The Pastoral and Heroic Romance‚ and the Fairy Story

The seventeenth century, almost if not quite from its beginning, ranks in French literature as the eighteenth does with us, that is to say, as the time of origin of novels or romances which can be called, in any sense, modern.  In its first decade appeared the epoch-making pastoral-heroic Astree of Honore d’Urfe; its middle period, from 1620 to 1670, was the principal birth-time of the famous “Heroic” variety, pure and simple; while, from that division into the last third, the curiously contrasted kind of the fairy tale came to add its quota of influence.  At various periods, too, individuals of more or less note (and sometimes of much more than almost any of the “school-writers” just mentioned) helped mightily in strengthening and diversifying the subjects and manners of tales.  To this period also belongs the continuance and prominence of that element of actual “lived” anecdote and personal history which has been mentioned more than once before.  The Historiettes of Tallemant contain short suggestions for a hundred novels and romances; the memoirs, genuine or forged, of public and private persons have not seldom, in more modern times, formed the actual basis of some of the greatest fiction.  Everybody ought long to have known Thackeray’s perhaps rather whimsical declaration that he positively preferred the forged D’Artagnan memoirs of Courtils de Sandras (as far at least as the Gascon himself was concerned) to the work of that Alexander, the truly Great, of which he was nevertheless such a generous admirer:  and recently mere English readers have had the opportunity of seeing whether they agree with him.  In fact, as the century went on, almost all kinds of literature began to be more or less pervaded with the novel appeal and quality.

The letters of “Notre Dame des Rochers” constantly read like parts or scenes of a novel, and so do various compositions of her ill-conditioned but not unintelligent cousin Bussy-Rabutin.  Camus de Pontcarre in the earlier and Fenelon in the later century determined that the Devil should not have this good prose to himself, and our own Anthony Hamilton showed the way to Voltaire in a kind, of which, though the Devil had nothing immediately to do with it, he might perhaps make use later.  In fact, the whole century teems with the spirit of tale-telling, plus character-analysis; and in the eighteenth itself, with a few notable exceptions, there was rather a falling-off from, than a further advance towards, the full blossoming of the aloe in the nineteenth.

It will probably, therefore, not be excessive to give two chapters (and two not short ones) to this period.  In the first of them we may take the two apparently opposite, but by no means irreconcilable schools of Pastoral and Heroic Romance and of Fairy Tale, including perhaps only four persons, if so many, of first-rate literary rank ­Urfe, Madeleine de Scudery, Madame d’Aulnoy, and Perrault; in the second, the more isolated but in some cases not unimportant names and works of Sorel, Scarron, Furetiere, and the capital ones of Madame de la Fayette and Hamilton.  According to the plan previously pursued, less attempt will be made to give exhaustive or even full lists of practitioners than to illustrate their practice thoroughly by example, translated or abstracted, and by criticism; and it is necessary that this latter course should be used without mercy to readers or to the historian himself in this first chapter.  For there is hardly any department of literature which has been more left to the rather treacherous care of traditional and second- or seventh-hand judgment than the Heroic romance.

The Pastoral, as being of the most ancient and in a literary sense of the highest formal rank, may occupy us first, but by no means longest.  A great deal of attention (perhaps a great deal more than was at all necessary) has been paid to the pastoral element in various kinds of literature.  The thing is certainly curious, and inevitably invited comment; but unfortunately it has peculiar temptations to a kind of comment which, though very fashionable for some time past, is rarely profitable.  Pastorals of the most interesting kind actually exist in literature:  “pastoralism” in the abstract, unless treated in the pure historical manner, is apt, like all similar criticism and discussion of “kinds” in general, to tend to [Greek:  phlyaria]. For a history in a nutshell there is perhaps room even here, because the relations of the thing to fiction cannot be well understood without it.  That the association of shepherds, with songs, and with the telling of “tales” in both senses, is immensely old, is a fact which the Hebrew Scriptures establish, and almost the earliest Greek mythology and poetry confirm; but the wiser mind, here as elsewhere, will probably be content with the fact, and not enquire too busybodily into the reason.  The connection between Sicily ­apparently a land of actual pastoral life ­and Alexandria ­the home of the first professional man-of-letters school, as it may be called ­perhaps supplies something more; the actual beauty of the Sicilian-Alexandrian poems, more still; the adoption of the form by Virgil, who was revered at Rome, renowned somewhat heterodoxically in the Middle Ages, and simply adored by the Renaissance, most of all.  So, in English, Spenser and Milton, in French, Marot and others niched it solidly in the nation’s poetry; and the certainly charming Daphnis and Chloe, when vernacularised, transferred its influence from verse to prose in almost all the countries of Europe.

To what may be called “common-sense” criticism, there is, of course, no form of literature, in either prose or verse, which is more utterly abhorrent and more helplessly exposed.  Unsympathetic, and in some points unfair and even unintelligent, as Johnson’s criticism of Lycidas may seem, to the censure of its actual “pastorality” there is no answer, except that “these things are an allegory” as well as a convention.  To go further out of mere common-sense objections, and yet stick to the Devil’s-Advocate line, there is no form which lends itself to ­which, indeed, insists upon ­conventions of the most glaring unreality more than the pastoral, and none in which the decorations, unless managed with extraordinary genius, have such a tendency to be tawdry at best, draggled and withered at worst.  Nevertheless, the fact remains that at almost all times, both in ancient literature and since the revival of letters, as well as in some probably more spontaneous forms during the Middle Ages themselves, pastorals have been popular with the vulgar, and practised by the elect; while within the very last hundred years such a towering genius as Shelley’s, and such a manifold and effectual talent as Mr. Arnold’s, have selected it for some of their very best work.

Such adoption, moreover, had, for the writer of prose fiction, some peculiar and pretty obvious inducements.  It has been noticed by all careful students of fiction that one of the initial difficulties in its way, and one of those which do not seem to get out of that way very quickly, is diffidence on the writer’s part “how to begin.”  It may be said that this is not peculiar to fiction; but extends from the poet who never can get beyond the first lines of his epic to the journalist who sits for an hour gazing at the blank paper for his article, and returns home at midnight, if not like Miss Bolo “in a flood of tears and a sedan chair,” at any rate in a tornado of swearing at himself and (while there were such things) a hansom cab.  Pastoral gives both easy beginning and supporting framework.

The transformation of the older pastoral form into the newer began, doubtless, with the rendering into French of Daphnis and Chloe, which appeared in the same year with the complete Heptameron (1559).  Twelve years later, in 1571, Belleforest’s La Pyrenee et Pastorale Amoureuse rather took the title than exemplified the kind; but in 1578 the translation of Montemayor’s Diana definitely turned the current into the new-old channel.  It was not, however, till seven years later still that “Les Bergeries de Juliette, de l’invention d’Ollenix du Mont Sacre” (a rather exceptionally foolish anagram of Nicolas de Montreux) essayed something original in the style.  Montreux issued his work, of which more presently, again and again in five instalments, the last of which appeared thirteen years later than the first.  And it has been proved with immense bibliographical labour by M. Reynier, that though the last decade of the sixteenth century in France was almost as fertile in short love-romances as ours was in sonnet-cycles, the pastoral form was, whether deliberately or not, for the most part eschewed, though there were one or two exceptions of little if any consequence.  It is indeed noteworthy that (only four years before the first part of the Astree) a second translation or the Diana came out.  But it was not till 1607 that this first part actually appeared, and in the opinion of its own time generally, and our own time for the most part, though not in that of the interval, made a new epoch in the history of French fiction.

The general characteristics of this curious and numerous, but almost forgotten, body of work ­which must, be it remembered, have exercised influence, more or less, on the progress of the novel by the ways of supply, demand, and reaction alike ­have been carefully analysed by M. Reynier, with whom, in regard to one or two points of opinion, one may differ, but whose statements of fact are certainly trustworthy.  Short as they usually are, and small as is the literary power displayed in most of them, it is clear that they, long before Rambouillet and the precieuses, indicate a distinct reaction against merely brutal and ferocious manners, with a standard of “courtiership” in both senses.  Our dear Reine Margot herself in one case prescribes, what one hopes she found not merely in La Mole, but in others of those transitorily happy ones whose desiccated hearts did or did not distend the pockets of her farthingale as live Persian kittens do those of their merchants.  To be a lover you must have “a stocking void of holes, a ruff, a sword, a plume, and a knowledge how to talk.”  This last point is illustrated in these miniature romances after a fashion on which one of the differences of opinion above hinted at may arise.  It is not, as in the later “Heroics,” shown merely in lengthy harangues, but in short and almost dramatised dialogue.  No doubt this is often clumsy, but it may seem to have been not a whole mistake in itself ­only an abortive attempt at something which, much later again, had to come before real novel-writing could be achieved, and which the harangues of the Scudery type could never have provided.  There is a little actual history in them ­not the key-cryptograms of the “Heroics” or their adoption of ancient and distant historic frames.  In a very large proportion, forced marriages, proposed and escaped from, supply the plot; in not a few, forced “vocations” to the conventual life.  Elopements are as common as abductions in the next stage, and are generally conducted with as much propriety.  Courtships of married women, and lapses by them, are very rare.

No one will be surprised to hear that the “Phebus” or systematised conceit, for which the period is famous, and which the beloved Marguerite herself did not a little favour, is abundant in them.  From a large selection of M. Reynier’s, I cull, as perhaps the most delightful of all these, if not also of all known to me in any language, the following: 

     During this task, Love, who had ambushed himself, plunged      his wings in the tears of the lover, and dried them in the      burning breast of the maiden.

“A squadron of sighs” is unambitious, but neat, terse, and very tempting to the imagination.  More complicated is a lady “floating on the sea of the persecution of her Prince, who would fain give her up to the shipwreck of his own concupiscence.”

And I like this: 

     The grafts of our desires being inarched long since in the      tree of our loves, the branches thereof bore the lovely      bouquets of our hopes.

And this is fine: 

     Paper! that the rest of your white surface may not blush at      my shame, suffer me to blacken it with my sorrow!

It has always been a sad mystery to me why rude and dull intelligences should sneer at, or denounce, these delightful fantastries, the very stuff of which dreams and love and poetry ­the three best things of life ­are made.

The British Museum possesses not very many of the, I believe, numerous works of Nicolas de Montreux, alias, as has been said, Ollenix du Mont Sacre, a “gentleman of Maine,” as he scrupulously designates himself.  But it does possess two parts (the first two) of the Bergeries de Juliette, and I am not in the least surprised that no reader of them should have worried any librarian into completing the set.  Each of these parts is a stout volume of some five hundred pages, not very small, of close small print, filled with stuff of the most deadly dulness.  For instance, Ollenix is desirous to illustrate the magnificence and the danger of those professional persons of the other sex at Venice who have filled no small place in literature from Coryat to Rousseau.  So he tells us, without a gleam or suspicion of humour, that one customer was so astonied at the decorations of the bedroom, the bed, etc., that he remained for two whole hours considering them, and forgetting to pay any attention to the lady.  It is satisfactory to know that she revenged herself by raising the fee to an inordinate amount, and insisting on her absurd client’s lackey being sent to fetch it before the actual conference took place.  But the silliness of the story itself is a fair sample of Montreux’ wits, and these wits manage to make anything they deal with duller by their way of telling it.

It is still more unfortunate that our national collection has none of the numerous fictions of A(ntoine?) de Nerveze.  His Amours Diverses (1606), in which he collected no less than seven love-stories, published separately earlier, would be useful.  But it luckily does provide the similarly titled book of Des Escuteaux, who is perhaps the most representative and prolific writer, next to Montreux and Nerveze, of the whole, and who seems to me, from what I have read of the first and what others say of the second, to be their superior.  The collections consist of (Amours de in every case) Filiris et Isolia, dedicated to Isabel (not “-bel_lé_”) de Rochechouart; Clarimond et Antoinette (to Lucresse [sic] de Bouille); Clidamant et Marilinde (to Jane de la Brunetiere), and Ipsilis et Alixee (to Renee de Cosse, Amirale de France!).

Some readers may be a little “put off” by a habit which Des Escuteaux has, especially in the first story of the volume, of prefixing, as in drama, the names of the speakers ­Le Prince, La Princesse, etc. ­to the first paragraphs of the harangues and histoires of which these books so largely consist. But it is not universal.  The most interesting of the four is, I think, Clidamant et Marilinde, for it introduces the religious wars, a sojourn of the lovers on a desert island, which M. Reynier not unjustly calls Crusoe-like, and other “varieties.”

I have not seen the other ­quite other, and Francois ­Moliere’s Semaine Amoureuse, which belongs to this class, though later than most; but his still later Polyxene, a sort of half-way house between these shorter novels and the ever-enlarged “Heroics,” is a very fat duodecimo of 1100 pages.  The heroine has two lovers ­one with the singular name of Cloryman, ­but love does not run smooth with either, and she ends by taking the (pagan) veil.  The bathos of the thought and style may be judged from the heroine’s affecting mention of an entertainment as “the last ballet my unhappy father ever saw.”

Not one of the worst of these four or five score minors, though scarcely in itself a positively good thing, is the Sieur du Perier’s La Haine et l’Amour d’Arnoult et de Clarimonde.  It begins with a singularly banal exordium, gravely announcing that Hate and Love are among the most important passions, with other statements of a similar kind couched in commonplace language.  But it does something to bring the novel from an uninteresting cloudland to earth by dealing with the recent and still vividly felt League wars:  and there is some ingenuity shown in plotting the conversion of the pair from more than “a little aversion” at the beginning to nuptial union ­not at the end.  For it is one of the points about the book which are not commonplace, though it may be a survival or atavism from mediaeval practice ­that the latter part of it is occupied mainly, not with Arnoult and Clarimonde, but with the loves, fortunes, and misfortunes of their daughter Claride.

The Philocalie of Du Croset (1593) derives its principal interest from its being not merely a Bergerie before the Astree, but, like it, the work of a Forezian gentleman who proudly asserts his territoriality, and dedicates his book to the “Chevalier D’Urfe.”  And its part name-fellow, the Philocaste of Jean Corbin ­a very tiny book, the heroine of which is (one would hardly have thought it from her name) a Princess of England ­is almost entirely composed of letters, discourse on them, and a few interspersed verses.  It belongs to the division of backward-looking novels, semi-chivalrous in type, and its hero is as often called “The Black Knight” as by his name.

The Roman Satirique (1624) of Jean de Lannoi is another example of the curious inability to “hit it off” which has been mentioned so often as characterising the period.  Its 1100 pages are far too many, though it is fair to say that the print is exceptionally large and loose.  Much of it is not in any sense “satiric,” and it seems to have derived what popularity it had almost wholly from the “key” interest.

The minor works ­if the term may be used when the attribution of the major is by no means certain ­of Beroalde de Verville have, as is usual, been used both ways as arguments for and against his authorship of the Moyen de Parvenir. Les Aventures de Floride is simply an attempt, and a big one in size, to amadigauliser, as the literary slang of the time went.  The Histoire Veritable, owing nothing but its title and part of its idea to Lucian, and sub-titled Les Princes Fortunes, is less conventional.  It has a large fancy map for a frontispiece; there are fairies in it, and a sort of pot-pourri of queernesses which might not impossibly have come from the author or editor of the Moyen in his less inconveniently ultra-Pantagruelist moments. Le Cabinet de Minerve is actually a glorification of “honest” love.  In fact, Beroalde is one of the oddest of “polygraphers,” and there is nobody quite like him in English, though some of his fellows may be matched, after a fashion, with our Elizabethan pamphleteers.  I have long wished to read the whole of him, but I suppose I never shall.

And it is time to leave these very minor stars and come to the full and gracious moon of the Astree itself.

Honore D’Urfe, who was three years younger than Shakespeare, and died in the year in which Charles I. came to the throne, was a cadet of a very ancient family in the district or minor province of Forez, where his own famous Lignon runs into the Loire.  He was a pupil of the Jesuits and early fort en theme, was a strenuous ligueur, and, though (or perhaps also because) he was very good friends with Henri’s estranged wife, Margot, for some time decidedly suspect to Henri IV.  For this reason, and others of property, etc., he became almost a naturalised Savoyard, but died in the service of his own country at the beginning of Richelieu’s Valtelline war.  The most noteworthy thing in his rather eventful life was, however, his marriage.  This also has a direct literary interest, at least in tradition, which will have his wife, Diane de Chateaumorand, to be Astree herself, and so the heroine of “the first [great] sentimental romance.”  The circumstances of the union, however, were scarcely sentimental, much less romantic.  They were even, as people used to say yesterday, “not quite nice,” and the Abbe Reure, a devotee of both parties to it, admits that they “heurte[nt] violemment nos idées.”  In fact Diane was not only eight years older than Honore and thirty-eight years of age, but she had been for a quarter of a century the wife of his elder brother, Anne, while he himself was a knight of Malta, and vowed to celibacy.  Of course (as the Canon points out with irrefragably literal accuracy in logic and law) the marriage being declared null ab initio (for the cause most likely to suggest itself, though alleged after extraordinary delay), Diane and Honore were not sister- and brother-in-law at all, and no “divorce” or even “dispensation” was needed.  In the same way, Honore, having been introduced into the Order of St. John irregularly in various ways, never was a knight of it at all, and could not be bound by its rules.  Q.E.D.  Wicked people, of course, on the other hand, said that it was a device to retain Diane’s great wealth (for Honore was quite poor in comparison) in the family; sentimental ones that it was a fortunate and blameless crowning of a long and pure attachment.  As a matter of fact, no “permanent children” (to adopt an excellent phrase of the late Mr. Traill’s) resulted; Diane outlived her husband, though but for a short time, and left all her property to her relations of the Levis family.  The pair are also said not to have been the most united of couples.  In connection with the Astree their portraits are interesting.  Honore d’Urfe, though he had the benefit of Van Dyck’s marvellous art of cavalier creation, must have been a very handsome man.  Diane’s portrait, by a much harder and dryer hand, purports to have been taken at the age of sixty-four.  At first sight there is no beauty in it; but on reinspection one admits possibilities ­a high forehead, rather “enigmatic” eyes, not at all “extinguished,” a nose prominent and rather large, but straight and with well, but not too much, developed “wings,” and, above all, a full and rather voluptuous mouth.  Such may have been the first identified novel-heroine.  It is a popular error to think that sixty-four and beauty are incompatibles, but one certainly would have liked to see her at sixteen, or better still and perhaps best of all, at six and twenty.

The Astree itself is not the easiest of subjects to deal with.  It is indeed not so huge as the Grand Cyrus, but it is much more difficult to get at ­a very rare flower except in the “grey old gardens” of secular libraries.  It and its author have indeed for a few years past had the benefit (as a result partly of another doubtful thing, an x-centenary) of one of the rather-to-seek good specimens among the endless number of modern literary monographs.  But it has never been reprinted ­even extracts of it, with the exception of a few stock passages, are not common or extensive; and though a not small library has been written about it in successive waves of eulogy, reaction, mostly ignorant contempt, rehabilitation, and mere bookmaking; though there have been (as noted) recent anniversaries and celebrations, and so forth; though it is one of the not numerous books which have given a name-type ­Celadon, ­and a place ­“les bords du Lignon,” ­to their own, if not to universal literature, it seems to be “as a book” very little known.  The faithful monographer above cited admits merit in Dunlop; but Dunlop does not say very much about it.  Herr Koerting (v. sup.) analyses it.  Possibly there may be, also in German, a comparison, tempting to those who like such things, between it and its twenty years’ predecessor, Sidney’s Arcadia, the first French translation of which, in 1625, just after Urfe’s death, was actually dedicated to his widow.  But I suspect that few English writers about Sidney have known much of the Astree, and I feel sure that still fewer French writers on this have known anything of Sidney save perhaps his name.  Of course the indebtedness of both books to Montemayor’s Diana is a commonplace.

One of the numerous resemblances between the two, and one which, considering their respective positions in the history of the French and English novel, is most interesting, is the strong philosophical and specially Platonic influence which the Renaissance exercised on both. Sidney, however full of it elsewhere, put less of it in his actual novel; while, on the other hand, nothing did so much to create and spread the rather rococo notion of pseudo-platonic love in France, and from France throughout Europe, as the Astree itself.  The further union of the philosophic mind with an eminently cavalier temperament ­the united ethos of scholar, soldier, lover, and courtier ­fills out the comparison:  and dwarfs such merely mechanical things as the mixed use of prose and verse (which both may have taken, nay pretty certainly did take, from Montemayor) and the pastoralities, for which they in the same way owed royalty to the Spaniard, to Tasso, to Sannazar, and to the Greek romances, let alone Theocritus and Virgil.  And, to confine ourselves henceforward to our own special subject, it is this double infusion of idealism ­of spiritual and intellectual enthusiasm on the one hand and practical fire of life and act on the other ­which makes the great difference, not merely between the Astree and its predecessors of the Amadis class, but between it and its successors the strictly “Heroic” romances, though these owe it so much.  The first ­except in some points of passion ­hardly touch reality at all; the last are perpetually endeavouring to simulate and insinuate a sort of reality under cover of adventures and conventions which, though fictitious, are hardly at all fantastic.  But the Astree might almost be called a French prose Faerie Queene, allowing for the difference of the two nations, languages, vehicles, and milieux generally, in its representation of the above-mentioned cavalier-philosophic ethos ­a thing never so well realised in France as in England or in Spain, but of which Honore d’Urfe, from many traits in life and book, seems to have been a real example, and which certainly vindicates its place in history and literature.

The Astree appeared in five instalments, 1607-10-12-19 and posthumously, the several parts being frequently printed:  and it is said to be almost impossible to find a copy, all the parts of which are of the first issue in each case.  The two later parts probably, the last certainly, were collaborated in, if not wholly written by, the author’s secretary Baro.  But it was by no means Honore’s only work; indeed the Urfes up to his time were an unusually literary family; and, while his grandfather Claude collected a remarkable library (whence, at its dispersion in the evil days of the house during the eighteenth century, came some of not the least precious possessions of French public and private collections), his unfortunate brother Anne was a poet.  Honore himself, besides school exercises, wrote Epistres Morales which were rather popular, and display qualities useful in appreciating the novel itself; a poem in octosyllables, usually and perhaps naturally called “La Sireine,” but really entitled in the masculine, and having nothing to do with a mermaid; a curious thing, semi-dramatic in form and in irregular blank verse, entitled Silvanire où La Morte Vive, which was rehandled soon after his death by Corneille’s most dangerous rival Mairet; and an epic called La Savoisiade, which seems to have no merit, and all but a very small portion of which is still unprinted.

He remains, therefore, the author of the Astree, and, taking things on the whole (a mighty whole, beyond contest, as far as bulk goes), there are not so many authors of the second rank (for one of the first he can hardly be called) who would lose very much by an exchange with him.  One’s estimates of the book are apt to vary in different places, even as, though not in the same degree as, the estimates of others have varied at different times; but I myself have found that the more I read of it the more I liked and esteemed it; and I believe that, if I had a copy of my own and could turn it over in the proper diurnal and nocturnal fashion, not as duty- but as pleasure-reading, I should like it better still.  Certain points that have appealed to me have been noticed already ­its combination of sensuous and ideal passion is perhaps the most important of them; but there are not a few others, themselves by no means void of importance.  One is the union, not common in French books between the sixteenth and the nineteenth century, of sentiment and seriousness with something very like humour.  Hylas, the not exactly “comic man,” but light-o’-love and inconstant shepherd, was rather a bone of contention among critics of the book’s own century.  But he certainly seasons it well; and there is one almost Shakespearean scene in which he is concerned ­a scene which Benedick and Beatrice, who may have read it not so very many years after their own marriage, must have enjoyed considerably.  Hylas and the shepherdess Stella (who is something of a girl-counterpart of his, as in the case just cited) draw up a convention of love between them.  The tables, though they are not actually numbered in the original, are twelve, and, shortened a little, run as follows: 

     1.  Neither is to be sovereign over the other.

     2.  Both are to be at once Lover and Beloved. [They knew      something about the matter, these two, for all their      jesting.]

