A Literary History of the English People Part 12

Marc's friends, who warn him, are traitors and felons, vowed to scorn and hate, as were formerly Gannelons, who betrayed fair France. To be in love is to be worthy of heaven, is to be a saint, and to practise virtue. This theory, put forward in the twelfth century by the singers of the British cycle, has survived, and will be found again in the "Astree," in Byron, and in Musset.

These tales multiply, and their worldly, courteous, amorous character becomes more and more predominant. Woman already plays the part that she plays in the novels of yesterday. A glance opens Paradise to Arthur's knights; they find in a smile all the magic which it pleases us, the living of to-day, to discover there. A trite word of farewell from the woman they cherish is transformed by their imagination, and they keep it in their hearts as a talisman. Who has not cherished similar talismans?

Lancelot recalls the past to queen Guinevere: "And you said, G.o.d be with you, fair, gentle friend! Never since have these words left my heart. It is these words that shall make me a _preux_, if ever I am one; for never since was I in such great peril but that I remembered these words.

They have comforted me in all my sorrows; these words have kept and guarded me from all danger; these words have fed me when hungry and made me wealthy when poor."

"By my troth," said the queen, "those words were happily spoken, and blessed be G.o.d who caused me to speak them. But I did not put into them as much as you saw, and to many a knight have I spoken the same without thinking of more than what they plainly bear."[192]

After being a saint, the beloved object becomes a G.o.ddess; her wishes are decrees, her mysterious caprices are laws which must not even be questioned; harder rules of love are from year to year imposed on the heroes; they are expected to turn pale at the sight of their mistress; Lancelot espying a hair of Guinevere well-nigh faints; they observe the thirty-one regulations laid down by Andre le Chapelain, to guide the perfect lover.[193] After having been first an accessory, then an irresistible pa.s.sion, love, that the poets think to magnify, will soon be nothing but a ceremonial. From the time of Lancelot we border on folly; military honour no longer counts for the hero; Guinevere out of caprice orders Lancelot to behave "his worst"; without hesitating or comprehending he obeys, and covers himself with shame. Each successive romance writer goes a step farther, and makes new additions; we come to immense compositions, to strings of adventures without any visible link; to heroes so uniformly wonderful that they cease to inspire any interest whatever. Tristan's rose-bush twined itself around the pillars, the pillars are lacking now, and the cl.u.s.ters of flowers trail on the ground. Tristan was a harbinger of Musset; Guinevere gives us a desire for a Cervantes.

Meanwhile, the minstrels of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries enjoy their success and their fame; their number increases; they are welcomed in the castles, hearkened to in the towns; their tales are copied in ma.n.u.scripts, more and more magnificently painted. They celebrate, in England as in France, Gauvain, "le chevalier aux demoiselles," Ivain, "le chevalier au lion"; Merlin, Joseph of Arimathea, Percival and the quest of the mysterious Graal, and all the rest of the Round Table heroes.[194]

IV.

They have also shorter narratives in prose and verse, the subject of which is generally love, drawn from French, Latin, Greek, and even Hindu legends,[195] stories like those of Amis and Amile, of Floire and Blanchefleur, lays like those of Marie de France.[196] Marie was Norman, and lived in the time of Henry II., to whom she dedicated her poems.

They are mostly graceful love-tales, sweetly told, without affectation or effort, and derived from Celtic originals, some being of Armorican and some of Welsh descent. Several are devoted to Tristan and other Arthurian knights. In the lay of the Ash, Marie tells a story of female virtue, the main incidents of which will be found again later in the tale of Griselda. Her lay of the Two Lovers would have delighted Musset:

"Truth is that in Neustria, which we call Normandy," lived once a n.o.bleman who had a beautiful daughter; every one asked her in marriage, but he always refused, so as not to part from her. At last he declared he would give his daughter to the man who could carry her to the top of the mountain. All tried, but all failed.

