by Robert Bell.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.2 #9 (Oct 1842).
[The erudite reader need not trouble himself with this preludious note, which is simply intended to inform the younger branches of country families that the "Gesta Romanorum" is a collection of apologues and moralized fables belonging to the thirteenth century. It seems that the method of teaching wholesome truths by way of example was recognised and practised in the early ages of the Christian church—the way having been first shewn by the Divine author of the Parables. The "Speculum Historiale" and the "Gesta Romanorum" are amongst the most ancient specimens extant of this curious species of lore; and it is well authenticated by Erasmus, Schelhorn, and others, that they were frequently quoted in the pulpit—a matter which is not very surprising, perhaps, considering that Petrarch and Boccaccio were amongst the most popular authorities quoted and referred to in a later age by Italian preachers. It is not known who wrote the "Gesta Romanorum." Warton ascribes the authorship to Peter Bercheur, prior of the convent of St. Eloy, in Paris. Douce assigns several reasons why it could not have been written by Bercheur, and thinks it must have been the work of a German. It is not at all improbable, however, that instead of being the production of a single hand, it was a compilation from a variety of sources. In addition to the original "Gesta Romanorum," of which a great number of editions have been printed in Germany, France, and the Low Countries, there is another "Gesta Romanorum," which has never been printed, several MS. copies of which exist in the public libraries of England, and which seems to have been written in imitation of the former. Mr. Douce gives a full account of this production. Mr. Tyrwhitt appears to have mistaken it for the "Gesta Romanorum" analyzed by Warton, from which, however, it is different, although it embraces, in new shapes, some of the most striking fables contained in that work. It is of English origin, apparently; but, like its predecessor, it is written in Latin. Mr. Douce suspects that the monks used to "recreate their minds" with these productions, as well as make use of them in their sermons. Being written in Latin, they were inaccessible to the bulk of the laity; but that was no obstacle to the monks, to whom Latin was a sort of mother-tongue. "They might even have indulged in this kind of recreation," says Mr. Douce, "during their continuance in the refectory after meals. For this purpose one of the fraternity, more eminently qualified than the rest, might entertain them with the recital of matters that would admit of some moral application to be made by the reader, or which was already attached to the subject." It is only necessary to have a little faith in this supposition of the ingenious illustrator of Shakspeare, in order to realize a characteristic monkish tableau with the help of the following legend. Imagine some half dozen rosy fathers recreating themselves in the refectory over sundry flasks of Rhenish, while one, more eminently qualified than the rest, reads aloud this chapter out of the "Gesta Romanorum" for the edification of his hearers. The "moral application" must be supplied according to circumstances. R.B.]
Lobe laughs at Monarchs.
I.
The court of the Emperor Polentius was renowned for the beauty of the ladies by whose presence it was graced, and for the courage and gallantry of the knights who waited upon them. But of all the lustrous damsels who thronged the saloons of the palace, the Princess Aglaëë, daughter of the emperor, was the most lovely. The minstrels exhausted all known similes in the hope of being enabled to express adequately in their songs the extraordinary beauty of her eyes, her mouth, her forehead, and her hair;—but in vain. Oriental imagery broke down under the effort, and the princess was, of necessity, pronounced per se. Loadstars, odours out of Paradise, snow from the sunless depths of the Sahund, and the ripe, radiant tresses of naiads were cited and sung in vain. The beauties of the Princess Aglaë transcended them all, and left Poetry in despair.
Of all the knights whose achievements rendered the chivalry of the court of Polentius famous over the world, Sir Hildebrand was the most distinguished. Others were immortalized by single feats of wonderful valour: one had slain a pestiferous dragon; another had fought his way through a cordon of wild beasts, and rescued a beautiful lady from the hands of a wicked enchanter; and a third had maintained an unequal conflict with a giant. But Sir Hildebrand was renowned for the incalculable number and variety of his performances. His strength was prodigious; his eye was sure; and he was said to have killed more knights in single combat, than would have furnished retinues for all the emperors in Christendom. The merits of Sir Hildebrand were themes of universal admiration. There was not a noble lady at the court who would not have gladly exchanged places with his page. But the Princess Aglaë had already engaged his affections in secret; and, even while the fairest and loftiest amongst them were contending for the possession of his heart, the prize was appropriated by the princess.
