A Popular History of France from the Earliest Times Volume IV Part 5

The words are French literature; and of that alone is there any intention of speaking here. The middle ages had, up to the sixteenth century, a Latin literature; philosophers, theologians, and chroniclers all wrote in Latin. The philosophers and theologians have already been spoken of.

Amongst the chroniclers some deserve the name of historians; not only do they alone make us acquainted with the history of their times, but they sometimes narrate it with real talent as observers and writers. Gregory of Tours, Eginhard, William of Tyre, Guibert of Nogent, William of Jumieges, and Orderic Vital are worthy of every attention from those whose hearts are set upon thoroughly understanding the history of the periods and the provinces of which those laborers of the middle ages have, in Latin, preserved the memorials. The chief of those works have been gathered together and translated in a special collection bearing the name of Guizot. But it is with the reign of Francis I. that, to bid a truce to further interruption, we commence the era of the real grand literature of France, that which has const.i.tuted and still const.i.tutes the pride and the n.o.ble pleasure of the French public. Of that alone we would here denote the master-works and the glorious names, putting them carefully at the proper dates and places in the general course of events; a condition necessary for making them properly understood and their influence properly appreciated. As to the reign of Francis I., however, it must be premised as follows: several of the most ill.u.s.trious of French writers, in poesy and prose, Ronsard, Montaigne, Bodin, and Stephen Pasquier, were born during that king's lifetime and during the first half of the sixteenth century; but it is to the second half of that century and to the first of the seventeenth that they belong by the glory of their works and of their influence; their place in history will be a.s.signed to them when we enter upon the precise epoch at which they performed and shone. We will at present confine ourselves to the great survivors of the middle ages, whether in prose or poesy, and to the men who shed l.u.s.tre on the reign of Francis I. himself, and led French literature in its first steps along the road on which it entered at that period.

The middle ages bequeathed to French literature four prose-writers whom we cannot hesitate to call great historians: Villehardouin, Joinville, Froissart, and Commynes. Geoffrey de Villehardouin, after having taken part, as negotiator and soldier, in the crusade which terminated in the capture of Constantinople, and having settled in Thessaly, at Messinopolis, as holder of considerable fiefs, with the t.i.tle of Marshal of Romania (Roumelia), employed his leisure in writing a history of this great exploit. He wrote with a dignified simplicity, epic and at the same time practical, speaking but little of himself, narrating facts with the precision of one who took part in them, and yet without useless detail or personal vanity, finding pleasure in doing justice to his comrades, amongst others the veteran Doge of Venice, Henry Dandolo, and sometimes intermingling with his story the reflections of a judicious and sincere Christian, without any pious fanaticism and without ostentation.

Joinville wrote his History of St. Louis at the request of Joan of Navarre, wife of Philip the Handsome, and five years after that queen's death; his ma.n.u.scripts have it thus: "The things which I personally saw and heard were written in the year of grace 1309, in the month of October." He was then eighty-five, and he dedicated his book to Louis le Hutin (the quarreller), great-grandson of St. Louis. More lively and more familiar in style than Villehardouin, he combines the vivid and natural impressions of youth with an old man's fond clinging to the memories of his long life; he likes to bring himself upon the scene, especially as regards his relations towards and his conversations with St. Louis, for whom he has a tender regard and admiration, at the same time that he maintains towards him a considerable independence of ideas, conduct, and language; he is a valiant and faithful knight, who forms a very sensible opinion as to the crusade in which he takes part, and who will not enter upon it a second time even to follow the king to whom he is devoted, but whose pious fanaticism and warlike illusions he does not share; his narrative is at one and the same time very full of himself without any pretension, and very spirited without any show of pa.s.sion, and fraught with a graceful and easy carelessness which charms the reader and all the while inspires confidence in the author's veracity.

Froissart is an insatiable Fry, who revels in all the sights of his day, events and personages, wars and galas, adventures of heroism or gallantry, and who is incessantly gadding about through all the dominions and all the courts of Europe, everywhere seeking his own special amus.e.m.e.nt in the satisfaction of his curiosity. He has himself given an account of the manner in which he collected and wrote his Chronicles.

"Ponder," says he, "amongst yourselves, such of ye as read me, or will read me, or have read me, or shall hear me read, how I managed to get and put together so many facts whereof I treat in so many parts. And, for to inform you of the truth, I began young, at the age of twenty years, and I came into the world amidst the deeds and adventures, and I did always take great delight in them, more than in aught else. And G.o.d gave me such grace that I was well with all parties, and with the households of the kings, and, especially, the household of King Edward of England, and the n.o.ble queen his wife, Madame Philippa of Hainault, unto whom, in my youth, I was clerk, and I did minister unto her with beautiful ditties and amorous treatises. And for love of the service of the n.o.ble and valiant dame with whom I was, all the other lords, kings, dukes, counts, barons, and knights, of whatsoever nation they might be, did love me and hear me and see me gladly, and brought me great profit. . . . Thus, wherever I went, I made inquiry of the old knights and squires who had been at deeds of arms, and who were specially fit to speak thereof, and also of certain heralds in good credit for to verify and justify all matters. Thus have I gotten together this lofty and n.o.ble history."

