to-day? Around Marie de France there must always remain an atmosphere
of doubt and mystery, since she is only mentioned by an anonymous
thirteenth-century poet, and by one of her contemporaries--an
Anglo-Norman poet, Denys Pyramus by name--who speaks of her in the
most flattering terms, and from whom we learn that her lays were much
appreciated by the noblesse, especially the ladies. That these should
take rare delight in them may well be, seeing how monotonous life must
have been to many a woman shut up with her maidens and her needlework
in a dismal castle, or perhaps in but one tower of it, whilst her
lord went forth to the chase or to war, his home-coming meaning merely
the wine-cup and war-songs, or tedious epic. Many a one must have read
or listened to Marie's love idylls, and longed, and perhaps even
hoped, as in the story of "Yonec," that a fair and gentle knight, in
the form of some beautiful bird, might fly in at her window and bring
her some diversion from the outside world. With nothing before us but
her own poems and the scant recognition of Denys Pyramus, she seems
like some old portrait in which the delicate pigments that once glowed
in the face and made it live have, owing to their very delicacy, long
since faded away, leaving behind only the stronger and less volatile
colours of the dark background from which we in vain try to wrest more
than one or two fragments of the secret it holds.
Judging from internal evidence, it would seem that Marie was born in
Normandy, about the middle of the twelfth century, but settled in
England, where since the Conquest, and indeed since the time of Edward
the Confessor, many Norman families had made their home. Not only does
she make occasional use of English words, and translate from English
into French the fables known as Æsop's, but in the prologue to her
_Lays_, which she dedicates to "the noble King," generally considered
to be Henry the Second, she expresses fear lest her work should not
find favour in a foreign land. In this prologue she also gives her
reason for abandoning classical translation, which, as a Latin
scholar, she had contemplated making, not only for the use of the less
learned, but also, as she tells us, for personal discipline, since "he
who would keep himself from sin, should study and learn and undertake
difficult tasks. In suchwise he may the more withdraw him and save
himself from much sorrow." The twelfth century was a time of
extraordinary intellectual activity, and Marie tells us that she
suffered from what we are apt to regard as a special evil of our own
day--the overcrowding of the literary market. So she wisely turned
aside from the Classics and the crowd, and set herself to give
literary expression to the old Celtic folk-lore, hitherto perhaps
unrecorded save in song.
Of Marie's work that has come down to us we have _The Fables_, already
mentioned, dedicated to Count William, surnamed Longsword, and son of
Henry the Second and Fair Rosamond;[11] _The Lays_, dedicated to the
king, Henry the Second, and doubtless read by Fair Rosamond in her
retreat at Woodstock; and _The Purgatory of St. Patrick_, translated
from the Latin at the request of an anonymous benefactor. Of these
only _The Lays_ need here concern us, as it is in them that our
interest lies, since they are perhaps among the first stories, given
literary form, which tell of love "for love's sake only,"--love
unqualified and unquestioning. They form, perhaps, the only collection
of lays now extant, and it is to them, therefore, that we must turn to
get some idea of the style of narration that gradually replaced the
taste for the epic as Norman influence grew and spread in England.
Beside the sensualism of the _Chansons de Geste_, the sentiment
expressed in them may seem naïve; beside the gallantry of the
Provençal poetry, it may seem primitive; but nevertheless it is, in
its very simplicity, the profoundest note that can be struck in this
world of men and women. Marie makes no pretence to originality, but
even if she did not possess the supreme gift of creating beauty, she
at least possessed the lesser gift of perceiving it where it existed
and of making it her own, and her stories glow with colour, and
enchant by their simple yet dramatic appeal to the imagination. She
declares that _The Lays_ were made "for remembrance" by "Le ancien
Bretun curteis," and that "Folks tell them to the harp and the rote,
and the music is sweet to hear." Doubtless it was this sweet music
which both soothed and thrilled even before the words were understood,
for on sad and festive days alike, the sweet lays of Brittany were
always to be heard.
La reine chante doucement,
La voiz acorde a l'estrument:
Les mains sont belles, li lais bons,
Douce la voiz et bas li tons.
