GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH AND THE CHRONICLERS
Chaucer, in his _Hous of Fame_, gives a station of conspicuous honour
to a group of writers whose claim to distinction is that they are all
“besy for to bere up Troye.” Homer, inevitably, heads the list, standing
“Ful wonder hye on a pilere
Of yren.”
With him, however, are ranged persons of somewhat doubtful reputation;
to wit, Dares, the Phrygian, and “Tytus,” or Dictys, the Cretan, “Guido
de Columpnis,” and--significantly--“English Gaufride.” “Gaufride,”
or Geoffrey, owes his modern renown much more to his contributions
to Arthurian literature than to his modest additions to the tale of
Troy. His detractors will have it that the Arthurian portions of his
so-called _History_ are as fabulous as his account of the descent of
the British race from Brutus, the son of Æneas. He had, however, the
authority of Nennius, at least, for his use of the Brutus legend. He
had the brief records of Nennius, also, to work upon as a foundation
for the elaborate narrative which he gives of the life and deeds of
King Arthur. But that narrative came upon the world as quite a new,
and a startling thing. It is, perhaps, no exaggeration to term its
appearance the chief literary event of the twelfth century; at any
rate, it is certain that it aroused infinitely greater interest than
the story of what Brutus and his immediate descendants achieved in
Britain. Chaucer, however,--to judge, at least, by his _Tale of Sir
Thopas_,--regarded the newer romantic matters with good-humoured
contempt; and the tale of Troy, in its various ramifications,
challenged his imagination much more insistently than such a
new-fangled theme as the story of Arthur.
Notwithstanding the fact that Geoffrey’s use of the Brutus legend is
what constitutes the claim of his _History_ to rank as the first,
and the greatest, of a long series of “Bruts,”--English, French and
Welsh,--his real title to literary fame rests upon his achievement,
and his influence, as a contributor to Arthurian story. The Arthurian
legend would, undoubtedly, have attracted the attention of European
poets and romancers, had Geoffrey’s _History_ never been written.
It was current, as we have seen, in Wales, Brittany and Cornwall
long before his time. There is even evidence that Arthur, and tales
concerning him, were known in the south of Europe before he took up
his pen. But it is quite certain that Arthur would never have figured
as he does in chronicle literature, and so have come to be regarded
as an authentic historical character, were it not for Geoffrey’s
narrative. And it may be doubted whether English poets, at any
rate,--to judge from the homage which they pay Geoffrey,--would have
dallied so much over Arthurian fable had they not at their call what
Wordsworth describes as that
“British record long concealed
In old Armorica, whose secret springs
No Gothic conqueror ever drank.”[70]
Now, it so happens that the “British record,” which Wordsworth, with
a poet’s licence, so confidently tells us was “long concealed in old
Armorica,” has never yet been discovered, and the mystery surrounding
it is the chief critical problem which still baffles every student
of the work of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This problem is deliberately
set us by Geoffrey himself at the very beginning of his Chronicle,
for he states that he is simply translating into the Latin tongue
“a certain most ancient book in the British language,” which,--as
he adds in his epilogue,--“Walter, archdeacon of Oxford, brought
hither from Brittany.” That he had some “book,” or books, other than
Nennius, to supply him with material, is not only highly probable,
but almost certain; and, if we are to believe his own statement, that
book must have been in “the British language.” But the fact remains
that no document, either in Welsh or in Breton, has yet been found
even remotely resembling that which Walter, the archdeacon, is said
to have brought over from Brittany. It is possible, however, that
those who have been searching for it have attached too much importance
to the “British” book, and that, even were it to be discovered, its
contents would only serve to show how deftly Geoffrey manipulated his
material, and how artfully he succeeded in making his story of Arthur
just what his Norman patrons, and the new romantic taste of the time,
required. No intelligent reader of Geoffrey’s _History_ can, at any
rate, escape the conclusion that the work, especially in its treatment
of both the Brutus legend and the career of Arthur, was written with
a motive. Besides, it is a work _sui generis_ among the chronicle
literature of its time, and bears clear evidence of deliberate romantic
embellishment. In order to apprehend what Geoffrey’s motive may have
been, and how far he is to be regarded as a conscious romancer, it
is necessary, first of all, to know something of the writer himself
and of the age and the people for whom he wrote; a brief examination
of the actual contents of the _History_, and more particularly of its
Arthurian portions, may perhaps serve, subsequently, to clear up as
much of the rest of the matter as is possible, in the absence of any
knowledge of “the British book.”
