Jan 9, 2025
Credit to @seaswine featuring crackpost art with the famous oc Robert The Devil.
I love his silly Goatee
(I will eventually make normal fanart.)
(Also sorry for the ping)
I’m really normal I promise
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Credit to @seaswine featuring crackpost art with the famous oc Robert The Devil.
I love his silly Goatee
(I will eventually make normal fanart.)
(Also sorry for the ping)
I’m really normal I promise
THE LIFE AND THE OTHER LIFE OF ROBERTO DO DIABO
@themousefromfantasyland @ej-brunson @rayatii @maimoncat @tamisdava2 @the-blue-fairie @thealmightyemprex @giuliettaluce @princesssarisa @myheartsdarlingsposts @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @softlytowardthesun
(Said literary critic Arturo Graf in his book The Story of the Devil:
"However, to find salvation when God wishes us to be saved is not, after all, such a great work of merit; and far more worthy of admiration than was Merlin, is to my mind, that Robert the Devil whose history has given birth to poems, dramas, legends, moral tales, and even an opera
There was once a duchess of Normandy who was tormented with a desire to have children and yet could have none.
Weary of recommending herself to God, who will not listen to her, she betakes herself to the Devil, and her wish is speedily satisfied.
A son is born to her, a veritable firebrand.
As an infant, he bites his nurse and tears out her hair; as a lad, he knifes his teachers; at the age of twenty, he becomes a bandit chief. He is dubbed knight, in the belief that thus the wicked instincts raging within him may be overcome; but thereafter he is worse than he was before.
No one surpasses him in strength or in courage. In a tourney he overthrows and slays thirty opponents; then he goes roaming about the world; then he returns to his native land, and begins once more to play the bandit, robbing, burning, murdering, ravishing. One day, after cutting the throats of all the nuns of a certain abbey, he remembers his mother and goes in search of her.
Soon as they spy him, the servants take to their heels, scattering in all directions; not one tarries to ask him whence he comes or what he desires.
Then, for the first time in his life, Robert is astounded at the horror which he inspires in his fellow-beings; for the first time, he becomes conscious of his own monstrous wickedness, and he feels how his heart is pierced by the sharp tooth of remorse.
But why is he wickeder than other men?
Why was he born thus? Who made him what he is?
An ardent longing seizes him to unravel this mystery.
He hastens to his mother, and with drawn sword he adjures her to unveil to him the secret of his birth.
Learning this, he becomes frantic with terror, shame, and grief.
But his sturdy nature is not weakened; he does not yield to despair; instead, the hope of a laborious redemption, of a marvelous victory, urges and spurs on his proud spirit.
He will learn to conquer Hell, to subdue himself, to thwart the designs of that accursed fiend who created him to serve his own ends, who has made of him a docile instrument of destruction and of sin.
And he makes no delay.
He goes to Rome, casts himself at the feet of the pope, makes confession to a holy hermit, submits himself to the harshest kind of penance, and swears that henceforth he will taste no food that he has not first wrested from the jaws of a dog.
On two separate occasions, when Rome was besieged by the Saracens, he fights incognito for the Emperor and gains the victory for the Christians.
Recognized at last, he refuses all rewards and honors, the imperial crown, even the monarch's own daughter, goes away to dwell with his hermit in the wilderness, and dies a saint, blessed by both God and men. In other accounts, he finally weds the beautiful princess who is deeply in love with him."
The 13th-century French legend arrived in Portugal along with other epic tales of chivalry, and Portuguese colonizers brought this story to Brazil.
Leandro Gomes de Barros, a cordel writer from Paraíba, adapted this legend for northeastern cordel poetry, and from then on, this story became better known throughout the country.
Later, São Paulo-born writer and researcher of folk narratives Ricardo Azevedo adapted the narrative of Roberto do Diabo, popularized in the cordel genre, for his book Histórias Folclóricas de Medo e de Quebranto (Folkloric Stories of Fear and Misfortune) into the narrative prose of a fairy tale, deliberately leaving the location of the narrative vague, which previously mentioned that the events took place in Normandy, Burgundy and Rome, and the description of the wars situated in the historical-mythological context as being between religious factions, Christians and Saracens (Muslim Moors), is removed to establish that the war is caused solely by the desire for the young and beautiful princess.
The result is a greater emphasis on the psychological introspection of the characters, on the magical and ecumenical tone given to the redemptive spirituality that was previously explicitly and exclusively Catholic, and on the sensual description of the love scenes.)
God! What silence!
Listen.
Take away this evil that taints my will.
Kill what hinders my arm and extinguishes the light from my face.
I did my best for my people.
I was good. I was fair.
Why then do you not now receive my prayer?
It was the duke sitting on a log deep in the woods.
His horsemen were racing along the shortcuts in search of game.
Not him.
He preferred to wait.
He had once been the first and best hunter.
He had set traps. He had imitated males and females. He knew by heart the games and tricks of waiting and catching animals.
Now...
Late afternoon. Warm wind. Shadows. Birds singing.
For the duke, everything was nothing.
His companions returned. Laughter. Dogs barking at dead animals.
The duke laughed on the outside.
Thirteen years of marriage.
He loved his wife.
He thought she was beautiful.
He was pleased by her body. Her smell. Her voice.
