ENDNOTES:
NOTE: Endnotes supplied by Prof. Foerster are indicated by
"(F.)"; all other endnotes are supplied by W.W. Comfort.
(1) There is no English version corresponding to the old French
"Cliges". The English metrical romance "Sir Cleges" has
nothing to do with the French romance.
(2) Ovid in "Metamorphosis", vi. 404, relates how Tantalus at a
feast to the gods offered them the shoulder of his own son.
It is not certain, however, that Chretien is referring here
to this slight episode of the "Metamorphosis".
(3) This allusion is generally taken as evidence that the poet
had written previously of the love of Tristan and Iseut.
Gaston Paris, however, in one of his last utterances
("Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 297), says: "Je n'hesite
pas a dire que l'existence d'un poeme sur Tristan par
Chretien de Troies, a laquelle j'ai cru comme presque tout
le monde, me parait aujourd'hui fort peu probable; j'en vais
donner les raisons."
(4) The story of Philomela or Philomena, familiar in Chaucer's
"Legende of Good Women", is told by Ovid in "Metamorphosis",
vi. 426-674. Cretiens li Gois is cited by the author of the
"Ovide moralise" as the author of the episode of Philomena
incorporated in his long didactic poem. This episode has
been ascribed to Chretien de Troyes by many recent critics,
and has been separately edited by C. de Boer, who offers in
his Introduction a lengthy discussion of its authorship.
See C. de Boer, "Philomena, conte raconte d'apres Ovide par
Chretien de Troyes" (Paris, 1909).
(5) The present cathedral of Beauvais is dedicated to St. Peter,
and its construction was begun in 1227. The earlier
structure here referred to, destroyed in 1118, probably was
also dedicated to the same saint. (F.)
(6) The real kernal of the Cliges story, stripped of its lengthy
introduction concerning Alexandre and Soredamors, is told in
a few lines in "Marques de Rome", p. 135 (ed. J. Alton in
"Lit. Verein in Stuttgart", No. 187, Tubingen, 1889), as one
of the tales or "exempla" recounted by the Empress of Rome
to the Emperor and the Seven Sages. No names are given
except that of Cliges himself; the version owes nothing to
Chretien's poem, and seems to rest upon a story which the
author may have heard orally. See Foerster's "Einleitung to
Cliges" (1910), p. 32 f.
(7) This criticism of ignoble leisure on the part of a warrior
is found also in "Erec et Enide" and "Yvain".
(8) This allegorical tribute to "largesse" is quite in the
spirit of the age. When professional poets lived upon the
bounty of their patrons, it is not strange that their poetry
should dwell upon the importance of generosity in their
heroes. For an exhaustive collection of "chastisements" or
"enseignements", such as that here given to Alexandre by his
father, see Eugen Altner, "Ueber die chastiements in den
altfranzosischen chansons de geste" (Leipzig, 1885).
(9) As Miss Weston has remarked ("The Three Days' Tournament",
p. 45), the peculiar georgraphy of this poem "is distinctly
Anglo-Norman rather than Arthurian".
(10) For this intimate relation between heroes, so common in the
old French heroic and romantic poems, see Jacques Flach, "Le
compagnonnage dans les chansons de geste" in "Etudes
romances dediees a Gaston Paris" (Paris, 1891). Reviewed in
"Romania", xxii. 145.
(11) Here begins one of those long dialogues, where one person is
represented as taking both sides of an argument. This
rhetorical device, so wearisome to modern readers, is used
by Chretien preferably when some sentiment or deep emotion
is to be portrayed. Ovid may well have suggested the
device, but Ovid never abuses it as does the more prolix
mediaeval poet. For the part playing by the eyes in
mediaeval love sophistry, see J.F. Hanford, "The Debate of
Heart and Eye" in "Modern Language Notes", xxvi. 161-165;
and H.R. Lang, "The Eyes as Generators of Love." id. xxiii.
126-127.
(12) For play upon words and for fanciful derivation of proper
names in mediaeval romance literature, see the interesting
article of Adolf Tobler in "Vermischte Beitrage", ii. 211-
266. Gaston Paris ("Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 354)
points out that Thomas used the same scene and the play upon
the same words "mer", "amer", and "amers" in his "Tristan"
and was later imitated by Gottfried von Strassburg.
(13) According to the 12th century troubadours, the shafts of
Love entered the victim's body through the eyes, and thence
pierced the heart.
(14) For fanciful derivation of proper names, cf. A. Tobler,
"Vermischte Beitrage", ii. 211-266.
(15) Ganelon, the traitor in the "Chanson de Roland", to whose
charge is laid the defeat of Charlemagne's rear-guard at
Ronceval, became the arch-traitor of mediaeval literature.
It will be recalled that Dante places him in the lowest pit
of Hell ("Inferno", xxxii. 122). (NOTE: There is a slight
time discrepance here. Roland, Ganelon, and the Battle of
Ronceval were said to have happened in 8th Century A.D.,
fully 300 years after Arthur and the Round Table.--DBK).
(16) For the ceremonies attendant upon the conferring of
knighthood, see Karl Treis, "Die Formalitaten des
Ritterschlags in der altfranzosischen Epik" (Berlin, 1887).
(17) The "quintainne" was "a manikin mounted on a pivot and armed
with a club in such a way that, when a man struck it
unskilfully with his lance, it turned and landed a blow upon
his back" (Larousse).
(18) This conventional attitude of one engaged in thought or a
prey to sadness has been referred to by G.L. Hamilton in
"Ztsch fur romanische Philologie", xxxiv. 571-572.
(19) Many traitors in old French literature suffered the same
punishments as Ganelon, and were drawn asunder by horses
("Roland", 3960-74).
(20) The same rare words "galerne" and "posterne" occur in rhyme
in the "Roman de Thebes", 1471-72.
(21) This qualified praise is often used in speaking of traitors
and of Saracens.
(22) The failure to identify the warriors is due to the fact that
the knights are totally encased in armour.
(23) A reference to the "Roman de Thebes", 1160 circ.
(24) The disregard of Alis for his nephew Cliges is similar to
that of King Mark for Tristan in another legend. In the
latter, however, Tristan joins with the other courtiers in
advising his uncle to marry, though he himself had been
chosen heir to the throne by Mark. cf. J. Bedier, "Le Roman
de Tristan", 2 vols. (Paris, 1902), i. 63 f.
(25) See Endnote #14 above.
(26) Cf. Shakespeare, "Othello", ii. I, where Cassio, speaking of
Othello's marriage with Desdemona, says:
"he hath achieved a maid
That paragons description and wild fame;
One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,
And in the essential vesture of creation
Does tire the enginer."
(27) Ovid ("Metamorphosis", iii. 339-510) is Chretien's
authority.
(28) Cf. L. Sudre, "Les allusions a la legende de Tristan dans la
litterature du moyen age", "Romania", xv. 435 f. Tristan
was famed as a hunter, fencer, wrestler, and harpist.
(29) "The word `Thessala' was a common one in Latin, as meaning
`enchantress', `sorceress', `witch', as Pliny himself tells
us, adding that the art of enchantment was not, however,
indigenous to Thessaly, but came originally from Persia."
("Natural History", xxx. 2).--D.B. Easter, "Magic Elements
in the romans d'aventure and the romans bretons, p. 7.
(Baltimore, 1906). A Jeanroy in "Romania", xxxiii. 420
note, says: "Quant au nom de Thessala, il doit venir de
Lucain, tres lu dans les ecoles au XIIe siecle." See also
G. Paris in "Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 441 note.
Thessala is mentioned in the "Roman de la Violetta", v. 514,
in company with Brangien of the Tristan legend.
(30) Medea, the wife of Jason, is the great sorceress of classic
legend.
(31) This personage was regarded in the Middle Ages as an Emperor
of Rome. In the 13th-century poem of "Octavian" (ed.
Vollmuller, Heilbronn, 1883) he is represented as a
contemporary of King Dagobert!
(32) This commonplace remark is quoted as a proverb of the rustic
in "Ipomedon", 1671-72; id., 10, 348-51; "Roman de Mahomet",
1587-88; "Roman de Renart", vi. 85-86; Gower's "Mirour de
l'omme", 28, 599, etc.
(33) It is curious to note that Corneille puts almost identical
words in the mouth of Don Gomes as he addresses the Cid ("Le
Cid", ii. 2).
(34) For this tournament and its parallels in folk-lore, see Miss
J.L. Weston, "The Three Days' Tournament" (London, 1902).
She argues (p. 14 f. and p. 43 f.) against Foerster's
unqualified opinion of the originality of Chretien in his
use of this current description of a tournament, an opinion
set forth in his "Einleitung to Lancelot", pp. 43, 126, 128,
138.
(35) Note that Chretien here deliberately avoids such a list of
knights as he introduces in "Erec". (F.)
(36) It must be admitted that the text, which is offered by all
but one MS., is here unintelligible. The reference, if any
be intended, is not clear. (F.)
(37) Much has been made of this expression as intimating that
Chretien wrote "Cliges" as a sort of disavowal of the
immorality of his lost "Tristan". Cf. Foerster, "Cliges"
(Ed. 1910), p. xxxix f., and Myrrha Borodine, "La femme et
l'amour au XXIe Seicle d'apres les poemes de Chretien de
Troyes" (Paris, 1909). G. Paris has ably defended another
interpretation of the references in "Cliges" to the Tristan
legend in "Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 442 f.
(38) This curious moral teaching appears to be a perversion of
three passages form St. Paul's Epistles: I Cor. vii. 9, I
Cor. x. 32, Eph. v. 15. Cf. H. Emecke, "Chretien von Troyes
als Personlichkeit und als Dichter" (Wurzburg, 1892).
(39) "This feature of a woman who, thanks to some charm,
preserves her virginity with a husband whom she does not
love, is found not only in widespread stories, but in
several French epic poems. In only one, "Les Enfances
Guillaume", does the husband, like Alis, remain ignorant of
the fraud of which he is the victim, and think that he
really possesses the woman.... If Chretien alone gave to the
charm of the form of a potion, it is in imitation of the
love potion in "Tristan". (G. Paris in "Journal des
Savants", 1902, p. 446). For many other references to the
effect of herb potions, cf. A. Hertel, "Verzauberte
Oerlichkeiten und Gegenstande in der altfranzosische
erzahlende Dichtung", p. 41 ff. (Hanover, 1908).
(40) I have pointed out the curious parallel between the
following passage and Dante's "Vita Nova", 41 ("Romantic
Review", ii. 2). There is no certain evidence that Dante
knew Chretien's work (cf. A. Farinelli, "Dante e la
Francia", vol. i., p. 16 note), but it would be strange if
he did not know such a distinguished predecessor.
(41) For the legend of Solomon deceived by his wife, see Foerster
"Cliges" (ed. 1910), p. xxxii. f., and G. Paris in
"Romania", ix. 436-443, and in "Journal des Savants", 1902,
p. 645 f. For an additional reference, add "Ipomedon",
9103.
(42) For an imitation of the following scene, see Hans Herzog in
"Germania", xxxi. 325.
(43) "Porz d'Espaingne" refers to the passes in the Pyrenees
which formed the entrance-ways to Spain. Cf. The "Cilician
Gates" in Xenophon's "Anabasis".
(44) Chretien here insists upon his divergence from the famous
dictum attributed to the Countess Marie de Champagne by
Andre le Chapelain: "Praeceptum tradit amoris, quod nulla
etiam coniugata regis poterit amoris praemio coronari, nisi
extra coniugii foedera ipsius amoris militae cernatur
adiuneta". (Andreae Capellini, "De Amore", p. 154; Ed.
Trojel, Havniae, 1892).
YVAIN
or, The Knight with the Lion
(Vv. 1-174.) Arthur, the good King of Britain, whose prowess
teaches us that we, too, should be brave and courteous, held a
rich and royal court upon that precious feast-day which is always
known by the name of Pentecost. (1) The court was at Carduel in
Wales. When the meal was finished, the knights betook themselves
whither they were summoned by the ladies, damsels, and maidens.
Some told stories; others spoke of love, of the trials and
sorrows, as well as of the great blessings, which often fall to
the members of its order, which was rich and flourishing in those
days of old. But now its followers are few, having deserted it
almost to a man, so that love is much abased. For lovers used to
deserve to be considered courteous, brave, generous, and
honourable. But now love is a laughing-stock, for those who have
no intelligence of it assert that they love, and in that they
lie. Thus they utter a mockery and lie by boasting where they
have no right. (2) But let us leave those who are still alive,
to speak of those of former time. For, I take it, a courteous
man, though dead, is worth more than a living knave. So it is my
pleasure to relate a matter quite worthy of heed concerning the
King whose fame was such that men still speak of him far and
near; and I agree with the opinion of the Bretons that his name
will live on for evermore. And in connection with him we call to
mind those goodly chosen knights who spent themselves for
honour's sake. But upon this day of which I speak, great was
their astonishment at seeing the King quit their presence; and
there were some who felt chagrined, and who did not mince their
words, never before having seen the King, on the occasion of such
a feast, enter his own chamber either to sleep or to seek repose.
