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.
“On what nation have the antiquaries endeavored to fix the
authorship of these tales?” replied Herbert.
“Here doctors disagree: Wharton contends for a Poitevin prior of the
Benedictine convent of St. Eloi at Paris: whilst Douce argues for a
German origin, because in the moralization attached to one tale
there is a German proverb, and in another the names of some dogs are
partly German, partly Saxon.”
“Might not this arise from the pen of a translator or adapter?”
suggested Thompson.
“More than probably it did. The fact of the scenes in one or two of
the tales being laid in England, may tend to show that the copy in
which they appear was prefaced by a writer of that country: as the
introduction of the German proverb would lead us to suppose that the
editor of that copy was a German.”
“Is it not probable,” said Herbert, “that this book may have been a
mere collection of the popular tales of the age in which it was
written, confined to no particular country, drawn from every
available source; thus leaving to the reputed author, the task of
arrangement and transcription, rather than of origination?”
“It is now useless to endeavor to determine this point: as in the
history of fiction it is far more easy to upset prior theories, than
to set up new ones,” replied Lathom.
“Whose conversions, as you kindly denominate them, do you propose
illustrating this evening?” asked Thompson.
“Parnell and Schiller,” rejoined Lathom, “The Lay of the Hermit, and
The Ballad of Fridolin. We will begin with Parnell.”
THE ANGEL AND THE HERMIT.
Far in a wild, unknown to public view, in a cell which he had hollowed
out with his own hands on the edge of an open down, from youth to age a
reverend hermit grew. The neighboring lord’s shepherd was wont to feed
his sheep on short but sweet pasture of the hermit’s down.
One day the poor shepherd, fatigued with watching, fell asleep, and a
robber came and stole the lord’s flock. When he awoke, he discovered the
loss, and stoutly maintained that the sheep had been stolen, but the
lord would not believe the shepherd, and commanded him to be put to
death.
The hermit saw the deed, and thus communed with himself:
“Merciful God, seest thou what this man hath done, and how the innocent
suffers for the guilty? Why permittest thou these things? If injustice
is to triumph, why remain I here? Verily I will re-enter the world, and
do as other men do.”
Impressed with these thoughts, the hermit left his cell, and wandered
back to the world and the abodes of men, and on his way, an angel, sent
from God, met him, and being in the form of a traveller, he joined
himself to the hermit, and asked him which way he journeyed.
“To the city that lieth before us,” rejoined the hermit.
“I will accompany you,” replied his companion; “I am an angel sent from
God, to be the associate of your wanderings.”
So they walked onwards to the city. When they entered the gates, they
sought the house of a soldier, and entreated him, by God’s love, to give
them harborage during the night. The veteran complied with cheerfulness,
and spared not of the best of his substance, for the entertainment of
the travellers. The hospitable soldier had but one child, an infant in
the cradle. And so it happened, that when supper was ended, the veteran
lighted the guests to his best chamber, and the angel and the hermit
retired to rest. About midnight the hermit awoke, and saw the angel rise
from the bed, enter the chamber where the infant slept, and strangle it
with his own hands.
“Surely,” said the hermit to himself, “this cannot be an angel of God;
did not the good soldier give us every thing that we required? and now,
lo, the only child that he had, is slain by this, his guest.” And yet he
feared to reprove his companion.
With the morning, the hermit and the angel arose, and sought a
neighboring city, where they found a hospitable reception in the house
of one of its chief persons. This man had a valuable drinking cup of
gold, which the angel purloined during the night, but the hermit yet was
silent, for he feared more than he doubted. On the morrow the travellers
continued their journey, and on their way they came to a river, over
which was a bridge thrown. They ascended the bridge, and met, midway, a
poor and aged pilgrim.
“My friend,” said the angel to the old man, “show us the way to yonder
city.”
As the pilgrim turned him to show the angel the road, he seized him by
the shoulders, and cast the old man headlong into the river that ran
beneath.
“Alas, alas!” cried the hermit to himself, “it is the Evil One himself.
Why? what evil had the poor man done?” and yet, with all his thoughts,
the hermit feared to give utterance to his fears.
About the hour of vespers, the travellers reached another city, in which
they sought shelter for the night; but the master of the house refused
them rudely.
“For the love of heaven,” said the angel, “spare us of thy house for
shelter against the wolves and other wild beasts.”
“That,” rejoined the man, “is my pigsty, lie ye there, if it so please
ye; for ye come no other whither.”
