ROMANS D'AVENTURES
[Sidenote: Variety of the present groups.]
On the whole, however, the most important influence in the development
of the novel originally--that of the _nouvelle_ or _novella_ in French,
and Italian taking the second place in order of time--must be assigned
to the very numerous and very delightful body of compositions (not very
long as a rule,[58] but also never exactly short) to which the name
_Romans d'aventures_ has been given with a limited connotation. They
exist in all languages; our own English Romances, though sometimes
derived from the _chansons_ and the Arthurian Legend, are practically
all of this class, and in every case but one it is true that they have
actual French originals. These _Romans d'aventures_ have a habit, not
universal but prevailing, of "keying themselves on" to the Arthurian
story itself; but they rarely, if ever, have much to do with the
principal parts of it. It is as if their public wanted the connection as
a sort of guarantee; but a considerable proportion keep independence.
They are so numerous, so various, and with rare exceptions so
interesting, that it is difficult to know which to select for elaborate
analysis and translated selection; but almost the entire _corpus_ gives
us the important fact of the increased _freedom_ of fiction. Even the
connection with the Arthurian matter is, as has been said, generally of
the loosest kind; that with the Charlemagne cycle hardly exists. The
Graal (or things connected with its legends) may appear: Gawain is a
frequent hero; other, as one might call them, sociable features as
regards the older stories present themselves. But as a rule the man has
got his own story which he wants to tell; his own special hero and
heroine whom he wants to present. Furthermore, the old community of
handling, which is so noticeable in the _chansons_ more particularly,
disappears almost entirely. Nothing has yet been discovered in French,
though it may be any day, to serve as the origin of our _Gawain and the
Green Knight_, and some special features of this are almost certainly
the work of an Englishman. Our English _Ywain and Gawain_ is, as has
been said, rather better than Chrestien's original. But, as a rule, the
form, which is French form in language (by no means always certainly or
probably French in nationality of author), is not only the original, but
better; and besides, it is with it that we are busied here, though in
not a few cases English readers can obtain an idea, fairly sufficient,
of these originals from the English versions. As these, however, with
the exception of one or two remarkable individuals or even groups, were
seldom written by men of genius, it is best to go to the sources to see
the power and the variety of fictitious handling which have been
mentioned.
[Sidenote: Different views held of it.]
The richness, indeed, of these _Romans d'aventures_ is surprising, and
they very seldom display the flatness and triviality which mar by no
means all but too many of their English imitations. Some of the faults
which are part cause of these others they indeed have--the apparently
irrational catalogues of birds and beasts, stuffs and vegetables; the
long moralisings; the religious passages sometimes (as it may seem to
mere moderns) interposed in very odd contexts; the endless descriptions
of battles and single combats; the absence of striking characterisation
and varied incident. Their interest is a peculiar interest, yet one can
hardly call the taste for it "an acquired taste," because the very
large majority of healthy and intelligent children delight in these
stories under whatever form they are presented to them, and at least a
considerable number of grown-up persons never lose the enjoyment. The
disapproval which rested on "romances of chivalry" for a long time was
admittedly ignorant and absurd; and the reasons why this disapproval, at
least in its somewhat milder form of neglect, has never been wholly
removed, are not very difficult to discover. It is to be feared that
_Don Quixote_, great as it is, has done not a little mischief, and by
virtue of its greatness is likely to do not a little more, though the
_Amadis_ group, which it specially satirises, has faults not found in
the older tales. The texts, though in most cases easily enough
accessible now, are not what may be called obviously and yet
unobtrusively so. They are to a very large extent issued by learned
societies: and the public, not too unreasonably, is rather suspicious,
and not at all avid, of the products of learned societies. They are
accompanied by introductions and notes and glossaries--things the
public (again not wholly to be blamed) regards without cordiality.
Latterly they have been used for educational purposes, and anything
used for educational purposes acquires an evil--or at least an
unappetising--reputation. In some cases they have been messed and
meddled in _usum vulgi_. But their worst enemy recently has been, it may
be feared, the irreconcilable opposition of their spirit to what is
called the modern spirit--though this latter sometimes takes them up and
plays with them in a fashion of maudlin mysticism.