They were friends. More than that.
How many nights they spent in tenderness and passion.
However, despite the love, the prayers, desires and promises, God – why? – did not want to give them the greatest gift, the symbol, the very meaning of their lives: a child.
The duke returned from hunting imagining his people, his lands; what had belonged to his ancestors, what he had received from his father and made flourish, without an heir or owner, in the hands of strangers.
In the castle, far away, the duchess, afflicted by the same evil, wept in her bed and suffered.
Her chest suddenly stopped.
Her whole body trembled. Her teeth chattered.
She no longer knew if she was mad or sane. Nor if she was alive or dead.
She screamed alone, and her voice echoed through the corridors and courtyards and towers of the silent castle.
The duke arrived and learned of his wife's condition.
He hid his pain.
He entered the room cheerfully.
He opened the windows.
He told her about his trip.
He laughed. He recounted details of the hunt he had not gone on.
He painted a picture of what he had not seen.
He approached her. He told her not to think about it.
To forget.
That she was beautiful.
He took her hand. Carefully, he undressed her.
He examined her. He caressed her. He kissed her breasts.
The duchess's body, stiff, began to yield.
She cried.
She embraced that man.
The two rolled around on the bed.
They wanted to lose themselves in each other.
To take care of each other.
"Who knows, woman, maybe today will be different? Who knows, maybe this time, God will allow us to achieve our long-awaited dream?"
"Even if it's in the name of the Devil!"
The woman grabbed the man by the shoulder.
Her eyes were shining.
"Come!"
Her body grew in movements of passion.
"Oh Devil, I now offer you my flesh, my pleasure, and may the fruit of our desire belong to you!"
Months passed.
Bad times came. Red shadows appeared in the sky.
Then, thunder and terror.
Storm.
Water lapping.
Flooding.
Drowning.
Bells rang incessantly, announcing danger.
Death.
They announced hope.
Life.
In the duke's castle, a child was finally born.
Men and women smiled and sang, pulling people and animals from under the rubble.
No one had expected a child at this time.
Despite the gale, there was not a heart in the whole duchy that did not sail in joy.
The duke, that man...
He cried. He laughed. He hugged friends.
He toasted.
He picked up his son. He kissed him.
He gave thanks. He went out with the child, dancing down the castle stairs.
The boy was big. He was named Roberto.
Soon he wounded his mother's breast. He was hungry.
Wet nurses came. Nothing.
Roberto preferred meat.
At one year old, he spoke correctly.
At two, he roamed the castle corridors alone.
He was intelligent. Astute.
Slowly, he revealed his true nature.
He knew how to give orders. To command and rule.
He also knew how to humiliate. To trample.
He didn't play. He fought.
He didn't sing. He shouted.
He didn't smile. He mocked.
And he mistreated animals.
He set dogs against dogs.
He killed horses with his blows.
He hunted for the pleasure of hurting.
Fascinated, he would watch the animal bleed to death.
The duke was frightened by his son.
The duchess cried.
His father took him aside. He brought up the subject.
He wanted to understand. To talk.
The boy shrugged.
He beat up other boys. He threw stones.
He challenged younger and older children.
The news spread throughout the duchy.
So-and-so was beaten up. Another lost his sight.
No parent wanted their child near Roberto. No one.
Concerned, the duke hired a teacher. An old knight. A cultured man. Experienced.
Through him, Roberto learned about philosophy, mathematics, the language of the stars, and the sciences of air, water, earth, and fire.
And the young man asked about everything. He inquired about everything.
He was hungry for knowledge. Eager.
He discovered in knowledge other ways to confuse and persuade.
To deceive and dominate.
He began to speak harshly. To despise.
He now knew what few knew.
And he continued unchanged in his life of crime.
One day, on the road, he confronted five lads.
He wounded them all. One he left crippled.
Another between life and death.
The old knight called the lad. He threatened him.
The two argued. The response came: a spit.
The offended master slapped Roberto.
He was stabbed to death.
“Knights. Lords of the land. Friends. I want to talk about my son. The one to whom I have given everything, whom I want all that is good and right, and yet whom I cannot understand, who slips through my fingers, leaving a trail of blood wherever he goes.”
Thus spoke the duke to the nobles of the duchy. He described his grief.
The pain he felt.
The hell of not being able to find a place in his son's heart.
He asked for advice. How to care for the one he loved above all else?
Opinions came. Stories emerged.
Each lord told his own.
Finally, they advised him to knight Roberto.
The father called his son. Before so many lords, he explained the Order of Chivalry.
He told stories, the lives of various knights, their exploits.
He spoke of goodness.
Of justice. Of honour.
Time passed.
At a colourful celebration, Roberto, among other young men, was knighted.
People from distant lands came to the ceremony.
Trumpets and helmets sparkled against the blue sky.
The duke, moved, closely followed his son's movements.
In the main square, Roberto and twelve others, in shiny armour, would perform demonstrations and simulated battles to show their skill in the art of duelling.
The spectacle was beautiful.
Families applauded their adorned sons.
It was Roberto's turn.
Riding a black steed, he advanced on his rival, brutally knocking him down with the tip of his lance.
Then, drawing his sword, he cut off his head.
The duke remained standing.
The people were outraged. Frightened women screamed from the platform.
