A History of the French Novel, Vol. 1

by George Saintsbury

  CHAPTER IV

  THE BEGINNINGS OF PROSE FICTION

  [Sidenote: Prose novelettes of the thirteenth century. _Aucassin etNicolette_ not quite typical.]

  The title of this chapter may seem an oversight or an impertinence,considering that large parts of an earlier one have been occupied withdiscussions and translations of the prose Arthurian Romances. It was,however, expressly pointed out that the priority of these is a matter ofopinion, not of judgment; and it may be here quite frankly admitted thatone of the most serious arguments against that priority is the extremelateness of Old French Prose in any finished literary form. The excuse,however, if excuse be needed, does not turn on any such hinge as this.It was desired to treat, in the last two chapters, romance matter properof the larger kind, whether that matter took the form of prose or ofverse. Here, on the other hand, the object is to deal with the smallerbut more miscellaneous body of fictitious matter (part, no doubt, of alarger) which presents it tolerably early, and in character foretellsthe immense development of the kind which French was to see later.[75] Aportion of this body, sufficient for us, is contained in two littlevolumes of the _Bibliotheque Elzevirienne_, published rather less thansixty years ago (1856 and 1858) by MM. L. Moland and Ch. d'Hericault,the first devoted to thirteenth-, the second to fourteenth-century work.One of these, the now world-famous _Aucassin et Nicolette_, has been somuch written about and so often translated already that it cannot benecessary to say a great deal about it here. It is, moreover, of a mixedkind, a _cante-fable_ or blend of prose and verse, with a considerabletouch of the dramatic in it. Its extraordinary charm is a thing long agosettled; but it is, on the whole, more of a dramatic and lyricalromance--to recouple or releash kinds which Mr. Browning had perhapsbest never have put asunder--than of a pure prose tale.

  [Sidenote: _L'Empereur Constant_ more so.]

  Its companions in the thirteenth-century volume are four in number, andif none of them has the peculiar charm, so none has the technicaldisqualification (if that be not too strong a word) of _Aucassin etNicolette_. The first, shortest, and, save for one or two points, leastremarkable, _L'Empereur Constant_, is a very much abbreviated and inmore than one sense prosaic version of the story out of which Mr.William Morris made his delightful _The Man Born to be King_. Probablyof Greek or Greek-Eastern origin, it begins with an astrological passagein which the Emperor, childless except for a girl, becomes informed ofthe imminent birth of a man-child, who shall marry his daughter andsucceed him. He discovers the, as it seems, luckless baby; has itbrought to him, and with his own hand attempts to disembowel it, butallows himself, most improbably,[76] to be dissuaded from finishing theoperation. The benevolent knight who has prevented the completion of thecrime takes the infant to a monastery, where (after a quaint scene ofhaggling about fees with the surgeon) the victim is patched up, grows tobe a fine youth, and comes across the Emperor, to whom the abbotguilelessly, but in this case naturally enough,[77] betrays the secret.The Emperor's murderous thoughts as naturally revive, and thefrustration of them by means of the Princess's falling in love with theyouth, the changing of "the letters of Bellerophon," and the Emperor'sresignation to the inevitable, follow the same course as in the Englishpoem. The latter part is better than the earlier; and the writer isevidently (as how should he not be?) a novice; but his work is the kindof experiment from which better things will come.

  [Sidenote: _Le Roi Flore et la Belle Jehane._]

