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Walter Pater the Renaissance Studies in Art and Poetry: The 1893 Text  DONALD L. HILL,  Editor UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

Walter Pater the Renaissance Studies in Art

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 DONALD L. HILL,
I N A R T
A N D
 
W A L T E R   P A T E R .  P o r t r a i t b y  Simeon Solomon, 1872.
 
W A L T E R P A T E R
The Renaissance
S T U D I E S  IN A R T A N D
 P O E T R Y
T H E   1893  T E X T
Edited, with Textual
and
by  D O N A L D L. H I L L
Universi ty   of
 
Berkeley   and Los A ngeles , Cal i fornia
Univers i ty of Cal i fornia Press , Ltd .
London, England
Copyright  ©1980 by
T he Regents of the U nivers it y o f C a l i fo rn ia
ISBN
  0-520-03664-6
Printed
 A mer ica
This  book  is a pr in t -on-dema nd  v o l u m e . It is  m a n u f a c t u r e d
using  toner in place of  i n k . T y p e  and  images  m a y b e  less
sharp than
  in  t radi t ional ly pr in ted
Unive r s i t y   of C al i fornia  Press  edi t ions .
The
 R
Edi tor ' s Preface
The
  Renaissance
  i
  23
Sandro
T he
T he  School  of Giorgione  102
Joachim   du  Bellay  123
Pater ' s Review of  Renaissance  in  Italy:
The Age
  o f
b y
 John  A d d i n g t o n S y m o n d s  196
v
A
 Pater
 Chronology
  203
Textual
Original Texts of Passages
Index
  483
vi
Solomon,  1872.  By  courtesy  of the  Gabinetto
f o t o g r a f i c o ,  Florence.
Michelangelo:  The  Holy Family  (Doni  Tondo),
U f f i z i .  By courtesy of Alinari-Scala.
Botticelli:  The
By courtesy of Alinari-Scala.
of Alinari-Scala.
Florence.  By  courtesy  of Alinari-Scala.
T he  Venus  o f  Melos,  Louvre.
  B y
  o f
By  courtesy of Alinari-Scala.
Michelangelo:  Pieta,  Isabella Stewart Gardner
Museum, Boston.  By  courtesy  of the  I sabe l l a
Stewart  Gardner Museum.
tism   o f
  Christ,  U f f i z i .  B y  courtesy  of  Alinari-
S c a l a .
Leonardo  da  Vinci:  St. John  the Baptist,  Louvre.
By  courtesy of Alinari-Scala.
Leonardo  da Vinci:  M o n a  Lisa, Louvre.  By
  cour-
 By  of
tesy of Alinari-Scala.
  Fete  C h a m p ê t r e ,
  L o u v r e .  B y c o u r t e s y o f
Al inar i -Sca la .
Fra Angelico:  Coronat ion  o f  the Virgin,  Convent  of
St.
  Mark's, Florence.  By  courtesy  of Alinari /
A n d e r s o n - S c a l a .
Boy Praying, Berlin S ta te Museum. B y courtesy of
the Berlin
 Sta te
Editor's Preface
W A L T E R   PATER'S  f irst  and  best-known book,  The Renaissance,
exists in several
can
  satisfy  the scholar, and no scholarly edition of the book
has ever been published.
An eleventh essay, "The School of Giorgione," was added in
the
 been published
 in a
  published
during
  his
  lifetime
  (1873,
  re-
visions
  in
 every
 is
hardly a page of the book which has not been revised. Most of
the  revisions are minute, but some amount to extensive re-
cast ings and some involve significant additions or omissions.
After Pater's death  a
as  the  f irst
1888.  Often, however, the text of 1900-1901 does include
readings  from  the  1893 edition,  an d  sometimes  it  offers  its
own unique language.
  in
 London
  in
  mid-i92o's.
  The
text of The  Renaissance in the  1910 edition is based closely, but
not  exactly,  on  that  of  1893. The  original volumes  of  this
edition, those  in  libraries now  often battered,  defaced,  and
rebound, have been replaceable since 1967 by  reprints avail-
able  through Basil Blackwell of Oxford and the Johnson
Reprint
of
edit ions merely reproduce  one or  another  of the  published
texts ,  often without noting which  one has been selected.
For  this edition  I have chosen  to  reproduce the  text of  1893,
that of the fourth  edit ion,  as the  latest text that Pater  saw
through
  the
  press,
  his own
matures judgment  in  mat te rs  of  form, s ty le ,  and  meaning .
Though  it is
  es-
caped Pater 's eye,  and I  have made  a few  corrections.  M y
Textual Notes provide  a record  of the wording of each of the
othe r published v ersions of each essay thro ug h 1910 wh erev er
it  differs  f rom tha t  of the  1893 edition.  To the  text  of  The
Renaissance
  I have appended  two of P ater 's book reviews,  one
published  in  1872 while  he was  planning  his
  first  edition  and
writ ing   the new  chapters  for it, the other  in  1875, a m ore sub-
stantial  piece
more candor and emphasis than usual .  These  reviews will
repay   the  student 's at tention, part ly  fo r  what they contr ibute
to his
 and convictions  dur-
ing the  early 187o's , part ly  for the  l anguage of  certain sen-
tences
  The
  Renaissance.
  to
  supply
  full  an-
nota t ion is that of Bruce E . Vardon in his unpub l ished P h.D .
dissertation   "Variant Readings in W alter P ater' s  Studies  in the
History  of The Renaissance"  (Univers i ty of  Chicago, 1950). A s
his  t i t le implies, Vardon
  takes  the  first  edition  as his  bas ic
text . Though his explanatory notes are far  f rom complete ,  he
was an  especially  resourceful  editor ,  and I  acknowledge  m y
debt  to him  with a dm irat ion. V aluab le notes  on  some  of the
art
  works ment ioned  in the  text have been provided  b y  Lord
Kenn e th  Clark in his i l lustrated Meridian Books  edition of
The  Renaissance  (New York, 1961; repr. 1967),  now out of
print .
M y   Crit ical a nd E xplana to ry Notes are preceded b y a n out -
line  his tory of the composi t ion, publ icat ion, and immediate
reception  of the  book  as a whole,  and  each of P ater 's chapters
is  supplied with headnotes of a similar kind. To keep the
headnotes  with in m anageab le com pass ,  I have had to  confine
m y
publication;  the  complex history  of its  reputation and  influ-
ence through
Wherever it seemed appropriate, I have included the com-
ments  of  modern scholars  on the  merits  or the  character of
particular essays. Though
are ample, I have tried to avoid unnecessary criticism or
interpretation.
This
  f i rs t
 collec-
tion of materials already more or  less well known  to scholars
but not until now brought together into a single volume. As
such it will be at least a convenience, but if my hope is
fulfil led  it will be more than that. While my notes draw more
ful ly   than
they nevertheless include much that  is new.  And  perhaps  I
hardly
  need
  a
necessary  tool for  reference and a starting point  for any  fur-
ther
 study
appeals  for  assistance  in the  work  of  annotation. While  I
cannot name everyone here whose counsel has been of value,
I  wish to express my special gratitude to my old  f r i end
Professor
  Robert  H.  Super,  who has  examined  the  manu-
script with care and made a great many  helpfu l  suggestions. I
am  g r a t e f u l  also to a friend of briefer acquaintance, Miss
Helen B.  Hall, Curator before her retirement of the
 Univer-
almost certainly have gone unsolved
  in
pages include Professors George Bornstein,  Don  Monson,
Paul M. Spurlin, and Ralph G. Williams, to each of whom I
express my thanks.
erous grant from the Horace H. Rackham School of Graduate
erous grant from the Horace H. Rackham School of Graduate
Studies
  to  spend six weeks  in  Oxford. There  I examined  the
records  of  books borrowed from  the  Brasenose College  li-
XI
EDITOR'S PREFACE
b r a r y ,  the  l ibrary  of the  Taylor Ins t i tu t ion,  and the  Bodleian
Library   and  read  the  books that Pater himself  had  consulted
while writing  The
  Renaissance.  I owe  thanks  to  m e m b e r s  of
the  staff  of  each  of  these libraries  for
  freely
  and  courteously
making their records available to m e a nd for  favors  of  m a n y
other kinds. With M r.  B ern ard R ichards, Fellow of B rasenose
College,  I had  several
  th rough
  his
  kindness
  to
  others
  who
  could
 aid
in my   inquir ies ,  and  under  his  guidance visited Pater 's  old
rooms
  at
College, graciously allowed me to spend a couple of morn-
ings  looking  th rough  his personal collection  of  Pater ' s books
and
  papers.  For  advice  and  services  in the  identification  of
certain  drawings  I am  indeb ted  to  several members  of the
Depar tment of Western Art a t the Ashmolean Museum and
especially  to Mr.  Hug h M acandrew , A ss is tan t Keeper . A n d I
spent  a spring  day  enjoying  the  hospitality  of Mr. and  Mrs.
Samuel  Wright
M r.
  W righ t 's close acqua intance with P ater 's w rit ings
  and
profi t ing  f rom  his  suggest ions.  M y  thanks  are due  also  to a
n u m b e r
  of
  Mr. J . A.
  Gere,
Keeper  of Prints  and  Drawings  at the  Bri t ish Museum; Miss
Frances
 F.
 Collections,
Pr ince ton Univers i ty ;
  M r. John  S under land , W i t t L ib ra r ian ,
Cour t au ld  I ns t i tu te of A rt , U nivers i ty of London; the  selfless
archivists
  of
  Northwestern Univers i ty , wi th
whose permission  I  examined  the  Pate r manuscr ip t s  at the
Houghton Lib ra ry , Harvard U niversi ty .
D.L.H.
  1893 have been
m ad e  at  nine points: page  28:  line  8,  42:24 ,
  66:23 ,  94:19,
are explained
  in the
  Textual Notes .
  A n
  emendat ion
  has
  been
made a t  xxi:9  for reasons given in the Cri t ical and Explana-
to ry Notes .  A n  emendat ion  has not  been made  in the  incom-
plete  passage at  86:27-28, though  one  might seem required,
and  again a n explanat ion i s offered  in the  Crit ical and  Explan-
atory  Notes.  A few minor correct ions in punctuat ion, in the
use  of italics, and in accents in foreign words have been made
wi thout comment .
The
 Renaissance
S T U D I E S   I N A R T A N D  P O E T R Y
T H E 1893  T E X T
 
