(1790-1855)
mong the leaders of the romantic movement which affected Swedish literature in the earlier half of the nineteenth century was P.D.A. Atterbom, one of the greatest lyric poets of his country. He was born in Ostergöthland, in 1790, and at the age of fifteen was already so advanced in his studies that he entered the University of Upsala. There in 1807 he helped to found the "Musis Amici," a students' society of literature and art; its membership included Hedbom, who is remembered for his beautiful hymns, and the able and laborious Palmblad,--author of several popular books, including the well-known novel 'Aurora Königsmark.' This society soon assumed the name of the Aurora League, and set itself to free Swedish literature from French influence. The means chosen were the study of German romanticism, and a treatment of the higher branches of literature in direct opposition to the course decreed by the Academical school. The leaders of this revolution were Atterbom, eighteen years old, and Palmblad, twenty!
The first organ of the League was the Polyfem, soon replaced by the Phosphorus (1810-1813), from which the young enthusiasts received their sobriquet of "Phosphorists." Theoretically this sheet was given to the discussion of Schelling's philosophy, and of metaphysical problems in general; practically, to the publication of the original poetry of the new school. The Phosphorists did a good work in calling attention to the old Swedish folk-lore, and awakening a new interest in its imaginative treasures. But their best service lay in their forcible and earnest treatment of religious questions, which at that time were most superficially dealt with.
When the 'Phosphorus' was in its third year the Romanticists united in bringing out two new organs: the Poetical Calendar (1812-1822), which published poetry only, and the Swedish Literary News (1813-1824), containing critical essays of great scientific value. The Phosphorists, who had shown themselves ardent but not always sagacious fighters, now appeared at their best, and dashed into the controversy which was engaging the attention of the Swedish reading public. This included not only literature, but philosophy and religion, as well as art. The odds were now on one side, now on the other. The Academicians might easily have conquered their youthful opponents, however, had not their bitterness continually forged new weapons against themselves. In 1820 the Phosphorists wrote the excellent satire, 'Marskall's Sleepless Nights,' aimed at Wallmark, leader of the Academicians. Gradually the strife died out, and the man who carried off the palm, and for a time became the leader of Swedish poetry, was Tegnèr, who was hardly a partisan of either side.
In 1817 Atterbom had gone abroad, broken down in health by his uninterrupted studies. While in Germany he entered into a warm friendship with Schelling and Steffens, and in Naples he met the Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen, to whose circle of friends he became attached. On his return he was made tutor of German and literature to the Crown Prince. In 1828 the Chair of Logics and Metaphysics at Upsala was offered him, and he held this for seven years, when he exchanged it for that of Aesthetics. In 1839 he was elected a member of the Academy whose bitterest enemy he had been, and so the peace was signed.
Atterbom is undoubtedly the greatest lyrical poet in the ranks of the Phosphorists. His verses are wonderfully melodious and full of charm, in spite of the fact that his tendency to the mystical at times makes him obscure. Among the best of his productions are a cycle of lyrics entitled 'The Flowers'; 'The Isle of Blessedness,' a romantic drama of great beauty, published in 1823; and a fragment of a fairy drama, 'The Blue Bird.' He introduced the sonnet into Swedish poetry, and did a great service to the national literature by his critical work, 'Swedish Seers and Poets,' a collection of biographies and criticisms of poets and philosophers before and during the reign of Gustavus III. Atterbom's life may be accounted long in the way of service, though he died at the age of sixty-five.
THE GENIUS OF THE NORTH
It is true that our Northern nature is lofty and strong. Its characteristics may well awaken deep meditation and emotion. When the Goddess of Song has grown up in these surroundings, her view of life is like that mirrored in our lakes, where, between the dark shadows of mountain and trees on the shore, a light-blue sky looks down. Over this mirror the Northern morning and the Northern day, the Northern evening and the Northern night, rise in a glorious beauty. Our Muse kindles a lofty hero's flame, a lofty seer's flame, and always the flame of a lofty immortality. In this sombre North we experience an immense joyousness and an immense melancholy, moods of earth-coveting and of earth-renunciation. With equal mind we behold the fleet, charming dream of her summers, her early harvest with its quickly falling splendor, and the darkness and silence of the long winter's sleep. For if the gem-like green of the verdure proclaims its short life, it proclaims at the same time its richness,--and in winter the very darkness seems made to let the starry vault shine through with a glory of Valhalla and Gimle. Indeed, in our North, the winter possesses an impressiveness, a freshness, which only we Norsemen understand. Add to these strong effects of nature the loneliness of life in a wide tract of land, sparingly populated by a still sparingly educated people, and then think of the poet's soul which must beat against these barriers of circumstance and barriers of spirit! Yet the barriers that hold him in as often help as hinder his striving. These conditions explain what our literature amply proves; that so far, the only poetical form which has reached perfection in Sweden is the lyrical. This will be otherwise only as the northern mind, through a growing familiarity with contemporaneous Europe, will consent to be drawn from its forest solitude into the whirl of the motley World's Fair outside its boundaries. It is probable that the lyrical gift will always be the true possession of the Swedish poet. His genius is such that it needs only a beautiful moment's exaltation (blissful, whether the experience be called joy or sorrow) to rise on full, free wings, suddenly singing out his very inmost being. Whether the poet makes this inmost being his subject, or quite forgets himself in a richer and higher theme, is of little consequence.