  These marks of the novice are even more noticeable in a much longerstory, _Le Roi Flore et la Belle Jehane_, which is found not only in thesame printed volume, but in the same original MS. The fault of this iscurious, and--if not to a mere reader for pastime, to a student offiction--extremely interesting. It is one not at all unknown at thepresent day, and capable of being used as an argument in favour of thedoctrine of the Unities: that is to say, the mixture, by arbitrary andviolent process, of two stories which have nothing whatever to do witheach other, except that they are, wilfully and with no reason, buckledtogether at the end. The first, thin and uninteresting enough, is of acertain King Florus, who has a wife, dearly beloved, but barren. Aftersome years and some very unmanly shilly-shallyings, he puts her away,and marries another, with whom (one is feebly glad to find) he is nomore lucky, but who has herself the luck to die after some years.Meanwhile, King Florus being left "in a cool barge for future use," thesecond item, a really interesting story, is, with some intervals,carried on. A Count of high rank and great possessions has an onlydaughter, whom, after experience of the valour and general worthiness ofone of his vassals of no great "having," he bestows on this knight,Robert, the pair being really in love with each other. But anothervassal knight of greater wealth, Raoul, plots with one of the wicked oldwomen who abound in these stories, and engages Robert in a rash wager ofall his possessions, that during one of those pilgrimages to "St.James," which come in so handy, and are generally so unreasonable, hewill dishonour the lady. He fails, but, in a manner not distantlyrelated to the Imogen-Iachimo scene, acquires what seems to be damningacquaintance with the young Countess's person-marks. Robert and Jehaneare actually married; but the felon knight immediately afterwards bringshis charge, and Robert pays his debt, and flies, a ruined man, from, ashe thinks, his faithless wife, though he takes no vengeance on her.Jehane disguises herself as a man, joins him on his journey, supportshim with her own means for a time, and enters into partnership with himin merchandise at Marseilles, he remaining ignorant of her sex andrelation to him. At last things come right: the felon knight is forcedin single combat (a long and good one) to acknowledge his lie and giveup his plunder, and the excellent but somewhat obtuse Robert recovershis wife as well. A good end if ever there was one, and not a badly toldtale in parts. But, from some utterly mistaken idea of craftsmanship,the teller must needs kill Robert for no earthly reason, except in orderthat Jehane may become the third wife of Florus and bear him children. Amore disastrous "sixth act" has seldom been imagined; for most readerswill have forgotten all about Florus, who has had neither art nor partin the main story; few can care whether the King has children or not;and still fewer can be other than disgusted at the notion of Jehane,brave, loving, and clever, being, as a widow, made a mere child-bearingmachine to an oldish and rather contemptible second husband. But, oncemore, the mistake is interesting, and is probably the first example ofthat fatal error of not knowing when to leave off, which is even worsethan the commoner one (to be found in some great artists) of "huddlingup the story." The only thing to be said in excuse is that you could cuthis majesty Florus out of the title and tale at once without even theslightest difficulty, and with no need to mend or meddle in any otherway.

  The remaining stories of the thirteenth-century volume are curiouslycontrasted. One is a short prose version of that exquisite _chanson degeste_, _Amis et Amiles_, of which it has been said above that any onewho cannot "taste" it need never hope to understand mediaevalliterature. The full beauty of the verse story does not appear in theprose; but some does.

  [Sidenote: _Le Comtesse de Ponthieu._]