[Sidenote: _Partenopeus of Blois_ selected for analysis and
translation.]
To treat them at large here as Ellis treated some of the English
imitations would be impossible in point of scale and dangerous as a
competition; for Ellis, though a little too prone to Voltairianise or at
least Hamiltonise things sometimes too good for that kind of treatment,
was a very clever man indeed. For somewhat full abstract and translation
we may take one of the most famous, but perhaps not one of the most
generally and thoroughly known, _Partenopeus_ (or -_pex_[59]) _of
Blois_, which, though it exists in English, and though the French was
very probably written by an Englishman, is not now one of the most
widely read and is in parts very charming. That it is one of the
romances on which, from the fact of the resemblance of its central
incident to the story of Cupid and Psyche, the good defenders of the bad
theory of the classical origin of romance generally have based one of
their few plausible arguments, need not occupy us. For the question is
not whether Denis Pyramus or any one else (modernity would not be
modernity if his claims were not challenged) told it, but _how_ he told
it. Still less need we treat the other question before indicated. Here
is one of the central stories of the world--one of those which Eve told
to her children in virtue of the knowledge communicated by the apple,
one with which the sons of God courted the daughters of men, or, at
latest, one of those which were yarned in the Ark. It is the story of
the unwise lover--in this case the man, not as in Psyche's the
woman--who will not be content to enjoy an unseen, but by every other
sense enjoyable and adorable love, even though (in this case) the single
deprivation is expressly to be terminated. We have it, of course, in all
sorts of forms, languages, and differing conditions. But we are only
concerned with it here as with a gracious example of that kind of
romance which, though not exactly a "fairy tale" in the Western sense,
is pretty obviously influenced by the Eastern fairy tale itself, and
still more obviously influences the modern kind in which "the
supernatural" is definitely prominent.
It was perhaps excusable in the good M. Robert, who wrote the
Introduction to Crapelet's edition of this poem eighty years ago, to
"protest too much" in favour of the author whom he was now presenting
practically for the first time--to a changed audience; but it was
unnecessary and a little unfortunate. Except in one point or group of
points, it is vain to try to put _Partenopeus_ above _Cupid and
Psyche_: but it can perfectly well stand by itself in its own place, and
that no low one. Except in _Floire et Blanchefleur_ and of course in
_Aucassin et Nicolette_, the peculiar grace and delicacy of romance are
nowhere so well shown; and _Partenopeus_, besides the advantage of
length, has that of personages interesting, besides the absolute hero
and heroine. The Count of Blois himself is, no doubt, despite his
beauty, and his bravery, and his good nature, rather of a feeble folk.
Psyche has the excuse of her sex, besides the evil counsel of her
sisters, for her curiosity. But Partenopeus has not the former; nor has
he even that weaker but still not quite invalid one which lost Agib, the
son of Cassib, his many-Houried Paradise on Earth. He is supposed to be
a Frenchman--the somewhat excessive fashion in which Frenchmen make
obedience to the second clause[60] of the Fifth Commandment atone for
some neglect of other parts of the decalogue is well known, or at least
traditionally believed. But most certainly a man is not justified in
obeying his mother to the extent of disobeying--and that in the
shabbiest of ways--his lady and mistress, who is, in fact, according to
mediaeval ideas, virtually, if not virtuously, his wife. But Melior
herself, the heroine, is an absolutely delightful person from her first
appearance (or rather _non_-appearance) as a sweet dream come true, to
her last in the more orthodox and public spousals. The grace of her
Dian-like surrender of herself to her love; the constancy with which she
holds to the betrothal theory of the time; the unselfishness with which
she not only permits but actually advises the lover, whom she would so
fain, but cannot yet, make her acknowledged husband, to leave her; her
frank forgiveness of his only-just-in-time repented and prevented, but
intended, infidelity; her sorrow at and after the separation enforced by
his breach of pact; her interviews with her sister, naturally chequered
by conflicting feelings of love and pride and the rest--are all
charming. But she is not the only charming figure.