The amount of authentic biographical detail ascertainable concerning
Geoffrey is exceedingly scanty, and it is, therefore, not surprising
that what is told about him in many reputable literary histories is
distressingly inaccurate. Even the name of his famous book is, often,
wrongly given; it is constantly cited as _Historia Brittonum_--the
title of Nennius’ compilation--instead of as _Historia Regum
Britanniæ_. Walter, the archdeacon of Oxford, again, has been confused
with Walter Map, who could hardly have been more than about twelve
years old when Geoffrey died. Geoffrey himself is loosely designated
“archdeacon of Monmouth,” whereas there was no archdeaconry of Monmouth
in his time. He is said to have become, ultimately, bishop of Llandaff,
and to have died in the year 1152,--the actual facts, however, being
that he was ordained priest and, almost simultaneously, appointed
bishop of St Asaph in 1152, and that he died at Llandaff in 1155. The
exact dates of the beginning, and of the completion, of his _History_
cannot be definitely fixed; but we know enough about the work to say
that it must have existed, in some form, as early as 1139, at the
latest, and that it was complete in the form in which we now have it by
the year 1148.
There is no conclusive evidence that Geoffrey was of Welsh birth,
or that his home, other than a monastic domicile, was at Monmouth.
The dedication of his _History_, however, proves that he claimed the
patronage of a Norman prince who was lord of a tract of Welsh country,
the north-west boundary of which all but extended to the town of
Monmouth. Early in the twelfth century Robert, earl of Gloucester,
acquired the lordship of Glamorgan by marriage with Mabel, the daughter
and heiress of Robert Fitz-Hamon. Eminent as both statesman and
warrior, Robert of Gloucester, like his father, Henry Beauclerc, was
a student of letters and a generous friend of literary men. It is no
empty compliment that Geoffrey pays Robert when he hails him as “one
nurtured in the liberal arts by philosophy, and called unto the command
of our armies by his own inborn prowess of knighthood,” and “whom in
these our days Britain haileth with heart-felt affection as though
she had been vouchsafed another Henry.”[71] Robert’s enlightened
patronage of men of letters is sufficiently attested by the fact that
William of Malmesbury, the most distinguished historian of his day,
dedicated to him his _History of the Kings of England_. The abbey of
Margam, whose chronicle is an important authority for the history of
mediæval Wales, was founded by him; another abbey in which a valuable
chronicle was compiled--that of Tewkesbury--had in him one of its chief
benefactors. On his estates at Torigni in Normandy was born Robert of
the Mount, afterwards abbot of Mont St Michel, eminent as a chronicler
and known as a lover of the legends of his own Breton race. Robert of
Gloucester’s close connection, as thus indicated, with both South Wales
and Normandy at once suggests that he must have taken a considerable
interest in Welsh and Breton legendary lore. It is even possible that
it was at his instance that Walter, the archdeacon, and Geoffrey
embarked upon the quest which ultimately led to the discovery, real or
alleged, of the “book in the British tongue,” and to its translation
into Latin. It is obvious that Geoffrey, at any rate, was at pains to
produce a work which would please both his immediate patron and all
courtly readers who took pride in the growth of the Norman dominion.
A plausible, and by no means improbable, explanation of Geoffrey’s
motive in compiling the _Historia_ is that he meant it to be a kind
of “national epos,” blazoning the united glories of the composite
Anglo-Norman “empire” which reached the zenith of its power under
Henry II.[72] A book written with such a patriotic purpose would
certainly commend itself to Robert of Gloucester and other Norman
lords, and would appeal strongly to the imagination of less exalted
readers. The _History_ does, indeed, provide in Arthur a hero over
whose achievements Norman and Saxon, Welshman and Breton, could all
alike exult. Moreover, the common ancestry of the various constituent
races of the Angevin empire is shown by an account of their descent
from a branch of the great Trojan stock which founded imperial Rome.
Brutus, the son of Æneas, stands to Britain in the same relation as
Æneas himself stands to Rome, with the exception--and that was, of
course, to the advantage of Britain--that Brutus could be claimed as
the eponymous hero of this island.[73] Thus--as poets like Wace and
Layamon, and certain Welsh chroniclers, who use the name, were quick
to see--here was a _Brut_, which, though written in prose, had as
good a right to its epic title as the _Æneid_. There is, even, some
evidence that Geoffrey may, at one time, have cherished the ambition
of emulating Virgil himself by telling his story in verse; for, in the
eleventh chapter of his first book, we come across certain elegiac
lines which look uncommonly like fragments rescued from a projected
poem. Apart, however, from its account of the coming of Brutus, there
is little in Geoffrey’s _Brut_ that furnishes any real analogy with
the _Æneid_. It is not Brutus, but Arthur, who stands out as the hero
of the _Historia Regum Britanniæ_. The _Historia_ covers, altogether,
a period--according, of course, to the computation of its author--of
some fifteen hundred years; but more than a fifth part of it is devoted
to the record of Arthur’s life,--more than twice the space allotted to
the history of Brutus. It is upon the story of Arthur that Geoffrey
seems to concentrate all his powers, and, by magnifying the continental
conquests of the British king, he is able ultimately to point with
triumph to the fulfilment of a prophecy that “for the third time should
one of British race be born who should claim the empire of Rome.”
