Although I have already, in two places, given a somewhat precise account of the manner in which fiction in the modern sense of the term, and especially prose fiction, came to occupy a province in modern literature which had been so scantily and infrequently cultivated in ancient, it would hardly be proper to enter upon the present subject with a mere reference to these other treatments.  It is matter of practically no controversy (or at least of none in which it is worth while to take a part) that the history of prose fiction, before the Christian era, is very nearly a blank, and that, in the fortunately still fairly abundant remains of poetic fiction, “the story is the least part” (as Dryden says in another sense), or at least the telling of the story, in our modern sense, is so.  Homer (in the Odyssey at any rate), Herodotus (in what was certainly not intentional fiction at all), and Xenophon are about the only Greek writers who can tell a story, for the magnificent narrative of Thucydides in such cases as those of the Plague and the Syracusan cataclysm shows all the “headstrong” ethos of the author in its positive refusal to assume a “story” character.  In Latin there is nothing before Livy and Ovid; of whom the one falls into the same category with Herodotus and Xenophon, and the other, admirable raconteur as he is, thinks first of his poetry.  Scattered tales we have:  “mimes” and other things there are some, and may have been more.  But on the whole the schedule is not filled:  there are no entries for the competition.

In later classical literature, both Greek and Latin, the state of things alters considerably, though even then it cannot be said that fiction proper ­that is to say, either prose or verse in which the accomplishment of the form is distinctly subordinate to the interesting treatment of the subject ­constitutes a very large department, or even any regular department at all.  If Lucius of Patrae was a real person, and much before Lucian, he may dispute with Petronius ­that first-century Maupassant or Meredith, or both combined ­the actual foundation of the novel as we have it; but Lucian himself and Apuleius (strangely enough handling the same subject in the two languages) give securer and more solid starting-places.  Yet nothing follows Apuleius; though some time after Lucian the Greek romance, of which we have still a fair number of examples (spread, however, over a still larger number of centuries), establishes itself in a fashion.  It does one thing, indeed, which in a way refounds or even founds the whole conception ­it establishes the heroine.  There are certainly feminine persons, sometimes not disagreeable, who play conspicuous and by no means mute or unpractical parts in both Greek and Latin versions of the Ass-Legend; but one can hardly call them heroines.  There need be no chicane about the application of that title to Chloe or to Chariclea, to Leucippe or to her very remarkable rival, to Anthia or to Hysmine.  Without the heroine you can hardly have romance:  the novel without her (though her individuality may be put in commission) is an absolute impossibility.

The connection between these curious performances (with the much larger number of things like them which we know to have existed) on the one side, and the Western mediaeval romance on the other, has been at various times matter of considerable controversy; but it need not trouble us much here.  The Greek romance was to have very great influence on the French novel later:  on the earlier composition, generally called by the same name as itself, it would seem to have had next to none.  Until we come to Floire et Blanchefleur and perhaps Parthenopex, things of a comparatively late stage, obviously post-Crusade, and so necessarily exposed to, and pretty clearly patient of, Greek-Eastern influence, there is nothing in Old French which shows even the same kinship to the Greek stories as the Old English Apollonius of Tyre, which was probably or rather certainly in the original Greek itself.  The sources of French “romance” ­I must take leave to request a “truce of God” as to the application of that term and of “epic” for present purposes ­appear to have been two ­the Saint’s Life and the patriotic or family saga, the latter in the first place indelibly affected by the Mahometan incursions of the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries.  The story-telling instinct ­kindled by, or at first devoted to, these subjects ­subsequently fastened on numerous others.  In fact almost all was fish that came to the magic net of Romance; and though two great subjects of ours, the “Matter of Britain” (the Arthurian Legend) and the “Matter of Rome” (classical story generally, including the Tale of Troy), came traditionally to rank themselves with the “Matter of France” and with the great range of hagiology which it might have been dangerous to proclaim a fourth “matter” (even if anybody had been likely to take the view that it was so), these classifications are, like most of their kind, more specious than satisfactory.

Any person ­though indeed it is to be feared that the number of such persons is not very large ­who has some knowledge of hagiology and some of literature will admit at once that the popular notion of a Saint’s Life being necessarily a dull and “goody” thing is one of the foolishest pieces of presumptuous ignorance, and one of the most ignorant pieces of foolish presumption.  Not only have modern novelists sometimes been better informed and better inspired ­as in the case of more than one version of the Legends of St. Mary of Egypt, of St. Julian, of Saint Christopher, and others ­but there remain scores if not hundreds of beautiful things that have been wholly or all but wholly neglected.  It is impossible to imagine a better romance, either in verse or in prose, than might have been made by William Morris if he had kept his earliest loves and faiths and had taken the variorum Legend of St. Mary Magdalene, as we have it in divers forms from quite early French and English to the fifteenth-century English Miracle Play on the subject.  That of St. Eustace ("Sir Isumbras"), though old letters and modern art have made something of it, has also never been fully developed in the directions which it opens up; and one could name many others.  But it has to be admitted that the French (whether, as some would say, naturally enough or not) never gave the Saint’s Life pure and simple the development which it received in English.  It started them ­I at least believe this ­in the story-telling way; but cross-roads, to them more attractive, soon presented themselves.

