CHÂTEAU DE LA FÉE--KING RENÉ--THE MINIATURES--THE POST-OFFICE
FUNCTIONARY--ORIGINALITY--THE ENGLISH BANK-NOTE--ST. PORCHAIRE--THE
DEAD CHILD--MONTIERNEUF--GUILLAUME GUY GEOFFROY--THOMAS À
BECKET--CHOIR OF ANGELS--RELICS--THE ARMED HERMIT--A SAINT--THE
REPUDIATED QUEEN--ELIONORE--THE BOLD PRIEST--LAY.
ONE of the most remarkable houses in Poitiers, of which not many ancient
remain, is one now used as a school by the Christian Brothers. It is in
the Rue de la Prévôté, close to the Place de la Pilori, and has been a
prison. The door and windows are finely ornamented, as is the whole
façade, with curiously-carved figures and foliage. Melusine, with her
serpent's or fish's tail, and her glass and comb, appears amongst
them--that inexplicable figure so frequently recurring in almost every
part of France, and even yet requiring her riddle to be solved. As we
knew that this part of the world was her head-quarters, we resolved to
visit her at her own castle of Lusignan, which would be in our way when
we left Poitiers. In this we were confirmed when we went to the
Bibliothèque, for the gentleman to whom we were indebted for much
attention in showing us the chief treasures there contained, recommended
us not to pass by without seeing the ruins of the _château de la Fée_.
The university of Poitiers formerly held a very high rank, and was
frequented by scholars from every part of the world. France, England,
Scotland, Ireland, and Germany, sent their students: it was founded by
Charles VII., and Pope Eugène IV., and was in great esteem in spite of
the jests of Rabelais and others at its expense. One old author speaks
somewhat irreverently of the learned town; calling its students "the
flute-players and professors of the _jeu de paume_ of Poitiers."
Corneille makes his Menteur a pupil of the college of Poitiers; but
Menot, a preacher of the period of the League, has a passage in one of
his sermons which is sufficiently complimentary: in relating the
Judgment of Solomon, he makes him say to one of the women, "Hold your
tongue, for I see that you have never studied at Angers or Poitiers,
and know not how to plead." It is now the head of an academy which
comprises the four departments of Vienne, Deux-Sèvres, La Vendée, and
Charente Inférieure.
The public library is very extensive, and possesses many valuable
volumes. The first library named in French history is that of William
the Ninth, Count of Poitiers and Duke of Aquitaine, which was preserved
in his palace at Poitiers. At the revolution, all that ages had
accumulated was dispersed, but much has since been recollected, and
amongst the twenty-five thousand volumes there are many very precious.
There are more than fifteen hundred works relative to the history of
Poitou, and it has, within a few years, been enriched by a present from
the British government of a fine collection of historical and legal
documents connected with this part of the country.
That which, however, interested me most, was a beautiful manuscript,
said to have been executed by no other hand than the royal one of the
good King René. I have no doubt it was done by a very skilful artist
whom his munificence protected; but if, as is probable, he painted the
work on chivalry now in the King's library at Paris, he did _not_ paint
the beautiful leaves of the Psalter which is attributed to him; there is
too much knowledge of art in the latter to permit one to imagine that
the same person could do both; for though the work on chivalry has
great merit, it is of an inferior kind to this. The birds, the flowers,
the foliage, and the miniatures, are in perfection, and betray an
Italian touch; true it is that the celebrated partridges, which King
René loved so well to paint, are frequently repeated, and the legend is
told while the manuscript is being looked at, of his occupation in
depicting his favourite bird, when he was informed of the loss of his
kingdom, and so interested was he in his work that he never laid down
his pencil, but proceeded to finish it off as if nothing had happened.
Still, I think, whoever painted this book was the royal amateur's master
in the art; it appears certain that the beautiful volume was presented
by him to Jeanne de Laval, his wife: it is decorated with the arms of
Anjou, Sicily, and Laval, and the gold and azure are brilliant beyond
description, the doves and other birds are of glittering plumage, and
the flowers charming. Another psalter, of still more exquisite
execution, is of later date, 1510; and though the gold is far less
dazzling than that which adorns René's book, nothing can exceed the
beauty of the birds and flowers introduced on the margins. One leaf,
_all owls_, has a peculiarly _feathered_ appearance; the solemn birds
sit on wreaths in the most elegant attitudes, and at the top of the page
one _Grand Duke_, larger and more dignified than the rest, seems to look
down on his people with satisfaction. The lupins, monkshood,
marguerites, and other simple flowers, so often introduced in
illuminated borders, are done with infinite skill, and _strewn_ about
the gold ground as if scattered there by chance: some with their stalks
upwards and in disorder, evidently showing that they were painted from
nature, probably from the artist's own garden in his convent.
