously protested her -innocence. On the night before her execution she said that the people -would call her “Queen Anne sans tête,” laughing wildly as she spoke; if -one pronounces these words in the French manner, without verbal accent, -they form a sort of jingle, as who should say “ta-ta-ta-ta”; and this -foolish jingle seems to have run in her head, as she kept repeating -it all the evening; and she placed her fingers around her slender -neck--almost her only beauty--saying that the executioner would have -little trouble, as though it were a great joke. These things were put -to the account of her light and frivolous nature, and have probably -weighed heavily with posterity in attempting to judge her case; but -it is clear that they were merely manifestations of hysteria. Joan -of Arc, whose character was probably the direct antithesis of Anne -Boleyn’s, laughed when she heard the news of her reprieve. Some people -think she laughed ironically, as though a very simple peasant-girl -could be ironical if she tried. Irony is a quality of the higher -intelligence. But cannot a girl be allowed to laugh hysterically for -joy? Or cannot Anne Boleyn be allowed to laugh hysterically for grief -and terror without being called light and frivolous? So little did -her contemporaries understand the human heart. A few years later came -one Shakespeare, who could have told King Henry differently; and the -extraordinary burgeoning forth of the English intellect in William -Shakespeare is one of the most wonderful things in our history. Before -the century had terminated in which Anne Boleyn had been considered -light and frivolous because she had laughed in the shadow of the block, -Shakespeare had plumbed the depths of human nature. - -Anne was beheaded on May 19th, 1536, in the Tower, on a platform -covered thickly with straw, in which lay hidden a broadsword. The -headsman was a noted expert brought over specially from St. Omer, and -he stood motionless among the gentlemen onlookers until the necessary -preliminaries had been completed. Then, Anne kneeling in prayer and her -back being turned towards him, he stole silently forward, seized the -sword from its hiding-place, and severed her slender neck at a blow. As -she had predicted, he had little trouble, and she never saw either her -executioner or the sword that slew her.[2] Her body and severed head -were bundled into a cask, and were buried within the precincts of the -Tower; and Henry threw his cap into the air for joy. On the same day he -obtained a special dispensation to marry Jane Seymour. He married her -next day. - -The chief authority for the reign of Henry VIII is contained in the -_Letters and Papers of the Reign of Henry VIII_, edited by Brewer -and Gairdner. This gigantic work, containing more than 20,000 -closely printed pages, is probably the greatest monument of English -scholarship; the prefaces to the different volumes are remarkable for -their learning and delightful literary style. Froude’s history is -charming and brilliant as are all his writings, but is now rather out -of date, and is marred by his hero-worship of Henry and his strong -Protestant bias. He sums up absolutely against Anne, and, after reading -the letters which he publishes, I do not see how he could have done -anything else. He believes her innocent of incest, however, and -doubtless he is right. Let us acquit her of this crime, at any rate. -A. F. Pollard’s _Life of Henry VIII_ is meticulously accurate, and is -charmingly written; he thinks it impossible that the juries could have -found against her and the court have convicted without the strongest -evidence, which has not survived. P. C. Yorke sums up rather against -her in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_; but S. R. Gardiner thinks the -charges too horrible to be believed and that probably her own only -offence was that she could not bear a son. Professor Gardiner had -evidently seen little of psychological medicine, or he would have known -that no charge is too horrible to believe. The “Unknown Spaniard” of -the _Chronicle of Henry VIII_ is an illiterate fellow enough, but no -doubt of Anne’s guilt appears to enter his artless mind; he probably -represents the popular contemporary view. He says that he took his -stand in the ring of gentlemen who witnessed the execution. He gives an -account of the arrest of Sir Thomas Wyatt the poet--the first English -sonneteer--and the _ipsissima verba_ of a letter which Wyatt wrote to -Henry, narrating how Anne had solicited him even before her marriage -in circumstances that rendered her solicitation peculiarly brazen and -shameless. That Henry should have pardoned him seems to show that the -real crime of Anne was that she had contaminated the blood royal; a -capital offence in a queen in almost all ages and almost every country. -Before she became a queen Henry was probably complaisant enough to -Anne’s peccadilloes; but afterwards--that was altogether different. -“There’s a divinity doth hedge” a queen! - -Lord Herbert of Cherbury, writing seventy years later, narrates the -ghastly story with very little feeling one way or the other. Apparently -the legend of Anne’s innocence and Henry’s blood-lust had not yet -arisen. The verdict of any given historian appears to depend upon -whether he favours the Protestants or the Catholics. Speaking as a -doctor with very little religious preference one way or the other, the -following considerations appeal strongly to myself. If Henry wished -to get rid of a barren wife--barren through his own syphilis!--as he -undoubtedly did, then Mark Smeaton’s evidence alone was enough to -hang any queen in history from Helen downward, especially if taken -in conjunction with the infamous stories related by the “Unknown -Spaniard.” Credible or not, these stories show the reputation that -attached to the plain little Protestant girl who could not provide -an heir to the throne--the sort of reputation which mankind usually -attaches to a woman who, by unworthy means, has attained to a high -position. Why should the King and Cromwell, both exceedingly able men, -gratuitously raise the questions of incest and promiscuity and send -four innocent men to their deaths absolutely without reason? Why should -they raise all the tremendous family ill-will and public reprobation -which such an act of bloodthirsty tyranny would have caused? Stern as -they were they never showed any sign of mere blood-lust at any other -time; and the facts that Anne’s father and uncle both appear to have -concurred in the verdict, and that, except for her own denial, there -is not a word said in her favour, seems to require a great deal of -explanation. - -We can thoroughly explain her conduct by supposing that she was -afflicted by hysteria and nymphomania. There are plenty of accounts -of unhappy women whose cases are parallel to Anne’s in the works of -Havelock-Ellis and Kisch. There is plenty of indubitable evidence that -she was hysterical and unbalanced, and that she passionately longed -for a son; and it is simpler to believe her the victim of a well-known -and common disease than that we should suppose the leading statesmen -of England and nearly the whole of its peerage suddenly to be affected -with blood-lust. It has been suggested that Anne, passionately longing -for a son and terrified of her husband’s tyrannical wrath, acted like -one of Thomas Hardy’s heroines centuries later and tried another -lover in the hope that she would gratify her own and Henry’s wishes. -This course of procedure is probably not so uncommon as some husbands -imagine and would satisfy the questions of our problem but for Anne’s -promiscuity and vehemence in solicitation. If her sole object in -soliciting Norreys was to provide a son, why should she have gone from -man to man till the whole Court seems to have been ringing with her ill -fame? - -Her spasms of violent temper after her marriage, her fits of jealousy, -her foolish arrogance and insolence to her friends, are all mental -signs which go with nymphomania, and the fact that her post-nuptial -incontinence seems to have begun while she was still in the puerperal -state after the birth of her only living child seems highly -significant. It is not uncommon for sexual desire to become intolerable -in nervous and puerperal women. The proper place for Anne Boleyn was a -mental hospital. - -Henry VIII’s case, along with those of his children, deserve a paper to -themselves. Henry himself died of neglected arterio-sclerosis just in -the nick of time to save the lives of better men from the executioner; -Catherine Parr, who married him probably in order to nurse him--it -is possible that she was really fond of him and that there was even -then something attractive about him--succeeded in outliving him by a -remarkable effort of diplomatic skill and courage, though had Henry -awakened from his uræmic stupor probably her head would have been added -to his collection. On the whole, one cannot avoid the conclusion that -his conduct to his wives was not all his fault. They seem to have done -no credit to his power of selection. The first and the last appear to -have been the best, considered as women. - -Inexorable Nemesis had avenged Catherine. The worry of the divorce left -her husband with an arterial tension which, added to the royal temper, -caused great misery to England and ultimately death to himself; and -her mean little rival lay huddled in the most frightful dishonour that -ever befell a woman. Decidedly there is something Greek in the complete -horror of the tragedy. - - - - -The Problem of Jeanne d’Arc - - -In 1410-12 France was in the most dreadful condition that has ever -affected any nation. For nearly eighty years England had been at -her throat in a quarrel which to our minds simply exemplifies the -difference between law and justice; for it seems that the King of -England had mediæval law on his side, though to our minds no justice; -the Black Death had returned more than once to harass those whom war -had spared; no man reaped where he had sown, for his crops fell into -the hands of freebooters. Misery, destitution, and superstition were -man’s bedfellows; and the French mind seemed open to receive any marvel -that promised relief from its intolerable agony. Into this land of -terror was born a little maid whose mission it was to right the wrongs -of France; a maiden who has remained, through all the vicissitudes of -history, extraordinarily fascinating, yet an almost insoluble problem. -It is undeniable that she has exercised a vast influence upon mankind, -less by her actual deeds than by the ideal which she set up; an ideal -of courage, simple faith, and unquenchable loyalty which has inspired -both her own nation and the nation which burnt her. When the English -girls cut their hair short in the worst time of the war;[3] when the -French soldiers retook Fort Douaumont when all seemed lost: these -things were done in the name of Joan of Arc. - -The actual contemporary sources from which we draw our ideas are -extraordinarily few. There is of course the report of the trial for -lapse and relapse, which is official and is said not to be garbled. It -is useful, not only for the Maid’s answers, which throw a good deal of -light on her mentality, but for the questions asked, which appear to -give an idea of reports that seem to have been floating about France -at the time. The only thing which interested her judges was whether -she had imperilled her immortal soul by heresy or witchcraft, and from -that trial we shall get few or no indications of her military career or -physical condition, which are the things that most interest modern men. -About twenty years after her execution it occurred to her king, who had -repaid her amazing love and self-sacrifice with neglect, that since -she had been burnt as a witch it followed that he must owe his crown -to a witch; moreover, her mother and brother had been appealing to -him to clear her memory, for they could not bear that their child and -sister should still remain under a cloud of sorcery. King Charles VII, -who was now a great man, and very successful as kings go, therefore -ordered the case to be reopened, in which course he ultimately secured -the assistance of the reigning Pope. Charles could not restore the Maid -to life, but he could make things unpleasant for the friends of those -who had burned her; and so we have the so-called Rehabilitation Trial, -consisting of reports and opinions, given under oath, from many people -who had known her when alive. As King Charles was now a great man, some -of the clerics who had helped to condemn her crowded to give evidence -in the poor child’s favour, attributing the miscarriage of justice -in her case to people who were now dead or hopelessly unpopular; some -friends of her childhood came forward and people who had known her -at the time of her glory; and, perhaps most important, some of her -old comrades in arms rallied round her memory. We thus have a fairly -complete account of her battles, friendships, trials, character, and -death; if we read this evidence with due care, remembering that more -than twenty years had elapsed and the mentality of mediæval man, we -may take some of the statements at their face value. Otherwise there -is absolutely no contemporary evidence of the Maid; Anatole France has -pricked the bubble of the chroniclers and of the Journal of the siege -of Orleans. But there is so much of pathological interest to be found -in the reports of the trials that I need no excuse for a brief study of -them in that respect. - -The record of the life of Jeanne d’Arc is all too short, and the main -facts are not in dispute. It is the interpretation of these facts -that _is_ in dispute. She was born on January 6th, 1412; the year is -uncertain. Probably she did not know herself. In the summer of 1424 she -saw a great light on her right hand and heard a voice telling her to -be a good girl. This voice she knew to be the voice of God. Later on -she heard the voices of St. Michael the Archangel, of St. Catherine, -and of St. Margaret. St. Michael appeared first, and warned her to -expect the arrival of the others, who came in due course. All three -were to be her constant companions for the rest of her life. At first -their appearances were irregular, but later on they came frequently, -especially at quiet moments. Sometimes, when there was a good deal of -noise going on, they appeared and tried to tell her something, but she -could not hear what they said. These she called her Council, or her -Voices. Occasionally the Lord God spoke to her himself; Him she called -“Messire.” - -As Jeanne grew more accustomed to her heavenly visitors they came in -great numbers, and she used to see vast crowds of angels descending -from heaven to her little garden. She said nothing to anybody about -these unusual events, but grew up a brooding and intensely religious -girl, going to church at every possible opportunity, and apparently -neglecting her ordinary duties of looking after her father’s sheep and -cattle. She learned to sew and knit, to say her Credo, Paternoster, and -Ave Maria; otherwise she was absolutely ignorant, and very simple in -mind and honest. She was dreamy and shy; nor did she ever learn to read -or write. - -Later on the voices told her to go into France, and God would help -her to drive out the English. She continually appealed to her father -that he should send her to Vaucouleurs, where the Sieur Robert de -Baudricourt would espouse her cause. Ultimately he did so; and at first -Robert laughed at her. He was no saint; in his day he had ravaged -villages with the best noble in the land; and he was not convinced -that Jeanne was really the sent of God that she claimed. When she -returned home she found herself the butt of Domremy; nine months later -she ran away to Vaucouleurs again, and found Robert more helpful. He -had for some time felt sympathy with the dauphin Charles, and had -grown to detest the English and Burgundians; and he now welcomed the -supernatural aid which Jeanne promised; she repeated vehemently that -God had sent her to deliver France, and that she had no doubt whatever -that she would be able to raise the siege of Orleans, which was then -being idly invested by the English. - -Robert sent her to the Dauphin, who lay at Chinon. He was no hero, -this Dauphin, but a poverty-stricken ugly man, with spindle-shanks and -bulbous nose, untidy and careless in his dress, and for ever blown this -way and that by the advice of those around him. Weak, and intensely -superstitious, he would to-day have been the prey of every medium who -cared to attack him; he received Jeanne kindly, and ultimately sent -her to Poitiers to be examined as to possible witchcraft by a great -number of learned doctors of the Church, who could be relied upon to -discern a witch as soon as anybody. - -She was deeply offended at being suspected of witchcraft, and was -not so respectful to her judges as she might have been; occasionally -she sulked, and sometimes she answered the reverend gentlemen quite -saucily. She is an attractive and very human little figure at Poitiers -as she moves restlessly upon her bench, and repeatedly tells the -doctors that they should need no further sign than her own deeds; for -when she had relieved Orleans it would be obvious enough that she was -sent directly from God. At Poitiers she had to run the gauntlet of -the inevitable jury of matrons, who were to certify to her virginity, -because it was well known that women lost their holiness when they -lost their virginity. The matrons and midwives certified that she was -_virgo intacta_; how the good ladies knew is not certain, because even -to-day, with all our knowledge of anatomy and physiology, we often -find it difficult to be assured on this point. However, there can be -little doubt that they were correct; probably they were impressed with -Jeanne’s obvious sincerity and purity of mind. All women seem to have -loved Jeanne, which is a strong point in her favour. The spiritual -examination dragged on for three weeks; these poor doctors were -determined not to let a witch slip through their hands, and it speaks -well for their patience and good temper, considering how unmercifully -Jeanne had “cheeked” them, that they ultimately found that she was a -good Christian. Any ordinary man would have seen that at once; but -these gentlemen knew too much about the wiles of the Devil to be so -easily influenced; and it was a source of bitter injustice to Jeanne at -her real and serious trial for her life that she was unable to produce -their certificate. - -The Dauphin took her into his service and provided her with horse, -suit of armour, and banner, as befitted a knight; also maidservants -to act propriety, page-boy, and a steward, one Jean d’Aulon. All that -we hear of d’Aulon, in whose hands the honour of the Maid was placed, -is to his credit. A witness at the Rehabilitation Trial said that he -was the wisest and bravest man in the army. We shall hear more of -him. Throughout the story, whenever he comes upon the scene we seem -to breathe fresh air. He was the very man for the position, brave, -simple-hearted, and passionately loyal to Jeanne. There is no reason -to doubt that in spite of his close companionship with her there was -never any romantic or other such feeling between them; he said so -definitely, and he is to be believed. His honour came through it all -unstained; and he let himself be captured with her rather than desert -her. It is clear from his evidence that the personality of the Maid -profoundly affected him. After Jeanne’s death he was ransomed, and was -made seneschal of Beaucaire. - -Jeanne was enormously impressed by her banner, which was made by a -Scotsman, Hamish Power by name; she described it at her trial. - -“I had a banner of white cloth, sprinkled with lilies; the world was -painted there, with an angel on each side; above them were the words -‘Jhesus Maria.’” When she said “the world” she meant God holding the -world up in one hand and blessing it with the other. Later on she -does not seem very certain whether “Jhesus Maria” was above or at the -side; but she is very certain that she was tremendously proud of the -artistic creation--yes, “forty times” prouder of her banner than of her -sword; even though the sword was from St. Catherine herself, and was -the very sword of Charles Martel centuries before. When the priests -dug it up without witnesses and rubbed it their holy power cleansed it -immediately of the rust of ages. - -When she arrived at Orleans she found the English carrying on a -leisurely blockade by means of a series of forts between which cattle -and men could enter or leave the city at will. The city was defended -by Jean Dunois, Bastard of Orleans. The title Bastard implies that -he would have been Duc d’Orleans only that he had the misfortune to -be born of the wrong mother. There have been several famous bastards -in history, and the kindly morality of the Middle Ages seems to have -thought little the worse of them for their misfortune. It is only -fair to state that there is some doubt as to whether Jeanne was sent -in command of the army, or the army in command of Jeanne; indeed, -all through her story it is never easy to be certain whether she was -actually in command, and Anatole France looks upon her as a sort of -military _mascotte_ rather than a soldier. Nor has Anatole France -ever been properly answered. Andrew Lang did his best, as Don Quixote -did his best to fight the windmills, but Mr. Lang was an idealist and -romanticist, and could not defeat the laughing irony of M. France. -Indeed, what answer is possible? Anatole France does not laugh at the -poor little Maid; he laughs through her at modern French clericalism. -Nobody with a heart in his breast could laugh at Jeanne d’Arc! Anatole -France simply said that he did not believe the things which Mr. Lang -said that he believed; he would be a brave man who should say that M. -France is wrong. - -When she reached Orleans a new spirit at once came into the defenders, -just as a new spirit came into the British army on the Somme when -the tanks first went forth to battle--a spirit of renewed hope; God -had sent his Maid to save the right! In nine days of mild fighting, -in which the French enormously outnumbered the English, the siege -was raised. The French lost a few score men; the English army was -practically destroyed. - -Next Jeanne persuaded the Dauphin to be crowned at Rheims, which was -the ancient crowning-place for the French kings. In this ancient -cathedral, in whose aisles and groined vaults echoed the memories and -glories of centuries, he was crowned; his followers standing around -in a proud assembly, his adoring peasant-maid holding her grotesque -banner over his head; probably the most extraordinary scene in all -history. After Jeanne had secured the crowning of her king, ill-fortune -was thenceforth to wait upon her. She was of the common people, and it -was only about eighty years since the aristocracy had shuddered before -the herd during the Jacquerie, the premonition of the Revolution of -1789. Class feeling ran strongly, and the nobles took their revenge; -Jeanne, having no ability whatever beyond her implicit faith in Heaven, -lost her influence both with the Court and with the people; whatever -she tried to do failed, and she was finally captured in a sortie from -Compiêgne in circumstances which do not exclude the suspicion that she -was deliberately sacrificed. The Burgundians held her for ransom, and -locked her up in the Tower of Beaurevoir. King Charles VII refused--or -at any rate neglected--to bid for her; so the Burgundians sold her to -the English. When she heard that she was to be given into the hands -of her bitterest enemies she was so troubled that she leaped from the -tower, a height of sixty or seventy feet, and was miraculously saved -from death by the aid of her friends--Saints Margaret and Catherine. It -is easier to believe that at her early age--she was then about nineteen -or possibly even less--her epiphyseal cartilages had not ossified, and -if she fell on soft ground it is perfectly credible that she might not -receive worse than a severe shock. I remember a case of a child who -fell from a height of thirty feet on to hard concrete, which it struck -with its head; an hour later it was running joyfully about the hospital -garden, much to the disgust of an anxious charge-nurse. It is difficult -to kill a young person by a fall--the bones and muscles yield to -violent impact, and life is not destroyed. - -Jeanne having been bought by the English they brought her to trial -before a court composed of Pierre Cauchon, Lord Bishop of Beauvais, and -a varying number of clerics; as Anatole France puts it, “a veritable -synod”; it was important to condemn not only the witch of the Armagnacs -herself but also the viper whom she had been able to crown King of -France. If they condemned her for witchcraft they condemned all her -works, including King Charles. If Charles had been a clever man he -would have foreseen such a result and would have bought her from the -Duke of Burgundy when he had the chance. But when she was once in the -iron grip of the English he could have done nothing. It was too late. -If he had offered to buy her the English would have said she was not -for sale; if he had moved his tired and disheartened army they would -have handed her over to the University of Paris, or perhaps the dead -body of one more peasant-girl would have been found in the Seine below -Rouen, and Cauchon would have been spared the trouble of a trial. -Therefore we may spare our regrets on the score of some at least of -King Charles’s ingratitudes. It is possible that he did not buy her -from the Burgundians because he was too stupid, too poor, or too -parsimonious; it is more likely that his courtiers and himself began -to believe that her success was so great that it could not be explained -by mortal means, and that there must be something in the witchcraft -story after all. It could not have been a pleasant thing for the French -aristocrats to find that when a little maid from Domremy came to help -the common people, these scum of the earth suddenly began to fight as -they had not fought for generations. Fully to understand what happened -we must remember that it was not very long since the Jacquerie, and -that the aristocratic survivors had left to their sons tales of -unutterable horrors. - -However, Jeanne was put on her trial for witchcraft, and after a long -and apparently hesitating process--for there had been grave doubts -raised as to the legality of the whole thing--she was condemned to -death. Just before the Bishop had finished his reading of the sentence -she burst into tears and recanted, when she really understood that they -were even then preparing the cart to take her to the stake. She said -herself, in words which cannot possibly be misunderstood, that she -recanted “for fear of the fire.” - -The sentence of the court was then amended; instead of being burned -she was to be held in prison on bread and water and to wear woman’s -clothes. She herself thought that she was to be put into an -ecclesiastical prison and be kept in the charge of women, but there -is nothing to be found of this in the official report of the first -trial. As she had been wearing men’s clothes by direct command of -God her sin in recanting began to loom enormous before her during -the night; she had forsaken her God even as Peter had forsaken Jesus -Christ in the hour of his need, and hell-fire would be her portion--a -fire ten thousand times worse than anything that the executioner could -devise for her. She got up in the morning and threw aside the pretty -dress which the Duchess of Bedford had procured for her--all women -loved Jeanne d’Arc--and put on her war-worn suit of male clothing. -The English soldiers who guarded her immediately spread abroad the -bruit that Jeanne had relapsed, and she was brought to trial for this -contumacious offence against the Holy Church. The second trial was -short and to the point; she tried to show that her jailers had not kept -faith with her, but her pleadings were brushed aside, and finally she -gave the _responsio mortifera_--the fatal answer--which legalized the -long attempts to murder her. Thus spoke she: “God hath sent me word by -St. Catherine and St. Margaret of the great pity it is, this treason -to which I have consented to abjure and save my life! I have damned -myself to save my life! Before last Thursday my Voices did indeed tell -me what I should do and what I did then on that day. When I was on the -scaffold on Thursday my Voices said to me: ‘Answer him boldly, this -preacher!’ And in truth he is a false preacher; he reproached me with -many things I never did. If I said that God had not sent me I should -damn myself, for it is true that God has sent me; my Voices have said -to me since Thursday: ‘Thou hast done great evil in declaring that what -thou hast done was wrong.’ All I said and revoked I said for fear of -the fire.” - -To me this is the most poignant thing in the whole trial, which I have -read with a frightful interest many times. It seems to bring home the -pathos of the poor struggling child, and her blind faith in things -which could not help her in her hour of sore distress. - -Jules Quicherat published a very complete edition of the Trial in 1840, -which has been the basis for all the accounts of Jeanne d’Arc that -have appeared since. An English translation was published some years -ago which professed to be complete and to omit nothing of importance. -But this work was edited in a fashion so vehemently on Jeanne’s -side, with no apparent attempt to ascertain the exact truth of the -judgments, that I ventured to compare it with Quicherat, and I have -found some omissions which to the translator, as a layman, may have -seemed unimportant, but which, to a doctor, seem of absolutely vital -importance in considering the truth about the Maid. These omissions -are marked in the English by a row of three dots, which might be -considered to mark an omission,--but on the other hand might not. -Probably the translator considered them too indecent, too earthly, too -physiological, to be introduced in connexion with the Maid of God. But -Jeanne had a body, which was subject to the same peculiarities and -abnormalities as the bodies of other people; and upon the peculiarities -of her physiology depended the peculiarities of her mind. - -Jean d’Aulon, her steward and loyal admirer, said definitely in the -Rehabilitation Trial, in 1456:-- - -“Qu’il oy dire a plusiers femmes, qui ladicte Pucelle ont veue par -plusiers foiz nues, et sceue de ses secretz, que oncques n’avoit eu la -secret maladie de femmes et que jamais nul n’en peut rien cognoistre ou -appercevoir par ses habillements, ne aultrement.” - -I leave this unpleasantly frank statement in the original Old French, -merely remarking that it means that Jeanne never menstruated. -D’Aulon must have had plenty of opportunities for knowing this, in -his position as steward of her household in the field. He guards -himself from innuendo by saying that several women had told him. -Jeanne’s failing to become mature must have been the topic of amazed -conversation among all the women of her neighbourhood, and no doubt -she herself took it as a sign from God that she was to remain virgin. -It is especially significant that she first heard her Voices when -she was about thirteen years of age, at the very time that she -should have begun to menstruate; and that at first they did not come -regularly, but came at intervals, just as menstruation itself often -begins. Some months later she was informed by the Voices that she was -to remain virgin, and thereby would she save France, in accordance -with a prophecy that a woman should ruin France, and a virgin should -save it. Is it not probable that the idea of virginity must have been -growing in her mind from the time when she first realized that she -was not to be as other women? Probably the delusion as to the Voices -first began as a sort of vicarious menstruation; probably it recurred -when menstruation should have reappeared; we can put the idea of -virginity into the jargon of psycho-analysis by saying that Jeanne had -well-marked “repression of the sex-complex.” The mighty forces which -should have manifested themselves in normal menstruation manifested -themselves in her furious religious zeal and her Voices. Repression -of the sex-complex is like locking up a giant in a cellar; sooner or -later he may destroy the whole house. He ended by driving Jeanne d’Arc -to the stake. That was a nobler fate than befalls some girls, whom the -same giant drives to the streets; nobler, because Jeanne the peasant -was of essentially noble stock. Her mother was Isabel Romée--the -“Romed woman”--the woman who had had sufficient religious fervour to -make the long and dangerous pilgrimage to Rome that she might acquire -the merit of seeing the Holy Father; Jeanne herself made a still more -dangerous pilgrimage, which has won for her the love of mankind at the -cost of her bodily anguish. Madame her mother saved her own soul by -her pilgrimage, and bore an heroic daughter; Jeanne saved France by -her courage and devotion to her idea of God. And this would have been -impossible had she not suffered from repression of the sex-complex and -seen visions therefore. - -Another remarkable piece of evidence has been omitted from the English -translation. It was given by the Demoiselle Marguerite la Thoroulde, -who had taken Jeanne to the baths and seen her unclothed. Madame la -Thoroulde said, in the Latin translation of the Rehabilitation Trial -which has survived: “Quod cum pluries vidit in balneo et stuphis -[sweating-bath] et, ut percipere potuit, credit ipse fore virginem.” - -That is to say, she saw her naked in the baths and could see that she -was a virgin! What on earth did the good lady think that a virgin -would look like? Did she think that because Jeanne did not look like a -stout French matron she must therefore be a virgin? Or did she see a -strong and boyish form, with little development of hips and bust, which -she thought must be nothing else but that of a virgin? That is the -explanation that occurs to me; and probably it also explains Jeanne’s -idea that by wearing men’s clothes she would render herself less -attractive to the mediæval soldiery among whom her lot was to be cast. -An ordinary buxom young woman would certainly not be less attractive -because she displayed her figure in doublet and hose; Rosalind is none -the less winsome when she acts the boy; and I should have thought that -Jeanne, by wearing men’s clothes, would simply have proclaimed to her -male companions that she was a very woman. But if the idea be correct -that she was shaped like a boy, with little feminine development, the -whole mystery is at once solved. It is to be remembered that we know -absolutely nothing about Jeanne’s appearance[4]; the only credible -hint we have is that she had a gentle voice. - -In the Rehabilitation Trial several of her companions in arms swore -that she had had no sexual attraction for them. It is quaint to -read the evidence of these respectable middle-aged gentlemen that -in their hot and lusty youth they had once upon a time met at least -one young girl after whom they had not lusted; they seem to consider -that the fact proved that she must have come from God. Anatole France -makes great play with them, but it would appear that his ingenuity -is in this direction misplaced. Is it not possible that Jeanne was -unattractive to men because she was immature--that she never became -more than a child in mind and body? Even mediæval soldiery would not -lust after a child, especially a child whom they firmly believed to -have come straight from God! It must be remembered that to half of -her world Jeanne was unspeakably sacred; to the other half she was -undeniably a most frightful witch. Even the executioner would not -imperil his immortal soul by touching her. It was the custom to spare -a woman the anguish of the fire, by smothering her, or rendering her -unconscious by suddenly compressing her carotids with a rope before the -flames leaped around her. But Jeanne was far too wicked for anybody -to touch in this merciful office; they had to let her die unaided; -and afterwards, so wicked was her heart, they had to rescue it from -the ashes and throw it into the Seine. Is it conceivable that men who -thought thus would have ventured hell-fire by making love to her? Yet -more--it is quite possible that she had no bodily charms whatever; we -know nothing of her appearance. The story that she was charming and -beautiful is simply sentimental legend. Indeed, it is difficult not to -become sentimental over Jeanne d’Arc. - -A noteworthy feature in her character was her Puritanism. She -prohibited her soldiers from consorting with the prostitutes that -followed the army; sometimes she even forced them to marry these women. -Naturally the soldiers objected most strongly, and in the end this was -one of the causes that led to her downfall. Jeanne used to run after -the prohibited girls and strike them with the flat of her sword; in one -case the girl was killed. In another the sword broke, and King Charles -asked, very sensibly, “Would not a stick have done quite as well?” -This is believed by some people to have been the very sword of Charles -Martel which the priests had found for her at St. Catherine’s command, -and naturally the soldiers, deprived of their female companions, -wondered what sort of a holy sword could it have been which could -not even stand the smiting of a prostitute? When people suffer from -repression of the sex-complex the trouble may show itself either by -constant indirect attempts to find favour in the eyes of individuals -of the opposite sex, or sometimes by actually forbidding all sexual -matters; Puritanism in sexual affairs is often an indication that -all is not quite well with a woman’s subconscious mind; nor can one -confine this generalization to one sex. It is not for one moment to be -thought that Jeanne ever had the slightest idea of what was the matter -with her; the whole of her delusions and Puritanism were to her quite -conscious and real; the only thing that she did not know was that her -delusions were entirely subjective--that her Voices had no existence -outside her own mind. Her frantic belief in them led her to an heroic -career and to the stake. She did not consciously repress her sex; -Nature did that for her. - -Women who never menstruate are not uncommon; most gynæcologists -see a few. Though they are sometimes normal in their sexual -feelings--sometimes indeed they are even nymphomaniacs or very nearly -so--yet they seldom marry, for they know themselves to be sterile, and, -after all, most women seem to know at the bottom of their hearts that -the purpose of women is to produce children. - -But there is still more of psychological interest to be gained from a -careful reading of the first trial. It is possible to see how Jeanne’s -unstable nervous system reacted to the long agony. We had better, in -order to be fair, make quite certain why she was burned. These are the -words uttered by the good Bishop of Beauvais as he sentenced her for -the last time:-- - -“Thou hast been on the subject of thy pretended divine revelations -and apparitions lying, seducing, pernicious, presumptuous, lightly -believing, rash, superstitious, a divineress and blasphemer towards -God and the Saints, a despiser of God Himself in His sacraments; -a prevaricator of the Divine Law, of sacred doctrine and of -ecclesiastical sanctions; seditious, cruel, apostate, schismatic, -erring on many points of our Faith, and by these means rashly guilty -towards God and Holy Church.” - -This appalling fulmination, summed up, appears to mean--if it means -anything--that she believed that she was under the direct command of -God to wear man’s clothes. To this she could only answer that what she -had done she had done by His direct orders. - -Theologians have said that her answers at the trial were so clever -that they must have been directly inspired; but it is difficult to see -any sign of such cleverness. To me her character stands out absolutely -clearly defined from the very beginning of the six weeks’ agony; she is -a very simple, direct, and superstitious child struggling vainly in the -meshes of a net spread for her by ecclesiastical politicians who were -determined to sacrifice her to serve the ends of brutal masters. She -had all a child’s simple cunning; when the Bishop asked her to repeat -her Paternoster she answered that she would gladly do so if he himself -would confess her. She thought that if he confessed her he might -have pity on her, or, at least, that he would be bound to send her -to Heaven, because she knew how great was the influence wielded by a -Bishop; she thought that she might tempt him to hear her in the secrets -of the confessional if she promised to repeat her Paternoster to him! -Poor child--she little knew what was at the bottom of the trial. - -She sometimes childishly boasted. When she was asked if she could sew, -she answered that she feared no woman in Rouen at the sewing; just -so might answer any immature girl of her years to-day. She sometimes -childishly threatened; she told the Bishop that he was running a great -risk in charging her. She had delusions of sight, smell, touch, and -hearing. She said that the faces of Saints Catherine and Margaret were -adorned with beautiful crowns, very rich and precious, that the saints -smelled with a sweet savour, that she had kissed them, that they spoke -to her. - -There was a touch of epigram about the girl, too. In speaking of her -banner at Rheims, she said: “It had been through the hardships--it were -well that it should share the glory.” And again, when the judges asked -her to what she attributed her success, she answered, “I said to my -followers: ‘Go ye in boldly against the English,’ _and I went myself_.” -The girl who said that could hardly have been a mere military -_mascotte_. Yet, in admitting so much, one does not admit that she may -have been a sort of Amazon. As the desperation of her position grew -upon her she began to suffer more and more from her delusions; while -she lay in her dungeon waiting for the fatal cart she told a young -friar, Brother Martin Ladvenu, that her spirits came to her in great -numbers and of the smallest size. When despair finally seized upon her -she told “the venerable and discreet Maître Pierre Maurice, Professor -of Theology,” that the angels really had appeared to her--good or bad, -they really had appeared--in the form of very minute things[5]; that -she now knew that they had deceived her. Her brain wearied by her long -trial of strength with the Bishop, common sense re-asserted its sway, -and she realized--the truth! Too late! When she was listening to her -sermon on the scaffold in front of the fuel destined to consume her, -she broke down and knelt at the preacher’s knees, weeping and praying -until the English soldiers called out to ask if she meant to keep them -there for their dinner; it is pleasing to know that one of them broke -his lance into two pieces, which he tied into the form of a cross and -held it up to her in the smoke that was already beginning to arise -about her. - -Her last thoughts we can never know; her last word was the blessed name -of Jesus, which she repeated several times. In public--though she had -told Pierre Maurice in private that she had “learned to know that her -spirits had deceived her”--she always maintained that she had both seen -and believed them because they came from God; her courage was amazing, -both physical and moral. She was twice wounded, but she said that -she always carried her standard so that she would never have to kill -anybody--and that in truth she had never killed anybody. - -Her extraordinary accomplishment was due to the unbounded superstition -of the French common people, who at first believed in her implicitly; -it was Napoleon, a French general, who said that in war the moral is -to the spiritual as three is to one; our Lord said, “By faith ye shall -move mountains”; and it must not be forgotten that she went to Orleans -with powerful reinforcements which she herself estimated at about ten -to twelve thousand men. This superstition of the French was more than -equalled by the superstition of the English, who looked upon her as a -most terrifying witch: one witness at the Rehabilitation Trial said -that the English were a very superstitious nation, so they must have -been pretty bad. Indeed, most of the witnesses at that trial seem to -have been very superstitious; one must examine their evidence with care -lest one suddenly finds that one is assisting at a miracle. - -She seems to have been hot-tempered and emphatic in her speech, with -a certain tang of rough humour such as would be natural in a peasant -girl. A notary once questioned the truth of something she said at her -trial; on inquiry it was found that she had been perfectly accurate; -Jeanne “rejoiced, saying to Boisguillaume that if he made mistakes -again she would pull his ears.” Once during the trial she was taken ill -with vomiting, apparently caused by fish-poisoning, that followed after -she had eaten of some carp sent her by the Bishop. Maître d’Estivet, -the promoter of the trial, said to her, ‘Thou _paillarde_!’ (an abusive -term), ‘thou hast been eating sprats and other unwholesomeness!’ She -answered that she had not; and then she and d’Estivet exchanged many -abusive words. The two doctors of medicine who treated her for this -illness gave evidence, and it is pleasing to see that they seem to -have been able to rationalize a trifle more about her than most of -her contemporaries. But, taken all through, her evidence gives the -impression of being exceedingly simple and straightforward--just the -sort of thing to be expected from a child. - -It is noteworthy that a great many witnesses at the Rehabilitation -Trial swore that she was “simple.” Did they mean that she was -half-witted? Probably not. More probably it was true that she always -wanted to spare her enemies, when, in accordance with the custom of the -Hundred Years’ War, she should rather have held them for ransom if they -had been noble or slain them if they had been poor men. To the ordinary -brutal mediæval soldiery such conduct would appear insane. Possibly, -of course, the term “simple” might have been used in opposition to the -term “gentle.” - -May I be allowed to give a vignette of Jeanne going to the -burning, compiled from the evidence of many onlookers given at the -Rehabilitation Trial? She assumed no martyresque imperturbability; she -did not hold her head high in the haughty belief that she was right -and the rest of the world wrong, as a martyr should properly do. She -wept bitterly as she walked to the fatal cart from the prison-doors; -her head was shaven; she wore woman’s dress; her face was swollen and -distorted, her eyes ran tears, her sobs shook her body, her wails moved -the hearts of the onlookers. The French wept for sympathy, the English -laughed for joy. It was a very human child who went to her death -on May 30th, 1431. She was nineteen years of age--according to some -accounts, twenty-one--and, unknown to herself, she had changed the face -of history. - - - - -The Empress Theodora - - -This famous woman has been the subject of one of the bitterest -controversies in history; and, while it is impossible to speak fully -about her, it is certain that she was a woman of remarkable beauty, -character, and historical position. For nearly a thousand years -after her death she was looked upon as an ordinary--if unusually -able--Byzantine princess, wife of Justinian the lawgiver, who was one -of the ablest of the later Roman Emperors; but in 1623 the manuscript -was discovered in the Vatican of a secret history, purporting to have -been written by Procopius, which threw a new and amazing light on her -career. - -Procopius--or whoever wrote this most scurrilous history--states -that the great Empress in early youth was an actress, daughter of a -bear-keeper, and that she had sold tickets in the theatre; her youth -had been disgustingly profligate: he narrates a series of stories -concerning her which cannot be printed in modern English. The worst of -these go to show that she was an ordinary type of Oriental prostitute, -to whom the word “unnatural,” as applied to vice, had no meaning. -The least discreditable is that the girl who was to be Empress had -danced nearly naked on the stage--she is not the only girl who has done -this, and not on the stage either. She had not even the distinction -of being a good dancer, but acquired fame through the wild abandon -and indecency with which she performed. At about the age of twenty -she married--when she had already had a son--the grave and stately -Justinian: “the man who had never been young,” who was so great and -learned that it was well known that he could be seen of nights walking -about the streets carrying his head in a tray like John the Baptist. -When he fell a victim to Theodora’s wiles he was about forty years -of age. The marriage was bitterly opposed by his mother and aunts, -but they are said to have relented when they met her, and even had a -special law passed to legalize the marriage of the heir to the throne -with a woman of ignoble birth; and, after the death of Justin, Theodora -duly succeeded to the leadership of the proudest court in Europe. This -may be true; but it does not sound like the actions of a mother and old -aunts. One would have thought that a convenient bowstring or sack in -the Bosphorus would have been the more usual course. - -So far we have nothing to go by but the statements of one man; the -greatest historian of his time, to be sure--if we can be certain that -he wrote the book. Von Ranke, himself a very great critical historian, -says flatly that Procopius never wrote it; that it is simply a -collection of dirty stories current about other women long afterwards. -The Roman Empire seems to have been a great hotbed for filthy tales -about the Imperial despots: one has only to remember Suetonius, from -whose lively pages most of our doubtless erroneous views concerning the -Palatine “goings on” are derived; and to recall the foul stories told -about Julius Cæsar himself, who was probably no worse than the average -young officer of his time; and of the last years of Tiberius, who was -probably a great deal better than the average. Those of us who can cast -their memories back for a few years can doubtless recall an instance of -scurrilous libel upon a great personage of the British Empire, which -cast discredit not on the gentleman libelled but upon the rascal who -spread the libel abroad. It is one of the penalties of Empire that -the wearer of the Imperial crown must always be the subject of libels -against which he has no protection but in the loyal friendship of his -subjects. Even Queen Victoria was once called “Mrs. Melbourne,” though -probably even the fanatic who howled it did not believe that there was -any truth in his insinuation. And Procopius did not have the courage -to publish his libels, but preferred to leave to posterity the task -of finding out how dirty was Procopius’ mind. Probably he would not -have lived very long had Theodora discovered what he really thought of -her. He was wise in his generation, and had ever the example of blind -Belisarius before him to teach him to walk cautiously. - -Démidour in 1887, Mallet in 1889, and Bury also in 1889, have once more -reviewed the evidence. The two first-mentioned go very fully into it, -and sum up gallantly in Theodora’s favour; but Bury is not so sure. -Gibbon, having duly warned us of Procopius’ malignity, proceeds slyly -to tell some of the most printable of the indecent stories. Gibbon is -seldom very far wrong in his judgments, and evidently had very little -doubt in his own mind about Theodora’s guilt. Joseph Maccabe goes over -it all again, and “regretfully” believes everything bad about her. -Edward Foord says, in effect, that supposing the stories were all -true, which he does not appear to believe, and that she had thrown -her cap over the windmills when she was a girl--well, she more than -made up for it all when she became Empress. After all, it depends upon -how far we can believe Procopius; and that again depends upon how far -we can bring ourselves to believe that an exceedingly pretty little -Empress can once upon a time have been a _fille de joie_. That in its -turn depends upon how far each individual man is susceptible to female -beauty. If she had been a prostitute it makes her career as Empress -almost miraculous; it is the most extraordinary instance on record of -“living a thing down,” and speaks volumes for her charm and strength of -personality. - -She lived in the midst of most furious theological strife. Christianity -was still a comparatively new religion, even if we accept the -traditional chronology of the early world; and in her time the experts -had not yet settled what were its tenets. The only thing that was -perfectly clear to each theological expert was that if you did not -agree with his own particular belief you were eternally damned, -and that it was his duty to put you out of your sin immediately by -cutting your throat lest you should inveigle some other foolish -fellows into the broad path that leadeth to destruction. Theodora was -a Monophysite--that is to say, she believed that Christ had only one -soul, whereas it was well known to the experts that He had two. Nothing -could be too dreadful for the miscreants who believed otherwise. It -was gleefully narrated how Nestorius, who had started the abominable -doctrine of Monophysm, had his tongue eaten by worms--that is, died -of cancer of the tongue; and it is not incredible that Procopius, who -was a Synodist or Orthodox believer, may have invented the libels -and secretly written them down in order to show the world of after -days what sort of monster his heretical Empress really was, wear she -never so many gorgeous ropes of pearls in her Imperial panoply. It -is difficult to place any bounds to theological hatred--or to human -credulity for that matter. The whole question of the nature of Christ -was settled by the Sixth Œcumenical Council about a hundred and fifty -years later, when it was finally decided that Christ had two natures, -or souls, or wills--however we interpret the Greek word Φύσις--each -separate and indivisible in one body. This, and the Holy Trinity, are -still, I understand, part of Christian theology, and appear to be -equally comprehensible to the ordinary scientific man. - -But it is difficult to get over a tradition of the eleventh -century--that is to say, six hundred years before Procopius’ _Annals_ -saw the light--that Justinian married “Theodora of the Brothel.” -Although Mallet showed that Procopius had strong personal reasons for -libelling his Empress, one cannot help feeling that there must be -something in the stories after all. - -Once she had assumed the marvellous crown, with its ropes of pearls, -in which she and many of the other Empresses are depicted, her whole -character is said to have changed. Though her enemies accused her of -cruelty, greed, treachery, and dishonesty--and no accounts from her -friends have survived--yet they were forced to admit that she acted -with propriety and amazing courage; and no word was spoken against -her virtue. In the Nika riots, which at one time threatened to depose -Justinian, she saved the Empire. Justinian, his ministers, and even the -hero Belisarius, were for flight, the mob howling in the square outside -the Palace, when Theodora spoke up in gallant words which I paraphrase. -She began by saying how indecorous it was for a woman to interfere in -matters of State, and then went on to say: “We must all die some time, -but it is a terrible thing to have been an Emperor and to give up -Empire before one dies. The purple is a noble winding-sheet! Flight is -easy, my Emperor--there are the steps of the quay--there are the ships -waiting for you; you have money to live on. But in very shame you will -taste the bitterness of death in life if you flee! I, your wife, will -not flee, but will stay behind without you, and will die an Empress -rather than live a coward!” Proud little woman--could that woman have -been a prostitute selling her body in degradation? It seems impossible. - -The Council, regaining courage, decided for fighting; armed bands were -sent forth into the square; the riot was suppressed with Oriental -ferocity; and the Roman Empire lasted nearly a thousand years more. -“Toujours l’audace,” as Danton said nearly thirteen hundred years -later, when, however, he was not in imminent peril himself. - -[Illustration: [_Photo, Alinari._ - - THE EMPRESS THEODORA. - From a Mosaic (Ravenna, San Vitale).] - -In person Theodora was small, slender, graceful, and exquisitely -beautiful; her complexion was pale, her eyes singularly expressive: -the mosaic at Ravenna, in stiff and formal art, gives some evidence of -character and beauty. She was accused, as I have said, of barbarous -cruelties, of herself applying the torture in her underground private -prisons; the stories are contradictory and inconsistent, but one story -appears to be historical: “If you do not obey me I swear by the living -God that I will have you flayed alive,” she said with gentle grace -to her attendants. It is said that her illegitimate son, whom she -had disposed of by putting him with his terrified father in Arabia, -gained possession of the secret of his birth, and boldly repaired to -Constantinople in the belief that her maternal affection would lead her -to pardon him for the offence of having been born, and that thereby -he would attain to riches and greatness; but the story goes that he -was never seen again after he entered the Palace. Possibly the story -is of the nature of romance. She dearly longed for a legitimate son, -and the faithful united in prayer to that end; but the sole fruit of -her marriage was a daughter, and even this girl was said to have been -conceived before the wedding. - -When she was still adolescent she went for a tour in the Levant with -a wealthy Tyrian named Ecebolus, who, disgusted by her violent temper -or her universal _charity_, to use Gibbon’s sly phrase, deserted her -and left her penniless at Alexandria. The men of Egypt appear to have -been less erotic than the Greeks, for she remained in dire poverty, -working her way back home by way of the shores of the Euxine. In Egypt -she had become a Monophysite; and when she reached Constantinople it -is said that she sat in a pleasant home outside the Palace and plied -her spinning-wheel so virtuously that Justinian fell in love with her -and ultimately married her, having first tried her charms. Passing -over the obvious difficulty that a girl of the charm and immorality -of Procopius’ Theodora need never have gone in poverty while men were -men, the wonder naturally arises whether the girl who went away with -Ecebolus was the same as she who returned poor and alone and sat so -virtuously at her spinning-wheel as to bewitch Justinian. Mistaken -identity, or rather loss of identity, must have been commoner in -those days than these when the printing-press and rapid postal and -telegraphic communication make it harder to lose one’s self. However, -granting that there was no confusion of identity, one may believe--if -one tries hard enough--that she was befriended by the Monophysites in -Egypt, and may have “found religion” at their hands, and, by suffering -poverty and oppression with them, had learned to sympathize with the -under-world. Though the story may seem to be more suitable for an -American picture-show than for sober history, still one must admit that -it is not absolutely impossible. When she became great and famous she -did not forget those who had rescued her in the days of her affliction; -and her influence on Justinian is to be seen in the “feminism” which is -so marked in his code. What makes it not impossible is the well-known -fact that violent sexuality is in some way related to powerful -religious instincts; and the theory that the passions which had led -Theodora to the brothel may, when her mind was turned to religion, have -led her to be a Puritan, is rather attractive. But nothing is said -about Theodora which has not in some way been twisted to her infamy. -The only certain fact about her is that she had enormous influence over -her husband, and it is difficult to believe that a great and able man -like Justinian could have entirely yielded his will to the will of a -cruel and treacherous harlot. The idea certainly opens an unexpectedly -wide vista of masculine weakness. - -She used this influence in helping to frame the great Code of -Justinian, which has remained the standard of law in many countries -ever since. A remarkable feature about this code is that, while it -is severe on the keepers of brothels, it is mild to leniency on the -unhappy women who prostituted themselves for these keepers’ benefit. -The idea that a prostitute is a woman, with rights and feelings like -any other woman, appears to have been unknown until Theodora had it -introduced into the code of laws which perpetuates her husband’s -memory. One night she collected all the prostitutes in Constantinople, -five hundred in all--were there only five hundred in that vast -Oriental city?--shut them up in a palace on the Asiatic shore of the -Bosphorus, and expected them to reform as she had reformed, but with -less success; as our modern experience would lead us to expect. The -girls grew morbidly unhappy, and many threw themselves into the sea. -Even in a lock hospital we know how difficult it is to reclaim girls -to whom sexual intercourse has become a matter of daily habit, and if -Theodora’s well-meant attempt failed we must at least give her credit -for an attempt at an idealistic impossibility. These girls did not -have the prospect of marrying an Emperor; no pearl-stringed crown was -dangled before their fingers for the grasping. Poor human nature is -not so easily kept on the strait and narrow path as Theodora thought. -Throughout her life she seems to have had great sympathy for the -poor and the oppressed, and one feels with Edward Foord that one can -forgive her a great deal. We must not forget that her husband called -her his “honoured wife,” his “gift from God,” and his “sweet delight”; -and spoke most gratefully of her interest and assistance in framing -his great code of laws. Was her humanitarianism, her sympathy with -down-trodden women, the result of her own sad past experience? To think -so would be to turn her pity towards vice into an argument against her -own virtue, and I shrink from doing so. Let us rather believe that she -really did perceive how terribly the Fates have loaded the dice against -women, and that she did what she could to make their paths easier -through this earth on which we have no continuing city. - -Her health gave her a great deal of trouble, and she spent many months -of every year in her beautiful villas on the shores of the Sea of -Marmora and the Bosphorus. She remained in bed most of every day, -rising late, and retiring early. To Procopius and the Synodists these -habits were naturally signs of Oriental weakness and luxury; but may -not the poor lady have been really ill? She visited several famous -baths in search of health, and we have a vivid account of her journey -through Bithynia on her way to the hot springs of the Pythian Apollo -near Brusa. - -We have no evidence as to the nature of her illness. Her early life, -of course, suggests some venereal trouble, and it is interesting -to inquire into the position of the various venereal diseases at -that time. Syphilis I think we may rule out of court; for it is now -generally believed that that disease was not known in Europe until -after the return of Columbus’ men from the West Indian islands. Some of -the bones of Egypt were thought to show signs of syphilitic invasion -until it was shown by Elliott Smith that similar markings are caused -by insects; and no indubitable syphilitic lesion has ever been found -in any of the mummies. If syphilis did really occur in European -antiquity, it must have been exceedingly rare and have differed widely -in its pathological effects from the disease which is so common -and destructive to-day; that is to say, in spite of certain German -enthusiasts, it could not have been syphilis. - -But gonorrhœa is a very old story, and was undoubtedly prevalent in the -ancient world. Luys indeed says that gonorrhœa is as old as mankind, -and was named by Galen himself, though regular physicians and surgeons -scorned to treat it. It is strange that there is so little reference to -this disease in the vast amount of pornographic literature which has -come down to us. Martial, for instance, or Ovid; nothing would seem too -obscene to have passed by their salacious minds; yet neither of them so -much as hint that such a thing as gonorrhœa existed. But it is possible -that such a disease might have been among the things unlucky or “tabu.” -All nations and all ages have been more or less under the influence -of tabu, which ranges from influence on the most trivial matters to -settlement of the gravest. Thus, many men would almost rather die than -walk abroad in a frock coat and tan boots, or, still more dreadful, in -a frock coat and Homburg hat, though that freakish costume appears to -be common enough in America. In this matter we are under the influence -of tabu--the thing which prevents us, or should prevent us, from eating -peas with our knife, or making unseemly noises when we eat soup, or -playing a funeral march at a cheerful social gathering. In all these -things the idea of _nefas_--unlucky--seems more or less to enter; -similarly we do not like to walk under a ladder lest a paint-pot should -fall upon us. Many people hate to mention the dread word “death,” lest -that should untimely be their portion. Just so possibly a licentious -man like Ovid may have been swayed by some such fear, and he may have -refrained from writing about the horrid disease which he must have -known was ever waiting for him. - -But though it may seem to have been impossible that any prostitute -should have escaped gonorrhœa in Byzantium, just as it is impossible -in modern London or Sydney, yet there is no evidence that Theodora so -suffered; what hints we have, if they weigh on either side at all, seem -to make it unlikely. She had a child after her marriage with Justinian, -though women who have had untreated gonorrhœa are very frequently or -generally sterile. Nor is there any evidence that Justinian ever had -any serious illness except the bubonic plague, from which he suffered, -and recovered, during the great epidemic of 546. I assume that the -buboes from which he doubtless suffered at that time were not venereal -but were the ordinary buboes of plague. He had been Theodora’s husband -for many years before that terrible year in which the plague swept away -about a third of the population of the Roman Empire, where it had been -simmering ever since the time of Marcus Aurelius. If Theodora really -had gonorrhœa, Justinian must have caught it, and it is unlikely that -he would have called her his “honoured wife.” - -A more probable explanation of her continued ill-health might be -that she became septic at her confinement, when the unwanted girl -was born. When the Byzantines spoke of a child as being “born in the -purple,” they spoke literally, for the Roman Empress was always sent -to a “porphyry palace” on the Bosphorus for her confinement; and once -there she had access to less good treatment than is available for -any sempstress to-day. It is impossible to suppose that the porphyry -palace--the “purple house”--ever became infected with puerperal sepsis -because there was never more than one confinement going on at a time -within its walls, and that only at long intervals. Still, there must -have been a great many septic confinements and unrecorded female -misery from their results among the women of that early world; and -that must be remembered when we consider the extraordinarily small -birth-rate of the Imperial families during so many centuries. Had the -Roman Emperors been able to point to strong sons to inherit their -glories, possibly the history of the Empire would have been less -turbulent. A Greek or Roman Lister might have altered the history of -the world by giving security of succession to the Imperial despot. - -After all, it is idle to speculate on Theodora’s illness, and it does -not much matter. She has long gone to her account, poor fascinating -creature; all her beauty and wit and eager vivacity are as though -they had never been save for their influence upon her husband’s laws. -Theodora is the standing example of woman’s fate to achieve results -through the agency of some man. - -She died of cancer, and died young. There is no record of the original -site of the cancer; the ecclesiastic who records the glad tidings -merely relates joyfully that it was diffused throughout her body, as -was only right and proper in one who differed from him in religious -opinions. It is generally thought that it started in the breast. No -doubt this is a modern guess, though of course cancer of the breast -is notorious for the way in which its secondary growths spread through -liver, lungs, bones, neck, spine, and so forth; and there is little -reason to suppose that the guess is incorrect. After trying all the -usual remedies for “lumps,” her physicians determined to send her to -the baths of Brusa, famous in miraculous cure. There were two large -iron and two large sulphur springs, besides smaller ones; and people -generally went there in spring and early summer when the earth was -gaily carpeted with the myriad flowers that spring up and fade before -the heat of the Mediterranean July. May we infer from the choice of a -sulphur bath that the cancer had already invaded the skin? Possibly. -Such a horror may have been the determining factor which induced the -Empress and her physicians to travel afield. But if so, surely the -recording priest missed a chance of rejoicing; for he does not tell us -the glad news. All over Bithynia and the Troad there were, and are, hot -mineral springs; Homer relates how one hot spring and a cold gushed -from beneath the walls of Troy itself. The girls of Troy used to wash -their clothes in the hot spring whenever Agamemnon would let them. - -When Theodora went to Brusa she was accompanied by a retinue of four -thousand, and Heaven resounded with the prayers of the Monophysites; -but the Orthodox refused to pray for the recovery of so infamous a -heretic, just as they had refused to join in her prayers for a son. -Theodora met with little loving-kindness on this earth after she had -left Egypt; possibly the world repaid her with what it received from -her. - -The sanctuaries of Asklepios were the great centres of Greek and Roman -healing, and the treatment there was both mental and physical. The -temples were generally built in charming localities, where everything -was peace and loveliness; the patients lay in beds in beautiful -colonnades, and to them, last thing at night, priests delivered restful -and touching services; when sleep came upon them they dreamt, and -the dreams were looked upon as the voice of God; they followed His -instructions and were cured. They were not cured, however, if they had -cancer. One Ælius Aristides has left us a vivid--and unconsciously -amusing--account of his adventures in search of health; he seems to -have been a neurotic man who ultimately developed into a first-class -neurasthenic. To him his beloved god was indeed a trial, as no doubt -Aristides himself was to his more earthly physicians. He would sit -surrounded by his friends, to whom he would pour out his woes in true -neurasthenic style. Aristides seems never to have been truly happy -unless he was talking about his ailments, and he loyally followed -any suggestion for treatment if only he could persuade himself that -it came from the beloved Asklepios. The god would send him a vision, -that ordered him to bathe three times in icy water when fevered, and -afterwards to run a mile in the teeth of a north-east wind--and the -north-easters in the Troad can be bitter indeed; very different from -the urbane and gentle breath that spreads so delicious a languor over -the summer of Sydney! This behest the much-tried man of faith would -dutifully perform, accompanied by a running bodyguard of doctors and -nurses marvelling at his endurance and the inscrutable wisdom of the -god, though they expected, and no doubt in their inmost hearts hoped, -that their long-suffering patient would drop dead from exhaustion. -There were real doctors at these shrines besides priests. The doctors -seem to have been much the same kind of inquisitive and benevolent -persons as we are to-day; some of them were paid to attend the poor -without fee. The nurses were both male and female, and appear to have -been most immoral people. Aristides was the wonder of his age; his -fame spread from land to land, and it is marvellous that he neither -succumbed to his heroic treatment nor lost his faith in the divine -being that subjected him to such torment. Both facts are perhaps -characteristic of mankind. The manner of his end I do not know. - -In Theodora’s time Asklepios and the other Olympian divinities had -long been gathered to their fathers before the advancing tides of -Christianity and Earth-Mother worship; but though the old gods were -gone the human body and human spirit remained the same, and there is no -doubt that she was expected to dream and bathe and drink mineral waters -just as Aristides had done centuries before; and no doubt a crowd of -sympathizing friends sat round her on the marble seats which are still -there and tried to console her--a difficult task when the sufferer has -cancer of the breast. She sat there, her beauty faded, her once-rounded -cheeks ashy with cachexia and lined with misery, brooding over the real -nature of the Christ she was so soon to meet, wondering whether she or -her implacable enemies were in the right as to His soul--whether He -had in truth two souls or one. She had made her choice, and it was too -late now to alter; in any case she was too gallant a little Empress to -quail in the face of death, come he never so horribly. Let us hope that -she had discovered before she died that Christ the All-merciful would -forgive even so atrocious a sin as attributing to Him a single soul! -All her piety, all the prayers of her friends, and all the medical -skill of Brusa proved in vain, and she died in A.D. 548, being then -forty years of age. So we take leave of this woman, whom many consider -the most remarkable in history. Let us envisage her to ourselves--this -graceful, exquisite, little cameo-faced lady, passionate in her loves -and her hates, with some of the languor of the East in her blood, much -of the tigress; brave in danger and resourceful in time of trouble; -loyal and faithful to her learned husband as he was loyal to her; yet -perhaps a little despising him. Except Medea, as seen by Euripides, -Theodora was probably the first feminist, and as such has made her mark -upon the world. On the whole her influence upon the Roman Empire seems -to have been for good, and the merciful and juster trend of the laws -she inspired must be noted in her favour. - -Theodora dead, the glory of Justinian departed. He seemed to be stunned -by the calamity, and for many critical months took no part in the -world’s affairs; even after he recovered he seemed but the shadow of -his old self. Faithful to her in life, he remained faithful after her -death, and sought no other woman; that is another reason for thinking -that Procopius lied. He lived, a lonely and friendless old man, for -eighteen more years, hated by his subjects for his extortionate -taxation--which they attributed to the extravagance of the crowned -prostitute, though more likely it was due to the enormous campaigns of -Belisarius and Narses the eunuch, as a result of which Italy and Africa -once more came under the sway of the East. Justinian was lonely on his -death-bed, and the world breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. He -had long outlived his glory. - - - - -The Emperor Charles V - - -That extraordinary phenomenon which, being neither Holy, nor Roman, nor -yet strictly speaking an Empire, was yet called the Holy Roman Empire, -began when Charlemagne crossed the Alps to rescue the reigning Pope -from the Lombards in A.D. 800. The Pope crowned him Roman Emperor of -the West, a title which had been extinct since the time of Odoacer more -than three hundred years before. The revival of the resplendent title -caused the unhappy people of the Dark Ages to think for a moment in -their misery that the mighty days of Augustus and Marcus Aurelius had -returned; it seemed to add the power of God to the romance of ages and -the brute power of kings. During the next two centuries the peoples of -France and Germany gradually evolved into two separate nations, but it -was impossible for men to forget the great brooding power which had -given the _Pax Romana_ to the world, and its hallowed memory survived -more beneficent than possibly it really was; it appeared to their -imaginations that if it were possible to unite the sanctity of the Pope -with the organizing power of Rome the blessed times might again return -when a man might reap in peace what he had sown in peace, and the -long agony of the Dark Ages might be lifted from mankind. When Henry -the Fowler had welded the Germans into a people with a powerful king -the time appeared to have arisen, and his son Otto was crowned Holy -Roman Emperor. He was not Emperor of Germany, nor German Emperor; he -was _Holy Roman Emperor_ of the German people, wielding power, partly -derived from the religious power of the Pope, and partly from the -military resources of whatever fiefs he might hold; and this enormous -and loosely knit organization persisted until 1806--nearly seven -hundred years from the time of Otto, and more than 1,000 years after -the time of Charlemagne. - -This mediæval Roman Empire was founded on sentiment; it took its power -from blessed--and probably distorted--memories of a golden age, when -one mighty Imperator really did rule the civilized world with a strong -and autocratic hand. It was a pathetic attempt to put back the hands -of the clock. It bespoke the misery through which mankind was passing -in the attempt to combine feudalism with justice. When the mediæval -Emperor was not fighting with the Pope he was generally fighting -with his presumed subjects; occasionally he tried to defend Europe -from the Turks. He might have justified his existence by defending -Constantinople in 1453, by which he would have averted the greatest -disaster that has ever befallen Europe. He missed that opportunity, and -the mediæval Empire, though it survived that extraordinary calamity, -yet continued ramshackle, feeble, and mediævally glorious until -long past the Protestant Reformation. Being Roman, of course it was -anti-Lutheran, and devoted its lumbering energies to the destruction -of the Protestants. No Holy Roman Emperor ever rivalled the greatness -of Charles V, in whose frame shone all the romance and glamour of -centuries. How vast was his power is shown when we consider that he -ruled over the Netherlands, Burgundy, Spain, Austria, much of what is -now Germany, and Italy; and he was not a man to be contented with a -nominal rule. - -He was born in Ghent in 1500 to Philip, Duke of Burgundy, and Juana, -who is commonly known as “Crazy Jane”; it is now generally believed -that she was insane, though the Spaniards shrank from imputing insanity -to a queen. From his father he inherited the principalities of the -Netherlands and Burgundy; from his mother he inherited the kingships -of Spain, Naples, and the Spanish colonies. When his grandfather, -the Hapsburg Emperor Maximilian, died, Charles was elected Emperor -in 1519; the other candidate was Francis I of France. The electors -were the seven _Kurfursten_ of Germany, and Charles bribed the harder -of the two. What power on earth could summon before a magistrate the -kings of France and Spain on a charge of improperly influencing the -vote of a German princelet? Once having attained to the title of Roman -Emperor, added to the enormous military power of King of Spain, Charles -immediately became the greatest man in the world. He was strong, -cautious, athletic, brave, and immeasurably sagacious; his reputation -for wisdom long survived him. - -Francis did not forgive him his victory, and for the next quarter of a -century--until 1544--Europe resounded with the rival cries of the two -monarchs, unhappy Italy being usually the actual scene of battle. At -Pavia in 1525 Francis had to say “All is lost save honour”--the precise -definition of “honour” in Francis’s mind being something very different -from what it is to-day. Francis was captured and haled to Madrid to -meet his grim conqueror, who kept him in prison until he consented to -marry Charles’s favourite sister Eleanor of Austria, and to join with -him in an alliance against the heretics. This Eleanor was a gentle and -beautiful lady whom Charles treated with true brotherly contempt; yet -she loved him. As soon as Francis was out of prison he forgot that he -was married, and made love to every pretty girl that came his way. - -Francis being safely out of the way, Charles turned to the great aim -of his life--to reconcile Protestants with Catholics throughout his -colossal Empire. He was a strong Catholic, and displayed immense energy -in the reconciliation. According to Gibbon, who quotes the learned -Grotius,[6] he burned 100,000 Netherlanders, and Gibbon dolefully -remarks that this one Holy Roman Emperor slew more Christians than -all the pagan Roman Emperors put together. Charles appears to have -grown gradually into the habit of persecution; he began comparatively -mildly, and it was not till 1550 that he began to see that there was -really nothing else to do with these dull and obstinate Lutherans but -to burn them. He could not understand it. He was sure he was right, and -yet the more Netherlanders he burned the fewer seemed to attend mass. -Moreover, it was impossible to believe that those things the miscreant -Luther had said about the immoral conduct of the monks could be true; -once upon a time he had met the fellow, and had him in his power; -why had he not burned him once and for all and saved the world from -this miserable holocaust which had now become necessary through the -man’s pestilential teaching? So Charles went on with his conciliation, -driven by conscience--the most terrible spur that can be applied to the -flanks of a righteous man. No doubt Torquemada acted from conscience, -and Robespierre; possibly even Nero could have raked up some sort of -a conscientious motive for all he did--the love of pure art, perhaps. -“_Qualis artifex pereo!