“Necessity,” replied the angel, “forces us to accept your ungracious
offer.”
On the morrow, the angel called the host, and said, “Friend, I give you
this goblet,” presenting to him the cup he had stolen from his former
host.
“Now,” said the hermit, “know I that this is no angel; doth he not
reward evil for good, and good for evil? No longer will I travel with
you; fare thee well, I commend thee to God.”
“Dear friend,” rejoined the angel, “hear me ere you depart. Whilst thou
wert in thy hermitage, the lord of the flock unjustly slew his careless
but innocent servant. For his innocence he will be in a fit state to
enter another world; but had he lived, he would have fallen into sin,
and died before repentance could have followed. Eternal punishment shall
follow them who stole the sheep; but repentance and acts of faith shall
repair the error which the owner of the flock committed in his
ignorance. Truly the soldier was hospitable, but he loved his son
overmuch; ere then, he was charitable and merciful, but on the birth of
his child he grew parsimonious and covetous, that he might leave a
fortune to his son. With his child’s death hath returned his Christian
virtues to his parent. Before that cup was made, which I stole from our
host who owned it, there was not a more abstemious person in this world;
but with that cup came the love of indulgence and inebriety. I took away
the temptation, and our host is once more abstemious. Again, I cast the
poor pilgrim into the river. He whom I drowned was a good Christian; but
had he proceeded further, he would have fallen into mortal sin: now he
is saved and is reigning in heaven. Neither did I bestow the cup on the
unhospitable citizen without reason: he gave us his swine’s house; he
has received his reward—the temptation of gluttony and pleasure. Guard,
therefore, thy lips; detract not from the Almighty; to him all things
are known.”
At these words, the hermit fell at the feet of the angel, and besought
his pardon. It was acceded to him, and he returned to his hermitage a
wiser and a better Christian.
“Admitting, of course, the identity of the main incidents, Parnell
must have the credit of heightening those he has used with many
masterly touches of poetic coloring, and of a happier arrangement of
circumstances,” said Herbert, who had been following the story in
the poet’s works.
“Many indeed are the proofs of his genius and address in the
treatment of the subject,” said Lathom. “And no one more striking,
than his delaying the discovery of the angelic nature of the
visitant until the close of the story; and thus introducing a
beautiful description and interesting surprise.”
“Read us the part,” said Thompson.
“It is where the angel has just thrown the guide into the river—
“‘Wild, sparkling rage inflames the hermit’s eyes,
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries,
Detested wretch—but scarce his speech began,
When the strange partner seem’d no longer man.
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;
His robe turn’d white, and flow’d upon his feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odors breathe thro’ purple air;
And wings, whose colors glitter’d on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.’”
“Do you suppose that the Gesta was known to the poet?” asked
Frederick Thompson.
“Hardly—he is far more likely to have taken the incidents of his
poem from the Divine Dialogues of the Platonist Moore; who affixes
to his version of the tale some reflections well worth reading. ‘The
affairs of this world,’ says the old Platonist, ‘are like a curious
but intricately contrived comedy; and we cannot judge of the
tendency of what is past—or acting at present, before the entrance
of the last act, which shall bring in righteousness in triumph; who
though she hath abided many a brunt, and has been very cruelly and
despitefully used in the world, yet at last, according to our
desires, we shall see the knight overcome the giant.’ ... But
impatiently to call for vengeance upon every enormity before that
time, is rudely to overturn the stage before the entrance of the
fifth act, out of ignorance of the plot of the comedy; and to
prevent the solemnity of the general judgment, by more paltry and
particular executions.”
“Thanks for the old Platonist’s remarks,” said Herbert. “I could
have wished them more elaborate, were not Schiller’s Fridolin
waiting for the conclusion of them, to come upon our stage.”
“I will give you, then, one form of Schiller’s ballad.”
FULGENTIUS AND THE WICKED STEWARD.
When Martin was emperor of Rome, his uncle Malitius was steward of his
household, and his nephew Fulgentius, his only sister’s son, an orphan,
was his constant attendant, his cup-bearer at meals, and his page of his
chamber. For Martin loved his nephew, and was kind to him; and regarded
him as his own child, for he was not a father. Malitius hated this
Fulgentius; seeing that if he should succeed to the kingdom, his own son
would lose that crown which he had so long regarded as his by right of
inheritance. Day and night he thought how he might cause Martin to
discard Fulgentius.
