Part 2

Nor is it only with the lives of the rich that the mediæval minstrel was concerned. He dealt, too, with the lives and aspirations of that yet more numerous class, the poor. Such a story as "The Three Thieves" is indeed a picture of the home of the hind. We see the mean mud and timber hovel, into which the thieves broke so easily, with its cauldron upon the fire of fagots, its big bedstead, and the little lean-to byre. The peasant's tools stood around the wall, whilst outside was the garden, in which a wise ordinance of St. Louis required that pot-herbs should be planted. And if the tale of "The Three Thieves" shows us the home of the peasant, his soul is stripped for us to the quick, in--of all places in the world of literature--"Aucassin and Nicolette." Amongst the full-blown flowers of sentiment in that incomparable love-story is placed an episode which, in its violence and harsh realism, has been likened to a spot of blood and mud on a silver ground. Possibly it was inserted merely to show the hero's good heart, or is simply an instance of that artistic use of contrast so noticeable throughout the book. Any way, there are few things in feudal literature more striking than the meeting of the "dansellon" with the tattered, hideous ploughman, the one weeping in delicate grief, the other telling, dry-eyed, the sordid story of the abject poor. It is very far from being the happiest incident in the romance, but it is certainly one of the most memorable. One wonders how it was taken by an audience that concerned itself so little with the interests of the serf, and whose literature never mentioned that class, except in scorn. Was the author possibly of the ploughman's kindred, like Chaucer's parish priest in _The Canterbury Tales_? Had the stinging whips of captivity taught him sympathy with unpoetical sorrows; or is this an early hint of the coming storm! "They are clothed in velvet, and warm in their furs and their ermines, while we are covered with rags. They have wine and spices and fair bread; and we, oat-cake and straw, and water to drink. They have leisure and fine houses; we have pain and labour, the rain and the wind in the fields." We cannot tell; but comparing this dainty make-belief with that tragic misery, we feel the significance of the peasant's cry, "Woe to those who shall sorrow at the tears of such as these."

I hope I have not dwelt unduly on these stories considered as pictures of the customs and philosophy of their times. Perhaps, after all, these matters are of interest to the archæologist and the ecclesiologist rather than to the general reader. Not being a scholar myself, I have no pretension to write for scholars. My object is more modest. I have tried to bring together a little garland for the pleasure of the amateurs of beautiful tales. To me these mediæval stories are beautiful, and I have striven to decant them from one language into another with as little loss as may be. To this end I have refined a phrase, or, perhaps, softened an incident here and there. I do not pretend that they are perfect works of art. "All poets are unequal, except the bad, and they are uniformly bad." Sometimes a story drags, or there are wearisome repetitions. The psychology occasionally strikes a modern reader as remarkably summary. When Amis, for example, became a leper, we are gravely told that his wife held him in bitter hatred, and many a time strove to strangle him. Here is an author who, obviously, is astonished at nothing. But in reading these narratives you will remember how they have delighted, and been used by, writers in some cases greater than their own authors. Is it possible, for instance, to peruse "The Lay of the Little Bird" without recalling Shelley's "Sensitive Plant"? The tale of "The Divided Horsecloth" is told, in another version, both by Montaigne and Browning. The principal incident of "King Florus and the Fair Jehane" is used by Shakespeare in "Cymbeline." "Our Lady's Tumbler" and "A Jew who took as Surety the Image of Our Lady" have been re-written by Monsieur Anatole France with such perfection of art and artistry as to be the admiration and despair of all who come after him.

It should not be forgotten that the majority of these stories were intended to be recited, and not read. Repetition, therefore, is the more easily excused. This also accounts for the dramatic use of dialogue, so noticeable in "The Palfrey" and in "Aucassin and Nicolette." But it is evident that this Introduction, already over-long, will not permit me to go _seriatim_ through these tales, "Item, a grey eye or so. Item, two lips, indifferent red." Let me therefore content myself with appreciating the most lovely of them all, "Aucassin and Nicolette."

