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TALES FROM THE GESTA ROMANORUM
TRANSLATED BY REV. C. SWAN
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New York and London
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
The Knickerbocker Press, New Rochelle, N. Y.
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PREFACE
TO THE FIRST AMERICAN EDITION (PUBLISHED BY WILEY & PUTNAM IN 1845).
You have here, my good friends, sundry moral and entertaining stories,
invented by the monks of old, and used by them for amusement, as well as
for instruction; from which the most celebrated poets, of our own and
other lands, have condescended to draw their plots.
The improvements and refinements of this age will naturally lead you to
condemn as absurdities, many of the incidents with which these tales
abound. Considering the knowledge of the present day, you are justified
in so doing. But I pray you to bear in mind that few qualities are more
dependent on time, than probability and improbability. When you read
these tales, you must, for the time, retrace your steps to the age in
which they were written; and though the tale may seem absurd to us of
this day, yet if it was calculated to impress the minds of those for
whom it was invented, and to whom it was told, its merit was great, and
therefore deserving of due praise. A giant or a magician was as probable
to the people of the middle ages, as electricity to us. I pray you bear
this in mind whilst you judge of these tales.
Romantic fiction pleases all minds, both old and young: the reason is
this, says an old Platonist, “that here things are set down as they
should be; but in the true history of the world, things are recorded
indeed as they are, but it is but a testimony that they have not been as
they should be. Wherefore, in the upshot of all, when we shall see that
come to pass, that so mightily pleases us in the reading the most
ingenious plays and heroic poems, that long afflicted Virtue at last
comes to the crown, the mouth of all unbelievers must be stopped.”
To the work of the ingenious Mr. Swan, the only translator of these
stories that I know of in this country, I am indebted for my first
introduction to these old tales; and I cannot conclude these few words
without thanking him for having often lightened my labors by his close
and admirable versions.
G. B.
_December, 1844._
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CONTENTS.
I.—The Gesta Romanorum—Its Origin—TALE OF THE UNGRATEFUL
MAN—Sources of Didactic Fiction—JOVINIAN THE PROUD EMPEROR—Morals
of the Tales 1
II.—Discussion on the Source of Fiction Renewed—THE KING AND THE
GLUTTON—GUIDO, THE PERFECT SERVANT—The Middle-Age
Allegories—Pliny and Mandeville’s Wonders Allegorized 31
III.—Progress of Fiction from the East to the West—The Early
Christians—The Monks—The Spanish Arabians—The Crusades—THE KNIGHT
AND THE KING OF HUNGARY—The English Gesta 46
IV.—Modern Conversions of the Old Tales—THE THREE BLACK CROWS—King
Lear—THE EMPEROR OF ROME AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS—The Merchant of
Venice—THE THREE CASKETS 58
V.—The Probable Author of the Gesta—Modern Conversions—Parnell and
Schiller—THE ANGEL AND THE HERMIT—The Poet’s
Improvements—FULGENTIUS AND THE WICKED STEWARD—Irving’s Vision in
the Museum—The Claims of the Old Writers on the New 74
VI.—Curiosities of the Gesta—THE WICKED PRIEST—The Qualities of the
Dog—THE EMPEROR’S DAUGHTER—Curious Application—THE EMPEROR LEO
AND THE THREE IMAGES—An Enigma 90
VII.—Curiosities of the Gesta—Byrkes’ Epitaph—THE LAY OF THE LITTLE
BIRD—OF THE BURDENS OF THIS LIFE—Ancient Fairs—Winchester—Modern
Continental Fairs—Russia—Nischnei-Novgorod 104
VIII.—Southey’s Thalaba—THE SUGGESTIONS OF THE EVIL
ONE—COTONOLAPES, THE MAGICIAN—THE GARDEN OF ALOADDIN—The Old Man
of the Mountain—The Assassins—Their Rise and Fall—Gay’s
Conjurer—SIR GUIDO, THE CRUSADER—Guy, Earl of Warwick 120
IX.—Illustrations of Early Manners—Sorcery—THE KNIGHT AND THE
NECROMANCER—Waxen Figures—Degeneracy of Witches—THE CLERK AND THE
IMAGE—Gerbert and Natural Magic—Elfin Chivalry—THE DEMON KNIGHT
OF THE VANDAL CAMP—Scott’s Marmion—Assumption of Human Forms by
Spirits—THE SEDUCTIONS OF THE EVIL ONE—Religious Origin of
Charges of Witchcraft 149
X.—THE THREE MAXIMS—The Monk’s Errors in History—THE TRIALS OF
EUSTACE—Sources of its Incidents—Colonel Gardiner—St.