The "second heroine," a sister or cousin who plays a sort of superior
confidante's part, is by no means uncommon in Romance. Alexandrine, for
instance, who plays this in _William of Palerne_, is a very nice girl.
But Urraque or Urraca,[61] the sister of Melior--whether full and
legitimate, or "half" illegitimate, versions differ--is much more
elaborately dealt with, and is, in fact, the chief _character_ of the
piece, and a character rather unusually strong for Romance. She plays
the part of reconciler after Partenopeus' fatal folly has estranged him
from her sister, and plays it at great length, but with much less tedium
than might be expected. But the author is an "incurable feminist," as
some one else was once described with a mixture of pity and admiration:
and he is not contented with two heroines. There is a third, Persewis,
maid of honour to Urraque, and also a fervent admirer of the
incomparable Partenopeus, on whose actual beauty great stress is
laid, and who in romance, other than his own, is quoted as a modern
paragon thereof, worthy to rank with ancient patterns, sacred and
profane. Persewis, however, is very young--a "flapper" or a
"[bread-and-]buttercup," as successive generations have irreverently
called the immature but agreeable creature. The poet lays much emphasis
on this youth. She did not "kiss and embrace," he says, just because she
was too young, and not because of any foolish prudery or propriety,
things which he does not hesitate to pronounce appropriate only to ugly
girls. His own attitude to "the fair" is unflinchingly put in one of the
most notable and best known passages of the poem (l. 7095 _sq._):
When God made all creation, and devised their forms for his
creatures, He distributed beauties and good qualities to
each in proportion as He loved it. He loved ladies above all
things, and therefore made for them the best qualities and
beauties. Of mere earth made He everything [else] under
Heaven: but the hearts of ladies He made of honey, and gave
to them more courtesy than to any other living creature. And
as God loves them, therefore I love them: hunger and thirst
are nothing to me as regards them: and I cry "Quits" to Him
for His Paradise if the bright faces of ladies enter not
therein.
It will be observed, of course, how like this is to the most famous
passage of _Aucassin et Nicolette_. It is less dreamily beautiful, but
there is a certain spirit and downrightness about it which is agreeable;
nor do I know anywhere a more forcible statement of the doctrine, often
held by no bad people, that beauty is a personal testimonial of the
Divinity--a scarcely parabolic command to love and admire its
possessors.[62]
If, however, our poet has something of that Romantic morality to which
Ascham--in a conjoined fit[63] of pedantry, prudery, and
Protestantism--gave such an ugly name, he may excuse it to less
strait-laced judges by other traits. Even the "retainer" of an editor
ought not to have induced M. Robert to say that Melior's original
surrender was "against her will," though she certainly did make a
protest of a kind.[64] But the enchanted and enchanting Empress's
constancy is inviolable. Even after she has been obliged to banish her
foolish lover, or rather after he has banished himself, she avows
herself his only. She will die, she says, before she takes another lord;
and for this reason objects for some time to the proposed tourney for
her hand, in which the already proven invincibility of the Count of
Blois makes him almost a certain victor, because it involves a
conditional consent to admit another mate. To her scrupulousness, a kind
of blunt common-sense, tempering the amiability of Urraca, is a pleasant
set-off, and the freshness of Persewis completes the effect.
Moreover, there are little bits of almost Chaucerian vividness and
terseness here and there, contrasting oddly with the _chevilles_--the
stock phrases and epithets--elsewhere. When the tourney actually comes
off and Partenopeus is supposed to be prisoner of a felon knight afar
off, the two sisters and Persewis take their places at the entrance of
the tower crossing the bridge at Melior's capital, "Chef d'Oire."[65]
Melior is labelled only "whom all the world loves and prizes," but
Urraca and her damsel "have their faces pale and discoloured--for they
have lost much of their beauty--so sorely have they wept Partenopeus."