Fingers pointed.
They condemned him. Stones flew.
The knight, protected by his shield, charged at the people.
There was fighting. There was death. There was shame.
Everyone fled.
They shouted:
"Monster!"
Roberto was left alone in the blood-stained square.
Since then, he was known as Roberto do Diabo.
"Arrest my son! Capture him! He's mad! I want Roberto behind bars!"
But Roberto was invincible.
An animal swinging his sword at everyone and everything.
He fought soldiers. He defeated patrols. He escaped.
He lost himself in the world.
A fugitive, he surrounded himself with the worst kind of people.
He formed a bunch.
They emerged from the darkness like demons.
They invaded houses. They stole. They raped.
They arrived burning and killing.
They buried people alive.
They tortured.
Then they fled, flying away and revelling on their horses.
"Madmen!"
The duke received news about his son's gang.
"Wretch!"
The fearful people cursed him.
The duke summoned twenty of his best soldiers. He sent them in search of his son, carrying a message from him.
Ordering him to return. To obey his father.
He had a name. A title. He was a man.
He should bravely face trial for the crimes he had committed.
The soldiers found Roberto camped with his gang on the banks of a river.
They delivered the message.
It was a cold night.
Roberto lit a torch. He recognised his father's handwriting.
He frowned.
A laugh cut through the darkness.
He grabbed the emissaries.
He tied them.
He shouted and cursed his father, his mother, and himself.
Then, with a knife, he personally gouged out the eyes of each soldier.
He ordered them to leave. To return to the duke. To go to hell.
A dirty dawn.
Twenty men, tied together by their hands, were found on the road crying their own blood.
"Men of my land! My people! Before everyone and before God, I am here to ask for forgiveness! Forgiveness for my son! Forgiveness for having begotten and brought into the world, on the land that is mine and that belonged to my father, a criminal."
The duke spoke softly. Tears streaked his skin.
"From this day forward, he is no longer my son, nor will he ever be lord of my lands or anything that is mine. A thousand times may the duchy belong to strangers! A thousand times may the future be uncertain! I offer a reward. I want Roberto. Bring me Roberto. Whether alive or dead!"
Hounded, the young man built a stone fortress on top of a hill.
He began to live there with his men, pillaging and wreaking havoc without anyone daring to do anything about it.
One night, he had a horse saddled.
He set out alone on the roads, looking for someone to inflict his strength and hatred upon.
Full moon. A path traced by shadows.
The horseman came across seven hermits who were travelling, praying and singing.
He killed them, cut off their heads and then stuck them, one by one, on the branches of a tree.
Then he sat down to rest.
A wanderer appeared around the bend in the road.
Roberto stood up.
The two stood, facing each other.
The wanderer saw the blood. He saw the tree with the heads hanging from it.
He examined the young man.
He asked him to leave him alone.
He was a traveller.
He loved life.
There were many places and people he still wanted to see.
Standing, holding his staff, he spoke firmly and humbly.
Roberto sat down with the traveller.
He revealed who he was.
He asked questions. He wanted news of his father and mother.
He learned that the duke was on a journey, far away.
He learned that his mother was staying in a castle nearby.
He mounted his black horse. He let the wanderer continue on his way.
The day was dawning.
A bloodstained horseman stopped at the castle gate.
"I want to speak with my mother!"
The gates were locked. Trumpets sounded.
Soldiers peered through the cracks.
The duchess left her room. She called the chief guard.
"Let him in."
"Mother! Here I am. You know what my life has been like. You have news of my whereabouts. I have killed, mother. Stolen.
Set fires. Bleed men for nothing.
I have enjoyed myself, me and my gang, in the face of pain and misfortune. How many cripples have I left behind! How many people I used to see are now blind!
I made healthy people fall ill. I undermined those who were once strong.
I enjoyed watching people suffer, begging for mercy, dying slowly.
For as long as I can remember, that has been my fate. To torture. To dishonour. To destroy.
My father? Oh, father wanted to talk about love with someone who had bile running through their veins.
He came to talk about good to someone who was in love with evil.
Honour? Dignity?
There's a hole inside me, Mother!
I have no soul! I have hatred! Hatred! Hatred for people. Hatred for animals. Hatred for men and women.
This force has already made me attack and destroy I don't know how many trees with my sword one night.
It has already made me take a horse and, without further ado, cut off its head with an axe.
And invade a church in the middle of a wedding, grab the bride, rip off her clothes, possess her on the altar, then kill her and everyone who dared to react.
Mother! This is who I am. This is how I was born.
This has been my life day after day. Now I am here. Before the woman who, together with my father, one day made me germinate in her womb.
Mother! Who am I? What is this?
What is this force that drives me to destroy and decimate all life around me?"
"Son! Son… What state you are in! What is that hand covered in blood?
Come here! How much pain in your face, in your body, in your eyes! Ah… how good it is to see you close to me!
That voice. Your manner. How long it has been!
Sit down. Pay attention. Listen to your mother's words. We… Your father and I couldn't have children. There was love. There was desire, so much! We prayed.
We made promises. I called doctors. I took medicine. Time passed.
The duke, your father, wanted an heir. He needed one.
Who would take care of his lands? And his people?
Inside me, a bad feeling grew.
That I wasn't a woman. That I didn't deserve a husband. Or love.