Herbert—Early English Romance of Sir Isumbras 174
XI.—Another Chat about Witches and Witchcraft—Late Period of the
Existence of Belief in Witches—QUEEN SEMIRAMIS—Elfin Armorers—The
Sword of the Scandinavian King—Mystical Meaning of Tales of
Magic—Anglo-Saxon Enigmas—CELESTINUS AND THE MILLER’S HORSE—THE
EMPEROR CONRAD AND THE COUNT’S SON—Legend of “The Giant with the
Golden Hairs” 203
XII.—Love and Marriage—THE KNIGHT AND THE THREE QUESTIONS—Racing
for a Wife—JONATHAN AND THE THREE TALISMANS—Tale of the Dwarf and
the Three Soldiers—Conclusion 233
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THE GESTA ROMANORUM
CHAPTER I.
The Gesta Romanorum—Its Origin—TALE OF THE UNGRATEFUL MAN—Sources of
Didactic Fiction—JOVINIAN THE PROUD EMPEROR—Morals of the Tales.
It was a dull, cold Christmas evening; the snow fell fast and small,
and the cutting northeast wind blew its white shower into heaps and
ridges in every corner of St. John’s quadrangle, and piled its clear
flakes against every projecting part of the old building. No one was
moving in college, at least out-of-doors; but the rude laugh from
the buttery, and the dull-red gleam through the closely drawn
curtains of one of the upper rooms in the outer quadrangle, proved
that in two portions of the college Christmas was being kept with
plenty and with gayety.
The change from the white cold of the quadrangle to the ruddy blaze
of that upper room was inspiriting. The fire burnt bright; the small
table, drawn immediately in front of its merry blaze, glittered with
after-dinner good cheer; and three young and happy faces sat by that
little table, and compared their former Christmases at home, with
this one, during which they were determined to remain up in Oxford
and read for the ensuing examination.
“Morrison is always in good luck,” said Henry Herbert, the youngest
of the party. “Whatever it is, whether drawing lots for a Newham
party, or cramming for an examination, he always succeeds; and now
he is the last man that got away from Oxford before the roads were
blocked up by this snow-drift.”
“Fortunate fellow!” said Lathom. “We are shut up now—fifteen feet of
snow at Dorchester, and Stokenchurch bottom quite impassable.”
“Ay, and Oxford streets equally so,” said Frederick Thompson, the
last of the triumvirate, “and we shut up here with the pleasant
prospect of taking our constitutional, for some days to come, under
the old Archbishop’s cloisters.”
“By the by,” said Herbert, “what were you after in the old library
last week, Lathom?”
“Looking for a copy of the Gesta Romanorum, with the idea of reading
some of its amusing stories during our after-dinner sittings.”
“Any thing but those Romans: it is bad enough to have read and
believed all that Livy wrote, from his Sucking Wolf to his Capitol
Goose, and then to have a shrewd German prove that kings were not
kings, and consuls not consuls, just when you are beginning to think
that you really do know something about your Roman history.”
“You will have but little of Roman history, Thompson; the title of
the book but ill agrees with its contents: fables of all climes
contribute their share in the formation of this singular
composition. The majority of the tales are entirely unconnected with
the history of Rome, though the writer, in order to, in some manner,
cover this deviation from his title, has taken care to preface
almost every story with the name of some emperor, who in most cases
never existed, and sometimes has little to do with the incidents of
the narrative.”
“To whom, most learned antiquary, are we indebted for this very
stout volume?”
“To the imagination, knowledge, and literary labor of the monks of
the middle ages. In the refectory, whilst the monks ate their meals,
one, the youngest generally, of the society, read from some such
collection as this, a tale at once amusing and instructive. Nor was
the use of these fables confined to the refectory. The success which
has always attended instruction by fables, and the popularity ever
consequent on this form of teaching, led the monks to use this
medium to illustrate their public discourses, as well as for their
own daily relaxation.”
“Few things are more certain,” said Herbert, “than that an argument,
however clear,—a deduction, however logical,—operates but faintly
except on trained intellects; but an apposite story at once arouses
the attention, and makes a more durable impression on illiterate
auditors. Knowledge in the garb of verse is soonest appreciated by
an uneducated mind, and remains there far longer than in any other
form. A ballad will descend from generation to generation without a
fault or an interpolation.”
“Yes,” rejoined Lathom, “and next to poetry comes poetic prose, at
the head of which class stands didactic fiction. Many a clever man
has confessed that he was more indebted to Shakspeare and Scott for
his English and Scottish history, than to the standard historians of
either land.”
“And as far as the general belief goes,” said Thompson, “the popular
dramatist or poet will always outweigh the learned historian. Let
Walpole or Turner write what they will about Richard the Third; to
the majority—ay, to more than four fifths of the people—he is still
Shakspeare’s Richard, the Humpbacked Murderer.”
“One of the best of the old monks’ stories,” said Lathom, “was
translated in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ some years since. It well
illustrates the popular method by which the writers of these tales
inculcated Christian duties on their brethren of the convent, or on
their hearers in the Church. If you like, I will read it.”
The following was the tale of
THE UNGRATEFUL MAN.