If, again, no true lyric can express a narrow egoism, least of all could the Swedish, in spite of the indivisible relation between nature and man. The entire Sämunds-Edda shows us that Scandinavian poetry was originally lyrical-didactic, as much religious as heroic. Not only in lyrical impression, but also in lyrical contemplation and lyrical expression, will the Swedish heroic poem still follow its earliest trend. Yes, let us believe that this impulse will some day lead Swedish poetry into the only path of true progress, to the point where dramatic expression will attain perfection of artistic form. This development is foreshadowed already in the high tragic drama, in the view of the world taken by the old Swedish didactic poem; and in some of the songs of the Edda, as well as in many an old folk-song and folk-play.
O'er hill and dale the welcome news is flying
That summer's drawing near;
Out of my thicket cool, my cranny hidden,
Around I shyly peer.
He will not notice me, this guest resplendent,
Unseen I shall remain,
Content to live if of his banquet royal
Some glimpses I may gain.
Behold! Behold! His banquet hall's before me,
Pillared with forest trees;
Lo! as he feasts, a thousand sunbeams sparkle,
His gracious smiles are these.
Hail to thee, brilliant world! Ye heavens fretted
With clouds of silver hue!
Ye waves of mighty ocean, tossing, tossing,
Fair in my sight as new!
Far in the past (if years my life has numbered,
Ghost-like in thought they drift),
Came to me silently the truth eternal--
Joy is life's richest gift.
Thus, in return for life's abundant dower,
A gift have I: I bear
A spotless soul, from whose unseen recesses
Exhales a fragrance rare.
Strong is the power in gentle souls indwelling,
Born of a joy divine;
Theirs is a sphere untrod by creatures earthly,
By beings gross, supine.
Fragile and small, and set in quiet places,
My worth should I forget?
Some one who seeks friend, counselor, or lover,
Will find and prize me yet.
Thou lovely maid, through mossy pathways straying,
Striving to make thy choice,
Hearing the while the brook which downward leaping,
Lifts up its merry voice,
Pluck me; and as a rich reward I'll whisper
Things them wilt love to hear:
The name of him who comes to win thy favor
I'll whisper in thine ear!
From 'The Islands of the Blest'
SVANHVIT (alone in her chamber)
No Asdolf yet,--in vain and everywhere
Hath he been sought for, since his foaming steed,
At morn, with vacant saddle, stood before
The lofty staircase in the castle yard.
His drooping crest and wildly rolling eye,
And limbs with frenzied terror quivering,
All seemed as though the midnight fiends had urged
His swiftest flight through many a wood and plain.
O Lord, that know'st what he hath witnessed there!
Wouldst thou but give one single speaking sound
Unto the faithful creature's silent tongue,
That momentary voice would be, for me,
A call to life or summons to the grave.
[She goes to the window.]
And yet what childish fears are these! How oft
Hath not my Asdolf boldest feats achieved
And aye returned, unharmed and beautiful!
Yes, beautiful, alas! like this cold flower
That proudly glances on the frosty pane.
Short is the violet's, short the cowslip's spring;--
The frost-flowers live far longer: cold as they
The beautiful should be, that it may share
The splendor of the light without its heat;
For else the sun of life must soon dissolve
The hard, cold, shining pearls to liquid tears;
And tears--flow fast away.
[She breathes on the window.]
Become transparent, thou fair Asdolf flower,
That I may look into the vale beneath!
There lies the city,--Asdolf's capital:
How wondrously the spotless vest of snow
On roof, on mount, on market-place now smiles
A glittering welcome to the morning sun,
Whose blood-red beams shed beauty on the earth!