  Of the other, the so-called "Comtesse de Ponthieu" (though she is notreally this, being only the Count's daughter and the wife of a vassal),I thought rather badly when I first read it thirty or forty years ago,and till the present occasion I have never read it since. Now I thinkbetter of it, especially as a story suggestive in story-telling art. Theoriginal stumbling-block, which I still see, though I can get over orround it better now, was, I think, the character of the heroine, whoinherits not merely the tendency to play fast and loose with successivehusbands, which is observable in both _chanson_ and _roman_ heroines,but something of the very unlovely savagery which is also sometimescharacteristic of them; while the hero also is put in "unpleasant"circumstances. He is a gentleman and a good knight, and though only avassal of the Count of Ponthieu, he, as has been said, marries theCount's daughter, entirely to her and her father's satisfaction. Butthey are childless, and the inevitable "monseigneur Saint _Jakeme_" (St.James of Composte
lla) suggests himself for pilgrimage. Thiebault, theknight, obtains leave from his lady to go, and she, by a device notunprettily told, gets from him leave to go too. Unfortunately andunwisely they send their suite on one morning, and ride alone through aforest, where they are set upon by eight banditti. Thiebault fightsthese odds without flinching, and actually kills three, but isoverpowered by sheer numbers. They do not kill him, but bind and tosshim into a thicket, after which they take vengeance of outrage on thelady and depart, fearing the return of the meyney. Thiebault feels thathis unhappy wife is guiltless, but unluckily does not assure her ofthis, merely asking her to deliver him. So she, seeing a sword of oneof the slain robbers, picks it up, and, "full of great ire and evilwill," cries, "I will deliver you, sir," and, instead of cutting hisbonds, tries to run him through. But she only grazes him, and actuallycuts the thongs, so that he shakes himself free, starts up, and wreststhe sword from her with the simple words, "Lady, it is not to-day thatyou will kill me." To which she replies, "And right sorry I amtherefor."[78] Their followers come up; the pair are clothed and set outagain on their journey. But Thiebault, though treating his wife with thegreatest attention, leaves her at a monastery, accomplishes hispilgrimage alone, and on his return escorts her to Ponthieu as ifnothing had happened. Still--though no one knows this or indeed anythingabout her actual misfortune and intended crime--he does not live withher as his wife. After a time the Count, who is, as another story hasit, a "_h_arbitrary" Count, insists that Thiebault shall tell him someincident of his voyage, and the husband (here is the weak point of thewhole) recounts the actual adventure, though not as of himself and hislady. The Count will not stand ambiguity, and at last extorts the truth,which the lady confirms, repeating her sorrow that she had _not_ slainher husband. Now the Count is, as has been said, an arbitrary Count, andone day, his county having, as our Harold knew to his cost, a sea-coastto it, somewhat less disputable than those of Bohemia and the Ardennes,embarks, with only his daughter, son-in-law, son, and a few retainers,taking with him a nice new cask. Into this, despite the prayers of herhusband and brother, he puts the lady, and flings it overboard. She ispicked up half-suffocated by mariners, who carry her to "Aymarie" andsell her to the Sultan. She is very beautiful, and the Sultan promptlyproposes conversion and marriage. She makes no difficulty, bears him twochildren, and is apparently quite happy. But meanwhile the Count ofPonthieu begins--his son and son-in-law have never ceased--to feel thathe has exercised the paternal rights rather harshly; the Archbishop ofRheims very properly confirms his ideas on this point, and all three go_outremer_ on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They are captured by theSaracens of Aymarie, imprisoned, starved, and finally in immediatedanger of being shot to death as an amusement for the Sultan'sbodyguard. But the Sultaness has found out who they are, visits them inprison, and "reconciliations and forgivenesses of injuries" follow.

  After this, things go in an easily guessable manner. TheCountess-Sultana beguiles her easy-going lord into granting her thelives of the prisoners one after another, for which she rewards him bycarrying them off, with her son by the second marriage, to Italy, wherethe boy is baptized. "The Apostle" (as the Pope is usually called inRomance), by a rather extensive exercise of his Apostleship, giveseverybody absolution, confirms the original marriage of Thiebault andthe lady who had been so obstinately sorry that she had not killed him,and who had suffered the paynim spousals so easily; and all goesmerrily. There is a postscript which tells how the daughter of theSultan and the Countess, who is termed _La Bele Caitive_, captivates andmarries a Turk of great rank, and becomes the mother of no less a personthan the great Saladin himself--a consummation no doubt verysatisfactory to the Miss Martha Buskbodies of the mediaeval world.

  Now this story might seem to one who read it hastily, carelessly, or as"not in the vein," to be partly extravagant, partly disagreeable, and,despite its generous allowance of incident, rather dull, especially ifcontrasted with its next neighbour in the printed volume, _Aucassin etNicolette_ itself. I am afraid there may have been some of theseuncritical conditions about my own first reading. But a little studyshows some remarkable points in it, though the original writer has notknown how to manage them. The central and most startling one--theattempt of the Countess to murder her husband--is, when you think of it,not at all unnatural. The lady is half mad with her shame; the witness,victim, and, as she thinks, probable avenger of that shame is helplessbefore her, and in his first words at any rate seems to think merely ofhimself and not of her. Whether this violent outburst of feeling was notlikely to result in as violent a revulsion of tenderness is rather apsychological probability than artistically certain. And Thiebault,though an excellent fellow, is a clumsy one. His actual behaviour issomewhat of that "killing-with-kindness" order which exasperates when itdoes not itself kill or actually reconcile; and, whether out of delicacyor not, he does not give his wife the only proof that he acknowledgesthe involuntariness of her actual misfortune, and forgives thevoluntariness of her intended crime. His telling the story isinexcusable: and neither his preference of his allegiance as a vassal tohis duty as knight, lover, and husband in the case of the Count'scruelty, nor his final acceptance of so many and such peculiar bygonescan be called very pretty. But there are possibilities in the story, ifthey are not exactly made into good gifts.