A young count falls in love with her, and is loved again. She sends him to an old aunt of hers, who lives at Salerno, and will give him certain potions to increase his strength. He does all she bids him. On the day appointed, provided with a draught to swallow during the trial, he takes the fair maiden in his arms. She had fasted for many days so as to weigh less, and had put on an exceedingly light garment: "Except her shift, no other stuff she wore";

N'ot drap vestu fors la chemise.

He climbs half-way, then begins to flag; but he wishes to owe everything to his energy, and, without drinking, slowly continues to ascend. He reaches the top and falls dead. The young girl flings away the now useless flask, which breaks; and since then the mountain herbs moistened by the potion have wonderful healing powers. She looks at her lover and dies, like the Simonne of Boccaccio and of Musset. They were buried on the mountain, where has since been built "the priory of the Two Lovers."

The rulers of England delight in still shorter poems, but again on the same subject: love. Like the rest of the French, they have an innate fondness for a kind of literature unknown to their new compatriots: namely, _chansons_. They composed a great number of them, and listened to many more of all sorts. The subjects of the kings of England became familiar with every variety of the kind; for the Angevin princes now possessed such wide domains that the sources of French poetry, poetry of the North, poetry of the South, lyrical poetry of Poictou and of Maine, gushed forth in the very heart of their empire.[197]

Their English subjects got acquainted with these poems in two ways: firstly, because many of those songs were sung in the island; secondly, because many Englishmen, soldiers, clerks, minstrels, messengers, followed the king and stayed with him in the parts where the main wells and fountains of the French _chanson_ happened to be.[198] They became thus familiarised with the "reverdies," May songs, which celebrate springtime, flowers, and free loves; "carols," or dancing songs; "pastourelles," the wise or foolish heroines of which are shepherdesses; "disputoisons" or debates, to which kind belongs the well-known song of "transformations" introduced by Mistral in his "Mireio," and set to music by Gounod; "aube" songs, telling the complaint of lovers, parted by dawn, and in which, long before Shakespeare, the Juliets of the time of Henry II. said to their Romeos:

It is not yet near day; It was the nightingale and not the lark.

Il n'est mie jors, saverouze au cors gent, Si m'at amors, l'aloete nos ment.[199]

"It is not yet near day, my sweet one; love be my help, the lark lies."

In these songs, the women are slight and lithe; they are more gentle than doves; their faces are all pink and white: "If the flowers of the hawthorn were united to the rose, not more delicate would be their colour than that on my lady's clear face."

Si les flurs d[el] albespine Fuissent a roses a.s.sis, N'en ferunt colur plus fine Ke n'ad ma dame au cler vis.[200]

With these songs, Love ventures out of castles; we find him "in cellars, or in lofts under the hay."[201] He steals even into churches, and a sermon that has come down to us, preached in England in the thirteenth century, has for text, instead of a verse of Scripture, a verse of a French song: "Fair Alice rose at morn, clothed and adorned her body; an orchard she went in, five flowers there she found, a wreath she made with them of blooming roses; for G.o.d's sake, get you gone, you who do not love!" and with meek gravity the preacher goes on: Belle Alice is or might be the Virgin Mary; "what are those flowers," if not "faith, hope, charity, virginity, humility?"[202] The idea of turning worldly songs and music to religious ends is not, as we see, one of yesterday.

Tristan has led us very far from Beowulf, and fair Alice leads us still farther from the mariner and exile of Anglo-Saxon literature. To sum up in a word which will show the difference between the first and second period: on the lips of the conquerors of Hastings, odes have become _chansons_.

V.

Nothing comes so near ridicule as extreme sentiments, and no men had the sense of the ridiculous to a higher degree than the new rulers of the English country. At the same time with their chivalrous literature, they had a mocking one. They did not wait for Cervantes to begin laughing; these variable and many-sided beings sneered at high-flown sentiments and experienced them too. They sang the Song of Roland, and read with delight a romance in which the great emperor is represented strutting about before his barons, his crown on his head and his sword in his hand, asking the queen if he is not the most admirable prince in the world.[203] To his surprise, the queen says no, there is a better, there is King Hugon, emperor of Greece and of Constantinople. Charlemagne wishes to verify on the spot, and pledges his word that he will cut the queen's head off if she has not spoken truth. He mounts a donkey; the twelve peers follow his example, and in this fashion the flower of French chivalry takes its way to the East.

