Amis and Amile were devoted friends, twins in resemblance and life. On one occasion, having strayed apart, they ceased not to seek each other for two whole years. And when at last they met “they lighted down from their horses, and embraced and kissed each other, and gave thanks to God that they were found. And they swore fealty and friendship and fellowship perpetual, the one to the other, on the sword of Amile, wherein were relics.” Thence they went together to the court of “Charles, king of France.”
Here soon after, Amis took Amile’s place in a tournament, saved his life from a traitor, and won for him the King’s daughter to wife. But so it happened that, not long after, he himself was stricken with leprosy and brought to Amile’s door. And when Amile and his royal bride knew who it was they were sore grieved, and they brought him in and placed him on a fair bed, and put all that they had at his service. And it came to pass one night “whenas Amis and Amile lay in one chamber without other company, that God sent to Amis Raphael his angel, who said to him: ‘Sleepest thou, Amis?’ And he, who deemed that Amile had called to him, answered: ‘I sleep not, fair sweet fellow.’ Then the angel said to him: ‘Thou hast answered well, for thou art the fellow of the citizens of heaven, and thou hast followed after Job, and Thoby in patience. Now I am Raphael, an angel of our Lord, and am come to tell thee of a medicine for thine healing, whereas he hath heard thy prayers. Thou shalt tell to Amile thy fellow, that he slay his two children and wash thee in their blood, and thence thou shalt get the healing of thy body.’”
Amis was shocked when he heard these words, and at first refused to tell Amile; but the latter had also heard the angel’s voice, and pressed him to tell. Then, when he knew, he too was sorely grieved. But at last he determined in his mind not even to spare his children for the sake of his friend, and going secretly to their chamber he slew them, and bringing some of their blood washed Amis—who immediately was healed. He then arrayed Amis in his best clothes and, after going to the church to give thanks, they met Amile’s wife who (not knowing all) rejoiced greatly too. But Amile, going apart again to the children’s chamber to weep over them, found them at play in bed, with only a thread of crimson round their throats to mark what had been done!
The two knights fell afterwards and were killed in the same battle; “for even as God had joined them together by good accord in their life-days, so in their death they were not sundered.” And a miracle was added, for even when they were buried apart from each other the two coffins leapt together in the night and were found side by side in the morning.
Of this story Mr. Jacobs, in his introduction to William Morris’ translation, says: “Amis and Amile were the David and Jonathan, the Orestes and Pylades, of the mediæval world.” There were some thirty other versions of the legend “in almost all the tongues of Western and Northern Europe”—their “peerless friendship” having given them a place among the mediæval saints. (See Old French Romances trans. by William Morris, London, 1896.)
Eastern Poets
It may not be out of place here, and before passing on to the times of the Renaissance and Modern Europe, to give one or two extracts relating to Eastern countries. The honour paid to friendship in Persia, Arabia, Syria and other Oriental lands has always been great, and the tradition of this attachment there should be especially interesting to us, as having arisen independently of classic or Christian ideals. The poets of Persia, Saadi and Jalal-ud-din Rumi (13th cent.), Hafiz (14th cent.), Jami (15th cent.), and others, have drawn much of their inspiration from this source; but unfortunately for those who cannot read the originals, their work has been scantily translated, and the translations themselves are not always very reliable. The extraordinary way in which, following the method of the Sufis, and of Plato, they identify the mortal and the divine love, and see in their beloved an image or revelation of God himself, makes their poems difficult of comprehension to the Western mind. Apostrophes to Love, Wine, and Beauty often, with them, bear a frankly twofold sense, material and spiritual. To these poets of the mid-region of the earth, the bitter antagonism between matter and spirit, which like an evil dream has haunted so long both the extreme Western and the extreme Eastern mind, scarcely exists; and even the body “which is a portion of the dust-pit” has become perfect and divine.
Jalal-ud-din Rumi