[11] Marie thus refers to Count William:--
"Pur amur le cumte Willaume,
Le plus vaillant de cest royaume,
M'entremis de cest livre feire,
E de l'Angleiz en Roman treire."
[Illustration: _Photo. Macbeth._
LADY PLAYING HARP.
Add. MS. 38117, Brit. Mus.
_To face page 32._]
Whether Marie was connected with the Court of Henry the Second and his
brilliant and artistic queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, where learned men
and poets congregated, we do not know, but it seems a very fair
conjecture that she was. Not only does she dedicate her principal work
to the king and his son, Count William, but her stories are coloured
with the courtly life and ideas of her time, notwithstanding the
simplicity of the fundamental theme. It is doubtful whether any one
unacquainted with the teaching of the Courts of Love, such as they
were in the twelfth century, would have made the compulsory quest of
love the keynote of a story, as, for instance, Marie does in the "Lay
of Guigemar." These Courts of Love, though not so elaborate, yet
seemingly as imperious, as those of the fourteenth century, formed one
of the semi-serious pastimes of the Middle Ages, and although it may
be that they were often mere forms of entertainment, no
self-respecting person could afford to disregard their rules or
decisions. The cardinal doctrine was that love was necessary to a
man's moral, social, and æsthetic training. Hence if it did not arise
of itself, it must be sought for, and, like its counterpart in the
spiritual world, come at, if needs be, through much tribulation.
Owing to Henry's possessions in France through inheritance, marriage,
and the many ties of relationship which united the royal families of
both countries, England and France were never more closely allied
than they were at that time. French was established by them as the
speech of the cultured and the high-born. The Norman Conquest had made
us more cosmopolitan in both manners and ideas. May we not look on the
victory at Hastings as a symbol as well as a reality? Did it not mean
for us a spiritual as well as a material conquest, since, mingled with
the clashing of battle-axes, was to be heard the chanting of the
_Chanson de Roland_? Moreover, through a desire to bring about
uniformity of sentiment and service, the Church, though perhaps
unconsciously, aided this good work of general enlargement of outlook
by appointing outsiders to control our abbeys and religious
foundations. Thus, in the latter half of the twelfth century, the
romantic movement which characterised late mediæval literature stirred
in England and France alike, and Marie was one of its truest and
daintiest exponents. Although what she relates may be fiction
intermingled with myth and magic, she all the same pictures on her
somewhat small canvases the ideas of her time, and so helps to make
history.
[Illustration: _Photo. Macbeth._
ADD. MS. 10293, BRIT. MUS.
_To face page 34._]
Marie's readers and hearers were naturally to be found amongst
castle-folk. That these were many we may conclude from the fact that
the number of castles had already come to be regarded as a menace to
the central government, and a royal command had gone forth for the
demolition of many of them. That her stories were read and prized
for at least a century and more is evident from the manuscripts--five
in number, and all of the thirteenth, or the beginning of the
fourteenth, century--which still exist. Her renown, too, had travelled
even beyond the seas, for in about A.D. 1245 a translation of her lays
into Norse was made by order of the king, Haakon the Fourth. The fact
that their popularity began to wane after a hundred years or so is in
no wise an adverse criticism of their intrinsic worth, for in the
fourteenth century English was, in high places, beginning to take the
place of French, and naturally the demand created a supply. But even
if this had not been so, Marie's work had served its purpose, and of
necessity passed into the crucible of human thought and expression, to
be resolved into matter suited to other needs and conditions. As has
been well said, "les siècles se succèdent, et chacun porte son fruit,
qui n'est pas celui du siècle précédent: les livres sont les fruits
des moeurs."
Of the five manuscripts still extant, two are in the British Museum.
One of these is the most complete that has come down to us, seeing
that, in addition to its including the largest number of lays--twelve
in all,--it alone contains the prologue, in which for a moment the
illusive Marie lifts, as it were, her all-enshrouding veil. It is a
small manuscript, beautifully inscribed, and even after its seven
hundred years of existence, as fresh as is the love enshrined in its
parchment pages. How strange a feeling possesses us as we turn over
its leaves, leaves across which the shadows of readers of bygone days
still seem to flit! Could these pages speak, of what would they tell?