A single copy of "Aucassin and Nicolette," transcribed in the thirteenth century, and preserved as by miracle, has retained for us not only a charming tale, but also an unique specimen of the minstrel's craft. Without it we could not have gathered that so elaborate a blending of prose and verse was possible to a strolling player of mediæval France. The cante-fable was designed for recitation, with illustrative gesture, to the accompaniment of viol and pipes. In this, and not only in this, it seems to suggest an Eastern origin, and to-day, in any Moorish coffee-house, the tales of the _Arabian Nights_ are delivered in a manner very similar to that witnessed in Provence seven hundred years ago. The peculiar quality of pleasure afforded by "Aucassin and Nicolette" is not to be found in the story itself. That, indeed, is very simple, and, perhaps, a trifle hackneyed. Aucassin, the only son of the Count of Beaucaire, is passionately in love with Nicolette, a beautiful girl of unknown parentage, bought of the Saracens, whom his father will not permit him to marry. The story turns on the adventures of these fond lovers, until at the end their common fidelity is rewarded. Portions have faded sadly, like old tapestry, and the laughter sounds especially hollow, for of all precious things fun dies soonest. But in "Aucassin" the part is emphatically greater than the whole, and its charm must rather be sought in its graceful turns of speech--jewels, five words long--and in the pictorial quality which makes it more a series of pictures than a narrative. Who can forget the still night of May on which Nicolette escapes from her prison, and hurries through the garden, kilting her skirt against the dew; or the ruined tower in whose kindly shadow she remains hidden, whilst the watch march along the moonlit street, their swords beneath their mantles; or that bower of branches, built by her own white hands, through the trellis-work of which her lover looks upon the stars! In such felicitous picture-making the dainty little classic is equalled by no work of its period.

May I express the pious wish that every reader may find it all as delightful to read as I have found it to transcribe?

EUGENE MASON.

NOTE.--The originals of these narratives are to be found in Romania; in the _Fabliaux et Contes des Poètes François_, edited by Barbazan et Méon; in two volumes of the _Nouvelles Françoises en prose_, edited by Moland and D'Héricault; and in _Les Miracles de la Sainte Vierge_, by Gautier de Coinci.

CONTENTS

PAGE

'TIS OF AUCASSIN AND OF NICOLETTE 1

THE STORY OF KING CONSTANT, THE EMPEROR 39

OUR LADY'S TUMBLER 53

THE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD 67

THE DIVIDED HORSECLOTH 75

SIR HUGH OF TABARIE 85

THE STORY OF KING FLORUS AND OF THE FAIR JEHANE 91

OF THE COVETOUS MAN AND OF THE ENVIOUS MAN 129

OF A JEW WHO TOOK AS SURETY THE IMAGE OF OUR LADY 133

THE LAY OF GRAELENT 145

THE THREE THIEVES 161

THE FRIENDSHIP OF AMIS AND AMILE 173

OF THE KNIGHT WHO PRAYED WHILST OUR LADY TOURNEYED IN HIS STEAD 195

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRIES 199

THE STORY OF ASENATH 203

THE PALFREY 213

MEDIÆVAL ROMANCE

'TIS OF AUCASSIN AND OF NICOLETTE

Who will deign to hear the song Solace of a captive's wrong, Telling how two children met, Aucassin and Nicolette; How by grievous pains distraught, Noble deeds the varlet wrought For his love, and her bright face! Sweet my rhyme, and full of grace, Fair my tale, and debonair. He who lists--though full of care, Sore astonied, much amazed, All cast down, by men mispraised, Sick in body, sick in soul, Hearing shall be glad and whole, So sweet the tale.