The main objection to this theory of an Anglo-Norman “epos” is the
difficulty of reconciling it, not so much with the Trojan and the
Arthurian parts of the _Historia_ as with the scope and character of
the work as a whole. The book is called a _History of the Kings of
Britain_, and would appear, _primâ facie_, to have been composed
by a writer of British birth for the sole purpose of glorifying the
forgotten heroes of his own race.[74] Through six books the narrative
is strictly confined to the insular history of Britain and its rulers,
many strange legends and marvels being interwoven with what professes
to be an authentic and ordered record of actual events. Even in the
first half of the _History_, dull though it is for the most part, one
alights upon many passages which betray the hand of the deliberate
romancer. But it is only with the introduction, in the seventh book, of
the prophecies of Merlin that Geoffrey finds his real opportunity for
romantic dilatation. With Merlin he is in the very heart of the land
of enchantment, and the spell of romance inevitably falls upon him. It
is to Merlin’s magic arts that the birth is due of “the most renowned
Arthur, who was not only famous in after years, but was well worthy of
all the fame he did achieve by his surpassing prowess.” Then follows,
in three books, the narrative which first revealed to an astonished
world that Britain once had a hero whose deeds challenged comparison
with those of Alexander and Charlemagne. Here, at last, was historical
confirmation of what had long been fabled in “the idle tales” and
“ancient songs” of the Britons. Here, also, was just what a romantic
age was thirsting for, and Arthur immediately became the central figure
of the most popular and the most splendid of the romantic cycles.
“Alexander”--and, we may add, Charlemagne--“had been an amusement;
Arthur became a passion.”[75]
Geoffrey’s _History_, to be properly understood, must thus be read in
the light of the general literary history of its time. Romance was in
demand, and Geoffrey was shrewd enough to perceive the romantic value
of the story of Arthur. It is impossible to read the Arthurian chapters
in his Book without feeling that the writer is conscious of having got
hold of “a good thing,” and that he is determined to make the most of
it. So he gives his imagination free play, and palpably expands and
embellishes his matter as he goes on. The _Historia_ is much more of a
romance than a sober chronicle, and it is quite conceivable that, in
an age of literary experiment, its author enjoyed the use to which he
was thus putting the time-honoured form of the chronicle. It is not,
of course, suggested that Geoffrey invented all, or even the greater
part, of his matter; nor need it be believed that the reference to
“the British book” is altogether a ruse. Like other chroniclers, he
borrows largely from his predecessors; what he has taken from Nennius
and Bede, for example, can be clearly traced in his text. But the
_History_ obviously contains much which Geoffrey either invented, or of
which he was unwilling to disclose the secret source. It is otherwise
unaccountable that he should warn orthodox and reputable chroniclers,
like William of Malmesbury and Henry of Huntingdon, not to pry into
the romantic enclosure which was his own particular preserve. In his
epilogue, Geoffrey tells these two eminent historians that they may
go on writing about “the kings of the Saxons,” if they choose, but he
“bids them be silent as to the kings of the Britons, since they have
not that book in the British speech which Walter, archdeacon of Oxford,
brought over from Brittany.”
Of scarcely less significance than his epilogue, as throwing a light
upon the general character of the work, is Geoffrey’s introductory
chapter. Its apologetic tone is distinctly suspicious, and seems
intended to disarm the critical by vouching an authority, both ancient
and written in a strange tongue, for the marvellous narrative that was
to follow and for the ornate style in which it was presented. It is
worth quoting in full, for it really strikes the keynote to the entire
work.
“Oftentimes in turning over in mine own mind the many themes that might
be subject-matter of a book, my thoughts would fall upon the plan of
writing a history of the Kings of Britain; and in my musings thereupon
meseemed it a marvel that, beyond such mention as Gildas and Bede
have made of them in their luminous tractate, nought could I find as
concerning the kings that had dwelt in Britain before the Incarnation
of Christ, _nor nought even as concerning Arthur_ and the many others
that did succeed him after the Incarnation, albeit that their deeds
be worthy of praise everlasting, and be as pleasantly _rehearsed from
memory by word of mouth in the traditions of many peoples_ as though
they had been written down. Now, whilst I was thus thinking upon such
matters, Walter, Archdeacon of Oxford, a man learned not only in the
art of eloquence, but in the histories of foreign lands, offered me a
certain most ancient book in the British language that did set forth
the doings of them all in due succession and order from Brute, the
first king of the Britons, onward to Cadwallader, the son of Cadwallo,
_all told in stories of exceeding beauty_. At his request, therefore,
albeit that never have I gathered gay flowers of speech in other men’s
little gardens and am content with mine own rustic manner of speech
and mine own writing-reeds, have I been at pains to translate this
volume into the Latin tongue. For, had I besprinkled my page with
high-flown phrases, I should only have engendered a weariness in my
readers by compelling them to spend more time over the meaning of the
words than upon understanding the drift of my story.”