Still, it started them.  I hope it is neither intolerably fanciful nor the mere device of a compiler anxious to make his arrows of all wood, to suggest that there is something noteworthy in the nature of the very first piece of actual French which we possess.  The Legend of St. Eulalia can be tried pretty high; for we have the third hymn of the Peristephanon of Prudentius to compare it with.  The metre of this

    Germine nobilis Eulalia

is not one of the best, and contrasts ill with the stately decasyllables ­perhaps the very earliest examples of that mighty metre that we have ­which the infant daughter-tongue somehow devised for itself some centuries later.  But Prudentius is almost always a poet, if a poet of the decadence, and he had as instruments a language and a prosody which were like a match rifle to a bow and arrows ­not of yew and not cloth-yard shafts ­when contrasted with the dialect and speech-craft of the unknown tenth-century Frenchman.  Yet from some points of view, and especially from ours, the Anonymus of the Dark Ages wins.  Prudentius spins out the story into two hundred and fifteen lines, with endless rhetorical and poetical amplification.  He wants to say that Eulalia was twelve years old; but he actually informs us that

    Curriculis tribus atque novem,     Très hyemes quater attigerat,

and the whole history of the martyrdom is attitudinised and bedizened in the same fashion.

Now listen to the noble simplicity of the first French poet and tale-teller: 

A good maiden was Eulalia:  fair had she the body, but the soul fairer.  The enemies of God would fain conquer her ­would fain make her serve the fiend.  She listened not to the evil counsellors, that she should deny God, who abideth in Heaven aloft ­neither for gold, nor for silver, nor for garments; for the royal threatenings, nor for entreaties.  Nothing could ever bend the damsel so that she should not love the service of God.  And for that reason she was brought before Maximian, who was the King in those days over the pagans.  And he exhorted her ­whereof she took no care ­that she should flee from the name of Christian.  But she assembled all her strength that she might rather sustain the torments than lose her virginity:  for which reason she died in great honour.  They cast her in the fire when it burnt fiercely:  but she had no fault in her, and so it pained her [or she burnt] not.

To this would not trust the pagan king:  but with a sword he bade them take off her head.  The damsel did not gainsay this thing:  she would fain let go this worldly life if Christ gave command.  And in shape of a dove she flew to heaven.  Let us all pray that she may deign to intercede for us; that Christ may upon us have mercy after death, and of His clemency may allow us to come to Him.

Of course this is story-telling in its simplest form and on its smallest scale:  but the essentials are there, and the non-essentials can be easily supplied ­as indeed they are to some extent in the Life of St. Leger and to a greater in the Life of St. Alexis, which almost follow the Sainte-Eulalie in the making of French literature.  The St. Alexis indeed provides something like a complete scheme of romance interest, and should be, though not translated (for it runs to between 600 and 700 lines), in some degree analysed and discussed.  It had, of course, a Latin original, and was rehandled more than once or twice.  But we have the (apparently) first French form, probably of the eleventh century.  The theme is one of the commonest and one of the least sympathetic in hagiology.  Alexis is forced by his father, a rich Roman “count,” to marry; and after (not before) the marriage, though of course before its consummation, he deserts his wife, flies to Syria, and becomes a beggar at Edessa.  After a time, long enough to prevent recognition, he goes back to Rome, and obtains from his own family alms enough to live on, though these alms are dispensed to him by the servants with every mark of contempt.  At last he dies, and is recognised forthwith as a saint.  This hackneyed and somewhat repulsive donnee (there is nothing repulsive to the present writer, let it be observed, either in Stylites or in Galahad) the French poet takes and makes a rather surprising best of it.  He is not despicable even as a poet, all things considered; but he is something very different indeed from despicable as a tale-teller.  To begin, or, strictly speaking, to end with (R.  L. Stevenson never said a wiser thing than that the end must be the necessary result of, and as it were foretold in, the beginning), he has lessened if not wholly destroyed the jar of the situation by (most unusually and considering the mad chastity-worship of the time rather audaciously) associating the deserted wife directly with the Saint’s “gustation of God” above: 

Without doubt is St. Alexis in Heaven, With him has he God in the company of the Angels, With him the maiden to whom he made himself strange, Now he has her close to him ­together are their souls, I know not how to tell you how great their joy is.

But there are earlier touches of that life which makes all literature, and tale-telling most of all.  An opening on Degeneracy is scarcely one of these, for this was, of course, a commonplace millenniums earlier, and it had the recent belief about the approaching end of the world at the actual A.D. 1000 to prompt it.  The maiden is “bought” for Alexis from her father or mother.  Instead of the not unusual and rather distasteful sermons on virginity which later versions have, the future saint has at least the grace to accompany the return of the ring with only a few words of renunciation of his spouse to Christ, and of declaration that in this world “love is imperfect, life frail, and joy mutable.”  A far more vivid touch is given by the mother who, when search for the fugitive has proved futile, ruins the nuptial chamber, destroys its decorations, and hangs it with rags and sackcloth, and who, when the final discovery is made, reproaches the dead saint in a fashion which is not easy to reply to:  “My son, why hadst thou no pity of us?  Why hast thou not spoken to me once?” The bride has neither forgotten nor resented:  she only weeps her deserter’s former beauty, and swears to have no other spouse but God.  The poem ends ­or all but ends ­in a hurly-burly of popular enthusiasm, which will hardly resign its new saint to Pope or Emperor, till at last, after the usual miracles of healing, the body is allowed to rest, splendidly entombed, in the Church of St. Boniface.

Now the man who could thus, and by many other touches not mentioned, run blood into the veins of mummies, could, with larger range of subject and wider choice of treatment, have done no small things in fiction.

But enough talk of might-have-beens:  let us come to the things that were done.