as an ideal, the doubt is not really more admissible. It is here that,
in the eyes of a philosophic historian, chivalry is clearly distinct
from feudalism. If the western world in the ninth century had _not_ been
feudalized, chivalry would nevertheless have come into existence; and,
notwithstanding everything, it would have come to light in Christendom;
for chivalry is nothing more than the Christianized form of military
service, the armed _force_ in the service of the unarmed Truth; and it
was inevitable that at some time or other it must have sprung, living
and fully armed, from the brain of the church, as Minerva did from the
brain of Jupiter.
Feudalism, on the contrary, is not of Christian origin at all. It is a
particular form of government, and of society, which has scarcely been
less rigorous for the church than other forms of society and government.
Feudalism has disputed with the church over and over again, while
chivalry has protected her a hundred times. Feudalism is force--chivalry
is the brake.
Let us look at Godfrey de Bouillon. The fact that he owed homage to any
suzerain, the fact that he exacted service from such and such vassals,
are questions which concern feudal rights, and have nothing to do with
chivalry. But if I contemplate him in battle beneath the walls of
Jerusalem; if I am a spectator of his entry into the Holy City; if I see
him ardent, brave, powerful and pure, valiant and gentle, humble and
proud, refusing to wear the golden crown in the Holy City where Jesus
wore the crown of thorns, I am not then anxious--I am not curious--to
learn from whom he holds his fief, or to know the names of his vassals;
and I exclaim, "There is the knight!" And how many knights, what
chivalrous virtues, have existed in the Christian world since feudalism
has ceased to exist!
The adoption of arms in the German fashion remains the true origin of
chivalry; and the Franks have handed down this custom to us--a custom
perpetuated to a comparatively modern period. This simple, almost rude
rite so decidedly marked the line of civil life in the code of manners
of people of German origin, that under the Carlovingians we still find
numerous traces of it. In 791 Louis, eldest son of Charlemagne, was only
thirteen years old, and yet he had worn the crown of Aquitaine for three
years upon his "baby brow." The king of the Franks felt that it was time
to bestow upon this child the military consecration which would more
quickly assure him of the respect of his people. He summoned him to
Ingelheim, then to Ratisbon, and solemnly girded him with the sword
which "makes men." He did not trouble himself about the framea or the
buckler--the sword occupied the first place. It will retain it for a
long time.
In 838 at Kiersy we have a similar scene. This time it is old Louis who,
full of sadness and nigh to death, bestows upon his son Charles, whom he
loved so well, the "virile arms"--that is to say, the sword. Then
immediately afterward he put upon his brow the crown of "Neustria."
Charles was fifteen years old.
These examples are not numerous, but their importance is decisive, and
they carry us to the time when the church came to intervene positively
in the education of the German _miles_. The time was rough, and it is
not easy to picture a more distracted period than that in the ninth and
tenth centuries. The great idea of the Roman Empire no longer, in the
minds of the people, coincided with the idea of the Frankish kingdom,
but rather inclined, so to speak, to the side of Germany, where it
tended to fix itself. Countries were on the way to be formed, and people
were asking to which country they could best belong. Independent
kingdoms were founded which had no precedents and were not destined to
have a long life. The Saracens were for the last time harassing the
southern French coasts, but it was not so with the Norman pirates, for
they did not cease for a single year to ravage the littoral which is now
represented by the Picardy and Normandy coasts, until the day it became
necessary to cede the greater part of it to them. People were fighting
everywhere more or less--family against family--man to man. No road was
safe, the churches were burned, there was universal terror, and everyone
sought protection. The king had no longer strength to resist anyone, and
the counts made themselves kings. The sun of the realm was set, and one
had to look at the stars for light. As soon as the people perceived a
strong man-at-arms, resolute, defiant, well established in his wooden
keep, well fortified within the lines of his hedge, behind his palisade
of dead branches, or within his barriers of planks; well posted on his
hill, against his rock, or on his hillock, and dominating all the
surrounding country--as soon as they saw this each said to him, "I am
your man"; and all these weak ones grouped themselves around the strong
one, who next day proceeded to wage war with his neighbors. Thence
supervened a terrible series of private wars. Everyone was fighting or
thinking of fighting.