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D E D I C A T I O N
T O
 
Preface
M
A N Y   A T T E M P T S
  have been made
and
  poetry  to  define beauty  in the ab s t rac t,  to ex-
press it in the mo st general terms,  to find some universal
fo rmula  for i t . The value of these at tempts has most
often  been  in the  suggest ive  and  penetrating things said  5
by the  way. Such discussions help  us  very l i t t le to  enjoy
w h a t  has b een w ell
 done in art o r poet ry ,  to  discriminate
between what  is m o re and what  is less excellen t  in  them,
or to use
with  a  more precise meaning than they would otherwise  10
have. Beauty, l ike all other qualit ies presented to human
experience,  is  relative;  and the  definition  of it  becomes
unmeaning
  and
 useless
  in
  but in the
m o s t  concrete terms possible,  to find, not its  universal  15
formula ,  but the  formula which expresses  m o s t  ade-
quate ly   this
of the  t rue s tudent  of æ sthetics .
"To see the
  has
  been
justly said  to be the aim of all  t rue cri t icism whatever;  20
and in
  aesthetic  criticism
  the first
  own
  impres-
sion
  realise
  it
  dis-
t inct ly .  T he  objects with which æsthetic crit icism deals
—music , poetry , ar t i s t ic  and  accomplished forms  of 25
hum an l i fe— are indeed receptacles   of so  many powers
or  forces: they possess, like  the  products  of  n a t u r e ,  so
many v i r tues
  or
  in  life  or in a book,
to me? W h a t  effect  does  it  real ly produc e  on me? Does it
give
  or
 degree
  of
  plea-
sure?  How is my  nature modif ied  by i t s  presence,  and
5   under  its  influence?  T he  answers  to  these questions  are
the  original  facts  with which  the  æsthetic crit ic  has to
do;
 and,  as in the  s tudy  of  l ight,  of morals ,  of  n u m b e r ,
one must real ise such primary data for one's self,  or not
at all.
1 0
of
 them ,
  the
 abs t rac t
quest ion what beauty is in i tself , or what i ts exact
relation  to  t ru th  or  exper ience—metaphys ica l  ques-
t ions,  as  unpro f i t ab le  as  metaphysical quest ions  else-
1 5   where.  He may  pass them  all by as being, answerable  or
not ,  of no  interest  to  him.
T he  æsthetic crit ic, then, regards  all the  objects with
which
 works
  of
of na ture and hum an   life,  as powers or
  forces
  producing
  of a more or
explain,  b y
ty in
  life
  or in a book,  L a  Gioconda,  the hills of Carrara,
2 5
  Pico  of  Mirandola ,  are  valuable  for  their virtues,  as we
say, in  speaking  of a  herb ,  a  wine,  a  gem; for the
proper ty each  has of  affecting  one  with  a  special,  a
unique, impression
complete  in  proport ion  as our  susceptibili ty  to  these
3 0   im pressions increases  in  depth  an   var ie ty .  And the
funct ion  of the  æsthetic crit ic  is to  dist inguish,  to
funct ion  of the  æsthetic crit ic  is to  dist inguish,  to
analyse,  and separate f rom i ts  adjuncts ,  the vi r tue by
xx
PREFACE
which  a picture, a landscape, a  fair  personality in  life  or
 book,
is, and under what conditions it is experienced. His end
is  reached when  he has  disengaged that virtue,  and 5
noted  it, as a  chemist notes some natural element,  for
himself and others; and the rule for those who would
reach this end is stated with great exactness in the words
of a recent critique of Sainte-Beuve:—De  s e borner  a con-
naitre  de  p r è s  les  belles  choses ,  et   s’en  nourrir  en  exquis  10
amateurs,
What is important, then, is not that the critic should
possess a  correct abstract definition  of  beauty  for the
intellect, but a certain kind of temperament, the power
of  being deeply moved  by the  presence  of
  b e a u t i f u l
  15
many forms.
 of  t as te ,
are in  themselves equal. In all ages there have been some
excellent workmen,  and some excellent work done.  The
question  he  asks is always:—In
 whom  did the  stir,  the 20
genius,
  the
  sentiment
was  the receptacle of its refinement, its elevation, its
taste? "The ages are all equal,"  s a y s William Blake, "but
genius  is always above its age."
Often  it  will require great nicety  to  disengage this  25
virtue from
and  leaving
entering into
THE RENAISSANCE
a part,  but  only  a part,  of it; and in  that great mass of
verse there is much which might well be forgotten. But
scattered  up and down  it, sometimes  fus ing  and trans-
forming entire compositions, like the
  S t a n z a s
 on Resolu-
5   tion  and  Independence,  or the  Ode on the  Recollections  o f
C h i l d h o o d ,  sometimes,  as if at  random, depositing a fine
crystal
  here
search through and transmute, we trace the action of his
unique,  incommunicable  f acu l t y ,  that strange, mystical
1 0   sense of a  life  in natural things,  and of man's  life  as a part
of nature, drawing strength and colour and character
from  local  in f luences ,  from  the  hills  and  streams,  and
from natural sights and  sounds. Well that is the virtue,
the active principle in Wordsworth's poetry; and then
1 5
  the  f u n c t i o n of the  critic of Wordsworth  is to follow  up
that active principle, to disengage it, to mark the degree
in which  it penetrates his verse.
The subjects of the following studies are taken from
the history of the  Renaissance, and touch what  I think  the
2 0   chief points  in  that complex, many-sided movement.  I
have explained
the word, giving it a much wider scope than was
intended by those who originally used it to denote that
revival of  classical  antiquity  in the fifteenth  century
2 5   which  was  only  one of  many results  of a  general
excitement
 and
 enlightening
Christian  art,  is  often
 human
3 0   spirit  may be  traced far  into  the  middle  age  i tself ,  with
its  motives already clearly pronounced,  the  care  for
physical beauty, the worship of the body, the breaking
xxii
down  of  those limits which  the  religious system  of the
middle age imposed on the heart and the imaginat ion. I
hav e taken  as an example  of  this
  m o v e m e n t ,
  this earlier
Renaissance  within the middle age itself, and as an
expression  of its  quali t ies ,  two  l i t t le composit ions  in 5
early
  French;  not  because they const i tu te the  best
  possi-
b le expression  of  t hem ,  b ut  b ecause they help  the  uni ty
of my
  series, inasmuch
  as the
France ,  in French poetry, in a phase of  which  the
wri t ings  of  Joachim  du  Bellay  are in  m a n y w a y s  the 10
m ost pe rfect i l lus t ra t io n.  T he  Renaissance,  in  t ru th ,  put
forth in  France an  a f t e rma th , a  won der fu l l a te r g ro wth ,
the products of which have to the
  full
ly   decadence,  as its  earliest phases have  the  freshness  15
which belongs  to all periods  of g r o w t h in ar t ,  the  charm
of  a s c ê s i s ,  of the a u st er e and seriou s girdin g of the loins
in
  y o u t h .
But it is in  I t a l y ,  in the
  f if teenth  century , tha t  the
interest  of the  Renaissance mainly l ies ,—in that solemn  20
fif teenth cen tury
 which  can hardly b e s tudied too  m u c h ,
not  mere ly  for its  positive results  in the  things  of the
intellect
  and the imaginat ion, i t s concrete works of ar t ,
its
  special and  prominent personali t ies , with their pro-
found  æsthe t ic charm,  but for its  general spirit  and 25
charac ter ,  for the  ethical qual i t ies  of  which  it is a
consummate t ype .
T he  var ious forms  of  in te l lectual ac t iv i ty which  to -
gether make up the cul ture of an age,
 move for the m o st
par t  from  different  starting-points,  and by  unconnec ted  30
roads .  As products of the same generat ion they par take
roads .  As products of the same generat ion they par take
indeed of a common  character , and unconsciously i l lus-
xxiii
group  is  sol i tary, gaining what advantage  or  disadvan-
tage there may be in intel lectual isolat ion. Art and
poetry, philosophy and the religious   life,  and that other
5
  life  of  refined pleasure  and  action  in the  conspicuous
places of the world,  are each o f them confined to i ts ow n
circle  of
  of
  them
are  generally l i t t le curious  of the  t h o u g h t s  of  others.
There
  come, however , f rom t ime  to  t ime, eras of  more
1 0   favou rab le condit ions ,  in  which  the  thoughts  of men
draw nearer together than   is  their wont,  and the  m a n y
interests
  somet imes
1 5   said  of the age of Pericles  is  t rue  of  tha t of Lorenzo :— i t
is  an age
tralised,  complete. Here, artists
  world
  has
  elevated
  and
made keen, do not l ive in isolat ion, but breathe a
2 0   common  air , and  catch light  and  heat from each other 's
thoughts .  There  is a spirit of general elevation and
enl ightenment in which a l l a l ike communicate . The
uni ty  of  this spir i t gives un ity to al l the va riou s pro du cts
of the
 R enaissance;
  this intim ate alliance w ith
2 5   m ind, this part icip ation  in the  best thoughts which that
age  produced, that  the art of  I taly  in the  fifteenth
century owes much of i ts grave dignity and influence.
I
3 0
 enthusiasm
  for
the things of the intel lect and the imagination for their
xxiv
P R E F A C E
ow n  sake,  by h is  Hellenism,  his  l ife-long struggle  to
attain  to the  Greek  spirit, he is in  sympathy  with  the
humanis t s  of a  prev ious cen tu ry .  He is the  last  fruit  of
the Renaissance, and explains in a striking way its
motive  and  tendencies.  5
 