  [Sidenote: Those of the fourteenth. _Asseneth._]

  The contents of the fourteenth-century volume are, with one exception,much less interesting in themselves; but from the point of view of thepresent enquiry they hardly yield to their predecessors. They are threein number: _Asseneth_, _Foulques Fitzwarin_, and _Troilus_. The first,which is very short, is an account of Joseph's courtship of his futurewife, in which entirely guiltless proceeding he behaves at first verymuch as if the daughter of Potipherah were fruit as much forbidden asthe wife of Potiphar. For on her being proposed to him (he has come toher father, splendidly dressed and brilliantly handsome, on a missionfrom Pharaoh) he at first replies that he will love her as his sister.This, considering the Jewish habit of exchanging the names, might not beominous. But when the damsel, at her father's bidding, offers to kisshim, Joseph puts his hand on her chest and pushes her back, accompanyingthe action with words (even more insulting in detail than in substance)to the effect that it is not for God-fearing man to kiss an idolatress.(At this point one would rather like to kick Joseph.) However, when,naturally enough, she cries with vexation, the irreproachable but mostunlikable patriarch condescends to pat her on the head and bless her.This she takes humbly and thankfully; deplores his absence, for he iscompelled to return to his master; renounces her gods; is consoled by anangel, who feeds her with a miraculous honeycomb possessing a sort ofsacramental force, and announces her marriage to Joseph, which takesplace almost immediately.

  It will be at once seen, by those who know something of the matter, thatthis is entirely in the style of large portions of the Graal romances;and so it gives us a fresh and interesting division of the new shortprose tale, allying itself to some extent with the allegory which was tobe so fruitful both in verse and in prose. It is not particularlyattractive in substance; but is not badly told, and would have made(what it was very likely used as) a good sermon-story.

  [Sidenote: _Troilus._]

  As _Asseneth_, the first of the three, is by far the shortest, so_Troilus_, the last, is by far the longest. It is, in fact, nearlytwenty times the length of the history of Joseph's pious impoliteness,and makes up something like two-thirds of the whole collection. But,except as a variant of one of the famous stories of the world (_v. sup._Chap. IV.), it has little interest, and is not even directly taken fromBenoit de Sainte-Maure, but from Guido delle Colonne and Boccaccio, ofwhose _Filostrato_ it is, in fact, a mere translation, made apparentlyby a known person of high station, Pierre de Beauvau, one of the chiefnobles of Anjou, at the close of the fourteenth and the beginning of thefifteenth century. It thus brings itself into direct connection withChaucer's poem, and has some small importance for literary historygenerally. Bu
t it has not much for us. It was not Boccaccio's verse buthis prose that was really to influence the French Novel.

  [Sidenote: _Foulques Fitzwarin._]

  With the middle piece of the volume, _Foulques Fitzwarin_, it is verydifferent. It is true that the present writer was once "smittenfriendly" by a disciple of the modern severe historical school, whodeclared that the adventures of Fitzwarin, though of course adulterated,were an important historical document, and nothing so frivolous as anovel. One has, however, a reed-like faculty of getting up again fromsuch smitings: and for my part I do not hesitate once more to call_Foulques Fitzwarin_ the first historical prose novel in modernliterature. French in language, as we have it, it is thoroughly Englishin subject, and, beyond all doubt, in the original place of composition,while there is no reason to doubt the assertion that there were olderverse-renderings of the story both in English and French. In fact, theymay turn up yet. But the thing as it stands is a very desirable and evendelectable thing, and well deserved its actual publication, not merelyin the French collection, of which we are speaking, but in the papers ofthe too short-lived English Warton Club.

  For it is not only our first historical novel, but also the first, asfar as England is concerned, of those outlaw stories which have alwaysdelighted worthy English youth from _Robin Hood_ to _The Black Arrow_.The Fitzwarins, as concerns their personalities and genealogies, may besurrendered without a pang to the historian, though he shall not havethe marrow of the story. They never seem to have been quite happy exceptwhen they were in a state of "utlagation," and it was not only Johnagainst whom they rebelled, for one of them died on the Barons' side atLewes.