On the contrary, when, at the close of the first day's tourney, the
usual "unknown knights" (in this case the Count of Blois himself and his
friend Gaudins) ride off triumphant, they "go joyfully to their hostel
with lifted lances, helmets on head, hauberks on back, and shields held
proudly as if to begin jousting."
Bel i vinrent et bel s'en vont,
says King Corsols, one of the judges of the tourney, but not in the
least aware of their identity. This may occur elsewhere, but it is by no
means one of the commonplaces of Romance, and a well hit-off picture is
motived by a sharply cut phrase.[66]
It is this sudden enlivening of the commonplaces of Romance with vivid
picture and phrase which puts _Partenopeus_ high among its fellows. The
story is very simple, and the variation and multiplication of episodic
adventure unusually scanty; while the too common genealogical preface is
rather exceptionally superfluous. That the Count of Blois is the nephew
of Clovis can interest--outside of a peculiar class of antiquarian
commentator--no mortal; and the identification of "Chef-d'Oire,"
Melior's enchanted capital, with Constantinople, though likely enough,
is not much more important. Clovis and Byzantium (of which the
enchantress is Empress) were well-known names and suited the _abonne_ of
those times. The actual "argument" is of the slightest. One of Spenser's
curious doggerel common measures--say:
A fairy queen grants bliss and troth
On terms, unto the knight:
His mother makes him break his oath,
Her sister puts it right--
would almost do; the following prose abstract is practically exhaustive.
Partenopeus, Count of Blois, nephew of King Clovis of France, and
descendant of famous heroes of antiquity, including Hector, the most
beautiful and one of the most valiant of men, after displaying his
prowess in a war with the Saracen Sornagur, loses his way while hunting
in the Ardennes. He at last comes to the seashore, and finds a ship
which in fifteen days takes him to a strange country, where all is
beautiful but entirely solitary. He finds a magnificent palace, where he
is splendidly guested by unseen hands, and at last conducted to a
gorgeous bedchamber. In the dark he, not unnaturally, lies awake
speculating on the marvel; and after a time light footsteps approach the
bed, and a form, invisible but tangible, lies down beside him. He
touches it, and finds it warm and soft and smooth, and though it
protests a little, the natural consequences follow. Then the lady
confesses that she had heard of him, had (incognita) seen him at the
Court of France, and had, being a white witch as well as an Empress,
brought him to "Chef d'Oire," her capital, though she denies having
intentionally or knowingly arranged the shepherd's hour itself.[67] She
is, however, as frank as Juliet and Miranda combined. She will be his
wife (she makes a most interesting and accurate profession of Christian
orthodoxy) if he will marry her; but it is impossible for the remainder
of a period of which two and a half years have still to run, and at the
end of which, and not till then, she has promised her vassals to choose
a husband. Meanwhile, Partenopeus must submit to an ordeal not quite so
painful as hot ploughshares. He must never see her or attempt to see
her, and he must not, during his stay at Chef d'Oire, see or speak to
any other human being. At the same time, hunting, exploring the palace
and the city and the country, and all other pastimes independent of
visible human companionship, are freely at his disposal by day.
Et moi aures cascune nuit
says Melior, with the exquisite simplicity which is the charm of the
whole piece.
One must be very inquisitive, exceedingly virtuous (the mediaeval value
of consummated betrothal being reckoned), superfluously fond of the
company of one's miscellaneous fellow-creatures, and a person of very
bad taste[68] to boot, in order to decline the bargain. Partenopeus does
not dream of doing so, and for a whole year thinks of nothing but his
fairy love and her bounties to him. Then he remembers his uncle-king and
his country, and asks leave to visit them, but not with the faintest
intention of running away. Melior gives it with the same frankness and
kindness with which she has given herself--informing him, in fact, that
he _ought_ to go, for his uncle is dead and his country in danger. Only,
she reminds him of his pledges, and warns him of the misfortunes which
await his breach of them. He is then magically wafted back on ship-board
as he came.
