(740-778)
"O, for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne
That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer
On Roncesvalles died!"--_Marmion._
"When Charlemain with all his peerage fell,
By Fontarabbia."--_Paradise Lost._
[Illustration: Roland.]
"A Roland for an Oliver!" Saving the passing reference by Scott and
Milton, quoted above, Roland and Olivier are almost unknown to English
readers, and yet their once familiar names, knit together for centuries,
have passed into a proverb, to be remembered as we remember the
friendship of David and Jonathan, or to be classed by the scholar with
Pylades, and Orestes of classic story, or with Amys and Amylion of
romance.
The "Song of Roland" might be called the national epic of France. It
corresponds to the "Mort d'Arthur" of England, the "Cid Chronicles" of
Spain, the "Nibelungen Lied" of Germany, and the Longobardian legends of
North Italy. Italian mediæval literature is rich in the Roland romances,
founded on the fabulous "Chronicle of John Turpin" and the "Chansons de
Gestes," of which the "Song of Roland" is one. Of the Italian romances
the "Morgante Maggiore" of Pulci was published as early as 1488,
Boyardo's "Orlando Innamorata" in 1496, and Ariosto's "Orlando Furioso"
in 1515. English versions of Boyardo and Ariosto have since been
translated into the rhyming couplets of Hoole, and as late as 1831 into
the _ottava rima_ stanzas of W. S. Rose. It was not, however, till
April, 1880, that a full English translation of the original "Song of
Roland," from MSS. written in the old _langue d'oil_ of Northern France,
was published by Kegan, Paul & Co., from the pen of Mr. O'Hagan, Q.C.,
of Dublin. Most probably it was a curtailed version of this romance that
is referred to by Wace in his "Roman le Rou," when he records how, as
the Normans marched to Senlac Hill, in 1066, the minstrel Taillefer
sang,
"Of Roland and the heroes all
Who fell at fatal Roncesvall."
Turning to the historical data on which the romance is based, it will be
found that in the year 778 A.D. Charlemagne, accompanied by his nephew,
Count Roland of Bretagne, and the flower of Frankish chivalry, made a
raid across the Spanish border. Abdalrahman, the first of the great
Spanish caliphs of Cordova, was engaged in putting down the rebellious
chiefs who had refused to own their allegiance to the new caliphate. The
frontier was therefore comparatively unprotected. The Spanish
Christians, who maintained a precarious independence among the Asturias
and Pyrenees, and who found it the wisest policy to be at peace with the
Mohammedan rulers, were not strong enough to resist Charlemagne.
Accordingly the Franks advanced nearly to Saragossa. On returning to
France laden with spoil through the winding defile of Roncesvalles (the
valley of thorns or briers), their rear-guard was cut off by a band of
Basques or Gascons and Spanish-Arabians, and their leader, Roland,
slain. To the presence of these Spanish Christians in the Moorish army
must be attributed the origin of the many Spanish ballads on the
victory, in which all the glory is due to the prowess of the national
hero, Bernardo Del Carpio, "the doughtiest lance in Spain." It is
curious also to note, on the other hand, that the Arabians themselves in
their chronicles, translated by the Spanish historian Condé, make little
of this victory, merely mentioning the fact. The Saracen King Marsil, or
Marsilius, of Saragossa, so often referred to in this and other
Carlovingian romances, is identified by Condé with the Mohammedan Wali,
or Governor of Saragossa, Abdelmelic, the son of Omar, called by the
Christians Omarus Filius, hence the corruption Marsilius.
With these brief outlines of the history of Roncesvalles before us it is
interesting to observe the grandiloquent strain of the old Norman
_rymours_, the fearless exaggerations, and the total ignorance of the
actual state of affairs in Spain under the enlightened and accomplished
Arabians.
_"Carles li reis nostre emperere magnes,
Set anz tut pleins ad estet en Espaigne."_
Our great emperor Charles the King had been for seven full years in
Spain, so runs the chronicle; castle and keeper alike had gone down
except Saragossa, the mountain town, where King Marsil held his court,
surrounded by 20,000 Mohammedan nobles. At their council it was agreed
to accept Spain as a fief from the emperor, and ten knights set out with
golden bridles and silver saddles,
"And they ride with olive boughs in hand,
To seek the lord of the Frankish land."