But this day it came about that the Queen detained him, and he
remained so long at her side that he forgot himself and fell
asleep. Outside the chamber door were Dodinel, Sagremor, and
Kay, my lord Gawain, my lord Yvain, and with them Calogrenant, a
very comely knight, who had begun to tell them a tale, though it
was not to his credit, but rather to his shame. The Queen could
hear him as he told his tale, and rising from beside the King,
she came upon them so stealthily that before any caught sight of
her, she had fallen, as it were, right in their midst. Calogrenant
alone jumped up quickly when he saw her come. Then
Kay, who was very quarrelsome, mean, sarcastic, and abusive, said
to him: "By the Lord, Calogrenant, I see you are very bold and
forward now, and certainly it pleases me to see you the most
courteous of us all. And I know that you are quite persuaded of
your own excellence, for that is in keeping with your little
sense. And of course it is natural that my lady should suppose
that you surpass us all in courtesy and bravery. We failed to
rise through sloth, forsooth, or because we did not care! Upon
my word, it is not so, my lord; but we did not see my lady until
you had risen first." "Really, Kay," the Queen then says, "I
think you would burst if you could not pour out the poison of
which you are so full. You are troublesome and mean thus to
annoy your companions." "Lady," says Kay, "if we are not better
for your company, at least let us not lose by it. I am not aware
that I said anything for which I ought to be accused, and so I
pray you say no more. It is impolite and foolish to keep up a
vain dispute. This argument should go no further, nor should any
one try to make more of it. But since there must be no more high
words, command him to continue the tale he had begun." Thereupon
Calogrenant prepares to reply in this fashion: "My lord, little
do I care about the quarrel, which matters little and affects me
not. If you have vented your scorn on me, I shall never be
harmed by it. You have often spoken insultingly, my lord Kay, to
braver and better men than I, for you are given to this kind of
thing. The manure-pile will always stink, (3) and gadflies
sting, and bees will hum, and so a bore will torment and make a
nuisance of himself. However, with my lady's leave, I'll not
continue my tale to-day, and I beg her to say no more about it,
and kindly not give me any unwelcome command." "Lady," says Kay,
"all those who are here will be in your debt, for they are
desirous to hear it out. Don't do it as a favour to me! But by
the faith you owe the King, your lord and mine, command him to
continue, and you will do well." "Calogrenant," the Queen then
says, "do not mind the attack of my lord Kay the seneschal. He
is so accustomed to evil speech that one cannot punish him for
it. I command and request you not to be angered because of him,
nor should you fail on his account to say something which it will
please us all to hear; if you wish to preserve my good-will, pray
begin the tale anew." "Surely, lady, it is a very unwelcome
command you lay upon me. Rather than tell any more of my tale
to-day, I would have one eye plucked out, if I did not fear your
displeasure. Yet will I perform your behest, however distasteful
it may be. Then since you will have it so, give heed. Let your
heart and ears be mine. For words, though heard, are lost unless
understood within the heart. Some men there are who give consent
to what they hear but do not understand: these men have the
hearing alone. For the moment the heart fails to understand, the
word falls upon the ears simply as the wind that blows, without
stopping to tarry there; rather it quickly passes on if the heart
is not so awake as to be ready to receive it. For the heart
alone can receive it when it comes along, and shut it up within.
The ears are the path and channel by which the voice can reach
the heart, while the heart receives within the bosom the voice
which enters through the ear. Now, whoever will heed my words,
must surrender to me his heart and ears, for I am not going to
speak of a dream, an idle tale, or lie, with which many another
has regaled you, but rather shall I speak of what I saw.
(Vv. 175-268.) "It happened seven years ago that, lonely as a
countryman, I was making my way in search of adventures, fully
armed as a knight should be, when I came upon a road leading off
to the right into a thick forest. The road there was very bad,
full of briars and thorns. In spite of the trouble and
inconvenience, I followed the road and path. Almost the entire
day I went thus riding until I emerged from the forest of
Broceliande. (4) Out from the forest I passed into the open
country where I saw a wooden tower at the distance of half a
Welsh league: it may have been so far, but it was not anymore.
Proceeding faster than a walk, I drew near and saw the palisade
and moat all round it, deep and wide, and standing upon the
bridge, with a moulted falcon upon his wrist, I saw the master of
the castle. I had no sooner saluted him than he came forward to
hold my stirrup and invited me to dismount. I did so, for it was
useless to deny that I was in need of a lodging-place. Then he
told me more than a hundred times at once that blessed was the
road by which I had come thither. Meanwhile, we crossed the
bridge, and passing through the gate, found ourselves in the
courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard of this vavasor, to
whom may God repay such joy and honour as he bestowed upon me
that night, there hung a gong not of iron or wood, I trow, but
all of copper. Upon this gong the vavasor struck three times
with a hammer which hung on a post close by. Those who were
upstairs in the house, upon hearing his voice and the sound, came
out into the yard below. Some took my horse which the good
vavasor was holding; and I saw coming toward me a very fair and
gentle maid. On looking at her narrowly I saw she was tall and
slim and straight. Skilful she was in disarming me, which she
did gently and with address; then, when she had robed me in a
short mantle of scarlet stuff spotted with a peacock's plumes,
all the others left us there, so that she and I remained alone.
This pleased me well, for I needed naught else to look upon.
Then she took me to sit down in the prettiest little field, shut
in by a wall all round about. There I found her so elegant, so
fair of speech and so well informed, of such pleasing manners and
character, that it was a delight to be there, and I could have
wished never to be compelled to move. But as ill luck would have
it, when night came on, and the time for supper had arrived. The
vavasor came to look for me. No more delay was possible, so I
complied with his request. Of the supper I will only say that it
was all after my heart, seeing that the damsel took her seat at
the table just in front of me. After the supper the vavasor
admitted to me that, though he had lodged many an errant knight,
he knew not how long it had been since he had welcomed one in
search of adventure. Then, as a favour, he begged of me to
return by way of his residence, if I could make it possible. So
I said to him: `Right gladly, sire!' for a refusal would have
been impolite, and that was the least I could do for such a host.
(Vv. 269-580.) That night, indeed, I was well lodged, and as
soon as the morning light appeared, I found my steed ready
saddled, as I had requested the night before; thus my request was
carried out. My kind host and his dear daughter I commended to
the Holy Spirit, and, after taking leave of all, I got away as
soon as possible. I had not proceeded far from my stopping-place
when I came to a clearing, where there were some wild bulls at
large; they were fighting among themselves and making such a
dreadful and horrible noise that if the truth be known, I drew
back in fear, for there is no beast so fierce and dangerous as a
bull. I saw sitting upon a stump, with a great club in his hand,
a rustic lout, as black as a mulberry, indescribably big and
hideous; indeed, so passing ugly was the creature that no word of
mouth could do him justice. On drawing near to this fellow, I
saw that his head was bigger than that of a horse or of any other
beast; that his hair was in tufts, leaving his forehead bare for
a width of more than two spans; that his ears were big and mossy,
just like those of an elephant; his eyebrows were heavy and his
face was flat; his eyes were those of an owl, and his nose was
like a cat's; his jowls were split like a wolf, and his teeth
were sharp and yellow like a wild boar's; his beard was black and
his whiskers twisted; his chin merged into his chest and his
backbone was long, but twisted and hunched. (5) There he stood,
leaning upon his club and accoutred in a strange garb, consisting
not of cotton or wool, but rather of the hides recently flayed
from two bulls or two beeves: these he wore hanging from his
neck. The fellow leaped up straightway when he saw me drawing
near. I do not know whether he was going to strike me or what he
intended to do, but I was prepared to stand him off, until I saw
him stop and stand stock-still upon a tree trunk, where he stood
full seventeen feet in height. Then he gazed at me but spoke not
a word, any more than a beast would have done. And I supposed
that he had not his senses or was drunk. However, I made bold to
say to him: `Come, let me know whether thou art a creature of
good or not.' And he replied: `I am a man.' `What kind of a
man art thou?' `Such as thou seest me to be: I am by no means
otherwise.' `What dost thou here?' `I was here, tending these
cattle in this wood.' `Wert thou really tending them? By Saint
Peter of Rome! They know not the command of any man. I guess
one cannot possibly guard wild beasts in a plain or wood or
anywhere else unless they are tied or confined inside.' `Well, I
tend and have control of these beasts so that they will never
leave this neighbourhood.' `How dost thou do that? Come, tell
me now!' `There is not one of them that dares to move when they
see me coming. For when I can get hold of one I give its two
horns such a wrench with my hard, strong hands that the others
tremble with fear, and gather at once round about me as if to ask
for mercy. No one could venture here but me, for if he should go
among them he would be straightway done to death. In this way I
am master of my beasts. And now thou must tell me in turn what
kind of a man thou art, and what thou seekest here.' `I am, as
thou seest, a knight seeking for what I cannot find; long have I
sought without success.' `And what is this thou fain wouldst
find?' `Some adventure whereby to test my prowess and my
bravery. Now I beg and urgently request thee to give me some
counsel, if possible, concerning some adventure or marvellous
thing.' Says he: `Thou wilt have to do without, for I know
nothing of adventure, nor did I ever hear tell of such. But if
thou wouldst go to a certain spring here hard by and shouldst
comply with the practice there, thou wouldst not easily come back
again. Close by here thou canst easily find a path which will
lead thee thither. If thou wouldst go aright, follow the straight
path, otherwise thou mayst easily go astray among the many other
paths. Thou shalt see the spring which boils, though the water
is colder than marble. It is shadowed by the fairest tree that
ever Nature formed, for its foliage is evergreen, regardless of
the winter's cold, and an iron basin is hanging there by a chain
long enough to reach the spring. And beside the spring thou
shalt find a massive stone, as thou shalt see, but whose nature I
cannot explain, never having seen its like. On the other side a
chapel stands, small, but very beautiful. If thou wilt take of
the water in the basin and spill it upon the stone, thou shalt
see such a storm come up that not a beast will remain within this
wood; every doe, star, deer, boar, and bird will issue forth.
For thou shalt see such lightning-bolts descend, such blowing of
gales and crashing of trees, such torrents fail, such thunder and
lightning, that, if thou canst escape from them without trouble
and mischance, thou wilt be more fortunate than ever any knight
was yet.' I left the fellow then, after he had pointed our the
way. It must have been after nine o'clock and might have been
drawing on toward noon, when I espied the tree and the chapel. I
can truly say that this tree was the finest pine that ever grew
on earth. I do not believe that it ever rained so hard that a
drop of water could penetrate it, but would rather drip from the
outer branches. From the tree I saw the basin hanging, (6) of
the finest gold that was ever for sale in any fair. As for the
spring, you may take my word that it was boiling like hot water.
The stone was of emerald, with holes in it like a cask, and there
were four rubies underneath, more radiant and red than is the
morning sun when it rises in the east. Now not one word will I
say which is not true. I wished to see the marvellous appearing
of the tempest and the storm; but therein I was not wise, for I
would gladly have repented, if I could, when I had sprinkled the
perforated stone with the water from the basin. But I fear I
poured too much, for straightway I saw the heavens so break loose
that from more than fourteen directions the lightning blinded my
eyes, and all at once the clouds let fall snow and rain and hail.
The storm was so fierce and terrible that a hundred times I
thought I should be killed by the bolts which fell about me and
by the trees which were rent apart. Know that I was in great
distress until the uproar was appeased. But God gave me such
comfort that the storm did not continue long, and all the winds
died down again. The winds dared not blow against God's will.
And when I saw the air clear and serene I was filled with joy
again. For I have observed that joy quickly causes trouble to be
forgot. As soon as the storm was completely past, I saw so many
birds gathered in the pine tree (if any one will believe my
words) that not a branch or twig was to be seen which was not
entirely covered with birds. (7) The tree was all the more
lovely then, for all the birds sang in harmony, yet the note of
each was different, so that I never heard one singing another's
note. I, too, rejoiced in their joyousness, and listened to them
until they had sung their service through, for I have never heard
such happy song, nor do I think any one else will hear it, unless
he goes to listen to what filled me with such joy and bliss that
I was lost in rapture. I stayed there until I heard some knights
coming, as I thought it seemed that there must be ten of them.
But all the noise and commotion was made by the approach of a
single knight. When I saw him coming on alone I quickly caught
my steed and made no delay in mounting him. And the knight, as
if with evil intent, came on swifter than an eagle, looking as
fierce as a lion. From as far as his voice could reach he began
to challenge me, and said: `Vassal, without provocation you have
caused me shame and harm. If there was any quarrel between us
you should first have challenged me, or at least sought justice
before attacking me. But, sir vassal, if it be within my power,
upon you shall fall the punishment for the damage which is
evident. About me here lies the evidence of my woods destroyed.
He who has suffered has the right to complain. And I have good
reason to complain that you have driven me from my house with
lightning-bolt and rain. You have made trouble for me, and
cursed be he who thinks it fair. For within my own woods and
town you have made such an attack upon me that resources of men
of arms and of fortifications would have been of no avail to me;
no man could have been secure, even if he had been in a fortress
of solid stone and wood. But be assured that from this moment
there shall be neither truce nor peace between us.' At these
words we rushed together, each one holding his shield well
gripped and covering himself with it. The knight had a good
horse and a stout lance, and was doubtless a whole head taller
than I. Thus, I was altogether at a disadvantage, being shorter
than he, while his horse was stronger than mine. You may be sure
that I will tell the facts, in order to cover up my shame. With
intent to do my best, I dealt him as hard a blow as I could give,
striking the top of his shield, and I put all my strength into it
with such effect that my lance flew all to splinters. His lance
remained entire, being very heavy and bigger than any knight's
lance I ever saw. And the knight struck me with it so heavily
that he knocked me over my horse's crupper and laid me flat upon
the ground, where he left me ashamed and exhausted, without
bestowing another glance upon me. He took my horse, but me he
left, and started back by the way he came. And I, who knew not
what to do, remained there in pain and with troubled thoughts.
