Part 16

To this his wife responds indifferently, although the miller persists in asking for a bottle of good wine, saying that his “reins and belly need the supreme consolation of the bottle.” The wife obstinately refuses her husband the wine, remarking that he cannot “repair his stomach by filling the belly;” but, instead, she sends for the priest, who is, moreover, her lover, and carries on a flirtation with the holy man in the presence of her husband, for the purpose of making the invalid rise from his sick-bed; but, thinking his end near, the miller demands that he shall be permitted to die in the faith, or “_mourir catholiquement_.” He confesses to the priest, avowing all his thefts, his frauds, his falsification and _amours_, and is prepared to render his soul.

But the miller has absorbed some of the popular ideas of his day, professed by certain philosophers of the time; he believes that, at the moment of death, the soul of man escapes by his anus, and warns the priest to absolve him from his sins, saying:

“Mon ventre trop se determine. Helas! Je ne scay que je face; Ostez vous!”

The priest answers:

“Ha! sauf vostre grace!”

Then the miller remarks:

“Ostez vous, car je me conchye.”

The wife and the priest pull the sick man to the edge of the bed and place him in such a position that, if the doctrine of soul departure by the anus be true, they may witness the miller’s final performance. The phenomenon of rectal flatulence is now observed, when suddenly to the consternation of the wife and priest, a demon appears, and placing a sack over the dying miller’s anus catches the rectal gas and flies off in sulphurous vapor. In the next act we see the Devil appear before his patron Lucifer bearing the sack supposed to contain the damned soul of the miller received in the aforesaid sack at the moment it escaped from the anus. The devil is commanded by Lucifer to empty the sack at the feet of Proserpine who is busily engaged in cooking in Hell’s kitchen, but in place of the miller’s soul they only find _spoiled bran_; the rascal has cheated even in death.

It seems strange that earlier comedy writers all showed a tendency to make their principle scenes pathological burlesques. Thus in many plays the heroes and heroines were attacked by colic in order to excite the laughter of the audience, when the buffoon would imitate by signs the act of defecation. This peculiar French gayety and lack of prudery is fully evidenced in the comic effects of Pourceaugnac with the detersive, insinuative and carminative clysters of Moliere.

This farce, had in former days, an immense success, and is still occasionally played, being considered a _chef d’œuvre_ of malice and humor by our best critics and most distinguished authors. In France the audience always laugh when a thief while plundering is suddenly taken with pains in his bowels and diarrhœa, while a rectal syringe flourished aloft as a weapon of defense will bring down the gallery in a storm of applause.

L’AVEUGLE ET LE BOITEUX

Is another play in which medicine acts a part, by the same author of the preceding farce; the plot is as follows: A blind man and a lame man implore public charity on a deserted road; the blind man deplores his fate as never having seen the light, and the lame man bitterly bemoans not being able to walk but a few steps at one time, on account of the gout which has rendered him paraplegic. These two make a mutual avowal of their infirmities and agree to form a copartnership for mutual assistance; the lame man climbs on the blind man’s shoulders and they start out the road in search of charitable persons who may aid them with alms. On going some little distance the beggars hear a noise; this is made by a procession of monks going on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Saint Martin. “What do they say?” asks the blind man; to which the lame man responds:

They tell of things curious and quaint, Of miracles, wonderous, if true, Performed by a newly made saint, For whose aid each monk goes to sue; This Saint cures all ills he can find, Even fits, ulcers, fevers and gout; He _healeth the halt_ and the blind In a manner that’s past finding out.