Of desires that die not, of longings that are immortal, of love
enthroned.
When first read, these stories, so simply are they told, may seem
somewhat slight and superficial. But this is the general
characteristic of mediæval literature, which, for the most part,
recognised things in outline only, and sought, and perhaps possessed,
but little knowledge of the hidden springs of motive. The writers of
those times troubled as little about moral, as the early painters did
about physical, anatomy. Still, in spite of this indifference to what
has become almost a craze in our own day, Marie's lays are so full of
charming detail, deftly handled, that they give much the same sense of
delight as do delicate ivories or dainty embroidery. Sometimes, it is
true, she scarcely, despite all this outward charm, seems to touch the
world of fact. Yet in this ideal atmosphere which she so essentially
made her own, she contrives to convey such a sense of reality, that
for the moment we are wholly possessed by it and carried away, without
questioning, into her fairyland. And a beautiful fairyland it is,
where love triumphs for the most part, not in heedless ecstasy along
flower-bestrewn ways, but through self-sacrifice and suffering
mutually accepted and mutually endured. Listen to the words spoken to
the knight Guigemar, wounded by a chance arrow as he rides through a
wood. "Never shalt thou be healed of thy wound, not even by herb, or
root, or leach, or potion, until thou art healed by her who, for love
of thee, shall suffer such great pain and sorrow as never woman has
suffered before: and thou shalt bear as much for her." Equality in
love! Such is the vital note struck amid the artificial and
soul-enfeebling atmosphere of mediæval love-poetry! This is the note
which Marie set ringing down the centuries whilst her manuscripts lay
unused on library shelves. This is Marie's gift to the world, and this
it is that gives her stories immortality. Not only do they possess
this immortality in themselves, but they have also been immortalised
by poets and writers both in days long past and in those more within
our ken. All who know her stories will recall Chaucer's indebtedness
to incidents and descriptions in them, and coming to our own time, we
find Sir Walter Scott taking his ballad of "Lord Thomas and Fair
Annie" from the lay of "The Ash Tree," although it is possible, as has
been suggested,[12] that his ballad may have been founded on some
Scotch folk-song having a common origin with Marie's lay. When her
lays were first published in Germany in 1820, Goethe wrote thus: "The
mist of years that mysteriously envelops Marie de France makes her
poems more exquisite and precious to us." Yes, it is this
all-pervading mystery which, though so tantalising, is yet so
attractive. It is in vain that, in studying them, we try to penetrate
somewhat beyond our normal atmosphere, for we only find ourselves lost
in vague possibilities and hazy distances. Brittany has kept her
secret concerning such of these lays as were hers just as jealously as
she has kept her secret of the long avenues of great lichened stones
which make Carnac look like the burial-place of some giant host.
Marie's lays are stories of deep meaning, which each reader must
interpret for himself.
[12] Warnke. _Die lais der Marie de France_, p. lxiii.
It is impossible to do more here than just touch upon Marie's ideal
conception of love, for to realise it fully it is necessary to read
the stories themselves.[13] Allusion has been made to the wounded
knight in the "Lay of Guigemar," who can only be healed through mutual
love sanctified by mutual suffering. In the lay of "The Ash Tree" a
maiden of noble birth, abandoned in infancy and brought up in a
convent, is loved by a lord, and returns his love, and goes with him
to his castle. After a time the knights who owe him fealty complain
that as through his love for his mistress he has neither wife nor
child, he does them wrong, and protest that if he does not wed some
noble lady, they will no longer serve him or hold him for lord. The
knight has to yield to their demands and to consent to accept in
marriage the daughter of a neighbouring noble who had made it known
that he desired him for son-in-law. Neither lover utters any complaint
or reproach, and the needful sacrifice is about to be made. But
fortune, sometimes kind, intervenes ere it is too late, and reveals
the noble birth of the loved one. The knight weds her with great joy,
and to complete this happy picture we read that the other lady
returned with her parents to her own domain, and was there well
bestowed in marriage.
