When I am down in the country, I am sometimes taken to see castles, and I want to make a confession1 about them. I look about their walls, I mark portcullis and moat, newel stair and keep, I enter into the central court, a green space surrounded by walls half-whole, half-broken — and I cannot form the faintest conception of what these great places were like when they were inhabited; for, it must be remembered, what we see when we admire a ruined castle is a house without a roof, generally without floors or ceilings, always without woodwork of any kind or sort. Take the roof off Smith’s villa2 at Surbiton. Burn every beam in the house, break in all the windows, make the kitchen and back garden a heap of confused stones overgrown with grass and weeds. Knock down every door and every party wall, blow up the stairs, smash the floors, make Smith’s potting-shed and his fowl-house in the back garden into beautiful green mounds3, turf-covered; and then bring along your post-historic New Zealander, and ask him to tell you what Laburnum Villa was like in the days of its pride, and what manner of life the Smiths led there. I don’t believe the New Zealander would make much of the job; and so I make very little of the job when I pass into a twelfth century castle. I can see that those high outer walls, sloping outward to the ground (“battered”) for greater strength, were meant to keep people out; I conjecture4 that those windows, a narrow slit5 outside, a broad splay within, were handy for shooting without much chance of being shot; I have been told that the keep, or central tower, with walls six, eight, ten feet thick, was the last refuge of the De Somethings when a breach6 had been made in the outer defence; and that is about all. “The great hall,” says somebody, pointing to a large space, where an inner wall half-stands, half-falls. It may be so; but it may be the chapel7, or the great kitchen; all is so broken, so uncertain. And then: “Secret passage, communicating with the Abbey, five miles away,” and “The black dungeon8 under the keep, where the objects of feudal9 oppression pined away.” It may be so, or it may be the mere10 apparatus11 of drainage.
And as to how the De Somethings lived, where they slept, at what time they had their meals, what they ate at their meals, how they spent their days when the foe12 were not battering13 at the outer bailey, I have hardly the faintest notion. I except a few items of the castle bill of fare: a great deal of salt cod14, a great deal of salt beef, a great deal of salt herring, venison pies, roast game, peacock and swan occasionally, buttered eggs, richly spiced dishes from the east, dishes in which meat, raisins15, and currants were mingled16 — the mince-pie is the only modern survivor17 of this school of cookery — pike and other fish from the castle pond; abundance of strong, thick ale — there were no clarifying hops18 then — and liberal Gascon wine; we may make out a fairly satisfactory bill for the table of our great lord. But that is about all, so far as I am concerned. Indeed, I once asked a man deeply learned in antiquity19, a famous herald20, to tell me what it was like, generally speaking, to pay a visit to a thirteenth century lord at his castle. “For example,” I said, “when a Barry of Manorbier went to stay for a few weeks with a Bohun of Caldicot, how did the castle party begin the day? Was the Barry called for breakfast?”
He considered the question, and finally declared that in his opinion there was no formal beginning of the day: “I believe they all woke up like animals, and shook themselves.” It may be: but I would rather incline to think that a bell at six o’clock in the morning roused everybody for Mass in the chapel, and that afterwards people strolled to the buttery-hatch and broke their fast, lunching-in the proper sense of the word “lunch”— on hunks of bread and chunks21 of salt beef or pasty, with quarts of ale for the simple and quarts of red wine for the gentle. And then to the stables, quite in the manner of a modern country house in the hunting shires, and a long discussion there as to the horses. And then, perhaps, a little tennis, the court being the castle court-yard with its lean-to wooden buildings (the penthouse of the game) the opening now called the grille — then the buttery-hatch aforesaid — and the odd projection22 of one wall which tennis players call the tambour. And so to a mighty23 dinner at ten, with a very honest appetite, and a strong thirst. Of course, knight24 errantry in the sense of the romances never existed; nothing at all like it ever existed. The romances of chivalry25 that is, do not picture the thirteenth century as Dickens, Thackeray, and Trollope between them very fairly pictured the earlier and middle nineteenth century. The romances are pure fantasies of the imagination: nothing more. I have just been reading a curious document which bears on this point. It is a contract, and is as formal and business-like a document as any contract between manager and actor, or between author and publisher. It was executed in the year 1297. It begins:
“An du rengne le Roy Edward fiz le Roy Hen’ vintenne et quint ssi accoumto p’entr Sire Johan Bluet Chevaler et Wylliame Martel.”
Or in English:
“In the year of the reign26 of King Edward, the son of King Henry, one score and five, it was thus agreed between Sir John Bluet, Knight, and William Martel.”