We all know the eternal popular faith and belief in the ability of the Saints to cure every malady that flesh is heir to. However, in the present instance, it seems that one of the requirements necessary to be healed was a perfect spirit of resignation to all ills on the part of the sufferer—_now this is the case of our two mendicants_, who now become alarmed at the idea that they may be cured and thus deprived of a method of earning their daily bread, _i.e._, by beggary, so they undertake a number of subterfuges to escape the pious pilgrimage, which gives rise to many amusing adventures and situations, which might be well utilized by some modern playwriter. In the end the two mendicants escape from going with the pilgrim monks to visit the Saint’s shrine, as the blind man detests the light and the lame man is too lazy to walk, in fact both are admirably suited with their afflictions. It is during one of these scenes that the lame man relates to the blind man the best methods for deceiving the public by simulating maladies, and making a regular profession of begging. He discloses all the secrets of those who in the Middle Ages sought public commiseration to earn alms; he remarks:

“Puisque de tout je suis reffait, Maulgre mes deus et mon visage, Tant feray, que seray deffaict, Encore ung coup de mon corsaige, Car je vous dis bien que encor scay—je”

“La grant pratique et aussi l’art, Par onguement et par herbaige, Combien que soye miste et gaillart, Que huy on dira que ma jambe art Du cruel mal de Sainct Anthoyne,” etc.

In this lengthy poem, too long to transcribe from the French, the lame mendicant gives a list of herbs, through means of which various diseases may be simulated, especially those maladies of the skin that are repulsive to the majority of mankind; thus he describes the itch produced by certain varieties of the _clematis_ and the appearance of leprosy induced by the use of an ointment of which _veronica_ formed the basis. He also describes how to produce the disease of _Saint Fiacre_, an affection characterized by warts and ulcers around the anus. It is useless to add there is nothing new under the sun. Let us now turn our attention to another play, _i.e._;

LUNACY AND LOVE.

This is a play with six characters, written in 1556, by Louise Labe, sometimes called the _Belle Cordiere_.

Love, at all periods of time, has served as an inexhaustible subject of analysis and observation, not only to poets and novelists, but also to moralists, and especially physicians. Psychologists have always considered love, when excessive, as an evidence of insanity. Esquirol says that “love has lost its empire in France, indifference having captivated the hearts of our people, who, given over to amorous passions, having neither purity nor exhaltation, engender attacks of erotic lunacy.” This learned alienist has also discovered that out of 323 cases of insanity among the poor, love figured as a cause in forty-six cases; and out of 167 cases among the rich, twenty-five persons went insane on account of love. These close relations between “Lunacy and Love,” admitted since mankind _entered into society_, have served as a text for the Middle Ages, as is witnessed by the title of the play we have mentioned; a work the more curious, for reason of its _finesse_, notwithstanding the jests employed by its author as the following analysis will witness.

Love and Lunacy arrive at the same moment at a festival to which Jupiter has convened all the Gods. Lunacy, full of arrogance, wishes to enter the banquet-hall before Love, and in order to do so turns everything topsy-turvy to secure his end. The vindictive Love, in order to be avenged, discharges a flight of arrows from the historical quiver; but Lunacy avoids these by becoming invisible, and in his wrath pulls out Love’s eyes, but afterwards skilfully puts them back in place with a bandage.

Love, in despair at being blinded, goes to implore the help of his mother. The latter desires the boy to remove the bandages from his eyes, but his efforts are useless; they are full of knots. Venus calls on Jupiter for justice for the injury done her boy. The Father of Gods accepts the position of arbitrator and cites the offender to appear before his tribunal. Mercury acts as attorney for Lunacy and Apollo does the special pleading for Love. In the cross-examination, Love tries to inform Jupiter of the fashions of loving, and tells him if he desires true affection and happiness to descend to earth, drop all appearances of greatness, and, under the guise of a simple mortal, seek to captivate some earthly beauty. Apollo, speaking for his client, young Cupid, is so eloquent that all the assemblage of Gods is seduced by his oratory, and condemns Lunacy without even giving him a hearing. But Jupiter is impartial in his tribunal, and allows Mercury to argue for the defense. The latter pleads, in turn, with such eloquence that one-half the jury is ready to say that Lunacy is not guilty—at least among Olympian jurors. Jupiter is undecided; he is very wise, however, and makes the following decision. “Owing to the differences of witnesses and the importance of the case, we have set the case for a re-hearing in three times seven times nine centuries—18,900 years—until which time Folly, or Lunacy, shall lead the Blind (Cupid) anywhere she chooses to go; and, at the end of the time named, should Cupid’s eyes be restored, the Fates may decree otherwise.”