     3.  There is to be no constraint of any kind.

     4.  They are to love for as long or as short a time as they      please.

     5.  No charge of infidelity is ever to be brought on either      side.

     6.  It is quite permitted to either or both to love somebody      else, and yet to continue loving each other.

     7.  There is to be no jealousy, no complaints, no sulks.

     8.  They are to do and say exactly what they please.

     9.  Words like “faithfulness,” etc., are taboo.

     10.  They may leave off playing whenever they like.

     11.  And begin again ditto.

     12.  They are to forget both the favours they receive from      each other and the offences they may commit against each      other.

Now, of course, any one may say of the Land where such a code might be realised, in the very words of one of the most charming of songs, set to one of the happiest of tunes: 

    Cette rive, ma chère,     On ne la connait guère         Au pays des amours!

But that is not the question, and if it were possible it undoubtedly would be a very agreeable Utopia, combining the transcendental charms of the country of Quintessence with the material ones of the Pays de Cocagne.  From its own point of view there seems to be no fault to find with it, except, perhaps, with the first part of the Twelfth Commandment; for the remembrance of former favours heightens the enjoyment of later ones, and the danger of nessun maggior dolore is excluded by the hypothesis of indifference after breach.  But a sort of umpire, or at any rate thirdsman, the shepherd Silvandre, when asked his opinion, makes an ingenious objection.  To carry out Article Three, he says, there ought to be a Thirteenth: 

     13.  That they may break any of these rules just as they      please.

For what comes of this further the reader may go to the book, but enough of it should have been given to show that there is no want of salt, though there is no (or very little) gros sel in the Astree.

Yet again there is very considerable narrative power.  Abstracts may be found, not merely in older books mentioned or to be mentioned, but in the recent publications of Koerting and the Abbe Reure, and there is neither room nor need for a fresh one here.  As some one (or more than one) has said, the book is really a sort of half-allegorical tableau of honourable Love worked out in a crowd of couples (some I believe, have counted as many as sixty), from Celadon and Astree themselves downwards.  The course of these loves is necessarily “accidented,” and the accidents are well enough managed from the first, and naturally enough best known, where Celadon flings himself into the river and is rescued, insensible but alive, by nymphs, who all admire him very much, though none of them can affect his passion for Astree.  But one cares ­at least I have found myself caring ­less for the story than for the way in which it is told ­a state of things exactly contrary, as will be seen, to that produced with or in me by the Grand Cyrus.  There we have a really well, if too intricately, engineered plot, in the telling of which it is difficult to take much interest.  Here it is just the reverse.  And one of the consequences is that you can dip in the Astree much more refreshingly than in its famous follower, where, if you do so, you constantly “don’t know where you are.”

One of the most famous things in the book, and one of the most important to its conduct, is the “Fountain of the Truth of Love,” a few words on which will illustrate the general handling very fairly.  This Fountain (presided over by a Druid, a very important personage otherwise, who is a sort of high priest thereof) has nothing in common with the more usual waters which are philtres or anti-philtres, etc.  Its function is to be gazed in rather than to be drunk, and if you look into it, loving somebody, you see your mistress.  If she loves you, you see yourself as well, beside her, and (which is not so nice) if she loves some one else you see him; while if she is fancy-free you see her only.  Clidaman, one of the numerous lovers above mentioned, tries the water; and his love, Silvie, presents herself again and again as he looks, “almost setting on fire with her lovely eyes the wave which seemed to laugh around her.”  But she is quite alone.

The presiding Druid interprets, not merely in the sense already given, but with one of the philosophic commentaries, which, as has been said, are distinctive of the book.  The nature of the fountain is to reflect not body but spirit.  Spirit includes Will, Memory, and Judgment, and when a man loves, his spirit transforms itself through all these ways into the thing loved.  Therefore when he looks into the fountain he sees Her.  In the same way She is changed into Him or some one else whom she loves, and He sees that image also; but if she loves no one He sees her image alone.

“This is very satisfactory” (as Lady Kew would say) to the inquiring mind, but not so much so to the lover.  He wants to have the fountain shut up, I suppose (for my notes and memory do not cover this point exactly), that no rival may have the chance denied to himself.  He would even destroy it, but that ­the Druid tells and shows him ­is quite impossible.  What can be done shall be.  And here comes in another of the agreeable things (to me) in the book ­its curious fairy-tale character, which is shown by numerous supernaturalities, much more humanised than those of the Amadis group, and probably by no means without effect on the fairy-tale proper which was to follow.  Clidaman himself happens, in the most natural way in the world, to “keep” ­as an ordinary man keeps cats and dogs ­a couple of extraordinary big and savage lions and another couple of unicorns to fight, not with each other, but with miscellaneous animals.  The lions and the unicorns are forthwith extra-enchanted, so as to guard the fountain ­an excellent arrangement, but subject to some awkwardnesses in the sequel.  For the lions take turns to seek their meat in the ordinary way, and though they can hurt nobody who does not meddle with the fountain, and have no wish to be man-eaters, complications naturally supervene.  And sometimes, besides fighting, and love-making, and love casuistry, and fairy-tales, and oracles, and the finer comedy above mentioned, “Messire d’Urfe” (for he did not live too late to have that most gracious of all designations of a gentleman used in regard to him) did not disdain, and could not ill manage, sheer farce.  The scene with Cryseide and Arimant and Clorine and the nurse and the ointment in Part III.  Book VII., though it contains little or nothing to effaroucher la pudeur, is like one of the broader but not broadest tales of the Fabliaux and their descendants.

The book, therefore, has not merely a variety, but a certain liveliness, neither of which is commonplace; but it would of course be uncritical to suppress its drawbacks.  It is far too long:  and while bowing to those to the manner born who say that Baro carried out his master’s plan well in point of style, and acknowledging that I have paid less attention to Parts IV. and V. than to the others, it seems to me that we could spare a good deal of them.  One error, common to almost the whole century in fiction, is sometimes flagrant.  Nobody except a pedant need object to the establishment, in the time of the early fifth century and the place of Gaul, of a non-historical kinglet- or queenletdom of Forez or “Seguse” under Amasis (here a feminine name), etc.; nor, though (as may perhaps be remarked again later) things Merovingian bring little luck in literature, need we absolutely bar Chilperics and Alarics, or a reference to “all the beauties of Neustria.”  But why, in the midst of the generally gracious macedoine of serious and comic loves, and jokes, and adventures, should we have thrust in the entirely unnecessary, however historical, crime whereby Valentinian the Third lost his worthless life and his decaying Empire?  It has, however, been remarked, perhaps often enough, by those who have busied themselves with the history of the novel, how curious it is that the historical variety, though it never succeeded in being born for two thousand years after the Cyropaedia and more, constantly strove to be so.  At no time were the throes more frequent than during the seventeenth century in France; at no time, there or anywhere else, were they more abortive.

But it remains on the whole an attractive book, and the secret of at least part of this attractiveness is no doubt to be found stated in a sentence of Madame de Sevigne’s, which has startled some people, that “everything in it is natural and true.”  To the startled persons this may seem either a deliberate paradox, or a mere extravagance of affection, or even downright bad taste and folly.  But the Lady of all Beautiful Letter-writers was almost of the family of Neverout in literary criticism.  If she had been a professional critic (which is perhaps impossible), she might have safeguarded her dictum by the addition, “according to its own scheme and division.”  It is the neglect of this implication which has caused the demurs. “‘Natural!’” and “‘true!’” they say, “why, the Pastoral is the most frankly and in fact outrageously unnatural and false of all literary kinds.  Does not Urfe himself warn us that we are not to expect ordinary shepherds and shepherdesses at all?” Or perhaps they go more to detail.  “The whole book is unabashedly occupied with love-making; and love is not the whole, it is even a very small part, of life, that is to say, of truth and nature.”  Or, to come still closer to particulars, “Where, for instance, did Celadon, who is represented as having been reduced to utter destitution when, more heroum, he started a quasi-hermit life in the wood, get the decorations, etc., of the Temple he erected to Love and Astree?” One almost blushes at having to explain, in a popular style, the mistakenness, to use the mildest word, of these objections.  The present writer, in a book less ambitious than the present on the sister subject of the English novel, once ventured to point out that if you ask “where Sir Guyon got that particularly convenient padlock with which he fastened Occasion’s tongue, and still more the hundred iron chains with which he bound Furor?” that is to say, if you ask such a question seriously, you have no business to read romance at all.  As to the Love matter, of that it is still less use to talk.  There are some who would go so far as to deny the major; even short of that hardiness it may be safely urged that in poetry and romance Love is the chief and principal thing, and that the poet and the romancer are only acting up to their commission in representing it as such.  But the source of all these errors is best reached, and if it may be, stopped, by dealing with the first article of the indictment in the same way.  What if Pastoral is artificial?  That may be an argument against the kind as a whole, but it cannot lie against a particular example of it, because that example is bound to act up to its kind’s law.  And I think it not extravagant to contend that the Astree acts up to its law in the most inoffensive fashion possible ­in such a fashion, in fact, as is hardly ever elsewhere found in the larger specimens, and by no means very often in the smaller.  Hardly even in As You Like It, certainly not in the Arcadia, do the crook and the pipe get less in the way than they do here.  A minor cavil has been urged ­that the “shepherds” and the “knights,” the “shepherdesses” and the “nymphs” are very little distinguishable from each other; but why should they be?  Urfe had sufficient art to throw over all these things an air of glamour which, to those who can themselves take the benefit of the spell, banishes all inconsistencies, all improbabilities, all specks and knots and the like.  It has been said that the Astree has in it something of the genuine fairy-tale element.  And the objections taken to it are really not much more reasonable than would be the poser whether even the cleverest of wolves, with or without a whole human grandmother inside it, would find it easy to wrap itself up in bedclothes, or whether, seeing that even walnut shells subject cats to such extreme discomfort, top-boots would not be even more intolerable to the most faithful of feline retainers.

The literary influence and importance of the book have never been denied by any competent criticism which had taken the trouble to inform itself of the facts.  It can be pointed out that while the “Heroics,” great as was their popularity for a time, did not keep it very long, and lost it by sharp and long continued ­indeed never reversed ­reaction, the influence of the Astree on this later school itself was great, was not effaced by that of its pupils, and worked in directions different, as well as conjoint.  It begat or helped to beget the Precieuses; it did a great deal, if not exactly to set, to continue that historical character which, though we have not been able to speak very favourably of its immediate exercise, was at last to be so important.  Above all, it reformed and reinforced the “sentimental” novel, as it is called.  We have tried to show that there was much more of this in the mediaeval romance proper than it has been the fashion in recent times to allow.  There was a great deal in the Amadis class, but extravaganzaed out of reason as well as out of rhyme.  To us, or some of us, the Astree type may still seem extravagant, but in comparison it brings things back to that truth and nature which were granted it by Madame de Sevigne.  Its charms actually soothed the savage breast of Boileau, and it is not surprising that La Fontaine loved it.  Few things of the kind are more creditable to the better side of Jean Jacques a full century later, than that he was not indifferent to its beauty; and there were few greater omissions on the part of mil-huit-cent-trente (which, however, had so much to do!) than its comparative neglect to stray on to the gracious banks of the Lignon.  All honour to Saint-Marc Girardin (not exactly the man from whom one would have expected it) for having been, as it seems, though in a kind of palinodic fashion, the first to render serious attention, and to do fair justice, to this vast and curious wilderness of delights.

To turn from the Pastoral to the Heroic, the actual readers, English or other, of Artamene où lé Grand Cyrus in late years, have probably been reckonable rather as single spies (a phrase in this connection of some rather special appropriateness) than in battalions.  And it is to be feared that many or most, if not nearly all of them, have opened it with little expectation of pleasure.  The traditional estimates are dead against it as a rule; it has constantly served as an example ­produced by wiseacres for wiseacres ­of the unwisdom of our ancestors; and, generous as were Sir Walter’s estimates of all literature, and especially of his fellow-craftsmen’s and craftswomen’s work, the lively passage in Old Mortality where Edith Bellenden’s reference to the book excites the (in the circumstances justifiable) wrath of the Major ­perhaps the only locus of ordinary reading that touches Artamene with anything but vagueness ­is not entirely calculated to make readers read eagerly.  But on turning honestly to the book itself, it is possible that considerable relief and even a little astonishment may result.  Whether this satisfaction will arise at the very dedication by that vainglorious and yet redoubtable cavalier, Georges de Scudery, in which he characteristically takes to himself the credit due mainly, if not wholly, to his plain little sister Madeleine, will depend upon taste.  It is addressed to Anne Genevieve de Bourbon, Duchess of Longueville, sister of Conde, and adored mistress of many noteworthy persons ­the most noteworthy perhaps being the Prince de Marcillac, better known, as from his later title, as Duc de la Rochefoucauld, and a certain Aramis ­not so good a man as three friends of his, but a very accomplished, valiant, and ingenious gentleman.  The blue eyes of Madame de Longueville (M. de Scudery takes the liberty to mention specially their charm, if not their colour) were among the most victorious in that time of the “raining” and reigning influence of such things:  and somehow one succumbs a little even now to her as the Queen of that bevy of fair, frail, and occasionally rather ferocious ladies of the Fronde feminine.  (The femininity was perhaps most evident in Madame de Chevreuse, and the ferocity in Madame de Montbazon.) Did not Madame de Longueville ­did not they all ­figuratively speaking, draw that great philosopher Victor Cousin up in a basket two centuries after her death, even as had been done, literally if mythically, to that greater philosopher, Aristotle, ages before?  But the governor of Our Lady of the Guard says to her many of these things which that very Aramis delighted to hear (though not perhaps from the lips of rivals) and described, rebuking the callousness of Porthos to them, as fine and worthy of being said by gentlemen.  The Great Cyrus himself “comes to lay at her Highness’s feet his palms and his trophies.”  His historian, achieving at once advertisement and epigram, is sure that as she listened kindly to the Death of Cæsar (his own play), she will do the same to the Life of Cyrus.  Anne Genevieve herself will become the example of all Princesses (the Reverend Abraham Adams might have groaned a little here), just as Cyrus was the pattern of all Princes.  She is not the moon, but the sun of the Court.  The mingled blood of Bourbon and Montmorency gives her such an eclat that it is almost unapproachable.  He then digresses a little to glorify her brother, her husband, and Chapelain, the famous author of La Pucelle, who had the good fortune to be a friend of the Scuderys, as well as, like them, a strong “Heroic” theorist.  After which he comes to that personal inventory which has been referred to, decides that her beauty is of a celestial splendour, and, in fact, a ray of Divinity itself; goes into raptures, not merely over her eyes, but over her hair (which simply effaces sunbeams); the brightness and whiteness of her complexion; the just proportion of her features; and, above all, her singularly blended air of modesty and gallantry; her intellectual and spiritual match; her bodily graces; and he is finally sure that though somebody’s misplaced acuteness may discover faults which nobody else will perceive (Georges would like to see them, no doubt), her extreme kindness will pardon them.  A commonplace example of flattery this?  Well, perhaps not.  One somehow sees, across the rhetoric, the blue eyes of Anne Genevieve and the bristling mustachios and “swashing outside” and mighty rapier of Georges; and the thing becomes alive with the life of a not ungracious past, the ills of which were, after all, more or less common to all times, and its charms (like the charms of all things and persons charming) its own.

But the Address to the Reader, though it discards those “temptations of young ladies” (Madame de Longueville can never have been old) which Dr. Johnson recognised, and also the companion attractions of Cape and Sword, is of perhaps directly greater importance for our special and legitimate purpose.  Here the brother and sister (probably the sister chiefly) develop some of the principles of their bold adventure, and they are of no small interest.  It is allowed that the varying accounts of Cyrus (in which, as almost every one with the slightest tincture of education must be aware, doctors differ remarkably), at least those of Herodotus and Xenophon (they do not, or she does not, seem to have known Ctesias), are confounded, and selected ad libitum and secundum artem only.  Further “lights” are given by the selection of the “Immortal Heliodorus” and “the great Urfe” as patterns and patrons of the work.  In fact, to any expert in the reading and criticism of novels it is clear that a great principle has been ­imperfectly but somehow ­laid hold of.

Perhaps, however, “laid hold of” is too strong; we should do better by borrowing from Dante and saying that the author or authors have “glimpsed the Panther,” ­have seen that a novel ought not to be a mere chronicle, unselected and miscellaneous, but a work which, whether it has actual unity of plot or not, has unity of interest, and will deal with its facts so as to secure that interest.  At first, indeed, they plunge us into the middle of matters quite excitingly, though perhaps not without more definite suggestion, both to them and to us, of the “immortal” Heliodorus.  The hero, who still bears his false name of Artamene, appears at the head of a small army, the troops of Cyaxares of Media; and, at the mouth of a twisting valley, suddenly sees before him the town of Sinope in flames, the shipping in the harbour blazing likewise, all but one bark, which seems to be flying from more than the conflagration.  A fine comic-opera situation follows; for while Artamene is trying to subdue the fire he is attacked by the traitor Aribee, general under the King of Assyria, who is himself shut up in a tower and seems to be hopelessly cut off from rescue by the fire.  The invincible hero, however, subdues at once the rebel and the destroying element; captures the Assyrian, who is not only his enemy and that of his master Cyaxares, but his Rival (the word has immense importance in these romances, and is always honoured with a capital there), and learns that the escaping galley carried with it his beloved Mandane, daughter of Cyaxares, of whom he is in quest, and who has been abducted from her abductor and lover by another, Prince Mazare of Sacia.

All this is lively and business-like enough, and one feels rather a brute in making the observation (necessary, however) that Artamene talks too much and not in the right way.  When things in general are “on the edge of a razor” and one is a tried and skilful soldier, one does not, except on the stage, pause to address the unjust Gods, and inquire whether they have consented to the destruction of the most beautiful princess in the world; discuss with one’s friends the reduction into cinders of the adorable Mandane, and further enquire, without the slightest chance of answer, “Alas! unjust Rival! hast thou not thought rather of thine own preservation than of hers?” However, for a time, the incidents do carry off the verbiage, and for nearly a hundred small pages there is no great cause for complaint.  It is the style of the book; and if you do not like it you must “seek another inn.”  But what succeeds, for the major part of the first of the twenty volumes, is open to severer criticisms.  We fall into interminable discussions, recits, and the like, on the subject of the identity of Artamene and Cyrus, and we see at once the imperfect fashion in which the nature of the novel is conceived.  That elaborate explanation ­necessary in history, philosophy, and other “serious” works ­cannot be cut down too much in fiction, is one truth that has not been learnt. That the stuffing of the story with large patches of solid history or pseudo-history is wrong and disenchanting has not been learnt either; and this is the less surprising and the more pardonable in that very few, if indeed any, of the masters and mistresses of the novel, later and greater than Georges and Madeleine de Scudery, have not refused to learn it or have not carelessly forgotten the learning.  Even Scott committed the fault sometimes, though never in his very best work.  Dumas ­when he went out and left the “young men” to fill in, and stayed too long, and made them fill in too much ­did it constantly.  Yet again, that mixture of excess and defect in talking, which has been noted already, becomes more and more trying in connection with the previously mentioned faults and others.  Of mere talk there is enough and immensely to spare; but it is practically never real dialogue, still less real conversation.  It is harangue, narrative, soliloquy, what you will, in the less lively theatrical forms of speech watered out in prose, with “passing of compliments” in the most gentlefolkly manner, and a spice of “Phebus” or Euphuism now and then.  But it is never real personal talk, while as for conveying the action by the talk as the two great masters above mentioned and nearly all others of their kind do, there is no vestige of even an attempt at the feat, or a glimpse of its desirableness.

Again, one sees before long that of one priceless quality ­a sense of humour ­we shall find, though there is a little mild wit, especially in the words of the ladies named in the note, no trace in the book, but a “terrible minus quantity.”  I do not know that the late Sir William Gilbert was a great student of literature ­of classical literature, to judge from the nomenclature of Pygmalion and Galatea mentioned above, he certainly was not.  But his eyes would surely have glistened at the unconscious and serious anticipation of his own methods at their most Gilbertian, had he ever read pp. 308 sqq. of this first volume.  Here not only do Cyrus and a famous pirate, by boarding with irresistible valour on each side, “exchange ships,” and so find themselves at once to have gained the enemy’s and lost their own, but this remarkable manoeuvre is repeated more than twenty times without advantage on either side ­or without apparently any sensible losses on either side.  From which it would appear that both contented themselves with displays of agility in climbing from vessel to vessel, and did nothing so impolite as to use their “javelins, arrows, and cutlasses” (of which, nevertheless, we hear) against the persons of their competitors in such agility on the other side.  It did come to an end somehow after some time; but one is quite certain that if Mr. Crummles had had the means of presenting such an admirable spectacle on any boards, he never would have contented himself without several encores of the whole twenty operations.

An experienced reader, therefore, will not need to spend many hours before he appreciates pretty thoroughly what he has to expect ­of good, of bad, and of indifferent ­from this famous book.  It is, though in a different sense from Montaigne’s, a livre de bonne foi.  And we must remember that the readers whom it directly addressed expected from books of this kind “pastime” in the most literal and generous, if also humdrum, sense of the word; noble sentiments, perhaps a little learning, possibly a few hidden glances at great people not of antiquity only.  All these they got here, most faithfully supplied according to their demand.

Probably nothing will give the reader, who does not thus read for himself, a better idea of the book than some extract translations, beginning with Artamene’s first interview with Mandane, going on to his reflections thereon, and adding a perhaps slightly shortened version of the great fight recounted later, in which again some evidence of the damaging absence of humour, and some suggestions as to the originals of divers well-known parodies, will be found. (It must be remembered that these are all parts of an enormous recit by Chrisante, one of Artamene’s confidants and captains, to the King of Hircania, a monarch doubtless inured to hardships in the chase of his native tigers, or requiring some sedative as a change from it.)

No sooner had the Princess seen my Master than she rose, and prepared to receive him with much kindness and much joy, having already heard, by Arbaces, the service he had done to the King, her father.  Artamene then made her two deep bows, and coming closer to her, but with all the respect due to a person of her condition, he kissed [no doubt the hem of] her robe, and presented to her the King’s letter, which she read that very instant.  When she had done, he was going to begin the conversation with a compliment, after telling her what had brought him; but the Princess anticipated him in the most obliging manner.  “What Divinity, generous stranger,” said she, “has brought you among us to save all Cappadocia by saving its King? and to render him a service which the whole of his servants could not have rendered?” “Madam,” answered Artamene, “you are right in thinking that some Divinity has led me hither; and it must have been some one of those beneficent Divinities who do only good to men, since it has procured me the honour of being known to you, and the happiness of being chosen by Fortune to render to the King a slight service, which might, no doubt, have been better done him by any other man.”  “Modesty,” said the Princess (smiling and turning towards the ladies who were nearest her), “is a virtue which belongs so essentially to our own sex, that I do not know whether I ought to allow this generous stranger so unjustly to rob us of it, or ­not content with possessing eminently that valour to which we must make no pretension ­to try to be as modest when he is spoken to of the fineness of his actions as reasonable women ought to be when they are praised for their beauty.  For my part,” she added, looking at Artamene, “I confess I find your proceeding a little unfair.  And I do not think that I ought to allow it, or to deprive myself of the power of praising you infinitely, although you cannot endure it.”  “Persons like you,” retorted Artamene, but with profound respect, “ought to receive praise from all the earth, and not to give it lightly.  ’Tis a thing, Madam, of which it is not pleasant to have to repeat; for which reason I beg you not to expose yourself to such a danger.  Wait, Madam, till I have the honour of being a little better known to you.”

There are several pages more of this carte and tierce of compliment; but perhaps a degenerate and impatient age may desire that we should pass to the next subject.  Whether it is right or not in so desiring may perhaps be discussed when the three samples have been given.

