Chapter II: Froissart

1337-1410.

French literature, for the purposes of the present volume, may be said to commence with Froissart. Froissart is a kind of mediaeval Herodotus. His time is, indeed, almost this side the Middle Ages; but by character and by sympathy he belongs rather to the mediaeval than to the modern world. He is delightfully like Herodotus in the style and the spirit of his narrative. Like Herodotus, he became a traveler in order to become an historian. Like Herodotus, he was cosmopolite enough not to be narrowly patriotic. Frenchman though he was, he took as much pleasure in recounting English victories as he did in recounting French. His countrymen have even accused him of unpatriotic partiality for the English. His Chronicles have been, perhaps, more popular in their English form than in their original French. Two prominent English translations have been made, of which the later, that by Thomas Johnes, is now most read. Sir Walter Scott thought the earlier excelled in charm of style.

Jehan or Jean Froissart was a native of Valenciennes. His father meant to make a priest of him, but the boy had tastes of his own. Before he was well out of his teens he began writing history. This was under the patronage of a great noble. Froissart was all his life a natural courtier. He throve on the patronage of the great. It was probably not a fawning spirit in him that made him this kind of man; it was rather an innate love of splendor and high exploit. He admired chivalry, then in its last days, and he painted it with the passion of an idealizer. His father had been an heraldic painter, so it was perhaps an hereditary strain in the son that naturally attached him to rank and royalty. The people--that is, the promiscuous mass of mankind--hardly exist to Froissart. His pages, spacious as they are, have scarcely room for more than kings and nobles, and knights and squires. He is a picturesque and romantic historian, in whose chronicles the glories of the world of chivalry--a world, as we have said, already dying, and so soon to disappear--are fixed forever on an ample canvas, in moving form and shifting color, to delight the backward-looking imagination of mankind.

Froissart, besides being chronicler, was something of a poet. It would still be possible to confront one who should call this in question with thirty thousand surviving verses from the chronicler's pen. Quantity, indeed, rather than quality, is the strong point of Froissart as poet.

He had no sooner finished the first part of his Chronicles, a compilation from the work of an earlier hand, than he posted to England for the purpose of formally presenting his work to the queen, a princess of Hainault. She rewarded him handsomely. Woman enough, too, she was, woman under the queen, duly to despatch him back again to his native land, where the young fellow's heart, she saw, was lost to a noble lady, whom, from his inferior station, he could woo only as moth might woo the moon. He subsequently returned to Great Britain, and rode about on horseback gathering materials of history. He visited Italy under excellent auspices, and, together with Chaucer and with Petrarch, witnessed a magnificent marriage ceremonial in Milan. Froissart continued to travel far and wide, always a favorite with princes, but always intent on achieving his projected work. He finally died at Chimay, where he had spent his closing years in rounding out to their completeness his "Chronicles of England, France, and the Adjoining Countries."

Froissart is the most leisurely of historians, or, rather, he is a writer who presupposes the largest allowance of leisure at the command of his readers. He does not seek proportion and perspective. He simply tells us all he has been able to find out respecting each transaction in its turn as it successively comes up in the progress of his narrative. If he goes wrong to-day, he will perhaps correct himself to-morrow, or day after to-morrow--this not by changing the first record where it stands, to make it right, but by inserting a note of his mistake at the point, whatever it may be, which he shall chance to have reached in the work of composition when the new and better light breaks in on his eyes. The student is thus never quite certain but that what he is at one moment reading in his author may be an error of which at some subsequent moment he will be faithfully advised. A little discomposing, this, but such is Froissart; and it is the philosophical way to take your author as he is, and make the best of him.

Of such an historian, an historian so diffuse, and so little selective, it would obviously be difficult to give any suitably brief specimen that should seem to present a considerable historic action in full. We go to Froissart's account of the celebrated battle of Poitiers (France). This was fought in 1356, between Edward the Black Prince on the English side, and King John on the side of the French. King John, as a result of the battle, fell into the hands of the enemy.