In addition to this, the still green memory of the grand figure of
Charlemagne and the old empire, and I can't tell what imperial
splendors, were still felt in the air of great cities; all hearts
throbbed at the mere thought of the Saracens and the Holy Sepulchre; the
crusade gathered strength of preparation far in advance, in the rage and
indignation of all the Christian race; all eyes were turned toward
Jerusalem, and in the midst of so many disbandments and so much
darkness, the unity of the church survived fallen majesty!
It was then, it was in that horrible hour--the decisive epoch in our
history--that the church undertook the education of the Christian
soldier; and it was at that time, by a resolute step, she found the
feudal baron in his rude wooden citadel, and proposed to him an ideal.
This ideal was chivalry!
That chivalry may be considered a great military confraternity as well
as an eighth sacrament, will be conceded. But, before familiarizing
themselves with these ideals, the rough spirits of the ninth, tenth, and
eleventh centuries had to learn the principles of them. The chivalrous
ideal was not conceived "all of a piece," and certainly it did not
triumph without sustained effort; so it was by degrees, and very slowly,
that the church succeeded in inoculating the almost animal intelligence
and the untrained minds of our ancestors with so many virtues.
In the hands of the church, which wished to mould him into a Christian
knight, the feudal baron was a very intractable individual. No one could
be more brutal or more barbarous than he. Our more ancient
ballads--those which are founded on the traditions of the ninth and
tenth centuries--supply us with a portrait which does not appear
exaggerated. I know nothing in this sense more terrible than _Raoul de
Cambrai_, and the hero of this old poem would pass for a type of a
half-civilized savage. This Raoul was a kind of Sioux or other redskin,
who only wanted tattoo and feathers in his hair to be complete. Even a
redskin is a believer, or superstitious to some extent, while Raoul
defied the Deity himself. The savage respects his mother, as a rule; but
Raoul laughed at his mother, who cursed him. Behold him as he invaded
the Vermandois, contrary to all the rights of legitimate heirs. He
pillaged, burned, and slew in all directions: he was everywhere
pitiless, cruel, horrible. But at Origni he appears in all his ferocity.
"You will erect my tent in the church, you will make my bed before the
altar, and put my hawks on the golden crucifix." Now that church
belonged to a convent. What did that signify to him? He burned the
convent, he burned the church, he burned the nuns! Among them was the
mother of his most faithful servitor, Bernier--his most devoted
companion and friend--almost his brother! but he burned her with the
others. Then, when the flames were still burning, he sat himself down,
on a fast-day, to feast amid the scenes of his sanguinary
exploits--defying God and man, his hands steeped in blood, his face
lifted to heaven. That was the kind of soldier, the savage of the tenth
century, whom the church had to educate!
Unfortunately this Raoul de Cambrai is not a unique specimen; he was not
the only one who had uttered this ferocious speech: "I shall not be
happy until I see your heart cut out of your body." Aubri de Bourguignon
was not less cruel, and took no trouble to curb his passions. Had he the
right to massacre? He knew nothing about that, but meanwhile he
continued to kill. "Bah!" he would say, "it is always an enemy the
less." On one occasion he slew his four cousins. He was as sensual as
cruel. His thick-skinned savagery did not appear to feel either shame or
remorse; he was strong and had a weighty hand--that was sufficient.