Artamene has been dismissed with every mark of favour, and lodged in a pavilion overlooking the garden.  When he is alone ­

After having passed and re-passed all these things over again in his imagination, “Ye gods!” said he, “if, when she is so lovable, it should chance that I cannot make her love me, what would become of the wretched Artamene?  But,” and he caught himself up suddenly, “since she seems capable of appreciating glory and services, let us continue to act as we have begun! and let us do such great deeds that, even if her inclination resisted, esteem may introduce us, against her will, into her heart!  For, after all, whatever men may say, and whatever I may myself have said, one may give a little esteem to what one will never in the least love; but I do not think one can give much esteem to what will never earn a little love.  Let us hope, then; let us hope! let us make ourselves worthy to be pitied if we are not worthy to be loved.”

After which somewhat philosophical meditation it is not surprising that he should be informed by one of his aides-de-camp that the Princess was in the garden.  For what were Princesses made? and for what gardens?

The third is a longer passage, but it shall be subjected to that kind of centoing which has been found convenient earlier in this volume.

[The dispute between the kings of Cappadocia on the one hand and of Pontus on the other has been referred to a select combat of two hundred men a side.  Artamene, of course, obtains the command of the Cappadocians, to the despair of his explosive but not ungenerous rival, “Philip Dastus.”  After a very beautiful interview with Mandane (where, once more, the most elegant compliments pass between these gentlefolkliest of all heroes and heroines) and divers preliminaries, the fight comes off.] They began to advance with heads lowered, without cries or noise of any kind, but in a silence which struck terror.  As soon as they were near enough to use their javelins, they launched them with such violence that [a slight bathos] these flying weapons had a pretty great effect on both sides, but much greater on that of the Cappadocians than on the other.  Then, sword in hand and covered by their shields, they came to blows, and Artamene, as we were informed, immolated the first victim [but how about the javelin “effect"?] in this bloody sacrifice.  For, having got in front of all his companions by some paces, he killed, with a mighty sword-stroke, the first who offered resistance. [Despite this, the general struggle continues to go against the Cappadocians, though Artamene’s exploits alarm one of the enemy, named Artane, so much that he skulks away to a neighbouring knoll.  At last] things came to such a point that Artamene found himself with fourteen others against forty; so I leave you to judge, Sir [Chrisante parle toujours], whether the party of the King of Pontus did not believe they had conquered, and whether the Cappadocians had not reason to think themselves beaten.  But as, in this fight, it was not allowed either to ask or to give quarter, and was necessary either to win or to die, the most despairing became the most valiant. [The next stage is, that in consequence of enormous efforts on his part, the hero finds himself and his party ten to ten, which “equality” naturally cheers them up.  But the wounds of the Cappadocians are the severer; the ten on their side become seven, with no further loss to the enemy, and at last Artamene finds himself, after three hours’ fighting, alone against three, though only slightly wounded.  He wisely uses his great agility in retiring and dodging; separates one enemy from the other two, and kills him; attacks the two survivors, and, one luckily stumbling over a buckler, kills a second, so that at last the combat is single.  During this time the coward Artane abstains from intervening, all the more because the one surviving champion of Pontus is a personal rival of his, and because, by a very ingenious piece of casuistry, he persuades himself that the two combatants are sure to kill each other, and he, Artane, surviving, will obtain the victory for self and country!]

He is nearly right; but not quite.  For after Artamene has wounded the Pontic Pharnaces in six places, and Pharnaces Artamene in four (for we wound “by the card” here), the hero runs Pharnaces through the heart, receiving only a thigh-wound in return.  He flourishes both swords, cries “I have conquered!” and falls in a faint from loss of blood.  Artane thinks him dead, and without caring to come close and “mak sicker,” goes off to claim the victory.  But Artamene revives, finds himself alone, and, with what strength he has left, piles the arms of the dead together, writes with his own blood on a silver shield ­

TO JUPITER GUARDIAN OF TROPHIES,

and lies beside it as well as he can.  The false news deceives for a short time, but when the stipulated advance to the field takes place on both sides, the discovery of the surviving victor introduces a new complication, from which we may for the moment abstain.

The singlestick rattle of compliment in the interview first given, and the rather obvious and superfluous meditations of the second, may seem, if not exactly disgusting, tedious and jejune.  But the “Fight of the Four Hundred” is not frigid; and it is only fair to say that, after the rather absurd passage of châsse croise on ship-board quoted or at least summarised earlier, the capture of Artamene by numbers and his surrender to the generous corsair Thrasybulus are not ill told, while there are several other good fights before you come to the end of this very first volume.  There is, moreover, an elaborate portrait of the Princess, evidently intended to “pick up” that vaguer one of Madame de Longueville in the Preface, but with the blue of the eyes here fearlessly specified.  Here also does the celebrated Philidaspes (most improperly, if it had not been for the justification to be given later, transmogrified in the above-mentioned passage by Major Bellenden into “Philip Dastus?  Philip Devil”) make his appearance.  The worst of it is that most, if not the whole, is done by the recit delivered, as noted above, by Chrisante, one of those representatives of the no less faithful than strong Gyas and Cloanthus, whom imitation of the ancients has imposed on Scudery and his sister, and inflicted on their readers.

The story of the Cappadocian-Pontic fight is continued in the second volume of the First Part by the expected delivery of harangues from the two claimants, and the obligatory, but to Artane very unwelcome, single combat.  He is, of course, vanquished and pardoned by his foe, making, if not full, sufficient confession; and it is not surprising to hear that the King of Pontus requests to see no more of him.  The rest ­for it must never be forgotten that all this is “throwing back” ­then turns to the rivalry of Artamene and Philidaspes for the love of Mandane, while she (again, of course) has not the faintest idea that either is in love with her.  Philidaspes, who (still, of course) is not Philidaspes at all, is a rough customer ­(in fact the Major hardly did him injustice in calling him “Philip Devil” ­betraying also perhaps some knowledge of the text), and it comes to a tussle.  This rather resembles what the contemptuous French early Romantics called une boxade than a formal duel, and Artamene stuns his man with a blow of the flat.  Cyaxares is very angry, and imprisons them both, not yet realising their actual fault.  It does not matter much to Artamene, who in prison can think, aloud and in the most beautiful “Phebus,” of Mandane.  It matters perhaps a little more to the reader; for a courteous jailer, Aglatidas, takes the occasion to relate his own woes in a “History of Aglatidas and Amestris,” which completes the second volume of the First Part in three hundred and fifty mortal pages to itself.

The first volume of the Second Part returns to the main story, or rather the main series of recits; for, Chrisante being not unnaturally exhausted after talking for a thousand pages or so, Feraulas, another of Artamene’s men, takes up the running.  The prisoners are let out, and Mandane reconciles them, after which ­as another but later contemporary remarks (again of other things, but probably with some reminiscence of this) ­they become much more mortal enemies than before.  The reflections and soliloquies of Artamene recur; but a not unimportant, although subordinate, new character appears ­not as the first example, but as the foremost representative, in the novel, of the great figure of the “confidante” ­in Martesie, Mandane’s chief maid of honour.  Nobody, it is to be hoped, wants an elaborate account of the part she plays, but it should be said that she plays it with much more spirit and individuality than her mistress is allowed to show.  Then, according to the general plan of all these books, in which fierce wars and faithful loves alternate, there is more fighting, and though Artamene is victorious (as how should he not be, save now and then to prevent monotony?) he disappears and is thought dead.  Of course Mandane cries, and confesses to the confidante, being entirely “finished” by a very exquisite letter which Artamene has written before going into the doubtful battle.  However, he is (yet once more, of course) not dead at all.  What (as that most sagacious of men, the elder Mr. Weller, would have said)’d have become of the other seventeen volumes if he had been?  There is one of the quiproquos or misunderstandings which are as necessary to this kind of novel as the flirtations and the fisticuffs, brought about by the persistence of an enemy princess in taking Artamene for her son Spithridates; but all comes right for the time, and the hero returns to his friends.  The plot, however, thickens.  An accident informs Artamene that Philidaspes is really Prince of Assyria, sure to become King when his mother, Nitocris, dies or abdicates, and that, being as he is, and as Artamene knows already, desperately in love with Mandane, he has formed a plot for carrying her off.  The difficulties in the way of preventing this are great, because, though the hero is already aware that he is Cyrus, it is for many reasons undesirable to inform Cyaxares of the fact; and at last Philidaspes, helped by the traitor Aribee (v. sup.), succeeds in the abduction, after an interlude in which a fresh Rival, with a still larger R, the King of Pontus himself, turns up; and an immense episode, in which Thomyris, Queen of Scythia, appears, not yet in her more or less historical part of victress of Cyrus.  She is here only a young sovereign, widowed in her earliest youth, extremely beautiful (see a portrait of her inf.), who has never yet loved, but who falls instantly in love with Cyrus himself (when he is sent to her court), and is rather a formidable person to deal with, inasmuch as, besides having great wealth and power, she has established a diplomatic system of intrigue in other countries, which the newest German or other empire might envy.  By the end of this volume, however, the Artamene-Cyrus confusion is partly cleared up (though Cyaxares is not yet made aware of the facts), and the hero is sent after Mandane, to be disappointed at Sinope, in the fashion recounted some thousand or two pages before.

With the beginning of vol. iv. (that is to say, part ii. vol. ii.) we return, though still in retrospect, to the direct fate of Mandane.  Nitocris is dead, Philidaspes has succeeded to the crown of Assyria, and has carried Mandane off to his own dominions.  The situation with so robustious a person as this prince may seem awkward, and indeed, as is observed in a later part of the book, the heroine’s repeated sojourns (there are three if not four of them in all) in the complete power of one of the Rivals, with a large R, are very trying to Cyrus.  However, such a shocking thing as violence is hardly hinted at, and the Princess always succeeds, as the Creole lady in Newton Forster said she did with the pirates, in “temporising,” while her abductors confine themselves for the most part to the finest “Phebus.”  Even the fiery Philidaspes, though he breaks out sometimes, conveys his wish that Mandane should accompany him to Babylon by pointing out that “the Euphrates is jealous of the Tigris for having first had the honour of her presence,” and that “the First City of the World ought clearly to possess the most illustrious princess of the Earth.”  Of course, if there is any base person who cannot derive an Aramisian satisfaction (v. sup.) from such things as this, he had better abstain from the Cyrus.  But happier souls they please ­not exquisitely, perhaps, or tumultuously, but still well ­with a mild tickle which is not unvoluptuous.  One is even a very little sorry for Philip Dastus when he begs his cruel idol to write to him the single word ESPEREZ, and meanwhile kindly puts it in capitals and a line to itself.  Almost immediately afterwards an oracle juggles with him in fashion delightful to himself, and puzzling to everybody except the intelligent reader, who, it is hoped, will see the double meaning at once.

      Il t’est permis d’esperer       De la faire soupirer,         Malgré sa haine:      Car un jour entre ses bras,         Tu rencontreras         La fin de ta peine.

Alas! without going further (upon honour and according to fact), one sees the other explanation ­that Mandane will have to perform the uncomfortable duty ­often assigned to heroines ­of having Philidaspes die in her lap.

For the present, however, only discomfiture, not death, awaits him.  The Mèdes blockade Babylon to recover their princess; it suffers from hunger, and Philidaspes, with Mandane and the chivalrous Sacian Prince Mazare, whom we have heard of before, escapes to Sinope.  Then the events recorded in the very beginning happen, and Mandane, after escaping the flames of Sinope through Mazare’s abduction of her by sea, and suffering shipwreck, falls into the power of the King of Pontus.  This calls a halt in the main story; and, as before, a “Troisième Livre” consists of another huge inset ­the hugest yet ­of seven hundred pages this time, describing an unusually, if not entirely, independent subject ­the loves and fates of a certain Philosipe and a certain Polisante.  This volume contains a rather forcible boating-scene, which supplies the theme for the old frontispiece.

Refreshed as usual by this excursion, the author returns (in vol. v., bk. i., chap. iii.) to Cyrus, who is once more in peril, and in a worse one than ever.  Cyaxares, arriving at Sinope, does not find his daughter, but does discover that Artamene, whom he does not yet know to be Cyrus and heir to Persia, is in love with her.  Owing chiefly to the wiles of a villain, Metrobate, he arrests the Prince, and is on the point of having him executed, despite the protests of the allied kings.  But the whole army, with the Persian contingent at its head, assaults the castle, and rescues Cyrus, after the traitor Metrobate has tried to double his treachery and get Cyaxares assassinated.  Nobody who remembers the Letter of Advice already quoted will doubt what the conduct of Cyrus is.  He only accepts the rescue in order that he may post himself at the castle gate, and threaten to kill anybody who attacks Cyaxares.

After this burst, which is really exciting in a way, we must expect something more soporific.  Martesie takes the place of her absent mistress to some extent, and a good deal of what might be mistaken for “Passerelle" flirtation takes place, or would do so, if it were not that Cyrus would, of course, die rather than pay attention to anybody but Mandane herself, and that Feraulas, already mentioned as one of the Faithful Companions, is detailed as Martesie’s lover.  She is, however, installed as a sort of Vice-Queen of a wordy tourney between four unhappy lovers, who fill up the rest of the volume with their stories of “Amants Infortunes” (cf. the original title of the Heptameron), dealing respectively with and told by ­

(1) A lover who is loved, but separated from his mistress.

(2) One who is unloved.

(3) A jealous one.

(4) One whose love is dead.

They do it moderately, in rather less than five hundred pages, and Martesie sums up in a manner worthy of any Mistress of the Rolls, contrasting their fates, and deciding very cleverly against the jealous man.

The first twenty pages or so of the sixth volume (nominally ii afford a good example of the fashion in which, as may be observed more fully below, even an analysis of the Grand Cyrus, though a great advance on mere general description of it, must be still (unless it be itself intolerably voluminous) insufficient.  Not very much actually “happens”; but if you simply skip, you miss a fresh illustration of magnanimity not only in Cyrus, but in a formerly mentioned character, Aglatidas, with reference to the heroine Amestris earlier inset in the tale (v. sup.).  And this is an example of the new and sometimes very ingenious fashion in which these apparent excursions are turned into something like real episodes, or at any rate supply connecting threads of the whole, in a manner not entirely unlike that which some critics have so hastily and unjustly overlooked in Spenser.  Then we have an imbroglio about forged letters, and a clearing-up of a former charge against the hero, and (still within the twenty pages) a very curious scene ­the last for the time ­of that flirtation-without-flirtation between Cyrus and Martesie.  She wants to have back a picture of Mandane, which she has lent him to worship; and he replies, looking at her “attentively” (one wonders whether Mandane, if present, would have been entirely satisfied with his “attention"), addresses her as “Cruel Person,” and asks her (he is just setting out for the Armenian war) how she thinks he can conquer when she takes away what should make him invincible.  To which replies Miss Martesie, “You have gained so many victories [ahem!] without this help, that it would seem you have no need of it.”  This is very nice, and Martesie, who is herself, as previously observed, quite nice throughout, lets him have the picture after all.  But Cyrus, for once rather ungraciously, will not allow her lover, and his henchman, Feraulas to escort her home; first, because he wants Feraulas’s services himself, and secondly, because it is unjust that Feraulas should be happy with Martesie when Cyrus is miserable without Mandane ­an argument which, whether slightly selfish or not, is at any rate in complete keeping with the whole atmosphere of the book.

Now, as this is by no means a very exceptional, certainly not a unique, score of pages, and as it has taken almost a whole one of ours to give a rather imperfect notion of its contents, it follows that it would take about six hundred, if not more, to do justice to the ten or twelve thousand of the original.  Which (in one of the most immortal of formulas) “is impossible.”  We must fall back, therefore, on the system already pursued for the rest of this volume, and perhaps even contract its application in some cases.  A rash promise of the now entirely, if not also rather insanely, generous Prince not to marry Mandane without fighting Philidaspes, or rather the King of Assyria, beforehand, is important; and an at last minute description of Cyrus’s person and equipment as he sets out (on one of the proudest and finest horses that ever was, with a war-dress the superbest that can be imagined, and with Mandane’s magnificent scarf put on for the first time) is not quite omissible.  But then things become intricate.  Our old friend Spithridates comes back, and has first love affairs and afterwards an enormous recit-episode with a certain Princess of Pontus, whom Cyrus, reminding one slightly of Bentley on Mr. Pope’s Homer and Tommy Merton on Cider, pronounces to be belle, blonde, blanche et bien faîte, but not Mandane; and who has the further charm of possessing, for the first time in literature if one mistakes not, the renowned name of Araminta.  A pair of letters between these two will be useful as specimens, and to some, it may be hoped, agreeable in themselves.

     SPITHRIDATES TO THE PRINCESS ARAMINTA

I depart, Madam, because you wish it:  but, in departing, I am the most unhappy of all men.  I know not whither I go; nor when I shall return; nor even if you wish that I should return; and yet they tell me I must live and hope.  But I should not know how to do either the one or the other, unless you order me to do both by two lines in your own hand.  Therefore I beg them of you, divine Princess ­in the name of an illustrious person, now no more, [her brother Sinnesis, who had been a great friend of his], but who will live for ever in the memory of

SPITHRIDATES.

     [He can hardly have hoped for anything better than the      following answer, which is much more “downright Dunstable”      than is usual here.]

     ARAMINTA TO SPITHRIDATES

     Live as long as it shall please the Gods to allow you.  Hope      as long as Araminta lives ­she begs you:  and even if you      yourself wish to live, she orders you to do so.

     [In other words he says, “My own Araminta, say ’Yes’!” and      she does.  This attitude necessarily involves the despair of      a Rival, who writes thus:]

     PHARNACES TO THE PRINCESS ARAMINTA

If Fortune seconds my designs, I go to a place where I shall conquer and die ­where I shall make known, by my generous despair, that if I could not deserve your affection by my services, I shall have at least not made myself unworthy of your compassion by my death.

     [And, to do him justice, he “goes and does it."]

This episode, however, did not induce Mademoiselle Madeleine to break her queer custom of having something of the same kind in the Third Book of every Part.  For though there is some “business,” it slips into another regular “History,” this time of Prince Thrasybulus, a naval hero, of whom we have often heard, and his Alcionide, not a bad name for a sailor’s mistress. Finally, we come back to more events of a rather troublesome kind:  for the ci-devant Philidaspes most inconveniently insists in taking part in the rescuing expedition, which ­saving scandal of great ones ­is very much as if Mr. William Sikes should insist in helping to extract booty from Mr. Tobias Crackit.  And we finally leave Cyrus in a decidedly awkward situation morally, and the middle of a dark wood physically.

Here, according to that paulo-post-future precedent which she did so much to create, the authoress was quite justified in leaving him at the end of a volume; and perhaps the present historian is, to compare small things with great, equally justified in heaving-to (to borrow from Mr. Kipling) and addressing a small critical sermon to such crew as he may have attracted.  We have surveyed not quite a third of the book; but this ought in any case ­teste the loved and lost “three-decker” which the allusion just made concerns ­to give us a notion of the author’s quality and of his or her faire.  It should not be very difficult for anybody, unless the foregoing analysis has been very clumsily done, to discern considerable method in Madeleine’s mild madness, and, what is more, not a little originality.  The method has, no doubt, as it was certain to have in the circumstances, a regular irregularity, which is, or would be in anybody but a novice, a little clumsy:  and the originality may want some precedent study to discover it.  But both are there.  The skeleton of this vast work may perhaps be fairly constructed from what has already been dissected of the body; and the method of clothing the skeleton reveals itself without much difficulty.  You have the central idea in the loves of Cyrus and Mandane, which are to be made as true as possible, but also running as roughly as may be.  Moreover, whether they run rough or smooth, you are to keep them in suspense as long as you possibly can.  The means of doing this are laboriously varied and multiplied.  The clumsiest of them ­the perpetual intercalation or interpolation of “side-shows” in the way of Histoires ­annoys modern readers particularly, and has, as a rule, since been itself beautifully and beneficently lessened, in some cases altogether discarded, or changed ­in emancipation from the influence of the “Unities” ­to the form of second plots, not ostentatiously severed from the main one.  But, as has been pointed out, a great deal of trouble is at any rate taken to knit them to the main plot itself, if not actually and invariably to incorporate them therewith; and the means of this are again not altogether uncraftsmanlike.  Sometimes, as in the case of Spithridates, the person, or one of the persons, is introduced first in the main history; his own particular concerns are dealt with later, and, for good or for evil, he returns to the central scheme.  Sometimes, as in that of Amestris, you have the Histoire before the personage enters the main story.  Then there is the other device of varying direct narrative, as to this main story itself, with Recit; and always you have a careful peppering in of new characters, by histoire, by recit, or by the main story, to create fresh interests.  Again, there is the contrast of “business,” as we have called it ­fighting and politics ­with love-making and miscellaneous fine talk.  And, lastly, there are ­what, if they were not whelmed in such an ocean of other things, would attract more notice ­the not unfrequent individual phrases and situations which have interest in themselves.  It must surely be obvious that in these things are great possibilities for future use, even if the actual inventor has not made the most of them.

Their originality may perhaps deserve a little more comment. The mixture of secondary plots might, by a person more given to theorise than the present historian ­who pays his readers the compliment of supposing that that excessively easy and therefore somewhat negligible business can be done by themselves if they wish ­be traced to an accidental feature of the later mediaeval romances.  In these the congeries of earlier texts, which the compiler had not the wits, or at least the desire, to systematise, provided something like it; but required the genius of a Spenser, or the considerable craft of a Scudery, to throw it into shape and add the connecting links.  Many of the other things are to be found in the Scudery romance practically for the first time.  And the suffusion of the whole with a new tone and colour of at least courtly manners is something more to be counted, as well as the constant exclusion of the clumsy “conjuror’s supernatural” of the Amadis group.  That the fairy story sprung up, to supply the always graceful supernatural element in a better form, is a matter which will be dealt with later in this chapter.  The oracles, etc., of the Cyrus belong, of course, to the historical, not the imaginative side of the presentation; but may be partly due to the Astree, the influence of which was, we saw, admitted.

It may seem unjust that the more this complication of interests increases, the less complete should be the survey of them; and yet a moment’s thought will show that this is almost a necessity.  Moreover, the methods do not vary much; it is only that they are applied to a larger and larger mass of accumulating material.  The first volume of the Fourth Part, the seventh of the twenty, follows ­though with that absence of slavish repetition which has been allowed as one of the graces of the book ­the general scheme.  Cyrus gets out of the wood literally, but not figuratively; for when he and the King of Assyria have joined forces, to pursue that rather paradoxical alliance which is to run in couple with rivalry for love and to end in a personal combat, they see on the other side of a river a chariot, in which Mandane probably or certainly is.  But the river is unbridged and unfordable, and no boats can be had; so that, after trying to swim it and nearly getting drowned, they have to relinquish the game that had been actually in sight.  Next, two things happen.  First, Martesie appears (as usually to our satisfaction), and in consequence of a series of accidents, shares and solaces Mandane’s captivity.  Then, on the other side, Panthea, Queen of Susiana, and wife of one of the enemy princes, falls into Cyrus’s hands, and with Araminta (who is, it should have, if it has not been, said earlier, sister of the King of Pontus) furnishes valuable hostage for good treatment of Mandane and other Medo-Persian-Phrygian-Hircanian prisoners.

Things having thus been fairly bustled up for a time, a Histoire is, of course, imminent, and we have it, of about usual length, concerning the Lydian Princess Palmis and a certain Cleandre; while, even when this is done, we fall back, not on the main story, but once more on that of Aglatidas and Amestris, which is in a sad plight, for Amestris (who has been married against her will and is maumariee too) thinks she is a widow, and finds she is not.