The fact was that the stout27 knight — to use the later Gothic manner — Sir John Bluet, wanted a courtly squire28. William Martel applied29 for the engagement, and got it. A contract was then drawn30 up, and duly sealed: it was a contract valid31 during the life of William Martel, and it was binding32 on the heirs of Sir John Bluet. And the said Sir John was to pay William sixty pence of silver yearly; payments due at Hockday (Eastertide) and Michaelmas. Provision is made for default on the part of tenants33 who paid the rents from which William was to draw his salary: it is expressly stipulated35 that the squire or his solicitor36 may put an execution into the house of any such defaulting tenant34. Besides the money payment, the chivalrous37 (though businesslike) squire was to have a robe at Christmas and another robe at Easter; the value of each to be ten pence. Furthermore, William was to be maintained as long as he lived in sufficient meat and drink as a gentleman ought to have —“E a sustenir le devauntdit Wyll’ taunt38 come il vivera en manger e en beovere avenauntement come a gental homme a peut.” And his two servants are also to have their board and lodging39, and his two horses are to be found in hay and oats and shoes; the two horses to have between them 46 bushels of oats a year. And, on his side, the gentle William engaged himself well and faithfully to serve Sir John Bluet as an esquire ought to do “in the war now wageing between the King of England and the King of France; and also in England if war should break out there, which God forbid; and in Wales and all other lands on this side the sea, or beyond the sea wherever the said John may be (except the Holy Land), and in tournaments in time of peace with a great war horse — en tens de pees od en graunt chevall de armes — which the said John will find him and suitable armour40 without any default on his part.”
The gentle, the chivalrous William! He had evidently heard a thing or two about crusading; and I seem to hear a more modern voice speaking to much the same effect:
“No, dear old chap, I’m afraid we’ll have to cut that clause about the Eastern Tour. I don’t mind the Welsh smalls or the Scotch41 fitups, and I’m quite willing to go to South Africa or the States; but I’ve made up my mind I’ll never play juvenile42 leads in the East again. You see, old man, if you come to cues, there’s no bunce in it.”
Such was the actual Age of Chivalry. A little on the practical side, perhaps. Don Quixote would have been disgusted by the document which I have quoted; and, indeed, when Sancho Panza asked for a fixed43 salary — Teresa urging him — the Knight said there was no precedent44 in the books for such an arrangement. Not in Amadis of Gaul or in Tirante lo Blanch45, perhaps, but we see how it was in actual life.
It is clear that Sancho knew more about Chivalry than his master.
1 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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2 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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3 mounds | |
土堆,土丘( mound的名词复数 ); 一大堆 | |
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4 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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5 slit | |
n.狭长的切口;裂缝;vt.切开,撕裂 | |
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6 breach | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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7 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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8 dungeon | |
n.地牢,土牢 | |
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9 feudal | |
adj.封建的,封地的,领地的 | |
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10 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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11 apparatus | |
n.装置,器械;器具,设备 | |
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12 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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13 battering | |
n.用坏,损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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14 cod | |
n.鳕鱼;v.愚弄;哄骗 | |
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15 raisins | |
n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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16 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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17 survivor | |
n.生存者,残存者,幸存者 | |
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18 hops | |
跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 ); 单足蹦跳; 齐足(或双足)跳行; 摘葎草花 | |
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19 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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20 herald | |
vt.预示...的来临,预告,宣布,欢迎 | |
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21 chunks | |
厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 ); (某物)相当大的数量或部分 | |
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22 projection | |
n.发射,计划,突出部分 | |
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23 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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24 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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25 chivalry | |
n.骑士气概,侠义;(男人)对女人彬彬有礼,献殷勤 | |
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26 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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28 squire | |
n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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29 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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30 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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31 valid | |
adj.有确实根据的;有效的;正当的,合法的 | |
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32 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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33 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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34 tenant | |
n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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35 stipulated | |
vt.& vi.规定;约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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36 solicitor | |
n.初级律师,事务律师 | |
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37 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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38 taunt | |
n.辱骂,嘲弄;v.嘲弄 | |
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39 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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40 armour | |
(=armor)n.盔甲;装甲部队 | |
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41 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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42 juvenile | |
n.青少年,少年读物;adj.青少年的,幼稚的 | |
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43 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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44 precedent | |
n.先例,前例;惯例;adj.在前的,在先的 | |
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45 blanch | |
v.漂白;使变白;使(植物)不见日光而变白 | |
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