Near the pass of Roncesvalles, one of the Pyrenean "gates" of Spain,
sits the emperor upon a throne of beaten gold. His form is tall and
majestic, and his long white beard flows over his coat of mail. 'Tis
whispered, too, that he is already two hundred years old, and yet, there
he is in all his pride. Beside him stand his nephew Roland, the Lord
Marquis of the marches of Bretagne; Sir Olivier; Geoffrey of Anjou, the
progenitor of the Plantagenets; "and more than a thousand Franks of
France." The Moslem knights are introduced to this council of war, King
Marsil's offer is accepted, and Sir Ganelon is sent to Saragossa to
represent the emperor. Jealous of Roland's military glory, and envious
of the stores of pagan gold, the false Ganelon conspires with King
Marsil to put the all-powerful Roland to death. King Marsil is assured
that on receipt of the golden tribute, Charlemagne will be persuaded to
leave Spain, while by the traitor's advice Roland will be appointed to
remain behind and guard the rear of the retiring hosts. The scheme
succeeded. Ganelon returned to the Frankish camp with the tribute-money
for the emperor, and the traitor's gold for himself. The Franks begin
their homeward march. They are now descending the mountains into their
own fertile Gascon plains, and their hearts beat lightly, for
"They think of their homes and their manors there,
Their gentle spouses and damsels fair."
But their great chief is silent and gloomy. Roland, the bravest of the
brave, has been left behind with all the paladins, save Ganelon, beyond
the gates of Spain. Last night the emperor dreamed he seemed to stand by
Cizra's pass in Roncesvalles, when Ganelon appeared before him, wrenched
the emperor's spear from out his hand, waved it on high, then dashed it
in pieces. What did it mean? He remembered the ominous words of his
peers, "Evil will come of this quest, we fear," and Ganelon's strange
reply, "Ye shall hear."
Meanwhile Sir Roland was far behind in Roncesvalles. He rode his gallant
steed Veillantif; his white pennon, fringed with gold and set with
diamonds, sparkled in the sunshine; and by his side he wore his famous
sword Durindana, with its hilt of gold shaped like a cross, on which was
graven the name of "Jesus." What a glorious picture of the Christian
hero of mediæval times! With him were Olivier, the good Archbishop
Turpin, and the remaining knights who made up the Order of the Paladins
of Charlemagne, together with an army of 20,000 men.
The drums beat to arms in Saragossa's town, the tambours roll, the
tabors sound, and 400,000 men attend the call of King Marsil. From a
neighboring height Sir Olivier observes this countless host approaching.
He calls to Roland to blow his ivory horn and bring back the emperor.
Roland refuses, and the Franks prepare to fight; not, however, before on
bended knee they receive the archbishop's benediction and a promise of
paradise to all who die in this holy war against the pagan foe. With the
old French battle-cry, "Mont-joie! Mont-joie!" the Christians dash the
rowels into their steeds and close with the enemy. Homer does not relate
a bloodier fight than that which follows, and which takes eighty-six
stanzas, or fifty of Mr. O'Hagan's pages, to describe. Again and again
the Christians charge the Saracens. What deeds the great sword Durindana
did that day! The slain lie in thousands; the Saracens flee; and in the
pursuit all are killed save _one_, who reaches Saragossa. The triumph,
however, is short-lived; Ganelon had decreed that Roland must die, and
so a mightier army than before marches forth to exterminate Roland's
handful, now reduced to 300.
During this battle a terrible storm passes over France,--thunder and
whirlwinds, rain and hail, there came.