_” said he in one of those terse untranslatable -Latin phrases when he was summoning up his courage to fall upon his -sword in the high Roman manner; surely there spoke the artist: “How -artistically I die!” - -The activities of Charles were so enormous that it is impossible in -this short sketch even to mention them all. Besides his conquest of -Francis and, through him, Italy, he saved Europe from the Turk. To -Francis’s eternal dishonour he had made an alliance with the last -great Turkish Sultan, Solyman the Magnificent. The baleful power which -had conquered Constantinople less than a century before seemed to -be sweeping on to spread its abominations over Western Europe; and -history finds it difficult to forgive Francis for assisting its latest -conqueror. Men remembered how Constantine Palæologus had fallen amidst -smoke and carnage in his empurpled blazonry, heroic to the last; they -forgot that the destruction of 1453 was probably the direct result -of the Venetian and French attack under Dandolo in 1204, from which -Constantinople never recovered. In talking of the “Terrible Turk” they -forgot that Dandolo and his Venetians and Frenchmen had committed -atrocities quite as terrible as the Turks’ during those days and nights -when Constantinople was given over to rapine; and now the brilliant -Francis appeared to be carrying on Dandolo’s war against civilization. -So when Charles stepped forward as the great hero of Europe, and drove -the Turks down the Danube with an army under his own leadership he was -hailed as the saviour of Christendom; it is to this that he owes a -good deal of his glory, and he nobly prepared the world for the still -greater victory of Lepanto to be won by his son Don John of Austria. - -Moreover, it was during his reign that the great American conquests of -the Spanish armies occurred, and the name of Fernando Cortes attained -to eternal glory; and the Portuguese voyager Maghellan made those -wonderful discoveries which have so profoundly influenced the course of -history. There had been no man so great and energetic as Charles since -Charlemagne; since him his only rival for almost super-human energy has -been Napoleon. - -That pathetic and unhappy queen whom we call “Bloody Mary” had been -betrothed to Charles for diplomatic reasons when she was an infant, -but he had broken off the engagement and ultimately married Isabella -of Portugal, whose fair face is immortalized by Titian in the portrait -that still hangs in the Prado, Madrid. Auburn of hair, with blue eyes -and delicate features, she looks the very type of what we used to call -the tubercular diathesis; and there can be no doubt that Charles really -loved her. Before he married her he had had an illegitimate daughter by -a Flemish girl; ten years after she died Barbara Blomberg, a flighty -German, bore him a son, the famous Don John of Austria. But while -Isabella lived no scandal attached to his name. Unhappily his only -legitimate son was Philip, afterwards Philip II of Spain. - -When Mary came to the throne she was intensely unhappy. During the -dreadful years that preceded the divorce of Catherine of Aragon, -Charles had strongly supported Catherine’s cause; and Mary did not -forget his aid when she found herself a monarch, lonely and friendless. -She let him know that she would be quite prepared to marry him if he -would take her.[7] Probably Charles was terrified by the advances of -the plain-faced old maid, but the opportunity of strengthening the -Catholic cause was too good to miss. The house of Austria was always -famous for its matrimonial skill; the hexameter pasquinade went: - - “Bella gerant alii--tu, felix Austria, nube!” - (“Others wage war for a throne--you, happy Austria, marry!”) - -Charles, in his dilemma, turned to his son Philip, who nobly responded -to the call of duty. Of him Gibbon might have said that “he sighed as a -lover, but obeyed as a son” if he had not said it concerning himself; -and Philip broke off his engagement to the Infanta of Portugal, and -married the fair English bride himself. - -Charles was still the greatest and most romantic figure in Europe--a -mighty conqueror and famous Emperor; any woman would have preferred him -to his mean-spirited son; and Mary was grateful to him for powerful -support during years of anguish. She obeyed his wishes, and took the -son instead of the father. - -Queen Mary’s sad life deserves a word of sympathetic study. With -her mother she had passed through years of hideous suffering, -culminating in her being forced by her father to declare herself a -bastard--probably the most utterly brutal act of Henry’s reign. She had -seen the fruits of ungovernable sexuality in the fate of her enemy Anne -Boleyn; added to her plain face this probably caused her to repress -her own sex-complex; finally she married the wretched young creature -Philip, who, having stirred her sexual passions, left her to pursue -his tortuous policy in Spain. All the time, as I read the story, she -was really desirous of Charles, his brilliant father. Love-sick for -Charles; love-sick for Philip, to whom she had a lawful right set at -naught by leagues of sea; love-sick for _any_ man whom her pride would -allow her to possess--and I do not hint a word against her virtue--she -is not a creature to scorn; she is rather to be pitied. Her father -had been a man of strong passions and violent deeds; from him she had -inherited that tendency to early degeneration of the cardiovascular -system which led to her death from dropsy at the early age of -forty-two; and her repressed sex-complex led her into the ways of a -ruthless religious persecution, probably increased by the object-lesson -set her by her hero. From this repressed sex-complex also sprang her -fierce desire for a child, though the historians commonly attribute -this emotion to a desire for some one to carry on her hatred of the -Protestants. I remember the case of a young woman who was a violent -Labour politician; unfortunately it became necessary for her to lose -her uterus because of a fibroid tumour. She professed to be frantically -sorry because she could no longer bear a son to go into Parliament to -fight the battle of the proletariat against the wicked capitalist; but -once in a moment of weakness she confessed that what she had really -wanted was not a bouncing young politician, but merely a dear little -baby to be her own child. Probably some such motive weighed with -Mary. People laughed at her because she used to mistake any abdominal -swelling, or even the normal diminution of menstruation that occurs -with middle age, for a sign of pregnancy[8]; but possibly if she had -married Charles instead of Philip, and had lived happily with him as -his wife, she would not have given her people occasion to call her -“Bloody Mary.” She is the saddest figure in English history. From her -earliest infancy she had been taught to look forward to a marriage -with the wonderful man who to her mind--and to the world’s--typified -the noblest qualities of humanity--courage, bravery, rich and profound -wisdom, learning and love of the beautiful in art and music and -literature; friend and admirer of Titian and gallant helper of her -mother. Her disappointment must have been terrible when she found him -snatched from her grasp and saw herself condemned either to a life of -old maidenhood or to a loveless marriage with a mean religious fanatic -twelve years younger than herself. The mentality which led Mary to -persecute the English Protestants contained the same qualities as had -led Joan of Arc to her career of unrivalled heroism, and to-day leads -an old maid to keep parrots. When an old maid undresses it is said that -she puts a cover over the parrot’s cage lest the bird should see her -nakedness; that is a phase of the same mentality as Mary’s and Joan’s. -Loneliness, sadness, suppressed longing for the unattainable--it is -cruel to laugh at an old maid. - -But Charles was to show himself mortal. He had always been a colossal -eater, and had never spared himself either in the field or at the -table. One has to pay for these things; if a man wishes to be a great -leader and to undertake great responsibilities he must be content -to forswear carnal delights and eat sparingly; and it is hardly an -exaggeration to say that it is less harmful to drink too much than -to eat too much. At the age of thirty Charles began to suffer from -“gout”--whatever it was that they called gout in those days. At the -age of fifty he began to lose his teeth--apparently from pyorrhœa. -Possibly his “gout” may have really been the result of focal infection -from his septic teeth. At fifty his gout “flew to his head,” and -threatened him with sudden death. When he was fifty-two he suddenly -became pale and thin, and it was noticed that his hair was rapidly -turning grey. Clearly his enormous gluttony was beginning to result in -arterio-sclerosis, and at fifty-four it was reported to his enemy the -Sultan that Charles had lost the use of an arm and a leg. Sir William -Stirling-Maxwell thought that this report was the exaggeration of an -enemy; but it is quite possible that Charles really suffered from that -annoying condition known as “intermittent claudication,” which is such -a nuisance to both patient and doctor in cases of arterio-sclerosis. In -these attacks there may be temporary paralysis and loss of the power -of speech. The cause of them is not quite clear, because they seldom -prove fatal; but it is supposed that there is spasm of some small -artery in the brain, or perhaps a transitory dropsy of some motor area. -Charles’s speech became indistinct, so that towards the end of his -life it was difficult to understand what he meant. It has generally -been supposed that this was due to his underhung lower jaw and loss of -teeth; but it is equally probable that dropsy of the speech-centre may -have been at the root of the trouble, such as is so frequently observed -in arterio-sclerosis or its congener chronic Bright’s disease, and is -also often caused by over-strain and over-eating. He began to feel -the cold intensely, and sat shivering even under the warmest wraps; -he said himself that the cold seemed to be in his bones. Probably -there was some spasm of the arterioles, such as is often seen in -arterio-sclerosis. - -By this time, what with the failure of his plans against the -Protestants and his wretched health, he had made up his mind to resign -the burden of Empire, and to seek repose in some warmer climate, where -he could rest in the congenial atmosphere of a monastery. No Roman -Emperor had voluntarily resigned the greatest position in the world -since Diocletian in A.D. 305; curiously enough he too had been a -persecutor, so that his reign is known among the hagiographers as “the -age of martyrs.” - -Charles called together a great meeting at the Castle of Caudenburg -in Brussels in 1556. All the great ones of the Empire were there, -and the Knights of the Golden Fleece, an order which still vies for -greatness with our own order of the Garter; possibly it may now even -excel that order, because it is unlikely that it will ever again be -conferred by an Austrian Emperor. Like the Garter, it had “no damned -pretence of merit about it.” If you were entitled to wear the chain -and insignia of the Golden Fleece, you were a man of very noble birth. -Yet, like the Order of the Thistle, the Fleece may yet be revived, and -may recover its ancient splendour. On the right of the Emperor sat his -son Philip, just returned, a not-impetuous bridegroom, from marrying -Mary of England. On his left he leant painfully and short of breath -upon the shoulder of William the Silent, who was soon to become of -some little note in the world. It was a strange group: the great, bold -Emperor whose course was so nearly run; the mean little king-consort of -England; and the noble patriot statesman who was soon to drag Philip’s -name in the dust of ignominy. Charles spoke at some length, recounting -how he had won many victories and suffered many defeats, yet, though so -constantly at war, he had always striven for peace; how he had crossed -the Mediterranean many times against the Turk, and had made forty -long journeys and many short ones to see for himself the troubles of -his subjects. He insisted proudly that he had never done any man a -cruelty or an injustice. He burst into tears and sat down, showing the -emotionalism that so often attends upon high blood-pressure; and the -crowd, seeing the great soldier weep, wept with him. Eleanor gave him -a cordial to drink, and he resumed, saying that at last he had found -the trials of Empire more than his health would allow him to sustain. -He had decided to abdicate in favour of his beloved son Philip. It was -given to few monarchs to die and yet to live--to see his own glory -continued in the glory which he expected for his son. It seems to have -been a really touching and dramatic scene, causing an immense sensation -throughout Europe. If there were ever an indispensable man it would -have appeared at that time to be the Emperor Charles V; the world -quaked in apprehension. - -It was some time before Charles could carry out his design, but -ultimately he went, by a long and dangerous journey, to the place -of his retirement, Yuste, in Estremadura, Northern Spain, where -there slept a little monastery of followers of St. Jerome; why he--a -Fleming--should have picked on this lonely and inaccessible place is -not known. With him went a little band of attendants, chief among whom -was his stout old chamberlain, Don Luis Quixada, of whom we shall hear -more when we come to consider Don John of Austria. This Quixada seems -to have been a fine type of Spanish grandee, loyal and faithful; a -merry grandee also, who added sound sense to jocund playfulness. Note -well the name; we shall meet it again to some purpose. - -Charles was mistaken in supposing that he could find rest at Yuste; the -world would not let him rest. He had been a figure too overwhelming. He -spent his days in reading dispatches from all who were in trouble and -fancied that the great man could pluck them from the toils. Chief of -his suppliants was his son Philip, who found the mantle that had seemed -to sit so easily on his father’s mighty shoulders intolerably heavy -when he came to wear it himself. To the man who is strong in his wisdom -and resolution difficulties disappear when they are boldly faced. -Philip was timorous, poor-spirited, pedantic, and procrastinating. He -constantly appealed to his father for advice, and Charles responded -in letters which seem to show, in their evidence of annoyance, the -irritability that goes with a high blood-pressure. An epidemic of -Reformation was breaking out in Spain, however sterile might seem the -soil of that nation for Protestantism to flourish. It is not quite -clear why no serious move towards the Reformed Religion ever took -place among the Spaniards. It is probable that the ancient faith had -thrust its roots too deeply into their hearts during the centuries of -struggle against the Moors. In the minds of the Spanish people it had -been the Church which had inspired their ancestors--not the kings; -and they were not going to desert the old religion now that they saw -it attacked by the Germans. Moreover, the fierce repression which was -practised by the Spanish Inquisition must have had its effect. Lecky -formed the opinion that no new idea could survive in the teeth of -really determined persecution; and the history of religion in Spain and -France seems to bear him out. - -However, the old war-horse in his retirement snuffed the battle and the -joyous smell of the burnings, and stoutly urged on the Inquisitors, -at whatever cost to his own quiet. Spain remained diligently Roman -Catholic at the orders of the Holy Roman Emperor and his son Philip; -and at this moment, when Charles was so urgently longing for peace and -retirement, English Mary, his cousin and daughter-in-law, in whose -interests he had loyally braved God, man, and Pope, lost Calais; the -French, under the Duke of Guise, took it from her. She might well -grieve and say the name would be found written on her heart; she but -echoed the feelings of her beloved Emperor. For weeks he mumbled with -toothless jaws the agony of his soul over this crowning misfortune, and -from this he never really recovered. Already how had the times changed -since the Spanish infantry had overrun Europe at his command! - -But he could do nothing; he had abdicated. That iron hand was now so -crippled with gout that it could hardly even open an envelope, had to -sign its letters with a seal, and constantly held a tiny chafing-dish -to keep itself warm. Charles sat shivering and helpless, wrapped in a -great eiderdown cloak even in midsummer; his eyes fell on the portrait -of his beloved wife and of that plain Mary who had wished to marry -him, and on several favourite pictures by Titian. He listened to the -singing of the friars, and was resentful of the slightest wrong note, -for he had an exceedingly acute musical ear. The good fathers, in their -attempts to entertain him, brought famous preachers to preach to him; -he listened dutifully--he, whose lightest word had once shaken Europe, -but who now could hardly mumble in a slurring voice! And in spite of -the protests of Quixada he heroically sat down to eat himself to death. -It has been said that marriage for an old man is merely a pleasant way -of committing suicide; it is doubtful whether Charles enjoyed his -chosen method of self-poisoning, for he had lost the sense of taste, -and no food could be too richly seasoned for his tired palate. Vast -quantities of beef, mutton, venison, ham, and highly flavoured sausages -went past those toothless jaws, washed down by the richest wines, the -heaviest beers; the local hidalgoes quickly discovered that to reach -the Emperor’s heart all they had to do was to appeal to his stomach, -so they poured in upon him every kind of rich dainty, to the despair -of Quixada, who did his best to protect his master. “Really,” said he, -“kings seem to think that their stomachs are not made like other men’s!” - -He sometimes used to go riding, but one day, when he was mounting his -pony, he was suddenly seized with an attack of giddiness so severe that -he nearly fell into the arms of Quixada, so that the Emperor, who had -once upon a time been the _beau ideal_ of a light cavalryman, had to -toil about heavily on foot in the woods, and to strive to hold his gun -steadily enough to shoot a wood-pigeon. - -He spent his spare time watching men lay out for him new parterres and -planting trees; man began with a garden, and in sickness and sorrow -ends with one. The Earth-Mother is the one friend that never deserts -us. - -For some time he took a daily dose of senna, which was probably the -best thing he could have taken in the absence of Epsom salts, but -nothing could get rid of the enormous amount of rich food that poured -down his gullet. He was always thinking of death, and there seems to -be little doubt that he really did rehearse his own funeral. He held -a great and solemn procession, catafalque and all, and, kneeling in -front of the altar, handed to the officiating friar a taper, which was -symbolical of his own soul. He then sat during the afternoon in the hot -sun, and it was thought that he caught a feverish chill, for he took -to his bed and never left it alive; for hours he held the portrait of -Isabella in his hands, recalling her fresh young beauty; he clasped -to his bosom the crucifix which he had taken from her dead fingers -just before they had become stiff. Then came the fatal headache and -vomiting which so often usher in the close of chronic Bright’s disease. -We are told that he lay unconscious, holding his wife’s crucifix, -till he said: “Lord, I am coming to Thee!” His hand relaxed--was the -motor-centre becoming œdematous?--and a bishop held the crucifix before -his dying eyes. Charles sighed, “Aye--Jesus!” and died. Whether or no -he died so soon after saying these things as the good friar would have -us believe, it is certain that his end was edifying and pious, and such -as he would have wished. - -The great interest of Charles V to a doctor, now that the questions -over which he struggled so fiercely are settled, is that we can seldom -trace so well in any historical character the course of the disease -from which he died. If Charles had been content to live on milky food -and drink less it is probable that he would have lived for years; -he might have yielded to the constant entreaties of his friends and -resumed the imperial crown; he might have taken into his strong hands -the guidance of Spain and the Netherlands that was overwhelming Philip; -his calm good sense might have averted the rising flood that ultimately -led to the revolt of the Netherlands; possibly he might even have -averted the Spanish Armada, though it seems improbable that he could -have lived thirty years. But Spain might have avoided that arrogant -behaviour which has since that day caused so many of her troubles; with -the substitution of Philip for Charles at that critical time she took a -wrong turning from which she has never since recovered. - -The death of Charles V caused an extraordinary sensation in -Europe--even greater than the sensation caused by his abdication. -Immense memorial services were held all over the Empire; people -wondered how they were ever to recover from the loss. Stout old Quixada -said boldly that Charles V was the greatest man that ever had been -or ever would be in the world. If we differ from him, at all events -his opinion helps us to appreciate the extraordinary impression that -Charles had made upon his time, and it is now generally agreed that he -was the greatest man of the sixteenth century, which was so prodigal -of remarkable men. Possibly William the Silent might be thought still -greater; but he was much less resplendent; he lacked the knightly -glamour that surrounded the head of the Holy Roman Emperor; he wore no -Golden Fleece; no storied centuries fluttered over his head. Yet, if -we come to seek a cause for this immense impression, it is not easy -to find. There is no doubt that he was a stout defender of the old -religion at a time when it sorely needed defenders, and to that extent -Romance broods over his memory--the romance of things that are old. -He was a man of remarkable energy, and a great soldier at a time when -soldiering was not distinguished by genius. He appears to have had -great personal charm, though I can find few sayings attributed to him -by which we can judge the source of that charm. There is nothing in his -history like the gay insouciance, the constant little personal letters -to friends, of Henri Quatre; things with Charles V seem to have been -rather serious and legal than friendly. He was fond of simple joys, -like watchmaking, and he got a remarkable clockmaker, one Torriano, to -accompany him to Yuste to amuse his last months. He left behind him a -great many watches, and naturally the story grew that he had said: “If -I cannot even get my watches to agree, how can I expect my subjects -to follow one religion?” But it is probable that this pretty story -is quite apocryphal; it is certainly very unlike Charles’s strongly -religious--not to say bigoted--character. He was proud and autocratic, -yet could unbend, and the friars of Yuste found him a good friend. The -boys of the neighbouring village used to rob his orchard, much to the -disgust of the Emperor; he set the police on their track, but died -before the case came up for trial. After his death it was found that he -had left instructions that the fines which he expected to receive from -the naughty little ragamuffins were to be given to the poor of their -village. Among these naughty little boys was probably young Don John of -Austria, whom Quixada had brought to see his supposed father; and it is -said that Charles acknowledged him before he died. - -Lastly, Charles had the inestimable advantage of being depicted by -one of the greatest artists of all time. It is impossible to look -upon his sad and thoughtful face, as drawn by the great Titian, -without sympathy. The strong, if underhung, jaw which he bequeathed -to his descendants and is still to be seen in King Alfonso of Spain; -the wide-set and thoughtful eyes; the care-worn furrowed brow; the -expression of energy and calm wisdom: all these belonged to a great man. - -Two hundred years after he died, when his body had long been removed -to the Escorial where it now lies in solemn company with the bodies -of many other Spanish monarchs, a strange fate allowed a visiting -Scotsman to view it. Even after that great lapse of time it was, -though mummified, little affected by decay; there were still on his -winding-sheet the sprigs of thyme which his friends had placed there; -and the grave and stately features as painted by Titian were still -vividly recognizable. - -We should be quite within the bounds of reason in saying that Charles -V was the greatest man between Charlemagne and Napoleon. He was less -knightly than Charlemagne--probably because we know more about him; -he had no Austerlitz nor Jena to his credit--nor any Moscow; but in -devouring energy and vastness of conception there was little to choose -between the three. Charlemagne left behind him the Holy Roman Empire -with its enormous mediæval significance, whereas Napoleon and Charles -V left comparatively little or nothing. He was the heroic defender of -a losing cause, and wears the romantic halo that such heroes wear; yet -whatever halo of chivalry, romance, and religious fervour surrounds his -name, it is difficult to forget that he deliberately ate himself to -death. An ignoble end. - - - - -Don John of Austria, Cervantes, and Don Quixote - - -Two great alliances, of which you will read nothing in ordinary -history-books, have pre-eminently influenced mankind. The first was -between the Priest and the Woman, and seems to have begun in Neolithic -times, when Woman was looked upon as a witch with some uncanny power -of bewitching honest men and somehow bringing forth useless brats for -no earthly reason that could be discovered. From this alliance grew -the worship of Motherhood, and hence many more modern religions. When, -on Sundays, you see ranks of men in stiff collars sitting in church -though they would much rather be playing tennis, you know that they -are expiating in misery the spankings inflicted by their Neolithic -ancestors perhaps 10,000 years ago: their wives have driven them to -church, and Woman, as usual, has had the last word. - -But the other alliance, that between Man and Horse, has been a more -terrible affair altogether, and has led to Chivalry, the cult of the -Man on the Horse, of the Aristocrat, of the Rich Man. Though the Romans -had a savage aristocracy they never had Chivalry, probably because -they never feared the cavalryman. The Roman legion, in its open order, -could face any cavalry, because the legionary knew that the man by his -side would not run away; if he, being a misbegotten son of fear, did -so, then the man behind him would take advantage of the plungings of -the horse to drive his javelin into the silly animal while he himself -would use his sword upon the rider. It was left for the Gran Catalan -Company of Spain and the Scots under Wallace and Bruce to prove in -mediæval times that the infantryman would beat the cavalryman. - -The Romans never adopted the artificial rules of Chivalry; it was the -business of the legions to win battles--to make money over the business -if they could, but first and foremost to win battles. They had no ideas -about the “point of honour” which has cost so many a man his life. The -main thing was that the legions must not run away; it was for the enemy -to do the running. To the Romans it never seems to have occurred that -Woman was a creature to be sentimentally worshipped, or that it really -mattered very much whether you spoke of a brace of grouse or a couple, -of a mob of hounds or a pack; but to the Knight of Chivalry these were -vital matters. - -With Charlemagne and his Franks a new civilization came into full -flower; and Chivalry--the “worship of God and the ladies,” to quote -Gibbon’s ironic phrase--swayed the minds of Northern Europe for -centuries. - -Chivalry has been much misunderstood in modern times. We probably see -Chaucer’s “varry parfit gentil knight” as poets and idealists would -have us see him and not as he really was. There was no sentimentality -about your knight. “Gentle” did not mean “kind”; it meant really “son -of a landowner.” A knight had to do things in the manner considered -fashionable by his class; he had to call things precisely by the names -taught him by some older knight--his tutor and university combined; the -slightest slip and he would be considered as the mediæval equivalent -of our “bounder”; he had to wear the proper clothes at the proper -time, and to obey certain arbitrary--often quite artificial--“manners -and rules of good society,” or he would be considered lacking in -“good form”; he must recognize the rights of the rich as against the -poor, but it did not follow that he should recognize any rights of -the poor as against the rich. Even Bayard, knight _sans peur et sans -reproche_, would probably have seemed a most offensive fellow to a -twentieth-century gentleman if he, with his modern ideas, could have -met the Chevalier; and the sensation caused by the kindly conduct of -Sir Philip Sidney in handing his drink of water to a wounded soldier -at Zutphen shows how rare such a thing must have been. It was done a -thousand times in the late war, and nobody thought anything about it. -To the extent of the sensation of Zutphen Chivalry had debased mankind; -the evil that it did lived after it. It did good in teaching the world -manners and a certain standard of honourable conduct; it did not teach -morality, or real religion, or real kindness. These things were left -for the poor to teach the rich. - -This unsentimental harangue leads us to “the last knight of -Europe”--Don John of Austria, around whose name there still shines a -glamour of romance like the sound of a trumpet. About nine years after -the death of the Empress Isabel, Charles V went a-wandering, still -disconsolate, through his mighty empire. He was sad and lonely, for -it was about the time when the arterio-sclerosis which was to kill -him began to depress his spirits. At Ratisbon, where he lay preparing -for the great campaign which was to end in the glorious victory of -Muhlburg, they brought to him to cheer him up a sweet singer and pretty -girl named Barbara Blomberg, daughter of a noble family. She sang to -the Emperor to such purpose that he became her lover, and in due -course Don John was born. By this time Charles had discovered that his -pretty nightingale was a petulant, extravagant, sensual young woman, -by no means the sort of mother a wise man would select to bring up his -son; so he took the boy from her care and sent him to a poor Spanish -family near Madrid. Whatever Charles V did in his private life seems -to have borne the stamp of wisdom and kindness, however little we -may agree with some of his public actions. Probably Barbara did not -object; it must have been rather alarming for the flighty young person -to have the tremendous personality of the great Emperor constantly -overlooking her folly; she married a man named Kugel, ruined him by her -extravagance, and died penniless save for an annuity of 200 florins -left her by the Emperor in his will. I read a touch of sentimentality -into Charles’s character. It is difficult to wonder more at his -memory of his old light-of-love in his will, or at his accurate and -uncomplimentary estimate of her value. Probably he was rather ashamed -of some of his memories; so far as I can find out there were not many -such, and he wished to hush up the whole incident. Probably Barbara was -not worth much more than 200 florins per annum. - -Still keeping secret the parentage of the child, whom he called -Jeronimo after his favourite saint, Charles handed him over to the care -of his steward, Don Luis de Quixada, asking that Maddalena his wife -should regard Jeronimo as her own son. Quixada had not been married -very long, and naturally Maddalena wondered whence came this cheery -little boy of which Quixada seemed so fond; nor would he gratify her -curiosity, but hushed her with dark sayings; she kissed the baby in -public, but wept in secret for jealousy of the wicked female who had -evidently borne a son in secret to her husband before he had married -his lawful wife. One night the castle caught fire, and Quixada, flower -of Spain’s chivalry though he was, rescued the child before he returned -to save Maddalena. It is wrong to call him a “grandee of Spain,” for -“grandee” is a title much the same as our “duke”; had he been a grandee -I understand that his true name would have been “Señor Don Quixada, -duca e grandi de España.” One would think that this action would have -added fuel to Maddalena’s jealousy, but she believed her husband when -he told her that Jeronimo was a child of such surpassing importance to -the world that it had been necessary for a Quixada to save him even -before he saved his wife, and quite probably she then, for the first -time, began to suspect his real parentage. Charles V was then the -great Catholic hero, and the whole Catholic world was weeping for his -abdication. So Maddalena developed a strong love for Jeronimo, which -died only with herself. She lived for a great many years and bore no -children; Jeronimo remained to her as her only son. He always looked -upon her as his mother, and throughout his life wrote to her letters -which are still delightful to read; whatever duty he had, in whatever -part of the world, he always found time to write to Maddalena in the -midst of it, and, like a real mother, she kept the letters. - -It is said that Charles when dying kissed Jeronimo and called him son; -he certainly provided for him in his will. After his death Quixada -at first tried to keep the matter secret, but afterwards sent him -to live at the Court with his brother Philip II, who treated him as -he treated everybody else but Charles V--“the one wise and strong -man whom he never suspected, never betrayed, and never undervalued,” -as Stirling-Maxwell says. Jeronimo was then openly acknowledged by -Philip as Charles’s natural son, being called Don John of Austria. -Philip’s own son, a youth of small intelligence, who afterwards died -under restraint--Philip was of course accused of poisoning him--once -called him _bâtarde et fils de putaine_--bastard and strumpet’s son. -The curly-headed little boy kept his hands by his side and quietly -replied, “Possibly so; but at any rate I had a better _father_ than -you!” Even by that time he had begun to see that his mother was no -saint, and could tell between a great man and a little. Philip could -never forgive Don John for being a gallant youth such as his father -had hoped that Philip would be and was not; and Don John, conscious -of his mighty ancestry, ardently longed to be a real gallant King of -Romance, such as his father had hoped Philip would become. Charles, -in his will, had expressed a hope that he would be a monk, and Philip -actively fought for this, though Charles had left the decision to Don -John’s own wishes. In Philip’s eyes no doubt a gay and bold younger -brother would be less dangerous to the State--i.e. to Philip--as a monk -than as a soldier; yet is it not possible that Philip only thought he -was loyally helping to follow out his father’s wishes? He was generally -a “slave of duty,” though his slavery often led him into tortuous -courses. The Church is a great leveller, and religion is a pacifying -and amaranthine repast. But no monkish cowl would suit Don John; his -locks were fair and hyacinthine, and no tonsure should degrade them. -After a struggle Philip yielded, and Don John was sent in command of -the galleys against the Algerian pirates. He did well, and next year -he commanded the land forces against the rebel Moriscoes of Granada. -Here, in his very first battle, he lost his foster-father and mentor, -Quixada, who died a knightly death in rallying the army when it -meditated flight. A true knight of Spain, this Quixada, from the time -when he took the little son of imperial majesty under his care till -the time when he gave up his life lest that little son, now become a -radiant young man, should suffer dishonour by his army running away. -All Spain, from Philip downward, mourned the death of this most valiant -gentleman, which is another thing that makes me think that Philip’s -conduct towards Don John was not quite so black as it has been painted. -He could certainly recognize worth when it did not conflict with his -own interests--that is to say, with the interests of Spain as he saw -them. Quixada’s action in concealing the parentage of Don John from his -wife was just the sort of loyal and unwise thing that might have been -expected from a chivalrous knight, using the word “chivalrous” as it is -commonly understood to-day; a dangerous thing, for many a woman would -not have had sufficient faith in her husband to believe him when he -suddenly produced an unexplained and charming little boy soon after he -was married. Maddalena de Ulloa acted like an angel; Don Quixada acted -like--Don Quixote! Now we see why I asked you particularly to note the -name when we first came across it in the essay on Charles V. Whence did -Cervantes get the idea for Don Quixote if not from the foster-father of -Don John? - -Two years later he got the real chance of his life. The Turks, having -recovered from the shock inflicted on them by Charles V, captured -Cyprus and seemed about to conquer all the little republics of the -Adriatic. The Pope, Pius V, organized the “Holy League” between Spain -and Venice, between the most fiercely monarchical of countries and the -most republican of cities; and Don John was appointed Admiral-in-chief -of the combined fleets of the “Last Crusade,” as the enterprise is -called from its mingled gallantry and apparent unity and idealism. For -the last time men stood spellbound as Christendom attacked Mohammed. - - Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far, - And Don John of Austria is going to the war, - -sings Chesterton in _Lepanto_, one of the most stirring battle-poems -since the _Iliad_. - - Sudden and still--hurrah! - Bolt from Iberia! - Don John of Austria - Is gone by Alcalar. - -It is difficult for us nowadays to realize the terror of the Turks -that possessed Europe in the sixteenth century; mothers quieted -their children by the dreadful name, and escaped sailors recounted -indescribable horrors in every little seaport from Albania to -Scotland. Many thousands of Christian slaves laboured at the oars -of the war-galleys, not, as is generally thought, as hostages that -these galleys might not be sunk. They were the private property of -the captains, who treated their own property better than they treated -the property of the Grand Turk. Thus, it was not the worst fate for a -Christian galley-slave to serve in the galley of his owner. He would -not be exposed to reckless sinking at any rate; if the galley sank, it -would be because the owner could not help it. Nor would he be likely -to be impaled upon a red-hot poker or thrown upon butchers’ hooks, as -might happen to the slave of the Sultan. So it would seem that some -unnecessary pity has been spilt upon the slaves of the galleys. Their -lot might have been worse, to put things in their most favourable light. - - King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck, - (Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.) - Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines - Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines. - (“_But Don John of Austria has burst the battle line!_”) - Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop, - Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop. - _Vivat Hispania! - Domino gloria!_ - Don John of Austria - Has set his people free! - -This “last crusade” culminated in the great battle of Lepanto, in 1571, -where the Turks lost about 35,000 men and their whole battle fleet -except forty galleys which crawled home disabled. There was a good deal -of discussion about the action of an Italian galley under Doria, but -Cervantes, in _Don Quixote_, seems to have been quite satisfied with -it. No such wonderful battle was fought at sea until the Nile itself, -which is the most perfect of all sea-fights. - -The sensation throughout Europe was indescribable. Everything helped to -make the victory romantic--the gallant young bastard admiral compared -with the unattractive king under whom he served, the sudden relief from -terrible danger, and the victory of Christ over Mahound, so dramatic -and complete, all combined to stir the pulses of Christendom as they -had never been stirred before--even in the earlier Crusades when the -very tomb of Christ was the point under dispute. Men said that Mahound, -when he heard the guns of Don John, wept upon the knees of his houris -in his Paradise; black Azrael, the angel of death, had turned traitor -upon his worshippers. - -This glorious victory was won largely by the extraordinary daring and -inspiring personality of the Emperor’s bastard, who now, at the summit -of human glory, saw himself condemned to retire into the position of -a subject. The rest of the life of the “man who would be king” is the -record of thwarted ambition and disappointed hopes. Spain and Venice -quarrelled, and Lepanto was not followed up; Philip lost the chance -of retrieving 1453 and of changing the history of Europe in Spain’s -favour ever since. Christian set once more to killing Christian in -the old melancholy way; Venice made peace with the Sultan, and Don -John set about carving out a kingdom for himself. In dreams he saw -himself monarch of Albania, or of the Morea; and in body he actually -recaptured Tunis, once so gloriously held by his father. But Philip -would not support him and he had to retire. Cervantes, in _Don -Quixote_, evidently thinks Philip quite right. Tunis was a “sponge -for extravagance, and a moth for expense; and as for holding it as a -monument to Charles V, why, what monument was necessary to glory so -eternal?” Don John returned home without a kingdom to his brother, -who no doubt let him see that he was becoming rather a nuisance with -his expensive dreams. In 1576 he was placated by an appointment as -Governor-General to the Netherlands, where he quickly found himself -confronted by a much greater, though less romantic, man than himself. -William of Orange was now the unquestioned leader of the revolt of the -Dutch against the Roman Catholic power of Philip, and when Don John -reached the Netherlands he found himself Governor with no subjects. -After fruitless negotiations he retired, a very ill man, to Namur; -he had become thin and pale, and lost his vivacity. His heart was -not in his task. He was meditating the extraordinary “empresa de -Inglaterra”--the “enterprise of England”--which now seems to us so -fantastic. The Spanish army was to evacuate the Netherlands and to be -rapidly ferried across to Yorkshire; by a lightning stroke it was to -release Mary Queen of Scots, that romantic Queen, and marry her to Don -John, the romantic victor of Lepanto; Elizabeth was to be slain, and -the Pope was to bless the union of romance with romance. But Elizabeth -would have taken a deal of slaying. One cannot help surmising that -Don John may have dreamed this fantasy because he had been educated -by Quixada; it was a dream that might have passed through the addled -brain of Don Quixote himself. The victor of Lepanto should better have -understood the mighty power of the sea; the galleys which had done so -well in the Mediterranean would have been worse than useless in the -North, where the storms are a worse enemy than the Turks. - -But Philip, either through timidity, or jealousy, or wisdom, would -have none of it; after long delay he sent an important force to the -Netherlands under the command of Don John’s cousin, Alexander Farnese, -Prince of Parma, the greatest general Spain ever produced. Don John -abandoned his dreams to fall with this army upon the Protestants at -Gemblours, where he, or Farnese--opinions differ--won a really great -victory, the last that was to honour his name. - -A curious incident in this campaign was that the Spaniards were -attacked by a small Scottish force at a place called Rejnements. The -Scotsmen began, _more Scotorum_, by singing a psalm. Having thus -prepared the way spiritually, they prepared it physically by casting -off their clothes, and to the horror of the modest Spaniards attacked -naked with considerable success. Many of us, no doubt, remember how the -Highlanders in the late war were said to have stained their bodies with -coffee or Condy’s fluid and, under cover of a Birnam’s wood composed of -branches of trees, emulated the bold Malcolm and Macduff by creeping -upon the Germans attired mainly in their boots and identity disks; a -sparse costume in which to appear before nursing sisters should they -be wounded. I had the honour of operating upon one hefty gentleman who -reached the C.C.S. in this attire, sheltered from the bitter cold by -blankets supplied by considerate Australians in the field ambulance. -We from a southern land considered the habit more suitable for the -hardy Scot than for ourselves; though we remembered that an Australian -surgeon at Gallipoli, finding that his dressings had run short, tore -his raiment into strips and, when the need came, charged the Turks -berserk attired in the costume of Adam before the Fall. But we did not -remember that gallant Scotsmen had done something similar in 1578. No -doubt the sight of a large man, dressed in cannibal costume and dancing -horribly on the parapet while he poured forth a string of uncouth Doric -imprecations, led to the tale that the British Army was employing -African natives to devour the astonished Bosche. - -Don John could not follow up the victory of Gemblours. He had neither -money nor sufficient men; the few short months remaining to him were -spent in imploring aid from his brother. Philip did nothing; possibly -he was jealous of Don John; possibly he was fully occupied over the -miserable affair of Antonio Perez and the Princess of Eboli. One would -like to think that he had lucid intervals in which he recognized the -insensate folly of the whole business; but like his father he was -spurred on by his conscience. In addition to the other troubles of -Don John his army began to waste away with pestilence, no doubt, it -being now autumn, with typhoid, that curse of armies before the recent -discovery of T.A.B. inoculation. Don John fell sick, in September, -1578, of a fever, but, his doctors considering the illness trifling, -continued to work. One Italian, indeed, said that he would die, whereas -another sick man, believed to be _in articulo mortis_, would recover. -The guess proved right, and when Don John died the Italian surgeon’s -fortune was made. Thus easily are some reputations gained in our -profession; it is easier to make a reputation than to keep it. - -For nearly three weeks Don John struggled to work, encouraged by his -physicians; there came a day, towards the end of September, when he, -being already much wasted by his illness, was seized by a most violent -pain and immediately had to go to bed. He became delirious, and babbled -of battle-fields and trumpet-calls; he gave orders to imaginary lines -of battle; he became unconscious. After two days of muttering delirium -he awakened, and, as he was thought to be _in extremis_, took extreme -unction. Next day the dying flicker continued, and he heard the priest -say mass; though his sight had failed and he could not see, he had -himself raised in the bed, feebly turned his head towards the elevation -of the Host and adored the body of Christ with his last glimmer of -consciousness. He then fell back unconscious, and sank into a state -of coma, from which he never rallied. In all, he had been ill about -twenty-four days. - -These events could be easily explained on the supposition that -this young man’s brave life was terminated by that curse of young -soldiers--ruptured typhoid ulcer in ambulatory typhoid fever. His army -was dwindling with pestilence; he himself walked about feeling feverish -and “seedy” and losing weight rapidly for a fortnight; he was just -at the typhoid age, in the typhoid time of the year, and in typhoid -conditions; his ulcer burst, causing peritonitis; the tremendous shock -of the rupture, together with the toxæmia, drove him delirious and then -unconscious; being a very strong young man he woke up again as the -first shock passed away; as the shock passed into definite peritonitis -unconsciousness returned, and he was fortunate in being able to hear -his last mass before he died. I see no flaw in this reasoning. - -The rest of the story is rather quaint. By next spring Philip had -given orders for the embalmed body to be brought to Spain, and it -was considered rather mean of him that the body of his brother was -to be brought on mule-back. But Philip was at his wits’ end for -money to prosecute the war, and no doubt he himself looked upon his -“meanness” as a wise economy. The body was exhumed, cut into three -pieces--apparently by disjointing it at the hips--and stuffed into -three leather bags which were slung on mule-back in a pack-saddle. When -it came within a few miles of the Escorial it was put together again, -laid upon a bier, and given a noble funeral in a death-chamber next to -that which had been reserved for the great Emperor his father. There I -believe it still lies, the winds of the Escorial laughing at its dreams -of chivalrous glory. - -Philip, suspicious of everybody and everything, had given orders that, -should Don John die, his confessor was to keep an accurate record of -the circumstances; and it is from the report of this priest that the -above account has been drawn by Stirling-Maxwell, so we can look upon -it as authoritative. Philip was accused of poisoning him, and for a -moment this supposition was borne out by the extreme redness of the -intestines; but this is much more easily explained by the peritonitis. -Again, Philip’s enemies have said that Don John died of a broken -heart, because the priest reported that one side of his heart was -dry and empty; but this too is quite natural if we suppose that the -last act of Don John’s life was for his heart to pump its blood into -his arteries, as so often happens in death. Young men do not die of -broken hearts; “Men have died and worms have eaten them--but not for -love!” as Rosalind says in her sweet cynicism. In elderly men with high -blood-pressures it is quite possible that grief and worry may actually -cause the heart to burst, and to that extent novelists are right in -speaking of a “broken heart.” Otherwise the disease, or casualty, is -unknown to medicine. No amount of worry, or absence of worry, would -have had any effect upon Don John’s typhoid ulcer. - -Besides the suspicion of poisoning, Don John was rumoured to have died -of the “French disease,” even the name of the lady being mentioned. -While he was certainly no more moral than any other gay and handsome -young prince of his time, there is not the slightest reason for -supposing the rumour to have been anything but folly. Syphilis does -not kill a man as Don John died, while ambulatory typhoid fever most -assuredly does. Therefore the lady in question must remain without her -glory so far as this book is concerned, though her name has survived, -and not only in Spanish. - -Don John was a handsome young man, graceful and strong. There are many -contemporary portraits of him, perhaps the best being a magnificent -statue at Messina, which he saved from the Turks at Lepanto. He had -frank blue eyes and yellow curls, and a very great charm of manner; -but he was liable to attacks of violent pride which estranged his -friends. He was the darling of the ladies, and was esteemed the flower -of chivalry in his day; but William of Orange warned his Netherlanders -not to be deceived by his appearance; in his view Philip had sent -a monster of cruelty no less savage than himself. But William was -prejudiced, and Don John is still one of the great romantic figures of -history. It is difficult to speculate reasonably on what might have -happened if he had not died. It has been thought that he might have led -the Armada, in which case that most badly-managed expedition would at -least have been well led, and no doubt England would have had a more -determined struggle; but it seems to me more likely that Don John and -Philip would have quarrelled, and that Fortune would have been even -less kind to Spain than she was. Those who love Spain must be on the -whole rather glad that Don John died before he had been able to cause -more trouble than he did. It is difficult to agree entirely with those -who would put the blame entirely on Philip for the troubles between him -and Don John, or would interpret every act of Philip to his detriment. -The whole story might be equally interpreted as the effort of a most -conscientious and narrow-minded man endeavouring to follow out what he -thought to be his father’s wishes and at the same time to keep a wild -young brother from kicking over the traces. Compare Butler’s, _The Way -of All Flesh_. - -But the real interest to us of Don John is in his relations with -Cervantes. - - Cervantes on his galley puts his sword into its sheath - (_Don John of Austria rides homewards with a wreath_), - And he sees across a weary land a winding road in Spain - Up which a lean and foolish knight rides slowly up in vain. - -And it will be a sad world indeed when Don Quixote at last reaches the -top of that winding road and men cease to love him. - -At Lepanto Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (please pronounce the “a’s” -separately) was about twenty-five years of age, and was lying below -deck sick of a fever. When he heard the roar of the guns of Don John -he sprang from his bed and rushed on deck in spite of the orders of -his captain; he was put in charge of a boat’s crew of twelve men and -went through the thick of the fighting. Every man in Don John’s fleet -was fired with his religious enthusiasm, and Cervantes’ courage was -only an index of the wild fervour that distinguished the Christians on -that most bloody day. He was wounded in the left hand, “for the greater -glory of the right,” as he himself quaintly says, and never again could -he move the fingers of the injured hand; no doubt the tendon sheaths -had become septic, and he was lucky to have kept the hand at all. It -has been sapiently remarked that the world would have had a great loss -if it had been the right hand; but healthy people who lose the right -hand can easily learn to write with the left. Cervantes remained in -the fleet for some years until, on his way home, he was captured by -Algerian pirates; put to the service of a Christian renegade--a man -who had turned Mussulman to save his life or from still less worthy -motive--Cervantes made several attempts to escape, but these were -unsuccessful, and he remained in captivity for some years until his -family had scraped up enough to ransom him. In _Don Quixote_ there is -a good deal about the renegadoes, and much of the well-known story of -the “escaped Moor” is probably autobiographical; from these hints we -gather that the renegadoes were not quite so bad as has been generally -thought, or else that Cervantes was far too big-minded a man to believe -unnecessary evil about anybody. - -Back in Spain, he went into the army for two years, until, in 1582, he -gave up soldiering and took to literature. He found the pen “a good -stick but a bad crutch,” and in 1585 returned to the public service as -deputy-purveyor of the fleet. In 1594 he became collectors of revenues -in Granada, and in 1597 he became short in his accounts and fell into -jail. There he seems to have begun _Don Quixote_; he somehow obtained -security for the repayment of the missing money, was released penniless -into a suspicious world, and published the first part of _Don Quixote_ -in 1605. It was enormously well received, and from that day to this has -remained one of the most successful of all books. Ten years later he -found that dishonest publishers were issuing spurious second parts, so -he sat himself down to write a genuine sequel. This differs from most -sequels in that it is better than the original; it is wiser, mellower, -less ironical; Don Quixote and Sancho Panza are still more lovable -than they were before, and one imagines that Cervantes must have spent -the whole ten years in collecting--or inventing--the wonderful proverbs -so wisely uttered by the squire. - -Though Cervantes wrote many plays he is now remembered mainly by his -one very great romance, which is read lovingly in every language of -every part of the world, so that the epithet “Quixotic” is applied -everywhere to whatsoever is both gallant and foolish; an epithet which -reflects the mixture of affection and pity in which the old Don is -universally held, and is more often considered to be a compliment than -the reverse. Curiously enough, women seldom seem to like Don Quixote; -only the other day a brilliant young woman graduate told me that she -thought he was a “silly old fool!” That was all she could see in him; -but he is universally now thought to represent the pathos of the man -who is born out of his time. As has been so well said, “This book -is not meant for laughter--it is meant for tears.” I can do no more -than advise everybody to get a thin-paper copy and let it live in the -pocket for some months, reading it at odd moments; it is the wisest and -wittiest book ever published. “Blessed be the man who invented sleep,” -is a typical piece of Panzan philosophy with which most wise men will -agree. - -But when we have done sentimentalizing over the hidden meaning that -undoubtedly underlies Don Quixote, we must not forget that it is -extraordinarily funny even to a modern mind. The law that the humour of -one generation is merely grotesque to the next does not seem to apply -to _Don Quixote_; and I dare swear that the picture of the mad old Don, -brought home from the inn of Maritornes, looking so stately in a cage -upon a bullock-wagon, guarded by troopers of the Holy Brotherhood, and -escorted by the priest and the barber, with the distracted Sancho Panza -buzzing about wondering what has become of his promised Governorship, -is absolutely the funniest thing in all literature; all the funnier -because the springs of our laughter flow from the fount of our tears. - -Now I cannot help thinking that when Cervantes began to write _Don -Quixote_ in prison, feeling bitter and sore against a world which had -imprisoned him, and stiffened his hand for him, and condemned him to -poverty and imprisonment, he must have had in his mind the story of -the young bastard of Imperial Majesty who had risen to such heights -of glory over Lepanto. It is not contended that Don Quixote was -consciously intended to be a characterizature of Don Quixada or Don -John, though his real name was Alonzo Quixana or Quixada, Don Quixote -being a _nom de guerre_ born of his frenzy; but I find it hard to -believe that Cervantes had not heard of the foolish loyalty of Quixada -in the matter of Jeronimo, or of the romantic dreams of Don John. It -would seem that in these two incidents we find the true seeds of _Don -Quixote_. It is not true that “Cervantes laughed Spain’s chivalry -away.” Chivalry, meaning the social order of the true crusades, had -long been dead even in Spain, the most conservative of nations. What -really laughed Spain’s chivalry away was the gay and joyous laugh of -Don John himself, who would have plunged her into a great war for a -dream. The man who seriously thought of dashing across the North Sea to -marry Mary Queen of Scots would have been quite capable of tilting at -windmills. In his inmost heart Cervantes must have seen his folly. - -The death of Don Quixote is probably the most generally famous in -literature, vying with that of Colonel Newcome, though more impressive -because it is less sentimental. Cervantes had begun by rather jeering -at his old Don, and subjecting him to uncalled-for cudgellings and -humiliations; he then fell in love with the brave old lunatic, as -everybody else has fallen in love with him ever since, and by the time -that he came to die had drawn him as a really noble and beautiful -character, who shows all the pathos of the idealist who is born out of -his time. The death of Don Quixote is, except the death of one other -Idealist, the most affecting death in all literature; the pathos is -secured by means similarly restrained. The Bachelor Samson Carrasco, -in his determination to cure Don Quixote of his knight-errant folly, -had dressed himself up as “The Knight of the White Moon,” and vowed -that there was another lady more fair than Dulcinea del Toboso. At -that blasphemy Don Quixote naturally flew to arms and challenged the -insolent knight. By that time Rosinante was but old bones, so the -Bachelor, being well-mounted on a young charger, overthrew the old -horse and his brave old rider, and Don Quixote came to grass with a -terrible fall. Then the Bachelor made Don Quixote vow that he would -cease from his knight-errantry for a whole year, by which time it was -hoped that he would be cured. They lifted his visor and found the -old man “pale and sweating”; evidently Cervantes had seen some old -man suffering from shock, and described what he saw in three words. -From this humiliation Don Quixote never really recovered. He reached -home and formed the mad idea of turning shepherd with Sancho and the -Bachelor, and living out his penance in the fields. But Death saw -otherwise, and the old man answered his call before he could do as he -wished. He was seized with a violent fever that confined him to his -room for six days; finally he slept calmly for some hours, and again -awakened, only to fall into one attack of syncope after another until -he died; the sanguine assurance of Sancho Panza that Dulcinea had been -successfully disenchanted could not save him. Like most idealists he -died a sad and disappointed man, certain of one thing only--that he was -out of touch with the majority of mankind. - -Cervantes was far too great an artist to kill his old hero by some such -folly as “brain fever”--which nonsense I guess to have been typhoid. I -believe that in describing the death of Don Quixote he was thinking of -some old man whom he had seen crawl home to die after a severe physical -shock, disappointed and disillusioned in a world of practical youth in -which there is no room for romantic old age--probably some kind old -man whom he himself had loved. These old men usually die of hypostatic -pneumonia, which has been called the “natural end of man,” and is -probably the real broken heart of popular medicine. The old man, after -a severe shock, is affected by a weakened circulation; the lungs are -attacked by a slow inflammation, and he dies, usually in a few days, -in much the same way as died Don Quixote. Cervantes did not know that -these old men die from inflammation of the lungs; no doubt he observed -the way they die, and immortalized his memories in the death of Don -Quixote. I have written this to point out Cervantes’ great powers of -observation. He would probably have made a good doctor in our day. - -This theory of _Don Quixote_, that at its roots lie memories of Don -John and Don Quixada, is in no way inconsistent with Cervantes’ own -statement that he wrote the book to ridicule the romances of Chivalry -which were so vitiating the literary taste of seventeenth-century -Spain; at the back of his mind probably lay his own memories of foolish -and gallant things, quite worthy of affectionate ridicule such as he -has lavished on his knight-errant. - - - - -Philip II and the Arterio-Sclerosis of Statesmen - - -When the Empress Isabel was pregnant with the child which was to be -Philip II, she bethought her of the glory that was hers in bearing -offspring to a man so famous as the Roman Emperor, and she made up her -mind that she would comport herself as became a Roman Empress. When, -therefore, her relations and midwives during the confinement implored -her to cry out or she would die, the proud Empress answered, “Die I -may; but call out I _will not_!” and thus Philip arrived into the world -sombre son of a stoical mother and heroic father. Doubtless she thought -that she would show a courage equal to his father’s, hoping that the -son would then prove not unworthy. Though she was very beautiful, as -Titian’s famous portrait shows, she seems to have been a gloomy and -austere woman, and Charles, being absent so long from her side at his -wars, had to leave Philip’s education mainly to her. His part consisted -of many affectionate letters full of good and proud advice. Yet Philip -grew up to be a merry little golden-haired boy enough, who rode about -the streets of Toledo in a go-cart amidst the crowds that we are told -pressed to see the Emperor’s son. The calamity of his life was that -Charles had bequeathed to him the kingdom of the Netherlands. Charles -himself was essentially a Fleming, who got on exceedingly well with -his brother Flemings, Reformation or no Reformation; they were quite -prepared to admit that the great man might have some good reason for -his religious persecution, peculiar though it no doubt seemed. But -Philip was a foreigner; and a foreigner of the race of Torquemada who, -so they heard, had so strengthened the Inquisition less than a century -before that now it was really not safe to think aloud in matters of -religion. So the Dutch rose in revolt under William of Orange, and -the Dutch Republic came into being. Philip was only able to save the -southern Netherlands from the wreck, which ultimately formed the -kingdom of Belgium. Philip always thought that if he could only get -England on his side the pacification of the Netherlands would be easy; -so, at the earnest request of Charles, he married Mary Tudor, a woman -twelve years older than himself, a marriage which turned out unhappily -from every point of view, and has wrongly coloured our general opinion -of Philip’s character. The unfortunate attempt to conquer England by -the Armada, a fleet badly equipped and absurdly led, has also led -us to despise both him and his Spaniards, whence came the general -English schoolboy idea that the Spanish were a nation of braggarts -ruled by a murderous fool, whose only thirst was for Protestant gore. -But this idea was very far from being true. Philip was no fool; he -was an exceedingly learned, conscientious, hard-working, careful, and -painstaking bureaucrat, who might have done very well indeed had he -been left the kingdom of Spain alone; but had no power of attracting -foreigners to his point of view. He always did his best according to -his lights; and if his policy sometimes appears tortuous to us, that -is simply because we forget that it was then thought perfectly right -for kings to do tortuous things for the sake of their people, just as -to-day party leaders sometimes do extraordinarily wicked things for the -sake of what they consider the principles of their party. Unfortunately -for Philip he often failed in his efforts; and the man who fails is -always in the wrong. - -He was constantly at war, sometimes unsuccessfully, often victoriously. -Unlike Charles he did not lead his armies in person, but sat at home -and prayed, read the crystal, and organized. After the great battle -of St. Quentin, in which he defeated the French, he vowed to erect a -mighty church to the glory of St. Lawrence which should excel every -other building in the world; and for thirty years the whole available -wealth of Spain and the Indies was poured out on the erection of the -Escorial, which the Spaniards look upon as the eighth wonder of the -world, and who is to say that they are wrong? Situated about twenty -miles from Madrid, in a bleak and desolate mountain range, it reflects -extraordinarily well the character of the man who made it. Under one -almost incredible roof it combines a palace, a university, a monastery, -a church, and a mausoleum. The weight of its keys alone is measured in -scores of pounds; the number of its windows and its doors is counted in -hundreds; it contains the greatest works of many very great artists, -and the tombs of Charles V and his descendants. It stands in lonely -grandeur swept by constant bitter winds, a fit monument for a lonely -and morose king. Its architecture is Doric, and stern as its own -granite. - -The character of Philip II has been described repeatedly, in England -mainly by his enemies, who have laid too much stress on his cruelty -and bigotry. Though he was fiercely religious, yet he loved art and -wrote poetry; though he would burn a heretic as blithely as any man, -yet he was a kind husband to his four wives, whom he married one after -the other for political reasons; though he was gloomy and austere, -yet he loved music, and was moved almost to tears by the sound of the -nightingale in the summer evenings of Spain. His people loved him and -affectionately called him “Philip the prudent”; they forgave him his -mistakes, for they knew that he worked always for the ancient religion -which they loved, and for the glory of Spain. - -Unlike Charles his father, he was austere in his mode of life, and -always had a doctor at his side at meals lest he should forget his -gout. He was a martyr to that most distressing complaint, no doubt -inherited from his father. He lived abstemiously, but took too little -exercise; it would have been better for his health--and probably for -the world--had he followed his armies on horseback like Charles, even -if he had recognized that he was no great general. - -His death, at the age of seventy-two, was proud and sombre, as befitted -the son of the Empress Isabel, who had scorned to cry when he was -born. We can understand a good deal about Philip if we consider him -as spiritually the son of that proud sombre woman rather than of his -glorious and energetic father. In June, 1598, he was attacked by an -unusually severe attack of gout which so crippled him that he could -hardly move. He was carried from Madrid to the Escorial in a litter, -and was put to bed in a little room opening off the church so that he -could hear the friars at their orisons. Soon he began to suffer from -“malignant tumours” all over his legs, which ulcerated, and became -intensely painful, so that he could not bear even a wet cloth to be -laid upon them or to have the ulcers dressed. So he lay for fifty-three -days suffering frightful tortures, but never uttering a word of -complaint, even as his mother had borne him in silence for the sake of -the great man who had begotten him. As the ulcers could not be dressed, -they naturally became covered with vermin and smelled horribly. Stoical -in his agony, he called his son before him, apologizing for doing so, -but it was necessary. “I want,” he said, “to show you how even the -greatest monarchies must end. The crown is slipping from my head, and -will soon rest upon yours. In a few days I shall be nothing but a -corpse swathed in its winding-sheet, girdled with a rope.” He showed no -sign of emotionalism, but retained his self-control to the last; after -he had said farewell to his son he considered that he had left the -world, and devoted the last few days of his life to the offices of the -church. The monks in the church wanted to cease the continual dirges -and services, but he insisted that they should go on, saying: “The -nearer I get to the fountain, the more thirsty I become!” - -These seem to have been his last words; he appears to have retained -consciousness as long as may be. - -Let us reason together and try if we can make head or tail of this -extraordinary illness. The first certain fact about Philip II is that -he long suffered from gout, apparently the real old-fashioned gout in -the feet. In the well-known picture of him receiving a deputation of -Netherlanders, as he sits in his tall hat beneath a crucifix, it is -perfectly evident that he is suffering tortures from gout and wearing -a large loosely fitting slipper. These unfortunate gentlemen seem to -have selected a most unpropitious moment to ask favours, for there -is no ailment that so warps the temper as gout. When a man suffers -from gout over a period of years it is only a matter of time till his -arteries and kidneys go wrong and he gets arterio-sclerosis. We may -take it, therefore, as certain that at the age of seventy-two Philip -had sclerosed arteries and probably chronic Bright’s disease like his -father before him. Gout, Bright’s disease, and high blood-pressure, -are all strongly hereditary, as every insurance doctor knows; that -is to say, the son of a father who has died of one of these three is -more likely than not to die ultimately of some cognate disease of -arteries or kidneys or heart, all grouped together under the name of -cardio-vascular-renal disease. - -But what about the “malignant tumours”? “Malignant tumour” to-day means -cancer of one sort or another, and assuredly it was not cancer that -killed Philip. Probably the word “tumour” simply meant “swelling.” Now, -what could these painful swellings have been which ulcerated and smelt -so horribly? Why not gangrene? Ordinary senile gangrene, such as occurs -in arterio-sclerosis, neither causes swellings, nor is it painful, -nor does it smell nor become verminous; but diabetic gangrene does -all these things. Diabetes in elderly people may go on for many years -undiscovered unless the urine be chemically examined, and may only -cause symptoms when the arterio-sclerosis which generally complicates -it gives results, such as sudden death from heart-failure, or diabetic -gangrene. Thus a very famous Australian statesman, who had been known -to have sugar in his urine for many years, was one morning found dead -in his bath, evidently due to the high blood-pressure consequent on -diabetic arterio-sclerosis. - -Diabetic gangrene often begins in some small area of injured skin, such -as might readily occur in a foot tortured with gout; it ulcerates, -is exceedingly painful, and possessed of a stench quite peculiar to -its horrid self. It does not confine itself to one foot, or to one -area of a leg, but suddenly appears in an apparently healthy portion, -having surreptitiously worked its way along beneath the skin; its first -sign is often a painful swelling which ulcerates. The patient dies -either from toxæmia due to the gangrene, or from diabetic coma; and -fifty-three days is not an unlikely period for the torture to continue. -On the whole it would seem that diabetic gangrene appearing in a man -who has arterio-sclerosis is a probable explanation of Philip’s death. -The really interesting part of this historical diagnosis is the way in -which it explains his treatment of the Netherlands. What justice could -they have received from a man tortured and rendered petulant with gout -and gloomy with diabetes? - -Charles V had taken no care of himself, but had gone roaring and -fighting and guzzling and drinking all over Europe; Philip had led -a very quiet, studious, and abstemious life, and therefore he lived -nearly twenty years longer than his father. Possibly when he came to -suffer the torments of his death he may have thought the years not -worth his self-denial: possibly he may have regretted that he did not -have a good time when he was young, but this is not likely, for he was -a very conscientious man. - -When Philip lay dying he held in his hand the common little crucifix -that his mother and father had adored when they too had died; his -friends buried it upon his breast when they came to inter him in the -Escorial, where it still lies with him in a coffin made of the timbers -of the _Cinco Chagas_, not the least glorious of his fighting galleys. - -Arterio-sclerosis, high blood-pressure, hyperpiesis, and chronic -Bright’s disease--all more or less names for the same thing, or at -any rate for cognate disorders--form one of the great tragedies of -the world. They attack the very men whom we can least spare; they are -essentially the diseases of statesmen. Although these diseases have -been attributed to many causes--that is to say, we do not really know -their true cause--it is certain that worry has a great deal to do with -them. If a man be content to live the life of a cabbage, eat little, -and drink no alcohol, it is probable that he will not suffer from high -blood-pressure; but if he is determined to work hard, live well, and -yet struggle furiously, then his arteries and kidneys inevitably go -wrong and he is not likely to stand the strain for many years. Unless -a politician has an iron nerve and preternaturally calm nature, or -unless he is fortunate enough to be carried off by pneumonia, then -he is almost certain to die of high blood-pressure if he persists in -his politics. I could name a dozen able politicians who have fallen -victims to their political anxieties. The latest, so far as I know, -was Mr. John Storey, Premier of New South Wales, who died of high -blood-pressure in 1921; before him I remember several able men whom -the furious politics of that State claimed as victims. In England Lord -Beaconsfield seems to have died of high blood-pressure, and so did Mr. -Joseph Chamberlain. Mr. Gladstone was less fortunate, in that he died -of cancer. He must have possessed a calm mind to go through his furious -strugglings without his kidneys or blood-vessels giving way; that, and -his singularly temperate and happy home-life, preserved him from the -usual fate of statesmen. - -Charles V differed from Mr. Gladstone because he habitually ate -far too much, and could never properly relax his mental tension. -His arterio-sclerosis had many results on history. It was probably -responsible for his extreme fits of depression, in one of which it -pleased Fate that he should meet Barbara Blomberg. If he had not been -extraordinarily depressed and unhappy, owing to his arterio-sclerosis, -he would probably not have troubled about her, and there would have -been no Don John of Austria. If he had not had arterio-sclerosis he -would probably not have abdicated in 1556, when he should have had many -years of wise and useful activities before him. If his judgment had -not been warped by his illness he would probably never have appointed -Philip II to be his successor as King of the Netherlands; he would -have seen that the Dutch were not the sort of people to be ruled by -an alien. And if there had been no Don John it is possible that there -would have been no Don Quixote. Once again, if Philip had not been -eternally preoccupied with his senseless struggle against the Dutch, -it is probable that he would have undertaken his real duty--to protect -Europe from the Turk. When one considers how the lives of Charles and -his sons might have been altered had his arteries been carrying a lower -blood-tension, it rather tends to alter the philosophy of history to a -medical man. - -Again, when we consider that the destinies of nations are commonly -held in the hands of elderly gentlemen whose blood-pressures tend to -be too high owing to their fierce political activities, it is not too -much to say that arterio-sclerosis is one of the greatest tragedies -that afflict the human race. Every politician should have his -blood-pressure tested and his urine examined about once a quarter, and -if it should show signs of rising he should undoubtedly take a long -rest until it falls again; it is not fair that the lives of millions -should depend upon the judgment of a man whose mind is warped by -arterio-sclerosis. - - - - -Mr. and Mrs. Pepys - - -Samuel Pepys, Father of the Royal Navy, and the one man--if indeed -there were any one man--who made possible the careers of Blake and -Nelson, died in 1703 in the odour of the greatest respectability. -Official London followed him to his honoured grave, and he left behind -him the memory of a great and good servant of the King in “perriwig” -(alas, to become too famous), stockings and silver buckles. But -unhappily for his reputation, though greatly to the delight of a wicked -world, he had, during ten momentous years, kept a diary. It was written -in a kind of shorthand which he seems to have flattered himself would -not be interpreted; but by some extraordinary mischance he had left a -key amongst his papers. Early in the nineteenth century part of the -Diary was translated, and a part published. A staggered world asked for -more, and during the next three generations further portions were made -public, until by this time nearly the whole has been published, and it -is unlikely that the small remaining portions will ever see the light. - -Pepys seems to have set down every thought that came into his -head as he wrote; things which the ordinary man hardly admits to -himself--even supposing that he ever thinks or does them--this stately -Secretary of the Navy calmly wrote in black and white with a garrulous -effrontery that absolutely disarms criticism. In its extraordinary -self-revelation the Diary is unique; it is literally true that there -is nothing else like it in any other language, and it is almost -impossible that anything like it will ever be written again; the man, -the moment, and the occasion can never recur. I take it that every -man who presumes to call himself educated has at least a nodding -acquaintance with this immortal work; but a glance at some of its -medical features may be interesting. The difficulties at this end of -the world are considerable, because the Editor has veiled some of the -more interesting medical passages in the decent obscurity of asterisks, -and one has to guess at some anatomical terms which, if too Saxon to -be printable in modern English, might very well have been given in -technical Latin. Let us begin with a brief study of the delightful -woman who had the good fortune--or otherwise--to be Pepys’s wife. -Daughter of a French immigrant and an Irish girl, Elizabeth Pepys was -married at fourteen, and her life ended, after fifteen somewhat hectic -years, in 1669, when she was only twenty-nine years of age. Pepys -repeatedly tells us that she was pretty--and no one was ever a better -judge than he--and “very good company when she is well.” Her portrait -shows her with a bright, clever little face, her upper lip perhaps a -trifle longer than the ideal, bosom well developed, and a coquettish -curl allowed to hang over her forehead after the fashion of the Court -of Charles II. She spoke and read French and English; she took the -keenest interest in life, and set to work to learn from her husband -arithmetic, “musique,” the flageolet, use of the globes, and various -accomplishments which modern girls learn at school. Mrs. Pepys imbibing -all this erudition from her husband, while her pretty little dog lies -snoring on the mat, forms a truly delightful picture, and no doubt our -imagination of it is no more delightful than the reality was three -hundred years ago. I suppose it was the same dog as he whose puppyish -indiscretions had led to many a fierce quarrel between husband and -wife; Pepys always carefully recorded these indiscretions, both of the -dog and, alas, of himself. It is clear that the sanitary conveniences -in Pepys’s house could not have been up to his requirements. - -Husband and wife went everywhere together, and seem really to -have loved each other; the impression that I gather from Pepys’s -exceedingly candid description of her is that she was a loyal and -comradely wife, with a spirit of her own, and a good deal to put up -with; for though Pepys was continually--and causelessly--jealous of -her, yet he did not hold that he was in any way bound to be faithful -to her on his own side. So they pass through life, Pepys philandering -with every attractive woman who came his way, and Mrs. Pepys dressing -herself prettily, learning her little accomplishments, squabbling with -her maids, and looking after her house and his meals, till one day she -engaged a servant, Deb Willet by name, who brought a touch of tragedy -into the home. In November, 1668, Deb was combing Pepys’s hair--no -doubt in preparation for the immortal “perriwig”--when Mrs. Pepys came -in and caught him “embracing her,” thus occasioning “the greatest -sorrow to me that ever I knew in this world,” as he puts it. - -Mrs. Pepys was “struck mute,” and was silently furious. Outraged Juno -towered over the unhappy Pepys, and so to bed without a word, nor slept -all night; but about two in the morning Juno became very woman; woke -him up and told him she had “turned Roman Catholique,” this being, -in the state of politics at that time, probably the thing which she -thought would hurt him more than anything else she could say. For -the next few days Pepys is sore troubled, and his usual genial babble -becomes almost incoherent. The wrong dating and the expressions of -“phrenzy” show the mental agony that he passed through, and there can -be no doubt that the joy of life passed out of him, probably never more -fully to return. The rest of the Diary is written in a style graver -than at first--some of it is almost passionate. He describes with much -mental agitation how he woke up in the middle of one night, and found -his wife heating a pair of tongs red-hot and preparing to pinch his -nose; gone for ever were the glad days when he could pull her nose, and -the “poor wretch” thought none the worse of the lordly fellow. Twice -had he done so, and, as he says, “to offend.” One would like to have -Mrs. Pepys’s account of this nose-pulling, and what she really thought -of it. Some people have found the struggle of Pepys to cure himself of -his infatuation for Deb humorous; to any ordinarily sympathetic soul -who reads how he prayed on his knees in his own room that God would -give him strength never again to be unfaithful, and how he appealed -again and again to his wife to forgive him, and how he, to the best -of his ability, avoided the girl, the whole business becomes rather -too painful to be funny, even though the unhappy man has the art of -making himself ridiculous in nearly every sentence. Finally, in a fury -of jealousy, she forced him to write a most insulting letter to Miss -Willet, a letter that no woman could ever possibly forgive, and Pepys’s -life appears to have settled down again. His sight failing him[9]--it -is thought that he suffered from hypermetropia combined with early -presbyopia--he abandoned the Diary just at the time when one would have -dearly liked to hear more; and we never hear the end either of Deb or -of their married happiness. Reading between the lines, one gathers -that probably Deb was more sinned against than sinning, and that Mrs. -Pepys had more real reason to be angry about many women of whom she -had never heard than about the young woman whose flirtation was the -actual _casus belli_. It is an unjust world. The two went abroad for -a six-months’ tour in France and Holland, and immediately after they -returned Mrs. Pepys fell ill of a fever; for a time she appears to -have fought it well, but she took a bad turn and died. Considering -her youth, the season of the year, and that they had just returned -from the Continent, the disease was possibly typhoid. Pepys erected an -affectionate memorial to her, and was later on buried by her side. He -took the last sacrament with her as she lay dying, so we may reasonably -suppose that she died having forgiven him, and it is not unfair to -imagine that the trip abroad was a second honeymoon. They were two -grown-up children, playing with life as with a new toy. - -Mrs. Pepys was liable to attacks of boils in asterisks; and a Dr. -Williams acquired considerable merit by supplying her with plasters -and ointments. On November 16, 1663, “Mr. Hollyard came, and he and -I about our great work to look upon my wife’s malady, which he did, -and it seems her great conflux of humours heretofore that did use to -swell there did in breaking leave a hollow which has since gone in -further and further till it is now three inches deep, but as God will -have it did not run into the body-ward, but keeps to the outside of -the skin, and so he will be forced to cut open all along, and which -my heart will not serve me to see done, and yet she will not have no -one else to see it done, no, not even her mayde, and so I must do it -poor wretch for her.” Pepys is in a panic at the thought of assisting -at the opening of this subcutaneous abscess; one can feel the courage -oozing out at the palms of his hands as one reads his agitated words. -To his joy, next morning Mr. Hollyard, on second thoughts, “believes -a fomentation will do as well, and what her mayde will be able to do -as well without knowing what it is for, but only that it is for the -piles.” Evidently the “mayde’s” opinion was of some little moment in -Mrs. Pepys’s censorious world. Mr. Pepys would have been much troubled -to see his wife cut before his face: “he could not have borne to have -seen it.” Mr. Hollyard received £3 “for his work upon my wife, but -whether it is cured or not I cannot say, but he says it will never come -to anything, but it may ooze now and again.” Mr. Hollyard was evidently -easily satisfied. Of course, there must have been a sinus running in -somewhere, but it is impossible to guess at its origin. Possibly some -pelvic sepsis; possibly an ischio-rectal abscess. A long time before -he had noted that his wife was suffering from a “soare belly,” which -may possibly have been the beginning of the trouble, but there is no -mention of any long and serious illness such as usually accompanies -para-metric sepsis. On the whole, I fancy ischio-rectal abscess to -be the most likely explanation. Later on she suffers from abscesses -in the cheek, which “by God’s mercy burst into the mouth, thus not -spoiling her face”; and she had constant trouble with her teeth. It is -thus quite probable that the origin of the whole illness may have been -pyorrhœa, and no doubt this would go hard with her in the fever from -which she died. Possibly this may have been septic pneumonia arising -from septic foci in the mouth; but, after all, it is idle to speculate. - -Mrs. Pepys never became pregnant during the period covered by the -Diary, though there were one or two false alarms. There is no -mention of any continuous or constant ill-health, such as we find in -pyo-salpinx or severe tubal adhesions; and such being the case, her -sterility may quite likely have been as much his fault as hers. - -One cannot read the Diary without wishing that we could have heard -a little more of her side of the questions that arose. What did she -really think of her husband when he pulled her nose? Twice, too, no -less! Stevenson calls her “a vulgar woman.” Stevenson’s opinion on -every matter is worthy of the highest respect, as that of a sensitive, -refined, and artistic soul; but I cannot help thinking that sometimes -his early Calvinistic training tended to make him rather intolerant -to human weakness. His judgment of François Villon always seems to me -intolerant and unjust, and he showed no sign in his novels of ever -having made any effort to comprehend the difficulties and troubles -which surround women in their passage through the world. He understood -men--there can be no doubt of that; but I doubt if he understood -women even to the small extent which is achieved by the average man. -Personally I find Mrs. Pepys far from “vulgar”; generally she is simply -delightful. True, one cannot concur with her action over the letter to -Deb. It was cruel and ungenerous. But she probably knew her husband -well by that time, and judged fairly accurately the only thing that -would be likely to bring him up with a round turn, and again we have -not the privilege of knowing Deb except through Pepys’s possibly too -favourable eyes. Deb may have been all that Mrs. Pepys thought her, -and she may have richly deserved what she got. After all, there is -in every woman protecting her husband from the onslaughts of “vamps” -not a little of the wild-cat. Even the gentlest of women will defend -her husband--especially a husband who retains so much of the boy as -Pepys--from the attempts of wicked women to steal him, poor innocent -love, from her sacred hearth; will defend him with bare hands and -claws, and totally regardless of the rules of combat; and it is this -touch of cattishness in Mrs. Pepys which makes one’s heart warm -towards her. For all we know Deb Willet may have been a “vamp.” Mrs. -Pepys was certainly the “absolute female.” - -Mr. Pepys suffered from stone in the bladder before he began to keep -a diary. He does not appear to have been physically a hero; had he -been a general, no doubt he would have led his army bravely from the -rear except in case of a retreat; but so great was the pain that he -submitted his body to the knife on March 26, 1658. Anæsthetics in -those days were rudimentary, relaxing rather than anæsthetizing the -patient. There is some reason to believe that they were extensively -used in the Middle Ages, and contemporaries of Shakespeare seem to have -looked on their use as a matter of course; but for some reason they -became less popular, and by the seventeenth century most people had to -undergo their operations with little assistance beyond stout hearts and -sluggish nervous systems. - -Cutting for the stone was one of the earliest of surgical operations. -In ancient days it was first done in India, and the glad news that -stones could be successfully removed from the living body filtered -through to the Greeks some centuries before Christ. Hippocrates knew -all about it, and the operation is mentioned in that Hippocratic oath -according to which some of us endeavour to regulate our lives. At first -it was only done in children, because it was considered that adult -men would not heal properly, and the only result in them would be a -fistula. The child was held on the lap of some muscular assistant, with -one or two not less muscular men holding its arms and legs. The surgeon -put one or two fingers into the little anus and tried to push the -stone down on to the perineum, helped in this manœuvre by hypogastric -pressure from another assistant. He then cut transversely above the -anus, strong in the faith that he might, if the gods willed, open into -the neck of the bladder. Next he tried to push out the stone with his -fingers still in the anus; it is not quite clear whether he would take -his fingers out of the anus and put them into the wound or vice versa; -this failing, he would seize the stone with forceps and drag it through -the perineum. As time went on it was discovered that more than three or -four assistants could be employed, using others to sit on the patient’s -chest, thus adding the _peine forte et dure_ to the legitimate terrors -of ancient surgery and surrounding him with a mass of men. Imbued with -a spirit of unrest by the struggles of the patient the mass swayed -this way and that, until it was discovered that by adding yet more -valiants to the wings of the “scrum,” who should answer heave with -counter-heave, the resultant of the opposing forces would hold even the -largest perineum steady enough for the surgeon to operate; and men came -under the knife for stone. Next the patient was tied up with ropes, -somewhat in the style we used in our boyhood’s sport of cock-fighting. -What a piece of work is the Rope! How perfect in all its works--from -the Pyramids--built with the aid of the Rope and the Stick--to the -execution of the latest murderer. One might write pages on the -influence of the Rope on human progress; but for our purpose we may -simply say that probably Mr. Pepys was kept quiet with many yards of -hemp. Those who cut for the stone were specialists, doing nothing else; -their arrival at a patient’s house must have resembled an invasion, -with their vast armamentarium and crowds of assistants. By Pepys’s time -Marianus Sanctus had lived--yes, so greatly was he venerated that they -called him “Sanctus,” the Holy Man; Saint Marianus if you will. He it -was, in Italy in 1524, who invented the apparatus major, which made -the operation a little less barbarous than that of the Greeks. This -God-sent apparatus consisted mainly of a grooved staff to be shoved -into the bladder and a series of forceps. You cut on to the staff as -the first step of the operation; it was believed that if you cut in -the middle line in the raphe the wound would never heal, owing to the -callosity of the part; moreover, if you carried your incision too far -back you would cause fatal hæmorrhage from the inferior hæmorrhoidal -veins. Having, then, made your incision well to the right or left, you -exposed the urethra, made a good big hole in that pipe, and inserted a -fine able pair of tongs, with which you seized hold of the stone and -crushed it if you could, pulling it out in bits; or if the stone were -hard, and you had preternaturally long fingers, you might even get -it out on a finger-tip. It was always considered the mark of a wise -surgeon to carry a spare stone with him in his waistcoat pocket, so -that the patient might at least have a product of the chase to see if -the surgeon should find his normal efforts unrewarded. Diagnosis was -little more advanced in those days than operative surgery; there are -numbers of conditions which may have caused symptoms like those of a -stone, and it was always well for the surgeon to be prepared. - -This would be the operation that was performed on Mr. Pepys. The -results in many cases were disastrous; some men lost control of their -sphincter vesicæ; many were left with urinary fistulæ; in many the -procreative power was permanently destroyed by interference with the -seminal vesicles and ducts. Probably some of us would prefer to keep -our calculi rather than let a mediæval stone-cutter perform upon us; we -are a degenerate crew. It is not altogether displeasing to imagine the -roars of the unhappy Pepys, trussed and helpless, a pallid little Mrs. -Pepys quaking outside the door, perhaps not entirely sorry that her own -grievances were being so adequately avenged, although the vengeance was -vicarious; while the surgeon wrestled with a large uric acid calculus -which could with difficulty be dragged through the wound. It is all -very well for us to laugh at the forth-right methods of our ancestors; -but, considering their difficulties--no anæsthesia, no antiseptics, -want of sufficient surgical practice, and the fact that few could -ever have had the hardness of heart necessary to stand the patient’s -bawlings, it is remarkable that they did so well and that the mortality -of this appalling operation seems only to have been from 15 to 20 per -cent. Moreover we may be pretty sure that no small stone would ever -be operated upon; men postponed the operation until the discomfort -became intolerable. It remained for the genius of Cheselden, when Pepys -was dead and possibly in heaven some twenty years, to devise the -operation of lateral lithotomy, one of the greatest advances ever made -in surgery. This operation survived practically unchanged till recent -times. - -Pepys’s heroism was not in vain, and was rewarded by a long life free -from serious illness till the end. March 26 became to him a holy day, -and was kept up with pomp for many years. The people of the house -wherein he had suffered and been strong were invited to a solemn feast -on that blessed day, and as the baked meats went round and the good -wine glowed in the decanters, Mr. Pepys stood at his cheer and once -again recounted the tale of his agony and his courage. Nowadays, when -we are operated upon with little more anxiety than we should display -over signing a lease, it is difficult to imagine a state of things such -as must have been inevitable in the days before Simpson and Lister. - -The stone re-formed, but not in the bladder. Once you have a uric -acid calculus you can never be quite sure you have done with it until -you are dead, and in the case of Mr. Pepys recurrence took place -in the kidney. When he died, an old man, in 1703, they performed a -post-mortem examination on his body, suspecting that his kidneys -were at fault, and in the left kidney found a nest of no less than -seven stones, which must have been silently growing in the calyces -for unnumbered years. Nor does it seem to me impossible that his -extraordinary incontinence--he never seems to have been able to resist -any feminine allurement, however coarse--may really have been due to -the continued irritation of the old scar in his perineum. There is -often a physical condition as the basis for this type of character, and -some trifling irritation may make all the difference between virtue and -concupiscence. This reasoning is probably more likely to be true than -much of the psycho-analysis which is at present so fashionable among -young ladies. Possibly also the sterility of Mrs. Pepys may have been -partly due to the effects of the operation upon her husband. - -One unpleasant result to Mr. Pepys was the fact that whenever -he crossed his legs carelessly he became afflicted with a mild -epididymitis--he describes it much less politely himself, doubtless in -wrath. His little failing in this respect must have been a source of -innocent merriment to the many friends who were in the secret. He was -also troubled with attacks of severe pain whenever the weather turned -suddenly cold. At first he used to be in terror lest his old enemy had -returned, but he learned to regard the attacks philosophically as part -of the common heritage of mankind, for man is born to trouble as the -sparks fly upward. Probably they were due to reflex irritation from the -stones growing in the kidney. He does not seem to have passed any small -stones per urethram, or he would assuredly have told us. He took great -interest in his own emunctories--probably other people’s, too, from -certain dark sayings. - -Considering the by no means holy living of Mr. Pepys, it is rather -remarkable that he never seems to have suffered from venereal disease, -and this leads me to suspect that possibly these ailments were not -so common in the England of the Restoration as they are to-day. It -seems impossible that any man could live in Sydney so promiscuously -as Mr. Pepys without paying the penalty; and the experience of our -army in London seems to show that things there must be much the same -as here (Sydney). I often wonder whether Charles II and his courtiers -were really representative of the great mass of people in England -at that time; probably the prevalence of venereal disease in modern -times is due to the enormous increase in city life; probably men -and women have always been very much the same from generation to -generation--inflammable as straw, given the opportunities which occur -mainly in cities and crowded houses. - -Ignoble as was Pepys, he yet showed real moral courage during the -Plague. When that great enemy of cities attacked London he, very -wisely, sent his family into the country at Woolwich, while he remained -faithful to his duty and continued to work at the navy in Greenwich, -Deptford, and London. I cannot find in the Diary any mention of any -particular attraction that kept him in London during those awful five -months; he would, no doubt, have mentioned her name if there had been -such; yet candour compels me to observe that there was seldom any one -attraction for Mr. Pepys, unless poor Deb Willet may have somehow -mastered--temporarily--his wayward heart. But, as might have been -expected, he was little more virtuous during his wife’s absence than -before; indeed, possibly the imminent danger of death may have led him -to enjoy his life while yet he might, with his usual fits of agonized -remorse, whose effects upon his conduct were brief. We owe far more -to his organizing power and honesty--not a bigoted variety--than is -generally remembered. His babble is not the best medium for vigorous -description, and you will not get from Pepys any idea of the epidemic -comparable with that which you will get from the journalist Defoe; -yet through those months there lurks a feeling of horror which still -impresses mankind. The momentary glimpse of a citizen who stumbles over -the “corps” of a man dead of the plague, and running home tells his -pregnant wife; she dies of fear forthwith; a man, his wife, and three -children dying and being buried on one day; persons quick to-day and -dead to-morrow--not in scores, but in hundreds; ten thousand dying in a -week; the horrid atmosphere of fear and suspicion which overlay London; -and Pepys himself setting his papers in order, so that men might think -well of him should it please the Lord to take him suddenly: all give -us a sense of doom all the more poignant because recently we went -through a much milder version of the same experience ourselves. The -papers talked glibly of the influenza as “The Plague.” How different -it was from the real bubonic plague is shown by the statistics. In -five months of 1665 there died of the plague in the little London of -that day no less than about 70,000 people, according to the bills of -mortality; in truth, probably far more; that is to say, probably a -fifth of the people perished. There is no doubt that the bubonic plague -kept back the development of cities, and therefore of civilization, -for centuries, and that the partial conquest of the rat has been one -of the greatest achievements of the human race. What is happening in -Lord Howe Island, where it is exceedingly doubtful whether rats or men -shall survive in that beautiful speck of land, shows how slender is the -hold which mankind has upon the earth; and wherever the rat is able to -breed unchecked, man is liable to sink back into savagery. The rat, -the tubercle bacillus, and the bacillus of typhoid are the three great -enemies of civilization; we hold our position against them at the price -of eternal vigilance, and probably the rat is not the least deadly of -these enemies. - -I need not go through the Diary in search of incidents; most of them, -while intensely amusing, are rather of interest to the psychologist -in the study of self-revelation than to the medical man. When Pepys’s -brother lay dying the doctor in charge hinted that possibly the trouble -might have been of syphilitic origin; Pepys was virtuously wrathful, -and the unhappy doctor had to apologize and was forthwith discharged. -I cannot here narrate how they proved that the unhappy patient had -never had syphilis in his life; you must read the Diary for that. Their -method would not have satisfied either Wassermann or Bordet. Another -time Pepys was doing something that he should not have been doing at -an open window in a draught; the Lord punished him by striking him -with Bell’s palsy. Still again, at another time he got something that -seems to have resembled pseudo-ileus, possibly reflex from his latent -calculi. Everybody in the street was much distressed at his anguish; -all the ladies sent in prescriptions for enemata; the one which -relieved him consisted of small beer! Indeed, one marvels always at -the extraordinary interest shown by Pepys’s lady-friends in his most -private ailments. London must have been a friendly little town in the -seventeenth century, in the intervals of hanging people and chopping -off heads. - -But the great problem remains: Why did Pepys write down all these -intimate details of his private life? Why did he confess to things -which most men do not confess even to themselves? Why did he write -it all down in cypher? Why, when he narrated something particularly -disgraceful, did he write in a mongrel dialect of bad French, Italian, -Spanish, and Latin? He could not have seriously believed that a person -who was able to read the Diary would not be able to read the very -simple foreign words with which it is interspersed. Most amazing of -all: Why did he keep the manuscript for more than thirty years, a -key with it? One thinks of the fabled ostrich who buries his head in -the sand. The problem of Pepys still remains unsolved, in spite of -the efforts of Stevenson in _Familiar Studies of Men and Books_. -Stevenson was the last man in the world to understand Pepys, but more -competent exegetists have tried and failed. One can only say that -his failing sight--which Professor Osborne of Melbourne attributes -to astigmatism--has deprived the world of a treasure that can never -be sufficiently regretted. No man can be considered educated who has -not read at least part of the Diary; in no other way is it possible -to get so vivid a picture of the ordinary people of a past age; as we -read they seem to live before us, and it comes as a shock to remember -that poor Pall Pepys--his plain sister--and “my wife” and Mrs. -Batelier--“my pretty valentine”--and Sir William Coventry and Mercer, -and the hundreds more who pass so vividly before us, are all dead these -centuries. - -If this little paper shall send some to the reading of this most -extraordinary book, I shall be more than satisfied. The only edition -which is worth while is Wheatley’s, in ten volumes, with portraits and -a volume of _Pepysiana_. The smaller editions are apt to transmute -Pepys into an ordinary humdrum and industrious civil servant. - - - - -Edward Gibbon - - -For many years it has been taught--I have taught it myself to -generations of students--that Gibbon’s hydrocele surpassed in greatness -all other hydroceles, that it contained twelve pints of fluid, and that -it was, in short, one of those monstrous things which exist mainly -in romance; one of those chimeras which grow in the minds of the -half-informed and of those who wish to be deceived. For a brief moment -this chimera looms its huge bulk over serious history; it is pricked; -it disappears for ever, carrying with it into the shades the greatest -of historians, perhaps the greatest of English prose writers. What do -we really know about it? - -The first hint of trouble given by the hydrocele occurs in a letter by -Gibbon to his friend Lord Sheffield. It is so delicious, so typical -of the eighteenth century, of which Gibbon himself was probably the -most typical representative, that I cannot resist re-telling it. Two -days before, he has hinted to his friend that he was rather unwell; -now he modestly draws the veil. “Have you never observed, through my -inexpressibles, a large prominency _circa genitalia_, which, as it -was not very painful and very little troublesome, I had strangely -neglected for many years?” “A large prominency _circa genitalia_” is -a variation on the “lump in me privits, doctor,” to which we are more -accustomed. Gibbon’s is the more graceful, and reminds us of the mind -which had described chivalry as the “worship of God and the ladies”; -the courteous and urbane turn of speech which refuses to call a spade a -spade lest some polite ear may be offended. - -Gibbon had been staying at Sheffield House in the preceding June--the -letter was written in November--and his friends all noted that “Mr. -G.” had become strangely loath to take exercise and very inert in -his movements. Indeed, he had detained the house-party in the house -during lovely days together while he had orated to them on the folly of -unnecessary exertion; and such was his charm that every one, both women -as well as men, seems to have cheerfully given up the glorious English -June weather to keep him company. Never was he more brilliant--never a -more delightful companion; yet all the time he was like the Spartan boy -and the wolf, for he knew of his secret trouble, yet he thought that no -one else suspected. It is an instance of how little we see ourselves as -others see us that this supremely able man, who could see as far into -a millstone as anyone, lived for years with a hydrocele that reached -below his knees while he wore the tight breeches of the eighteenth -century and was in the fond delusion that nobody else knew anything -about it. Of course, everybody knew; probably it had been the cause of -secret merriment among all his acquaintance; when the tragedy came to -its last act it turned out that every one had been talking about it all -the time, and that they had thought it to be a rupture about which Mr. -Gibbon had of course taken advice. - -After leaving Sheffield House the hydrocele suddenly increased, as -Gibbon himself says, “most stupendously”; and it began to dawn upon -him that it “ought to be diminished.” So he called upon Dr. Walter -Farquhar; and Dr. Farquhar was very serious and called in Dr. Cline, -“a surgeon of the first eminence,” both of whom “viewed it and palped -it” and pronounced it a hydrocele. Mr. Gibbon, with his usual good -sense and calm mind, prepared to face the necessary “operation” and a -future prospect of wearing a truss which Dr. Cline intended to order -for him. In the meantime he was to crawl about with some labour and -“much indecency,” and he prayed Lord Sheffield to “varnish the business -to the ladies, yet I am much afraid it will become public,” as if -anything could any longer conceal the existence of this monstrous -chimera. It is hardly credible, but Gibbon had had the hydrocele -since 1761--thirty-two years--yet had never even hinted of it to -Lord Sheffield, with whom he had probably discussed every other fact -connected with his life; and had even forbidden his valet to mention it -in his presence or to anyone else. Gibbon, the historian who, more than -any other, set Reason and Common Sense on their thrones, seems to have -been ashamed of his hydrocele. Once more we wonder how little even able -men may perceive the truth of things! In 1761 he had consulted Cæsar -Hawkins, who apparently had not been able to make up his mind whether -it was a hernia or a hydrocele. In 1787 Lord Sheffield had noticed a -sudden great increase in the size of the thing; and in 1793, as we have -seen, it came to tragedy. - -He was tapped for the hydrocele on November 14; four quarts of fluid -were removed, the swelling was diminished to nearly half its size, -and the remaining part was a “soft irregular mass.” Evidently there -was more there than a simple hydrocele, and straightway it began to -refill so rapidly that they had to agree to re-tap it in a fortnight. -Mr. Cline must have felt anxious; he would know “how many beans make -five” well enough, and his patient was the most distinguished man -in the world. Many students who have at examinations in clinical -surgery wrestled with Cline’s splint will probably consider that -Cline’s punishment for inventing that weapon really began on the day -when he perceived Gibbon’s hydrocele to be rapidly re-filling. The -fortnight passed, and the second tapping took place, “much longer, more -searching, and more painful” than before, though only three quarts of -fluid were removed; yet Mr. Gibbon said he was much more relieved than -by the first attempt. Thence he went to stay with Lord Auckland at a -place called Eden Farm; thence again to Sheffield House. There, in the -dear house which to him was a home, he was more brilliant than ever -before. It was his “swan song.” A few days later he was in great pain -and moved with difficulty, the swelling again increased enormously, -inflammation set in, and he became fevered, and his friends insisted -on his return to London. He returned in January, 1794, reaching his -chambers after a night of agony in the coach; and Cline again tapped -him on January 13. By this time the tumour was enormous, ulcerated and -inflamed, and Cline got away six quarts. On January 15 he felt fairly -well except for an occasional pain in his stomach, and he told some of -his friends that he thought he might probably live for twenty years. -That night he had great pain, and got his valet to apply hot napkins to -his abdomen; he felt that he wished to vomit. At four in the morning -his pain became much easier, and at eight he was able to rise unaided; -but by nine he was glad to get back into bed, although he felt, as -he said, _plus adroit_ than he had felt for months. By eleven he was -speechless and obviously dying, and by 1 p.m. he was dead. - -I believe that the key to this extraordinary and confused narrative is -to be found in the visit to Cæsar Hawkins thirty years before, when -that competent surgeon was unable to satisfy himself as to whether he -was dealing with a rupture or a hydrocele. It seems now clear that -in reality it was both; and Gibbon, who was a corpulent man with a -pendulous abdomen, lived for thirty years without taking care of -it. But he lived very quietly; he took no exercise; he was a man of -calm, placid, and unruffled mind; probably no man was less likely to -be incommoded by a hernia, especially if the sac had a large wide -mouth and the contents were mainly fat. But the time came when the -intra-abdominal pressure of the growing omentum became too great, and -the swelling enormously increased, first in 1787 and again in 1793. -When Cline first tapped the swelling he was obviously aware that -there was more present than a hydrocele, because he warned Gibbon -that he would have to wear a truss afterwards, and moreover, though -he removed four quarts of fluid, yet the swelling was only reduced by -a half. Probably the soft irregular mass which he then left behind -was simply omentum which had come down from the abdomen. But why did -the swelling begin to grow again immediately? That is not the usual -way with a hydrocele, whose growth and everything connected with it -are usually indolently leisurely. Could there have been a malignant -tumour in course of formation? But if so, would not that have caused -more trouble? Nor would it have given the impression of being a soft -irregular mass. However, the second tapping was longer and more painful -than the first, though it removed less fluid; and Gibbon was more -relieved. But this tapping was followed by inflammation. What had -happened? Possibly Cline had found the epididymis; more probably his -trochar was septic, like all other instruments of that pre-antiseptic -period; at all events, the thing went from bad to worse, grew -enormously, and severe constitutional symptoms set in. The ulceration -and redness of the skin, which was no doubt filthy enough--surgically -speaking--after thirty years of hydrocele, look uncommonly like -suppurative epididymitis, or suppuration in the hydrocele. Thus Gibbon -goes on for a few days, able to move about, though with difficulty, -till he cheers up and seems to be recovering; then falls the axe, and -he dies a few hours after saying that he thought he had a good chance -of living for twenty years. - -Could the great septic hydrocele, connected with the abdomen through -the inguinal ring, have suddenly burst its bonds and flooded the -peritoneum with streptococci? Streptococcic peritonitis is one of the -most appalling diseases in surgery. Its symptoms to begin with are -vague, and it spreads with the rapidity of a grass fire in summer. -After an abdominal section the patient suddenly feels exceedingly -weak, there is a little lazy vomiting, the abdomen becomes distended, -the pulse goes to pieces in a few hours, and death occurs rapidly -while the mind is yet clear. The surgeon usually calls it “shock,” -or thinks in his own heart that his assistant is a careless fellow; -but the real truth is that streptococci have somehow been introduced -into the abdomen and have slain the patient without giving time for -the formation of adhesions whereby they might have been shut off and -ultimately destroyed. That is what I believe happened to Edward Gibbon. - -The loss to literature through this untimely tragedy was, of course, -irreparable. Gibbon had taken twenty years to mature his unrivalled -literary art. His style was the result of unremitting labour and -exquisite literary taste; if one accustoms oneself to the constant -antitheses--which occasionally give the impression of being forced -almost more for the sake of dramatic emphasis than truth--one must -be struck with the unvarying majesty and haunting music of the -diction, illumined by an irony so sly, so subtle--possibly a trifle -malicious--that one simmers with joyous appreciation in the reading. -That sort of irony is more appreciated by the onlookers than by its -victims, and it is not to be marvelled at that religious people felt -deeply aggrieved for many years at the application of it to the Early -Christians. Yet, after all, what Gibbon did was nothing more than -to show them as men like others; he merely showed that the evidence -concerning the beginnings of Christendom was less reliable than the -Church had supposed. The _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ shows -the history of the world for more than a thousand years, so vividly, -so dramatically, that the characters--who are great nations--move on -the stage like actors, and the men who led them live in a remarkable -flood of living light. The general effect upon the reader is as -if he were comfortably seated in a moving balloon traversing over -Time as over continents; as if he were seated in Mr. Wells’s “Time -Machine,” viewing the disordered beginnings of modern civilization. I -believe that no serious flaw in Gibbon’s history has been found, from -the point of view of accuracy. Some people have found it too much a -_chronique scandaleuse_, and some modern historians appear to consider -that history should be written in a dull and pedantic style rather -than be made to live; furthermore, the great advance in knowledge of -the Slavonic peoples has tended to modify some of his conclusions. -Nevertheless, Gibbon remains, and so far as we can see, will ever -remain, the greatest of historians. Though we might not have had -another _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, yet we might reasonably -have looked for the completion of that autobiography which had such a -brilliant beginning. What would we not give if that cool and appraising -mind, which had raised Justinian and Belisarius from the dead and -caused them to live again in the hearts of mankind, could have given -its impressions of the momentous period in which it came to maturity? -If, instead of England receiving its strongest impression of the -French Revolution from Carlyle--whose powers of declamation were more -potent than his sense of truth--it had been swayed from the beginning -by Gibbon? In such a case the history of modern England--possibly of -modern Russia--might have been widely different from what we have -already seen. - - - - -Jean Paul Marat - - -It has always been the pride of the medical profession that its aim -is to benefit mankind; but opinions may differ as to how far this aim -was fulfilled by one of our most eminent confrères, Jean Paul Marat. -He was born in Neufchatel of a marriage between a Sardinian man and a -Swiss woman, and studied medicine at Bordeaux; thence, after a time -at Paris, he went to London, and for some years practised there. In -London he published _A Philosophical Essay on Man_, wherein he showed -enormous knowledge of the English, German, French, Italian, and Spanish -philosophers; and advanced the thesis that a knowledge of science was -necessary for eminence as a philosopher. By this essay he fell foul of -Voltaire, who answered him tartly that nobody objected to his opinions, -but that at least he might learn to express them more politely, -especially when dealing with men of greater brains than his own. - -The French Revolution was threatening; the coming storm was already -thundering, when, in 1788, Marat’s ill-balanced mind led him to abandon -medicine and take to politics. He returned to Paris, beginning the -newspaper _L’Ami du Peuple_, which he continued to edit till late -in 1792. His policy was simple, and touched the great heart of the -people. “Whatsoever things were pure, whatsoever things were of good -repute, whatsoever things were honest”--so be it that they were not -Jean Paul Marat’s, those things he vilified. He suspected everybody, -and constantly cried, “Nous sommes trahis”--that battle-cry of Marat -which remained the battle-cry of Paris from that day to 1914. By his -violent attacks on every one he made Paris too hot to hold him, and -once again retired to London. Later he returned to Paris, apparently -at the request of men who desired to use his literary skill and -violent doctrines; he had to hide in cellars and sewers, where it was -said he contracted that loathsome skin disease which was henceforth -to make his life intolerable, and to force him to spend much of his -time in a hot-water bath, and would have shortly killed him only for -the intervention of Charlotte Corday. In these haunts he was attended -only by Simonne Everard, whose loyalty goes to show either that there -was some good even in Marat, or that there is no man so frightful but -that some woman may be found to love him. Finally, he was elected to -the Convention, and took his seat. There he continued his violent -attacks upon everybody, urging that the “gangrene” of the aristocracy -and bourgeoisie should be amputated from the State. His ideas of -political economy appear to have foreshadowed those of Karl Marx--that -the proletariat should possess everything, and that nobody else should -possess anything. Daily increasing numbers of heads should fall in the -sacred names of Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality. At first a mere -600 would have satisfied him, but the number rapidly increased, first -to 10,000, then to 260,000. To this number he appeared faithful, for -he seldom exceeded it; his most glorious vision was only of killing -300,000 daily. - -He devoted his energies to attacking those who appeared abler and -better than himself, and the most prominent object of his hatred was -the party of the Girondins. These were so called because most of them -came from the Gironde, and they are best described as people who wished -that France should be governed by a sane and moderate democracy, such -as they wrongly imagined the Roman Republic to have been. They were -gentle and clever visionaries, who dreamed dreams; they advised, but -did not dare to perform; the most famous names which have survived -are those of Brissot, Roland, and Barbaroux. Madame Roland, who has -become of legendary fame, was considered their “soul”; concerning -her, shouts Carlyle: “Radiant with enthusiasm are those dark eyes, is -that strong Minerva-face, looking dignity and earnest joy; joyfullest -she where all are joyful. Reader, mark that queen-like burgher-woman; -beautiful, Amazonian-graceful to the eye; more so to the mind. -Unconscious of her worth (as all worth is), of her greatness, of her -crystal-clearness, genuine, the creature of Sincerity and Nature, in an -age of Artificiality, Pollution and Cant”--and so forth. But Carlyle -was writing prose-poetry, sacrificing truth to effect, and it is unwise -to take his poetical descriptions as accurate. Recent researches -have shown that possibly Manon Roland was not so pure, honest, and -well-intentioned as Carlyle thought--nor so “crystal-clear.” Summed up, -the Girondins represented the middle classes, and the battle was now -set between them and the “unwashed,” led by Robespierre, Danton, and -Marat. - -What manner of man, then, was this Marat, physically? Extraordinary! -Semi-human from most accounts. Says Carlyle: “O Marat, thou -remarkablest horse-leech, once in d’Artois’ stable, as thy bleared -soul looks forth through thy bleared, dull-acrid, woe-stricken face, -what seest thou in all this?” Again: “One most squalidest bleared -mortal, redolent of soot and horse-drugs.” There appears to have been -a certain amount of foundation for the lie that Marat had been nothing -more than a horse-doctor, for once when he was brevet-surgeon to the -bodyguard of the Compte d’Artois he had found that he could not make a -living, and had been driven to dispense medicines for men and horses; -his enemies afterwards said that he had never been anything more than -a horse-leech. Let us not deprive our own profession of one of its -ornaments. His admirer Panis said that while Marat was hiding in the -cellars, “he remained for six weeks on one buttock in a dungeon”; -immediately, therefore, he was likened to St. Simeon Stylites, who, -outside Antioch, built himself a high column, repaired him to the top, -and stood there bowing and glorifying God for thirty years, until he -became covered with sores. Dr. Moore gives the best description of him. -“Marat is a little man of a cadaverous complexion, and countenance -exceedingly expressive of his disposition; to a painter of massacres -Marat’s head would be invaluable. Such heads are rare in this country -(England), yet they are sometimes to be met with in the Old Bailey.” -Marat’s head was enormous; he was less than five feet high, with -shrivelled limbs and yellow face; one eye was higher placed than the -other, “so that he looked lop-sided.” As for his skin disease, modern -writers seem to consider that we should nowadays call it “dermatitis -herpetiformis,” though his political friends artlessly thought it was -due to the humours generated by excessive patriotism in so small a body -attacking his skin, and thus should be counted for a virtue. Carlyle -hints that it was syphilis, thus following in the easy track of those -who attribute to syphilis those things which they cannot understand. -But syphilis, even if painful, would not have been relieved by sitting -for hours daily in a hot bath. - -Mentally he appears to have been a paranoiac, to quote a recent -historical diagnosis by Dr. Charles W. Burr, of Philadelphia. -Marat suffered for many years from delusions of persecution, which -some people appear to take at their face value; the _New Age -Encyclopedia_ specially remarks on the amount of persecution that he -endured--probably all delusional, unless we are to consider the natural -efforts of people in self-defence to be persecution. He suffered from -tremendous and persistent “ego-mania,” and appears to have believed -that he had a greater intellect than Voltaire. Marat, whom the mass of -mankind regarded with horror, fancied himself a popular physician, whom -crowds would have consulted but for the unreasonable and successful -hatred of his enemies. Possibly failure at his profession, combined -with the unspeakable irritation of his disease, may have embittered his -mind, and for the last few months of his life there can be little doubt -that Marat was insane. - -It seems to be certain that he organized, if he did not originate, the -frightful September massacres. There were many hundreds of Royalists in -the prisons, who were becoming a nuisance. The Revolution was hanging -fire, and well-meaning enthusiasts began to fear that the dull clod -of a populace would not rise in its might to end the aristocracy; so -it was decided to abolish these unfortunate prisoners. A tribunal was -formed to sit in judgment; outside waited a great crowd of murderers -hired for the occasion. The prisoners were led before the tribunal, and -released into the street, where they were received by the murderers -and were duly “released”--from this sorrowful world. The most famous -victim was the good and gentle Princess de Lamballe, Superintendent of -the Queen’s Household. The judge at her trial was the notorious Hébert, -anarchist, atheist, and savage, afterwards executed by his friend -Robespierre when he had served his turn. Madame collapsed with terror, -and fainted repeatedly during the mockery of a trial, but when Hébert -said the usual ironical, “Let Madame be released,” she walked to the -door. When she saw the murderers with their bloody swords she shrank -back and shrieked, “Fi--horreur.” They cut her in pieces; but decency -forbids that I should say what they did with all the pieces. Carlyle, -who here speaks truth, has a dark saying about “obscene horrors with -moustachio _grands-levres_,” which is near enough for anatomists to -understand. The murderers then stuck her head on a pike, and held her -fair curls before the Queen’s window as an oriflamme in the name of -Liberty. Madame was but one of 1,100 whose insane butchery must be laid -to the door of Marat; though some friends of the Bolsheviks endeavour -to acquit him we can only say that if it was not his work it looks -uncommonly like it. - -The battle between the Girondins, who were bad fellows, but less -bad than their enemies of the “Mountain”--Robespierre, Danton, and -Marat--continued; it was a case of _arcades ambo_, which Bryon -translates “blackguards both,” though Virgil, who wrote the line--in -the Georgics--probably meant something much coarser. The “Mountain” -began to get the upper hand, and the Girondins fled for their lives, -or went to the guillotine. The Revolution was already “devouring its -children.” - -At Caen in Normandy there lived a young woman, daughter of a decayed -noble family which in happier days had been named d’Armont, now Corday. -Her name was Marie Charlotte d’Armont, and she is known to history -as Charlotte Corday. She had been well educated, had read Rousseau, -Voltaire, and the encyclopædists, besides being fascinated by a dream -of an imaginary State which she had been taught to call the Roman -Republic, in which the “tyrannicide” Brutus loomed much larger and more -glorious than in reality. Some Girondists fled to Caen to escape the -vengeance of Marat; Charlotte, horrified, resolved that the monster -should die; she herself was then nearly twenty-five years of age. -I have a picture of her which seems to fit in very well with one’s -preconceived ideas of her character. She was five feet one inch in -height, with a well-proportioned figure, and she had a wonderful mass -of chestnut hair; her eyes were large, grey, and set widely apart; the -general expression of her face was thoughtful and earnest. Perhaps it -would hardly be respectful to call her an “intense” young lady; but -there was a young lady who sometimes used to consult me who might very -well have sat for the portrait; she possessed a type of somewhat--dare -I say?--priggish neurosis which I imagine was not unlike the type of -character that dwelt within Charlotte Corday--extreme conscientiousness -and self-righteousness. Such a face might have been the face of a -Christian martyr going to the lions--if any Christian martyrs were ever -thrown to the lions, which some doubt. She went silently to Paris, -attended only by an aged man-servant, and bought a long knife in the -Palais Royal; thence she went to Marat’s house, and tried to procure -admission. Simonne--the loyal Simonne--denied her, and she returned to -her inn. Again she called at the house; Marat heard her pretty voice, -and ordered Simonne to admit her. It was the evening of July 13, four -years all but one day since the storming of the Bastille, and Marat -sat in his slipper-bath, pens, ink, and paper before him, frightful -head peering out of the opening, hot compresses concealing his hair. -Charlotte told him that there were several Girondists hiding at Caen -and plotting against the Revolution. “Their heads shall fall within a -fortnight,” croaked Marat. Then, he being thus convicted out of his own -mouth, she drew forth from her bosom her long knife, and plunged it -into his chest between the first and second ribs, so that it pierced -the aorta. Marat gave one cry, and died; Charlotte turned to face the -two women who rushed in, but not yet was she to surrender, for she -barricaded herself behind some furniture and other movables till the -soldiers arrived. To them she gave herself up without trouble. - -At her trial she made no denial, but proudly confessed, saying, “Yes, -I killed him.” Fouquier-Tinville sneered at her: “You must be well -practised at this sort of crime!” She only answered: “The monster!--he -seems to think I am an assassin!” She thought herself rather the agent -of God, sent by Him to rid the world of a loathsome disorder, as Brutus -had rid Rome of Julius Cæsar. - -In due course she was guillotined, and an extraordinary thing happened. -A young German named Adam Lux had been present at the trial, standing -behind the artist who was painting the very picture of which I have a -reproduction--it is said that Charlotte showed no objection to being -portrayed--and the young man had been fascinated by the martyresque air -of her. He attended the execution, romance and grief weighing him down; -then he ran home, and wrote a furious onslaught on the leaders of the -Mountain who had executed her, saying that her death had “sanctified -the guillotine,” and that it had become “a sacred altar from which -every taint had been removed by her innocent blood.” He published -this broadcast, and was naturally at once arrested. The revolutionary -tribunal sentenced him to death, and he scornfully refused to accept a -pardon, saying that he wished to die on the same spot as Charlotte, so -they let him have his wish. The incident reminds one of a picture-show, -and it is not remarkable that an American, named Lyndsay Orr, has -written a sentimental article about it. - -The people of Paris went mad after Marat’s death; his body, which was -said to be decaying with unusual rapidity, was surrounded by a great -crowd which worshipped it blasphemously, saying, “O Sacred Heart of -Marat!” This worship of Marat, which showed how deeply his teaching -had bitten into the hearts of the people, culminated in the Reign -of Terror, which began on September 5, 1795, whereby France lost, -according to different estimates, between half a million and a million -innocent people. Some superior persons seem to think that Marat had -little or no influence on the Revolution, but to my mind there can be -no doubt that the Terror was largely the result of his preaching of -frantic violence, and it is a lesson that we ourselves should take to -heart, seeing that there are persons in the world to-day who would -emulate Marat if they possessed his enormous courage. - -I need not narrate the history of the Reign of Terror, which was -even worse than the terror which the Bolsheviks established in -Russia. Not even Lenin and Trotsky devised anything so atrocious as -the _noyades_--wholesale drownings--in the Loire, or the _mariages -républicains_ on the banks of that river, and it is difficult to -believe that the teaching of Marat had nothing to do with that -frightful outbreak of bestiality, lust, and murder. - -The evil that men do lives after them. There was little good to be -buried in Marat’s grave, doctor though he was. - - - - -Napoleon I - - -There is not, and may possibly never be, an adequate biography of -this prodigious man. It is a truism to say that he has cast a doubt -on all past glory; let us hope that he has rendered future glory -impossible, for to judge by the late war it seems impossible that -any rival to the glory of Napoleon can ever arise. In the matter of -slaying his fellow-creatures he appears to have reached the summit of -human achievement; possibly also in all matters of organization and -administration. Material things hardly seemed to affect him; bestriding -the world like a colossus he has given us a sublime instance of -Intellect that for many years ruthlessly overmastered Circumstance. -That Intellect was finally itself mastered by disease, leaving behind -it a record which is of supreme interest to mankind; a record which, -alas, is so disfigured by prejudice and falsehood that it is difficult -to distinguish between what is true and what is untrue. Napoleon -himself possessed so extraordinary a personality that nearly every -one whom he met became a fervent adorer. With regard to him we can -find no half-tones, no detached reporters; therefore it is enormously -difficult to find even the basis for a biography. Fortunately, that is -not now our province. It is merely necessary that we shall attempt to -make a consistent story of the reports of illness which perplex us in -regard to his life and death; it adds interest to the quest when we -are told that sometimes disease lent its aid to Fate in swaying the -destinies of battles. And yet, even after Napoleon has lived, there are -some historians who deny the influence of a “great man” upon history, -and would attribute to “tendencies” and “ideas” events which ordinary -people would attribute to individual genius. Some persons think that -Napoleon was merely an episode--that he had no real influence upon -history; it is the custom to point to his career as an exemplification -of the thesis that war has played very little real part in the moulding -of the course of the world. Into all this we need not now enter, beyond -saying that he was the “child of the French Revolution” who killed -his own spiritual father; the reaction from Napoleon was Metternich, -Castlereagh, and the Holy Alliance; the reaction from these forces of -repression was the late war. So it is difficult to agree that Napoleon -was only an “episode.” We have merely to remark that he was the most -interesting of all men, and, so far as we can tell, will probably -remain so. As Fielding long ago pointed out in _Jonathan Wild_, a -man’s “greatness” appears to depend on his homicidal capacity. To make -yourself a hero all you have to do is to slaughter as many of your -fellow-creatures as God will permit. How poor the figures of Woodrow -Wilson or Judge Hughes seem beside the grey-coated “little corporal”! -Though it is quite probable that either of these most estimable -American peacemakers have done more good for the human race than was -achieved by any warrior! So sinful is man that we throw our hats in the -air and whoop for Napoleon the slaughterer, rather than for Woodrow -Wilson, who was “too proud to fight.” - -When Napoleon was sent to St. Helena he was followed by a very few -faithful friends, who seem to have spent their time in hating one -another rather than in comforting their fallen idol. It is difficult -to get at the truth of these last few years because, though most of -the eye-witnesses have published their memoirs, each man seems to have -been more concerned to assure the world of the greatness of his own -sacrifice than to record the exact facts. Therefore, though Napoleon -urged them to keep diaries, and thereby make great sums of money -through their imprisonment, yet these diaries generally seem to have -aimed rather at attacking the other faithful ones than at telling us -exactly what happened. - -The post-mortem examination of Napoleon’s body was performed by -Francesco Antommarchi, a young Corsican physician, anatomist, and -pathologist, who was sent to St. Helena about eighteen months before -Napoleon’s death in the hope that he, being a Corsican, would be able -to win the Emperor’s confidence and cure the illness of which he was -already complaining. Unfortunately, Antommarchi was a very young man, -and Napoleon suspected both his medical skill and the reason of his -presence. Napoleon used to suffer from severe pains in his stomach; -he would clasp himself, and groan, “O, mon pylore!” By that time he -was suffering from cancer of the stomach, and Antommarchi did not -suspect it. When Napoleon groaned and writhed in agony it is said -that Antommarchi merely laughed, and prescribed him tartar emetic in -lemonade. Napoleon was violently sick, and thought himself poisoned; he -swore he would never again taste any of Antommarchi’s medicine. Once -again Antommarchi attempted to give him tartar emetic in lemonade; -it was not in vain that Napoleon had won a reputation for being a -great strategist, for, when Antommarchi’s back was turned he handed -the draught to the unsuspecting Montholon. In ten minutes that hero -reacted in the usual manner, and extremely violently. Napoleon was -horrified and outraged in his feelings; quite naturally he accused -Antommarchi of trying to poison him, called him “assassin,” and refused -to see him again. Another fault that Napoleon found with the unhappy -young man was that whenever he wanted medical attendance Antommarchi -was not to be found, but had to be ferreted out from Jamestown, three -and a half miles away; so altogether Antommarchi’s attendance could not -be called a success. Napoleon in his wrath was “terrible as an army -with banners.” Even at St. Helena, where the resources of the whole -world had been expended in the effort to cage him helpless, it must -have been no joke to stand up before those awful eyes, that scorching -tongue; and it is no wonder that Antommarchi preferred to spend the -last few weeks idling about Jamestown rather than forcing unwelcome -attention upon his terrible patient. - -Worst of all, Antommarchi at first persuaded himself that Napoleon’s -last illness was not serious. When Napoleon cried in his agony, “O, -mon pylore!” and complained of a pain that shot through him like a -knife, Antommarchi merely laughed and turned to his antimony with -catastrophic results. It shakes our faith in Antommarchi’s professional -skill to read that until the very last moment he would not believe -that there was much the matter. The veriest blockhead--one would -imagine--must have seen that the Emperor was seriously ill. Many a case -of cancer of the stomach has been mistaken for simple dyspepsia in -its early stages, but there comes a time when the true nature of the -disease forces itself upon even the most casual observer. The rapid -wasting, the cachexia, the vomiting, the pain, all impress themselves -upon both patient and friends, and it is difficult to avoid the -conclusion that Antommarchi must have been both careless and negligent. -When the inevitable happened, and Napoleon died, it was Antommarchi who -performed the autopsy, and found a condition which it is charitable to -suppose may have masked the last symptoms and may have explained, if it -did not excuse, the young anatomist’s mistaken confidence. - -We conclude our brief sketch of the unhappy Antommarchi by saying that -when he returned to Europe he published the least accurate and most -disingenuous of all accounts of Napoleon’s last days. His object seems -to have been rather to conceal his own shortcomings than to tell the -truth. This book sets the seal on his character, and casts doubt on -all else that comes from his pen. He may have been, as the _Lancet_ -says, a “trained and competent pathologist”; he was certainly a most -unfortunate young man. - -The post-mortem was performed in the presence of several British -military surgeons, who appear to have been true sons of John Bull, -with all the prejudice, ignorance, and cocksureness that in the eyes -of other nations distinguish us so splendidly. Though truthfulness -was not a strong point with Antommarchi, he seems to have known his -pathology, and has left us an exceedingly good and well-written report -of what he found. Strange to relate, the body was found to be still -covered thickly with a superficial layer of fat, and the heart and -omenta were also adipose. This would seem impossible in the body of a -man who had just died from cancer of the stomach, but is corroborated -by a report from a Dr. Henry, who was also present, and is not unknown. -I remember the case of an old woman who, though hardly at all wasted, -was found at the autopsy to have an extensive cancerous growth of the -pylorus; the explanation was that the disease had been so acute that -it slew her before there had been time to produce much wasting. At one -point Napoleon’s cancerous ulcer had perforated the stomach, and the -orifice had been sealed by adhesions. Dr. Henry proudly states that he -himself was able to thrust his finger through it. The liver was large -but not diseased; the spleen was large and “full of blood”--probably -Antommarchi meant engorged. The intestine was covered by small -bright-red patches, evidently showing inflammation of lymphatic tissue -such as frequently occurs in general infections of the body. The -bladder contained gravel and several definite calculi. There was hardly -any secondary cancerous development, except for a few enlarged glands. -Antommarchi and the French generally had diagnosed before death that -he was suffering from some sort of hepatitis endemic to St. Helena, -and the cancer was a great surprise to them--not that it would have -mattered much from the point of view of treatment. - -Napoleon’s hands and feet were extremely small; his skin was white and -delicate; his body had feminine characteristics, such as wide hips and -narrow shoulders; his reproductive organs were small and apparently -atrophied. He is said to have been impotent for some time before he -died. There was little hair on the body, and the hair of the head was -fine, silky, and sparse. Twenty years later his body was exhumed and -taken to France, and Dr. Guillard, who was permitted to make a brief -examination, stated that the beard and nails appeared to have grown -since death; there was very little sign of decomposition; men who had -known him in life recognized his face immediately it was uncovered. - -Leonard Guthrie points out that some of these signs seem to indicate -a condition of hypo-pituitarism--the opposite to the condition of -hyper-pituitarism which causes “giantism.” Far-fetched as this theory -may appear, yet it is possible that there may be something in it. - -The autopsy showed beyond cavil that the cause of death was cancer of -the stomach, and it is difficult to see what more Antommarchi could -have done in the way of treatment than he did, although certainly an -irritant poison like tartar emetic would not have been good for a man -with cancer of the stomach, even if it did not actually shorten his -life. But Napoleon was not a good patient. He had seen too much of -army surgery to have a great respect for our profession; indeed, it is -probable that he had no respect for anybody but the Emperor Napoleon. -He, at least, knew his business. He could manœuvre a great army in the -field and win battles--and lose them too. But even a lost Napoleonic -battle--there were not many--was better managed than a victory of any -other man; whereas when you were dealing with these doctor fellows you -could never tell whether their results were caused by their treatment -or by the intervention of whatever gods there be. Decidedly Antommarchi -was the last man in the world to be sent to treat the fallen, but still -imperious, warrior. - -The