Ivanhoe

“‘By St. Dunstan,’ answered Gurth, ‘thou speakest but sad truths; little is left to us but the air we breathe, and that appears to have been reserved with much hesitation, clearly for the purpose of enabling us to endure the tasks they lay upon our shoulders. The finest and fattest is for their board; the loveliest is for their couch; the best and bravest supply their foreign masters with soldiers, and whiten distant land with their bones, leaving few here who have either will or power to protect the unfortunate Saxon. God’s blessing on our master Cedric, he hath done the work of a man in standing in the gap; but Reginald Front-de-Boeuf is coming down to this country in person, and we shall soon see how little Cedric’s trouble will avail him.’”

Despite his low social standing, Gurth is proud of his Saxon heritage, and here he gives voice to the shared Saxon feeling of displacement brought about by the Normans’ rule of the country. This general feeling is above all one of hopelessness: Though some Saxon nobility, including Gurth’s enslaver Cedric, stand up for their old ancestral rights, the power of the newer Norman rulers is well-established by now, and indeed often cruelly enforced (the cruelty of the Norman named here by Gurth, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf—will be displayed later in the novel, when Front-de-Boeuf brazenly captures Cedric and several others traveling with him).

“‘I say,’ repeated the Pilgrim in a firm and strong voice, ‘that the English chivalry were second to NONE who ever drew sword in defence of the Holy Land.’”

he Pilgrim’s praise of the English knights who accompanied Richard I on his Crusades is to be understood as an expression of Saxon pride—something that pleases the Saxon Cedric while infuriating the Norman Templar Bois-Guilbert. The Pilgrim validates his claim about the bravery and strength of the English knights—including Wilfred of Ivanhoe—by describing a tournament in which these knights bested a larger Templar force that included Bois-Guilbert himself. The Pilgrim’s knowledge of this tournament is an early hint that he is not who he says he is but is in fact none other than Ivanhoe, as will later be revealed.

“[E]xcept perhaps the flying fish, there was no race existing on the earth, in the air, or the waters, who were the object of such unintermitting, general, and relentless persecution as the Jews of this period. Upon the slightest and most unreasonable pretences, as well as upon accusations the most absurd and groundless, their persons and property were exposed to every turn of popular fury; for Norman, Saxon, Dane, and Briton, however adverse these races were to each other, contended which should look with greatest detestation upon a people, whom it was accounted a point of religion to hate, to revile, to despise, to plunder, and to persecute.”

Though the Saxons’ displacement at the hands of the Normans is a central concern of the novel and its characters, Scott highlights that the Saxons were by no means the most displaced or mistreated group of the period—that title firmly belonged to the Jewish people, who were viciously persecuted throughout Europe. Scott depicts the Jewish moneylender Isaac of York in a way that aligns with many of the antisemitic stereotypes of the era, but he explains that these traits were shaped by the persecution to which the Jewish population of Medieval Europe was routinely subjected.

“[W]e also have advantages. These Gentiles, cruel and oppressive as they are, are in some sort dependent on the dispersed children of Zion, whom they despise and persecute. Without the aid of our wealth, they could neither furnish forth their hosts in war, nor their triumphs in peace; and the gold which we lend them returns with increase to our coffers.”

Rebecca’s remarks on the social position of the Jews in Medieval Europe show that her character is more optimistic than that of her father Isaac: Whereas Isaac constantly laments the plight of the European Jews, Rebecca finds ways that hardship has strengthened them. Rebecca sees a certain nobility in the ways the Jewish people have made themselves important and even indispensable in spite of their persecution.

“Meantime the clang of the blows, and the shouts of the combatants, mixed fearfully with the sound of the trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who fell, and lay rolling defenseless beneath the feet of the horses. The splendid armor of the combatants was now faced with dust and blood, and gave way at every stroke of the sword and battle-axe. The gay plumage, shorn from the crests, drifted upon the breeze like snow-flakes. All that was beautiful and graceful in the martial array had disappeared, and what was now visible was only calculated to awake terror or compassion.”

The narrator strongly emphasizes the visual and auditory aspects of the spectacle and how these aspects draw the rapt attention of the crowd. Here, as elsewhere, the narrator makes the reader think about how much the Medieval Period has been romanticized, reminding us that the tournaments that provided such popular entertainment during this time were in the end “only calculated to awake terror or compassion.”

“Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she uttered a faint shriek; but at once summoning up the energy of her disposition, and compelling herself, as it were, to proceed, while her frame yet trembled with the violence of sudden emotion, she placed upon the drooping head of the victor the splendid chaplet which was the destined reward of the day, and pronounced, in a clear and distinct tone, these words: ‘I bestow on thee this chaplet, Sir Knight, as the meed of valour assigned to this day’s honor:’ Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added; ‘And upon brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry never be placed!’”

