THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ROMANCE OF THE MIDDLE AGES
The value of romantic literature, which has been, so far as the Middle
Ages are concerned, unjustly depreciated, does not depend upon beauty of
words or beauty of fact. To-day the immense debt of modern literature to
the literature of the Middle Ages is better understood; and we are
generally beginning to recognize what we owe to the imagination of the
Middle Ages, in spite of the ignorance, the superstition and the cruelty
of that time. If the evils of the Middle Ages had really been universal,
those ages could not have imparted to us lessons of beauty and lessons of
nobility having nothing to do with literary form in themselves, yet
profoundly affecting modern poetry of the highest class. No; there was
very much of moral goodness as well as of moral badness in the Middle
Ages; and what was good happened to be very good indeed. Commonly it used
to be said (though I do not think any good critic would say it now) that
the fervid faith of the time made the moral beauty. Unless we modify this
statement a great deal, we can not now accept it at all. There was indeed
a religious beauty, particularly mediæval, but it was not that which
created the romance of the period. Indeed, that romantic literature was
something of a reaction against the religious restraint upon imagination.
But if we mean by mediæval faith only that which is very much older than
any European civilization, and which does not belong to the West any more
than to the East--the profound belief in human moral experience--then I
think that the statement is true enough. At no time in European history
were men more sincere believers in the value of certain virtues than
during the Middle Ages--and the very best of the romances are just those
romances which illustrate that belief, though not written for a merely
ethical purpose.
But I can not better illustrate what I mean than by telling a story, which
has nothing to do with Europe, or the Middle Ages, or any particular form
of religious belief. It is not a Christian story at all; and it could not
be told you exactly as written, for there are some very curious pages in
it. But it is a good example of the worth that may lie in a mere product
of imagination.
There was a king once, in Persia or Arabia, who, at the time of his
accession to power, discovered a wonderful subterranean hall under the
garden of his palace. In one chamber of that hall stood six marvellous
statues of young girls, each statue being made out of a single diamond.
The beauty as well as the cost of the work was beyond imagination. But in
the midst of the statues, which stood in a circle, there was an empty
pedestal, and on that pedestal was a precious casket containing a letter
from the dead father of the king. The letter said:
"O my son, though these statues of girls are indeed beyond all praise,
there is yet a seventh statue incomparably more precious and beautiful
which I could not obtain before I died. It is now your duty, O my son, to
obtain that statue, that it may be placed upon the seventh pedestal. Go,
therefore, and ask my favourite slave, who is still alive, how you are to
obtain it." Then the young king went in all haste to that old slave, who
had been his father's confidant, and showed him the letter. And the old
man said, "Even now, O master, I will go with you to find that statue. But
it is in one of the three islands in which the genii dwell; and it is
necessary, above all things, that you do not fear, and that you obey my
instructions in all things. Also, remember that if you make a promise to
the Spirits of that land, the promise must be kept."
And they proceeded upon their journey through a great wilderness, in which
"nothing existed but grass and the presence of God." I can not try now to
tell you about the wonderful things that happened to them, nor about the
marvellous boat, rowed by a boatman having upon his shoulders the head of
an elephant. Suffice it to say that at last they reached the palace of the
king of the Spirits; and the king came to meet them in the form of a
beautiful old man with a long white beard. And he said to the young king,
"My son, I will gladly help you, as I helped your father; and I will give
you that seventh statue of diamond which you desire. But I must ask for a
gift in return. You must bring to me here a young girl of about sixteen
years old; and she must be very intelligent; and she must be a true
maiden, not only as to her body, but as to her soul, and heart, and all
her thoughts." The young king thought that was a very easy thing to find,
but the king of the Spirits assured him that it was not, and further told
him this, "My son, no mortal man is wise enough to know by his own wisdom
the purity that is in the heart of a young girl. Only by the help of this
magical mirror, which I now lend you, will you be able to know. Look at
the reflection of any maiden in this mirror, and then, if her heart is
perfectly good and pure, the mirror will remain bright. But if there be
any fault in her, the mirror will grow dim. Go now, and do my bidding."
You can imagine, of course, what happened next. Returning to his kingdom,
the young king had brought before him many beautiful girls, the daughters
of the noblest and highest in all the cities of the land. But in no case
did the mirror remain perfectly clear when the ghostly test was applied.