Lunacy and Love are thus rendered inseparable and eternal on earth; they are connected together for the happiness of humanity and the delight of psychologists, philosophers and moralists, who will always find in these subjects something new for meditation and study. Need we add, also, that the alienists will secure any number of clients owing to Jupiter’s decision?

Let us now turn to a brief mention of

THE TREASURER’S WIFE.

This comedy, by Jacques Grevin, a medical poet, born at Clermont, was written in the sixteenth century. This physician, from his earliest youth, was enamored with the daughter of one of his confreres, Charles Etienne; she was a noted beauty, but preferred another doctor, Jean Liebaut, the author of “La Maison Rustique,” to our poet. In order to console himself for the loss of his sweetheart, Grevin commenced to write rhymes, and even surpassed Jodelle, the author of “Cleopatra and Dido,” by his fecundity. He followed Marguerite de France, wife of the Duke of Savoy, to whom he was family physician, to Turin, and died there in 1570.

He left several plays in verse, the principal one of which was “La Tresoriere,” an adulterous comedy relating to the intrigue of a financier’s wife. It is only of medical interest inasmuch as it alludes to syphilis, which at the time this play was written prevailed in Europe almost as an epidemic, and as a study of the morals of the epoch is not without interest to the syphilographer. The author, probably owing to his early disappointment in love, had but a poor opinion of the virtue of the women in his century, and makes many odd comparisons, as, for instance:

“Woman, ’tis often been said, Resembles a church lamp bright, That hangs on the altar overhead, And outshines the candles at night; She sheds an equal light on all, But without her light, no shadows fall.”

He was no believer in the morality of the aristocratic classes, and alludes to the laxity of social rules and the spread of syphilis in the following lines:

“Aussi la femme a beau changer Un familier a l’etranger, L’etranger au premier venu, Toujours son cas est maintenu En son entier, si d’aventure Elle n’y mele quelqu’ ordure.”

The reference to the syphilis is here found in the two last lines; if she has a love affair, there is ordure in the result. The allusion in other passages is much more apparent, but too impolite for an English rendering.

Let us now turn to another curious old French play,

LUCILLE AND INNOCENCE UNCOVERED.

Pharmacists, even at the present day, notwithstanding the rigid laws to the contrary, often sell narcotics without a prescription. That the modern druggist only follows the custom of his ancestor is evidenced by this comedy of the sixteenth century, by Louis Le Jars, _i.e._, “Lucille.”

The plot is as follows: At the moment a rich banker gives the hand of his daughter Lucille to the Baron Saint Amour, he learns that the former has been already secretly married to one of his clerks, a young man named Ascagne. In his wrath the banker places a pistol at Ascagne’s head, offering him at the same moment a goblet of poison, giving him his choice as to the manner of death. Ascagne chooses poison, and bravely drinks half the goblet and falls down, apparently inanimate. The father then has the body of Ascagne carried into his daughter’s presence, and also the remaining half-goblet of poison; the young woman does not hesitate to drain the other half of the poison to the dregs, and drops to the floor, like Ascagne, without consciousness.

Almost immediately following this double poisoning, a courier arrives and demands Ascagne, who turns out to be the son of the King of Poland. The banker is in despair, and sends post-haste for the apothecary who furnished the poison, and the druggist forthwith declare that the mixture is only a narcotic, the effects of which he can soon neutralize. Scene of overpowering tenderness and joy, and marriage over again to a real Prince.