symptoms of impending death seem to have been masked by a continued -fever, and probably Antommarchi was not really much to blame. This idea -is to some extent borne out by a couple of specimens in the Museum -of the Royal College of Surgeons, which are said to have belonged to -the body of Napoleon. The story is that they were surreptitiously -removed by Antommarchi, and handed by him to Barry O’Meara, who in his -turn gave them to Sir Astley Cooper. That baronet handed them to the -museum, where they are now preserved as of doubtful origin. But their -genuineness depends upon whether we can believe that Antommarchi would -or could have removed them, and whether O’Meara was telling the truth -to Sir Astley Cooper. It is doubtful which of the two first-mentioned -men is the less credible, and Cooper could not have known how -untruthful O’Meara was to show himself, or he would probably not have -thought for one moment that the specimens were genuine. O’Meara was -a contentious Irishman who, like most other people, had fallen under -the sway of Napoleon’s personal charm. He published a book in which -he libelled Sir Hudson Lowe, whose hard fate it was to be Napoleon’s -jailer at St. Helena--that isle of unrest. For some reason Lowe never -took action against his traducer until it was too late, so that his own -character, like most things connected with Napoleon, still remains a -bone of contention. But O’Meara had definitely put himself on the side -of the French against the English, and it was the object of the French -to show that their demigod had died of some illness endemic to that -devil’s island, aggravated by the barbarous ill-treatment of the brutal -British. We on our side contended that St. Helena was a sort of earthly -paradise, where one should live for ever. The fragments are from -_somebody’s_ ileum, and show little raised patches of inflamed lymphoid -tissue; Sir William Leishman considers the post-mortem findings, -apart from the cancer, those of some long-continued fever, such as -Mediterranean fever. - -Mediterranean or Malta fever is a curious specific fever due to the -_Micrococcus melitensis_, which shows itself by recurrent bouts of -pyrexia, accompanied by constipation, chronic anæmia, and wasting. -Between the bouts the patient may appear perfectly well. There are -three types--the “undulatory” here described; the “intermittent,” in -which the attacks come on almost daily; and the “malignant,” in which -the patient only lives for a week or ten days. It is now known to be -contracted by drinking the infected milk of goats, and it is almost -confined to the shores of the Mediterranean and certain parts of India. -It may last for years, and it is quite possible that Napoleon caught -it at Elba, of which Mediterranean island he was the unwilling emperor -in 1814. Thence he returned to France, as it was said, because he had -not elba-room on his little kingdom. It is certain that for years he -had been subject to feverish attacks, which army surgeons would now -possibly classify as “P.U.O.,” and it is quite possible that these may -in reality have been manifestations of Malta fever. - -It has been surmised by some enthusiasts that the frequency of -micturition, followed by dysuria, to which he was liable, may have -really been due to hyper-pituitarism. Whenever we do not understand a -thing let us blame a ductless gland; the pituitary body is well hidden -beneath the brain, and its action is still not thoroughly understood. -But surely we need no further explanation of this miserable symptom -than the stones in the bladder. Napoleon for many years might almost -be said to have lived on horseback, and riding is the very thing to -cause untold misery to a man afflicted with vesical calculus. Dysuria, -attendant upon frequency of micturition, is a most suggestive symptom; -nowadays we are always taught to consider the possibility of stone, and -it is rather surprising that nobody seems to have suspected it during -his lifetime. This could be very well accounted for by remembering the -general ignorance and incompetence of army surgeons at the time, the -mighty position of the patient, and his intolerance of the medical -profession. Few men would have dared to suggest that it would be well -for him to submit to the passage of a sound, even if the trouble ever -became sufficiently urgent to compel him to confide so private a matter -to one so lowly as a mere army doctor. Yet he had known and admired -Baron Larrey, the great military surgeon of the Napoleonic Wars; one -can only surmise that his calculi did not give him much trouble, or -that they grew more rapidly in the sedentary life which he had led at -St. Helena. - -During the last year or so he took great interest in gardening, and -spent hours in planting trees, digging the soil, and generally behaving -somewhat after the manner of a suburban householder. He was intensely -bored by his forced inaction, and used to take refuge in chess. His -staff at first welcomed this, but unhappily they could find nobody bad -enough for the mighty strategist to beat; yet nobody dared to give him -checkmate, and it was necessary to lose the game foolishly rather than -to defeat Napoleon. It is clear that the qualities requisite in a good -chess-player are by no means the same as those necessary to outmanœuvre -an army. - -Throughout his life his pulse-rate seldom exceeded fifty per minute; as -he grew older he was subject to increasing lassitude; his extremities -felt constantly chilly, and he used to lie for hours daily in hot-water -baths. Possibly these may have been symptoms of hypo-pituitarism; Lord -Rosebery follows popular opinion in attributing his laziness to the -weakening effects of hot baths. Occasionally Napoleon suffered from -attacks of vomiting, followed by fits of extreme lethargy. It is quite -possible that these vomiting attacks may have been due to the gastric -ulcer, which must have been growing for years until, about September, -1820, it became acutely malignant. - -The legend that Napoleon suffered from epilepsy appears, according -to Dr. Ireland, to rest upon a statement in Talleyrand’s memoirs. -In September, 1805, in Talleyrand’s presence, Napoleon was seized -after dinner with a sort of fit, and fell to the ground struggling -convulsively. Talleyrand loosened his cravat, obeying the popular -rule in such circumstances to “give him air.” Remusat, the chief -chamberlain, gave him water, which he drank. Talleyrand returned to the -charge, and “inundated” him with eau-de-Cologne. The Emperor awakened, -and said something--one would like to know what he said when he felt -the inundation streaming down his clothes--probably something truly -of the camp. Half an hour later he was on the road that was to lead -him--to Austerlitz, of all places! Clearly this fit, whatever it may -have been, was not epilepsy in the ordinary sense of the term. There -was no “cry,” no biting of the tongue, no foaming at the mouth, and -apparently no unconsciousness. Moreover, epilepsy is accompanied by -degeneration of the intellect, and nobody dares to say that Austerlitz, -Jena, and Wagram--to say nothing of Aspern and Eckmuhl--were won by -a degenerate. Eylau and Friedland were also to come after 1805, and -these seven names still ring like a trumpet for sheer glory, daring, -and supreme genius. I suppose there is not one of them--except perhaps -Aspern--which would not have made an imperishable name for any lesser -general. It is impossible to believe that they were fought by an -epileptic. If Napoleon really had epilepsy it was assuredly not the -“_grand mal_” which helps to fill our asylums. It is just possible that -“_petit mal_” may have been in the picture. This is a curious condition -which manifests itself by momentary loss of consciousness; the patient -may become suddenly dreamy and purposeless, and may perform curious -involuntary actions--even crimes--while _apparently_ conscious. When he -recovers he knows nothing about what he has been doing, and may even -resume the interrupted action which had occupied him at the moment of -the seizure. Some such explanation may account for Napoleon’s fits of -furious passion, that seem to have been followed by periods of lethargy -and vomiting. It is a sort of pleasing paradox--and mankind dearly -loves paradox--to say that supremely great men suffer from epilepsy. -It was said of Julius Cæsar, of St. Paul, and of Mohammed. These men -are said to have suffered from “falling sickness,” whatever that may -have been; there are plenty of conditions which may make men fall to -the ground, without being epileptic: Ménière’s disease, for instance. -It is ridiculous to suppose that Julius Cæsar and Napoleon--by common -consent the two greatest of the sons of men--should have been subject -to a disease which deteriorates the intellect. - -It is possible that some such trouble as “_petit mal_” may have been -at the bottom of the curious stories of a certain listless torpor -that appears to have overcome Napoleon at critical moments in his -later battles. Something of the kind happened at Borodino in 1812, the -bloodiest and most frightful battle in history till that time. Napoleon -indeed won, in the sense that the exhausted Russians retreated to -Moscow, whither he pursued them to his ill-fortune; but the battle was -not fought with anything like the supreme genius which he displayed in -his other campaigns. Similarly, he is said to have been thus stricken -helpless after Ligny, when he defeated Blucher in 1815. He wasted -precious hours in lethargy, which should have been spent in his usual -furious pursuit of his beaten foe. To this day the French hold that, -but for Napoleon’s inexplicable idleness after Ligny, there would -have been no St. Helena; and, with all the respect due to Wellington -and his thin red line, it is by no means certain that the French are -wrong. But nations will continue to squabble about Waterloo till there -shall be no more war; and 1814 had been the most brilliant of his -campaigns--probably of any man’s campaigns. - -“Of woman came the beginning of sin, and through her therefore we -all die,” said the ungallant author of Ecclesiasticus; and it is -certain that Napoleon was extremely susceptible to feminine charms. -Like a Roman emperor, he had but to cast a glance at a woman and she -was at his feet. Yet probably his life was not very much less moral -than was customary among the great at that time. When we remember -his extraordinary personal charm, it is rather a matter for wonder -that women seem to have had so little serious effect upon his life, -and he seems to have taken comparatively little advantage of his -opportunities. His first wife, Josephine Beauharnais, was a flighty -Creole who pleased herself entirely; in the vulgar phrase, she “took -her pleasure where she found it.” To this Napoleon appears to have -been complaisant, but as she could not produce an heir to the dynasty -which he wished to found, he divorced her, and married the Austrian -princess Marie Louise, whose father he had defeated and humiliated as -few sovereigns have ever been humiliated. She deserted him without -a qualm when he was sent to Elba; when he was finally imprisoned at -St. Helena there was no question of her following him, even if the -British Government had had sufficient imagination to permit such a -thing. Napoleon, who was fond of her, wanted her to go with him; but -one could not expect a Government containing Castlereagh, Liverpool, -and Bathurst, to show any sympathy to the fallen foe who had been a -nightmare to Europe for twenty years. She would never consent to see -Josephine. It is said that Napoleon’s _libido sexualis_ was violent, -but rapidly quelled. In conversation at St. Helena he admitted having -possessed seven mistresses; of them he said simply, “C’est beaucoup.” -When he was sent to St. Helena his mother wrote and asked to be allowed -to follow him; however great a man’s fall, his mother never deserts -him, and asylum doctors find that long after the wife or sisters forget -some demented and bestial creature, his mother loyally continues her -visits till the grave closes over one or the other. But more remarkable -is the fact that Pauline Bonaparte, who was always looked upon as a -shameless hussy, would have followed him to St. Helena, only that -she was ill in bed at the time. She was the beautiful sister who sat -to Canova for the statue of Venus in the Villa Borghese. It was then -thought most shocking for a lady of high degree to be sculptured as a -nude Venus--perhaps it is now; I say, _perhaps_. There are few ladies -of high degree so beautiful as Princess Pauline, as Canova shows her. -A friend said to her about the statue, “Were you not uncomfortable, -princess, sitting there without any clothes on?” “Uncomfortable,” said -Princess Pauline, “why should I be uncomfortable? There was a stove -in the room!” There are many other still less creditable stories told -about her. It was poor beautiful Pauline who lost her husband of yellow -fever, herself recovering of an attack at the same time. She cut off -her hair and buried it in his coffin. This was thought a wonderful -instance of wifely devotion, until the cynical Emperor remarked: “Quite -so; quite so; of course, she knows it will grow again better than ever -for cutting it off, and that it would have fallen off anyhow after the -fever.” Yet when he was sent to Elba, this frivolous sister followed -him, and she sold every jewel she possessed to make life comfortable -for him at St. Helena. She was a very human and beautiful woman, this -Pauline; she detested Marie Louise, and once in 1810 at a grand fête -she saucily poked out her tongue at the young Empress in full view -of all the nobles. Unhappily Napoleon saw her, and cast upon her a -dreadful look; Pauline picked up her skirts and ran headlong from the -room. When she heard of his death she wept bitterly; she died four -years afterwards of cancer. Her last action was to call for a mirror, -looking into which she died, saying, “I am still beautiful; I am not -afraid to die.” - -In attempting to judge Marie Louise it must be remembered that there -is a horrid story told of Napoleon’s first meeting with her in France -after the civil marriage had been performed by proxy in Vienna. It is -said that the fury of his lust did her physical injury, and that that -is the true reason why she never forgave him and deserted him at the -first opportunity. She bore him a son, of whom he was passionately -fond, but after his downfall the son--the poor little King of Rome -immortalized by Rostand in “_l’Aiglon_”--fell into the hands of -Metternich, the Austrian, who is said to have deliberately contrived -to have him taught improper practices, lest he should grow up to -be as terrible a menace to the world as his father. But all these -are rumours, and show how difficult it is to ascertain the truth of -anything connected with Napoleon. - -When Napoleon fell to the dust after Leipzig, Marie Louise became too -friendly with Count von Neipperg, whom she morganatically married after -Napoleon’s death. Although he heard of her infidelity, he forgave her, -and mentioned her affectionately in his will, thereby showing, to -borrow a famous phrase of Gibbon about Belisarius, “Either less or -more than the character of a man.” - -For nine days before he died he lay unconscious and babbled in -delirium. On the morning of May 5, 1821, Montholon thought he heard -the words “_France ... armée ... tête d’armée._” The dying Emperor -thrust Montholon from his side, struggled out of bed, and staggered -towards the window. Montholon overpowered him and put him back to bed, -where he lay silent and motionless till he died the same evening. The -man who had fought about sixty pitched battles, all of which he had -won, I believe, but two--who had caused the deaths of three millions -of his own men and untold millions of his enemies--died as peacefully -in his bed as any humble labourer. What dim memories passed through -his clouded brain as he tried to say “head of the army”? A great -tropical storm was threatening Longwood. Did he recall the famous “sun -of Austerlitz” beneath whose rays the _grande armée_ had elevated its -idolized head to the highest pitch of earthly glory? Who can follow the -queer paths taken by associated ideas in the human brain? - - - - -Benvenuto Cellini - - -No one can read Benvenuto’s extraordinary autobiography without being -reminded of the even more extraordinary diary of Mr. Pepys. But there -is one very great difference. Cellini dictated his memoirs to a little -boy for the world at large, and did not profess to tell the whole -truth--rather those things which came into his mind readily in his old -age; but Pepys wrote for himself in secret cypher in his own study, and -the reason of his writing has never yet been guessed. Why did he set -down all his most private affairs? And when they became too disgraceful -even for Mr. Pepys’s conscience, why did he set them down in a mongrel -mixture of French and Spanish? Can we find a hint in the fact that he -left a key to the cypher behind him? Did he really wish his Diary to -remain unreadable for ever? Was it really a quaint and beastly vanity -that moved him? - -But Cellini wrote _per medium_ of a little boy amanuensis while he -himself worked, and possibly he may have deliberately omitted some -facts too shameful for the ears of that _puer ingenuus_; though I -have my doubts about this theory. He frankly depicts himself as a -cynical and forth-right fellow always ready to brawl; untroubled by -conventional ideas either of art or of morality; ready to call a spade -a spade or any number of adjectived shovels that came instantly to -his mind. If it be great writing to express one’s meaning tersely, -directly, and positively, then Cellini’s is the greatest of writing, -though we have to be thankful that it is in a foreign language. The -best translation is probably that of John Addington Symonds--a cheaper -and excellent edition is published in the _Everyman Library_--and -nobody who wishes to write precisely as he thinks can afford to go -without studying this remarkable book. And having studied it he will -probably come to the conclusion that there are other things in writing -than merely to express oneself directly. There is such a thing as -beauty of thought as well as beauty of expression; and probably he will -end by wondering what is that thing which we call beauty? Is it only -Truth, as even such a master of Beauty as Keats seems to have thought? -Why is one line of the _Grecian Urn_ more beautiful than all the blood -and thunder of Benvenuto? - -Cellini says that he caught the “French evil”--i.e. syphilis--when he -was a young man; he certainly did his best to catch it. His symptoms -were abnormal, and the doctors assured him that his disease was not -the “French evil.” However, he knew better, and assumed a treatment -of his own, consisting of _lignum vitæ_ and a holiday shooting in the -marshes. Here he probably caught malaria, of which he cured himself -with guaiacum. We know now that, alas, syphilis cannot be cured by -such means; and the fact that he lived to old age seems to show that -there was something wrong with his diagnosis. I have known plenty of -syphilitics who have reached extreme old age, but they had not been -cured by _lignum vitæ_ and a holiday; it was mercury that had cured -them, taken early and often, over long periods. I very much doubt -whether he ever had the “French evil” at all. - - [Illustration: [_Photo, Brogi._ - - PERSEUS AND THE GORGON’S HEAD. - Statue by Benvenuto Cellini (Florence, Loggia de’ Lanzi).] - -But apart from this and from his amazing revelations of quarrelling and -loose living, the autobiography is worth reading for its remarkable -description of the casting of his great statue of Perseus, which now -stands in the Loggia dei Lanzi at Florence hard by the Uffizi. By the -time the book had reached so far the little boy had long wearied of the -job of secretary, and the old man had buckled down to the labour of -writing with his own hand. I dare swear that he wrote this particular -section at one breath, so to speak; the torrent of words, poured forth -in wild excitement, carry the reader away with the frenzy of the writer -as Benvenuto recalls the greatest hours of his life. Nowhere is such an -instance of the terrible labour pains of a true artist as his offspring -comes to birth. - -The great statue does more than represent Perseus; it represents the -wild and headlong mind of Benvenuto himself. Perseus stands in triumph -with the Gorgon’s head in one hand and a sword in the other. You can -buy paper-knives modelled on this sword for five lire in Florence -to-day. The gladness and youthful joy of Perseus are even more striking -than those of Verrochio’s David in the Bargello just near at hand. -Verrochio has modelled a young rascal of a Jew who is clearly saying: -“Alone I did it; and very nice too!” Never was boyish triumph better -portrayed. But Benvenuto’s Perseus is a great young man who has done -something very worthy, and knows that it is worthy. He has begun to -amputate the head very carefully with a neat circular incision round -the neck; then, his rage or his fear of the basilisk glance getting the -better of him, he has set his foot against the Gorgon’s shoulder and -tugged at the head violently until the grisly thing has come away in -his hand, tearing through the soft parts of the neck and wrenching the -great vessels from the heart. - -As is well known, opportunities for performing decapitation upon a -Gorgon are few; apart from the rarity of the monster there is always -the risk lest the surgeon may be frozen stiff in the midst of the -operation; and it becomes still more difficult when it has to be -performed in the Fourth Dimension through a looking-glass. We have -the authority of _The Mikado_ that self-decapitation is a difficult, -not to say painful, operation, and Benvenuto could not have practised -his method before a shaving-mirror, because he had a bushy beard, -though some of us have inadvertently tried in our extreme youth before -we have learned the advisability of using safety razors. Anyhow, -Benvenuto’s Perseus is a very realistic, violent, and wonderful piece -of sculpture; if he had done nothing else he would have still been one -of the greatest artists in the world. My own misfortune was in going -to Florence before I had seriously read his autobiography; I wish to -warn others lest that misfortune should befall them. Read Cellini’s -autobiography--_then_, go to Florence! You will see how the author of -the autobiography was the only man who could possibly have done the -Perseus; how, in modelling the old pre-hellenic demigod, he was really -modelling his own subconscious mind. - - - - -Death - - -When William Dunbar sang, “Timor mortis perturbat me,” he but expressed -the most universal of human--perhaps of animate--feelings. It is no -shame to fear death; the fear appears to be a necessary condition of -our existence. The shame begins when we allow that fear to influence -us in the performance of our duty. But why should we fear death at -all? It is hardly an explanation to say that the fear of death is -implanted in living things lest the individual should be too easily -slain and thereby the species become extinct. Who implanted it? And -why is it so necessary that that individual should survive? Why is it -necessary that the species should survive? And so on--to name only a -few of the unanswerable questions that crowd upon us whenever we sit -down to muse upon that problem which every living thing must some -time have a chance of solving. The question of death is inextricably -bound up with the interpretation of innumerable abstract nouns, such -as truth, justice, good, evil, and many more, which all religions make -some effort to interpret. Philosophy attempts it by the light of man’s -reason; religion by a light from some extra-human source; but all alike -represent the struggles of earnest men to solve the insoluble. - -Nor is it possible to obtain help from the great men of the past, -because not one of them knew any more about death than you do yourself. -Socrates, in Plato’s _Phædo_, Sir Thomas Browne in the _Religio Medici_ -and the _Hydriotaphia_, Shakespeare in _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ and many -other plays, St. Paul in various epistles, all tried to console us -for the fact that we must die; the revolt against that inevitable end -of beauty and ugliness, charm and horror, love and hate, is the most -persistent note in literature; and there are few men who go through -life without permitting themselves to wonder, “What is going to happen -to me? Why should I have to die? What will my wife and children do -after me? How is it possible that the world will go on, and apparently -go on just the same as now, for ages after an important thing like -me is shovelled away into a hole in the ground?” I suppose you have -dreamed with a start of horror a dream in which you revisit the world, -and looking for your own house and children, find them going along -happily and apparently prosperous, the milkman coming as usual, a woman -in the form of your wife ordering meals and supervising household -affairs, the tax-gatherer calling--let us hope a little less often -than when you were alive--the trams running and the ferry-boats packed -as usual, and the sun shining, the rain falling sometimes, Members of -Parliament bawling foolishly over nothing--all these things happening -as usual; but you look around to see anybody resembling that beautiful -and god-like creature whom you remember as yourself, and wheresoever -you look he is not there. Where is he? How can the world possibly go -on without him? Is it really going on, or is it nothing more than -an incredible dream? And why are you so shocked and horror-stricken -by this dream? You could hardly be more shocked if you saw you wife -toiling in a garret for the minimum wage, or your children running -about barefoot selling newspapers. The shocking fact is not that you -have left them penniless, but that you have had to leave them at all. -In the morning joy cometh as usual, and you go cheerfully about your -work, which simply consists of postponing the day of somebody else’s -death as long as you can. For a little time perhaps you will take -particular note of the facts which accompany the act of death; then -you will resign yourself to the inevitable, and continue doggedly to -wage an endless battle in which you must inevitably lose, assured of -nothing but that some day you too will lie pallid, your jaw dropped, -your chest not moving, your face horribly inert; and that somebody will -come and wash your body and tie up your jaw and put pennies on your -eyes and wrap you in cerements and lift you into a long box; and that -large men will put the box on their shoulders and lump you into a big -vehicle with black horses, and another man will ironically shout Paul’s -words, “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” -And in the club some man will take your seat at lunch, and the others -will say you were a decent sort of fellow and will not joke loudly for -a whole meal-time. And ten years hence who will remember you? Your wife -and children, of course--if they too have not also been carried away -in long boxes; a few men who look upon you with a kindly patronage as -one who has fallen in the fight and cannot compete with them now; but -otherwise? Your hospital appointments have long been filled up by men -who cannot, you think, do your work half so well as you used to do it; -your car is long ago turned into scrap-iron; your little dog, which -used to yelp so joyously when you got home tired at night and kicked -him out of the way, is long dead and buried under your favourite -rose-bush; your library, which was your joy for so many years, has long -been sold at about one-tenth of what it cost you; and, except for the -woman who was foolish enough to love and marry you and the children -whom the good creature brought into the world to carry on your name, -you are as though you had never been. Why should this be? And why are -you so terrified at the prospect? - -During the past few years we have had ample experience of death, for -there are few families in Australia, and I suppose in England, France, -Germany, Italy, Russia, and Europe generally, which have not lost some -beloved member; yet we are no nearer solving the mystery than we were -before. We know no more about it than did Socrates or Homer. The only -thing that is beginning to haunt the minds of many men is whether those -gallant boys who died in the war were not better off than the men who -survived. At least they know the worst, if there be anything to know; -and have no longer to fear cancer and paralysis and the other diseases -of later life. Many men have written in a consolatory vein about old -age, but the consolants have in no way answered the dictum that if by -reason of strength our years exceed threescore and ten, yet is our -strength but labour and sorrow. No doctor who has seen an old man with -an enlarged prostate and a septic kidney therefrom, or with cancer of -the tongue, can refrain from wishing that that man had died twenty -years sooner, because however bad the fate in store for him it can -hardly be worse than what he suffers here on earth. And possibly there -are worse things on earth even than cancer of the tongue; possibly -cancer of the bladder is the most atrocious, or right-sided hemiplegia -with its aphasia and deadly depression of soul. Young men do not suffer -from these things; and no one can attend a man so afflicted without -wishing that the patient had died happily by a bullet in Gallipoli -before his time came so to suffer. Yet as a man grows older, though the -likelihood of his death becomes more and more with every passing year, -his clinging to bare life, however painful and terrible that life may -be, becomes more intense. The young hardly seem to fear death; that is -a fear almost confined to the aged. How otherwise can we explain the -extraordinary heroism shown by the boys of every army during the late -war? I watched many beautiful and gallant boys, volunteers mark you, -march down the streets of Sydney on their way to a quarrel which nobody -understood--not even the German Kaiser who started it; and when my own -turn came to go I patched up many thousands who had been shattered: the -one impression made upon me was the utter vileness and beastliness of -war, and the glorious courage of the boys in the line. Before the order -went forth forbidding the use of Liston’s long splint in the advanced -dressing stations, men with shattered lower limbs used to be brought in -with their feet turned back to front. High-explosive shells would tear -away half the front of a man’s abdomen; men would be maimed horribly -for life, and life would never be the same again for them. Yet none -seemed to complain. I know that our own boys simply accepted it all as -the inevitable consequence of war, and from what I saw of the English -and French their attitude of mind was much the same. The courage of the -boys was amazing. I am very sure that if the average age of the armies -had been sixty instead of under thirty, Amiens would never have been -saved or Fort Douaumont recovered, nor would the Germans have fought so -heroically as we must admit they did. Old men feel death approaching -them, and they fear it. We all know that our old patients are far more -nervous about death than the young. I remember a girl who had sarcoma -of the thigh, which recurred after amputation, and I had to send -her to a home for the dying. She did not seem very much perturbed. I -suppose the proper thing to say would be that she was conscious of her -salvation and had nothing to fear; but the truth was that she was a -young rake who had committed nearly every crime possible to the female -sex, and she died as peacefully and happily as any young member of the -Church I ever knew. But who is so terrified as the old woman who trips -on a rough edge of the carpet and fractures her thigh-bone? How she -clings to life! What terrors attend her last few weeks on earth, till -merciful pneumonia comes to send her to endless sleep! - -I do not remember to have noticed any of that ecstasy which we are -told should attend the dying of the saved. Generally, so far as I -have observed, the dying man falls asleep some hours or days before -he actually dies, and does not wake again. His breathing becomes more -and more feeble; his heart beats more irregularly and feebly, and -finally it does not resume; there comes a moment when his face alters -indescribably and his jaw drops; one touches his eyes and they do -not respond; one holds a mirror to his mouth and it is not dulled; -his wife, kneeling by the bedside, suddenly perceives that she is a -widow, and cries inconsolably; one turns away sore and grieved and -defeated; and that is all about it! There is no more heroism nor pain -nor agony in dying than in falling asleep every night. Whether a man -has been a good man or a bad does not seem to make any difference. I -have seldom seen a death-agony, nor heard a death-rattle that could -be distinguished from a commonplace snore. Possibly the muscles may -become wanting in oxygenation for some time before actual death, and -thrown into convulsive movements like the dance of the highwayman -at Tyburn while he was dying of strangulation, and these convulsive -movements might be looked upon as a death-agony; but I am quite sure -that the patient never feels them. To do so would require that the -sense of self-location would persist, but what evidence we have is -that that is one of the first senses to depart. Possibly the dying man -may have some sensation such as we have all gone through while falling -asleep--that feeling as though we are falling, which is supposed to -be a survival from the days when we were apes; possibly there may be -some giddiness such as attends the going under an anæsthetic, and is -doubtless to be attributed to the same loss of power of self-location; -but the impression that has been forced upon me whenever I have seen -any struggling has been that the movements were quite involuntary, -purposeless, and meaningless. And anything like an agony or a -death-rattle is rare. Far more often the man simply falls asleep, and -it may be as difficult to decide when life passes into death as it is -to decide when consciousness passes into sleep. - -Nor have I ever heard any genuine last words such as we read in books. -I doubt if they ever occur. At the actual time of death the man’s body -is far too busy with its dying for his mind to formulate any ideas. -The nearest approach to a “last word” that I ever remember was when a -very old and brilliant man, who, after a lifetime spent in the service -of Australia, lay dying, full of years and honour, from suppression of -urine that followed some weeks after an operation on his prostate. It -was early in the war, and Austria, with her usual folly, was acting -egregiously. The nurse was trying to rouse the old man by reading to -him the war news. He suddenly sat up, and a flash of intelligence came -over his face. “Pah--Austria with her idiot Archdukes--that was what -Bismarck said, wasn’t it?” Then he fell back, and went to sleep; nor -could the visits of his family and the injections of saline solution -into his veins rouse him again from his torpor. He lay unconscious for -nearly a week. That is the only instance of the “ruling passion strong -in death” that I remember. He had always hated Bismarck and despised -the Austrians, and for one brief moment hatred and contempt awakened -his clouded brain. And Napoleon said, “_Tête d’armée_.” - -There is no need, so far as we can tell, to fear the actual dying. -Death is no more to be feared than his twin-brother Sleep, as the -very ancient Greeks of Homer surmised; it is _what comes after_ that -many people fear. “To sleep--perchance to dream” nightmares? Well, I -do not know what other people feel when they dream, but for myself I -am fortunate enough to know, even in the midst of the most horrible -nightmare, that it is all a dream; and I dare say that this is a -privilege common to many people. The blessed sleep that comes to tired -man in the early morning, with which cometh joy, is well worth going -through nightmare to attain; and I think I am not speaking wildly in -claiming that most men pass the happiest portions of their lives in -that early morning sleep. One of the horrors of neurasthenia is that -early morning sleep is often denied to the patient. - -But the idea of hell is to many persons a real terror, not to be -overmastered by reason. God has not made man in His own image; man -has made God in his. As Grant Allen used to say: “The Englishman’s -idea of God is an Englishman twelve feet high”; and the old Jews, who -were a very savage and ruthless people, created Jehovah in their own -image. To such a God eternal punishment for a point of belief was quite -the natural thing, and nineteen centuries of belief in the teaching -of a loving and forgiving Christ have not abolished that frightful -idea. It is one of the disservices of the Mediæval Church to mankind -that it popularized and enforced the idea of hell, and that idea has -been diligently perpetuated by some narrow-minded sects to this very -day. But to a modern man, who, with all his faults, is a kindly and -forgiving creature, hell is unthinkable, and he cannot bring himself -to believe that it was actually part of the teaching of Christ. If the -New Testament says so, then, thinks the average modern man, it must be -in an interpolation by some mediæval ecclesiastic whose zeal outran his -mercy; and an average modern man is not seriously swayed by any idea -of everlasting flames. He may even quaintly wonder, if he has studied -the known facts of the universe, where either hell or heaven is to -be found, considering that they are supposed to have lasted for ever -and to be fated to last as long. In time to come the souls, saved and -lost, must be of infinite number, if they are not so already; and an -infinite number would fill all available space and spill over for an -infinite distance, leaving no room for flames, or brimstone, or harps, -or golden cities. Perhaps it may not be beyond Almighty Power to solve -this difficulty, but it is a very real one to the average thoughtful -man. When we begin to realize infinity, to realize that every one -of the millions of known suns must each last for millions of years, -after which the whole process must begin again, endure as long, and so -on _ad infinitum_, the thing becomes simply inconceivable; the mind -staggers, and takes refuge in agnosticism, which is not cured by the -scoffing of clergymen whom one suspects of not viewing things from a -modern standpoint. Jowett once answered a young man whom he evidently -looked upon as a “puppy” by thundering at him: “Young man, you call -yourself an agnostic; let me tell you that _agnostic_ is a Greek word -the Latin of which is _ignoramus_!” Jowett evidently did not in the -least understand that young man’s difficulties, nor the difficulties of -any man whose training has been scientific--that is, directed towards -the ascertaining what is demonstrably true. Scoffing and insolence like -that only react upon the scoffer’s head, and rather breed contempt than -comfort. Nor is the problem of God Himself any more easy of solution, -unless we are prepared to see Him everywhere, in every minute cell -and tiny bacterium. If we confess to such a belief we are immediately -crushed with the cry of “mere Pantheism,” or even “Spinozism,” as -though these epithets, meant to be contemptuous, led us any further -on our way. You cannot solve these dreadful problems by a sneer, and -Voltaire, the prince of scoffers, would have had even more influence on -thought than he had if he had contented himself with a less aggressive -and polemic attitude towards the Church. - -Hell is a concrete attempt at Divine punishment. Punishment for what? -For disobeying the commandments of God? How are we to know what God -really commanded? And how are we to weigh the relative effects of -temptation and powers of resistance upon any given man? How are we to -say that an action which in one man may be desperately wicked may not -be positively virtuous in another? It is a commonplace that virtue -changes with latitude, and that we find “the crimes of Clapham chaste -in Martaban.” Why should we condemn some poor maiden of Clapham to burn -for ever for a crime which she may not recognize as a crime, whereas we -applaud a damsel of Martaban for doing precisely the same thing? And -what is sin? Is there any real evidence as to what the commandments -of God really are? Modern psychology seems to hold that virtue and -vice are simply phases of the herd-complex of normal man, and have -been evolved by the herd during countless generations as the best -method of perpetuating the human species. No individual man made his -own herd-complex, by which he is so enormously swayed; no individual -man made his own sex-complex, or his ego-complex, or anything that is -his. How can he be held responsible for his actions by a God Who made -him the subject of such frightful temptations and gave him such feeble -powers of resistance? Edward Fitzgerald--who, be it remembered, knew -no more about these things than you or I--summed up the whole matter -in “Man’s forgiveness give--and take,” and probably this simple line -has given more comfort to thoughtful men than all Jowett’s bluster. -Fitzgerald has at least voiced the instinctive rebellion which every -man must feel when he considers the facts of human nature, even if he -has given us otherwise no more guidance than a call to a poor kind of -Epicureanism which lays stress on a book of verse underneath a bough, -and thou beside me singing in a wilderness. If our musings lead us to -Epicureanism, at least let it be the Epicureanism of Epicurus, and not -the sensual pleasure-seeking of Omar. True, Epicureanism laid stress -on the superiority of mental over physical happiness; it were better to -worship at the shrine of Beethoven than of Venus, and better to take -your pleasure in the library than in the wine-shop. But nobler than -Epicurus was Zeno, the Stoic, whose influence on both the ancient and -the modern worlds has been so profound. If we are to take philosophy -as our guide, Stoicism, which inculcates duty and self-restraint, -and is supported by the great names of Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus -Aurelius, is probably our best leading light. Theoretically it should -produce noble characters; practically it has produced the noblest, if -the _Meditations_ of Marcus Aurelius were really written by him and not -by some monk in the Middle Ages. If we follow the teaching of Stoicism -we shall, when we come to die, at least have the consolation that we -have done our duty; and if we realize the full meaning of “duty” in -the modern world to include duty done kindly and generously as well -as faithfully, we shall be living as nearly to the ideals laid down -by Christ as is possible to human nature, and we shall assuredly have -nothing to fear. - -Anæsthesia gives some faint hint as to the possibility of a future -life. It is believed that chloroform and ether abolish consciousness -by causing a slight change in the molecular constitution of nervous -matter, as for instance dissolving the fatty substances or lipoids. -If so minute a change in the chemistry of nervous matter has the -power of totally abolishing consciousness, how can the mind possibly -survive the much greater change which occurs in nervous matter after -corruption has set in? Nor has there ever been any proof that there -can be consciousness without living nervous matter. One turns to the -spiritualistic evidence offered by Myers, Conan Doyle, Oliver Lodge, -and other observers, but after carefully studying their reports one -feels inclined to agree with Huxley that spiritualism has merely added -a new terror to death, for, according to the spiritualists, death -appears to transform men into idiots who on earth were known to be able -and clever, and the marvel is not the miracles which they report, but -that clever men should be found to believe them. - -An even more remarkable marvel than the marvel of Lodge and Conan Doyle -was the marvel of John Henry Newman, who, a supremely able man, living -at the time of Darwin, Huxley, and the vast biological advancement -of the Victorian era, was yet able in middle life to embrace the far -from rationalistic doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church. That he -was tempted to do so by the opportunity which his action gave him -of becoming a prince of the Church is too ridiculous an assumption -to stand for a moment. The man _believed_ these things, and believed -them with greatness, nobility, and earnestness; when he ’verted he -was forty-four years of age, and it was not for about thirty years -that he was created a cardinal. The only explanation that can be given -is that we have not yet fathomed the depths of the human mind; there -is a certain type of mind which appears to see things by what it -calls intuition and is not open to reason on the basis of evidence or -probability. - -Probably what most men fear is not death but the pain and illness which -generally precede death; and apart from that very natural dread there -is the dread of leaving things which are dear to every one. After -all, life is sweet to most of us; it is pleasant to feel the warm sun -and see the blue sky and watch the shadows race over far hills; an -occasional concert, a week-end spent at golf, or at working diligently -in the garden; congenial employment, or a worthy book to read, all help -to make life worth living, and the mind becomes sad at the thought of -leaving these things and the home which they epitomize. I remember once -in a troopship, a few days out from an Australian port, when the men -had all got over their sea-sickness and were beginning to realize that -they really were started on their Great Adventure, that I went down -into their quarters at night, and found a big young countryman who had -enlisted in the Artillery, sobbing bitterly. It was a long time before -kindly consolation and a dose of bromide sent him off to sleep. In the -morning he came to see me and tried to apologize for his unmanliness. -“I’m not afraid of dyin’, sir,” he explained. “I want to stoush some of -them Germans first, though. It’s leaving all me life in Australia if I -’appen to stop a lump of lead, sir--that’s what’s worryin’ me.” Life in -Australia meant riding on horseback when he was not following at the -plough’s tail. It was the only life he knew, and he loved it. But I -was fully convinced that he no more feared actual death than he feared -a mosquito, and when he left the ship at Suez, and joined lustily in -the singing of “Australia will be there”--who so jovial as he? He got -through the fighting on Gallipoli, only to be destroyed on the Somme; -his horse, if it had not already been sent to Palestine, had to submit -to another rider; his acres to produce for another ploughman. - -The last illness is, of course, sometimes very unpleasant, especially -if cancer or angina pectoris enter into the picture, but I have often -marvelled at the endurance of men who should, according to all one’s -preconceived ideas, be broken up with distress. Not uncommonly a man -refuses to believe that he is really so seriously ill as other people -think, and there is always the hope eternal in every breast that he -will get better. Quite commonly he looks hopefully in the glass every -morning as he shaves for signs of coming improvement; there are few men -who really believe that sentence of early death has been passed upon -them. - -The illness which causes the most misery is an illness complicated -with neurasthenia, and probably the neurasthenic tastes the bitterest -misery of which mankind is capable, unless we admit melancholia into -the grisly competition. But I often think that the long sleepless early -morning hours of neurasthenia, when the patient lies listening for the -chimes, worrying over his physical condition and harassed with dread -of the future, are the most terrible possible to man. Nor are they in -any way improved by the knowledge that sometimes neurasthenia does not -indicate any real physical disease. - -But it is difficult to find any really rational cause for the desire -to live longer, unless Sir Thomas Browne is right in thinking that the -long habit of living indisposeth us for dying. After all, what does -it really matter whether we die to-morrow or live twenty more years? -In another century it will be all the same; at most we but postpone -dissolution. Death has to come sooner or later; and whatever we believe -of our life beyond the grave is not likely to make any difference. We -were not consulted as to whether we were to be born, nor as to the -parts and capabilities which were to be allotted to us, and it is -exceedingly unlikely that our wishes will be taken into consideration -as regards our eternal disposition. We can do no more when we come -to die than take our involuntary leap into the dark like innumerable -living creatures before us, and, conscious of having done our duty to -the best that lay in us, hope for the best. - -Twentieth-century biological science appears to result in a kind of -vague pantheism, coupled with a generous hedonism. Scientific men -appear to find their pleasure, not like the old Greeks, sought by -each man for himself, but rather in “the greatest happiness of the -greatest number.” It is difficult for a modern man to feel entirely -happy while he knows of the vast amount of incurable misery that exists -in the world. The idea of Heaven is simply an idea that the atrocious -injustice and unhappiness of life in this world must be balanced by -equally great happiness in the life to come; but is there any evidence -to favour such a belief? Is there any evidence throughout Nature that -the spirit of justice is anything but a dream of man himself which is -never to be fulfilled? We do not like to speak of “death,” but prefer -rather to avoid the hated term by some journalistic periphrasis, such -as “solved the great enigma.” But is there any enigma? Or are we going -to solve it? Is it not more likely that our protoplasm is destined to -become dissolved into its primordial electrons, and ultimately to be -lost in the general ocean of ether, and that when we die we shall solve -no enigma, because there is no enigma to solve? - -To sum up, death probably does not hurt nearly so much as the ordinary -sufferings which are the lot of everybody in living; the act of death -is probably no more terrible than our nightly falling asleep; and -probably the condition of everlasting rest is what Fate has in store -for us, and we can face it bravely without flinching when our time -comes. But whether we flinch or not will not matter; we have to die -all the same, and we shall be less likely to flinch if we can feel -that we have tried to do our duty. And what are we to say of a man who -has seen his duty, and urgently longed to perform it, but has failed -because God has not given him sufficient strength? “Video meliora -proboque, deteriora sequor,” as old Cicero said of himself. If there -is any enigma at all, it lies in the frustrated longings and bitter -disappointment of that man. - -Probably the best shield throughout life against the atrocious evils -and injustices which every man has to suffer is a kind of humorous -fatalism which holds that other people have suffered as much as -ourselves; that such suffering is a necessary concomitant of life -upon this world; and that nothing much matters so long as we do our -duty in the sphere to which Fate has called us. A kindly irony which -enables us to laugh at the world and sympathize with its troubles is -a very powerful aid in the battle; and if a doctor does his part in -alleviating pain and postponing death--if he does his best for rich -and poor, and always listens to the cry of the afflicted,--and if he -endeavours to leave his wife and children in a position better than he -himself began, I do not see what more can be expected of him either -in this world or the next. And probably Huxley was not far wrong when -he said: “I have no faith, very little hope, and as much charity as -I can afford.” It is amazing that there are some people in the world -to-day who look upon a man who professes these merciful sentiments as -a miscreant doomed to eternal flames because he will not profess to -believe in their own particular form of religion. They think they have -answered him when they proclaim that his creed is sterile. - - - - -FOOTNOTES: - - -[1] I have read or heard that one of the charges against Cardinal -Wolsey was that he had given the King syphilis by whispering in his -ear. The nature of the story so whispered is not disclosed, but may -be imagined. But the proud prelate had several perfectly healthy -illegitimate children, and on the whole it is probable that Henry -caught the disease in the usual way. - -[2] They really seem to have taken some little pains to make the death -of the King’s old flame as little terrible as possible. They might -have burnt her or subjected her to the usual grim preliminaries of the -scaffold. Probably they did this not because the King had ever loved -her, but because she was a queen, and therefore not to be subjected to -needless infamy; one of the Lord’s anointed, in short. - -[3] To pause for a moment, probably the element of human sacrifice may -have entered into the hair-cutting episode, as it did in the action of -the women of Carthage during the last siege; and possibly there may -have been some shamefaced reserve in the attributing of the fashion -to the example of an egregious “Buster Brown” of New York. To my own -memory the fashion was first called either the “Joan of Arc” cut or -the “Munitioner” cut. The “Buster Brown” cut came later, and seems to -have been seized upon by the English as an excuse against showing deep -feelings. It is pleasanter to think that Joan of Arc was really at that -time in the hearts of English women; the cult of semi-worship that -so strengthened the Allies was really worship of the qualities which -mankind has read into the memory of the little maid of Domremy. As she -raised the siege of Orleans, so her memory encouraged the Allies to -persevere through years of agony nearly as great as her own. - -[4] We can see from the statues of Jeanne d’Arc how near akin are the -sex-complex and the art-complex. I do not refer to the innumerable -pretty statues scattered throughout the French churches, which are -merely ideal portraits of sainted women. The magnificent equestrian -statue by Fremiet in the Place des Pyramides, Paris, is a portrait of a -plump little French peasant-girl trying to look fierce, and succeeding -about as well as Audrey might if she tried to play Lady Macbeth. But it -is essentially female, and, in my idea of Jeanne d’Arc, is therefore -wrong, for we really know nothing about her beyond what we read in -the trials. Even more female is the statue of her by Romaneill in the -Melbourne Art Gallery, in which the artist has actually depicted the -corslet as curved to accommodate moderate-sized breasts, a thing which -would probably have shocked Jeanne herself, for she wished to make -herself sexually unattractive. The face, though common, is probably -accurate in that it depicts her expression as saintly. No doubt when -she was listening to her Voices she did look dreamy and ethereal. But -we have no authority for believing that she was in the slightest degree -beautiful--if anything, she was probably rather the reverse. - -[5] I hate to suggest that these specks before the eyes may have been -the result of toxæmia from the intestine induced by confinement and -terror. - -[6] Grotius was the Dutchman who could write Latin verse at the age of -nine, and had to leave Holland because of fierce theological strife. He -began the study for his great work on the laws of war in prison, from -which he escaped by the remarkable loyalty of his wife. Like so many -romantic episodes, fiction is here anticipated by fact. - -[7] Sir W. Stirling-Maxwell, _The Cloister Life of Charles V_. - -[8] It has been thought that she suffered from -“phantom-tumour”--“pseudo-cyesis” in medical language. - -[9] Dr. Gordon Davidson, a well-known ophthalmic surgeon of Sydney, -thinks that Pepys probably suffered from iridocyclitis, the result of -some toxæmia, possibly caused by his extreme imprudence in eating and -drinking. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - -Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - -Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - -Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - -Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POST MORTEM *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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MacLaurin</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Post mortem</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>Essays, historical and medical</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: C. MacLaurin</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 30, 2022 [eBook #69078]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: MWS, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POST MORTEM ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1>Post Mortem</h1> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_0"></span> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_frontis.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="caption"> -<span class="illoright">[<i>Photo, Anderson.</i></span><br /> - -THE EMPEROR CHARLES V.<br /> -From a portrait by Titian (Madrid, Prado).</p> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="titlepage"> - -<p><span class="xxlarge">Post Mortem</span></p> - -<p><span class="large">Essays, Historical and Medical</span></p> - -<p><span class="xlarge">C. MacLaurin</span><br /> -M.B.C.M., F.R.C.S.E., LL.D.<br /> -<br /> -<i>Lecturer in Clinical Surgery<br /> -University of Sydney, etc.</i></p> - -<p>New York:<br /> -<span class="large">George H. Doran Company</span></p> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center"><i>Made and Printed in Great Britain by</i> Butler & Tanner, <i>Frome and London</i></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">Preface</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WHETHER the “great man” has had any -real influence on the world, or whether -history is merely a matter of ideas and tendencies -among mankind, are still questions open to solution; -but there is no doubt that great persons -are still interesting; and it is the aim of this -series of essays to throw such light upon them -as is possible as regards their physical condition; -and to consider how far their actions -were influenced by their health. There are -many remarkable people in history about whom -we know too little to dogmatize, though we may -strongly suspect that their mental and physical -conditions were abnormal when they were driven -to take actions which have passed into history; -for instances, Mahomet and St. Paul. Such I -have purposely omitted. But there were far -more whose actions were clearly the result of -their state of health; and some of these who -happen to have been leaders at critical epochs I -have ventured to study from the point of view -of a doctor. This point of view appears to have -been strangely neglected by historians and -others. If the background against which it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> -shows its heroes and heroines should appear -unsentimental and harsh, at least it appears to -medical opinion as probably true; and it is our -duty to seek Truth. If it appears to assume an -iconoclastic attitude towards many ideals I am -sorry, and can only wish that the patina cast -upon their characters were more sentimental -and beautiful.</p> - -<p>Jeanne d’Arc and the Emperor Charles V were -undoubtedly heroic figures who have been almost -worshipped by many millions of people; yet -undoubtedly they were human and subject to -the unhappy frailties of other people. This in -no way detracts from their renown. I must -apologize for treating Don Quixote as a real person; -he was quite as much a living individual as -anyone in history. Through his glamour we can -get a real glimpse of the character of Cervantes.</p> - -<p>In Australia we have no access to the original -sources of European history; we must rely upon -the “printed word” as it appears in standard -monographs and essays.</p> - -<p>I owe many thanks to Miss Kibble, of the -research department of the Sydney Public -Library, without whose help this work could -never have been undertaken.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">       Sydney, 1922.</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Contents">Contents</h2> -</div> - -<table> - -<tr><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><span class="small">PAGE</span></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Case of Anne Boleyn</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Problem of Jeanne d’Arc</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Empress Theodora</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Emperor Charles V</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Don John of Austria, Cervantes, and Don Quixote</span>     </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Philip II; and the Arterio-Sclerosis of Statesmen</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mr. and Mrs. Pepys</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Edward Gibbon</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Jean Paul Marat</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Napoleon I</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Benvenuto Cellini</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_226">226</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Death</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_232">232</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Illustrations</h2> -</div> - -<table> -<tr><td>The Emperor Charles V</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_0"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>Mary Tudor</td><td class="tdr"><i>Face p.</i> <a href="#Page_16">16</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>The Empress Theodora</td><td class="tdr"> ”       <a href="#Page_72">72</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>Perseus and the Gorgon’s Head</td><td class="tdr"> ”     <a href="#Page_228">228</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">The Case of Anne Boleyn</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THERE is something Greek, something akin -to Œdipus and Thyestes, in the tragedy -of Anne Boleyn. It is difficult to believe, as we -read it, that we are viewing the actions of real -people subject to passions violent indeed yet -common to those of mankind, and not the -creatures of a nightmare. Yet I believe that -the conduct of the three protagonists, Henry, -Catherine, and Anne, can all be explained if we -appreciate the facts and interpret them with the -aid of a little medical knowledge and insight. -Let us search for this explanation. Needless to -say we shall not get it in the strongly Bowdlerized -sketches that most of us have learnt at school; -it is a pity that such rubbish should be taught, -because this period is one of the most important -in English history; the actors played vital parts; -and upon the drama that they played has depended -the history of England ever since.</p> - -<p>In considering an historical drama one has to -remember the curtain of gauze which Time has -drawn before us, and to allow for its colour and -density. In the case of Henry VIII and his -time, though the actual materials are enormous,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> -yet everything has to be viewed through an <i>odium -theologicum</i> that is unparalleled since the days of -Theodora. In the eyes of the Catholics, Henry -was, if not the actual devil incarnate, at all -events the next thing; and their opinion has -survived among many people who ought to know -better to the present day. Decidedly we must -make a great deal of allowance.</p> - -<p>Henry succeeded to the throne, nineteen years -of age, handsome, rather free-living, full of <i>joie-de-vivre</i>, -charming, and with every promise of -greatness and happiness. He died at fifty-five, -unhappy, worn down with illness, at enmity with -his people, with the Church, and with the world -in general, leaving a memory in the popular mind -of a murderous concupiscence that has become a -byword. About the time that he was a young -man, syphilis, which is supposed to have been -introduced by Columbus’ men, ran like a whirlwind -through Europe. Hardly anyone seems to -have escaped, and it was said that even the Pope -upon the throne of St. Peter went the way of -most other people, though it is possible that -this accusation was as unreliable as many other -accusations against the popes. Be that as it may, -the foundations were then laid for that syphilization -which has transformed the disease into its -present mildness. It is impossible to doubt that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -Henry contracted it in his youth<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>; the evidence -will become clear to any doctor as we proceed.</p> - -<p>The first act of his reign was to marry for -political reasons Catherine of Aragon, who was -the widow of his elder brother Arthur. She was -daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, and, -though far from beautiful, proved herself to -possess a great and noble soul and a courage of -well-tempered steel. The English people took -her to their hearts, and when unmerited misfortune -fell upon her never lost the love they -had felt for her when she was a happy young -woman. Though she was six years older than -Henry, the two lived happily together for many -years. Seven months after marriage Catherine -was delivered of a daughter, still-born. Eight -months later she had a son, who lived three days. -Two years later she had a still-born son. Nine -months later she had a son, who died in early -infancy, and eighteen months afterwards the -infant was born who was to live to be Queen -Mary. Henry was intensely disappointed, and -for the first time turned against his wife. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -was all important to produce an heir to the -throne, for it was thought that no woman could -rule England. No woman had ever ruled England, -save only Matilda, and her precedent was -not alluring. So Henry longed desperately for -a son; nevertheless as the little Mary grew up—a -sickly child—he became passionately devoted -to her. She grew up, as one can see from her -well-known portrait, probably an hereditary syphilitic. -For a time Henry had thought of divorcing -Catherine, but his affection for Mary probably -turned the scale in her mother’s favour. Catherine -had several more miscarriages, and by the time -she was forty-two ceased to menstruate; it became -clear that she would have no more children and -could never produce an heir to the throne.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_016fp.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="caption"> -<span class="illoright">[<i>Photo, Anderson.</i></span><br /> - -MARY TUDOR.<br /> - -From a portrait by Moro Antonio (Madrid, Prado).</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>During these years Henry’s morals had been -no worse than those of any other prince in Europe; -certainly better than Louis XIV and XV, who -were to come after him, or Charles II. He met -Mary Boleyn, daughter of a rich London merchant, -and made her his mistress. Later on he -met Anne Boleyn, her sister, a girl of sixteen, -and fell in love. We have a very good description -of her, and several portraits. She was of -medium stature, not handsome, with a long -neck, wide mouth, bosom “not much raised,” -eyes black and beautiful and a knowledge of how -to use them. Her hair was long, and it appears -that she used to wear it long and flowing in the -house. It was not so very long since Joan of -Arc had been burnt largely because she went -about without a wimple, and Mistress Anne’s -conduct with regard to her hair was probably -worse in those days than for a girl to be seen -smoking cigarettes when driving a motor-car -to-day. At any rate, she acquired demerit by -it, and everybody was on the look-out for more -serious false steps. The truth seems to be—so -far as one can ascertain truth from reports which, -even if unprejudiced, came from people who knew -nothing about a woman’s heart—that she was a -bold and ambitious girl who laid herself out to -capture Henry, and succeeded. Mary Boleyn -was thrust aside, and Henry paid violent court in -his own enormous and impassioned way to Anne. -We have some of his love letters; there can be -no doubt of his sincerity, or that his love for -Anne was, while it lasted, the great passion of -his life. Had she behaved herself she might -have retained that love. She repulsed him for -several years, and we can see the idea of divorce -gradually growing in his mind. He appealed to -Pope Clement VII to help him. Catherine -defended herself bravely, and stirred Europe in -her cause. The Pope hesitated, crushed between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -the hammer and the anvil, between Henry -and the Emperor Charles V. Henry discovered -that his marriage with Catherine had come -within the prohibited degrees, and that she -had never been his wife at all. It was a matter -of doubt then—and I believe still is—whether -the Pope’s dispensation could acquit them of -mortal sin. Apparently even his Holiness’ influence -would not have been sufficient to counterbalance -the crime of marrying his deceased -brother’s widow; nevertheless it was rather -remarkable that, if Henry were really such a -stickler for the forms of canon law as he now -wished to make out, he never troubled to raise -the question until after he had fallen in love with -some one else. He definitely promised Anne -that he would divorce Catherine, marry Anne, -and make her Queen of England. Secure in his -promise, Anne yielded to her lover, seeing radiant -visions of glory before her. How foolish would -any girl be who let slip the chance—nay, the -certainty—of being the Queen! Yet she was -to discover that even queens can be bitterly -unhappy. Anne sprang joyfully into the unknown, -as many a girl has done before her and -since, trusting to her power to charm her lover; -and became pregnant. Meanwhile the struggle -for the divorce proceeded, the Pope swaying this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -way and that, and Catherine defending her -honour and her throne with splendid courage. -The nurses and astrologers declared that the -fœtus was a son, and the lovers, mad with joy, -were married in secret, divorce or no divorce. -The obliging Archbishop Cranmer pronounced -that the marriage with Catherine was null and -void, as the Pope would not do so.</p> - -<p>The time came for Anne to fulfil her promise -and provide an heir. King and queen anticipated -the event in the wildest excitement. There -had been several lovers’ quarrels, which had been -made up in the usual manner; once Henry was -heard to say passionately that he would rather -beg his bread in the streets than desert her. Yet -it is doubtful whether Anne Boleyn was ever -anything more than an ambitious courtesan; -it is doubtful whether she ever felt anything -towards him but her natural wish to be queen. In -due course her baby was born, and it was a girl—the -girl who afterwards became Queen Elizabeth.</p> - -<p>Henry’s disappointment was tragic, and for the -first time Anne began to realize the terror of her -position. She was detested by the people and -the Court, who were emphatically on the side of -the noble woman whom she had supplanted. She -had estranged everybody by her vain-glory and -arrogance in the hour of her triumph; and it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -began to be whispered that even if her own -marriage were legal while Catherine was still -alive, yet it was illegal by the canon law, for Mary -Boleyn, her sister, had been Henry’s wife in all -but name. Canonically speaking, Henry had -done no better by marrying her than by marrying -Catherine. A horrible story went around that -he had been familiar with her mother first, and -that Anne was his own daughter, and moreover -that he knew it. I think we can definitely and -at once put this aside as an ecclesiastical lie; there -is absolutely no evidence for it and it is impossible -to conceive two persons more unlike than the -little lively brunette and the great fresh-faced -“bluff King Hal.” Moreover, Henry denied -the story absolutely, and whatever else he was, -he was a man who was never afraid to tell the -truth. Most of the difficulties in understanding -this complex period of our history disappear if -we believe Henry’s own simple statements; but -these suffer from the incredulity which -Bismarck found three hundred years later when -he told his rivals the plain unvarnished truth.</p> - -<p>Let us anticipate events a little and narrate -the death of Catherine, which took place in 1536, -nearly three years after the birth of Elizabeth. -The very brief and sketchy accounts which have -survived give me the impression that she died<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -of uræmia, but no definite opinion can be given. -Henry, of course, lay under the immediate charge -of having poisoned her, but I do not know that -anybody believed it very seriously. So died this -unhappy and well-beloved lady, to whom life -meant little but a series of bitter misfortunes.</p> - -<p>After Elizabeth was born the tragedy began to -move with terrible impetus towards its climax. -Henry developed an intractable ulcer on his -thigh, which persisted till his death, and frequently -caused him severe agony whenever the -sinus closed. He became corpulent, the result -of over-eating and over-drinking. He had been -immensely worried for years over the affair of -Catherine; as a result his blood-pressure seems -to have risen, so that he was affected by frightful -headaches, which often incapacitated him from -work for days together. He gave up the athleticism -which had distinguished his resplendent -youth, aged rapidly, and became a harassed, -violent, ill-tempered middle-aged man—not at -all the sort of man to turn into a cuckold.</p> - -<p>Yet this is precisely what Anne did. Less -than a month after Elizabeth was born—while -she was still in the puerperal state—she solicited -Sir Henry Norreys, the most intimate friend of -the King, to be her lover. A week later, on -October 17th, 1533, he yielded. During the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -next couple of years Anne seems to have gone -absolutely out of her senses, if the contemporary -stories are true. She seems to have solicited -several prominent men of the Court, and even -to have stooped to one of the musicians; worst -of all, it was said that she had committed incest -with her brother, Lord Rocheford. Nor did she -behave with the ordinary consideration for the -feelings of others that might have brought her -hosts of friends—remember, she was a queen!—should -the time ever come when she should need -them. It does not require any great amount of -civility on the part of a queen to win friends. -Arrogant and overbearing, she estranged everybody -at Court; she acted like a beggar on horseback, -and was left without a friend in the place. -And she, who owed her husband such a world, -behaved towards him with the same arrogance -as she showed to others, and in addition jealousy -both concerning other women whom she feared -and concerning the King’s beloved daughter, -Mary. She spoke to the Duke of Norfolk—her -uncle on the mother’s side, and one of the -greatest peers of the realm—“like a dog”; as -he turned away he muttered that she was “une -grande putaine.” The most polite interpretation -of the French word is “strumpet.” When the -Duke used such a word to his own niece, what sort<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> -of reputation must have been gathering about -her?</p> - -<p>She had two more miscarriages. After the -second the King’s fury flamed out, and he told -her plainly that he deeply regretted having -married her. He must have indeed been sorry; -he had abandoned a good woman for a bad; for -her he had quarrelled with the Pope and with -many of his subjects; whatever conscience he -had must have been tormenting him: all these -things for the sake of an heir, which seemed as -hopelessly unprocurable as ever. Both the -women seemed affected by some fate which -condemned them to perpetual miscarriages; this -fate, of course, was Henry’s own syphilis, even -supposing that neither wife had contracted it -independently. (It is much to Anne Boleyn’s -credit or discredit, that to a syphilitic husband -she bore a daughter so vigorous as Elizabeth, -though Professor Chamberlin does not appear to -think very highly of her health.)