Seating myself beside the spring I rested there awhile, not
daring to follow after the knight for fear of committing some
rash act of madness. And, indeed, had I had the courage, I knew
not what had become of him. Finally, it occurred to me that I
would keep my promise to my host and would return by way of his
dwelling. This idea pleased me, and so I did. I laid off all my
arms in order to proceed more easily, and thus with shame I
retraced my steps. When I reached his home that night, I found
my host to be the same good-natured and courteous man as I had
before discovered him to be. I could not observe that either his
daughter or he himself welcomed me any less gladly, or did me any
less honour than they had done the night before. I am indebted
to them for the great honour they all did me in that house; and
they even said that, so far as they knew or had heard tell, no
one had ever escaped, without being killed or kept a prisoner,
from the place whence I returned. Thus I went and thus I
returned, feeling, as I did so, deeply ashamed. So I have
foolishly told you the story which I never wished to tell again."
(Vv. 581-648.) "By my head," cries my lord Yvain, "you are my
own cousin-german, and we ought to love each other well. But I
must consider you as mad to have concealed this from me so long.
If I call you mad, I beg you not to be incensed. For if I can,
and if I obtain the leave, I shall go to avenge your shame." "It
is evident that we have dined," says Kay, with his ever-ready
speech; "there are more words in a pot full of wine than in a
whole barrel of beer. (8) They say that a cat is merry when
full. After dinner no one stirs, but each one is ready to slay
Noradin, (9) and you will take vengeance on Forre! Are your
saddle-cloths ready stuffed, and your iron greaves polished, and
your banners unfurled? Come now, in God's name, my lord Yvain,
is it to-night or to-morrow that you start? Tell us, fair sire,
when you will start for this rude test, for we would fain convoy
you thither. There will be no provost or constable who will not
gladly escort you. And however it may be, I beg that you will
not go without taking leave of us; and if you have a bad dream
to-night, by all means stay at home!" "The devil, Sir Kay," the
Queen replies, "are you beside yourself that your tongue always
runs on so? Cursed be your tongue which is so full of
bitterness! Surely your tongue must hate you, for it says the
worst it knows to every man. Damned be any tongue that never
ceases to speak ill! As for your tongue, it babbles so that it
makes you hated everywhere. It cannot do you greater treachery.
See here: if it were mine, I would accuse it of treason. Any man
that cannot be cured by punishment ought to be tied like a madman
in front of the chancel in the church." "Really, madame," says
my lord Yvain, "his impudence matters not to me. In every court
my lord Kay has so much ability, knowledge, and worth that he
will never be deaf or dumb. He has the wit to reply wisely and
courteously to all that is mean, and this he has always done.
You well know if I lie in saying so. But I have no desire to
dispute or to begin our foolishness again. For he who deals the
first blow does not always win the fight, but rather he who gains
revenge. He who fights with his companion had better fight
against some stranger. I do not wish to be like the hound that
stiffens up and growls when another dog yaps at him."
(Vv. 649-722.) While they were talking thus, the King came out
of his room where he had been all this time asleep. And when the
knights saw him they all sprang to their feet before him, but he
made them at once sit down again. He took his place beside the
Queen, who repeated to him word for word, with her customary
skill, the story of Calogrenant. The King listened eagerly to
it, and then he swore three mighty oaths by the soul of his
father Utherpendragon, and by the soul of his son, and of his
mother too, that he would go to see that spring before a
fortnight should have passed; and he would see the storm and the
marvels there by reaching it on the eve of my lord Saint John the
Baptist's feast; there he would spend the night, and all who
wished might accompany him. All the court thought well of this,
for the knights and the young bachelors were very eager to make
the expedition. But despite the general joy and satisfaction my
lord Yvain was much chagrined, for he intended to go there all
alone; so he was grieved and much put out because of the King who
planned to go. The chief cause of his displeasure was that he
knew that my lord Kay, to whom the favour would not be refused if
he should solicit it, would secure the battle rather than he
himself, or else perchance my lord Gawain would first ask for it.
If either one of these two should make request, the favour would
never be refused him. But, having no desire for their company,
he resolves not to wait for them, but to go off alone, if
possible, whether it be to his gain or hurt. And whoever may
stay behind, he intends to be on the third day in the forest of
Broceliande, and there to seek if possibly he may find the narrow
wooded path for which he yearns eagerly, and the plain with the
strong castle, and the pleasure and delight of the courteous
damsel, who is so charming and fair, and with the damsel her
worthy sire, who is so honourable and nobly born that he strives
to dispense honour. Then he will see the bulls in the clearing,
with the giant boor who watches them. Great is his desire to see
this fellow, who is so stout and big and ugly and deformed, and
as black as a smith. Then, too, he will see, if possible, the
stone and the spring itself, and the basin and the birds in the
pine-tree, and he will make it rain and blow. But of all this he
will not boast, nor, if he can help it, shall any one know of his
purpose until he shall have received from it either great
humiliation or great renown: then let the facts be known.
(Vv. 723-746.) My lord Yvain gets away from the court without
any one meeting him, and proceeds alone to his lodging place.
There he found all his household, and gave orders to have his
horse saddled; then, calling one of his squires who was privy to
his every thought, he says: "Come now, follow me outside yonder,
and bring me my arms. I shall go out at once through yonder gate
upon my palfrey. For thy part, do not delay, for I have a long
road to travel. Have my steed well shod, and bring him quickly
where I am; then shalt thou lead back my palfrey. But take good
care, I adjure thee, if any one questions thee about me, to give
him no satisfaction. Otherwise, whatever thy confidence in me,
thou need never again count on my goodwill." "Sire," he says,
"all will be well, for no one shall learn anything from me.
Proceed, and I shall follow you."
(Vv. 747-906.) My lord Yvain mounts at once, intending to
avenge, if possible, his cousin's disgrace before he returns.
The squire ran for the arms and steed; he mounted at once without
delay, since he was already equipped with shoes and nails. Then
he followed his master's track until he saw him standing mounted,
waiting to one side of the road in a place apart. He brought him
his harness and equipment, and then accoutred him. My lord Yvain
made no delay after putting on his arms, but hastily made his way
each day over the mountains and through the valleys, through the
forests long and wide, through strange and wild country, passing
through many gruesome spots, many a danger and many a strait,
until he came directly to the path, which was full of brambles
and dark enough; then he felt he was safe at last, and could not
now lose his way. Whoever may have to pay the cost, he will not
stop until he sees the pine which shades the spring and stone,
and the tempest of hail and rain and thunder and wind. That
night, you may be sure, he had such lodging as he desired, for he
found the vavasor to be even more polite and courteous than he
had been told, and in the damsel he perceived a hundred times
more sense and beauty than Calogrenant had spoken of, for one
cannot rehearse the sum of a lady's or a good man's qualities.
The moment such a man devotes himself to virtue, his story cannot
be summed up or told, for no tongue could estimate the honourable
deeds of such a gentleman. My lord Yvain was well content with
the excellent lodging he had that night, and when he entered the
clearing the next day, he met the bulls and the rustic boor who
showed him the way to take. But more than a hundred times he
crossed himself at sight of the monster before him--how Nature
had ever been able to form such a hideous, ugly creature. Then
to the spring he made his way, and found there all that he wished
to see. Without hesitation and without sitting down he poured
the basin full of water upon the stone, when straightway it began
to blow and rain, and such a storm was caused as had been
foretold. And when God had appeased the storm, the birds came to
perch upon the pine, and sang their joyous songs up above the
perilous spring. But before their jubilee had ceased there came
the knight, more blazing with wrath than a burning log, and
making as much noise as if he were chasing a lusty stag. As soon
as they espied each other they rushed together and displayed the
mortal hate they bore. Each one carried a stiff, stout lance,
with which they dealt such mighty blows that they pierced the
shields about their necks, and cut the meshes of their hauberks;
their lances are splintered and sprung, while the fragments are
cast high in air. Then each attacks the other with his sword,
and in the strife they cut the straps of the shields away, and
cut the shields all to bits from end to end, so that the shreds
hang down, no longer serving as covering or defence; for they
have so split them up that they bring down the gleaming blades
upon their sides, their arms, and hips. Fierce, indeed, is their
assault; yet they do not budge from their standing-place any more
than would two blocks of stone. Never were there two knights so
intent upon each other's death. They are careful not to waste
their blows, but lay them on as best they may; they strike and
bend their helmets, and they send the meshes of their hauberks
flying so, that they draw not a little blood, for the hauberks
are so hot with their body's heat that they hardly serve as more
protection than a coat. As they drive the sword-point at the
face, it is marvellous that so fierce and bitter a strife should
last so long. But both are possessed of such courage that one
would not for aught retreat a foot before his adversary until he
had wounded him to death. Yet, in this respect they were very
honourable in not trying or deigning to strike or harm their
steeds in any way; but they sat astride their steeds without
putting foot to earth, which made the fight more elegant. At
last my lord Yvain crushed the helmet of the knight, whom the
blow stunned and made so faint that he swooned away, never having
received such a cruel blow before. Beneath his kerchief his head
was split to the very brains, so that the meshes of his bright
hauberk were stained with the brains and blood, all of which
caused him such intense pain that his heart almost ceased to
beat. He had good reason then to flee, for he felt that he had a
mortal wound, and that further resistance would not avail. With
this thought in mind he quickly made his escape toward his town,
where the bridge was lowered and the gate quickly opened for him;
meanwhile my lord Yvain at once spurs after him at topmost speed.
As a gerfalcon swoops upon a crane when he sees him rising from
afar, and then draws so near to him that he is about to seize
him, yet misses him, so flees the knight, with Yvain pressing him
so close that he can almost throw his arm about him, and yet
cannot quite come up with him, though he is so close that he can
hear him groan for the pain he feels. While the one exerts
himself in flight the other strives in pursuit of him, fearing to
have wasted his effort unless he takes him alive or dead; for he
still recalls the mocking words which my lord Kay had addressed
to him. He had not yet carried out the pledge which he had given
to his cousin; nor will they believe his word unless he returns
with the evidence. The knight led him a rapid chase to the gate
of his town, where they entered in; but finding no man or woman
in the streets through which they passed, they both rode swiftly
on till they came to the palace-gate.
(Vv. 907-1054.) The gate was very high and wide, yet it had such
a narrow entrance-way that two men or two horses could scarcely
enter abreast or pass without interference or great difficulty;
for it was constructed just like a trap which is set for the rat
on mischief bent, and which has a blade above ready to fall and
strike and catch, and which is suddenly released whenever
anything, however gently, comes in contact with the spring. In
like fashion, beneath the gate there were two springs connected
with a portcullis up above, edged with iron and very sharp. If
anything stepped upon this contrivance the gate descended from
above, and whoever below was struck by the gate was caught and
mangled. Precisely in the middle the passage lay as narrow as if
it were a beaten track. Straight through it exactly the knight
rushed on, with my lord Yvain madly following him apace, and so
close to him that he held him by the saddle-bow behind. It was
well for him that he was stretched forward, for had it not been
for this piece of luck he would have been cut quite through; for
his horse stepped upon the wooden spring which kept the
portcullis in place. Like a hellish devil the gate dropped down,
catching the saddle and the horse's haunches, which it cut off
clean. But, thank God, my lord Yvain was only slightly touched
when it grazed his back so closely that it cut both his spurs off
even with his heels. And while he thus fell in dismay, the other
with his mortal wound escaped him, as you now shall see. Farther
on there was another gate just like the one they had just passed;
through this the knight made his escape, and the gate descended
behind him. Thus my lord Yvain was caught, very much concerned
and discomfited as he finds himself shut in this hallway, which
was all studded with gilded nails, and whose walls were cunningly
decorated with precious paints. (10) But about nothing was he so
worried as not to know what had become of the knight. While he
was in this narrow place, he heard open the door of a little
adjoining room, and there came forth alone a fair and charming
maiden who closed the door again after her. When she found my
lord Yvain, at first she was sore dismayed. (11) "Surely, sir
knight," she says, "I fear you have come in an evil hour. If you
are seen here, you will be all cut to pieces. For my lord is
mortally wounded, and I know it is you who have been the death of
him. My lady is in such a state of grief, and her people about
her are crying so that they are ready to die with rage; and,
moreover, they know you to be inside. But as yet their grief is
such that they are unable to attend to you. The moment they come
to attack you, they cannot fail to kill or capture you, as they
may choose." And my lord Yvain replies to her: "If God will they
shall never kill me, nor shall I fall into their hands." "No,"
she says, "for I shall do my utmost to assist you. It is not
manly to cherish fear. So I hold you to be a man of courage,
when you are not dismayed. And rest assured that if I could I
would help you and treat you honourably, as you in turn would do
for me. Once my lady sent me on an errand to the King's court,
and I suppose I was not so experienced or courteous or so well
behaved as a maiden ought to be; at any rate, there was not a
knight there who deigned to say a word to me except you alone who
stand here now; but you, in your kindness, honoured and aided me.