Never was love more perfect or more pure. The lustre of heroic deeds and the wealth of kingdoms were as dust in the balance compared with the value they placed upon each other's devotion; and Hildebrand would rather have called to life again all the knights he had slain, and the princess would rather have forfeited her father's throne, than surrender that sweet dream of their youth. But alas! and well-a-day! dreams do not hold out in the face of the sun, who wakens up the sleeper out of his region of fantasies, and calls him into the palpable world of action. The trumpet had sent forth its echoes through the Christian nations of the earth, requiring all true and loyal knights to arm for the Holy Land. The click of rivets might be heard from pole to pole; heroes were everywhere to be seen trying on new suits of armour, or inspecting the repairs of old; and the forges of Europe were in flame and commotion day and night. It was not a time for Sir Hildebrand to dally in the twilight bowers of love. While an infidel foot-print marked the sands of Palestine, it would have been treason to think of Aglaë. In this strait, he took the vow of seven years' dedication to the crusades. For seven long years he vowed to do battle for the Cross. And in this agony, the princess, looking at him through her tears, and placing her slender fingers upon his mailed shoulder, exclaimed—"Go, my Hildebrand, annihilate the pagans; return, and claim me. I swear, for thy sake, to remain unwed for seven long years!"
The princess strains her eyes, almost blind with weeping, to catch a last glimpse of her lover from the battlements. He and his train have already passed over the drawbridge, and are seen winding along the plain below. At last the cavalcade pierce the forest, and, one by one, they disappear amongst the trees. A single horseman remains behind, mounted on a silver-grey charger; he raises his plumed cap, from whence depends an azure ribbon starred over with crosses.—It is Hildebrand! He looks upwards for a brief moment; then, turning slowly towards the wood, he is lost in the gloom. Gentle and loving Aglaë, what a seven years' misery lies before thee!
II.
"Daughter, daughter, it is not well in thee to hold this discourteous silence towards my well-trusted friend and ally, I tell thee, the King of Hungary—a right gracious king!—seeks thy hand in marriage. He has broad lands and waters, mountains that scale the skies, and rivers that search the caverns of the earth. He will make thee a queen, daughter, and when I die thou shalt inherit my crown, and make thy lord an emperor."
"Father, father, it is not well in thee to hold this cunning language towards thy daughter. I tell thee I am betrothed, and cannot give my hand in marriage to the King of Hungary. Broad lands may be laid waste, and waters may be ploughed by hostile ships; mountains may roll from their base, and rivers may inundate the valleys; but true love never can fail. I would rather serve him I love, than be Queen of Hungary. As to my lord's inheritance, he who is rich in love has no need of any other empire."
"For four heavy years the King of Hungary has wooed thee; yet never could he get an answer. He hath sent vessels to my harbours laden with presents, yet not one of them wouldst thou receive. This must have an end."
"All things end, but love, which is immortal. The gracious king is answered in my silence."
"I cannot accept this idle speech. Thou art betrothed—well, thy betrothed cometh not—thou art free."
"When my vow expires, I am released. And then, father, I place myself at thy disposal, to do with me what thou wilt. My heart is evermore in the grave."
"My fair daughter, thy vow shall be respected. How long have we yet to wait?"
"A twelvemonth and three days. If within that time my true lord should not come, you shall make answer for me to the king."
The banquet rings in the imperial hall, and Hungary drinks to the health of Polentius, wishing every grain of sand in the hourglass had a pair of wings, to give speed to the coming twelvemonth; and Polentius talks thickly of partitions, and treaties, and territorial lines, until the moaning flames lick the sockets of the lamps, and a deep, multitudinous snore, rising up both from below and above the salt, steeps the clamorous revellers in unanimous slumber.
Throughout the whole of that night the Princess Aglaë was alone in her oratory, on her knees before a crucifix, praying for Hildebrand!
III.
A thousand lances are ranged before the gates of the castle. The court-yard is crowded with heads, gathered on a sudden, out of curiosity or joy. Some have a heedless kerchief thrown over them, others are wrapped in hoods, and not a few in any odd garment that happened to come first to hand. The sun has just risen, and the grey light, struggling out of a cold fringe of clouds, is barely caught by the points of the lances, and reflected back sluggishly upon the masses that heave and fret in the intermediate space. There are groups of watchers in every window, and on the summits of every tower. Wherever a foot can find room to perch, there some perilous climber has ascended at the risk of his neck, and even the columns of the facade are wreathed with tenacious limbs.
At last the trumpets fill the air with music, and swords flash out in the sun. The crowds give way on both sides, and down the open space the King of Hungary advances. His horse, richly caparisoned, awaits him. He leaps into the saddle. The trumpets stun the welkin with a burst of thunder, the multitude increase the deafening clamour with their shouts, and the procession begins to move out into the open country.
