Aucassin and Nicolete

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AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE


Dedicated to the Hon. James Russell Lowell.




INTRODUCTION


There is nothing in artistic poetry quite akin to "Aucassin and
Nicolete."

By a rare piece of good fortune the one manuscript of the Song-Story has
escaped those waves of time, which have wrecked the bark of Menander, and
left of Sappho but a few floating fragments. The very form of the tale
is peculiar; we have nothing else from the twelfth or thirteenth century
in the alternate prose and verse of the _cante-fable_. {1} We have
fabliaux in verse, and prose Arthurian romances. We have _Chansons de
Geste_, heroic poems like "Roland," unrhymed assonant _laisses_, but we
have not the alternations of prose with _laisses_ in seven-syllabled
lines. It cannot be certainly known whether the form of "Aucassin and
Nicolete" was a familiar form--used by many _jogleors_, or wandering
minstrels and story-tellers such as Nicolete, in the tale, feigned
herself to be,--or whether this is a solitary experiment by "the old
captive" its author, a contemporary, as M. Gaston Paris thinks him, of
Louis VII (1130). He was original enough to have invented, or adopted
from popular tradition, a form for himself; his originality declares
itself everywhere in his one surviving masterpiece. True, he uses
certain traditional formulae, that have survived in his time, as they
survived in Homer's, from the manner of purely popular poetry, of
_Volkslieder_. Thus he repeats snatches of conversation always in the
same, or very nearly the same words. He has a stereotyped form, like
Homer, for saying that one person addressed another, "ains traist au
visconte de la vile si l'apela" [Greek text] . . . Like Homer, and like
popular song, he deals in recurrent epithets, and changeless courtesies.
To Aucassin the hideous plough-man is "Biax frere," "fair brother," just
as the treacherous Aegisthus is [Greek text] in Homer; these are
complimentary terms, with no moral sense in particular. The _jogleor_ is
not more curious than Homer, or than the poets of the old ballads, about
giving novel descriptions of his characters. As Homer's ladies are "fair-
tressed," so Nicolete and Aucassin have, each of them, close yellow
curls, eyes of vair (whatever that may mean), and red lips. War cannot
be mentioned except as war "where knights do smite and are smitten," and
so forth. The author is absolutely conventional in such matters,
according to the convention of his age and profession.

Nor is his matter more original. He tells a story of thwarted and
finally fortunate love, and his hero is "a Christened knight"--like
Tamlane,--his heroine a Paynim lady. To be sure, Nicolete was baptized
before the tale begins, and it is she who is a captive among Christians,
not her lover, as usual, who is a captive among Saracens. The author has
reversed the common arrangement, and he appears to have cared little more
than his reckless hero, about creeds and differences of faith. He is not
much interested in the recognition of Nicolete by her great Paynim
kindred, nor indeed in any of the "business" of the narrative, the
fighting, the storms and tempests, and the burlesque of the kingdom of
Torelore.

What the nameless author does care for, is his telling of the love-story,
the passion of Aucassin and Nicolete. His originality lies in his
charming medley of sentiment and humour, of a smiling compassion and
sympathy with a touch of mocking mirth. The love of Aucassin and
Nicolete--

"Des grans paines qu'il soufri,"

that is the one thing serious to him in the whole matter, and that is not
so very serious. {2} The story-teller is no Mimnermus, Love and Youth are
the best things he knew,--"deport du viel caitif,"--and now he has "come
to forty years," and now they are with him no longer. But he does not
lament like Mimnermus, like Alcman, like Llwyarch Hen. "What is Life,
what is delight without golden Aphrodite? May I die!" says Mimnermus,
"when I am no more conversant with these, with secret love, and gracious
gifts, and the bed of desire." And Alcman, when his limbs waver beneath
him, is only saddened by the faces and voices of girls, and would change
his lot for the sea-birds. {3}

"Maidens with voices like honey for sweetness that breathe desire,
Would that I were a sea-bird with limbs that never could tire,
Over the foam-flowers flying with halcyons ever on wing,
Keeping a careless heart, a sea-blue bird of the spring."

But our old captive, having said farewell to love, has yet a kindly
smiling interest in its fever and folly. Nothing better has he met, even
now that he knows "a lad is an ass." He tells a love story, a story of
love overmastering, without conscience or care of aught but the beloved.
And the _viel caitif_ tells it with sympathy, and with a smile. "Oh
folly of fondness," he seems to cry, "oh merry days of desolation"

"When I was young as you are young,
When lutes were touched and songs were sung,
And love lamps in the windows hung."

