Chapter 16
"Full well I know, this morning my castles and my land Both will to you fall vacant by stroke of foeman's hand, And so my wife and daughter I to your grace commend, And all at Bechelaren, each trusty homeless friend."
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So to war the margrave under helmet strode; Sharpest swords his meiny brandished as they rode; Each in hand, bright-flashing, held his shield before. That saw the dauntless minstrel, and seeing sorrow'd sore.
Then too was by young Giselher his lady's father seen With helm laced as for battle. "What," thought he, "can he mean? But nought can mean the margrave but what is just and right." At the thought full joyous wax'd the youthful knight.
"I know not what you trust in;" thus the stern minstrel spake; "Where saw you warriors ever for reconcilement's sake With helmets laced advancing, and naked swords in hand? On us will earn Sir Rüdeger his castles and his land."
Scarcely the valiant minstrel his words had utter'd all, When the noble Rüdeger was close before the hall. His shield, well proved in battle, before his feet he laid, But neither proffered service, nor friendly greeting made.
To those within he shouted, "Look not for succor hence; Ye valiant Nibelungers, now stand on your defence. I'd fain have been your comrade; your foe I now must be. We once were friends together; now from that bond I'm free."
"Now God forbid," said Günther, "that such a knight as you To the faith wherein we trusted, should ever prove untrue, And turn upon his comrades in such an hour as this. Ne'er can I think that Rüdeger can do so much amiss."
"I can't go back," said Rüdeger, "the deadly die is cast; I must with you do battle; to that my word is pass'd. So each of you defend him as he loves his life. I must perform my promise; so wills King Etzel's wife."
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"Tarry yet a little, right noble Rüdeger! I and my lords a moment would yet with you confer; Thereto hard need compels us, and danger gathering nigh; What boot were it to Etzel though here forlorn we die?
"I'm now," pursued Sir Hagan, "beset with grievous care; The shield that Lady Gotelind gave me late to bear, Is hewn, and all-to broken by many a Hunnish brand. I brought it fair and friendly hither to Etzel's land.
"Ah! that to me this favour heaven would be pleas'd to yield, That I might to defend me bear so well-prov'd a shield As that, right noble Rüdeger, before thee now display'd! No more should I in battle need then the hauberk's aid."
"Fain with the same I'd serve thee to th' height of thy desire, But that I fear such proffer might waken Kriemhild's ire. Still, take it to thee, Hagan, and wield it well in hand. Ah! might'st thou bring it with thee to thy Burgundian land!"
While thus with words so courteous so fair a gift he sped, The eyes of many a champion with scalding tears were red, 'T was the last gift, that buckler, e'er given to comrade dear By the lord of Bechelaren, the blameless Rüdeger.
However stern was Hagan, and of unyielding mood, Still at the gift he melted, which one so great and good Gave in his last few moments, e'en on the eve of fight, And with the stubborn warrior mourn'd many a noble knight.
"Now God in heaven, good Rüdeger, thy recompenser be! Your like on earth, I'm certain, we never more shall see, Who gifts so good and gorgeous to homeless wanderers give. May God protect your virtue, that it may ever live!
"Alas! this bloody bus'ness!" Sir Hagan then went on, "We have had to bear much sorrow, and more shall have anon. Must friend with friend do battle, nor heaven the conflict part?" The noble margrave answer'd, "That wounds my inmost heart."
"Now for thy gift I'll quit thee, right noble Rüdeger! What e'er may chance between thee and my bold comrades here, My hand shall touch thee never amidst the heady fight, Not e'en if thou shouldst slaughter every Burgundian knight."
For that to him bow'd courteous the blameless Rüdeger. Then all around were weeping for grief and doleful drear, Since none th' approaching mischief had hope to turn aside. The father of all virtue in that good margrave died.
* * * * * * *
What a fearful clatter of clashing blades there rang! From shields beneath the buffets how the plates they sprang, And precious stones unnumber'd rain'd down into the gore! They fought so fell and furious as man will never more.
The lord of Bechelaren went slashing here and there, As one who well in battle knew how himself to bear. Well prov'd the noble Rüdeger in that day's bloody fight, That never handled weapon a more redoubted knight.
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Loud o'er the din of battle stout Gernot shouted then, "How now, right noble Rüdeger? not one of all my men Thou 'lt leave me here unwounded; in sooth it grieves me sore To see my friends thus slaughter'd; bear it can I no more.