Now they say and tell and relate:

How the Count Bougars of Valence made war on Count Garin of Beaucaire, war so great, so wonderful, and so mortal, that never dawned the day but that he was at the gates and walls and barriers of the town, with a hundred knights and ten thousand men-at-arms, on foot and on horse. So he burned the Count's land, and spoiled his heritage, and dealt death to his men. The Count Garin of Beaucaire was full of years, and frail; he had long outworn his day. He had no heir, neither son nor daughter, save one only varlet, and he was such as I will tell you. Aucassin was the name of the lad. Fair he was, and pleasant to look upon, tall and shapely of body in every whit of him. His hair was golden, and curled in little rings about his head; he had grey and dancing eyes, a clear, oval face, a nose high and comely, and he was so gracious in all good graces that nought in him was found to blame, but good alone. But Love, that high prince, so utterly had cast him down, that he cared not to become knight, neither to bear arms, nor to tilt at tourneys, nor yet to do aught that it became his name to do.

His father and his mother spake him thus--

"Son, don now thy mail, mount thy horse, keep thy land, and render aid to thy men. Should they see thee amongst them the better will the men-at-arms defend their bodies and their substance, thy fief and mine."

"Father," said Aucassin, "why speakest thou in such fashion to me? May God give me nothing of my desire if I become knight, or mount to horse, or thrust into the press to strike other or be smitten down, save only that thou give me Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I love so well."

"Son," answered the father, "this may not be. Put Nicolette from mind. For Nicolette is but a captive maid, come hither from a far country, and the Viscount of this town bought her with money from the Saracens, and set her in this place. He hath nourished and baptized her, and held her at the font. On a near day he will give her to some young bachelor, who will gain her bread in all honour. With this what hast thou to do? Ask for a wife, and I will find thee the daughter of a king, or a count. Were he the richest man in France his daughter shalt thou have, if so thou wilt."

"Faith, my father," said Aucassin, "what honour of all this world would not Nicolette, my very sweet friend, most richly become! Were she Empress of Byzantium or of Allemaigne, or Queen of France or England, low enough would be her degree, so noble is she, so courteous and debonair, and gracious in all good graces."

Now is sung:

Aucassin was of Beaucaire, Of the mighty castle there, But his heart was ever set On his fair friend, Nicolette. Small he heeds his father's blame, Or the harsh words of his dame. "Fool, to weep the livelong day, Nicolette trips light and gay. Scouring she from far Carthàge, Bought of Paynims for a wage. Since a wife beseems thee good Take a wife of wholesome blood." "Mother, naught for this I care, Nicolette is debonair; Slim the body, fair the face, Make my heart a lighted place; Love has set her as my peer, Too sweet, my dear."

Now they say and tell and relate:

When the Count Garin of Beaucaire found that in nowise could he withdraw Aucassin his son from the love of Nicolette, he sought out the Viscount of the town, who was his man, and spake him thus--

"Sir Count, send Nicolette your god-child straightly from this place. Cursed be the land wherefrom she was carried to this realm; for because of her I lose Aucassin, who will not become knight, nor do aught that it becometh knight to do. Know well that were she once within my power I would hurry her to the fire; and look well to yourself, for you stand in utmost peril and fear."

"Sire," answered the Viscount, "this lies heavy upon me, that ever Aucassin goes and he comes seeking speech with my ward. I have bought her with my money, and nourished and baptized her, and held her at the font. Moreover, I am fain to give her to some young bachelor, who will gain her bread in all honour. With this Aucassin your son had nought to do. But since this is your will and your pleasure, I will send her to so far a country that nevermore shall he see her with his eyes."

"Walk warily," replied the Count Garin, "for great evil easily may fall to you of this."

So they went their ways.

Now the Viscount was a very rich man, and had a rich palace standing within a garden. In a certain chamber of an upper floor he set Nicolette in ward, with an old woman to bear her company, and to watch; and he put there bread and meat and wine and all things for their need. Then he placed a seal upon the door, so that none might enter in, nor issue forth, save only that there was a window looking on the garden, strict and close, whereby they breathed a little fresh air.

Now is sung:

Nicolette is prisoned fast, In a vaulted chamber cast, Shaped and carven wondrous well, Painted as by miracle. At the marble casement stayed On her elbow leaned the maid; Golden showed her golden hair, Softly curved her eyebrows rare, Fair her face, and brightly flushed, Sweeter maiden never blushed. In the garden from her room She might watch the roses bloom, Hear the birds make tender moan; Then she knew herself alone. "'Lack, great pity 'tis to place Maid in such an evil case. Aucassin, my liege, my squire, Friend, and dear, and heart's desire, Since thou dost not hate me quite Men have done me foul despite, Sealed me in this vaulted room, Thrust me to this bitter doom. But by God, Our Lady's Son, Soon will I from here begone, So it be won."