“My lord,” said he with a face of assumed distress, one day to the
emperor, “it is with great pain, my lord, that I speak unto you, but in
that I am thy true servant, it is my duty to warn my sovereign of any
thing that lessens his honor and repute.”
“Speak on,” said the emperor.
“Will my lord,” rejoined the steward with apparent anxiety, “keep what I
shall tell him a secret between him and me?”
“If thou wishest it, Malitius,” said the emperor.
“Oh, my dear lord, how ungrateful is the world,” began the steward.
“Well, well, that is as it may be,” rejoined the emperor; “but to your
secret, the sun is rising high in the heavens, and my horses wait me.”
“Your nephew, Fulgentius—”
“Ha!” said Martin, “Fulgentius; what of him?”
“I grieve to say, my lord, he most ungratefully defames you among his
companions, speaking ill of your habits, and especially of your breath,
and saying that it is death to him to serve you.”
“If I could but prove this,” muttered the emperor.
“Remark him, my lord, when he next serves you with the cup, and if he
turns away his head when he gives you the goblet, be sure that he so
accuses, and thus endeavors to make the bystanders believe that his
accusation is true.”
“It is well,” replied the emperor; “go, good Malitius, we will remember
your advice.”
Then went the steward unto Fulgentius, and spoke kindly to him, and
professed, as a friend and a near relative, to warn him how nearly he
was about to lose the good wishes of Martin, and perhaps forfeit his
succession to the throne.
“Fulgentius, my dear relative,” said he with a fawning smile, “thy
breath is sadly displeasing to the emperor, and he talks of removing you
from near attendance on his person.”
“Oh! good sir,” replied the youth, “can this be true?”
“Alas! I fear it is so. I have experienced it myself; but be sure it is
merely temporary ill health, it will soon pass off.”
“And before then I shall have lost my uncle’s good opinion. What shall I
do, Malitius?”
“There is but one thing,” replied the steward; “when you hand the cup to
the emperor, turn away your head from him; then will he not be
incommoded by your breath, and will see that you do your best to please
him.”
“Thanks, good Malitius. Your advice has made me feel happy.”
“Thy happiness be thy ruin,” muttered Malitius to himself as he turned
away.
That day Fulgentius attended on his uncle at dinner; and as he handed to
him the cup he held it far off, and turned away his face, lest he should
distress the emperor.
“Wretch!” cried the emperor, at the same time striking Fulgentius on the
breast; “now know I that it is true what I have heard of thee; go, go
from my sight, thou varlet, I thought to have made thee a king; but now
see my face no more.”
Sorely wept Fulgentius as he passed from the hall, amid the jeers and
scoffs of his former companions; for he was now disgraced, and they
cared not for him.
“Malitius,” said the emperor, “let thy son supply the place of this
ingrate. Come, my good lord, counsel me how I may rid myself of this
varlet, that disgraces me before the world.”
“Sire, this would I propose; some miles from this city your workmen burn
lime in a vast forge in the forest; send to them this night, and bid
them cast into their furnace whoever first comes to them to-morrow
morning, and asks of them ‘Have you performed the emperor’s will?’ Call
also Fulgentius to thee, and bid him early on the morrow go to the
lime-burners, and ask them whether they have fulfilled your commands;
then will they cast him into the fire, and his evil words will perish
with him.”
And the emperor did so. He bade Fulgentius be at the kilns before
sunrise; and that night sent a horseman to the lime-burners, bidding
them burn the first man that on the morrow should inquire of them
whether they had performed the emperor’s will.
Long before sunrise Fulgentius rose from his sleepless couch, and
hastened to perform his uncle’s commands, hoping by this means to regain
the good-will of the emperor. As he went on his way with a heavy heart,
and drew near to the wood within the depths of which the lime-burners
dwelt, the sound of the matin bell of a neighboring chapel arrested his
steps. The tones of the bell seemed to bring peace to his troubled mind,
and he turned from the path towards the way-side chapel, and offered up
his prayers and thanksgivings to his God. But as the service was ending,
the fatigue he had undergone disposed him to rest himself; so he sat
himself down in the porch of the chapel and fell asleep.
“Poor child,” said the good priest as he passed through the porch, “thou
lookest wearied and careworn; sleep on, no one shall disturb thee.” When
he awoke the sun was going down in the heaven.