"Now must thy gift too surely the giver harm to-day, Since of my friends so many thy strength has swept away. So turn about and face me, thou bold and high-born man! Thy goodly gift to merit, I'll do the best I can."
Ere through the press the margrave could come Sir Gernot nigh, Full many a glittering mail-coat was stain'd a bloody die. Then those fame-greedy champions each fierce on th' other leapt, And deadly wounds at distance with wary ward they kept.
So sharp were both their broadswords, resistless was their dint, Sudden the good Sir Rüdeger through th' helmet hard as flint So struck the noble Gernot, that forth the blood it broke; With death the stern Burgundian repaid the deadly stroke.
He heaved the gift of Rüdeger with both his hands on high, And to the death though wounded, a stroke at him let fly Right through both shield and morion; deep was the gash and wide. At once the lord of Gotelind beneath the swordcut died.
In sooth a gift so goodly was worse requited ne'er. Down dead dropp'd both together, Gernot and Rüdeger. Each slain by th' other's manhood, then prov'd, alas! too well. Thereat first Sir Hagan furious wax'd and fell.
Then cried the knight of Trony, "Sure we with ills are cross'd; Their country and their people in both these chiefs have lost More than they'll e'er recover;--woe worth this fatal day! We have here the margrave's meiny, and they for all shall pay!"
All struck at one another, none would a foeman spare. Full many a one, unwounded, down was smitten there, Who else might have 'scap'd harmless, but now, though whole and sound, In the thick press was trampled, or in the blood was drown'd.
"Alas! my luckless brother who here in death lies low! How every hour I'm living brings some fresh tale of woe! And ever must I sorrow for the good margrave too. On both sides dire destruction and mortal ills we rue."
Soon as the youthful Giselher beheld his brother dead, Who yet within were lingering by sudden doom were sped. Death, his pale meiny choosing, dealt each his dreary dole. Of those of Bechelaren 'scaped not one living soul.
King Günther and young Giselher, and fearless Hagan too, Dankwart as well as Folker, the noble knights and true, Went where they found together out-stretched the valiant twain. There wept th' assembled warriors in anguish o'er the slain.
"Death fearfully despoils us," said youthful Giselher, "But now give over wailing, and haste to th' open air To cool our heated hauberks, faint as we are with strife. God, methinks, no longer, will here vouchsafe us life."
This sitting, that reclining, was seen full many a knight; They took repose in quiet; around (a fearful sight!) Lay Rüdeger's dead comrades; all was hush'd and still; From that long dreary silence King Etzel augur'd ill.
"Alas for this half friendship!" thus Kriemhild frowning spake, "If it were true and steadfast, Sir Rüdeger would take Vengeance wide and sweeping on yonder murderous band; Now back he'll bring them safely to their Burgundian land.
"What boot our gifts, King Etzel? was it, my lord, for this We gave him all he asked us? The chief has done amiss. He, who should have reveng'd us, will now a treaty make." Thereto in answer Folker, the gallant minstrel, spake,
"Not so the truth is, lady! the more the pity too! If one the lie might venture to give a dame like you, Most foully against the margrave you've lied, right noble queen! Sore trick'd in that same treaty he and his men have been.
"With such good will the margrave his king's commands obey'd, That he and all his meiny dead on this floor are laid. Now look about you, Kriemhild! for servants seek anew; Well were you served by Rüdeger; he to the death was true.
"The fact if still you're doubting, before your eyes we'll bring." 'T was done e'en of set purpose her heart the more to wring. They brought the mangled margrave, where Etzel saw him well. Th' assembled knights of Hungary such utter anguish ne'er befell.
When thus held high before them they saw the margrave dead, Sure by the choicest writer could ne'er be penn'd nor said The woeful burst of wailing from woman and eke from man, That from the heart's deep sorrow to strike all ears began.
Above his weeping people King Etzel sorrow'd sore; His deep-voic'd wail resounded loud as the lion's roar In the night-shaded desert; the like did Kriemhild too; They mourn'd in heart for Rüdeger, the valiant and the true.
_Lettsom's Translation, Thirty-seventh Adventure._
THE SONG OF ROLAND.
The Song of Roland is one of the many mediaeval romances that celebrate the deeds of Charlemagne.