Now they say and tell and relate:

Nicolette was prisoned in the chamber, as you have heard and known. The cry and the haro went through all the land that Nicolette was stolen away. Some said that she had fled the country, and some that the Count Garin of Beaucaire had done her to death. Whatever man may have rejoiced, Aucassin had no joy therein, so he sought out the Viscount of the town and spake him thus--

"Sir Viscount, what have you done with Nicolette, my very sweet friend, the thing that most I love in all the world? Have you borne her off, or hidden her from my sight? Be sure that should I die hereof, my blood will be required of you, as is most just, for I am slain of your two hands, since you steal from me the thing that most I love in all the world."

"Fair sire," answered the Viscount, "put this from mind. Nicolette is a captive maid whom I brought here from a far country. For her price I trafficked with the Saracens, and I have bred and baptized her, and held her at the font. I have nourished her duly, and on a day will give her to some young bachelor who will gain her bread in honourable fashion. With this you have nought to do; but only to wed the daughter of some count or king. Beyond this, what profit would you have, had you become her lover, and taken her to your bed? Little enough would be your gain therefrom, for your soul would lie tormented in Hell all the days of all time, so that to Paradise never should you win."

"In Paradise what have I to do? I care not to enter, but only to have Nicolette, my very sweet friend, whom I love so dearly well. For into Paradise go none but such people as I will tell you of. There go those agèd priests, and those old cripples, and the maimed, who all day long and all night cough before the altars, and in the crypts beneath the churches; those who go in worn old mantles and old tattered habits; who are naked, and barefoot, and full of sores; who are dying of hunger and of thirst, of cold and of wretchedness. Such as these enter in Paradise, and with them have I nought to do. But in Hell will I go. For to Hell go the fair clerks and the fair knights who are slain in the tourney and the great wars, and the stout archer and the loyal man. With them will I go. And there go the fair and courteous ladies, who have friends, two or three, together with their wedded lords. And there pass the gold and the silver, the ermine and all rich furs, harpers and minstrels, and the happy of the world. With these will I go, so only that I have Nicolette, my very sweet friend, by my side."

"Truly," cried the Viscount, "you talk idly, for never shall you see her more; yea, and if perchance you spoke together, and your father heard thereof, he would burn both me and her in one fire, and yourself might well have every fear."

"This lies heavy upon me," answered Aucassin.

Thus he parted from the Viscount making great sorrow.

Now is sung:

Aucassin departed thus Sad at heart and dolorous; Gone is she his fairest friend, None may comfort give or mend, None by counsel make good end. To the palace turned he home, Climbed the stair, and sought his room. In the chamber all alone Bitterly he made his moan, Presently began to weep For the love he might not keep. "Nicolette, so gent, so sweet, Fair the faring of thy feet, Fair thy laughter, sweet thy speech, Fair our playing each with each, Fair thy clasping, fair thy kiss, Yet it endeth all in this. Since from me my love is ta'en I misdoubt that I am slain; Sister, sweet friend."

Now they say and tell and relate:

Whilst Aucassin was in the chamber lamenting Nicolette, his friend, the Count Bougars of Valence, wishful to end the war, pressed on his quarrel, and setting his pikemen and horsemen in array, drew near the castle to take it by storm. Then the cry arose, and the tumult; and the knights and the men-at-arms took their weapons, and hastened to the gates and the walls to defend the castle, and the burgesses climbed to the battlements, flinging quarrels and sharpened darts upon the foe. Whilst the siege was so loud and perilous the Count Garin of Beaucaire sought the chamber where Aucassin lay mourning, assotted upon Nicolette, his very sweet friend, whom he loved so well.