</p> - -<p>Meanwhile all sorts of scandalous rumours -were flying about; and finally a maid of honour, -whose chastity had been impugned, told a Privy -Councillor that no doubt she herself was no -better than she should be, but that at any rate -her Majesty Queen Anne was far worse. The Privy -Councillor related this to Thomas Cromwell; he,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -the rumours being thus focussed, dared to tell -the King. Henry changed colour, and ordered -a secret inquiry to be held. At this inquiry the -ladies of the bedchamber were strictly cross-examined, -but nothing was allowed to happen for -a few days, when a secret commission was appointed, -consisting of the Chancellor, the judges, -Thomas Cromwell, and other members of the -Council. Sir William Brereton was first sent -to the Tower, then the musician Smeaton. Next -day there was a tournament at Greenwich, in the -midst of which Henry suddenly rose and left the -scene, taking Norreys with him. Anne was -brought before the Commission next day, and -committed to the Tower, where she found that -Sir Francis Weston had preceded her. Lord -Rocheford, her brother, joined her almost -immediately on the charge of incest.</p> - -<p>The Grand Juries of Kent and Middlesex -returned true bills on the cases, and the Commission -drew up an indictment, giving names, -places, and dates for every alleged act. The -four commoners were put on trial at Westminster -Hall. Anne’s father, Lord Wiltshire, -though he volunteered to sit, was excused attendance, -since a verdict of guilty against the men -would necessarily involve his daughter. One -may read this either way, against or in favour of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -Anne. Either Wiltshire was enraged at her -folly, and merely wished to end her disgrace; or -it may be that he thought he would be able to -sway the Court in her favour. Possibly he was -afraid of the King and wished to show that he -at least was on his royal side, however badly -Anne may have behaved. In dealing with a -harsh and tyrannical man like Henry VIII it is -difficult to assess human motives, and one prefers -to think that Wiltshire was trying to do his best -for his daughter. Smeaton the musician confessed -under torture; the other three protested -their innocence, but were found guilty and were -sentenced to death. Thomas Cromwell, in a -letter, said that the evidence was so abominable -that it could not be published. Evidently -the Court of England had suddenly become -squeamish.</p> - -<p>Anne was next brought to trial before twenty-five -peers of the realm, her uncle the Duke of -Norfolk being in the chair. Probably, if the -story just related were true, the Duke’s influence -would not be exerted very strongly in her favour, -and she was convicted and sentenced to be hanged -or burnt at the King’s pleasure; her brother was -tried separately and also convicted. It is said -that her father and uncle concurred in the verdict; -they may have been afraid of their own heads.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -On the other hand, it is possible that Anne was -really guilty; unfortunately the evidence has -perished. The five men were executed on Tower -Hill in the presence of the woman, whose death -was postponed from day to day. In the meantime -Henry procured his divorce from her, while -Anne, in a state of violent hysteria, continuously -protested her innocence. On the night before -her execution she said that the people would call -her “Queen Anne sans tête,” laughing wildly as -she spoke; if one pronounces these words in the -French manner, without verbal accent, they form -a sort of jingle, as who should say “ta-ta-ta-ta”; -and this foolish jingle seems to have run in her -head, as she kept repeating it all the evening; and -she placed her fingers around her slender neck—almost -her only beauty—saying that the executioner -would have little trouble, as though it -were a great joke. These things were put to the -account of her light and frivolous nature, and -have probably weighed heavily with posterity in -attempting to judge her case; but it is clear that -they were merely manifestations of hysteria. -Joan of Arc, whose character was probably the -direct antithesis of Anne Boleyn’s, laughed when -she heard the news of her reprieve. Some people -think she laughed ironically, as though a very -simple peasant-girl could be ironical if she tried.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -Irony is a quality of the higher intelligence. -But cannot a girl be allowed to laugh hysterically -for joy? Or cannot Anne Boleyn be allowed to -laugh hysterically for grief and terror without -being called light and frivolous? So little did her -contemporaries understand the human heart. A -few years later came one Shakespeare, who could -have told King Henry differently; and the -extraordinary burgeoning forth of the English -intellect in William Shakespeare is one of the -most wonderful things in our history. Before -the century had terminated in which Anne Boleyn -had been considered light and frivolous because -she had laughed in the shadow of the block, -Shakespeare had plumbed the depths of human -nature.</p> - -<p>Anne was beheaded on May 19th, 1536, in the -Tower, on a platform covered thickly with straw, -in which lay hidden a broadsword. The headsman -was a noted expert brought over specially -from St. Omer, and he stood motionless among -the gentlemen onlookers until the necessary -preliminaries had been completed. Then, Anne -kneeling in prayer and her back being turned -towards him, he stole silently forward, seized the -sword from its hiding-place, and severed her -slender neck at a blow. As she had predicted, -he had little trouble, and she never saw either<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -her executioner or the sword that slew her.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> Her -body and severed head were bundled into a cask, -and were buried within the precincts of the Tower; -and Henry threw his cap into the air for joy. -On the same day he obtained a special dispensation -to marry Jane Seymour. He married her next -day.</p> - -<p>The chief authority for the reign of Henry -VIII is contained in the <i>Letters and Papers of the -Reign of Henry VIII</i>, edited by Brewer and -Gairdner. This gigantic work, containing more -than 20,000 closely printed pages, is probably the -greatest monument of English scholarship; the -prefaces to the different volumes are remarkable -for their learning and delightful literary style. -Froude’s history is charming and brilliant as -are all his writings, but is now rather out of date, -and is marred by his hero-worship of Henry and -his strong Protestant bias. He sums up absolutely -against Anne, and, after reading the letters which -he publishes, I do not see how he could have done -anything else. He believes her innocent of incest,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -however, and doubtless he is right. Let us acquit -her of this crime, at any rate. A. F. Pollard’s -<i>Life of Henry VIII</i> is meticulously accurate, and -is charmingly written; he thinks it impossible -that the juries could have found against her and -the court have convicted without the strongest -evidence, which has not survived. P. C. Yorke -sums up rather against her in the <i>Encyclopædia -Britannica</i>; but S. R. Gardiner thinks the -charges too horrible to be believed and that -probably her own only offence was that she -could not bear a son. Professor Gardiner had -evidently seen little of psychological medicine, -or he would have known that no charge is too -horrible to believe. The “Unknown Spaniard” -of the <i>Chronicle of Henry VIII</i> is an illiterate -fellow enough, but no doubt of Anne’s guilt -appears to enter his artless mind; he probably -represents the popular contemporary view. He -says that he took his stand in the ring of gentlemen -who witnessed the execution. He gives an -account of the arrest of Sir Thomas Wyatt -the poet—the first English sonneteer—and the -<i>ipsissima verba</i> of a letter which Wyatt wrote to -Henry, narrating how Anne had solicited him -even before her marriage in circumstances that -rendered her solicitation peculiarly brazen and -shameless. That Henry should have pardoned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -him seems to show that the real crime of Anne -was that she had contaminated the blood royal; -a capital offence in a queen in almost all ages and -almost every country. Before she became a -queen Henry was probably complaisant enough -to Anne’s peccadilloes; but afterwards—that was -altogether different. “There’s a divinity doth -hedge” a queen!</p> - -<p>Lord Herbert of Cherbury, writing seventy -years later, narrates the ghastly story with very -little feeling one way or the other. Apparently -the legend of Anne’s innocence and Henry’s -blood-lust had not yet arisen. The verdict of -any given historian appears to depend upon -whether he favours the Protestants or the Catholics. -Speaking as a doctor with very little religious -preference one way or the other, the following -considerations appeal strongly to myself. If -Henry wished to get rid of a barren wife—barren -through his own syphilis!—as he undoubtedly -did, then Mark Smeaton’s evidence alone was -enough to hang any queen in history from Helen -downward, especially if taken in conjunction with -the infamous stories related by the “Unknown -Spaniard.” Credible or not, these stories show -the reputation that attached to the plain little -Protestant girl who could not provide an heir -to the throne—the sort of reputation which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -mankind usually attaches to a woman who, by -unworthy means, has attained to a high position. -Why should the King and Cromwell, both -exceedingly able men, gratuitously raise the -questions of incest and promiscuity and send four -innocent men to their deaths absolutely without -reason? Why should they raise all the tremendous -family ill-will and public reprobation which such -an act of bloodthirsty tyranny would have caused? -Stern as they were they never showed any sign -of mere blood-lust at any other time; and the -facts that Anne’s father and uncle both appear to -have concurred in the verdict, and that, except -for her own denial, there is not a word said in her -favour, seems to require a great deal of explanation.</p> - -<p>We can thoroughly explain her conduct by -supposing that she was afflicted by hysteria and -nymphomania. There are plenty of accounts -of unhappy women whose cases are parallel to -Anne’s in the works of Havelock-Ellis and Kisch. -There is plenty of indubitable evidence that she -was hysterical and unbalanced, and that she -passionately longed for a son; and it is simpler to -believe her the victim of a well-known and -common disease than that we should suppose -the leading statesmen of England and nearly -the whole of its peerage suddenly to be affected -with blood-lust. It has been suggested that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -Anne, passionately longing for a son and terrified -of her husband’s tyrannical wrath, acted like one -of Thomas Hardy’s heroines centuries later and -tried another lover in the hope that she would -gratify her own and Henry’s wishes. This -course of procedure is probably not so uncommon -as some husbands imagine and would satisfy the -questions of our problem but for Anne’s promiscuity -and vehemence in solicitation. If her sole -object in soliciting Norreys was to provide a -son, why should she have gone from man to man -till the whole Court seems to have been ringing -with her ill fame?</p> - -<p>Her spasms of violent temper after her marriage, -her fits of jealousy, her foolish arrogance and -insolence to her friends, are all mental signs -which go with nymphomania, and the fact that -her post-nuptial incontinence seems to have -begun while she was still in the puerperal state -after the birth of her only living child seems -highly significant. It is not uncommon for -sexual desire to become intolerable in nervous -and puerperal women. The proper place for -Anne Boleyn was a mental hospital.</p> - -<p>Henry VIII’s case, along with those of his -children, deserve a paper to themselves. Henry -himself died of neglected arterio-sclerosis just -in the nick of time to save the lives of better men<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -from the executioner; Catherine Parr, who -married him probably in order to nurse him—it is -possible that she was really fond of him and that -there was even then something attractive about -him—succeeded in outliving him by a remarkable -effort of diplomatic skill and courage, though had -Henry awakened from his uræmic stupor probably -her head would have been added to his -collection. On the whole, one cannot avoid the -conclusion that his conduct to his wives was not -all his fault. They seem to have done no credit -to his power of selection. The first and the -last appear to have been the best, considered as -women.</p> - -<p>Inexorable Nemesis had avenged Catherine. -The worry of the divorce left her husband with -an arterial tension which, added to the royal -temper, caused great misery to England and -ultimately death to himself; and her mean -little rival lay huddled in the most frightful -dishonour that ever befell a woman. Decidedly -there is something Greek in the complete horror -of the tragedy.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">The Problem of Jeanne d’Arc</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">IN 1410-12 France was in the most dreadful -condition that has ever affected any nation. -For nearly eighty years England had been at -her throat in a quarrel which to our minds simply -exemplifies the difference between law and -justice; for it seems that the King of England -had mediæval law on his side, though to our -minds no justice; the Black Death had returned -more than once to harass those whom war had -spared; no man reaped where he had sown, for -his crops fell into the hands of freebooters. -Misery, destitution, and superstition were man’s -bedfellows; and the French mind seemed open -to receive any marvel that promised relief from -its intolerable agony. Into this land of terror -was born a little maid whose mission it was to -right the wrongs of France; a maiden who has -remained, through all the vicissitudes of history, -extraordinarily fascinating, yet an almost insoluble -problem. It is undeniable that she has -exercised a vast influence upon mankind, less by -her actual deeds than by the ideal which she set -up; an ideal of courage, simple faith, and unquenchable -loyalty which has inspired both her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -own nation and the nation which burnt her. -When the English girls cut their hair short in the -worst time of the war;<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> when the French soldiers -retook Fort Douaumont when all seemed lost: -these things were done in the name of Joan of Arc.</p> - -<p>The actual contemporary sources from which -we draw our ideas are extraordinarily few. There -is of course the report of the trial for lapse and -relapse, which is official and is said not to be -garbled. It is useful, not only for the Maid’s -answers, which throw a good deal of light on her -mentality, but for the questions asked, which -appear to give an idea of reports that seem to -have been floating about France at the time.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -The only thing which interested her judges was -whether she had imperilled her immortal soul -by heresy or witchcraft, and from that trial we -shall get few or no indications of her military -career or physical condition, which are the -things that most interest modern men. About -twenty years after her execution it occurred to -her king, who had repaid her amazing love and -self-sacrifice with neglect, that since she had been -burnt as a witch it followed that he must owe -his crown to a witch; moreover, her mother and -brother had been appealing to him to clear her -memory, for they could not bear that their child -and sister should still remain under a cloud of -sorcery. King Charles VII, who was now a -great man, and very successful as kings go, therefore -ordered the case to be reopened, in which -course he ultimately secured the assistance of the -reigning Pope. Charles could not restore the -Maid to life, but he could make things unpleasant -for the friends of those who had burned her; -and so we have the so-called Rehabilitation Trial, -consisting of reports and opinions, given under -oath, from many people who had known her -when alive. As King Charles was now a great -man, some of the clerics who had helped to -condemn her crowded to give evidence in the -poor child’s favour, attributing the miscarriage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -of justice in her case to people who were now -dead or hopelessly unpopular; some friends of -her childhood came forward and people who had -known her at the time of her glory; and, perhaps -most important, some of her old comrades in -arms rallied round her memory. We thus have -a fairly complete account of her battles, friendships, -trials, character, and death; if we read -this evidence with due care, remembering that -more than twenty years had elapsed and the -mentality of mediæval man, we may take some -of the statements at their face value. Otherwise -there is absolutely no contemporary evidence of -the Maid; Anatole France has pricked the -bubble of the chroniclers and of the Journal of -the siege of Orleans. But there is so much of -pathological interest to be found in the reports -of the trials that I need no excuse for a brief study -of them in that respect.</p> - -<p>The record of the life of Jeanne d’Arc is all -too short, and the main facts are not in dispute. -It is the interpretation of these facts that <i>is</i> in -dispute. She was born on January 6th, 1412; -the year is uncertain. Probably she did not -know herself. In the summer of 1424 she saw -a great light on her right hand and heard a voice -telling her to be a good girl. This voice she knew -to be the voice of God. Later on she heard the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -voices of St. Michael the Archangel, of St. -Catherine, and of St. Margaret. St. Michael -appeared first, and warned her to expect the -arrival of the others, who came in due course. -All three were to be her constant companions for -the rest of her life. At first their appearances were -irregular, but later on they came frequently, especially -at quiet moments. Sometimes, when there -was a good deal of noise going on, they appeared -and tried to tell her something, but she could -not hear what they said. These she called her -Council, or her Voices. Occasionally the Lord God -spoke to her himself; Him she called “Messire.”</p> - -<p>As Jeanne grew more accustomed to her heavenly -visitors they came in great numbers, and she used -to see vast crowds of angels descending from heaven -to her little garden. She said nothing to anybody -about these unusual events, but grew up a brooding -and intensely religious girl, going to church at -every possible opportunity, and apparently neglecting -her ordinary duties of looking after her -father’s sheep and cattle. She learned to sew and -knit, to say her Credo, Paternoster, and Ave -Maria; otherwise she was absolutely ignorant, and -very simple in mind and honest. She was dreamy -and shy; nor did she ever learn to read or write.</p> - -<p>Later on the voices told her to go into France, -and God would help her to drive out the English.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> -She continually appealed to her father that he -should send her to Vaucouleurs, where the Sieur -Robert de Baudricourt would espouse her cause. -Ultimately he did so; and at first Robert laughed -at her. He was no saint; in his day he had -ravaged villages with the best noble in the land; -and he was not convinced that Jeanne was really -the sent of God that she claimed. When she -returned home she found herself the butt of -Domremy; nine months later she ran away to -Vaucouleurs again, and found Robert more -helpful. He had for some time felt sympathy -with the dauphin Charles, and had grown to -detest the English and Burgundians; and he now -welcomed the supernatural aid which Jeanne -promised; she repeated vehemently that God -had sent her to deliver France, and that she had -no doubt whatever that she would be able to -raise the siege of Orleans, which was then being -idly invested by the English.</p> - -<p>Robert sent her to the Dauphin, who lay at -Chinon. He was no hero, this Dauphin, but a -poverty-stricken ugly man, with spindle-shanks -and bulbous nose, untidy and careless in his dress, -and for ever blown this way and that by the -advice of those around him. Weak, and intensely -superstitious, he would to-day have been the -prey of every medium who cared to attack him;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -he received Jeanne kindly, and ultimately sent -her to Poitiers to be examined as to possible witchcraft -by a great number of learned doctors of the -Church, who could be relied upon to discern a -witch as soon as anybody.</p> - -<p>She was deeply offended at being suspected of -witchcraft, and was not so respectful to her -judges as she might have been; occasionally she -sulked, and sometimes she answered the reverend -gentlemen quite saucily. She is an attractive -and very human little figure at Poitiers as she -moves restlessly upon her bench, and repeatedly -tells the doctors that they should need no further -sign than her own deeds; for when she had -relieved Orleans it would be obvious enough that -she was sent directly from God. At Poitiers she -had to run the gauntlet of the inevitable jury of -matrons, who were to certify to her virginity, -because it was well known that women lost their -holiness when they lost their virginity. The -matrons and midwives certified that she was -<i>virgo intacta</i>; how the good ladies knew is not -certain, because even to-day, with all our knowledge -of anatomy and physiology, we often find -it difficult to be assured on this point. However, -there can be little doubt that they were correct; -probably they were impressed with Jeanne’s -obvious sincerity and purity of mind. All<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -women seem to have loved Jeanne, which is a -strong point in her favour. The spiritual -examination dragged on for three weeks; these -poor doctors were determined not to let a witch -slip through their hands, and it speaks well for -their patience and good temper, considering how -unmercifully Jeanne had “cheeked” them, that -they ultimately found that she was a good Christian. -Any ordinary man would have seen that -at once; but these gentlemen knew too much -about the wiles of the Devil to be so easily -influenced; and it was a source of bitter injustice -to Jeanne at her real and serious trial for her life -that she was unable to produce their certificate.</p> - -<p>The Dauphin took her into his service and -provided her with horse, suit of armour, and -banner, as befitted a knight; also maidservants -to act propriety, page-boy, and a steward, one -Jean d’Aulon. All that we hear of d’Aulon, in -whose hands the honour of the Maid was placed, -is to his credit. A witness at the Rehabilitation -Trial said that he was the wisest and bravest man -in the army. We shall hear more of him. -Throughout the story, whenever he comes upon -the scene we seem to breathe fresh air. He was -the very man for the position, brave, simple-hearted, -and passionately loyal to Jeanne. There -is no reason to doubt that in spite of his close<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -companionship with her there was never any -romantic or other such feeling between them; -he said so definitely, and he is to be believed. -His honour came through it all unstained; and -he let himself be captured with her rather than -desert her. It is clear from his evidence that the -personality of the Maid profoundly affected him. -After Jeanne’s death he was ransomed, and was -made seneschal of Beaucaire.</p> - -<p>Jeanne was enormously impressed by her -banner, which was made by a Scotsman, Hamish -Power by name; she described it at her trial.</p> - -<p>“I had a banner of white cloth, sprinkled with -lilies; the world was painted there, with an -angel on each side; above them were the words -‘Jhesus Maria.’” When she said “the world” -she meant God holding the world up in one hand -and blessing it with the other. Later on she -does not seem very certain whether “Jhesus -Maria” was above or at the side; but she is very -certain that she was tremendously proud of the -artistic creation—yes, “forty times” prouder -of her banner than of her sword; even though -the sword was from St. Catherine herself, and -was the very sword of Charles Martel centuries -before. When the priests dug it up without -witnesses and rubbed it their holy power cleansed -it immediately of the rust of ages.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>When she arrived at Orleans she found the -English carrying on a leisurely blockade by means -of a series of forts between which cattle and men -could enter or leave the city at will. The city -was defended by Jean Dunois, Bastard of Orleans. -The title Bastard implies that he would have been -Duc d’Orleans only that he had the misfortune -to be born of the wrong mother. There have -been several famous bastards in history, and the -kindly morality of the Middle Ages seems to have -thought little the worse of them for their misfortune. -It is only fair to state that there is -some doubt as to whether Jeanne was sent in -command of the army, or the army in command -of Jeanne; indeed, all through her story it is -never easy to be certain whether she was actually -in command, and Anatole France looks upon her -as a sort of military <i>mascotte</i> rather than a soldier. -Nor has Anatole France ever been properly -answered. Andrew Lang did his best, as Don -Quixote did his best to fight the windmills, but -Mr. Lang was an idealist and romanticist, and -could not defeat the laughing irony of M. France. -Indeed, what answer is possible? Anatole France -does not laugh at the poor little Maid; he laughs -through her at modern French clericalism. Nobody -with a heart in his breast could laugh at -Jeanne d’Arc! Anatole France simply said that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -he did not believe the things which Mr. Lang -said that he believed; he would be a brave man -who should say that M. France is wrong.</p> - -<p>When she reached Orleans a new spirit at once -came into the defenders, just as a new spirit -came into the British army on the Somme when -the tanks first went forth to battle—a spirit of -renewed hope; God had sent his Maid to save -the right! In nine days of mild fighting, in which -the French enormously outnumbered the English, -the siege was raised. The French lost a few score -men; the English army was practically destroyed.</p> - -<p>Next Jeanne persuaded the Dauphin to be -crowned at Rheims, which was the ancient -crowning-place for the French kings. In this -ancient cathedral, in whose aisles and groined -vaults echoed the memories and glories of centuries, -he was crowned; his followers standing around -in a proud assembly, his adoring peasant-maid -holding her grotesque banner over his head; -probably the most extraordinary scene in all -history. After Jeanne had secured the crowning -of her king, ill-fortune was thenceforth to wait -upon her. She was of the common people, and -it was only about eighty years since the aristocracy -had shuddered before the herd during the -Jacquerie, the premonition of the Revolution of -1789. Class feeling ran strongly, and the nobles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -took their revenge; Jeanne, having no ability -whatever beyond her implicit faith in Heaven, -lost her influence both with the Court and with -the people; whatever she tried to do failed, -and she was finally captured in a sortie from -Compiêgne in circumstances which do not exclude -the suspicion that she was deliberately sacrificed. -The Burgundians held her for ransom, and locked -her up in the Tower of Beaurevoir. King Charles -VII refused—or at any rate neglected—to bid -for her; so the Burgundians sold her to the -English. When she heard that she was to be -given into the hands of her bitterest enemies she -was so troubled that she leaped from the tower, a -height of sixty or seventy feet, and was miraculously -saved from death by the aid of her friends—Saints -Margaret and Catherine. It is easier to -believe that at her early age—she was then about -nineteen or possibly even less—her epiphyseal -cartilages had not ossified, and if she fell on soft -ground it is perfectly credible that she might not -receive worse than a severe shock. I remember a -case of a child who fell from a height of thirty -feet on to hard concrete, which it struck with -its head; an hour later it was running joyfully -about the hospital garden, much to the disgust -of an anxious charge-nurse. It is difficult to kill -a young person by a fall—the bones and muscles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -yield to violent impact, and life is not destroyed.</p> - -<p>Jeanne having been bought by the English they -brought her to trial before a court composed of -Pierre Cauchon, Lord Bishop of Beauvais, and a -varying number of clerics; as Anatole France -puts it, “a veritable synod”; it was important -to condemn not only the witch of the Armagnacs -herself but also the viper whom she had been able -to crown King of France. If they condemned -her for witchcraft they condemned all her works, -including King Charles. If Charles had been a -clever man he would have foreseen such a result -and would have bought her from the Duke of -Burgundy when he had the chance. But when -she was once in the iron grip of the English he -could have done nothing. It was too late. If -he had offered to buy her the English would have -said she was not for sale; if he had moved his -tired and disheartened army they would have -handed her over to the University of Paris, or -perhaps the dead body of one more peasant-girl -would have been found in the Seine below Rouen, -and Cauchon would have been spared the trouble -of a trial. Therefore we may spare our regrets -on the score of some at least of King Charles’s -ingratitudes. It is possible that he did not buy -her from the Burgundians because he was too -stupid, too poor, or too parsimonious; it is more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -likely that his courtiers and himself began to -believe that her success was so great that it could -not be explained by mortal means, and that there -must be something in the witchcraft story after -all. It could not have been a pleasant thing for -the French aristocrats to find that when a little -maid from Domremy came to help the common -people, these scum of the earth suddenly began -to fight as they had not fought for generations. -Fully to understand what happened we must -remember that it was not very long since the -Jacquerie, and that the aristocratic survivors had -left to their sons tales of unutterable horrors.</p> - -<p>However, Jeanne was put on her trial for witchcraft, -and after a long and apparently hesitating -process—for there had been grave doubts raised -as to the legality of the whole thing—she was -condemned to death. Just before the Bishop had -finished his reading of the sentence she burst into -tears and recanted, when she really understood -that they were even then preparing the cart to -take her to the stake. She said herself, in words -which cannot possibly be misunderstood, that -she recanted “for fear of the fire.”</p> - -<p>The sentence of the court was then amended; -instead of being burned she was to be held in -prison on bread and water and to wear woman’s -clothes. She herself thought that she was to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -put into an ecclesiastical prison and be kept in -the charge of women, but there is nothing to be -found of this in the official report of the first -trial. As she had been wearing men’s clothes by -direct command of God her sin in recanting began -to loom enormous before her during the night; -she had forsaken her God even as Peter had forsaken -Jesus Christ in the hour of his need, and -hell-fire would be her portion—a fire ten -thousand times worse than anything that the -executioner could devise for her. She got up -in the morning and threw aside the pretty dress -which the Duchess of Bedford had procured for -her—all women loved Jeanne d’Arc—and put -on her war-worn suit of male clothing. The -English soldiers who guarded her immediately -spread abroad the bruit that Jeanne had relapsed, -and she was brought to trial for this contumacious -offence against the Holy Church. The second trial -was short and to the point; she tried to show that -her jailers had not kept faith with her, but her -pleadings were brushed aside, and finally she gave -the <i>responsio mortifera</i>—the fatal answer—which -legalized the long attempts to murder her. Thus -spoke she: “God hath sent me word by St. -Catherine and St. Margaret of the great pity it -is, this treason to which I have consented to -abjure and save my life! I have damned myself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -to save my life! Before last Thursday my Voices -did indeed tell me what I should do and what I -did then on that day. When I was on the scaffold -on Thursday my Voices said to me: ‘Answer -him boldly, this preacher!’ And in truth he is a -false preacher; he reproached me with many -things I never did. If I said that God had not -sent me I should damn myself, for it is true that -God has sent me; my Voices have said to me since -Thursday: ‘Thou hast done great evil in declaring -that what thou hast done was wrong.’ All -I said and revoked I said for fear of the fire.”</p> - -<p>To me this is the most poignant thing in the -whole trial, which I have read with a frightful -interest many times. It seems to bring home -the pathos of the poor struggling child, and her -blind faith in things which could not help her in -her hour of sore distress.</p> - -<p>Jules Quicherat published a very complete -edition of the Trial in 1840, which has been the -basis for all the accounts of Jeanne d’Arc that -have appeared since. An English translation -was published some years ago which professed -to be complete and to omit nothing of importance. -But this work was edited in a fashion so -vehemently on Jeanne’s side, with no apparent -attempt to ascertain the exact truth of the judgments, -that I ventured to compare it with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> -Quicherat, and I have found some omissions which -to the translator, as a layman, may have seemed -unimportant, but which, to a doctor, seem of -absolutely vital importance in considering -the truth about the Maid. These omissions -are marked in the English by a row of three dots, -which might be considered to mark an omission,—but -on the other hand might not. Probably -the translator considered them too indecent, -too earthly, too physiological, to be introduced -in connexion with the Maid of God. But Jeanne -had a body, which was subject to the same -peculiarities and abnormalities as the bodies of -other people; and upon the peculiarities of her -physiology depended the peculiarities of her mind.</p> - -<p>Jean d’Aulon, her steward and loyal admirer, -said definitely in the Rehabilitation Trial, in -1456:—</p> - -<p>“Qu’il oy dire a plusiers femmes, qui ladicte -Pucelle ont veue par plusiers foiz nues, et sceue -de ses secretz, que oncques n’avoit eu la secret -maladie de femmes et que jamais nul n’en peut -rien cognoistre ou appercevoir par ses habillements, -ne aultrement.”</p> - -<p>I leave this unpleasantly frank statement in -the original Old French, merely remarking that it -means that Jeanne never menstruated. D’Aulon -must have had plenty of opportunities for knowing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -this, in his position as steward of her household -in the field. He guards himself from innuendo -by saying that several women had told him. -Jeanne’s failing to become mature must have -been the topic of amazed conversation among all -the women of her neighbourhood, and no doubt -she herself took it as a sign from God that she -was to remain virgin. It is especially significant -that she first heard her Voices when she was about -thirteen years of age, at the very time that she -should have begun to menstruate; and that at -first they did not come regularly, but came at -intervals, just as menstruation itself often begins. -Some months later she was informed by the -Voices that she was to remain virgin, and thereby -would she save France, in accordance with a -prophecy that a woman should ruin France, and -a virgin should save it. Is it not probable that -the idea of virginity must have been growing in -her mind from the time when she first realized -that she was not to be as other women? Probably -the delusion as to the Voices first began as a sort -of vicarious menstruation; probably it recurred -when menstruation should have reappeared; -we can put the idea of virginity into the jargon -of psycho-analysis by saying that Jeanne had -well-marked “repression of the sex-complex.” -The mighty forces which should have manifested<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -themselves in normal menstruation manifested -themselves in her furious religious zeal and her -Voices. Repression of the sex-complex is like -locking up a giant in a cellar; sooner or later he -may destroy the whole house. He ended by -driving Jeanne d’Arc to the stake. That was a -nobler fate than befalls some girls, whom the -same giant drives to the streets; nobler, because -Jeanne the peasant was of essentially noble stock. -Her mother was Isabel Romée—the “Romed -woman”—the woman who had had sufficient -religious fervour to make the long and dangerous -pilgrimage to Rome that she might acquire the -merit of seeing the Holy Father; Jeanne herself -made a still more dangerous pilgrimage, which has -won for her the love of mankind at the cost of her -bodily anguish. Madame her mother saved her -own soul by her pilgrimage, and bore an heroic -daughter; Jeanne saved France by her courage and -devotion to her idea of God. And this would -have been impossible had she not suffered from -repression of the sex-complex and seen visions -therefore.</p> - -<p>Another remarkable piece of evidence has been -omitted from the English translation. It was given -by the Demoiselle Marguerite la Thoroulde, who -had taken Jeanne to the baths and seen her unclothed. -Madame la Thoroulde said, in the Latin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -translation of the Rehabilitation Trial which has -survived: “Quod cum pluries vidit in balneo et -stuphis [sweating-bath] et, ut percipere potuit, -credit ipse fore virginem.”</p> - -<p>That is to say, she saw her naked in the baths -and could see that she was a virgin! What on -earth did the good lady think that a virgin would -look like? Did she think that because Jeanne -did not look like a stout French matron she -must therefore be a virgin? Or did she see a -strong and boyish form, with little development -of hips and bust, which she thought must be -nothing else but that of a virgin? That is the -explanation that occurs to me; and probably -it also explains Jeanne’s idea that by wearing men’s -clothes she would render herself less attractive to -the mediæval soldiery among whom her lot was -to be cast. An ordinary buxom young woman -would certainly not be less attractive because she -displayed her figure in doublet and hose; Rosalind -is none the less winsome when she acts the -boy; and I should have thought that Jeanne, -by wearing men’s clothes, would simply have -proclaimed to her male companions that she was -a very woman. But if the idea be correct that -she was shaped like a boy, with little feminine -development, the whole mystery is at once solved. -It is to be remembered that we know absolutely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> -nothing about Jeanne’s appearance<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>; the only -credible hint we have is that she had a gentle voice.</p> - -<p>In the Rehabilitation Trial several of her companions -in arms swore that she had had no sexual -attraction for them. It is quaint to read the -evidence of these respectable middle-aged gentlemen -that in their hot and lusty youth they had -once upon a time met at least one young girl -after whom they had not lusted; they seem to -consider that the fact proved that she must -have come from God. Anatole France makes -great play with them, but it would appear that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -his ingenuity is in this direction misplaced. -Is it not possible that Jeanne was unattractive to -men because she was immature—that she never -became more than a child in mind and body? -Even mediæval soldiery would not lust after a -child, especially a child whom they firmly believed -to have come straight from God! It must be -remembered that to half of her world Jeanne was -unspeakably sacred; to the other half she was -undeniably a most frightful witch. Even the -executioner would not imperil his immortal soul -by touching her. It was the custom to spare a -woman the anguish of the fire, by smothering -her, or rendering her unconscious by suddenly -compressing her carotids with a rope before the -flames leaped around her. But Jeanne was far -too wicked for anybody to touch in this merciful -office; they had to let her die unaided; and -afterwards, so wicked was her heart, they had to -rescue it from the ashes and throw it into the -Seine. Is it conceivable that men who thought -thus would have ventured hell-fire by making -love to her? Yet more—it is quite possible that -she had no bodily charms whatever; we know -nothing of her appearance. The story that she -was charming and beautiful is simply sentimental -legend. Indeed, it is difficult not to become -sentimental over Jeanne d’Arc.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>A noteworthy feature in her character was her -Puritanism. She prohibited her soldiers from -consorting with the prostitutes that followed the -army; sometimes she even forced them to marry -these women. Naturally the soldiers objected -most strongly, and in the end this was one of -the causes that led to her downfall. Jeanne used -to run after the prohibited girls and strike them -with the flat of her sword; in one case the girl -was killed. In another the sword broke, and -King Charles asked, very sensibly, “Would not -a stick have done quite as well?” This is -believed by some people to have been the very -sword of Charles Martel which the priests had -found for her at St. Catherine’s command, and -naturally the soldiers, deprived of their female -companions, wondered what sort of a holy sword -could it have been which could not even stand -the smiting of a prostitute? When people -suffer from repression of the sex-complex the -trouble may show itself either by constant indirect -attempts to find favour in the eyes of individuals -of the opposite sex, or sometimes by actually -forbidding all sexual matters; Puritanism in -sexual affairs is often an indication that all is not -quite well with a woman’s subconscious mind; -nor can one confine this generalization to one -sex. It is not for one moment to be thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> -that Jeanne ever had the slightest idea of what -was the matter with her; the whole of her delusions -and Puritanism were to her quite conscious -and real; the only thing that she did not know -was that her delusions were entirely subjective—that -her Voices had no existence outside her own -mind. Her frantic belief in them led her to an -heroic career and to the stake. She did not consciously -repress her sex; Nature did that for her.</p> - -<p>Women who never menstruate are not uncommon; -most gynæcologists see a few. Though -they are sometimes normal in their sexual feelings—sometimes -indeed they are even nymphomaniacs -or very nearly so—yet they seldom marry, for they -know themselves to be sterile, and, after all, most -women seem to know at the bottom of their hearts -that the purpose of women is to produce children.</p> - -<p>But there is still more of psychological interest -to be gained from a careful reading of the first -trial. It is possible to see how Jeanne’s unstable -nervous system reacted to the long agony. We -had better, in order to be fair, make quite certain -why she was burned. These are the words -uttered by the good Bishop of Beauvais as he -sentenced her for the last time:—</p> - -<p>“Thou hast been on the subject of thy pretended -divine revelations and apparitions lying, -seducing, pernicious, presumptuous, lightly believing,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -rash, superstitious, a divineress and -blasphemer towards God and the Saints, a despiser -of God Himself in His sacraments; a -prevaricator of the Divine Law, of sacred doctrine -and of ecclesiastical sanctions; seditious, cruel, -apostate, schismatic, erring on many points -of our Faith, and by these means rashly guilty -towards God and Holy Church.”</p> - -<p>This appalling fulmination, summed up, appears -to mean—if it means anything—that she believed -that she was under the direct command of God -to wear man’s clothes. To this she could only -answer that what she had done she had done by -His direct orders.</p> - -<p>Theologians have said that her answers at the -trial were so clever that they must have been -directly inspired; but it is difficult to see any -sign of such cleverness. To me her character -stands out absolutely clearly defined from the -very beginning of the six weeks’ agony; she is a -very simple, direct, and superstitious child struggling -vainly in the meshes of a net spread for -her by ecclesiastical politicians who were determined -to sacrifice her to serve the ends of brutal -masters. She had all a child’s simple cunning; -when the Bishop asked her to repeat her Paternoster -she answered that she would gladly do so -if he himself would confess her. She thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -that if he confessed her he might have pity on -her, or, at least, that he would be bound to send -her to Heaven, because she knew how great was -the influence wielded by a Bishop; she thought -that she might tempt him to hear her in the -secrets of the confessional if she promised to -repeat her Paternoster to him! Poor child—she -little knew what was at the bottom of the trial.</p> - -<p>She sometimes childishly boasted. When she -was asked if she could sew, she answered that she -feared no woman in Rouen at the sewing; just -so might answer any immature girl of her years -to-day. She sometimes childishly threatened; -she told the Bishop that he was running a great -risk in charging her. She had delusions of sight, -smell, touch, and hearing. She said that the faces -of Saints Catherine and Margaret were adorned -with beautiful crowns, very rich and precious, that -the saints smelled with a sweet savour, that she -had kissed them, that they spoke to her.</p> - -<p>There was a touch of epigram about the girl, -too. In speaking of her banner at Rheims, she -said: “It had been through the hardships—it -were well that it should share the glory.” And -again, when the judges asked her to what she -attributed her success, she answered, “I said to -my followers: ‘Go ye in boldly against the -English,’ <i>and I went myself</i>.” The girl who said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -that could hardly have been a mere military -<i>mascotte</i>. Yet, in admitting so much, one does -not admit that she may have been a sort of Amazon. -As the desperation of her position grew -upon her she began to suffer more and more from -her delusions; while she lay in her dungeon -waiting for the fatal cart she told a young friar, -Brother Martin Ladvenu, that her spirits came -to her in great numbers and of the smallest size. -When despair finally seized upon her she told -“the venerable and discreet Maître Pierre -Maurice, Professor of Theology,” that the angels -really had appeared to her—good or bad, they -really had appeared—in the form of very minute -things<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a>; that she now knew that they had deceived -her. Her brain wearied by her long trial of -strength with the Bishop, common sense re-asserted -its sway, and she realized—the truth! Too late! -When she was listening to her sermon on the scaffold -in front of the fuel destined to consume her, she -broke down and knelt at the preacher’s knees, weeping -and praying until the English soldiers called -out to ask if she meant to keep them there for their -dinner; it is pleasing to know that one of them -broke his lance into two pieces, which he tied into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -the form of a cross and held it up to her in the -smoke that was already beginning to arise about her.</p> - -<p>Her last thoughts we can never know; her last -word was the blessed name of Jesus, which she -repeated several times. In public—though she -had told Pierre Maurice in private that she had -“learned to know that her spirits had deceived -her”—she always maintained that she had both -seen and believed them because they came from -God; her courage was amazing, both physical -and moral. She was twice wounded, but she -said that she always carried her standard so that -she would never have to kill anybody—and that -in truth she had never killed anybody.</p> - -<p>Her extraordinary accomplishment was due to -the unbounded superstition of the French common -people, who at first believed in her implicitly; -it was Napoleon, a French general, who said that -in war the moral is to the spiritual as three is -to one; our Lord said, “By faith ye shall move -mountains”; and it must not be forgotten that -she went to Orleans with powerful reinforcements -which she herself estimated at about ten to twelve -thousand men. This superstition of the French -was more than equalled by the superstition of -the English, who looked upon her as a most -terrifying witch: one witness at the Rehabilitation -Trial said that the English were a very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -superstitious nation, so they must have been -pretty bad. Indeed, most of the witnesses at -that trial seem to have been very superstitious; -one must examine their evidence with care lest one -suddenly finds that one is assisting at a miracle.</p> - -<p>She seems to have been hot-tempered and -emphatic in her speech, with a certain tang of -rough humour such as would be natural in a -peasant girl. A notary once questioned the truth -of something she said at her trial; on inquiry it -was found that she had been perfectly accurate; -Jeanne “rejoiced, saying to Boisguillaume that -if he made mistakes again she would pull his -ears.” Once during the trial she was taken ill -with vomiting, apparently caused by fish-poisoning, -that followed after she had eaten of some -carp sent her by the Bishop. Maître d’Estivet, -the promoter of the trial, said to her, ‘Thou -<i>paillarde</i>!’ (an abusive term), ‘thou hast been -eating sprats and other unwholesomeness!’ She -answered that she had not; and then she and -d’Estivet exchanged many abusive words. The -two doctors of medicine who treated her for this -illness gave evidence, and it is pleasing to see -that they seem to have been able to rationalize -a trifle more about her than most of her contemporaries. -But, taken all through, her evidence -gives the impression of being exceedingly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -simple and straightforward—just the sort of -thing to be expected from a child.</p> - -<p>It is noteworthy that a great many witnesses -at the Rehabilitation Trial swore that she was -“simple.” Did they mean that she was half-witted? -Probably not. More probably it was -true that she always wanted to spare her enemies, -when, in accordance with the custom of the Hundred -Years’ War, she should rather have held them -for ransom if they had been noble or slain them -if they had been poor men. To the ordinary brutal -mediæval soldiery such conduct would appear insane. -Possibly, of course, the term “simple” might -have been used in opposition to the term “gentle.”</p> - -<p>May I be allowed to give a vignette of Jeanne -going to the burning, compiled from the evidence -of many onlookers given at the Rehabilitation -Trial? She assumed no martyresque imperturbability; -she did not hold her head high in the -haughty belief that she was right and the rest -of the world wrong, as a martyr should properly -do. She wept bitterly as she walked to the fatal -cart from the prison-doors; her head was -shaven; she wore woman’s dress; her face was -swollen and distorted, her eyes ran tears, her sobs -shook her body, her wails moved the hearts of -the onlookers. The French wept for sympathy, -the English laughed for joy. It was a very human<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -child who went to her death on May 30th, 1431. -She was nineteen years of age—according to -some accounts, twenty-one—and, unknown to -herself, she had changed the face of history.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">The Empress Theodora</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THIS famous woman has been the subject -of one of the bitterest controversies in -history; and, while it is impossible to speak -fully about her, it is certain that she was a woman -of remarkable beauty, character, and historical -position. For nearly a thousand years after her -death she was looked upon as an ordinary—if unusually -able—Byzantine princess, wife of Justinian -the lawgiver, who was one of the ablest of the later -Roman Emperors; but in 1623 the manuscript was -discovered in the Vatican of a secret history, -purporting to have been written by Procopius, -which threw a new and amazing light on her career.</p> - -<p>Procopius—or whoever wrote this most scurrilous -history—states that the great Empress -in early youth was an actress, daughter of a -bear-keeper, and that she had sold tickets in the -theatre; her youth had been disgustingly profligate: -he narrates a series of stories concerning -her which cannot be printed in modern English. -The worst of these go to show that she was an -ordinary type of Oriental prostitute, to whom -the word “unnatural,” as applied to vice, had -no meaning. The least discreditable is that the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -girl who was to be Empress had danced nearly -naked on the stage—she is not the only girl -who has done this, and not on the stage either. -She had not even the distinction of being a -good dancer, but acquired fame through the wild -abandon and indecency with which she performed. -At about the age of twenty she married—when -she had already had a son—the grave and stately -Justinian: “the man who had never been -young,” who was so great and learned that it -was well known that he could be seen of nights -walking about the streets carrying his head in a -tray like John the Baptist. When he fell a victim -to Theodora’s wiles he was about forty years of -age. The marriage was bitterly opposed by -his mother and aunts, but they are said to have -relented when they met her, and even had a -special law passed to legalize the marriage of -the heir to the throne with a woman of ignoble -birth; and, after the death of Justin, Theodora -duly succeeded to the leadership of the proudest -court in Europe. This may be true; but it -does not sound like the actions of a mother and -old aunts. One would have thought that a -convenient bowstring or sack in the Bosphorus -would have been the more usual course.</p> - -<p>So far we have nothing to go by but the statements -of one man; the greatest historian of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> -his time, to be sure—if we can be certain that -he wrote the book. Von Ranke, himself a very -great critical historian, says flatly that Procopius -never wrote it; that it is simply a collection of -dirty stories current about other women long -afterwards. The Roman Empire seems to have -been a great hotbed for filthy tales about the -Imperial despots: one has only to remember -Suetonius, from whose lively pages most of our -doubtless erroneous views concerning the Palatine -“goings on” are derived; and to recall the foul -stories told about Julius Cæsar himself, who was -probably no worse than the average young officer -of his time; and of the last years of Tiberius, -who was probably a great deal better than the -average. Those of us who can cast their memories -back for a few years can doubtless recall an instance -of scurrilous libel upon a great personage of the -British Empire, which cast discredit not on the -gentleman libelled but upon the rascal who -spread the libel abroad. It is one of the penalties -of Empire that the wearer of the Imperial crown -must always be the subject of libels against -which he has no protection but in the loyal -friendship of his subjects. Even Queen Victoria -was once called “Mrs. Melbourne,” though -probably even the fanatic who howled it did not -believe that there was any truth in his insinuation.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -And Procopius did not have the courage to -publish his libels, but preferred to leave to -posterity the task of finding out how dirty was -Procopius’ mind. Probably he would not have -lived very long had Theodora discovered what he -really thought of her. He was wise in his generation, -and had ever the example of blind Belisarius -before him to teach him to walk cautiously.</p> - -<p>Démidour in 1887, Mallet in 1889, and Bury -also in 1889, have once more reviewed the evidence. -The two first-mentioned go very fully -into it, and sum up gallantly in Theodora’s -favour; but Bury is not so sure. Gibbon, having -duly warned us of Procopius’ malignity, proceeds -slyly to tell some of the most printable of the -indecent stories. Gibbon is seldom very far -wrong in his judgments, and evidently had very -little doubt in his own mind about Theodora’s -guilt. Joseph Maccabe goes over it all again, -and “regretfully” believes everything bad about -her. Edward Foord says, in effect, that supposing -the stories were all true, which he does not -appear to believe, and that she had thrown her -cap over the windmills when she was a girl—well, -she more than made up for it all when she -became Empress. After all, it depends upon -how far we can believe Procopius; and that -again depends upon how far we can bring ourselves<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> -to believe that an exceedingly pretty little -Empress can once upon a time have been a <i>fille de -joie</i>. That in its turn depends upon how far each -individual man is susceptible to female beauty. -If she had been a prostitute it makes her career -as Empress almost miraculous; it is the most -extraordinary instance on record of “living a -thing down,” and speaks volumes for her charm -and strength of personality.</p> - -<p>She lived in the midst of most furious theological -strife. Christianity was still a comparatively -new religion, even if we accept the -traditional chronology of the early world; and -in her time the experts had not yet settled what -were its tenets. The only thing that was perfectly -clear to each theological expert was that -if you did not agree with his own particular -belief you were eternally damned, and that it was -his duty to put you out of your sin immediately -by cutting your throat lest you should inveigle -some other foolish fellows into the broad path -that leadeth to destruction. Theodora was a -Monophysite—that is to say, she believed that -Christ had only one soul, whereas it was well -known to the experts that He had two. Nothing -could be too dreadful for the miscreants who -believed otherwise. It was gleefully narrated -how Nestorius, who had started the abominable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -doctrine of Monophysm, had his tongue eaten -by worms—that is, died of cancer of the tongue; -and it is not incredible that Procopius, who was a -Synodist or Orthodox believer, may have invented -the libels and secretly written them down in order -to show the world of after days what sort of -monster his heretical Empress really was, wear -she never so many gorgeous ropes of pearls in her -Imperial panoply. It is difficult to place any -bounds to theological hatred—or to human -credulity for that matter. The whole question -of the nature of Christ was settled by the Sixth -Œcumenical Council about a hundred and fifty -years later, when it was finally decided that -Christ had two natures, or souls, or wills—however -we interpret the Greek word Φύσις—each -separate and indivisible in one body. This, and -the Holy Trinity, are still, I understand, part -of Christian theology, and appear to be equally -comprehensible to the ordinary scientific man.</p> - -<p>But it is difficult to get over a tradition of the -eleventh century—that is to say, six hundred -years before Procopius’ <i>Annals</i> saw the light—that -Justinian married “Theodora of the -Brothel.” Although Mallet showed that Procopius -had strong personal reasons for libelling -his Empress, one cannot help feeling that there -must be something in the stories after all.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>Once she had assumed the marvellous crown, -with its ropes of pearls, in which she and many -of the other Empresses are depicted, her whole -character is said to have changed. Though her -enemies accused her of cruelty, greed, treachery, -and dishonesty—and no accounts from her friends -have survived—yet they were forced to admit -that she acted with propriety and amazing -courage; and no word was spoken against her -virtue. In the Nika riots, which at one time -threatened to depose Justinian, she saved the -Empire. Justinian, his ministers, and even the -hero Belisarius, were for flight, the mob howling -in the square outside the Palace, when Theodora -spoke up in gallant words which I paraphrase. -She began by saying how indecorous it was for -a woman to interfere in matters of State, and then -went on to say: “We must all die some time, -but it is a terrible thing to have been an Emperor -and to give up Empire before one dies. The -purple is a noble winding-sheet! Flight is easy, -my Emperor—there are the steps of the quay—there -are the ships waiting for you; you have -money to live on. But in very shame you will -taste the bitterness of death in life if you flee! -I, your wife, will not flee, but will stay behind -without you, and will die an Empress rather -than live a coward!” Proud little woman—could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -that woman have been a prostitute selling -her body in degradation? It seems impossible.</p> - -<p>The Council, regaining courage, decided for -fighting; armed bands were sent forth into the -square; the riot was suppressed with Oriental ferocity; -and the Roman Empire lasted nearly a thousand -years more. “Toujours l’audace,” as Danton -said nearly thirteen hundred years later, when, -however, he was not in imminent peril himself.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_072fp.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="caption"><span class="illoright2">[<i>Photo, Alinari.</i></span><br /> -THE EMPRESS THEODORA.<br /> - -From a Mosaic (Ravenna, San Vitale).</p> - -<p>In person Theodora was small, slender, graceful, -and exquisitely beautiful; her complexion was -pale, her eyes singularly expressive: the mosaic -at Ravenna, in stiff and formal art, gives some -evidence of character and beauty. She was -accused, as I have said, of barbarous cruelties, of -herself applying the torture in her underground -private prisons; the stories are contradictory -and inconsistent, but one story appears to be -historical: “If you do not obey me I swear -by the living God that I will have you flayed -alive,” she said with gentle grace to her attendants. -It is said that her illegitimate son, whom -she had disposed of by putting him with his terrified -father in Arabia, gained possession of the -secret of his birth, and boldly repaired to Constantinople -in the belief that her maternal -affection would lead her to pardon him for the -offence of having been born, and that thereby<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -he would attain to riches and greatness; but -the story goes that he was never seen again after -he entered the Palace. Possibly the story is of -the nature of romance. She dearly longed for a -legitimate son, and the faithful united in prayer -to that end; but the sole fruit of her marriage -was a daughter, and even this girl was said to have -been conceived before the wedding.</p> - -<p>When she was still adolescent she went for a -tour in the Levant with a wealthy Tyrian named -Ecebolus, who, disgusted by her violent temper -or her universal <i>charity</i>, to use Gibbon’s sly -phrase, deserted her and left her penniless at -Alexandria. The men of Egypt appear to have -been less erotic than the Greeks, for she remained -in dire poverty, working her way back home by -way of the shores of the Euxine. In Egypt she -had become a Monophysite; and when she -reached Constantinople it is said that she sat -in a pleasant home outside the Palace and plied -her spinning-wheel so virtuously that Justinian -fell in love with her and ultimately married her, -having first tried her charms. Passing over the -obvious difficulty that a girl of the charm and -immorality of Procopius’ Theodora need never -have gone in poverty while men were men, the -wonder naturally arises whether the girl who -went away with Ecebolus was the same as she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -who returned poor and alone and sat so virtuously -at her spinning-wheel as to bewitch -Justinian. Mistaken identity, or rather loss of -identity, must have been commoner in those -days than these when the printing-press and -rapid postal and telegraphic communication -make it harder to lose one’s self. However, -granting that there was no confusion of identity, -one may believe—if one tries hard enough—that -she was befriended by the Monophysites in -Egypt, and may have “found religion” at their -hands, and, by suffering poverty and oppression -with them, had learned to sympathize with the -under-world. Though the story may seem to -be more suitable for an American picture-show -than for sober history, still one must admit that -it is not absolutely impossible. When she became -great and famous she did not forget those -who had rescued her in the days of her affliction; -and her influence on Justinian is to be seen in -the “feminism” which is so marked in his code. -What makes it not impossible is the well-known -fact that violent sexuality is in some way related -to powerful religious instincts; and the theory -that the passions which had led Theodora to the -brothel may, when her mind was turned to religion, -have led her to be a Puritan, is rather attractive. -But nothing is said about Theodora which has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -not in some way been twisted to her infamy. -The only certain fact about her is that -she had enormous influence over her husband, -and it is difficult to believe that a great and able -man like Justinian could have entirely yielded -his will to the will of a cruel and treacherous -harlot. The idea certainly opens an unexpectedly -wide vista of masculine weakness.</p> - -<p>She used this influence in helping to frame the -great Code of Justinian, which has remained the -standard of law in many countries ever since. A -remarkable feature about this code is that, while -it is severe on the keepers of brothels, it is mild -to leniency on the unhappy women who prostituted -themselves for these keepers’ benefit. -The idea that a prostitute is a woman, with -rights and feelings like any other woman, appears -to have been unknown until Theodora had it -introduced into the code of laws which perpetuates -her husband’s memory. One night -she collected all the prostitutes in Constantinople, -five hundred in all—were there only five -hundred in that vast Oriental city?—shut them -up in a palace on the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus, -and expected them to reform as she had -reformed, but with less success; as our modern -experience would lead us to expect. The girls -grew morbidly unhappy, and many threw themselves<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> -into the sea. Even in a lock hospital we -know how difficult it is to reclaim girls to whom -sexual intercourse has become a matter of daily -habit, and if Theodora’s well-meant attempt -failed we must at least give her credit for an -attempt at an idealistic impossibility. These -girls did not have the prospect of marrying an -Emperor; no pearl-stringed crown was dangled -before their fingers for the grasping. Poor -human nature is not so easily kept on the strait -and narrow path as Theodora thought. Throughout -her life she seems to have had great sympathy -for the poor and the oppressed, and one feels -with Edward Foord that one can forgive her a -great deal. We must not forget that her husband -called her his “honoured wife,” his “gift from -God,” and his “sweet delight”; and spoke -most gratefully of her interest and assistance -in framing his great code of laws. Was her -humanitarianism, her sympathy with down-trodden -women, the result of her own sad past -experience? To think so would be to turn her -pity towards vice into an argument against her -own virtue, and I shrink from doing so. Let -us rather believe that she really did perceive -how terribly the Fates have loaded the dice -against women, and that she did what she -could to make their paths easier through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -this earth on which we have no continuing city.</p> - -<p>Her health gave her a great deal of trouble, -and she spent many months of every year in her -beautiful villas on the shores of the Sea of Marmora -and the Bosphorus. She remained in -bed most of every day, rising late, and retiring -early. To Procopius and the Synodists these -habits were naturally signs of Oriental weakness -and luxury; but may not the poor lady have -been really ill? She visited several famous -baths in search of health, and we have a vivid -account of her journey through Bithynia on her -way to the hot springs of the Pythian Apollo -near Brusa.</p> - -<p>We have no evidence as to the nature of her -illness. Her early life, of course, suggests some -venereal trouble, and it is interesting to inquire -into the position of the various venereal diseases -at that time. Syphilis I think we may rule out -of court; for it is now generally believed that -that disease was not known in Europe until -after the return of Columbus’ men from the -West Indian islands. Some of the bones of -Egypt were thought to show signs of syphilitic -invasion until it was shown by Elliott Smith -that similar markings are caused by insects; -and no indubitable syphilitic lesion has ever been -found in any of the mummies. If syphilis did<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> -really occur in European antiquity, it must have -been exceedingly rare and have differed widely -in its pathological effects from the disease which -is so common and destructive to-day; that is -to say, in spite of certain German enthusiasts, it -could not have been syphilis.</p> - -<p>But gonorrhœa is a very old story, and was -undoubtedly prevalent in the ancient world. -Luys indeed says that gonorrhœa is as old as -mankind, and was named by Galen himself, -though regular physicians and surgeons scorned -to treat it. It is strange that there is so little -reference to this disease in the vast amount of -pornographic literature which has come down to -us. Martial, for instance, or Ovid; nothing -would seem too obscene to have passed by their -salacious minds; yet neither of them so much -as hint that such a thing as gonorrhœa existed. -But it is possible that such a disease might have -been among the things unlucky or “tabu.” -All nations and all ages have been more or less -under the influence of tabu, which ranges from -influence on the most trivial matters to settlement -of the gravest. Thus, many men would -almost rather die than walk abroad in a frock -coat and tan boots, or, still more dreadful, in a -frock coat and Homburg hat, though that -freakish costume appears to be common enough<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -in America. In this matter we are under the -influence of tabu—the thing which prevents us, -or should prevent us, from eating peas with our -knife, or making unseemly noises when we eat -soup, or playing a funeral march at a cheerful -social gathering. In all these things the idea of -<i>nefas</i>—unlucky—seems more or less to enter; -similarly we do not like to walk under a ladder -lest a paint-pot should fall upon us. Many people -hate to mention the dread word “death,” lest -that should untimely be their portion. Just so -possibly a licentious man like Ovid may have -been swayed by some such fear, and he may have -refrained from writing about the horrid disease -which he must have known was ever waiting for -him.</p> - -<p>But though it may seem to have been impossible -that any prostitute should have escaped gonorrhœa -in Byzantium, just as it is impossible in modern -London or Sydney, yet there is no evidence that -Theodora so suffered; what hints we have, if -they weigh on either side at all, seem to make -it unlikely. She had a child after her marriage -with Justinian, though women who have had -untreated gonorrhœa are very frequently or -generally sterile. Nor is there any evidence -that Justinian ever had any serious illness except -the bubonic plague, from which he suffered, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> -recovered, during the great epidemic of 546. -I assume that the buboes from which he doubtless -suffered at that time were not venereal but -were the ordinary buboes of plague. He had -been Theodora’s husband for many years before -that terrible year in which the plague swept away -about a third of the population of the Roman -Empire, where it had been simmering ever -since the time of Marcus Aurelius. If Theodora -really had gonorrhœa, Justinian must have caught -it, and it is unlikely that he would have called -her his “honoured wife.”</p> - -<p>A more probable explanation of her continued -ill-health might be that she became septic at her -confinement, when the unwanted girl was born. -When the Byzantines spoke of a child as being -“born in the purple,” they spoke literally, for -the Roman Empress was always sent to a “porphyry -palace” on the Bosphorus for her confinement; -and once there she had access to less good -treatment than is available for any sempstress -to-day. It is impossible to suppose that the -porphyry palace—the “purple house”—ever -became infected with puerperal sepsis because -there was never more than one confinement -going on at a time within its walls, and that only -at long intervals. Still, there must have been -a great many septic confinements and unrecorded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> -female misery from their results among the -women of that early world; and that must be -remembered when we consider the extraordinarily -small birth-rate of the Imperial families during -so many centuries. Had the Roman Emperors -been able to point to strong sons to inherit their -glories, possibly the history of the Empire would -have been less turbulent. A Greek or Roman -Lister might have altered the history of the world -by giving security of succession to the Imperial -despot.</p> - -<p>After all, it is idle to speculate on Theodora’s -illness, and it does not much matter. She has -long gone to her account, poor fascinating -creature; all her beauty and wit and eager -vivacity are as though they had never been save -for their influence upon her husband’s laws. -Theodora is the standing example of woman’s -fate to achieve results through the agency of -some man.</p> - -<p>She died of cancer, and died young. There -is no record of the original site of the cancer; -the ecclesiastic who records the glad tidings -merely relates joyfully that it was diffused -throughout her body, as was only right and proper -in one who differed from him in religious opinions. -It is generally thought that it started in the -breast. No doubt this is a modern guess, though<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> -of course cancer of the breast is notorious for -the way in which its secondary growths spread -through liver, lungs, bones, neck, spine, and so -forth; and there is little reason to suppose that -the guess is incorrect. After trying all the usual -remedies for “lumps,” her physicians determined -to send her to the baths of Brusa, famous -in miraculous cure. There were two large iron -and two large sulphur springs, besides smaller -ones; and people generally went there in spring -and early summer when the earth was gaily -carpeted with the myriad flowers that spring up -and fade before the heat of the Mediterranean -July. May we infer from the choice of a sulphur -bath that the cancer had already invaded the -skin? Possibly. Such a horror may have been -the determining factor which induced the Empress -and her physicians to travel afield. But if so, -surely the recording priest missed a chance of -rejoicing; for he does not tell us the glad news. -All over Bithynia and the Troad there were, -and are, hot mineral springs; Homer relates -how one hot spring and a cold gushed from -beneath the walls of Troy itself. The girls of -Troy used to wash their clothes in the hot spring -whenever Agamemnon would let them.