We found in Poitiers amongst the people, very little pride of their
town; they seem in fact to be inspired with a spirit of depreciation,
which surprised me; and I have seldom found in any French town so much
difficulty in discovering old houses and sites. "Ah, ça ne vaut pas la
peine, ma foi! c'est bien vieux!" was the general answer given to any
inquiry.
I had occasion to go to the post-office for letters from England, having
sent the _commissionnaire_ of the inn in vain. I knew that several were
waiting for me, but being positively told that there were none, was
going away, much disappointed, when a man ran after me across the great
square, begging that I would return, as the director wished to speak to
me. I did so immediately, when I was accosted by a person I had not
before seen, who, instead of producing my letters, began a conversation
on the subject of Poitiers, and my journey to it; having informed
himself where I came from, with all the minuteness of an American
questioner, he proceeded to say there were letters for a person of my
name; but as he required my passport, which I found to my vexation I had
left at the inn, I was tantalized with a view of the handwriting of my
friends through a grating. The functionary, however, detained me still
to entreat that I would satisfy his curiosity as to what we could
possibly have been admiring the evening before on the ramparts near the
Porte du Pont Joubert, on the banks of the Clain. "I observed you,
ladies," said he, "pointing to the opposite hills, which are nothing but
blocks of grey rocks, ordinary enough, and leaning over the walls
watching the course of the river, which is but a poor stream; and
remarking the trees on the promenades, which, after all, are but trees;
in fact, it puzzled me to think what strangers could find at Poitiers to
like."
Much amused at his originality, and the singular way in which he showed
it, I replied that we found much to admire in the walks, the scenery,
and the churches, and were surprised that he thought so little of his
native town. He seemed, as well as several of his assistant clerks, and
a person who patiently waited for his letters till the interview was
concluded, to think me much the most original of the two; and, having no
more to say, handed me my letters with the remark that I need not fetch
my passport, as he had no doubt they were really destined for me. It was
then evident to my mind that he had laid this plan to detain the
inquisitive travellers who had excited his curiosity, till he could
catechise them himself, and to that end had lured us _in person_ to the
post-office, and detained us and our letters till his pleasure was
secured. We were not sorry that nothing more was likely to arrive at
Poitiers for us, as we were to pay so much for the delivery. It appears
that strangers rarely remain more than a few hours here, which may
account for so much interest being excited in the solitary town by our
strolling.
We had delayed changing some English money, and thinking it best to do
so in case of necessity, inquired the way to a banker's. We were
directed to several; but, apparently, business was not very urgent with
them, for at most of the houses we found the head person gone into the
country, and no delegate left. At last, we met with one at home; but he
appeared utterly at a loss when he looked at the unlucky English
bank-note which we presented to be changed, never, as he assured us,
having seen such a _bit of paper_ before; but kindly offering, if we
would leave it a few hours, to have it seen and commented on, and then,
if approved, and we liked to pay a somewhat unreasonable number of
francs, the sum should be delivered to us. We thought the whole
transaction so _bizarre_ that we declined his offer, resolving
rather to trust to chance till we reached La Rochelle,--our next
destination--than put ourselves to the charges he recommended. He
returned our note with a mortified air, saying, "Very well; as you
please; but there are people in Poitiers who would not give two sous for
your bit of paper." The house in which he lived had a very antique
appearance, and we had mounted a curious tower with winding-staircase to
reach his bureau; I therefore asked him if there was anything remarkable
attached to its history; but he seemed never to have thought about it,
and merely remarked that it was "bien vieille; mais rien de plus." He
looked after us with pity, as we took our leave, and probably
entertained himself afterwards at our expense with his townsman of the
post-office: "Ces Anglais! sont-ils originaux! par exemple!"