Then follows the dedication to Robert of Gloucester.[76] Having thus
given us his authority, and having taken further shelter under the wing
of Walter, Geoffrey settles down to his task with all the gravity of a
pious monkish chronicler. As other chroniclers had done before him, he,
in his early books at least, makes brief references--as, apparently, so
many “guarantees of good faith”--to contemporaneous events in sacred
and profane history. When, for example, Gwendolen is said to have
handed over the sceptre to her son Maddan, we learn that “Samuel the
prophet reigned in Judæa, and Homer was held to be a famous teller of
histories and poet.” Carlisle, we are told, was founded at the time
when “Solomon began to build the temple of the Lord in Jerusalem.” “The
fortress of Mount Paladur, which is now called Shaftesbury,” was built
by Hudibras, when “Haggai, Amos, Joel and Azarias did prophesy.” We
get, in the account of the building of Shaftesbury, a characteristic
example of Geoffrey’s way of getting level with the sceptical reader.
“There, while the wall was a-building, an eagle spake, the sayings
whereof, had I believed them to be true, I would not have shrunk from
committing to memory along with the rest.”
It is time, however, to give some account of Geoffrey’s narrative of
the life of Arthur. He was, we are told, the son of Uther Pendragon[77]
by Igerne, the lawful wife of Gorlois, duke of Cornwall. Uther is
introduced to us as the brother of Aurelius Ambrosius, and becomes, on
the death of Aurelius, king of Britain. After conquering the Saxons
under Octa and Eosa, and strengthening his kingdom generally, he falls
in love with Igerne and quarrels with her husband. He, thereupon, makes
war upon Gorlois and besieges him in the castle of Dimilioc. Igerne
had, in the meantime, been sent for safer refuge to the neighbouring
castle of Tintagel, on the sea-coast. Thither Uther, transformed
into the semblance of Gorlois by Merlin’s magic powers, proceeds in
quest of her; he gains ready admission, and so becomes the father of
Arthur. Immediately afterwards Gorlois, in a sally from Dimilioc, is
killed, and in due time Uther marries Igerne. Another child born unto
them was a daughter, Anna, who became the wife of “Lot of Lodonesia,”
and the mother of Gawain and Modred. After another campaign against
Octa and Eosa, Uther is poisoned by the Saxons, and Arthur succeeds
to the throne. He is crowned by Dubricius, “archbishop of the City
of Legions,”[78] and is thus portrayed as he was at the time of his
coronation. “At that time Arthur was a youth of fifteen years, of a
courage and generosity beyond compare, whereunto his inborn goodness
did lend such grace as that he was beloved of well-nigh all the peoples
of the land. After he had been invested with the ensigns of royalty,
he abided by his ancient wont, and was so prodigal of his bounties
as that he began to run short of wherewithal to distribute amongst
the huge multitude of knights that made repair unto him. But he that
hath within him a bountiful nature along with prowess, albeit that
he be lacking for a time, natheless in no wise shall poverty be his
bane for ever. Wherefore did Arthur, for that in him did valour keep
company with largess, make resolve to harry the Saxons, to the end
that with their treasure he might make rich the retainers that were
of his own household.” Thus it comes about that Arthur begins his
career of conquest at once. He attacks the Saxon chieftains Colgrin,
Cheldric and Baldulph, and with the help of his nephew Hoel, king of
Armorica, subdues them after several battles--including the twelve
recorded by Nennius--of which the last is fought in “the country about
Bath.” Arthur himself, carrying “on his shoulder the shield Priwen,”
and armed with Ron, his spear, and “Caliburn, best of swords, that
was forged within the Isle of Avalon,” performed prodigies of valour
in that battle. “Whomsoever he touched, calling upon God, he slew at
a single blow, nor did he once slacken in his onslaught until that he
had slain four hundred and seventy men single-handed with his sword
Caliburn.” Having restored the whole island to its pristine British
dignity, Arthur, we read, “took unto him a wife born of a _noble Roman
family_, Guenevere, who, brought up and nurtured in the household of
Duke Cador (of Cornwall), did surpass in beauty all the other dames
of the island.”[79] His marriage only stimulated Arthur to attempt,
and achieve, further conquests; and, in rapid succession, Ireland,
Iceland, Gothland, and the Orkneys, are either subdued or forced to
pay tribute to him. Then follow twelve years of peace, during which
his court waxed in splendour, and his renown spread until “at last
the fame of his bounty and his prowess was on every man’s tongue,
even unto the uttermost ends of the earth, and a fear fell upon the
kings of the realms oversea lest he might fall upon them in arms and
they might lose the nations under their dominion.” Hence, one is not
surprised to learn that Arthur’s “heart was uplifted for that he was a
terror unto them all, and he set his desire upon subduing the whole of
Europe unto himself.” Norway, Dacia and Gaul are invaded, and quickly
reduced to submission. Lot, his sister’s husband, is given what was his
of ancestral right, the crown of Norway, just at the time, as we are
told incidentally, when “Gawain, the son of Lot, was a youth of twelve
years, and had been sent by his uncle to be brought up as a page in
the service of Pope Sulpicius.” Arthur’s visit to Gaul led to a single
combat between him and a man of giant stature, Flollo, “Tribune of
Rome”; the British king was wounded in the fight, but at last “raising
Caliburn aloft” he clove Flollo’s head “sheer in twain.” He concluded
his business in Gaul by giving “Neustria, which is now called Normandy,
unto Bedevere, his butler, and the province of Anjou unto Kay, his
seneschal.”