Ogier was scarcely any better, but notwithstanding all the glory
attaching to his name, I know nothing more saddening than the final
episode of the rude poem attributed to Raimbert of Paris. The son of
Ogier, Baudouinet, had been slain by the son of Charlemagne, who called
himself Charlot. Ogier did nothing but breathe vengeance, and would not
agree to assist Christendom against the Saracen invaders unless the
unfortunate Charlot was delivered to him. He wanted to kill him, he
determined to kill him, and he rejoiced over it in anticipation. In vain
did Charlot humble himself before this brute, and endeavor to pacify him
by the sincerity of his repentance; in vain the old Emperor himself
prayed most earnestly to God; in vain the venerable Naimes, the Nestor
of our ballads, offered to serve Ogier all the rest of his life, and
begged the Dane "not to forget the Saviour, who was born of the Virgin
at Bethlehem." All their devotion and prayers were unavailing. Ogier,
pitiless, placed one of his heavy hands on the youthful head, and with
the other drew his sword, his terrible sword "Courtain." Nothing less
than the intervention of an angel from heaven could have put an end to
this terrible scene in which all the savagery of the German forests was
displayed.
The majority of these early heroes had no other shibboleth than "I am
going to separate the head from the trunk!" It was their war-cry. But if
you desire something more frightful still, something more "primitive,"
you have only to open the _Loherains_ at hazard, and read a few stanzas
of that raging ballad of "derring-do," and you will almost fancy you are
perusing one of those pages in which Livingstone describes in such
indignant terms the manners of some tribe in Central Africa. Read this:
"Begue struck Isore upon his black helmet through the golden circlet,
cutting him to the chine; then he plunged into his body his sword
Flamberge with the golden hilt; took the heart out with both hands, and
threw it, still warm, at the head of William, saying, 'There is your
cousin's heart; you can salt and roast it.'" Here words fail us; it
would be too tame to say with Goedecke, "These heroes act like the
forces of nature, in the manner of the hurricane which knows no pity."
We must use more indignant terms than these, for we are truly amid
cannibals. Once again we say, there was the warrior, there was the
savage whom the church had to elevate and educate!
Such is the point of departure of this wonderful progress; such are the
refractory elements out of which chivalry and the knight have been
fashioned.
The point of departure is Raoul of Cambrai burning Origni. The point of
arrival is Girard of Roussillon falling one day at the feet of an old
priest and expiating his former pride by twenty-two years of penitence.
These two episodes embrace many centuries between them.
A very interesting study might be made of the gradual transformation
from the redskin to the knight; it might be shown how, and at what
period of history, each of the virtues of chivalry penetrated
victoriously into the undisciplined souls of these brutal warriors who
were our ancestors; it might be determined at what moment the church
became strong enough to impose upon our knights the great duties of
defending it and of loving one another.
This victory was attained in a certain number of cases undoubtedly
toward the end of the eleventh century: and the knight appears to us
perfected, finished, radiant, in the most ancient edition of the
_Chanson of Roland_, which is considered to have been produced between
1066 and 1095.
It is scarcely necessary to observe that chivalry was no longer in
course of establishment when Pope Urban II threw with a powerful hand
the whole of the Christian West upon the East, where the Tomb of Christ
was in possession of the Infidel.
In legendary lore the embodiment of chivalry is Roland: in history it is
Godfrey de Bouillon. There are no more worthy names than these.
The decadence of chivalry--and when one is speaking of human
institutions, sooner or later this word must be used--perhaps set in
sooner than historians can believe. We need not attach too much
importance to the grumblings of certain poets, who complain of their
time with an evidently exaggerated bitterness, and we do not care for
our own part to take literally the testimony of the unknown author of
_La Vie de Saint Alexis_, who exclaims--about the middle of the eleventh
century--that everything is degenerate and all is lost! Thus: "In olden
times the world was good. Justice and love were springs of action in it.
People then had faith, which has disappeared from amongst us. The world
is entirely changed. The world has lost its healthy color. It is
pale--it has grown old. It is growing worse, and will soon cease
altogether."
The poet exaggerates in a very singular manner the evil which he
perceives around him, and one might aver that, far from bordering upon
old age, chivalry was then almost in the very zenith of its glory. The
twelfth century was its apogee, and it was not until the thirteenth that
it manifested the first symptoms of decay.
"_Li maus est moult want_" exclaims the author of _Godfrey de Bouillon_,
and he adds, sadly, "_Tos li biens est finés_."
He was more correct in speaking thus than was the author of _Saint
Alexis_ in his complainings, for the decadence of chivalry actually
commenced in his time. And it is not unreasonable to inquire into the
causes of its decay.
