Domnei: A Comedy of Woman-Worship

  Domnei

  A Comedy of Woman-Worship

  By

  JAMES BRANCH CABELL

  1920

  "_En cor gentil domnei per mort no passa_."

  TO

  SARAH READ McADAMS

  IN GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION

  "The complication of opinions and ideas, of affections and habits,which prompted the chevalier to devote himself to the service of alady, and by which he strove to prove to her his love, and to merithers in return, was expressed, in the language of the Troubadours, by asingle word, by the word _domnei_, a derivation of _domna_, which maybe regarded as an alteration of the Latin _domina_, lady, mistress."

  --C. C. FAURIEL,_History of Provencal Poetry_.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  A PREFACE

  CRITICAL COMMENT

  THE ARGUMENT

  PART ONE--PERION

  I HOW PERION WAS UNMASKED

  II HOW THE VICOMTE WAS VERY GAY

  III HOW MELICENT WOOED

  IV HOW THE BISHOP AIDED PERION

  V HOW MELICENT WEDDED

  PART TWO--MELICENT

  VI HOW MELICENT SOUGHT OVERSEA

  VII HOW PERION WAS FREED

  VIII HOW DEMETRIOS WAS AMUSED

  IX HOW TIME SPED IN HEATHENRY

  X HOW DEMETRIOS WOOED

  PART THREE--DEMETRIOS

  XI HOW TIME SPED WITH PERION

  XII HOW DEMETRIOS WAS TAKEN

  XIII HOW THEY PRAISED MELICENT

  XIV HOW PERION BRAVED THEODORET.

  XV HOW PERION FOUGHT

  XVI HOW DEMETRIOS MEDITATED.

  XVII HOW A MINSTREL CAME

  XVIII HOW THEY CRIED QUITS

  XIX HOW FLAMBERGE WAS LOST

  XX HOW PERION GOT AID

  PART FOUR--AHASUERUS

  XXI HOW DEMETRIOS HELD HIS CHATTEL

  XXII HOW MISERY HELD NACUMERA.

  XXIII HOW DEMETRIOS CRIED FAREWELL

  XXIV HOW ORESTES RULED

  XXV HOW WOMEN TALKED TOGETHER

  XXVI HOW MEN ORDERED MATTERS

  XXVII HOW AHASUERUS WAS CANDID

  XXVIII HOW PERION SAW MELICENT

  XXIX HOW A BARGAIN WAS CRIED

  XXX HOW MELICENT CONQUERED

  THE AFTERWORD

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  A Preface

  ByJoseph Hergesheimer

  It would be absorbing to discover the present feminine attitude towardthe profoundest compliment ever paid women by the heart and mind of menin league--the worshipping devotion conceived by Plato and elevated toa living faith in mediaeval France. Through that renaissance of asublimated passion _domnei_ was regarded as a throne of alabaster bythe chosen figures of its service: Melicent, at Bellegarde, waiting forher marriage with King Theodoret, held close an image of Perion made ofsubstance that time was powerless to destroy; and which, in a life ofsingular violence, where blood hung scarlet before men's eyes like atapestry, burned in a silver flame untroubled by the fate of her body.It was, to her, a magic that kept her inviolable, perpetually, in spiteof marauding fingers, a rose in the blanched perfection of its earlyflowering.

  The clearest possible case for that religion was that it transmuted theindividual subject of its adoration into the deathless splendor of aMadonna unique and yet divisible in a mirage of earthly loveliness. Itwas heaven come to Aquitaine, to the Courts of Love, in shapes of vividfragrant beauty, with delectable hair lying gold on white samite workedin borders of blue petals. It chose not abstractions for its faith, butthe most desirable of all actual--yes, worldly--incentives: the sister,it might be, of Count Emmerick of Poictesme. And, approaching beatitudenot so much through a symbol of agony as by the fragile grace of awoman, raising Melicent to the stars, it fused, more completely than inany other aspiration, the spirit and the flesh.