Returning to Britain, Arthur holds high court at Caerleon-upon-Usk,
and in the descriptions of the state that he kept there the colour and
pomp of the age of chivalry, and of Norman court-life, run unchecked
through Geoffrey’s narrative. Even before he had embarked upon his
continental conquests, Arthur had begun to “hold such courtly fashion
in his household as begat rivalry amongst peoples at a distance,
insomuch as the noblest in the land, fain to vie with him, would hold
himself as nought, save in the cut of his clothes and the manner of
his arms he followed the pattern of Arthur’s knights.” But, so far,
nothing has been heard of “the City of Legions,” except that Dubricius
was “archbishop” there. Now, however, we are given a picture of the
town “situate on a passing pleasant position on the river Usk in
Glamorgan,” which Arthur chose to be the seat of his court, and to
be the scene of the “high solemnity” of his second, and seemingly
imperial, coronation. The city “abounded in wealth” above all others;
ships came to it from oversea; its kingly palaces challenged comparison
with those of Rome itself; it was the third metropolitan see of
Britain, and “had, moreover, a school of two hundred philosophers
learned in astronomy and in the other arts, that did diligently observe
the courses of the stars, and did by true inferences foretell the
prodigies which at that time were about to befall unto King Arthur.”
To the coronation were bidden princes and warriors from every part of
the British islands and from realms oversea, until “not a single prince
of any price on this side Spain remained at home and came not upon the
proclamation.” The description of the splendours of the ceremonial
itself, and of the banquet that followed it, taxes Geoffrey’s
rhetorical powers to the full. He has, indeed, to give up in despair
any attempt to give a complete account of them; “were I to go about
to describe them,” he writes, “I might draw out this history into an
endless prolixity.” “For at that time Britain was exalted unto so high
a pitch of dignity as that it did surpass all other kingdoms in plenty
of riches, in luxury of adornment, and in the courteous wit of them
that dwelt therein. Whatsoever knight in the land was of renown for
his prowess did wear his clothes and his arms all of one same colour.
And the dames, no less witty, would apparel them in like manner in a
single colour, nor would they deign have the love of none save he had
thrice approved him in the wars. Wherefore at that time did dames wax
chaste and knights the nobler for their love.”
Here is a passage that must have delighted the hearts of Norman readers
nurtured upon ideals of chivalry and courtly love, and seems as though
designed to prepare the way for Arthur’s entry into the kingdom of
chivalric romance. It is no great step from Arthur’s court, as here
pictured, to the knightly fellowship of the Round Table, and all the
other elaborate fictions of professional romantic scribes. Of a part
with all this romantic presentment of the pomp and state surrounding
the British king is Geoffrey’s constant exaltation of his “bounty,” and
of his individual prowess as a warrior. Nor is the element of wonder
lacking in the narrative given of Arthur’s exploits. He encounters at
St Michael’s Mount, and slays by his own hand, a Spanish “giant of
monstrous size,” who had carried away and killed the niece of Hoel,
duke of Armorica. This adventure leads him to tell Kay and Bedivere,
who had accompanied him on the expedition, how he had once, in Wales,
despatched another formidable monster, “the giant Ritho,” of Mount
Eryri, “who had fashioned him a furred cloak of the beards of the kings
he had slain.” Again, in the last battle with the Romans, he is a truly
Homeric hero. “He dashed forward upon the enemy, flung them down, smote
them,--never a one did he meet, but he slew either him or his horse at
a single buffet. They fled from him like sheep from a fierce lion madly
famishing to devour aught that chance may throw in his way. Nought
might armour avail them but that Caliburn would carve their souls from
out them with their blood.”