He has, once more, no intention of playing the truant or traitor, and
does his duty bravely and successfully. But the new King has a niece and
the Count himself has a mother, who, motherlike, is convinced that her
son's mysterious love is a very bad person, if not an actual _maufes_ or
devil, and is very anxious that he shall marry the niece. She has
clerical and chemical resources to help her, and Partenopeus has
actually consented, in a fit of aberration, when, with one of the odd
Wemmick-like flashes of reflection,[69] not uncommon with knights, he
remembers Melior, and unceremoniously makes off to her. He confesses
(for he is a good creature though foolish) and is forgiven, Melior
being, though not in the least insipid or of a put-up-with-anything
disposition, full of "loving _mercy_" in every sense. But the situation
is bound to recur, and now, though the time of probation (probation very
much tempered!) is nearly over, the mother wins her way. Partenopeus is
deluded into accepting an enchanted lantern, which he tries on his
unsuspecting mistress at the first possible moment. What he sees, of
course, is only a very lovely woman--a woman in the condition best
fitted to show her loveliness--whom he has offended irreparably, and
lost.
Melior is no scold, but she is also no milksop. She will have nothing
more to do with him, for he has shamed her with her people (who now
appear), broken her magic power, and, above all, been false to her wish
and his word. The entreaties of her sister Urraca (whose gracious figure
is now elaborately introduced) are for the time useless, and Partenopeus
is only saved from the vengeance of the courtiers and the household by
Urraca's protection.[70]
To halt for a moment, the scene of the treason and discovery is another
of those singular vividnesses which distinguish this poem and story. The
long darkness suddenly flashing into light, and the startled Melior's
beauty framed in the splendour of the couch and the bedchamber--the
offender at once realising his folly and his crime, and dashing the
instrument of his treachery (useless, for all is daylight now, the charm
being counter-charmed) against the wall--the half-frightened,
half-curious Court ladies and Court servants thronging in--the
apparition of Urraca,--all this gives a picture of extraordinarily
dramatic power. It reminds one a little of Spenser's famous portrayal of
Britomart disturbed at night, and the comparison of the two brings out
all sorts of "excellent differences."
But to return to the story itself. Although the invariable
cut-and-driedness of romance incidents has been grossly exaggerated,
there is one situation which is almost always treated in the same way.
The knight who has, with or without his own fault, incurred the
displeasure of his mistress, "doth [_always_] to the green wood go," and
there, whether in complete sanity or not, lives for a time a half or
wholly savage life, discarding knightly and sometimes any other dress,
eating very little, and in considerable danger of being eaten himself.
Everybody, from Lancelot to Amadis, does it; and Partenopeus does it
too, but in his own way. Reaching Blois and utterly rejecting his
mother's attempts to excuse herself and console him, he drags out a
miserable time in continual penance and self-neglect, till at last,
availing himself of (and rather shabbily if piously tricking) a Saracen
page,[71] he succeeds in getting off incognito to the vague "Ardennes,"
where his sadly ended adventure had begun. These particular Ardennes
appear to be reachable by sea (on which they have a coast), and to
contain not only ordinary beasts of chase, not only wolves and bears,
but lions, tigers, wyverns, dragons, etc. A single unarmed man has
practically no chance there, and the Count determines to condemn himself
to the fate of the Roman arena. As a preliminary, he dismounts and turns
loose his horse, who is presently attacked by a lion and wounded, but
luckily gets a fair blow with his hoof between his enemy's eyes, and
kills him. Then comes another of the flashes (and something more) of the
piece. Stung by the pain of his wound and dripping with blood, the
animal dashes at full speed, and whinnying at the top of his powers, to
the seashore and along it. The passage is worth translating:
He [_the horse after he has killed the lion_] lifts his
tail, and takes to flight down a valley towards nightfall.
Much he looks about him and much he whinnies. By night-time
he has got out of the wood and has fled to the sea: but he
will not stop there. He makes the pebbles fly as he gallops
and never stops whinnying. Now the moon has mounted high in
the heavens, all clear and bright and shining: there is not
a dark cloud in all the sky, nor any movement on the sea:
sweet and serene is the weather, and fair and clear and
lightened up. And the palfrey whinnies so loudly that he can
be heard far off at sea.
