Among Renaissance romances presenting a traditional cycle in medieval form the most distinguished is Malory’s Morte d’Arthur. Caxton’s preface is a manifesto of romance; and his table of contents displays most of the stories that had gradually been brought together by the Middle Age at the Round Table. Between the “enfances” of the first book and the last great battle in the west are Balin and Tristan; that Percival, here called Gareth or Beaumains, who was reared apart in the wildwood; the mighty Lancelot, his mistress the Queen, and Elaine who died for love of him; the quest of the Grail; the traitor Modred. They are not composed in a narrative sequence. Balin, Gareth, Tristan, for instance, remain separate stories. For there is no real connection in Balin’s glimpse of an earlier Grail story not used in Malory’s Grail books, or in Gareth’s coming to Camelot and his knighting by Lancelot. But there is no confusion. The separate stories are told straightforwardly; the main persons become familiar; and the exposure of Guinevere makes a crisis contributing to the subsequent ruin of the goodly fellowship. The Morte d’Arthur is not merely a series. But its distinction is in style. Malory’s prose follows that medieval habit which may be called pure narrative, the telling of a story singly for its story values. It was not the only medieval narrative habit; nor is he the only fifteenth-century author to follow it; but it stands out both in contrast to classicism conceived as ornamental dilation and in his own quiet mastery. Without parade, without pause for ornament, he maintains a grave simplicity that ranges from homeliness to eloquence. His rhythm—he has little other sentence art—lingers or quickens with the action, and answers the emotion.
Is that knyght that oweth this shelde your love? Yea truly, said she, my love he is. God wold I were his love (XVIII. xiv).
Than syr Bedwere cryed: “Ah! my lord Arthur, what shal become of me now ye go from me and leve me here allone emonge myn enemyes?” “Comfort thy self,” sayd the kyng, “and doo as wel as thou mayst; for in me is no truste for to truste in. For I wyl in to the vale of Avylyon to hele me of my grevous wounde” (XXI. v).
4. THE CAROLINGIAN CYCLE ON THE STREET
The other cycle, the Carolingian, was popularized in Italy by street story-tellers, who seem to have been, on the piazza before audiences of artisans and shopkeepers, somewhat like the medieval jongleurs before their successive groups of pilgrims. Their narrative art can be only guessed; for it was oral. But the guess is helped by the persistence, even to the present time, of the Carlomagno marionettes. The recital animated by these large puppets—for it is recital, not drama—is of a traditional version called I paladini di Francia, and goes on day after day by mere aggregation, and with many tirades.
5. PULCI
Italian literary manipulation of the Carolingian cycle in verse romances began with Luigi Pulci (1432-1484). His Morgante maggiore (1481, though largely written by 1470)[35] is selective. Though it bulks large with more than 30,000 lines of verse, it does not rehearse the deeds of the paladins by the serial method of installments. At the end of Canto 5 two main stories, Orlando’s and Rinaldo’s, are brought together. At the end of Canto IX, having meantime moved together, the two arrive, with the other persons whom they have picked up on the way, for the relief of Montauban and of Carlomagno at Paris. There is narrative progress from salience to salience. The dialogue is lively. Though it does not amount to characterization, it suffices for speed and for mood.
Said Rinaldo, “Wilt thou be so obtuse as not to look at that damsel? Thou wouldst not be acceptable as a lover....” Said Oliver, “Thou art ever for thy jokes. Yonder is something more serious than word-play” (IV. 61).