_The Romance of the Round Table_, which in the opinion of prepossessed
or thoughtless critics appears so profoundly chivalrous, may be
considered one of the works which hastened the downfall of chivalry. We
are aware that by this seeming paradox we shall probably scandalize some
of our readers, who look upon these adventurous cavaliers as veritable
knights. What does it matter? _Avienne que puet_. The heroes of our
_chansons de geste_ are really the authorized representatives and types
of the society of their time, and not those fine adventure-seeking
individuals who have been so brilliantly sketched by the pencil of
Crétien de Troyes.
It is true, however, that this charming and delicate spirit did not
give, in his works, an accurate idea of his century and generation. We
do not say that he embellished all he touched, but only that he
enlivened it. Notwithstanding all that one could say about it, this
school introduced the old Gaelic spirit into a poetry which had been
till then chiefly Christian or German. Our epic poems are of German
origin, and the _Table Round_ is of Celtic origin. Sensual and light,
witty and delicate, descriptive and charming, these pleasing romances
are never masculine, and become too often effeminate and effeminating.
They sing always, or nearly so, the same theme. By lovely pasturages
clothed with beautiful flowers, the air full of birds, a young knight
proceeds in search of the unknown, and through a series of adventures
whose only fault is that they resemble one another somewhat too closely.
We find insolent defiances, magnificent duels, enchanted castles, tender
love-scenes, mysterious talismans. The marvellous mingles with the
supernatural, magicians with saints, fairies with angels. The whole is
written in a style essentially French, and it must be confessed in
clear, polished, and chastened language--perfect!
But we must not forget, as we said just now, that this poetry, so
greatly attractive, began as early as the twelfth century to be the mode
universally; and let us not forget that it was at the same period that
the _Percevalde Gallois_ and _Aliscans, Cleomadès_, and the
_Couronnement Looys_ were written. The two schools have coexisted for
many centuries: both camps have enjoyed the favor of the public. But in
such a struggle it was all too easy to decide to which of them the
victory would eventually incline. The ladies decided it, and no doubt
the greater number of them wept over the perusal of _Erec_ or _Enid_
more than over that of the _Covenant Vivien_ or _Raoul de Cambrai_.
When the grand century of the Middle Ages had closed, when the blatant
thirteenth century commenced, the sentimental had already gained the
advantage over our old classic _chansons_; and the new school, the
romantic set of the _Table Round_, triumphed! Unfortunately, they also
triumphed in their manners; and they were the knights of the Round Table
who, with the Valois, seated themselves upon the throne of France.
In this way temerity replaced true courage; so good, polite manners
replaced heroic rudeness; so foolish generosity replaced the charitable
austerity of the early chivalry. It was the love of the unforeseen even
in the military art; the rage for adventure--even in politics. We know
whither this strategy and these theatrical politics led us, and that
Joan of Arc and Providence were required to drag us out of the
consequences.
The other causes of the decadence of the spirit of chivalry are more
difficult to determine. There is one of them which has not, perhaps,
been sufficiently brought to light, and this is--will it be
believed?--the exdevelopment of certain orders of chivalry! This
statement requires some explanation.
We must confess that we are enthusiastic, passionate admirers of these
grand military orders which were formed at the commencement of the
twelfth century. There have never been their like in the world, and it
was only given to Christianity to display to us such a spectacle. To
give to one single soul the double ideal of the soldier and the monk, to
impose upon him this double charge, to fix in one these two conditions
and in one only these two duties, to cause to spring from the earth I
cannot tell how many thousands of men who voluntarily accepted this
burden, and who were not crushed by it--that is a problem which one
might have been pardoned for thinking insoluble. We have not
sufficiently considered it. We have not pictured to ourselves with
sufficient vividness the Templars and the Hospitallers in the midst of
one of those great battles in the Holy Land in which the fate of the
world was in the balance.