It has just been mentioned that Palmis is a Lydian Princess; and before the end of this Part Croesus comes personally into the story, being the head of a formidable combination to supplant the King of Pontus, detain Mandane, and, if possible (as the well-known oracle, in the usual ambiguity (v. inf.), encourages him to hope), conquer the Medo-Persian empire and make it his own.  But the Histoire mania ­now further excited by consistence in working the personages so obtained in generally ­is in great evidence, and “Lygdamis and Cleonice” supply a large proportion of the early and all the middle of the eighth volume, the second of the Fourth Part.  There is, however, much more business than usual at the end to make up for any slackness at the beginning.  In a side-action with the Lydians both Cyrus and the King of Assyria are captured by force of numbers, though the former is at once released by the Princess Palmis, as well as Artames, son of Cyrus’s Phrygian ally, whom Croesus chooses to consider as a rebel, and intends to put to death.  Here, however, the captive Queen and Princess, Panthea and Araminta, come into good play, and exercise strong and successful influence through the husband of the one and the brother of the other.  But at the end of book, volume, and part we leave Cyrus once more in the dismals.  For though he has actually seen Mandane he cannot get at her, and he has heard three apparently most unfavourable oracles; the Babylonian one, which was quoted above, and which he, like everybody else, takes as a promise of success to Philidaspes; the ambiguous Delphic forecast of “the fall of an Empire” to Croesus; and that of his own death at the hands of a hostile queen, the only one which, historically, was to be fulfilled in its apparent sense, while the others were not.  He cares, indeed, not much about the two last, but infinitely about the first.

At the opening of the Fifth Part (ninth volume) there is a short but curious “Address to the Reader,” announcing the fulfilment of the first half of the promised production, and bidding him not be downhearted, for the first of the second half (the Sixth Part or eleventh volume of the whole) is actually at Press.  It may be noticed that there is a swagger about these avis and such like things, which probably is attributable to Georges, and not to Madeleine.

The inevitable Histoire comes earlier than usual in this division, and is of unusual importance; for it deals with two persons of great distinction, and already introduced in the story, Queen Panthea and her husband Abradates.  It is also one of the longer batch, running to some four hundred pages; and a notable part in it and in the future main story is played by one Doralise ­a pretty name, which Dryden, making it prettier still by substituting a c for the s, borrowed for his most original and (with that earlier Florimel of The Maiden Queen, who is said to have been studied directly off Nell Gwyn) perhaps his most attractive heroine, the Doralice of Marriage a la Mode.  Another important character, the villain of the sub-plot, is one Mexaris. At the end of the first instalment we leave Cyrus preparing elaborate machines of war to crush the Lydians.

Early in Book II. we hear of a mysterious warrior on the enemy side whom nobody knows, who calls himself Telephanes, and whom Cyrus is very anxious to meet in battle, but for the time cannot.  He is also frustrated in his challenge of the King of Pontus to fight for Mandane ­a challenge of which Croesus will not hear.  At last Telephanes turns out to be no less a person than Mazare, Prince of Sacia, whom we know already as one of the ever-multiplying lovers and abductors of the heroine; while, after a good deal of confused fighting, another inset Histoire of him closes the tenth volume (V. ii.).  It is, however, only two hundred pages long ­a mere parenthesis compared to others, and it leads up to his giving Cyrus a letter from Mandane ­an act of generosity which Philidaspes, otherwise King of Assyria, frankly confesses that he, as another Rival, could never have done.  After yet another Histoire (now a “four-some”) of Belesis, Hermogenes, Cleodare, and Leonice, Abradates changes sides, carrying us on to an “intricate impeach” of old and new characters, especially Araminta and Spithridates, and to the death in battle of the generous King of Susiana himself, and the grief of Panthea.  There is, at the close of this volume, a rather interesting Privilege du Roi, signed by Conrart ("lé silencieux Conrart"), sealed with “the great seal of yellow wax in a simple tail” (one ribbon or piece of ferret only?), and bestowing its rights “nonobstant Clameur de Haro, Charte Normande, et autres lettres contraires.”

The first volume of the Sixth Part (the eleventh of the whole and the first of what, as so many words of the kind are required, we may call the Second Division) has plenty of business ­showing that the author or her adviser was also a business-like person ­to commence the new venture.  Cyrus, after being victorious in the field and just about to besiege Sardis in form, receives a “bolt from the blue” in the shape of a letter “From the unhappy Mandane to the faithless” ­himself!  She has learnt, she tells him, that his feelings towards her are changed, requests that she may no longer serve as a pretext for his ambition, and ­rather straining the prerogatives assumed even by her nearest ancestresses in literature, the Polisardas and Miraguardas of the Amadis group, but scarcely dreamt of by the heroines of ancient Greek Romance ­desires that he will send back to her father Cyaxares all the troops that he is, as she implies, commanding on false pretences.

Now one half expects that Cyrus, in a transport of Amadisian-Euphuist-heroism, will comply with this very modest request.  In fact it is open to any one to contend that, according to the strictest rules of the game, he ought to have done so and gone mad, or at least marooned himself in some desert island, in consequence.  The sophistication, however, of the stage appears here.  After a very natural sort of “Well, I never!” translated into proper heroic language, he sets to work to identify the person whom Mandane suspects to be her rival ­for she has carefully abstained from naming anybody.  And he asks ­with an ingenious touch of self-confession which does the author great credit, if it was consciously laid on ­whether it can be Panthea or Araminta, with both of whom he has, in fact, been, if not exactly flirting, carrying on (as the time itself would have said) a “commerce of respectful and obliging admiration.”  He has a long talk with his confidant Feraulas (whose beloved and really lovable Martesie is, unluckily, not at hand to illuminate the mystery), and then he writes as “The Unfortunate Cyrus to the Unjust Mandane,” tells her pretty roundly, though, of course, still respectfully, that if she knew how things really were “she would think herself the cruellest and most unjust person in the world.” [I should have added, “just as she is, in fact, the most beautiful.”] She is, he says, his first and last passion, and he has never been more than polite to any one else.  But she will kindly excuse his not complying with her request to send back his army until he has vanquished all his Rivals ­where, no doubt, in the original, the capital was bigger and more menacing than ever, and was written with an appropriate gnashing of teeth.

The traditional balance of luck and love, however, holds; and the armies of Croesus and the King of Pontus begin to melt away; so that, after a short but curious pastoral episode, they have to shut themselves up in the capital.  The dead body of Abradates is now found, and his widow Panthea stabs herself upon it.  This removes one of Mandane’s possible causes of jealousy, but Araminta remains; and, as a matter of fact, it is this Princess on whom her suspicion has been cast, arising partly, though helped by makebates, from the often utilised personal resemblance between her actual lover, Prince Spithridates, and Cyrus.  The treacherous King of Pontus has, in fact, shown her a letter from Araminta (his sister, be it remembered) which seems to encourage the idea.

All this, however, and more fills but a hundred pages or so, and then we are as usual whelmed in a Histoire de Timarete et de Parthenie, which takes up four times the space, and finishes the First Book.  The Second opens smartly enough with the actual siege of Sardis; but we cannot get rid of Araminta (it is sad to have to wish that she was not “our own Araminta” quite so often) and Spithridates.  Conversations between the still prejudiced Mandane and the Lydian Princess Palmis ­a sensible and agreeable girl ­are better; but from them we are hurled into a Histoire de Sesostre (the Egyptian prince, son of Amasis, who is now an ally of Cyrus) et de Timarete, which not only fills the whole of the rest of the volume, but swells over into the next, being much occupied with the villainies of a certain Heracleon, who is at the time a wounded prisoner in Cyrus’s Camp.  The siege is kept up briskly, but Cyrus’s courteous release of certain captives adds fuel to Mandane’s wrath as having been procured by Araminta.  He will do anything for Araminta!  The releases themselves give rise to fresh “alarums and excursions,” among which we again meet a pretty name (Candiope), borrowed by Dryden.  Doralise is also much to the fore; and we have a regular Histoire, though a shorter one than usual, of Arpalice and Thrasimede, which will, as some say, “bulk largely” later.  The length of this part is, indeed, enormous, the double volume running to over fourteen hundred pages, instead of the usual ten or twelve.  But its close is spirited and sufficiently interim-catastrophic.  Cyrus discovers in the enceinte of Sardis the usual weak point ­an apparently impregnable scarped rock, which has been weakly fortified and garrisoned ­takes it by escalade in person with his best paladins, and after it the city.

But of course he cannot expect to have it all his own way when not quite twelve-twentieths of the book are gone, and he finds that Mandane is gone likewise; the King of Pontus, who has practically usurped the authority of Croesus, having once more carried her off ­perhaps not so entirely unwilling as before.  Cyrus pursues, and while he is absent the King of Assyria (Philidaspes) shows himself even more of a “Philip Devil” than usual by putting the captive Lydian prince on a pyre, threatening to burn him if he will not reveal the place of the Princess’s flight, and actually having the torch applied.  Of course Cyrus turns up at the nick of time, has the fire put out, rates the King of Assyria soundly for his violence, and apologises handsomely to Croesus.  The notion of an apology for nearly roasting a man may appear to have its ludicrous side, but the way in which the historic pyre and the mention of Solon are brought in without discrediting the hero is certainly ingenious.  The Mandane-hunt is renewed, but fruitlessly.

At the beginning of Part VII. there are ­according to the habit noticed, and in rather extra measure as regards “us” if not “them” ­some interesting things.  The first is an example ­perhaps the best in the book ­of the elaborate description (called in Greek rhetorical technique ecphrasis) which is so common in the Greek Romances.  The subject is an extraordinarily beautiful statue of a woman which Cyrus sees in Croesus’s gallery, and which will have sequels later.  It, or part of it, may be given: 

But, among all these figures of gold, there was to be seen one of marble, so wonderful, that it obliged Cyrus to stay longer in admiring it than in contemplating any of the others, though it was not of such precious material.  It is true that it was executed with such art, and represented such a beautiful person, as to prevent any strangeness in its charming a Prince whose eyes were so delicate and so capable of judging all beautiful objects.  This statue was of life-size, placed upon a pedestal of gold, on the four sides of which were bas-reliefs of an admirable beauty.  On each were seen captives, chained in all sorts of fashions, but chained only by little Loves, unsurpassably executed.  As for the figure itself, it represented a girl about eighteen years old, but one of surprising and perfect beauty.  Every feature of the face was marvellously fine; her figure was at once so noble and so graceful that nothing more elegant could be seen; and her dress was at once so handsome and so unusual, that it had something of each of the usual garbs of Tyrian ladies, of nymphs, and of goddesses; but more particularly that of the Wingless Victory, as represented by the Athenians, with a simple laurel crown on her head.  This statue was so well set on its base, and had such lively action, that it seemed actually animated; the face, the throat, the arms, and the hands were of white marble, as were the legs and feet, which were partly visible between the laces of the buskins she wore, and which were to be seen because, with her left hand, she lifted her gown a little, as if to walk more easily.  With her right she held back a veil, fastened behind her head under the crown of laurel, as though to prevent its being carried away by the breeze, which seemed to agitate it.  The whole of the drapery of the figure was made of divers-coloured marbles and jaspers; and, in particular, the gown of this fair Phoenician, falling in a thousand graceful folds, which still did not hide the exact proportion of her body, was of jasper, of a colour so deep that it almost rivalled Tyrian purple itself.  A scarf, which passed negligently round her neck, and was fastened on the shoulder, was of a kind of marble, streaked with blue and white, which was very agreeable to the eye.  The veil was of the same substance; but sculptured so artfully that it seemed as soft as mere gauze.  The laurel crown was of green jasper, and the buskins, as well as the sash she wore, were, again of different hues.  This sash brought together all the folds of the gown over the hips; below, they fell again more carelessly, and still showed the beauty of her figure.  But what was most worthy of admiration in the whole piece was the spirit which animated it, and almost persuaded the spectators that she was just about to walk and talk.  There was even a touch of art in her face, and a certain haughtiness in her attitude which made her seem to scorn the captives chained beneath her feet:  while the sculptor had so perfectly realised the indefinable freshness, tenderness, and embonpoint of beautiful girls, that one almost knew her age.

Then come two more startling events.  A wicked Prince Phraortes bolts with the unwilling Araminta, and the King of Assyria (alias Philidaspes) slips away in search of Mandane on his own account ­two things inconvenient to Cyrus in some ways, but balancing themselves in others.  For if it is unpleasant to have a very violent and rather unscrupulous Rival hunting the beloved on the one hand, that beloved’s jealousy, if not cured, is at least not likely to be increased by the disappearance of its object.  This last, however, hits Spithridates, who is, as it has been and will be seen, the souffre-douleur of the book, much harder.  And the double situation illustrates once more the extraordinary care taken in systematising ­and as one might almost say syllabising ­the book.  It is almost impossible that there should not somewhere exist an actual syllabus of the whole, though, my habit being rather to read books themselves than books about them, I am not aware of one as a fact.

Another characteristic is also well illustrated in this context, and a further translated extract will show the curious, if not very recondite, love-casuistry which plays so large a part.  But these French writers of the seventeenth century did not know one-tenth of the matter that was known by their or others’ mediaeval ancestors, by their English and perhaps Spanish contemporaries, or by writers in the nineteenth century.  They were not “perfect in love-lore”; their Liber Amoris was, after all, little more than a fashion-book in divers senses of “fashion.”  But let them speak for themselves: 

[Menecrate and Thrasimede are going to fight, and have, according to the unqualified legal theory and very occasional actual practice of seventeenth-century France, if not of the Mèdes and Persians, been arrested, though in honourable fashion.  The “dependence” is a certain Arpalice, who loves Thrasimede and is loved by him.  But she is ordered by her father’s will to marry Menecrate, who is now quite willing to marry her, though she hates him, and though he has previously been in love with Androclee, to whom he has promised that he will not marry the other.  A sort of informal Cour d’Amour is held on the subject, the President being Cyrus himself, and the judges Princesses Timarete and Palmis, Princes Sesostris and Myrsilus, with “Toute la compagnie” as assessors and assessoresses.  After much discussion, it is decided to disregard the dead father’s injunction and the living inconstant’s wishes, and to unite Thrasimede and Arpalice.  But the chief points of interest lie in the following remarks:]

“As it seems to me,” said Cyrus, “what we ought most to consider in this matter is the endeavour to make the fewest possible persons unhappy, and to prevent a combat between two gentlemen of such gallantry, that to whichever side victory inclines, we should have cause to regret the vanquished.  For although Menecrate is inconstant and a little capricious, he has, for all that, both wits and a heart.  We must, then, if you please,” added he, turning to the two princesses, “consider that if Arpalice were forced to carry out her father’s testament and marry Menecrate, everybody would be unhappy, and he would have to fight two duels, one against Thrasimede and one against Philistion (Androclee’s brother), the one fighting for his mistress, the other for his sister.”  “No doubt,” said Lycaste, “several people will be unhappy, but, methinks, not all; for at any rate Menecrate will possess his mistress.”  “’Tis true,” said Cyrus, “that he will possess Arpalice’s beauty; but I am sure that as he would not possess her heart, he could not call himself satisfied; and his greatest happiness in this situation would be having prevented the happiness of his Rival.  As for the rest of it, after the first days of his marriage, he would be in despair at having wedded a person who hated him, and whom he, perhaps, would have ceased to love; for, considering Menecrate’s humour, I am the most deceived of all men if the possession of what he loves is not the very thing to kill all love in his heart.  As for Arpalice, it is easy to see that, marrying Menecrate, whom she hates, and not marrying Thrasimede, whom she loves, she would be very unhappy indeed; nor could Androclee, on her side, be particularly satisfied to see a man like Menecrate, whom she loves passionately, the husband of another.  Philistion could hardly be any more pleased to see Menecrate, after promising to marry his sister, actually marrying another.  As for Thrasimede, it is again easy to perceive that, being as much in love with Arpalice as he is, and knowing that she loves him, he would have good reason for thinking himself one of the unhappiest lovers in the world if his Rival possessed his mistress.  Therefore, from what I have said, you will see that by giving Arpalice to Menecrate, everybody concerned is made miserable; for even Parmenides [not the philosopher, but a friend of Menecrate, whose sister, however, has rejected him], though he may make a show of being still attached to the interests of Menecrate, will be, unless I mistake, well enough pleased that his sister should not marry the brother of a person whom he never wishes to see again, and by whom he has been ill-treated.  Then, if we look at the matter from the other side and propose to give Arpalice to Thrasimede, it remains an unalterable fact that these two people will be happy; that Philistion will be satisfied; that justice will be done to Androclee; that nothing disobliging will be done to Parmenides, and that Menecrate will be made by force more happy than he wishes to be; for we shall give him a wife by whom he is loved, and take from him one by whom he is hated.  Moreover, things being so, even if he refuses to subject his whim to his reason, he can wish to come to blows with Thrasimede alone, and would have nothing to ask of Philistion; besides which, his sentiments will change as soon as Thrasimede is Arpalice’s husband.  One often fights with a Rival, thinking to profit by his defeat, when he has not married the beloved object; but one does not so readily fight the husband of one’s mistress, as being her lover.”

Much about the “Good Rival” (as we may call him) Mazare follows, and there is an illuminative sentence about our favourite Doralise’s humeur enjouée et critique, which, as the rest of her part does, gives us a “light” as to the origin of those sadly vulgarised lively heroines of Richardson’s whom Lady Mary very justly wanted to “slipper.”  Doralise and Martesie are ladies, which the others, unfortunately, are not.  And then we pay for our ecphrasis by an immense Histoire of the Tyrian Elise, its original.

At the beginning of VII. ii.  Cyrus is in the doldrums.  Many of his heroes have got their heroines ­the personages of bygone histoires ­and are honeymooning and (to borrow again from Mr. Kipling) “dancing on the deck.”  He is not.  Moreover, the army, like all seventeenth-century armies after victory and in comfortable quarters, is getting rather out of hand; and he learns that the King of Pontus has carried Mandane off to Cumae ­not the famous Italian Cumae, home of the Sibyl whom Sir Edward Burne-Jones has fixed for us, and of many classical memories, but a place somewhere near Miletus, defended by unpleasant marshes on land, and open to the sea itself, the element on which Cyrus is weakest, and by which the endlessly carried off Mandane may readily be carried off again.  He sends about for help to Phoenicia and elsewhere; but when, after a smart action by land against the town, a squadron does appear off the port, he is for a time quite uncertain whether it is friend or foe.  Fortunately Cleobuline, Queen of Corinth, a young widow of surpassing beauty and the noblest sentiments, who has sworn never to marry again, has conceived a Platonic-romantic admiration for him, and has sent her fleet to his aid.  She deserves, of course, and still more of course has, a Histoire de Cleobuline.  Also the inestimable Martesie writes to say that Mandane has been dispossessed of her suspicions, and that the King of Pontus is, in the race for her favour, nowhere.  The city falls, and the lovers meet.  But if anybody thinks for a moment that they are to be happy ever afterwards, Arithmetic, Logic, and Literary History will combine to prove to him that he is very much mistaken.  In order to make these two lovers happy at all, not only time and space, but six extremely solid volumes would have to be annihilated.

The close of VII. ii. and the whole of VIII. i. are occupied with imbroglios of the most characteristic kind.  There is a certain Anaxaris, who has been instrumental in preventing Mandane from being, according to her almost invariable custom, carried off from Cumae also.  To whom, though he is one of the numerous “unknowns” of the book, Cyrus rashly confides not only the captainship of the Princess’s guards, but various and too many other things, especially when “Philip Devil” turns up once more, and, seeing the lovers in apparent harmony, claims the fulfilment of Cyrus’s rash promise to fight him before marrying.  This gets wind in a way, and watch is kept on Cyrus by his friends; but he, thinking of the parlous state of his mistress if both her principal lovers were killed ­for Prince Mazare is, so to speak, out of the running, while the King of Pontus is still lying perdu somewhere ­entrusts the secret to Anaxaris, and begs him to take care of her.  Now Anaxaris ­as is so usual ­is not Anaxaris at all, but Aryante, Prince of the Massagetae and actually brother of the redoubtable Queen Thomyris; and he also has fallen a victim to Mandane’s fascinations, which appear to be irresistible, though they are, mercifully perhaps, rather taken for granted than made evident to the reader.  One would certainly rather have one Doralise or Martesie than twenty Mandanes.  However, again in the now expected manner, the fight does not immediately come off.  For “Philip Devil,” in his usual headlong violence, has provoked another duel with the Assyrian Prince Intaphernes, and has been badly worsted and wounded by his foe, who is unhurt.  This puts everything off, and for a long time the main story drops again (except as far as the struggles of Anaxaris between honour and love are depicted), first to a great deal of miscellaneous talk about the quarrel of King and Prince, and then to a regular Histoire of the King, Intaphernes, Atergatis, Princess Istrine, and the Princess of Bithynia, Spithridates’s sister and daughter of a very robustious and rather usurping King Arsamones, who is a deadly enemy of Cyrus.  The dead Queen Nitocris, and the passion for her of a certain Gadates, Intaphernes’s father, and also sometimes, if not always, called a “Prince,” come in here.  The story again introduces the luckless Spithridates himself, who is first, owing to his likeness to Cyrus, persecuted by Thomyris, and then imprisoned by his father Arsamones because he will not give up Araminta and marry Istrine, whom Nitocris had wanted to marry her own son Philidaspes ­a good instance of the extraordinary complications and contrarieties in which the book indulges, and of which, if Dickens had been a more “literary” person, he might have thought when he made the unfortunate Augustus Moddle observe that “everybody appears to be somebody else’s.”  Finally, the volume ends with an account of the leisurely progress of Mandane and Cyrus to Ecbatana and Cyaxares, while the King of Assyria recovers as best he can.  But at certain “tombs” on the route evidence is found that the King of Pontus has been recently in the land of the living, and is by no means disposed to give up Mandane.

The second volume of this part is one of the most eventless of all, and is mainly occupied by a huge Histoire of Puranius, Prince of Phocaea, his love Cleonisbe, and others, oddly topped by a passage of the main story, describing Cyrus’s emancipation of the captive Jews.  He is for a time separated from the Princess.

The first pages of IX. i. are lively, though they are partly a recit.  Prince Intaphernes tells Cyrus all about Anaxaris (Aryante), and how by representing Cyrus as dead and the King of Assyria in full pursuit of her, he has succeeded in carrying off Mandane; how also he has had the cunning, by availing himself of the passion of another high officer, Andramite, for Doralise, to induce him to join, in order that the maid of honour may accompany her mistress.  Accordingly Cyrus, the King of Assyria himself, and others start off in fresh pursuit; but the King has at first the apparent luck.  He overtakes the fugitives, and a sharp fight follows.  But the guards whom Cyrus has placed over the Princess, and who, in the belief of his death, have followed the ravishers, are too much for Philidaspes, and he is fatally wounded; fulfilling the oracle, as we anticipated long ago, by dying in Mandane’s arms, and honoured with a sigh from her as for her intended rescuer.

She herself, therefore, is in no better plight, for Aryante and Andramite continue the flight, with her and her ladies, to a port on the Euxine, destroying, that they may not be followed, all the shipping save one craft they select, and making for the northern shore.  Here after a time Aryante surrenders Mandane to his sister Thomyris, as he cannot well help doing, though he knows her violent temper and her tigress-like passion for Cyrus, and though, also, he is on rather less than brotherly terms with her, and has a party among the Massagetae who would gladly see him king.  Meanwhile the King of Pontus and Phraortes, Araminta’s carrier-off, fight and kill each other, and Araminta is given up ­a loss for Mandane, for they have been companions in quasi-captivity, and there is no longer any subject of jealousy between them.

Having thus created a sort of “deadlock” situation such as she loves, and in the interval, while Cyrus is gathering forces to attack Thomyris, the author, as is her fashion likewise, surrenders herself to the joys of digression.  We have a great deal of retrospective history of Aryante, and at last the famous Scythian philosopher, Anacharsis, is introduced, bringing with him the rest of the Seven Ancient Sages ­with whom we could dispense, but are not allowed to do so.  There is a Banquet of them all at the end of the first volume of the Part; and they overflow into the second, telling stories about Pisistratus and others, and discussing “love in the aib-stract,” as frigidly as might be expected, on such points as, “Can you love the same person twice?" But the last half of this IX. ii. is fortunately business again.  There is much hard fighting with Thomyris, who on one occasion wishes to come to actual sword-play with Cyrus, and of whom we have the liveliest ecphrasis, or set description, in the whole romance.

