Walter Scott - Ivanhoe

But the Klan were poor readers of Ivanhoe. The reason that the inevitable marriage that concludes Scott’s romance has often seemed less than satisfying to readers is that it takes place outside the erotic space of the novel. As the union of two Saxons, Ivanhoe’s marrying Rowena is anomalous to the novel’s deep investment in the mixture of races, cultures, and languages. Scott’s assertion that the marriage marked a “pledge of the future peace and harmony betwixt two races” (p. 461) makes no sense, biologically or symbolically, since Ivanhoe and Rowena belong to the same race and are, in most respects, undifferentiated. Ironically, the greatest proponents of racial purity in the novel are not the Templar Knights or the Norman rulers but Ivanhoe’s father, Cedric, who takes a eugenic approach to the cause of Saxon restoration. He enforces his ideological commitment to Saxon purity even at the expense of his own son, whom he doesn’t consider sufficiently well born for Rowena. That said, Cedric’s nationalism is as much about policing English sexuality as it is about race. He blames the decline of Saxon culture on the Circe-like enchantment of “Norman arts”: “We became enervated by Norman arts long ere we fell under Norman arms. Far better was our homely diet, eaten in peace and liberty, than the luxurious dainties, the love of which hath delivered us as bondsmen to the foreign conqueror!” (p. 211). The Saxon way of life, Cedric argues, was not lost on the battlefield, but at the dinner table and in the dressing room, where Norman “luxury” imported its tantalizing customs and emasculated its fighting men. During the almost century-long sequence of wars against France that had just concluded when Scott wrote Ivanhoe, modern British masculinity was essentially constructed in opposition to perceived French “effeminacy.” His readers would thus have been well aware of “luxury” as a code-word for degraded French manhood, and taken delight in his sardonic descriptions of the “fripperies” of Norman dress.

Scott’s fascination with mixture extends to all aspects of the novel, including language. There is no better image of the “multiculturalism” of early Norman England, as conceived by Scott, than Ivanhoe and Richard’s horrified reaction to Athelstane’s animated appearance at his own funeral: “Ivanhoe crossed himself, repeating prayers in Saxon, Latin, or Norman-French, as they occurred to his memory, while Richard alternately said, Benedicte, and swore, Mort de ma vie!’ (p. 436). Spanish, Arabic, and Hebrew are likewise spoken in the novel. The master language of Ivanhoe itself, modern English, is a product of this historical moment, a ”mixed language” in which the linguistic distinctions between Saxon and Norman have ”disappeared” along with the deep cultural antagonisms in the aftermath of the Conquest. That the many languages and cultures should be ”completely mingled” is the endpoint of Ivanhoe’s historical trajectory, and the book travels back to a time when this amalgamation was as yet unachieved. Its heroes therefore are those who intuit and obey the imperative to cross over from their ”home” culture to a new order. What Cedric sees in his son as an act of betrayal, the reader perceives as a necessary, if perhaps over-enthusiastic embrace of the new post-Conquest order. But if Ivanhoe embarks on the exemplary crossing of the novel, from Saxon to Norman, it is far from the most imaginative or interesting. That distinction belongs to the illicit, cross-cultural desires of Rebecca for Ivanhoe and, most spectacularly, the Templar Knight Bois-Guilbert’s reckless passion for Rebecca.

Bois-Guilbert’s emotional signature is vacillation—“a man agitated by strong and contending passions” (p. 403)—but he never gives up his desire for Rebecca, and literally dies of her rejection. We admire Rebecca for her choice of religion (and celibacy) over her love for Ivanhoe, but Bois-Guilbert thrills us with his readiness to take the Jewess at any odds, giving up fame, religion, honor, and everything that has heretofore constituted his heroic, chivalric identity. He talks to her of returning to Palestine, to install her as queen of some new, supra-national Masonic order. Rebecca calls it a “dream … an empty vision of the night” (p. 399), and she is probably right. But Bois-Guilbert is the only character capable of such imagining, and he is willing to make the most scandalous crossing of all, from Templar Christian Knight to Jew. In looking so far beyond the cultural boundaries of twelfth-century Europe, it is Bois-Guilbert who most belongs to Scott’s own global, post-enlightenment moment. “England—Europe—is not the world” (p. 398), he tells Rebecca. He calls conventional religion “nursery tales” and “bigotry” and instead makes a religion of himself and his own will, like a character in Byron or Dostoevsky. He is not a man of his age, and by the end his fellow knights cannot even look at him: “His general appearance was grand and commanding; but, looking at him with attention, men read that in his dark features, from which they willingly withdrew their eyes” (p. 447). Note Scott’s odd turn of phrase: not repulsion, but a “willing” withdrawal of the eyes. The knights refuse to “read” the futurity in Bois-Guilbert’s face, mistaking it for darkness. As with Milton’s Satan in Paradise Lost, villainy is not incompatible with lyricism in Ivanhoe. Bois-Guilbert might despise religion, but it is to him that Scott gives the most poetic theological reflection in the novel, when he speaks to Rebecca of the transfigurations of the body at death, “dispersed to the elements of which our strange forms are so mystically composed—not a relic left of that graceful frame, from which we could say this lived and moved!” (p. 399). Rebecca’s stoic faith has grandeur, but not such depths as Bois-Guilbert’s despair. The fact that he dies not from Ivanhoe’s lance but his own “contending passions” is a fantastic, even surreal moment in the text that has embarrassed and perplexed Scott’s readers, but in fact manifests beautifully the historical impossibility of the Templar Knight’s continuing presence in the book. It would do as well for him to have disappeared in a puff of smoke, and awakened on the streets of St. Petersburg in 1895, or Paris in 1968.

As an object of desire in the novel who chooses exile over those who might love her, Rebecca resembles no one in the novel more strikingly than King Richard, who is likewise the object of Ivanhoe’s (and England’s) frustrated love. Richard tantalizingly comes within the precincts of his kingdom, but remotely, in disguise. And when he reveals himself, it is only a temporary emergence from his preferred elusive career as a knight errant. Although the novel ends at a moment of promise for Richard’s reign, Scott has already informed us that he will fail as king, and die on some foolish military adventure in Belgium. Rebecca might belong to an ostracized community, and Richard be merely “brilliant, but useless” (p. 424), but in terms of the generative energies of the novel itself, they are equals. Their remoteness, their unavailability, governs it all. Only Richard’s neglect has allowed the political ambitions of his brother John, and the resistant romantic nationalism of the Saxon Cedric, to flourish. Only Richard’s failure in Palestine has brought Ivanhoe home at all. And it is Rebecca who produces the final showdown between Ivanhoe and Bois-Guilbert, the former ready to desert Rowena even at the very moment of their betrothal. In riding, half-dead, to Templestowe to rescue Rebecca, Ivanhoe shows us that the impediments to his union with Rowena have never been important. It is the impossible union with Rebecca that drives him, and with it the real action of the novel.