</p> - -<p>When Theodora went to Brusa she was accompanied -by a retinue of four thousand, and Heaven<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -resounded with the prayers of the Monophysites; -but the Orthodox refused to pray for the recovery -of so infamous a heretic, just as they had refused -to join in her prayers for a son. Theodora met -with little loving-kindness on this earth after she -had left Egypt; possibly the world repaid her -with what it received from her.</p> - -<p>The sanctuaries of Asklepios were the great -centres of Greek and Roman healing, and the -treatment there was both mental and physical. -The temples were generally built in charming -localities, where everything was peace and loveliness; -the patients lay in beds in beautiful -colonnades, and to them, last thing at night, -priests delivered restful and touching services; -when sleep came upon them they dreamt, and -the dreams were looked upon as the voice of -God; they followed His instructions and were -cured. They were not cured, however, if they -had cancer. One Ælius Aristides has left us a -vivid—and unconsciously amusing—account of -his adventures in search of health; he seems to -have been a neurotic man who ultimately developed -into a first-class neurasthenic. To him -his beloved god was indeed a trial, as no doubt -Aristides himself was to his more earthly physicians. -He would sit surrounded by his friends, -to whom he would pour out his woes in true<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -neurasthenic style. Aristides seems never to -have been truly happy unless he was talking -about his ailments, and he loyally followed any -suggestion for treatment if only he could persuade -himself that it came from the beloved Asklepios. -The god would send him a vision, that ordered -him to bathe three times in icy water when -fevered, and afterwards to run a mile in the teeth -of a north-east wind—and the north-easters in -the Troad can be bitter indeed; very different -from the urbane and gentle breath that spreads -so delicious a languor over the summer of Sydney! -This behest the much-tried man of faith would -dutifully perform, accompanied by a running -bodyguard of doctors and nurses marvelling at -his endurance and the inscrutable wisdom of the -god, though they expected, and no doubt in -their inmost hearts hoped, that their long-suffering -patient would drop dead from exhaustion. -There were real doctors at these -shrines besides priests. The doctors seem to -have been much the same kind of inquisitive -and benevolent persons as we are to-day; some -of them were paid to attend the poor without -fee. The nurses were both male and female, -and appear to have been most immoral people. -Aristides was the wonder of his age; his fame -spread from land to land, and it is marvellous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -that he neither succumbed to his heroic treatment -nor lost his faith in the divine being that -subjected him to such torment. Both facts -are perhaps characteristic of mankind. The -manner of his end I do not know.</p> - -<p>In Theodora’s time Asklepios and the other -Olympian divinities had long been gathered -to their fathers before the advancing tides of -Christianity and Earth-Mother worship; but -though the old gods were gone the human body -and human spirit remained the same, and there -is no doubt that she was expected to dream and -bathe and drink mineral waters just as Aristides -had done centuries before; and no doubt a crowd -of sympathizing friends sat round her on the -marble seats which are still there and tried to -console her—a difficult task when the sufferer -has cancer of the breast. She sat there, her -beauty faded, her once-rounded cheeks ashy with -cachexia and lined with misery, brooding over -the real nature of the Christ she was so soon -to meet, wondering whether she or her implacable -enemies were in the right as to His soul—whether -He had in truth two souls or one. She had made -her choice, and it was too late now to alter; in -any case she was too gallant a little Empress to -quail in the face of death, come he never so -horribly. Let us hope that she had discovered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> -before she died that Christ the All-merciful -would forgive even so atrocious a sin as attributing -to Him a single soul! All her piety, all -the prayers of her friends, and all the medical -skill of Brusa proved in vain, and she died in -<span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span> 548, being then forty years of age. So we -take leave of this woman, whom many consider -the most remarkable in history. Let us envisage -her to ourselves—this graceful, exquisite, little -cameo-faced lady, passionate in her loves and -her hates, with some of the languor of the East -in her blood, much of the tigress; brave in -danger and resourceful in time of trouble; -loyal and faithful to her learned husband as he -was loyal to her; yet perhaps a little despising -him. Except Medea, as seen by Euripides, -Theodora was probably the first feminist, and as -such has made her mark upon the world. On -the whole her influence upon the Roman Empire -seems to have been for good, and the merciful -and juster trend of the laws she inspired must -be noted in her favour.</p> - -<p>Theodora dead, the glory of Justinian departed. -He seemed to be stunned by the calamity, and -for many critical months took no part in the -world’s affairs; even after he recovered he -seemed but the shadow of his old self. Faithful -to her in life, he remained faithful after her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -death, and sought no other woman; that is -another reason for thinking that Procopius lied. -He lived, a lonely and friendless old man, for -eighteen more years, hated by his subjects for -his extortionate taxation—which they attributed -to the extravagance of the crowned prostitute, -though more likely it was due to the enormous -campaigns of Belisarius and Narses the eunuch, -as a result of which Italy and Africa once more -came under the sway of the East. Justinian -was lonely on his death-bed, and the world -breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. He -had long outlived his glory.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">The Emperor Charles V</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THAT extraordinary phenomenon which, -being neither Holy, nor Roman, nor yet -strictly speaking an Empire, was yet called the -Holy Roman Empire, began when Charlemagne -crossed the Alps to rescue the reigning Pope from -the Lombards in <span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span> 800. The Pope crowned -him Roman Emperor of the West, a title which -had been extinct since the time of Odoacer more -than three hundred years before. The revival -of the resplendent title caused the unhappy -people of the Dark Ages to think for a moment -in their misery that the mighty days of Augustus -and Marcus Aurelius had returned; it seemed to -add the power of God to the romance of ages -and the brute power of kings. During the next -two centuries the peoples of France and Germany -gradually evolved into two separate nations, but -it was impossible for men to forget the great -brooding power which had given the <i>Pax Romana</i> -to the world, and its hallowed memory survived -more beneficent than possibly it really was; it -appeared to their imaginations that if it were -possible to unite the sanctity of the Pope with -the organizing power of Rome the blessed times<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> -might again return when a man might reap in -peace what he had sown in peace, and the long -agony of the Dark Ages might be lifted from -mankind. When Henry the Fowler had welded -the Germans into a people with a powerful king -the time appeared to have arisen, and his son -Otto was crowned Holy Roman Emperor. He -was not Emperor of Germany, nor German -Emperor; he was <i>Holy Roman Emperor</i> of the -German people, wielding power, partly derived -from the religious power of the Pope, and partly -from the military resources of whatever fiefs he -might hold; and this enormous and loosely knit -organization persisted until 1806—nearly seven -hundred years from the time of Otto, and more -than 1,000 years after the time of Charlemagne.</p> - -<p>This mediæval Roman Empire was founded on -sentiment; it took its power from blessed—and -probably distorted—memories of a golden age, -when one mighty Imperator really did rule the -civilized world with a strong and autocratic hand. -It was a pathetic attempt to put back the hands -of the clock. It bespoke the misery through -which mankind was passing in the attempt to -combine feudalism with justice. When the -mediæval Emperor was not fighting with the Pope -he was generally fighting with his presumed subjects; -occasionally he tried to defend Europe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> -from the Turks. He might have justified his -existence by defending Constantinople in 1453, -by which he would have averted the greatest -disaster that has ever befallen Europe. He -missed that opportunity, and the mediæval -Empire, though it survived that extraordinary -calamity, yet continued ramshackle, feeble, and -mediævally glorious until long past the Protestant -Reformation. Being Roman, of course it was -anti-Lutheran, and devoted its lumbering energies -to the destruction of the Protestants. No Holy -Roman Emperor ever rivalled the greatness of -Charles V, in whose frame shone all the romance -and glamour of centuries. How vast was his -power is shown when we consider that he ruled -over the Netherlands, Burgundy, Spain, Austria, -much of what is now Germany, and Italy; and -he was not a man to be contented with a nominal -rule.</p> - -<p>He was born in Ghent in 1500 to Philip, Duke -of Burgundy, and Juana, who is commonly known -as “Crazy Jane”; it is now generally believed -that she was insane, though the Spaniards shrank -from imputing insanity to a queen. From his -father he inherited the principalities of the -Netherlands and Burgundy; from his mother he -inherited the kingships of Spain, Naples, and the -Spanish colonies. When his grandfather, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -Hapsburg Emperor Maximilian, died, Charles -was elected Emperor in 1519; the other candidate -was Francis I of France. The electors were the -seven <i>Kurfursten</i> of Germany, and Charles -bribed the harder of the two. What power on -earth could summon before a magistrate the -kings of France and Spain on a charge of improperly -influencing the vote of a German -princelet? Once having attained to the title -of Roman Emperor, added to the enormous -military power of King of Spain, Charles immediately -became the greatest man in the world. -He was strong, cautious, athletic, brave, and -immeasurably sagacious; his reputation for wisdom -long survived him.</p> - -<p>Francis did not forgive him his victory, and -for the next quarter of a century—until 1544—Europe -resounded with the rival cries of the two -monarchs, unhappy Italy being usually the actual -scene of battle. At Pavia in 1525 Francis had -to say “All is lost save honour”—the precise -definition of “honour” in Francis’s mind being -something very different from what it is to-day. -Francis was captured and haled to Madrid to -meet his grim conqueror, who kept him in prison -until he consented to marry Charles’s favourite -sister Eleanor of Austria, and to join with him -in an alliance against the heretics. This Eleanor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -was a gentle and beautiful lady whom Charles -treated with true brotherly contempt; yet she -loved him. As soon as Francis was out of prison -he forgot that he was married, and made love to -every pretty girl that came his way.</p> - -<p>Francis being safely out of the way, Charles -turned to the great aim of his life—to reconcile -Protestants with Catholics throughout his colossal -Empire. He was a strong Catholic, and displayed -immense energy in the reconciliation. -According to Gibbon, who quotes the learned -Grotius,<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> he burned 100,000 Netherlanders, and -Gibbon dolefully remarks that this one Holy -Roman Emperor slew more Christians than all -the pagan Roman Emperors put together. Charles -appears to have grown gradually into the habit of -persecution; he began comparatively mildly, and -it was not till 1550 that he began to see that there -was really nothing else to do with these dull and -obstinate Lutherans but to burn them. He -could not understand it. He was sure he was -right, and yet the more Netherlanders he burned -the fewer seemed to attend mass. Moreover, it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> -was impossible to believe that those things the -miscreant Luther had said about the immoral -conduct of the monks could be true; once upon a -time he had met the fellow, and had him in his -power; why had he not burned him once and for -all and saved the world from this miserable -holocaust which had now become necessary -through the man’s pestilential teaching? So -Charles went on with his conciliation, driven by -conscience—the most terrible spur that can be -applied to the flanks of a righteous man. No -doubt Torquemada acted from conscience, and -Robespierre; possibly even Nero could have -raked up some sort of a conscientious motive for -all he did—the love of pure art, perhaps. “<i>Qualis -artifex pereo!</i>” said he in one of those terse -untranslatable Latin phrases when he was -summoning up his courage to fall upon his sword -in the high Roman manner; surely there spoke -the artist: “How artistically I die!”</p> - -<p>The activities of Charles were so enormous -that it is impossible in this short sketch even to -mention them all. Besides his conquest of -Francis and, through him, Italy, he saved Europe -from the Turk. To Francis’s eternal dishonour -he had made an alliance with the last great Turkish -Sultan, Solyman the Magnificent. The baleful -power which had conquered Constantinople less<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -than a century before seemed to be sweeping on -to spread its abominations over Western Europe; -and history finds it difficult to forgive Francis -for assisting its latest conqueror. Men remembered -how Constantine Palæologus had fallen -amidst smoke and carnage in his empurpled -blazonry, heroic to the last; they forgot that the -destruction of 1453 was probably the direct -result of the Venetian and French attack under -Dandolo in 1204, from which Constantinople -never recovered. In talking of the “Terrible -Turk” they forgot that Dandolo and his Venetians -and Frenchmen had committed atrocities -quite as terrible as the Turks’ during those days -and nights when Constantinople was given over -to rapine; and now the brilliant Francis appeared -to be carrying on Dandolo’s war against civilization. -So when Charles stepped forward as -the great hero of Europe, and drove the Turks -down the Danube with an army under his own -leadership he was hailed as the saviour of Christendom; -it is to this that he owes a good deal of his -glory, and he nobly prepared the world for the -still greater victory of Lepanto to be won by his -son Don John of Austria.</p> - -<p>Moreover, it was during his reign that the -great American conquests of the Spanish armies -occurred, and the name of Fernando Cortes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -attained to eternal glory; and the Portuguese -voyager Maghellan made those wonderful discoveries -which have so profoundly influenced -the course of history. There had been no man -so great and energetic as Charles since Charlemagne; -since him his only rival for almost super-human -energy has been Napoleon.</p> - -<p>That pathetic and unhappy queen whom we -call “Bloody Mary” had been betrothed to -Charles for diplomatic reasons when she was an -infant, but he had broken off the engagement -and ultimately married Isabella of Portugal, -whose fair face is immortalized by Titian in the -portrait that still hangs in the Prado, Madrid. -Auburn of hair, with blue eyes and delicate -features, she looks the very type of what we used -to call the tubercular diathesis; and there can -be no doubt that Charles really loved her. Before -he married her he had had an illegitimate -daughter by a Flemish girl; ten years after she -died Barbara Blomberg, a flighty German, bore -him a son, the famous Don John of Austria. But -while Isabella lived no scandal attached to his -name. Unhappily his only legitimate son was -Philip, afterwards Philip II of Spain.</p> - -<p>When Mary came to the throne she was -intensely unhappy. During the dreadful years -that preceded the divorce of Catherine of Aragon,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> -Charles had strongly supported Catherine’s cause; -and Mary did not forget his aid when she found -herself a monarch, lonely and friendless. She -let him know that she would be quite prepared -to marry him if he would take her.<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> Probably -Charles was terrified by the advances of the plain-faced -old maid, but the opportunity of strengthening -the Catholic cause was too good to miss. The -house of Austria was always famous for its matrimonial -skill; the hexameter pasquinade went:</p> - -<p class="center">“Bella gerant alii—tu, felix Austria, nube!”<br /> -(“Others wage war for a throne—you, happy Austria, marry!”)</p> - -<p>Charles, in his dilemma, turned to his son -Philip, who nobly responded to the call of duty. -Of him Gibbon might have said that “he sighed -as a lover, but obeyed as a son” if he had not -said it concerning himself; and Philip broke off -his engagement to the Infanta of Portugal, and -married the fair English bride himself.</p> - -<p>Charles was still the greatest and most romantic -figure in Europe—a mighty conqueror and famous -Emperor; any woman would have preferred him -to his mean-spirited son; and Mary was grateful -to him for powerful support during years of -anguish. She obeyed his wishes, and took the -son instead of the father.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>Queen Mary’s sad life deserves a word of sympathetic -study. With her mother she had passed -through years of hideous suffering, culminating -in her being forced by her father to declare herself -a bastard—probably the most utterly brutal -act of Henry’s reign. She had seen the fruits -of ungovernable sexuality in the fate of her enemy -Anne Boleyn; added to her plain face this -probably caused her to repress her own sex-complex; -finally she married the wretched young -creature Philip, who, having stirred her sexual -passions, left her to pursue his tortuous policy in -Spain. All the time, as I read the story, she -was really desirous of Charles, his brilliant father. -Love-sick for Charles; love-sick for Philip, to -whom she had a lawful right set at naught by -leagues of sea; love-sick for <i>any</i> man whom her -pride would allow her to possess—and I do not -hint a word against her virtue—she is not a -creature to scorn; she is rather to be pitied. Her -father had been a man of strong passions and -violent deeds; from him she had inherited that -tendency to early degeneration of the cardiovascular -system which led to her death from dropsy -at the early age of forty-two; and her repressed -sex-complex led her into the ways of a ruthless -religious persecution, probably increased by the -object-lesson set her by her hero. From this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> -repressed sex-complex also sprang her fierce desire -for a child, though the historians commonly -attribute this emotion to a desire for some one to -carry on her hatred of the Protestants. I remember -the case of a young woman who was a violent -Labour politician; unfortunately it became necessary -for her to lose her uterus because of a fibroid -tumour. She professed to be frantically sorry -because she could no longer bear a son to go into -Parliament to fight the battle of the proletariat -against the wicked capitalist; but once in a moment -of weakness she confessed that what she had -really wanted was not a bouncing young politician, -but merely a dear little baby to be her own child. -Probably some such motive weighed with Mary. -People laughed at her because she used to mistake -any abdominal swelling, or even the normal -diminution of menstruation that occurs with -middle age, for a sign of pregnancy<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a>; but -possibly if she had married Charles instead of -Philip, and had lived happily with him as his -wife, she would not have given her people occasion -to call her “Bloody Mary.” She is the saddest -figure in English history. From her earliest -infancy she had been taught to look forward to -a marriage with the wonderful man who to her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -mind—and to the world’s—typified the noblest -qualities of humanity—courage, bravery, rich -and profound wisdom, learning and love of the -beautiful in art and music and literature; friend -and admirer of Titian and gallant helper of her -mother. Her disappointment must have been -terrible when she found him snatched from her -grasp and saw herself condemned either to a life -of old maidenhood or to a loveless marriage with -a mean religious fanatic twelve years younger -than herself. The mentality which led Mary to -persecute the English Protestants contained the -same qualities as had led Joan of Arc to her -career of unrivalled heroism, and to-day leads an -old maid to keep parrots. When an old maid -undresses it is said that she puts a cover over the -parrot’s cage lest the bird should see her nakedness; -that is a phase of the same mentality as -Mary’s and Joan’s. Loneliness, sadness, suppressed -longing for the unattainable—it is cruel -to laugh at an old maid.</p> - -<p>But Charles was to show himself mortal. He -had always been a colossal eater, and had never -spared himself either in the field or at the table. -One has to pay for these things; if a man wishes -to be a great leader and to undertake great -responsibilities he must be content to forswear -carnal delights and eat sparingly; and it is hardly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -an exaggeration to say that it is less harmful to -drink too much than to eat too much. At the -age of thirty Charles began to suffer from “gout”—whatever -it was that they called gout in those -days. At the age of fifty he began to lose his -teeth—apparently from pyorrhœa. Possibly -his “gout” may have really been the result of -focal infection from his septic teeth. At fifty his -gout “flew to his head,” and threatened him with -sudden death. When he was fifty-two he suddenly -became pale and thin, and it was noticed -that his hair was rapidly turning grey. Clearly -his enormous gluttony was beginning to result -in arterio-sclerosis, and at fifty-four it was -reported to his enemy the Sultan that Charles -had lost the use of an arm and a leg. Sir William -Stirling-Maxwell thought that this report was -the exaggeration of an enemy; but it is quite -possible that Charles really suffered from that -annoying condition known as “intermittent -claudication,” which is such a nuisance to both -patient and doctor in cases of arterio-sclerosis. -In these attacks there may be temporary paralysis -and loss of the power of speech. The cause of -them is not quite clear, because they seldom prove -fatal; but it is supposed that there is spasm of -some small artery in the brain, or perhaps a -transitory dropsy of some motor area. Charles’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> -speech became indistinct, so that towards the -end of his life it was difficult to understand what -he meant. It has generally been supposed that -this was due to his underhung lower jaw and loss -of teeth; but it is equally probable that dropsy -of the speech-centre may have been at the root -of the trouble, such as is so frequently observed -in arterio-sclerosis or its congener chronic Bright’s -disease, and is also often caused by over-strain and -over-eating. He began to feel the cold intensely, -and sat shivering even under the warmest wraps; -he said himself that the cold seemed to be in his -bones. Probably there was some spasm of the -arterioles, such as is often seen in arterio-sclerosis.</p> - -<p>By this time, what with the failure of his plans -against the Protestants and his wretched health, -he had made up his mind to resign the burden of -Empire, and to seek repose in some warmer -climate, where he could rest in the congenial -atmosphere of a monastery. No Roman Emperor -had voluntarily resigned the greatest position in -the world since Diocletian in <span class="allsmcap">A.D.</span> 305; curiously -enough he too had been a persecutor, so that his -reign is known among the hagiographers as “the -age of martyrs.”</p> - -<p>Charles called together a great meeting at the -Castle of Caudenburg in Brussels in 1556. All the -great ones of the Empire were there, and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> -Knights of the Golden Fleece, an order which -still vies for greatness with our own order of the -Garter; possibly it may now even excel that order, -because it is unlikely that it will ever again be -conferred by an Austrian Emperor. Like the -Garter, it had “no damned pretence of merit -about it.” If you were entitled to wear the -chain and insignia of the Golden Fleece, you -were a man of very noble birth. Yet, like the -Order of the Thistle, the Fleece may yet be revived, -and may recover its ancient splendour. On -the right of the Emperor sat his son Philip, just -returned, a not-impetuous bridegroom, from -marrying Mary of England. On his left he leant -painfully and short of breath upon the shoulder -of William the Silent, who was soon to become -of some little note in the world. It was a strange -group: the great, bold Emperor whose course -was so nearly run; the mean little king-consort -of England; and the noble patriot statesman who -was soon to drag Philip’s name in the dust of -ignominy. Charles spoke at some length, recounting -how he had won many victories and -suffered many defeats, yet, though so constantly -at war, he had always striven for peace; how he -had crossed the Mediterranean many times -against the Turk, and had made forty long -journeys and many short ones to see for himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -the troubles of his subjects. He insisted proudly -that he had never done any man a cruelty or an -injustice. He burst into tears and sat down, -showing the emotionalism that so often -attends upon high blood-pressure; and the -crowd, seeing the great soldier weep, wept with -him. Eleanor gave him a cordial to drink, and -he resumed, saying that at last he had found the -trials of Empire more than his health would allow -him to sustain. He had decided to abdicate in -favour of his beloved son Philip. It was given to -few monarchs to die and yet to live—to see his -own glory continued in the glory which he -expected for his son. It seems to have been a -really touching and dramatic scene, causing an -immense sensation throughout Europe. If there -were ever an indispensable man it would have -appeared at that time to be the Emperor Charles -V; the world quaked in apprehension.</p> - -<p>It was some time before Charles could carry -out his design, but ultimately he went, by a long -and dangerous journey, to the place of his retirement, -Yuste, in Estremadura, Northern Spain, -where there slept a little monastery of followers -of St. Jerome; why he—a Fleming—should have -picked on this lonely and inaccessible place is not -known. With him went a little band of attendants, -chief among whom was his stout old chamberlain,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> -Don Luis Quixada, of whom we shall hear -more when we come to consider Don John of -Austria. This Quixada seems to have been a -fine type of Spanish grandee, loyal and faithful; -a merry grandee also, who added sound sense to -jocund playfulness. Note well the name; we shall -meet it again to some purpose.</p> - -<p>Charles was mistaken in supposing that he -could find rest at Yuste; the world would not -let him rest. He had been a figure too overwhelming. -He spent his days in reading dispatches -from all who were in trouble and fancied -that the great man could pluck them from the -toils. Chief of his suppliants was his son Philip, -who found the mantle that had seemed to sit so -easily on his father’s mighty shoulders intolerably -heavy when he came to wear it himself. To the -man who is strong in his wisdom and resolution -difficulties disappear when they are boldly faced. -Philip was timorous, poor-spirited, pedantic, and -procrastinating. He constantly appealed to his -father for advice, and Charles responded in letters -which seem to show, in their evidence of annoyance, -the irritability that goes with a high blood-pressure. -An epidemic of Reformation was -breaking out in Spain, however sterile might -seem the soil of that nation for Protestantism to -flourish. It is not quite clear why no serious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -move towards the Reformed Religion ever took -place among the Spaniards. It is probable that -the ancient faith had thrust its roots too deeply -into their hearts during the centuries of struggle -against the Moors. In the minds of the Spanish -people it had been the Church which had inspired -their ancestors—not the kings; and they -were not going to desert the old religion now -that they saw it attacked by the Germans. Moreover, -the fierce repression which was practised -by the Spanish Inquisition must have had its -effect. Lecky formed the opinion that no new -idea could survive in the teeth of really determined -persecution; and the history of religion in -Spain and France seems to bear him out.</p> - -<p>However, the old war-horse in his retirement -snuffed the battle and the joyous smell of the -burnings, and stoutly urged on the Inquisitors, -at whatever cost to his own quiet. Spain remained -diligently Roman Catholic at the orders -of the Holy Roman Emperor and his son Philip; -and at this moment, when Charles was so urgently -longing for peace and retirement, English Mary, -his cousin and daughter-in-law, in whose interests -he had loyally braved God, man, and Pope, lost -Calais; the French, under the Duke of Guise, took -it from her. She might well grieve and say the -name would be found written on her heart; she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> -but echoed the feelings of her beloved Emperor. -For weeks he mumbled with toothless jaws the -agony of his soul over this crowning misfortune, -and from this he never really recovered. Already -how had the times changed since the Spanish -infantry had overrun Europe at his command!</p> - -<p>But he could do nothing; he had abdicated. -That iron hand was now so crippled with gout -that it could hardly even open an envelope, had -to sign its letters with a seal, and constantly held -a tiny chafing-dish to keep itself warm. Charles -sat shivering and helpless, wrapped in a great -eiderdown cloak even in midsummer; his eyes -fell on the portrait of his beloved wife and of -that plain Mary who had wished to marry him, -and on several favourite pictures by Titian. He -listened to the singing of the friars, and was -resentful of the slightest wrong note, for he had -an exceedingly acute musical ear. The good -fathers, in their attempts to entertain him, -brought famous preachers to preach to him; he -listened dutifully—he, whose lightest word had -once shaken Europe, but who now could hardly -mumble in a slurring voice! And in spite of -the protests of Quixada he heroically sat down -to eat himself to death. It has been said that -marriage for an old man is merely a pleasant way -of committing suicide; it is doubtful whether<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -Charles enjoyed his chosen method of self-poisoning, -for he had lost the sense of taste, and -no food could be too richly seasoned for his tired -palate. Vast quantities of beef, mutton, venison, -ham, and highly flavoured sausages went past -those toothless jaws, washed down by the richest -wines, the heaviest beers; the local hidalgoes -quickly discovered that to reach the Emperor’s -heart all they had to do was to appeal to his -stomach, so they poured in upon him every kind -of rich dainty, to the despair of Quixada, who -did his best to protect his master. “Really,” -said he, “kings seem to think that their stomachs -are not made like other men’s!”</p> - -<p>He sometimes used to go riding, but one day, -when he was mounting his pony, he was suddenly -seized with an attack of giddiness so severe that -he nearly fell into the arms of Quixada, so that -the Emperor, who had once upon a time been -the <i>beau ideal</i> of a light cavalryman, had to toil -about heavily on foot in the woods, and to -strive to hold his gun steadily enough to shoot a -wood-pigeon.</p> - -<p>He spent his spare time watching men lay out -for him new parterres and planting trees; man -began with a garden, and in sickness and sorrow -ends with one. The Earth-Mother is the one -friend that never deserts us.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>For some time he took a daily dose of senna, -which was probably the best thing he could have -taken in the absence of Epsom salts, but nothing -could get rid of the enormous amount of rich -food that poured down his gullet. He was -always thinking of death, and there seems to be -little doubt that he really did rehearse his own -funeral. He held a great and solemn procession, -catafalque and all, and, kneeling in front of the -altar, handed to the officiating friar a taper, -which was symbolical of his own soul. He then -sat during the afternoon in the hot sun, and -it was thought that he caught a feverish chill, -for he took to his bed and never left it alive; for -hours he held the portrait of Isabella in his hands, -recalling her fresh young beauty; he clasped to -his bosom the crucifix which he had taken from -her dead fingers just before they had become -stiff. Then came the fatal headache and vomiting -which so often usher in the close of chronic -Bright’s disease. We are told that he lay unconscious, -holding his wife’s crucifix, till he said: -“Lord, I am coming to Thee!” His hand -relaxed—was the motor-centre becoming œdematous?—and -a bishop held the crucifix before his -dying eyes. Charles sighed, “Aye—Jesus!” and -died. Whether or no he died so soon after -saying these things as the good friar would have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -us believe, it is certain that his end was edifying -and pious, and such as he would have wished.</p> - -<p>The great interest of Charles V to a doctor, -now that the questions over which he struggled -so fiercely are settled, is that we can seldom trace -so well in any historical character the course of -the disease from which he died. If Charles had -been content to live on milky food and drink less -it is probable that he would have lived for years; -he might have yielded to the constant entreaties -of his friends and resumed the imperial crown; -he might have taken into his strong hands the -guidance of Spain and the Netherlands that was -overwhelming Philip; his calm good sense might -have averted the rising flood that ultimately -led to the revolt of the Netherlands; possibly he -might even have averted the Spanish Armada, -though it seems improbable that he could have -lived thirty years. But Spain might have avoided -that arrogant behaviour which has since that day -caused so many of her troubles; with the substitution -of Philip for Charles at that critical time -she took a wrong turning from which she has -never since recovered.</p> - -<p>The death of Charles V caused an extraordinary -sensation in Europe—even greater than the -sensation caused by his abdication. Immense -memorial services were held all over the Empire;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -people wondered how they were ever to recover -from the loss. Stout old Quixada said boldly -that Charles V was the greatest man that ever -had been or ever would be in the world. If -we differ from him, at all events his opinion helps -us to appreciate the extraordinary impression that -Charles had made upon his time, and it is now -generally agreed that he was the greatest man of -the sixteenth century, which was so prodigal -of remarkable men. Possibly William the Silent -might be thought still greater; but he was much -less resplendent; he lacked the knightly glamour -that surrounded the head of the Holy Roman -Emperor; he wore no Golden Fleece; no storied -centuries fluttered over his head. Yet, if we -come to seek a cause for this immense impression, -it is not easy to find. There is no doubt that he -was a stout defender of the old religion at a -time when it sorely needed defenders, and to that -extent Romance broods over his memory—the -romance of things that are old. He was a man -of remarkable energy, and a great soldier at a -time when soldiering was not distinguished by -genius. He appears to have had great personal -charm, though I can find few sayings attributed -to him by which we can judge the source of that -charm. There is nothing in his history like the -gay insouciance, the constant little personal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -letters to friends, of Henri Quatre; things with -Charles V seem to have been rather serious and -legal than friendly. He was fond of simple joys, -like watchmaking, and he got a remarkable -clockmaker, one Torriano, to accompany him to -Yuste to amuse his last months. He left behind -him a great many watches, and naturally the -story grew that he had said: “If I cannot even -get my watches to agree, how can I expect my -subjects to follow one religion?” But it is probable -that this pretty story is quite apocryphal; -it is certainly very unlike Charles’s strongly -religious—not to say bigoted—character. He -was proud and autocratic, yet could unbend, -and the friars of Yuste found him a good friend. -The boys of the neighbouring village used to -rob his orchard, much to the disgust of the -Emperor; he set the police on their track, but -died before the case came up for trial. After -his death it was found that he had left instructions -that the fines which he expected to receive from -the naughty little ragamuffins were to be given -to the poor of their village. Among these -naughty little boys was probably young Don -John of Austria, whom Quixada had brought to -see his supposed father; and it is said that Charles -acknowledged him before he died.</p> - -<p>Lastly, Charles had the inestimable advantage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -of being depicted by one of the greatest artists of -all time. It is impossible to look upon his sad -and thoughtful face, as drawn by the great -Titian, without sympathy. The strong, if underhung, -jaw which he bequeathed to his descendants -and is still to be seen in King Alfonso of Spain; -the wide-set and thoughtful eyes; the care-worn -furrowed brow; the expression of energy and -calm wisdom: all these belonged to a great man.</p> - -<p>Two hundred years after he died, when his -body had long been removed to the Escorial -where it now lies in solemn company with the -bodies of many other Spanish monarchs, a strange -fate allowed a visiting Scotsman to view it. -Even after that great lapse of time it was, though -mummified, little affected by decay; there were -still on his winding-sheet the sprigs of thyme -which his friends had placed there; and the -grave and stately features as painted by Titian -were still vividly recognizable.</p> - -<p>We should be quite within the bounds of reason -in saying that Charles V was the greatest man -between Charlemagne and Napoleon. He was -less knightly than Charlemagne—probably because -we know more about him; he had no -Austerlitz nor Jena to his credit—nor any Moscow; -but in devouring energy and vastness of conception -there was little to choose between the three.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -Charlemagne left behind him the Holy Roman -Empire with its enormous mediæval significance, -whereas Napoleon and Charles V left comparatively -little or nothing. He was the heroic -defender of a losing cause, and wears the romantic -halo that such heroes wear; yet whatever halo -of chivalry, romance, and religious fervour -surrounds his name, it is difficult to forget that -he deliberately ate himself to death. An ignoble -end.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Don John of Austria, Cervantes,<br /> -and Don Quixote</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">TWO great alliances, of which you will read -nothing in ordinary history-books, have pre-eminently -influenced mankind. The first was -between the Priest and the Woman, and seems -to have begun in Neolithic times, when Woman -was looked upon as a witch with some uncanny -power of bewitching honest men and somehow -bringing forth useless brats for no earthly reason -that could be discovered. From this alliance -grew the worship of Motherhood, and hence many -more modern religions. When, on Sundays, you -see ranks of men in stiff collars sitting in church -though they would much rather be playing tennis, -you know that they are expiating in misery the -spankings inflicted by their Neolithic ancestors -perhaps 10,000 years ago: their wives have driven -them to church, and Woman, as usual, has had -the last word.</p> - -<p>But the other alliance, that between Man and -Horse, has been a more terrible affair altogether, -and has led to Chivalry, the cult of the Man on -the Horse, of the Aristocrat, of the Rich Man. -Though the Romans had a savage aristocracy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -they never had Chivalry, probably because they -never feared the cavalryman. The Roman legion, -in its open order, could face any cavalry, because -the legionary knew that the man by his side -would not run away; if he, being a misbegotten -son of fear, did so, then the man behind him would -take advantage of the plungings of the horse to -drive his javelin into the silly animal while he -himself would use his sword upon the rider. It -was left for the Gran Catalan Company of Spain -and the Scots under Wallace and Bruce to prove -in mediæval times that the infantryman would -beat the cavalryman.</p> - -<p>The Romans never adopted the artificial rules -of Chivalry; it was the business of the legions -to win battles—to make money over the business -if they could, but first and foremost to win battles. -They had no ideas about the “point of honour” -which has cost so many a man his life. The main -thing was that the legions must not run away; -it was for the enemy to do the running. To the -Romans it never seems to have occurred that -Woman was a creature to be sentimentally worshipped, -or that it really mattered very much -whether you spoke of a brace of grouse or a couple, -of a mob of hounds or a pack; but to the Knight -of Chivalry these were vital matters.</p> - -<p>With Charlemagne and his Franks a new civilization<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -came into full flower; and Chivalry—the -“worship of God and the ladies,” to quote -Gibbon’s ironic phrase—swayed the minds of -Northern Europe for centuries.</p> - -<p>Chivalry has been much misunderstood in -modern times. We probably see Chaucer’s -“varry parfit gentil knight” as poets and idealists -would have us see him and not as he really was. -There was no sentimentality about your knight. -“Gentle” did not mean “kind”; it meant -really “son of a landowner.” A knight had to -do things in the manner considered fashionable -by his class; he had to call things precisely by -the names taught him by some older knight—his -tutor and university combined; the slightest -slip and he would be considered as the mediæval -equivalent of our “bounder”; he had to wear -the proper clothes at the proper time, and to -obey certain arbitrary—often quite artificial—“manners -and rules of good society,” or he would -be considered lacking in “good form”; he must -recognize the rights of the rich as against the -poor, but it did not follow that he should recognize -any rights of the poor as against the rich. -Even Bayard, knight <i>sans peur et sans reproche</i>, -would probably have seemed a most offensive -fellow to a twentieth-century gentleman if he, -with his modern ideas, could have met the Chevalier;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -and the sensation caused by the kindly -conduct of Sir Philip Sidney in handing his drink -of water to a wounded soldier at Zutphen shows -how rare such a thing must have been. It was -done a thousand times in the late war, and -nobody thought anything about it. To the -extent of the sensation of Zutphen Chivalry had -debased mankind; the evil that it did lived after -it. It did good in teaching the world manners -and a certain standard of honourable conduct; -it did not teach morality, or real religion, or real -kindness. These things were left for the poor to -teach the rich.</p> - -<p>This unsentimental harangue leads us to “the -last knight of Europe”—Don John of Austria, -around whose name there still shines a glamour of -romance like the sound of a trumpet. About -nine years after the death of the Empress Isabel, -Charles V went a-wandering, still disconsolate, -through his mighty empire. He was sad and -lonely, for it was about the time when the arterio-sclerosis -which was to kill him began to depress -his spirits. At Ratisbon, where he lay preparing -for the great campaign which was to end in the -glorious victory of Muhlburg, they brought to -him to cheer him up a sweet singer and pretty -girl named Barbara Blomberg, daughter of a -noble family. She sang to the Emperor to such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -purpose that he became her lover, and in due -course Don John was born. By this time Charles -had discovered that his pretty nightingale was a -petulant, extravagant, sensual young woman, by -no means the sort of mother a wise man would -select to bring up his son; so he took the boy -from her care and sent him to a poor Spanish -family near Madrid. Whatever Charles V did -in his private life seems to have borne the stamp -of wisdom and kindness, however little we may -agree with some of his public actions. Probably -Barbara did not object; it must have been rather -alarming for the flighty young person to have the -tremendous personality of the great Emperor -constantly overlooking her folly; she married a -man named Kugel, ruined him by her extravagance, -and died penniless save for an annuity of -200 florins left her by the Emperor in his will. -I read a touch of sentimentality into Charles’s -character. It is difficult to wonder more at his -memory of his old light-of-love in his will, or at -his accurate and uncomplimentary estimate of -her value. Probably he was rather ashamed of -some of his memories; so far as I can find out -there were not many such, and he wished to hush -up the whole incident. Probably Barbara was -not worth much more than 200 florins per annum.</p> - -<p>Still keeping secret the parentage of the child,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> -whom he called Jeronimo after his favourite -saint, Charles handed him over to the care of -his steward, Don Luis de Quixada, asking that -Maddalena his wife should regard Jeronimo as -her own son. Quixada had not been married -very long, and naturally Maddalena wondered -whence came this cheery little boy of which -Quixada seemed so fond; nor would he gratify -her curiosity, but hushed her with dark sayings; -she kissed the baby in public, but wept in secret -for jealousy of the wicked female who had evidently -borne a son in secret to her husband before -he had married his lawful wife. One night the -castle caught fire, and Quixada, flower of Spain’s -chivalry though he was, rescued the child before -he returned to save Maddalena. It is wrong to -call him a “grandee of Spain,” for “grandee” -is a title much the same as our “duke”; had -he been a grandee I understand that his true -name would have been “Señor Don Quixada, -duca e grandi de España.” One would think -that this action would have added fuel to Maddalena’s -jealousy, but she believed her husband when -he told her that Jeronimo was a child of such -surpassing importance to the world that it had -been necessary for a Quixada to save him even -before he saved his wife, and quite probably she -then, for the first time, began to suspect his real<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> -parentage. Charles V was then the great Catholic -hero, and the whole Catholic world was -weeping for his abdication. So Maddalena developed -a strong love for Jeronimo, which died only -with herself. She lived for a great many years -and bore no children; Jeronimo remained to her -as her only son. He always looked upon her as -his mother, and throughout his life wrote to her -letters which are still delightful to read; whatever -duty he had, in whatever part of the world, -he always found time to write to Maddalena in -the midst of it, and, like a real mother, she kept -the letters.</p> - -<p>It is said that Charles when dying kissed -Jeronimo and called him son; he certainly -provided for him in his will. After his death -Quixada at first tried to keep the matter secret, -but afterwards sent him to live at the Court with -his brother Philip II, who treated him as he -treated everybody else but Charles V—“the one -wise and strong man whom he never suspected, -never betrayed, and never undervalued,” as -Stirling-Maxwell says. Jeronimo was then openly -acknowledged by Philip as Charles’s natural son, -being called Don John of Austria. Philip’s own -son, a youth of small intelligence, who afterwards -died under restraint—Philip was of course accused -of poisoning him—once called him <i>bâtarde et<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> -fils de putaine</i>—bastard and strumpet’s son. The -curly-headed little boy kept his hands by his side -and quietly replied, “Possibly so; but at any -rate I had a better <i>father</i> than you!” Even by -that time he had begun to see that his mother -was no saint, and could tell between a great -man and a little. Philip could never forgive -Don John for being a gallant youth such as his -father had hoped that Philip would be and was -not; and Don John, conscious of his mighty -ancestry, ardently longed to be a real gallant King -of Romance, such as his father had hoped Philip -would become. Charles, in his will, had expressed -a hope that he would be a monk, and Philip -actively fought for this, though Charles had left -the decision to Don John’s own wishes. In -Philip’s eyes no doubt a gay and bold younger -brother would be less dangerous to the State—i.e. -to Philip—as a monk than as a soldier; yet -is it not possible that Philip only thought he was -loyally helping to follow out his father’s wishes? -He was generally a “slave of duty,” though his -slavery often led him into tortuous courses. The -Church is a great leveller, and religion is a pacifying -and amaranthine repast. But no monkish cowl -would suit Don John; his locks were fair and -hyacinthine, and no tonsure should degrade them. -After a struggle Philip yielded, and Don John<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -was sent in command of the galleys against the -Algerian pirates. He did well, and next year he -commanded the land forces against the rebel -Moriscoes of Granada. Here, in his very first -battle, he lost his foster-father and mentor, -Quixada, who died a knightly death in rallying -the army when it meditated flight. A true knight -of Spain, this Quixada, from the time when he -took the little son of imperial majesty under his -care till the time when he gave up his life lest -that little son, now become a radiant young man, -should suffer dishonour by his army running away. -All Spain, from Philip downward, mourned the -death of this most valiant gentleman, which is -another thing that makes me think that Philip’s -conduct towards Don John was not quite so -black as it has been painted. He could certainly -recognize worth when it did not conflict with -his own interests—that is to say, with the interests -of Spain as he saw them. Quixada’s action in -concealing the parentage of Don John from his -wife was just the sort of loyal and unwise thing -that might have been expected from a chivalrous -knight, using the word “chivalrous” as it is -commonly understood to-day; a dangerous thing, -for many a woman would not have had sufficient -faith in her husband to believe him when he suddenly -produced an unexplained and charming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> -little boy soon after he was married. Maddalena -de Ulloa acted like an angel; Don Quixada acted -like—Don Quixote! Now we see why I asked you -particularly to note the name when we first came -across it in the essay on Charles V. Whence did -Cervantes get the idea for Don Quixote if not -from the foster-father of Don John?</p> - -<p>Two years later he got the real chance of his -life. The Turks, having recovered from the -shock inflicted on them by Charles V, captured -Cyprus and seemed about to conquer all the -little republics of the Adriatic. The Pope, Pius -V, organized the “Holy League” between Spain -and Venice, between the most fiercely monarchical -of countries and the most republican of cities; -and Don John was appointed Admiral-in-chief -of the combined fleets of the “Last Crusade,” -as the enterprise is called from its mingled gallantry -and apparent unity and idealism. For the -last time men stood spellbound as Christendom -attacked Mohammed.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,</div> -<div class="verse">And Don John of Austria is going to the war,</div> -</div></div> - -<p>sings Chesterton in <i>Lepanto</i>, one of the most -stirring battle-poems since the <i>Iliad</i>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">Sudden and still—hurrah!</div> -<div class="verse">Bolt from Iberia!</div> -<div class="verse">Don John of Austria</div> -<div class="verse">Is gone by Alcalar.</div> -</div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>It is difficult for us nowadays to realize the -terror of the Turks that possessed Europe in the -sixteenth century; mothers quieted their children -by the dreadful name, and escaped sailors recounted -indescribable horrors in every little seaport from -Albania to Scotland. Many thousands of Christian -slaves laboured at the oars of the war-galleys, -not, as is generally thought, as hostages -that these galleys might not be sunk. They -were the private property of the captains, who -treated their own property better than they -treated the property of the Grand Turk. Thus, -it was not the worst fate for a Christian galley-slave -to serve in the galley of his owner. He -would not be exposed to reckless sinking at any -rate; if the galley sank, it would be because the -owner could not help it. Nor would he be likely -to be impaled upon a red-hot poker or thrown -upon butchers’ hooks, as might happen to the -slave of the Sultan. So it would seem that some -unnecessary pity has been spilt upon the slaves -of the galleys. Their lot might have been worse, -to put things in their most favourable light.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck,</div> -<div class="verse">(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)</div> -<div class="verse">Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines</div> -<div class="verse">Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.</div> -<div class="verse">(“<i>But Don John of Austria has burst the battle line!</i>”)</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> -<div class="verse">Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,</div> -<div class="verse">Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop.</div> -<div class="verse"><i>Vivat Hispania!</i></div> -<div class="verse"><i>Domino gloria!</i></div> -<div class="verse">Don John of Austria</div> -<div class="verse">Has set his people free!</div> -</div></div> - -<p>This “last crusade” culminated in the great -battle of Lepanto, in 1571, where the Turks lost -about 35,000 men and their whole battle fleet -except forty galleys which crawled home disabled. -There was a good deal of discussion about the -action of an Italian galley under Doria, but -Cervantes, in <i>Don Quixote</i>, seems to have been -quite satisfied with it. No such wonderful battle -was fought at sea until the Nile itself, which is -the most perfect of all sea-fights.</p> - -<p>The sensation throughout Europe was indescribable. -Everything helped to make the victory -romantic—the gallant young bastard admiral -compared with the unattractive king under whom -he served, the sudden relief from terrible danger, -and the victory of Christ over Mahound, so -dramatic and complete, all combined to stir the -pulses of Christendom as they had never been -stirred before—even in the earlier Crusades when -the very tomb of Christ was the point under -dispute. Men said that Mahound, when he -heard the guns of Don John, wept upon the knees -of his houris in his Paradise; black Azrael, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> -angel of death, had turned traitor upon his -worshippers.</p> - -<p>This glorious victory was won largely by the -extraordinary daring and inspiring personality -of the Emperor’s bastard, who now, at the -summit of human glory, saw himself condemned -to retire into the position of a subject. The rest -of the life of the “man who would be king” is -the record of thwarted ambition and disappointed -hopes. Spain and Venice quarrelled, and Lepanto -was not followed up; Philip lost the chance -of retrieving 1453 and of changing the history -of Europe in Spain’s favour ever since. Christian -set once more to killing Christian in the old -melancholy way; Venice made peace with the -Sultan, and Don John set about carving out a -kingdom for himself. In dreams he saw himself -monarch of Albania, or of the Morea; and in -body he actually recaptured Tunis, once so -gloriously held by his father. But Philip would -not support him and he had to retire. Cervantes, -in <i>Don Quixote</i>, evidently thinks Philip quite -right. Tunis was a “sponge for extravagance, -and a moth for expense; and as for holding it -as a monument to Charles V, why, what monument -was necessary to glory so eternal?” Don -John returned home without a kingdom to his -brother, who no doubt let him see that he was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -becoming rather a nuisance with his expensive -dreams. In 1576 he was placated by an appointment -as Governor-General to the Netherlands, -where he quickly found himself confronted by a -much greater, though less romantic, man than -himself. William of Orange was now the unquestioned -leader of the revolt of the Dutch against the -Roman Catholic power of Philip, and when Don -John reached the Netherlands he found himself -Governor with no subjects. After fruitless negotiations -he retired, a very ill man, to Namur; he -had become thin and pale, and lost his vivacity. -His heart was not in his task. He was meditating -the extraordinary “empresa de Inglaterra”—the -“enterprise of England”—which now seems -to us so fantastic. The Spanish army was to -evacuate the Netherlands and to be rapidly ferried -across to Yorkshire; by a lightning stroke it -was to release Mary Queen of Scots, that romantic -Queen, and marry her to Don John, the romantic -victor of Lepanto; Elizabeth was to be slain, and -the Pope was to bless the union of romance with -romance. But Elizabeth would have taken a -deal of slaying. One cannot help surmising that -Don John may have dreamed this fantasy because -he had been educated by Quixada; it was a -dream that might have passed through the addled -brain of Don Quixote himself. The victor of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -Lepanto should better have understood the -mighty power of the sea; the galleys which had -done so well in the Mediterranean would have -been worse than useless in the North, where the -storms are a worse enemy than the Turks.</p> - -<p>But Philip, either through timidity, or jealousy, -or wisdom, would have none of it; after long -delay he sent an important force to the Netherlands -under the command of Don John’s cousin, -Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma, the greatest -general Spain ever produced. Don John abandoned -his dreams to fall with this army upon -the Protestants at Gemblours, where he, or -Farnese—opinions differ—won a really great -victory, the last that was to honour his name.</p> - -<p>A curious incident in this campaign was that -the Spaniards were attacked by a small Scottish -force at a place called Rejnements. The Scotsmen -began, <i>more Scotorum</i>, by singing a psalm. -Having thus prepared the way spiritually, they -prepared it physically by casting off their clothes, -and to the horror of the modest Spaniards -attacked naked with considerable success. Many -of us, no doubt, remember how the Highlanders -in the late war were said to have stained their -bodies with coffee or Condy’s fluid and, under -cover of a Birnam’s wood composed of branches -of trees, emulated the bold Malcolm and Macduff<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -by creeping upon the Germans attired mainly -in their boots and identity disks; a sparse costume -in which to appear before nursing sisters should -they be wounded. I had the honour of operating -upon one hefty gentleman who reached the -C.C.S. in this attire, sheltered from the bitter cold -by blankets supplied by considerate Australians -in the field ambulance. We from a southern -land considered the habit more suitable for the -hardy Scot than for ourselves; though we remembered -that an Australian surgeon at Gallipoli, -finding that his dressings had run short, tore -his raiment into strips and, when the need came, -charged the Turks berserk attired in the costume -of Adam before the Fall. But we did not remember -that gallant Scotsmen had done something -similar in 1578. No doubt the sight of a large -man, dressed in cannibal costume and dancing -horribly on the parapet while he poured forth a -string of uncouth Doric imprecations, led to the -tale that the British Army was employing African -natives to devour the astonished Bosche.</p> - -<p>Don John could not follow up the victory of -Gemblours. He had neither money nor sufficient -men; the few short months remaining to him -were spent in imploring aid from his brother. -Philip did nothing; possibly he was jealous of -Don John; possibly he was fully occupied over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -the miserable affair of Antonio Perez and the -Princess of Eboli. One would like to think that -he had lucid intervals in which he recognized the -insensate folly of the whole business; but like -his father he was spurred on by his conscience. -In addition to the other troubles of Don John -his army began to waste away with pestilence, -no doubt, it being now autumn, with typhoid, -that curse of armies before the recent discovery -of T.A.B. inoculation. Don John fell sick, in -September, 1578, of a fever, but, his doctors -considering the illness trifling, continued to work. -One Italian, indeed, said that he would die, -whereas another sick man, believed to be <i>in articulo -mortis</i>, would recover. The guess proved -right, and when Don John died the Italian -surgeon’s fortune was made. Thus easily are -some reputations gained in our profession; it -is easier to make a reputation than to keep -it.</p> - -<p>For nearly three weeks Don John struggled to -work, encouraged by his physicians; there came -a day, towards the end of September, when he, -being already much wasted by his illness, was -seized by a most violent pain and immediately -had to go to bed. He became delirious, and -babbled of battle-fields and trumpet-calls; he -gave orders to imaginary lines of battle; he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -became unconscious. After two days of muttering -delirium he awakened, and, as he was -thought to be <i>in extremis</i>, took extreme unction. -Next day the dying flicker continued, and he heard -the priest say mass; though his sight had failed -and he could not see, he had himself raised in the -bed, feebly turned his head towards the elevation -of the Host and adored the body of Christ -with his last glimmer of consciousness. He then -fell back unconscious, and sank into a state of -coma, from which he never rallied. In all, he -had been ill about twenty-four days.</p> - -<p>These events could be easily explained on the -supposition that this young man’s brave life was -terminated by that curse of young soldiers—ruptured -typhoid ulcer in ambulatory typhoid -fever. His army was dwindling with pestilence; -he himself walked about feeling feverish and -“seedy” and losing weight rapidly for a fortnight; -he was just at the typhoid age, in the typhoid -time of the year, and in typhoid conditions; -his ulcer burst, causing peritonitis; the tremendous -shock of the rupture, together with the -toxæmia, drove him delirious and then unconscious; -being a very strong young man he woke -up again as the first shock passed away; as the -shock passed into definite peritonitis unconsciousness -returned, and he was fortunate in being able<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span> -to hear his last mass before he died. I see no -flaw in this reasoning.</p> - -<p>The rest of the story is rather quaint. By -next spring Philip had given orders for the -embalmed body to be brought to Spain, and it -was considered rather mean of him that the body -of his brother was to be brought on mule-back. -But Philip was at his wits’ end for money to -prosecute the war, and no doubt he himself looked -upon his “meanness” as a wise economy. The -body was exhumed, cut into three pieces—apparently -by disjointing it at the hips—and stuffed -into three leather bags which were slung on -mule-back in a pack-saddle. When it came -within a few miles of the Escorial it was put -together again, laid upon a bier, and given a -noble funeral in a death-chamber next to that -which had been reserved for the great Emperor -his father. There I believe it still lies, the winds -of the Escorial laughing at its dreams of chivalrous -glory.</p> - -<p>Philip, suspicious of everybody and everything, -had given orders that, should Don John die, his -confessor was to keep an accurate record of the -circumstances; and it is from the report of this -priest that the above account has been drawn by -Stirling-Maxwell, so we can look upon it as -authoritative. Philip was accused of poisoning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -him, and for a moment this supposition was borne -out by the extreme redness of the intestines; -but this is much more easily explained by the -peritonitis. Again, Philip’s enemies have said -that Don John died of a broken heart, because -the priest reported that one side of his heart was -dry and empty; but this too is quite natural if -we suppose that the last act of Don John’s life -was for his heart to pump its blood into his arteries, -as so often happens in death. Young men do -not die of broken hearts; “Men have died and -worms have eaten them—but not for love!” -as Rosalind says in her sweet cynicism. In -elderly men with high blood-pressures it is quite -possible that grief and worry may actually cause -the heart to burst, and to that extent novelists -are right in speaking of a “broken heart.” Otherwise -the disease, or casualty, is unknown to -medicine. No amount of worry, or absence of -worry, would have had any effect upon Don John’s -typhoid ulcer.</p> - -<p>Besides the suspicion of poisoning, Don John -was rumoured to have died of the “French -disease,” even the name of the lady being mentioned. -While he was certainly no more moral -than any other gay and handsome young prince -of his time, there is not the slightest reason for -supposing the rumour to have been anything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -but folly. Syphilis does not kill a man as Don -John died, while ambulatory typhoid fever most -assuredly does. Therefore the lady in question -must remain without her glory so far as this -book is concerned, though her name has survived, -and not only in Spanish.</p> - -<p>Don John was a handsome young man, graceful -and strong. There are many contemporary -portraits of him, perhaps the best being a magnificent -statue at Messina, which he saved from -the Turks at Lepanto. He had frank blue eyes -and yellow curls, and a very great charm of -manner; but he was liable to attacks of violent -pride which estranged his friends. He was the -darling of the ladies, and was esteemed the flower -of chivalry in his day; but William of Orange -warned his Netherlanders not to be deceived by -his appearance; in his view Philip had sent a -monster of cruelty no less savage than himself. -But William was prejudiced, and Don John is -still one of the great romantic figures of history. -It is difficult to speculate reasonably on what -might have happened if he had not died. It has -been thought that he might have led the Armada, -in which case that most badly-managed expedition -would at least have been well led, and no doubt -England would have had a more determined -struggle; but it seems to me more likely that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> -Don John and Philip would have quarrelled, and -that Fortune would have been even less kind to -Spain than she was. Those who love Spain -must be on the whole rather glad that Don John -died before he had been able to cause more -trouble than he did. It is difficult to agree -entirely with those who would put the blame -entirely on Philip for the troubles between him -and Don John, or would interpret every act of -Philip to his detriment. The whole story might -be equally interpreted as the effort of a most -conscientious and narrow-minded man endeavouring -to follow out what he thought to be his -father’s wishes and at the same time to keep a -wild young brother from kicking over the traces. -Compare Butler’s, <i>The Way of All Flesh</i>.</p> - -<p>But the real interest to us of Don John is in -his relations with Cervantes.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">Cervantes on his galley puts his sword into its sheath</div> -<div class="verse">(<i>Don John of Austria rides homewards with a wreath</i>),</div> -<div class="verse">And he sees across a weary land a winding road in Spain</div> -<div class="verse">Up which a lean and foolish knight rides slowly up in vain.</div> -</div></div> - -<p>And it will be a sad world indeed when Don -Quixote at last reaches the top of that winding -road and men cease to love him.</p> - -<p>At Lepanto Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra -(please pronounce the “a’s” separately) was -about twenty-five years of age, and was lying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -below deck sick of a fever. When he heard the -roar of the guns of Don John he sprang from his -bed and rushed on deck in spite of the orders -of his captain; he was put in charge of a boat’s -crew of twelve men and went through the thick -of the fighting. Every man in Don John’s fleet -was fired with his religious enthusiasm, and -Cervantes’ courage was only an index of the wild -fervour that distinguished the Christians on that -most bloody day. He was wounded in the left -hand, “for the greater glory of the right,” as -he himself quaintly says, and never again could -he move the fingers of the injured hand; no -doubt the tendon sheaths had become septic, and -he was lucky to have kept the hand at all. It -has been sapiently remarked that the world would -have had a great loss if it had been the right -hand; but healthy people who lose the right -hand can easily learn to write with the left. -Cervantes remained in the fleet for some years -until, on his way home, he was captured by -Algerian pirates; put to the service of a Christian -renegade—a man who had turned Mussulman -to save his life or from still less worthy -motive—Cervantes made several attempts to -escape, but these were unsuccessful, and he remained -in captivity for some years until his -family had scraped up enough to ransom him.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> -In <i>Don Quixote</i> there is a good deal about the -renegadoes, and much of the well-known story -of the “escaped Moor” is probably autobiographical; -from these hints we gather that the -renegadoes were not quite so bad as has been -generally thought, or else that Cervantes was -far too big-minded a man to believe unnecessary -evil about anybody.</p> - -<p>Back in Spain, he went into the army for two -years, until, in 1582, he gave up soldiering and -took to literature. He found the pen “a good -stick but a bad crutch,” and in 1585 returned to -the public service as deputy-purveyor of the -fleet. In 1594 he became collectors of revenues -in Granada, and in 1597 he became short in his -accounts and fell into jail. There he seems to -have begun <i>Don Quixote</i>; he somehow obtained -security for the repayment of the missing money, -was released penniless into a suspicious world, -and published the first part of <i>Don Quixote</i> in -1605. It was enormously well received, and from -that day to this has remained one of the most -successful of all books. Ten years later he found -that dishonest publishers were issuing spurious -second parts, so he sat himself down to write a -genuine sequel. This differs from most sequels -in that it is better than the original; it is wiser, -mellower, less ironical; Don Quixote and Sancho<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> -Panza are still more lovable than they were -before, and one imagines that Cervantes must -have spent the whole ten years in collecting—or -inventing—the wonderful proverbs so wisely -uttered by the squire.</p> - -<p>Though Cervantes wrote many plays he is -now remembered mainly by his one very great -romance, which is read lovingly in every language -of every part of the world, so that the -epithet “Quixotic” is applied everywhere to -whatsoever is both gallant and foolish; an epithet -which reflects the mixture of affection and pity -in which the old Don is universally held, and is -more often considered to be a compliment than -the reverse. Curiously enough, women seldom -seem to like Don Quixote; only the other day -a brilliant young woman graduate told me that -she thought he was a “silly old fool!” That -was all she could see in him; but he is universally -now thought to represent the pathos of the man -who is born out of his time. As has been so well -said, “This book is not meant for laughter—it -is meant for tears.” I can do no more than -advise everybody to get a thin-paper copy and -let it live in the pocket for some months, reading -it at odd moments; it is the wisest and wittiest -book ever published. “Blessed be the man -who invented sleep,” is a typical piece of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> -Panzan philosophy with which most wise men -will agree.</p> - -<p>But when we have done sentimentalizing over -the hidden meaning that undoubtedly underlies -Don Quixote, we must not forget that it is -extraordinarily funny even to a modern mind. -The law that the humour of one generation is -merely grotesque to the next does not seem to -apply to <i>Don Quixote</i>; and I dare swear that the -picture of the mad old Don, brought home from -the inn of Maritornes, looking so stately in a cage -upon a bullock-wagon, guarded by troopers of -the Holy Brotherhood, and escorted by the priest -and the barber, with the distracted Sancho Panza -buzzing about wondering what has become of -his promised Governorship, is absolutely the -funniest thing in all literature; all the funnier -because the springs of our laughter flow from -the fount of our tears.</p> - -<p>Now I cannot help thinking that when Cervantes -began to write <i>Don Quixote</i> in prison, -feeling bitter and sore against a world which had -imprisoned him, and stiffened his hand for him, -and condemned him to poverty and imprisonment, -he must have had in his mind the story of the -young bastard of Imperial Majesty who had risen -to such heights of glory over Lepanto. It is not -contended that Don Quixote was consciously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> -intended to be a characterizature of Don Quixada -or Don John, though his real name was Alonzo -Quixana or Quixada, Don Quixote being a -<i>nom de guerre</i> born of his frenzy; but I find it -hard to believe that Cervantes had not heard of -the foolish loyalty of Quixada in the matter of -Jeronimo, or of the romantic dreams of Don John. -It would seem that in these two incidents we -find the true seeds of <i>Don Quixote</i>. It is not -true that “Cervantes laughed Spain’s chivalry -away.” Chivalry, meaning the social order of -the true crusades, had long been dead even in -Spain, the most conservative of nations. What -really laughed Spain’s chivalry away was the gay -and joyous laugh of Don John himself, who -would have plunged her into a great war for a -dream. The man who seriously thought of -dashing across the North Sea to marry Mary -Queen of Scots would have been quite capable -of tilting at windmills. In his inmost heart -Cervantes must have seen his folly.