For three years in vain the king sought; then in despair he for the first
time turned his attention to the common people. And there came before him
on the very first day a rude man of the desert, who said, "I know of just
such a girl as you want." Then he went forth and presently returned with a
simple girl from the desert, who had been brought up in the care of her
father only, and had lived with no other companion than the members of her
own family and the camels and horses of the encampment. And as she stood
in her poor dress before the king, he saw that she was much more beautiful
than any one whom he had seen before; and he questioned her, only to find
that she was very intelligent; and she was not at all afraid or ashamed of
standing before the king, but looked about her with large wondering eyes,
like the eyes of a child; and whoever met that innocent gaze, felt a great
joy in his heart, and could not tell why. And when the king had the mirror
brought, and the reflection of the girl was thrown upon it, the mirror
became much brighter than before, and shone like a great moon.
There was the maid whom the Spirit-king wished for. The king easily
obtained her from her parents; but he did not tell her what he intended to
do with her. Now it was his duty to give her to the Spirits; but there was
a condition he found very hard to fulfil. By the terms of his promise he
was not allowed to kiss her, to caress her, or even to see her, except
veiled after the manner of the country. Only by the mirror had he been
able to know how fair she was. And the voyage was long; and on the way,
the girl, who thought she was going to be this king's bride, became
sincerely attached to him, after the manner of a child with a brother; and
he also in his heart became much attached to her. But it was his duty to
give her up. At last they reached the palace of the Spirit-king; and the
figure of the old man came forth and said, "My son, you have done well and
kept your promise. This maiden is all that I could have wished for; and I
accept her. Now when you go back to your palace, you will find on the
seventh pedestal the statue of the diamond which your father desired you
to obtain." And, with these words, the Spirit-king vanished, taking with
him the girl, who uttered a great and piercing cry to heaven at having
been thus deceived. Very sorrowfully the young king then began his journey
home. All along the way he kept regretting that girl, and regretting the
cruelty which he had practised in deceiving her and her parents. And he
began to say to himself, "Accursed be the gift of the king of the Spirits!
Of what worth to me is a woman of diamond any more than a woman of stone?
What is there in all the world half so beautiful or half so precious as a
living girl such as I discovered? Fool that I was to give her up for the
sake of a statue!" But he tried to console himself by remembering that he
had obeyed his dead father's wish.
Still, he could not console himself. Reaching his palace, he went to his
secret chamber to weep alone, and he wept night and day, in spite of the
efforts of his ministers to comfort him. But at last one of them said, "O
my king, in the hall beneath your garden there has appeared a wonderful
statue upon the seventh pedestal; perchance if you go to see it, your
heart will become more joyful."
Then with great reluctance the king properly dressed himself, and went to
the subterranean hall.
There indeed was the statue, the gift of the Spirit-king; and very
beautiful it was. But it was not made of diamond, and it looked so
strangely like the girl whom he had lost, that the king's heart leapt in
his breast for astonishment. He put out his hand and touched the statue,
and found it warm with life and youth. And a sweet voice said to him,
"Yes, it is really I--have you forgotten?"
Thus she was given back to him; and the Spirit-king came to their wedding,
and thus addressed the bridegroom, "O my son, for your dead father's sake
I did this thing. For it was meant to teach you that the worth of a really
pure and perfect woman is more than the price of any diamond or any
treasure that the earth can yield."
Now you can see at once the beauty of this story; and the moral of it is
exactly the same as that of the famous verse, in the Book of Proverbs,
"Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies." But it
is simply a story from the "Arabian Nights"--one of those stories which
you will not find in the ordinary European translations, because it is
written in such a way that no English translator except Burton would have
dared to translate it quite literally. The obscenity of parts of the
original does not really detract in the least from the beauty and
tenderness of the motive of the story; and we must remember that what we
call moral or immoral in style depends very much upon the fashion of an
age and time.
Now it is exactly the same kind of moral charm that distinguishes the best
of the old English romances--a charm which has nothing to do with the
style, but everything to do with the feeling and suggestion of the
composition. But in some of the old romances, the style too has a very
great charm of quaintness and simplicity and sincerity not to be imitated
to-day. In this respect the older French romances, from which the English
made their renderings, are much the best. And the best of all is said to
be "Amis and Amile," which the English rendered as "Amicus and Amelius."
Something of the story ought to interest you.
The whole subject of this romance is the virtue of friendship, though this
of course involves a number of other virtues quite as distinguished. Amis
and Amile, that is to say Amicus and Amelius, are two young knights who at
the beginning of their career become profoundly attached to each other.
Not content with the duties of this natural affection, they imposed upon
themselves all the duties which chivalry also attached to the office of
friend. The romance tells of how they triumphed over every conceivable
test to which their friendship was subjected. Often and often the
witchcraft of woman worked to separate them, but could not. Both married,
yet after marriage their friendship was just as strong as before. Each has
to fight many times on account of the other, and suffer all things which
it is most hard for a proud and brave man to bear. But everything is
suffered cheerfully, and the friends are such true knights that, in all
their trials, neither does anything wrong, or commits the slightest fault
against truth--until a certain sad day. On that day it is the duty of Amis
to fight in a trial by battle. But he is sick, and can not fight; then to
save his honour his friend Amile puts on the armour and helmet of Amis,
and so pretending to be Amis, goes to the meeting place, and wins the
fight gloriously. But this was an act of untruthfulness; he had gone into
battle under a false name, and to do anything false even for a good motive
is bad. So heaven punishes him by afflicting him with the horrible disease
of leprosy.