  of the  Renaissance ends  in  France ,
and  carries us a wa y from I ta ly to the b eaut ifu l  cities
of the
  count ry
 of the
  in
a  very important sense, that  the R enaissance had  b e g u n .
French  wri te rs ,  who are  fond  of  connecting  the  ere-  5
ations of Italian gen ius with a F ren ch origin, who tell us
how
  so
deeply   penet ra ted  his  thoughts , f rom  a  French source ,
how  Boccacc io bor rowed  the  outl ines  of his  stories  10
from   the old French fab liaux,  and how Dante himself
expressly   connects the origin of the art of miniature-
paint ing with
  on
  this
notion of a R ena issanc e in the end of the tw elfth and the
beginning of the  th i r teenth century ,  a R enaissance
 with-  1
in the  l imits  of the  middle  age  i tself— a  bri l l iant ,  but in
par t  abor t ive  effort  to do for h u m a n  life  and the  h u m a n
mind what  was  afterwards  done  in the  f if teenth.  The
w o r d
  is now
  generally used
  to de-
note  not  mere ly  the  revival of classical an tiquity which  20
took place in the  fifteenth  century , and to which the
word  was first  applied,  but a  whole complex  move-
m e n t ,
  w as
b ut one e lement or sy m ptom . For us the Renaissance is
the  n a m e  of a  many-sided  but ye t  un i t ed movement ,  in 25
which
  the  love  of the things of the  intellect  and the
imagina t ion
  more
liberal  and comely way of conceiving  life,  m a k e
  them-
i
search  out  first  one and then another means of intellec-
tual  or imaginat ive enjoyment , and direct ing them not
only   to the  discovery  of old and  forgot ten sources  of
5   th is en joy m ent ,
  but to the
  of  fresh  sources
thereof—new   experiences,  new  subjects o f poe t ry , new
forms  of art . Of such feeling there was a great outbreak
in the end of the  twelf th  and the  beginning  of the fol-
lowing century . Here and there , under rare and happy
1 0   condit ions,  in  pointed archi tecture ,  in the  doctrines  of
romant ic love,
  of
  Provence ,
  the
  rude
st rength  of the  middle  age  tu rns to  sweetness;  and the
taste  for  sweetness generated there becomes  the  seed  of
the  classical
  in
 which
so  many sources  of  intel lectual and  imagina t ive en joy-
m e n t  had  actual ly disappeared, th is outbreak  is  r ight ly
2 0   called a R enaissance , a revival .
Theories  which bring into connexion with each other
modes of  t h o u g h t  and  feeling,  periods  of  tas te , form s of
art  and poetry , which the narrowness of men 's minds
constantly   t ends  to  oppose  to  each other , have  a grea t
2 5   s t imulus  for the  intellect,  and are  a lmost a lways wor th
unders t and ing .  It is so with  this theory  of a R ena is sance
within the m iddle a ge , which seeks to estab l ish a conti-
nui ty be tween  the  m ost character is t ic wo rk  of  tha t  pe-
riod,  the  scu lp ture  of  Char t r e s ,  the  windows  of Le
3 0
  M a n s ,  and the  work  of the  la ter Renaissance, the  work
of Jean C ousin and G erm ain Pi lon, thus heal ing that
T H E R E N A I S S A N C E
of Jean C ousin and G erm ain Pi lon, thus heal ing that
rup tu re   between the middle age and the Renaissance
which
2
 