  The compiler, whoever he was--it has been said already and cannot besaid too often, that every recompiler in the Middle Ages felt it (likethe man in that "foolish" writer, as some call him, Plato) a sacred dutyto add something to the common stock,--was not exactly a master of hiscraft, but certainly showed admirable zeal. There never was a morecurious _macedoine_ than this story. Part of it is, beyond all doubt,traditional history, with place-names all right, though distorted bythat curious inability to transpronounce or trans-spell which made theFrench of the thirteenth century call Lincoln "Nicole," and theirdescendants of the seventeenth call Kensington "Stintinton." Part ismere stock or common-form Romance, as when Foulques goes to sea and hasadventures with the usual dragons and their usual captive princesses.Part, though not quite dependent on the general stock, is indebted tothat of a particular kind, as in the repeated catching of the King bythe outlaws. But it is all more or less good reading; and there are twoepisodes in the earlier part which (one of them especially) merit moredetailed account.

  The first still has something of a general character about it. It is thestory of a certain Payn Peveril (for we meet many familiar names), whoseems to have been a real person though wrongly dated here, and has oneof those nocturnal combats with demon knights, the best known examplesof which are those recounted in _Marmion_ and its notes. Peveril'santagonist, however--or rather the mask which the antagonisttakes,--connects with the oldest legendary history of the island, for hereanimates the body of Gogmagog, the famous Cornish giant, whom Corineusslew. The diabolic Gogmagog, however, seems neither to have stayed inCornwall nor gone to Cambridgeshire, though (oddly enough the Frencheditors do not seem to have noticed this) Payn Peveril actually heldfiefs in the neighbourhood of those exalted mountains called now by thename of his foe. He had a hard fight; but luckily his arms were _or_with a cross _edentee azure_, and this cross constantly turned thegiant-devil's mace-strokes, while it also weakened him, and he hadbesides to bear the strokes of Peveril's sword. So he gave in, remarkingwith as much truth as King Padella in similar circumstances, that it wasno good fighting under these conditions. Then he tells a story of somelength about the original Gogmagog and his treasure. The secret of thishe will not reveal, but tells Peveril that he will be lord ofBlanche-lande in Shropshire, and vanishes with the usual unpleasantaccompaniment--_tiel pueur dont Payn quida devier_. He left his mace,which the knight kept as a testimony to anybody who did not believe thestory.

  This is not bad; but the other, which is either true or extraordinarilywell invented, is far finer, and, with some omissions, must be analysedand partly translated. Those who know the singular beauty of Ludlow Townand Castle will be able to "stage" it to advantage, but this is notabsolutely necessary to its appreciation as a story.

  The Peverils have died out by this time, and the honour and lands havegone by marriage to Guarin of Metz, whose son, Foulques Fitzguarin orWarin, starts the subjects of the general story. When the first Foulkesis eighteen, there is war between Sir Joce of Dinan (the name then givento Ludlow) and the Lacies. In one of their skirmishes Sir Walter de Lacyis wounded and captured, with a young knight of his party, Sir Ernaultde Lyls. They have courteous treatment in Ludlow Castle, and Ernaultmakes love to Marion de la Briere, a most gentle damsel, who is thechief maid of the lady of the castle, and as such, of course, herself alady. He promises her marriage, and she provides him and his chief withmeans of escape. Whether Lisle (as his name probably was) had at thistime any treacherous intentions is not said or hinted. But Lacy,naturally enough, resents his defeat, and watches for an opportunity of_revanche_; while Sir Joce[lyn], on the other hand, takes his prisoners'escape philosophically, and does not seem to make any enquiry into itscause. At first Lacy thinks of bringing over his Irish vassals to aidhim; but his English neighbours not unnaturally regard this step withdislike, and a sort of peace is made between the enemies. A match isarranged between Sir Joce's daughter Hawyse and Foulques Fitzwarin. Jocethen quits Ludlow for a time, leaving, however, a strong garrison there.Marion, who feigns illness, is also left. And now begins the tragic andstriking part of the story.