Nothing daunted, we proceeded to visit the curious old church of St.
Porchaire, once a monastery dependent on the chapter of St. Hilaire le
Grand. The church of the priory is that part which remains. The interior
is quite without beauty; but what is worthy of note is its fine Roman
tower, and a portal of great singularity. The latter is ornamented with
medallions of the rudest workmanship; one capital represents Daniel and
the prophet Habakkuk, with lions of a strange shape; but, in order that
no mistake may arise as to their identity, besides the inscription which
surrounds the medallion, _Hic Daniel Domino vincit coetum leonum_, the
artist has engraved, in conspicuous letters, between the animals, the
word _Leones_.
The church of St. Hilaire--a great saint in Poitiers--has been so much
altered as to leave little very interesting of its original
construction. This saint was much distinguished for the miracles he
performed; the memory of one is still preserved by a pyramid, with
mutilated bas-reliefs, recording the facts thus related by the annalist
of Aquitaine:--
"When St. Hilaire visited the churches of the city, as he went through
the streets he was followed by so many people that he could hardly be
seen, for he was on foot. A woman, who lived in a house now situated
before the _Grands Escolles_, knowing that he was passing her dwelling,
while she was bathing her infant, seized with an ardent desire to behold
the saint, left it in the bath, and ran out; when she returned she found
her child drowned. Whereupon she called out, 'Oh, my God! shall I lose
my child for having done that which was praiseworthy!' and in a rage of
grief took her little dead child in her arms, covered with a piece of
linen, and carried it to St. Hilaire, to whom she declared the case and
the accident, praying him, in great faith and hope, to entreat of God
that her child might be restored to life.
"St. Hilaire, seeing the grief of the poor mother, who had but this
only child, and also her great reliance, and considering that the infant
had died in consequence of the mother's great desire to see him, set
himself to pray, prostrating himself on the earth with great humility
and tears, where he remained a long time. And he, who was of a great
age, would not rise from that posture till God had, at his request,
resuscitated the child. He then, taking it in his arms, presented it to
the mother, who gave it nourishment before all the people, who, full of
wonder, gave thanks to God and St. Hilaire."
The church of Montierneuf is one of the most ancient in Poitiers. It
contains the tomb of its founder, Guillaume Guy Geoffroy, Count of
Poitiers and Aquitaine; who, having led a very irregular life, thought
to atone for all, by erecting a magnificent monastery for Cluniac monks.
Except this tomb, there is little remaining of interest; but the effigy
of Guillaume is well executed and curious, as he lies with his long
curled hair and his crown, his _aumônière_, and his singularly-shaped
shoes. He was one of the most daring of those wild Williams who
distinguished themselves for profligacy; but this pious act of his seems
entirely to have redeemed his memory.
It is recounted that, while the abbey was in progress, the King of
France, Philippe I., came to Poitiers, hoping to induce William to
assist him against the Duke of Normandy. The monarch, struck with the
grandeur of the new constructions, exclaimed that they were "worthy of a
king;" to which the Count replied, haughtily, "Am I not, then, a king?"
Philippe did not see fit to make any further rejoinder on so delicate a
subject.
The tomb of this redoubted prince was opened in 1822, and the body found
quite perfect; as this circumstance, which is by no means unusual, was
in former times always considered as a proof of the sanctity of the
person interred, it is to be hoped all the stories of Count William's
vagaries are mere scandals, invented by evil-disposed persons; and that
the history of his having established a convent, all the nuns of which
were persons of more than suspected propriety, and having placed a
female favourite of his own at their head, had no foundation in truth.
Something similar is told of several powerful princes, so it may well be
a fable altogether.