The conditions of leprosy in the Middle Ages were of a peculiar kind. The
disease seems to have been introduced into Europe from Asia--perhaps by
the Crusaders. Michelet suggests that it may have resulted from the
European want of cleanliness, brought about by ascetic teachings--for the
old Greek and Roman public bath-houses were held in horror by the mediæval
Church. But this is not at all certain. What is certain is that in the
thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries leprosy became very
prevalent. The disease was not then at all understood; it was supposed to
be extremely contagious, and the man afflicted by it was immediately
separated from society, and not allowed to live in any community under
such conditions as could bring him into contact with other inhabitants.
His wife or children could accompany him only on the terrible condition of
being considered lepers. Every leper wore a kind of monk's dress, with a
hood covering the face; and he had to carry a bell and ring it constantly
to give notice of his approach. Special leper-houses were built near every
town, where such unfortunates might obtain accommodation. They were
allowed to beg, but it was considered dangerous to go very near them, so
that in most cases alms or food would be thrown to them only, instead of
being put into their hands.
Now when the victim of leprosy in this romance is first afflicted by the
disease, he happens to be far away from his good friend. And none of his
own family is willing to help him; he is regarded with superstitious as
well as with physical horror. There is nothing left for him to do but to
yield up his knighthood and his welfare and his family, to put on the
leper's robe, and to go begging along the roads, carrying a leper's bell.
And this he does. For long, long months he goes begging from town to town,
till at last, by mere chance, he finds his way to the gate of the great
castle where his good friend is living--now a great prince, and married to
the daughter of the king. And he asks at the castle gate for charity and
for food.
Now the porter at the gate observes that the leper has a very beautiful
cup, exactly resembling a drinking cup belonging to his master, and he
thinks it his duty to tell these things to the lord of the castle. And the
lord of the castle remembers that very long ago he and his friend each had
a cup of this kind, given to them by the bishop of Rome. So, hearing the
porter's story, he knew that the leper at the gate was the friend who "had
delivered him from death, and won for him the daughter of the King of
France to be his wife." Here I had better quote from the French version of
the story, in which the names of the friends are changed, but without
changing the beauty of the tale itself:
"And straightway he fell upon him, and began to weep greatly, and kissed
him. And when his wife heard that, she ran out with her hair in disarray,
weeping and distressed exceedingly--for she remembered that it was he who
had slain the false Ardres. And thereupon they placed him in a fair bed,
and said to him, 'Abide with us until God's will be accomplished in thee,
for all that we have is at thy service.' So he abode with them."
You must understand, by the allusion to "God's will," that leprosy was in
the Middle Ages really considered to be a punishment from heaven--so that
in taking a leper into his castle, the good friend was not only offending
against the law of the land, but risking celestial punishment as well,
according to the notions of that age. His charity, therefore, was true
charity indeed, and his friendship without fear. But it was going to be
put to a test more terrible than any ever endured before. To comprehend
what followed, you must know that there was one horrible superstition of
the Middle Ages--the belief that by bathing in human blood the disease of
leprosy might be cured. Murders were often committed under the influence
of that superstition. I believe you will remember that the "Golden Legend"
of Longfellow is founded upon a mediæval story in which a young girl
voluntarily offers up her life in order that her blood may cure the
leprosy of her king. In the present romance there is much more tragedy.
One night while sleeping in his friend's castle, the leper was awakened by
an angel from God--Raphael--who said to him:
"I am Raphael, the angel of the Lord, and I am come to tell thee how thou
mayst be healed. Thou shalt bid Amile thy comrade that he slay his two
children and wash thee in their blood, and so thy body shall be made
whole." And Amis said to him, "Let not this thing be, that my comrade
should become a murderer for my sake." But the angel said, "It is
convenient that he do this." And thereupon the angel departed.
The phrase, "it is convenient," must be understood as meaning, "it is
ordered." For the mediæval lord used such gentle expressions when issuing
his commands; and the angel talked like a feudal messenger. But in spite
of the command, the sick man does not tell his friend about the angel's
visit, until Amile, who has overheard the voice, forces him to acknowledge
whom he had been talking with during the night. And the emotion of the
lord may be imagined, though he utters it only in the following gentle
words--"I would have given to thee my man servants and my maid servants
and all my goods--and thou feignest that an angel hath spoken to thee that
I should slay my two children. But I conjure thee by the faith which there
is between me and thee and by our comradeship, and by the baptism we
received together, that thou tell me whether it was man or angel said that
to thee."