He _is_ heard at sea, for a ship is waiting there in the calm, and on
board that ship is Urraca, with a wise captain named Maruc and a stout
crew. The singularity of the event induces them to land (Maruc knows the
dangers of the region, but Urraca has no fears; the captain also knows
how to enchant the beasts), and the horse's bloodmarks guide them up the
valley. At last they come upon a miserable creature, in rags,
dishevelled, half-starved, and altogether unrecognisable. After a little
time, however, Urraca does recognise him, and, despite his forlorn and
repulsive condition, takes him in her arms.
Si le descouvre un poi le vis.
Yet another of the uncommon "flashlight" sketches, where in two short
lines one sees the damsel as she has been described not so long before,
"tall and graceful, her fair hair (which, untressed, reached her feet
[now, no doubt, more suitably arranged]), with forehead broad and high,
and smooth; grey eyes, large and _seignorous_" (an admirable word for
eyes), "all her face one kiss"; one sees her with one arm round the
tottering wretch, and with the "long fingers" of her other white hand
clearing the matted hair from his visage till she can recognise him.
They take him on board, of course, though to induce him to go this
delightful creature has to give an account of her sister's feelings
(which, to put it mildly, anticipates the truth very considerably), and
also to cry over him a little.[72] She takes him to Saleuces,[73] an
island principality of her own, and there she and her maid-of-honour,
Persewis (see above), proceed to cocker and cosset him up exactly as one
imagines two such girls would do to "a dear, silly, nice, handsome
thing," as a favourite modern actress used to bring down the house by
saying, with a sort of shake, half of tears and half of laughter, in her
voice. Indeed the phrase fits Partenopeus precisely. We are told that
Urraca would have been formally in love with him if it had not been
unsportsgirl-like towards her sister; and as for Persewis, there is once
more a windfall in the description of the "butter-cup's" delight when
Urraca, going to see Melior, has to leave her alone with the Count. The
Princess is of course very sorry to go. "But Persewis would not have
minded if she had stayed forty days, or till August," and she "glories
greatly" when her rival departs. No mischief, however, comes of it; for
the child is "too young," as we are earnestly assured, and Partenopeus,
to do him justice, is both too much of a gentleman, and too dolefully in
earnest about recovering Melior, to dream of any.
Meanwhile, Urraca is most unselfishly doing her very best to reconcile
the lovers, not neglecting the employment of white fibs as before, and
occasionally indulging, not merely in satiric observation on poor
Melior's irresolution and conflict of feeling, but in decidedly sisterly
plainness of speech, reminding the Empress that after all she had
entrapped Partenopeus into loving her, and that he had, for two whole
years, devoted himself entirely to her love and its conditions. At last
a rather complicated and not always quite consistently told provisional
settlement is arrived at, carrying out, in a manner, the undertakings
referred to by Melior in her first interview with her lover. An immense
tourney for the hand of Melior is to be held, with a jury of kings to
judge it: and everybody, Christian or pagan, from emperor to vavasour is
invited to compete. But in case of no single victor, a kind of
"election" by what may be called the States of Byzantium--kings, dukes,
counts, and simple fief-holders--is to decide, and it seems sometimes
as if Melior retained something of a personal veto at last. Of the
incidents and episodes before this actually comes off, the most
noteworthy are a curious instance of the punctilio of chivalry (the
Count having once promised Melior that no one but herself shall gird on
his sword, makes a difficulty when Urraca and Persewis arm him), and a
misfortune by which he, rowing carelessly by himself, falls into the
power of a felon knight, Armans of Thenodon. This last incident,
however, though it alarms his two benefactresses, is not really unlucky.
For, in the first place, Armans is not at home, and his wife, falling a
victim, like every woman, to Partenopeus' extraordinary beauty, allows
him his parole; while the accident enables him to appear at the
tournament incognito--a practice always affected, if possible, by the
knights of romance, and in this case possessing some obvious and special
advantages.