Not even to live. Yes. A desire to die began to grow inside me. To end my life. Your father would then remarry and, who knows, perhaps have the son he longed for. I thought about cutting my wrists.
Throwing myself from the tower. Drinking poison. I never had the courage.
I walked in darkness. I had no strength for life. I couldn't bring myself to die.
One night, I remember well, your father came to see me.
He had just returned from a hunt. He was strong. He was happy.
He was still the same man. Robust. Handsome. Talkative.
There I was, wanting to die.
He was standing right in front of me.
He threw open the windows. He spoke loudly. He laughed. He told me about his hunt.
That he had taken a clean shot. That he had caught a big animal.
He ignored my pain. He embraced me, caressed me, whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I looked closely at your father.
Oh, my God, how I wanted to give him a child!
It would be like a star in the middle of a dark night.
More: the will to live that I had already lost.
And the duke took me, took my body, I opening myself, giving myself, and he filled me with despair, at the same time tenderness, along with anger and passion.
I loved. I hated. I blasphemed. I prayed. I sought my greatest strength within.
That night, I would conceive a child.
Whatever the cost! Even if it were by the hands, power, and blessings of the Devil!"
Never in his life had Roberto felt such pain.
Never had he been so serene.
He knew he did not know who he was.
He realised he did not know himself.
He looked at his own hands. He could feel the blood throbbing through his body.
He took his horse and rode away. He spent days wandering the roads.
He had done things.
He had sown death and dishonour.
Now he thought and weighed things up.
On the third day, he returned to the fortress.
He was greeted with cheers.
He called his men.
He asked for silence.
He began to speak. Slowly.
Word after word.
He was a different man.
To the attentive group, Roberto described his journey.
The encounter with the hermits.
The wanderer.
The conversation with his mother.
What he said. What he heard.
He cried. The men were silent.
He recalled his life.
The crimes. The rage. The follies.
He said he had meditated.
He wanted to change his life.
"Are you mocking us?"
They said:
"What are these words in your mouth, you who have been our master all this time?"
They said:
"Don't you know that they are after us and that there is a price on our heads?"
Roberto continued.
He spoke of good and evil.
Of hatred and love. He spoke of other sides of other coins.
"We know the pleasure of strength, the power of fear and pain. I'm not sure what the opposite of that is. But I want to know. I want to feel peace within myself. To walk through life without fear or trembling."
There was an uproar. Everyone spoke at once.
"Men! I was the cause of your downfall! I want to be the reason for your redemption!"
Chaos. The gang reacted. They said no, no, and no.
The argument heated up.
Weapons appeared.
"Traitor!"
They shouted.
"Coward!"
The fight broke out.
Roberto against his own.
Partner against partners.
Comradeship turned to hatred.
Once again, the duke's son used the power he had.
He faced them.
He knocked them down.
He decimated them.
Blood flowed like a river down the mountain.
Many died.
Many fled.
The lad was left alone in the abandoned fortress.
His body wounded inside and out.
A horseman slowly descending the hill.
It was Roberto searching for his path.
He travelled far and wide.
He walked along main roads and deserted trails.
He visited cities, towns, villages.
He worked to live.
He planted. He fished. He hunted.
He carried ciment.
He chopped wood. He helped out at inns.
He was an apprentice potter. He baked bread.
He learned to work with wood.
He remained, however, lonely.
He treated people with distance.
He spoke as little as possible.
He did not trust.
He was afraid.
It was as if he carried a stain under his shirt.
A raw evil.
He was ashamed of what he had been.
Ashamed of himself.
One day, in a tavern, he heard talk of a man.
A man who had abandoned everything to live on top of a mountain.
They said he was good.
That he was wise.
He led a life of meditation and silence. They said he no longer needed to eat, nor did he feel cold or heat.
That he knew how to walk on water and talk to animals and stars.
Roberto sought out this man.
He travelled.
He found an old man with a long white beard, sunburnt skin and eyes that sparkled like a child's.
The lad did not say who he was or tell him about his life.
He only said that he was suffering.
That he was alone.
He asked for advice.
The hermit listened to his words.
He had no answer.
He needed to think.
The days passed.
The lad insisted.
He was tired.
Aimless.
He wanted an opinion.
Some direction.
The hermit listened to his words.
He had no answer.
Roberto exploded.
He shouted. He cried.
He licked the ground.
He told his life story.
He opened his heart.
He spoke of his father. His mother. The devil.
He told of his crimes.
He sobbed. He begged.
That night, the old man slept with his head resting on a rock.
In the morning, he called the young man.
He had had a dream.
A sign in the middle of the night.
That Roberto should leave for the city.
Pretend to be mad. Pretend to be mute.
Put nothing in his mouth except what he could catch among the dogs.
He should live like this for as long as necessary.
How long?
He did not know.
Roberto listened to that dream.
He tried to feel every word. He buried his face in his hands.
He said yes.
Roberto arrived in a new city.
Two weeks of travelling.
He wandered through busy streets.
He ended up in a square. He climbed a tree.
He began to perform acrobatics.
He pretended he was going to fall. He jumped from one branch to another.
He hung upside down.
Then he climbed down. He climbed up.
He danced.
He did somersaults.
People gathered to watch.
