The Flourishing of Romance and the Rise of Allegory Part 18

says he) with great earnestness. Hermeline and her orphans are fetched from Malpertuis, and the widow makes heartrending moan, as does Cousin Grimbart when the news is brought to him. The vigils of the dead are sung, and all the beasts who have hated Renart, and whom he has affronted in his lifetime, a.s.semble in decent mourning and perform the service, with the ceremony of the most well-trained choir. Afterwards they "wake" the corpse through the night a little noisily; but on the morrow the obsequies are resumed "in the best and most orgilous manner," with a series of grave-side speeches which read like a designed satire on those common in France at the present day. A considerable part of the good Archpriest's own sermon is unfortunately not reproducible in sophisticated times; but every one can appreciate his tender reference to the deceased's prowess in daring all dangers--

"Pur avoir vostre ventre plaine, Et pour porter a Hermeline Vostre fame, coc ou geline Chapon, ou oie, ou gras oison"--

for, as he observes in a sorrowful parenthesis, "anything was in season if _you_ could only get hold of it." Brichemer the Stag notes how Reynard had induced the monks to observe their vows by making them go to bed late and get up early to watch their fowls. But when Bruin the Bear has dug his grave, and holy water has been thrown on him, and Bruin is just going to shovel the earth--behold! Reynard wakes up, catches Chanticleer (who is holding the censer) by the neck, and bolts into a thick pleached plantation. Still, despite this resurrection, his good day is over, and a levee _en ma.s.se_ of the Lion's people soon surrounds him, catches him up, and forces him to release Chanticleer, who, nothing afraid, challenges him to mortal combat on fair terms, beats him, and leaves him for dead in the lists. And though he manages to pay Rohart the Raven and his wife (who think to strip his body) in kind, he reaches Malpertuis dead-beat; and we feel that even his last s.h.i.+ft and the faithful complaisance of Grimbart will never leave him quite the same Fox again.

The defects which distinguish almost all mediaeval poetry are no doubt discoverable here. There is some sophistication of the keeping in the episodes of Coart and Chanticleer, and the termination is almost too audacious in the sort of choice of happy or unhappy ending, triumph or defeat for the hero, which it leaves us. Yet this very audacity suits the whole scheme; and the part dealing with the death (or swoon) and burial is a.s.suredly one of the best things of its kind in French, almost one of the best things in or out of it. The contrast between the evident delight of the beasts at getting rid of Renart and their punctilious discharge of ceremonial duties, the grave parody of rites and conventions, remind us more of Swift or Lucian than of any French writer, even Rabelais or Voltaire. It happened that some ten or twelve years had pa.s.sed between the time when the present writer had last opened _Renart_ (except for mere reference now and then) and the time when he refreshed his memory of it for the purposes of the present volume. It is not always in such cases that the second judgment exactly confirms the first; but here, not merely in the instance of this particular branch but almost throughout, I can honestly say that I put down the _Roman de Renart_ with even a higher idea of its literary merit than that with which I had taken it up.

[Sidenote: _The_ Romance of the Rose.]

The second great romance which distinguishes the thirteenth century in France stands, as we may say, to one side of the _Roman de Renart_ as the _fabliaux_ do to the other side. But, though complex in fewer pieces, the _Roman de la Rose_[142] is, like the _Roman de Renart_, a complex, not a single work; and its two component parts are distinguished from one another by a singular change of tone and temper. It is the later and larger part of the _Rose_ which brings it close to _Renart_: the smaller and earlier is conceived in a spirit entirely different, though not entirely alien, and one which, reinforcing the satiric drift of the _fabliaux_ and _Renart_ itself, influenced almost the entire literary production in _belles lettres_ at least, and sometimes out of them, for more than two centuries throughout Europe.

[Footnote 142: Ed. Michel. Paris, 1864. One of the younger French scholars, who, under the teaching of M. Gaston Paris, have taken in hand various sections of mediaeval literature, M. Langlois, has bestowed much attention on the _Rose_, and has produced a monograph on it, _Origines et Sources du Roman de la Rose_. Paris, 1890.]

At no time probably except in the Middle Ages would Jean de Meung, who towards the end of the thirteenth century took up the scheme which William of Lorris had left unfinished forty years earlier, have thought of continuing the older poem instead of beginning a fresh one for himself. And at no other time probably would any one, choosing to make a continuation, have carried it out by putting such entirely different wine into the same bottle. Of William himself little is known, or rather nothing, except that he must have been, as his continuator certainly was, a native of the Loire district; so that the _Rose_ is a product of Central, not, like _Renart_, of Northern France, and exhibits, especially in the Lorris portion, an approximation to Provencal spirit and form.