"Ha, son," cried he, "craven art thou and shamed, that seest thy best and fairest castle so hardly beset. Know well that if thou lose it thou art a naked man. Son, arm thyself lightly, mount to horse, keep thy land, aid thy men, hurtle into the press. Thou needest not to strike another, neither to be smitten down, but if they see thee amongst them, the better will they defend their goods and their bodies, thy land and mine. And thou art so stout and strong that very easily thou canst do this thing, as is but right."

"Father," answered Aucassin, "what sayest thou now? May God give me nought that I require of Him if I become knight, or mount to horse, or thrust into the press to strike knight or be smitten down, save only thou givest me Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I love so well."

"Son," replied the father, "this can never be. Rather will I suffer to lose my heritage, and go bare of all, than that thou shouldest have her, either as woman or as dame."

So he turned without farewell. But when Aucassin saw him part he stayed him, saying--

"Father, come now, I will make a true bargain with thee."

"What bargain, fair son?"

"I will arm me, and thrust into the press on such bargain as this, that if God bring me again safe and sound, thou wilt let me look on Nicolette, my sweet friend, so long that I may have with her two words or three, and kiss her one only time."

"I pledge my word to this," said the father.

Of this covenant had Aucassin much joy.

Now is sung:

Aucassin the more was fain Of the kiss he sought to gain, Rather than his coffers hold A hundred thousand marks of gold. At the call his squire drew near, Armed him fast in battle gear; Shirt and hauberk donned the lad, Laced the helmet on his head, Girt his golden-hilted sword, Came the war-horse at his word, Gripped the buckler and the lance, At the stirrups cast a glance; Then most brave from plume to heel Pricked the charger with the steel, Called to mind his absent dear, Passed the gateway without fear Straight to the fight.

Now they say and tell and relate:

Aucassin was armed and horsed as you have heard. God! how bravely showed the shield about his neck, the helmet on his head, and the fringes of the baldric upon his left thigh. The lad was tall and strong, slender and comely to look upon, and the steed he bestrode was great and speedy, and fiercely had he charged clear of the gate. Now think not that he sought spoil of oxen and cattle, nor to smite others and himself escape. Nay, but of all this he took no heed. Another was with him, and he thought so dearly upon Nicolette, his fair friend, that the reins fell from his hand, and he struck never a blow. Then the charger, yet smarting from the spur, bore him into the battle, amidst the thickest of the foe, so that hands were laid upon him from every side, and he was made prisoner. Thus they spoiled him of shield and lance, and forthwith led him from the field a captive, questioning amongst themselves by what death he should be slain. When Aucassin marked their words,

"Ha, God," cried he, "sweet Creature, these are my mortal foes who lead me captive, and who soon will strike off my head; and when my head is smitten, never again may I have fair speech with Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I hold so dear. Yet have I a good sword, and my horse is yet unblown. Now if I defend me not for her sake, may God keep her never, should she love me still."

The varlet was hardy and stout, and the charger he bestrode was right fierce. He plucked forth his sword, and smote suddenly on the right hand and on the left, cutting sheer through nasal and headpiece, gauntlet and arm, making such ruin around him as the wild boar deals when brought to bay by hounds in the wood; until he had struck down ten knights, and hurt seven more, and won clear of the _mêlée_, and rode back at utmost speed, sword in his hand.

The Count Bougars of Valence heard tell that his men were about to hang Aucassin, his foe, in shameful wise, so he hastened to the sight, and Aucassin passed him not by. His sword was yet in hand, and he struck the Count so fiercely upon the helm, that the headpiece was cleft and shattered upon the head. So bewildered was he by the stroke that he tumbled to the ground, and Aucassin stretched forth his hand, and took him, and led him captive by the nasal of the helmet, and delivered him to his father.

"Father," said Aucassin, "behold the foe who wrought such war and mischief upon you! Twenty years hath this war endured, and none was there to bring it to an end."

"Fair son," replied his father, "better are such deeds as these than foolish dreams."

"Father," returned Aucassin, "preach me no preachings; but carry out our bargain."

"Ha, what bargain, fair son?"