Malitius was as sleepless during the night as the poor youth, and his
anxiety drove him early from his bed, and suffered him not to be at
peace all the day. Now when it was noon the steward could no longer
remain in the palace, but he hastened to the lime-kilns, and demanded of
the lime-burners “whether they had performed the emperor’s will.”
“Not yet,” cried they, with hoarse voices, “but no fear, master; it
shall be done forthwith.”
With these words, the men seized Malitius, and hurried with him in their
arms to the mouth of the kiln.
“Mercy, mercy, good sirs,” cried the steward, “it is Fulgentius you
should burn; not me.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the lime-burners; “we know neither thee nor
Fulgentius; thou art the first man that has come here this day and asked
us: ‘Whether we have done the emperor’s will’; so peace, man, peace. Ha!
ha! his will is done.”
So Malitius died in the fire.
It was past noon when Fulgentius awoke, and the sun was going down in
its course.
“Alas! alas!” he said, “I have delayed to perform my lord’s will.”
And he hastened through the wood, and came to the lime-kilns.
“What wantest thou, boy?” asked the chief of the lime-burners.
“Tell me, tell me, sirs,” asked Fulgentius, anxiously, “hast thou
performed the command of the emperor?”
“Ay, my lad, right well; come, look into the furnace—and see, his bones
yet burn.”
“His bones; whose bones, sirs?” asked Fulgentius, aghast with fear.
Then they told him all that had been commanded them, and how Malitius
coming first to the lime-kilns had been cast into the fire and burnt.
“Thanks be to God,” said the youth, devoutly kneeling, “who hath saved
me from this terrible death.” With these words he bade the burners
farewell, and returned to his uncle’s palace.
“Ha!” said the emperor, when Fulgentius bowed himself before his uncle’s
throne, “thou here, sir varlet; hast thou not been to my lime-burners?”
“Verily, my lord, I have been there and performed thy commandment; but
before I came your will had been performed.”
“Performed,” rejoined the emperor, “how performed? Malitius; is he not
here?”
“No, my lord, he is burnt in the lime-kiln,” replied the youth; “he came
first to the kiln, and the burners obeyed your commands, and he is dead,
and I have escaped. But, O my dear uncle, how couldst thou contrive such
a death for thy poor nephew?” and he wept bitterly.
Then did they each declare to the other the deceits of the wicked
steward; and the emperor raised up the youth, and acknowledged him
before all his people as his very true and good nephew, his heir and
successor to the throne; rendering thanks to God who had preserved the
uncle from so deadly a sin against his relative, and the nephew from so
horrible a death.
“The German poet has been equally successful in his amendments with
Parnell,” said Herbert.
“In none more so,” said Thompson, “than in substituting in the place
of the unpleasant bodily affection, the more courtly failing of
jealousy excited in the mind of the knight by the malice of the
huntsman Robert.”
“Was it then from this old book, or from some similar tradition of
his own country, that Schiller obtained his incidents?” asked
Herbert.
“It is impossible to determine; it is said that Schiller learnt his
plot from an Alsatian legend that he heard at Manheim; and yet the
similarity of the incident renders it more than probable that the
poet was acquainted with this form of the tale. The story as it
appears in the monks’ books, and the tradition of Alsatia, most
probably started from the same original, which, being immediately
written down by the monk, we now have in its original form. The
tradition went on from mouth to mouth, and became gradually varied
to suit the popular feelings.”
“Your instances of conversion, Lathom,” said Thompson, “remind me of
Washington Irving’s vision in the library of the British Museum,
when all the old writers leapt down from their shelves and despoiled
the moderns of the patchwork garments, made of the shreds of
countless writers, and left them plucked of their borrowed plumes.”
“Nay,” replied Lathom, “rather of those few who had borrowed gems
from the writers of old, and by new setting and repolishing so
improved their original lustre that the former owner was eager to
tender his thanks to his modern adapter, who had renewed his
long-lost glories.”
“I am afraid your old monks would have had as many to pluck of their
borrowed plumes as to compliment on their ingenuity as working
jewellers,” said Thompson.
“The process of recovery would be curious in some cases,” said
Herbert: “the modern adapter would have to settle with Lydgate or
Gower; the old poet would resign his title to the middle-age monk or
chronicler; and he perhaps be finally stripped of his gem by some
Eastern fabler.”
“Be sure that Shakspeare, Parnell, and Schiller would meet with more
thanks than reproaches,” was Lathom’s reply, as he closed his book
for that evening.
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