King Arthur in history and legend

by William Lewis Jones

With him, however, are ranged persons of somewhat doubtful reputation; to wit, Dares, the Phrygian, and “Tytus,” or Dictys, the Cretan, “Guido de Columpnis,” and—significantly—“English Gaufride.” “Gaufride,” or Geoffrey, owes his modern renown much more to his contributions to Arthurian literature than to his modest additions to the tale of Troy. His detractors will have it that the Arthurian portions of his so-called History are as fabulous as his account of the descent of the British race from Brutus, the son of Æneas. He had, however, the authority of Nennius, at least, for his use of the Brutus legend. He had the brief records of Nennius, also, to work upon as a foundation for the elaborate narrative which he gives of the life and deeds of King Arthur. But that narrative came upon the world as quite a new, and a startling thing. It is, perhaps, no exaggeration to term its appearance the chief literary event of the twelfth century; at any rate, it is certain that it aroused infinitely greater interest than the story of what Brutus and his immediate descendants achieved in Britain. Chaucer, however,—to judge, at least, by his Tale of Sir Thopas,—regarded the newer romantic matters with good-humoured contempt; and the tale of Troy, in its various ramifications, challenged his imagination much more insistently than such a new-fangled theme as the story of Arthur.

Notwithstanding the fact that Geoffrey’s use of the Brutus legend is what constitutes the claim of his History to rank as the first, and the greatest, of a long series of “Bruts,”—English, French and Welsh,—his real title to literary fame rests upon his achievement, and his influence, as a contributor to Arthurian story. The Arthurian legend would, undoubtedly, have attracted the attention of European poets and romancers, had Geoffrey’s History never been written. It was current, as we have seen, in Wales, Brittany and Cornwall long before his time. There is even evidence that Arthur, and tales concerning him, were known in the south of Europe before he took up his pen. But it is quite certain that Arthur would never have figured as he does in chronicle literature, and so have come to be regarded as an authentic historical character, were it not for Geoffrey’s narrative. And it may be doubted whether English poets, at any rate,—to judge from the homage which they pay Geoffrey,—would have dallied so much over Arthurian fable had they not at their call what Wordsworth describes as that

“British record long concealed

In old Armorica, whose secret springs

No Gothic conqueror ever drank.”[70]

Now, it so happens that the “British record,” which Wordsworth, with a poet’s licence, so confidently tells us was “long concealed in old Armorica,” has never yet been discovered, and the mystery surrounding it is the chief critical problem which still baffles every student of the work of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This problem is deliberately set us by Geoffrey himself at the very beginning of his Chronicle, for he states that he is simply translating into the Latin tongue “a certain most ancient book in the British language,” which,—as he adds in his epilogue,—“Walter, archdeacon of Oxford, brought hither from Brittany.” That he had some “book,” or books, other than Nennius, to supply him with material, is not only highly probable, but almost certain; and, if we are to believe his own statement, that book must have been in “the British language.” But the fact remains that no document, either in Welsh or in Breton, has yet been found even remotely resembling that which Walter, the archdeacon, is said to have brought over from Brittany. It is possible, however, that those who have been searching for it have attached too much importance to the “British” book, and that, even were it to be discovered, its contents would only serve to show how deftly Geoffrey manipulated his material, and how artfully he succeeded in making his story of Arthur just what his Norman patrons, and the new romantic taste of the time, required. No intelligent reader of Geoffrey’s History can, at any rate, escape the conclusion that the work, especially in its treatment of both the Brutus legend and the career of Arthur, was written with a motive. Besides, it is a work sui generis among the chronicle literature of its time, and bears clear evidence of deliberate romantic embellishment. In order to apprehend what Geoffrey’s motive may have been, and how far he is to be regarded as a conscious romancer, it is necessary, first of all, to know something of the writer himself and of the age and the people for whom he wrote; a brief examination of the actual contents of the History, and more particularly of its Arthurian portions, may perhaps serve, subsequently, to clear up as much of the rest of the matter as is possible, in the absence of any knowledge of “the British book.”

The amount of authentic biographical detail ascertainable concerning Geoffrey is exceedingly scanty, and it is, therefore, not surprising that what is told about him in many reputable literary histories is distressingly inaccurate. Even the name of his famous book is, often, wrongly given; it is constantly cited as Historia Brittonum—the title of Nennius’ compilation—instead of as Historia Regum Britanniæ. Walter, the archdeacon of Oxford, again, has been confused with Walter Map, who could hardly have been more than about twelve years old when Geoffrey died. Geoffrey himself is loosely designated “archdeacon of Monmouth,” whereas there was no archdeaconry of Monmouth in his time. He is said to have become, ultimately, bishop of Llandaff, and to have died in the year 1152,—the actual facts, however, being that he was ordained priest and, almost simultaneously, appointed bishop of St Asaph in 1152, and that he died at Llandaff in 1155. The exact dates of the beginning, and of the completion, of his History cannot be definitely fixed; but we know enough about the work to say that it must have existed, in some form, as early as 1139, at the latest, and that it was complete in the form in which we now have it by the year 1148.

