THE FRENCH HUMORISTS. MONTAIGNE. From an original Picture at Paris in the Ddpot des Archives (ill Royanwe. ROBERTS BROTHERS. BOSTON. THE French Humorists FROM THE TWELFTH TO THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. BY WALTER BESANT, M.A., Christ's college, Cambridge, AUTHOR OF "studies IN EARLY FRENCH POETRY," ETC. BOSTON": ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1874. Cambridge : Press of John Wilson 6^ Son. CONTENTS. CHAPTER pj^OE I. The Chaxsox 9 II. RuTEBEUF THE Tkouvere . 25 III. The Romance of the Rose , ^ 41 ly. EusTACHE Deschamps . 82 V. Rabelais 99 VI. Montaigne 132 Vir. La Satyue M^nippee 148 VIII. Mathuuin Regnier . * 165 IX. Saixt Amant 185 X. VoiTURE AND BeNSERADE 199 XL The Parasites 213 XII. SCARRON 239 XIII. La Fontaine 202 XIV. BoiLEAU 285 XV. MOLIERE 310 XVI. Regnard 358 XVIL Gresset 375 XVIII. Beaumarchais 391 XIX. Beranger 418 PREFACE. THE table of contents of this volume would seem to be a sufficient preface. I have selected those whom I consider representative waiters, many of them hitherto almost unknown to the English reader, though not to the student of French literature, out of every century from the twelfth downwards. The humorists of the fifteenth century alone will be found unrepre- sented here, unless Rabelais, who belongs to it by birth, be claimed for it. The reason of this omission, as stated in the first chapter, is simply that I have in my previous work on early French poetry discussed all those of that century who could come within my limits. For the same reason Clement Marot is absent from this volume. No apology is needed for the omission from a single volume — covering so large a space of time as this — of Voltaire. I trust the book wdll be found acceptable to those who like, as I do, to know as much as pos- vi PREFACE. sible about their authors, and to connect their writings with the conditions of their hves and the Hterary atmosphere they breathed. I have given in transLation most of the pieces taken to show the character and genius of my authors. The greater number are translated for the first time, I trust without too much detriment to the originals. The whimsical poem of Ver-Vert is given nearly in full. Two or three of these studies have, in somewhat different forms, already appeared. I have to ex- press my best thanks to the editor of the " British Quarterly," for permission to reproduce as much as I thought fit of a paper on the " Romance of the Eose;" to the editor of " Macmillan's Maga- z*ne," for a similar permission concerning a paper on Rabelais; and to the editor of " Temple Bar," for permission to use again what I pleased of papers on Moliere, La Fontaine, and Scarron. I do not like to allow this volume to go forth without also expressing my obligations to my friend Mr. S. Lee, of my own college and Lin- coln's Inn, for many valuable critical suggestions. W. B. Savile Club, Sept. 1, 1873. THE FUENCH HUMOHISTS. Chapter I. THE CHANSON". Mieulx est de rire que de larmes escripre, pour ce que rire est le propre de rhomme. — Rabelais. ^ I ^HE most elementary form of joke is the discomfiture -*- of an enemy: — discomfiture, at first, meaning death. But there are other kinds of rivahies besides those which involve mortal combat. In these, discom- fiture means defeat. Advancing farther, we arrive at oar modern point of laughing chiefly at those little inci- dents in social life which mean temporary uneasiness, awkwardness, slight mental trouble. Perhaps, as civili- zation gets on, mankind will learn so much sympathy as not even to lauglT at these. Laughter, however, is in its nature the expression of relief from anxiety, of sur- prise, or of self-congratulation. It is in any form a sort of triumphant crow of victory, and as such will go on, let us hope, for ever. Satire, on the other hand, of which humor is a branch, is the weapon of the weak. It is an acknowledgment of helplessness. In times of oppression it is the boldest and most outspoken ; it lan- guishes when laws become strong and men grow mild ; it is lethargic in times of freedom. Therefore, in rough and rude centuries, in times when all the world is fighting, and life is much more uncertain 10 THE CHANSON. than nature ever intended, we may expect to find the keenest and most bitter satire. II faut bien que I'esprit venge L'honnete homme qui n'a rieu. We do so find satire, making allowance for imperfect powers of expression. So far as men can speak, they speak strongly ; mostly they cannot frame their thoughts at all, except for the ordinary purposes of life. To help out their meagre forms of speech, they take Avhat songs and phrases they can get from others, and use them. AVe have to do Avith that people, gens summce solei^tice^ who first broke through the blackness of the Middle Ages, and learned how to speak, write, and sing ; with the country from which all great ideas of modern times have sprnng, where men have ever had the courage of their o[)inions, whose sons are quick to comprehend, eager to realize, tenacious of a truth. ' France was first in the field 6i modern literature. She it was who changed the Latin for the vernacular; her people first taught, and have always gone on teaching, the equality of man. She began the reformation of religion ; it was she who most kept alive the fire of learning, and most helped th-e long, slow development of tlie Renaissance. To her belong the great majority of mediaeval poets ; — England has only one, Italy has four. She possesses the most glorious list, till the more sluggish blood of Eng- land is roused, of writers, scholars, and 2)hilosophers. Hers is the longest martyr roll of heretics. Frenchmen have nowhere shown their character more tlian in their satire. They are fond of calling it the esprit gaulois^ tracing back the vein of gayety, light heart, and keen perception to those old ancestors who, after all, have left them but little of their blood, divided as it THE ESPRIT GAULOIS. 11 is among Romans, Franks, and Normans. It is a vein which is quite peculiar to France. " It has not," says a recent writer, '• any tincture of hatred or violence. We do not find in it the overwhelming gayety of Aris- tophanes, the exaggerated indignation of Juvenal, the dry and bitter laugh of Don Juan ; but malice wrapped up in bonhomie, the irony of Rabelais and La Fon- taine, the grumbling and good-natured tone of a Picard peasant." I want to show as we go along that the French type for satire and humor has preserved one uniform character from generation to generation. In an unbroken line the writers are all the same. The poets of the chansons and the parodies, Guyot the Grumbler, Rutebeuf the Trouvdre, Villon the Ribaut, Clement Marot, Rabelais, Passerat and Pithou, Saint- Amant, La Fontaine — all down to Beranger, have one quality in common, the es'prit gaulois. They are always good-tempered ; their darts are wrapped in flowers ; their poison — a harmless poison enough — is administered in wine ; they are too s^'mpathetic to be savage ; they never get into a rage, except perhaps when, like poor Des Periers, they are going to commit suicide ; or when, like Rabelais, who zs savage with the monks, they have deep and bitter wrongs to resent. On the other hand, the}^ are irreverent ; they have no strong convictions ; they are incapable of martyrdom ; the}^ are full of animal spirits and animal enjoyment ; they love life with all the passion of a Greek ; they are like chil- dren for mockery, mischief, and lightness of heart. I cannot make my gallery complete, for two reasons. First, because there are, since the days of Mademoiselle de Scudery, limits to every volume ; and, secondly, be- cause I have already, in a previous volume, written all that I found to write about my very dear and especial 12 THE CHANSON. friends, Francois Villon and Clement Marot, to say noth- ing of those careless rascals, Coquillart, Roger de Col- lerye, and Olivier Basselin.