As for Thomyris, she was so beautiful that day that there was no one in the world save Mandane, who could have disputed a heart with her without the risk of losing.  This Princess was mounted on a fine black horse, trapped with gold; her dress was of cloth of gold, with green panels shot with a little carnation, and was of the shape of that of Pallas when she is represented as armed.  The skirt was caught up on the hip with diamond clasps, and showed buskins of lions’ muzzles made to correspond with the rest.  Her head-dress was adorned with jewels, and a great number of feathers ­carnation, white and green ­hung over her beautiful fair tresses, while these, fluttering at the wind’s will, mixed themselves with the plumes as she turned her head, and with their careless curls gave a marvellous lustre to her beauty.  Besides, as her sleeves were turned up, and caught on the shoulder, while she held the bridle of her horse with one hand and her sword with the other, she showed the loveliest arms in the world.  Anger had flushed her complexion, so that she was more beautiful than usual; and the joy of once more seeing Cyrus, and seeing him also in an action respectful towards her, effaced the marks of her immediately preceding fury so completely that he could see nothing but what was amiable and charming.

Thomyris, however, is as treacherous and cruel as she is beautiful; and part of her reason for seeming milder is that more of her troops may turn up and seize him.

On another occasion, owing to false generalship and disorderly advance on the part of the King of Hyrcania, Cyrus is in no small danger, but he “makes good,” though at a disastrous expense, and with still greater dangers to meet.  Thomyris’s youthful son (for young and beautiful widow as she is, she has been an early married wife and a mother), Spargapises, just of military age, is captured in battle, suffers from his captors’ ignorance what has been called “the indelible insult of bonds,” and though almost instantly released as soon as he is known, stabs himself as disgraced.  His body is sent to his mother with all sorts of honours, apologies, and regrets, but she, partly out of natural feeling, partly from her excited state, and partly because her mind is poisoned by false insinuations, sends, after transports of maternal and other rage, a message to Cyrus to the effect that if he does not put himself unreservedly in her hands, she will send him back Mandane dead, in the coffin of Spargapises.  And so the last double-volume but one ends with a suitable “fourth act” curtain, as we may perhaps call it.

The last of all, X. i. and ii., exhibits, in a remarkable degree, the general defects and the particular merits and promise of this curious and (it cannot be too often repeated) epoch-making book.  In the latter respect more especially it shows the “laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere” fashion in which the endless and, it may sometimes seem, aimless episodes, and digressions, and insets are worked into the general theme.  The defects will hardly startle, though they may still annoy, any one who has worked through the whole.  But if another wickedly contented himself with a sketch of the story up to this point, and thought to make up by reading this Part of two volumes carefully, he would probably feel these defects very strongly indeed.  We ­we corrupt moderns ­do expect a quickening up for the run-in.  The usual beginning may seem to the non-experts to promise this, or at least to give hopes of it; for though there is a vast deal of talking ­with Anacharsis as a go-between and Gelonide (a good confidante), endeavouring to soften Thomyris, one can but expect it ­the situation itself is at once difficult and exciting.  The position of Aryante in particular is really novel-dramatic.  As he is in love with Mandane, he of course does not want his sister to murder her.  But inasmuch as he fears Cyrus’s rivalry, he does not want him to be near Mandane for two obvious reasons:  first, the actual proximity, and, secondly, the danger of Thomyris’s temper getting the better (or worse) of her when both the lovers are in her power.  So he sends private messengers to the Persian Prince, begging him not to surrender.  Cyrus, however, still thinks of exchanging himself for Mandane.  At this point the neophyte’s rage may be excited by being asked to plunge into the regular four-hundred page Histoire of a certain Arpasie, who has two lovers ­a Persian nobleman Hidaspe, and a supposed Assyrian champion Meliante, who has come with reinforcements for Thomyris.  And no doubt the proportion is outrageous.  But “wait and see,” a phrase, it may be observed, which was not, as some seem to think, invented by Mr. Asquith.

At last the business does begin again, and a tremendous battle takes place for the possession of certain forests which lie between the two armies, and are at first held by the Scythians.  Cyrus, however, avails himself of the services of an engineer who has a secret of combustibles, sets the forests ablaze, and forces his way through one or two open defiles, with little loss to himself and very heavy loss to the enemy, whose main body, however, is still unbroken.  This affords a fine subject for one of the curious frontispieces known to all readers of seventeenth century books.  A further wait for reinforcements takes place, and the author basely avails herself of it for a no doubt to herself very congenial (they actually called her in “precious” circles by the name of the great poetess) and enormous Histoire of no less a person than Sappho, which fills the last 250 pages of the first (nineteenth) volume and about as much of the second (twentieth) or last.  It has very little connection with the text, save that Sappho and Phaon (for the self-precipitation at Leucas is treated as a fable) retire to the country of the Sauromatae, to live there a happy, united, but unwed and purely Platonic (in the silly sense) existence.  The foolish side of the précieuse system comes out here, and the treatment confirms one’s suspicion that the author’s classical knowledge was not very deep.

It does come to an end at last, however, and at last also we do get our “run-in,” such as it is.  The chief excuse for its existence is that it brings in a certain Mereonte, who, like his quasi-assonant Meliante, is to be useful later, and that the tame conclusion is excused by a Sapphic theory ­certainly not to be found in her too fragmentary works ­that “possession ruins love,” a doctrine remembered and better put by Dryden in a speech of that very agreeable Doralice, whose name, though not originally connected with this part of it, he also, as has been noted, borrowed from the Grand Cyrus.

The actual finale begins (so to speak) antithetically with the last misfortune of the unlucky Spithridates.  His ill-starred likeness to Cyrus, assisted by a suit of armour which Cyrus has given to him, make the enemy certain that he is Cyrus himself, and he is furiously assaulted in an off-action, surrounded, and killed.  His head is taken to Thomyris, who, herself deceived, executes upon it the famous “blood-bath” of history or legend. Unfortunately it is not only in the Scythian army that the error spreads.  Cyrus’s troops are terrified and give way, so that he is overpowered by numbers and captured.  Fortunately he falls into the hands, not of Thomyris’s own people or of her savage allies, the Geloni (it is a Gelonian captain who has acted as executioner in Spithridates’s case), but of the supposed Assyrian leader Meliante, who is an independent person, admires Cyrus, and, further persuaded by his friend Mereonte (v. sup.), resolves to let him escape.  The difficulties, however, are great, and the really safest, though apparently the most dangerous way, seems to lie through the “Royal Tents” (the nomad capital of Thomyris) themselves.  Meanwhile, Aryante is making interest against his sister; some of Cyrus’s special friends, disguised as Massagetae, are trying to discover and rescue him, and the Sauromatae are ready to desert the Scythian Queen.  One of her transports of rage brings on the catastrophe.  She orders the Gelonian bravo to poniard Mandane, and he actually stabs by mistake her maid-of-honour Hesionide ­the least interesting one, luckily.  Cyrus himself, after escaping notice for a time, is identified, attacked, and nearly slain, when the whole finishes in a general chaos of rebellion, arrival of friends, flight of Thomyris, and a hairbreadth escape of Cyrus himself, which unluckily partakes more of the possible-improbable than of the impossible-probable.  The murders being done, the marriages would appear to have nothing to delay them; but an evil habit, the origin of which is hard to trace, and which is not quite extinct, still puts them off.  Meliante has got to be rewarded with the hand of Arpasie, which is accomplished after he has been discovered, in a manner not entirely romantic, to be the son of the King of Hyrcania, and both his marriage and that of Cyrus are interfered with by a supposed Law of the Mèdes and of certain minor Asiatic peoples, that a Prince or Princess may not marry a foreigner.  Fresh discoveries get rid of this in Meliante’s case, while in that of Cyrus a convenient Oracle declares that he who has conquered every kingdom in Asia cannot be considered a foreigner in any.  So at last the long chart is finished, Doralise retaining her character as lightener of this rather solid entertainment by declaring that she cannot say she loves her suitor, Prince Myrsilus, because every phrase that occurs to her is either too strong or too weak.  So we bless her, and stop the water channels ­or, as the Limousin student might have more excellently said, “claud the rives.”

If the reader, having tolerated this long analysis (it is perhaps most probable that he will not have done so), asks what game one pretends to have shown for so much expenditure or candle, it is, no doubt, not easy to answer him without a fresh, though a lesser, trial of his patience.  You cannot “ticket” the Grand Cyrus, or any of its fellows, or the whole class, with any complimentary short description, such as a certain school of ancient criticism loved, and corresponding to our modern advertisement labels ­“grateful and comforting,” “necessary in every travelling bag,” and the like.  They are, indeed, as I have endeavoured to indicate indirectly as well as directly, by no means so destitute of interest of the ordinary kind as it has generally been the fashion to think them.  From the charge of inordinate length it is, of course, impossible to clear the whole class, and Artamene more particularly. Length “no more than reason” is in some judgments a positive advantage in a novel; but this is more than reason.  I believe (the moi, I trust, is not utterly haïssable when it is necessary) that I myself am a rather unusually rapid, without being a careless or unfaithful, reader; and that I have by nature a very little of that faculty with which some much greater persons have been credited, of being able to see at a glance whether anything on a page needs more than that glance or not, a faculty not likely to have been rendered abortive (though also not, I hope, rendered morbid) by infinite practice in reviewing.  I do not say that, even now, I have read every word of this Artamene as I should read every word of a sonnet of Shakespeare or a lyric of Shelley, even as I should read every word of a page of Thackeray.  I have even skimmed many pages.  But I have never found, even in a time of “retired leisure,” that I could get through more than three, or at the very utmost four, of the twenty volumes or half-volumes without a day or two of rest or other work between.  On the other hand, the book is not significantly piquant in detail to enable me to read attentively fifty or a hundred pages and then lay it down. You do, in a lazy sort of way, want to know what happened ­a tribute, no doubt, to Mlle. Madeleine ­and so you have to go on ploughing the furrow.  But several weeks’ collar-work is a great deal to spend on a single book of what is supposed to be pastime; and the pastime becomes occasionally one of doubtful pleasure now and then.  In fact, it is, as has been said, best to read in shifts.  Secondly, there may, no doubt, be charged a certain unreality about the whole:  and a good many other criticisms may be, as some indeed have been already, made without injustice.

The fact is that not only was the time not yet, but something which was very specially of the time stood in the way of the other thing coming, despite the strong nisus in its favour excited by various influences spoken of at the beginning of this chapter.  This was the devotion ­French at almost all times, and specially French at this ­to the type.  There are some “desperate willins” (as Sam Weller called the greengrocer at the swarry) who fail to see much more than types in Racine, though there is something more in Corneille, and a very great deal more in Moliere.  In the romances which charmed at home the audiences and spectators of these three great men’s work abroad, there is nothing, or next to nothing, else at all.  The spirit of the Epistle to the Pisos, which acted on the Tragedians in verse, which acted on Boileau in criticism and poetry, was heavier on the novelist than on any of them.  Take sufficient generosity, magnanimity, adoration, bravery, courtesy, and so forth, associate the mixture with handsome flesh and royal blood, clothe the body thus formed with brilliant scarfs and shining armour, put it on the best horse that was ever foaled, or kneel it at the feet of the most beautiful princess that ever existed, and you have Cyrus.  For the princess herself take beauty, dignity, modesty, graciousness, etc., quant. suff., clothe them in garments again magnificent, and submit the total to extreme inconveniences, some dangers, and an immense amount of involuntary travelling, but nothing “irreparable,” and you have Mandane.  For the rest, with the rare and slight exceptions mentioned, they flit like shadows ticketed with more or less beautiful names.  Even Philidaspes, the most prominent male character after the hero by far, is, whether he be “in cog” as that personage or “out of cog” as Prince and King of Assyria, merely a petulant hero ­a sort of cheap Achilles, with no idiosyncrasy at all.  It is the fault, and in a way the very great fault, of all the kind:  and there is nothing more to do with it but to admit it and look for something to set against it.

How great a thing the inception (to use a favourite word of the present day, though it be no favourite of the writer’s) of the “psychological” treatment of Love was may, of course, be variously estimated.  The good conceit of itself in which that day so innocently and amusingly indulges will have it, indeed, that the twentieth century has invented this among other varieties of the great and venerable art of extracting nourishment from eggs.  “We have,” somebody wrote not long ago ­the exact words may not be given, but the sense is guaranteed ­“perceived that Love is not merely a sentiment, an appetite, or a passion, but a great means of intellectual development.”  Of course Solomon did not know this, nor Sappho, nor Catullus, nor the fashioners of those “sentiments” of the Middle Ages which brought about the half-fabulous Courts of Love itself, nor Chaucer, nor Spenser, nor Shakespeare, nor Donne.  It was reserved for ­but one never names contemporaries except honoris causa.

It is ­an “of course” of another kind ­undeniable that the fashion of love-philosophy which supplies so large a part of the “yarn” of Madeleine de Scudery’s endless rope or web is not our fashion.  But it is, in a way, a new variety of yarn as compared with anything used before in prose, even in the Greek romances and the Amadis group (nay, even in the Astree itself).  Among other things, it connects itself more with the actual society, manners, fashions of its day than had ever been the case before, and this is the only interesting side of the “key” part of it.  This was the way that they did to some extent talk and act then, though, to be sure, they also talked and acted very differently.  It is all very well to say that the Hotel de Rambouillet is a sort of literary-historical fiction, and the Precieuses Ridicules a delightful farce.  The fiction was not wholly a fiction, and the farce was very much more than a farce ­would have been, indeed, not a farce at all if it had not satirised a fact.

It is, however, in relation to the general history and development of the novel, and therefore in equally important relation to the present History, that the importance of the Grand Cyrus, or rather of the class of which it was by far the most popular and noteworthy member, is most remarkable.  Indeed this importance can hardly be exaggerated, and is much more likely to be ­indeed has nearly always been ­undervalued.  Even the jejune and partial analysis which has been given must have shown how many of the elements of the modern novel are here ­sometimes, as it were, “in solution,” sometimes actually crystallised.  For any one who demands plot there is one ­of such gigantic dimensions, indeed, that it is not easy to grasp it, but seen to be singularly well articulated and put together when it is once grasped.  Huge as it is, it is not in the least formless, and, as has been several times pointed out, hardly the most (as it may at first appear) wanton and unpardonable episode, digression, or inset lacks its due connection with and “orientation” towards the end.  The contrast of this with the more or less formless chronicle-fashion, the “overthwart and endlong” conduct, of almost all the romances from the Carlovingian and Arthurian to the Amadis type, is of the most unmistakable kind.

Again, though character, as has been admitted, in any real live sense, is terribly wanting still; though description is a little general and wants more “streaks in the tulip”; and though conversation is formal and stilted, there is evident, perhaps even in the first, certainly in the second and third cases, an effort to treat them at any rate systematically, in accordance with some principles of art, and perhaps even not without some eye to the actual habits, manners, demands of the time ­things which again were quite new in prose fiction, and, in fact, could hardly be said to be anywhere present in literature outside of drama.

To set against these not so very small merits in the present, and very considerable seeds of promise for the future, there are, of course, serious faults or defects ­defaults which need, however, less insistence, because they are much more generally known, much more obvious, and have been already admitted.  The charge of excessive length need hardly be dealt with at all.  It has already been said that the most interesting point about it is the opportunity of discovering how it was, in part, a regular, and, in fact, almost the furthest possible, development of a characteristic which had been more or less observable throughout the progress of romance.  But it may be added that the law of supply and demand helped; for people evidently were not in the least bored by bulk, and that the fancy for having a book “on hand” has only lately, if it has actually, died out. Now such a “book on hand” as the Grand Cyrus exists, as far as my knowledge goes, in no Western literature, unless you count collections of letters, which is not fair, or such memoirs as Saint-Simon’s, which do not appeal to quite the same class of readers.

A far more serious default or defect ­not exactly blameworthy, because the time was not yet, but certainly to be taken account of ­is the almost utter want of character just referred to.  From Cyrus and Mandane downwards the people have qualities; but qualities, though they are necessary to character, do not constitute it.  Very faint approaches may be discerned, by very benevolent criticism, in such a personage as Martesie with her shrewdness, her maid-of-honour familiarity with the ways and manners of courtly human beings, and that very pardonable, indeed agreeable, tendency, which has been noticed or imagined, to flirt in respectful fashion with Cyrus, while carrying on more regular business with Feraulas.  But it is little more than a suggestion, and it has been frankly admitted that it is perhaps not even that, but an imagination merely.  And the same observation may apply to her “second string,” Doralise.  No others of the women have any character at all, and we have already spoken of the men.

Now these things, in a book very widely read and immensely admired, could not, and did not, fail to have their effect.  Nobody ­we shall see this more in detail in the next chapter ­can fail to perceive that the Princesse de Cleves itself is, from one point of view, only a histoire of the Grand Cyrus, taken out of its preposterous matrix of other matter, polished, charged with a great addition of internal fire of character and passion, and left to take its chance alone and unencumbered.  Nobody, on the other hand, who knows Richardson and Mademoiselle de Scudery can doubt the influence of the French book ­a century old as it was ­on the “father of the English novel.”  Now any influence exerted on these two was, beyond controversy, an influence exerted on the whole future course of the kind, and it is as exercising such an influence that we have given to the Great Cyrus so great a space.

After the exhaustive account given of Artamene, it is probably not necessary to apologise for dealing with the rest of Mlle. de Scudery’s novel work, and with that of her comrades in the Heroic romance, at no very great length. Ibrahim où L’Illustre Bassa has sometimes been complimented as showing more endeavour, if not exactly at “local colour,” at technical accuracy, than the rest.  It is true that the French were, at this time, rather amusingly proud of being the only Western nation treated on something like equal terms by the Sublime Porte, and that the Scuderys (possibly Georges, whose work the Dedication to Mlle. de Rohan, daughter of the famous soldier, pretty certainly is) may have taken some pains to acquire knowledge.  “Sandjak” (or “Sanjiac"), not for a district but for its governor, is a little unlucky perhaps; but “Aderbion” is much nearer “Azerbaijan” than one generally expects in such cases from French writers of the seventeenth or even of other centuries.  The Oriental character of the story, however, is but partial.  The Illustrious Pasha himself, though First Vizir and “victorious” general of Soliman the Second, is not a Turk at all, but a “Justinian” or Giustiniani of Genoa, whose beloved Isabelle is a Princess of Monaco, and who at the end, after necessary dangers, retires with her to that Principality, with a punctilious explanation from the author about the Grimaldis.  The scene is partly there and at Genoa ­the best Genoese families, including the Dorias, appearing ­partly at Constantinople:  and the business at the latter place is largely concerned with the intrigues, jealousies, and cruelties of Roxelane, who is drawn much more (one regrets to say) as history paints her than as the agreeable creature of Marmontel’s subsequent fancy.  The book is a mere cockboat beside the mighty argosy of the Cyrus, running only to four volumes and some two thousand pages.  But though smaller, it is much “stodgier.”  The Histoires break out at once with the story of a certain Alibech ­much more proper for the young person than that connected with the same name by Boccaccio, ­and those who have acquired some knowledge of Mlle. Madeleine’s ways will know what it means when, adopting the improper but defensible practice of “looking at the end,” they find that not merely “Justinian” and Isabelle, but a Horace and a Hypolite, a Doria and a Sophronie, an Alphonse and a Leonide are all married on the same day, while a “French Marquis” and an Emilie vow inviolable but celibate constancy to each other; they will know, that is to say, that in the course of the book all these will have been duly “historiated.”  To encourage them, a single hint that Leonide sometimes plays a little of the parts of Martesie and Doralise in the Cyrus may be thrown in.

There is, however, one sentence in the second volume of Ibrahim which is worth quotation and brief comment, because it is a text for the whole management and system of these novels, and accounts for much in their successors almost to the present day.  Emilie is telling the Histoire of Isabelle, and excuses herself for not beginning at the beginning:  “Puisque je saïs que vous n’ignorez pas l’amour du Prince de Masseran, les violences et les artifices de Julie, la trahison de Feliciane, lé genereux ressentiment de Doria [this is another Doria], la mort de cet amant infortune, et ensuite celle de Julie.”  In other words, all these things have been the subject of previous histories or of the main text.  And so it is always.  Diderot admired, or at least excused, that procedure of Richardson’s which involved the telling of the conversation of an average dinner-party in something like a small volume.  But the “Heroic” method would have made it necessary to tell the previous experiences of the lady you took down to dinner, and the man that you talked to afterwards, while, if extended from aristocratic to democratic ideas, it would have justified a few remarks on the cabmen who brought both, and the butcher and fishmonger who supplied the feast.  The inconvenience of this earlier practice made itself felt, and by degrees it dropped off; but it was succeeded by a somewhat similar habit of giving the subsequent history of personages introduced ­a thing which, though Scott satirised it in Mrs. Martha Buskbody’s insistence on information about the later history of Guse Gibbie, by no means ceased with his time.  Both were, in fact, part of the general refusal to accept the conditions of ordinary life.  If “tout passe” is an exaggeration, it is an exaggeration of the truth:  and in fiction, as in fact, the minor shapes must dissolve as well as arise without too much fuss being made about them.

Almahide is, I think, more readable than Ibrahim; but the English reader must disabuse himself of the idea (if he entertains it) that he will find much of the original of The Conquest of Granada.  The book does, indeed, open like the play, with the faction-fights of Abencerrages and Zegrys, and it ends with Boabdelin’s jealousy of his wife Almahide, while a few of the other names in both are identical.  But Almahide contains nothing, or hardly anything, of the character of Almanzor, and Dryden has not attempted to touch a hundredth part of the copious matter of the French novel, the early history of Almahide, the usual immense digressions and side-histoires, the descriptions (which, as in Ibrahim, play, I think, a larger relative part than in the Cyrus), and what not.

Copious as these are, however, in both books, they do not fill them out to anything like the length of the Cyrus itself, or of its rival in size, and perhaps superior in attraction, the Clelie.  I do not plead guilty to inconsistency or change of opinion in this “perhaps” when it is compared with the very much larger space given to the earlier novel. Le Grand Cyrus has been estated too firmly, as the type and representative of the whole class, to be dislodged, and there is, as we shall see presently, a good deal of repetition from it in Clelie itself.  But this latter is the more amusing book of the two; it is, though equally or nearly as big, less labyrinthine; there is somewhat livelier movement in it, and at the same time this is contrasted with a set or series of interludes of love-casuistry, which are better, I think, than anything of the kind in the Cyrus. The most famous feature of these is, of course, the well-known but constantly misnamed “Carte de Tendre” ("Map of the Country of Tenderness” ­not of “Tenderness in the aibstract,” as du Tendre would be).  The discussion of what constitutes Tenderness comes quite early; there is later a notable discourse on the respective attractions of Love and of Glory or Ambition; a sort of Code and Anti-code of lovers occurs as “The Love-Morality of Tiramus,” with a set of (not always) contrary criticism thereof; and a debate of an almost mediaeval kind as to the respective merits of merry and melancholy mistresses.  Moreover, there is a rather remarkable “Vision of Poets” ­past, present, and to come ­which should be taken in connection with the appearance, as an actual personage, of Anacreon.  All this, taken in conjunction with the “business” of the story, helps to give it the superior liveliness with which it has, rightly or wrongly, been credited here.