This picture of Froissart and his work by his own hand would be incomplete without the addition of a characteristic anecdote. In one of his excursions in search of adventures and stories, "he fell in at Pamiers with a good knight, Messire Espaing of Lyons, who had been in all the wars of the time, and managed the great affairs of princes. They set out to travel together, Messire Espaing telling his comrade what he knew about the history of the places whereby they pa.s.sed, and Froissart taking great care to ride close to him for to hear his words. Every evening they halted at hostels where they drained flagons full of white wine as good as the good canon had ever drunk in his life; then, after drinking, so soon as the knight was weary of relating, the chronicler wrote down just the substance of his stories, so as to better leave remembrance of them for time to come, as there is no way of retaining so certain as writing down."

There is no occasion to add to these quotations; they give the most correct idea that can be formed of Froissart's chronicles and their literary merit as well as their historical value.

Philip de Commynes is quite another affair, and far more than Froissart, nay, than Joinville and Villehardouin. He is a politician proficient in the understanding and handling of the great concerns and great personages of his time. He served Charles the Rash and Louis XI.; and, after so trying an experience, he depicted them and pa.s.sed judgment upon them with imperturbable clearsightedness and freedom of thought. With the recital of events, as well as the portrayal of character, he mingles here and there the reflections, expressed in precise, firm, and temperate language, of a profound moralist, who sets before himself no other aim but that of giving his thoughts full utterance. He has already been spoken of in the second volume of this History, in connection with his leaving the Duke of Burgundy's service for that of Louis XI., and with his remarks upon the virtues as well as the vices of that able but unprincipled despot. We will not go again over that ground. As a king's adviser, Commynes would have been as much in place at the side of Louis XIV. as at that of Louis XI.; as a writer, he, in the fifteenth century, often made history and politics speak a language which the seventeenth century would not have disowned.

Let us pa.s.s from the prose-writers of the middle ages to their poets.

The grand name of poesy is here given only to poetical works which have lived beyond their cradles and have taken rank amongst the treasures of the national literature. Thanks to sociability of manners, vivacity of intellect, and fickleness of taste, light and ephemeral poesy has obtained more success and occupied more s.p.a.ce in France than in any other country; but there are successes which give no t.i.tle to enter into a people's history; quality and endurance of renown are even more requisite in literature than in politics; and many a man whose verses have been very much relished and cried up in his lifetime has neither deserved nor kept in his native land the beautiful name of poet. Setting aside, of course, the language and poems of the troubadours of Southern France, we shall find, in French poesy previous to the Renaissance, only three works which, through their popularity in their own time, still live in the memory of the erudite, and one only which, by its grand character and its superior beauties, attests the poetical genius of the middle ages and can claim national rights in the history of France. _The Romance of the Rose_ in the erotic and allegorical style, the _Romances of Renart_ in the satirical, and the _Farce of Patelin,_ a happy attempt in the line of comedy, though but little known nowadays to the public, are still and will remain subjects of literary study. _The Song of Roland_ alone is an admirable sample of epic poesy in France, and the only monument of poetical genius in the middle ages which can have a claim to national appreciation in the nineteenth century. It is almost a pity not to reproduce here the whole of that glorious epopee, as impressive from the forcible and pathetic simplicity of its sentiments and language as from the grandeur of the scene and the pious heroism of the actors in it. It is impossible, however, to resist the pleasure of quoting some fragments of it. The best version to refer to is that which has been given almost word for word, from the original text, by M. Leon Gaultier, in his beautiful work, so justly crowned by the _Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-lettres, on Lee Epopees Francaises_.