The people thought that the end of the world had come, but this was only
a foreshadowing of Roland's death. At last all the nobles are killed
except Roland, Olivier, the archbishop, and sixty men. Then only will
Roland deign to blow his horn. Charlemagne hears it thirty leagues away,
and orders his army to return to Roncesvalles. Ganelon alone seeks to
dissuade him, and is put in chains by the desire of the nobles, who
suspect him. The army of Charles hurries back, but all too late. They
will not arrive in time. Away in the Pass of Cizra, Roland looks around
on his dead comrades and weeps. He returns to Olivier's side, who is
engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter with King Marsil's uncle, the Moslem
prince, Algalif, from whom he receives his death-wound. Olivier reels in
his saddle, his eyes are dimmed with blood, and as he strikes madly
about with his spear, he smashes Roland's helmet. The friend of Olivier
is astonished, but soft and low he speaks to him thus:
"'Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly?
Roland who loves thee so dear am I.
Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek?'
Olivier answered, 'I hear thee speak,
But I see thee not; God seeth thee.
Have I struck thee, brother, forgive it me?'
'I am not hurt, O Olivier;
And in sight of God, I forgive thee here.'
Then to each other his head hath laid,
And in love like this was their parting made."
With hands clasped Sir Olivier cries to God for admittance into
Paradise, and for a blessing on "King Karl and France the fair," and
above all on his brother Roland. Then his hands fall, his head sinks on
his breast, and he passes away. Filled with grief, Roland murmurs:
"So many days and years gone by
We lived together.
And thou hast never done me wrong.
Since thou art dead, to live is pain."
Once more Roland turns to where Count Walter of Hum and the archbishop
alone stand at bay:
"And the heathen cries, 'What a felon three!
Look to it, lords, that they shall not flee.'"
[Illustration: Roland at Roncesvalles.]
Count Walter falls at last, just as they hear the welcome sound of
Charlemagne's trumpets, at which the Saracens flee, leaving Roland and
the archbishop unconquered. But their end is near. Roland swoons, and
the good archbishop, in attempting to bring water in the famous horn
for the dying Paladin, falls from loss of blood. Roland recovers only in
time to see him die; then, as he feels that death is near him also, he
looks once more on his goodly sword Durindana, and as he looks he cries:
"Oh fair and holy, my peerless sword,
What relics lie in thy pommel stored--
Tooth of St. Peter, Saint Basil's blood,
Hair of St. Denis beside them strewed,
Fragment of Holy Mary's vest--
'Twere shame that thou with the heathen rest,
Thee should the hand of a Christian serve,
One who should never in battle swerve."
In despair lest it fall into pagan hands he tries to break it in pieces,
and the mighty slashes he made in the rocks are still pointed out as the
"Brèche de Roland." You remember Wordsworth's lines:
"the Pyrenean breach,
Which Roland clove with huge two-handed sway,
And to the enormous labor left his name,
Where unremitting frost the rocky crescents bleach."
Surely Roland might now rest from his labors, amid the "flowerets of
Paradise." But no; he had yet to smash the head of a prowling Saracen
who thought him an easy prey. In doing so he spoiled forever the ivory
horn, his only weapon. Not till then could he clasp his hands as he went
to rest, and not till then did
"God from on high send down to him
One of His angel cherubim."
St. Michael it was, who with St. Gabriel bore his soul to Paradise.
It would be too long a story to tell of the vengeance of the Emperor
Charles, how _the sun stood still_ till the Franks had killed every one
of the Saracens; how Ganelon was accused of treachery, tried by combat,
and sentenced to be torn to pieces by wild horses. The story is a true
tragedy, terrible as the tragedy of Oedipus. From another source we
gather the mournful sequel.
Long before the battle of Roncesvalles Roland and Olivier had met in
single combat on a quiet island in the Rhone. Toward even a fleecy cloud
hovered over them, and from its midst an angel "wrapped in rosy light"
separated the combatants, bidding them be friends, and telling them to
turn their swords against the enemies of the Faith. The heroes shook
hands, the angel vanished, and from that day there were no truer friends
than Roland and Olivier. Their union was further cemented by the
betrothal of Roland to the Lady Alda, Sir Olivier's sister, a maiden who
had already, in Roland's presence, proved herself as bold in war as she
was loving in peace.