T W O   E A R L Y  F R E N C H  S T O R I E S
much  the  ecclesiastical  art of the middle  age,  its sculp-
tu re  and  paint ing—work cer ta inly  done
  in a  great mea-
sure for pleasure's sake, in which even a secular, a re-
bellious spirit  often  b e t rays i tse l f— b ut ra ther  its pro fane
poe t ry ,  the  poet ry  of  Provence,  and the  magnif icent  5
af ter-growth  of  that poetry  in  Italy  and  France, which
those French wri ters have   i  view when  they speak  of
this medieval Renaissance.  In  that poetry, earthly pas-
sion, with  its  i n t i m a c y ,  its  f r eedom,  its  v a r i e t y — t h e
liberty   of the  heart—makes i tself  felt;  and the  n a m e  of 10
Abe la rd ,  the  great scholar  and the  great lover, connects
the  expression  of  this l iberty  of  hear t with
  the
  free
  play
of hu m an intel ligence aro un d al l sub jects presented to i t ,
with  the  l iber ty  of the  intellect,  as  that  age  unders tood
i t . 1 5
E v e r y   one  knows  the  legend  of  A b e l a r d ,  a  legend
hardly less passionate, certainly  n ot  less characteristic of
the  middle age, than  the  legend  of  Tannhauser ;  how the
famous  and  comely c lerk ,  in
  whom  Wisdom  herself,
self-possessed, pleasant,   and  discreet, seemed  to sit en- 20
throned, came  to  live  in the  house  of a  canon  of the
church  of  Notre-Dame,  where dwelt  a  girl, Heloïse,  b e-
lieved  to be the old  priest 's orphan niece;  how the old
priest  had  testified  his  love  for her by  giving  her an
educat ion  then unrival led,  so  that rumour asser ted that ,  25
t h r o u g h  the  knowledge  of  languages, enabling  her to
penetrate into   the  myster ies of the  older world,  she had
become  a  sorceress, like  the  Celtic druidesses;  and how
as A b elard  and Heloïse sat together  at home there,  to re-
fine  a little fur ther  on the  na tu re of  ab strac t ideas, "Love  30
made himself  of the  par ty  with  them."
  Y ou  conceive
the  t empta t ions  of the  scholar, who,  in  such dreamy
tranquil l i ty , amid  the  br ight  and  busy spectacle  of the
3
"Island,"  lived  in a  world  of  something like shadows;
and  that  for one who  knew  so  well  how to  assign  its
exact value  to  every abstract thought , those restraints
which  lie on the  consciences  of  other  men had  been  re-
5
  laxed.  I t  appears that  he  composed many verses  in the
vulgar tongue: already   the y o u ng  m en  sang them  on the
quay   below  the  house.  Those  songs,  says  M. de Ré-
musa t , were probab ly   in the  taste  of the  Trouvères,  "of
whom  he was one of the  first  in  date,  or, so to  speak ,
1 0   the  predecessor."  It is the  same spirit which  has mould-
ed  the  f a mo us  "letters,"  writ ten  in the  quaint Latin  of
the  middle age.
At the foot  of  that early Gothic tower, which  the  next
generation raised  to  grace  the  precincts  of  Abelard ' s
1 5   schoo l, on the "Mountain  of S aint G enev iève," the his-
torian Michelet sees  in  thought  "a  terr ible assembly;  not
the  hearers  of  Abelard alone,  fifty  bishops, twenty car-
dinals,  tw o  popes,  the whole  body  of  scholastic philos-
ophy; not  only  the  learned Heloïse,  the  teaching  of  lan-
2 0   guages ,  and the  Renaissance;  b ut  Arnold  of  Brescia—
that  is to  say ,  the revolution."  And so  f rom  the  rooms
of  this shadowy house  by the  Seine side we see tha t spir-
it going  ab road , with  its  qualities already well defined,
its i n t im acy ,  its  languid sweetness,  its  rebellion,  its sub-
2 5   tle  skill  in  dividing  the  elements  of  human pass ion,  its
care for phys ica l b eau ty ,  its w orship  of the b o d y ,  which
penetrated  the early l i terature of  I t a ly , and finds an  echo
even  in  Dante .
That Abelard  is not  mentioned  in the  Divine  Comedy
3 0   m ay  appear  a  singular omission  to the  reader  of  Dante ,
w ho   seems  to have inwoven  into  the  texture of his work
w ho   seems  to have inwoven  into  the  texture of his work
whatever  had  impressed  him as either  effective  in  colour
or  spiritually significant among  the  recorded incidents
4
 
T W O   E A R L Y  F R E N C H S T O R I E S
of actual  life. Nowhere in his
 g reat poem
 philosophy
  of
 which
Dante was an eager student, of whom in the L atin Quar-
ter,
  and  f rom  the  lips  of  scholar  or  teacher  in the  Uni-  5
versi ty of P aris, dur ing his so journ am ong them ,  he can
hardly   h a v e failed  to
  hear .
 he
had  indeed considered  the  s tory  and the  m a n ,  and ab -
stained  f rom pass ing judgment
  as to his
In  the
  famous legend
  of
  Tannhäuser ,
  the
  erring
knight makes his wa y to R o m e ,  to  seek ab solution at the
centre  of  Christ ian rel igion.  "S o  soon,"  though t  and
said
  the
  Pope ,
  hand should
  bud and
blossom,  so  soon might  the  soul  of  T a n n h ä u s e r  be 15
saved,  and no sooner;" an d it came to  pass not  long  after
that
  and flowers. So, in
the  cloister  of  G o d s t o w ,  a petrified tree  was  shown  of
which  the  nuns told that  the  fair  R o s a m o n d ,  who had 20
died  a m o n g t h em ,  had declared tha t ,  the  t ree being then
alive  and  green ,  it  would  b e  changed into stone  at the
h o u r
  salvat ion. When Abelard died, l ike Tann-
häuser ,  he was on h is way to Rome. What might have
happened  had he  reached his j o u r n e y 's  end is un cer ta in ;  25
and  it is in  this un certa in twilight that his  relation  to the
general beliefs  of his age has  always remained.  In  this,
as  in  other things,  he  prefigures  the  character of the R e-
naissance,  t h a t m o v e m e n t  in  which,  in  var ious ways ,
the  human mind wins  for  itself a new  kingdom  of  feel-  30
ing and sensation and thought, not opposed to but only
b ey on d and independe nt of the spiri tual sy stem then ac-
tually   real ised.
  is
5
thrown, which gives  its  colour  to his  career, which
breaks his soul to pieces, is a no less subtle opposition
than that between the merely professional, official,  hire-
ling ministers of that system, with their ignorant wor-
5
  ship  of  system  for its own  sake,  and the  true child  of
light,
  the
  humanist,
  with
  reason
  and
  heart
  and
  senses
  He
  reaches
  out
towards,
  he
  germ,  it may be,  contained within  it. As  always hap-
pens,  the  adherents of the poorer  and narrower culture
had no sympathy with, because no understanding of, a
culture richer
  A f t e r  the
discovery of wheat they would still live upon acorns—
1 5   après  I'invention
  vivre
  du
  gland',
and  would hear  of no  service  to the  higher needs  of
humanity with instruments not of their forging.
But the human spirit, bold through those needs, was
too  strong  for  them. Abelard  and  Heloise  write their
2 0   letters—letters  with  a wonderful outpouring  of  soul—
in medieval Latin; and Abelard, though he composes
songs
low the abstractions of philosophy,  as one bent on  try-
a s  ing all things by their congruity with human experience,
who had  felt  the hand  of Heloise,  and  looked
  into her
eyes,  and
 great
and energetic nature. Yet it is only  a little later, early in
the  thirteenth century, that French prose romance  be-
s o
  pretty volumes
of it may be
  In
6
 