The botanical garden of Poitiers now occupies the place where the abbey
of St. Cyprian stood, with all its dependencies; we sat on some reversed
capitals, which now form seats in a flowery nook, and climbed a stair of
a tower where seeds are dried,--the only morsel of the great convent now
existing. Bouchet tells one of his strange stories of a monk of this
monastery, which is curious, as it relates to that dangerous and
powerful subject of the harassed King of England, Henry II., who must
have had enough to do to circumvent the art and cunning of the wily
archbishop who was always working for his ruin and the exaltation of the
Church. The annalist relates that--
"At this period, Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, in England, was a
fugitive from his country, because the English princes desired to kill
_and_ put him to death: for that he would not agree to certain
constitutions, statutes, and ordinances, that Henry II. and the princes
of England had made against the liberties and privileges of the Church,
and the holy canons thereof. For they wished to confer dignities and
other benefices and take the fruits, thereby profaning the sanctuary of
God. And the said archbishop was seven years, or thereabouts, in France,
which land is the refuge of popes and holy personages; and he had great
communication and familiarity with the said Pope Alexander, he being in
the town of Sens, where he chiefly staid while in France. And the
archbishop was sometimes at the abbey of Pontigny, and sometimes at the
monastery of St. Columbe. Now, I read what follows in an ancient
_pancarte_ of the abbey of St. Cyprian of Poitiers, brought there by a
monk of the said, called Babilonius, who, for some grudge owed him by
his abbot, was driven from his abbey, and went to complain of his wrong
to Pope Alexander at Sens, while the Archbishop Thomas sojourned there;
from whom this monk received a holy vial to place in the church of St.
Gregory, where reposes the body of the blessed Saint Loubette. I have
translated the said writing from Latin into the vulgar tongue, seeing
that it contains some curious things. It begins, 'Quando ego Thomas
Archiepiscopus,' &c.
"When I, Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, exiled from England, took
refuge with Pope Alexander, who was also fugitive, in the town of Sens,
and there represented to him the bad habits and abuses that the King of
England had introduced into the Church; one night as I was in the church
of Sainte Colombe, engaged in prayer, supplicating the Queen of Virgins
that she would vouchsafe grace to the King of England and his
successors, that they might have power and will to be obedient to the
Church as her children, and that our Lord Jesus Christ would cause them
more fully to love the said Church, suddenly appeared to me the Blessed
Virgin Mary, having on her breast a drop of water, glittering like fine
gold, and holding in her hand a little vial (_ampoule_) of stone. And
after she had taken from her breast the drop of water and put it in the
vial, she spoke to me these words: 'This is the unction with which the
kings of England shall be anointed; _not those who reign now, but those
who are to reign_; for those who reign now are wicked, and so will be
their successors, and, for their iniquity shall lose many things.
However, kings of England shall come, and shall be anointed with this
unction, and shall be benign and obedient to the Church, and shall not
possess their lands or lordships until they are so anointed. The first
of these shall recover, without violence, the countries of Normandy and
Aquitaine, which their predecessors had lost. This king shall be great
amongst kings, and it will be he who shall re-edify many churches in the
Holy Land, and drive all the pagans from Babylon, where he shall erect
rich monasteries, and put all the enemies of religion to flight. And
when he wears about his neck this drop of golden water, he shall be
victorious and augment his kingdom. _As for thee, thou shall die a
martyr for sustaining the rights of the Church._' I then prayed the holy
and sacred Lady to tell me in what sanctuary I should place this sacred
deposit; and she replied, that there was in this city a monk of the
monastery of St. Cyprian of Poitiers, named Babilonius, who had been
unjustly driven forth by his abbot, where he desired to be reinstated by
apostolic authority; to him I was ordered to give this vial, in order
that he might carry it to the city of Poitiers, and place it in the
church of St. Gregory, which is near the church of St. Hilaire, and put
it at the extremity of the said church, towards the east, under a great
stone, _where it would be found_ when the proper hour arrived to anoint
the kings of England, and _that the chief of the Pagans should be the
cause of the discovery of the said golden drop_. Accordingly I enclosed
this treasure in a leaden vessel, and gave it to the said monk,
Babilonius, to bear to the church of St. Gregory, as it was commanded."
What object _Saint_ Thomas of Canterbury had in thus mystifying the
monks of Poitiers, or to what _prince_ or _pagan_ he pointed at, remains
a secret: whether the holy vial ever was found cannot now be known; or,
if any discovery of such was made in that period of discoveries, the
great Revolution, it was probably consigned to destruction with numerous
other equally authentic relics. The most remarkable sentence in this
_pancarte_ is, perhaps, the prophecy of his own death by the martyr,
always admitting that the whole was not composed and arranged after the
event had happened.