</p> - -<p>The death of Don Quixote is probably the -most generally famous in literature, vying with -that of Colonel Newcome, though more impressive -because it is less sentimental. Cervantes had -begun by rather jeering at his old Don, and -subjecting him to uncalled-for cudgellings and -humiliations; he then fell in love with the brave<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> -old lunatic, as everybody else has fallen in love -with him ever since, and by the time that he -came to die had drawn him as a really noble and -beautiful character, who shows all the pathos of -the idealist who is born out of his time. The -death of Don Quixote is, except the death of -one other Idealist, the most affecting death in -all literature; the pathos is secured by means -similarly restrained. The Bachelor Samson Carrasco, -in his determination to cure Don Quixote -of his knight-errant folly, had dressed himself up -as “The Knight of the White Moon,” and -vowed that there was another lady more fair -than Dulcinea del Toboso. At that blasphemy -Don Quixote naturally flew to arms and challenged -the insolent knight. By that time Rosinante -was but old bones, so the Bachelor, being -well-mounted on a young charger, overthrew -the old horse and his brave old rider, and Don -Quixote came to grass with a terrible fall. Then -the Bachelor made Don Quixote vow that he -would cease from his knight-errantry for a whole -year, by which time it was hoped that he would -be cured. They lifted his visor and found the -old man “pale and sweating”; evidently Cervantes -had seen some old man suffering from -shock, and described what he saw in three words. -From this humiliation Don Quixote never really<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> -recovered. He reached home and formed the -mad idea of turning shepherd with Sancho and -the Bachelor, and living out his penance in the -fields. But Death saw otherwise, and the old -man answered his call before he could do as he -wished. He was seized with a violent fever that -confined him to his room for six days; finally -he slept calmly for some hours, and again awakened, -only to fall into one attack of syncope after -another until he died; the sanguine assurance -of Sancho Panza that Dulcinea had been successfully -disenchanted could not save him. Like -most idealists he died a sad and disappointed man, -certain of one thing only—that he was out of -touch with the majority of mankind.</p> - -<p>Cervantes was far too great an artist to kill -his old hero by some such folly as “brain fever”—which -nonsense I guess to have been typhoid. -I believe that in describing the death of Don -Quixote he was thinking of some old man whom -he had seen crawl home to die after a severe -physical shock, disappointed and disillusioned in -a world of practical youth in which there is no -room for romantic old age—probably some kind -old man whom he himself had loved. These old -men usually die of hypostatic pneumonia, which -has been called the “natural end of man,” and -is probably the real broken heart of popular medicine.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> -The old man, after a severe shock, is -affected by a weakened circulation; the lungs are -attacked by a slow inflammation, and he dies, -usually in a few days, in much the same way as -died Don Quixote. Cervantes did not know -that these old men die from inflammation of the -lungs; no doubt he observed the way they die, -and immortalized his memories in the death of -Don Quixote. I have written this to point out -Cervantes’ great powers of observation. He -would probably have made a good doctor in our -day.</p> - -<p>This theory of <i>Don Quixote</i>, that at its roots lie -memories of Don John and Don Quixada, is in -no way inconsistent with Cervantes’ own statement -that he wrote the book to ridicule the -romances of Chivalry which were so vitiating the -literary taste of seventeenth-century Spain; at the -back of his mind probably lay his own memories -of foolish and gallant things, quite worthy of -affectionate ridicule such as he has lavished on -his knight-errant.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Philip II and the Arterio-Sclerosis<br /> -of Statesmen</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WHEN the Empress Isabel was pregnant -with the child which was to be Philip II, -she bethought her of the glory that was hers in -bearing offspring to a man so famous as the -Roman Emperor, and she made up her mind that -she would comport herself as became a Roman -Empress. When, therefore, her relations and -midwives during the confinement implored her -to cry out or she would die, the proud Empress -answered, “Die I may; but call out I <i>will not</i>!” -and thus Philip arrived into the world sombre son -of a stoical mother and heroic father. Doubtless -she thought that she would show a courage equal -to his father’s, hoping that the son would then -prove not unworthy. Though she was very -beautiful, as Titian’s famous portrait shows, she -seems to have been a gloomy and austere woman, -and Charles, being absent so long from her side -at his wars, had to leave Philip’s education mainly -to her. His part consisted of many affectionate -letters full of good and proud advice. Yet Philip -grew up to be a merry little golden-haired boy -enough, who rode about the streets of Toledo in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> -go-cart amidst the crowds that we are told pressed -to see the Emperor’s son. The calamity of his -life was that Charles had bequeathed to him the -kingdom of the Netherlands. Charles himself -was essentially a Fleming, who got on exceedingly -well with his brother Flemings, Reformation or -no Reformation; they were quite prepared to -admit that the great man might have some good -reason for his religious persecution, peculiar -though it no doubt seemed. But Philip was a -foreigner; and a foreigner of the race of Torquemada -who, so they heard, had so strengthened the -Inquisition less than a century before that now -it was really not safe to think aloud in matters of -religion. So the Dutch rose in revolt under -William of Orange, and the Dutch Republic came -into being. Philip was only able to save the -southern Netherlands from the wreck, which -ultimately formed the kingdom of Belgium. -Philip always thought that if he could only get -England on his side the pacification of the Netherlands -would be easy; so, at the earnest request of -Charles, he married Mary Tudor, a woman -twelve years older than himself, a marriage which -turned out unhappily from every point of view, -and has wrongly coloured our general opinion of -Philip’s character. The unfortunate attempt to -conquer England by the Armada, a fleet badly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> -equipped and absurdly led, has also led us to -despise both him and his Spaniards, whence came -the general English schoolboy idea that the -Spanish were a nation of braggarts ruled by a -murderous fool, whose only thirst was for Protestant -gore. But this idea was very far from being -true. Philip was no fool; he was an exceedingly -learned, conscientious, hard-working, careful, and -painstaking bureaucrat, who might have done -very well indeed had he been left the kingdom of -Spain alone; but had no power of attracting -foreigners to his point of view. He always did -his best according to his lights; and if his policy -sometimes appears tortuous to us, that is simply -because we forget that it was then thought -perfectly right for kings to do tortuous things -for the sake of their people, just as to-day party -leaders sometimes do extraordinarily wicked things -for the sake of what they consider the principles -of their party. Unfortunately for Philip he often -failed in his efforts; and the man who fails is -always in the wrong.</p> - -<p>He was constantly at war, sometimes unsuccessfully, -often victoriously. Unlike Charles he did -not lead his armies in person, but sat at home and -prayed, read the crystal, and organized. After -the great battle of St. Quentin, in which he -defeated the French, he vowed to erect a mighty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -church to the glory of St. Lawrence which should -excel every other building in the world; and for -thirty years the whole available wealth of Spain -and the Indies was poured out on the erection -of the Escorial, which the Spaniards look upon as -the eighth wonder of the world, and who is to say -that they are wrong? Situated about twenty -miles from Madrid, in a bleak and desolate -mountain range, it reflects extraordinarily well -the character of the man who made it. Under -one almost incredible roof it combines a palace, a -university, a monastery, a church, and a mausoleum. -The weight of its keys alone is measured in -scores of pounds; the number of its windows and -its doors is counted in hundreds; it contains the -greatest works of many very great artists, and the -tombs of Charles V and his descendants. It -stands in lonely grandeur swept by constant bitter -winds, a fit monument for a lonely and morose -king. Its architecture is Doric, and stern as its -own granite.</p> - -<p>The character of Philip II has been described -repeatedly, in England mainly by his enemies, -who have laid too much stress on his cruelty and -bigotry. Though he was fiercely religious, yet -he loved art and wrote poetry; though he would -burn a heretic as blithely as any man, yet he was a -kind husband to his four wives, whom he married<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -one after the other for political reasons; though -he was gloomy and austere, yet he loved music, -and was moved almost to tears by the sound of the -nightingale in the summer evenings of Spain. His -people loved him and affectionately called him -“Philip the prudent”; they forgave him his -mistakes, for they knew that he worked always for -the ancient religion which they loved, and for -the glory of Spain.</p> - -<p>Unlike Charles his father, he was austere in his -mode of life, and always had a doctor at his side -at meals lest he should forget his gout. He was -a martyr to that most distressing complaint, no -doubt inherited from his father. He lived -abstemiously, but took too little exercise; it -would have been better for his health—and -probably for the world—had he followed his -armies on horseback like Charles, even if he had -recognized that he was no great general.</p> - -<p>His death, at the age of seventy-two, was proud -and sombre, as befitted the son of the Empress -Isabel, who had scorned to cry when he was born. -We can understand a good deal about Philip -if we consider him as spiritually the son of that -proud sombre woman rather than of his glorious -and energetic father. In June, 1598, he was -attacked by an unusually severe attack of gout -which so crippled him that he could hardly move.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -He was carried from Madrid to the Escorial in a -litter, and was put to bed in a little room opening -off the church so that he could hear the friars at -their orisons. Soon he began to suffer from -“malignant tumours” all over his legs, which -ulcerated, and became intensely painful, so that -he could not bear even a wet cloth to be laid upon -them or to have the ulcers dressed. So he lay for -fifty-three days suffering frightful tortures, but -never uttering a word of complaint, even as his -mother had borne him in silence for the sake of -the great man who had begotten him. As the -ulcers could not be dressed, they naturally became -covered with vermin and smelled horribly. -Stoical in his agony, he called his son before him, -apologizing for doing so, but it was necessary. -“I want,” he said, “to show you how even the -greatest monarchies must end. The crown is -slipping from my head, and will soon rest upon -yours. In a few days I shall be nothing but a -corpse swathed in its winding-sheet, girdled with -a rope.” He showed no sign of emotionalism, -but retained his self-control to the last; after he -had said farewell to his son he considered that he -had left the world, and devoted the last few days -of his life to the offices of the church. The -monks in the church wanted to cease the continual -dirges and services, but he insisted that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -they should go on, saying: “The nearer I get -to the fountain, the more thirsty I become!”</p> - -<p>These seem to have been his last words; he -appears to have retained consciousness as long as -may be.</p> - -<p>Let us reason together and try if we can make -head or tail of this extraordinary illness. The -first certain fact about Philip II is that he long -suffered from gout, apparently the real old-fashioned -gout in the feet. In the well-known -picture of him receiving a deputation of Netherlanders, -as he sits in his tall hat beneath a crucifix, -it is perfectly evident that he is suffering tortures -from gout and wearing a large loosely fitting -slipper. These unfortunate gentlemen seem to -have selected a most unpropitious moment to ask -favours, for there is no ailment that so warps the -temper as gout. When a man suffers from gout -over a period of years it is only a matter of time -till his arteries and kidneys go wrong and he gets -arterio-sclerosis. We may take it, therefore, as -certain that at the age of seventy-two Philip had -sclerosed arteries and probably chronic Bright’s -disease like his father before him. Gout, Bright’s -disease, and high blood-pressure, are all strongly -hereditary, as every insurance doctor knows; that -is to say, the son of a father who has died of one -of these three is more likely than not to die<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> -ultimately of some cognate disease of arteries or -kidneys or heart, all grouped together under the -name of cardio-vascular-renal disease.</p> - -<p>But what about the “malignant tumours”? -“Malignant tumour” to-day means cancer of -one sort or another, and assuredly it was not -cancer that killed Philip. Probably the word -“tumour” simply meant “swelling.” Now, -what could these painful swellings have been -which ulcerated and smelt so horribly? Why -not gangrene? Ordinary senile gangrene, such -as occurs in arterio-sclerosis, neither causes -swellings, nor is it painful, nor does it smell nor -become verminous; but diabetic gangrene does all -these things. Diabetes in elderly people may go -on for many years undiscovered unless the urine be -chemically examined, and may only cause symptoms -when the arterio-sclerosis which generally -complicates it gives results, such as sudden death -from heart-failure, or diabetic gangrene. Thus -a very famous Australian statesman, who had been -known to have sugar in his urine for many years, -was one morning found dead in his bath, evidently -due to the high blood-pressure consequent on -diabetic arterio-sclerosis.</p> - -<p>Diabetic gangrene often begins in some small -area of injured skin, such as might readily occur -in a foot tortured with gout; it ulcerates, is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> -exceedingly painful, and possessed of a stench -quite peculiar to its horrid self. It does not -confine itself to one foot, or to one area of a leg, -but suddenly appears in an apparently healthy -portion, having surreptitiously worked its way -along beneath the skin; its first sign is often a -painful swelling which ulcerates. The patient -dies either from toxæmia due to the gangrene, -or from diabetic coma; and fifty-three days is -not an unlikely period for the torture to continue. -On the whole it would seem that diabetic gangrene -appearing in a man who has arterio-sclerosis is a -probable explanation of Philip’s death. The -really interesting part of this historical diagnosis -is the way in which it explains his treatment of -the Netherlands. What justice could they have -received from a man tortured and rendered -petulant with gout and gloomy with diabetes?</p> - -<p>Charles V had taken no care of himself, but had -gone roaring and fighting and guzzling and drinking -all over Europe; Philip had led a very quiet, -studious, and abstemious life, and therefore he -lived nearly twenty years longer than his father. -Possibly when he came to suffer the torments of -his death he may have thought the years not -worth his self-denial: possibly he may have -regretted that he did not have a good time when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> -he was young, but this is not likely, for he was a -very conscientious man.</p> - -<p>When Philip lay dying he held in his hand the -common little crucifix that his mother and father -had adored when they too had died; his friends -buried it upon his breast when they came to -inter him in the Escorial, where it still lies with -him in a coffin made of the timbers of the <i>Cinco -Chagas</i>, not the least glorious of his fighting -galleys.</p> - -<p>Arterio-sclerosis, high blood-pressure, hyperpiesis, -and chronic Bright’s disease—all more or -less names for the same thing, or at any rate for -cognate disorders—form one of the great tragedies -of the world. They attack the very men whom we -can least spare; they are essentially the diseases of -statesmen. Although these diseases have been -attributed to many causes—that is to say, we do -not really know their true cause—it is certain -that worry has a great deal to do with them. If -a man be content to live the life of a cabbage, eat -little, and drink no alcohol, it is probable that he -will not suffer from high blood-pressure; but if -he is determined to work hard, live well, and yet -struggle furiously, then his arteries and kidneys -inevitably go wrong and he is not likely to stand -the strain for many years. Unless a politician has -an iron nerve and preternaturally calm nature, or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -unless he is fortunate enough to be carried off -by pneumonia, then he is almost certain to die -of high blood-pressure if he persists in his politics. -I could name a dozen able politicians who have -fallen victims to their political anxieties. The -latest, so far as I know, was Mr. John Storey, -Premier of New South Wales, who died of high -blood-pressure in 1921; before him I remember -several able men whom the furious politics of -that State claimed as victims. In England Lord -Beaconsfield seems to have died of high blood-pressure, -and so did Mr. Joseph Chamberlain. -Mr. Gladstone was less fortunate, in that he -died of cancer. He must have possessed a calm -mind to go through his furious strugglings without -his kidneys or blood-vessels giving way; that, -and his singularly temperate and happy home-life, -preserved him from the usual fate of statesmen.</p> - -<p>Charles V differed from Mr. Gladstone -because he habitually ate far too much, and could -never properly relax his mental tension. His -arterio-sclerosis had many results on history. It -was probably responsible for his extreme fits of -depression, in one of which it pleased Fate that -he should meet Barbara Blomberg. If he had -not been extraordinarily depressed and unhappy, -owing to his arterio-sclerosis, he would probably<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> -not have troubled about her, and there would -have been no Don John of Austria. If he had -not had arterio-sclerosis he would probably not -have abdicated in 1556, when he should have had -many years of wise and useful activities before -him. If his judgment had not been warped by -his illness he would probably never have appointed -Philip II to be his successor as King of the Netherlands; -he would have seen that the Dutch were -not the sort of people to be ruled by an alien. -And if there had been no Don John it is possible -that there would have been no Don Quixote. -Once again, if Philip had not been eternally preoccupied -with his senseless struggle against the -Dutch, it is probable that he would have undertaken -his real duty—to protect Europe from the -Turk. When one considers how the lives of -Charles and his sons might have been altered -had his arteries been carrying a lower blood-tension, -it rather tends to alter the philosophy -of history to a medical man.</p> - -<p>Again, when we consider that the destinies of -nations are commonly held in the hands of elderly -gentlemen whose blood-pressures tend to be too -high owing to their fierce political activities, it -is not too much to say that arterio-sclerosis is -one of the greatest tragedies that afflict the -human race. Every politician should have his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> -blood-pressure tested and his urine examined -about once a quarter, and if it should show signs -of rising he should undoubtedly take a long rest -until it falls again; it is not fair that the lives of -millions should depend upon the judgment of a -man whose mind is warped by arterio-sclerosis.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Mr. and Mrs. Pepys</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">SAMUEL PEPYS, Father of the Royal Navy, -and the one man—if indeed there were -any one man—who made possible the careers of -Blake and Nelson, died in 1703 in the odour of -the greatest respectability. Official London followed -him to his honoured grave, and he left -behind him the memory of a great and good -servant of the King in “perriwig” (alas, to -become too famous), stockings and silver buckles. -But unhappily for his reputation, though greatly -to the delight of a wicked world, he had, during -ten momentous years, kept a diary. It was -written in a kind of shorthand which he seems to -have flattered himself would not be interpreted; -but by some extraordinary mischance he had left -a key amongst his papers. Early in the nineteenth -century part of the Diary was translated, and a -part published. A staggered world asked for -more, and during the next three generations -further portions were made public, until by this -time nearly the whole has been published, and -it is unlikely that the small remaining portions -will ever see the light.</p> - -<p>Pepys seems to have set down every thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span> -that came into his head as he wrote; things -which the ordinary man hardly admits to himself—even -supposing that he ever thinks or does -them—this stately Secretary of the Navy calmly -wrote in black and white with a garrulous -effrontery that absolutely disarms criticism. In -its extraordinary self-revelation the Diary is -unique; it is literally true that there is nothing -else like it in any other language, and it is almost -impossible that anything like it will ever be written -again; the man, the moment, and the occasion -can never recur. I take it that every man who -presumes to call himself educated has at least a -nodding acquaintance with this immortal work; -but a glance at some of its medical features may -be interesting. The difficulties at this end of the -world are considerable, because the Editor has -veiled some of the more interesting medical -passages in the decent obscurity of asterisks, and -one has to guess at some anatomical terms which, -if too Saxon to be printable in modern English, -might very well have been given in technical -Latin. Let us begin with a brief study of the -delightful woman who had the good fortune—or -otherwise—to be Pepys’s wife. Daughter of -a French immigrant and an Irish girl, Elizabeth -Pepys was married at fourteen, and her life ended, -after fifteen somewhat hectic years, in 1669, when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> -she was only twenty-nine years of age. Pepys -repeatedly tells us that she was pretty—and no -one was ever a better judge than he—and “very -good company when she is well.” Her portrait -shows her with a bright, clever little face, her -upper lip perhaps a trifle longer than the ideal, -bosom well developed, and a coquettish curl -allowed to hang over her forehead after the -fashion of the Court of Charles II. She spoke -and read French and English; she took the -keenest interest in life, and set to work to learn -from her husband arithmetic, “musique,” the -flageolet, use of the globes, and various accomplishments -which modern girls learn at school. -Mrs. Pepys imbibing all this erudition from her -husband, while her pretty little dog lies snoring -on the mat, forms a truly delightful picture, and -no doubt our imagination of it is no more delightful -than the reality was three hundred years ago. -I suppose it was the same dog as he whose puppyish -indiscretions had led to many a fierce quarrel -between husband and wife; Pepys always carefully -recorded these indiscretions, both of the -dog and, alas, of himself. It is clear that the -sanitary conveniences in Pepys’s house could not -have been up to his requirements.</p> - -<p>Husband and wife went everywhere together, -and seem really to have loved each other; the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> -impression that I gather from Pepys’s exceedingly -candid description of her is that she was a loyal -and comradely wife, with a spirit of her own, and -a good deal to put up with; for though Pepys -was continually—and causelessly—jealous of her, -yet he did not hold that he was in any way bound -to be faithful to her on his own side. So they -pass through life, Pepys philandering with every -attractive woman who came his way, and Mrs. -Pepys dressing herself prettily, learning her little -accomplishments, squabbling with her maids, -and looking after her house and his meals, till -one day she engaged a servant, Deb Willet by -name, who brought a touch of tragedy into the -home. In November, 1668, Deb was combing -Pepys’s hair—no doubt in preparation for the -immortal “perriwig”—when Mrs. Pepys came -in and caught him “embracing her,” thus occasioning -“the greatest sorrow to me that ever I -knew in this world,” as he puts it.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Pepys was “struck mute,” and was -silently furious. Outraged Juno towered over the -unhappy Pepys, and so to bed without a word, -nor slept all night; but about two in the morning -Juno became very woman; woke him up and told -him she had “turned Roman Catholique,” this -being, in the state of politics at that time, probably -the thing which she thought would hurt him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -more than anything else she could say. For the -next few days Pepys is sore troubled, and his -usual genial babble becomes almost incoherent. -The wrong dating and the expressions of -“phrenzy” show the mental agony that he -passed through, and there can be no doubt that -the joy of life passed out of him, probably never -more fully to return. The rest of the Diary is -written in a style graver than at first—some of it -is almost passionate. He describes with much -mental agitation how he woke up in the middle -of one night, and found his wife heating a pair of -tongs red-hot and preparing to pinch his nose; -gone for ever were the glad days when he could -pull her nose, and the “poor wretch” thought -none the worse of the lordly fellow. Twice had -he done so, and, as he says, “to offend.” One -would like to have Mrs. Pepys’s account of this -nose-pulling, and what she really thought of it. -Some people have found the struggle of Pepys -to cure himself of his infatuation for Deb -humorous; to any ordinarily sympathetic soul -who reads how he prayed on his knees in his own -room that God would give him strength never -again to be unfaithful, and how he appealed again -and again to his wife to forgive him, and how he, -to the best of his ability, avoided the girl, the -whole business becomes rather too painful to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -be funny, even though the unhappy man has the -art of making himself ridiculous in nearly every -sentence. Finally, in a fury of jealousy, she forced -him to write a most insulting letter to Miss -Willet, a letter that no woman could ever possibly -forgive, and Pepys’s life appears to have settled -down again. His sight failing him<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a>—it is thought -that he suffered from hypermetropia combined -with early presbyopia—he abandoned the Diary -just at the time when one would have dearly -liked to hear more; and we never hear the end -either of Deb or of their married happiness. -Reading between the lines, one gathers that -probably Deb was more sinned against than -sinning, and that Mrs. Pepys had more real reason -to be angry about many women of whom she -had never heard than about the young woman -whose flirtation was the actual <i>casus belli</i>. It is -an unjust world. The two went abroad for a -six-months’ tour in France and Holland, and -immediately after they returned Mrs. Pepys fell -ill of a fever; for a time she appears to have -fought it well, but she took a bad turn and died. -Considering her youth, the season of the year,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -and that they had just returned from the Continent, -the disease was possibly typhoid. Pepys -erected an affectionate memorial to her, and was -later on buried by her side. He took the last -sacrament with her as she lay dying, so we may -reasonably suppose that she died having forgiven -him, and it is not unfair to imagine that the trip -abroad was a second honeymoon. They were -two grown-up children, playing with life as with -a new toy.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Pepys was liable to attacks of boils in -asterisks; and a Dr. Williams acquired considerable -merit by supplying her with plasters and -ointments. On November 16, 1663, “Mr. -Hollyard came, and he and I about our great -work to look upon my wife’s malady, which he -did, and it seems her great conflux of humours -heretofore that did use to swell there did in -breaking leave a hollow which has since gone in -further and further till it is now three inches -deep, but as God will have it did not run into the -body-ward, but keeps to the outside of the skin, -and so he will be forced to cut open all along, -and which my heart will not serve me to see done, -and yet she will not have no one else to see it -done, no, not even her mayde, and so I must do -it poor wretch for her.” Pepys is in a panic -at the thought of assisting at the opening of this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span> -subcutaneous abscess; one can feel the courage -oozing out at the palms of his hands as one reads -his agitated words. To his joy, next morning -Mr. Hollyard, on second thoughts, “believes a -fomentation will do as well, and what her mayde -will be able to do as well without knowing what -it is for, but only that it is for the piles.” Evidently -the “mayde’s” opinion was of some little -moment in Mrs. Pepys’s censorious world. Mr. -Pepys would have been much troubled to see -his wife cut before his face: “he could not have -borne to have seen it.” Mr. Hollyard received -£3 “for his work upon my wife, but whether it is -cured or not I cannot say, but he says it will -never come to anything, but it may ooze now and -again.” Mr. Hollyard was evidently easily satisfied. -Of course, there must have been a sinus -running in somewhere, but it is impossible to -guess at its origin. Possibly some pelvic sepsis; -possibly an ischio-rectal abscess. A long time -before he had noted that his wife was suffering -from a “soare belly,” which may possibly have -been the beginning of the trouble, but there is -no mention of any long and serious illness such -as usually accompanies para-metric sepsis. On -the whole, I fancy ischio-rectal abscess to be the -most likely explanation. Later on she suffers -from abscesses in the cheek, which “by God’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -mercy burst into the mouth, thus not spoiling -her face”; and she had constant trouble with -her teeth. It is thus quite probable that the -origin of the whole illness may have been pyorrhœa, -and no doubt this would go hard with her in the -fever from which she died. Possibly this may -have been septic pneumonia arising from septic -foci in the mouth; but, after all, it is idle to -speculate.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Pepys never became pregnant during the -period covered by the Diary, though there were -one or two false alarms. There is no mention -of any continuous or constant ill-health, such as -we find in pyo-salpinx or severe tubal adhesions; -and such being the case, her sterility may quite -likely have been as much his fault as hers.</p> - -<p>One cannot read the Diary without wishing -that we could have heard a little more of her side -of the questions that arose. What did she really -think of her husband when he pulled her nose? -Twice, too, no less! Stevenson calls her “a -vulgar woman.” Stevenson’s opinion on every -matter is worthy of the highest respect, as that -of a sensitive, refined, and artistic soul; but I -cannot help thinking that sometimes his early -Calvinistic training tended to make him rather -intolerant to human weakness. His judgment of -François Villon always seems to me intolerant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> -and unjust, and he showed no sign in his novels -of ever having made any effort to comprehend -the difficulties and troubles which surround women -in their passage through the world. He understood -men—there can be no doubt of that; but -I doubt if he understood women even to the -small extent which is achieved by the average -man. Personally I find Mrs. Pepys far from -“vulgar”; generally she is simply delightful. -True, one cannot concur with her action over the -letter to Deb. It was cruel and ungenerous. -But she probably knew her husband well by that -time, and judged fairly accurately the only thing -that would be likely to bring him up with a round -turn, and again we have not the privilege of -knowing Deb except through Pepys’s possibly too -favourable eyes. Deb may have been all that -Mrs. Pepys thought her, and she may have -richly deserved what she got. After all, there is -in every woman protecting her husband from -the onslaughts of “vamps” not a little of the -wild-cat. Even the gentlest of women will -defend her husband—especially a husband who -retains so much of the boy as Pepys—from the -attempts of wicked women to steal him, poor -innocent love, from her sacred hearth; will defend -him with bare hands and claws, and totally regardless -of the rules of combat; and it is this touch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -of cattishness in Mrs. Pepys which makes one’s -heart warm towards her. For all we know Deb -Willet may have been a “vamp.” Mrs. Pepys -was certainly the “absolute female.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepys suffered from stone in the bladder -before he began to keep a diary. He does not -appear to have been physically a hero; had he -been a general, no doubt he would have led his -army bravely from the rear except in case of a -retreat; but so great was the pain that he -submitted his body to the knife on March 26, -1658. Anæsthetics in those days were rudimentary, -relaxing rather than anæsthetizing the -patient. There is some reason to believe that -they were extensively used in the Middle Ages, -and contemporaries of Shakespeare seem to have -looked on their use as a matter of course; but -for some reason they became less popular, and -by the seventeenth century most people had to -undergo their operations with little assistance -beyond stout hearts and sluggish nervous systems.</p> - -<p>Cutting for the stone was one of the earliest of -surgical operations. In ancient days it was first -done in India, and the glad news that stones -could be successfully removed from the living -body filtered through to the Greeks some centuries -before Christ. Hippocrates knew all about -it, and the operation is mentioned in that Hippocratic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> -oath according to which some of us endeavour -to regulate our lives. At first it was only done -in children, because it was considered that adult -men would not heal properly, and the only result -in them would be a fistula. The child was held -on the lap of some muscular assistant, with one -or two not less muscular men holding its arms -and legs. The surgeon put one or two fingers -into the little anus and tried to push the stone -down on to the perineum, helped in this manœuvre -by hypogastric pressure from another assistant. -He then cut transversely above the anus, -strong in the faith that he might, if the gods -willed, open into the neck of the bladder. Next -he tried to push out the stone with his fingers -still in the anus; it is not quite clear whether -he would take his fingers out of the anus and -put them into the wound or vice versa; this -failing, he would seize the stone with forceps and -drag it through the perineum. As time went on -it was discovered that more than three or four -assistants could be employed, using others to sit -on the patient’s chest, thus adding the <i>peine -forte et dure</i> to the legitimate terrors of ancient -surgery and surrounding him with a mass of men. -Imbued with a spirit of unrest by the struggles -of the patient the mass swayed this way and that, -until it was discovered that by adding yet more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -valiants to the wings of the “scrum,” who should -answer heave with counter-heave, the resultant -of the opposing forces would hold even the -largest perineum steady enough for the surgeon -to operate; and men came under the knife for -stone. Next the patient was tied up with ropes, -somewhat in the style we used in our boyhood’s -sport of cock-fighting. What a piece of work is -the Rope! How perfect in all its works—from -the Pyramids—built with the aid of the -Rope and the Stick—to the execution of the latest -murderer. One might write pages on the influence -of the Rope on human progress; but for -our purpose we may simply say that probably -Mr. Pepys was kept quiet with many yards of -hemp. Those who cut for the stone were specialists, -doing nothing else; their arrival at a patient’s -house must have resembled an invasion, with their -vast armamentarium and crowds of assistants. -By Pepys’s time Marianus Sanctus had lived—yes, -so greatly was he venerated that they called -him “Sanctus,” the Holy Man; Saint Marianus -if you will. He it was, in Italy in 1524, who -invented the apparatus major, which made the -operation a little less barbarous than that of the -Greeks. This God-sent apparatus consisted -mainly of a grooved staff to be shoved into the -bladder and a series of forceps. You cut on to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -the staff as the first step of the operation; it -was believed that if you cut in the middle line -in the raphe the wound would never heal, owing -to the callosity of the part; moreover, if you -carried your incision too far back you would -cause fatal hæmorrhage from the inferior hæmorrhoidal -veins. Having, then, made your incision -well to the right or left, you exposed the urethra, -made a good big hole in that pipe, and inserted -a fine able pair of tongs, with which you seized -hold of the stone and crushed it if you could, -pulling it out in bits; or if the stone were hard, -and you had preternaturally long fingers, you -might even get it out on a finger-tip. It was -always considered the mark of a wise surgeon -to carry a spare stone with him in his waistcoat -pocket, so that the patient might at least have a -product of the chase to see if the surgeon should -find his normal efforts unrewarded. Diagnosis -was little more advanced in those days than -operative surgery; there are numbers of conditions -which may have caused symptoms like those -of a stone, and it was always well for the surgeon -to be prepared.</p> - -<p>This would be the operation that was performed -on Mr. Pepys. The results in many cases were -disastrous; some men lost control of their -sphincter vesicæ; many were left with urinary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> -fistulæ; in many the procreative power was -permanently destroyed by interference with the -seminal vesicles and ducts. Probably some of us -would prefer to keep our calculi rather than let -a mediæval stone-cutter perform upon us; we -are a degenerate crew. It is not altogether -displeasing to imagine the roars of the unhappy -Pepys, trussed and helpless, a pallid little Mrs. -Pepys quaking outside the door, perhaps not -entirely sorry that her own grievances were -being so adequately avenged, although the vengeance -was vicarious; while the surgeon wrestled -with a large uric acid calculus which could with -difficulty be dragged through the wound. It is -all very well for us to laugh at the forth-right -methods of our ancestors; but, considering their -difficulties—no anæsthesia, no antiseptics, want of -sufficient surgical practice, and the fact that -few could ever have had the hardness of heart -necessary to stand the patient’s bawlings, it is -remarkable that they did so well and that the -mortality of this appalling operation seems only -to have been from 15 to 20 per cent. Moreover -we may be pretty sure that no small stone would -ever be operated upon; men postponed the -operation until the discomfort became intolerable. -It remained for the genius of Cheselden, when -Pepys was dead and possibly in heaven some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -twenty years, to devise the operation of lateral -lithotomy, one of the greatest advances ever -made in surgery. This operation survived practically -unchanged till recent times.</p> - -<p>Pepys’s heroism was not in vain, and was -rewarded by a long life free from serious illness -till the end. March 26 became to him a holy -day, and was kept up with pomp for many years. -The people of the house wherein he had suffered -and been strong were invited to a solemn feast -on that blessed day, and as the baked meats went -round and the good wine glowed in the decanters, -Mr. Pepys stood at his cheer and once again -recounted the tale of his agony and his courage. -Nowadays, when we are operated upon with -little more anxiety than we should display over -signing a lease, it is difficult to imagine a state -of things such as must have been inevitable in -the days before Simpson and Lister.</p> - -<p>The stone re-formed, but not in the bladder. -Once you have a uric acid calculus you can never -be quite sure you have done with it until you -are dead, and in the case of Mr. Pepys recurrence -took place in the kidney. When he died, -an old man, in 1703, they performed a post-mortem -examination on his body, suspecting that -his kidneys were at fault, and in the left kidney -found a nest of no less than seven stones, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -must have been silently growing in the calyces -for unnumbered years. Nor does it seem to me -impossible that his extraordinary incontinence—he -never seems to have been able to resist any -feminine allurement, however coarse—may really -have been due to the continued irritation of the -old scar in his perineum. There is often a -physical condition as the basis for this type of -character, and some trifling irritation may make -all the difference between virtue and concupiscence. -This reasoning is probably more likely -to be true than much of the psycho-analysis -which is at present so fashionable among young -ladies. Possibly also the sterility of Mrs. Pepys -may have been partly due to the effects of the -operation upon her husband.</p> - -<p>One unpleasant result to Mr. Pepys was the -fact that whenever he crossed his legs carelessly -he became afflicted with a mild epididymitis—he -describes it much less politely himself, doubtless -in wrath. His little failing in this respect must -have been a source of innocent merriment to -the many friends who were in the secret. He -was also troubled with attacks of severe pain -whenever the weather turned suddenly cold. -At first he used to be in terror lest his old enemy -had returned, but he learned to regard the attacks -philosophically as part of the common heritage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -of mankind, for man is born to trouble as the -sparks fly upward. Probably they were due to -reflex irritation from the stones growing in the -kidney. He does not seem to have passed any -small stones per urethram, or he would assuredly -have told us. He took great interest in his own -emunctories—probably other people’s, too, from -certain dark sayings.</p> - -<p>Considering the by no means holy living of -Mr. Pepys, it is rather remarkable that he never -seems to have suffered from venereal disease, -and this leads me to suspect that possibly these -ailments were not so common in the England of -the Restoration as they are to-day. It seems -impossible that any man could live in Sydney so -promiscuously as Mr. Pepys without paying the -penalty; and the experience of our army in -London seems to show that things there must -be much the same as here (Sydney). I often -wonder whether Charles II and his courtiers were -really representative of the great mass of people -in England at that time; probably the prevalence -of venereal disease in modern times is due to the -enormous increase in city life; probably men -and women have always been very much the same -from generation to generation—inflammable as -straw, given the opportunities which occur -mainly in cities and crowded houses.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>Ignoble as was Pepys, he yet showed real moral -courage during the Plague. When that great -enemy of cities attacked London he, very wisely, -sent his family into the country at Woolwich, -while he remained faithful to his duty and -continued to work at the navy in Greenwich, -Deptford, and London. I cannot find in the -Diary any mention of any particular attraction -that kept him in London during those awful -five months; he would, no doubt, have mentioned -her name if there had been such; yet candour -compels me to observe that there was seldom any -one attraction for Mr. Pepys, unless poor Deb -Willet may have somehow mastered—temporarily—his -wayward heart. But, as might have -been expected, he was little more virtuous during -his wife’s absence than before; indeed, possibly -the imminent danger of death may have led him -to enjoy his life while yet he might, with his -usual fits of agonized remorse, whose effects upon -his conduct were brief. We owe far more to -his organizing power and honesty—not a bigoted -variety—than is generally remembered. His -babble is not the best medium for vigorous -description, and you will not get from Pepys any -idea of the epidemic comparable with that which -you will get from the journalist Defoe; yet -through those months there lurks a feeling of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -horror which still impresses mankind. The -momentary glimpse of a citizen who stumbles over -the “corps” of a man dead of the plague, and -running home tells his pregnant wife; she dies -of fear forthwith; a man, his wife, and three -children dying and being buried on one day; -persons quick to-day and dead to-morrow—not -in scores, but in hundreds; ten thousand dying -in a week; the horrid atmosphere of fear and -suspicion which overlay London; and Pepys -himself setting his papers in order, so that men -might think well of him should it please the Lord -to take him suddenly: all give us a sense of doom -all the more poignant because recently we went -through a much milder version of the same -experience ourselves. The papers talked glibly -of the influenza as “The Plague.” How different -it was from the real bubonic plague is shown by -the statistics. In five months of 1665 there died -of the plague in the little London of that day -no less than about 70,000 people, according to -the bills of mortality; in truth, probably far -more; that is to say, probably a fifth of the -people perished. There is no doubt that the -bubonic plague kept back the development of -cities, and therefore of civilization, for centuries, -and that the partial conquest of the rat has been -one of the greatest achievements of the human<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> -race. What is happening in Lord Howe Island, -where it is exceedingly doubtful whether rats or -men shall survive in that beautiful speck of land, -shows how slender is the hold which mankind -has upon the earth; and wherever the rat is able -to breed unchecked, man is liable to sink back -into savagery. The rat, the tubercle bacillus, and -the bacillus of typhoid are the three great enemies -of civilization; we hold our position against them -at the price of eternal vigilance, and probably -the rat is not the least deadly of these enemies.</p> - -<p>I need not go through the Diary in search of -incidents; most of them, while intensely amusing, -are rather of interest to the psychologist in the -study of self-revelation than to the medical man. -When Pepys’s brother lay dying the doctor in -charge hinted that possibly the trouble might -have been of syphilitic origin; Pepys was virtuously -wrathful, and the unhappy doctor had to -apologize and was forthwith discharged. I cannot -here narrate how they proved that the -unhappy patient had never had syphilis in his -life; you must read the Diary for that. Their -method would not have satisfied either Wassermann -or Bordet. Another time Pepys was doing -something that he should not have been doing at -an open window in a draught; the Lord punished -him by striking him with Bell’s palsy. Still<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> -again, at another time he got something that -seems to have resembled pseudo-ileus, possibly -reflex from his latent calculi. Everybody in the -street was much distressed at his anguish; all the -ladies sent in prescriptions for enemata; the one -which relieved him consisted of small beer! -Indeed, one marvels always at the extraordinary -interest shown by Pepys’s lady-friends in his most -private ailments. London must have been a -friendly little town in the seventeenth century, -in the intervals of hanging people and chopping -off heads.</p> - -<p>But the great problem remains: Why did -Pepys write down all these intimate details of his -private life? Why did he confess to things which -most men do not confess even to themselves? -Why did he write it all down in cypher? Why, -when he narrated something particularly disgraceful, -did he write in a mongrel dialect of bad -French, Italian, Spanish, and Latin? He could -not have seriously believed that a person who was -able to read the Diary would not be able to read -the very simple foreign words with which it is -interspersed. Most amazing of all: Why did he -keep the manuscript for more than thirty years, a -key with it? One thinks of the fabled ostrich -who buries his head in the sand. The problem -of Pepys still remains unsolved, in spite of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -efforts of Stevenson in <i>Familiar Studies of Men -and Books</i>. Stevenson was the last man in the -world to understand Pepys, but more competent -exegetists have tried and failed. One can only -say that his failing sight—which Professor Osborne -of Melbourne attributes to astigmatism—has -deprived the world of a treasure that can never -be sufficiently regretted. No man can be considered -educated who has not read at least part -of the Diary; in no other way is it possible to get -so vivid a picture of the ordinary people of a -past age; as we read they seem to live before us, -and it comes as a shock to remember that poor -Pall Pepys—his plain sister—and “my wife” -and Mrs. Batelier—“my pretty valentine”—and -Sir William Coventry and Mercer, and the -hundreds more who pass so vividly before us, are -all dead these centuries.</p> - -<p>If this little paper shall send some to the -reading of this most extraordinary book, I shall -be more than satisfied. The only edition which -is worth while is Wheatley’s, in ten volumes, -with portraits and a volume of <i>Pepysiana</i>. The -smaller editions are apt to transmute Pepys -into an ordinary humdrum and industrious civil -servant.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Edward Gibbon</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">FOR many years it has been taught—I have -taught it myself to generations of students—that -Gibbon’s hydrocele surpassed in greatness -all other hydroceles, that it contained twelve -pints of fluid, and that it was, in short, one of -those monstrous things which exist mainly in -romance; one of those chimeras which grow in -the minds of the half-informed and of those who -wish to be deceived. For a brief moment this -chimera looms its huge bulk over serious history; -it is pricked; it disappears for ever, carrying with -it into the shades the greatest of historians, perhaps -the greatest of English prose writers. What -do we really know about it?</p> - -<p>The first hint of trouble given by the hydrocele -occurs in a letter by Gibbon to his friend Lord -Sheffield. It is so delicious, so typical of the -eighteenth century, of which Gibbon himself -was probably the most typical representative, -that I cannot resist re-telling it. Two days -before, he has hinted to his friend that he was -rather unwell; now he modestly draws the veil. -“Have you never observed, through my inexpressibles, -a large prominency <i>circa genitalia</i>,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -which, as it was not very painful and very little -troublesome, I had strangely neglected for many -years?” “A large prominency <i>circa genitalia</i>” -is a variation on the “lump in me privits, doctor,” -to which we are more accustomed. Gibbon’s is -the more graceful, and reminds us of the mind -which had described chivalry as the “worship -of God and the ladies”; the courteous and urbane -turn of speech which refuses to call a spade a spade -lest some polite ear may be offended.</p> - -<p>Gibbon had been staying at Sheffield House -in the preceding June—the letter was written -in November—and his friends all noted that “Mr. -G.” had become strangely loath to take exercise -and very inert in his movements. Indeed, he -had detained the house-party in the house during -lovely days together while he had orated to them -on the folly of unnecessary exertion; and such -was his charm that every one, both women as -well as men, seems to have cheerfully given up -the glorious English June weather to keep him -company. Never was he more brilliant—never -a more delightful companion; yet all the time -he was like the Spartan boy and the wolf, for he -knew of his secret trouble, yet he thought that -no one else suspected. It is an instance of how -little we see ourselves as others see us that this -supremely able man, who could see as far into a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> -millstone as anyone, lived for years with a hydrocele -that reached below his knees while he wore -the tight breeches of the eighteenth century and -was in the fond delusion that nobody else knew -anything about it. Of course, everybody knew; -probably it had been the cause of secret merriment -among all his acquaintance; when the tragedy -came to its last act it turned out that every one -had been talking about it all the time, and that -they had thought it to be a rupture about which -Mr. Gibbon had of course taken advice.</p> - -<p>After leaving Sheffield House the hydrocele -suddenly increased, as Gibbon himself says, “most -stupendously”; and it began to dawn upon him -that it “ought to be diminished.” So he called -upon Dr. Walter Farquhar; and Dr. Farquhar -was very serious and called in Dr. Cline, “a surgeon -of the first eminence,” both of whom “viewed -it and palped it” and pronounced it a hydrocele. -Mr. Gibbon, with his usual good sense and calm -mind, prepared to face the necessary “operation” -and a future prospect of wearing a truss which -Dr. Cline intended to order for him. In the -meantime he was to crawl about with some -labour and “much indecency,” and he prayed -Lord Sheffield to “varnish the business to the -ladies, yet I am much afraid it will become -public,” as if anything could any longer conceal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -the existence of this monstrous chimera. It is -hardly credible, but Gibbon had had the hydrocele -since 1761—thirty-two years—yet had never -even hinted of it to Lord Sheffield, with whom -he had probably discussed every other fact -connected with his life; and had even forbidden -his valet to mention it in his presence or to anyone -else. Gibbon, the historian who, more than -any other, set Reason and Common Sense on their -thrones, seems to have been ashamed of his hydrocele. -Once more we wonder how little even able -men may perceive the truth of things! In 1761 -he had consulted Cæsar Hawkins, who apparently -had not been able to make up his mind whether -it was a hernia or a hydrocele. In 1787 Lord -Sheffield had noticed a sudden great increase in -the size of the thing; and in 1793, as we have -seen, it came to tragedy.</p> - -<p>He was tapped for the hydrocele on November -14; four quarts of fluid were removed, the swelling -was diminished to nearly half its size, and the -remaining part was a “soft irregular mass.” -Evidently there was more there than a simple -hydrocele, and straightway it began to refill so -rapidly that they had to agree to re-tap it in a -fortnight. Mr. Cline must have felt anxious; -he would know “how many beans make five” -well enough, and his patient was the most distinguished<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> -man in the world. Many students -who have at examinations in clinical surgery -wrestled with Cline’s splint will probably consider -that Cline’s punishment for inventing that -weapon really began on the day when he perceived -Gibbon’s hydrocele to be rapidly re-filling. -The fortnight passed, and the second tapping took -place, “much longer, more searching, and more -painful” than before, though only three quarts -of fluid were removed; yet Mr. Gibbon said he -was much more relieved than by the first attempt. -Thence he went to stay with Lord Auckland at a -place called Eden Farm; thence again to Sheffield -House. There, in the dear house which to him -was a home, he was more brilliant than ever -before. It was his “swan song.” A few days -later he was in great pain and moved with difficulty, -the swelling again increased enormously, -inflammation set in, and he became fevered, and -his friends insisted on his return to London. He -returned in January, 1794, reaching his chambers -after a night of agony in the coach; and Cline -again tapped him on January 13. By this time -the tumour was enormous, ulcerated and inflamed, -and Cline got away six quarts. On January 15 he -felt fairly well except for an occasional pain in his -stomach, and he told some of his friends that he -thought he might probably live for twenty years.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> -That night he had great pain, and got his valet -to apply hot napkins to his abdomen; he felt that -he wished to vomit. At four in the morning his -pain became much easier, and at eight he was -able to rise unaided; but by nine he was glad -to get back into bed, although he felt, as he said, -<i>plus adroit</i> than he had felt for months. By -eleven he was speechless and obviously dying, -and by 1 p.m. he was dead.</p> - -<p>I believe that the key to this extraordinary -and confused narrative is to be found in the visit -to Cæsar Hawkins thirty years before, when -that competent surgeon was unable to satisfy -himself as to whether he was dealing with a -rupture or a hydrocele. It seems now clear that -in reality it was both; and Gibbon, who was a -corpulent man with a pendulous abdomen, -lived for thirty years without taking care of it. -But he lived very quietly; he took no exercise; -he was a man of calm, placid, and unruffled mind; -probably no man was less likely to be incommoded -by a hernia, especially if the sac had a large wide -mouth and the contents were mainly fat. But -the time came when the intra-abdominal pressure -of the growing omentum became too great, and -the swelling enormously increased, first in 1787 -and again in 1793. When Cline first tapped the -swelling he was obviously aware that there was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> -more present than a hydrocele, because he warned -Gibbon that he would have to wear a truss afterwards, -and moreover, though he removed four -quarts of fluid, yet the swelling was only reduced -by a half. Probably the soft irregular mass -which he then left behind was simply omentum -which had come down from the abdomen. But -why did the swelling begin to grow again immediately? -That is not the usual way with a -hydrocele, whose growth and everything connected -with it are usually indolently leisurely. -Could there have been a malignant tumour in -course of formation? But if so, would not that -have caused more trouble? Nor would it have -given the impression of being a soft irregular -mass. However, the second tapping was longer -and more painful than the first, though it removed -less fluid; and Gibbon was more relieved. But -this tapping was followed by inflammation. What -had happened? Possibly Cline had found the -epididymis; more probably his trochar was -septic, like all other instruments of that pre-antiseptic -period; at all events, the thing went -from bad to worse, grew enormously, and severe -constitutional symptoms set in. The ulceration -and redness of the skin, which was no doubt -filthy enough—surgically speaking—after thirty -years of hydrocele, look uncommonly like suppurative<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -epididymitis, or suppuration in the -hydrocele. Thus Gibbon goes on for a few days, -able to move about, though with difficulty, till -he cheers up and seems to be recovering; then -falls the axe, and he dies a few hours after saying -that he thought he had a good chance of living -for twenty years.</p> - -<p>Could the great septic hydrocele, connected -with the abdomen through the inguinal ring, have -suddenly burst its bonds and flooded the peritoneum -with streptococci? Streptococcic peritonitis -is one of the most appalling diseases in -surgery. Its symptoms to begin with are vague, -and it spreads with the rapidity of a grass fire in -summer. After an abdominal section the patient -suddenly feels exceedingly weak, there is a little -lazy vomiting, the abdomen becomes distended, -the pulse goes to pieces in a few hours, and death -occurs rapidly while the mind is yet clear. The -surgeon usually calls it “shock,” or thinks in his -own heart that his assistant is a careless fellow; -but the real truth is that streptococci have somehow -been introduced into the abdomen and -have slain the patient without giving time for -the formation of adhesions whereby they might -have been shut off and ultimately destroyed. -That is what I believe happened to Edward -Gibbon.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>The loss to literature through this untimely -tragedy was, of course, irreparable. Gibbon had -taken twenty years to mature his unrivalled -literary art. His style was the result of unremitting -labour and exquisite literary taste; if one -accustoms oneself to the constant antitheses—which -occasionally give the impression of being -forced almost more for the sake of dramatic -emphasis than truth—one must be struck with -the unvarying majesty and haunting music of the -diction, illumined by an irony so sly, so subtle—possibly -a trifle malicious—that one simmers -with joyous appreciation in the reading. That -sort of irony is more appreciated by the onlookers -than by its victims, and it is not to be marvelled -at that religious people felt deeply aggrieved for -many years at the application of it to the Early -Christians. Yet, after all, what Gibbon did was -nothing more than to show them as men like -others; he merely showed that the evidence -concerning the beginnings of Christendom was -less reliable than the Church had supposed. The -<i>Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire</i> shows the -history of the world for more than a thousand -years, so vividly, so dramatically, that the characters—who -are great nations—move on the stage -like actors, and the men who led them live in a -remarkable flood of living light. The general<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -effect upon the reader is as if he were comfortably -seated in a moving balloon traversing over Time -as over continents; as if he were seated in Mr. -Wells’s “Time Machine,” viewing the disordered -beginnings of modern civilization. I believe that -no serious flaw in Gibbon’s history has been found, -from the point of view of accuracy. Some -people have found it too much a <i>chronique scandaleuse</i>, -and some modern historians appear to -consider that history should be written in a dull -and pedantic style rather than be made to live; -furthermore, the great advance in knowledge of -the Slavonic peoples has tended to modify some -of his conclusions. Nevertheless, Gibbon remains, -and so far as we can see, will ever remain, the -greatest of historians. Though we might not -have had another <i>Decline and Fall of the Roman -Empire</i>, yet we might reasonably have looked for -the completion of that autobiography which had -such a brilliant beginning. What would we not -give if that cool and appraising mind, which -had raised Justinian and Belisarius from the dead -and caused them to live again in the hearts of -mankind, could have given its impressions of the -momentous period in which it came to maturity? -If, instead of England receiving its strongest -impression of the French Revolution from Carlyle—whose -powers of declamation were more potent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -than his sense of truth—it had been swayed from -the beginning by Gibbon? In such a case the -history of modern England—possibly of modern -Russia—might have been widely different from -what we have already seen.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Jean Paul Marat</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">IT has always been the pride of the medical -profession that its aim is to benefit mankind; -but opinions may differ as to how far this aim was -fulfilled by one of our most eminent confrères, -Jean Paul Marat. He was born in Neufchatel -of a marriage between a Sardinian man and a -Swiss woman, and studied medicine at Bordeaux; -thence, after a time at Paris, he went to London, -and for some years practised there. In London -he published <i>A Philosophical Essay on Man</i>, -wherein he showed enormous knowledge of the -English, German, French, Italian, and Spanish -philosophers; and advanced the thesis that a -knowledge of science was necessary for eminence -as a philosopher. By this essay he fell foul of -Voltaire, who answered him tartly that nobody -objected to his opinions, but that at least he -might learn to express them more politely, -especially when dealing with men of greater -brains than his own.</p> - -<p>The French Revolution was threatening; the -coming storm was already thundering, when, in -1788, Marat’s ill-balanced mind led him to -abandon medicine and take to politics. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -returned to Paris, beginning the newspaper <i>L’Ami -du Peuple</i>, which he continued to edit till late -in 1792. His policy was simple, and touched -the great heart of the people. “Whatsoever -things were pure, whatsoever things were of good -repute, whatsoever things were honest”—so be -it that they were not Jean Paul Marat’s, those -things he vilified. He suspected everybody, and -constantly cried, “Nous sommes trahis”—that -battle-cry of Marat which remained the battle-cry -of Paris from that day to 1914. By his -violent attacks on every one he made Paris too -hot to hold him, and once again retired to London. -Later he returned to Paris, apparently at the -request of men who desired to use his literary -skill and violent doctrines; he had to hide in -cellars and sewers, where it was said he contracted -that loathsome skin disease which was henceforth -to make his life intolerable, and to force him to -spend much of his time in a hot-water bath, and -would have shortly killed him only for the intervention -of Charlotte Corday. In these haunts -he was attended only by Simonne Everard, whose -loyalty goes to show either that there was some -good even in Marat, or that there is no man so -frightful but that some woman may be found -to love him. Finally, he was elected to the -Convention, and took his seat. There he continued<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> -his violent attacks upon everybody, urging -that the “gangrene” of the aristocracy and bourgeoisie -should be amputated from the State. -His ideas of political economy appear to have -foreshadowed those of Karl Marx—that the -proletariat should possess everything, and that -nobody else should possess anything. Daily -increasing numbers of heads should fall in the -sacred names of Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality. -At first a mere 600 would have satisfied him, but -the number rapidly increased, first to 10,000, -then to 260,000. To this number he appeared -faithful, for he seldom exceeded it; his most -glorious vision was only of killing 300,000 daily.</p> - -<p>He devoted his energies to attacking those -who appeared abler and better than himself, and -the most prominent object of his hatred was the -party of the Girondins. These were so called -because most of them came from the Gironde, -and they are best described as people who wished -that France should be governed by a sane and -moderate democracy, such as they wrongly -imagined the Roman Republic to have been. -They were gentle and clever visionaries, who -dreamed dreams; they advised, but did not dare -to perform; the most famous names which have -survived are those of Brissot, Roland, and Barbaroux. -Madame Roland, who has become of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> -legendary fame, was considered their “soul”; -concerning her, shouts Carlyle: “Radiant with -enthusiasm are those dark eyes, is that strong -Minerva-face, looking dignity and earnest joy; -joyfullest she where all are joyful. Reader, -mark that queen-like burgher-woman; beautiful, -Amazonian-graceful to the eye; more so to the -mind. Unconscious of her worth (as all worth -is), of her greatness, of her crystal-clearness, -genuine, the creature of Sincerity and Nature, -in an age of Artificiality, Pollution and Cant”—and -so forth. But Carlyle was writing prose-poetry, -sacrificing truth to effect, and it is unwise -to take his poetical descriptions as accurate. -Recent researches have shown that possibly -Manon Roland was not so pure, honest, and well-intentioned -as Carlyle thought—nor so “crystal-clear.” -Summed up, the Girondins represented -the middle classes, and the battle was now set -between them and the “unwashed,” led by -Robespierre, Danton, and Marat.</p> - -<p>What manner of man, then, was this Marat, -physically? Extraordinary! Semi-human from -most accounts. Says Carlyle: “O Marat, thou -remarkablest horse-leech, once in d’Artois’ -stable, as thy bleared soul looks forth through thy -bleared, dull-acrid, woe-stricken face, what seest -thou in all this?” Again: “One most squalidest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -bleared mortal, redolent of soot and horse-drugs.” -There appears to have been a certain -amount of foundation for the lie that Marat had -been nothing more than a horse-doctor, for once -when he was brevet-surgeon to the bodyguard -of the Compte d’Artois he had found that he -could not make a living, and had been driven to -dispense medicines for men and horses; his -enemies afterwards said that he had never been -anything more than a horse-leech. Let us not -deprive our own profession of one of its ornaments. -His admirer Panis said that while Marat -was hiding in the cellars, “he remained for -six weeks on one buttock in a dungeon”; -immediately, therefore, he was likened to St. -Simeon Stylites, who, outside Antioch, built -himself a high column, repaired him to the top, -and stood there bowing and glorifying God for -thirty years, until he became covered with sores. -Dr. Moore gives the best description of him. -“Marat is a little man of a cadaverous complexion, -and countenance exceedingly expressive -of his disposition; to a painter of massacres -Marat’s head would be invaluable. Such heads -are rare in this country (England), yet they are -sometimes to be met with in the Old Bailey.” -Marat’s head was enormous; he was less than -five feet high, with shrivelled limbs and yellow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> -face; one eye was higher placed than the other, -“so that he looked lop-sided.” As for his skin disease, -modern writers seem to consider that we -should nowadays call it “dermatitis herpetiformis,” -though his political friends artlessly thought -it was due to the humours generated by excessive -patriotism in so small a body attacking his skin, -and thus should be counted for a virtue. Carlyle -hints that it was syphilis, thus following in the -easy track of those who attribute to syphilis -those things which they cannot understand. But -syphilis, even if painful, would not have been -relieved by sitting for hours daily in a hot bath.</p> - -<p>Mentally he appears to have been a paranoiac, -to quote a recent historical diagnosis by Dr. -Charles W. Burr, of Philadelphia. Marat suffered -for many years from delusions of persecution, -which some people appear to take at their face -value; the <i>New Age Encyclopedia</i> specially -remarks on the amount of persecution that he -endured—probably all delusional, unless we are -to consider the natural efforts of people in self-defence -to be persecution. He suffered from -tremendous and persistent “ego-mania,” and -appears to have believed that he had a greater -intellect than Voltaire. Marat, whom the mass -of mankind regarded with horror, fancied himself -a popular physician, whom crowds would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -have consulted but for the unreasonable and -successful hatred of his enemies. Possibly failure -at his profession, combined with the unspeakable -irritation of his disease, may have embittered his -mind, and for the last few months of his life -there can be little doubt that Marat was insane.</p> - -<p>It seems to be certain that he organized, if he -did not originate, the frightful September massacres. -There were many hundreds of Royalists -in the prisons, who were becoming a nuisance. -The Revolution was hanging fire, and well-meaning -enthusiasts began to fear that the dull clod -of a populace would not rise in its might to end -the aristocracy; so it was decided to abolish -these unfortunate prisoners. A tribunal was -formed to sit in judgment; outside waited a -great crowd of murderers hired for the occasion. -The prisoners were led before the -tribunal, and released into the street, where -they were received by the murderers and were -duly “released”—from this sorrowful world. -The most famous victim was the good and gentle -Princess de Lamballe, Superintendent of the -Queen’s Household. The judge at her trial was -the notorious Hébert, anarchist, atheist, and -savage, afterwards executed by his friend Robespierre -when he had served his turn. Madame<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -collapsed with terror, and fainted repeatedly -during the mockery of a trial, but when Hébert -said the usual ironical, “Let Madame be released,” -she walked to the door. When she saw -the murderers with their bloody swords she -shrank back and shrieked, “Fi—horreur.” They -cut her in pieces; but decency forbids that I -should say what they did with all the pieces. -Carlyle, who here speaks truth, has a dark saying -about “obscene horrors with moustachio <i>grands-levres</i>,” -which is near enough for anatomists to -understand. The murderers then stuck her head -on a pike, and held her fair curls before the -Queen’s window as an oriflamme in the name of -Liberty. Madame was but one of 1,100 whose -insane butchery must be laid to the door of Marat; -though some friends of the Bolsheviks endeavour -to acquit him we can only say that if it was not -his work it looks uncommonly like it.</p> - -<p>The battle between the Girondins, who were -bad fellows, but less bad than their enemies of -the “Mountain”—Robespierre, Danton, and -Marat—continued; it was a case of <i>arcades ambo</i>, -which Bryon translates “blackguards both,” -though Virgil, who wrote the line—in the -Georgics—probably meant something much -coarser. The “Mountain” began to get the -upper hand, and the Girondins fled for their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -lives, or went to the guillotine. The Revolution -was already “devouring its children.”</p> - -<p>At Caen in Normandy there lived a young -woman, daughter of a decayed noble family -which in happier days had been named d’Armont, -now Corday. Her name was Marie Charlotte -d’Armont, and she is known to history as Charlotte -Corday. She had been well educated, had read -Rousseau, Voltaire, and the encyclopædists, besides -being fascinated by a dream of an imaginary -State which she had been taught to call the -Roman Republic, in which the “tyrannicide” -Brutus loomed much larger and more glorious -than in reality. Some Girondists fled to Caen -to escape the vengeance of Marat; Charlotte, -horrified, resolved that the monster should die; -she herself was then nearly twenty-five years of -age. I have a picture of her which seems to fit -in very well with one’s preconceived ideas of her -character. She was five feet one inch in height, -with a well-proportioned figure, and she had a -wonderful mass of chestnut hair; her eyes were -large, grey, and set widely apart; the general -expression of her face was thoughtful and earnest. -Perhaps it would hardly be respectful to call her -an “intense” young lady; but there was a young -lady who sometimes used to consult me who -might very well have sat for the portrait; she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -possessed a type of somewhat—dare I say?