T W O   E A R L Y  F R E N C H  S T O R I E S
Ami et
claims of which Abelard's story is an assertion, makes
itself  felt  in the  incidents of a great friendship, a friend-
ship pure and generous, pushed to a sort of passionate
exaltation,
everywhere,  is still especially a  classical  motive;  Chau-
 expressing
  the
  sentiment
  in an an-
tique tale, that one knows  not whether  the love of both
Palamon  and  Arcite  for  Emelya,  or of  those  two for  1 0
each other,
And  therewithal he bleynte and  cried,  ah
As  that he  s tongen were unto  the herte.
What reader does  not
  refer  something  of the  bitterness  1 5
of that cry to the spoiling, already foreseen, of the  fair
friendship,  which
  offices?
The friendship  of Amis and Amile is deepened by the
romantic circumstance
  of an
  of the
Doppelganger,  which begins among the  s tars  with  the
Dioscuri, being entwined  in and out  through  all the in- 25
cidents of the story, like an outward token of the inward
similitude of
 is
  connected,
like
  a second reflexion of that inward similitude, the
conceit of two marvellously  b eau t ifu l cups, also exactly
like each other—children's cups, of wood, but  adorned  30
with gold  and precious stones. These  two  cups, which
by  their resemblance help  to bring  the  friends together
7
when
  he
  parents
had taken them for that purpose, in grat i tude for their
bir th.  They  cross
5   rative , serving  the two  heroes almost like living things,
and  with that well-known  effect  of a  beautiful  object ,
kept constantly before  the eye in a  story  or  p o e m ,  of
keeping sensation well awak e, and giving a certain air of
ref inement  to all the  scenes into which  it  enters.  That
1 0   sense of  fate, which hangs  so m u c h of the  shaping  of hu-
m an  life  on trivial objects, l ike  Othello's  s t r awber ry
handkerchief, is thereby heightened, while witness is
bo rne  to the  e n j o y m e n t  of  beautiful  handiwork  b y a
primitive people, their simple wonder  at it, so  that they
1 5   give  it an  oddly s ignif icant place among  the
  factors
  comes
  to
 at
a  m o m e n t  of  great need Amis takes  th   place of  Amile
2 0   in a
  tou rnam en t
 it
  happened
that a leprosy   fell u pon A m is , so that h is wife  would not
approach him,
 an d w r o u g h t  to strangle him.
 H e  depart-
2 5
  what follows that  the  curious s trength  of the  piece
shows
  itself:—
  to do as he
place  where Amile was;
  to
3 0   do. A nd  when Amile heard  the  noise  he  c o m m a n d e d  one of
his  servants to carry meat and bread to the s ick man, and the
his  servants to carry meat and bread to the s ick man, and the
cup  which  w as  given  to him at R o m e  filled with
 good
  wine.
And when the servant had done as he was commanded, he
8
 
T W O   E A R L Y  F R E N C H
  S T O R I E S
returned and said, Sir, if I had not thy cup in my hand, I
should believe that  the cup which  the  sick m an has was  thine,
for  they  are alike,  the one to the  other ,  in height  and  fashion.
A nd  Amile said, G o quickly  and b r ing  him to me . And  when
A m i s  stood b efore his com rade A m ile dem anded of him who 5
he  was ,  and how he had  gotten that cup.  I am of Briquain  le
Chastel , answered Amis,  and the cup was  given  to me by the
Bishop  of  R o m e ,  w ho  baptised  me. And  when Amile heard
that ,  he
  knew that
  deliv-
ered him from death, and won for him the daughter of the   1 0
King  of  France  to be his  wife .  A nd  s t ra igh tway  he  fell  upon
him,  an d  began weeping great ly ,  and  kissed him.  A nd  when
his
  wife heard that, she ran out with her hair in disarray,
weeping
  and
  slain
  A nd
  thereupon they   1 5
placed him in a  fair  bed, and said to him, Abide with us unti l
God's  will be accomplished in thee, for all we have is at thy
service.  S o he and the two  servants abode wi th them.
And i t came  to pass one  night , when Amis  and A m i le lay in
one cham b er wi thou t o ther com panions , tha t God sent His 20
angel
  Raphae l  to  A m i s ,  w ho  said  to  h i m , A m i s ,  art  thou
asleep?  And he,
  supposing that Amile
 angel
said  to  h i m ,  Thou  hast answered well ,  fo r  thou  art the  com-
rade of the  heavenly  ci t izens .—I am  Raphae l , the  angel of our 25
Lord, and am   come  to  tell thee  how  thou mayest  b e  healed;
for  thy pray ers are heard . Thou  shalt b id A m ile , thy com rade,
tha t he
  their blood,  and
so  thy  body shal l b e  made whole.  A nd  Amis sa id  to  h i m ,  Let
not  this thing  b e,  tha t m y  comrade should become  a mu rderer  30
for  m y  sake.  But the  angel said,  It is  convenient that  he do
this.  A n d  thereupon  the  angel departed.
A nd
  Amile also,
  sleep, heard those  words ;  and he
awoke  an d  said,  Who is i t , my  comrade, that hath spoken
with  thee?  A nd
 N ot so but
some  one  hath spoken with thee. Then he arose  and  went  to
the  door  of the  c h a m b e r ; and  f inding  it  shut  he  said, Tell
  m e,
THE RENAISSANCE
m y   brother ,  who i t was  said those words  to  thee
  to-night.
And Amis began  to  weep great ly ,  and  told  him  that  i t was
Raphael ,
  the  angel  of the  Lord,  who had  said  to  him, Amis ,
  commands  thee   thou
5   children,  and  wash thee  in  their blood,  and so  thou
  shalt
  b e
healed of thy leprosy. And Amile was great ly disturbed at
those words,  and  said,  I  would have given  to  thee  m y man-
servants
  thou
feignest  that  an  angel hath spoken  to  thee that  I  should  slay
1 0   m y two children. A nd im m ediately A m is began to weep, and
said,
  I
  the
shelter  of thy  house.  A nd  Amile answered that what  he had
covenanted with him, that  he  would perform, unto  the  hour
1 5   of his  death:  But I  conjure thee, said  he, by the  faith  which
there is between me and  thee, and by our  comradeship,  and
by the  baptism  we  received together  at  Rome, that thou tell
m e  whether  i t was man or  angel said that  to  thee.  A nd  A m i s
answered again, So truly as an angel hath spoken to me this
2 0   night,
  so may God deliver m e  from  m y  infirmity
Then  Amile began  to  weep  in  secret,  and  thought within
himself:
  If
  this
  slay   children? Shall   keep  faith
with him who was faithful to me even unto death? And  Amile
2 5   tarr ied
  of his  wife,
and bade her go hear the Sacred Office.  And he took a sword,
and went  to the bed where  the  children we re ly ing,  and found
them   asleep. And he lay down over
 them and began  to weep
bit ter ly and said, Hath any man yet heard of a  father  who of
3 0   his own
longer your  father,  but your c rue l murderer .
And the children awoke at the  tears  of their  father ,  which
fell  upon them; and they looked up into his  face  and began to
laugh.
  he
3 5   said, Y our laug hing  •will  b e  turned into tears ,  for  y o u r  inno-
cent blood must now be shed, and therewith he cut   their
heads. Then  he laid them back in the bed, and put the heads
upon
  the
  bodies,
  and
 