In 778 Charlemagne was returning from a great expedition in Spain, during which, after having taken Pampeluna, he had failed before Saragossa, and had not considered himself called upon to prolong his struggle with the Arab Mussulmans. He with the main body of his army had crossed the Pyrenees, leaving as rearguard a small division under his nephew Roland, prefect of the Marches of Brittany, Anselm, count of the palace, Oliver, Roland's comrade, Archbishop Turpin, and several other warriors of renown. When they arrived at the little valley of Roncesvalles, between the defiles of Sizer and Val Carlos, this rearguard was unexpectedly attacked by thousands of Basque mountaineers, who were joined by thousands of Arabs eager to ma.s.sacre and plunder the Christians and Franks, who, indeed, perished to a man in this ambuscade. "The news of this disaster," says Eginhard, in his Annales, "obscured the glory of the successes the king had but lately obtained in Spain." This fact, with large amplifications, became the source of popular legends and songs, which, probably towards the end of the eleventh century, became embodied in the _Song of Roland,_ attributed, in two ma.n.u.scripts, but without any certainty, to a certain Thuroulde (Turold), Abbot of Malmesbury and Peterborough under William the Conqueror. It must suffice to reproduce here only the most beautiful and most characteristic pa.s.sages of this little national epopee, a truly Homeric picture of the quasi-barbarous times and manners of knightly Christendom.

The eighty-second strophe of the poem commences thus:

"'Of Paynim yonder, saw I more,'

Quoth Oliver, 'than e'er before The eye of man hath seen An hundred thousand are a-field, With helm and hauberk, lance and shield, And pikes and pike-heads gleaming bright; Prepare for fight, a fiercer fight Than ever yet hath been.

Blow Olifant, friend Roland, blow, That Charles and all his host may know.'

"To whom Sir Roland in reply: 'A madman, then, good faith, were I For I should lose all countenance Throughout the pleasant land of France Nay, rather, facing great and small, I'll smite amain with Durandal, Until the blade, with blood that's spilt, Is crimson to the golden hilt.'

'Friend Roland, sound a single blast Ere Charles beyond its reach hath pa.s.sed.'

'Forbid it, G.o.d,' cried Roland, then, 'It should be said by living men That I a single blast did blow For succor from a Paynim foe!'

When Roland sees what moil will be, Lion nor pard so fierce as he.

"Archbishop Turpin looks around, Then forward p.r.i.c.ks to higher ground He halts, he speaks; the French give ear: 'Lords barons, Charles hath left us here, And for our king we're bound to die; For him maintain the Christian cause; Behold! how near the battle draws; Behold! where yonder Paynim lie; Confess to G.o.d; and I will give Absolvement, that your souls may live.

Pure martyrs are ye if ye fall; And Paradise awaits ye all.'

"Down leap the French, on bended knee They fall for benison; and he Doth lay on all a penance light-- To strike their hardest in the fight.

"The French have risen to their feet; They leap upon their chargers fleet; Into the defiles rides their chief On his good war-horse, Veillantif.

O, in his harness he looks grand!

On, on he goes with lance on high Its tip is pointed to the sky; It bears a snow-white pennon, and Its golden fringes sweep his hand.

He scans the foe with haughty glance, With meek and sweet the men of France 'Lords barons, gently, gently ride; Yon Paynim rush to suicide; No king of France could ever boast The wealth we'll strip from yonder host.'

And as the words die off his lips, Christian and Paynim are at grips.

"A wondrous fight! The men of France Thrust fiercely with the burnished lance!

O, 'twas a sight of grief and dread, So many wounded, bleeding, dead!

On back or face together they, One on another falling, lay!

The Paynim cannot choose but yield, And, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, quit the field The eager French are on their track, With lances pointed at the back. . . .

"Then p.r.i.c.keth forth a Saracen, Abyme by name, but worst of men No faith hath he in G.o.d the One, No faith in Holy Mary's Son; As black as melted pitch is he, And not for all Galicia's gold Could he be bribed his hand to hold From murder and from treachery; No merry laugh, no sportive mien In him was ever heard or seen. . . .

The good archbishop could not brook On pagan such as he to look; He saw and fain would strike him dead, And calmly to himself he said, 'Yon pagan, as it seems to me, A grievous heretic must be; 'There best to slay him, though I died; Cowards I never could abide.'

"He mounts his steed, won, so they tell, From Denmark's monarch, hight Grosselle; He slew the king and took the steed The beast is light and built for speed; His hoofs are neat, his legs are clean, His thigh is short, his flanks are lean, His rump is large, his back full height, His mane is yellow, his tail is white; With little ears and tawny head, No steed like him was ever bred.

The good archbishop spurs a-field, And smites Abyme upon the shield, His emir's shield, so thickly sown With many a gem and precious stone, Amethyst and topaz, crystals bright, And red carbuncles flashing light: The shield is shivered by the blow; No longer worth a doit, I trow; Stark dead the emir lies below.

'Ha! bravely struck!' the Frenchmen yell: 'Our bishop guards the Cross right well!'

"To Oliver Sir Roland cried, 'Sir comrade, can it be denied Our bishop is a gallant knight?

None better ever saw the light!

How he doth strike With lance and pike!'