Vitalis, a noble Venetian, one day, at a hunting party, fell into a pit,
which had been dug to catch wild animals. He passed a whole night and
day there, and I will leave you to imagine his dread and his agony. The
pit was dark. Vitalis ran from the one side of it to the other, in the
hope of finding some branch or root by which he might climb its sides
and get out of his dungeon; but he heard such confused and extraordinary
noises, growlings, hissings, and plaintive cries, that he became
half-dead with terror, and crouched in a corner motionless, awaiting
death with the most horrid dismay. On the morning of the second day he
heard some one passing near the pit, and then raising his voice he cried
out with the most dolorous accent: “Help, help! draw me out of this; I
am perishing!”
A peasant crossing the forest heard his cry. At first he was frightened;
but after a moment or two, taking courage, be approached the pit, and
asked who had called.
“A poor huntsman,” answered Vitalis, “who has passed a long night and
day here. Help me out, for the love of God. Help me out, and I will
recompense you handsomely.”
“I will do what I can,” replied the peasant.
Then Massaccio (such was the name of the peasant) took a hedge-bill
which hung at his girdle, and cutting a branch of a tree strong enough
to bear a man,—“Listen, huntsman,” said he, “to what I am going to say
to you. I will let down this branch into the pit. I will fasten it
against the sides, and hold it with my hands; and by pulling yourself
out by it, you may get free from your prison.”
“Good,” answered Vitalis; “ask me anything you will, and it shall be
granted.”
“I ask for nothing,” said the peasant, “but I am going to get married,
and you may give what you like to my bride.”
So saying, Massaccio let down the branch—he soon felt it heavy, and the
moment after a monkey leapt out of the pit. He had fallen like Vitalis,
and had seized quickly on the branch of Massaccio. “It was the devil
surely which spoke to me from the pit,” said Massaccio, running away in
affright.
“Do you abandon me, then?” cried Vitalis, in a lamentable accent; “my
friend, my dear friend, for the love of the Lord, for the love of your
mistress, draw me out of this; I beg, I implore you; I will give her
wedding gifts, I will enrich you. I am the Lord Vitalis, a rich
Venetian; do not let me die of hunger in this horrible pit.”
Massaccio was touched by these prayers. He returned to the pit—let down
another branch, and a lion jumped out, making the woods echo with a roar
of delight.
“Oh certainly, certainly, it was the devil I heard,” said Massaccio, and
fled away again; but stopping short, after a few paces, he heard again
the piercing cries of Vitalis.
“O God, O God,” cried he, “to die of hunger in a pit! Will no one then
come to my help? Whoever you may be, I implore you return; let me not
die, when you can save me. I will give you a house and field, and cows
and gold, all that you can ask for; save me, save me only.”
Massaccio, thus implored, could not help returning. He let down the
branch, and a serpent, hissing joyously, sprang out of the pit.
Massaccio fell on his knees, half-dead with fear, and repeated all the
prayers he could think of to drive away the demon. He was only brought
to himself by hearing the cries of despair which Vitalis uttered.
“Will no one help me?” said he. “Ah, then, must I die? O God, O God!”
and he wept and sobbed in a heart-breaking manner.
“It is certainly the voice of a man for all that,” said Massaccio.
“Oh, if you are still there,” said Vitalis, “in the name of all that is
dear to you, save me, that I may die at least at home, and not in this
horrible pit. I can say no more; my voice is exhausted. Shall I give you
my palace at Venice, my possessions, my honors? I give them all; and may
I die if I forfeit my word. Life, life only; save only my life.”
Massaccio could not resist such prayers, and mingled with such promises.
He let down the branch again.
“Ah, here you are at last,” said he, seeing Vitalis come up.
“Yes,” said he, and uttering a cry of joy he fainted in the arms of
Massaccio.
Massaccio sustained, assisted him, and brought him to himself; then,
giving him his arm,—“Let us,” said he, “quit this forest”; but Vitalis
could hardly walk,—he was exhausted with hunger.
“Eat this piece of bread,” said Massaccio, and he gave him some which he
took out of his wallet.
“My benefactor, my savior, my good angel,” said Vitalis, “how can I ever
sufficiently recompense you!”
“You have promised me a marriage portion for my bride, and your palace
at Venice for myself,” said Massaccio. But Vitalis now began to regain
his strength.
“Yes, certainly, I will give a portion to your wife, my dear Massaccio,
and I will make you the richest peasant of your village. Where do you
live?”
“At Capalatta in the forest; but I would willingly quit my village to
establish myself at Venice in the palace you have promised me.”
“Here we are out of the forest,” said Vitalis; “I know my road now;
thank you, Massaccio.”
“But when shall I come for my palace and the portion for my intended?”
returned the peasant.
“When you will,” said the other, and they separated.
Vitalis went to Venice, and Massaccio to Capalatta, where he related his
adventure to his mistress, telling her what a rich portion she was to
have, and what a fine palace she was to live in.
The next day early he set out for Venice, and asked for the palace of
the Signor Vitalis,—went straight to it, and told the domestics that he
should come shortly with his mistress, in a fine carriage, to take
possession of the palace which the Signor Vitalis had promised to give
him. Massaccio appeared to those who heard him mad, and Vitalis was told
that there was a peasant in his hall, who asked for a marriage portion,
and said the palace belonged to him.