The Bride of Sacrifice makes no lament,
But smiles in silence,--knowing sadly well
That she is slighted, and that he, who could
Call forth her spring, doth not, but rather dwells
In other climes, where lavishly he pours
His fond embracing beams, while she, alas!
In wintry shade and lengthened loneliness
Cold on the solitary couch reclines.--
[After a pause.]
What countless paths wind down, from divers points,
To yonder city gates!--Oh, wilt not thou,
My star, appear to me on one of them?
Whate'er I said,--thou art my worshiped sun.
Then pardon me;--thou art not cold; oh, no!
Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.
Yet thus it is! Thy being's music has
A thousand chords with thousand varying tones,
Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee
Of tenderness and truth. At times, indeed,
This too may have its power,--but then it lasts
One and the same forever, sounding still
Unalterably like itself alone;
A wordless prayer to God for what we love,
'Tis more a whisper than a sound, and charms
Like new-mown meadows, when the grass exhales
Sweet fragrance to the foot that tramples it.
Kings, heroes, towering spirits among men,
Rush to their aim on wild and stormy wings,
And far beneath them view the world, whose form
For ever varies on from hour to hour.
What would they ask of love? That, volatile,
In changeful freshness it may charm their ears
With proud, triumphant songs, when high in air
Victorious banners wave; or sweetly lull
To rapturous repose, when round them roars
The awful thunder's everlasting voice!
Mute, mean, and spiritless to them must seem
The maid who is no more than woman. How
Should she o'er-sound the storm their wings have raised?
[Sitting down.]
Great Lord! how lonely I become within
These now uncheerful towers! O'er all the earth
No shield have I,--no mutual feeling left!
Tis true that those around me all are kind,
And well I know they love me,--more, indeed,
Than my poor merits claim. Yet, even though
They raised me to my Asdolf's royal throne,
As being the last of all his line,--ah me!
No solace could it bring;--for then far less
Might I reveal the sorrow of my soul!
A helpless maiden's tears like raindrops fall,
Which in a July night, ere harvest-time,
Bedew the flowers, and, trembling, stand within
Their half-closed eyes unnumbered and unknown.
[She rises.]
Yet One there is, who counts the maiden's tears;--
But when will their sad number be fulfilled?--
[Walking to and fro.]
How calm was I in former days!--I now
Am so no more! My heart beats heavily,
Oppressed within its prison-cave. Ah! fain
Would I that it might burst its bonds, so that
'Twere conscious, Asdolf, I sometimes had seemed
Not all unworthy in thine eyes.
[She takes the guitar.]
A gentle friend--the Master from Vallandia--
Has taught me how I may converse with thee,
Thou cherished token of my Asdolf's love!
I have been told of far-off lakes, around
Whose shores the cypress and the willow wave,
And make a mournful shade above the stream.
Which, dark, and narrow on the surface, swells
Broad and unfathomably deep below;--
From these dark lakes at certain times, and most
On Sabbath morns and eves of festivals.
Uprising from the depths, is heard a sound
Most strange and wild, as of the tuneful bells
Of churches and of castles long since sunk;
And as the wanderer's steps approach the shore,
He hears more plainly the lamenting tone
Of the dark waters, whilst the surface still
Continues motionless and calm, and seems
To listen with a melancholy joy,
While thus the dim mysterious depths resound;
So let me strive to soften and subdue
My heart's dark swelling with a soothful song.
[She plays and sings.]
The maiden bound her hunting-net
At morning fresh and fair--
Ah, no! that lay doth ever make me grieve.
Another, then! that of the hapless flower,
Surprised by frost and snow in early spring.
[Sings.]
Hush thee, oh, hush thee,
Slumber from snow and stormy sky,
Lovely and lone one!
Now is the time for thee to die,
When vale and streamlet frozen lie.
Hush thee, oh, hush thee!
Hours hasten onward;--
For thee the last will soon be o'er.
Rest thee, oh, rest thee!
Flowers have withered thus before,--
And, my poor heart, what wouldst thou more?
Rest thee, oh, rest thee!
Shadows should darkly
Enveil thy past delights and woes.
Forget, oh, forget them!
'Tis thus that eve its shadows throws;
But now, in noiseless night's repose,
Forget, oh, forget them!
Slumber, oh, slumber!
No friend hast thou like kindly snow;
Sleep is well for thee,
For whom no second spring will blow;
Then why, poor heart, still beating so?