Rowena’s reaction to recognizing Ivanhoe highlights her affection for him—indeed, this affection between Rowena and Ivanhoe is part of the reason Cedric banished his son. As Rowena crowns Ivanhoe the day’s champion, she marks him out as a traditional Medieval hero by noting how worthy he is of the “wreath of chivalry.”

“Your highness has required that I should name a Norman deserving to be remembered at our banquet. This, perchance, is a hard task, since it calls on the slave to sing the praises of the master—upon the vanquished, while pressed by all the evils of conquest, to sing the praises of the conqueror. Yet I will name a Norman—the first in arms and in place—the best and the noblest of his race. And the lips that shall refuse to pledge me to his well-earned fame, I term false and dishonoured, and will so maintain them with my life.—I quaff this goblet to the health of Richard the Lion-hearted!”

Cedric’s toast of Richard I underscores both the unpopularity of Prince John and the popularity of Richard I. Here, even a noble as devoted to Saxon ideals as Cedric, offers sincere praise of the Norman king Richard—an indication of how much Richard was idealized by his subjects and how badly he was missed during his absence. At the same time, Cedric brazenly insults Prince John by toasting his brother instead of him, another illustration of just how much John’s subjects disapproved of him.

“Joy to the fair! whose constant knight

Her favour fired to feats of might;

Unnoted shall she not remain

Where meet the bright and noble train;

Minstrel shall sing and herald tell—

‘Mark yonder maid of beauty well,

’Tis she for whose bright eyes was won

The listed field at Ascalon!”

The Black Knight’s song reflects the ideals of Medieval chivalry, depicting a Crusader knight who returns home to his lady bringing “feats of might” to make her as famous as he. The Clerk of Copmanhurst, however, takes issue with this song for its Norman representation of chivalry—in a true Saxon song, the knight would come home to find that his lady had deserted him for another.

“The sudden and romantic appearance of his son in the lists at Ashby he had justly regarded as almost a death's blow to his hopes. His paternal affection, it is true, had for an instant gained the victory over pride and patriotism; but both had returned in full force, and under their joint operation he was now bent upon making a determined effort for the union of Athelstane and Rowena, together with expediting those other measures which seemed necessary to forward the restoration of Saxon independence.”

Cedric’s steely, patriotic resolve is able to overcome any emotion—even his shock at seeing his own disinherited son Ivanhoe badly injured. For Cedric, the dream of Saxon independence takes precedence over everything, so that Cedric soon decides to continue pressing for the marriage of Rowena and Athelstane instead of trying to reconcile with his son.

“Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at the same moment, and each under circumstances expressive of his character. Cedric, the instant that an enemy appeared, launched at him his remaining javelin, which, taking better effect than that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the man against an oak-tree that happened to be close behind him. Thus far successful, Cedric spurred his horse against a second, drawing his sword at the same time, and striking with such inconsiderate fury, that his weapon encountered a thick branch which hung over him, and he was disarmed by the violence of his own blow. He was instantly made prisoner, and pulled from his horse by two or three of the banditti who crowded around him. Athelstane shared his captivity, his bridle having been sized, and he himself forcibly dismounted, long before he could draw his weapon, or assume any posture of effectual defense.”

The way Cedric and Athelstane are taken captive illustrates the great difference between their characters. The energetic and hot-blooded Cedric tries to fight off the attackers even when resistance is obviously futile, while Athelstane “the Unready” is captured “before he could draw his weapon, or assume any posture of effectual defense.” The fact that the indecisive Athelstane is the Saxons’ best bid for the throne of England underscores the hopelessness of the Saxons’ social position.

“I must have something that I can term exclusively my own by this foray of ours, and I have fixed on the lovely Jewess as my peculiar prize.”

Brian de Bois-Guilbert becomes increasingly obsessed with “the lovely Jewess” Rebecca, desiring to have her as his lover. Though as a Templar Bois-Guilbert is technically bound by a vow of celibacy, he boasts that he has a “dispensation” from his Grand Master that would grant him clemency if he were to have sex, and Bois-Guilbert is so respected as a knight that he feels he does not need to concern himself with the same limits and restrictions that apply to others of his order. Bois-Guilbert’s conviction that the rules shouldn’t apply to him drives his behavior throughout the novel—and ultimately leads to his downfall.

“The Templar loses, as thou hast said, his social rights, his power of free agency, but he becomes a member and a limb of a mighty body, before which thrones already tremble—even as the single drop of rain which mixes with the sea becomes an individual part of that restless ocean which undermines rocks and engulfs mighty armadas.”