The king of the French was, of course, a great prize to be secured by the victorious English. There was eager individual rivalry as to what particular warrior should be adjudged his true captor. Froissart thus describes the strife and the issue:

There was much pressing at this time, through eagerness to take the
king; and those who were nearest to him, and knew him, cried out,
"Surrender yourself, surrender yourself, or you are a dead man!" In
that part of the field was a young knight from St. Omer, who was
engaged by a salary in the service of the king of England; his name
was Denys de Morbeque, who for five years had attached himself to the
English, on account of having been banished in his younger days from
France, for a murder committed in an affray at St. Omer. It
fortunately happened for this knight, that he was at the time near to
the king of France, when he was so much pulled about. He, by dint of
force, for he was very strong and robust, pushed through the crowd,
and said to the king, in good French, "Sire, sire, surrender
yourself!" The king, who found himself very disagreeably situated,
turning to him, asked, "To whom shall I surrender myself? to whom?
Where is my cousin, the Prince of Wales? If I could see him, I would
speak to him." "Sire," replied Sir Denys, "he is not here; but
surrender yourself to me, and I will lead you to him." "Who are you?"
said the king. "Sire, I am Denys de Morbeque, a knight from Artois;
but I serve the king of England because I cannot belong to France,
having forfeited all I possessed there." The king then gave him his
right-hand glove, and said, "I surrender myself to you." There was
much crowding and pushing about; for every one was eager to cry out,
"I have taken him!" Neither the king nor his youngest son Philip were
able to get forward, and free themselves from the throng....

The Prince [of Wales] asked them [his marshals] if they knew any thing
of the king of France; they replied, "No, sir, not for a certainty;
but we believe he must be either killed or made prisoner, since he has
never quitted his batallion." The prince then, addressing the Earl of
Warwick and Lord Cobham, said: "I beg of you to mount your horses, and
ride over the field so that on your return you may bring me some
certain intelligence of him." The two barons, immediately mounting
their horses, left the prince, and made for a small hillock, that they
might look about them. From their stand they perceived a crowd of
men-at-arms on foot, who were advancing very slowly. The king of
France was in the midst of them, and in great danger; for the English
and Gascons had taken him from Sir Denys de Morbeque, and were
disputing who should have him, the stoutest bawling out, "It is I that
have got him." "No, no," replied the others, "we have him." The king,
to escape from this peril, said: "Gentlemen, gentlemen, I pray you
conduct me and my son in a courteous manner to my cousin the prince;
and do not make such a riot about my capture, for I am so great a lord
that I can make all sufficiently rich." These words, and others which
fell from the king, appeased them a little; but the disputes were
always beginning again, and they did not move a step without rioting.
When the two barons saw this troop of people, they descended from the
hillock, and, sticking spurs into their horses, made up to them. On
their arrival, they asked what was the matter. They were answered,
that it was the king of France, who had been made prisoner, and that
upward of ten knights and squires challenged him at the same time, as
belonging to each of them. The two barons then pushed through the
crowd by main force, and ordered all to draw aside. They commanded, in
the name of the prince, and under pain of instant death, that every
one should keep his distance, and not approach unless ordered or
desired so to do. They all retreated behind the king; and the two
barons, dismounting, advanced to the king with profound reverences,
and conducted him in a peaceable manner to the Prince of Wales.

We continue our citation from Froissart with the brief chapter in which the admiring chronicler tells the gallant story of the Black Prince's behavior as host toward his royal captive, King John of France (it was the evening after the battle):

When evening was come, the Prince of Wales gave a supper in his
pavilion to the king of France, and to the greater part of the princes
and barons who were prisoners. The prince seated the king of France,
and his son the Lord Philip, at an elevated and well-covered table;
with them were Sir James de Bourbon, the Lord John d'Artois, the Earls
of Tancarville, of Estampes, of Dammartin, of Graville, and the Lord
of Partenay. The other knights and squires were placed at different
tables. The prince himself served the king's table, as well as the
others, with every mark of humility, and would not sit down at it, in
spite of all his entreaties for him so to do, saying that "he was not
worthy of such an honor, nor did it appertain to him to seat himself
at the table of so great a king, or of so valiant a man as he had
shown himself by his actions that day." He added, also, with a noble
air, "Dear sir, do not make a poor meal because the Almighty God has
not gratified your wishes in the event of this day; for be assured
that my lord and father will show you every honor and friendship in
his power, and will arrange your ransom so reasonably, that you will
henceforward always remain friends. In my opinion, you have cause to
be glad that the success of this battle did not turn out as you
desired; for you have this day acquired such high renown for prowess
that you have surpassed all the best knights on your side. I do not,
dear sir, say this to flatter you: for all those of our side who have
seen and observed the actions of each party, have unanimously allowed
this to be your due, and decree you the prize and garland for it." At
the end of this speech, there were murmurs of praise heard from every
one; and the French said the prince had spoken nobly and truly, and
that he would be one of the most gallant princes in Christendom if God
should grant him life to pursue his career of glory.