Of that business itself a complete account cannot, for reasons given more than once, be attempted; though anybody who wants such a thing, without going to the book itself, may find it in the places also above mentioned.  There is no such trick played upon the educated but not wideawake person as (v. inf.) in La Calprenede’s chief books.  Clelie is the real Clelia, if the modern historical student will pass “real” without sniffing, or even if he will not.  Her lover, “Aronce,” although he probably may be a little disguised from the English reader by his spelling, is so palpably the again real “Aruns,” son of Porsena, that one rather wonders how his identity can have been so long concealed in French (where the pronunciations would be practically the same) from the readers of the story.  The book begins with a proceeding not quite so like that of the Cyrus as some to be mentioned later, but still pretty close to the elder overture.  “The illustrious Aronce and the adorable Clelia” are actually going to be married, when there is a fearful storm, an earthquake, and a disappearance of the heroine.  She has, of course, been carried off; one might say, without flippancy, of any heroine of Madeleine de Scudery’s not only that she was, as in a famous and already quoted saying, “very liable to be carried off,” but that it was not in nature that she should not be carried off as early and as often as possible.  And her abductor is no less a person than Horatius ­our own Horatius Cocles ­the one who kept the bridge in some of the best known of English verses, not he who provoked, from the sister whom he murdered, the greatest speech in all French tragedy before, and perhaps not merely before, Victor Hugo.  Horatius is the Philidaspes of Clelie, but, as he was bound to be, an infinitely better fellow and of a better fate.  Of course the end knits straight on to the beginning.  Clelie and Aronce are united without an earthquake, and Porsena, with obliging gallantry, resigns the crown of Clusium (from which he has himself long been kept out by a “Mezentius,” who will hardly work in with Virgil’s), not to Aronce, but to Clelie herself.  The enormous interval between (the book is practically as long as the Cyrus) is occupied by the same, or (v. sup.) nearly the same tissue of delays, digressions, and other maze-like devices for setting you off on a new quest when you seem to be quite close to the goal.  A large part of the scene is in Carthage, where, reversing the process in regard to Mezentius, Asdrubals and Amilcars make their appearance in a very “mixedly” historical fashion.  A Prince of Numidia (who had heard of Numidia in Tarquin’s days?) fights a lively water-combat with Horatius actually as he is carrying Clelie off, over the Lake of Thrasymene.  All the stock legends of the Porsena siege and others are duly brought in:  and the atrocious Sextus, not contented with his sin against Lucrece, tries to carry off Clelie likewise, but is fortunately or wisely prevented.  Otherwise the invariable propriety which from the time of the small love-novels (v. sup. pp. 157-162) had distinguished these abductions might possibly have been broken through.  These outlines might be expanded (and the process would not be very painful to me) into an abstract quite as long as that of Cyrus; but “It Cannot Be.”

One objection, foreshadowed, and perhaps a little more, already, must be allowed against Clelie.  That tendency to resort to repetition of situations and movements ­which has shown itself so often, and which practically distinguishes the very great novelists from those not so great by its absence or presence ­is obvious here, though the huge size of the book may conceal it from mere dippers, unless they be experts.  The similarity of the openings is, comparatively speaking, a usual thing.  It should not happen, and does not in really great writers; but it is tempting, and is to some extent excused by the brocard about lé premier pas.  It is so nice to put yourself in front of your beginning ­to have made sure of it!  But this charity will hardly extend to such a thing as the repetition of Cyrus’s foolish promise to fight Philidaspes before he marries Mandane in the case of Aronce, Horatius, and Clelie.  The way in which Aronce is kept an “unknown” for some time, and that in which his actual relationship to Porsena is treated, have also too much of the replica; and though a lively skirmish with a pirate which occurs is not quite so absurd as that ready-made series of encores which was described above (pp. 181-2), there is something a little like it in the way in which the hero and his men alternately reduce the enemy to extremity, and run over the deck to rescue friends who are in the pirates’ power from being butchered or flung overboard.  “Sapho’s” invention, though by no means sterile, was evidently somewhat indiscriminate, and she would seem to have thought it rather a pity that a good thing should be used only once.

Nevertheless the compliment given above may be repeated.  If I were sent to twelve months’ imprisonment of a mild description, and allowed to choose a library, I should include in it, from the heroic or semi-heroic division, Clelie, La Calprenede’s two chief books, Gomberville’s Polexandre, and Gombauld’s Endimion (this partly for the pictures), with, as a matter of course, the Astree, and a choice of one other.  By reading slowly and “savouring” the process, I should imagine that, with one’s memories of other things, they might be able to last for a year.  And it would be one of the best kind of fallows for the brain.  In anticipation, let us see something of these others now.

It has seemed, as was said, desirable to follow the common opinion of literary history in giving Madeleine de Scudery the place of honour, and the largest as well as the foremost share in our account of this curious stage in the history of the novel.  But if, to alter slightly a famous quotation, I might “give a short hint to an impartial reader,” I should very strongly advise him to begin his studies (or at least his enjoyment) thereof, not with “Sapho,” but with Gauthier de Costes, Seigneur de la Calprenede, himself according to Tallemant almost the proverbial “Gascon et demi”; a tragic dramatist, as well as a romantic writer; a favourite of Mme. de Sevigne, who seldom went wrong in her preferences, except when she preferred her very disagreeable daughter to her very agreeable son; and more than any one else the inventor, or at least perfecter, of the hectoring heroic style which we associate with Dryden’s plays.  Indeed the Artaban of Cleopatre is much more the original of Almanzor and Drawcansir than anything in Madeleine, though Almahide was actually the source of Dryden’s story, or heroine.  Besides this, though La Calprenede has rather less of the intricate-impeach character than his she-rival, there is much more bustle and “go” in him; he has, though his books are proper enough, much less fear of dealing with “the kissing and that sort of thing,” as it was once discreetly put; and he is sometimes positively exciting in his imbroglios, as when the beautiful Amazon princess Menalippe fights a real duel on horseback with Prince, afterwards King, Alcamenes of Scythia, under the impression that he has killed a certain Alcimedon, who was her lover; discovers, after no small time and considerable damage, that he is Alcimedon himself; and, like a sensible and agreeable girl, embraces him heartily in the sight of men and angels.

This is among the numerous divertissements of Cleopatre (not the earliest, but perhaps the chief of its author’s novels), the heroine of which is not

    The laughing queen that caught the world’s great hands

herself, but her daughter by Antony, who historically married Juba of Mauretania, and is here courted by him under the name of Coriolanus, while he is in disgrace with Augustus.  La Calprenede (all these romancers are merciful men and women to the historically unlucky, and cruel only, or for the most part, to fictitious characters) saves her half-brother Caesarion from his actual death, and, after the due thousands of pages, unites him happily to Queen Candace of AEthiopia.  There is the same odd muddle (which made a not unintelligent Jesuit label this class of books “historia mixta”) with many other persons.  Perhaps the most curious of all episodes of this kind is the use made of Ovid’s “fusca Cypassis.”  If Mrs. Grundy could be supposed ever to have read the Amores, the mere sight of the name of that dusky handmaid ­to whom Ovid behaved, by his own confession, in such an exceedingly shabby as well as improper fashion ­would make her shudder, if not shriek.  But La Calprenede’s Cypassis, though actually a maid of honour to Julia, as her original was a handmaid to Corinna, is of unblemished morality, flirted with certainly by Ovid, but really a German princess, Ismenia, in disguise, and beloved by, betrothed to, and in the end united with no less a compatriot than Arminius.  This union gives also an illustration of the ingenious fashion in which these writers reconcile and yet omit.  La Calprenede, as we have seen, does not give Arminius’s wife her usual name of Thusnelda, but, to obviate a complaint from readers who have heard of Varus, he invents a protest on “Herman sla lerman” part against that general, who has trepanned him into captivity and gladiatorship, and makes him warn Augustus that he will be true to the Romans unless Varus is sent into his country.

This episode is, in many ways, so curious and characteristic, that it seemed worth while to dwell on it for a little; but the account itself must have shown how impossible it is to repeat the process of general abstract.  There are, I think, in the book (which took twelve years to publish and fills as many volumes in French, while the English translation is an immense folio of nearly a thousand pages in double column, also entitled Hymen’s Praeludia) fewer separate Histoires, though there are a good many, than in the Cyrus, but the intertwined love-plots are almost more complicated.  For instance, the Herod-and-Mariamne tragedy is brought in with a strictly “proper” lover, Tiridates, whom Salome uses to provoke Herod’s patience, and who has, at the very opening of the book, proved himself both a natural philosopher of no mean order by seeing a fire at sea, and “judging with much likelihood that it comes from a ship,” and a brave fellow by rescuing from the billows no less a person than the above-mentioned Queen Candace.  From her, however, he exacts immediate, and, as some moderns might think, excessive, payment by making her listen to his own Histoire.

Not the least attractive part of Cleopatre to some people will be that very “Phebus,” or amatory conceit, which made the next ages scorn it.  When one of the numerous “unknowns” of both sexes (in this case a girl) is discovered (rather prettily) lying on a river bank and playing with the surface of the water, “the earth which sustained this fair body seemed to produce new grass to receive her more agreeably” ­a phrase which would have shocked good Bishop Vida many years before, as much as it would have provoked the greater scorn of Mr. Addison about as many after.  There are many “ecphrases” or set descriptions of this kind, and they show a good deal of stock convention.  For instance, the wind is always “most discreetly, most discreetly” ready, as indeed it was in Mlle. de Scudery’s own chaste stories, to blow up sleeves or skirts a little, and achieve the distraction of the beholders by what it reveals.  But on the whole, as was hinted above, Gauthier de Costes de La Calprenede is the most natural creature of the heroic band.

His earlier Cassandre is not much inferior to Cleopatre, and has a little more eccentricity about it.  The author begins his Second Part by making the ghost of Cassandra herself (who is not the Trojan Cassandra at all) address a certain Calista, whom she mildly accuses of “dragging her from her grave two thousand years after date,” adding, as a boast of his own in a Preface, that the very name “Cassandre” has never occurred in the First Part ­a huge cantle of the work.  The fact is that it is an alias for Statira, the daughter of Darius and wife of Alexander, and is kept by her during the whole of her later married life with her lover Oroondates, King of Scythia, who has vainly wooed her in early days before her union with the great Emathian conqueror.  Here, again, the mere student of “unmixed” history may start up and say, “Why! this Statira, who was also called Barsine [an independent personage here] was murdered by Roxana after Alexander’s death!” But, as was also said, these romancers exercise the privilege of mercy freely; and though La Calprenede’s Roxana is naughty enough for anything (she makes, of course, the most shameless love to Oroondates), she is not allowed to kill her rival, who is made happy, after another series of endless adventures of her own, her lover’s, and other people’s.  The book opens with a lively interest to students of the English novel; for the famous two cavaliers of G. P. R. James appear, though they are not actually riding at the moment, but have been, and, after resting, see two others in mortal combat.  Throughout there is any amount of good fighting, as, for the matter of that, there is in Cleopatre also; and there is less duplication of detail here than in some other respects, for La Calprenede is rather apt to repeat his characters and situations.  For instance, the fight between Lysimachus and Thalestris (La Calprenede is fond of Amazons), though not in the details, is of course in the idea a replica of that between Alcamenes and Menalippe in Cleopatre; and names recur freely.  Moreover, in the less famous story, the whole situation of hero and heroine is exactly duplicated in respect of the above-mentioned Lysimachus and Parisatis, Cassandra’s younger sister, who is made to marry Hephaestion at first, and only awarded, in the same fashion as her elder sister, at last to her true lover.

By the way, the already-mentioned “harmonising” is in few places more oddly shown than by the remark that Plutarch’s error in representing Statira as killed was due to the fact that he did not recognise her under her later name of Cassandra ­a piece of Gascon half-naïveté, half-jest which Mlle. de Scudery’s Norman shrewdness would hardly have allowed.  There is also much more of the supernatural in these books than in hers, and the characters are much less prim.  Roxana, who, of course, is meant to be naughty, actually sends a bracelet of her hair to Oroondates! which, however, that faithful lover of another instantly returns.

La Calprenede’s third novel, Faramond, is unfinished as his work, and the continuation seems to have more than one claimant to its authorship.  If the “eminent hand” was one Vaumoriere, who independently accomplished a minor “heroic” in Le Grand Scipion, he was not likely to infuse much fire into the ashes of his predecessor.  As it stands in La Calprenede’s own part, Faramond is a much duller book than Cassandre or Cleopatre.  It must, of course, be remembered that, though patriotism has again and again prompted the French to attack these misty Merovingian times (the Astree itself deals with them in the liberal fashion in which it deals with everything), the result has rarely, if ever, been a success.  Indeed I can hardly think of any one ­except our own “Twin Brethren” in Thierry and Theodoret ­who has made anything good out of French history before Charlemagne. The reader, therefore, unless he be a very thorough and conscientious student, had better let Faramond alone; but its elder sisters are much pleasanter company.  Indeed the impolite thought will occur that it is much more like the Scudery novels, part of which it succeeded, and may possibly have been the result ­not by any means the only one in literature ­of an unlucky attempt to beat a rival by copying him or her.

If any one, seeking acquaintance with the works of Marin lé Roy, Seigneur de Gomberville, begins at the beginning with his earliest work, and one of the earliest of the whole class, La Caritee (not “Carit_ie_,” as in some reference books), he may not be greatly appetised by the addition to the title, “contenant, sous des temps, des personnes, et des noms supposes, plusieurs rares et véritables histoires de nôtre temps.”  For this is a proclamation, as Urfe had not proclaimed it, of the wearisome “key” system, which, though undoubtedly it has had its partisans at all times, is loathsome as well as wearisome to true lovers of true literature.  To such persons every lovable heroine of romance is, more or less, suggestive of more or fewer women of history, other romance, or experience; every hero, more or less, though to a smaller extent, recognisable or realisable in the same way; and every event, one in which such readers have been, might have been, or would have liked to be engaged themselves; but they do not care the scrape of a match whether the author originally intended her for the Princess of Kennaquhair or for Polly Jones, him and it for corresponding realities.  Nor is the sequel particularly ravishing, though it is dedicated to “all fair and virtuous shepherdesses, all generous and perfect shepherds.”  Perhaps it is because one is not a generous and perfect shepherd that one finds the “Great Pan is Dead” story less impressive in Gomberville’s prose than in Milton’s verse at no distant period; is not much refreshed by getting to Rome about the death of Germanicus, and hearing a great deal about his life; or later still by Egyptian bergeries ­things in which somehow one does not see a concatenation accordingly; and is not consoled by having the Phoenix business done ­oh! so differently from the fashion of Shakespeare or even of Darley.  And when it finishes with a solemn function for the rise of the Nile, the least exclusively modern of readers may prefer Moore or Gautier.

But if any one, deeming not unjustly that he had drunk enough of Caritee, were to conclude that he would drink no more of any of the waters of Gomberville, he would make a mistake. Cytheree I cannot yet myself judge of, except at second-hand; but the first part of Polexandre, if not also the continuation, Le Jeune Alcidiane, may be very well spoken of.  It, that is to say the first part of it, was translated into English by no less a person than William Browne, just at the close of his life; and, perhaps for this reason, the British Museum does not contain the French original; but those who cannot attain to this lose the less, because the substance of the book is the principal thing.  This makes it one of the liveliest of the whole group, and one does not feel it an idle vaunt when at the end the author observes cheerfully of his at last united hero and heroine, “Since we have so long enjoyed them, let us have so much justice as to think it fitting now that they should likewise enjoy each other.”  Yet the unresting and unerring spirit of criticism may observe that even here the verbosity which is the fault of the whole division makes its appearance.  For why not suppress most of the words after “them,” and merely add, “let them now enjoy each other”?

The book is, in fact, rather like a modernised “number” of the Amadis series,, and the author has had the will and the audacity to exchange the stale old Greeks and Romans ­not the real Greeks, who can never be stale, or the real Romans, who can stand a good deal of staling, but the conventional classics ­as well as the impossible shadows of the Dark Ages, for Lepanto and the Western Main, Turks and Spaniards and Mexicans, and a Prince of Scotland.  Here also we find in the hero something more like Almanzor than Artamene, if not than Artaban:  and of the whole one may say vulgarly that “the pot boils.”  Now, with the usual Heroic it too often fails to attain even a gentle simmer.

Jean Camus [de Pontcarre?], Bishop of Belley and of Arras ­friend of St. Francis of Sales and of Honore d’Urfe; author of many “Christian” romances to counteract the bad effects of the others, of a famous Esprit de Saint Francois de S., and of a very great number of miscellaneous works, ­seems to have been a rather remarkable person, and, with less power and more eccentricity, a sort of Fenelon of the first half of the century.  His best known novel, Palombe, stands practically alone in its group as having had the honour of a modern reprint in the middle of the nineteenth century. The title-giver is a female, not a male, human dove, and of course a married one.  Camus was a divine of views which one does not call “liberal,” because the word has been almost more sullied by ignoble use in this connection than in any other ­but unconventional and independent; and he provoked great wrath among his brethren by reflecting on the abuses of the conventual system. Palombe appears to be not uninteresting, but after all it is but one of those parasitic exercises which have rarely been great except in the hands of very great genius.  Historically, perhaps, the much less famous Evenemens Singuliers (2 vols., 1628) are more important, though they cannot be said to be very amusing.  For (to the surprise, perhaps, of a reader who comes to the book without knowing anything about it) it is composed of pure Marmontel-and-Miss-Edgeworth Moral Tales about L’Ami Desloyal, La Prudente Mere, L’Amour et la Mort, L’Imprecation Maternelle, and the like.  Of course, as one would expect from the time, and the profession of the author, the meal of the morality is a little above the malt of the tale; but the very titles are “germinal.”

Francois Hedelin, Abbe d’Aubignac, is one of those unfortunate but rarely quite guiltless persons who live in literary history much more by the fact of their having attacked or lectured greater men than themselves, and by witticisms directed against them, than by their own actual work, which is sometimes not wholly contemptible.  He concerns us here only as the author of a philosophical-heroic romance, rather agreeably entitled Macarise où La Reine des Iles Fortunees, where the bland naïveté of the pedantry would almost disarm the present members of that Critical Regiment, of which the Abbe, in his turn, was not so much a chaplain as a most combatant officer.  The very title goes on to neutralise its attractiveness by explaining ­with that benignant condescension which is natural to at least some of its author’s class ­that it “contains the Moral Philosophy of the Stoics under the veil of several agreeable adventures in the form of a Romance”; and that we may not forget this, various side-notes refer to passages in an Abrège of that philosophy.  The net is thus quite frankly set in the sight of the bird, and if he chooses to walk into it, he has only himself to blame.  The opening is a fine example of that plunge into the middle of things which Hedelin had learnt from his classical masters to think proper:  “Les cruels persecuteurs d’Arianax l’ayant reduit a la nécessite de se précipiter dans les eaux de la Sennatele avec son frère Dinazel....”  The fact that the presupposed gentle reader knows nothing of the persons or the places mentioned is supposed to arouse in him an inextinguishable desire to find out.  That he should be at once gratified is, of course, unthinkable.  In fact his attention will soon be diverted from Arianax and Dinazel and the banks of the Sennatele altogether by the very tragical adventures of a certain Clearte.  He, with a company of friends, visits the country of a tyrant, who is accustomed to welcome strangers and heap them with benefits, till a time comes (the allegory is something obvious) when he demands it all back, with their lives, through a cruel minister (again something “speakingly” named) “Thanate.”  The head of this company, Clearte, on receiving the sentence, talks Stoicism for many pages, and when he is exhausted, somebody else takes up the running in such a fascinating manner that it “seemed as if he had only to go on talking to make the victims immortal!” But the atrocious Thanate cuts, at the same moment, the thread of the discourse and the throat of Clearte ­who is, however, transported to the dominions of Macarise, ­and histoires and “ecphrases” and interspersions of verse follow as usual.  But the Abbe is nowise infirm of purpose; and the book ends with the strangest mixture of love-letters and not very short discourses on the various schools of philosophy, together with a Glossary or Onomasticon interpreting the proper names which have been used after the following fashion:  “Alcarinte. La Crainte, du mot francais par anagramme sans aucun changement,” though how you can have an anagram without a change is not explained.

Perhaps one may class, if, indeed, classification is necessary, with the religious romances of Camus and the philosophical romance of Hedelin d’Aubignac, the earlier allegorical ones of the poet Gombauld, Endimion and Amaranthe.  The latter I have not yet seen. Endimion is rather interesting; there was an early English translation of it; and I have always been of those who believe that Keats, somehow or other, was more directly acquainted with seventeenth-century literature than has generally been allowed. The wanderings of the hero are as different as possible in detail; but the fact that there are wanderings at all is remarkable, and there are other coincidences with Keats and differences from any classical form, which it might be out of place to dwell on here.  Endymion is waked from his Latmian sleep by the infernal clatter of the dwellers at the base of the mountain, who use all the loudest instruments they possess to dispel an eclipse of the moon:  and is discovered by his friend Pyzandre, to whom he tells the vicissitudes of his love and sleep.  The early revealings of herself by Diana are told with considerable grace, and the whole, which is not too long, is readable.  But there are many of the naïvetés and awkwardnesses of expression which attracted to the writers of this time the scorn of Boileau and others down to La Harpe.  The Dedication to the Queen may perhaps be excused for asserting, in its first words, that as Endymion was put to sleep by the Moon, so he has been reawakened by the Sun, i.e. her Majesty.  But a Nemesis of this Phebus follows.  For, later, it is laid down that “La Lune doit toujours sa lumiere au Soleil.”  From which it will follow that Diana owed her splendour to Anne of Austria, or was it Marie de Medicis? It was fortunate for Gombauld that he did not live under the older dispensation.  Artemis was not a forgiving goddess like Aphrodite.

Again, when Diana has disappeared after one of her graciousnesses, her lover makes the following reflection ­that the gods apparently can depart sans être en peine de porter nécessairement les pieds l’un devant l’autre ­an observation proper enough in burlesque, for the idea of a divine goose-step or marking time, instead of the incessus, is ludicrous enough.  But there is not the slightest sign of humour anywhere in the book.  Yet, again, this is a thing one would rather not have said, “Diane cessant de m’etre favorable, Ismene me pouvait tenir lieu de Déesse.”  Now it is sadly true that the human race does occasionally entertain, and act upon, reflections of this kind:  and persons like Mr. Thomas Moore and Gombauld’s own younger contemporary, Sir John Suckling, have put the idea into light and lively verse.  But you do not expect it in a serious romance.

Nevertheless it may be repeated that Endimion is one of the most readable of the two classes of books ­the smaller sentimental and the longer heroic ­between which it stands in scope and character.  The author’s practice in the “other harmony” makes the obligatory verse-insertions rather less clumsy than usual; and it may be permitted to add that the illustrations of the original edition, which are unusually numerous and elaborate, are also rather unusually effective.  “Peggy’s face” is too often as “wretched” as Thackeray confessed his own attempts were; but the compositions are not, as such, despicable ­even in the case of the immortal and immortalising kiss-scene itself.  The “delicious event,” to quote the same author in another passage, is not actually coming off ­but it is very near.  But it was perhaps a pity that either Gombauld or Keats ever waked Endymion.

The most recent book but one about Mme. de Villedieu contains (and, oddly enough, confesses itself to contain) very little about her novels, which the plain man might have thought the only reason for writing about her at all.  It tells (partly after Tallemant) the little that is known about her (adding a great deal more about other people, things, and places, and a vast amount of conjecture), and not only takes the very dubious “letters” published by herself for gospel, but attributes to her, on the slightest evidence, if any, the anonymous Mémoires sur la Vie de Henriette Sylvie de Moliere, and, what is more, accepts them as autobiographic; quotes a good deal of her very valueless verse and that of others, and relates the whole in a most marvellous style, the smallest and most modest effervescences of which are things like this:  “La religion arrose son âme d’une eau parfumee, et les fleurs noirs du repentir éclosent” or “Soixante ans pesaient sur son crane ennuage d’une perruque." A good bibliography of the actual work, and not a little useful information about books and MS. relating to the period, may reconcile one class of readers to it, and a great deal of scandal another; but as far as the subject of this history goes no one will be much wiser when he closes the volume than he was when he opened it.