The use of personification and abstraction, especially in relation to love-matters, had not been unknown in the troubadour poetry itself and in the northern verse, lyrical and other, which grew up beside or in succession to it. It rose no doubt partly, if not wholly, from the constant habit in sermons and theological treatises of treating the Seven Deadly Sins and other abstractions as ent.i.ties. Every devout or undevout frequenter of the Church in those times knew "Accidia"[143]

and Avarice, Anger and Pride, as bodily rather than ghostly enemies, furnished with a regular uniform, appearing in recognised circ.u.mstances and companies, acting like human beings. And these were by no means the only sacred uses of allegory.

[Footnote 143: "Sloth" is a rather unhappy subst.i.tute for _Accidia_ ([Greek: akedeia]), the gloomy and impious despair and indifference to good living and even life, of which sloth itself is but a partial result.]

[Sidenote: _William of Lorris and Jean de Meung._]

When William of Lorris, probably at some time in the fourth decade of the thirteenth century, set to work to write the _Romance of the Rose_, he adjusted this allegorical handling to the purposes of love-poetry with an ingenious intricacy never before attained. It has been the fas.h.i.+on almost ever since the famous Romance was rescued from the ignorant and contemptuous oblivion into which it had fallen, to praise Jean de Meung's part at the expense of that due to William of Lorris. But this is hard to justify either on directly aesthetic or on historical principles of criticism. In the first place, there can be no question that, vitally as he changed the spirit, Jean de Meung was wholly indebted to his predecessor for the form--the form of half-pictorial, half-poetic allegory, which is the great characteristic of the poem, and which gave it the enormous attraction and authority that it so long possessed. In the second place, clever as Jean de Meung is, and more thoroughly in harmony as he may be with the _esprit gaulois_, his work is on a much lower literary level than that of his predecessor. Jean de Meung in the latter and larger part of the poem simply stuffs into it stock satire on women, stock learning, stock semi-pagan morality. He is, it is true, tolerably actual; he shares with the _fabliau_-writers and the authors of _Renart_ a firm grasp on the perennial rascalities and meannesses of human nature. The negative commendation that he is "no fool" may be very heartily bestowed upon him. But he is a little commonplace and more than a little prosaic. There is amus.e.m.e.nt in him, but no charm: and where (that is to say, in large s.p.a.ces) there is no amus.e.m.e.nt, there is very little left. Nor, except for the inappropriate exhibition of learning and the strange misuse of poetical (at least of verse) allegory, can he be said to be eminently characteristic of his own time. His very truth to general nature prevents that; while his literary ability, considerable as it is, is hardly sufficient to clothe his universally true reflections in a universally acceptable form.

[Sidenote: _The first part._]

The first four thousand and odd lines of the Romance, on the other hand--for beyond them it is known that the work of William of Lorris does not go--contain matter which may seem but little connected with criticism of life, arranged in a form completely out of fas.h.i.+on. But they, beyond all question, contain also the first complete presentation of a scheme, a mode, an atmosphere, which for centuries enchained, because they expressed, the poetical thought of the time, and which, for those who can reach the right point of view, can develop the right organs of appreciation, possess an extraordinary, indeed a unique charm. I should rank this first part of the _Roman de la Rose_ high among the books which if a man does not appreciate he cannot even distantly understand the Middle Ages; indeed there is perhaps no single one which on the serious side contains such a master-key to their inmost recesses.

[Sidenote: _Its capital value._]

To comprehend a Gothic cathedral the _Rose_ should be as familiar as the _Dies Irae_. For the spirit of it is indeed, though faintly "decadent," even more the mediaeval spirit than that of the Arthurian legend, precisely for the reason that it is less universal, less of humanity generally, more of this particular phase of humanity. And as it is opposed to, rather than complementary of, the religious side of the matter in one direction, so it opposes and completes the satirical side, of which we have heard so much in this chapter, and the purely fighting and adventurous part, which we have dealt with in others, not excluding by any means in this half-reflective, half-contrasting office, the philosophical side also. Yet when men pray and fight, when they sneer and speculate, they are constrained to be very like themselves and each other. They are much freer in their dreams: and the _Romance of the Rose_, if it has not much else of life, is like it in this way--that it too is a dream.