The lad continued.
He took off almost all his clothes.
He crawled on all fours on the ground.
He pretended to play an invisible guitar.
Everyone found that crazy figure amusing.
They applauded. They cheered. At first.
Then came the jokes. The mockery.
Roberto didn't speak.
They laughed.
They threw stones. They tied the lad to a tree.
Roberto didn't defend himself.
They kicked him. They pushed him.
They mocked him.
Children beat him with sticks.
Old men spat in his face.
How many trampled on his hands.
The lad fled, doing somersaults.
He dodged them, doing pirouettes.
He evaded them with cartwheels.
One day, starving, he entered the king's palace.
He bowed and scraped in the presence of the sovereign.
He exaggerated.
He kissed his feet, his hands and the floor around the throne.
The king laughed at that ragged and mute fool.
He found him clumsy.
At the same time, kind.
He asked for more.
While the young man danced and imitated animals, they ordered food to be served.
At the foot of the throne, attentive on a chain, was the guard dog.
A black mastiff.
A ferocious animal.
The king watched the antics.
He took a piece of meat.
He threw it to the dog.
Roberto, in one leap, dived into the space, grappled with the dog, snatched the meat from its mouth and ate it.
Amazing! Incredible!
The sovereign admired the madness of that man.
"He's hungry!"
He ordered a plate of food to be prepared. The plate was served.
Roberto ignored it.
Now he was walking upside down, his body supported by his arms and his tongue hanging out.
The king, amused, threw the dog a piece of bread.
Roberto held the dog. He took the bread and divided it into two pieces.
Half for him. Half for the animal.
Surprise, even more so.
Refusing food from a king?
Facing a dog that no one else would face?
He was crazy. Insane.
Fed, Roberto lay down next to the dog and slept.
The king ordered that the madman stay and live in his castle.
In the castle there was a maiden.
The princess.
A beautiful maiden. A dream woman.
Her father's sweetest treasure.
When he saw her, the king's eyes sparkled.
And suffered.
By a twist of fate.
By the cunning of luck and chance, the maiden had never uttered a single word since she was born.
Medicines came from far away.
Doctors were called. Wise men.
No one ever managed to get anything out of the princess's mouth but silence and more silence.
However, how beautiful she was!
Seventeen years old. Feminine. Small, firm breasts.
How graceful her laughter, her wild gait, her delicate hands adjusting her hair.
The maid did not speak, but her body, her eyes, her gestures were worth a thousand words.
A certain admiral, a man of great power, sent a message. He was interested in the princess.
He asked for her hand in marriage.
Her father consulted with her. She smiled.
She shook her head.
The messenger took the answer back.
The admiral wanted the marriage.
With the princess for his wife, he would become lord and master of the king's lands and gold.
He took the princess's refusal as contempt.
He sent another message.
He insisted. He made promises.
Again, the answer was no.
The furious admiral summoned his armies.
He launched a surprise attack on the king's peaceful lands.
Troops crossed borders. They pillaged. They threatened.
The king himself set out with soldiers to defend his domain.
The encounter was bloody.
News arrived full of pain.
The city was deserted and sad.
The enemy troops advanced dangerously.
Roberto watched everything from afar.
Silent. Powerless.
One night he woke up sweating.
His body felt strange, tense.
A light shone in the garden. The lad rised up.
Outside, he found a magnificent white horse, saddled and ready to ride.
Nearby, a suit of silver armour.
Roberto closed his eyes.
He looked inside himself.
He investigated. He tried to feel.
He searched for senses.
Now what? How to act? What to do?
A strong feeling came over him.
Arm himself. Mount the horse.
Leave immediately in defence of the king.
That day, a silver knight riding a white horse burst into the middle of the battle.
He fought like no other.
He commanded. He ordered. He incited.
The king's army seemed to grow.
The admiral's troops, confused, lost ground.
They retreated. They were defeated.
With victory in his hands, Roberto abandoned the fight.
He quickly returned to the palace.
He abandoned his horse and armour before everyone arrived.
Two eyes watched him returning. Two eyes surprised his naked body, free of armour, quickly dressing in the torn clothes of a madman.
A face shone in the dawn.
It was the princess.
The king's beautiful and silent daughter.
The troops returned from the battlefield.
The king laughed alone.
He called lords and ladies of the court to celebrate the victory together.
The main topic, the dish that passed from mouth to mouth, was the story of the silver knight and his white horse. What a warrior! What courage! What audacity!
The king asked about the knight. No one knew.
The princess appeared in the hall.
She smiled enchantedly.
She kissed her father.
She held his hand.
She led him to Roberto.
With gestures, she tried to explain that the fool, the madman, the mute who did not make sense was the remarkable silver knight.
Roberto examined the girl.
Everyone laughed.
Except her father, who put the girl on his lap and stroked her hair.
Far away, hatred and spite hurt the admiral inside.
He summoned officers. He shouted. He complained.
He ordered the most powerful army to be prepared.
Men armed to the teeth invaded the king's peaceful lands by sea and land.
They arrested people. They burned crops.
The king was warned. The war intensified.
But everything repeated itself.
At the height of the battle, the silver knight and his white horse appeared out of nowhere.
There had never been a commander like him.
Never had such a fierce warrior been seen.