The novelist-heroine’s actual name was Marie Catherine Hortense des Jardins, and she never was really Mme. de Villedieu at all, though there was a real M. de Villedieu whom she loved, went through a marriage ceremony and lived with, left, according to some, or was left by, according to others.  But he was already married, and this marriage was never dissolved.  Very late in life she seems actually to have married a Marquis de Chaste, who died soon.  But most of the time was spent in rather scandalous adventures, wherein Fouquet’s friend Gourville, the minister Lyonne, and others figure.  In fact she seems to have been a counterpart as well as a contemporary of our own Afra, though she never came near Mrs. Behn in poetry or perhaps in fiction.  Her first novel, Alcidamie, not to be confounded with the earlier Alcidiane, was a scarcely concealed utilising of the famous scandal about Tancrede de Rohan (Mlle. des Jardins’ mother had been a dependant on the Rohan family, and she herself was much befriended by that formidable and sombre-fated enchantress, Mme. de Montbazon).  In fact, common as is the real or imputed “key"-interest in these romances from the Astree onwards, none seems to have borrowed more from at least gossip than this.  Her later performances, Les Annales Galantes de la Grece (said to be very rare), Carmente, Les Amours des Grands Hommes, Les Désordres de l’Amour, and some smaller pieces, all rely more or less on this or that kind of scandal.  Collections appeared three or four times in the earlier eighteenth century.

Since M. Magne wrote (and it is fair to say that the main purpose of his book was frankly avowed by its appearance as a member of a series entitled Femmes Galantes), a somewhat more sober account, definitely devoted in part to the novels, has appeared. But even this is not exhaustive from our point of view.  The collected editions (of which that of 1702, in 10 vols., said to be the best, is the one I have used) must be consulted if one really wishes to attain a fair knowledge of what “this questionable Hortense” (as Mr. Carlyle would probably have called her) really did in literature; and no one, even of these, appears to contain the whole of her ascribed compositions.  What used sometimes to be quoted as her principal work, Le Grand Alcandre Frustre (the last word being often omitted), is, in fact, a very small book, containing a bit of scandal about the Grand Monarque, of the same kind as those which myriad anonyms of the time printed in Holland, and of which any one who wants them may find specimens enough in the Bibliothèque Elzévirienne edition of Bussy-Rabutin.  Its chief ­if not its only ­attraction is an exceedingly quaint frontispiece ­a cavalier and lady standing with joined hands under a chandelier, the torches of which are held by a ring of seven Cupids, so that the lower one hangs downwards, and the disengaged hand of the cavalier, which is raised, seems to be grabbing at him.

Most of the rest, putting aside the doubtful Henriette de Moliere already referred to, are collections of love-stories, which their titles, rather than their contents, would seem to have represented to the ordinary commentator as loose.  There is really very little impropriety, except of the mildest kind, in any of them, and they chiefly consist of the kind of quasi-historic anecdote (only better told) which is not uncommon in English, as, for instance, in Croxall’s Novelist.  They are rather well written, but for the most part consist of very “public” material, scarcely made “private” by any striking merit, and distinguished by curious liberties with history, if not with morals.

For instance, in one of her Amours Galantes the Elfrida-Ethelwold-Edgar story is told, not only with “Edward I. of England” for the deceived and revengeful king, but with a further and more startling intrusion of Eleanor of Guyenne!  That of Inez de Castro is treated in a still more audacious manner.  Also (with what previous example I know not, but Hortense was exceedingly apt to have previous examples) the names of the heretic to whom Dante was not merciful and of his beloved Margaret ­names to which Charles Kingsley made the atonement of two of the most charming of his neglected poems ­appear as “Dulcin” and “Marguerite,” King and Queen of Lombardy, but guilty of more offensive lubricity than the sternest inquisitor ever charged on the historical Dolcino and his sect.  For this King and Queen set up, in cold blood, two courts of divorce, in one of which each is judge, with the direct purpose of providing themselves with a supply of temporary wives and husbands.  Some have maintained that no less a thing than the Princesse de Cleves itself was suggested by something of Mme. de Villedieu’s; but this seems to me merely the usual plagiarism-hunter’s blunder of forgetting that the treatment, not the subject, is the crux of originality.  Of her longer books, Alcidamie, the first, has been spoken of.  The Amours des Grandes Hommes and Cleonice où lé Roman Galant belong to the “keyed” Heroics; while the Journal Amoureux, which runs to nearly five hundred pages, has Diane de Poitiers for its chief heroine.  Lastly, Carmente (or, as it was reprinted, Carmante) is a sort of mixed pastoral, with Theocritus himself introduced, after a fashion noted more than once before.

Her most praised things, recently, have been the story of the loves of Henri IV. and Mme. de Sauve (lightly touched on, perhaps “after” her in both senses, by Dumas) in the Amours Galantes, and a doubtful story (also attributed to the obscure M. de Preschac of the Cabinet des Fees) entitled L’Illustre Parisienne, over which folk have quarrelled as to whether it is to be labelled “realist” or not.  One regrets, however, to have to say that ­except for fresh, if not very strong, evidence of that “questing” character which we find all over the subjects of these two chapters ­the interest of Mme. de Villedieu’s work can hardly be called great.  By a long chapter of accidents, the present writer, who had meant to read her some five-and-thirty years ago, never read her actually till the other day ­with all good will, with no extravagant expectation beforehand, but with some disappointment at the result.  She is not a bookmaker of the worst kind; she evidently had wits and literary velleities; and she does illustrate the blind nisus of the time as already indicated.  But beyond the bookmaking class she never, I think, gets.  Her mere writing is by no means contemptible, and we may end by pointing out two little points of interest in Carmente.  One is the appearance of the name “Ardelie,” which our own Lady Winchelsea took and anglicised as her coterie title.  It may occur elsewhere, but I do not recollect it.  The other is yet a fresh anticipation of that bold figure of speech which has been cited before from Dickens ­one of the characters appearing “in a very clean shepherd’s dress and a profound melancholy.”  Mme. de Villedieu (it is about the only place she has held hitherto, if she has held any, in ordinary Histories of French Literature) has usually been regarded as closing the Heroic school.  We may therefore most properly turn from her directly to the last and most cheerful division of the subjects of this chapter ­the Fairy Tale.

One of the greatest solaces of the writer of this book, and, he would fain hope, something of a consolation to its readers, has been the possibility, and indeed advisability, of abstention from certain stock literary controversies, or at worst of dismissing them with very brief mention.  This solace recurs in reference to the large, vague, and hotly debated subject of folklore and fairy stories, their connection, and the origin of the latter.  It is true that “the pleasure gives way to a savour of sorrow,” to adopt a charming phrase of Mr. Dobson’s, when I think of the amiable indignation which the absence of what I shall not say, and perhaps still more the presence of some things that I shall say, would have caused in my friend, and his friend, the late Mr. Andrew Lang. But the irreparable is always with us.  Despite the undoubted omnipresence of the folk-story, with its “fairy” character in the general sense, I have always wanted more proof than I have ever received, that the thing is of Western rather than of Eastern origin, and that our Western stories of the kind, in so far as they affected literature before a very recent period, are independent.  But I attach no particular value to this opinion, and it will influence nothing that I say here.  So with a few more half-words to the wise, as that Mme. d’Aulnoy had been in Spain, that the Crusades took place in the eleventh century, that, independently thereof, Scandinavians had been “Varangians” very early at Constantinople, etc. etc., let us come to the two great literary facts ­the chorus of fairy tale-telling proper at the end of the century (of which the coryphaei are the lady already mentioned and Perrault), and the epoch-making translation of The Arabian Nights by Galland.

In a certain sense, no doubt, the fairy tale may be said to be merely a variety of the age-old fabliau and nouvelle.  But it is, for literary purposes, a distinctly and importantly new variety ­new not merely in subject, even in the widest possible sense of that rather disputable (or at least disputed) word, but in that nescio quid between subject and treatment for which I know no better term than the somewhat vague one “atmosphere.”  It has the priceless quality of what may be called good childishness; it gives not merely Fancy but Imagination the freest play, and, till it has itself created one, it is free from any convention.  It continued, indeed, always free from those “previous” conventions which are so intolerable.  For it is constantly forgotten that a convention in its youth is often positively healthy, and a convention in the prime of its life a very tolerable thing.  It is the old conventions which, as Mahomet rashly acknowledged about something else (saving himself, however, most dexterously afterwards), cannot be tolerated in Paradise.  Moreover, besides creating of necessity a sort of fresh dialect in which it had to be told, and producing a set of personages entirely unhackneyed, it did an immense service by introducing a sort of etiquette, quite different from the conventions above noticed, ­a set of manners, as it may almost be called, which had the strongest and most beneficial influence ­though, like all strong and good things, it might be perverted ­on fiction generally.  In this all sorts of nice things, as in the original prescription for what girls are made of, were included ­variety, gaiety, colour, surprise, a complete contempt of the contemptible, or of that large part of it which contains priggishness, propriety, “prunes, and prism” generally.  Moreover (and here I fear that the above promised abstinence from the contentious must be for a little time waived) it confirmed a great principle of novel and romance alike, that if you can you should “make a good end,” as, teste Romance herself, Guinevere did, though the circumstances were melancholy.

The termination of a fairy tale rarely is, and never should be, anything but happy.  For this reason I have always disliked ­and though some of the mighty have left their calm seats and endeavoured to annihilate me for it, I still continue to dislike ­that old favourite of some part of the public, The Yellow Dwarf.  That detestable creature (who does not even amuse me) had no business to triumph; and, what is more, I don’t believe he did.  Not being an original writer, I cannot tell the true history as it might be told; but I can criticise the false.  I do not object to this version because of its violation of poetical justice ­in which, again, I don’t believe.  But this is neither poetical, nor just, nor amusing.  It is a sort of police report, and I have never much cared for police reports.  I should like to have set Maimoune at the Yellow Dwarf:  and then there would have been some fun.

It is probably unnecessary to offer any translations here, because the matter is so generally known, and because the books edited by that regretted friend of mine above mentioned have spread it (with much other matter of the same kind) more widely than ever.  But the points mentioned above, and perhaps some others, can never be put too firmly to the credit of the fairy tale as regards its influence on fiction, and on French fiction particularly.  It remains to be seen, in the next chapter, how what a few purists may call its contamination by, but what we may surely be permitted to call its alliance with, “polite literature” was started, or practically started, through the direct agency of no Frenchman, but of a man who can be claimed by England in the larger and national sense, by Scotland and Ireland and England again in the narrower and more parochial ­by Anthony Hamilton.  His work, however, must be left till that next chapter, though in this we may, after the “blessed originals” just mentioned, take in their sometimes degenerate successors for nearly a hundred years after Perrault’s time.

Well, however, as the simpler and purer fairy-tales may be known to all but twentieth-century children (who are said not to like them), it is doubtful whether many people have considered them in the light in which we have to regard them here, so as to see in them both a link in the somewhat complicated chain of novel development, and also one which is not dead metal, but serves as a medium for introducing powerful currents of influence on the chain itself.  We have dwelt on one point ­the desirableness, if not necessity, of shortness in them ­as specially valuable at the time.  No doubt they need not all be as short as Perrault’s, though even among his there are instances (not to mention L’Adroite Princesse for the moment), such as Peau d’Ane, of more than twenty pages, as against the five of the Chaperon Rouge and the ten of Barbe Bleue, Le Chat Botte, and Cendrillon.  Mme. d’Aulnoy’s run longer; but of course the longest of all are mites to the mammoths of the Scudery romance.  A fairy story must never “drag,” and in its better, and indeed all its genuine, forms it never does.  Further (it must be remembered that “Little Red Riding Hood,” in its unadulterated and “unhappy ending” form, is not a fairy story at all, for talking animals are not peculiar to that), “fairiness,” the actual presence of these gracious or ungracious but always between-human-and-divine-creatures, is necessary, and their agency must be necessary too.  In this and other ways it is interesting to contrast two stories (which are neighbours to each other, with Peau d’Ane between them, in the convenient one-volume collection of French Fairy Tale classics published by Gamier), Mme. d’Aulnoy’s Gracieuse et Percinet and L’Adroite Princesse où Les Aventures de Finette, which appeared with Perrault’s, but which I can hardly believe to be his.  They are about the same length, but the one is one of the best and the other one of the worst examples of its author and of the general style.  It may be worth while to analyse both very briefly.  As for Perrault’s better work, such analysis should be as unnecessary as it would be irreverent.

That Gracieuse et Percinet is of an essentially “stock” character is not in the least against it, for so it ought to be:  and the “stock” company that plays its parts plays them well.  The father is perhaps rather excessively foolish and unnatural, but then he almost had to be.  The wicked and ugly stepmother tops, but does not overtop, her part, and her punishment is not commonplace.  Gracieuse herself deserves her name, not only “by her comely face and by her fair bodie,” but by her good but not oppressive wits, and her amiable but not faultless disposition.  She ought not to have looked into the box; but then we should not have liked her nearly as much if she had not done so.  She was foolishly good in refusing to stay with Percinet; but we are by no means certain that we should like her better if she had thrown herself into his arms at the first or second time of asking.  Besides, where would have been the story?  As for Percinet, he escapes in a wonderful fashion, though partly by help of his lady’s little wilfulnesses, the dangers of the handsome, amiable, in a small way always successful, and almost omnipotent hero.  There is a sort of ironic tenderness, in his letting Gracieuse again and again go her wilful way and show her foolish filiality, which saves him.  He is always ready, and does his spiriting in the politest and best manner, particularly when he shepherds all those amusing but rebellious little people into their box again ­a feat which some great novelists have achieved but awkwardly in their own cases.  There is even pathos in the apparently melancholy statement that the fairy palace is dead, and that Gracieuse will never see it till she is buried.  I should like to have been Percinet, and I should particularly like to have married Gracieuse.

Moreover, the thing is full of small additional seasonings of incident and phrase to the solid feast of fairy working which it provides.  Gracieuse’s “collation,” with its more than twenty pots of different jams, has a delightful realty (which is slightly different from reality) even for those to whom jam has never been the very highest of human delights, because they prefer savouries to sweets.  Even the abominable duchess seems to have had a splendid cellar, before she took to filling the casks with mere gold and jewels to catch the foolish king.  It is impossible to imagine a scene more agreeably compounded of politeness and affection than Percinet’s first introduction of himself to the Princess:  and it is extraordinarily nice to find that they knew all about each other before, though we have had not the slightest previous information as to the acquaintance.  I am very much afraid that he made his famous horse kick and plunge when Grognon was on him; but it must be remembered that he had been made to lead that animal against his will.  The description of the hag’s flogging Gracieuse with feathers instead of scourges is a quite admirable adaptation of some martyrological stories; and when, in her dilapidated condition, she remarks that she wishes he would go away, because she has always been told that she must not be alone with young gentlemen, one feels that the martyrdom must have been transferred, in no mock sense, to Percinet himself.  If she borrows Psyche’s trials, what good story is not another good story refreshed?

But if almost everything is good and well managed in Gracieuse, it may also be said that almost everything is badly managed in Finette. To begin with, there is that capital error which has been noticed above, that it is not really a fairy tale at all.  Except the magic quenouilles, which themselves are of the smallest importance in the story, there is nothing in it beyond the ways of an ordinary adventurous nouvelle.  The touch of grivoiserie by which the Princesses Nonchalante and Babillarde allow the weaknesses ticketed in their names to hand them over as a prey to the cunning and blackguard Prince Riche-Cautèle, under pretence of entirely unceremonised and unwitnessed “marriage,” is in no way amusing.  Finette’s escapes from the same fate are a little better, but the whole is told (as its author seems to have felt) at much too great length; and the dragging in of an actual fairy at the end, to communicate to the heroine the exceedingly novel and recondite maxim that “Prudence is the mother of safety,” is almost idiotic.  If the thing has any value, it is as an example, not of a real fairy tale nor of a satire on fairy tales (for which it is much too much “out of the rules” and much too stupid), but of something which may save an ordinary reader, or even student, from attacking, as I fear we shall have to do, the Cabinet des Fees at large, and discovering, by painful experience, how excessively silly and tedious the corruption of this wise and delightful kind may be.

One might, of course, draw lessons from others of the original batches, but this may suffice for the specimen batch under immediate review. Peau d’Ane, one of the most interesting to “folklorists” and origin-hunters, is, of course, also in itself interesting to students of literature.  Its combination of the old theme of the incestuous passion of a father for his daughter, with the special but not invariable shadow of excuse in the selfish vanity of the mother’s dying request, is quite out of the usual way of these things.  So is the curious series of fairy failures ­things apparently against the whole set of the game ­beginning with the unimaginative conception of dresses, weather-, or sky-, moon-, and sun-colour, rendered futile by the success of the artists, and ending in the somewhat banal device of making yourself ugly and running away, with the odd conclusion-contrast of Peau d’Ane’s squalid appearance in public and her private splendour in the fairy garments.

Still, the lessons of correction, warning, and instruction to be drawn from these gracious little things, for the benefit of their younger and more elaborate successors, are not easily exhausted.  They are, on the whole, very moral, and it is well that morality, rightly understood, should animate fiction.  But they are occasionally much too moral, and then they warn off instead of cheering on.  Take, for instance, two other neighbours in the collection just quoted, Le Prince Cheri and the ever-delightful La Belle et La Bête.  Both of these are moral; but the latter is just moral enough, while Cheri, with one or two alleviations (of which, perhaps, more presently), is hardly anything if not moral, and therefore disgusts, or at any rate bores.  On the other hand, “Beauty” is as bonne as she is belle; her only fault, that of overstaying her time, is the result of family affection, and her reward and the punishment of the wicked sisters are quite copy-book.  But it is not for this part that we love what is perhaps the most engaging of all the tales.  It is for Beauty’s own charm, which is subtly conveyed; for the brisk and artistic “revolutions and discoveries”; above all, for the far from merely sentimental pathos of the Beast’s all but death for love, and the not in the least mawkish bringing of him to life again by love.

One may perhaps also make amends to Prince Cheri for the abuse just bestowed on him.  His story has at least one touch which is sovereign for a fiction-fault common in the past, and only too probable in the future, at whatever time one takes the “present” of the story.  When he is not unjustly turned into a monster of the most allegorical-composite order of monster architecture ­a monster to whom dragons and wyverns and chimaeras dire are as ordinary as kittens ­what do they do with him?  They put him “with the other monsters.” Ce n’est pas plus raide que ca. The present writer need hardly fear to be thought an anti-mediaevalist, but he is very much afraid that an average mediaeval romancer might have thought it necessary to catalogue these other monsters with the aid of a Bestiary.  On the other hand, there have been times ­no matter which ­when this abrupt introduction and dismissal of monsters as common objects (for which any respectable community will have proper stables or cages) would have been disallowed, or explained away, or apologised for, or, worst of all, charged with a sort of wink or sneer to let the reader know that the author knew what he was about.  Here there is nothing of this superfluous or offensive sort.  The appropriate and undoubting logic of the style prevails over all too reasonable difficulties.  There are monsters, or how could Cheri be made into one?  If there are monsters there must, or in the highest probability may, be other monsters.  Put him with them, and make no fuss about it.  If all novelists had had this aplomb, we should have been spared a great deal of tediousness, some positive failures, and the spoiling, or at least the blotting and marring, of many excellent situations.  But to praise the good points of fairy stories, from the brief consummateness of Le Chat Botte to the longer drawn but still perfectly golden matter of La Biche au Bois, would really be superfluous.  One loathes leaving them; but one has to do it, so far as the more unsophisticated part of them is concerned.  Yet the duty of the historian will not let him be content with these, and, to vary “The Brave Lord Willoughby” a little, “turning to the [others] a thousand more,” he must “slay,” or at least criticise.

He who ventures on the complete Cabinet des Fees in its more than forty volumes, will provide himself with “cabin furniture” of nearly as good pastime-quality, at least to my fancy (and yet I may claim to be something of a Balzacian), as the slightly larger shelf-ful which suggested itself to the fancy of Mr. Browning and provoked (as “cabin furniture”) the indignation of Mr. Swinburne.  But he had better look over the contents before he takes it on board, or he will find himself, if his travelling library is anything like as large as that of the patriarch Photius, in danger of duplication.  For the Cabinet holds, not merely the Arabian Nights in the original translation of Galland, but also Hamilton:  as well, of course, as much of what we may call the classical fairy matter proper on which we have already dwelt, and which is known to all decent people.  Still, he will find more of Mme. d’Aulnoy than, unless he is already something of an expert, he already knows, and perhaps he will not be entirely rejoiced at the amplification.  She wrote more or less regular heroic romances, which are very inferior to her fairy tales; and though these are not in the Cabinet, she sometimes “mixes the kinds” rather disastrously in shorter pieces.  The framework of Don Gabriel Ponce de Leon, which enshrines the sad but charming “Golden Sheep,” and a variant of Cendrillon, is poor stuff; and Les Chevaliers Errans only shows what we knew before, that the junction of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is not the time or the place in which to find the loved one, if that loved one is mediaeval.  Still, this invaluable lady does generally reck and exemplify her own immortal rede.  “Il me semble,” says Prince Marcassin to the fairies, “a vous entendre, qu’il ne faut pas meme croire ce qu’on voit.”  And they reply, “La règle n’est pas toujours generale; maïs il est indubitable que l’on doit suspendre son jugement sur bien des choses, et penser qu’il peut entrer quelque chose de Féerie dans ce que nous paroit de plus certain.”

Alas! it was precisely this quelque chose de Féerie which is wanting in the majority of the minor fairy-tale writers.  That they should attain the wonderful simplicity, freshness, and charm of Perrault at his best was not to be expected; hardly that they should reach the more sophisticated grace of Hamilton; but it might have been hoped that some would come more or less near the lower, and much more unequal, but occasionally very successful art or luck of Mme. d’Aulnoy herself.  Unfortunately very few of them do.  It was easy enough to begin Il était autrefois un roi et une reine, to put in a Prince Charming and a Princess Graciosa, and good fairies and bad fairies, and magicians and ogres and talking beasts, and the like.  It was not so easy to make all these things work together to produce the peculiar spell which belongs to the true land of Faery, and to that land alone.  Still more unfortunately, wrong ways of attempting the object (or some other object) were as easy as the right ways were difficult.  They cannot avoid muddling the fairy tale with the heroic romance:  and with the half-historical sub-variety of this latter which Mme. de La Fayette introduced.  The worst enchanter that ever fairies had to fight with is not such an enemy of theirs as History and Geography ­two most respectable persons in their proper places, but fatal here.  They will make King Richard of England tell fairy tales to Blondel out of the Austrian tower, and muddle up things about his wicked brother the Count of Mortagne.  They will talk of Lemnos and Memphis and other patatis and patatas of the classical dictionary and the Grand Cyrus.  In a fashion not perhaps so instantly suicidal, but in a sufficiently annoying fashion, they will invent clumsy “speaking” names, or dog-Latin and cat-Greek ones.  And, perhaps worst of all, they prostitute the delicate charms of the fairy tale to clumsy adulation of the reigning monarch, and tedious half-veiled flattery or satire of less exalted persons, or, if “prostitute” be too harsh a word here, attempt to force a marriage between these charms and the dullest moralising.  In fact, it is scarcely extravagant to say that, in regard to too many of them ­to some of them at least ­everything that ought not to be, such as the things just mentioned and others, is there, and everything that ought to be ­lightness, brightness, the sense of the impossible in which it is delightful to believe, the dream-feeling, the magic of gratified wish and realised ideal ­is not.

Of course, in these other and minor writers that the Cabinet has to give, all these disappointments do not always occur, and the crop is mixed.  Mlle. de la Force was one of those dames or demoiselles de compagnie who figure so largely in the literary history of the French eighteenth century, and whose group is illustrated by such names as those of Mlle. Delaunay and Mlle. de Lespinasse.  Her full name was Charlotte Rose de Caumont de la Force, and she was, if not an adventuress, a person of adventures, who also wrote many quasi-historical romances in the Princesse de Cleves manner.  Her fairy tales are thin, and marred by weak allegory of the “Carte de Tendre” kind.  A “Pays des Délices,” very difficult to reach, and constantly personated by a “Pays des Avances,” promises little and performs less.

