_To the Lady Violet Lebas_.
Dear Lady Violet,--I do not wonder that you are puzzled by the language
of the first French novel. The French of "Aucassin et Nicolette" is not
French after the school of Miss Pinkerton, at Chiswick. Indeed, as the
little song-story has been translated into modern French by M. Bida, the
painter (whose book is very scarce), I presume even the countrywomen of
Aucassin find it difficult. You will not expect me to write an essay on
the grammar, nor would you read it if I did. The chief thing is that "s"
appears as the sign of the singular, instead of being the sign of the
plural, and the nouns have cases.
The story must be as old as the end of the twelfth century, and must have
received its present form in Picardy. It is written, as you see, in
alternate snatches of verse and prose. The verse, which was chanted, is
not rhymed as a rule, but each _laisse_, or screed, as in the "Chanson de
Roland," runs on the same final assonance, or vowel sound throughout.
So much for the form. Who is the author? We do not know, and never
shall know. Apparently he mentions himself in the first lines:
"Who would listen to the lay,
Of the captive old and gray;"
for this is as much sense as one can make out of _del deport du viel
caitif_.
The author, then, was an old fellow. I think we might learn as much from
the story. An old man he was, or a man who felt old. Do you know whom
he reminds me of? Why, of Mr. Bowes, of the Theatre Royal, Chatteris; of
Mr. Bowes, that battered, old, kindly sentimentalist who told his tale
with Mr. Arthur Pendennis.
It is a love story, a story of love overmastering, without conscience or
care of aught but the beloved. And the _viel caitif_ tells it with
sympathy, and with a smile. "Oh, folly of fondness," he seems to cry;
"oh, pretty fever and foolish; oh, absurd happy days of desolation:
"_When I was young, as you are young_,
_And lutes were touched, and songs were sung_!
_And love-lamps in the windows hung_!"
It is the very tone of Thackeray, when Thackeray is tender; and the world
heard it first from this elderly nameless minstrel, strolling with his
viol and his singing boys, a blameless D'Assoucy, from castle to castle
in the happy poplar land. I think I see him and hear him in the silver
twilight, in the court of some chateau of Picardy, while the ladies
around sit listening on silken cushions, and their lovers, fettered with
silver chains, lie at their feet. They listen, and look, and do not
think of the minstrel with his gray head, and his green heart; but we
think of him. It is an old man's work, and a weary man's work. You can
easily tell the places where he has lingered and been pleased as he
wrote.
The story is simple enough. Aucassin, son of Count Garin, of Beaucaire,
loved so well fair Nicolette, the captive girl from an unknown land, that
he would never be dubbed knight, nor follow tourneys; nor even fight
against his father's mortal foe, Count Bougars de Valence. So Nicolette
was imprisoned high in a painted chamber. But the enemy were storming
the town, and, for the promise of "one word or two with Nicolette, and
one kiss," Aucassin armed himself and led out his men. But he was all
adream about Nicolette, and his horse bore him into the press of foes ere
he knew it. Then he heard them contriving his death, and woke out of his
dream.
"The damoiseau was tall and strong, and the horse whereon he sat fierce
and great, and Aucassin laid hand to sword, and fell a-smiting to right
and left, and smote through helm and headpiece, and arm and shoulder,
making a murder about him, like a wild boar the hounds fall on in the
forest. There slew he ten knights, and smote down seven, and mightily
and knightly he hurled through the press, and charged home again, sword
in hand." For that hour Aucassin struck like one of Mallory's men in the
best of all romances. But though he took Count Bougars prisoner, his
father would not keep his word, nor let him have one word or two with
Nicolette, and one kiss. Nay, Aucassin was thrown into prison in an old
tower. There he sang of Nicolette,
"Was it not the other day
That a pilgrim came this way?
And a passion him possessed,
That upon his bed he lay,
Lay, and tossed, and knew no rest,
In his pain discomforted.
But thou camest by his bed,
Holding high thine amice fine
And thy kirtle of ermine.
Then the beauty that is thine
Did he look on; and it fell
That the Pilgrim straight was well,
Straight was hale and comforted.
And he rose up from his bed,
And went back to his own place
Sound and strong, and fair of face."
Thus Aucassin makes a Legend of his lady, as it were, assigning to her
beauty such miracles as faith attributes to the excellence of the saints.
Meanwhile, Nicolette had slipped from the window of her prison chamber,
and let herself down into the garden, where she heard the song of the
nightingales. "Then caught she up her kirtle in both hands, behind and
before, and flitted over the dew that lay deep on the grass, and fled out
of the garden, and the daisy flowers bending below her tread seemed dark
against her feet, so white was the maiden." Can't you see her stealing
with those "feet of ivory," like Bombyca's, down the dark side of the
silent moonlit streets of Beaucaire?
Then she came where Aucassin was lamenting in his cell, and she whispered
to him how she was fleeing for her life. And he answered that without
her he must die; and then this foolish pair, in the very mouth of peril,
must needs begin a war of words as to which loved the other best!
"Nay, fair sweet friend," saith Aucassin, "it may not be that thou lovest
me more than I love thee. Woman may not love man as man loves woman, for
a woman's love lies no deeper than in the glance of her eye, and the
blossom of her breast, and her foot's tip-toe; but man's love is in his
heart planted, whence never can it issue forth and pass away."