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Morte d'Arthur really means the death of Arthur, but the book tells not only of his death, but of his birth and life, and of the wonderful deeds of many of his knights. This is how Malory tells of the manner in which Arthur came to be king. But first let me tell you that Uther Pendragon, the King, had died, and although Arthur was his son and should succeed to him, men knew it not.
A contemporary Italian, whom I like hardly less than these noble Spaniards, is Giovanni Verga, who wrote 'I Malavoglia, or, as we call it in English, 'The House by the Medlar Tree': a story of infinite beauty, tenderness and truth. As I have said before, I think with Zola that Giacometti, the Italian author of "La Morte Civile," has written almost the greatest play, all round, of modern times.
I knew that I should escape or die: 'Deliberata morte ferocior'. In the beginning of November I seriously formed the plan of forcibly escaping from a place where I was forcibly kept.
The Roman war introduced into the "Morte d'Arthur" is a curious illustration of the vagueness of the historical groundwork of the romances of chivalry.
She had discovered the empty farmhouse and was trying to get her party there for the night. How did they come here? Oh, they were refugees. They had been staying with people thirty kilometers from here. They were trying to get back to their own village. Her mother was very sick, presque morte and she wanted to go home to die.
More than ever, in the semi-abandonment of the morte saison, with reduced service, and shutters closed to the silence of the high-walled court, did it strike the American as the incorruptible custodian of old prejudices and strange social survivals.
I will not endeavour to delineate my feelings as I contemplated the ruins of the house where dwelt the lady whom the amorous Petrarch immortalised in his verse verse made to move a heart of stone: "Morte bella parea nel suo bel viso" I threw myself with arms outstretched upon the ground as if I would embrace the very stones.
The third and most influential group of predecessors of the novel is made up of the romances of chivalry, such as are found in Malory's Morte d'Arthur. It is noticeable, in reading these beautiful old romances in different languages, that each nation changes them somewhat, so as to make them more expressive of national traits and ideals.
Ah, my friend, 'ow 'appy will be my good, kind friend when he return!" "You mean Mr Armstrong. Have you known him long?" asked Roger. "Pardieu! Ten, fifteen, twenty year; I know not how long. He is brother to me, your kind governor. He is to the pauvre pere a son, and to the petite Francoise ah! quelle est morte!"
In this world of "Flamenca," which is in truth the same world as that of the "Romaunt of the Rose," the "Morte d'Arthur," and of the love poets of early France and Germany, conjugal morality and responsibility simply do not exist. It seems an unreal pleasure-garden, with a shadowy guardian impalpable to us gross moderns called Honour, but where, as it seems, Love only reigns.
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