  The next day after Joce had gone, Marion sent a message to Sir Ernault de Lyls, begging him, for the great love that there was between them, not to forget the pledges they had exchanged, but to come quickly to speak with her at the castle of Dinan, because the lord and the lady and the bulk of the servants had gone to Hertilande--also to come to the same place by which he had left the castle. [_He replies asking her to send him the exact height of the wall (which she unsuspiciously does by the usual means of a silk thread) and also the number of the household left. Then he seeks his chief, and tells him, with a mixture of some truth, that the object of the Hertilande journey is to gather strength against Lacy, capture his castle of Ewyas, and kill himself--intelligence which he falsely attributes to Marion. He has, of course, little difficulty in persuading Lacy to take the initiative. Sir Ernault is entrusted with a considerable mixed force, and comes by night to the castle._] The night was very dark, so that no sentinel saw them. Sir Ernault took a squire to carry the ladder of hide, and they went to the window where Marion was waiting for them. And when she saw them, never was any so joyful: so she dropped a cord right down and drew up the hide ladder and fastened it to a battlement. Then Ernault lightly scaled the tower, and took his love in his arms and kissed her: and they made great joy of each other and went into another room and supped, and then went to their couch, and left the ladder hanging.

  But the squire who had carried it went to the forces hidden in the garden and elsewhere, and took them to the ladder. And one hundred men, well armed, mounted by it and descended by the Pendover tower and went by the wall behind the chapel, and found the sentinel too heavy with sleep to defend himself: and the knights and the sergeants were cut to pieces crying for mercy in their beds. But Sir Ernault's companions were pitiless, and many a white sheet was dyed red with blood. And at last they tossed the watchman into the deep fosse and broke his neck.

  Now Marion de la Briere lay by her lover Sir Ernault and knew nothing of the treason he had done. But she heard a great noise in the castle and rose from her bed, and looked out and heard more clearly the cry of the massacre
d, and saw knights in white armour. Wherefore she understood that Sir Ernault had deceived and betrayed her, and began to weep bitterly and said, "Ah! that I was ever of mother born: for that by my crime I have lost my lord Sir Joce, who bred me so gently, his castle, and his good folk. Had I not been, nothing had been lost. Alas! that I ever believed this knight! for by his lies he has ruined me, and what is worse, my lord too." Then, all weeping, she drew Sir Ernault's sword and said, "Sir knight! awake, for you have brought strange company into my lord's castle without his leave. I brought in only you and your squire. And since you have deceived me you cannot rightly blame me if I give you your deserts--at least you shall never boast to any other mistress that by deceiving me you conquered the castle and the land of Dinan!" The knight started up, but Marion, with the sword she held drawn, ran him straight through the body, and he died at once. She herself, knowing that if she were taken, ill were the death she should die, and knowing not what to do, let herself fall from a window and broke her neck.

  Now this, I venture to think, is not an ordinary story. Tales oftreachery, onslaught, massacre, are not rare in the Middle Ages, norneed we go as far as the Middle Ages for them. But the almost heroicinsouciance with which the traitor knight forgets everything except hisimmediate enjoyment, and, provided he has his mistress at his will,concerns himself not in the slightest degree as to what becomes of hiscompanions, is not an every-day touch. Nor is the strong contrast of thechambers of feast and dalliance--undisturbed, voluptuous,terrestrial-paradisaic--with "the horror and the hell" in the courtsbelow. Nor, last of all, the picture of the more than half innocentMarion, night-garbed or ungarbed, but with sword drawn, first hangingover her slumbering betrayer, then dealing the stroke of vengeance, andthen falling--white against the dark towers and the darker ravines attheir base--to her self-doomed judgment.

