Domnei James Branch Cabell (books to read as a couple TXT) đ
- Author: James Branch Cabell
Book online «Domnei James Branch Cabell (books to read as a couple TXT) đ». Author James Branch Cabell
âE. Noel Codman, Handbook of Literary Pioneers.
Nicolas de Caen est un reprĂ©sentant agrĂ©able, naĂŻf, et expressif de cet Ăąge que nous aimons Ă nous reprĂ©senter de loin comme lâĂąge dâor du bon vieux tempsâ ââ ⊠Nicolas croyait Ă son Roy et Ă sa Dame, il croyait surtout Ă son Dieu. Nicolas sentait que le monde Ă©tait semĂ© Ă chaque pas dâobscuritĂ©s et dâembĂ»ches, et que lâinconnu Ă©tait partout; partout aussi Ă©tait le protecteur invisible et le soutien; Ă chaque souffle qui frĂ©missait, Nicolas croyait le sentir comme derriĂšre le rideau. Le ciel par-dessus ce Nicolas de Caen Ă©tait ouvert, peuplĂ© en chaque point de figures vivantes, de patrons attentifs et manifestes, dâune invocation directe. Le plus intrĂ©pide guerrier alors marchait dans un mĂ©lange habituel de crainte et de confiance, comme un tout petit enfant. A cette vue, les esprits les plus Ă©mancipĂ©s dâaujourdâhui ne sauraient sâempĂȘcher de crier, en tempĂ©rant leur sourire par le respect: Sancta simplicitas!
âPaul Verville, Notice sur la vie de Nicolas de Caen.
The ArgumentâOf how, through Woman-Worship, knaves compound
With honoure; Kings reck not of their domaine;
Proud Pontiffs sigh; & War-men world-renownd,
Toe win one Woman, all things else disdaine:
Since Melicent doth in herselfe contayne
All this worldâs Riches that may farre be found.
âIf Saphyres ye desire, her eies are plaine;
If Rubies, loe, hir lips be Rubyes sound;
If Pearles, hir teeth be Pearles, both pure & round;
If Yvorie, her forehead Yvory weene;
If Gold, her locks with finest Gold abound;
If Silver, her faire hands have Silverâs sheen.
âYet that which fayrest is, but Few beholde,
Her Soul adornd with vertues manifold.â
The romance of Lusignan of that forgotten maker in the French tongue, messire Nicolas de Caen. Here begins the tale which they of Poictesme narrate concerning dame Melicent, that was daughter to the great count Manuel.
Part I PerionHow Perion, that stalwart was and gay,
Treadeth with sorrow on a holiday,
Since Melicent anon must wed a king:
How in his heart he hath vain love-longing,
For which he putteth life in forfeiture,
And would no longer in such wise endure;
For writhing Perion in Venusâ fire
So burneth that he dieth for desire.
Perion afterward remembered the two weeks spent at Bellegarde as in recovery from illness a person might remember some long fever dream which was all of an intolerable elvish brightness and of incessant laughter everywhere. They made a deal of him in Count Emmerickâs pleasant home: day by day the outlaw was thrust into relations of mirth with noblemen, proud ladies, and even with a king; and was all the while half lightheaded through his singular knowledge as to how precariously the self-styled Vicomte de Puysange now balanced himself, as it were, upon a gilded stepping-stone from infamy to oblivion.
Now that King Theodoret had withdrawn his sinister presence, young Perion spent some seven hours of every day alone, to all intent, with Dame Melicent. There might be merry people within a stoneâs throw, about this recreation or another, but these two seemed to watch aloofly, as royal persons do the antics of their hired comedians, without any condescension into open interest. They were together; and the jostle of earthly happenings might hope, at most, to afford them matter for incurious comment.
They sat, as Perion thought, for the last time together, part of an audience before which the Confraternity of St. MĂ©dard was enacting a masque of The Birth of Hercules. The Bishop of Montors had returned to Bellegarde that evening with his brother, Count Gui, and the pleasure-loving prelate had brought these mirth-makers in his train. Clad in scarlet, he rode before them playing upon a luteâ âunclerical conduct which shocked his preciser brother and surprised nobody.
In such circumstances Perion began to speak with an odd purpose, because his reason was bedrugged by the beauty and purity of Melicent, and perhaps a little by the slow and clutching music to whose progress the chorus of Theban virgins was dancing. When he had made an end of harsh whispering, Melicent sat for a while in scrupulous appraisement of the rushes. The music was so sweet it seemed to Perion he must go mad unless she spoke within the moment.
Then Melicent said:
âYou tell me you are not the Vicomte de Puysange. You tell me you are, instead, the late King Helmasâ servitor, suspected of his murder. You are the fellow that stole the royal jewelsâ âthe outlaw for whom half Christendom is searchingâ ââ
Thus Melicent began to speak at last; and still he could not intercept those huge and tender eyes whose purple made the thought of heaven comprehensible.
The man replied:
âI am that widely hounded Perion of the Forest. The true vicomte is the wounded rascal over whose delirium we marvelled only last Tuesday. Yes, at the door of your home I attacked him, fought himâ âhah, but fairly, madame!â âand stole his brilliant garments and with them his papers. Then in my desperate necessity I dared
Comments (0)