Domnei Part 18

Below her men were fighting. To the farther end of the court Orestes sprawled upon the red and yellow slabs--which now for the most part were red--and above him towered Perion of the Forest. The conqueror had paused to cleanse his sword upon the same divan Demetrios had occupied when Melicent first saw the proconsul; and as Perion turned, in the act of sheathing his sword, he perceived the dear familiar denizen of all his dreams. A tiny lamp glowed in her hand quite steadily.

"O Melicent," said Perion, with a great voice, "my task is done. Come now to me."

She instantly obeyed whose only joy was to please Perion. Descending the enclosed stairway, she thought how like its gloom was to the temporal unhappiness she had pa.s.sed through in serving Perion.

He stood a dripping statue, for he had fought horribly. She came to him, picking her way among the slain. He trembled who was fresh from slaying. A flood of torchlight surged and swirled about them, and within a stone's cast Perion's men were despatching the wounded.

These two stood face to face and did not speak at all.

I think that he knew disappointment first. He looked to find the girl whom he had left on Fomor Beach.

He found a woman, the possessor still of a compelling beauty. Oh, yes, past doubt: but this woman was a stranger to him, as he now knew with an odd sense of sickness. Thus, then, had ended the quest of Melicent.

Their love had flouted Time and Fate. These had revenged this insolence, it seemed to Perion, by an ironical conversion of each rebel into another person. For this was not the girl whom Perion had loved in far red-roofed Poictesme; this was not the girl for whom Perion had fought ten minutes since: and he--as Perion for the first time perceived--was not and never could be any more the Perion that girl had bidden return to her. It were as easy to evoke the Perion who had loved Melusine....

Then Perion perceived that love may be a power so august as to bedwarf consideration of the man and woman whom it sways. He saw that this is reasonable. I cannot justify this knowledge. I cannot even tell you just what great secret it was of which Perion became aware. Many men have seen the sunrise, but the serenity and awe and sweetness of this daily miracle, the huge a.s.surance which it emanates that the beholder is both impotent and greatly beloved, is not entirely an affair of the sky's tincture. And thus it was with Perion. He knew what he could not explain. He knew such joy and terror as none has ever worded. A curtain had lifted briefly; and the familiar world which Perion knew, for the brief instant, had appeared to be a painting upon that curtain.

Now, dazzled, he saw Melicent for the first time....

I think he saw the lines already forming in her face, and knew that, but for him, this woman, naked now of gear and friends, had been to-night a queen among her own acclaiming people. I think he wors.h.i.+pped where he did not dare to love, as every man cannot but do when starkly fronted by the divine and stupendous unreason of a woman's choice, among so many other men, of him. And yet, I think that Perion recalled what Ayrart de Montors had said of women and their love, so long ago:-- "They are more wise than we; and always they make us better by indomitably believing we are better than in reality a man can ever be."

I think that Perion knew, now, de Montors had been in the right. The pity and mystery and beauty of that world wherein High G.o.d had-- scornfully?--placed a smug Perion, seemed to the Comte de la Foret, I think, unbearable. I think a new and finer love smote Perion as a sword strikes.

I think he did not speak because there was no scope for words. I know that he knelt (incurious for once of victory) before this stranger who was not the Melicent whom he had sought so long, and that all consideration of a lost young Melicent departed from him, as mists leave our world when the sun rises.

I think that this was her high hour of triumph.

CAETERA DESUNT

THE AFTERWORD

_These lives made out of loves that long since were Lives wrought as ours of earth and burning air, Was such not theirs, the twain I take, and give Out of my life to make their dead life live Some days of mine, and blow my living breath Between dead lips forgotten even of death?