“Let him be turned out immediately,” said Vitalis, “I know him not.”
The valets accordingly drove him away with insults, and Massaccio
returned to his cottage in despair, without daring to see his mistress.
At one corner of his fireplace was seated the monkey, at the other
corner the lion, and the serpent had twisted itself in spiral circles
upon the hearth. Massaccio was seized with fear. “The man has driven me
from his door,” thought he; “the lion will certainly devour me, the
serpent sting me, and the monkey laugh at me; and this will be my reward
for saving them from the pit.” But the monkey turned to him with a most
amicable grimace; the lion, vibrating gently his tail, came and licked
his hand, like a dog caressing his master; and the serpent, unrolling
its ringy body, moved about the room with a contented and grateful air,
which gave courage to Massaccio.
“Poor animals!” said he, “they are better than the Signor Vitalis; he
drove me like a beggar from the door. Ah! with what pleasure I would
pitch him again into the pit! And my bride! whom I thought to marry so
magnificently! I have not a stick of wood in my wood-house, not a morsel
of meat for a meal, and no money to buy any. The ungrateful wretch, with
his portion and his palace!”
Thus did Massaccio complain. Meanwhile the monkey began to make
significant faces, the lion to agitate his tail with great uneasiness,
and the serpent to roll and unroll its circles with great rapidity. Then
the monkey, approaching his benefactor, made him a sign to follow, and
led him into the wood-house, where was regularly piled up a quantity of
wood sufficient for the whole year. It was the monkey who had collected
this wood in the forest, and brought it to the cottage of Massaccio.
Massaccio embraced the grateful ape. The lion then uttering a delicate
roar, led him to a corner of the cottage, where he saw an enormous
provision of game, two sheep, three kids, hares and rabbits in
abundance, and a fine wild boar, all covered with the branches of trees
to keep them fresh. It was the lion who had hunted for his benefactor.
Massaccio patted kindly his mane. “And you, then,” said he to the
serpent, “have you brought me nothing? Art thou a Vitalis, or a good and
honest animal like the monkey and the lion?” The serpent glided rapidly
under a heap of dried leaves, and reappeared immediately, rearing itself
superbly on its tail, when Massaccio saw with surprise a beautiful
diamond in its mouth. “A diamond!” cried Massaccio, and stretched forth
his hand to stroke caressingly the serpent and take its offering.
Massaccio then set out immediately for Venice to turn his diamond into
money. He addressed himself to a jeweller. The jeweller examined the
diamond; it was of the finest water.
“How much do you ask for it?” said he.
“Two hundred crowns,” said Massaccio, thinking his demand to be great;
it was hardly the tenth part of the value of the stone. The jeweller
looked at Massaccio, and said: “To sell it at that price you must be a
robber, and I arrest you!”
“If it is not worth so much, give me less,” said Massaccio; “I am not a
robber, I am an honest man; it was the serpent who gave me the diamond.”
But the police now arrived and conducted him before the magistrate.
There he recounted his adventure, which appeared to be a mere fairy
vision. Yet as the Signor Vitalis was implicated in the story, the
magistrate referred the affair to the state inquisition, and Massaccio
appeared before it.
“Relate to us your history,” said one of the inquisitors, “and lie not,
or we will have you thrown into the canal.”
Massaccio related his adventure.
“So,” said the inquisitor, “you saved the Signor Vitalis?”
“Yes, noble signors.”
“And he promised you a marriage portion for your bride, and his palace
at Venice for yourself?”
“Yes, noble signors.”
“And he drove you like a beggar from his door?”
“Yes, noble signors.”
“Let the Signor Vitalis appear,” said the same inquisitor.
Vitalis appeared.
“Do you know this man, Signor Vitalis?” said the inquisitor.
“No, I know him not,” replied Vitalis.
The inquisitors consulted together. “This man,” said they, speaking of
Massaccio, “is evidently a knave and a cheat; he must be thrown into
prison. Signor Vitalis, you are acquitted.” Then, making a sign to an
officer of police, “Take that man,” said he, “to prison.”
Massaccio fell on his knees in the middle of the hall. “Noble signors,
noble signors,” said he, “it is possible that the diamond may have been
stolen; the serpent who gave it me may have wished to deceive me. It is
possible that the ape, the lion, and the serpent may all be an illusion
of the demon, but it is true that I saved the Signor Vitalis. Signor
Vitalis” (turning to him), “I ask you not for the marriage portion for
my bride, nor for your palace of marble, but say a word for me; suffer
me not to be thrown into prison; do not abandon me; I did not abandon
you when you were in the pit.”
“Noble signors,” said Vitalis, bowing to the tribunal, “I can only
repeat what I have already said: I know not this man. Has he a single
witness to produce?”
At this moment the whole court was thrown into fear and astonishment,
for the lion, the monkey, and the serpent, entered the hall together.