It is the very tone of Thackeray, when Thackeray is tender, and the world
heard it first from this elderly, nameless minstrel, strolling with his
viol and his singing boys, perhaps, like a blameless d'Assoucy, from
castle to castle in "the happy poplar land." One seems to see him and
hear him in the twilight, in the court of some chateau of Picardy, while
the ladies on silken cushions sit around him listening, and their lovers,
fettered with silver chains, lie at their feet. They listen, and look,
and do not think of the minstrel with his grey head and his green heart,
but we think of him. It is an old man's work, and a weary man's work.
You can easily tell the places where he has lingered, and been pleased as
he wrote. They are marked, like the bower Nicolete built, with flowers
and broken branches wet with dew. Such a passage is the description of
Nicolete at her window, in the strangely painted chamber,

"ki faite est par grant devisse
panturee a miramie."

Thence

"she saw the roses blow,
Heard the birds sing loud and low."

Again, the minstrel speaks out what many must have thought, in those
incredulous ages of Faith, about Heaven and Hell, Hell where the gallant
company makes up for everything. When he comes to a battle-piece he
makes Aucassin "mightily and knightly hurl through the press," like one
of Malory's men. His hero must be a man of his hands, no mere sighing
youth incapable of arms. But the minstrels heart is in other things, for
example, in the verses where Aucassin transfers to Beauty the
wonder-working powers of Holiness, and makes the sight of his lady heal
the palmer, as the shadow of the Apostle, falling on the sick people,
healed them by the Gate Beautiful. The Flight of Nicolete is a familiar
and beautiful picture, the daisy flowers look black in the ivory
moonlight against her feet, fair as Bombyca's "feet of carven ivory" in
the Sicilian idyll, long ago. {4} It is characteristic of the poet that
the two lovers begin to wrangle about which loves best, in the very mouth
of danger, while Aucassin is yet in prison, and the patrol go down the
moonlit street, with swords in their hands, sworn to slay Nicolete. That
is the place and time chosen for this ancient controversy. Aucassin's
threat that if he loses Nicolete he will not wait for sword or knife, but
will dash his head against a wall, is in the very temper of the prisoned
warrior-poet, who actually chose this way of death. Then the night
scene, with its fantasy, and shadow, and moonlight on flowers and street,
yields to a picture of the day, with the birds singing, and the shepherds
laughing, in the green links between wood and water. There the shepherds
take Nicolete for a fairy, so bright a beauty shines about her. Their
mockery, their independence, may make us consider again our ideas of
early Feudalism. Probably they were in the service of townsmen, whose
good town treated the Count as no more than an equal of its corporate
dignity. The bower of branches built by Nicolete is certainly one of the
places where the minstrel himself has rested and been pleased with his
work. One can feel it still, the cool of that clear summer night, the
sweet smell of broken boughs, and trodden grass, and deep dew, and the
shining of the star that Aucassin deemed was the translated spirit of his
lady. Romance has touched the book here with her magic, as she has
touched the lines where we read how Consuelo came by moonlight to the
Canon's garden and the white flowers. The pleasure here is the keener
for contrast with the luckless hind whom Aucassin encountered in the
forest: the man who had lost his master's ox, the ungainly man who wept,
because his mother's bed had been taken from under her to pay his debt.
This man was in that estate which Achilles, in Hades, preferred above the
kingship of the dead outworn. He was hind and hireling to a villein,

[Greek text]

It is an unexpected touch of pity for the people, and for other than love-
sorrows, in a poem intended for the great and courtly people of chivalry.

At last the lovers meet, in the lodge of flowers beneath the stars. Here
the story should end, though one could ill spare the pretty lecture the
girl reads her lover as they ride at adventure, and the picture of
Nicolete, with her brown stain, and jogleor's attire, and her viol,
playing before Aucassin in his own castle of Biaucaire. The burlesque
interlude of the country of Torelore is like a page out of Rabelais,
stitched into the _cante-fable_ by mistake. At such lands as Torelore
Pantagruel and Panurge touched many a time in their vague voyaging.
Nobody, perhaps, can care very much about Nicolete's adventures in
Carthage, and her recognition by her Paynim kindred. If the old captive
had been a prisoner among the Saracens, he was too indolent or incurious
to make use of his knowledge. He hurries on to his journey's end;

"Journeys end in lovers meeting."

So he finishes the tale. What lives in it, what makes it live, is the
touch of poetry, of tender heart, of humorous resignation. The old
captive says the story will gladden sad men:-

"Nus hom n'est si esbahis,
tant dolans ni entrepris,
de grant mal amaladis,
se il l'oit, ne soit garis,
et de joie resbaudis,
tant par est douce."