—priggish -neurosis which I imagine was not unlike -the type of character that dwelt within Charlotte -Corday—extreme conscientiousness and self-righteousness. -Such a face might have been the -face of a Christian martyr going to the lions—if -any Christian martyrs were ever thrown to the -lions, which some doubt. She went silently to -Paris, attended only by an aged man-servant, and -bought a long knife in the Palais Royal; thence -she went to Marat’s house, and tried to procure -admission. Simonne—the loyal Simonne—denied -her, and she returned to her inn. Again -she called at the house; Marat heard her pretty -voice, and ordered Simonne to admit her. It -was the evening of July 13, four years all but -one day since the storming of the Bastille, and -Marat sat in his slipper-bath, pens, ink, and paper -before him, frightful head peering out of the -opening, hot compresses concealing his hair. -Charlotte told him that there were several -Girondists hiding at Caen and plotting against -the Revolution. “Their heads shall fall within -a fortnight,” croaked Marat. Then, he being -thus convicted out of his own mouth, she drew -forth from her bosom her long knife, and plunged -it into his chest between the first and second ribs, -so that it pierced the aorta. Marat gave one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -cry, and died; Charlotte turned to face the two -women who rushed in, but not yet was she to -surrender, for she barricaded herself behind some -furniture and other movables till the soldiers -arrived. To them she gave herself up without -trouble.</p> - -<p>At her trial she made no denial, but proudly -confessed, saying, “Yes, I killed him.” Fouquier-Tinville -sneered at her: “You must be well -practised at this sort of crime!” She only -answered: “The monster!—he seems to think I -am an assassin!” She thought herself rather -the agent of God, sent by Him to rid the world -of a loathsome disorder, as Brutus had rid Rome -of Julius Cæsar.</p> - -<p>In due course she was guillotined, and an -extraordinary thing happened. A young German -named Adam Lux had been present at the trial, -standing behind the artist who was painting the -very picture of which I have a reproduction—it -is said that Charlotte showed no objection to -being portrayed—and the young man had been -fascinated by the martyresque air of her. He -attended the execution, romance and grief weighing -him down; then he ran home, and wrote a -furious onslaught on the leaders of the Mountain -who had executed her, saying that her death had -“sanctified the guillotine,” and that it had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -become “a sacred altar from which every taint -had been removed by her innocent blood.” He -published this broadcast, and was naturally at -once arrested. The revolutionary tribunal sentenced -him to death, and he scornfully refused to -accept a pardon, saying that he wished to die on -the same spot as Charlotte, so they let him have -his wish. The incident reminds one of a picture-show, -and it is not remarkable that an American, -named Lyndsay Orr, has written a sentimental -article about it.</p> - -<p>The people of Paris went mad after Marat’s -death; his body, which was said to be decaying -with unusual rapidity, was surrounded by a great -crowd which worshipped it blasphemously, -saying, “O Sacred Heart of Marat!” This -worship of Marat, which showed how deeply -his teaching had bitten into the hearts of the -people, culminated in the Reign of Terror, -which began on September 5, 1795, whereby -France lost, according to different estimates, -between half a million and a million innocent -people. Some superior persons seem to think -that Marat had little or no influence on the -Revolution, but to my mind there can be no -doubt that the Terror was largely the result of -his preaching of frantic violence, and it is a lesson -that we ourselves should take to heart, seeing that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> -there are persons in the world to-day who would -emulate Marat if they possessed his enormous -courage.</p> - -<p>I need not narrate the history of the Reign of -Terror, which was even worse than the terror -which the Bolsheviks established in Russia. Not -even Lenin and Trotsky devised anything so -atrocious as the <i>noyades</i>—wholesale drownings—in -the Loire, or the <i>mariages républicains</i> on the -banks of that river, and it is difficult to believe -that the teaching of Marat had nothing to do -with that frightful outbreak of bestiality, lust, -and murder.</p> - -<p>The evil that men do lives after them. There -was little good to be buried in Marat’s grave, -doctor though he was.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Napoleon I</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">THERE is not, and may possibly never be, an -adequate biography of this prodigious man. -It is a truism to say that he has cast a doubt on -all past glory; let us hope that he has rendered -future glory impossible, for to judge by the -late war it seems impossible that any rival to the -glory of Napoleon can ever arise. In the matter -of slaying his fellow-creatures he appears to have -reached the summit of human achievement; -possibly also in all matters of organization and -administration. Material things hardly seemed -to affect him; bestriding the world like a colossus -he has given us a sublime instance of Intellect that -for many years ruthlessly overmastered Circumstance. -That Intellect was finally itself mastered -by disease, leaving behind it a record which is of -supreme interest to mankind; a record which, -alas, is so disfigured by prejudice and falsehood -that it is difficult to distinguish between what is -true and what is untrue. Napoleon himself -possessed so extraordinary a personality that -nearly every one whom he met became a fervent -adorer. With regard to him we can find no -half-tones, no detached reporters; therefore it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -is enormously difficult to find even the basis for -a biography. Fortunately, that is not now our -province. It is merely necessary that we shall -attempt to make a consistent story of the reports -of illness which perplex us in regard to his life -and death; it adds interest to the quest when -we are told that sometimes disease lent its aid to -Fate in swaying the destinies of battles. And yet, -even after Napoleon has lived, there are some -historians who deny the influence of a “great -man” upon history, and would attribute to -“tendencies” and “ideas” events which ordinary -people would attribute to individual genius. -Some persons think that Napoleon was merely -an episode—that he had no real influence upon -history; it is the custom to point to his career -as an exemplification of the thesis that war has -played very little real part in the moulding of the -course of the world. Into all this we need not -now enter, beyond saying that he was the “child -of the French Revolution” who killed his own -spiritual father; the reaction from Napoleon -was Metternich, Castlereagh, and the Holy -Alliance; the reaction from these forces of repression -was the late war. So it is difficult to agree -that Napoleon was only an “episode.” We -have merely to remark that he was the most -interesting of all men, and, so far as we can tell,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> -will probably remain so. As Fielding long ago -pointed out in <i>Jonathan Wild</i>, a man’s “greatness” -appears to depend on his homicidal capacity. -To make yourself a hero all you have to do is -to slaughter as many of your fellow-creatures -as God will permit. How poor the figures of -Woodrow Wilson or Judge Hughes seem beside -the grey-coated “little corporal”! Though it is -quite probable that either of these most estimable -American peacemakers have done more good for -the human race than was achieved by any -warrior! So sinful is man that we throw our -hats in the air and whoop for Napoleon the -slaughterer, rather than for Woodrow Wilson, -who was “too proud to fight.”</p> - -<p>When Napoleon was sent to St. Helena he was -followed by a very few faithful friends, who seem -to have spent their time in hating one another -rather than in comforting their fallen idol. It -is difficult to get at the truth of these last few -years because, though most of the eye-witnesses -have published their memoirs, each man seems to -have been more concerned to assure the world of -the greatness of his own sacrifice than to record -the exact facts. Therefore, though Napoleon -urged them to keep diaries, and thereby make -great sums of money through their imprisonment, -yet these diaries generally seem to have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -aimed rather at attacking the other faithful ones -than at telling us exactly what happened.</p> - -<p>The post-mortem examination of Napoleon’s -body was performed by Francesco Antommarchi, -a young Corsican physician, anatomist, and -pathologist, who was sent to St. Helena about -eighteen months before Napoleon’s death in the -hope that he, being a Corsican, would be able -to win the Emperor’s confidence and cure the -illness of which he was already complaining. -Unfortunately, Antommarchi was a very young -man, and Napoleon suspected both his medical -skill and the reason of his presence. Napoleon -used to suffer from severe pains in his stomach; -he would clasp himself, and groan, “O, mon -pylore!” By that time he was suffering from -cancer of the stomach, and Antommarchi did -not suspect it. When Napoleon groaned and -writhed in agony it is said that Antommarchi -merely laughed, and prescribed him tartar emetic -in lemonade. Napoleon was violently sick, and -thought himself poisoned; he swore he would -never again taste any of Antommarchi’s medicine. -Once again Antommarchi attempted to give him -tartar emetic in lemonade; it was not in vain -that Napoleon had won a reputation for being a -great strategist, for, when Antommarchi’s back -was turned he handed the draught to the unsuspecting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> -Montholon. In ten minutes that hero -reacted in the usual manner, and extremely -violently. Napoleon was horrified and outraged -in his feelings; quite naturally he accused -Antommarchi of trying to poison him, called him -“assassin,” and refused to see him again. Another -fault that Napoleon found with the unhappy -young man was that whenever he wanted medical -attendance Antommarchi was not to be found, -but had to be ferreted out from Jamestown, -three and a half miles away; so altogether -Antommarchi’s attendance could not be called -a success. Napoleon in his wrath was “terrible -as an army with banners.” Even at St. Helena, -where the resources of the whole world had been -expended in the effort to cage him helpless, it -must have been no joke to stand up before those -awful eyes, that scorching tongue; and it is -no wonder that Antommarchi preferred to spend -the last few weeks idling about Jamestown rather -than forcing unwelcome attention upon his -terrible patient.</p> - -<p>Worst of all, Antommarchi at first persuaded -himself that Napoleon’s last illness was not -serious. When Napoleon cried in his agony, -“O, mon pylore!” and complained of a pain that -shot through him like a knife, Antommarchi -merely laughed and turned to his antimony with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> -catastrophic results. It shakes our faith in -Antommarchi’s professional skill to read that -until the very last moment he would not believe -that there was much the matter. The veriest -blockhead—one would imagine—must have seen -that the Emperor was seriously ill. Many a -case of cancer of the stomach has been mistaken -for simple dyspepsia in its early stages, but there -comes a time when the true nature of the disease -forces itself upon even the most casual observer. -The rapid wasting, the cachexia, the vomiting, -the pain, all impress themselves upon both -patient and friends, and it is difficult to avoid -the conclusion that Antommarchi must have -been both careless and negligent. When the -inevitable happened, and Napoleon died, it was -Antommarchi who performed the autopsy, and -found a condition which it is charitable to suppose -may have masked the last symptoms and -may have explained, if it did not excuse, the -young anatomist’s mistaken confidence.</p> - -<p>We conclude our brief sketch of the unhappy -Antommarchi by saying that when he returned -to Europe he published the least accurate and -most disingenuous of all accounts of Napoleon’s -last days. His object seems to have been rather -to conceal his own shortcomings than to tell -the truth. This book sets the seal on his character,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -and casts doubt on all else that comes from his -pen. He may have been, as the <i>Lancet</i> says, -a “trained and competent pathologist”; he -was certainly a most unfortunate young man.</p> - -<p>The post-mortem was performed in the presence -of several British military surgeons, who -appear to have been true sons of John Bull, with -all the prejudice, ignorance, and cocksureness -that in the eyes of other nations distinguish us -so splendidly. Though truthfulness was not a -strong point with Antommarchi, he seems to -have known his pathology, and has left us an -exceedingly good and well-written report of what -he found. Strange to relate, the body was -found to be still covered thickly with a superficial -layer of fat, and the heart and omenta were -also adipose. This would seem impossible in -the body of a man who had just died from cancer -of the stomach, but is corroborated by a report -from a Dr. Henry, who was also present, and is -not unknown. I remember the case of an old -woman who, though hardly at all wasted, was -found at the autopsy to have an extensive cancerous -growth of the pylorus; the explanation was -that the disease had been so acute that it slew -her before there had been time to produce much -wasting. At one point Napoleon’s cancerous -ulcer had perforated the stomach, and the orifice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> -had been sealed by adhesions. Dr. Henry -proudly states that he himself was able to thrust -his finger through it. The liver was large but -not diseased; the spleen was large and “full of -blood”—probably Antommarchi meant engorged. -The intestine was covered by small bright-red -patches, evidently showing inflammation of lymphatic -tissue such as frequently occurs in general -infections of the body. The bladder contained -gravel and several definite calculi. There was -hardly any secondary cancerous development, -except for a few enlarged glands. Antommarchi -and the French generally had diagnosed before -death that he was suffering from some sort of -hepatitis endemic to St. Helena, and the cancer -was a great surprise to them—not that it would -have mattered much from the point of view of -treatment.</p> - -<p>Napoleon’s hands and feet were extremely -small; his skin was white and delicate; his body -had feminine characteristics, such as wide hips -and narrow shoulders; his reproductive organs -were small and apparently atrophied. He is said -to have been impotent for some time before -he died. There was little hair on the body, and -the hair of the head was fine, silky, and sparse. -Twenty years later his body was exhumed and -taken to France, and Dr. Guillard, who was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> -permitted to make a brief examination, stated -that the beard and nails appeared to have grown -since death; there was very little sign of decomposition; -men who had known him in life recognized -his face immediately it was uncovered.</p> - -<p>Leonard Guthrie points out that some of these -signs seem to indicate a condition of hypo-pituitarism—the -opposite to the condition of -hyper-pituitarism which causes “giantism.” Far-fetched -as this theory may appear, yet it is -possible that there may be something in it.</p> - -<p>The autopsy showed beyond cavil that the -cause of death was cancer of the stomach, and -it is difficult to see what more Antommarchi -could have done in the way of treatment than -he did, although certainly an irritant poison like -tartar emetic would not have been good for a -man with cancer of the stomach, even if it did -not actually shorten his life. But Napoleon was -not a good patient. He had seen too much of -army surgery to have a great respect for our -profession; indeed, it is probable that he had -no respect for anybody but the Emperor Napoleon. -He, at least, knew his business. He could -manœuvre a great army in the field and win -battles—and lose them too. But even a lost -Napoleonic battle—there were not many—was -better managed than a victory of any other man;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -whereas when you were dealing with these doctor -fellows you could never tell whether their -results were caused by their treatment or by -the intervention of whatever gods there be. -Decidedly Antommarchi was the last man in the -world to be sent to treat the fallen, but still -imperious, warrior.</p> - -<p>The symptoms of impending death seem to -have been masked by a continued fever, and -probably Antommarchi was not really much to -blame. This idea is to some extent borne out -by a couple of specimens in the Museum of the -Royal College of Surgeons, which are said to have -belonged to the body of Napoleon. The story -is that they were surreptitiously removed by -Antommarchi, and handed by him to Barry -O’Meara, who in his turn gave them to Sir -Astley Cooper. That baronet handed them to -the museum, where they are now preserved as -of doubtful origin. But their genuineness depends -upon whether we can believe that Antommarchi -would or could have removed them, and -whether O’Meara was telling the truth to Sir -Astley Cooper. It is doubtful which of the two -first-mentioned men is the less credible, and -Cooper could not have known how untruthful -O’Meara was to show himself, or he would probably -not have thought for one moment that the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> -specimens were genuine. O’Meara was a contentious -Irishman who, like most other people, had -fallen under the sway of Napoleon’s personal -charm. He published a book in which he libelled -Sir Hudson Lowe, whose hard fate it was to be -Napoleon’s jailer at St. Helena—that isle of -unrest. For some reason Lowe never took -action against his traducer until it was too late, -so that his own character, like most things connected -with Napoleon, still remains a bone of -contention. But O’Meara had definitely put -himself on the side of the French against the -English, and it was the object of the French to -show that their demigod had died of some illness -endemic to that devil’s island, aggravated by the -barbarous ill-treatment of the brutal British. We -on our side contended that St. Helena was a -sort of earthly paradise, where one should live -for ever. The fragments are from <i>somebody’s</i> -ileum, and show little raised patches of inflamed -lymphoid tissue; Sir William Leishman considers -the post-mortem findings, apart from the -cancer, those of some long-continued fever, such -as Mediterranean fever.</p> - -<p>Mediterranean or Malta fever is a curious -specific fever due to the <i>Micrococcus melitensis</i>, -which shows itself by recurrent bouts of pyrexia, -accompanied by constipation, chronic anæmia,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> -and wasting. Between the bouts the patient -may appear perfectly well. There are three -types—the “undulatory” here described; the -“intermittent,” in which the attacks come on -almost daily; and the “malignant,” in which -the patient only lives for a week or ten days. -It is now known to be contracted by drinking the -infected milk of goats, and it is almost confined to -the shores of the Mediterranean and certain parts -of India. It may last for years, and it is quite -possible that Napoleon caught it at Elba, of which -Mediterranean island he was the unwilling -emperor in 1814. Thence he returned to -France, as it was said, because he had not elba-room -on his little kingdom. It is certain that -for years he had been subject to feverish attacks, -which army surgeons would now possibly classify -as “P.U.O.,” and it is quite possible that these -may in reality have been manifestations of Malta -fever.</p> - -<p>It has been surmised by some enthusiasts that -the frequency of micturition, followed by dysuria, -to which he was liable, may have really been due -to hyper-pituitarism. Whenever we do not -understand a thing let us blame a ductless gland; -the pituitary body is well hidden beneath the -brain, and its action is still not thoroughly -understood. But surely we need no further<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -explanation of this miserable symptom than the -stones in the bladder. Napoleon for many -years might almost be said to have lived on -horseback, and riding is the very thing to cause -untold misery to a man afflicted with vesical -calculus. Dysuria, attendant upon frequency of -micturition, is a most suggestive symptom; nowadays -we are always taught to consider the possibility -of stone, and it is rather surprising that -nobody seems to have suspected it during his -lifetime. This could be very well accounted for -by remembering the general ignorance and incompetence -of army surgeons at the time, the mighty -position of the patient, and his intolerance of the -medical profession. Few men would have dared -to suggest that it would be well for him to submit -to the passage of a sound, even if the trouble ever -became sufficiently urgent to compel him to -confide so private a matter to one so lowly as a -mere army doctor. Yet he had known and -admired Baron Larrey, the great military surgeon -of the Napoleonic Wars; one can only surmise -that his calculi did not give him much trouble, -or that they grew more rapidly in the sedentary -life which he had led at St. Helena.</p> - -<p>During the last year or so he took great interest -in gardening, and spent hours in planting trees, -digging the soil, and generally behaving somewhat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> -after the manner of a suburban householder. -He was intensely bored by his forced inaction, -and used to take refuge in chess. His staff at -first welcomed this, but unhappily they could find -nobody bad enough for the mighty strategist to -beat; yet nobody dared to give him checkmate, -and it was necessary to lose the game foolishly -rather than to defeat Napoleon. It is clear that -the qualities requisite in a good chess-player are -by no means the same as those necessary to -outmanœuvre an army.</p> - -<p>Throughout his life his pulse-rate seldom -exceeded fifty per minute; as he grew older he -was subject to increasing lassitude; his extremities -felt constantly chilly, and he used to lie for -hours daily in hot-water baths. Possibly these -may have been symptoms of hypo-pituitarism; -Lord Rosebery follows popular opinion in -attributing his laziness to the weakening effects -of hot baths. Occasionally Napoleon suffered -from attacks of vomiting, followed by fits of -extreme lethargy. It is quite possible that these -vomiting attacks may have been due to the -gastric ulcer, which must have been growing for -years until, about September, 1820, it became -acutely malignant.</p> - -<p>The legend that Napoleon suffered from -epilepsy appears, according to Dr. Ireland, to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -rest upon a statement in Talleyrand’s memoirs. -In September, 1805, in Talleyrand’s presence, -Napoleon was seized after dinner with a sort of -fit, and fell to the ground struggling convulsively. -Talleyrand loosened his cravat, obeying the -popular rule in such circumstances to “give him -air.” Remusat, the chief chamberlain, gave him -water, which he drank. Talleyrand returned to -the charge, and “inundated” him with eau-de-Cologne. -The Emperor awakened, and said -something—one would like to know what he said -when he felt the inundation streaming down his -clothes—probably something truly of the camp. -Half an hour later he was on the road that was -to lead him—to Austerlitz, of all places! Clearly -this fit, whatever it may have been, was not -epilepsy in the ordinary sense of the term. -There was no “cry,” no biting of the tongue, -no foaming at the mouth, and apparently no -unconsciousness. Moreover, epilepsy is accompanied -by degeneration of the intellect, and -nobody dares to say that Austerlitz, Jena, and -Wagram—to say nothing of Aspern and Eckmuhl—were -won by a degenerate. Eylau and Friedland -were also to come after 1805, and these seven -names still ring like a trumpet for sheer glory, -daring, and supreme genius. I suppose there is -not one of them—except perhaps Aspern—which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> -would not have made an imperishable name for -any lesser general. It is impossible to believe -that they were fought by an epileptic. If -Napoleon really had epilepsy it was assuredly not -the “<i>grand mal</i>” which helps to fill our asylums. -It is just possible that “<i>petit mal</i>” may have -been in the picture. This is a curious condition -which manifests itself by momentary loss of -consciousness; the patient may become suddenly -dreamy and purposeless, and may perform curious -involuntary actions—even crimes—while <i>apparently</i> -conscious. When he recovers he knows -nothing about what he has been doing, and may -even resume the interrupted action which had -occupied him at the moment of the seizure. -Some such explanation may account for Napoleon’s -fits of furious passion, that seem to have -been followed by periods of lethargy and vomiting. -It is a sort of pleasing paradox—and mankind -dearly loves paradox—to say that supremely -great men suffer from epilepsy. It was said of -Julius Cæsar, of St. Paul, and of Mohammed. -These men are said to have suffered from “falling -sickness,” whatever that may have been; there -are plenty of conditions which may make men -fall to the ground, without being epileptic: -Ménière’s disease, for instance. It is ridiculous -to suppose that Julius Cæsar and Napoleon—by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> -common consent the two greatest of the sons -of men—should have been subject to a disease -which deteriorates the intellect.</p> - -<p>It is possible that some such trouble as “<i>petit -mal</i>” may have been at the bottom of the curious -stories of a certain listless torpor that appears -to have overcome Napoleon at critical moments -in his later battles. Something of the kind -happened at Borodino in 1812, the bloodiest and -most frightful battle in history till that time. -Napoleon indeed won, in the sense that the -exhausted Russians retreated to Moscow, whither -he pursued them to his ill-fortune; but the -battle was not fought with anything like the -supreme genius which he displayed in his other -campaigns. Similarly, he is said to have been -thus stricken helpless after Ligny, when he -defeated Blucher in 1815. He wasted precious -hours in lethargy, which should have been spent -in his usual furious pursuit of his beaten foe. -To this day the French hold that, but for Napoleon’s -inexplicable idleness after Ligny, there -would have been no St. Helena; and, with all -the respect due to Wellington and his thin red -line, it is by no means certain that the French -are wrong. But nations will continue to squabble -about Waterloo till there shall be no more war; -and 1814 had been the most brilliant of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -campaigns—probably of any man’s campaigns.</p> - -<p>“Of woman came the beginning of sin, and -through her therefore we all die,” said the -ungallant author of Ecclesiasticus; and it is -certain that Napoleon was extremely susceptible -to feminine charms. Like a Roman emperor, he -had but to cast a glance at a woman and she was -at his feet. Yet probably his life was not very -much less moral than was customary among the -great at that time. When we remember his -extraordinary personal charm, it is rather a -matter for wonder that women seem to have had -so little serious effect upon his life, and he seems -to have taken comparatively little advantage of -his opportunities. His first wife, Josephine Beauharnais, -was a flighty Creole who pleased herself -entirely; in the vulgar phrase, she “took her -pleasure where she found it.” To this Napoleon -appears to have been complaisant, but as she -could not produce an heir to the dynasty which -he wished to found, he divorced her, and married -the Austrian princess Marie Louise, whose father -he had defeated and humiliated as few sovereigns -have ever been humiliated. She deserted him -without a qualm when he was sent to Elba; -when he was finally imprisoned at St. Helena -there was no question of her following him, even -if the British Government had had sufficient<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -imagination to permit such a thing. Napoleon, -who was fond of her, wanted her to go with him; -but one could not expect a Government containing -Castlereagh, Liverpool, and Bathurst, to show -any sympathy to the fallen foe who had been a -nightmare to Europe for twenty years. She -would never consent to see Josephine. It is -said that Napoleon’s <i>libido sexualis</i> was violent, -but rapidly quelled. In conversation at St. -Helena he admitted having possessed seven mistresses; -of them he said simply, “C’est beaucoup.” -When he was sent to St. Helena his mother wrote -and asked to be allowed to follow him; however -great a man’s fall, his mother never deserts him, -and asylum doctors find that long after the wife -or sisters forget some demented and bestial -creature, his mother loyally continues her visits -till the grave closes over one or the other. But -more remarkable is the fact that Pauline Bonaparte, -who was always looked upon as a shameless -hussy, would have followed him to St. Helena, -only that she was ill in bed at the time. She was -the beautiful sister who sat to Canova for the -statue of Venus in the Villa Borghese. It was -then thought most shocking for a lady of high -degree to be sculptured as a nude Venus—perhaps -it is now; I say, <i>perhaps</i>. There are few ladies -of high degree so beautiful as Princess Pauline,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -as Canova shows her. A friend said to her about -the statue, “Were you not uncomfortable, -princess, sitting there without any clothes on?” -“Uncomfortable,” said Princess Pauline, “why -should I be uncomfortable? There was a stove -in the room!” There are many other still less -creditable stories told about her. It was poor -beautiful Pauline who lost her husband of yellow -fever, herself recovering of an attack at the same -time. She cut off her hair and buried it in his -coffin. This was thought a wonderful instance -of wifely devotion, until the cynical Emperor -remarked: “Quite so; quite so; of course, she -knows it will grow again better than ever for -cutting it off, and that it would have fallen off -anyhow after the fever.” Yet when he was sent -to Elba, this frivolous sister followed him, and -she sold every jewel she possessed to make life -comfortable for him at St. Helena. She was a -very human and beautiful woman, this Pauline; -she detested Marie Louise, and once in 1810 at a -grand fête she saucily poked out her tongue at -the young Empress in full view of all the nobles. -Unhappily Napoleon saw her, and cast upon her -a dreadful look; Pauline picked up her skirts and -ran headlong from the room. When she heard of -his death she wept bitterly; she died four years -afterwards of cancer. Her last action was to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -call for a mirror, looking into which she died, -saying, “I am still beautiful; I am not afraid to -die.”</p> - -<p>In attempting to judge Marie Louise it must -be remembered that there is a horrid story told -of Napoleon’s first meeting with her in France -after the civil marriage had been performed by -proxy in Vienna. It is said that the fury of his -lust did her physical injury, and that that is the -true reason why she never forgave him and deserted -him at the first opportunity. She bore him a -son, of whom he was passionately fond, but after -his downfall the son—the poor little King of -Rome immortalized by Rostand in “<i>l’Aiglon</i>”—fell -into the hands of Metternich, the Austrian, -who is said to have deliberately contrived to have -him taught improper practices, lest he should -grow up to be as terrible a menace to the world -as his father. But all these are rumours, and -show how difficult it is to ascertain the truth of -anything connected with Napoleon.</p> - -<p>When Napoleon fell to the dust after Leipzig, -Marie Louise became too friendly with Count von -Neipperg, whom she morganatically married after -Napoleon’s death. Although he heard of her -infidelity, he forgave her, and mentioned her -affectionately in his will, thereby showing, to -borrow a famous phrase of Gibbon about Belisarius,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -“Either less or more than the character -of a man.”</p> - -<p>For nine days before he died he lay unconscious -and babbled in delirium. On the morning of -May 5, 1821, Montholon thought he heard the -words “<i>France ... armée ... tête d’armée.</i>” -The dying Emperor thrust Montholon from his -side, struggled out of bed, and staggered towards -the window. Montholon overpowered him and -put him back to bed, where he lay silent and -motionless till he died the same evening. The -man who had fought about sixty pitched battles, -all of which he had won, I believe, but two—who -had caused the deaths of three millions of his own -men and untold millions of his enemies—died as -peacefully in his bed as any humble labourer. -What dim memories passed through his clouded -brain as he tried to say “head of the army”? -A great tropical storm was threatening Longwood. -Did he recall the famous “sun of Austerlitz” -beneath whose rays the <i>grande armée</i> had elevated -its idolized head to the highest pitch of earthly -glory? Who can follow the queer paths taken -by associated ideas in the human brain?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Benvenuto Cellini</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">NO one can read Benvenuto’s extraordinary -autobiography without being reminded -of the even more extraordinary diary of Mr. -Pepys. But there is one very great difference. -Cellini dictated his memoirs to a little boy for -the world at large, and did not profess to tell the -whole truth—rather those things which came -into his mind readily in his old age; but Pepys -wrote for himself in secret cypher in his own -study, and the reason of his writing has never -yet been guessed. Why did he set down all his -most private affairs? And when they became -too disgraceful even for Mr. Pepys’s conscience, -why did he set them down in a mongrel mixture -of French and Spanish? Can we find a hint -in the fact that he left a key to the cypher -behind him? Did he really wish his Diary to -remain unreadable for ever? Was it really -a quaint and beastly vanity that moved -him?</p> - -<p>But Cellini wrote <i>per medium</i> of a little boy -amanuensis while he himself worked, and possibly -he may have deliberately omitted some facts -too shameful for the ears of that <i>puer ingenuus</i>;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -though I have my doubts about this theory. -He frankly depicts himself as a cynical and forth-right -fellow always ready to brawl; untroubled -by conventional ideas either of art or of morality; -ready to call a spade a spade or any number of -adjectived shovels that came instantly to his -mind. If it be great writing to express one’s -meaning tersely, directly, and positively, then -Cellini’s is the greatest of writing, though we -have to be thankful that it is in a foreign language. -The best translation is probably that of John -Addington Symonds—a cheaper and excellent -edition is published in the <i>Everyman Library</i>—and -nobody who wishes to write precisely as he -thinks can afford to go without studying this -remarkable book. And having studied it he -will probably come to the conclusion that there -are other things in writing than merely to express -oneself directly. There is such a thing as -beauty of thought as well as beauty of expression; -and probably he will end by wondering -what is that thing which we call beauty? -Is it only Truth, as even such a master of -Beauty as Keats seems to have thought? Why -is one line of the <i>Grecian Urn</i> more beautiful -than all the blood and thunder of Benvenuto?</p> - -<p>Cellini says that he caught the “French evil”—i.e.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span> -syphilis—when he was a young man; he -certainly did his best to catch it. His symptoms -were abnormal, and the doctors assured him -that his disease was not the “French evil.” -However, he knew better, and assumed a treatment -of his own, consisting of <i>lignum vitæ</i> and -a holiday shooting in the marshes. Here he -probably caught malaria, of which he cured himself -with guaiacum. We know now that, alas, -syphilis cannot be cured by such means; and -the fact that he lived to old age seems to show -that there was something wrong with his diagnosis. -I have known plenty of syphilitics who -have reached extreme old age, but they had not -been cured by <i>lignum vitæ</i> and a holiday; it was -mercury that had cured them, taken early and -often, over long periods. I very much doubt -whether he ever had the “French evil” at -all.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_228fp.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="caption"><span class="illoright3">[<i>Photo, Brogi.</i></span><br /> - -PERSEUS AND THE GORGON’S HEAD.<br /> - -Statue by Benvenuto Cellini (Florence, Loggia de’ Lanzi).</p> - -<p>But apart from this and from his amazing -revelations of quarrelling and loose living, the -autobiography is worth reading for its remarkable -description of the casting of his great statue of -Perseus, which now stands in the Loggia dei -Lanzi at Florence hard by the Uffizi. By the -time the book had reached so far the little boy -had long wearied of the job of secretary, and -the old man had buckled down to the labour<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -of writing with his own hand. I dare swear that -he wrote this particular section at one breath, -so to speak; the torrent of words, poured forth -in wild excitement, carry the reader away with -the frenzy of the writer as Benvenuto recalls the -greatest hours of his life. Nowhere is such an -instance of the terrible labour pains of a true -artist as his offspring comes to birth.</p> - -<p>The great statue does more than represent -Perseus; it represents the wild and headlong -mind of Benvenuto himself. Perseus stands -in triumph with the Gorgon’s head in one hand -and a sword in the other. You can buy paper-knives -modelled on this sword for five lire in -Florence to-day. The gladness and youthful -joy of Perseus are even more striking than those -of Verrochio’s David in the Bargello just near -at hand. Verrochio has modelled a young -rascal of a Jew who is clearly saying: “Alone -I did it; and very nice too!” Never was -boyish triumph better portrayed. But Benvenuto’s -Perseus is a great young man who has -done something very worthy, and knows that it -is worthy. He has begun to amputate the head -very carefully with a neat circular incision round -the neck; then, his rage or his fear of the basilisk -glance getting the better of him, he has set his -foot against the Gorgon’s shoulder and tugged<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -at the head violently until the grisly thing has -come away in his hand, tearing through the soft -parts of the neck and wrenching the great vessels -from the heart.</p> - -<p>As is well known, opportunities for performing -decapitation upon a Gorgon are few; apart from -the rarity of the monster there is always the risk -lest the surgeon may be frozen stiff in the midst -of the operation; and it becomes still more -difficult when it has to be performed in the -Fourth Dimension through a looking-glass. We -have the authority of <i>The Mikado</i> that self-decapitation -is a difficult, not to say painful, -operation, and Benvenuto could not have practised -his method before a shaving-mirror, because -he had a bushy beard, though some of us have -inadvertently tried in our extreme youth before -we have learned the advisability of using safety -razors. Anyhow, Benvenuto’s Perseus is a very -realistic, violent, and wonderful piece of sculpture; -if he had done nothing else he would have still -been one of the greatest artists in the world. -My own misfortune was in going to Florence -before I had seriously read his autobiography; -I wish to warn others lest that misfortune should -befall them. Read Cellini’s autobiography—<i>then</i>, -go to Florence! You will see how the -author of the autobiography was the only man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -who could possibly have done the Perseus; how, -in modelling the old pre-hellenic demigod, he -was really modelling his own subconscious -mind.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Death</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap">WHEN William Dunbar sang, “Timor mortis -perturbat me,” he but expressed the -most universal of human—perhaps of animate—feelings. -It is no shame to fear death; the -fear appears to be a necessary condition of our -existence. The shame begins when we allow -that fear to influence us in the performance -of our duty. But why should we fear death -at all? It is hardly an explanation to say that -the fear of death is implanted in living things -lest the individual should be too easily slain -and thereby the species become extinct. Who -implanted it? And why is it so necessary -that that individual should survive? Why is -it necessary that the species should survive? -And so on—to name only a few of the unanswerable -questions that crowd upon us whenever -we sit down to muse upon that problem -which every living thing must some time have -a chance of solving. The question of death -is inextricably bound up with the interpretation -of innumerable abstract nouns, such as truth, -justice, good, evil, and many more, which all -religions make some effort to interpret. Philosophy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> -attempts it by the light of man’s reason; -religion by a light from some extra-human -source; but all alike represent the struggles of -earnest men to solve the insoluble.</p> - -<p>Nor is it possible to obtain help from the great -men of the past, because not one of them knew -any more about death than you do yourself. -Socrates, in Plato’s <i>Phædo</i>, Sir Thomas Browne -in the <i>Religio Medici</i> and the <i>Hydriotaphia</i>, -Shakespeare in <i>Hamlet</i> and <i>Macbeth</i> and many -other plays, St. Paul in various epistles, all tried -to console us for the fact that we must die; -the revolt against that inevitable end of beauty -and ugliness, charm and horror, love and hate, -is the most persistent note in literature; and -there are few men who go through life without -permitting themselves to wonder, “What is -going to happen to me? Why should I have to -die? What will my wife and children do after -me? How is it possible that the world will go -on, and apparently go on just the same as now, -for ages after an important thing like me is -shovelled away into a hole in the ground?” I -suppose you have dreamed with a start of horror a -dream in which you revisit the world, and looking -for your own house and children, find them -going along happily and apparently prosperous, -the milkman coming as usual, a woman in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -form of your wife ordering meals and supervising -household affairs, the tax-gatherer calling—let -us hope a little less often than when you were -alive—the trams running and the ferry-boats -packed as usual, and the sun shining, the rain -falling sometimes, Members of Parliament bawling -foolishly over nothing—all these things -happening as usual; but you look around to see -anybody resembling that beautiful and god-like -creature whom you remember as yourself, and -wheresoever you look he is not there. Where -is he? How can the world possibly go on -without him? Is it really going on, or is it -nothing more than an incredible dream? And -why are you so shocked and horror-stricken by -this dream? You could hardly be more shocked -if you saw you wife toiling in a garret for the -minimum wage, or your children running about -barefoot selling newspapers. The shocking fact -is not that you have left them penniless, but that -you have had to leave them at all. In the morning -joy cometh as usual, and you go cheerfully -about your work, which simply consists of postponing -the day of somebody else’s death as long -as you can. For a little time perhaps you will -take particular note of the facts which accompany -the act of death; then you will resign yourself -to the inevitable, and continue doggedly to wage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -an endless battle in which you must inevitably -lose, assured of nothing but that some day you -too will lie pallid, your jaw dropped, your chest -not moving, your face horribly inert; and that -somebody will come and wash your body and -tie up your jaw and put pennies on your eyes -and wrap you in cerements and lift you into -a long box; and that large men will put the box -on their shoulders and lump you into a big -vehicle with black horses, and another man will -ironically shout Paul’s words, “O death, where -is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” -And in the club some man will take your seat -at lunch, and the others will say you were a -decent sort of fellow and will not joke loudly -for a whole meal-time. And ten years hence -who will remember you? Your wife and children, -of course—if they too have not also been -carried away in long boxes; a few men who -look upon you with a kindly patronage as one -who has fallen in the fight and cannot compete -with them now; but otherwise? Your hospital -appointments have long been filled up by men -who cannot, you think, do your work half so well -as you used to do it; your car is long ago turned -into scrap-iron; your little dog, which used to -yelp so joyously when you got home tired at -night and kicked him out of the way, is long dead<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span> -and buried under your favourite rose-bush; -your library, which was your joy for so many -years, has long been sold at about one-tenth of -what it cost you; and, except for the woman who -was foolish enough to love and marry you and -the children whom the good creature brought -into the world to carry on your name, you are -as though you had never been. Why should -this be? And why are you so terrified at the -prospect?</p> - -<p>During the past few years we have had ample -experience of death, for there are few families -in Australia, and I suppose in England, France, -Germany, Italy, Russia, and Europe generally, -which have not lost some beloved member; -yet we are no nearer solving the mystery than we -were before. We know no more about it than -did Socrates or Homer. The only thing that -is beginning to haunt the minds of many men -is whether those gallant boys who died in the -war were not better off than the men who survived. -At least they know the worst, if there -be anything to know; and have no longer to -fear cancer and paralysis and the other diseases -of later life. Many men have written in a consolatory -vein about old age, but the consolants -have in no way answered the dictum that if by -reason of strength our years exceed threescore<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -and ten, yet is our strength but labour and sorrow. -No doctor who has seen an old man with an -enlarged prostate and a septic kidney therefrom, -or with cancer of the tongue, can refrain from wishing -that that man had died twenty years sooner, -because however bad the fate in store for him -it can hardly be worse than what he suffers here -on earth. And possibly there are worse things -on earth even than cancer of the tongue; possibly -cancer of the bladder is the most atrocious, -or right-sided hemiplegia with its aphasia and -deadly depression of soul. Young men do not -suffer from these things; and no one can attend -a man so afflicted without wishing that the patient -had died happily by a bullet in Gallipoli before -his time came so to suffer. Yet as a man grows -older, though the likelihood of his death becomes -more and more with every passing year, his -clinging to bare life, however painful and terrible -that life may be, becomes more intense. The -young hardly seem to fear death; that is a fear -almost confined to the aged. How otherwise -can we explain the extraordinary heroism shown -by the boys of every army during the late war? -I watched many beautiful and gallant boys, -volunteers mark you, march down the streets of -Sydney on their way to a quarrel which nobody -understood—not even the German Kaiser who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> -started it; and when my own turn came to go -I patched up many thousands who had been -shattered: the one impression made upon me -was the utter vileness and beastliness of war, -and the glorious courage of the boys in the line. -Before the order went forth forbidding the use -of Liston’s long splint in the advanced dressing -stations, men with shattered lower limbs used -to be brought in with their feet turned back -to front. High-explosive shells would tear away -half the front of a man’s abdomen; men would -be maimed horribly for life, and life would never -be the same again for them. Yet none seemed to -complain. I know that our own boys simply -accepted it all as the inevitable consequence -of war, and from what I saw of the English and -French their attitude of mind was much the same. -The courage of the boys was amazing. I am -very sure that if the average age of the armies -had been sixty instead of under thirty, Amiens -would never have been saved or Fort Douaumont -recovered, nor would the Germans have fought -so heroically as we must admit they did. Old men -feel death approaching them, and they fear it. -We all know that our old patients are far more -nervous about death than the young. I remember -a girl who had sarcoma of the thigh, -which recurred after amputation, and I had to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> -send her to a home for the dying. She did not -seem very much perturbed. I suppose the -proper thing to say would be that she was conscious -of her salvation and had nothing to fear; -but the truth was that she was a young rake -who had committed nearly every crime possible -to the female sex, and she died as peacefully -and happily as any young member of the Church -I ever knew. But who is so terrified as the old -woman who trips on a rough edge of the carpet -and fractures her thigh-bone? How she clings -to life! What terrors attend her last few weeks -on earth, till merciful pneumonia comes to send -her to endless sleep!</p> - -<p>I do not remember to have noticed any of that -ecstasy which we are told should attend the -dying of the saved. Generally, so far as I have -observed, the dying man falls asleep some hours -or days before he actually dies, and does not -wake again. His breathing becomes more and -more feeble; his heart beats more irregularly and -feebly, and finally it does not resume; there -comes a moment when his face alters indescribably -and his jaw drops; one touches his -eyes and they do not respond; one holds a mirror -to his mouth and it is not dulled; his wife, -kneeling by the bedside, suddenly perceives that -she is a widow, and cries inconsolably; one turns<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -away sore and grieved and defeated; and that -is all about it! There is no more heroism nor -pain nor agony in dying than in falling asleep -every night. Whether a man has been a good -man or a bad does not seem to make any difference. -I have seldom seen a death-agony, nor -heard a death-rattle that could be distinguished -from a commonplace snore. Possibly the muscles -may become wanting in oxygenation for some -time before actual death, and thrown into convulsive -movements like the dance of the highwayman -at Tyburn while he was dying of -strangulation, and these convulsive movements -might be looked upon as a death-agony; but I -am quite sure that the patient never feels them. -To do so would require that the sense of self-location -would persist, but what evidence we -have is that that is one of the first senses to -depart. Possibly the dying man may have some -sensation such as we have all gone through -while falling asleep—that feeling as though we -are falling, which is supposed to be a survival -from the days when we were apes; possibly -there may be some giddiness such as attends -the going under an anæsthetic, and is doubtless -to be attributed to the same loss of power of -self-location; but the impression that has been -forced upon me whenever I have seen any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -struggling has been that the movements were -quite involuntary, purposeless, and meaningless. -And anything like an agony or a death-rattle -is rare. Far more often the man simply falls -asleep, and it may be as difficult to decide when -life passes into death as it is to decide when -consciousness passes into sleep.</p> - -<p>Nor have I ever heard any genuine last words -such as we read in books. I doubt if they ever -occur. At the actual time of death the man’s -body is far too busy with its dying for his mind -to formulate any ideas. The nearest approach -to a “last word” that I ever remember was when -a very old and brilliant man, who, after a lifetime -spent in the service of Australia, lay dying, -full of years and honour, from suppression of -urine that followed some weeks after an operation -on his prostate. It was early in the war, and -Austria, with her usual folly, was acting egregiously. -The nurse was trying to rouse the old -man by reading to him the war news. He suddenly -sat up, and a flash of intelligence came over -his face. “Pah—Austria with her idiot Archdukes—that -was what Bismarck said, wasn’t it?” -Then he fell back, and went to sleep; nor could -the visits of his family and the injections of saline -solution into his veins rouse him again from his -torpor. He lay unconscious for nearly a week.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -That is the only instance of the “ruling passion -strong in death” that I remember. He had -always hated Bismarck and despised the Austrians, -and for one brief moment hatred and contempt -awakened his clouded brain. And Napoleon -said, “<i>Tête d’armée</i>.”</p> - -<p>There is no need, so far as we can tell, to fear -the actual dying. Death is no more to be feared -than his twin-brother Sleep, as the very ancient -Greeks of Homer surmised; it is <i>what comes after</i> -that many people fear. “To sleep—perchance -to dream” nightmares? Well, I do not know -what other people feel when they dream, but for -myself I am fortunate enough to know, even in -the midst of the most horrible nightmare, that -it is all a dream; and I dare say that this is a -privilege common to many people. The blessed -sleep that comes to tired man in the early morning, -with which cometh joy, is well worth going through -nightmare to attain; and I think I am not speaking -wildly in claiming that most men pass the -happiest portions of their lives in that early -morning sleep. One of the horrors of neurasthenia -is that early morning sleep is often denied -to the patient.</p> - -<p>But the idea of hell is to many persons a real -terror, not to be overmastered by reason. God -has not made man in His own image; man has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -made God in his. As Grant Allen used to say: -“The Englishman’s idea of God is an Englishman -twelve feet high”; and the old Jews, who -were a very savage and ruthless people, created -Jehovah in their own image. To such a God -eternal punishment for a point of belief was quite -the natural thing, and nineteen centuries of -belief in the teaching of a loving and forgiving -Christ have not abolished that frightful idea. -It is one of the disservices of the Mediæval Church -to mankind that it popularized and enforced the -idea of hell, and that idea has been diligently -perpetuated by some narrow-minded sects to -this very day. But to a modern man, who, with -all his faults, is a kindly and forgiving creature, -hell is unthinkable, and he cannot bring himself -to believe that it was actually part of the teaching -of Christ. If the New Testament says so, then, -thinks the average modern man, it must be in an -interpolation by some mediæval ecclesiastic whose -zeal outran his mercy; and an average modern -man is not seriously swayed by any idea of everlasting -flames. He may even quaintly wonder, -if he has studied the known facts of the universe, -where either hell or heaven is to be found, -considering that they are supposed to have lasted -for ever and to be fated to last as long. In time -to come the souls, saved and lost, must be of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> -infinite number, if they are not so already; and -an infinite number would fill all available space -and spill over for an infinite distance, leaving no -room for flames, or brimstone, or harps, or golden -cities. Perhaps it may not be beyond Almighty -Power to solve this difficulty, but it is a very -real one to the average thoughtful man. When -we begin to realize infinity, to realize that every -one of the millions of known suns must each last -for millions of years, after which the whole -process must begin again, endure as long, and so -on <i>ad infinitum</i>, the thing becomes simply inconceivable; -the mind staggers, and takes refuge -in agnosticism, which is not cured by the scoffing -of clergymen whom one suspects of not viewing -things from a modern standpoint. Jowett once -answered a young man whom he evidently looked -upon as a “puppy” by thundering at him: -“Young man, you call yourself an agnostic; let -me tell you that <i>agnostic</i> is a Greek word the -Latin of which is <i>ignoramus</i>!” Jowett evidently -did not in the least understand that young man’s -difficulties, nor the difficulties of any man whose -training has been scientific—that is, directed -towards the ascertaining what is demonstrably -true. Scoffing and insolence like that only react -upon the scoffer’s head, and rather breed contempt -than comfort. Nor is the problem of God Himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -any more easy of solution, unless we are prepared -to see Him everywhere, in every minute cell -and tiny bacterium. If we confess to such a -belief we are immediately crushed with the cry -of “mere Pantheism,” or even “Spinozism,” as -though these epithets, meant to be contemptuous, -led us any further on our way. You cannot -solve these dreadful problems by a sneer, and -Voltaire, the prince of scoffers, would have had -even more influence on thought than he had if -he had contented himself with a less aggressive -and polemic attitude towards the Church.</p> - -<p>Hell is a concrete attempt at Divine punishment. -Punishment for what? For disobeying -the commandments of God? How are we to -know what God really commanded? And how are -we to weigh the relative effects of temptation and -powers of resistance upon any given man? How are -we to say that an action which in one man may be -desperately wicked may not be positively virtuous -in another? It is a commonplace that virtue -changes with latitude, and that we find “the -crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.” Why -should we condemn some poor maiden of Clapham -to burn for ever for a crime which she may not -recognize as a crime, whereas we applaud a damsel -of Martaban for doing precisely the same thing? -And what is sin? Is there any real evidence as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span> -to what the commandments of God really are? -Modern psychology seems to hold that virtue and -vice are simply phases of the herd-complex of -normal man, and have been evolved by the herd -during countless generations as the best method -of perpetuating the human species. No individual -man made his own herd-complex, by which -he is so enormously swayed; no individual man -made his own sex-complex, or his ego-complex, -or anything that is his. How can he be held -responsible for his actions by a God Who made -him the subject of such frightful temptations and -gave him such feeble powers of resistance? -Edward Fitzgerald—who, be it remembered, -knew no more about these things than you or I—summed -up the whole matter in “Man’s forgiveness -give—and take,” and probably this simple -line has given more comfort to thoughtful men -than all Jowett’s bluster. Fitzgerald has at least -voiced the instinctive rebellion which every man -must feel when he considers the facts of human -nature, even if he has given us otherwise no more -guidance than a call to a poor kind of Epicureanism -which lays stress on a book of verse underneath a -bough, and thou beside me singing in a wilderness. -If our musings lead us to Epicureanism, at least -let it be the Epicureanism of Epicurus, and not -the sensual pleasure-seeking of Omar. True,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -Epicureanism laid stress on the superiority of -mental over physical happiness; it were better to -worship at the shrine of Beethoven than of Venus, -and better to take your pleasure in the library -than in the wine-shop. But nobler than Epicurus -was Zeno, the Stoic, whose influence on both the -ancient and the modern worlds has been so profound. -If we are to take philosophy as our guide, -Stoicism, which inculcates duty and self-restraint, -and is supported by the great names of Seneca, -Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, is probably our -best leading light. Theoretically it should produce -noble characters; practically it has produced -the noblest, if the <i>Meditations</i> of Marcus Aurelius -were really written by him and not by some monk -in the Middle Ages. If we follow the teaching -of Stoicism we shall, when we come to die, at -least have the consolation that we have done our -duty; and if we realize the full meaning of -“duty” in the modern world to include duty -done kindly and generously as well as faithfully, -we shall be living as nearly to the ideals laid down -by Christ as is possible to human nature, and we -shall assuredly have nothing to fear.</p> - -<p>Anæsthesia gives some faint hint as to the -possibility of a future life. It is believed that -chloroform and ether abolish consciousness by -causing a slight change in the molecular constitution<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> -of nervous matter, as for instance dissolving -the fatty substances or lipoids. If so -minute a change in the chemistry of nervous -matter has the power of totally abolishing consciousness, -how can the mind possibly survive -the much greater change which occurs in nervous -matter after corruption has set in? Nor has there -ever been any proof that there can be consciousness -without living nervous matter. One turns -to the spiritualistic evidence offered by Myers, -Conan Doyle, Oliver Lodge, and other observers, -but after carefully studying their reports one -feels inclined to agree with Huxley that spiritualism -has merely added a new terror to death, for, -according to the spiritualists, death appears to -transform men into idiots who on earth were -known to be able and clever, and the marvel is -not the miracles which they report, but that -clever men should be found to believe them.</p> - -<p>An even more remarkable marvel than the -marvel of Lodge and Conan Doyle was the -marvel of John Henry Newman, who, a supremely -able man, living at the time of Darwin, Huxley, -and the vast biological advancement of the -Victorian era, was yet able in middle life to embrace -the far from rationalistic doctrines of the -Roman Catholic Church. That he was tempted -to do so by the opportunity which his action gave<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> -him of becoming a prince of the Church is too -ridiculous an assumption to stand for a moment. -The man <i>believed</i> these things, and believed them -with greatness, nobility, and earnestness; when -he ’verted he was forty-four years of age, and it -was not for about thirty years that he was created -a cardinal. The only explanation that can be -given is that we have not yet fathomed the depths -of the human mind; there is a certain type of -mind which appears to see things by what it calls -intuition and is not open to reason on the basis -of evidence or probability.</p> - -<p>Probably what most men fear is not death but -the pain and illness which generally precede death; -and apart from that very natural dread there is -the dread of leaving things which are dear to -every one. After all, life is sweet to most of us; -it is pleasant to feel the warm sun and see the blue -sky and watch the shadows race over far hills; -an occasional concert, a week-end spent at golf, or -at working diligently in the garden; congenial -employment, or a worthy book to read, all help -to make life worth living, and the mind becomes -sad at the thought of leaving these things and the -home which they epitomize. I remember once -in a troopship, a few days out from an Australian -port, when the men had all got over their sea-sickness -and were beginning to realize that they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> -really were started on their Great Adventure, -that I went down into their quarters at night, -and found a big young countryman who had -enlisted in the Artillery, sobbing bitterly. It was -a long time before kindly consolation and a dose -of bromide sent him off to sleep. In the morning -he came to see me and tried to apologize for his -unmanliness. “I’m not afraid of dyin’, sir,” he -explained. “I want to stoush some of them -Germans first, though. It’s leaving all me life -in Australia if I ’appen to stop a lump of lead, sir—that’s -what’s worryin’ me.” Life in Australia -meant riding on horseback when he was not -following at the plough’s tail. It was the only -life he knew, and he loved it. But I was fully -convinced that he no more feared actual death -than he feared a mosquito, and when he left the -ship at Suez, and joined lustily in the singing -of “Australia will be there”—who so jovial as -he? He got through the fighting on Gallipoli, -only to be destroyed on the Somme; his horse, -if it had not already been sent to Palestine, had -to submit to another rider; his acres to produce -for another ploughman.</p> - -<p>The last illness is, of course, sometimes very -unpleasant, especially if cancer or angina pectoris -enter into the picture, but I have often marvelled -at the endurance of men who should, according<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -to all one’s preconceived ideas, be broken up with -distress. Not uncommonly a man refuses to -believe that he is really so seriously ill as other -people think, and there is always the hope eternal -in every breast that he will get better. Quite -commonly he looks hopefully in the glass every -morning as he shaves for signs of coming improvement; -there are few men who really believe that -sentence of early death has been passed upon -them.</p> - -<p>The illness which causes the most misery is an -illness complicated with neurasthenia, and probably -the neurasthenic tastes the bitterest misery -of which mankind is capable, unless we admit -melancholia into the grisly competition. But I -often think that the long sleepless early morning -hours of neurasthenia, when the patient lies -listening for the chimes, worrying over his physical -condition and harassed with dread of the -future, are the most terrible possible to man. -Nor are they in any way improved by the knowledge -that sometimes neurasthenia does not -indicate any real physical disease.</p> - -<p>But it is difficult to find any really rational -cause for the desire to live longer, unless Sir -Thomas Browne is right in thinking that the -long habit of living indisposeth us for dying. -After all, what does it really matter whether we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> -die to-morrow or live twenty more years? In -another century it will be all the same; at most -we but postpone dissolution. Death has to come -sooner or later; and whatever we believe of our -life beyond the grave is not likely to make any -difference. We were not consulted as to whether -we were to be born, nor as to the parts and capabilities -which were to be allotted to us, and it -is exceedingly unlikely that our wishes will be -taken into consideration as regards our eternal -disposition. We can do no more when we come -to die than take our involuntary leap into the -dark like innumerable living creatures before -us, and, conscious of having done our duty -to the best that lay in us, hope for the -best.</p> - -<p>Twentieth-century biological science appears -to result in a kind of vague pantheism, coupled -with a generous hedonism. Scientific men appear -to find their pleasure, not like the old Greeks, -sought by each man for himself, but rather in -“the greatest happiness of the greatest number.” -It is difficult for a modern man to feel entirely -happy while he knows of the vast amount of -incurable misery that exists in the world. The -idea of Heaven is simply an idea that the atrocious -injustice and unhappiness of life in this world -must be balanced by equally great happiness in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> -the life to come; but is there any evidence to -favour such a belief? Is there any evidence -throughout Nature that the spirit of justice is -anything but a dream of man himself which is -never to be fulfilled? We do not like to speak of -“death,” but prefer rather to avoid the hated -term by some journalistic periphrasis, such as -“solved the great enigma.” But is there any -enigma? Or are we going to solve it? Is it not -more likely that our protoplasm is destined to -become dissolved into its primordial electrons, -and ultimately to be lost in the general ocean of -ether, and that when we die we shall solve -no enigma, because there is no enigma to -solve?</p> - -<p>To sum up, death probably does not hurt -nearly so much as the ordinary sufferings which -are the lot of everybody in living; the act of -death is probably no more terrible than our -nightly falling asleep; and probably the condition -of everlasting rest is what Fate has in store -for us, and we can face it bravely without flinching -when our time comes. But whether we flinch or -not will not matter; we have to die all the same, -and we shall be less likely to flinch if we can feel -that we have tried to do our duty. And what -are we to say of a man who has seen his duty, and -urgently longed to perform it, but has failed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> -because God has not given him sufficient strength? -“Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor,” -as old Cicero said of himself. If there is any -enigma at all, it lies in the frustrated longings and -bitter disappointment of that man.</p> - -<p>Probably the best shield throughout life against -the atrocious evils and injustices which every man -has to suffer is a kind of humorous fatalism which -holds that other people have suffered as much as -ourselves; that such suffering is a necessary concomitant -of life upon this world; and that nothing -much matters so long as we do our duty in the -sphere to which Fate has called us. A kindly -irony which enables us to laugh at the world and -sympathize with its troubles is a very powerful -aid in the battle; and if a doctor does his part in -alleviating pain and postponing death—if he does -his best for rich and poor, and always listens to the -cry of the afflicted,—and if he endeavours to -leave his wife and children in a position better -than he himself began, I do not see what more -can be expected of him either in this world or the -next. And probably Huxley was not far wrong -when he said: “I have no faith, very little hope, -and as much charity as I can afford.” It is -amazing that there are some people in the world -to-day who look upon a man who professes these -merciful sentiments as a miscreant doomed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -eternal flames because he will not profess to -believe in their own particular form of religion. -They think they have answered him when they -proclaim that his creed is sterile.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph1">FOOTNOTES:</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> I have read or heard that one of the charges against Cardinal -Wolsey was that he had given the King syphilis by whispering -in his ear. The nature of the story so whispered is not disclosed, -but may be imagined. But the proud prelate had several -perfectly healthy illegitimate children, and on the whole it is -probable that Henry caught the disease in the usual way.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> They really seem to have taken some little pains to make -the death of the King’s old flame as little terrible as possible. -They might have burnt her or subjected her to the usual grim -preliminaries of the scaffold. Probably they did this not -because the King had ever loved her, but because she was a -queen, and therefore not to be subjected to needless infamy; -one of the Lord’s anointed, in short.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> To pause for a moment, probably the element of human -sacrifice may have entered into the hair-cutting episode, as it -did in the action of the women of Carthage during the last -siege; and possibly there may have been some shamefaced -reserve in the attributing of the fashion to the example of an -egregious “Buster Brown” of New York. To my own memory -the fashion was first called either the “Joan of Arc” cut or -the “Munitioner” cut. The “Buster Brown” cut came -later, and seems to have been seized upon by the English as -an excuse against showing deep feelings. It is pleasanter to -think that Joan of Arc was really at that time in the hearts of -English women; the cult of semi-worship that so strengthened -the Allies was really worship of the qualities which mankind -has read into the memory of the little maid of Domremy. As -she raised the siege of Orleans, so her memory encouraged the -Allies to persevere through years of agony nearly as great -as her own.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> We can see from the statues of Jeanne d’Arc how near akin -are the sex-complex and the art-complex. I do not refer to -the innumerable pretty statues scattered throughout the French -churches, which are merely ideal portraits of sainted women. -The magnificent equestrian statue by Fremiet in the Place des -Pyramides, Paris, is a portrait of a plump little French peasant-girl -trying to look fierce, and succeeding about as well as Audrey -might if she tried to play Lady Macbeth. But it is essentially -female, and, in my idea of Jeanne d’Arc, is therefore wrong, -for we really know nothing about her beyond what we read in -the trials. Even more female is the statue of her by Romaneill -in the Melbourne Art Gallery, in which the artist has actually -depicted the corslet as curved to accommodate moderate-sized -breasts, a thing which would probably have shocked Jeanne -herself, for she wished to make herself sexually unattractive. -The face, though common, is probably accurate in that it -depicts her expression as saintly. No doubt when she was -listening to her Voices she did look dreamy and ethereal. But -we have no authority for believing that she was in the slightest -degree beautiful—if anything, she was probably rather the reverse.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> I hate to suggest that these specks before the eyes may have -been the result of toxæmia from the intestine induced by confinement -and terror.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> Grotius was the Dutchman who could write Latin verse -at the age of nine, and had to leave Holland because of fierce -theological strife. He began the study for his great work on -the laws of war in prison, from which he escaped by the remarkable -loyalty of his wife. Like so many romantic episodes, -fiction is here anticipated by fact.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> Sir W. Stirling-Maxwell, <i>The Cloister Life of Charles V</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> It has been thought that she suffered from “phantom-tumour”—“pseudo-cyesis” -in medical language.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> Dr. Gordon Davidson, a well-known ophthalmic surgeon -of Sydney, thinks that Pepys probably suffered from iridocyclitis, -the result of some toxæmia, possibly caused by his -extreme imprudence in eating and drinking.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p> -</div></div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POST MORTEM ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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