^ My limits are large — too large for my space, perhaps too large for my strength. They stretch from the eleventh to the nineteenth century. Perforce there is many a name omitted — many a writer whose claims are at least equal to some of those in these pages — notably, you will not find here either Voltaire or Rousseau. But let me lead j^ou by the hand through ways perhaps un- trodden, among fields yet unvisited by you ; and after introducing you to humorists of that dark time when Boileau thought there was no literature — " rien n'est agrdable," said Sainte-Beuve ; " qu'un guide familier ^ About Marot, however, I have this to say : — Professor Henry Morley has written a life of him. I have a great respect for Mr. Morley's two big volumes on English literature — the respect one conceives for laborious and honest work. At the same time, I pro- test against his Marot. The life contains not a single fact that is new, and of the opinions very little, speaking from my own knowl- edge of the period, which is true. For of all things under the sun, i\Iarot was not a religious reformer. I cannot, as I could wish, reprint what I have already written on the subject, but I refer my readers to the chapter in this work oti Rabelais, where they will find, not Marot's opinions — for the poor man had none — but the opinions of the men who were his friends and associates. If there be any further doubt as to his character — it is really an impor- tant point, as it aifects \h^ greatest poet, in some points, that France ever had — I submit the following lines, as showing w^hat his own contemporary, Beza — a religionist if you like — thought of him : — " Tarn docte Venerem divinus pinxit Apelles, Illi ut credatur visa fuisse Venus ; At tantam sapinnt Venerem tua scripta, Marote, Ut tibi credatur cognita tota Venus." And surely there could be no better judge of such matters than the author of the Juvenilia, MEDIEVAL SATIRE. 13 dans iin pays iiiconnu " — let me try to throw fresh light on men whose names are already familiar, and make, if it may be, their dry bones live. In the examination of the older authors, there has been no turning over of yellow parchments, no decipher- ment of faded manuscripts. That work has been done for us by true and faithful Frenchmen, loyal to their own literature. Of all the literature of the Middle Ages, the best, the choicest, has been already published, and though much yet remains, the work is practically done. We who see how, to the shame and disgrace of our rich men, the work of publishing our ancient texts is left to one poor society — chiefly to two or three zeal- ous men toiling against every kind of discouragement — may well confess that France, the forerunner in modern literature, is also the most careful to preserve her early glories. The history of French mediaeval satire is the history of mediaeval literature and art. Satire is everywhere ; it lies in every line of the fabliau, in every sentence of the conte ; the minstrel carries it from place to place ; the charlatan shouts it at fair-time from his stage ; it forms part of every popular amusement ; it lurks in the corner of the illuminated manuscript ; it grins at us from some dark place in the cathedral. Side by side with the solemn service of the church is the parody, with its ass, its boy bishop, its liturgy in praise of wine. Beside the crimson cavalcade of ladies and knights is the procession of Renard and Isengrin. After the monks and priests, chanting their psalms, comes, telling his beads like them, the Devil ; while along with every amusement, joy, and pleasure of life, a part of laughter, an echo of the song, a guest at the feast, a leader of the dance, a follower of the march, a fiddler in the band, the companion of king, 14 THE CHANSON. knight, bourgeois, and peasant, sneering at all, laughing at all, mocking at all, is the Mephistophelian Death of the Dause Macabre. From the eleventh to the fifteenth century it is a sort of long procession of satire. First, as is but right, we have the music, which is provided by the troubadours and trouveres ; the}^ lead off the band of those who laugh at every thing and try to improve nothing. The scholars come next, then the clergy, then the men of the robe, then a general breakdown dance of all together, and the old things fall to pieces, giving place to the new. Towards the end of the eleventh century we hear a confused roar as of hungry wild animals. It is the voice, no longer to be suppressed, of the people. They rise in Laon, slaughter the bishop, burn the palaces, establish their commune — are put down and punished. They rise in Normandy, armed with pitchforks and sticks. They are easily dispersed by steel-clad men-at-arms, and ordered back to their cottages with feet and hands cut off. The trouvere has preserved their song. " We are men," it begins, with a grand and solemn simplicity, " we are men even as they are ; such limbs as they have we have ; as great bodies have we ; and we can endure as much. Nothing fails us but heart alone. Let us all}^ ourselves by oath. Let us defend our own and ourselves. Let us keep ourselves together, and if they wish to fight, we have against one knight thirty or forty peasants, vigorous and strong to fight." ^ 1 Nos sumes homes cum il sunt, Tex membres avum cum il unt, Et altresi grans cors avum, Et altrctant sofrir poum. Ne nus faut fors cuer sulement, Alium nus par serement, EMANCIPA T/ON. 15 It is the first of the terrible French risings. They will try again and again, with the Pastoureaux, with the Jacquerie, each time with the same song. For the heri- tage of the Gaul, who used to divide his land afresh every five years, is the irrepressible sense of equality. With the eleventh century comes the first outward mark visible to us of the great changes coming over Europe. The laity are beginning to ask questions ; the bourgeois are already struggling for the municipal inter- ests ; the clergy are handing over to lay hands the ai-t of architecture ; the universities are taking learning out of the convents ; Abolard teaches his thousands ; Ber- nard complains that the faith of the simple is divided, and the very secrets of Heaven are searched into. To meet the growing strength of inquiry the church invents the mendicant orders ; the men of the law grow stronger ; the royal povVer deepens and broadens ; men doubt and deny ; all foreshadows the great convulsion of the six- teenth century — the first of those by which men will at last destroy their greatest and most accursed enemy, the spirit of sacerdotalism. At the end of the eleventh centur}^, another captive, besides architecture and scholarship, escapes from the cloister and finds her way into the world. It is music. For the people begin to sing, not in the tunes of the church service, but melodies of their own. One can hardly believe that there coidd have been actually no popular music before that date ; it is difficult to under- Nos aveir et nus defendum, E tuit ensemble nus tenurn. Es nus voilent guerroier, Ben avum centre un chevalier Trente ou quarante paisanz Maniables e cumbatans. 