  However, in its contact, its lovers' delight, it was no more than aslow clasping and unclasping of the hands; the spirit and flesh,merged, became spiritual; the height of stars was not a figment....Here, since the conception of _domnei_ has so utterly vanished, thebreak between the ages impassable, the sympathy born of understandingis interrupted. Hardly a woman, to-day, would value a sigh the passionwhich turned a man steadfastly away that he might be with her foreverbeyond the parched forest of death. Now such emotion is held strictlyto the gains, the accountability, of life's immediate span; women haveleft their cloudy magnificence for a footing on earth; but--at least inwarm graceful youth--their dreams are still of a Perion de la Foret.These, clear-eyed, they disavow; yet their secret desire, the mostElysian of all hopes, to burn at once with the body and the soul, mockswhat they find.

  That vision, dominating Mr. Cabell's pages, the record of his revealedidealism, brings specially to _Domnei_ a beauty finely escaping thedusty confusion of any present. It is a book laid in a purity, aserenity, of space above the vapors, the bigotry and engendered spite,of dogma and creed. True to yesterday, it will be faithful ofto-morrow; for, in the evolution of humanity, not necessarily the turnof a wheel upward, certain qualities have remained at the center,undisturbed. And, of these, none is more fixed than an abstract love.

  Different in men than in women, it is, for the former, an instinct, aneed, to serve rather than be served: their desire is for a shiningimage superior, at best, to both lust and maternity. Thisconsciousness, grown so dim that it is scarcely perceptible, yet stillalive, is not extinguished with youth, but lingers hopeless ofsatisfaction through the incongruous years of middle age. There isnever a man, gifted to any degree with imagination, but eternallysearches for an ultimate loveliness not disappearing in the circle ofhis embrace--the instinctively Platonic gesture toward the onlyimmortality conceivable in terms of ecstasy.

  A truth, now, in very low esteem! With the solidification of society,of property, the bond of family has been tremendously exalted, the merefact of parenthood declared the last sanctity. Together with this,naturally, the persistent errantry of men, so vulgarly misunderstood,has become only a reprehensible paradox. The entire shelf of JamesBranch Cabell's books, dedicated to an unquenchable masculine idealism,has, as well, a paradoxical place in an age of material sentimentality.Compared with the novels of the moment, _Domnei_ is an isolated, aheroic fragment of a vastly deeper and higher structure. And, of itsmany aspects, it is not impossible that the highest, rising over evenits heavenly vision, is the rare, the simple, fortitude of itsstatement.

  Whatever dissent the philosophy of Perion and Melicent may breed, noone can fail to admire the steady courage with which it is upheld.Aside from its special preoccupation, such independence in the face ofponderable threat, such accepted isolation, has a rare stability in aworld treacherous with mental quicksands and evasions. This is a valornot drawn from insensibility, but from the sharpest possiblerecognition of all the evil and Cyclopean forces in existence, and adeliberate engagement of them on their own ground. Nothing more, inthat direction, can be asked of Mr. Cabell, of anyone. While about thestory itself, the soul of Melicent, the form and incidental writing, itis no longer necessary to speak.

  The pages have the rich sparkle of a past like stained glass called tolife: the Confraternity of St. Medard presenting their masque ofHercules; the claret colored walls adorned with gold cinquefoils ofDemetrios' court; his pavilion with porticoes of Andalusian copper;Theodoret's capital, Megaris, ruddy with bonfires; the free port ofNarenta with its sails spread for the land of pagans; thelichen-incrusted glade in the Forest of Columbiers; gardens with thewalks sprinkled with crocus and vermilion and powdered mica ... all areat once real and bright with unreality, rayed with the
splendor of anantiquity built from webs and films of imagined wonder. The past is, atits moment, the present, and that lost is valueless. Distilled by time,only an imperishable romantic conception remains; a vision, where it issignificant, animated by the feelings, the men and women, which only,at heart, are changeless.