The campaign against the Romans, undertaken with an army of
“eighty-three thousand two hundred, besides those on foot, who were not
easy to reckon,” seems to have followed close upon the festivities at
Caerleon.[80] The Romans were under the command of “Lucius Hiberius,
procurator of the Commonwealth,” who, summoning to his aid “the kings
of the East,” put into the field a host numbering “four hundred
thousand one hundred and sixty.” It is unnecessary here to give any
detailed account of the fighting, and of the final discomfiture of
the Roman forces. It need only be said that the British triumph was
obtained at heavy cost. Among the slain were the faithful Kay and
Bedevere,--in death, as in life, not divided. Bedevere was buried at
Bayeux, “his own city that was builded by Bedevere the first, his
great-grandfather;” Kai was laid to rest near Chinon, “a town he
himself had builded.” The chief disaster to the Romans was the loss of
their leader Lucius, whose body Arthur “bade bear unto the Senate with
a message to say that none other tribute was due from Britain.” Arthur
designed to follow up this message by a march upon Rome itself, and he
had actually begun to climb the passes of the Alps when news reached
him that “his nephew Modred, unto whom he had committed the charge of
Britain, had tyrannously and traitorously set the crown of the kingdom
upon his own head, and had linked him in unhallowed union with Guenever
the Queen in despite of her former marriage.”
So ends Geoffrey’s tenth book. “Hereof” begins the eleventh,
strangely enough,--but, of course, plainly referring to the affair of
Guinevere,--“verily, most noble Earl, will Geoffrey of Monmouth say
nought.” He will only treat of the battles which Arthur, after his
return to Britain, fought with his nephew, according to the account
given “in the British discourse aforementioned,” and what he “_hath
heard_ from Walter of Oxford, a man of passing deep lore in many
histories.”[81] The final, and fatal, battle did not take place all
at once; it came at the end of a campaign of some length. Modred,
retreating rapidly into Cornwall, is at last brought to bay on the
river Camel, and is slain in a battle in which “well-nigh all the
captains that were in command on both sides rushed into the press with
their companies and fell.” And “even the renowned King Arthur himself
was wounded deadly, and was borne thence unto the island of Avalon for
the healing of his wounds, where he gave up the crown of Britain unto
his kinsman Constantine, son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the year of
the incarnation of our Lord five hundred and forty-two.”
“Borne unto the island of Avalon for the healing of his wounds,”--here,
surely, are words never before used in a professedly historical
narrative of a kingly hero wounded unto death. This touch, alone, is
sufficient to attest the kinship of Geoffrey’s “history” of Arthur
with the waifs and strays of Celtic romance. The circumstances of
Arthur’s birth, as told by Geoffrey, were marvellous enough; like other
saga-heroes, such as Finn and Cormac, he was born out of wedlock,
through Merlin’s magical intervention. But what caught the imagination
of poets and romancers even more was the fable of his “return.” “Some
men say yet,” writes Malory, “that King Arthur is not dead, but had by
the will of our Lord Jesu into another place. And men say that he shall
come again, and he shall win the holy cross. I will not say it shall
not be so, but rather I will say, here in this world he changed his
life. But many men say that there is written upon his tomb this verse,
_Hic jacet Arthurus Rex quondam Rexque futurus_.” Later in the twelfth
century an attempt was made, at the instance--so it is alleged--of
Henry II to destroy the persistent belief in this “Celtic messiahship”
by an announcement that the body of Arthur had been exhumed at
Glastonbury by the monks of St Dunstan’s abbey.[82] It was, however, of
no avail. A poet of the next generation, Layamon, tells us that “the
Britons believe yet that Arthur is alive, and dwelleth in Avalon with
the fairest of all elves, and ever yet the Britons look for Arthur’s
coming.”
The popularity of Geoffrey’s _History_ was immediate and immense; it
is indeed difficult to find a parallel to it before the age of printed
books. So much is largely attested by the number of extant MS copies
of the work.[83] But the most striking evidence of the impression
it made is to be found in the number of translations, adaptations
and continuations of the _Historia_ compiled from the moment of its
first appearance down to comparatively recent times. Not long, if at
all, after its author’s death, Geoffrey Gaimar translated it into
Anglo-Norman verse.[84] By 1155 Wace had completed his _Brut_, which
in substance is almost entirely based on Geoffrey’s _Historia_. Early
in the next century Layamon wrote his English _Brut_, embodying,
with many interesting additions and embellishments of his own, the
main features of Geoffrey’s and Wace’s narrative. Then follow a long
line of English chroniclers, in both prose and verse, from Robert of
Gloucester down to Grafton and Holinshed, who pass on Geoffrey’s fables
as authentic history. In the Elizabethan age, in spite of attempts made
to discredit him by critics and antiquaries, like Polydore Vergil and
Camden, Geoffrey continues to be drawn upon by the poets. Sackville
and Spenser, Warner and Drayton, and others, give a new currency to
his British legends, and Drayton even goes out of his way to defend
his impugned reputation.[85] Spenser, in borrowing from his record of
British kings, pays him a well-known tribute in the second book of _The
Faerie Queene_. But, perhaps, the finest tribute of all to Geoffrey’s
_History_ is that of Wordsworth in ‘Artegal and Elidure,’ where he
sings of the “British record” in which
“We read of Spenser’s fairy themes,
And those that Milton loved in youthful years;
The sage enchanter Merlin’s subtle schemes;
The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers;
Of Arthur, who, to upper light restored,
With that terrific sword
Which yet he brandishes for future war
Shall lift his country’s fame above the polar star!”