The monkey was mounted on the back of the lion, and the serpent was
twined round the arm of the monkey. On entering, the lion roared, the
monkey spluttered, and the serpent hissed.
“Ah! these are the animals of the pit,” cried Vitalis, in alarm.
“Signor Vitalis,” resumed the chief of the inquisitors, when the dismay
which this apparition had caused had somewhat diminished, “you have
asked where were the witnesses of Massaccio. You see that God has sent
them at the right time before the bar of our tribunal. Since, then, God
has testified against you, we should be culpable before Him if we did
not punish your ingratitude. Your palace and your possessions are
confiscated, and you shall pass the rest of your life in a narrow
prison. And you,” continued he, addressing himself to Massaccio, who was
all this time caressing the lion, the monkey, and the serpent, “since a
Venetian has promised you a palace of marble, and a portion for your
bride, the republic of Venice will accomplish the promise; the palace
and possessions of Vitalis are thine. You,” said he to the secretary of
the tribunal, “draw up an account of all this history, that the people
of Venice may know, through all generations, that the justice of the
tribunal of the state inquisition is not less equitable than it is
rigorous.”
Massaccio and his wife lived happily for many years afterwards in the
palace of Vitalis with the monkey, the lion, and the serpent; and
Massaccio had them represented in a picture, on the wall of his palace,
as they entered the hall of the tribunal, the lion carrying the monkey,
and the monkey carrying the serpent.
“To what source can this tale be traced?”
“To the Arabian fable book called Callah-u-Dumnah,” replied Lathom.
“Mathew Paris recites it as a fable commonly used by our crusading
Richard to reprove his ungodly nobles, and old Gower has versified
it in his Confessio Amantis. The translator in _Blackwood_ seems not
to have been aware of its existence in the Gesta Romanorum, content
to translate it from the later version of Massenius, a German
Jesuit, who lived at Cologne in 1657.”
“Few subjects,” said Herbert, “seem more involved than the history
of didactic fiction. The more mysterious an investigation bids fair
to be, the less we have to depend on fact, and the more we are at
the mercy of conjecture, so much the more does the mind love to
grasp at the mystery, and delight in the dim perspective and
intricacies of the way. Each successive adventurer finds it more
easy to pull down the various bridges, and break in the various
cuttings by which his predecessor has endeavored to make the way
straight, than to throw his own bridge over the river or the morass
of time that intervenes between the traveller and the goal.”
“Four distinct sources,” said Lathom, “have been contended for: the
Scandinavian bards, the Arabians of the Spanish peninsula, the
Armoricans or Bretons, and the classical authors of Greece and Rome.
Mallet and Bishop Percy came forward as the advocates of
Scandinavia; Dr. Wharton writes himself the champion of the Spanish
Arabians; Wilson is rather inclined to the Breton theory; and Dr.
Southey and Mr. Dunlop come forward as the advocates of the
classical and mythological authors; whilst Sir Henry Ellis would
reconcile all differences by a quiet jumble of Breton scenes colored
by Scandinavia and worked by Arabian machinery. Let us, however,
adjourn this subject until to-morrow, as I wish to read you another
of these tales, in order to give you some idea of the moral
applications and explanations appended to them by the monkish
writers. We will take Jovinian the Proud Emperor, and in this case
you must be content with my own translation.”
JOVINIAN THE PROUD EMPEROR.
In the days of old, when the empire of the world was in the hands of the
lord of Rome, Jovinian was emperor. Oft as he lay on his couch, and
mused upon his power and his wealth, his heart was elated beyond
measure, and he said within himself: “Verily, there is no other god than
me.”
It happened one morning after he had thus said unto himself, that the
emperor arose, and summoning his huntsmen and his friends, hastened to
chase the wild deer of the forest. The chase was long and swift, and the
sun was high in the heavens, when Jovinian reined up his horse on the
bank of a clear bright stream that ran through the fertile country on
which his palace stood. Allured by the refreshing appearance of the
stream, he bade his attendants abide still, whilst he sought a secluded
pool beneath some willows, where he might bathe unseen.
The emperor hastened to the pool, cast off his garments, and revelled in
the refreshing coolness of the waters. But whilst he thus bathed, a
person like to him in form, in feature, and in voice, approached the
river’s bank, arrayed himself unperceived in the imperial garments, and
then sprang on Jovinian’s horse, and rode to meet the huntsmen, who,
deceived by the likeness and the dress, obeyed his commands, and
followed their new emperor to the palace gates.
Jovinian at length quitted the water, and sought in every direction for
his apparel and his horse, but could not find them. He called aloud upon
his attendants, but they heard him not, being already in attendance on
the false emperor. And Jovinian regarded his nakedness and said:
“Miserable man that I am! to what a state am I reduced! Whither shall I
go? Who will receive me in this plight? I bethink me there is a knight
hereabout whom I have advanced to great honor; I will seek him, and with
his assistance regain my palace, and punish the person who has done me
this wrong.”
Naked and ashamed, Jovinian sought the gate of the knight’s castle, and
knocked loudly at the wicket.