As such it quite honestly holds itself out. The author lays it down, supporting himself with the opinion of another "qui ot nom macrobes,"

that dreams are quite serious things. At any rate he will tell a dream of his own, a dream which befell him in his twentieth year, a dream wherein was nothing

"Qui avenu trestout ne soit Si com le songes racantoit."

And if any one wishes to know how the romance telling this dream shall be called--

"Ce est li Rommanz de la Rose, Ou l'ars d'amorz est tote enclose."

[Sidenote: _The rose-garden._]

The poem itself opens with a description of a dewy morn in May, a description then not so hackneyed as, chiefly from this very instance, it afterwards became, and in itself at once "setting," so to speak, the frame of gracious decorative imagery in which the poet works. He "threaded a silver needle" (an odd but not unusual mediaeval pastime was sewing st.i.tches in the sleeve) and strolled, _cousant ses manches_, towards a river-bank. Then, after bathing his face and seeing the bright gravel flas.h.i.+ng through the water, he continued his stroll down-stream, till he saw in front of him a great park (for this translates the mediaeval _verger_ much better than "orchard"), on the wall of which were portrayed certain images[144]--Hatred, Felony, Villainy, Covetousness, Avarice, Envy, Sadness, Old Age, Hypocrisy, and Poverty. These personages, who strike the allegoric and personifying note of the poem, are described at varying length, the last three being perhaps the best. Despite these uninviting figures, the Lover (as he is soon called) desires violently to enter the park; but for a long time he can find no way in, till at length Dame Oyseuse (Idleness) admits him at a postern. She is a very attractive damsel herself; and she tells the Lover that Delight and all his Court haunt the park, and that he has had the ugly images made, apparently as skeletons at the feast, to heighten, not to dash, enjoyment. Entering, the Lover thinks he is in the Earthly Paradise, and after a time he finds the fair company listening to the singing of Dame Lyesse (Pleasure), with much dancing, music, and entertainment of _jongleurs_ and _jongleresses_ to help pa.s.s the time.

[Footnote 144: "Seven" says the verse chapter-heading, which is a feature of the poem; but the actual text does not mention the number, and it will be seen that there were in fact _ten_. The author of the headings was no doubt thinking of the Seven Deadly Sins.]

Courtesy asks him to join in the _karole_ (dance), and he does so, giving full description of her, of Lyesse, of Delight, and of the G.o.d of Love himself, with his bow-bearer Sweet-Glances, who carries in each hand five arrows--in the right Beauty, Simpleness, Frankness, Companions.h.i.+p, Fair-Seeming; in the left Pride, Villainy,[145] Shame, Despair, and "New-Thought"--_i.e._, Fickleness. Other personages--sometimes with the same names, sometimes with different--follow in the train; Cupid watches the Lover that he may take shot at him, and the tale is interrupted by an episode giving the story of Narcissus. Meanwhile the Lover has seen among the flowers of the garden one rose-bud on which he fixes special desires. The thorns keep him off; and Love, having him at vantage, empties the right-hand quiver on him. He yields himself prisoner, and a dialogue between captive and captor follows.

Love locks his heart with a gold key; and after giving him a long sermon on his duties, ill.u.s.trated from the Round Table romances and elsewhere, vanishes, leaving him in no little pain, and still unable to get at the Rose. Suddenly in his distress there appears to him

"Un valet buen et avenant Bel-Acueil se faisoit clamer,"

and it seems that he was the son of Courtesy.

[Footnote 145: _Vilenie_ is never an easy word to translate: it means general misconduct and disagreeable behaviour.]

[Sidenote: _"Danger."_]

Bialacoil (to give him his Chaucerian[146] Englis.h.i.+ng) is most obliging, and through his help the Lover has nearly reached the Rose, when an ugly personage named Danger in turn makes his appearance. Up to this time there is no very important difficulty in the interpretation of the allegory; but the learned are not at one as to what "Danger" means. The older explanation, and the one to which I myself still incline as most natural and best suiting what follows, is that Danger is the representative of the beloved one's masculine and other guardians--her husband, father, brother, mother, and so forth.

Others, however, see in him only subjective obstacles--the coyness, or caprice, or coquettishness of the Beloved herself. But these never troubled a true lover to any great extent; and besides they seem to have been provided for by the arrows in the left hand of Love's bow-bearer, and by Shame (_v. infra_). At any rate Danger's proceedings are of a most kill-joy nature. He starts from his hiding-place--

"Grans fu, et noirs et hericies, S'ot les iex rouges comme feus, Le nes froncie, le vis hideus, Et s'escrie comme forcenes."

