to them and resumes his moral task in founding the order “de la dame blanche à l'escu vert.”
Like all romantic forms that are worn out as an instrument of passion, this apparatus of chivalry and of courtesy affects us at first sight as a silly and ridiculous thing. The accents of passion are heard in it no more save in some rare products of literary genius. Still, all these costly elaborated forms of social conduct have played their part as a decoration of life, as a framework for a living passion. In reading this antiquated love poetry, or the clumsy descriptions of tournaments, no exact knowledge of historical details avails without the vision of the smiling eyes, long turned to dust, which at one time were infinitely more important than the written word that remains.
Only a stray glimmer now reminds us of the passionate significance of these cultural forms. In the Vœu du Héron the unknown author makes Jean de Beaumont speak:
“Quant sommes ès tavernes, de ces fors vins buvant,
Et ces dames delès qui nous vont regardant,
A ces gorgues polies, ces coliés tirant,
Chil œil vair resplendissent de biauté souriant,
Nature nous semont d’avoir cœur désirant,
… Adonc conquerons-nous Yaumont et Agoulant
Et li autre conquierrent Olivier et Rollant.
Mais, quant sommes as camps sus nos destriers courans,
Nos escus à no col et nos lansses bais(s)ans,
Et le froidure grande nous va tout engelant,
Li membres nous effondrent, et derrière et devant,
Et nos ennemies sont envers nous approchant,
Adonc vorrièmes estre en un chélier si grant
Que jamais ne fussions veu tant ne quant.”[1]
Nowhere does the erotic element of the tournament appear more clearly than in the custom of the knight’s wearing the
- ↑ When we are in the tavern, drinking strong wines, And the ladies pass and look at us, With those white throats, and tight bodices, Those sparkling eyes resplendent with smiling beauty, Then nature urges us to have a desiring heart, … Then we could overcome Yaumont and Agoulant, And the others would conquer Oliver and Roland. But when we are in camp on our trotting chargers, Our bucklers round our necks and our lances lowered, And the great cold is congealing us altogether, And our limbs are crushed before and behind, And our enemies are approaching us, Then we should wish to be in a cellar so large, That we might never be seen by any means.