Quoth Oliver, 'Then in the fight Haste we to aid him with our might!'

And so the battle is renewed: The blows are hard, the melley rude; The Christians suffer sore Four times they charge and all is well, But at the fifth--dread tale to tell-- The knights of France are doomed to fall,-- All, all her knights; for of them all G.o.d spareth but threescore.

But O, their lives they dearly sell!

Sir Roland marks what loss is there, And turns him to Sir Oliver 'Dear comrade, whom pray G.o.d to bless, In G.o.d's own name see what distress-- Such heaps of va.s.sals lying low-- Fair France hath suffered at a blow Well may we weep for her, who's left A widow, of such lords bereft!

And why, O, why art thou not near, Our king, our friend, to aid us here?

Say, Oliver, how might we bring Our mournful tidings to the king?'

Quoth Oliver, 'I know not, I To fly were shame; far better die.'

Quoth Roland, 'I my horn will blow, That Charles may hear and Charles may know; And, in the defiles, from their track The French, I swear, will hasten back.'

Quoth Oliver, ''Twere grievous shame; 'Twould bring a blush to all thy name When I said thus thou scornedst me, And now I will not counsel thee.

And shouldst thou blow, 'twere no great blast; Already blood is gushing fast From both thine arms.' 'That well may be,'

Quoth he, 'I struck so l.u.s.tily!

The battle is too strong: I'll blow Mine Olifant, that Charles may know.'

Quoth Oliver, 'Had Charles been here, This battle had not cost so dear; But as for yon poor souls, I wis, No blame can rest with them for this.'

'Why bear me spite?' Sir Roland said.

'The fault,' said he, 'lies on thy head.

And mark my words; this day will see The end of our good company; We twain shall part--not as we met-- Full sadly ere yon sun bath set.'

The good archbishop hears the stir, And thither p.r.i.c.ks with golden spur; And thus he chides the wrangling lords 'Roland, and you, Sir Oliver, Why strive ye with such bitter words Horns cannot save you; that is past; But still 'twere best to sound a blast; Let the king come: he'll strike a blow For vengeance, lest the Paynim foe Back to their homes in triumph go.'

"With pain and dolor, groan and pant, Count Roland sounds his Olifant: The crimson stream shoots from his lips; The blood from bursten temple drips; But far, O, far the echoes ring, And, in the defiles, reach the king; Reach Naymes, and the French array: 'Tis Roland's horn,' the king doth say; 'He only sounds when brought to bay.'

How huge the rocks! How dark and steep!

The streams are swift! The valleys deep!

Out blare the trumpets, one and all, As Charles responds to Roland's call.

Round wheels the king, with choler mad, The Frenchmen follow grim and sad; Not one but prays for Roland's life, Till they have joined him in the strife.

But ah! what prayer can alter fate?

The time is past; too late! too late!

As Roland scans both plain and height, And sees how many Frenchmen lie Stretched in their mortal agony, He mourns them like a n.o.ble knight: 'Comrades, G.o.d give ye grace to-day, And grant ye Paradise, I pray!

No lieges ever fought as they.

What a fair land, O France, art thou!

But ah! forlorn and widowed now!

O Oliver, at least to thee, My brother, I must faithful be Back, comrade mine, back let us go, And charge once more the Paynim foe!'

"When Roland spies the cursed race, More black than ink, without a trace, Save teeth, of whiteness in the face, 'Full certified,' quoth he, 'am I, That we this very day shall die.

Strike, Frenchmen, strike; that's all my mind!'

'A curse on him who lags behind!'

Quoth gallant Oliver; and so Down dash the Frenchmen on the foe. . . .

Sir Oliver with failing breath, Knowing his wound is to the death, Doth call to him his friend, his peer, His Roland: 'Comrade, come thou here; To be apart what pain it were!'

When Roland marks his friend's distress, His face all pale and colorless, 'My G.o.d!' quoth he, 'what's now to do?

O my sweet France, what dole for you, Widowed of all your warriors true!

You needs must perish!' At such plaint, Upon his steed he falls a-faint.

"See Roland riding in a swound: And Oliver with mortal wound; With loss of blood so dazed is he He neither near nor far can see What manner of man a man may be: And, meeting with Sir Roland so, He dealeth him a fearful blow That splits the gilded helm in two Down to the very nasal, though, By luck, the skull it cleaves not through.

With blank amaze doth Roland gaze, And gently, very gently, says, 'Dear comrade, smit'st thou with intent?

Methinks no challenge hath been sent I'm Roland, who doth love thee so.'

Quoth Oliver, 'Thy voice I know, But see thee not; G.o.d save thee, friend: I struck thee; prithee pardon me.