[13] Marie de France, _Seven of her Lays_, trans. E. Rickert,
1901; Warnke, _Die lais der Marie de France_, Halle, 1885;
Hertz, _Spielmannsbuch_, 1905.
This idea of mutual sympathy and sacrifice gives meaning also to the
lay of "The Two Lovers," and to that of "Yonec," but perhaps it is
most simply, yet forcibly, summed up in the lay of "The Honeysuckle,"
an episode taken from the Tristan story. Tristan, hearing that Isolde
is to ride through a certain wood on her way to Tintagel to attend the
Pentecostal Court held by the King, hides in the wood. Here he cuts a
branch of hazel round which honeysuckle has twined, and carving his
name and certain letters on it, he lays it in the way by which the
Queen must pass, knowing that she will recognise it as a sign that her
lover is near, since they have met before in suchwise. The import of
the writing is that he has long been waiting to see her, since without
her he cannot live, and that they two are like the hazel branch with
the encircling honeysuckle, the which, as long as they are
intertwined, thrive, but as soon as they are separated, both perish.
Says Tristan, "Sweet Love, so is it with us--nor you without me, nor I
without you."
But besides this conception of love which Marie had simply found
awaiting expression, when we turn to examine the stories somewhat in
detail, we find legend and poetry, Eastern magic and Christian
symbolism, mingled with strange ingenuity. Whence came all these
divers threads which Marie has so dexterously interwoven? It is very
difficult to tell whether we are wholly in a world of romance,
accepted by her without question, or whether she had some
understanding of the divers matters she touches upon, and shaped them
into a new form to suit new hearers. The answer to this question seems
to depend on whether Marie recounted the lays from hearsay, or whether
they had been already written down, and were merely retold by her, she
colouring them with the atmosphere of her time, which was charged with
strange incongruities of religion and magic. To this we can give no
certain answer, since Marie herself gives no hint, and only tells us
that the ancient Bretons made the lays. But whatever may have been her
contribution, Christian or otherwise, to the original matter she
worked upon, we cannot help feeling that we have before us the remains
of some primitive mythology overlaid and interpenetrated with Eastern
lore, especially that of India, which, in the Middle Ages, was spread
broadcast in the West. This Indian thought, itself borrowed in a
measure from Egypt, had also been tempered by the Hellenism which,
after the conquests of Alexander the Great in Asia, had filtered
through India, and had on the way become tinged with its colour and
its mystery. It was from the matter of these Indian stories that so
much was learnt, for whilst, in the West, the national epic and the
chivalrous romance had been alone considered worthy of record, in the
Indian stories all social conditions were revealed, and poets thus
learnt little by little to observe and portray the manners and
sentiments of the people generally, changing social conditions also
acting in the same direction. All such influences must be taken into
consideration in studying mediæval literature generally, but
particularly the occult element in Oriental thought which presents
such difficulties to the less meditative Western mind, and has in
consequence given rise to much misconception.
In the "Lay of Guigemar," which we take first because it is the first
in the manuscript, we find Marie making use of a subject, in gorgeous
setting, of Christian symbolism, but using it apparently so
unconsciously that it is only from one or two details that we realise
what is really lurking in disguise. Guigemar, the wounded knight
already referred to, to whom naught but love, and sorrow endured for
love, can bring any alleviation, sets forth for his healing. He comes
across a ship into which he enters, and which by unseen means carries
him to the desired haven. As we read the description of the ship, our
thoughts at once revert to the picture of the barge in which Cleopatra
goes to meet Antony. Marie tells us that the fittings are of ebony,
and the unfurled sail of silk. Amid the vessel is a bed on to which
the wounded knight sinks in anguish. This is of cypress and white
ivory inlaid with gold, the quilt of silk and gold tissue, and the
coverlet of sable lined with Alexandrian purple.[14] All this we might
regard as merely a poet's fancy were it not that we go on to read that
there were set two candlesticks of fine gold with lighted tapers. Here
we have the clue. Doubtless the ship, a favourite theme of Christian
symbolism, and one which delighted poets and painters and workers in
mosaic alike, represented the Church. It is not to be necessarily
inferred that Marie, when giving her hero so rare a means of transit,
had in her mind all the elaborate symbolism connected with it; but she
had probably read or heard tell of it, and made use of it simply for
the enhancement of her story. It is in such ways that we find
mysteries embedded, the real significance of them being lost or
misunderstood or unheeded, just as the Renaissance painters, without
any knowledge of Arabic characters, and solely on account of the
ornamental quality of the lettering, used texts from the Koran, and
distorted into mere design the sayings of Mahomet.