16 THE CHANSON. stand a silent people ; but the fact seems so, and the church service was the only means of giving utterance to the instincts of music. Then came the chanson, set to the viol and the lute, and singing of love and the sweet springtime. It began, after the manner of an es- caped prisoner, by being wholly joyous and bright : — J'ai amiete Sadete Blondete Telz com je voloie. Presently a sweet melancholy falls upon the soul. The lover has to leave his mistress ; he hears the birds sing in Brittany and thinks of their song in sweet Cham- pagne. He is getting old and past the time of love. And just then the chanson is joined by another prisoner from the convent, the " sirvente." The sirvente is the earliest form of satire. It was the imitation of monkish rhymes in the vulgar tongue, beginning with verse half in Latin half in French, and was as great a step in ad- vance as when Regnier first imitated Horace. And then satire open and undisguised went up and down the face of France, striking all, sparing nothing ; ridiculing the ladies for their painted faces, the lords for their tyran- nies, the Pope for his pride,^ the clergy for their avarice — knight, lawyer, bourgeois, villain. There is a singular monotony about the chansons of the Langue d'Oil. They are, as I have said, mostly tinged with the satirical spirit. Some, however, are purely pastoral. The knight — it is always in May, Papa captus hunc vel banc decipit, Papa quid vult in lectum recipit, Papa nullum vel nullam excipit, Papae detur, nam Papa praecipit : Tort a qui ne le dune. THE KNIGHT AND THE BELLE. 17 when the birds begin to sing — rides through the forest and finds a helle. The chanson has then two possible endings. Most of the songs are quite simple and pretty. Here is one of the very lightest : — On a day as it befel In a wood I rode along ; Lying there, a maiden fair Watch'd her sheep and sang this song : Tire lire a lire, Robin mine ; Pipers come and pipers go, Tire lire a lire. I doff'd my hat and bent me low, And beside her took my seat. *' Maiden, tell me, ere I go, Why dost thou this song repeat ? " Tire lire, &c. " Sir," she said, " where'er I hide me, Robin comes and asks for love ; And as often does he chide me. Since my heart he cannot move." Tire lire, &c. " Ah ! " cried I, " but let me woo thee ; Let me clasp this silver thing Round thy waist and hold thee to me ; Only, only, cease to sing Tire lire," &c. *' Sir, 'twere churlish ' No ' to say : Take me now to be your bride. Let us from this place away, Together singing, as we ride, Tire lire a lire, Robin mine ; Pipers come and pipers go, Tire lire a lire." Here, too, is another of a later period, in the same light strain: — 2 18 THE CHANSON, It is early in the morning, At the very break of day, My love and I go roaming All in the woods to play. The dew, like pearl-drops, bathes our feet, The sweet dew-drops of May. In the sweetest place of any, 'Mid the grasses thick and high, Caring nothing for the dew-drops That around us thickly lie. Bathed and lapp'd in glittering May-dew, Sit we there, my love and I. As we pluck the whitethorn blossom, As we whisper words of love. Prattles close beside the brooklet, Sings the lark and coos the dove. Our feet are bathed with ^lay-dew, And our hearts are bathed in love. A simple time enough. You may play it on a wheaten straw and on a scrannel pipe, but it will only sound well in the open air, and must be sung when the sun is brightest, the birds are loudest, the flowers are sweetest, and youth is happiest. Under these conditions it may pass for music. In the next we get the fatal element of illicit passion : — Sweet Yolante, in her chamber fair, Bends at her work o'er shuttle and woof ; Here golden threads, and a silk one there : . But her mother chides her in bitter reproof : " Therefore, I blame thee, fair Yolante ! •* Fair Yolante. thy mother am I, And so may speak as seemeth me good." *' But mother, and mother, pray tell me why? " *' Tell thee, I will, as a mother should. Wherefore I blame thee, my child Yolante." FAIR DOETTE. 19 **But why, then, mother? " she smiling said ; " Is it for work, or is it for play? Is it for weaving the golden thread, Or is it for lying in bed all day? Wherefore chidest thou fair Yolaute? " •* It is not for wearing the silk and the gold ; It is not for work, it is not for play ; It is not for sleeping when matins are told ; But for whispering ever your lover gay — • Therefore I chide thee, fair Yolante. *' AVhispering, child, wdth the County Guy; Whispering, laughing, when no one is near. Bitterly now doth thy husband sigh : Speak no more with him, daughter dear — Therefore I blame thee, fair Yolante." "And if my husband himself should pray, And he and his kin all sorrow and sigh. Little care I, for I must say nay. And never cease loving my County Guy." " Therefore 1 blame thee, fair Yolante." Or again, there is the pure ballad, taking in some in- cident of love or death, sorrow or joy. I will take one more as a specimen of the ballad literature of France, which, with a greater wealth of incident, would be the richest in the world; — Fair Doette, at her window sitting, Reads in her book with her thoughts astray ; Still from the written page they are flitting To her lord at the tournament far away. Now woe is me. A squire is climbing the stairs of her bower, Down in the court has he left his steed ; Fair Doette, in the Lady's Tower, Springs to her feet for news indeed. Now woe is me. 20 THE CHANSON. Cried fair Doette, as he stood at the door, " Where and how is my love, my lord? " But she swooned away, and she asked no more, For the squire he answered her never a word. Now woe is me. The Lady Doette has opened her eyes. And she turns to the squire, but hopes in vain. ^ Heavy her heart in her bosom lies, For her lord she never will see again. Now woe is me. *' Say," said the Lady Doette, " Now say News of ray lord, whom I love so well." " Alas ! alas ! he was kill'd in the fray ; Fain would I hide it, but needs must tell. Now woe is me." ' Gan fair Doette to sorrow and moan ; " Ah ! liege my lord, and woe befall The day and the tour nay ; now must I begone To take the vow^s in the convent wall, (Now woe is me) — Ever a nun in the Church of St. Paul." The names of the song-writers are legion. Among the satiric trouveres^ excepting Riitebeuf, whom 5^011 I will find further on, note especially Count Thibaut of ■ Champagne, lover of Queen Bertha, a sweet and grace- ful poet, but monotonous. He has a thing or two to jsay about the general corruption of the age. We shall hear a good deal before we have finished about the cor- ruption of the age, and if that were the only common- place, one would not mind. But worse commonplaces are before us. Then there is Hue de la Ferte, whose soul is moved by a mighty wrath against Thibaut him- self, as well as against the corruption of the age. Count Thibaut, with envy gilded. And with deepest treachery stain'd, GUYOT. 