For the honour you did me then I shall now reward you. I know
full well what your name is, and I recognised you at once: your
name is my lord Yvain. You may be sure and certain that if you
take my advice you will never be caught or treated ill. Please
take this little ring of mine, which you will return when I shall
have delivered you." (12) Then she handed him the little ring
and told him that its effect was like that of the bark which
covers the wood so that it cannot be seen; but it must be worn so
that the stone is within the palm; then he who wears the ring
upon his finger need have no concern for anything; for no one,
however sharp his eyes may be, will be able to see him any more
than the wood which is covered by the outside bark. All this is
pleasing to my lord Yvain. And when she had told him this, she
led him to a seat upon a couch covered with a quilt so rich that
the Duke of Austria had none such, and she told him that if he
cared for something to eat she would fetch it for him; and he
replied that he would gladly do so. Running quickly into the
chamber, she presently returned, bringing a roasted fowl and a
cake, a cloth, a full pot of good grape-wine covered with a white
drinking-cup; all this she offered to him to eat. And he, who
stood in need of food, very gladly ate and drank.
(Vv. 1055-1172.) By the time he had finished his meal the
knights were astir inside looking for him and eager to avenge
their lord, who was already stretched upon his bier. Then the
damsel said to Yvain: "Friend, do you hear them all seeking you?
There is a great noise and uproar brewing. But whoever may come
or go, do not stir for any noise of theirs, for they can never
discover you if you do not move from this couch. Presently you
will see this room all full of ill-disposed and hostile people,
who will think to find you here; and I make no doubt that they
will bring the body here before interment, and they will begin to
search for you under the seats and the beds. It will be amusing
for a man who is not afraid when he sees people searching so
fruitlessly, for they will all be so blind, so undone, and so
misguided that they will be beside themselves with rage. I
cannot tell you more just now, for I dare no longer tarry here.
But I may thank God for giving me the chance and the opportunity
to do some service to please you, as I yearned to do." Then she
turned away, and when she was gone all the crowd with one accord
had come from both sides to the gates, armed with clubs and
swords. There was a mighty crowd and press of hostile people
surging about, when they espied in front of the gate the half of
the horse which had been cut down. Then they felt very sure that
when the gates were opened they would find inside him whose life
they wished to take. Then they caused to be drawn up those gates
which had been the death of many men. But since no spring or
trap was laid for their passage they all came through abreast.
Then they found at the threshold the other half of the horse that
had been killed; but none of them had sharp enough eyes to see my
lord Yvain, whom they would gladly have killed; and he saw them
beside themselves with rage and fury, as they said: "How can this
be? For there is no door or window here through which anything
could escape, unless it be a bird, a squirrel, or marmot, or some
other even smaller animal; for the windows are barred, and the
gates were closed as soon as my lord passed through. The body is
in here, dead or alive, since there is no sign of it outside
there; we can see more than half of the saddle in here, but of
him we see nothing, except the spurs which fell down severed from
his feet. Now let us cease this idle talk, and search in all
these comers, for he is surely in here still, or else we are all
enchanted, or the evil spirits have filched him away from us."
Thus they all, aflame with rage, sought him about the room,
beating upon the walls, and beds, and seats. But the couch upon
which he lay was spared and missed the blows, so that he was not
struck or touched. But all about they thrashed enough, and
raised an uproar in the room with their clubs, like a blind man
who pounds as he goes about his search. While they were poking
about under the beds and the stools, there entered one of the
most beautiful ladies that any earthly creature ever saw. Word
or mention was never made of such a fair Christian dame, and yet
she was so crazed with grief that she was on the point of taking
her life. All at once she cried out at the top of her voice, and
then fell prostrate in a swoon. And when she had been picked up
she began to claw herself and tear her hair, like a woman who had
lost her mind. She tears her hair and rips her dress, and faints
at every step she takes; nor can anything comfort her when she
sees her husband borne along lifeless in the bier; for her
happiness is at an end, and so she made her loud lament. The
holy water and the cross and the tapers were borne in advance by
the nuns from a convent; then came missals and censers and the
priests, who pronounce the final absolution required for the
wretched soul.
(Vv. 1173-1242.) My lord Yvain heard the cries and the grief
that can never be described, for no one could describe it, nor
was such ever set down in a book. The procession passed, but in
the middle of the room a great crowd gathered about the bier, for
the fresh warm blood trickled out again from the dead man's
wound, and this betokened certainly that the man was still surely
present who had fought the battle and had killed and defeated
him. Then they sought and searched everywhere, and turned and
stirred up everything, until they were all in a sweat with the
trouble and the press which had been caused by the sight of the
trickling crimson blood. Then my lord Yvain was well struck and
beaten where he lay, but not for that did he stir at all. And
the people became more and more distraught because of the wounds
which burst open, and they marvelled why they bled, without
knowing whose fault it was. (13) And each one to his neighbour
said: "The murderer is among us here, and yet we do not see him,
which is passing strange and mysterious." At this the lady
showed such grief that she made an attempt upon her life, and
cried as if beside herself: "All God, then will the murderer not
be found, the traitor who took my good lord's life? Good? Aye,
the best of the good, indeed! True God, Thine will be the fault
if Thou dost let him thus escape. No other man than Thou should
I blame for it who dost hide him from my sight. Such a wonder
was never seen, nor such injustice, as Thou dost to me in not
allowing me even to see the man who must be so close to me. When
I cannot see him, I may well say that some demon or spirit has
interposed himself between us, so that I am under a spell. Or
else he is a coward and is afraid of me: he must be a craven to
stand in awe of me, and it is an act of cowardice not to show
himself before me. Ah, thou spirit, craven thing! Why art thou
so in fear of me, when before my lord thou weft so brave? O
empty and elusive thing, why cannot I have thee in my power? Why
cannot I lay hands upon thee now? But how could it ever come
about that thou didst kill my lord, unless it was done by
treachery? Surely my lord would never have met defeat at thy
hands had he seen thee face to face. For neither God nor man
ever knew of his like, nor is there any like him now. Surely,
hadst thou been a mortal man, thou wouldst never have dared to
withstand my lord, for no one could compare with him." Thus the
lady struggles with herself, and thus she contends and exhausts
herself. And her people with her, for their part, show the
greatest possible grief as they carry off the body to burial.
After their long efforts and search they are completely exhausted
by the quest, and give it up from weariness, inasmuch as they can
find no one who is in any way guilty. The nuns and priests,
having already finished the service, had returned from the church
and were gone to the burial. But to all this the damsel in her
chamber paid no heed. Her thoughts are with my lord Yvain, and,
coming quickly, she said to him: "Fair sir, these people have
been seeking you in force. They have raised a great tumult here,
and have poked about in all the corners more diligently than a
hunting-dog goes ferreting a partridge or a quail. Doubtless you
have been afraid." "Upon my word, you are right," says he: "I
never thought to be so afraid. And yet, if it were possible I
should gladly look out through some window or aperture at the
procession and the corpse." Yet he had no interest in either the
corpse or the procession, for he would gladly have seen them all
burned, even had it cost him a thousand marks. A thousand marks?
Three thousand, verily, upon my word. But he said it because of
the lady of the town, of whom he wished to catch a glimpse. So
the damsel placed him at a little window, and repaid him as well
as she could for the honour which he had done her. From this
window my lord Yvain espies the fair lady, as she says: "Sire,
may God have mercy upon your soul! For never, I verily believe,
did any knight ever sit in saddle who was your equal in any
respect. No other knight, my fair sweet lord, ever possessed
your honour or courtesy. Generosity was your friend and boldness
your companion. May your soul rest among the saints, my fair
dear lord." Then she strikes and tears whatever she can lay her
hands upon. Whatever the outcome may be, it is hard for my lord
Yvain to restrain himself from running forward to seize her
hands. But the damsel begs and advises him, and even urgently
commands him, though with courtesy and graciousness, not to
commit any rash deed, saying: "You are well off here. Do not
stir for any cause until this grief shall be assuaged; let these
people all depart, as they will do presently. If you act as I
advise, in accordance with my views, great advantage may come to
you. It will be best for you to remain seated here, and watch
the people inside and out as they pass along the way without
their seeing you. But take care not to speak violently, for I
hold that man to be rather imprudent than brave who goes too far
and loses his self-restraint and commits some deed of violence
the moment he has the time and chance. So if you cherish some
rash thought be careful not to utter it. The wise man conceals
his imprudent thought and works out righteousness if he can. So
wisely take good care not to risk your head, for which they would
accept no ransom. Be considerate of yourself and remember my
advice. Rest assured until I return, for I dare not stay longer
now. I might stay so long, I fear, that they would suspect me
when they did not see me in the crowd, and then I should suffer
for it."
(Vv. 1339-1506.) Then she goes off, and he remains, not knowing
how to comport himself. He is loath to see them bury the corpse
without his securing anything to take back as evidence that he
has defeated and killed him. If he has no proof or evidence he
will be held in contempt, for Kay is so mean and obstinate, so
given to mockery, and so annoying, that he could never succeed in
convincing him. He would go about for ever insulting him,
flinging his mockery and taunts as he did the other day. These
taunts are still fresh and rankling in his heart. But with her
sugar and honey a new Love now softened him; he had been to hunt
upon his lands and had gathered in his prey. His enemy carries
off his heart, and he loves the creature who hates him most. The
lady, all unaware, has well avenged her lord's death. She has
secured greater revenge than she could ever have done unless she
had been aided by Love, who attacks him so gently that he wounds
his heart through his eyes. And this wound is more enduring than
any inflicted by lance or sword. A sword-blow is cured and
healed at once as soon as a doctor attends to it, but the wound
of love is worst when it is nearest to its physician. This is
the wound of my lord Yvain, from which he will never more
recover, for Love has installed himself with him. He deserts and
goes away from the places he was wont to frequent. He cares for
no lodging or landlord save this one, and he is very wise in
leaving a poor lodging-place in order to betake himself to him.
In order to devote himself completely to him, he will have no
other lodging-place, though often he is wont to seek out lowly
hostelries. It is a shame that Love should ever so basely
conduct himself as to select the meanest lodging-place quite as
readily as the best. But now he has come where he is welcome,
and where he will be treated honourably, and where he will do
well to stay. This is the way Love ought to act, being such a
noble creature that it is marvellous how he dares shamefully to
descend to such low estate. He is like him who spreads his balm
upon the ashes and dust, who mingles sugar with gall, and suet
with honey. However, he did not act so this time, but rather
lodged in a noble place, for which no one can reproach him. When
the dead man had been buried, all the people dispersed, leaving
no clerks or knights or ladies, excepting only her who makes no
secret of her grief. She alone remains behind, often clutching
at her throat, wringing her hands, and beating her palms, as she
reads her psalms in her gilt lettered psalter. All this while my
lord Yvain is at the window gazing at her, and the more he looks
at her the more he loves her and is enthralled by her. He would
have wished that she should cease her weeping and reading, and
that she should feel inclined to converse with him. Love, who
caught him at the window, filled him with this desire. But he
despairs of realising his wish, for he cannot imagine or believe
that his desire can be gratified. So he says: "I may consider
myself a fool to wish for what I cannot have. Her lord it was
whom I wounded mortally, and yet do I think I can be reconciled
with her? Upon my word, such thoughts are folly, for at present
she has good reason to hate me more bitterly than anything. I am
right in saying `at present', for a woman has more than one mind.
That mind in which she is just now I trust she will soon change;
indeed, she will change it certainly, and I am mad thus to
despair. God grant that she change it soon! For I am doomed to
be her slave, since such is the will of Love. Whoever does not
welcome Love gladly, when he comes to him, commits treason and a
felony. I admit (and let whosoever will, heed what I say) that
such an one deserves no happiness or joy. But if I lose, it will
not be for such a reason; rather will I love my enemy. For I
ought not to feel any hate for her unless I wish to betray Love.
I must love in accordance with Love's desire. And ought she to
regard me as a friend? Yes, surely, since it is she whom I love.
And I call her my enemy, for she hates me, though with good
reason, for I killed the object of her love. So, then, am I her
enemy? Surely no, but her true friend, for I never so loved any
one before. I grieve for her fair tresses, surpassing gold in
their radiance; I feel the pangs of anguish and torment when I
see her tear and cut them, nor can her tears e'er be dried which
I see falling from her eyes; by all these things I am distressed.
Although they are full of ceaseless, ever-flowing tears, yet
never were there such lovely eves. The sight of her weeping
causes me agony, but nothing pains me so much as the sight of her
face, which she lacerates without its having merited such
treatment. I never saw such a face so perfectly formed, nor so
fresh and delicately coloured. And then it has pierced my heart
to see her clutch her throat. Surely, it is all too true that
she is doing the worst she can. And yet no crystal nor any
mirror is so bright and smooth. God! why is she thus possessed,
and why does she not spare herself? Why does she wring her
lovely hands and beat and tear her breast? Would she not be
marvellously fair to look upon when in happy mood, seeing that
she is so fair in her displeasure? Surely yes, I can take my
oath on that. Never before in a work of beauty was Nature thus
able to outdo herself, for I am sure she has gone beyond the
limits of any previous attempt. How could it ever have happened
then? Whence came beauty so marvellous? God must have made her
with His naked hand that Nature might rest from further toil. If
she should try to make a replica, she might spend her time in
vain without succeeding in her task. Even God Himself, were He
to try, could not succeed, I guess, in ever making such another,
whatever effort He might put forth."