  They, the surcharged figures of _Domnei_, move vividly through theirstone galleries and closes, in procession, and--a far more difficultaccomplishment--alone. The lute of the Bishop of Montors, playing as herides in scarlet, sounds its Provencal refrain; the old man Theodoret,a king, sits shabbily between a prie-dieu and the tarnished hangings ofhis bed; Melusine, with the pale frosty hair of a child, spins themelancholy of departed passion; Ahasuerus the Jew buys Melicent for ahundred and two minae and enters her room past midnight for his act ofabnegation. And at the end, looking, perhaps, for a mortal woman,Perion finds, in a flesh not unscarred by years, the rose beyonddestruction, the high silver flame of immortal happiness.

  So much, then, everything in the inner questioning of beings condemnedto a glimpse of remote perfection, as though the sky had opened on acity of pure bliss, transpires in _Domnei_; while the fact that it islaid in Poictesme sharpens the thrust of its illusion. It is by thatmuch the easier of entry; it borders--rather than on the clamor ofmills--on the reaches men explore, leaving' weariness and dejection forfancy--a geography for lonely sensibilities betrayed by chance into theblind traps, the issueless barrens, of existence.

  JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER.

  CRITICAL COMMENT

  _And Norman_ Nicolas _at hearte meant(Pardie!) some subtle occupationIn making of his Tale of Melicent,That stubbornly desired Perion.What perils for to rollen up and down,So long process, so many a sly cautel,For to obtain a silly damosel!_

  --THOMAS UPCLIFFE.

  Nicolas de Caen, one of the most eminent of the early French writers ofromance, was born at Caen in Normandy early in the 15th century, andwas living in 1470. Little is known of his life, apart from the factthat a portion of his youth was spent in England, where he wasconnected in some minor capacity with the household of the QueenDowager, Joan of Navarre. In later life, from the fact that two of hisworks are dedicated to Isabella of Portugal, third wife to Philip theGood, Duke of Burgundy, it is conjectured that Nicolas was attached tothe court of that prince . . . . Nicolas de Caen was not greatlyesteemed nor highly praised by his contemporaries, or by writers of thecentury following, but latterly has received the recognition due to hisunusual qualities of invention and conduct of narrative, together withhis considerable knowledge of men and manners, and occasionalremarkable modernity of thought. His books, therefore, apart from theinterest attached to them as specimens of early French romance, and inspite of the difficulties and crudities of the unformed language inwhich they are written, are still readable, and are rich in instructivedetail concerning the age that gave them birth . . . . Many romancesare attributed to Nicolas de Caen. Modern criticism has selected fouronly as undoubtedly his. These are--(1) _Les Aventures d'Adhelmar deNointel_, a metrical romance, plainly of youthful composition,containing some seven thousand verses; (2) _Le Roy Amaury_, well knownto English students in Watson's spirited translation; (3) _Le Roman deLusignan_, a re-handling of the Melusina myth, most of which is whollylost; (4) _Le Dizain des Reines_, a collection of quasi-historical_novellino_ interspersed with lyrics. Six other romances are known tohave been written by Nicolas, but these have perished; and he iscredited with the authorship of _Le Cocu Rouge_, included by Hinsauf,and of several Ovidian translations or imitations still unpublished.The Satires formerly attributed to him Buelg has shown to be spuriouscompositions of 17th century origin.

  --E. Noel Codman,_Handbook of Literary Pioneers._

  Nicolas de Caen est un representant agreable, naif, et expressif de cetage que nous aimons a nous representer de loin comme l'age d'or du bonvieux temps ... Nicolas croyait a son Roy et a sa Dame, il croyaitsurtout a son Dieu. Nicolas sentait que le monde etait seme a chaquepas d'obscurites et d'embuches, et que l'inconnu etait partout; partoutaussi etait le protecteur invisible et le soutien; a chaque souffle quifremissait, Nicolas croyait le sentir comme derriere le rideau. Le cielpar-dessus ce Nicolas de Caen etait ouvert, peuple en chaque point defigures vivantes, de patrons attentifs et manifestes, d'une invocationdirecte. Le plus intrepide guerrier alors marchait dans un melangehabituel de crainte et de confiance, comme un tout petit enfant. Acette vue, les esprits les plus emancipes d'aujourd'hui ne sauraients'empecher de crier, en temperant leur sourire par le respect: _Sanctasimplicitas!_

  --Paul Verville,_Notice sur la vie de Nicolas de Caen._

  THE ARGUMENT

  _"Of how, through Woman-Worship, knaves compoundWith 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 contayneAll this world's Riches that may farre be found.