The eleven (it is an exact eleven) called Les Illustres Fees is scarcely so illustrious as the All England and the United were, in the memory of some of us, in another and better played kind of cricket.  The stories are not very long; they run to a bare eighteen small pages apiece; but few readers are likely to wish them longer. Blanche-Belle introduces the sylphes ­an adulteration which generally produces the effect that Thackeray deplored when his misguided friend would have puree mixed with julienne. Le Roi Magicien is painfully destitute of personality; we want names, and pretty names, for a fairy tale. Le Prince Roger is a descendant of Mélusine, and one does not think she would be proud of him. Fortunio is better, and Quiribirini, one of the numerous stories which turn on remembering or failing to remember an odd name, perhaps better still; but the rest deserve little praise, and the last, L’Ile Inaccessible, appears to be, if it is anything but pure dulness, a flat political allegory about England and France.

The style picks up a little in the miscellany called (not without a touch of piquancy) La Tyrannie des Fees Detruite, by a Mme. d’Auneuil, whom persons of a sceptical turn might imagine to be a sort of factitious rival to Mme. d’Aulnoy. It returns to the Greek or pseudo-Greek names of the heroic romance, and to its questionable device of histoires stuck like plums in a pudding.  Nor are the Sans Parangon and the Fee des Fees of the Sieur de Preschac utterly bad.  But Les Aventures d’Abdalla, besides rashly incurring the danger (to be exemplified and commented on more fully a little later) of vying with the Arabian Nights, substitutes for the genuine local colour and speech the fade jargon of French eighteenth-century “sensibility” ­autels and flammes and all the rest of the trumpery.  But it does worse still ­it tries to be instructive, and informs us of the difference between male and female dives and péris, of the custom of suttee, and of the fact that there are many professional singers and dancers among Indian girls.  This is simply intolerable.

The great prominence of the Eastern Tale, indeed, in this collection is likely to be one of the most striking things in it to a new-comer.  He would know, of course, that such tales are not uncommon in contemporary English; he would certainly be acquainted with Addison’s, Johnson’s, Goldsmith’s experiments in them, perhaps with those of Hawkesworth and others. He could see for himself that the “accaparation” by France of the peerless Arabian Nights themselves must have led to a still greater fancy for them there; and he might possibly have heard the tradition (which the present writer never traced to its source, or connected with any real evidence either way) that no less a person than Lesage assisted Galland in his task.  But though the Nights themselves form the most considerable single group in the Cabinet, the united bulk of their congeners or imitations occupies a still larger space.  There are the rather pale and “moon-like” but sometimes not uninteresting Thousand and One Days, and the obviously and rather foolishly pastiched Thousand and One Quarters of an Hour.  There are Persian Tales ­origin of a famous and characteristic jibe at “Namby Pamby” Philips ­and Turkish Tales which are a fragment of one of the numerous versions of the Seven Sages scheme.  The just mentioned Adventures of Abdallah betray their source and their nature at once; the hoary fables of Bidpai and Lokman are modernised to keep company with these “fakings,” and there are more definitely literary attempts to follow. Les Voyages de Zulma, again an incomplete thing which actually tails off towards its failure of an end, shows some ingenuity in its conception, but suffers, even in the beginning, from that mixing of kinds which has been pointed out and reprobated.  An attempt is made to systematise the fairy idea by representing these gracious creatures as offspring of Destiny and the Earth, with a cruel brother Time, and an offset of mischievous sisters who exactly correspond to the good ones ­Disgracieuse to Gracieuse, and so on ­and have a queen Laide-des-Laides, who answers to the good fairy princess, Belle-des-Belles.  A mortal ­Zulma ­is, for paternal rather than personal merits, chosen by Destiny to enjoy the privilege of entering and understanding the fairy world, and Gracieuse is the fairy assigned as his guide.  The idea is, as has been said, rather ingenious; but it is too systematic, and like other things in other parts of the collection, “loses the grace and liberty of the composition” in system.  Moreover, the morality, as is rather the wont of these imitators when they are not (as a few of the partly non-cabinetted ones are) deliberately naughty, is much too scrupulous. It is clear that Zulma is in love with Gracieuse, that she responds to some extent, and that Her Majesty Queen Belle-des-Belles is a little jealous and inclined to cut Gracieuse out.  But nothing in the finished part of the story gives us any of the nice love-making that we want.

Madame lé Marchand’s Boca is a story which begins in Peru but finishes in an “Isle of Ebony,” where the names of Zobeide and Abdelazis seem rather more at home; it is not without merit.  As for the fables and stories which Fenelon composed for that imperfect Marcellus, the Duke of Burgundy, they have all the merits of style, sense, and good feeling which they might be expected to have, and it would be absurd to ask of them qualities which, in the circumstances, they could not display.

The Chinese Tales are about as little Chinese as may be, consisting of accounts of his punitive métempsychoses by the Mandarin Fum Hoam (a name afterwards borrowed in better known work), who seems to have been excluded from the knowledge of anything particularly Celestial. But they are rather smartly told.  On the other hand, Florine où la Belle Italienne, which is included in the same volume with the sham Chinoiseries, is one of the worst instances of the confusion of kinds noted above.  It honestly prepares one for what is coming by a reference in the Preface to Fenelon; but a list of dramatis (or fabulae) personae, which follows, would have tried the saintliness even of him of Cambrai almost as much as a German occupation of his archiepiscopal see.  “Agatonphisie,” for a personage who represents, we are told, “Le Bon Sens,” might break the heart of Clenardus, if not the head of Priscian.

The Thousand and One Quarter Hours, or Contes Tartares, have as little of the Tartar as those above mentioned of the Chinese, but if somewhat verbose, they are not wholly devoid of literary quality.  The substance is, as in nearly all these cases, Arabian Nights rehashed; but the hashing is not seldom done secundum artem, and they have, with the Les Sultanes de Gujerate and Nouveaux Contes Orientaux, which follow them, the faculty of letting themselves be read.

The best of these (except the French translation of the so-called Sir Charles Morell’s (really James Ridley’s) Tales of the Genii (see above)) is perhaps, on the whole, Les Sultanes de Gujerate, where not only are some of the separate tales good, but the frame-story is far more artistically worked in and round and out than is usually the case.  But taking them all together, there is one general and obvious, as well as another local and particular objection to them.  Although the sub-title (v. sup. again) lets them in, the main one regards them with, at best, an oblique countenance.  The differences between the Western fairy and the Eastern peri, dive, djin, or whatever one chooses to call her, him, or it, though not at all easy to define, are exceedingly easy to feel.  The magicians and enchanters of the two kinds are nearer to each other, but still not the same.  On the other hand, it is impossible for any one who has once felt the strange charm of the Arabian Nights not to feel the immense inferiority of these rehashes and croquettes and rissoles, and so forth, of the noble old haunch or sirloin.  Yet again, from the special point of view of this book, though they cannot be simply passed over, they supply practically nothing which marks, or causes, or even promises an advance in the general development of fiction.  They may be said to be simply a continuation of, or a relapse upon, the pure romance of adventure, with different dress, manners, and nomenclature.  There is hardly a single touch of character in any one; their very morals (and no shame to them) are arch-known; and they do not possess style enough to confer distinction of the kind open to such things.  If you take Les Quatre Facardins, before most of them, and Vathek (itself, remember, originally French in language), after them all, the want of any kind of genius in their composers becomes almost disgustingly apparent.  Yet even these masterpieces are masterpieces outside the main run of the novel.

Although, therefore, it would be very ungrateful not to acknowledge that they do sometimes comply with the demands of that sensible tyrant already mentioned, Sultan Hudgiadge, and “either amuse us or send us to sleep,” it must be admitted to be with some relief that one turns once more, at about the five and twentieth volume, to something like the fairy tale proper, if to a somewhat artificial and sophisticated form of it.  The Comte de Caylus was a scholar and a man of unusual brains; Moncrif showed his mixture of Scotch and French blood in a corresponding blend of quaintness and esprit; others, such as Voisenon in one sex and Voltaire’s pet Mlle. de Lubert in the other, whatever they were, were at any rate not stupid.

To Anne Claude Philippe de Tubieres de Grimoard de Pestels de Levi, Comte de Caylus, one owes particular thanks, at least when one comes to the history of Le Prince Courtebotte, after wrestling with the macedoine of orientalities just discussed.  It is not, of course, Perrault, and it is not the best Madame D’Aulnoy.  But you are never “put out” by it; the hero, if rather a hero of Scott in the uniform propriety of his conduct, or of Virgil in his success, is not like Waverley, partly a simpleton, nor like Aeneas, wholly a cad.  One likes the Princess Zibeline both before she had a heart and afterwards; it can be very agreeable to know a nice girl in both states.  Perhaps it was not quite cricket of the good fairy to play that trick on the ambassador of King Brandatimor, but it was washed out in fair fight; and King Biby and his people of poodles are delightful.  One wonders whether Dickens, who was better read in this kind of literature than in most, consciously or unconsciously borrowed from Caylus one of his not least known touches.

In the next of the Caylus stories there is an Idea ­the capital seems due because the Count was a man of Science, as science (perhaps better) went then, and because one or his other tales (not the best) is actually called Le Palais des Idées.  The idea of Rosanie is questionable, though the carrying of it out is all right.  Two fairies are fighting for the (fairy) crown, and the test is who shall produce the most perfect specimen of the special fairy art of education of mortals. (I may, as a ci-devant member of this craft, be permitted to regret that the business has been so largely taken over by persons who are neither fairies in one sex, though there may be some exceptions here, nor enchanters in the other, where exceptions are very rare indeed.) The tutoress of the Princess Rosanie pursues her task, and pursues it triumphantly, by dividing the child into twelve interim personalities, each of whom has a special characteristic ­beauty, gentleness, vivacity, discretion, and what not.  At the close of the prescribed period they are reunited, and their fortunate lover, who has hitherto been distracted between the twelve eidola, is blessed with the compound Rosanie.  Although it is well known to be the rashest of things for a man to say anything about women ­although certainly sillier things have been said by men about women than about any other subject, except, of course, education itself ­I venture to demur to the fairy method.  Both a priori and from experience, I should say that unmixed Beauty would become intolerably vain; that Discretion would grow into a hypocritical and unpleasant prude; that Vivacity would develop into Vulgarity; and that the reincarnation of the twelve would be one of the most intolerable creatures ever known, if it were not that the impossibility of the concentrated essences being united in one person, after separation in several, would save the situation by annihilating her.

Caylus, however, makes up in the third tale, Le Prince Muguet et la Princesse Zaza, where, though the principal fairy, she of the Hêtre, is rather silly for one of the kind, Muguet is a not quite intolerable coxcomb, and Zaza is positively charming.  Her sufferings with a wicked old woman are common; but her distress when the fairy makes her seem ugly to the Prince, who has actually fallen in love with her true portrait, and the scenes where the two meet under this spell, are among the best in the whole Cabinet ­which is a bold word.  The others, though naturally unequal, never or very seldom lack charm, for the reason that Caylus knew what one has ventured to call the secret of Fairyland ­that it is the land of the attained Wish ­and that he has the art of scattering rememberable and generative phrases and fancies. Tourlou et Rirette, one of the lightest of all, may not impossibly ­indeed probably ­have suggested Jean Ingelow’s great single-speech poem of Divided; the Princesses Pimprenelle and Lumineuse are the right sort of Princesses; Nonchalante et Papillon, Bleuette et Coquelicot come and take their places unpretentiously but certainly; Mignonette and Minutieuse are not “out.”  Caylus is not Hamilton by a long way; but he has something that Hamilton has not.  He is still less Perrault or Madame d’Aulnoy, but he has a sufficient difference from either.  With these predecessors he makes the select quartette of the fairy-tale tellers of France.

After him one expects ­and meets ­a drop.  No reasonable person would look for a really great fairy tale from Jean Jacques, because you must forget yourself to write one; and La Reine Fantasque, though not bad, is not good.  Madame de Villeneuve may, for ought I know, have been an excellent person in other ways, but she deserves one of the worst bolgias in the Inferno of literature for lengthening, muddling, and altogether spoiling the ever-beloved “Beauty and the Beast.”  Mlle. de Lussan, they say, was too fond of eating, and died of indigestion.  A more indigestible thing than her own Les Veillees de Thessalie, which figure here (she wrote a great deal more), the present writer has never come across.  And as for Prince Titi, which fills a volume and a half, it might have been passed without any remark at all if it had not become famous in connection with the Battle of Croker and Macaulay over the body of Boswell’s Johnson.

A break takes place at the thirtieth volume of the Cabinet, and a fresh instalment, later than the first batch, follows, with more particulars about authors.  Here we find the attributions of the very large series of imitative Eastern tales already noticed, and to be followed in this new parcel by Soirees Bretonnes, to Thomas Simon Gueulette.  The thirty-first opens with the Funestine of Beauchamps ­an ingenious title and heroine-name, for it avoids the unnatural sounds so common, is a quite possible feminine appellation, and though a “speaking” one, is only so to those who understand the learned languages, and so deserve to be spoken to.  Moreover, the idea, though not startlingly original or a mark of genius, is good ­that of an unlucky child who attracts the malignity of all fairies, and is ugly, stupid, ill-natured, and everything that is detestable.  Her reformation by the genie Clair-Obscur would not be bad if it were cut a great deal shorter.

It is followed by a series of short tales, beginning with The Little Green Frog, and not of the first class, which in turn are succeeded by two (or, as the latter is in two parts, three) longer stories, sometimes attributed to Caylus ­Le Loup Galeux and Bellinette et Belline.  The Soirees Bretonnes themselves, though apparently the earliest, are not the happiest of Gueulette’s pastiches; the speaking names especially are irritating.  A certain Madame de Lintot, who does not seem to have had anything to do with the hero of Pope’s famous “Ride with a Bookseller,” is what may be called “neutral,” with Timandre et Bleuette and others; nor does a fresh instalment of Moncrif’s efforts show the historian of cats at his best.  But in vol. xxxiii.  Mlle. de Lubert, glanced at before, raises the standard.  She should have cut her tales down; it is the mischief of these later things that they extend too much.  But Lionnette et Coquerico is good; Le Prince Glace et la Princesse Étincelante is not bad; and La Princesse Camion attracts, by dint of extravagance in the literal sense.  Fairy trials had gone far; but the necessity of either marrying a beautiful sort of mermaid or else of flaying her, and the subsequent trial, not of flaying, but braying her in a mortar as a shrimp, show at least a lively fancy.  Nor is the anonymous Nourjahad ­an extremely moral but not dull tale, which follows ­at all contemptible.

The French Bar, inexhaustible in such things, gave another tale-teller in one Pajón, who, besides the obligatory polissonneries, not included in the Cabinet, composed not a few harmless things of some merit.  The first, Eritzine et Paretin, is perhaps the best.  Nor is the complement of vol. xxxiv., the Bibliothèque des Fees et des Genies (the title of which was that of a larger collection, containing much the same matter as the Cabinet, and probably in Johnson’s mind when he jotted down Prince Titi), quite barren. La Princesse Minon-Minette et lé Prince Souci, Apranor et Bellanire, Grisdelin et Charmante, are none of them unreadable.  The next volume, too, is better as a whole than any we have had for a long time.  Mme. Fagnan’s Minet Bleu et Louvette contains, in its fifteen pages, a good situation by no means ill-treated.  The pair are under the same spell ­that of being ugly and witty for part of the week, handsome, stupid, and disagreeable for the other part, and of having the times so arranged that each sees the other at his or her most repulsive to her or his actual state.  The way in which “Love unconquered in battle” proves, though not without fairy assistance, victorious here also, is very ingeniously managed.

One of the cleverest of all the later fairy tales is the Acajou et Zirphile of Duclos, who, indeed, had sufficient wits to do anything well, and was a novelist, though not a very distinguished one, on a larger scale.  The tale itself (which is said to have been written “up to” illustrations of Boucher designed for something else) has, indeed, a smatch of vulgarity, but a purely superfluous and easily removable one.  It is almost as cleverly written as any thing of Voltaire’s:  and the final situation, where the hero, who has gone through all the mischiefs and triumphs of one of Crebillon’s, recovers his only real love, Zirphile, in a torment and tornado of heads separated from bodies and hands separated from arms, is rather capital.

Not much less so, in the different way of a pretty sentimentality, is the Aglae où Naboline of the painter Coypel; while the batch of short stories from Mme. Le Prince de Beaumont’s Magasin des Enfants have had a curious fate.  They are rather pooh-poohed by French editors and critics, and they are certainly very moral, too much so, in fact, as has been already objected to one of them, Le Prince Cheri.  But allowances have been allowed even there, and, somehow or other, Fatal et Fortune, Le Prince Charmant, Joliette, and the rest have recovered more of the root of the matter than most others, and have established a just popularity in translation.

And then comes the shortest, I think, of all the stories in the one and forty volumes; the silliest as a composition; the most contemptibly thought ­but by the accidents of fate endowed later with a tragic-satiric moralitas almost if not quite unrivalled in literature.  Its author was a certain M. Selis, apparently a very respectable schoolmaster, professor, and bookmaker of not the lowest class ­employments and occupations in respect of all of which not a few of us have earned our bread and paid our income-tax.  Unluckily for him, there was born in his time a Dauphin, and he wrote a little adulatory tale of the birth, and the editors of the Cabinet Appendix thanked him much for giving it them.  It is not four pages long; it tells how an ancestral genie ­a great king named Louis ­blessed the child, and said that he would be called “the father of his people,” and another followed suit with “the father of letters,” and a third swore Ventre Saint Gris! and named the baby’s uncle as “Joseph,” and a still greater Louis said other things, and a fairy named Maria Theresa crowned the blessings.  Then came an ogre mounted on a leopard and eating raw meat, who was of Albion, and said he was king of the country, and observed “God ham” [sic], and was told that he would be beaten and made to lay down his arms by the child.

And the Dauphin, unless this signalement is strangely delusive, lived to know the worst ogres in the world (their chief was named Simon), who were of his own people, and to die the most unhappy prince or king in that world.  And he of the Leopard who said God ham, would have saved that Dauphin if he could, and did slay many of his less guiltless relations and subjects, and beat the rest “thorough and thorough,” and restored (could they have had the will and wit to profit by it) the race of Louis and Francis, and of the genie who said “Ventre Saint Gris!” to their throne.  And this was the end of the vaticinations of M. Selis, and such are the tears of things.

The rest of this volume is occupied by a baker’s dozen of Contes Choisis, the first of which, Les Trois Épreuves, seems to imitate Voltaire, and is smartly written, while some of the others are not bad.

Volume xxxvi. is occupied (not too appositely, though inoffensively in itself) by a translation of Wieland’s Don Silvia de Rosalva, which is a German Sir Launcelot Greaves or Spiritual Quixote, with fairy tales substituted for romances of chivalry.  The author of Oberon was seldom, if ever, unreadable, and he is not so here; but the thing is neither a tale proper (seeing that it fills a whole volume), nor a real fairy tale, nor French, so we may let it alone.

Then this curious collection once more comes to an end, which is not an end, with a very useful though not too absolutely trustworthy volume of Notices des Auteurs, containing not only “bio-bibliographical” articles on the actual writers collected, but references to others, great and small, from Marivaux, Lesage, Prevost, and Voltaire downwards, and glances, sometimes with actual comptes rendus, at pieces of the class not included.  That it is conducted on the somewhat irresponsible and indolent principles of its time might be anticipated from previous things, such as the clause in the Preface to Wieland’s just noticed book, that the author had “gone to Weimar, where perhaps he is still,” an observation which, from the context, seems not to be so much an attempt at persiflage as a pure piece of lazy naïveté.  The volume, however, contains a great deal of information such as it is; some sketches, ingeniously draped or Bowdlerised, of the “naughty” tales excluded from the collection itself, and a few amusing stories.

As, however, has been said, there was to be still another joint to this crocodile, and the four last volumes, xxxviii. to xli. (not, as is wrongly said by some, xxxvii. to xl.), contain a somewhat rash continuation of the Arabian Nights themselves, with which Cazotte appears to have had a good deal to do, though an actual Arab monk of the name of Chavis is said to have been mainly concerned.  They are not bad reading; but even less of fairy tales than Gueulette’s orientalities.

Not much apology is needed, it may be hoped, for the space given to this curious kind; the bulk of its production, the length of its popularity, and the intrinsic merit of some few of its better examples vindicate its position here.  But a confession should take the place of the unnecessary excuse already partly made.  The artificial fairy tale of the more regular kind was not, by the law of its being, prevented almost unavoidably from doing service to the novel at large, as the Eastern story was; but, as a matter of fact, it did little except what will be mentioned in the next paragraph.  That it helped to exemplify afresh what had been shown over and over again for centuries, the singular recreative faculty of the nation and the language, was about all.  But another national characteristic, the as yet incurable set of the French mind towards types ­which, if the second volume of this work ever appears, will, it is hoped, be shown to have spared the later novel ­seized on these tales.  They are “as like as my fingers to my fingers,” and they are not very pretty fingers as a rule.  Incidentally they served as frameworks to some of the worst verse in the world, nor, for the most part, did they even encourage very good prose.  You may get some good out of them; but unless you like hunting, and are not vexed by frequent failures to “draw,” the Cabinet des Fees is best left to exploration at second-hand.

To collect the results of this long chapter, we may observe that in these three departments ­Pastoral, Heroic, and Fairy ­various important elements of general novel material and construction are provided in a manner not yet noticed.  The Pastoral may seem to be the most obsolete, the most of a mere curiosity.  But the singular persistence and, in a way, universality of this apparently fossil convention has been already pointed out; and it is perhaps only necessary to shift the pointer to the fact that the novels with which one of the most modern, in perhaps the truest sense of that word, of modern novelists, though one of the eldest, Mr. Thomas Hardy, began to make his mark ­Under the Greenwood Tree and Far from the Madding Crowd ­may be claimed by the pastoral with some reason.  And it has another and a wider claim ­that it keeps up, in its own way, the element of the imaginative, of the fanciful ­let us say even of the unreal ­without which romance cannot live, without which novel is almost repulsive, and which the increasing advances of realism itself were to render more than ever indispensable.  As for the Heroic, we have already shown how much, with all its faults, it did for the novel generally in construction and in other ways.  It has been shown likewise, it is hoped, how the Fairy story, besides that additional provision of imagination, fancy, and dream which has just been said to be so important ­mingled with this a kind of realism which was totally lacking in the others, and which showed itself especially in one immensely important department wherein they had been so much to seek.  Fairies may be (they are not to my mind) things that “do not happen”; but the best of these fairies are fifty times more natural, not merely than the characters of Scudery and Gomberville, but than those (I hold to my old blasphemy) of Racine.  Animals may not talk; but the animals of Perrault and even of Madame d’Aulnoy talk divinely well, and, what is more, in a way most humanly probable and interesting.  Never was there such a triumph of the famous impossible-probable as a good fairy story.  Except to the mere scientist and to (of course, quite a different person) the unmitigated fool, these stories, at least the best of them, fully deserve the delightful phrase which Southey attributes to a friend of his.  They are “necessary and voluptuous and right.”  They were, to the French eighteenth century and to French prose, almost what the ballad was to the English eighteenth century and to English verse; almost what the Maerchen was to the prose and verse alike of yet un-Prussianised Germany.  They were more than twice blessed:  for they were charming in themselves; they exercised good influence on other literary productions; and they served as precious antidotes to bad things that they could not improve, and almost as precious alternatives to things good in themselves but of a different kind from theirs.

What, however, none of the kinds discussed in this chapter gave entirely, while only the fairy story gave in part, and that in strong contrast to another part of itself, was a history of ordinary life ­high, low, or middle ­dealing with characters more or less representing live and individual personages; furnished with incidents of a possible and probable character more or less regularly constructed; furnished further with effective description of the usual scenery, manners, and general accessories of living; and, finally, giving such conversation as might be thought necessary in forms suitable to “men of this world,” in the Shakespearian phrase.  In other words, none of them attained, or even attempted to fulfil, the full definition of the novel.  The scattered books to be mentioned in the next chapter did not, perhaps, in any one case ­even Madame de la Fayette’s ­quite achieve this; but in all of them, even in Sorel’s, we see more or less conscious or unconscious attempt at it.