letters on literature(关于文学)-第11节
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write an essay on the grammar； nor would you read it if I did。 The chief
thing is that 〃s〃 appears as the sign of the singular； instead of being the
sign of the plural； and the nouns have cases。
The story must be as old as the end of the twelfth century； and must
have received its present form in Picardy。 It is written； as you see； in
alternate snatches of verse and prose。 The verse； which was chanted； is
not rhymed as a rule； but each laisse； or screed； as in the 〃Chanson de
Roland；〃 runs on the same final assonance； or vowel sound throughout。
So much for the form。 Who is the author？ We do not know； and
never shall know。 Apparently he mentions himself in the first lines：
〃Who would listen to the lay； Of the captive old and gray；〃
for this is as much sense as one can make out of del deport du viel
caitif。
The author； then； was an old fellow。 I think we might learn as much
from the story。 An old man he was； or a man who felt old。 Do you
know whom he reminds me of？ Why； of Mr。 Bowes； of the Theatre
Royal； Chatteris； of Mr。 Bowes； that battered； old； kindly sentimentalist
who told his tale with Mr。 Arthur Pendennis。
It is a love story； a story of love overmastering； without conscience or
care of aught but the beloved。 And the viel caitif tells it with sympathy；
and with a smile。 〃Oh； folly of fondness；〃 he seems to cry； 〃oh； pretty
fever and foolish； oh； absurd happy days of desolation：
〃When I was young； as you are young； And lutes were touched； and
songs were sung！ And love…lamps in the windows hung！〃
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It is the very tone of Thackeray； when Thackeray is tender； and the
world heard it first from this elderly nameless minstrel； strolling with his
viol and his singing boys； a blameless D'Assoucy； from castle to castle in
the happy poplar land。 I think I see him and hear him in the silver
twilight； in the court of some chateau of Picardy； while the ladies around
sit listening on silken cushions； and their lovers； fettered with silver chains；
lie at their feet。 They listen； and look； and do not think of the minstrel with
his gray head； and his green heart； but we think of him。 It is an old man's
work； and a weary man's work。 You can easily tell the places where he
has lingered and been pleased as he wrote。
The story is simple enough。 Aucassin； son of Count Garin； of
Beaucaire； loved so well fair Nicolette； the captive girl from an unknown
land； that he would never be dubbed knight； nor follow tourneys； nor even
fight against his father's mortal foe； Count Bougars de Valence。 So
Nicolette was imprisoned high in a painted chamber。 But the enemy
were storming the town； and； for the promise of 〃one word or two with
Nicolette； and one kiss；〃 Aucassin armed himself and led out his men。
But he was all adream about Nicolette； and his horse bore him into the
press of foes ere he knew it。 Then he heard them contriving his death；
and woke out of his dream。
〃The damoiseau was tall and strong； and the horse whereon he sat
fierce and great； and Aucassin laid hand to sword； and fell a… smiting to
right and left； and smote through helm and headpiece； and arm and
shoulder； making a murder about him； like a wild boar the hounds fall on
in the forest。 There slew he ten knights； and smote down seven； and
mightily and knightly he hurled through the press； and charged home
again； sword in hand。〃 For that hour Aucassin struck like one of
Mallory's men in the best of all romances。 But though he took Count
Bougars prisoner； his father would not keep his word； nor let him have one
word or two with Nicolette； and one kiss。 Nay； Aucassin was thrown into
prison in an old tower。 There he sang of Nicolette；
〃Was it not the other day That a pilgrim came this way？ And a
passion him possessed； That upon his bed he lay； Lay； and tossed； and
knew no rest； In his pain discomforted。 But thou camest by his bed；
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Holding high thine amice fine And thy kirtle of ermine。 Then the beauty
that is thine Did he look on； and it fell That the Pilgrim straight was well；
Straight was hale and comforted。 And he rose up from his bed； And went
back to his own place Sound and strong； and fair of face。〃
Thus Aucassin makes a Legend of his lady； as it were； assigning to
her beauty such miracles as faith attributes to the excellence of the saints。
Meanwhile； Nicolette had slipped from the window of her prison
chamber； and let herself down into the garden； where she heard the song of
the nightingales。 〃Then caught she up her kirtle in both hands； behind
and before； and flitted over the dew that lay deep on the grass； and fled out
of the garden； and the daisy flowers bending below her tread seemed dark
against her feet； so white was the maiden。〃 Can't you see her stealing
with those 〃feet of ivory；〃 like Bombyca's； down the dark side of the silent
moonlit streets of Beaucaire？
Then she came where Aucassin was lamenting in his cell； and she
whispered to him how she was fleeing for her life。 And he answered that
without her he must die； and then this foolish pair； in the very mouth of
peril； must needs begin a war of words as to which loved the other best！
〃Nay； fair sweet friend；〃 saith Aucassin； 〃it may not be that thou lovest
me more than I love thee。 Woman may not love man as man loves
woman； for a woman's love lies no deeper than in the glance of her eye；
and the blossom of her breast； and her foot's tip…toe； but man's love is in
his heart planted； whence never can it issue forth and pass away。〃
So while they speak
〃In debate as birds are； Hawk on bough；〃
comes the kind sentinel to warn them of a danger。 And Nicolette
flees； and leaps into the fosse； and thence escapes into a great forest and
lonely。 In the morning she met shepherds merry over their meat； and
bade them tell Aucassin to hunt in that forest； where he should find a deer
whereof one glance would cure him of his malady。 The shepherds are
happy； laughing people； who half mock Nicolette； and quite mock
Aucassin； when he comes that way。 But at first they took Nicolette for a
fee； such a beauty shone so brightly from her； and lit up all the forest。
Aucassin they banter； and indeed the free talk of the peasants to their
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lord's son in that feudal age sounds curiously； and may well make us
reconsider our notions of early feudalism。
But Aucassin learns at least that Nicolette is in the wood； and he rides
at adventure after her； till the thorns have ruined his silken surcoat； and the
blood； dripping from his torn body； makes a visible track in the grass。 So；
as he wept； he met a monstrous man of the wood； that asked him why he
lamented。 And he said he was sorrowing for a lily…white hound that he
had lost。 Then the wild man mocked him； and told his own tale。 He
was in that estate which Achilles； among the ghosts； preferred to all the
kingship of the dead outworn。 He was hind and hireling to a villein； and he
had lost one of the villein's oxen。 For that he dared not go into the town；
where a prison awaited him。 Moreover； they had dragged the very bed
from under his old mother； to pay the price of the ox； and she lay on straw；
and at that the woodman wept。
A curious touch； is it not； of pity for the people？ The old poet is
serious for one moment。 〃C