(Vv. 1507-1588.) Thus my lord Yvain considers her who is broken
with her grief, and I suppose it would never happen again that
any man in prison, like my lord Yvain in fear for his life, would
ever be so madly in love as to make no request on his own behalf,
when perhaps no one else will speak for him. He stayed at the
window until he saw the lady go away, and both the portcullises
were lowered again. Another might have grieved at this, who
would prefer a free escape to tarrying longer where he was. But
to him it is quite indifferent whether they be shut or opened.
If they were open he surely would not go away, no, even were the
lady to give him leave and pardon him freely for the death of her
lord. For he is detained by Love and Shame which rise up before
him on either hand: he is ashamed to go away, for no one would
believe in the success of his exploit; on the other hand, he has
such a strong desire to see the lady at least, if he cannot
obtain any other favour, that he feels little concern about his
imprisonment. He would rather die than go away. And now the
damsel returns, wishing to bear him company with her solace and
gaiety, and to go and fetch for him whatever he may desire. But
she found him pensive and quite worn out with the love which had
laid hold of him; whereupon she addressed him thus: "My lord
Yvain, what sort of a time have you had to-day?" "I have been
pleasantly occupied," was his reply. "Pleasantly? In God's name,
is that the truth? What? How can one enjoy himself seeing that
he is hunted to death, unless he courts and wishes it?" "Of a
truth," he says, "my gentle friend, I should by no means wish to
die; and yet, as God beholds me, I was pleased, am pleased now,
and always shall be pleased by what I saw." "Well, let us say no
more of that," she makes reply, "for I can understand well enough
what is the meaning of such words. I am not so foolish or
inexperienced that I cannot understand such words as those; but
come now after me, for I shall find some speedy means to release
you from your confinement. I shall surely set you free to-night
or to-morrow, if you please. Come now, I will lead you away."
And he thus makes reply: "You may be sure that I will never
escape secretly and like a thief. When the people are all
gathered out there in the streets, I can go forth more honourably
than if I did so surreptitiously." Then he followed her into the
little room. The damsel, who was kind, secured and bestowed upon
him all that he desired. And when the opportunity arose, she
remembered what he had said to her how he had been pleased by
what he saw when they were seeking him in the room with intent to
kill him.
(Vv. 1589-1652.) The damsel stood in such favour with her lady
that she had no fear of telling her anything, regardless of the
consequences, for she was her confidante and companion. Then,
why should she be backward in comforting her lady and in giving
her advice which should redound to her honour? The first time
she said to her privily: "My lady, I greatly marvel to see you
act so extravagantly. Do you think you can recover your lord by
giving away thus to your grief?" "Nay, rather, if I had my
wish," says she, "I would now be dead of grief." "And why?" "In
order to follow after him." "After him? God forbid, and give
you again as good a lord, as is consistent with His might."
"Thou didst never speak such a lie as that, for He could never
give me so good a lord again." "He will give you a better one,
if you will accept him, and I can prove it." "Begone! Peace! I
shall never find such a one." "Indeed you shall, my lady, if you
will consent. Just tell me, if you will, who is going to defend
your land when King Arthur comes next week to the margin of the
spring? You have already been apprised of this by letters sent
you by the Dameisele Sauvage. Alas, what a kind service she did
for you! you ought to be considering how you will defend your
spring, and yet you cease not to weep! If it please you, my dear
lady, you ought not to delay. For surely, all the knights you
have are not worth, as you well know, so much as a single
chamber-maid. Neither shield nor lance will ever be taken in
hand by the best of them. You have plenty of craven servants,
but there is not one of them brave enough to dare to mount a
steed. And the King is coming with such a host that his victory
will be inevitable." The lady, upon reflection, knows very well
that she is giving her sincere advice, but she is unreasonable in
one respect, as also are other women who are, almost without
exception, guilty of their own folly, and refuse to accept what
they really wish. "Begone," she says; "leave me alone. If I
ever hear thee speak of this again it will go hard with thee,
unless thou flee. Thou weariest me with thy idle words." "Very
well, my lady," she says; "that you are a woman is evident, for
woman will grow irate when she hears any one give her good
advice."
(Vv. 1653-1726.) Then she went away and left her alone. And the
lady reflected that she had been in the wrong. She would have
been very glad to know how the damsel could ever prove that it
would be possible to find a better knight than her lord had ever
been. She would be very glad to hear her speak, but now she has
forbidden her. With this desire in mind, she waited until she
returned. But the warning was of no avail, for she began to say
to her at once: "My lady, is it seemly that you should thus
torment yourself with grief? For God's sake now control
yourself, and for shame, at least, cease your lament. It is not
fitting that so great a lady should keep up her grief so long.
Remember your honourable estate and your very gentle birth!
Think you that all virtue ceased with the death of your lord?
There are in the world a hundred as good or better men." "May
God confound me, if thou dost not lie! Just name to me a single
one who is reputed to be so excellent as my lord was all his
life." "If I did so you would be angry with me, and would fly
into a passion and you would esteem me less." "No, I will not, I
assure thee." "Then may it all be for your future welfare if you
would but consent, and may God so incline your will! I see no
reason for holding my peace, for no one hears or heeds what we
say. Doubtless you will think I am impudent, but I shall freely
speak my mind. When two knights have met in an affray of arms
and when one has beaten the other, which of the two do you think
is the better? For my part I award the prize to the victor. Now
what do you think?" "It seems to me you are laying a trap for me
and intend to catch me in my words." "Upon my faith, you may
rest assured that I am in the right, and I can irrefutably prove
to you that he who defeated your lord is better than he was
himself. He beat him and pursued him valiantly until he
imprisoned him in his house." "Now," she replies, "I hear the
greatest nonsense that was ever uttered. Begone, thou spirit
charged with evil! Begone, thou foolish and tiresome girl!
Never again utter such idle words, and never come again into my
presence to speak a word on his behalf!" "Indeed, my lady, I
knew full well that I should receive no thanks from you, and I
said so before I spoke. But you promised me you would not be
displeased, and that you would not be angry with me for it. But
you have failed to keep your promise, and now, as it has turned
out, you have discharged your wrath on me, and I have lost by not
holding my peace."
(Vv. 1727-1942.) Thereupon she goes back to the room where my
lord Yvain is waiting, comfortably guarded by her vigilance. But
he is ill at ease when he cannot see the lady, and he pays no
attention, and hears no word of the report which the damsel
brings to him. The lady, too, is in great perplexity all night,
being worried about how she should defend the spring; and she
begins to repent of her action to the damsel, whom she had blamed
and insulted and treated with contempt. She feels very sure and
certain that not for any reward or bribe, nor for any affection
which she may bear him, would the maiden ever have mentioned him;
and that she must love her more than him, and that she would
never give her advice which would bring her shame or
embarrassment: the maid is too loyal a friend for that. Thus,
lo! the lady is completely changed: she fears now that she to
whom she had spoken harshly will never love her again devotedly;
and him whom she had repulsed, she now loyally and with good
reason pardons, seeing that he had done her no wrong. So she
argues as if he were in her presence there, and thus she begins
her argument: "Come," she says, "canst thou deny that my lord was
killed by thee?" "That," says he, "I cannot deny. Indeed, I
fully admit it." "Tell me, then, the reason of thy deed. Didst
thou do it to injure me, prompted by hatred or by spite?" "May
death not spare me now, if I did it to injure you." "In that
case, thou hast done me no wrong, nor art thou guilty of aught
toward him. For he would have killed thee, if he could. So it
seems to me that I have decided well and righteously." Thus, by
her own arguments she succeeds in discovering justice, reason,
and common sense, how that there is no cause for hating him; thus
she frames the matter to conform with her desire, and by her own
efforts she kindles her love, as a bush which only smokes with
the flame beneath, until some one blows it or stirs it up. If
the damsel should come in now, she would win the quarrel for
which she had been so reproached, and by which she had been so
hurt. And next morning, in fact, she appeared again, taking the
subject up where she had let it drop. Meanwhile, the lady bowed
her head, knowing she had done wrong in attacking her. But now
she is anxious to make amends, and to inquire concerning the
name, character, and lineage of the knight: so she wisely humbles
herself, and says: "I wish to beg your pardon for the insulting
words of pride which in my rage I spoke to you: I will follow
your advice. So tell me now, if possible, about the knight of
whom you have spoken so much to me: what sort of a man is he, and
of what parentage? If he is suited to become my mate, and
provided he be so disposed, I promise you to make him my husband
and lord of my domain. But he will have to act in such a way
that no one can reproach me by saying: `This is she who took him
who killed her lord.'" "In God's name, lady, so shall it be.
You will have the gentlest, noblest, and fairest lord who ever
belonged to Abel's line." "What is his name?" "My lord Yvain."
"Upon my word, if he is King Urien's son he is of no mean birth,
but very noble, as I well know." "Indeed, my lady, you say the
truth." "And when shall we be able to see him?" "In five days'
time." "That would be too long; for I wish he were already come.
Let him come to-night, or to-morrow, at the latest." "My lady, I
think no one could fly so far in one day. But I shall send one
of my squires who can run fast, and who will reach King Arthur's
court at least by to-morrow night, I think; that is the place we
must seek for him." "That is a very long time. The days are
long. But tell him that to-morrow night he must be back here,
and that he must make greater haste than usual. If he will only
do his best, he can do two days' journey in one. Moreover,
to-night the moon will shine; so let him turn night into day.
And when he returns I will give him whatever he wishes me to
give." "Leave all care of that to me; for you shall have him in
your hands the day after to-morrow at the very latest. Meanwhile
you shall summon your men and confer with them about the
approaching visit of the King. In order to make the customary
defence of your spring it behoves you to consult with them. None
of them will be so hardy as to dare to boast that he will present
himself. In that case you will have a good excuse for saving
that it behoves you to marry again. A certain knight, highly
qualified, seeks your hand; but you do not presume to accept him
without their unanimous consent. And I warrant what the outcome
will be: I know them all to be such cowards that in order to put
on some one else the burden which would be too heavy for them,
they will fall at your feet and speak their gratitude; for thus
their responsibility will be at an end. For, whoever is afraid
of his own shadow willingly avoids, if possible, any meeting with
lance or spear; for such games a coward has no use." "Upon my
word," the lady replies, "so I would have it, and so I consent,
having already conceived the plan which you have expressed; so
that is what we shall do. But why do you tarry here? Go,
without delay, and take measures to bring him here, while I shall
summon my liege-men." Thus concluded their conference. And the
damsel pretends to send to search for my lord Yvain in his
country; while every day she has him bathed, and washed, and
groomed. And besides this she prepares for him a robe of red
scarlet stuff, brand new and lined with spotted fur. There is
nothing necessary for his equipment which she does not lend to
him: a golden buckle for his neck, ornamented with precious
stones which make people look well, a girdle, and a wallet made
of rich gold brocade. She fitted him out perfectly, then
informed her lady that the messenger had returned, having done
his errand well. "How is that?" she says, "is he here? Then let
him come at once, secretly and privily, while no one is here with
me. See to it that no one else come in, for I should hate to see
a fourth person here." At this the damsel went away, and
returned to her guest again. However, her face did not reveal
the joy that was in her heart; indeed, she said that her lady
knew that she had been sheltering him, and was very much incensed
at her. "Further concealment is useless now. The news about you
has been so divulged that my lady knows the whole story and is
very angry with me, heaping me with blame and reproaches. But
she has given me her word that I may take you into her presence
without any harm or danger. I take it that you will have no
objection to this, except for one condition (for I must not
disguise the truth, or I should be unjust to you): she wishes to
have you in her control, and she desires such complete possession
of your body that even your heart shall not be at large."
"Certainly," he said, "I readily consent to what will be no
hardship to me. I am willing to be her prisoner." "So shall you
be: I swear it by this right hand laid upon you!. Now come and,
upon my advice, demean yourself so humbly in her presence that
your imprisonment may not be grievous. Otherwise feel no
concern. I do not think that your restraint will be irksome."
Then the damsel leads him off, now alarming, now reassuring him,
and speaking to him mysteriously about the confinement in which
he is to find himself; for every lover is a prisoner. She is
right in calling him a prisoner; for surely any one who loves is
no longer free.
(Vv. 1943-2036.) Taking my lord Yvain by the hand, the damsel
leads him where he will be dearly loved; but expecting to be ill
received, it is not strange if he is afraid. They found the lady
seated upon a red cushion. I assure you my lord Yvain was
terrified upon entering the room, where he found the lady who
spoke not a word to him. At this he was still more afraid, being
overcome with fear at the thought that he had been betrayed. He
stood there to one side so long that the damsel at last spoke up
and said: "Five hundred curses upon the head of him who takes
into a fair lady's chamber a knight who will not draw near, and
who has neither tongue nor mouth nor sense to introduce himself."
Thereupon, taking him by the arm, she thrust him forward with the
words: "Come, step forward, knight, and have no fear that my lady
is going to snap at you; but seek her good-will and give her
yours. I will join you in your prayer that she pardon you for
the death of her lord, Esclados the Red." Then my lord Yvain
clasped his hands, and failing upon his knees, spoke like a lover
with these words: "I will not crave your pardon, lady, but rather
thank you for any treatment you may inflict on me, knowing that
no act of yours could ever be distasteful to me." "Is that so,
sir? And what if I think to kill you now?" "My lady, if it
please you, you will never hear me speak otherwise." "I never
heard of such a thing as this: that you put yourself voluntarily
and absolutely within my power, without the coercion of any one."