At Constantinople, the city of marvels, which had not yet become the city of mosques, but was still enriched by the spoils of Athens and Rome, where St. Sophia shone with all the glory of its mosaics intact, where the palace of the emperors dazzled the sight with its gold and its statues, the French princes could scarcely believe their eyes. At every step they were startled by some fresh wonder; here bronze children blowing horns; there a revolving hall set in motion by the sea-breeze; elsewhere a carbuncle which illuminated apartments at night. The queen might possibly have spoken truth. Evening draws on, they drink deep, and, excited by their potations, indulge in _gabs_, or boasts, that are overheard by a spy, and carefully noted. Ogier the Dane will uproot the pillar which supports the whole palace; Amer will make himself invisible and knock the emperor's head on the table; Roland will sound his horn so loudly that the gates of the town will be forced open.

Threatened and insulted by his guests, Hugon declares they shall either accomplish their _gabs_ or pay for their lies with their heads.

This is too much, and the author changes his tone. Will G.o.d permit the confusion of the emperor of the Franks, however well deserved it be?

"Vivat qui Francos diligit Christus!" was already written in the Salic law: Christ continues to love the Franks. He takes their cause into His own hands, not because of their deserts but because they are Franks. By a miracle, one after another, the _gabs_ are realised; Hugon acknowledges the superiority of Charles, who returns to France, enriches St. Denis with incomparable relics, and forgives the queen. This poem is exactly contemporaneous with the Song of Roland.

But there is better still, and the comedy is much more general in the famous "Roman de Renart."[204] This romance, of which the branches are of various epochs and by various authors, was composed partly in the continental estates of the kings of England, partly in the France of French kings. It was built up, part after part, during several centuries, beginning with the twelfth: built like a cathedral, each author adding a wing, a tower, a belfry, a steeple; without caring, most of the time, to make known his name; so that the poem has come down to us, like the poems in stone of the architects, almost anonymously, the work of every one, an expression and outcome of the popular mind.

For many Frenchmen of ancient France, a _chanson_ was a sufficient revenge, or at least served as a temporary one. So much pleasure was taken in it, that by such means the tyranny of the ruler was forgotten.

On more than one occasion where in other countries a riot would have been unavoidable, in France a song has sufficed; discontent, thus attenuated, no longer rose to fury. More than one jacquerie has been delayed, if not averted, by the "Roman de Renart."

In this ample comedy everybody has a part to perform; everybody and everything is in turn laughed at: the king, the n.o.bles, the citizens, the Pope, the pilgrims, the monks, every belief and every custom,[205]

religion, and justice, the powerful, the rich, the hypocrites, the simple-minded; and, so that nothing shall be wanting, the author scoffs at himself and his caste; he knows its failings, points them out and laughs at them. The tone is heroi-comical: for the jest to take effect, the contrast must be clearly visible, and we should keep in view the importance of principles and the majesty of kings:

"Lordings, you have heard many a tale, related by many a tale-teller, how Paris ravished Helen, the trouble it brought him, and the sorrow!...

also gests and fabliaux; but never did you hear of the war--such a hard one it was, and of such great import--between Renard and Ysengrin."[206]

The personages are animals; their sentiments are human; king lion swears like a man[207]; but the way in which they sit, or stand, or move, is that of their species. Every motion of theirs is observed with that correctness of eye which is always found in early times among animal painters, long before painters of the human figure rise to the same excellence. There are perfect descriptions of Ysengrin, who feels very foolish after a rebuke of the king's, and "sits with his tail between his legs"; of the c.o.c.k, monarch of the barn-yard; of Tybert the cat; of Tardif the slug; of Espinar the hedgehog; of Bruin the bear; of Roonel the mastiff; of Couard the hare; of n.o.ble the lion. The arrival of a procession of hens at Court is an excellent scene of comedy.