From east, west, north, and south, strange faces come to gaze upon this gorgeous progress. As the king moves onward through marsh and through meadow, through plains and through cities, eyes gather upon his path like stars, and brighten the way he goes. Never was bridal march like this. The echoes of the popular delight fall ever upon his ears like blessings welling up out of the general heart, and he goes along like a conquering bridegroom, exulting in the glory of his course.
He has ridden for many days, he and his thousand lances, and he is now within twelve hours' journey of the court of Polentius. A twelve month and two days have expired, and no tidings have been heard of Hildebrand. The princess will be free on the morrow, and his royalty comes right royally to make the beautiful Aglaë his bride. His heart swells high, and the wind that dances in his crest is not more gay than the King of Hungary.
As he rode on a-head of his thousand lances, thinking of anniversaries lying far off on the map of time, he overtook a knight, mounted on a horse covered with foam, and riding apparently in the same direction. The knight had a soiled and anxious look, but was so courteous and gallant that the king soon fell into conversation with him. In the midst of their wayside talk, there came on a violent fall of rain. If the sky had been thrown open from side to side, and all the water it contains let down in a single flood, the deluge could not have been more overwhelming than it was while this unlucky shower lasted. All the king's fine embroidery was ruined; silk and velvet, gold and silver, and all the rest of his wedding bravery, was completely destroyed. His majesty's consternation was unspeakable.
"You should have brought your house with you," observed the strange knight, drily.
The king thought this was a very singular admonition; but as the knight could not possibly know why the king was so much disturbed at the having his clothes spoiled, he made no reply.
Soon afterwards they came to a rapid stream of water, and the king, to shew his train that he was recovering his spirits, plunged in gaily with his horse. But the water was deeper than he supposed, and he was nearly drowned.
"You should have brought your bridge with you," said the strange knight.
This observation seemed more singular to the king than the former; but still he made no reply. It was now advancing towards evening, and the king inquired what time of day it was; when his mysterious companion promptly responded that it was time to eat, handing his majesty a cake, which the king accepted.
"You have acted unwisely," said the strange knight, "in omitting to bring your father and mother with you."
"My father and mother!" thought the king; "they are dead. What does he mean?"
They were now within a short distance of the emperor's palace, when the strange knight, reining up his steed, begged permission to take leave of the king, as he was desirous, for private reasons, to take another road. This curious request excited the king's wonder to such a itch, that he earnestly requested the knight to tell him what road he intended to take.
"Well, then," answered the knight, "since you press me so hard, I will tell you the truth. On this day seven years, I spread a net in a certain place, and to that place I am now going. If I find the net broken, I shall leave it where I find it; if whole, I shall take it away with me."
Having uttered these words, the knight struck his spurs into his horse's flanks, and was out of sight before the king could thoroughly comprehend what he had said.
IV.
There is high festival in the court of Polentius. The King of Hungary and his thousand lances have arrived, and the toils and accidents of the journey are drowned in sparkling goblets. The last night of the vow is come and nearly run out, and the tables groan with good cheer, and welcomes and congratulations smite the roof on all sides. In the midst of the universal delight, the King of Hungary relates the adventures he encountered on his progress, and above all, the curious quips of the strange knight; and a merry jest it is for the roystering company. They are fit to crack their sides with laughter, and everybody has a fling at the unknown chevalier. Polentius, nevertheless, thinks there is some purpose in the knight's words, and undertakes to interpret them for the amusement of his guests.
"The knight is a wise man," said the emperor; "and it is plain enough that when he said the king should bring his house with him, he meant nothing more than his cloak; that the bridge he talked of, signified merely that the king should have sent his attendants before him, to ascertain the depth of the water; and that by the king's father and mother, he indicated the bread and wine with which he should have provided himself for his journey."
This explanation is received with plaudits by the whole company—(for when was there found in a palace a courtier to doubt the wisdom of a monarch?)—but the king, not being quite satisfied with it, asked the emperor what interpretation he puts upon that part of the knight's speech which related to the net.
Polentius is evidently perplexed. He knits his brows, and resting his chin on one outspread palm, he looks thoughtfully into a still pool of wine that had gradually formed itself on the board before him, reflecting his head and beard, foreshortened, on its shining surface. A dead silence sets in upon the assembly. The emperor is thinking!
Short time suffices to suggest to the imperial brain the suspicion that now takes possession of it. "This night seven years!" exclaims Polentius, and springing out of his throne, he shrieks aloud to the astonished company, "My daughter!" It is the work of but a few minutes to plant sentries upon every avenue communicating with the princess's apartments, to ascend the stairs, and penetrate to her chamber. It is too late. The rooms are empty. Hildebrand has taken the shortest road, and been there before them!