The oldest text now in existence was written about 1096, but the poem was current in other forms long before this.
The author was a Norman, for the poem is written in the Norman dialect; but it is uncertain whether the Turoldus or Théroulde named in the last line of the poem, "Thus endeth here the geste Turoldus sang," was the author, a copyist, or a _jongleur_.
It is said that Taillefer, the minstrel of Normandy, sang the Song of Roland at the battle of Hastings. "Taillefer, who right well sang, mounted on his rapid steed, went before them singing of Charlemagne, and of Roland, and Olivier, and of the vassals who died in Roncesvalles."
The only text of the poem now in existence is one of the thirteenth century, preserved in the Bodleian library at Oxford.
On the fifteenth of August, 778, in the valley of Roncesvalles, in the Pyrenees, Charlemagne's rear guard, left under the command of Roland, Prefect of the Marches of Brittany, was attacked and slaughtered by a large army of Gascons.
This incident forms the historical basis of the poem; but the imagination of the poet has made of Charlemagne, then a young man, the old emperor, with "beard all blossom white," and transformed his Gascon foes to Saracens.
The Song of Roland is written in the heroic pentameter; it is divided into "laisses," or stanzas, of irregular length, and contains about three thousand seven hundred and eight lines. It is written in the assonant, or vowel rhyme, that was universal among European nations in the early stage of their civilization.
Each stanza ends with the word "aoi," for which no satisfactory translation has yet been offered, although "away" and "it is done" have been suggested.
The author of the Song of Roland undertook, like Homer, to sing of one great event about which all the interest of the poem centres; but unlike Homer, his poem is out of all proportion, the long-drawn out revenge being in the nature of an anti-climax. The Song of Roland is a fair exponent of the people among whom it originated. It contains no ornament; it is a straightforward relation of facts; it lacks passion, and while it describes fearful slaughter, it never appeals to the emotions. Though the French army shed many tears, and fell swooning to the ground at the sight of the fearful slaughter at Roncesvalles, we are rather moved to smile at the violence of their emotion than to weep over the dead, so little power has the poet to touch the springs of feeling. However, there are passages in which the poem rises to sublimity, and which have been pronounced Homeric by its admirers.
BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE SONG OF ROLAND.
J. Banquier's Bibliographie de la Chanson de Roland, 1877;
T. Bulfinch's Legends of Charlemagne, 1863;
Sir G. W. Cox and E. H. Jones's Popular Romances of the Middle Ages, 1871, pp. 320-347;
Léon Gautier's Les épopées françaises, vol. i., 1878;
J. Malcolm Ludlow's Story of Roland (see his Popular Epics of the Middle Ages, 1865, vol. i., pp. 362-427);
Gaston Paris's La poésie épique (see his Histoire poétique de Charlemagne, 1865, pp. 1-33);
Gaston Paris's Les Chansons de Gestes françaises (see his Histoire poétique de Charlemagne, 1865, pp. 69-72);
George Saintsbury's The Chansons de Gestes (see his Short History of French Literature, 1892, pp. 10-25);
Henri Van Laun's The Carlovingian Cycle (see his History of French Literature, 1876, vol. i., pp. 141-148);
Ancient Literature of France, Quarterly Review, 1866, cxx. 283-323;
The Chanson de Roland, Westminster Review, 1873, c. 32-44;
M. Hayden's The Chansons de Geste, Dublin Review, 1894, cxiv. 346-357;
Charles Francis Keary's The Chansons de Geste: the Song of Roland, Fraser's Magazine, 1881, civ. 777-789;
J. M. L.'s The Song of Roland, Macmillan's Magazine, 1862, vi. 486-501;
Agnes Lambert's The oldest epic of Christendom, Nineteenth Century, 1882, xi. 77-101;
Andrew Lang's The Song of Roland and the Iliad, National Review, 1892, xx. 195-205;
Legend of Roland, Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. xx.;
Gustave Masson's The Chanson de Roland, Leisure Hour, 1877, xxvi. 618-620;
The Song of Roland, Catholic World, 1873 and 1874, xviii. 378-388, 488-500;
The Song of Roland, Harper's Monthly, 1882, lxiv. 505-515;
The Month, 1880, xl. 515-527; Temple Bar, 1886, lxxviii. 534-540.
STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE SONG OF ROLAND.
The Song of Roland, as chanted before the Battle of Hastings by the Minstrel Taillefer, Tr. from the French translation of Vitet by Mrs. Anne Caldwell Marsh, 1854;
The Song of Roland, Tr. into English verse by John O'Hagan, ed. 2, 1883;
La Chanson de Roland, Tr. from the seventh ed. of Léon Gautier, by Leonce Rabillon, 1885.
THE STORY OF THE SONG OF ROLAND.
For full seven years had Charlemagne tarried in Spain, and all the land lay conquered save the city of Saragossa. There, in an orchard, upon a terrace paved with blue marble, sat its king, Marsile, taking counsel with his lords.
"No army have I," said the king; "no people to array against the hosts of the great emperor. Advise me, my lords, what I shall do to save ourselves from disgrace and shame."
The wily Blancandrin, wisest and greatest among the pagans, advanced before him. "Where might cannot prevail, often craft gains the day. My lord, send gifts to mighty Carle. Drive forth a long train of camels; heap many mules with gold; send chariots filled with precious gifts. Advise him that on the day of Saint Michael's feast you will seek him at Aix, and there become a Christian, and his vassal. Yea, even send hostages; my own son shall go, even though he lose his head. Then will Carle depart for France. The day set by you will come, but he will hear naught from us. The hostages' heads will fall. What of it? Better this than for us to lose forever Spain the fair."
The king, pleased with the craft of Blancandrin, dismissed his council, and ordered ten of his fiercest barons to seek Charlemagne at Cordova, bearing the olive-branch, and make the offer suggested by Blancandrin.
Cordova, filled with rich spoils, had been taken, and its surviving inhabitants given the choice of the sword or Christian baptism. Therefore the happy emperor sat at his ease in a wide-spreading orchard. Around him stood Roland, Olivier, Samsun the duke, Anseis, Gefrei d'Anjou, and Gerier. At least fifteen thousand French knights were diverting themselves with different games in the beautiful orchard, where, under a pine-tree, the great King of France sat upon a golden chair. His white hair and flowing white beard added majesty to his already majestic figure, so that the olive-bearing messengers needed not to have great Carle pointed out to them.
The emperor heard the message of Marsile in silence, and dismissing the pagans for the night to a pavilion, called together in council his wisest barons, Duke Ogier, Archbishop Turpin, Gerier, Roland, Olivier, a thousand Franks, among them Ganelon, the step-father of Roland, and laid before them the message of Marsile.
"Rich gifts he offers me, but he demands that I return to France; thither will he follow me, and at Aix will become a Christian and a vassal. A fair promise, but what is in his heart I cannot tell."
After a moment's silence Roland stood forth.
"Sire, have no faith in the words of Marsile. When have we found aught but treachery in the Saracen? For seven years I have been winning victories for you here in Spain. Once before you yielded to such a message as this, from this same Marsile, and lost, in consequence, the heads of your Counts Bazan and Bazile. War on as you have begun. Besiege his city! subdue Saragossa!"
Then strode forth the angry Ganelon. "My king, this young hot-head is a fool; hearken not unto him. Accept the offer of Marsile, and lose no more lives by the foolhardiness of one who cares more for his own glory than for human life."
The voice of the others, among them Duke Naimes, Charlemagne's wisest counsellor and truest vassal, was with Ganelon. The emperor stroked his white beard. "My lords, whom shall we send to meet Marsile at Saragossa?"
"I will go," said Duke Naimes.
"Nay, I cannot spare you from my councils," replied the king.
"I am here!" cried Roland.
"Not you! You are too hot-headed to venture into the court of the enemy!" cried his friend Olivier. "Let me go instead, sire!"
"Nay!" cried the king. "Silence! Not one of the twelve peers sets his foot in the kingdom of the Moors."
"Then let my step-father go," suggested Roland. "No wiser man than he can be found."
"Come forward," said the king, as the Franks murmured assent, "and receive the staff and glove. The Franks have chosen you."
Ganelon rose, wrathful, casting off his fur robe. His eyes were gray, his face fierce, his form noble.
"This is Roland's work. I shall hate him forever, and Olivier, and the twelve peers, because they love him. Ne'er shall I return; full well I know it. If e'er I do, it will be to wreak vengeance on my enemy."