"My lady, there is no force so strong, in truth, as that which
commands me to conform absolutely to your desire. I do not fear
to carry out any order you may be pleased to give. And if I
could atone for the death, which came through no fault of mine, I
would do so cheerfully." "What?" says she, "come tell me now and
be forgiven, if you did no wrong in killing my lord?" "Lady," he
says, "if I may say it, when your lord attacked me, why was I
wrong to defend myself? When a man in self-defence kills another
who is trying to kill or capture him, tell me if in any way he is
to blame." "No, if one looks at it aright. And I suppose it
would have been no use, if I had had you put to death. But I
should be glad to learn whence you derive the force that bids you
to consent unquestioningly to whatever my will may dictate. I
pardon you all your misdeeds and crimes. But be seated, and tell
us now what is the cause of your docility?" "My lady," he says,
"the impelling force comes from my heart, which is inclined
toward you. My heart has fixed me in this desire." "And what
prompted your heart, my fair sweet friend?" "Lady, my eyes."
"And what the eyes?" "The great beauty that I see in you." "And
where is beauty's fault in that?" "Lady, in this: that it makes
me love." "Love? And whom?" "You, my lady dear." "I?" "Yes,
truly." "Really? And how is that?" "To such an extent that my
heart will not stir from you, nor is it elsewhere to be found; to
such an extent that I cannot think of anything else, and I
surrender myself altogether to you, whom I love more than I love
myself, and for whom, if you will, I am equally ready to die or
live." "And would you dare to undertake the defence of my spring
for love of me?" "Yes, my lady, against the world." "Then you
may know that our peace is made."
(Vv. 2037-2048.) Thus they are quickly reconciled. And the
lady, having previously consulted her lords, says: "We shall
proceed from here to the hall where my men are assembled, who, in
view of the evident need, have advised and counselled me to take
a husband at their request. And I shall do so, in view of the
urgent need: here and now I give myself to you; for I should not
refuse to accept as lord, such a good knight and a king's son."
(Vv. 2049-2328.) Now the damsel has brought about exactly what
she had desired. And my lord Yvain's mastery is more complete
than could be told or described; for the lady leads him away to
the hall, which was full of her knights and men-at-arms. And my
lord Yvain was so handsome that they all marvelled to look at
him, and all, rising to their feet, salute and bow to my lord
Yvain, guessing well as they did so: "This is he whom my lady
will select. Cursed be he who opposes him! For he seems a
wonderfully fine man. Surely, the empress of Rome would be well
married with such a man. Would now that he had given his word to
her, and she to him, with clasped hand, and that the wedding
might take place to-day or tomorrow." Thus they spoke among
themselves. At the end of the hall there was a seat, and there
in the sight of all the lady took her place. And my lord Yvain
made as if he intended to seat himself at her feet; but she
raised him up, and ordered the seneschal to speak aloud, so that
his speech might be heard by all. Then the seneschal began,
being neither stubborn nor slow of speech: "My lords," he said,
"we are confronted by war. Every day the King is preparing with
all the haste he can command to come to ravage our lands. Before
a fortnight shall have passed, all will have been laid waste,
unless some valiant defender shall appear. When my lady married
first, not quite seven years ago, she did it on your advice. Now
her husband is dead, and she is grieved. Six feet of earth is
all he has, who formerly owned all this land, and who was indeed
its ornament. (14) It is a pity he lived so short a while. A
woman cannot bear a shield, nor does she know how to fight with
lance. It would exalt and dignify her again if she should marry
some worthy lord. Never was there greater need than now; do all
of you recommend that she take a spouse, before the custom shall
lapse which has been observed in this town for more than the past
sixty years." At this, all at once proclaim that it seems to
them the right thing to do, and they all throw themselves at her
feet. They strengthen her desire by their consent; yet she
hesitates to assert her wishes until, as if against her will, she
finally speaks to the same intent as she would have done, indeed,
if every one had opposed her wish: "My lords, since it is your
wish, this knight who is seated beside me has wooed me and
ardently sought my hand. He wishes to engage himself in the
defence of my rights and in my service, for which I thank him
heartily, as you do also. It is true I have never known him in
person, but I have often heard his name. Know that he is no less
a man than the son of King Urien. Beside his illustrious
lineage, he is so brave, courteous, and wise that no one has
cause to disparage him. You have all already heard, I suppose,
of my lord Yvain, and it is he who seeks my hand. When the
marriage is consummated, I shall have a more noble lord than I
deserve." They all say: "If you are prudent, this very day shall
not go by without the marriage being solemnised. For it is folly
to postpone for a single hour an advantageous act." They beseech
her so insistently that she consents to what she would have done
in any case. For Love bids her do that for which she asks
counsel and advice; but there is more honour for him in being
accepted with the approval of her men. To her their prayers are
not unwelcome; rather do they stir and incite her heart to have
its way. The horse, already under speed, goes faster yet when it
is spurred. In the presence of all her lords, the lady gives
herself to my lord Yvain. From the hand of her chaplain he
received the lady, Laudine de Landuc, daughter of Duke Laudunet,
of whom they sing a lay. That very day without delay he married
her, and the wedding was celebrated. There were plenty of mitres
and croziers there, for the lady had summoned her bishops and
abbots. Great was the joy and rejoicing, there were many people,
and much wealth was displayed--more than I could tell you of,
were I to devote much thought to it. It is better to keep silent
than to be inadequate. So my lord Yvain is master now, and the
dead man is quite forgot. He who killed him is now married to
his wife, and they enjoy the marriage rights. The people love
and esteem their living lord more than they ever did the dead.
They served him well at his marriage-feast, until the eve before
the day when the King came to visit the marvellous spring and its
stone, bringing with him upon this expedition his companions and
all those of his household; not one was left behind. And my lord
Kay remarked: "Ah, what now has become of Yvain, who after his
dinner made the boast that he would avenge his cousin's shame?
Evidently he spoke in his cups. I believe that he has run away.
He would not dare to come back for anything. He was very
presumptuous to make such a boast. He is a bold man who dares to
boast of what no one would praise him for, and who has no proof
of his great feats except the words of some false flatterer.
There is a great difference between a coward and a hero; for the
coward seated beside the fire talks loudly about himself, holding
all the rest as fools, and thinking that no one knows his real
character. A hero would be distressed at hearing his prowess
related by some one else. And yet I maintain that the coward is
not wrong to praise and vaunt himself, for he will find no one
else to lie for him. If he does not boast of his deeds, who
will? All pass over him in silence, even the heralds, who
proclaim the brave, but discard the cowards." When my lord Kay
had spoken thus, my lord Gawain made this reply: "My lord Kay,
have some mercy now! Since my lord Yvain is not here, you do not
know what business occupies him. Indeed. he never so debased
himself as to speak any ill of you compared with the gracious
things he has said." "Sire," says Kay, "I'll hold my peace.
I'll not say another word to-day, since I see you are offended by
my speech." Then the King, in order to see the rain, poured a
whole basin full of water upon the stone beneath the pine, and at
once the rain began to pour. It was not long before my lord Yvain
without delay entered the forest fully armed, tiding faster than
a gallop on a large, sleek steed, strong, intrepid, and fleet of
foot. And it was my lord Kay's desire to request the first
encounter. For, whatever the outcome might be, he always wished
to begin the fight and joust the first, or else he would be much
incensed. Before all the rest, he requested the King to allow
him to do battle first. The King says: "Kay, since it is your
wish, and since you are the first to make the request, the favour
ought not to be denied." Kay thanks him first, then mounts his
steed. If now my lord Yvain can inflict a mild disgrace upon
him, he will be very glad to do so; for he recognises him by his
arms. (15) Each grasping his shield by the straps, they rush
together. Spurring their steeds, they lower the lances, which
they hold tightly gripped. Then they thrust them forward a
little, so that they grasped them by the leather-wrapped handles,
and so that when they came together they were able to deal such
cruel blows that both lances broke in splinters clear to the
handle of the shaft. My lord Yvain gave him such a mighty blow
that Kay took a summersault from out of his saddle and struck
with his helmet on the ground. My lord Yvain has no desire to
inflict upon him further harm, but simply dismounts and takes his
horse. This pleased them all, and many said: "Ah, ah, see how
you prostrate lie, who but now held others up to scorn! And yet
it is only right to pardon you this time; for it never happened
to you before." Thereupon my lord Yvain approached the King,
leading the horse in his hand by the bridle, and wishing to make
it over to him. "Sire," says he, "now take this steed, for I
should do wrong to keep back anything of yours." "And who are
you?" the King replies; "I should never know you, unless I heard
your name, or saw you without your arms." Then my lord told him
who he was, and Kay was overcome with shame, mortified, humbled,
and discomfited, for having said that he had run away. But the
others were greatly pleased, and made much of the honour he had
won. Even the King was greatly gratified, and my lord Gawain a
hundred times more than any one else. For he loved his company
more than that of any other knight he knew. And the King
requested him urgently to tell him, if it be his will, how he had
fared; for he was very curious to learn all about his adventure;
so the King begs him to tell the truth. And he soon told him all
about the service and kindness of the damsel, not passing over a
single word, not forgetting to mention anything. And after this
he invited the King and all his knights to come to lodge with
him, saying they would be doing him great honour in accepting his
hospitality. And the King said that for an entire week he would
gladly do him the honour and pleasure, and would bear him
company. And when my lord Yvain had thanked him, they tarry no
longer there, but mount and take the most direct road to the
town. My lord Yvain sends in advance of the company a squire
beating a crane-falcon, in order that they might not take the
lady by surprise, and that her people might decorate the streets
against the arrival of the King. When the lady heard the news
of the King's visit she was greatly pleased; nor was there any
one who, upon hearing the news, was not happy and elated. And
the lady summons them all and requests them to go to meet him, to
which they make no objection or remonstrance, all being anxious
to do her will.
(Vv. 2329-2414.) (16) Mounted on great Spanish steeds, they all
go to meet the King of Britain, saluting King Arthur first with
great courtesy and then all his company. "Welcome," they say,
"to this company, so full of honourable men! Blessed be he who
brings them hither and presents us with such fair guests!" At
the King's arrival the town resounds with the joyous welcome
which they give. Silken stuffs are taken out and hung aloft as
decorations, and they spread tapestries to walk upon and drape
the streets with them, while they wait for the King's approach.
And they make still another preparation, in covering the streets
with awnings against the hot rays of the sun. Bells, horns, and
trumpets cause the town to ring so that God's thunder could not
have been heard. The maidens dance before him, flutes and pipes
are played, kettle-drums, drums, and cymbals are beaten. On
their part the nimble youths leap, and all strive to show their
delight. With such evidence of their joy, they welcome the King
fittingly. And the Lady came forth, dressed in imperial garb a
robe of fresh ermine--and upon her head she wore a diadem all
ornamented with rubies. No cloud was there upon her face, but it
was so gay and full of joy that she was more beautiful, I think,
than any goddess. Around her the crowd pressed close, as they
cried with one accord: "Welcome to the King of kings and lord of
lords!" The King could not reply to all before he saw the lady
coming toward him to hold his stirrup. However, he would not
wait for this, but hastened to dismount himself as soon as he
caught sight of her. Then she salutes him with these words:
"Welcome a hundred thousand times to the King, my lord, and
blessed be his nephew, my lord Gawain!" The King replies: "I
wish all happiness and good luck to your fair body and your face,
lovely creature!" Then clasping her around the waist, the King
embraced her gaily and heartily as she did him, throwing her arms
about him. I will say no more of how gladly she welcomed them,
but no one ever heard of any people who were so honourably
received and served. I might tell you much of the joy should I
not be wasting words, but I wish to make brief mention of an
acquaintance which was made in private between the moon and the
sun. Do you know of whom I mean to speak? He who was lord of
the knights, and who was renowned above them all, ought surely to
be called the sun. I refer, of course, to my lord Gawain, for
chivalry is enhanced by him just as when the morning sun sheds
its rays abroad and lights all places where it shines. And I
call her the moon, who cannot be otherwise because of her sense
and courtesy. However, I call her so not only because of her
good repute, but because her name is, in fact, Lunete.