T W O   E A R L Y FRENCH S T O R I E S
with  the  blood which he had  taken he  washed his  comrade,
and  said, Lord Jesus Christ who  hast commanded  men to
keep  faith
  on  earth,  and  didst heal  the  leper  by Thy  word
cleanse  n o w m y  comrade,  for  whose love  I  have shed  the
blood  of my  children.  5
Then Amis was cleansed of his leprosy. And
 Amile clothed
  in his
  best robes;
  and as
  they went
  to the
church  to give thanks,  the bells, by the will of  God, rang of
their own accord. And when  the people of the city heard that,
they  ran  together  to see the  marvel.  And the  wife  of Amile,  1 0
when  she saw Amis and  Amile coming, asked which of the
twain  was her husband,  and said,  I know well  the vesture of
them both,  but I know  not  which  of  them  is  Amile.  A nd
Amile said  to  her,  I am  Amile,  and my  companion  is Amis,
who is healed of his sickness. A nd she was  full  of wonder,  and  1 5
desired  to know  in what manner he was healed. Give thanks
to our Lord, answered Amile, but trouble not thyself as to the
manner of the healing.
where  t e  children were;  but the
  fa ther  sighed heavily,  b e- 20
cause  they were dead,  and the  mother asked  fo r  them, that
they   might rejoice together;  b u t  Amile said, Dame let the
children   sleep.  And i t was  already  the  hour  o f Tierce.  A nd
going  in  alone  to the  children to  weep over them,  he found
them  at play in the bed; only,  in place of the sword-cuts about  25
their  throats was as i t were  a thread  of crimson.  And he  took
them  in his  arms  and  carried them  to his  wife  and  said,
Rejoice  greatly,  for thy  children whom  I had  slain  b y t h e
commandment  of the  angel  are  alive,  and by  their blood  is
A m i s healed.  30
There,  as I  said,  is the  strength  of the old French
story.
which  it
 derives  from
  are  great  resources in
the  true middle  age.  And as I have illustrated  the  early  35
strength  of the  Renaissance  by the  story  of Amis  and
ii
THE  RENAISSANCE
Amile ,  a s tory w hich comes f ro m the N orth , in which a
certain  racy Teutonic  flavour is  percept ib le ,  so I  shall
i l lustrate  that other element,
  its
 story
  printed
5
of
  the
istically,
  the
  lit-
  Aubade,
  of
  Bernard
  de
  Ventadour
and  Pierre  Vidal, is poet ry  for the  f ew,  for the  elect and
peculiar people o f the kingdom  of sent im ent .  B ut  below
this intenser poetry there  w as  probab ly  a  wide range  of
l i tera ture ,  less serious and elevated, reaching, by  light-
is  ness of fo rm and co m para tive homeliness of interest , an
audience which  the  concentrated passion  of  those higher
lyrics  left  un touche d. T his l i teratu re has long since per-
ished, or l ives only in later French or  I tal ian  vers ions .
O ne  such version,  the  only representa t ive of its species,
2 0   M .  Faurie l thought  he  detected  in the  story  of  Aucassin
and
  of
the  th i r teen th cen tury , and  preserved  in a un ique m anu-
script ,  in the
  there were
reasons which made him  divine  for it a stil l m ore anc ient
2 5
  in it of an
  as in a
1
  of its
  the
English,  with much  grace fu l  scholarship,
  by Mr. F.  W.  Bourdillon.  Still
30  more  recently we
ingenious and versatile pen of Mr.
  Andrew
also
  th e Antique  and  Mediaeval  in the Renaissance,  a work
abounding
 in knowledge and insight on the subjects of which  it  treats.
12
 
T W O   E A R L Y  F R E N C H S T O R I E S
criticism which  finds  in it  only  a  t radi t ional subject ,
handed  on by one  people  to  another;  for  after  passing
thus from hand to hand, i ts outline is sti l l clear, i ts sur-
face  untarnished; and, l ike many other s tories , books,
li terary   and  artistic conceptions  of the  middle age,  it has 5
come  to  h a v e  in  this  way a  sort  of  personal history,  al-
most
  as
  full
  of  risk  and  adventure  as  that  of its own
heroes .  T he  writer himself calls  the  piece  a  cantefable,  a
tale  told  in  prose,  b ut  with  its  incidents  and  sen t iment
helped forward  b y  songs, inserted  at  i r regular in terv als .
  1 0
In  the  junc t ions  of the  story i tself there  are  signs  of
roughness   and  w a n t  of  skill , which make  one  suspect
that  the  prose  was  only  put  together  to  connect  a series
of  songs—a series  of  songs  so  moving  and  at t ract ive
that people wished   to  heighten  and  dignify their  effect  1 5
b y a  regula r f ram ew ork  or  set t ing.  Yet the  songs them-
selves  arc of the  simplest kind,  no t  rhymed even ,  b u t
only imperfect ly assonant , s tanzas   of  twenty  or  thir ty
lines apiece , all end ing   with  a sim ilar vowel  sound. And
here ,  as elsewhere  in  that ear ly poetry , much  of the in- 20
terest lies  in the  spectacle of the  format ion  of a new ar-
tistic sense.  A  novel  art is aris ing,  the  music  of  r h y m e d
poe t ry ,  and in the  songs  of  Aucass in  and  Nicolet te ,
which seem always  on the  point  of  passing into true
r h y m e ,
  b ut
  25
take f light , y ou see people ju st growing aware of the  ele-
ments  of a new  music  in  their possession,  and an ticipat-
ing how   pleasant such music might become.
T he
  of
  of whom,  at
for  the  lesser parts,
  probably chi ldren.  T he  songs
are  introduced  by the  rubr ic ,  Or se cante  (id on chante)  and
each  division  of  prose  by the  r u b r i c ,  O r  dient et co ntent et
13
the  songs have been preserved;  and some of the details
are so descriptive that they suggested  to M.  Fauriel  the
notion that  the words  had  been accompanied
  through-
 composi-
tion  of the  thirteenth  century,  is shown  sometimes  in
the  turn given  to  some passing expression  or  remark;
thus, "the  Count  de Garins  was old and  frai l ,  his  time
1 0
  Beaucaire  estoit  vix et
frales;
  s i avoit  s o n tans  trespasse.  A nd  then  all is so  realised
One sees the ancient forest, with its disused roads grown
deep
 with
u  aforkeut
1 5
rustic names, and putting forward, as their spokesman,
one  among them  who is more eloquent  and ready than
the  rest—li  un qui plus fu  enparles  des  autres',  for the  little
book
 has its burlesque element also, so that one hears the
0   fain t , far-off  laughter still. Rough as it is, the  piece cer-
tainly
 possesses this high quality of poetry, that it aims
at a  purely artistic  effect.  Its  subject  is a great  sorrow,
yet it claims  to be a thing of joy and  refreshment,  to be
entertained not for its matter only, but  chiefly  for its
2 5   manner;  it is  cortois,  it  tells  us,  et  bien
  assis .
For
 the student of manners, and of the old French lan-
guage and literature, it has much interest of a purely
antiquarian
 compo-
  antiquarian interest, often means
3 0   that  it has no  distinct  aesthetic interest  for the  reader  of
to-day. Antiquarianism, by a purely historical  effor t ,  by
to-day.   effor t ,
putting  its object  in  perspective, and  setting  the  reader
 
