PROLOGUE: From Current Concerns to the Subject of This Book • xiii PART I: From Luther's Ninety-five Theses to Boyle's "Invisible College" • 1 PART II: From the Bog and Sand of Versailles to the Tennis Court • 237 PART III: From Faust, Part I, to the "Nude Descending a Staircase No. 2" • 463 PART IV: From "The Great Illusion" to "Western Civ Has Got to Go" • 681 Reference Notes • 803 Index of Persons • 829 Index of Subjects • 853 IT TAKES ONLY a look at the numbers to see that the 20th century is coming to an end. A wider and deeper scrutiny is needed to see that in the West the culture of the last 500 years is ending at the same time. Believing this to be true, I have thought it the right moment to review in sequence the great achievements and the sorry failures of our half millennium. This undertaking has also given me a chance to describe at first hand for any interested posterity some aspects of present decadence that may have escaped notice, and to show how they relate to others generally acknowledged. But the lively and positive predominate: this book is for people who like to read about art and thought, manners, morals, and religion, and the social setting in which these activities have been and are taking place. I have assumed that such readers prefer discourse to be selective and critical rather than neutral and encyclopedic. And guessing further at their preference, I have tried to write as I might speak, with only a touch of pedantry here and there to show that I understand modern tastes. Because the plan of the work is new, and thus unlike that of excellent histories that might be named, special care has been given to the ordering of the parts. Linking is particularly important in cultural history, because culture is a web of many strands; none is spun by itself, nor is any cut off at a fixed date like wars and regimes. Events that are commonly said to mark novelty in thought or change of direction in culture are but emphatic signposts, not boundary walls. I punctuate the course of my narrative with events of that kind, but the divisions do not hang upon them. Rather, the chapter divisions suggested themselves after rethinking the given past to find in it the clearest patterns. They are framed by the four great revolutions—the religious, monarchical, liberal, and social roughly a hundred years apart—whose aims and passions still govern our minds and behavior. During the writing of this book I was frequendy asked by friends and colleagues how long its preparation had taken. I could only answer: a lifetime. My studies of separate periods and figures, which began in the late 1920s, disclosed unexpected vistas and led to conclusions at variance with a number of accepted judgments. After further study and a review of what I had published, it seemed possible to shape my findings into a continuous tale. In it, as will appear, figures worth knowing emerge from obscurity and new features appear in others. Familiar ideas are reassessed, particularly the notions in vogue today as to where in the past our present merits and troubles come from. I do not expect the reader to be steadily grateful. Nobody likes to hear a rooted opinion challenged, and even less to see good reasons offered for a principle or policy once in force and now universally condemned—for example, the divine right of kings or religious persecution. Our age is so tolerant, so broad-minded and disinclined to violence in its ideologies, that to find a case made out for the temper of the 16th or 17th century is bound to affront the righteous. Yet without exposure to this annoyance, one's understanding of our modern thoughts and virtues is incomplete. Not that I am in favor of royal masters or persecution or any other evil supposedly outgrown. I cite these examples as a hint that I have not consulted current prejudices. My own are enough to keep me busy as I aim at the historian's detachment and sympathy. For if, as Ranke said, every period stands justified in the sight of God, it deserves at least sympathy in the sight of Man.* Claiming detachment need not raise the issue of objectivity. It is waste of breath to point out that every observer is in some way biased. It does not follow that bias cannot be guarded against, that all biases distort equally, or that controlled bias remains as bad as propaganda. In dealing with the arts, for example, it is being "objective" to detect one's blind spots—step one in detachment. The second is to refrain from downgrading what one does not respond to. One has then the duty to report the informed judgment of others. Since some events and figures in our lengthy past strike me as different from what they have seemed before, I must occasionally speak in my own name and give reasons to justify the heresy. I can only hope that this accountability will not tempt some reviewers to label the work "a very personal book." I would ask them, What book worth reading is not? If Henry Adams were the echo of Gibbon, we would not greatiy value the pastiche. On this point of personality, William James concluded after reflection that philosophers do not give us transcripts but visions of the world. Similarly, historians give visions of the past. The good ones are not merely plausible; they rest on a solid base of facts that nobody disputes. There is nothing personal about facts, but there is about choosing and grouping them. It is by the patterning and the meanings ascribed that the vision is conveyed. And this, if anything, is what each historian adds to the general understanding. Read more than one historian and the chances are good that you will come closer and closer to the full complexity. Whoever wants an absolute copy of what happened must gain access to the mind of God. Speaking of meanings, I must say a word about the devices and symbols used in the text; and first about the role of the quotations in the margins. They are meant to supply the "real self and voice" of the persons in the drama. In form, these extracts resemble the familiar "pull-outs" in magazines—sentences lifted out of the article to lure the reader. In this book they are not pull-outs but "add-ins." Their insertion without preamble helps to shorten the text by dispensing with the usual: "As Erasmus wrote to Henry VIII,..." "As Mark Twain said about Joan of Arc,..."; after which, more words are needed to sew up the cut. This small innovation also permits juxtaposition for contrast or emphasis. By the end, the reader may find that he has been treated to an anthology of choice morsels.