(Vv. 2415-2538.) The damsel's name was Lunete, and she was a
charming brunette, prudent, clever, and polite. As her
acquaintance grows with my lord Gawain, he values her highly and
gives her his love as to his sweetheart, because she had saved
from death his companion and friend; he places himself freely at
her service. On her part she describes and relates to him with
what difficulty she persuaded her mistress to take my lord Yvain
as her husband, and how she protected him from the hands of those
who were seeking him; how he was in their midst but they did not
see him. My lord Gawain laughed aloud at this story of hers, and
then he said: "Mademoiselle, when you need me and when you don't,
such as I am, I place myself at your disposal. Never throw me
off for some one else when you think you can improve your lot. I
am yours, and do you be from now on my demoiselle!" "I thank you
kindly, sire," she said. While the acquaintance of these two was
ripening thus, the others, too, were engaged in flirting. For
there were perhaps ninety ladies there, each of whom was fair and
charming, noble and polite, virtuous and prudent, and a lady of
exalted birth, so the men could agreeably employ themselves in
caressing and kissing them, and in talking to them and in gazing
at them while they were seated by their side; that much
satisfaction they had at least. My lord Yvain is in high feather
because the King is lodged with him. And the lady bestows such
attention upon them all, as individuals and collectively, that
some foolish person might suppose that the charming attentions
which she showed them were dictated by love. But such persons
may properly be rated as fools for thinking that a lady is in
love with them just because she is courteous and speaks to some
unfortunate fellow, and makes him happy and caresses him. A fool
is made happy by fair words, and is very easily taken in. That
entire week they spent in gaiety; forest and stream offered
plenty of sport for any one who desired it. And whoever wished
to see the land which had come into the hands of my lord Yvain
with the lady whom he had married, could go to enjoy himself at
one of the castles which stood within a radius of two, three, or
four leagues. When the King had stayed as long as he chose, he
made ready to depart. But during the week they had all begged
urgently, and with all the insistence at their command, that they
might take away my lord Yvain with them. "What? Will you be one
of those." said my lord Gawain to him, "who degenerate after
marriage? (17) Cursed be he by Saint Mary who marries and then
degenerates! Whoever has a fair lady as his mistress or his wife
should be the better for it, and it is not right that her
affection should be bestowed on him after his worth and
reputation are gone. Surely you, too, would have cause to regret
her love if you grew soft, for a woman quickly withdraws her
love, and rightly so, and despises him who degenerates in any way
when he has become lord of the realm. Now ought your fame to be
increased! Slip off the bridle and halter and come to the
tournament with me, that no one may say that you are jealous.
Now you must no longer hesitate to frequent the lists, to share
in the onslaught, and to contend with force, whatever effort it
may cost! Inaction produces indifference. But, really, you must
come, for I shall be in your company. Have a care that our
comradeship shall not fail through any fault of yours, fair
companion; for my part, you may count on me. It is strange how a
man sets store by the life of ease which has no end. Pleasures
grow sweeter through postponement; and a little pleasure, when
delayed, is much sweeter to the taste than great pleasure enjoyed
at once. The sweets of a love which develops late are like a
fire in a green bush; for the longer one delays in lighting it
the greater will be the heat it yields, and the longer will its
force endure. One may easily fall into habits which it is very
difficult to shake off, for when one desires to do so, he finds
he has lost the power. Don't misunderstand my words, my friend:
if I had such a fair mistress as you have, I call God and His
saints to witness, I should leave her most reluctantly; indeed, I
should doubtless be infatuated. But a man may give another
counsel, which he would not take himself, just as the preachers,
who are deceitful rascals, and preach and proclaim the right but
who do not follow it themselves."
(Vv. 2539-2578.) My lord Gawain spoke at such length and so
urgently that he promised him that he would go; but he said that
he must consult his lady and ask for her consent. Whether it be
a foolish or a prudent thing to do, he will not fail to ask her
leave to return to Britain. Then he took counsel with his wife,
who had no inkling of the permission he desired, as he addressed
her with these words: "My beloved lady, my heart and soul, my
treasure, joy, and happiness, grant me now a favour which will
redound to your honour and to mine." The lady at once gives her
consent. not knowing what his desire is, and says: "Fair lord,
you may command me your pleasure, whatever it be." Then my lord
Yvain at once asks her for permission to escort the King and to
attend at tournaments, that no one may reproach his indolence.
And she replies: "I grant you leave until a certain date; but be
sure that my love will change to hate if you stay beyond the term
that I shall fix. Remember that I shall keep my word; if you
break your word I will keep mine. If you wish to possess my
love, and if you have any regard for me, remember to come back
again at the latest a year from the present date a week after St.
John's day; for to-day is the eighth day since that feast. You
will be checkmated of my love if you are not restored to me on
that day."
(Vv. 2579-2635.) My lord Yvain weeps and sighs so bitterly that
he can hardly find words to say: "My lady, this date is indeed a
long way off. If I could be a dove, whenever the fancy came to
me, I should often rejoin you here. And I pray God that in His
pleasure He may not detain me so long away. But sometimes a man
intends speedily to return who knows not what the future has in
store for him. And I know not what will be my fate--perhaps
some urgency of sickness or imprisonment may keep me back: you
are unjust in not making an exception at least of actual
hindrance." "My lord," says she, "I will make that exception.
And yet I dare to promise you that, if God deliver you from
death, no hindrance will stand in your way so long as you
remember me. So put on your finger now this ring of mine, which
I lend to you. And I will tell you all about the stone: no true
and loyal lover can be imprisoned or lose any blood, nor can any
harm befall him, provided he carry it and hold it dear, and keep
his sweetheart in mind. You will become as hard as iron, and it
will serve you as shield and hauberk. I have never before been
willing to lend or entrust it to any knight, but to you I give it
because of my affection for you." Now my lord Yvain is free to
go, but he weeps bitterly on taking leave. The King, however,
would not tarry longer for anything that might be said: rather
was he anxious to have the palfreys brought all equipped and
bridled. They acceded at once to his desire, bringing the
palfreys forth, so that it remained only to mount. I do not know
whether I ought to tell you how my lord Yvain took his leave, and
of the kisses bestowed on him, mingled with tears and steeped in
sweetness. And what shall I tell you about the King how the lady
escorts him, accompanied by her damsels and seneschal? All this
would require too much time. When he sees the lady's tears, the
King implores her to come no farther, but to return to her abode.
He begged her with such urgency that, heavy at heart, she turned
about followed by her company.
(Vv. 2639-2773.) My lord Yvain is so distressed to leave his
lady that his heart remains behind. The King may take his body
off, but he cannot lead his heart away. She who stays behind
clings so tightly to his heart that the King has not the power to
take it away with him. When the body is left without the heart
it cannot possibly live on. For such a marvel was never seen as
the body alive without the heart. Yet this marvel now came
about: for he kept his body without the heart, which was wont to
be enclosed in it, but which would not follow the body now. The
heart has a good abiding-place, while the body, hoping for a safe
return to its heart, in strange fashion takes a new heart of
hope, which is so often deceitful and treacherous. He will never
know in advance, I think, the hour when this hope will play him
false, for if he overstays by single day the term which he has
agreed upon, it will be hard for him to gain again his lady's
pardon and goodwill. Yet I think he will overstay the term, for
my lord Gawain will not allow him to part from him, as together
they go to joust wherever tournaments are held. And as the year
passes by my lord Yvain had such success that my lord Gawain
strove to honour him, and caused him to delay so long that all
the first year slipped by, and it came to the middle of August of
the ensuing year, when the King held court at Chester, whither
they had returned the day before from a tournament where my lord
Yvain had been and where he had won the glory and the story tells
how the two companions were unwilling to lodge in the town, but
had their tents set up outside the city, and held court there.
For they never went to the royal court, but the King came rather
to join in theirs, for they had the best knights, and the
greatest number, in their company. Now King Arthur was seated in
their midst, when Yvain suddenly had a thought which surprised
him more than any that had occurred to him since he had taken
leave of his lady, for he realised that he had broken his word,
and that the limit of his leave was already exceeded. He could
hardly keep back his tears, but he succeeded in doing so from
shame. He was still deep in thought when he saw a damsel
approaching rapidly upon a black palfrey with white forefeet. As
she got down before the tent no one helped her to dismount, and
no one went to take her horse. As soon as she made out the King,
she let her mantle fall, and thus displayed she entered the tent
and came before the King, announcing that her mistress sent
greetings to the King, and to my lord Gawain and all the other
knights, except Yvain, that disloyal traitor, liar, hypocrite,
who had deserted her deceitfully. "She has seen clearly the
treachery of him who pretended he was a faithful lover while he
was a false and treacherous thief. This thief has traduced my
lady, who was all unprepared for any evil, and to whom it never
occurred that he would steal her heart away. Those who love
truly do not steal hearts away; there are, however, some men, by
whom these former are called thieves, who themselves go about
deceitfully making love, but in whom there is no real knowledge
of the matter. The lover takes his lady's heart, of course, but
he does not run away with it; rather does he treasure it against
those thieves who, in the guise of honourable men, would steal it
from him. But those are deceitful and treacherous thieves who
vie with one another in stealing hearts for which they care
nothing. The true lover, wherever he may go, holds the heart
dear and brings it back again. But Yvain has caused my lady's
death, for she supposed that he would guard her heart for her,
and would bring it back again before the year elapsed. Yvain,
thou wast of short memory when thou couldst not remember to
return to thy mistress within a year. She gave thee thy liberty
until St. John's day, and thou settest so little store by her
that never since has a thought of her crossed thy mind. My lady
had marked every day in her chamber, as the seasons passed: for
when one is in love, one is ill at ease and cannot get any
restful sleep, but all night long must needs count and reckon up
the days as they come and go. Dost thou know how lovers spend
their time? They keep count of the time and the season. Her
complaint is not presented prematurely or without cause, and I am
not accusing him in any way, but I simply say that we have been ~
betrayed by him who married my lady. Yvain, my mistress has no
further care for thee, but sends thee word by me never to come
back to her, and no longer to keep her ring. She bids thee send
it back to her by me, whom thou seest present here. Surrender it
now, as thou art bound to do."
(Vv. 2774-3230.) Senseless and deprived of speech, Yvain is
unable to reply. And the damsel steps forth and takes the ring
from his finger, commending to God the King and all the others
except him, whom she leaves in deep distress. And his sorrow
grows on him: he feels oppressed by what he hears, and is
tormented by what he sees. He would rather be banished alone in
some wild land, where no one would know where to seek for him,
and where no man or woman would know of his whereabouts any more
than if he were in some deep abyss. He hates nothing so much as
he hates himself, nor does he know to whom to go for comfort in
the death he has brought upon himself. But he would rather go
insane than not take vengeance upon himself, deprived, as he is,
of joy through his own fault. He rises from his place among the
knights, fearing he will lose his mind if he stays longer in
their midst. On their part, they pay no heed to him, but let him
take his departure alone. They know well enough that he cares
nothing for their talk or their society. And he goes away until
he is far from the tents and pavilions. Then such a storm broke
loose in his brain that he loses his senses; he tears his flesh
and, stripping off his clothes, he flees across the meadows and
fields, leaving his men quite at a loss, and wondering what has
become of him. (18) They go in search of him through all the
country around--in the lodgings of the knights, by the
hedgerows, and in the gardens--but they seek him where he is
not to be found. Still fleeing, he rapidly pursued his way until
he met close by a park a lad who had in his hand a bow and five
barbed arrows, which were very sharp and broad. He had sense
enough to go and take the bow and arrows which he held. However,
he had no recollection of anything that he had done. He lies in
wait for the beasts in the woods, killing them, and then eating
the venison raw. Thus he dwelt in the forest like a madman or a
savage, until he came upon a little, low-lying house belonging to
a hermit, who was at work clearing his ground. When he saw him
coming with nothing on, he could easily perceive that he was not
in his right mind; and such was the case, as the hermit very well
knew. So, in fear, he shut himself up in his little house, and
taking some bread and fresh water, he charitably set it outside
the house on a narrow window-ledge. And thither the other comes,
hungry for the bread which he takes and eats. I do not believe
that he ever before had tasted such hard and bitter bread. The
measure of barley kneaded with the straw, of which the bread,
sourer than yeast, was made, had not cost more than five sous;
and the bread was musty and as dry as bark. But hunger torments
and whets his appetite, so that the bread tasted to him like
sauce. For hunger is itself a well mixed and concocted sauce for
any food. My lord Yvain soon ate the hermit's bread, which
tasted good to him, and drank the cool water from the jar. When
he had eaten, he betook himself again to the woods in search of
stags and does. And when he sees him going away, the good man
beneath his roof prays God to defend him and guard him lest he
ever pass that way again. But there is no creature, with
howsoever little sense, that will not gladly return to a place
where he is kindly treated. So, not a day passed while he was in
this mad fit that he did not bring to his door some wild game.
Such was the life he led; and the good man took it upon himself
to remove the skin and set a good quantity of the venison to
cook; and the bread and the water in the jug was always standing
on the window-ledge for the madman to make a meal. Thus he had
something to eat and drink: venison without salt or pepper, and
good cool water from the spring. And the good man exerted
himself to sell the hide and buy bread made of barley, or oats,
or of some other grain; so, after that, Yvain had a plentiful
supply of bread and venison, which sufficed him for a long time,
until one day he was found asleep in the forest by two damsels
and their mistress, in whose service they were. When they saw
the naked man, one of the three ran and dismounted and examined
him closely, before she saw anything about him which would serve
to identify him. If he had only been richly attired, as he had
been many a time, and if she could have seen him then she would
have known him quickly enough. But she was slow to recognise
him, and continued to look at him until at last she noticed a
scar which he had on his face, and she recollected that my lord
Yvain's face was scarred in this same way; she was sure of it,
for she had often seen it. Because of the scar she saw that it
was he beyond any doubt; but she marvelled greatly how it came
about that she found him thus poor and stripped. Often she
crosses herself in amazement, but she does not touch him or wake
him up; rather does she mount her horse again, and going back to
the others, tells them tearfully of her adventure. I do not know
if I ought to delay to tell you of the grief she showed; but thus
she spoke weeping to her mistress: "My lady, I have found Yvain,
who has proved himself to be the best knight in the world, and
the most virtuous. I cannot imagine what sin has reduced the
gentleman to such a plight. I think he must have had some
misfortune, which causes him thus to demean himself, for one may
lose his wits through grief. And any one can see that he is not
in his right mind, for it would surely never be like him to
conduct himself thus indecently unless he had lost his mind.