“Who art thou, and what dost thou seek?” asked the porter, without
unclosing the gate.
“Open, open, sirrah!” replied the emperor, with redoubled knocks on the
wicket.
“In the name of wonder, friend, who art thou?” said the old porter as he
opened the gate, and saw the strange figure of the emperor before the
threshold.
“Who am I, askest thou, sirrah? I am thy emperor. Go, tell thy master,
Jovinian is at his gate, and bid him bring forth a horse and some
garments, to supply those that I have been deprived of.”
“Rascal,” rejoined the porter—“thou the emperor! Why, the emperor but
just now rode up to the castle, with all his attendants, and honored my
master by sitting with him at meat in the great hall. Thou the emperor!
a very pretty emperor indeed; faugh, I’ll tell my master what you say,
and he will soon find out whether you are mad, drunk, or a thief.”
The porter, greatly enraged, went and told his lord how that a naked
fellow stood at the gate, calling himself the emperor, and demanding
clothes and a good steed.
“Bring the fellow in,” said the knight.
So they brought in Jovinian, and he stood before the lord of the castle,
and again declared himself to be the emperor Jovinian. Loud laughed the
knight to the emperor.
“What, thou my lord the emperor! art mad, good fellow? Come, give him my
old cloak; it will keep him from the flies.”
“Yes, sir knight,” replied Jovinian, “I am thy emperor, who advanced
thee to great honor and wealth, and will shortly punish thee for thy
present conduct.”
“Scoundrel!” said the knight, now enraged beyond all bounds, “traitor!
thou the emperor! ay, of beggars and fools. Why, did not my lord but
lately sit with me in my hall, and taste of my poor cheer? and did not
he bid me ride with him to his palace gate, whence I am but now
returned? Fool, I pitied thee before; now I see thy villany. Go, turn
the fellow out, and flog him from the castle-ditch to the river-side.”
And the people did as the knight commanded them. So when they ceased
from flogging the emperor, he sat him down on the grass, and covered him
with the tattered robe, and communed on his own wretchedness.
“Oh, my God!” said Jovinian,—for he now thought of other gods but
himself,—“is it possible that I have come to such a state of misery, and
that, through the ingratitude of one whom I have raised so high!” And as
he thus spake, he thought not of his own ingratitude to his God, through
whom alone all princes reign and live. And now he brooded over
vengeance—“Ay,” said he, as he felt the sore weals on his back from the
scourging; “ay, I will be avenged. When he next sees me, he shall know
that he who gives can also take away. Come, I will seek the good duke,
my ablest counsellor; he will know his sovereign, and gladly aid him in
his calamity.” And with these thoughts he wrapped his cloak round him,
and sought the house of the good duke.
Jovinian knocked at the gate of the duke’s palace, and the porter opened
the wicket, and seeing a half-naked man, asked him why he knocked, and
who he was.
“Friend,” replied the emperor, “I am Jovinian. I have been robbed of my
clothes whilst bathing, and am now with no apparel, save this ragged
cloak, and no horse; so tell the duke the emperor is here.”
The porter, more and more astonished at the emperor’s words, sought his
master, and delivered Jovinian’s message to him.
“Bring in the poor man,” said the duke; “peradventure he is mad.”
So they brought Jovinian unto the duke’s great hall, and the duke looked
on him, but knew him not. And when Jovinian reiterated his story, and
spoke angrily unto the duke, he pitied him. “Poor mad fellow,” said the
good duke, “I have but just now returned from the palace, where I left
the very emperor thou assumest to be. Take him to the guard-house.
Perhaps a few days’ close confinement on bread and water may cool his
heated brain. Go, poor fellow; I pity thee!”
So the servants did as their lord commanded, and they fed Jovinian on
bread and water, and after a time turned him out of the castle; for he
still said he was the emperor.
Sorely and bitterly did the emperor weep and bewail his miserable fate
when the servants drove him from the castle gate. “Alas, alas!” he
exclaimed in his misery, “what shall I do, and whither shall I resort?
Even the good duke knew me not, but regarded me as a poor madman. Come,
I will seek my own palace, and discover myself to my wife. Surely she
will know me at least.”
“Who art thou, poor man?” asked the king’s porter of him when he stood
before the palace gate and would have entered in.
“Thou oughtest to know me,” replied Jovinian, “seeing thou hast served
me these fifteen years.”
“Served you, you dirty fellow,” rejoined the porter. “I serve the
emperor. Serve you, indeed!”
“I am the emperor. Dost thou not know me? Come, my good fellow, seek the
empress, and bid her, by the sign of the three moles on the emperor’s
breast, send me hither the imperial robes, which some fellow stole
whilst I was bathing.”
“Ha! ha! fellow; well, you are royally mad. Why, the emperor is at
dinner with his wife. Well, well, I’ll do thy bidding, if it be but to
have the whipping of thee afterwards for an impudent madman. Three moles
on the emperor’s breast! how royally thou shalt be beaten, my friend.”