So many and many of old have given my twain Love and live song and honey-hearted pain._

Thus, rather suddenly, ends our knowledge of the love-business between Perion and Melicent. For at this point, as abruptly as it began, the one existing chronicle of their adventures makes conclusion, like a bit of interrupted music, and thereby affords conjecture no inconsiderable bounds wherein to exercise itself. Yet, in view of the fact that deductions as to what befell these lovers afterward can at best result in free-handed theorising, it seems more profitable in this place to speak very briefly of the fragmentary _Roman de Lusignan_, since the history of Melicent and Perion as set forth in this book makes no pretensions to be more than a rendering into English of this ma.n.u.script, with slight additions from the earliest known printed version of 1546.

2

M. Verville, in his monograph on Nicolas de

Caen,[1: Paul Verville, _Notice sur la vie de Nicolas de Caen_, p. 112 (Rouen, 1911)] considers it probable that the _Roman de Lusignan_ was printed in Bruges by Colard Mansion at about the same time Mansion published the _Dizain des Reines_. This is possible; but until a copy of the book is discovered, our sole authority for the romance must continue to be the fragmentary MS. No. 503 in the Allonbian Collection.

Among the innumerable ma.n.u.scripts in the British Museum there is perhaps none which opens a wider field for guesswork. In its entirety the _Roman de Lusignan_ was, if appearances are to be trusted, a leisured and ambitious handling of the Melusina legend; but in the preserved portion Melusina figures hardly at all. We have merely the final chapters of what would seem to have been the first half, or perhaps the first third, of the complete narrative; so that this ma.n.u.script account of Melusina's beguilements breaks off, fantastically, at a period by many years anterior to a date which those better known versions of Jean d'Arras and Thuring von Ringoltingen select as the only appropriate starting-point.

By means of a few elisions, however, the episodic story of Melicent and of the men who loved Melicent has been disembedded from what survives of the main narrative. This episode may reasonably be considered as complete in itself, in spite of its precipitous commencement; we are not told anything very definite concerning Perion's earlier relations with Melusina, it is true, but then they are hardly of any especial importance. And speculations as to the tale's perplexing chronology, or as to the curious treatment of the Ahasuerus legend, wherein Nicolas so strikingly differs from his precursors, Matthew Paris and Philippe Mouskes, or as to the probable course of latter incidents in the romance (which must almost inevitably have reached its climax in the foundation of the house of Lusignan by Perion's son Raymondin and Melusina) are more profitably left to M.

Verville's ingenuity.

3

One feature, though, of this romance demands particular comment. The happenings of the Melicent-episode pivot remarkably upon _domnei_--upon chivalric love, upon the _Frowendienst_ of the minnesingers, or upon "woman-wors.h.i.+p," as we might bunglingly translate a word for which in English there is no precisely equivalent synonym. Therefore this English version of the Melicent-episode has been called _Domnei_, at whatever price of unintelligibility.

For there is really no other word or combination of words which seems quite to sum up, or even indicate this precise att.i.tude toward life.

_Domnei_ was less a preference for one especial woman than a code of philosophy. "The complication of opinions and ideas, of affections and habits," writes Charles Claude Fauriel,[1: _Histoire de la litterature provencale_, p. 330 (Adler's translation, New York, 1860)] "which prompted the chevalier to devote himself to the service of a lady, and by which he strove to prove to her his love and to merit hers in return, was expressed by the single word _domnei_."

And this, of course, is true enough. Yet _domnei_ was even more than a complication of opinions and affections and habits: it was also a malady and a religion quite incommunicably blended.

Thus you will find that Dante--to cite only the most readily accessible of mediaeval amorists--enlarges as to _domnei_ in both these last-named aspects impartially. _Domnei_ suspends all his senses save that of sight, makes him turn pale, causes tremors in his left side, and sends him to bed "like a little beaten child, in tears"; throughout you have the manifestations of _domnei_ described in terms befitting the symptoms of a physical disease: but as concerns the other aspect, Dante never wearies of reiterating that it is domnei which has turned his thoughts toward G.o.d; and with terrible sincerity he beholds in Beatrice de'Bardi the highest illumination which Divine Grace may permit to humankind. "This is no woman; rather it is one of heaven's most radiant angels," he says with terrible sincerity.