 
T W O   E A R L Y  F R E N C H S T O R I E S
sure to the past is pleasurable for him also, may   often
add  great ly  to the charm  w e  receive from ancient litera-
ture. But the  first  condition of such aid must be a real,
direct,  aesthetic  charm  in the  thing itself . Unless  it has
that charm, unless some purely ar t is t ic quali ty went   to 5
i ts original making, no merely antiquarian   effort  can
ever
  give it an  aesthetic  value, or make i t a proper sub-
ject  of  aesthetic  cri t icism. This quali ty , wherever  it
exists,  it is  always pleasant  to  define,  and  discriminate
from   the  sort  of  borrowed interest which  an old  p lay , or  1 0
an  old story, may very l ikely acquire through a t rue
antiquarianism.   T he  story  of A ucass in a nd N icolette has
something   of  this quali ty . Aucassin,  the  only  son of
Count  Garins  of  Beaucaire,  is  passionately  in  love
with  Nicolet te ,  a  beaut i fu l  girl  of unknown  parentage,
  1 5
bough t  of the  Saracens , whom his father  will  no t  permit
him to
  T he
  adventures
  of
these  tw o  lovers, until  at the end of the  piece their
m u t u a l  fidelity  is rewarded.  These  adventures are of the
simplest sort,
  adventures which
 seem  to be chosen  for 20
the  happy occasion they  afford  of keeping  the eye of the
fancy,  perhaps  the  outward eye ,  fixed  on  pleasant  ob -
jects,  a garden,  a  ruined tower,  the  little  hut of  f lowers
which Nicolet te constructs   in the  forest  whither  she es-
capes  f rom  her  enemies,  as a  token  to  Aucass in that  she 25
has  passed that way.  All the  charm  of the  piece  is in its
details,
  in a turn of peculiar l ightness and grace given to
the  situations  and  traits  of  sentiment, especially  in its
quaint
  f r agment s  of  early French prose.
A ll  through i t one  feels  the influence of that  faint  air
  30
of  overwrought del icacy, a lmost  of  wantonness, which
of  overwrought del icacy, a lmost  of  wantonness, which
was  so s t rong  a charac teristic of the  poetry  of the Trou-
badours .  T he  Troubadours themselves were  often  m en
15
THE RENAISSANCE
of great rank; they wro te  for an exclusive a udience, peo-
ple of  much leisure and g reat ref inem ent ,  and  they came
to value a type of personal beauty which has in i t but
little of the  influence of the open  air and  sunshine. There
5   is a  languid Eastern deliciousness  in the  very scenery  of
the  s to ry ,  the  full-blown roses,  the  chamber painted  in
some myster ious manner where Nicole t te   is  impris-
oned,  the  cool b rown marb le ,  the  almost nameless
colours,  the odour of
 plucked  grass and flowers. Nico-
1 0   lette  herself well becomes this scenery,  and is the  bes t
il lustration
  of the
  quali ty
  I  m e a n — th e b eaut i fu l ,  weird,
foreign
  who
has  the  knowledge  of  simples,  the healing  and  beaut i fy -
ing qualit ies of leaves and flowers, whose
  skilful
  touch
1 5   heals A ucassin 's sprained shou lder,  so  t ha t  he  suddenly
leaps  f rom  the  ground;  the  mere s ight  of  whose white
flesh,  as  she
  lay, healed
  a pil-
grim stricken  with  sore disease,  so  that  he  rose  up, and
returned  to his own  country. With this gir l Aucassin is
2 0   so  deeply  in  love that  he  forge ts  all  knightly duties.  A t
last  Nicole t te  is  shut  up to get her out of his  w a y ,  and
perhaps  the  prettiest passage  in the  whole  piece  is the
f r agmen t  of  prose which describes  her  escape:—
Aucass in  was put in prison, as you have heard, and Nico-
2 5   le t te rem ained shut  up in her  c h a m b e r .  I t was  s u mm e r - t i m e ,
in the
clear,  nights   serene.
O ne  night Nicolet te , lying  on her bed ,  saw the  moon shine
clear  through the l i t t le window, and heard the nightingale
3 0   sing  in the  garden ,  and  then came  the  m e m o r y  of  Aucass in ,
whom  she so  much loved.  S he  thought  of the  Count Gar ins
of  Beaucai re ,  w ho
  morta l ly ha ted her, and,  to be rid of
  her,
m ight a t any m om ent cause her to be b urn ed or drown ed. S he
perceived
  tha t  the old  w o m a n  w ho  kept  her  c o m p a n y  w as
16
asleep; she
 had;
the bedclothes and the towels,  and knotted them together like
a cord, as far as they would  go.  Then  she tied  the end to a pil-
lar of the window, and let herself slip down quite  softly  into
the garden,  and passed straight across  it, to  reach the  town.  5
Her hair was yellow in small curls, her smiling eyes  blue-
green,  her  face  clear and  feat,  the  little lips very red,  the  teeth
small and white; and the daisies which she crushed  in  passing,
holding
  her
She came to the garden-gate and opened it, and walked
through the streets of Beaucaire, keeping on the dark side of
the way to be out of the light of the moon, which shone quiet-
ly in the sky. She walked as fast as she could, until she came  to
the
  here and there. She pressed herself against one of the
pillars, wrapped herself closely in her
 mantle,
 and putting her
face  to a chink of the tower, which was old and ruined, she
heard Aucassin crying bitterly within, and when  she had lis-
tened awhile  she began  to speak.— 20
B u t  scat tered  up and down
  through this l ighter
  and
  of
s o m e  intenser sentiment, coming  it  would seem from  25
the  profound  and  energetic spirit  of the
  Provenca l
et ry   itself,  to  which  t e  inspiration of the
 b o o k
referred.  Let me  gather  up  these morsels  of  deeper col-
our, these expressions  of the  ideal intensity  of  love ,  the
motive which really unites together
  the
 of  the  30
  the
  perfect
  ideal
love,  has  recorded  how the  t y r a n n y  of  that  "Lord  of
terrible  aspect"  became actually physical , bl inding
  his
  his
senses,
  and
  suspending
  his
  bodi ly
  forces.  In
  this , Dante
is  but the  central expression  and  t y p e  of  experiences  35
i?
known well enough  to the  init iated,  in  that passionate
age.
  A uc ass in represe nts this ideal inten si ty
 of passion—
Ligentix,  li
  amorous; —
5   sl im , tal l , deb on air ,  dansellon,  as the  singers  call him,
with
  his
  w ho  faints
wi th love, as Dante  fainted,  who r ides al l day thro ug h
the
  forest in search of Nicolet te , while the thorns tear
his
 flesh, so t ha t one m ight have traced him b y the  b lood
1 0   upon  the  grass ,  and who  weeps  at  event ide because  he
has  no t
  found he r ,
  who has the
  Once
  he is induced to put
himself at the head of his people, that they, seeing him
before  them, might have more hear t
  to
  defend
  them-
  in
  It is
  P r o v e n c a l
  love-god, no longer a
  to
him,  riding  on a  white horse,  fair  as the  morning,
2 0   his  ves tment embro idered wi th  flowers. He  rode  on
through the gates in to the open pla in beyond. But as he
  of his
The br idle  fell  from his hands; and l ike one who sleeps
walk ing ,  he was  carried  on  into  the  m i d s t  of his ene-
2 5
most conveniently ki l l him.
One of the  strongest characteris t ics of  tha t ou tb reak
of the  reason  and the  imagina t ion ,  of  that assertion  of
the
 of the
  hear t ,
  in the
  and
religious ideas of the t ime. In their search  after  the plea-
18
 