21 In the noble craft of knighthood Little credit hast thou gain'd ; Better skill 'd art thou, I ween, In the art of medicine. Thus politely hinting that the Count was a secret poisoner. In another song he exhorts the young king, Louis IX., to shake off the domination of women and priests : — Make the clergy go their way, In the church to sing and pray. Then comes on our list Adam de la Halle, of whom a careful study ought to be made. He is a bourgeois of Arras ; he is intended for the church, but falls in love with Marie and marries her. Then he sings the beauty of his bride. Ten years later, the artless minstrel, for- getting all the tender things he used to sing — so fickle is the poet's heart — is lamenting the way in which his wife has "gone off" and lost her beauty — the unrea- sonable husband. He w^rites about the Crusades, about the mendicant friars, about the town gossip. He has a clear and distinct individuality, pleasant to look back upon, and is of a cheerful, vigorous nature, not above considering the disputes of his own town fit subjects for his verse, as well as the month of May and the ever- lasting shepherdess sitting beside a fountain. The first French satirist, properly so called, accord- ing to some, is Guyot. It seems to me absurd to take a man who can only represent a genre of literature at a certain stage of development, and call him the first. No writer invents. Satire began when man began to be oppressed ; it was worth listening to in France as soon as men learned to put together their own language in a poetic form ; from that date it has gone on following 22 THE CHANSON. the laws which regulate all literary development, and obedient to the circum -stances which snrrounded it. The great grumbler Giiyot, undoubtedly a satirist, lives in an aqe which he calls *' horrible and stinkinoj." He finds himself constrained to write a '* Bible " (book). He has been in Germany, all over France, in Palestine ; he knows all the great lords of the time ; he has been a monk, and knows all the monasteries : — those Avhere the monks wash and oil their heads at night to make them soft and glittering in the morning ; those where the abbot and cellarers drink up all the clear wine and send to the refectory only the thick : those, like Cluny, where 3'ou have to fast when you are hungry, to keep awake when you are sleepy,- and roar all night long in the church, and where 3'ou get nothing to eat but rotten eggs and beans. As for the vices of the age, Guyot can only find one — that of avarice — for serious indig- nation. He attacks women, it is true, for their liglitness and dissimulation ; nuns for the unclean state of their houses ; lawyers for their chicanery ; physicians for their ignorance. No real indignation about this man ; only the ill-natured venting of disappointment. He has been a monk, and does not like the restraints of the cloister ; he has been a hanger-on at courts, and has got no reward. He is getting old, in short, and must go back to that eternal "bawling in church" which is his special vexation. Another and a very different '' Bible " is that of Hugues de Breze. He is no disappointed musician- monk. He is an elderly, respectable knight, who, hav- ing taken his share in the fighting, now goes home and amuses his old age in writing a grave and solemn satire on the evils of the time ; not because he is in a rage with everybody, nor because he likes to talk about vice, PARODIES, 23 but because he is saddened by its spectacle, and hopes to do something to stop its progress. " Some of us," he says, '' are usurers ; some of us are robbers ; some mur- derers ; some are full of luxury, and others are full of license." And then he preaches on the folly of loving, while inevitable death stares us in the face. Another outlet for the satirical spirit Avere the paro- dies of the chansons de geste. From the chronicles of valorous deeds the transition was easy to the ridicule of the defeats and mockery of the enemy. One of these parodies, for instance, represents our Henry III. sur- rounded by his barons, swearing to exterminate the French, to carry Paris by assault, to set the Seine on fire, to burn all the mills, and to carry the Sainte-Chapelle to London. Simon de Montfort interrupts his boasting by reminding him that the French, who are not by any means lambs, will probably have something to say for themselves. In another a knight is drawn — As great a coward, this story tells, As ever hid in convent cells. The tale is modelled exactly on the chansons de geste. It begins by giving us the history of the hero's family. His father. Count Turgibus, pale and j^ellow, with a. neck like an ostrich, is a great man of war, who pierces, the wings of butterflies with his lance ; his mother, the one-eyed Rainberge. The usual presages of future greatness surround the heir at his birth. There are no nightingales, it is true, struck mute at the advent of so great a man ; the stars do not pale ; but the ass, the dog, and the cat of the castle shriek all night, and so proclaim their sense of what has come into the world. Audigier, the hero, grows up the type of awkwardness. 24 THE CHANSON. clumsiness, and ugliness. The tale goes on to show how he set out on his travels in search of adventure, and what befel him, finishing with his marriage to the frightful Tronce Crevace. There were, lastly, the Wonderful Adventures of travellers, a favorite theme from the time of Lucian, who doubtless borrowed from some one else. The dit d'aventures relates how a traveller, losing his way in an enchanted forest, is attacked by brigands ; how he is saved from their daggers by a she-wolf and her brood of twelve young wolves ; how he falls into the river, and is rescued by taking the bait of a fisherman, who drags him to the surface ; and how he is swallowed by an enormous monster, from whom he is rescued by a friendly bull, who gores the monster in the flanks, and so opens a way for escape. % Library. Chapter II. RUTEBEUF THE TROUVERE. Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a; A merry heart goes all the way, Your sad tires in a mile-a. — Winter''s Tale. TF such were the songs, what were the singers? The -^ only answer is to present one, a professional trouvere of the thirteenth century, a member of that fraternity which went up and down the country, travelling from castle to castle, from town to town. No kind of life more tempting to one who was not content to sit at home and see nothing, than the life of a trouvere. The Crusades had spoiled the grand pilgrimage, which before had been the excitement of a lifetime. When Jerusa- lem fell into the hands of the Saracens, the one supreme pleasure of life was lost with it, namely, to leave every thing, care, trouble, debts, wife, and children — to go away, staff in hand, license in pocket, and trudge though Europe and across Asia Minor to the Ploly Land. And now only the local saints, a feeble folk, were left. At home, the rules were strict about keeping to your own work, your own dress, your own town, even your own food, so that life was doleful in its monotony, and we are not surprised when we hear how the minstrels so crowded every road that King Philip Augustus restricted their numbers by law, and sent all the rest out of the country. Some went to Italy, and some went to Eng- land. At Bologna there were so many French min- 26 RUTEBEUF. strels that they made a law to prevent their singing in the streets. A pleasant life, if onl}^ the competition was not too keen, to take the road when the winter was fairly gone and the spring set in ; to visit, one after the other, the places where the singer was always welcome — to sing the old song outside, sure of a joyous reception within. Watch of the tower, Guard for your hour The walls of the castle secure from the foe. While on my lute I play Love song and roundelay, Ere, once again, on my journey I go. If the minstrel were lucky, he might get taken into some great noble's castle, haply even into the palace of the king. Philip Augustus, for instance, had Dans Helynand always with him to refresh his soul, as Saul had David. Judging from the only poem of Helynand's that I have seen, Philip's enviable soul was easily refreshed. Below the rank of trouv e re w^^ the jongleur. He it was who could play any sort of instrument, sing any kind of song, cure ever}'- disease, tell stories, throw in satirical bits at monks and their wicked ways. He was not too proud to turn somersaults ; he knew all the folk-lore and the proverbs ; he had been everywhere ; could recite adventures by sea and land ; tell of hours of peril with the infidel, fights with strange sea-mon- sters. He had seen the court of the great Khaliff of Cairo ; he knew the city of Prester John ; and if no suspicious eye was Avatching, he would tell fortunes, cast horoscopes, give children to the childless, and pro- long the life of the dying. Above all, he it was who re- lieved the monotony of existence in the country -town. THE JONGLEUR. 27 He it was who kept np by his unflagging spirits, his jokes, and his songs, the popular illusion of the jovial wandering life. What school-boy has not mourned over the cruel fate that forbids him to be a gypsy, a cheap Jack, a clown ? Sings the jongleur — I lead a good life semper quam possum ; The host brings his bill, and 1 say, " Ecce assum." At spending my money semper paratus sum ; AVhen I think in my heart, et meditatus sum, Ergo dives habet nummos sed non habet ipsum. Love, singing, and drinking libenter colo To play after dinner cum deciis volo: Though I know that the dice non sunt sine dole. Una vice I praise myself, then I repent, Omnia sunt hominum tenui pendentia filo. To drink the good wine fui generatus. To hoard up my treasure non exstiti natus. Certain it is I am not locupletatus, For the miser was never to Heaven exaltatus ; Despice divitias si vis animo esse beatus. As yet, remark, there is no censorship of literature. The poet is free ; to be sure, if he allows himself undue license, there are irregular penalties not laid down by law. His tongue may be pierced, or his eyes put out, or his ears sliced. These are little dangers in the way, but thej^ are rarely met with. Most trouveres and Jong- leurs say just what they please, as privileged as the King's fool. Literature is free, and for a good three hundred years, every one, saving the respect due to the church, may sing, recite, or narrate any thing he likes ; which is, above all, the most important point to remem- ber about that mediaeval life in which the songs of the minstrel played so great a part. All this brings us to Rutebeuf, who occupies a middle 28 RUTEBEUF. position between the jongleur and trouvere. When he is out of luck he is the people's poet ; when things go well with him, he frequents great lialls, and sings for lords and ladies. We know nothing of his life except what we can construct from his poems. His contempo- raries never mention him. And yet of all the trouveres he is the most original, the most real, and therefore the most attractive. The short biography which follows I tender with great deference to that historical spirit which requires proof. For of proof there is little. It is evolved from the careful reading of his poems and attention to the circumstances of the time. Some of the details may be wrong ; the broad facts I am sure are true. He was born early in the thirteenth century, of hum- ble parentage, as his name denotes. He was a quick, sharp lad, and being endowed with a marvellously sweet voice, Avas taken into the service of the church in some Champagne town. Here he received from the monks the rudiments of learning, and was taught to sing and play. Some benefactor — perhaps the abbot, perhaps the seigneur — assisted him to go to the University of Paris, where he fought, gambled, sung, danced, -and comported himself like young Frollo till the time came when the stream of bounty ceased, and the grim necessity of labor stared him in the face. No thesis had been held ; no degree had been conferred ; no learning had been ac- quired. But the sweet boyish soprano was now a fine, vigorous tenor; his knowledge of musical instruments had extended till there was nothing he could not play, from the lute to the bagpipes ; and he could sing and recite countless songs and fabliaux. Great Gaster, first Master of Arts, according to Rabe- ON THE TRAMP. 29 lais, decreed that he should be a minstrel. So he copied out his own verses fair, made up the budget which was to form his '' entertainment," tied up his personal belong- ings, which would make but a small parcel, and, with his lute in his hand, started on the tramp. Going on the tramp in his century was more picturesque than at present, undoubtedly ; and could the minstrel have fore- seen the advent of a day when all the splendor of cos- tume was to vanish, with the glittering of armor, and the glory of banners, he would certainly have enjoyed his march more. On the other hand, there were rob- bers — not so many as were to come a hundred years later, which might also have consoled a prophet — but still enough to convey a lasting and ever-present sense of danger. You might at any time be caught and plun- dered of ever}^ thing. If you were suspected of having portable property concealed, there were a thousand ingenious and persuasive arts by which you would be induced to tell what and where it was. Few natures can resist the pleading of a brigand, accompanied by the prod of his knife — though this was elementary. There were twistings by the thumbs and by the wrist, parboil- ings, partial roastings, with other rough and handy measures of persuasion. Above all, since dead men alone tell no tales, there was always the nearest tree to be dreaded. Therefore, when men journeyed in a small company, so far from the minstrel being encouraged to beguile the way by song, he