Although Geoffrey’s book found so much acceptance in his own time
and afterwards, it is significant to note that, even soon after its
appearance and in the very heyday of its repute, a few shrewd critics
ventured to question its authenticity. William of Newburgh, as we
have seen, denounced it unreservedly as a tissue of impudent lies.
He, at any rate, had no scruple in treating the work as a deliberate
experiment in fiction under the guise of a chronicle. A different
attitude towards the book might have been expected from Giraldus
Cambrensis, a Welshman proud of his race and of its “old and haughty”
traditions, who was himself not unskilled in the art of fiction. Yet it
is Gerald who, of all Geoffrey’s critics, says much the unkindest thing
on record of the _Historia_. He tells us of a Welshman at Caerleon
named Melerius, or Meilir, who had dealings with evil spirits, and was
“enabled through their assistance to foretell future events.” “He knew
when anyone spoke falsely in his presence, for he saw the devil as it
were leaping and exulting on the tongue of the liar.... If the evil
spirits oppressed him too much, the Gospel of St John was placed on his
bosom, when, like birds, they immediately vanished; but when that book
was removed, and the _History of the Britons_ by Geoffrey Arthur was
substituted in its place, they instantly reappeared in greater numbers,
and remained a longer time than usual on his body and on the book.”
Geoffrey, in the epilogue to his _History_, hands over the task of
writing of “the kings who succeeded in Wales” from the time at which
his narrative closes to “Caradoc of Llancarvan, my contemporary.”
Caradoc was an undoubted Welshman, but no Latin continuation by him
of Geoffrey’s chronicle dealing with the Welsh kings is known to
exist, and it is very doubtful whether a Welsh compilation bearing his
name, and bringing Geoffrey’s narrative down to the year 1156, is a
genuine work of his. It is, however, highly probable that he was the
author of the Latin _Life of Gildas_, preserved in a twelfth century
MS now in the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. This work
is of peculiar interest as containing certain Arthurian traditions
which were apparently unknown to Geoffrey. Gildas is represented, in
this fictitious biography, as being a contemporary of Arthur, king of
all Britain, whom he loved and obeyed. He had, however, twenty-three
refractory brothers who refused allegiance to Arthur, and the eldest
of them, Hueil,[86] or Huel, King of Scotland, fought a battle with
him in “the isle of Minau” and was killed. Gildas, who was in Ireland
at the time, was much distressed to hear of this, but, as became a
saint, he prayed for Arthur, and, returning to Britain, granted the
king the pardon which he besought. Further on in the _Life_ we get a
version, probably the earliest in literature,[87] of the story of the
abduction of Guinevere by Melwas (the Mellyagraunce of Malory), “the
wicked king of the Summer Country,” or Somerset. After long seeking
for a convenient opportunity, Melwas carries her violently away to
Glastonia, or Glastonbury, a place chosen by him as being apparently
impregnable because of the marshes around it. Arthur, discovering her
retreat, besieges Glastonbury with a large army drawn from Cornwall
and Devon. Before, however, he and Melwas engage in battle, the monks
of the abbey, accompanied by Gildas, intervene; peace is made, and the
queen is restored to her lawful husband.
Of the many chroniclers who, either in prose or in verse, repeat and
embellish Geoffrey’s Arthurian narrative, by far the most interesting,
and the most important in their influence upon the literary development
of Arthurian story, are Wace and Layamon. Both are poets, and their
metrical _Bruts_ mark, as it were, the transitional stage between
the Arthur of history and traditional legend and the Arthur of pure
romance. Wace, according to Layamon, dedicated his poem, which was
completed in 1155, to “the noble Eleanor, who was the high King
Henry’s queen.”[88] This statement--and there is no reason to doubt
its truth--affords another indication of the interest of the Angevin
court in the literary exploitation of “the matter of Britain.” Geoffrey
had already besought royal approval for his presentment of British
legends, and had done his best to clothe his account of Arthur’s deeds
in the highly-coloured rhetorical trappings that would commend it to
courtly Norman readers. Wace went further. He took Geoffrey’s matter
and dressed it up in a poetical form in French, thus giving it a much
more widespread currency than a Latin prose chronicle could ever have
done. Arthur becomes, in his _Brut_, the flower of chivalry, and
his entire narrative is decorated in a way that would appeal to the
imagination of all knightly Anglo-Normans. Nor is he without thought of
the courtly ladies who took so lively an interest in tales of chivalry.