"Go!" said the king. "You have said enough!"
As Ganelon went forward, full of rage, to receive the king's glove, it fell ere he touched it. "A bad omen!" exclaimed the French.
"Sirs, ye shall hear of this!" said Ganelon.
On his way to Saragossa with the legates of Marsile, Ganelon laid the impious plot that was to result in the destruction of Roland and the peers. It saved his life at Saragossa, where Marsile threatened to kill him on reading Charlemagne's message. He explained carefully to the Saracens how the rear guard, left at Roncesvalles under the command of Roland and the twelve peers, could be destroyed by the pagan forces before the knowledge of the battle could reach Charlemagne, and that, with these props of his kingdom gone, the king's power would be so diminished that Marsile could easily hold out against him. Then the traitor hastened back to Cordova, laden with rich gifts.
When Ganelon rode back, the emperor was preparing to return to sweet France. "Barons," said Carle, "whom shall I leave in charge of these deep defiles and narrow passes?"
"My step-son Roland is well able to take the command," said Ganelon; "he your nephew, whom you prize most of all your knights."
Rage filled the hearts of both Roland and Carle; but the word was spoken, and Roland must remain. With him remained the twelve peers, his friends, Olivier, his devoted comrade, the gallant Archbishop Turpin, and twenty thousand valiant knights.
While Charlemagne's army toiled over the terrible gorges and high mountains into Gascony, the emperor, ever grieving over the untimely death his nephew might meet in the defiles of Spain, down came the pagans, who had been gathering on the high mountains and in the murky valleys,--emirs, sons of noble counts were they, brave as the followers of Charlemagne.
When Olivier descried the pagan horde he at once exclaimed,--
"This is the work of Ganelon!"
"Hush!" replied Roland. "He is my step-father. Say no more."
Then Olivier, when from the hill he saw the one hundred thousand Saracens, their helmets bedecked with gold, their shields shining in the sun, besought his friend to sound his horn, the olifant, and summon the king to their aid.
"Never will I so disgrace myself!" exclaimed Roland. "Never shall sweet France be so dishonored. One hundred thousand blows shall I give with my sword, my Durendal, and the Moors will fall and die!"
When Olivier found his pleading vain, he mounted his steed and rode with Roland to the front of the lines.
Long was the fight and terrible. If gallantry and strength sat with the twelve peers and their followers, they were with their opponents as well. No sooner had Roland, or Olivier, or Turpin, or Engelier cleft the body of a Moorish knight down to the saddle, than down fell a Christian, his helmet broken, his hauberk torn by the lance of his dreaded foe. The nephew of Marsile fell by the hand of Roland, who taunted him as he lay in death; Olivier struck down Marsile's brother. "A noble stroke!" cried Roland.
"A baron's stroke!" exclaimed the archbishop, as Samsun pierced the Almazour with his lance and he fell dead. Olivier spurred over the field, crushing the pagans and beating them down with his broken lance.
"Comrade, where is thy sword, thy Halteclere?" called Roland to his friend.
"Here, but I lack time to draw it," replied the doughty Olivier.
More than a thousand blows struck Turpin; the pagans fell by hundreds and by thousands, and over the field lay scattered those who would nevermore see sweet France.
Meanwhile, in France, hail fell and rain; the sky was vivid with lightning bolts. The earth shook, and the land lay in darkness at noonday. None understood the portent. Alas! it was Nature's grief at the death of Count Roland.
When Roland perceived that in spite of their mighty efforts the passes were still filled with heathen knights, and the French ranks were fast thinning, he said to Olivier, "What think you if we call the king?"
"Never!" exclaimed Olivier. "Better death now than shame!"
"If I blow, Carle will hear it now and return. I shall blow my olifant," cried Roland.
"When I begged you to blow it," said Olivier, "you refused, when you could have saved the lives of all of us. You will show no valor if you blow it now."
"Great is the strife," said Roland. "I will blow that Carle may come."
"Then," said Olivier, "if I return to France, I pledge you my word my sister Aude shall never be your wife. Your rashness has been the cause of our destruction. Now you shall die here, and here ends our friendship."
Across the field the archbishop spurred to reconcile the friends. "Carle will come too late to save our lives," said he, "but he will reach the field in time to preserve our mangled bodies and wreak vengeance on our foes."