"Sir Chanteclair, the c.o.c.k, and Pinte, who lays the big eggs, and Noire, and Blanche, and la Roussette, were dragging a cart with drawn curtains.

A hen lay in it prostrate.... Renard had so maltreated her, and so pulled her about with his teeth, that her thigh was broken, and a wing torn off her side."[208]

Pinte, moved to tears and ready to faint, like Esther before Ahasuerus, tells the king her woes. She had five brothers, Renard has devoured every one; she had five sisters, but "only one has Renard spared; all the rest have pa.s.sed through his jaws. And you, who lie there on your bier, my sweet sister, my dear friend, how plump and tender you were!

What will become of your poor unfortunate sister?"[209] She is very near adding in Racine's words: "Mes filles, soutenez votre reine eperdue!"

Anyhow, she faints.

"The unfortunate Pinte thereupon fainted and fell on the pavement; and so did the others, all at once. To a.s.sist the four ladies all jumped from their stools, dog and wolf and other beasts, and threw water on their brows."[210]

The king is quite upset by so moving a sight: "His head out of anger he shakes; never was so bold a beast, a bear be it or a boar, who does not fear when their lord sighs and howls. So much afraid was Couard the hare that for two days he had the fever; all the Court shakes together, the boldest for dread tremble. He, in his wrath, raises his tail, and is moved with such pangs that the roar fills the house; and then this was his speech: 'Lady Pinte,' the emperor said, 'upon my father's soul'"[211]....

Hereupon follows a solemn promise, couched in the most impressive words, that the traitor shall be punished; which will make all the more noticeable the utter defeat which verbose royalty soon afterward suffers. Renard worsts the king's messengers; Bruin the bear has his nose torn off; Tybert the cat loses half his tail; Renard jeers at them, at the king, and at the Court. And all through the story he triumphs over Ysengrin, as Panurge over Dindenault, Scapin over Geronte, and Figaro over Bridoison. Renard is the first of the family; he is such a natural and spontaneous creation of the French mind that we see him reappear from century to century, the same character under different names.

One last point to be noted is the impression of open air given by nearly all the branches of this romance, in spite of the brevity of the descriptions. We are in the fields, by the hedges, following the roads and the footpaths; the moors are covered with heather; the rocks are crowned by oaken copse, the roads are lined with hawthorn, cabbages display in the gardens the heavy ma.s.s of their cl.u.s.tering leaves. We see with regret the moment when "the sweet time of summer declines." Winter draws near, a north wind blows over the paths leading to the sea. Renard "dedenz sa tour" of Maupertuis lights a great wood fire, and, while his little ones jump for joy, grills slices of eels on the embers.

Renard was popular throughout Europe. In England parts of the romance were translated or imitated; superb ma.n.u.scripts were ill.u.s.trated for the libraries of the n.o.bles; the incidents of this epic were represented in tapestry, sculptured on church stalls, painted on the margins of English missals. At the Renaissance Caxton, with his Westminster presses, printed a Renard in prose.[212]

Above, below, around these greater works, swarms the innumerable legion of satirical fabliaux and laughable tales. They, too, cross the sea, slight, imperceptible, wandering, thus continuing those migrations so difficult to trace, the laws of which learned men of all nations have vainly sought to discover. They follow all roads; nothing stops them.

Pa.s.s the mountains and you will find them; cross the sea and they have preceded you; they spring from the earth; they fall from heaven; the breeze bears them along like pollen, and they go to bloom on other stems in unknown lands, producing th.o.r.n.y or poisonous or perfumed flowers, and flowers of every hue. All those varieties of flowers are sometimes found cl.u.s.tered in unexpected places, on wild mountain sides, along lonely paths, on the moors of Brittany or Scotland, in royal parks and in convent gardens. At the beginning of the seventh century the great Pope St. Gregory introduces into his works a number of "Exempla," saying: "Some are more incited to the love of the celestial country by stories--exempla--than by sermons;"[213] and in the gardens of monasteries, after his day, more and more miscellaneous grow the blossoms. They are gathered and preserved as though in herbals, collections are made of them, from which preachers borrow; tales of miracles are mixed with others of a less edifying nature.