He and his horse seemed like a single invincible body, crushing, knocking down and destroying.
The enemy army retreated.
The silver knight disappeared.
Roberto arrived at the castle before the others.
He jumped off his horse and took off his armour.
No one in the entire palace knew anything, except for two silent eyes.
Time passed. Peace had returned.
No.
Late at night.
Gloomy troops ravaging borders.
Black knights. Archers.
Boats anchoring, loaded with warriors. The king was awakened in the middle of the night. Bugles and trumpets announced the invasion. The admiral led his men forward, leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake.
The king's army launched a counterattack.
But first, the sovereign called three knights aside.
Three men he trusted.
He told them to wait for the silver knight.
To follow him.
To stop him at all costs.
He wanted to because he wanted to meet the man who, being his greatest ally, his most fearless soldier, nevertheless hid himself, concealed himself, not allowing himself to be acclaimed, revered as he deserved and was his right.
They set off.
It was a cruel fight.
A battle worse than the worst.
The admiral had brought the full force of his power.
He commanded through hatred.
He led through revenge.
He inspired his troops with words of vengeance and rancour.
Men against men, maddened, fighting without reason.
Bodies falling on bodies.
Destruction for nothing.
Once again, the silver knight rose above them all.
He was a savage. He was a giant.
With such a warrior, the king's army took shape.
Grit. New will.
Admiral, officers and soldiers trembled, stumbled and fell.
This time Roberto returned wounded.
He had a piece of spear stuck in one of his legs.
He arrived at the castle in a hurry.
He pulled the iron out of his leg.
He washed the wound.
He hid the iron in the garden, behind a rock.
A resounding defeat.
The king, acclaimed by the people, returned triumphant.
He mourned the wounded and the dead.
He hailed the victory.
The defence of the land.
The unity of all.
He summoned the three knights.
He asked about the silver hero.
The first had been powerless to help.
The second had died in combat.
The third had not: he had accompanied the knight through the battle.
He had admired his courage and fearlessness.
He had never seen such a formidable warrior.
He said that with victory imminent, the knight abandoned the fight.
That he followed.
That he pursued.
He had never seen such a fast horse in his life.
It galloped without its hooves touching the ground.
He asked the king for forgiveness, but, sensing that the hero was escaping, as a last resort, he threw his spear.
The iron had stuck in the brave man's leg.
The shaft had come loose and was lying there.
The king ordered doctors and surgeons to search the kingdom.
To go street by street. House by house.
Person by person, looking for the silver knight and his leg wounded by a spear.
Nothing was found.
The king published a proclamation.
He summoned, whoever he was, the silver knight.
He offered a reward. Wealth. Power.
And more: the hand of the princess, his daughter.
News of the proclamation reached the admiral.
The admiral was ambitious.
He prepared silver armour.
He mounted a white horse.
He stabbed himself in the leg with a spear.
Presenting himself to the king, he said that the moment of truth had come.
That justice would be done.
He declared imposingly that he, the admiral, was the one and only silver knight.
He showed his white horse, his armour, his wound, the blood running down his leg.
"But how?"
The king stood up, astonished.
Then why the wars?
The death of so many soldiers?
The houses set on fire?
The crops lost?
Why mothers burying their children?
And cripples with no way to support their families?
"All for love!"
The admiral spoke of a feeling he did not feel.
He lied.
He spoke of affection and longing that did not fit in his chest.
He asked and begged.
He wanted the princess's hand.
The king admired the madness of such a man.
That obsession.
His stubbornness.
He was moved.
So much love! So much passion!
News causing astonishment on the roads of the kingdom.
The king had agreed to the marriage.
The princess, in her room, cried desperately.
She couldn't understand how it all happened.
She thought about her life.
She thought about that fate of never being able to speak.
Of never being able to ask. To say yes and to say no.
The princess remembered, then.
How much she had seen.
How many dreams she had dreamed.
How much she had felt that she could not tell.
Nor even lie, she did.
Nor sing.
She thought about the wedding.
About fate.
About misfortune.
About the silver knight and the madman who were one and the same.
She did not know what it was.
Whether it was a curse or a blessing.
She did not know why that hero, that brilliant knight, had become a madman who lived like a dog.
How could she explain that a madman, a deranged being, was also a giant, the saviour of an entire people?
And what about the admiral, a cruel liar who had taken advantage of the mystery to steal power?
How could she accept that a bandit, a wicked murderer, would marry the princess and one day, a sad day, inherit her father's kingdom?
The princess who could not speak thought about this.
But deep in her heart, deep in her body, she knew, and how she knew, who she wanted to marry.
Drums and trumpets announced the wedding.
Bells rang out from all directions.
The decorated castle opened its doors to welcome lords, ladies and all sorts of people.
The ceremony began.
The priest asked the people to stand and for God to bless the bride and groom for the rest of their lives.
Following the rules of the rite, he asked the admiral if he wanted to and if he swore.
The thirsty man said yes.
The princess, with a clear, crystalline voice, said no.
The priest stepped back. The people were surprised.
The king shouted:
"My daughter! My daughter spoke!"
There was general confusion.
Shouting. Shoving.
The stunned admiral drew a dagger from his belt.
The father embraced his daughter.
The priest prayed.
He asked the people for respect in that house of God.