T W O   E A R L Y  F R E N C H S T O R I E S
sures  of the  senses  and the  imagina t ion ,  in  their care
for
  b e a u t y ,  in  their worship  of the  body, people were
impelled
  b e y o n d  the  bounds  of the  Christian ideal;
and  their love became sometimes
  a
  a
strange rival religion.  It was the  return  of  that ancient  5
Venus ,  not  dead, b ut  only hidden  for a t im e  in the  caves
of the Venusberg, of those old pagan gods still going to
and fro on the
  A nd
this element  in the  middle age,  for the  most part ignored
b y   those writers who  have t reated it preem inent ly  as the  1 0
"Age  of  Fa i th"—th i s  rebell ious  and  antinomian ele-
men t ,  the recogn ition  of which  has m a d e  the de lineat ion
of the  middle  age by the  writers of the  Romant ic school
in
  France ,
  found al ike  in the  1 5
history   of A b e la rd and the  legend  of
 T a n n h a u s e r. More
and  m o re ,
  to  mark changes  and  distinctions
of  t emper  in  what  is  often  in one  al l-embracing con-
fusion  called the middle age, that rebellion, that sinister
claim for l ibe rty of he ar t and tho ug ht, comes to the sur- 20
face.  T he  A lbigens ian m ovem ent , connected  so  strange-
ly   with
 P rovenca l poe t ry ,  is deeply t inged
with  it. A  touch  of it  makes  the  Fran ciscan order , with
i ts poetry,  its  myst ic i sm,  its  "i l lum ination," fro m  the
point
 of
 view
  of
 re l ig ious au thor i ty , jus t ly suspect.
  It in- 25
ers,  like Joachim
  world
of flowery  rhetor ic of  that third  and  final  dispensation  of
a  "spirit  of  f reedom,"  in  which  law  shall have passed
a w a y .  O f  this spirit  Aucassin
  and Nicolette  contains per-  30
haps  the  most  famous expression: i t is the answer
haps  the  most  famous expression: i t is the answer
Aucassin  gives when  he is  threatened with  the  pains  of
hell , if he makes Nicolette his mistress. A creature
19
 senses,
  he
 sees
priests,  "clinging
  day and
  whom  he so  m u c h
loves,"  he, for his  par t ,  is  ready  to  s tar t  on the way to
hell, along with "the good scholars,"  as he says , and the
actors,
  and the  fine  horsemen dead  in  ba t t l e ,  and the
men of fashion
,  and "the fair  courteous ladies  who had
1 0   two or  three chevaliers apiece beside their  own  t rue
lords,"  all gay
beautiful  furs—"the vair and the grey."
But in the   H o u s e  Beautiful  the  saints  too  have thei r
place; and the
 h s
  this advan-
1 5   tage over  the  s tudent  of the  emancipat ion  of the  h u m a n
mind  in the
  Reforma t ion ,
  to
  higher lev-
els, he is not b eset at eve ry tu rn b y the inflexib ili t ies and
antagonisms
  of
2 0   rigidly defined opposites, exh au sting
  the
  intelligence
  T he
  tha t more
sincere  and  generous play  of the  forces  of hum an mind
and character , which I have noted  as the secret of Abe-
2 5
  lard 's s truggle,  is  indeed a lways powerfu l .  But the in-
compat ib i l i ty wi th  one  another  of  souls really "fair"  is
not
  essential;
  and
  within
  th
Renaissance,  one  needs  not be for  ever  on one's  guard .
Here  there
3 0
  breathes  of  that uni ty  of  cul ture  in  which "whatsoever
l
Parage,
  peerage:—which came  to  signify  all  tha t am bi t ious youth  affect-
ed
  most on the outside of  life,  in that old world of the Troubadours, with
whom
2O
T W O   E A R L Y
  F R E N C H S T O R I E S
things  are comely" are reconciled,  for the  elevation and
adorning of our  spirits. And just  in proportion  as  those
who  took part in the Renaissance become centrally rep-
resentative of it, just  so much  the more  is this condition
realised in  them.  The  wicked popes,  and the  loveless  5
tyrants,  who  from time  to  time became  its patrons,  or
mere  speculators  in its  fortunes,  lend themselves  easily
to disputations, and, from this side or that, the spirit of
controversy lays just hold upon  them. But the painter of
the  Last  Supper,  with  his kindred, lives  in a  land where  1 0
controversy  has no  breathing-place.
 Nicolette,
  lit-
erature which  it represents,  the note  of  def iance ,  of the
opposition  of one  system  to  another,  is  sometimes
harsh.  Let me  conclude then with  a  morsel from  Amis  1 5
and Amile,
is
stil l  entire. For the story of the great traditional friend-
ship, in which, as I said, the liberty of the heart makes
itself  felt ,  seems,
  saints martyrs
not  till  the end of the  seventeenth century that their
names were  finally excluded from the martyrology; and
their story ends with this monkish miracle  of  earthly
comradeship, more than  fa i th fu l  unto
 death.—
For ,
  b y
side,  with a host of other brave  men,  in battle for King
Charles at Mortara, so called from that great slaughter. And
the  bishops gave counsel  to the  king  and  queen that they
should bury   the  dead,  and  build  a  church  in  that place;  and 30
their counsel pleased the king greatly. And there were built
two  churches,  the one by  c o m m a n d m e n t  of the  king  in
h o n o u r  of  Saint Oseige,  and the  other  b y  c o m m a n d m e n t  o
the  queen  in  honour  of  Saint Peter.
21
THE  RENAISSANCE
And the  king caused  the two  chests  of  stone  to be  b r o u g ht
in the
  and Ami le  lay; and  A m i l e
was  carried  to the  church  of  Saint Peter ,  and  A m i s  to the
church  of  Saint Oseige;  and the  other corpses were buried,
5   som e in one place and some in the other. B ut  lo next
morning, the body of Amile in his  coffin  was found ly ing in
the
  church
  of
comrade. Behold then this wondrous amity, which  b y  death
could  not be  dissevered
1 0   This  miracle  G od did, who  g a v e  to His  disciples power  to
remove mounta ins .  A n d b y  reason  of  this miracle  the  king
and  queen remained  in  that place  for a  space  of  th i r ty days ,
and  performed the  offices  of the dead who were slain, and
honoured  the  said churches with great  gifts.  And the  bishop
1 5   ordained m any clerks  to  se rve  in the  church  of  Sain t  Oseige,
and commanded them that they should guard duly , wi th
great devotion,  the  bodies  of the two  companions , Amis  and
Amile.
1872.
22
  of the
  complete
without some not ice  of the  a t tempt made  b y  cer-
tain  I tal ian  scholars of the
  fifteenth
concile forms  of  sentiment which  at
  first  sight seem  in- 5
compat ib le ,  to  adjust  the var ious products  of the  h u m a n
mind  to one  another  in one  many-sided type of  intellec-
tual
  cul ture ,  to  g ive human i t y ,  fo r  hear t  and  imagina-
tion to  feed  upon, as much as i t could possibly receive,
belonged  to the  generous inst incts of  that age. A n  earlier  1 0
and
  simpler generation  had  seen  in the gods of Greece so
many mal ignant spi r i t s ,  the  defeated b ut  still living cen-
tres  of the  religion  of  darkness, s truggling,  not  a lways
in  vain , against  the  kingdom  of  light. Little  b y  little,  as
the  natura l charm  of  pagan story reasserted itself over  1 5
minds emerging  out of  b a r b a r is m ,  the  religious signifi-
cance  which  had  once belonged  to it was  lost sight  of,
and it
  purely
artistic  or poetical t reatment. But i t was inevitable that
f rom   t ime  to  t ime minds should arise, deeply enough  20
impressed   by i t s  beau ty  and
  p o w e r
  to ask  themselves
whether  the  religion  of  Greece  was  indeed  a  r ival of the
religion  o