  "If 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 Silver's sheen.

  "Yet that which fayrest is, but Few beholde,Her Soul adornd with vertues manifold."_

  --SIR WILLIAM ALLONBY.

  THE ROMANCE OF LUSIGNAN OFTHAT FORGOTTEN MAKER IN THEFRENCH TONGUE, MESSIRE NICOLASDE CAEN. HERE BEGINS THE TALEWHICH THEY OF POICTESME NARRATECONCERNING DAME MELICENT,THAT WAS DAUGHTER TOTHE GREAT COUNT MANUEL.

  PART ONE

  PERION_How 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 Venus' fireSo burneth that he dieth for desire._

  1.

  _How Perion Was Unmasked_

  Perion afterward remembered the two weeks spent at Bellegarde as inrecovery from illness a person might remember some long fever dreamwhich was all of an intolerable elvish brightness and of incessantlaughter everywhere. They made a deal of him in Count Emmerick'spleasant home: day by day the outlaw was thrust into relations of mirthwith noblemen, proud ladies, and even with a king; and was all thewhile half lightheaded through his singular knowledge as to howprecariously 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, youngPerion spent some seven hours of every day alone, to all intent, withDame Melicent. There might be merry people within a stone's throw,about this recreation or another, but these two seemed to watchaloofly, as royal persons do the antics of their hired comedians,without any condescension into open interest. They were together; andthe jostle of earthly happenings might hope, at most, to afford themmatter for incurious comment.

  They sat, as Perion thought, for the last time together, part of anaudience before which the Confraternity of St. Medard was enacting amasque of _The Birth of Hercules_. The Bishop of Montors had returnedto Bellegarde that evening with his brother, Count Gui, and thepleasure-loving prelate had brought these mirth-makers in his train.Clad in scarlet, he rode before them playing upon a lute--unclericalconduct 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 progressthe chorus of Theban virgins was dancing. When he had made an end ofharsh whispering, Melicent sat for a while in scrupulous appraisementof the rushes. The music was so sweet it seemed to Perion he must gomad unless she spoke within the moment.

  Then Melicent said:

  "You tell me you are not the Vicomte de Puysange. You tell me you are,instead, the late King Helmas' servitor, suspected of his murder. Youare the fellow that stole the royal jewels--the outlaw for whom halfChristendom is searching--"

  Thus Melicent be
gan to speak at last; and still he could not interceptthose huge and tender eyes whose purple made the thought of heavencomprehensible.

  The man replied:

  "I am that widely hounded Perion of the Forest. The true vicomte is thewounded rascal over whose delirium we marvelled only last Tuesday. Yes,at the door of your home I attacked him, fought him--hah, but fairly,madame!--and stole his brilliant garments and with them his papers.Then in my desperate necessity I dared to masquerade. For I know enoughabout dancing to estimate that to dance upon air must necessarily proveto everybody a disgusting performance, but pre-eminently unpleasing tothe main actor. Two weeks of safety till the _Tranchemer_ sailed Itherefore valued at a perhaps preposterous rate. To-night, as I havesaid, the ship lies at anchor off Manneville."

  Melicent said an odd thing, asking, "Oh, can it be you are a lessdespicable person than you are striving to appear!"

  "Rather, I am a more unmitigated fool than even I suspected, since whenaffairs were in a promising train I have elected to blurt out, of allthings, the naked and distasteful truth. Proclaim it now; and see thelate Vicomte de Puysange lugged out of this hall and after appropriatetorture hanged within the month." And with that Perion laughed.

  Thereafter he was silent. As the masque went, Amphitryon had newlyreturned from warfare, and was singing under Alcmena's window in theterms of an aubade, a waking-song. "_Rei glorios, verais lums eclardatz--" Amphitryon had begun. Dame Melicent heard him through.

  And after many ages, as it seemed to Perion, the soft and brilliant andexquisite mouth was pricked to motion.