DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.63221#0423
LAST DAYS OF MARGARET OF NAVARRE 375
the sister, the wife, the friend, the poet. Other words of
hers there are—words that she wrote about herself—which
seem to us still more fitting: a truer epitaph than those
which poetasters composed for her, and yet too simple and
unconscious for any sepulchral marble. “Celle,” they run,
“qui a plus porte que son faix de 1’ennui commun a toute
creature bien-nee.”
Queen that she was, she had borne the burden—and she
slept in her turn.
Her name is inseparable from her age; inseparable from
the brother whom she loved. In some ways they were the
complement, in others, the opposite of one another. The
contrast they presented in their early days held good at the
end of their lives. Both may be said to have fallen short
in achievement, if their deeds are compared with the aims
with which they set out. Francis failed from too little
feeling; Margaret from too much. He lacked the serious-
ness, the weight and concentration, which are needful to
carry out big purposes. Had he boasted these qualities,
the fate of Italy would have been different. He would either
have never tried to win her, or else he would not have lost
her. He would not have betrayed Reform; he would have
enlarged the field of the Renaissance. Had he simply been
bad, or had he possessed less sensibility, he might have
pursued the single-minded policy of a cool nature. But this
he could not do, even in matters of detail. Cold and im-
pressionable, choked by his impulses, blown hither and
thithei* by the senses, he did not know what he was making
for, and he ruined his own heart as well as the hearts of
others.
the sister, the wife, the friend, the poet. Other words of
hers there are—words that she wrote about herself—which
seem to us still more fitting: a truer epitaph than those
which poetasters composed for her, and yet too simple and
unconscious for any sepulchral marble. “Celle,” they run,
“qui a plus porte que son faix de 1’ennui commun a toute
creature bien-nee.”
Queen that she was, she had borne the burden—and she
slept in her turn.
Her name is inseparable from her age; inseparable from
the brother whom she loved. In some ways they were the
complement, in others, the opposite of one another. The
contrast they presented in their early days held good at the
end of their lives. Both may be said to have fallen short
in achievement, if their deeds are compared with the aims
with which they set out. Francis failed from too little
feeling; Margaret from too much. He lacked the serious-
ness, the weight and concentration, which are needful to
carry out big purposes. Had he boasted these qualities,
the fate of Italy would have been different. He would either
have never tried to win her, or else he would not have lost
her. He would not have betrayed Reform; he would have
enlarged the field of the Renaissance. Had he simply been
bad, or had he possessed less sensibility, he might have
pursued the single-minded policy of a cool nature. But this
he could not do, even in matters of detail. Cold and im-
pressionable, choked by his impulses, blown hither and
thithei* by the senses, he did not know what he was making
for, and he ruined his own heart as well as the hearts of
others.