would be more often warned not to bring the enemy upon them by his unseasonable noise. And in winter time there were wolves — troops and swarms of wolves. In the great towns there were always inns where money was to be made, and public j^laces where a plat- form could be erected ; between the towns lay the cas- 30 RUTEBEUF. ties, and it was too often the minstrel's unhappy lot to find in the seigneur a man with no more taste for music than a Babbage, or already cleaned out by previous visitors. It Avas not for a poor minstrel like Rutebeuf to despise the village jplace and the stage of the jongleur. Dressed in the conventional robe which proclaimed his calling in the triple capacity of singer, quack, and traveller, he posed upon the boards and sang his song before he sold his drugs. Who has toothache ? Who has rheumatism ? Who wants to be 3'oung again? Behold the elixir of life ; behold the herb gathered at peril of life and limb from under the very nose of the Paj-nim. The price is nominal, for the vendor has no other motive in selling it than the good of his kind. And as to the qualifications of the wandering philanthropist — but listen to the song of Autol^'cus : — Hola ! lords and ladies all, Gentles great and villains small, Hear what luck doth you befall On this day. There is no decit or guile. You will own it, if a while You will stay. , Sit down all, 'twill please you well, "While my tale I sing and tell, Strange and rare. Sirs, I am a doctor wise. Many lands have seen these eyes, Here and there. Cairo's city knows my face ; There I treated for a space Man and maid. Then I cross'd me o'er the seas, 'Till my ship brought me to Greece, Where I stay'd. THE CHARLATAN. 31 Next to Italy I came, Laden with my gold and fame, Curing all. There I found herbs strange to see, Fit to heal all ills that be, Great and small. Thence I journeyed to the stream Where the precious jewels gleam. Day and night. But, alas ! I could not land, Prester John was close at hand With his might. Yet they brought me from the port Stones and gems of such a sort, (Magic art,) That at merest touch the dead Come to life and lift their head, Light of heart. Leaving the road, Rutebeuf settled down in Paris, where it is sad \o relate that he took to the line on which satirists, the most independent, as they are also the most virtuous, of men, are especially severe — he began to court the great. He depended entirely on patronage, wrote songs to order, preached up the Crusades, though his heart must have felt ready to burst as each success- ful song armed another of the knights his patrons, and sent him far from his reach to die on the sands of Africa ; wept floods of tears, to please the saintly king, over cap- tive Jerusalem ; and only occasionally allowed himself the luxury of writing to please himself. He was always horribly poor, mainly because he was " sair hadden doon " by thcvice of gambling : — I gape with hunger, I cough with cold. My bed is of thorns, and my clothes are old ; I sit forlorn, with my pockets bare, In Paris, the city of all good fare ; And I lie all day on my pallet bed. Because I've no money to buy me bread. 32 RUTEBEUF. In the midst of his poverty, and with the absence of prudence which distinguishes ahke the poet and the parson — their only point of resemblance — he married, and had a large family. What became of the younger Rutebeufs I do not know, but Ave may fear the worst, from the example set them by their thriftless father. In one of those heav}^ moods which fall sometimes upon all bards, he had the bad taste to write about his own wife, even to complain of her age and ugliness. No doubt the poor woman, who certainly could not read, never saw her husband's verses : — Home and money I had none : Yet I married. Was it done Out of pure good-will — All to cheer and comfort those Who hate my luck and love my woes, And would wish me ill? Such a wife, too, I must choose : Poor and ragged as her spouse : Pale and thin of face. Neither fair nor young was she, Fifty years her age might be, Tall and scant of grace. However, having married, he must work harder. Day after day he has to go out, carrying his bag as well as his lute — for he receives payment in kind for his songs : — When home I go with a swollen pack Swinging heavily at my back, My wife jumps up with a joyful cry, And throws her spindle and spinning by. And then there is roasting of chickens, buying of new bread, and rejoicing of the children. But there are too many children. While his wife is C(Hi fined with another baby, the nurse brings back the AGE AND DEATH, 33 last, for which she has not been paid, and threatens to leave it at the house unless the poor distracted trouvere will pay her bill. " Leave it here ? " he cries in exas- peration, " to bellow all about the house ? " He will do nothing for the child. He loses his temper, and cries out, impatiently : — Cil dame Diex qui le fist nestre ^ Li doinst chevance. Which, gentle reader, you may translate for yourself. Presently more misfortunes fall upon him, and he compares himself to Job : he loses the sight of one eye, the one which sees best ; he gets poorer instead of richer, and, worse than all, he gets old. Alas! the years of youth are o'er, Its many sports are spent ; Age is come, I sing no more, 'Tis time that I repent. So, too, La Fontaine laments his sins when he is too old to sin any more : — Iklille autres passions, des sages condamnees, Ont pris comme a I'envi la fleur de mes annees. So, too, Henry Murger, Marot, Villon. They are all alike. When the last hour comes they send for the priest, and patch up a hasty peace with the church. Good, easy-going French church ! She receives all these sinners on the easiest terms, gives them the kiss of a mother who only laughs at the follies of her chil- dren, and promises tliem, before they go to bed, forgive- ness and a whole hoHday for the morrow. So the trouvere puts down his lute, heaves a sigh, and! dies. Songs, ballads, exhortations to the Crusades, /rt5-| liaux, mysteries and miracles, and poems against the. monks — these are the literary baggage of Rutebeuf. 3 34 RUTEBEUF. As regards the last, he is the boldest assailant of the church ; not for her doctrines, understand, but for the evil lives of her servants : — Iler sons are sleeping, watch and ward are left In peril great — of all but God bereft. He is beside himself when he attacks the hypocrites ; he would like to hang them all : — Fans papelars, fans hypocrites, Fausse vie menez et orde; Qui vous pendroit a vostre corde II auroit faict bonne journee. He was not, however, the first who assailed hypoc- risy. We find the hypocrite in the '^ Castoiement d'un pdre a un fils" (translated fiom the " Disciplina Cleri- calis"): — Fair without and clean I am, Clothed in the skin of a stolen lamb. We shall meet him afterwards perpetually, till he cul- minates in Tartuffe. Hear what Rutebeiif says about monks : — By many a shift and many a part Live tliey who know no trade or art To gain their life in honest way. Some clothe themselves in sackcloth gray, And some, to show the good they do, Go without shirts the whole year through. The Jacobins, so rich at home, Rule Paris here, and there rule Rome ; Kings and Apostles both are they, And year by year still grows their sway. For when one dies, if in his will • ' The Order be not mention'd. still His soul may wai-t without, that so The Order thus may greater grow. THE FABLIAU. 