When the porter told the empress what the poor madman at the gate had
said, she held down her head, and said, with a sorrowful voice, unto her
lord: “My good lord and king, here is a fellow at the palace gate that
hath sent unto me, and bids me, by those secret signs known only to thee
and me, to send him the imperial robes, and welcome him as my husband
and my sovereign.”
When the fictitious emperor heard this, he bade the attendants bring in
Jovinian. And lo, as he entered the hall, the great wolf-hound, that had
slept at his feet for years, sprang from his lair, and would have pulled
him down, had not the attendants prevented him; whilst the falcon, that
had sat on his wrist in many a fair day’s hawking, broke her jesses, and
flew out of the hall: so changed was Jovinian the emperor.
“Nobles and friends,” said the new emperor, “hear ye what I will ask of
this man.”
And the nobles bowed assent, whilst the emperor asked Jovinian his name,
and his business with the empress.
“Askest thou me who I am, and wherefore I am come?” rejoined Jovinian.
“Am not I thy emperor, and the lord of this house and this realm?”
“These our nobles shall decide,” replied the new king. “Tell me now,
which of us twain is your emperor?”
And the nobles answered with one accord: “Thou dost trifle with us,
sire. Can we doubt that thou art our emperor, whom we have known from
his childhood? As for this base fellow, we know not who he is.”
And with one accord the people cried out against Jovinian that he should
be punished.
On this the usurper turned to the empress of Jovinian—“Tell me,” said
he, “on thy true faith, knowest thou this man who calls himself emperor
of this realm?”
And the empress answered: “Good my lord, have not thirty years passed
since I first knew thee, and became the mother of our children? Why
askest thou me of this fellow? and yet it doth surprise me how he should
know what none save you and I can know?”
Then the usurper turned to Jovinian, and with a harsh countenance
rebuked his presumption, and ordered the executioners to drag him by the
feet by horses until he died. This said he before all his court; but he
sent his servant to the tailor, and commanded him to scourge Jovinian;
and for this once to set him free.
The deposed emperor desired death. “Why,” said he to himself, “should I
now live? my friends, my dependents, yea, even the partner of my bed
shuns me, and I am desolate among those whom my bounties have raised.
Come, I will seek the good priest, to whom I so often have laid open my
most secret faults: of a surety, he will remember me.”
Now the good priest lived in a small cell, nigh to a chapel about a
stone’s-cast from the palace gate; and when Jovinian knocked, the
priest, being engaged in reading, answered from within: “Who is there?
why troublest thou me?”
“I am the emperor Jovinian; open the window, I would speak to thee,”
replied the fugitive.
Immediately the narrow window of the cell was opened, and the priest,
looking out, saw no one save the poor half-clothed Jovinian. “Depart
from me, thou accursed thing!” cried the priest; “thou art not our good
lord the emperor, but the foul fiend himself, the great tempter.”
“Alas, alas!” cried Jovinian, “to what fate am I reserved, that even my
own good priest despises me! Ah me, I bethink me—in the arrogance of my
heart, I called myself a god: the weight of my sin is grievous unto me.
Father, good father, hear the sins of a miserable penitent.”
Gladly did the priest listen to Jovinian; and when he had told him all
his sins, the good priest comforted the penitent, and assured him of
God’s mercy, if his repentance was sincere. And so it happened that on
this a cloud seemed to fall from before the eyes of the priest; and when
he again looked on Jovinian he knew him to be the emperor, and he pitied
him, clothing him with such poor garments as he had, and went with him
to the palace gate.
The porter stood in the gateway, and as Jovinian and the priest drew
near he made a lowly obeisance, and opened the gate for the emperor.
“Dost thou know me?” asked the emperor.
“Very well, my lord,” replied the servant; “but I wish that you had not
left the palace.”
So Jovinian passed on to the hall of his palace; and as he went, all the
nobles rose and bowed to the emperor; for the usurper was in another
apartment, and the nobles knew again the face of Jovinian.
But a certain knight passed into the presence of the false emperor. “My
lord,” said he, “there is one in the great hall to whom all men bow, for
he so much resembleth you that we know not which is the emperor.”
Then said the usurper to the empress: “Go and see if you know this man.”
“Oh, my good lord,” said the empress, when she returned from the hall,
“whom can I believe? are there, then, two Jovinians?”
“I will myself go and determine,” rejoined the usurper, as he took the
empress by her hand, and, leading her into the great hall, placed her on
the throne beside himself.
“Kinsfolk and nobles,” said the usurper, “by the oaths ye have sworn,
determine between me and this man.”
And the empress answered: “Let me, as in duty bound, speak first. Heaven
be my witness, I know not which is my lord and husband.”
And all the nobles said the same.
Thereupon the feigned Jovinian rose and spake: “Nobles and friends,
hearken! that man is your emperor and your master; hear ye him; know
that he did exalt himself above that which was right, and make himself
equal unto God. Verily he hath been rewarded; he hath suffered much
indignity and wrong, and, of God’s will, ye knew him not; he hath
repented him of his grievous sin, and the scourge is now removed; he has
made such satisfaction as man can make. Hear ye him, know him, obey
him.”