Standing in the centre of the altar, the princess began.
Her voice was velvet.
Never had it sounded so beautiful.
The girl spoke and wept.
But she used harsh words.
She accused the admiral of being a coward and a liar.
She told what she knew about the silver knight.
She spoke of the time of war.
Of the dark nights of fear.
Of the knight returning.
Of wonder and light.
That they should go quickly and bring the madman to the altar.
The people did not understand.
Some asked for silence.
The young man came limping, sticking out his tongue.
The people almost laughed.
The princess shouted:
"Enough!"
She looked into the madman's eyes.
She wanted him to stop.
To think.
To stop lying.
To show his leg.
To explain that spear hidden behind the rock among the flowers in the garden.
A soldier went to fetch it.
There was a rock. There was a spear. There was a wound.
The admiral denied all.
The king just watched.
A man with a white beard and sunburnt skin appeared in the crowd.
"Roberto! I have walked many leagues to get here! I came through days and nights, crossing mountains and forests. I had a sign. It was a dream. I heard words I cannot explain. What I know is that your punishment has come to an end. You are now free to live your life!"
Roberto lowered his head.
He ran his hand over his face.
He stood up.
The king, princess and guests watched his transformation in awe.
The madman was not mad.
The fool did not exist.
The mute could speak.
His hands trembled. His body trembled.
He embraced and kissed the old man.
He asked everyone to sit down.
The temple waited in silence for his words.
Outside, the world stood still.
There was no wind. No movement. No birds singing.
Nothing.
Roberto's voice continued alone, revealing, confessing and unravelling the facts of his life.
The young man reached the end.
Eyes locked with the people.
The people stood up.
Slowly, they left.
There was nothing to say.
Only silence and thought.
The king embraced Roberto.
He kissed the hands of the warrior who had won so many battles.
He ordered the admiral to be thrown into the depths of the dungeon.
Roberto and the princess were left alone in the empty temple.
The lad and the maiden.
They talked. Side by side.
A conversation that became life.
Memories they didn't remember came flooding back. Long-forgotten feelings.
So much to tell. To reveal.
Time stood still.
Desires surfaced.
Roberto sought and felt the girl's hands.
He embraced her.
He touched her forehead with his lips.
Then her eyes. Her mouth.
And the words dwindled.
One warmth created another warmth.
One body searching for another body.
A wind blew, half warm, half cold.
And it was chest against chest.
Mouth inside mouth.
Belly touching belly.
A silent light filled the air.
The light of day breaking. Only that. Simply that.
Found a nice looking music sheet cover and felt it fit Robert pretty well. (You can find a midi cover of the song on youtube)
Frieda Hempel sings Robert, Toi Que J´aime from Robert Le Diable by Giacomo Meyerbeer
From Letters from great musicians to young people by Cox, Alethea Crawford, 1852-1909:
[...] I began to write "Robert the Devil" in 1828. Many misfortunes happened before its first performance at the Academie in 1831. France was in a state of commotion. The Revolution of 1830, which of course you have studied about, produced a widespread sensation throughout Europe. Louis Philippe was the king. He did not want war, as he realized that France needed rest, so, in order to strengthen his throne, he made alliances with all constitutional and free governments, especially that of England, for which he entertained a sincere and special admiration. Notwithstanding his desire for peace, during the first years of his reign the internal condition of France was one of disquietude. About the time I first thought of producing " Robert," Paris was in too riotous a state to run the risk. Its production was delayed till 1831, and was then the sensation of the time. The drama of " Robert the Devil " is by Scribe and Delavigne. It has some poetical merit, but I confess, dear children, that the libretto is absurd in its conception and most sensational in its treatment of the story. However, if it had not been for me, it would have been even more ridiculous. I did not wonder at Mendelssohn's criticism : " I cannot imagine how any music could be composed on such a cold, formal extravaganza as this."
Nevertheless, the music is powerful and very original. The Italian style is quite forsaken. The melodies are of a national character, and both the vocal and instrumental harmonies have the depth and fullness of the German school. This opera has been translated into every European language, and will ever be a standard work. One great fault in " Robert the Devil " was spoken of by every one : it was too long ; there was enough in it for two evenings' performances rather than for a continuous one. It began at seven o'clock and lasted till midnight, so I had to undertake the unpleasant task of cutting my work down to bring it within something like a reasonable time of presentation. It was not an easy thing to do, but I did it, of course. I was never afraid of work, and never shirked it during my entire career.
" Robert le Diable " has fulfilled the prophecy of a wise official of that time who, when every one predicted its failure, said: "Don't disturb yourself; it will rise to the clouds and will make the tour of the world." So it did. It made the fortune of the Paris Opera, besides saving from failure directors of provincial theaters. It had a run of one hundred and sixty representations, and still the fickle French did not tire of it. One of the most popular songs in this opera is "Robert, toi que j'aime." Do you know it?