35 In the " Chanson des Ordres " Rutebeuf parades the whole crew of monks, bestowing an impartial flagella- tion on each in turn. There is the Jacobin, the Corde- lier, the Carmelite, the Trappist. Then there is, all by himself in a separate " diz," the Pharisee, clad in a simple robe, pale and dried of face, with austere air, cruel and malicious more than lion, leopard, or scorpion. And lastly, there is the b<^guine, who (whatever she does, whether she weeps or laughs, sleeps or dreams) is always a saint : — Sa parole est prophetic, SVll rit, c'est compaignie; S'ell pleure, c'est devocion; S'ell dort, ell est ravie; S'ell songe, c'est vision; S'ell ment, n'en creez mie. Rutebeuf is also the author of the very best of the old miracle plays. Short as it is, it is written with a firm hand. The situations are effective, simple, and striking. This is hardly the place for a notice of his '' Theo- philus," the study of which belongs to th^ history of miracles and mysteries. Like \i\^ fabliaux., it is remark- - able for the great clearness of treatment. But the principal function of the minstrel was to put into a poetical form all the stories which he could col- lect together, and to tell over again those which others had collected. Th.^, fabliau is, above all, the true place to look for mediseval fun, satire, or humor, as well as for mediaeval manners and customs. The fabliau was essentially the amusement of the winter evenings ; happy he who could write a new one or furbish up an old one. Here the cure and the friar come to well-merited grief; here the jealous husband is outwitted; here la 36 RUTEBEUF, femme — the life and soul of the stories — is alternately glorified and disgraced — ofttimes the latter: — Feme est de trop foible nature, De noient rit, de iioient pleure. Feme aime et het en trop poi d'eure. Here is the story of the " Medecin malgre lui ; " here that of Griselda — " Griselidis " — the type of patient conjugal virtue ; and here the real popular belief about religion. An example of the last is the fabliau of the ^^ Villain who gained Paradise by pleading." The poor rustic dies ; he is so humble that no one, neither angel nor devil, cares to have any thing to do with his soul. He wanders alone and unmolested, till he finds himself at the gates of Heaven. I tell a tale that once I read : 'Tis of a villain long since dead, And of his soul. He passed away One Friday at the close of day. When it behooved the man to die, Angel or devil, none was by; And so the soul, from body reft. Stood waiting there unheeded left. None came to claim it ; all in awe, Yet half rejoiced, the poor soul saw No devil instant flames command, No angel's smiling face at hand. Then looking curious here and there. Perceived a distant portal, where Saint Michael's self was leading straight A happy soul through Heaf en's gate. The villain followed, till at last To Paradise itself he passed. Saint Peter, Heaven's porter, who Had opened gates to let them through, The soul received by Michael brought. And then his eyes the villain caught. " Who art thou? " asked he, when he saw The soul come in against the law. THE VILLAIN IN PARADISE. 37 " Here is there entrance none, except For those by judgment strict elect. Besides, in truth, by Saint Gillain, We want not here base-born villain." To whom the villain made reply, " No worse than you, fair saint, am I ; Harder are you than any stone ; Small honor have the churches won From your apostleship, 'Twas you Who did deny your Saviour true." Ashamed and angry, Peter stayed, And called Saint Thomas to his aid. Saint Thomas, " Leave the case to me, Not long in Heaven his soul shall be." Then to the villain goes, and, " Say By what authority you stay, False villain, where no soul may come Without escort? This is no home For such as you. From Paradise Begone at once." The villain cries, *' Ah I Thomas, Thomas, is it well For thee such measure rude to tell ? Art thou not he who, doubting still, Would'st not confess thy Lord until, False and of little faith, I ween. His very wounds thine eyes had seen? " Saint Thomas, grieved, with answer none. Bent low his head, and next is gone Straight to Saint Paul. " Now, by my head," Cried Paul, " this villain shall be sped, — Villain," said he, " you enter here, Regardless of all right, all fear; Know, villain base, of low degree, That Paradise is not for thee: Therefore begone." " What!" cried the soul, " Do I behold the Apostle Paul? Paul, he who, cruel beyond compare. Stoned Stephen, first of martyrs fair? Full well I know thy life of old, How many a man, betray'd and sold. 88 RUTEBEUF. "Was put to death by thee and thine, Apostle fair, and saint divine. Hal have I not thy exploits heard? " Saint Paul, abashed, with never a word In answer, with confusion burned, And to the other two returned. It will easily be guessed that it is well not to trans- late any further. The villain is allowed to remain in Heaven. This boldness in dealing with subjects of the deepest reverence is entirely characteristic of the fabliau. It is due partly to their mock religious ceremonies, and partly to the intense luitred of the monks which overran all France in the three centuries immediately preceding the Reformation. Thus, we have the lover's Paternoster, where every clause is a peg for amatory sentiments ; the Credo of the Ribaut ; — Credo — I believe in dice; "Without a penny for the price Full often have they got me meat. Good wine to drink, and friends to treat; And sometimes, too, when luck went worse, They've stripped me clean of robe and purse. And so on. There is the Credo of the usurer. He is dying, and makes his last confession : — Credo — this my faith receive: In my coffers I believe. In Deum — what shall I do? My wife is such a thriftless shrew. Patrem — if I leave her these, And get well of my disease, Half at least she'd waste and spend. Omnipolenfem — ah ! my friend, I remember how, one day. Five whole livres she threw away; And a hundred sous and more — Creatorem — gone before. THE ASS'S TESTAMENT. 