On his way he meets another knight, Gaudin le Blond, with whom he gladly
strikes up brotherhood-in-arms. The three days of the mellay are not
_very_ different from the innumerable similar scenes elsewhere, nor can
the author be said to be specially happy at this kind of business. But
any possible tedium is fairly relieved by the shrewd and sometimes
jovial remarks made by one of the judging kings, the before-quoted
Corsols--met by grumbles from another, Clarin, and by the fears and
interest of the three ladies, of whom the ever-faithful and shrewd
Urraca is the first to discover Partenopeus. He and Gaudin perform the
usual exploits and suffer the usual inconveniences, but at the end it is
still undecided whether the Count of Blois or the Soldan of Persia--a
good knight, though a pagan, and something of a braggart--deserves the
priceless prize of Melior's hand with the empire of Byzantium to boot.
The "election" follows, and after some doubt goes right, while Melior
now offers no objection. But the Soldan, in his _outrecuidance_, demands
single combat. He has, of course, no right to do this, and the Council
and the Empress object strongly. But Partenopeus will have no stain on
his honour; consents to the fight; deliberately refuses to take
advantage of the Soldan when he is unhorsed and pinned down by the
animal; assists him to get free; and only after an outrageous menace
from the Persian justifies his own claim to belong to the class of
champions
Who _always_ cleave their foe
To the waist
--indeed excels them, by entirely bisecting the Soldan.
An episodic restoration of parole to the widow of Armans (who has
actually taken part in the tourney and been killed) should be noticed,
and the piece ends, or rather comes close to an end, with the marriages
which appropriately follow these well-deserved murders. Marriages--not a
marriage only--for King "Lohier" of France most sensibly insists on
espousing the delightful Urraca: and Persewis is consoled for the loss
of Partenopeus by the suit--refused at first and then granted, with the
obviously intense enjoyment of both processes likely in a novice--of his
brother-in-arms, to whom the "Emperor of Byzantium" abandons his own two
counties in France, adding a third in his new empire, and winning by
this generosity almost more popularity than by his prowess.
But, as was hinted, the story does not actually end. There is a great
deal about the festivities, and though the author says encouragingly
that he "will not devise much of breeches," he _does_--and of many other
garments. Indeed the last of his liveliest patches is a mischievous
picture of the Court ladies at their toilette: "Let me see that mirror;
make my head-dress higher; let me show my mouth more; drop the pleat
over the eyes;[74] alter my eyebrows," etc. etc. But beyond the washing
of hands before the feast, this French book that Crapelet printed
fourscore years ago goeth not. Perhaps it was a mere accident; perhaps
the writer had a shrewd notion that whatever he wrote would seem but
stale in its reminder of the night when Partenopeus lay awake, and
seemingly alone, in the enchanted palace--now merely an ordinary place
of splendour and festivity--and when something came to the bed, "step by
step, little by little," and laid itself beside him.
Such are the contents and such some of the special traits and features
of one of the most famous of those romances of chivalry, the reading of
which with anything like the same interest as that taken in Homer,
seemed to the Reverend Professor Hugh Blair to be the most suitable
instance he could hit upon of a total lack of taste. This is a point, of
course, on which each age, and each reader in each age, must judge for
itself and himself. I think the author of the _Odyssey_ (the _Iliad_
comes rather in competition with the chansons than with these romances)
was a better poet than the author of _Partenopeus_, and I also think
that he was a better story-teller; but I do not think that the latter
was a bad story-teller; and I can read him with plenty of interest. So I
can most of his fellows, no one of whom, I think, ever quite approaches
the insipidity of their worst English imitators. The knights do not
weary me with their exploits, and I confess that I am hyperbolical
enough to like reading and thinking as well as talking of the ladies
very much. They are of various sorts; but they are generally lovable.