Slumber, oh, slumber!
Hush thee, oh, hush thee!
Resign thy life-breath in a sigh,
Listen no longer,
Life bids farewell to thee,--then die!
Sad one, good night!--in sweet sleep lie!
Hush thee, oh, hush thee!
[She bursts into tears.]
Would now that I might bid adieu to life;
But, ah! no voice to me replies, "Sleep well!"
Leaving the sea, the pale moon lights the strand.
Tracing old runes, a youth inscribes the sand.
And by the rune-ring waits a woman fair,
Down to her feet extends her dripping hair.
Woven of lustrous pearls her robes appear,
Thin as the air and as the water clear.
Lifting her veil with milk-white hand she shows
Eyes in whose deeps a deadly fire glows.
Blue are her eyes: she looks upon him--bound,
As by a spell, he views their gulf profound.
Heaven and death are there: in his desire,
He feels the chill of ice, the heat of fire.
Graciously smiling, now she whispers low:--
"The runes are dark, would you their meaning know?
Follow! my dwelling is as dark and deep;
You, you alone, its treasure vast shall keep!"
"Where is your dwelling, charming maid, now say!"
"Built on a coral island far away,
Crystalline, golden, floats that castle free,
Meet for a lovely daughter of the sea!"
Still he delays and muses, on the strand;
Now the alluring maiden grasps his hand.
"Ah! Do you tremble, you who were so bold?"
"Yes, for the heaving breakers are so cold!"
"Let not the mounting waves your spirit change!
Take, as a charm, my ring with sea-runes strange.
Here is my crown of water-lilies white,
Here is my harp, with human bones bedight."
"What say my Father and my Mother dear?
What says my God, who bends from heaven to hear?"
"Father and Mother in the churchyard lie.
As for thy God, he deigns not to reply."
Blithely she dances on the pearl-strewn sand,
Smiting the bone-harp with her graceful hand.
Fair is her bosom, through her thin robe seen,
White as a swan beheld through rushes green,
"Follow me, youth! through ocean deeps we'll rove;
There is my castle in its coral grove;
There the red branches purple shadows throw,
There the green waves, like grass, sway to and fro,
"I have a thousand sisters; none so fair.
He whom I wed receives my sceptre rare.
Wisdom occult my mother will impart.
Granting his slightest wish, I'll cheer his heart."
"Heaven and earth to win you I abjure!
Child of the ocean, is your promise sure?"
"Heaven and earth abjuring, great's your gain,
Throned with the ancient gods, a king to reign!"
Lo, as she speaks, a thousand starlights gleam,
Lighted for Heaven's Christmas day they seem.
Sighing, he swears the oath,--the die is cast;
Into the mermaid's arms he sinks at last.
High on the shore the rushing waves roll in.
"Why does the color vary on your skin?
What! From your waist a fish's tail depends!"
"Worn for the dances of my sea-maid friends."
High overhead, the stars, like torches, burn:
"Haste! to my golden castle I return.
Save me, ye runes!"--"Yes, try them now; they fail.
Pupil of heathen men, my spells prevail!"
Proudly she turns; her sceptre strikes the wave,
Roaring, it parts; the ocean yawns, a grave.
Mermaid and youth go down; the gulf is deep.
Over their heads the surging waters sweep.
Often, on moonlight nights, when bluebells ring,
When for their sports the elves are gathering,
Out of the waves the youth appears, and plays
Tunes that are merry, mournful, like his days.
AUCASSIN AND NICOLLETE
(Twelfth Century)
BY FREDERICK MORRIS WARREN
his charming tale of medieval France has reached modern times in but one manuscript, which is now in the National Library at Paris. It gives us no hint as to the time and place of the author, but its linguistic forms would indicate for locality the borderland of Champagne and Picardy, while the fact that the verse of the story is in assonance would point to the later twelfth century as the date of the original draft. It would thus be contemporaneous with the last poems of Chrétien de Troyes (1170-80). The author was probably a minstrel by profession, but one of more than ordinary taste and talent. For, evidently skilled in both song and recitation, he so divided his narrative between poetry and prose that he gave himself ample opportunity to display his powers, while at the same time he retained more easily, by this variety, the attention of his audience. He calls his invention--if his invention it be--a "song-story." The subject he drew probably from reminiscences of the widely known story of Floire and Blanchefleur; reversing the parts, so that here it is the hero who is the Christian, while the heroine is a Saracen captive baptized in her early years. The general outline of the plot also resembles indistinctly the plot of Floire and Blanchefleur, though its topography is somewhat indefinite, and a certain amount of absurd adventure in strange lands is interwoven with it. With these exceptions, however, few literary productions of the Middle Ages can rival 'Aucassin and Nicolette' in graceful sentiment and sympathetic description.