Stop before the house of this anch.o.r.ess, secluded from the world, and absorbed in pious meditations, a holy and quiet place. An old woman sits under the window; the anch.o.r.ess appears and a conversation begins. Let us listen; it is a long time since both women have been listened to.

What is the subject of their talk? The old woman brings news of the outer world, relates stories, curious incidents of married and unmarried life, tales of wicked wives and wronged husbands. The recluse laughs: "os in risus cachinnosque dissolvitur"; in a word, the old woman amuses the anch.o.r.ess with fabliaux in an embryonic state. This is a most remarkable though little known example, for we can here observe fabliaux in a rudimentary stage, and going about in one more, and that a rather unexpected way. Is the case of this anch.o.r.ess a unique one? Not at all; there was scarcely any recluse at that day, "vix aliquam inclusarum hujus temporis," without a friendly old woman to sit before her window and tell her such tales: of which testifies, in the twelfth century, Aelred, abbot of Rievaulx.[214]

From the thirteenth century, another medium of diffusion, a conspicuous and well-known one, is added to the others: not only minstrels, but wandering friars now carry tales to all countries; it is one of the ways they count on for securing a welcome. Their sermons raise a laugh, the success of their fables encourages their rivals to imitate them; the Councils vainly interfere, and reiterate, until after the Renaissance, the prohibition "to provoke shouts of laughter, after the fashion of shameless buffoons, by ridiculous stories and old wives' tales."[215]

Dante had also protested, and Wyclif likewise, without more success than the Councils. "Thus," said Dante, "the ignorant sheep come home from pasture, wind-fed.... Jests and buffooneries are preached.... St.

Anthony's swine fattens by these means, and others, worse than swine, fatten too."[216] But collections succeeded to collections, and room was found in them for many a scandalous tale, for that of the Weeping b.i.t.c.h, for example, one of the most travelled of all, as it came from India, and is found everywhere, in Italy, France, and England, among fabliaux, in sermons, and even on the stage.[217]

The French who were now living in England in large numbers, introduced there the taste for merry tales of trickery and funny adventures, stories of curious mishaps of all kinds; of jealous husbands, duped, beaten, and withal perfectly content, and of fit wives for such husbands. It already pleased their teasing, mocking minds, fond of generalisations, to make themselves out a vicious race, without faith, truth, or honour: it ever was a _gab_ of theirs. The more one protests, the more they insist; they adduce proofs and instances; they are convinced and finally convince others. In our age of systems, this magnifying of the abject side of things has been termed "realism"; for so-called "realism" is nothing more. True it is that if the home of tales is "not where they are born, but where they are comfortable,"[218]

France was a home for them. They reached there the height of their prosperity; the turn of mind of which they are the outcome has by no means disappeared; even to-day it is everywhere found, in the public squares, in the streets, in the newspapers, theatres, and novels. And it serves, as it did formerly, to make wholesale condemnations easy, very easy to judges who may be dazzled by this jugglery of the French mind, who look only at the goods exhibited before their eyes, and who scruple the less to pa.s.s a sentence as they have to deal with a culprit who confesses. But judge and culprit both forget that, next to the realism of the fabliaux, there is the realism of the Song of Roland, not less real, perhaps more so; for France has _lived_ by her Song of Roland much more than by her merry tales, that song which was sung in many ways and for many centuries. Du Guesclin and Corneille both sang it, each one after his fashion.

On the same table may be found "La Terre," and "Grandeur et Servitude."

In the same hall, the same minstrel, representing in his own person the whole library of the castle, used formerly to relate the shameful tale of Gombert and the two clerks, juggle with knives, and sing of Roland.

"I know tales," says one, "I know fabliaux, I can tell fine new _dits_.... I know the fabliau of the 'Denier' ... and that of Gombert and dame Erme.... I know how to play with knives, and with the cord and with the sling, and every fine game in the world. I can sing at will of King Pepin of St. Denis ... of Charlemagne and of Roland, and of Oliver, who fought so well; I know of Ogier and of Aymon."[219]