A splendid and a gracious figure the Black Prince makes in the pages of Froissart. It was great good fortune for the posthumous fame of chivalry that the institution should have come by an artist so gifted and so loyal as this Frenchman, to deliver its features in portrait to after-times, before the living original vanished forever from the view of history. How much the fiction of Sir Walter Scott owes to Froissart, and to Philip de Comines after Froissart, those only can understand who have read both the old chronicles and the modern romances.

It was one of the congenial labors of Sidney Lanier--pure flame of genius that late burned itself out so swiftly among us!--to edit a reduction or abridgment of Froissart's Chronicles dedicated especially to the use of the young. "The Boy's Froissart," he called it. This book is enriched with a wise and genial appreciation of Froissart's quality by his American editor.

Whoever reads Froissart needs to remember that the old chronicler is too much enamored of chivalry, and is too easily dazzled by splendor of rank, to be a rigidly just censor of faults committed by knights and nobles and kings. Froissart, in truth, seems to have been nearly destitute of the sentiment of humanity. War to him was chiefly a game and a spectacle.

Our presentation of Froissart must close with a single passage additional, a picturesque one, in which the chronicler describes the style of living witnessed by him at the court--we may so not unfitly apply a royal word--of the Count de Foix. The reader must understand, while he reads what we here show, that Froissart himself, in close connection, relates at full, in the language of an informant of his, how this magnificent Count de Foix had previously killed, with a knife at his throat, his own and his only son. "I was truly sorry," so, at the conclusion of the story, Froissart, with characteristic direction of his sympathy, says, "for the count his father, whom I found a magnificent, generous, and courteous lord, and also for the country that was discontented for want of an heir." Here is the promised passage; it occurs in the ninth chapter of the third volume:

Count Gaston Phoebus de Foix, of whom I am now speaking, was at that
time fifty-nine years old; and I must say, that although I have seen
very many knights, kings, princes, and others, I have never seen any
so handsome, either in the form of his limbs and shape, or in
countenance, which was fair and ruddy, with gray and amorous eyes,
that gave delight whenever he chose to express affection. He was so
perfectly formed, one could not praise him too much. He loved
earnestly the things he ought to love, and hated those which it was
becoming him so to hate. He was a prudent knight, full of enterprise
and wisdom. He had never any men of abandoned character with him,
reigned prudently, and was constant in his devotions. There were
regular nocturnals from the Psalter, prayers from the rituals to the
Virgin, to the Holy Ghost, and from the burial service. He had every
day distributed as alms, at his gate, five florins in small coin, to
all comers. He was liberal and courteous in his gifts, and well knew
how to take when it was proper, and to give back where he had
confidence. He mightily loved dogs above all other animals, and during
the summer and winter amused himself much with hunting....

When he quitted his chamber at midnight for supper, twelve servants
bore each a lighted torch before him, which were placed near his
table, and gave a brilliant light to the apartment. The hall was full
of knights and squires, and there were plenty of tables laid out for
any person who chose to sup. No one spoke to him at his table, unless
he first began a conversation. He commonly ate heartily of poultry,
but only the wings and thighs; for in the day-time, he neither ate nor
drank much. He had great pleasure in hearing minstrels; as he himself
was a proficient in the science, and made his secretaries sing songs,
ballads, and roundelays. He remained at table about two hours, and was
pleased when fanciful dishes were served up to him, which having seen,
he immediately sent them to the tables of his knights and squires.

In short, every thing considered, though I had before been in several
courts of kings, dukes, princes, counts, and noble ladies, I was never
at one that pleased me more, nor was I ever more delighted with feats
of arms, than at this of the Count de Foix. There were knights and
squires to be seen in every chamber, hall, and court, going backward,
and forward, and conversing on arms and amours. Every thing honorable
was there to be found. All intelligence from distant countries was
there to be learnt, for the gallantry of the count had brought
visitors from all parts of the world. It was there I was informed of
the greater part of those events which had happened in Spain,
Portugal, Arragon, Navarre, England, Scotland, and on the borders of
Languedoc; for I saw, during my residence, knights and squires arrive
from every nation. I therefore made inquiries from them, or from the
count himself, who cheerfully conversed with me.

The foregoing is one of the most celebrated passages of description in Froissart. At the same time that it discloses the form and spirit of those vanished days, which will never come again to the world, it discloses likewise the character of the man, who must indeed have loved it all well, to have been able so well to describe it.

We take now a somewhat long forward step, in going, as we do, at once from Froissart to Rabelais. Comines, an historian intervening, we must reluctantly pass, with thus barely mentioning his name.