I must not forget to tell you that this great opera was at first refused by the management of the Opera, who would have nothing to do with it, and only finally accepted it on condition that I should contribute 30,000 francs toward the mise -en-scene ! I was pleased to accept these conditions, as I could then impose my own in exchange, sure of success as I was, for I never doubted my own ability. I consequently controlled the casting of the opera and could direct everything. I made so many changes in the libretto that, out of all patience, Scribe said : " I will change anything you like in my pieces, but what it will cost you is twenty sous a line." I made no objection; I never did where my success was concerned. My greatest weakness was my fear of the critics. I bribed every critic that could be bought, and spent large sums on the Paris claque. I was very simple in my own tastes and really very mean with myself. I will give you an instance of that meanness. I had had a drink at a refreshment place and an anchovy sandwich, and I wanted another. After deep thought I asked the waitress to sell me a quarter of a sandwich. She replied that they never sold quarters. I walked up and down, meditated deeply, then asked for a half. They " never sold less than a whole sandwich." Deep thought, more walking, and finally I went away, unable to allow myself another sandwich. " How droll," you will say, " for him to do so," and I now think the same.
As " Robert le Diable " was such a grand success, the French manager engaged me to write another opera, entitled " Les Huguenots." I promised to have it finished at an appointed time, under the penalty of a fine if it were not forthcoming. My wife was suffering from some lung difficulty which made it necessary for us to go to Italy at once. So, as my request to have more time to do the work in was not allowed me, I threw up the agreement and paid my fine. However, matters were finally peaceably settled, and I finished " The Huguenots," which was produced in 1836. It did not at first realize the hopes that had been built upon it, but you all know now how popular it became. It is superior to "Robert," although it suffered by contrast. It is founded on the massacre of St. Bartholomew, the horrors of which are strongly represented. "As a drama it depends for none of its interest on the supernatural." As treated by me it has been called the most vivid chapter of French history that was ever written.
[...] In my day I occupied many honorable positions, such as kapellmeister to the King of Prussia, Member of the Academy of Fine Arts at Berlin, officer of the Legion of Honor, and chevalier of the Belgian order of Leopold and of that of the Southern Cross. Before I finish this sketch, my dear children, I will criticise my own music myseif for you : "As a composer, I had individuality, strength, and fine harmonies," but — must I confess it? Yes, I will — when I had no very powerful situation to interpret, my music sometimes became marred by triviality, or perhaps in desiring to be very original I became a little mannered. Enough! One can say what he pleases about himself, but let an outsider take the same privilege, and presto ! what a difference ! Good-by.
Your sincere friend,
Giacomo Meyerbeer.
Gordon has been naughty and relegated to shunting an engineer's train! Robert the Devil is put on Express duty - he and Lady of the Lake aren't hesitant to rub it in Gordon's face.
This was a commission for @seaswine9! Robert the Devil is her OC and Lady of the Lake belongs to Twitter user mr_Mengine :)
Robert the Devil, probably ca. 1564.
Having been given over to the Devil before birth, he ran a career of cruelties and crimes unparalleled, till he was miraculously reclaimed, whereupon he did penance by living among the dogs, became an exemplary Christian, and married the emperor’s daughter. It is thought in Normandy that his wandering ghost is doomed to expiate his crimes until the day of judgment.
—William A. Wheeler, An Explanatory and Pronouncing Dictionary of the Noted Names of Fiction …, 1865.
He proved unruly from the cradle, biting his nurses and tormenting his play‐fellows to the utmost of his infantile capacity. At the age of seven he stabbed a tutor who had reprimanded him. In early manhood he pillaged churches, seduced virgins, outraged wives and killed their husbands. His father hoped to reform him by making him a knight. The ceremony concluded with a tournament in which Robert defeated all his opponents and was with difficulty restrained from killing them. ¶Then he turned bandit, gathering around him a gang of outlaws who made their headquarters in the castle of Thuringia.
—William S. Walsh, Heroes and Heroines of Fiction, vol. 2, 1915.
☞ “Here begynneth the lyfe of Roberte the Deuyll,” illustration for Roberte the Deuyll (illuminated manuscript), probably ca. 1564. (In the public domain.
☞ “Here begynneth the lyfe of Roberte the Deuyll,” frontispiece for Roberte the Deuyll (printed book), 1798. (In the public domain.)
It’s Fine Press Friday!
We end the week with a fine press printing based on a medieval legend, Robert the Devil, translated by the American poet W. S. Merwin from an anonymous 14th-century French play. The book was published in 1981 with original wood engravings in a late 15th-century style by Roxanne Sexauer and printed by the legendary Kim Merker at his Windhover Press in Iowa City in Dante and Bembo Italic types on handmade Windhover paper in an edition of 310 copies.
The legend of Robert the Devil had its origins in 13th-century France, which served as the basis for many literary and dramatic works, including the 14th-century miracle play that Merwin’s translation is based on. The story is about a Norman knight who discovers he is the son of Satan through a deal his mother struck with the devil. His corrupt origin leads him to a sinful life, but he eventually overcomes his inheritance to achieve repentance.
Originally, the Windhover edition included 35 copies hand colored by the artist. Our copy, which is another gift from our friend and benefactor Jerry Buff, includes a printed errata sheet that notes the number of hand-colored copies increased to 50. At the time, Sexauer was still a BFA student at the University of Iowa, and at the end of print run Merker did not have enough money to pay the artist for her work, so he increased the number of copies with hand-colored prints and sold these copies at a greater price in order to equitably compensate Sexauer for the work she contributed.
View our other posts of works by the Windhover Press.
View more Fine Press Friday posts.
Robert Rotten.