Bois-Guilbert discourses at length about the considerations that led him to become a Templar, explaining that he sacrificed certain social rights (including marriage) in exchange for the massive power that the Templars enjoyed. More than anything, Bois-Guilbert is ambitious, and the order of the Templars provides the best route for him to realize his ambitions. As Bois-Guilbert’s passion for Rebecca grows stronger, he grows increasingly conflicted as to whether he should pursue her over his order and his ambitions.

“To act as I have acted, to think as I have thought, requires the maddening love of pleasure, mingled with the keen appetite of revenge, the proud consciousness of power—draughts too intoxicating for the human heart to bear, and yet retain the power to prevent…Well thou has said, all is possible for those who dare to die!”

Responding to Cedric’s impassioned reproach of her behavior, Ulrica cites the complexity of human emotions as her justification: She did what she had to do to survive, but also to ensure that she could someday get her revenge. Cedric cannot understand what she has been through, and so cannot judge her. Yet Ulrica is not without courage and has not forgotten her Saxon roots, and she shows that she is willing to die if by dying she can avenge herself and her family.

“‘Glory?’ continued Rebecca; ‘alas, it is the rusted mail which hangs as a hatchment over the champion’s dim and mouldering tomb—is the defaced sculpture of the inscription with which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim—are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye make others miserable? Or is there such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic love, kindly affection, peace and happiness are so wildly bartered, to become the hero of these ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their evening ale?’

“‘Thou speakest, maiden, of thou knowest not what. Thou wouldst quench the pure light of chivalry, which alone distinguishes the noble from the base, the gentle knight from the churl and the savage; which rates our life far, far beneath the pitch of our honor.’”

Rebecca is not convinced by Ivanhoe’s ideals of glory and honor—to her, glory is little more than the glorification of needless bloodshed and hardship. Ivanhoe’s retort that Rebecca is speaking of “thou knowest not what” suggests a contemporary prejudice against women but also against Jewish people, whom even the relatively tolerant Ivanhoe looks upon with the disdain of other Medieval Christians. Yet it is far from true that Rebecca does not understand honor or courage, qualities she demonstrates over and over throughout the novel (for instance, by treating the injured Ivanhoe or by standing up to Bois-Guilbert).

“At this moment the door of the apartment flew open, and the Templar presented himself […] ‘I have found thee,’ he said to Rebecca; ‘thou shalt prove I will keep my word to share weal and woe with thee—There is but one path to safety […] up, and instantly follow me.’

“‘Alone,’ answered Rebecca, ‘I will not follow thee […]—save my aged father—save this wounded knight.’

“‘A knight,’ answered the Templar […] ‘a knight […] must encounter his fate […] and who recks how or where a Jew meets with his?’

“‘Savage warrior,’ replied Rebecca, ‘rather will I perish in the flames than accept safety from thee!’”

In rescuing Rebecca from the burning tower of Torquilstone, Bois-Guilbert demonstrates that even the courageous things he does are ultimately selfish: Bois-Guilbert rescues Rebecca only because he is in love with her and hopes she will become his lover, not because he wants to help her. At the same time as he rescues Rebecca, Bois-Guilbert also callously refuses to help Isaac or Ivanhoe, feeling no guilt about leaving them to die.

“‘O, assuredly,’ said Isaac. ‘I have trafficked with the good fathers, and bought wheat and barley, and fruits of the earth, and also much wool. O, it is a rich abbey-stede, and they do live up on the fat, and drink the sweet wine upon the lees, these good fathers of Jorvaulx. Ah, if an out-cast like me had such a home to go to, and such incomings by the year and by the term, I would pay much gold and silver to redeem my captivity.’

“‘Hound of a Jew!’ exclaimed the Prior, ‘no one knows better than thy own cursed self, that our holy house of God is indebted for the finishing of our chancel!’”

Isaac, having loaned money to the abbey of Jorvaulx, has a very detailed knowledge of the abbey’s wealth and is thus uniquely situated to name Aymer’s ransom. Isaac’s references to the wealth of the abbey illustrate the hypocrisy of many clerical orders of the Medieval church, which claimed to idealize simplicity and humility while actually pursuing worldly comforts and riches.

“Touching our present condition, dear Brother, we are a captive in the hands of certain lawless and godless men, who have not feared to detain our person, and put us to ransom, whereby we have also learned of Front-de-Boeuf’s misfortune, and that thou had escaped with that fair Jewish sorceress, whose black eyes have bewitched thee. We are heartily rejoiced in our safety; nevertheless, we pray thee to be on thy guard in the matter of this second Witch of Endor. For we are privately assured that your Great Master, who careth not a bean for cherry cheeks and black eyes, comes from Normandy hither to diminish your mirth, and amend your misdoings.”