This service it did for M. Bida, the painter, as he tells us when he
translated Aucassin in 1870. In dark and darkening days, _patriai
tempore iniquo_, we too have turned to _Aucassin et Nicolete_. {5}




BALLADE OF AUCASSIN


Where smooth the Southern waters run
Through rustling leagues of poplars gray,
Beneath a veiled soft Southern sun,
We wandered out of Yesterday;
Went Maying in that ancient May
Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet,
And lingered by the fountain spray
With Aucassin and Nicolete.

The grassgrown paths are trod of none
Where through the woods they went astray;
The spider's traceries are spun
Across the darkling forest way;
There come no Knights that ride to slay,
No Pilgrims through the grasses wet,
No shepherd lads that sang their say
With Aucassin and Nicolete.

'Twas here by Nicolete begun
Her lodge of boughs and blossoms gay;
'Scaped from the cell of marble dun
'Twas here the lover found the Fay;
O lovers fond, O foolish play!
How hard we find it to forget,
Who fain would dwell with them as they,
With Aucassin and Nicolete.

ENVOY.

Prince, 'tis a melancholy lay!
For Youth, for Life we both regret:
How fair they seem; how far away,
With Aucassin and Nicolete.

A. L.




BALLADE OF NICOLETE


All bathed in pearl and amber light
She rose to fling the lattice wide,
And leaned into the fragrant night,
Where brown birds sang of summertide;
('Twas Love's own voice that called and cried)
"Ah, Sweet!" she said, "I'll seek thee yet,
Though thorniest pathways should betide
The fair white feet of Nicolete."

They slept, who would have stayed her flight;
(Full fain were they the maid had died!)
She dropped adown her prison's height
On strands of linen featly tied.
And so she passed the garden-side
With loose-leaved roses sweetly set,
And dainty daisies, dark beside
The fair white feet of Nicolete!

Her lover lay in evil plight
(So many lovers yet abide!)
I would my tongue could praise aright
Her name, that should be glorified.
Those lovers now, whom foes divide
A little weep,--and soon forget.
How far from these faint lovers glide
The fair white feet of Nicolete.

ENVOY.

My Princess, doff thy frozen pride,
Nor scorn to pay Love's golden debt,
Through his dim woodland take for guide
The fair white feet of Nicolete.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON




THE SONG-STORY OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE


'Tis of Aucassin and Nicolete.

Who would list to the good lay
Gladness of the captive grey?
'Tis how two young lovers met,
Aucassin and Nicolete,
Of the pains the lover bore
And the sorrows he outwore,
For the goodness and the grace,
Of his love, so fair of face.

Sweet the song, the story sweet,
There is no man hearkens it,
No man living 'neath the sun,
So outwearied, so foredone,
Sick and woful, worn and sad,
But is healed, but is glad
'Tis so sweet.

So say they, speak they, tell they the Tale:

How the Count Bougars de Valence made war on Count Garin de Biaucaire,
war so great, and so marvellous, and so mortal that never a day dawned
but alway he was there, by the gates and walls, and barriers of the town
with a hundred knights, and ten thousand men at arms, horsemen and
footmen: so burned he the Count's land, and spoiled his country, and slew
his men. Now the Count Garin de Biaucaire was old and frail, and his
good days were gone over. No heir had he, neither son nor daughter, save
one young man only; such an one as I shall tell you. Aucassin was the
name of the damoiseau: fair was he, goodly, and great, and featly
fashioned of his body, and limbs. His hair was yellow, in little curls,
his eyes blue and laughing, his face beautiful and shapely, his nose high
and well set, and so richly seen was he in all things good, that in him
was none evil at all. But so suddenly overtaken was he of Love, who is a
great master, that he would not, of his will, be dubbed knight, nor take
arms, nor follow tourneys, nor do whatsoever him beseemed. Therefore his
father and mother said to him;

"Son, go take thine arms, mount thy horse, and hold thy land, and help
thy men, for if they see thee among them, more stoutly will they keep in
battle their lives, and lands, and thine, and mine."

"Father," said Aucassin, "I marvel that you will be speaking. Never may
God give me aught of my desire if I be made knight, or mount my horse, or
face stour and battle wherein knights smite and are smitten again, unless
thou give me Nicolete, my true love, that I love so well."