No: painters have not sufficiently portrayed them in the arid plains of
Asia forming an incomparable squadron in the midst of the battle. One
might talk forever and yet not say too much about the charge of the
Cuirassiers at Reichshoffen; but how many times did the Hospitaller
knights and the Templars charge in similar fashion? Those soldier-monks,
in truth, invented a new idea of courage. Unfortunately they were not
always fighting, and peace troubled some of them. They became too rich,
and their riches lowered them in the eyes of men and before heaven. We
do not intend to adopt all the calumnies which have been circulated
concerning the Templars, but it is difficult not to admit that many of
these accusations had some foundation. The Hospitallers, at any rate,
have given no ground for such attacks. They, thank heaven, remained
undefiled, if not poor, and were an honor to that chivalry which others
had compromised and emasculated.
But when all is said, that which best became chivalry, the spice which
preserved it the most surely, was poverty!
Love of riches had not only attacked the chivalrous orders, but in a
very short space of time all knights caught the infection. Sensuality
and enjoyment had penetrated into their castles. "Scarcely had they
received the knightly baldric before they commenced to break the
commandments and to pillage the poor. When it became necessary to go to
war, their sumpter-horses were laden with wine, and not with weapons;
with leathern bottles instead of swords; with spits instead of lances.
One might have fancied, in truth, that they were going out to dinner,
and not to fight. It is true their shields were beautifully gilt, but
they were kept in a virgin and unused condition. Chivalrous combats were
represented upon their bucklers and their saddles, certainly; but that
was all!"
Now who is it who writes thus? It is not, as one might fancy, an author
of the fifteenth century--it is a writer of the twelfth; and the
greatest satirist, somewhat excessive and unjust in his statements, the
Christian Juvenal whom we have just quoted, was none other than Peter of
Blois.
A hundred other witnesses might be cited in support of these indignant
words. But if there is some exaggeration in them, we are compelled to
confess that there is a considerable substratum of truth also.
These abuses--which wealth engendered, which more than one poet has
stigmatized--attracted, in the fourteenth century, the attention of an
important individual, a person whose name occupies a worthy place in
literature and history. Philip of Mezières, chancellor of Cyprus under
Peter of Lusignan, was a true knight, who one day conceived the idea of
reforming chivalry. Now the way he found most feasible in accomplishing
his object, in arriving at such a difficult and complex reform, was to
found a new order of chivalry himself, to which he gave the
high-sounding title of "the Chivalry of the Passion of Christ."
The decadence of chivalry is attested, alas! by the very character of
the reformers by which this well-meaning Utopian attempted to oppose it.
The good knight complains of the great advances of sensuality, and
permits and advises the marriage of all knights. He complains of the
accursed riches which the Hospitallers themselves were putting to a bad
use, and forbade them in his _Institutions_; but nevertheless the
luxurious habits of his time had an influence upon his mind, and he
permitted his knights to wear the most extravagant costumes, and the
dignitaries of his order to adopt the most high-sounding titles. There
was something mystical in all this conception, and something theatrical
in all this agency. It is hardly necessary to add that the "Chivalry of
the Passion" was only a beautiful dream, originating in a generous mind.
Notwithstanding the adherence of some brilliant personages, the order
never attained to more than a theoretical organization, and had only a
fictitious foundation. The idea of the deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre
from the Infidel was hardly the object of the fifteenth-century
chivalry; for the struggle between France and England then was engaging
the most courageous warriors and the most practised swords. Decay
hurried on apace!
This was not the only cause of such a fatal falling away. The portals of
chivalry had been opened to too many unworthy candidates. It had been
made vulgar! In consequence of having become so cheap the grand title of
"knight" was degraded. Eustace Deschamps, in his fine, straightforward
way, states the scandal boldly and "lashes" it with his tongue. He says:
"Picture to yourself the fact that the degree of knighthood is about to
be conferred now upon babies of eight and ten years old."
Well might this excellent man exclaim in another place: "Disorders
always go on gathering strength, and even incomparable knights like Du
Guesclin and Bayard cannot arrest the fatal course of the institution
toward ruin." Chivalry was destined to disappear.