It sometimes happens that physicians themselves give away opiates without regard for the rights of the _medicamentarius renenum coquens_ of the neighborhood. Jean Auvray, Member of the French Parliament and poet, evidences this fact in a tragio-comedy entitled “Innocence Uncovered.” This little play is only a rural version of Phedra and Hippolyte. Marsilie, in fact, is in love with Fabrice, the son of Phocus, her husband, by a former marriage. Her passion for the young man is so violent that she falls ill, and in a visit made her by Fabrice the latter learns of the love his step-mother bears him, but loyally repulses her advances. Marsilie, reflecting on the infamy of her conduct, wishes to kill herself in a fit of remorse; but to prevent this and calm her, Fabrice promises that if she will not suicide he will visit her when his father is absent from home. Phocus soon starts on a journey. Marsilie recalls to Fabrice the promise he made, but Fabrice answers her offers with contempt and quits her presence overcome with horror. Acting under the advice of her maid servant, through fear that the young man may tell his father of her perfidy, Marsilie consents to poison Fabrice, and sends her _valet_, Thomas, to see a doctor and thus secure poison. The unfortunate _valet_ is very much embarrassed and cannot tell the physician exactly what he desires, and in order to obtain some deadly drug he details the symptoms of an imaginary malady, and descants in the following manner: “Sir, for several days past my master, who exceeds the Persians as a gourmand in the cooking of delicious meats, gave a grand dinner party, equal to that of the Gods at the wedding festival of Thetis. Now, know that I, his principal servant, sat behind him; there by his order I tasted every dish brought in by the butler, when such a terrible fury broke forth in my belly that I was overcome with fright and agony. The rumblings and grumblings in my interior were only comparable to the reverberation of thunder claps among the highest crags of Tartarus. Hell was astonished and our castle walls shook,” etc., etc.

This narration, which is made in French rhyme and is too long for reproduction, naturally leads the doctor to prescribe for the impudent _valet_, who proposes to pay him a hundred crowns for enough poison to kill his master. The physician is angry and revengeful at the same time at the _valet’s_ dreadful proposition, but, restraining himself, he accepts the gold and gives Thomas in place of poison only a soporific liquor; this the valet brings to his mistress, Marsilie. Now, Antoine, the only son of Marsilie by Phocus, returning from the chase, sees the flagon of liquor, and, mistaking it for wine, swallows the contents at one draught. He falls to the floor unconscious and all believe him dead. Marsilie accuses Fabrice of poisoning his stepbrother; the unfortunate young man is taken before the judge, who condemns him to death; he is about to be executed, when the physician enters on the scene, tells all that has passed, and restores to life the supposed dead Antoine.

Marsilie is tried and found guilty and repudiated by her husband and family; and Fabrice becomes dearer than ever to his father. Without making further commentaries on this piece, we see the place occupied on the stage by medicine in the Middle Ages and the social standing of the physician in polite society. We also note the _irregular_ practice of the doctor, as well as the high standard of professional honor he maintained in many instances.

THE GOUT.

This tragedy, in poetic form, was composed towards the close of the sixteenth century by J. D. L. Blambeausaut. It has only three scenes, and depicts the triumph of the gout. The poet describes an old man overcome by the multiple pains of podagra, praying to obtain some slight respite from the atrocious and agonizing pain he endures. The Gout, an ever malevolent deity, rejects the old man’s prayer for help, but carries him into a gathering of doctors who are vaunting, in mutual admiration society fashion, their power in jugulating all forms of disease and exalting their specifics for every known affection. In order to punish these arrogant disciples of Æsculapius for their presumption, the Gout gives them all the disease that bears his name, and afterwards jeers at their impotent efforts to cure themselves of aching joints.

This tragedy, name given by the author of the poem, is a very curious treatise on the gout in rhyme, in which we find all the pathogenetic theories given credence before the time that medical chemistry revealed the action of an excess of uric acid in the organism. The blood, bile, peccant humors settling in the parts affected were, as we all know, causes attributed to diathesis by the majority of medical authors of the Middle Ages. Thus the gout-afflicted man, in his imprecations against what he calls “the torturer of humanity,” comes to say:

“From the top of my head to the end of my toes I am cruelly tortured by agony’s woes, Filled up with black blood and billious humor, My flesh seems to pulsate like a sore tumor. The eating and gnawing I can’t describe well; My tendons all ache with the twinges of Hell, While through my fingers pains cut like a knife And add to my torment! I’m weary of life.”