There is no better for affection and faithfulness and pluck than the
Josiane of _Bevis_, whose husband and her at one time faithful guardian,
but at another would-be ravisher, Ascapart, guard a certain gate not
more than a furlong or two from where I am writing. It is good to think
of the (to some extent justified) indignation of l'Orgueilleuse d'Amours
when Sir Blancandin rides up and audaciously kisses her in the midst of
her train; and the companion picture of the tomb where Idoine apparently
sleeps in death (while her true knight Amadas fights with a ghostly foe
above) makes a fitting pendant. If her near namesake with an L prefixed,
the Lidoine of _Meraugis de Portlesguez_, interests me less, it is
because its author, Raoul de Houdenc, was one of the first to mix love
and moral allegory--a "wanity" which is not my favourite "wanity." To
the Alexandrine of _Guillaume de Palerne_ reference has already been
made. Blanchefleur--known all over Europe with her lover Floire (Floris,
etc.)--the Saracen slave who charms a Christian prince, and is rescued
by him from the Emir of Babylon, to whom she has been sold in hopes of
weaning Floris from his attachment, more than deserved her vogue. But,
as in the case of the _chansons_, mere cataloguing would be dull and
unprofitable, and analysis on the scale accorded to _Partenopeus_
impossible. One must only take up once more the note of this whole early
part of our history, and impress again on the reader the evident
_desire_ for the accomplished novel which these numerous romances show;
the inevitable _practice_, in tale-telling of a kind, which the
production of them might have given; and, above all, the openings,
germs, suggestions of new devices in fiction which are observable in
them, and which remained for others to develop if the first finders left
them unimproved.
FOOTNOTES:
[58] That is, of nothing like the length of the latest forms of the
_Chansons de Geste_ or the Arthurian Romances proper. Some of the late
fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Adventure stories, before they dropped
into prose, are indeed long enough, and a great deal too long; but they
show degeneracy.
[59] The _h_ (Part_h_-) does occur in both forms, and there are other
variation, as "Part_o_nopeus," etc. But these are trifles.
[60] Taking honour to the mother as separate from that to the father.
[61] The Spanish-English form is perhaps the prettier. I am sorry to say
that the poet, to get a rhyme, sometimes spells it "Urra_cle_," which is
_not_ pretty. Southey's "Queen _O_rraca" seems to me to have changed her
vowel to disadvantage.
[62] The original author of the _Court of Love_, whether Chaucer or
another, pretty certainly knew it; and Spenser spiritualised the
doctrine itself in the _Four Hymns_.
[63] I think the medical people (borrowing, as Science so often does,
the language which she would fain banish from human knowledge) call this
sort of thing _a syndrome_.
[64] See below on Urraca's plain speaking.
[65] Not too commentatorially identified with Constantinople.
[66] It may be worth noting that in this context appears the original
form of an English word quite common recently, but almost unknown a very
short time ago--"grouse" in the sense of "complain," "grumble": "Ce dist
Corsols et nul n'en _grouce_."
[67] No one will be rude enough to disbelieve her, and, as will be seen,
her supernatural powers had limits; but it was odd, though fortunate,
that they should have broken down exactly at this important juncture.
Who made those rebellious candles take him to that chamber and couch,
unknown to her?
[68] For Melior, though of invisible beauty, is represented as
delightful in every other way, as wise and witty and gracious in speech
as becomes a white witch. And when her lover on one occasion thanks her
for her _sermon_, there is no satire; he only means _sermo_.
[69] Like Guy of Warwick; still more like Mr. Jaggers's clerk, though
the circumstances are reversed. _He_ almost says in so many words,
"Hullo! here's an engagement ring on my finger. We _can't_ have a
marriage."
[70] The author, _more suo_, intimates that the Court _ladies_ by no
means shared these hostile feelings, and would have willingly been in
Melior's place.
[71] He induces him to turn Christian on the supposition of being his
companion; and then gives him the slip. The neophyte's expressions on
the occasion are not wholly edifying.
[72] The good palfrey is found and in a state to carry his master, who
is quite unable to walk. One hopes they did not leave the beast to the
lions, tigers, wyverns, etc., for he could hardly hope for such a
literal "stroke of luck" again.
[73] The name will suggest, to those who have some wine-lore, no less a
vintage than Chateau Yquem. Nothing could be better for a person in the
Count's condition as a restorative.
[74] These two directions obviously refer to the common mediaeval
"wimple" arrangement.