"Son," said the father, "this may not be. Let Nicolete go, a slave girl
she is, out of a strange land, and the captain of this town bought her of
the Saracens, and carried her hither, and hath reared her and let
christen the maid, and took her for his daughter in God, and one day will
find a young man for her, to win her bread honourably. Herein hast thou
naught to make or mend, but if a wife thou wilt have, I will give thee
the daughter of a King, or a Count. There is no man so rich in France,
but if thou desire his daughter, thou shalt have her."

"Faith! my father," said Aucassin, "tell me where is the place so high in
all the world, that Nicolete, my sweet lady and love, would not grace it
well? If she were Empress of Constantinople or of Germany, or Queen of
France or England, it were little enough for her; so gentle is she and
courteous, and debonaire, and compact of all good qualities."

_Here singeth one_:

Aucassin was of Biaucaire
Of a goodly castle there,
But from Nicolete the fair
None might win his heart away
Though his father, many a day,
And his mother said him nay,
"Ha! fond child, what wouldest thou?
Nicolete is glad enow!
Was from Carthage cast away,
Paynims sold her on a day!
Wouldst thou win a lady fair
Choose a maid of high degree
Such an one is meet for thee."
"Nay of these I have no care,
Nicolete is debonaire,
Her body sweet and the face of her
Take my heart as in a snare,
Loyal love is but her share
That is so sweet."

Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale:

When the Count Garin de Biaucaire knew that he would avail not to
withdraw Aucassin his son from the love of Nicolete, he went to the
Captain of the city, who was his man, and spake to him, saying:

"Sir Count; away with Nicolete thy daughter in God; cursed be the land
whence she was brought into this country, for by reason of her do I lose
Aucassin, that will neither be dubbed knight, nor do aught of the things
that fall to him to be done. And wit ye well," he said, "that if I might
have her at my will, I would burn her in a fire, and yourself might well
be sore adread."

"Sir," said the Captain, "this is grievous to me that he comes and goes
and hath speech with her. I had bought the maiden at mine own charges,
and nourished her, and baptized, and made her my daughter in God. Yea, I
would have given her to a young man that should win her bread honourably.
With this had Aucassin thy son naught to make or mend. But, sith it is
thy will and thy pleasure, I will send her into that land and that
country where never will he see her with his eyes."

"Have a heed to thyself," said the Count Garin, "thence might great evil
come on thee."

So parted they each from other. Now the Captain was a right rich man: so
had he a rich palace with a garden in face of it; in an upper chamber
thereof he let place Nicolete, with one old woman to keep her company,
and in that chamber put bread and meat and wine and such things as were
needful. Then he let seal the door, that none might come in or go forth,
save that there was one window, over against the garden, and strait
enough, where through came to them a little air.

_Here singeth one_:

Nicolete as ye heard tell
Prisoned is within a cell
That is painted wondrously
With colours of a far countrie,
And the window of marble wrought,
There the maiden stood in thought,
With straight brows and yellow hair
Never saw ye fairer fair!
On the wood she gazed below,
And she saw the roses blow,
Heard the birds sing loud and low,
Therefore spoke she wofully:
"Ah me, wherefore do I lie
Here in prison wrongfully:
Aucassin, my love, my knight,
Am I not thy heart's delight,
Thou that lovest me aright!
'Tis for thee that I must dwell
In the vaulted chamber cell,
Hard beset and all alone!
By our Lady Mary's Son
Here no longer will I wonn,
If I may flee!

Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale:

Nicolete was in prison, as ye have heard soothly, in the chamber. And
the noise and bruit of it went through all the country and all the land,
how that Nicolete was lost. Some said she had fled the country, and some
that the Count Garin de Biaucaire had let slay her. Whosoever had joy
thereof, Aucassin had none, so he went to the Captain of the town and
spoke to him, saying:

"Sir Captain, what hast thou made of Nicolete, my sweet lady and love,
the thing that best I love in all the world? Hast thou carried her off
or ravished her away from me? Know well that if I die of it, the price
shall be demanded of thee, and that will be well done, for it shall be
even as if thou hadst slain me with thy two hands, for thou hast taken
from me the thing that in this world I loved the best."

"Fair Sir," said the Captain, "let these things be. Nicolete is a
captive that I did bring from a strange country. Yea, I bought her at my
own charges of the Saracens, and I bred her up and baptized her, and made
her my daughter in God. And I have cherished her, and one of these days
I would have given her a young man, to win her bread honourably. With
this hast thou naught to make, but do thou take the daughter of a King or
a Count. Nay more, what wouldst thou deem thee to have gained, hadst
thou made her thy leman, and taken her to thy bed? Plentiful lack of
comfort hadst thou got thereby, for in Hell would thy soul have lain
while the world endures, and into Paradise wouldst thou have entered
never."