Aymer’s letter to Bois-Guilbert exhibits his worldly nature while mocking the ideals of the religion he claims to represent. The letter is obviously meant for Bois-Guilbert’s eyes only, and there is something comical about the fact that it is intercepted by Beaumanoir (who is mocked in the letter). Also important is the letter’s description of Rebecca as a “Jewish sorceress” and a “second Witch of Endor”—a description that convinces the superstitious Beaumanoir that Rebecca ought to be executed as a witch.

“[A]nd they delivered, with a precision which would have seemed suspicious to more favourable judges, circumstances either altogether fictitious, or trivial and natural in themselves, but rendered pregnant with suspicion by the exaggerated manner in which they were told, and the sinister commentary which the witnesses added to the facts. The circumstances of their evidence would have been, in modern days, divided into two classes—those which were immaterial, and those which were actually and physically impossible. But both were, in those ignorant and superstitious days, eagerly credited as proofs of guilt.”

The narrator characterizes Rebecca’s trial as a product of the “ignorant and superstitious” Medieval Period, which saw many such trials founded on fear, religion, and superstition rather than on facts. The trial is an obvious sham—but it was precisely the kind of sham that was often practiced at the time the novel is set.

“I may forsake the Order, I will never degrade or betray it.”

In his desire for Rebecca, Bois-Guilbert is faced with a dilemma as he is torn between her and his ambitions to rise within the Templar order. Bois-Guilbert is willing to give up a great deal to be with Rebecca (so strong is his desire for her), but he is not willing to give up everything, and though he styles himself a worldly man even he feels some loyalty to the Templars and to the church.

“‘Thus,’ said Rebecca, ‘do men throw on fate the issue of their own wild passions. But I do forgive thee, Bois-Guilbert, though the author of my early death. There are noble things which cross over thy powerful mind; but it is the garden of the sluggard, and the weeds have rushed up, and conspired to choak the fair and wholesome blossom.’

“‘Yet,’ said the Templar, ‘I am, Rebecca, as thou hast spoken me, untaught, untamed—and proud, that, amidst a shoal of empty fools and crafty bigots, I have retained the pre-eminent fortitude that places me above them. I have been a child of battle from youth upward, high in my views, steady and inflexible in pursuing them. Such must I remain—proud, inflexible, and unchanging; and of this the world shall have proof.—But thou forgivest me, Rebecca?’

“‘As freely as ever victim forgave her executioner.’”

Despite her terrible situation, Rebecca is able to see that Bois-Guilbert does have some good qualities, even if these good qualities are overpowered by his many bad qualities. Bois-Guilbert, in a moment of lucidity and self-awareness, accepts that Rebecca is right about him and even begs for her forgiveness. It is a testament to Rebecca’s nobility of character that she grants him what he asks.

“Novelty in society and in adventure was the zest of life to Richard Coeur de Lion, and it had its highest relish when enhanced by dangers encountered and surmounted. In the lion-hearted King, the brilliant, but useless character, of a knight of romance, was in great measure realized; and the personal glory which he acquired by his own deeds of arms, was far more dear to his excited imagination than that which a course of policy and wisdom would have spread around his government. Accordingly, his reign was like the course of a brilliant and rapid meteor […] his feats of chivalry furnishing themes for bards and minstrels, but affording none of those solid benefits to his country on which history loves to pause […] But in his present company Richard shewed to the greatest imaginable advantage. He was gay, good-humored, liberal, and fond of manhood in every rank of life.”

The narrator contrasts the popular image of Richard as a heroic knight with the historical reality of Richard as a king. Despite the legend that has built up surrounding Richard, the narrator is well aware that from a detached, historical perspective, Richard was not a very good ruler, preferring “novelty in society and in adventure” to the often-tedious task of running a country.

“It was a scene of bustle and life, as if the whole vicinage had poured forth its inhabitants to a village wake, or rural feast. But the evident desire to look on blood and death, is not peculiar to these dark ages; though in the gladiatorial exercise of single combat and general tourney, they were habituated to the blood spectacle of brave men falling by each other’s hands. Even in our own days, when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising match between two professors, a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects at considerable hazard to themselves an immense crowd of spectators, otherwise little interested, excepting to see how matters are to be conducted, and whether the heroes of the day are, in the heroic language of insurgent tailors, flints or dunghills.”

The narrator reflects here, as he has elsewhere, on the appetite Medieval crowds had for scene of blood and death and what this appetite—which is hardly unique to this period—says about human nature. No matter how civilized a society claims to be, the desire to see other people suffer never goes away.

“Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had died a victim to the violence of his own contending passions.”

In the end, Bois-Guilbert is destroyed by his own nature. Bois-Guilbert cannot extract himself from the dilemma that pulls him at once toward Rebecca and toward his own ambitions, and at last his heart gives out. Bois-Guilbert thus becomes an image of wasted potential, of a character so fixated on his own selfish desires that he failed to use his good qualities for anything worthwhile.