[Footnote 146: I am well aware of everything that has been said about and against the Chaucerian authors.h.i.+p of the English _Rose_. But until the learned philologists who deny that authors.h.i.+p in whole or in part agree a little better among themselves, they must allow literary critics at least to suspend their judgment.]

He abuses Bialacoil for bringing the Lover to the Rose, and turns the Lover out of the park, while Bialacoil flies.

[Sidenote: _"Reason."_]

To the disconsolate suitor appears Reason, and does not speak comfortable words. She is described as a middle-aged lady of a comely and dignified appearance, crowned, and made specially in G.o.d's image and likeness. She tells him that if he had not put himself under the guidance of Idleness, Love would not have wounded him; that besides Danger, he has made her own daughter Shame his foe, and also Male-Bouche (Scandal, Gossip, Evil-Speaking), the third and most formidable guardian of the Rose. He ought never to have surrendered to Love. In the service of that power

"il a plus poine Que n'ont hermite ne blanc moine; La poine en est demesuree, Et la joie a courte duree."

The Lover does not take this sermon well. He is Love's: she may go about her business, which she does. He bethinks him that he has a companion, Amis (the Friend), who has always been faithful; and he will go to him in his trouble. Indeed Love had bidden him do so. The Friend is obliging and consoling, and says that he knows Danger. His bark is worse than his bite, and if he is spoken softly to he will relent. The Lover takes the advice with only partial success. Danger, at first robustious, softens so far as to say that he has no objection to the Lover loving, only he had better keep clear of his roses. The Friend represents this as an important point gained; and as the next step Pity and Frankness go as his amba.s.sadresses to Danger, who allows Bialacoil to return to him and take him once more to see the Rose, more beautiful than ever. He even, a.s.sisted by Venus, is allowed to kiss his love.

[Sidenote: _"Shame" and "Scandal."_]

This is very agreeable: but it arouses the two other guardians of whom Reason has vainly warned him, Shame and Evil-Speaking, or Scandal. The latter wakes Jealousy, Fear follows, and Fear and Shame stir up Danger. He keeps closer watch, Jealousy digs a trench round the rose-bush and builds a tower where Bialacoil is immured: and the Lover, his case only made worse by the remembered savour of the Rose on his lips,[147] is left helpless outside. But as the rubric of the poem has it--

"Cyendroit trespa.s.sa Guillaume De Lorris, et n'en fist plus pseaulme."

[Footnote 147:

"Car ge suis a greignor meschief Por la joie que j'ai perdue.

Que s'onques ne l'eussi eue."

Dante undoubtedly had this in his mind when he wrote the immortal _Nessun maggior dolore_. All this famous pa.s.sage, l. 4557 _sq._, is admirable.]

[Sidenote: _The later poem._]

[Sidenote: _"False-Seeming."_]

The work which forty years later Jean de Meung (some say at royal suggestion) added to the piece, so as to make it five times its former length, has been spoken of generally already, and needs less notice in detail. Jean de Meung takes up the theme by once more introducing Reason, whose remonstrances, with the Lover's answers, take nearly half as much room as the whole story hitherto. Then reappears the Friend, who is twice as long-winded as Reason, and brings the tale up to more than ten thousand lines already. At last Love himself takes some pity of his despairing va.s.sal, and besieges the tower where Bialacoil is confined. This leads to the introduction of the most striking and characteristic figure of the second part, _Faux-Semblant_, a variety of Reynard. Bialacoil is freed: but Danger still guards the Rose. Love, beaten, invokes the help of his mother, who sends Nature and Genius to his aid. They talk more than anybody else. But Venus has to come herself before Danger is vanquished and the Lover plucks the Rose.

[Sidenote: _Contrast of the parts._]

The appeal of this famous poem is thus twofold, though the allegorical form in which the appeal is conveyed is the same. In the first part all the love-poetry of troubadour and _trouvere_ is gathered up and presented under the guise of a graceful dreamy symbolism, a little though not much sicklied o'er with learning. In the second the satiric tendency of the _Fabliaux_ and _Renart_ is carried still further, with an admixture of not often apposite learning to a much greater extent.

Narcissus was superfluous where William of Lorris introduced him, but Pygmalion and his image, inserted at great length by Jean de Meung, when after twenty thousand lines the catastrophe is at length approaching, are felt to be far greater intruders.