The Paris manuscript gives the music for the poetical parts,--music that is little more than a modulation. There is a different notation for the first two lines, but for the other lines this notation is repeated in couplets, except that the last line of each song or laisse--being a half-line--has a cadence of its own. The lines are all seven syllables in length, save the final half-lines, and the assonance, which all but the half-lines observe, tends somewhat towards rhyme.
The story begins with a song which serves as prologue; and then its prose takes up the narrative, telling how Aucassin, son of Garin, Count of Beaucaire, so loved Nicolette, a Saracen maiden, who had been sold to the Viscount of Beaucaire, baptized and adopted by him, that he had forsaken knighthood and chivalry and even refused to defend his father's territories against Count Bougart of Valence. Accordingly his father ordered the Viscount to send away Nicolette, and he walled her up in a tower of his palace. Later, Aucassin is imprisoned by his father. But Nicolette escapes, hears him lamenting in his cell, and comforts him until the warden on the tower warns her of the approach of the town watch. She flees to the forest outside the gates, and there, in order to test Aucassin's fidelity, builds a rustic tower. When he is released from prison, Aucassin hears from shepherd lads of Nicolette's hiding-place, and seeks her bower. The lovers, united, resolve to leave the country. They take ship and are driven to the kingdom of Torelore, whose queen they find in child-bed, while the king is with the army. After a three years' stay in Torelore they are captured by Saracen pirates and separated. Contrary winds blow Aucassin's boat to Beaucaire, where he succeeds to Garin's estate, while Nicolette is carried to Carthage. The sight of the city reminds her that she is the daughter of its king, and a royal marriage is planned for her. But she avoids this by assuming a minstrel's garb, and setting sail for Beaucaire. There, before Aucassin, she sings of her own adventures, and in due time makes herself known to him. Now in one last strain our story-teller celebrates the lovers' meeting, concluding with--
"Our song-story comes to an end,
I know no more to tell."
And thus he takes leave of the gentle and courageous maiden.
The whole account of these trials and reunions does not occupy over forty pages of the original French, which has been best edited by H. Suchier at Paderborn (second edition, 1881). In 1878, A. Bida published, with illustrations, a modern French version of the story at Paris, accompanied by the original text and a preface by Gaston Paris. This version was translated into English by A. Rodney Macdonough under the title of 'The Lovers of Provence: Aucassin and Nicolette' (New York, 1880). Additional illustrations by American artists found place in this edition. F.W. Bourdillon has published the original text and an English version, together with an exhaustive introduction, bibliography, notes, and glossary (London, 1887), and, later in the same year, Andrew Lang wrote out another translation, accompanied by an introduction and notes: 'Aucassin and Nicolette' (London). The extracts given below are from Lang's version, with occasional slight alterations.
Who would list to the good lay,
Gladness of the captive gray?
'Tis how two young lovers met,
Aucassin and Nicolette;
Of the pains the lover bore,
And the perils he outwore,
For the goodness and the grace
Of his love, so fair of face.
Sweet the song, the story sweet,
There is no man hearkens it,
No man living 'neath the sun,
So outwearied, so fordone,
Sick and woeful, worn and sad,
But is healed, but is glad,
'Tis so sweet.
So say they, speak they, tell they The Tale,
How the Count Bougart of Valence made war on Count Garin of Beaucaire,--war so great, so marvelous, and so mortal that never a day dawned but alway he was there, by the gates and walls and barriers of the town, with a hundred knights, and ten thousand men-at-arms, horsemen and footmen: so burned he the Count's land, and spoiled his country, and slew his men. Now, the Count Garin of Beaucaire was old and frail, and his good days were gone over. No heir had he, neither son nor daughter, save one young man only; such an one as I shall tell you. Aucassin was the name of the damoiseau: fair was he, goodly, and great, and featly fashioned of his body and limbs. His hair was yellow, in little curls, his eyes blue-gray and laughing, his face beautiful and shapely, his nose high and well set, and so richly seen was he in all things good, that in him was none evil at all. But so suddenly was he overtaken of Love, who is a great master, that he would not, of his will, be a knight, nor take arms, nor follow tourneys, nor do whatsoever him beseemed. Therefore his father and mother said to him:--
"Son, go take thine arms, mount thine horse, and hold thy land, and help thy men, for if they see thee among them, more stoutly will they keep in battle their lives and lands, and thine and mine."