Bouchet, glad of the opportunity of dwelling on wonders, finishes his
tale by relating the circumstances of Becket's murder, and how at his
burial a choir of angels led the anthem, which the monks followed: also
how the cruel homicides by the judgment of God were suddenly punished;
for some of them _ate their own fingers_, others became mad and
demoniacs, and others lost the use of all their limbs.
The relics in the churches of Poitiers were of the most extraordinary
value; each vied with the other in wonders of the kind, until all the
bones of all the saints in the calendar seemed gathered together in this
favoured city. Whenever a prince had offended the Church, he made his
peace by presenting some precious offering which was beyond price; as,
for instance, in 1109, the Duke of Aquitaine, father of Elionore, after
having been pardoned for one of his numerous offences, caused to be
enclosed in a magnificent shrine of gold, _two bones_ and _part of the
beard_ of the blessed Saint Peter, prince of apostles, which St. Hilaire
himself had brought to his church. Soon after, to prove his repentance
of some new peccadillo, Guillaume gave certain _dismes_ to the monks and
priests of St. Hilaire, with the use of the forest of Moulière.
St. Bernard himself was obliged on one occasion to come to Poitiers to
admonish the refractory duke, who chose to have an opinion of his own in
acknowledging the pope, and many miracles were performed during his
stay. Once St. Bernard severely reprimanded the duke at the altar, in
the cathedral, who was for the moment terrified at his denunciations;
but no sooner had he left the church than he ordered the altar at which
the saint had stood to be demolished; and a priest to proclaim and
command the adherence of all persons to whatever pope their duke had
adopted; but this impiety was signally visited, for the priest fell down
dead at the altar as he was uttering the words. Also the dean, under
whose auspices St. Bernard's altar had been destroyed, _fell sick_
immediately, and died mad and in despair, for he cut his throat in his
bed: besides which, one of the refractory bishops--he of Limoges--fell
from his mule to the ground, and striking his head against a stone, was
killed on the spot; and for these _reasons_ and _evident signs_, Duke
William acknowledged his error, and replaced the Bishop of Poitiers,
whom he had deposed, in his chair.
This is the William, known by his romantic adventures as "The Armed
Hermit," who, no doubt, disgusted with the tyranny of the Church, whose
members at that time never ceased to interfere with the monarchs of
Europe, resolved to abandon his kingdom, and embrace a life of quiet, as
he supposed, "in some _horrible desert_." He was encouraged in the idea
by interested persons, and _feigning to die_, left a will, by which his
young daughter, Elionore, became the heiress of Aquitaine; he then
secretly quitted the court, directing his steps to the shrine of St.
James, in Galicia, where he joined a holy hermit, and put himself under
his tuition. By _diabolic temptation_ it seems, however, that he could
never be content in any of the deserts; where, still clothed in armour,
_cap-à-pié_, he endeavoured in vain to forget his belligerent
propensities, for, every now and then, when he heard of a siege toward,
he would suddenly sally forth, and having assisted in the skirmish,
again seized with a fit of repentant devotion, would hurry back to some
desolate retreat, and endeavour, by penitence and fasts, to obliterate
the sin he had committed.
His death was attended by so many miracles that it became necessary to
canonize him; and orders of hermit monks rose up in every quarter,
bearing his name of Guillemins, the chief of which were the Blanc
Manteaux of Paris. The example of sanctity he had set in the latter part
of his life seemed to have been lost on the turbulent and coquettish
Queen of the Court of Love, his daughter, Elionore, and to have been
also sufficiently disregarded by his grandsons. Not that Elionore
neglected to build and endow churches and monasteries in every part of
her dominions, particularly at Poitiers; and, probably, she considered
all offences wiped out by so doing: not excepting her criminal project,
recorded by Bouchet, of quitting her husband, Louis of France, and
"_espousing the Sultan Saladin_, with whose image and portraiture she
had fallen in love."
Whatever motives Louis le Jeune had in getting rid of his powerful wife,
policy could not be one; for never was a more foolish business; he did
not, perhaps, contemplate, in his shortsightedness, that she would marry
his rival, and carry all her possessions to the crown of England; but he
was sure that by dissolving his marriage he was injuring France. The
account of the state of the great heiress, insulted and injured in so
vital a point, is piteous enough, and not unlike, in position, to the
case of Queen Catherine when repudiated by Henry VIII.