[14] Compare with this the bed of "King Fisherman" described
in _Holy Grail_, vol. i. p. 137, trans. Sebastian Evans,
1898.
In the lay of "The Two Lovers" we again find Christian symbolism in
disguise. Here is the old theme of a difficult task to be accomplished
by the lover before he can win his lady.[15] The undertaking imposed
is the carrying of the loved one to the top of a hill, and our
interest in it is enhanced by the fact that the trial was to be made
near Pitres, a few miles from Rouen, where there is a green hill,
still known as "La Côte des Deux Amans." In Rouen there lived a king
who had an only daughter, very fair and beautiful, whose hand was
sought in marriage of many. Loath to part with her, he bethought him
how he could thwart her suitors. To this end he caused it to be
proclaimed far and wide that he would have for son-in-law only him who
could carry his daughter to the top of the hill without pausing to
rest. Many came, but each in turn failed, greatly to the content of
the princess, since secretly she loved, and was loved by, a young
knight who frequented her father's Court. At last, constrained by
love, the knight, though with much misgiving, determines to undertake
the adventure. Before allowing him to do this, the maiden, in order to
ensure his success, and herself fasting meanwhile, bids him go to
Salerno,[16] near Naples, a school of medicine famous in the Middle
Ages, and ask of her kinswoman there, who was well practised in
medicine, a draught to give him the needful strength for his task.
Returned with this potion, he makes the attempt, but so great is his
desire to reach the goal quickly, that he will not slacken his speed
to drink from the phial carried by his Love, but hastens forward, only
to fall dead as he reaches the summit of the hill.
[15] Hertz, _op. cit._ p. 396.
[16] This mention of Salerno is of interest on account of the
reference to women practising there as medical experts. The
origin of the School remains in obscurity, and it is not
until the ninth century, when the names of certain Salerno
physicians appear in the archives, that we get any definite
information with regard to it. It seems to have been a purely
secular institution, but it is quite possible that its
development was aided by the Benedictines, who became
established there in the seventh century, and who made
medical science one of their principal studies. Before the
middle of the eleventh century there were many women there
who either practised medicine or acted as professors of the
science, and some of the latter even combined surgery with
medicine in their teaching and treatises. These women doctors
were much sought after by the sick, and were much esteemed by
their brother-professionals, who cited them as authorities.
That the sexes were on an equal footing we infer from the
fact that the title of "master" (Magister) was applied to men
and women alike, the term "doctor" not having come into use,
apparently, before the thirteenth century. Besides the
general practitioners and the professors, there were others
who fitted themselves specially for military service, as well
as priests who added medical knowledge to their holy calling.
The teaching followed that of Hippocrates and Galen, and the
Salerno school was world-renowned in the art of drug
preparation. In the thirteenth century, however, Arab medical
writings began to be known in Europe through Latin
translations, and Arab practice in medicine, though based on
Greek teaching, initiated a new departure. As a result of
this, the glory of Salerno waned. Another cause of its
decline in fame and popularity was the founding by the
Emperor Frederick the Second of a school of medicine at
Naples, which he richly endowed, and the rise, unencumbered
by old traditions--for medicine, like scholasticism, could be
hampered by dialectical subtlety--of the school of
Montpelier.
In this strength-giving potion we may perhaps see the expression of a
Christian, and the survival of a pre-Christian belief, where the
getting of strength and life is only possible through a direct act of
communion, either material or spiritual, with the god. Such world-old
beliefs, in which the supernatural intervenes to help the natural, are
also intimately connected, even if they are not identical, with the
magic of philtres and charms.