"In Paradise what have I to win? Therein I seek not to enter, but only
to have Nicolete, my sweet lady that I love so well. For into Paradise
go none but such folk as I shall tell thee now: Thither go these same old
priests, and halt old men and maimed, who all day and night cower
continually before the altars, and in the crypts; and such folk as wear
old amices and old clouted frocks, and naked folk and shoeless, and
covered with sores, perishing of hunger and thirst, and of cold, and of
little ease. These be they that go into Paradise, with them have I
naught to make. But into Hell would I fain go; for into Hell fare the
goodly clerks, and goodly knights that fall in tourneys and great wars,
and stout men at arms, and all men noble. With these would I liefly go.
And thither pass the sweet ladies and courteous that have two lovers, or
three, and their lords also thereto. Thither goes the gold, and the
silver, and cloth of vair, and cloth of gris, and harpers, and makers,
and the prince of this world. With these I would gladly go, let me but
have with me, Nicolete, my sweetest lady."

"Certes," quoth the Captain, "in vain wilt thou speak thereof, for never
shalt thou see her; and if thou hadst word with her, and thy father knew
it, he would let burn in a fire both her and me, and thyself might well
be sore adread."

"That is even what irketh me," quoth Aucassin. So he went from the
Captain sorrowing.

_Here singeth one_:

Aucassin did so depart
Much in dole and heavy at heart
For his love so bright and dear,
None might bring him any cheer,
None might give good words to hear,
To the palace doth he fare
Climbeth up the palace-stair,
Passeth to a chamber there,
Thus great sorrow doth he bear,
For his lady and love so fair.

"Nicolete how fair art thou,
Sweet thy foot-fall, sweet thine eyes,
Sweet the mirth of thy replies,
Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face,
Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow,
And the touch of thine embrace,
All for thee I sorrow now,
Captive in an evil place,
Whence I ne'er may go my ways
Sister, sweet friend!"

So say they, speak they, tell they the Tale:

While Aucassin was in the chamber sorrowing for Nicolete his love, even
then the Count Bougars de Valence, that had his war to wage, forgat it no
whit, but had called up his horsemen and his footmen, so made he for the
castle to storm it. And the cry of battle arose, and the din, and
knights and men at arms busked them, and ran to walls and gates to hold
the keep. And the towns-folk mounted to the battlements, and cast down
bolts and pikes. Then while the assault was great, and even at its
height, the Count Garin de Biaucaire came into the chamber where Aucassin
was making lament, sorrowing for Nicolete, his sweet lady that he loved
so well.

"Ha! son," quoth he, "how caitiff art thou, and cowardly, that canst see
men assail thy goodliest castle and strongest. Know thou that if thou
lose it, thou losest all. Son, go to, take arms, and mount thy horse,
and defend thy land, and help thy men, and fare into the stour. Thou
needst not smite nor be smitten. If they do but see thee among them,
better will they guard their substance, and their lives, and thy land and
mine. And thou art so great, and hardy of thy hands, that well mightst
thou do this thing, and to do it is thy devoir."

"Father," said Aucassin, "what is this thou sayest now? God grant me
never aught of my desire, if I be dubbed knight, or mount steed, or go
into the stour where knights do smite and are smitten, if thou givest me
not Nicolete, my sweet lady, whom I love so well."

"Son," quoth his father, "this may never be: rather would I be quite
disinherited and lose all that is mine, than that thou shouldst have her
to thy wife, or to love _par amours_."

So he turned him about. But when Aucassin saw him going he called to him
again, saying,

"Father, go to now, I will make with thee fair covenant."

"What covenant, fair son?"

"I will take up arms, and go into the stour, on this covenant, that, if
God bring me back sound and safe, thou wilt let me see Nicolete my sweet
lady, even so long that I may have of her two words or three, and one
kiss."

"That will I grant," said his father.

At this was Aucassin glad.

Here one singeth:

Of the kiss heard Aucassin
That returning he shall win.
None so glad would he have been
Of a myriad marks of gold
Of a hundred thousand told.
Called for raiment brave of steel,
Then they clad him, head to heel,
Twyfold hauberk doth he don,
Firmly braced the helmet on.
Girt the sword with hilt of gold,
Horse doth mount, and lance doth wield,
Looks to stirrups and to shield,
Wondrous brave he rode to field.
Dreaming of his lady dear
Setteth spurs to the destrere,
Rideth forward without fear,
Through the gate and forth away
To the fray.