  [Sidenote: Something on these,]

  Even more, however, than in individual points of interest or excitement,the general survey of these two volumes gives matter for thought on oursubject. Here are some half-dozen stories or a little more. It is notmuch, some one may say, for the produce of two hundred years. But whatit lacks in volume (and that will be soon made up in French, while it isto be remembered that we have practically nothing to match it inEnglish) it makes up in variety. The peculiarity, some would say thedefect, of mediaeval literature--its sheep-like tendency to go inflocks--is quite absent. Not more than two of the eight, _Le Roi Flore_and _La Comtesse de Ponthieu_, can be said to be of the same class,even giving the word class a fairly elastic sense. They are short prose_Romans d'aventures_. But _Asseneth_ is a mystical allegory; _Aucassinet Nicolette_ is a sort of idyll, almost a lyric, in which the adventureis entirely subordinated to the emotional and poetical interest;_L'Empereur Constant_, though with something of the _Roman d'aventures_in it, has a tendency towards a _moralitas_ ("there is no armour againstfate") which never appears in the pure adventurous kind; _Troilus_ is anabridgment of a classical romance; and _Foulques Fitzwarin_ is, as hasbeen said, an embryonic historical novel. Most, if not all, moreover,give openings for, and one or two even proceed into, character- and even"problem"-writing of the most advanced novel kind. In one or two also,no doubt, that aggression and encroachment of allegory (which is one ofthe chief notes of these two centuries) makes itself felt, though not tothe extent which we shall notice in the next chapter. But almosteverywhere a strong _nisus_ towards actual tale-telling and the rapidacquisition of proper "plant" for such telling, become evident. Inparticular, conversation--a thing difficult to bring anyhow intoverse-narrative, and impossible there to keep up satisfactorily invarious moods--begins to find its way. We may turn, in the next chapter,to matter mostly or wholly in verse forms. But prose fiction is startedall the same.

  [Sidenote: And on the short story generally.]

  Before we do so, however, it may not be improper to point out that theshort story undoubtedly holds--of itself--a peculiar and almostprerogative place in the history and morphology or the novel. After along and rather unintelligible unpopularity in English--it neversuffered in this way in French--it has been, according to the way of theworld, a little over-exalted of late perhaps. It is undoubtedly a verydifficult thing to do well, and it would be absurd to pretend that anyof the foregoing examples is done thoroughly well. The Italian _novella_had to come and show the way.[79] But the short story, even of therudimentary sort which we have been considering, cannot help being apowerful schoolmaster to bring folk to good practice in the larger kind.The faults and the merits of that kind, as such, appear in it after afashion which can hardly fail to be instructive and suggestive. Thefaults so frequently charged against that "dear defunct" in our owntongue, the three-volume novel--the faults of long-windedness, of otiosepadding, of unnecessary episodes, etc., are almost mechanically ormathematically impossible in the _nouvelle_. The long book providespastime in its literal sense, and if it is not obvious in the other theaccustomed reader, unless outraged by some extraordinary dulness orsilences, goes on, partly like the Pickwickian horse because he can'twell help it, and partly because he hopes that something _may_ turn up.In the case of the short he sees almost at once whether it is going tohave any interest, and if there is none such apparent he throws itaside.

  Moreover, as in almost every other case, the shortness is appropriate to_exercise_; while the prose form does not encourage those terrible_chevilles_--repetitions of stock adjective and substantive and verb andphrase generally--which are so common in verse, and especially inoctosyllabic verse. It is therefore in many ways healthy, and the spaceallotted to these early examples of it will not, it is hoped, seem toany impartial reader excessive.

  FOOTNOTES:

  [75] The position of "origin" assigned already to the sacred matter ofthe Saint's Life may perhaps be continued here as regards the Sermon. Itwas, as ought to be pretty generally known, the not ungenial habit ofthe mediaeval preacher to tell stories freely. We have them in AElfric'sand other English homilies long before there was any regular Frenchprose; and we have, later, large and numerous collections ofthem--compiled more or less expressly for the use of the clergy--inLatin, English, and French. The Latin story is, in fact, verywide-ranging and sometimes quite of the novel (at least _nouvelle_)kind, as any one may see in Wright's _Latin Stories_, Percy Society,1842.

  [76] This is one, and one of the most glaring, of the _betises_ which atsome times have been urged against Romance at large. They are not, as amatter of fact, very frequent; but their occurrence certainly does showthe essentially uncritical character of the time.

  [77] For of course the knight did not tell the _whole_ story.

  [78] _I.e._ not sorry for having tried to kill him, but sorry that shehad not done so.

  [79] In _prose_. For the very important part played by the home verse_fabliaux_ see next chapter.