Like Chrétien de Troyes and other romancers, he is at some pains to
elaborate his descriptions of scenes of love. He takes delight in
dwelling upon the accoutrements of warriors, and upon their individual
exploits in the field. But it is not alone in such embellishments--the
deliberate attempts of a courtly writer to please a courtly circle of
readers--that Wace differs from Geoffrey. He adds to his narrative many
details which indicate that he also had at his command an independent
fund of Arthurian traditions. Wace’s literary celebrity is due,
perhaps, most of all to the fact that he is the first Arthurian writer
to mention the Round Table. “The Bretons,” he says, “tell many a fable
of the Table Round,” but he does not explain whence such fables came,
or where he heard them told.[89] He does, however, inform us that the
Table was made round because each of Arthur’s knights thought himself
better than his fellows, and Arthur devised this method of settling all
disputes about precedence among them. The praise of the knights of the
Round Table, he adds in another place, was loud throughout the world.
Again, Wace adds considerably to Geoffrey’s description of the passing
of Arthur. The king is not only taken to Avalon “to be cured of his
wounds,”--the Bretons confidently expect his recovery, and look for his
return. “He is still there; the Bretons await him; they say that he
will come back and live again.”
Wace’s metrical chronicle formed the basis of the still more elaborate,
and the more poetical, metrical _Brut_ of the Englishman, Layamon,--the
most remarkable English contribution to Arthurian literature until
we come to _Sir Gawayne and the Grene Knight_. Here we have a brave
attempt to do what Caxton long afterwards desired,--to make Arthur
the best “remembered among Englishmen before all other Christian
kings.” Wace’s poem was a contribution to the polite literature of
the Normans; Layamon’s, though his matter is so largely borrowed from
Wace, is a patriotic English epic. It was his aspiration, as we learn
from the opening lines of his _Brut_, “to tell the noble deeds of
England,” and in his record of those deeds Arthur, who had been all
but denationalised by the romancers, is restored to his fatherland and
duly figures as the great “Christian king of England.” But Layamon
was a poet no less than a patriotic chronicler, and could not help
listening to the blowings of “the horns of Elfland.” Arthur’s prowess
and royal attributes were such as could not be explained except for
the intervention of superhuman powers. Elves surrounded him when he
came into the world; it was from them that he derived the gifts which
made him the best of knights and the mightiest of kings.[90] Again,
at his passing, Arthur says that he is about to go to the splendid
elf, Argante (Morgain, or Morgan, _la fée_); “she will heal me of all
my wounds, and shall make me all hale; and afterwards I shall come to
my kingdom and dwell among the Britons with mickle joy.”[91] Arthur’s
byrnie was made for him by Wygar, “the elvish smith”; his spear by
Griffin, of the city of the wizard Merlin (Kaermerddin); his sword,
Caliburn, was wrought with magic craft in Avalon; the Round Table was
constructed by a strange carpenter from oversea. Layamon’s account of
the Round Table is much fuller than that of Wace, and is evidently
based upon popular legends of wizardry. It was in Cornwall, when there
was a quarrel among his knights, that Arthur met the stranger from
beyond the sea who offered to “make him a board, wondrous fair, at
which sixteen hundred men and more might sit.”[92] Though it was so
large, and took four weeks to make, the table could, by some magic
means, be carried by Arthur as he rode, and placed by him wherever he
chose. Layamon had evidently heard more about the Round Table, “of
which the Britons boast,” than he cares to disclose in his poem; but
“the Britons,” he tells us at the end of his description of the Table,
say “many leasings” of King Arthur and attribute to him things “that
never happened in the kingdom of this world.”
No more spirited, or more romantic, passage is to be found in Layamon’s
poem than that in which he describes Arthur’s last battle. It was
fought at Camelford, “a name that will last for ever.” The stream, hard
by, “was flooded with blood unmeasured.” The combatants were pressed
so close that they could not distinguish friend from foe; “each slew
downright were he swain, were he knight.” Modred, and all his knights,
were slain, as were also “all the brave ones, Arthur’s warriors, high
and low, and all the Britons of Arthur’s board.” None remained alive
at the end of the battle,--and they were two hundred thousand men who
fought there,--save Arthur and two of his knights. Arthur, grievously
wounded, bequeaths his kingdom to Constantine, Cador’s son, and says
that he himself will go unto Avalon to be healed by Argante,[93] “the
fairest of all maidens.” And “even with the words there came from
the sea a short boat, borne on the waves, and two women therein,
wondrously arrayed; and they took Arthur anon, and bare him quickly,
and softly laid him down, and fared forth away. Then was brought to
pass that which Merlin whilom said, that there should be sorrow untold
at Arthur’s forthfaring. The Britons believe yet that he is alive, and
dwelleth in Avalon, with the fairest of all elves, and ever yet the
Britons look for Arthur’s coming. Was never the man born, nor ever of
woman chosen, that knoweth the sooth, to say more of Arthur. But whilom
there was a seer hight Merlin; he said with words--and his sayings were
sooth--that an Arthur should yet come to help the Britons.”