89 There are knightly stories, and tricks of villains. There is the story of Narcissus, of Graelent, of Aucassin and Nicolette, the prettiest of pretty stories ; the lay of Aristotle, and a thousand tales which may be read still with pleasure. Grave faults there are, of course, and a selection must be made. The fabliau^ every thing by turns, was thus the real instructor of the people, who could read nothing, were taught nothing, knew nothing. It was for this reason that the churcli, taking alarm at the great influence which the satirical fahliaiix had obtained, devised the plan of teaching sound doctrines by the same means. In these was inculcated the worship of the Virgin, of different saints, the duty and rewards of keeping up the church, of paying dues, attending services, and the like. And then people began to yawn, and so the fabliau went into disrepute. But that was long after Rutebeuf wrote the following, which is the story of the " Ass's Last Will and Testament," with which we will finish this chapter : — A priest there M'as in times of oltl, Fond of his cliureh, but fonder of gold, AVho spent liis days and all liis thought ' In getting ^vvhat he preached was nought. \ Ilis I'h'sts were full of robes and stuif, Corn tilled his garners to the roof, Stored up against the fair-times gay, From Saint Remy to Easter Day. An ass he had within his stable, A beast most sound and valuable. For twenty years he lent his strength For the priest his master, till at length, "Worn out with work and age, he died. The priest, .who loved him, wept and cried; And, for his service long and hard, Buried him in his own churchyard. Now turn we to another thing: 'Tis of a bishop that I sing. 40 RUTEBEUF. No greedy miser he, I ween; Prelate so generous ne'er was seen. Full well he loved in company Of all good Christians still to be; When he was well, his pleasure still, His medicine best when he was ill. Always his hall was full, and there His guests had ever best of fare. Whate'er the bishop lack'd or lost Was bought at once despite the cost; And so in spite of rent and score, The bishop's debts grew more and more. For true it is — this ne'er forget — AVho spends too much gets into debt. One day his friends all with him sat, The bishop talking this and that, Till the discourse on rich clerks ran, Of greedy priests, and how their plan Was all good bishops still to grieve, And of their dues their lords deceive. And then the priest of whom I've told Was mention'd; how he loved his gold. And because men do often use More freedom than the truth would choose, They gave him wealth, and wealth so much, As those like him could scarcely touch. " And then beside, a thing he's done. By which great profit might be won, Could it be only spoken here." Quoth the bishop, " Tell it without fear." *' He's worse, my lord, than Bedouin, Because his own dead ass, Baldwin, He buried in the sacred ground." " If this is truth, as shall be found," The bishop cried, " a forfeit high Will on his worldly riches lie. Summon this wicked priest to me; I will myself in this case be The judge. If Robert's word be true, Mine are the fine and forfeit too." The priest comes when summoned. " Disloyal! God's enemy and mine, Prepare to pay a heavy fine. THE ASS'S TESTAMENT. 41 Thy ass thou buriest in the place Sacred by church. Now, by God's grace, I never heard of crime more great. What! Christian men with asses wait? Now, if this thing be proven, know Surely to prison thou wilt go." *' Sir,'" said the priest, " thy patience grant; A short delay is all I want. Not that I fear to answer now — But give me what the laws allow." And so the bishop leaves the priest, AVho does not feel as if at feast. But still, because one friend remains, He trembles not at prison pains. His purse it is which never fails For tax or forfeit, fine or vails. The term arrived, the priest appeared, And met the bishop, nothing feared; For 'neath his girdle safe there hung A leathern purse, well stocked and strung "With twenty pieces fresh and bright. Good money all, none clipped or light. " Priest," said the bishop, "if thou have Answer to give to charge so grave, 'Tisnow the time." " Sir, grant me leave My answer secretly to give. Let me confess to you alone, And, if needs be, my sins atone." The bishop bent his head to hear, The priest he whispered in his ear : " Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell — My poor ass served me long and well. For twenty years my faithful slave. Each year his work a saving gave Of twenty sous — so that in all To twenty hvres the sum will fall. And, for the safety of his soul. To you, my lord, he left the whole." " 'Twas rightly done," the tishop said, And gravely shook his godly head : " And, that his soul to heaven may go, My absolution I bestow. " 42 RUTEBEUF. Now have you heard a truthful lay, How with rich priests the bishops play, And Rutebeuf the moral draws That, spite of kings' and bishops' laws, No evil times hath he to dread Who still hath silver at his need. Note ox Reynard the Fox. During these centuries there were gradually grownng up the various stories which go to make the immense assemblage known as "Reynard the Fox." The Reynard series, which in France numbers some three hundred and twenty thousand lines, began, it is quite uncertain when, but probably in the tenth or eleventh cen- tury, with the Latin poem of Reinardiis Vulpes. This was written somewhere east of the Rhine, and somewhere north of the Loire. jNo other limits can be assigned, no other date can be given. It is .absurd for the Germans to claim the work, as they have done, and .almost as absurd for the French. Let us give the original Reynard jto Belgium. I This enormous work, wherein the whole of the mediaeval life is /represented, its satire, its ambitions, its desires, its follies, may be I compared to a great cathedral, round which are grouped the smaller chapels, each the idea of a different architect, while in the building itself every artist has been free to carve what he pleased, and every workman seems to have left his iildividual mark. The names of the poets have perished. Here and there one tells us something about himself. " I am a priest of La Croix en Brie," says one. ''I am a merchant and a grocer," says another. And thus each adds his quota to the stupendous whole and goes away. I can only here briefly indicate the main points of the old French Renart. The legend has been divided into three periods perfectly distinct. The first, which contained the Reinardus Vulpes, the French, Flemish, and German Reynard, brings us to the beginning of the thirteenth century. The second, containing the " Crowning of Reynard," belongs also to the thirteenth century. The third belongs to a new state of society, in the fifteenth cen- tury, and contains Renart le contrefait. The first period is the one best known. It is on this poem that Goethe has made his Reineke Fuchs. Reynard is a proper name, like that of Isengrin for the wolf. The dramatis personce are — to REYNARD THE FOX. 43 give them their French names — Noble the lion, B run the bear, Firapel the leopard, Brichemer the stag, Tardif the snail, bearer of the royal banner, Bernar;! the ass and archbishop, Tybert the cat, Belin the ram. Escoffle the kite, Tiercelin the raven — these three last are confessors. Chanticleer the cock, Grimbert the badger, Cointerians the monkey, Rakenau the she-monkey, the last three being near relations of Reynard. Reynard is not bound by any of the rules of chivalric honor. He runs away. He hides and waits. He lies, thieves, and prac- tises every sort of dishonorable action. He relies on his cunning more than his strength. He is poor. He lives retired in his castle of Malpertuis with llermeline his wife, and his three sons Perce- haie, Malebranche, and Rovel. Sometimes there is nothing to eat. Then Reynard makes the children an improving speech and goes out to see what he can pick up. His quarrels and battle with Tsengrin are tha, principal inci- dents. We need not follow a well-known story^'