There is no conclusive evidence that Geoffrey was of Welsh birth, or that his home, other than a monastic domicile, was at Monmouth. The dedication of his History, however, proves that he claimed the patronage of a Norman prince who was lord of a tract of Welsh country, the north-west boundary of which all but extended to the town of Monmouth. Early in the twelfth century Robert, earl of Gloucester, acquired the lordship of Glamorgan by marriage with Mabel, the daughter and heiress of Robert Fitz-Hamon. Eminent as both statesman and warrior, Robert of Gloucester, like his father, Henry Beauclerc, was a student of letters and a generous friend of literary men. It is no empty compliment that Geoffrey pays Robert when he hails him as “one nurtured in the liberal arts by philosophy, and called unto the command of our armies by his own inborn prowess of knighthood,” and “whom in these our days Britain haileth with heart-felt affection as though she had been vouchsafed another Henry.”[71] Robert’s enlightened patronage of men of letters is sufficiently attested by the fact that William of Malmesbury, the most distinguished historian of his day, dedicated to him his History of the Kings of England. The abbey of Margam, whose chronicle is an important authority for the history of mediæval Wales, was founded by him; another abbey in which a valuable chronicle was compiled—that of Tewkesbury—had in him one of its chief benefactors. On his estates at Torigni in Normandy was born Robert of the Mount, afterwards abbot of Mont St Michel, eminent as a chronicler and known as a lover of the legends of his own Breton race. Robert of Gloucester’s close connection, as thus indicated, with both South Wales and Normandy at once suggests that he must have taken a considerable interest in Welsh and Breton legendary lore. It is even possible that it was at his instance that Walter, the archdeacon, and Geoffrey embarked upon the quest which ultimately led to the discovery, real or alleged, of the “book in the British tongue,” and to its translation into Latin. It is obvious that Geoffrey, at any rate, was at pains to produce a work which would please both his immediate patron and all courtly readers who took pride in the growth of the Norman dominion.

A plausible, and by no means improbable, explanation of Geoffrey’s motive in compiling the Historia is that he meant it to be a kind of “national epos,” blazoning the united glories of the composite Anglo-Norman “empire” which reached the zenith of its power under Henry II.[72] A book written with such a patriotic purpose would certainly commend itself to Robert of Gloucester and other Norman lords, and would appeal strongly to the imagination of less exalted readers. The History does, indeed, provide in Arthur a hero over whose achievements Norman and Saxon, Welshman and Breton, could all alike exult. Moreover, the common ancestry of the various constituent races of the Angevin empire is shown by an account of their descent from a branch of the great Trojan stock which founded imperial Rome. Brutus, the son of Æneas, stands to Britain in the same relation as Æneas himself stands to Rome, with the exception—and that was, of course, to the advantage of Britain—that Brutus could be claimed as the eponymous hero of this island.[73] Thus—as poets like Wace and Layamon, and certain Welsh chroniclers, who use the name, were quick to see—here was a Brut, which, though written in prose, had as good a right to its epic title as the Æneid. There is, even, some evidence that Geoffrey may, at one time, have cherished the ambition of emulating Virgil himself by telling his story in verse; for, in the eleventh chapter of his first book, we come across certain elegiac lines which look uncommonly like fragments rescued from a projected poem. Apart, however, from its account of the coming of Brutus, there is little in Geoffrey’s Brut that furnishes any real analogy with the Æneid. It is not Brutus, but Arthur, who stands out as the hero of the Historia Regum Britanniæ. The Historia covers, altogether, a period—according, of course, to the computation of its author—of some fifteen hundred years; but more than a fifth part of it is devoted to the record of Arthur’s life,—more than twice the space allotted to the history of Brutus. It is upon the story of Arthur that Geoffrey seems to concentrate all his powers, and, by magnifying the continental conquests of the British king, he is able ultimately to point with triumph to the fulfilment of a prophecy that “for the third time should one of British race be born who should claim the empire of Rome.”

The main objection to this theory of an Anglo-Norman “epos” is the difficulty of reconciling it, not so much with the Trojan and the Arthurian parts of the Historia as with the scope and character of the work as a whole. The book is called a History of the Kings of Britain, and would appear, primâ facie, to have been composed by a writer of British birth for the sole purpose of glorifying the forgotten heroes of his own race.[74] Through six books the narrative is strictly confined to the insular history of Britain and its rulers, many strange legends and marvels being interwoven with what professes to be an authentic and ordered record of actual events. Even in the first half of the History, dull though it is for the most part, one alights upon many passages which betray the hand of the deliberate romancer. But it is only with the introduction, in the seventh book, of the prophecies of Merlin that Geoffrey finds his real opportunity for romantic dilatation. With Merlin he is in the very heart of the land of enchantment, and the spell of romance inevitably falls upon him. It is to Merlin’s magic arts that the birth is due of “the most renowned Arthur, who was not only famous in after years, but was well worthy of all the fame he did achieve by his surpassing prowess.” Then follows, in three books, the narrative which first revealed to an astonished world that Britain once had a hero whose deeds challenged comparison with those of Alexander and Charlemagne. Here, at last, was historical confirmation of what had long been fabled in “the idle tales” and “ancient songs” of the Britons. Here, also, was just what a romantic age was thirsting for, and Arthur immediately became the central figure of the most popular and the most splendid of the romantic cycles. “Alexander”—and, we may add, Charlemagne—“had been an amusement; Arthur became a passion.”[75]