As the feigned emperor thus addressed the astonished nobles, his
features seemed illumined with a fair and spiritual light, his imperial
robes fell from off him, and he stood confessed before the assembly an
angel of God, clothed in white raiment. And, as he ended his speech, he
bowed his head, and vanished from their sight.
Jovinian returned to his throne, and for three years reigned with so
much mercy and justice, that his subjects had no cause to regret the
change of their emperor. And it came to pass, after the space of three
years, the same angel appeared to him in a dream, and warned him of his
death. So Jovinian dictated his troublous life to his secretaries, that
it might remain as a warning unto all men against worldly pride, and an
incitement to the performance of our religious duties. And when he had
so done, he meekly resigned himself, and fell asleep in death.
“So much for the story, as a story; now for the moral, with all that
eccentric spirit of refinement and abstraction with which the age
was characterized,” said Herbert.
“The moral in this case is less eccentric than in many to which I
hope we shall come before Christmas is over.”
“Jovinian was but the picture of the proud, worldly-minded man,
entirely given up to vanity and folly. The first knight whose castle
he visited was True Wisdom, ever disdainful of the pomps and
vanities of the world. The next knight was Conscience. The dog that
turned against his old master, was the lusts of the flesh, our own
evil desires, which will ever in the end turn against those who have
pampered them. The falcon is God’s grace; the empress, man’s soul;
and the clothes in which the good priest clothed the half-frozen
emperor, are those kingly virtues which he had thrown off, when he
gave loose rein to the vanities of the world.”
“It must be admitted,” remarked Herbert, “that from very early times
a secondary meaning was commonly attached to every important work;
it progressed from the sacred writings through the poetic fictions
of the classics, to compositions professedly allegorical. The want
of discrimination, which in our eyes assumes much of the appearance
of profane levity, with which the fictions of the classics were
interpreted to signify the great truths and mysteries of religion,
was, perhaps, hardly reprehensible in the simple state of knowledge
which prevailed at the time when these attempts at secondary
interpretation were made.”
“And hence it was,” said Lathom, “that in the early ages it might
seem to partake of little levity to prefigure our Saviour’s birth in
that of Bacchus; his sufferings and death in that of Actæon, or his
resurrection in the legend of Hercules, as related by Lycophron; as
late as the thirteenth century the Franciscan Walleys wrote a moral
and theological exposition of the Metamorphoses of Ovid.”
“But surely the writers of that age did not stop there,” said
Thompson; “was it not the case, that to these expositions succeeded
compositions professedly allegorical, and which the spirit of
refinement of that age resolved into further allegories, for which
they were never intended?”
“Undoubtedly so!” replied Lathom; “it was not enough that the writer
of the ‘Romaunt of the Rose’ had allegorized the difficulties of an
ardent lover in the accomplishment of his object, under the mystery
of the rose which was to be gathered in a fair but almost
inaccessible garden. Every profession saw in this allegory the great
mystery of their craft. To the theologian it was the rose of
Jericho, the New Jerusalem, the Blessed Virgin, or any other mystery
to which obstinate heretics were unable to attain; to the chemist it
was the philosopher’s stone; to the lawyer it was the most
consummate point of equity; to the physician the infallible panacea,
the water of life; and does not this spirit of allegory extend to
the present day, only in a somewhat different form?”
“Not unlike the present system of commentating,” remarked Henry
Herbert. “As soon as a poet has attained to any great reputation,
and death has sealed up his writings, then comes the host of
annotators and critics, each one more intent than his predecessor to
develop the mind of the writer, to discover with what hidden
intentions, with what feelings, this or that passage was written,
and to build on some stray expression a mighty theory, for some more
clever writer to overthrow, and raise a new fabric on its ruins. And
in these attempts it is not the old author whose glory is sought to
be heightened, but the new man who would ascend the ladder of
reputation on the labors of the ‘man of old.’”
“Far different,” rejoined Lathom, “was the spirit which prompted the
fashion of resolving every thing into allegories in the middle ages;
nor, indeed, is it to be solely charged to an unmeaning and wanton
spirit of refinement. ‘The same apology,’ says Wharton, ‘may be
offered for cabalistic interpreters, both of the classics and of the
old romances. The former, not willing that those books should be
quite exploded which contained the ancient mythology, labored to
reconcile the apparent absurdities of the pagan system with the
Christian mysteries, by demonstrating a figurative resemblance. The
latter, as true learning began to dawn, with a view of supporting
for a time the expiring credit of giants and magicians, were
compelled to palliate those monstrous incredibilities, by a bold
attempt to unravel the mystic web which had been woven by fairy
hands, and by showing that truth was hid under the gorgeous veil of
gothic invention.’ And now, Thompson, we must adjourn, you to your
real Greeks and Romans, Herbert and I to Aristotle’s Summum Bonum.”
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