With terrible sincerity, let it be repeated: for the service of domnei was never, as some would affect to interpret it, a modish and ordered affectation; the histories of Peire de Maenzac, of Guillaume de Caibestaing, of Geoffrey Rudel, of Ulrich von Liechtenstein, of the Monk of Pucibot, of Pons de Capdueilh, and even of Peire Vidal and Guillaume de Balaun, survive to prove it was a serious thing, a stark and life-disposing reality. En cor gentil domnei per mort no pa.s.sa, as Nicolas himself declares. The service of domnei involved, it in fact invited, anguish; it was a martyrdom whereby the lover was uplifted to saints.h.i.+p and the lady to little less than, if anything less than, G.o.dhead. For it was a canon of domnei, it was the very essence of domnei, that the woman one loves is providentially set between her lover's apprehension, and G.o.d, as the mobile and vital image and corporeal reminder of heaven, as a quick symbol of beauty and holiness, of purity and perfection. In her the lover views--embodied, apparent to human sense, and even accessible to human enterprise--all qualities of G.o.d which can be comprehended by merely human faculties. It is precisely as such an intermediary that Melicent figures toward Perion, and, in a somewhat different degree, toward Ahasuerus--since Ahasuerus is of necessity apart in all things from the run of humanity.

Yet instances were not lacking in the service of _domnei_ where wors.h.i.+p of the symbol developed into a religion sufficing in itself, and became compet.i.tor with wors.h.i.+p of what the symbol primarily represented--such instances as have their a.n.a.logues in the legend of Ritter Tannhauser, or in Auca.s.sin's resolve in the romance to go down into h.e.l.l with "his sweet mistress whom he so much loves," or (here perhaps most perfectly exampled) in Arnaud de Merveil's nave declaration that whatever portion of his heart belongs to G.o.d heaven holds in va.s.salage to Adelaide de Beziers. It is upon this darker and rebellious side of _domnei_, of a religion pathetically dragged dustward by the luxuriance and efflorescence of over-pa.s.sionate service, that Nicolas has touched in depicting Demetrios.

4

Nicolas de Caen, himself the servitor _par amours_ of Isabella of Burgundy, has elsewhere written of _domne_i (in his _Le Roi Amaury_) in terms such as it may not be entirely out of place to transcribe here.

Baalzebub, as you may remember, has been discomfited in his endeavours to ensnare King Amaury and is withdrawing in disgust.

"A pest upon this _domnei_!"[1: Quoted with minor alterations from Watson's version] the fiend growls. "Nay, the match is at an end, and I may speak in perfect candour now. I swear to you that, given a man clear-eyed enough to see that a woman by ordinary is nourished much as he is nourished, and is subjected to every bodily infirmity which he endures and frets beneath, I do not often bungle matters. But when a fool begins to flounder about the world, dead-drunk with adoration of an immaculate woman--a monster which, as even the man's own judgment a.s.sures him, does not exist and never will exist--why, he becomes as unmanageable as any other maniac when a frenzy is upon him. For then the idiot hungers after a life so high-pitched that his gross faculties may not so much as glimpse it; he is so rapt with impossible dreams that he becomes oblivious to the nudgings of his most petted vice; and he abhors his own innate and perfectly natural inclination to cowardice, and filth, and self-deception. He, in fine, affords me and all other rational people no available handle; and, in consequence, he very often flounders beyond the reach of my whisperings. There may be other persons who can inform you why such blatant folly should thus be the master-word of evil, but for my own part, I confess to ignorance."

"Nay, that folly, as you term it, and as h.e.l.l will always term it, is alike the riddle and the masterword of the universe," the old king replies....

And Nicolas whole-heartedly believed that this was true. We do not believe this, quite, but it may be that we are none the happier for our dubiety.

EXPLICIT