"This dissolution and separation was signified to Queen Elionore by the
bishops, who undertook the task with great regret, for they knew it
would be very displeasing to the poor lady, who, as soon as the decision
was announced to her, fell in a swoon from the chair on which she sat,
and was for more than two hours without speaking, or weeping, or
unclosing her clenched teeth. And when she was a little come to herself,
she began, with her clear and blue (_vers_) eyes, to look around on
those who brought her the news, and said, 'Ha! my lords, what have I
done to the king that he should quit me? in what have I offended him?
what defect finds he in my person? I am not barren, I am not
illegitimate, nor come of a low race. I am wealthy as he is by my means.
I have always obeyed him; and if we speak of lineage, I spring from the
Emperor Otho the First and King Lothaire; descended in direct line from
Charlemagne; besides which we are relations both by father and mother if
he requires to be informed of it.'"
"Madam," said the Archbishop of Limoges, "you speak truth indeed. You
are relations; but of that the king was ignorant, and it is for that
very cause that he finds you are not in fact his wife, and the children
you have borne him are not lawful; therefore is this separation
necessary, much to the king's discomfort; he laments it as much or more
than you can do; but he finds that for the safety of your souls this
thing must be done."
The poor queen could only reply that the pope had the power to grant a
dispensation; but she had no longer any relations to support her, and
still less had she friends; and was obliged to submit. She was then
about six-and-twenty, and the most beautiful woman in France. Henry of
Normandy lost no time in making his proposals to her, which she at first
rejected, being, as she said, resolved never to trust another man; but
his eloquence, and other qualities, and the policy of placing herself in
a powerful position as his queen, heir as he was of England, caused her
to alter her mind; and Henry gained the richest wife in Europe and lost
his happiness for ever.
There is a frequently-repeated story told of one of the most celebrated
counts of Poitiers, though attributed sometimes to William VIII. and
sometimes to William IX. The series of _Williams_ all appear to have
been more or less _de rudes seigneurs_, who were divided between the
vices and virtues of their period. There is William _Tête d'Etoupes_,
William _Fier-à-bras_, William _the Great_, and William _the
Troubadour_; the latter--now pious, now profane--was at one time
fighting foremost in the christian ranks against the Paynim; at another,
"playing on pipes of straw and versing love" to fair ladies, to whom he
had no right to make himself captivating. He is said to have repudiated
his wife, Phillippa, or Mahaud, and espoused Malberge, the wife of the
Viscount de Châtelleraud, in the life-time of her husband. For this
offence the Bishop of Poitiers resolved to punish him, and, accordingly,
on occasion of a grand public solemnity, in the face of the assembled
multitude, he began the formula of excommunication against the offending
count, regardless of consequences. When William heard, as he sat with
his bold and beautiful lady-love, the first words of the anathema, he
started from his seat, in a transport of surprise and rage, and, drawing
his sword, rushed upon the unflinching churchman, who entreated him to
allow him a short delay. The count paused, and, taking advantage of the
circumstance, the bishop raised his voice, and finished the form of
excommunication in which he had been interrupted. "Now," said he, "you
may strike; I have done my duty and am ready." William was abashed and
humbled, and, returning his sword to its scabbard, exclaimed, "No,
priest, I do not love you well enough to send you straight to Paradise."
He had not, however, the grace to pardon the intrepid priest, for he
banished him to Chauvigny, where he shortly afterwards died, in 1115.
The following is one of the lays of this famous Troubadour, whose songs
are the earliest extant:
Anew I tune my lute to love,
Ere storms disturb the tranquil hour,
For her who strives my truth to prove,
My only pride, and beauty's flower;
But who will ne'er my pain remove,
Who knows and triumphs in her power.
I am, alas! her willing thrall;
She may record me as her own:
Nor my devotion weakness call,
That her I prize, and her alone:
Without her can I live at all,
A captive so accustom'd grown?
What hope have I?--Oh lady dear!
Do I then sigh in vain for thee;
And wilt thou, ever thus severe,
Be as a cloistered nun to me?
Methinks this heart but ill can bear
An unrewarded slave to be!
Why banish love and joy thy bowers--
Why thus my passion disapprove?
When, lady, all the world were ours
If thou couldst learn, like me, to love.