"Father," answered Aucassin, "what are you saying now? Never may God give me aught of my desire, if I be a knight, or mount my horse, or face stour and battle wherein knights smite and are smitten again, unless thou give me Nicolette, my true love, that I love so well."
"Son," said the father, "this may not be. Let Nicolette go. A slave girl is she, out of a strange land, and the viscount of this town bought her of the Saracens, and carried her hither, and hath reared her and had her christened, and made her his god-daughter, and one day will find a young man for her, to win her bread honorably. Herein hast thou naught to make nor mend; but if a wife thou wilt have, I will give thee the daughter of a king, or a count. There is no man so rich in France, but if thou desire his daughter, thou shall have her."
"Faith! my father," said Aucassin, "tell me where is the place so high in all the world, that Nicolette, my sweet lady and love, would not grace it well? If she were Empress of Constantinople or of Germany, or Queen of France or England, it were little enough for her; so gentle is she and courteous, and debonnaire, and compact of all good qualities."
IMPRISONMENT OF NICOLETTE
When Count Garin of Beaucaire knew that he would not avail to withdraw Aucassin, his son, from the love of Nicolette, he went to the viscount of the city, who was his man, and spake to him saying:--"Sir Count: away with Nicolette, thy daughter in God; cursed be the land whence she was brought into this country, for by reason of her do I lose Aucassin, that will neither be a knight, nor do aught of the things that fall to him to be done. And wit ye well," he said, "that if I might have her at my will, I would burn her in a fire, and yourself might well be sore adread."
"Sir," said the Viscount, "this is grievous to me that he comes and goes and hath speech with her. I had bought the maid at mine own charges, and nourished her, and baptized, and made her my daughter in God. Yea, I would have given her to a young man that should win her bread honorably. With this had Aucassin, thy son, naught to make or mend. But sith it is thy will and thy pleasure, I will send her into that land and that country where never will he see her with his eyes."
"Have a heed to thyself," said the Count Garin: "thence might great evil come on thee."
So parted they each from the other. Now the Viscount was a right rich man: so had he a rich palace with a garden in face of it; in an upper chamber thereof he had Nicolette placed, with one old woman to keep her company, and in that chamber put bread and meat and wine and such things as were needful. Then he had the door sealed, that none might come in or go forth, save that there was one window, over against the garden, and quite strait, through which came to them a little air.
Here singeth one:--
Nicolette as ye heard tell
Prisoned is within a cell
That is painted wondrously
With colors of a far countrie.
At the window of marble wrought,
There the maiden stood in thought,
With straight brows and yellow hair,
Never saw ye fairer fair!
On the wood she gazed below,
And she saw the roses blow,
Heard the birds sing loud and low,
Therefore spoke she woefully:
"Ah me, wherefore do I lie
Here in prison wrongfully?
Aucassin, my love, my knight,
Am I not thy heart's delight?
Thou that lovest me aright!
'Tis for thee that I must dwell
In this vaulted chamber cell,
Hard beset and all alone!
By our Lady Mary's Son
Here no longer will I wonn,
If I may flee!"
AUCASSIN AND THE VISCOUNT
[The Viscount speaks first]
"Plentiful lack of comfort hadst thou got thereby; for in Hell would thy soul have lain while the world endures, and into Paradise wouldst thou have entered never."
"In Paradise what have I to win? Therein I seek not to enter, but only to have Nicolette, my sweet lady that I love so well. For into Paradise go none but such folk as I shall tell thee now: Thither go these same old priests, and halt old men and maimed, who all day and night cower continually before the altars, and in these old crypts; and such folks as wear old amices, and old clouted frocks, and naked folks and shoeless, and those covered with sores, who perish of hunger and thirst, and of cold, and of wretchedness. These be they that go into Paradise; with them have I naught to make. But into Hell would I fain go; for into Hell fare the goodly clerks, and goodly knights that fall in tourneys and great wars, and stout men-at-arms, and the free men. With these would I liefly go. And thither pass the sweet ladies and courteous, that have two lovers, or three, and their lords also thereto. Thither goes the gold, and the silver, and fur of vair, and fur of gris; and there too go the harpers, and minstrels, and the kings of this world. With these I would gladly go, let me but have with me Nicolette, my sweetest lady."