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Rh there is not merely dissimilarity of technique, of language, of style, but a difference of conception. Even the contes, tales, or novelle of Rutebeuf, Chaucer, and Boccaccio, lack the characteristic trait of our modern roman, novel, or romanzo.

Some are occupied with rescues of maidens imprisoned in towers, some with fierce slaughter on fields of battle. Many describe the cruel martyrdoms bravely borne by early Christians. They are all concerned with objective man: they are tales of deeds done. But no effort is made to reveal either the motives for actions or the personality of their writers.

Another large category of these tales is filled with more or less gross descriptions of love. The same adventures happening to the same personages: the husband, wife, and lover, are repeated again and again with more or less cleverness, with more or less gaiety, but few other aspects of social life are presented, few other founts of emotion are opened. The veil that hides each heart from all others is not lifted. We know little more about Chaucer and Marguerite de Navarre after having read their tales than before. They are purposely reticent.

Story-telling was the pastime of Italian princes. No courtier was considered accomplished unless, like Chaucer’s Squire, he “could well endite.” Baldassarre da Castiglione’s Il Coriegiano, a handbook of the necessary accom-