Meantime our patient does not appear to have a robust faith in the humoral theories of his physician, for he adds, in accursing the malady that has ruined his health, that it permits him no repose:

“Mal que jamais l’homme n’a pu comprendre Qui le plus sage induirait a se pendre.”

That is to say, that the doctors do not understand how to manage the disease, a common idea among patients who are not cured of their malady as speedily as they desire.

In one of the scenes the gout addresses a pompous eulogy on its power over humanity, and inveighs against those physicians who discover a new specific against gout every day. This list of remedies for the disease is appalling; we cull but a few to satisfy the reader’s curiosity:

“One advises flea wort and a parsley pill, One eats fruit at morning, when with gout he’s ill, One chews leaves of lettuce, one takes wild purslain; Another smells pond lilies, when he doth complain. Some remedies most curious are for gout deemed good, Such are herbs and simples to purify the blood; Angelica and gentian, the iris and green thyme, Along with fresh culled myrtle will cure it all the time; Hyssop and lavender, cherry and water cress, Basil, hops and anise, all make the pain grow less. Lentills, sage and savory, when the bowels they unbind, And the marvelous merchoracan that comes from far off Ind. There’s the beauteous laurel leaf that crowneth bard and king, Privet and cardamoms, whose praise we often sing. And there’s the sleeping poppy, what peace within it resides, Culled by the Turkish houris in the garden Hesperides; There’s the soothing comfrey and the glorious hoarhound, And the magic betal nut, in tropic isles that’s found; There’s the fragrant _fleur de lis_, when with pain you cry, There’s the odorous sheep dung, given always on the sly. Some dote on peach blossoms; some on saffron red, Some like hyoscyamus mixed with piss-a-bed; There’s bread crumbs and fennel mixed with young carrots Pounded in a mortar along with eschalots. There are some who use an ointment this disease to heal, Made of rinds of citron and golden orange peel, With frankencense and veratria root, to ease gouty pain, Applied to the great toes on the leaves of green plantain. There’s saltpeter ointment too, when to the foot applied It makes the patient furious wroth, or else he’s terrified, Giving the gout new twinges, and the sufferer spasms Only eased by eggs and flour in a soft cataplasm. Some patients take a razor and their own flesh deeply cut; The wound then duly poulticed is with meal and Cyprus nut. Some take red cabbage when other methods fail And eat it with vinegar mixed with the slime of snail; Some use biting dressings made from ugly lizards, Pounded up with doe’s hoof and weasel gizzards. Many think a certain and most efficacious cure Is a little blue stone ointment mixed with man’s ordure, And a celebrated surgeon, a knight of great renown, Used virgin urine as a cure for all the men in town. Some wear charms like foxes’ tails, or a beaver tooth; Others boil a new born caul and chew it up, forsooth,” etc., etc., _ad nauseam_.

Such are a few of the drugs employed against the gout, and certainly we cannot enumerate all the remedies spoken of by this malevolent demon. The treatment of Alexander Trallian, for example, is no less odd than many of the recipes given in this poetic formulary; it was composed of myrrh, coral, cloves, rue, peony and birthwort pounded together and mixed in certain proportions, and prescribed as an antidote to the gout for the space of 365 days, in the following manner: To be taken for 100 consecutive days, and then omitted for thirty days; then taken for another 100 days, with fifteen days omission afterwards; finally, every other day for 360 days. Circumcision was also a remedy, only applicable to Christians for obvious reasons.[98]

This treatment is an example of the methodical system, and “rests upon superstitious gifts,” says Sprengel. But there are some merits discoverable even in this apparent superstition, _i.e._, the great truth that the gout is a constitutional disease produced by luxury, and consequently incurable by medicines; a severe regimen being imposed, at the same time foolish prescriptions were given; it was the dieting and not the formula that made Alexander Trallian’s treatment so successful. However, it must not be forgotten that some medicines had a powerful effect in attenuating the violence of the gouty attack; it was for this reason that Cœlius Aurelianus resorted to purgatives and mineral waters; and among the drugs used by chance in the Middle Ages were found the flowers and bulbs of colchicum; the haughty Demon of Gout dared not treat this remedy with disdain.