Everywhere it is the great conquerors like Caesar and Scipio who excite youthful admiration and on the other hand the vanquished heroes like Hannibal and Charles XII who excite the ardent compassion with which our youth is so admirably endowed. From north to south, from east to west, the same dramatic passages tend to have the same effect on boys of twelve, thirteen, fifteen, and certain crucial epochs for humanity, the Renaissance, the Reformation, the French Revolution, seem to implant themselves in the intellect with a distinct corporeality and vital imagery. However, it is not by chance that certain figures and certain passages have, since the days of Plutarch, caused such unanimous inflaming of the imagination. This secret law, this reason—I see there that this History we view first as a mistress, an inflexible chronicler, can also sometimes be a poetess. I must emphasize the word sometimes. I say this because it is not so all the time, twenty-four uninterrupted hours a day, just as is the case with an artist or poet. Weeks and months can pass, the required fallow period for all community-building peoples, ordinary citizens and workers, even the most unproductive lives; all need time for preparation, the gathering-in. The gradual warm-up to the poetic craft is just like any other; they must rest and gather strength, marshal their forces before bursting forth in triumph. For an individual as much as for a nation the visionary state can never be habitual and permanent; and it would be absurd to demand of history, that “mysterious workshop of God”, as Goethe called it, that it continuously turn out great, stirring, shocking, gripping events and fascinating personalities. No, history’s story cannot simply tell of an endless procession of geniuses, of larger-than-life superhuman characters. It has its remission from tension, its remission from art, and who anyway would wish to read it as one reads a pulp detective novel, where every chapter is laden with gun-toting tension? Surely this would be an offence to the elevated spirit which necessarily permeates it. Let us be firm on this: History cannot be a poetess all the time; she can only, most of the time, play the role of simple chronicler, the clear speaker of facts. It is only on rare occasions that she has her sublime moments, namely those places and personalities which arouse the imagination of youth—in most cases it’s mere facts, unfinished material, sober sequential logic, established events. Then sometimes, at the heart of nature, without the interference of man, she forges a pure crystal—and presents in episodes or individuals, or epochs, such a level of tension, such a dramatic perfection that they appear like unsurpassed works of art; and History as poetess of world spirit puts to shame all earthbound poets and mortal spirits.

I would like to try to give another example of these heroic and poetic moments, which I named in one of my books, entitled Shooting Stars. Let us consider the European centuries which followed the barbarian invasions. In poetic terms they are not very productive. There are a handful of great figures, such as Attila and Charlemagne, and in Italy the sudden appearance of Dante. But these isolated great figures and their fascinating times, as interesting as they might be, do not meld into that exciting sequence which the true work of art requires. In a work of drama or a novel, it is never enough when the poet introduces only one major figure: a complete work of art must, if it is to excite interest, employ an opposing figure, for each needs the power to develop fully and reveal his true dimensions, which comes from a creative tension. In the same way, History, to articulate its stirring poetical character, must show several great figures at the same moment, and these truly impassioned moments are always uniquely those where some rupture occurs, or where mighty forces collide with destiny, like water plunging over a rock. For years it flows normally with an almost monotonous rhythm, then in a few sublime moments its banks suddenly draw together, a cataract arises, a raging torrent, feverish excitement, and at a stroke the historical scene consummates itself and overflows with a whole crowd of inspired contrasting figures.

Let us take by way of example the overcrowding of the historical scene during the epoch of Charles V. For centuries Europe had been fragmented. Suddenly, in a single blow, the greatest power disposed to any man fell into the hands of one monarch, one man. Charles V was at the same time King of Spain, Emperor of Germany, Lord of Italy, of Flanders, of Austria, possessor of a whole world of colonies; he could proudly state that his was an empire on which the sun never set. Had such an extraordinary profusion of dramatic moments ever been forged in so short a time by any power? It formed a vast tableau, poetry of colossal dimensions, bringing to the fore a number of fascinating and dynamic leading players, providing the prince with adversaries worthy of his own qualities, genuine monarchs. So in a short space of time Charles V faced three great rivals: François I, King of France, Suleyman, the all-powerful Padishah of the Turks, and Henry VIII of England. But three princes, even as allies, were not enough to destroy such a mighty power over a period of twenty years. So then History, be bolder! Be unstinting! To bring down Charles V new explosive forces needed to emerge, on the heels of the hitherto unrivalled explosive power of gunpowder and the printing press. These forces gathered in the shape of the soul of a minor Augustinian monk named Martin Luther. This man stood up out of the people and, the pen his only weapon, totally laid waste to the unity of the Catholics.