Amis declares that it was really an angel, and Amile never thinks of
doubting his friend's word. It would be a pity to tell you the sequel in
my own words; let me quote again from the text, translated by Walter
Pater. I think you will find it beautiful and touching:
"Then Amile began to weep in secret, and thought within himself, 'If this
man was ready to die before the King for me, shall I not for him slay my
children? Shall I not keep faith with him who was faithful to me even unto
death?' And Amile tarried no longer, but departed to the chamber of his
wife, and bade her go to hear the Sacred Office. And he took a sword, and
went to the bed where the children were lying, and found them asleep. And
he lay down over them and began to weep bitterly and said, 'Has any man
yet heard of a father who of his own will slew his children? Alas, my
children! I am no longer your father, but your cruel murderer.'
"And the children awoke at the tears of their father, which fell upon
them; and they looked up into his face and began to laugh. And as they
were of age about three years, he said, 'Your laughing will be turned into
tears, for your innocent blood must now be shed'; and therewith he cut off
their heads. Then he laid them back in the bed, and put the heads upon the
bodies, and covered them as though they slept; and with the blood which he
had taken he washed his comrade, and said, 'Lord Jesus Christ! who hast
commanded men to keep faith on earth, and didst heal the leper by Thy
word! cleanse now my comrade, for whose love I have shed the blood of my
children.'" And of course the leper is immediately and completely cured.
But the mother did not know anything about the killing of the children; we
have to hear something about her share in the tragedy. Let me again quote,
this time giving the real and very beautiful conclusion--
"Now neither the father nor the mother had yet entered where the children
were, but the father sighed heavily because they were dead, and the mother
asked for them, that they might rejoice together; but Amile said, 'Dame!
let the children sleep.' And it was already the hour of Tierce. And going
in alone to the children to weep over them, he found them at play in the
bed; only, in the place of the sword-cuts about their throats was, as it
were, a thread of crimson. And he took them in his arms and carried them
to his wife and said, 'Rejoice greatly! For thy children whom I had slain
by the commandment of the angel, are alive, and by their blood is Amis
healed.'"
I think you will all see how fine a story this is, and feel the emotional
force of the grand moral idea behind it. There is nothing more to tell
you, except the curious fact that during the Middle Ages, when it was
believed that the story was really true, Amis and Amile--or Amicus and
Amelius--were actually considered by the Church as saints, and people used
to pray to them. When anybody was anxious for his friend, or feared that
he might lose the love of his friend, or was afraid that he might not have
strength to perform his duty as friend--then he would go to church to
implore help from the good saints Amicus and Amelius. But of course it was
all a mistake--a mistake which lasted until the end of the seventeenth
century! Then somebody called the attention of the Church to the
unmistakable fact that Amicus and Amelius were merely inventions of some
mediæval romancer. Then the Church made investigation, and greatly
shocked, withdrew from the list of its saints those long-loved names of
Amicus and Amelius--a reform in which I cannot help thinking the Church
made a very serious mistake. What matter whether those shadowy figures
represented original human lives or only human dreams? They were
beautiful, and belief in them made men think beautiful thoughts, and the
imagined help from them had comforted many thousands of hearts. It would
have been better to have left them alone; for that matter, how many of the
existent lives of saints are really true? Nevertheless the friends are not
dead, though expelled from the heaven of the Church. They still live in
romance; and everybody who reads about them feels a little better for
their acquaintance.
What I read to you was from the French version--that is much the more
beautiful of the two. You will find some extracts from the English version
in the pages of Ten Brink. But as that great German scholar pointed out,
the English story is much rougher than the French. For example, in the
English story, the knight rushes out of his castle to beat the leper at
the gate, and to accuse him of having stolen the cup. And he does beat him
ferociously, and abuses him with very violent terms. In fact, the English
writer reflected too much of mediæval English character, in trying to
cover, or to improve upon, the French story, which was the first. In the
French story all is knightly smooth, refined as well as simple and strong.
And where did the mediæval imagination get its material for the story?
Partly, perhaps, from the story of Joseph in the Bible, partly from the
story of Abraham; but the scriptural material is so admirably worked over
that the whole thing appears deliciously original. That was the great art
of the Middle Ages--to make old, old things quite new by the magic of
spiritual imagination. Men then lived in a world of dreams. And that world
still attracts us, for the simple reason that happiness chiefly consists
in dreams. Exact science may help us a great deal no doubt, but
mathematics do not make us any happier. Dreams do, if we can believe them.
The Middle Ages could believe them; we, at the best, can only try.