Would that God had restored to him the best sense he ever had,
and would that he might then consent to render assistance to your
cause! For Count Alier, who is at war with you, has made upon
you a fierce attack. I should see the strife between you two
quickly settled in your favour if God favoured your fortunes so
that he should return to his senses and undertake to aid you in
this stress." To this the lady made reply: "Take care now! For
surely, if he does not escape, with God's help I think we can
clear his head of all the madness and insanity. But we must be
on our way at once! For I recall a certain ointment with which
Morgan the Wise presented me, saying there was no delirium of the
head which it would not cure." Thereupon, they go off at once
toward the town, which was hard by, for it was not any more than
half a league of the kind they have in that country; and, as
compared with ours, two of their leagues make one and four make
two. And he remains sleeping all alone, while the lady goes to
fetch the ointment. The lady opens a case of hers, and, taking
out a box, gives it to the damsel, and charges her not to be too
prodigal in its use: she should rub only his temples with it, for
there is no use of applying it elsewhere; she should anoint only
his temples with it, and the remainder she should carefully keep,
for there is nothing the matter with him except in his brain.
She sends him also a robe of spotted fur, a coat, and a mantle of
scarlet silk. The damsel takes them, and leads in her right hand
an excellent palfrey. And she added to these, of her own store,
a shirt, some soft hose, and some new drawers of proper cut.
With all these things she quickly set out, and found him still
asleep where she had left him. After putting her horse in an
enclosure where she tied him fast, she came with the clothes and
the ointment to the place where he was asleep. Then she made so
bold as to approach the madman, so that she could touch and
handle him: then taking the ointment she rubbed him with it until
none remained in the box, being so solicitous for his recovery
that she proceeded to anoint him all over with it; and she used
it so freely that she heeded not the warning of her mistress, nor
indeed did she remember it. She put more on than was needed, but
in her opinion it was well employed. She rubbed his temples and
forehead, and his whole body down to the ankles. She rubbed his
temples and his whole body so much there in the hot sunshine that
the madness and the depressing gloom passed completely out of his
brain. But she was foolish to anoint his body, for of that there
was no need. If she had had five measures of it she would
doubtless have done the same thing. She carries off the box, and
takes hidden refuge by her horse. But she leaves the robe
behind, wishing that, if God calls him back to life, he may see
it all laid out, and may take it and put it on. She posts
herself behind an oak tree until he had slept enough, and was
cured and quite restored, having regained his wits and memory.
Then he sees that he is as naked as ivory, and feels much
ashamed; but he would have been yet more ashamed had he known
what had happened. As it is, he knows nothing but that he is
naked. He sees the new robe lying before him, and marvels
greatly how and by what adventure it had come there. But he is
ashamed and concerned, because of his nakedness, and says that he
is dead and utterly undone if any one has come upon him there and
recognised him. Meanwhile, he clothes himself and looks out into
the forest to see if any one was approaching. He tries to stand
up and support himself, but cannot summon the strength to walk
away, for his sickness has so affected him that he can scarcely
stand upon his feet. Thereupon, the damsel resolves to wait no
longer, but, mounting, she passed close by him, as if unaware of
his presence. Quite indifferent as to whence might come the
help, which he needed so much to lead him away to some lodging-
place, where he might recruit his strength, he calls out to her
with all his might. And the damsel, for her part, looks about
her as if not knowing what the trouble is. Confused, she goes
hither and thither, not wishing to go straight up to him. Then
he begins to call again: "Damsel, come this way, here!" And the
damsel guided toward him her soft-stepping palfrey. By this ruse
she made him think that she knew nothing of him and had never
seen him before; in so doing she was wise and courteous. When
she had come before him, she said: "Sir knight, what do you
desire that you call me so insistently?" "Ah," said he. "prudent
damsel, I have found myself in this wood by some mishap--I know
not what. For God's sake and your belief in Him, I pray you to
lend me, taking my word as pledge, or else to give me outright,
that palfrey you are leading in your hand." "Gladly, sire: but
you must accompany me whither I am going." "Which way?" says he.
"To a town that stands near by, beyond the forest." "Tell me,
damsel, if you stand in need of me." "Yes," she says, "I do; but
I think you are not very well. For the next two weeks at least
you ought to rest. Take this horse, which I hold in my right
hand, and we shall go to our lodging-place." And he, who had no
other desire, takes it and mounts, and they proceed until they
come to a bridge over a swift and turbulent stream. And the
damsel throws into the water the empty box she is carrying,
thinking to excuse herself to her mistress for her ointment by
saying that she was so unlucky as to let the box fall into the
water for, when her palfrey stumbled under her, the box slipped
from her gasp, and she came near falling in too, which would have
been still worse luck. It is her intention to invent this story
when she comes into her mistress' presence. Together they held
their way until they came to the town, where the lady detained my
lord Yvain and asked her damsel in private for her box and
ointment: and the damsel repeated to her the lie as she had
invented it, not daring to tell her the truth. Then the lady was
greatly enraged, and said: "This is certainly a very serious
loss, and I am sure and certain that the box will never be found
again. But since it has happened so, there is nothing more to be
done about it. One often desires a blessing which turns out to
be a curse; thus I, who looked for a blessing and joy from this
knight, have lost the dearest and most precious of my
possessions. However, I beg you to serve him in all respects."
"Ah, lady, how wisely now you speak! For it would be too bad to
convert one misfortune into two."
(Vv. 3131-3254.) Then they say no more about the box, but
minister in every way they can to the comfort of my lord Yvain,
bathing him and washing his hair, having him shaved and clipped,
for one could have taken up a fist full of hair upon his face.
His every want is satisfied: if he asks for arms, they are
furnished him: if he wants a horse, they provide him with one
that is large and handsome, strong and spirited. He stayed there
until, upon a Tuesday, Count Alier came to the town with his men
and knights, who started fires and took plunder. Those in the
town at once rose up and equipped themselves with arms. Some
armed and some unarmed, they issued forth to meet the plunderers,
who did not deign to retreat before them, but awaited them in a
narrow pass. My lord Yvain struck at the crowd; he had had so
long a rest that his strength was quite restored, and he struck a
knight upon his shield with such force that he sent down in a
heap, I think, the knight together with his horse. The knight
never rose again, for his backbone was broken and his heart burst
within his breast. My lord Yvain drew back a little to recover.
Then protecting himself completely with his shield, he spurred
forward to clear the pass. One could not have counted up to four
before one would have seen him cast down speedily four knights.
Whereupon, those who were with him waxed more brave, for many a
man of poor and timid heart, at the sight of some brave man who
attacks a dangerous task before his eves, will be overwhelmed by
confusion and shame, which will drive out the poor heart in his
body and give him another like to a hero's for courage. So these
men grew brave and each stood his ground in the fight and attack.
And the lady was up in the tower, whence she saw the fighting and
the rush to win and gain possession of the pass, and she saw
lying upon the ground many who were wounded and many killed, both
of her own party and of the enemy, but more of the enemy than of
her own. For my courteous, bold, and excellent lord Yvain made
them yield just as a falcon does the teal. And the men and women
who had remained within the town declared as they watched the
strife: "Ah, what a valiant knight! How he makes his enemies
yield, and how fierce is his attack! He was about him as a lion
among the fallow deer, when he is impelled by need and hunger.
Then, too, all our other knights are more brave and daring
because of him, for, were it not for him alone, not a lance would
have been splintered nor a sword drawn to strike. When such an
excellent man is found he ought to be loved and dearly prized.
See now how he proves himself, see how he maintains his place,
see how he stains with blood his lance and bare sword, see how he
presses the enemy and follows them up, how he comes boldly to
attack them, then gives away and turns about; but he spends
little time in giving away, and soon returns to the attack. See
him in the fray again, how lightly he esteems his shield, which
he allows to be cut in pieces mercilessly. Just see how keen he
is to avenge the blows which are dealt at him. For, if some one
should use all the forest of Argone (19) to make lances for him,
I guess he would have none left by night. For he breaks all the
lances that they place in his socket, and calls for more. And
see how he wields the sword when he draws it! Roland never
wrought such havoc with Durendal against the Turks at Ronceval or
in Spain! (20) If he had in his company some good companions
like himself, the traitor, whose attack we are suffering, would
retreat today discomfited, or would stand his ground only to find
defeat." Then they say that the woman would be blessed who
should be loved by one who is so powerful in arms, and who above
all others may be recognised as a taper among candles, as a moon
among the stars, and as the sun above the moon. He so won the
hearts of all that the prowess which they see in him made them
wish that he had taken their lady to wife, and that he were
master of the land.
(Vv. 3255-3340.) Thus men and women alike praised him, and in
doing so they but told the truth. For his attack on his
adversaries was such that they vie with one another in flight.
But he presses hard upon their heels, and all his companions
follow him, for by his side they feel as safe as if they were
enclosed in a high and thick stone wall. The pursuit continues
until those who flee become exhausted, and the pursuers slash at
them and disembowel their steeds. The living roll over upon the
dead as they wound and kill each other. They work dreadful
destruction upon each other; and meanwhile the Count flees with
my lord Yvain after him, until he comes up with him at the foot
of a steep ascent, near the entrance of a strong place which
belonged to the Count. There the Count was stopped, with no one
near to lend him aid; and without any excessive parley my lord
Yvain received his surrender. For as soon as he held him in his
hands, and they were left just man to man, there was no further
possibility of escape, or of yielding, or of self-defence; so the
Count pledged his word to go to surrender to the lady of Noroison
as her prisoner, and to make such peace as she might dictate.
And when he had accepted his word he made him disarm his head and
remove the shield from about his neck, and the Count surrendered
to him his sword. Thus he won the honour of leading off the
Count as his prisoner, and of giving him over to his enemies, who
make no secret of their joy. But the news was carried to the
town before they themselves arrived. While all come forth to
meet them, the lady herself leads the way. My lord Yvain holds
his prisoner by the hand, and presents him to her. The Count
gladly acceded to her wishes and demands, and secured her by his
word, oath, and pledges. Giving her pledges, he swears to her
that he will always live on peaceful terms with her, and will
make good to her all the loss which she can prove, and will build
up again the houses which he had destroyed. When these things
were agreed upon in accordance with the lady's wish, my lord
Yvain asked leave to depart. But she would not have granted him
this permission had he been willing to take her as his mistress.
or to marry her. But he would not allow himself to be followed
or escorted a single step, but rather departed hastily: in this
case entreaty was of no avail. So he started out to retrace his
path, leaving the lady much chagrined, whose joy he had caused a
while before. When he will not tarry longer she is the more
distressed and ill at ease in proportion to the happiness he had
brought to her, for she would have wished to honour him, and
would have made him, with his consent, lord of all her
possessions, or else she would have paid him for his services
whatever sum he might have named. But he would not heed any word
of man or woman. Despite their grief he left the knights and the
lady who vainly tried to detain him longer.
(Vv. 3341-3484.) Pensively my lord Yvain proceeded through a
deep wood, until he heard among the trees a very loud and dismal
cry, and he turned in the direction whence it seemed to come.
And when he had arrived upon the spot he saw in a cleared space a
lion, and a serpent which held him by the tail, burning his hind-
quarters with flames of fire. My lord Yvain did not gape at this
strange spectacle, but took counsel with himself as to which of
the two he should aid. Then he says that he will succour the
lion, for a treacherous and venomous creature deserves to be
harmed. Now the serpent is poisonous, and fire bursts forth from
its mouth--so full of wickedness is the creature. So my lord
Yvain decides that he will kill the serpent first. Drawing his
sword he steps forward, holding the shield before his face in
order not to be harmed by the flame emerging from the creature's
throat, which was larger than a pot. If the lion attacks him
next, he too shall have all the fight he wishes; but whatever may
happen afterwards he makes up his mind to help him now. For pity
urges him and makes request that he should bear succour and aid
to the gentle and noble beast. With his sword, which cuts so
clean, he attacks the wicked serpent, first cleaving him through
to the earth and cutting him in two, then continuing his blows
until he reduces him to tiny bits. But he had to cut off a piece
of the lion's tail to get at the serpent's head, which held the
lion by the tail. He cut off only so much as was necessary and
unavoidable. When he had set the lion free, he supposed that he
would have to fight with him, and that the lion would come at
him; but the lion was not minded so. Just hear now what the lion
did! He acted nobly and as one well-bred; for he began to make
it evident that he yielded himself to him, by standing upon his
two hind-feet and bowing his face to the earth, with his fore-feet
joined and stretched out toward him. Then he fell on his
knees again, and all his face was wet with the tears of humility.
My lord Yvain knows for a truth that the lion is thanking him and
doing him homage because of the serpent which he had killed,
thereby delivering him from death. He was greatly pleased by
this episode. He cleaned his sword of the serpent's poison and
filth; then he replaced it in its scabbard, and resumed his way.
And the lion walks close by his side, unwilling henceforth to
part from him: he will always in future accompany him, eager to
serve and protect him. (21) He goes ahead until he scents in the
wind upon his way some wild beasts feeding; then hunger and his
nature prompt him to seek his prey and to secure his sustenance.
It is his nature so to do. He started ahead a little on the
trail, thus showing his master that he had come upon and detected
the odour and scent of some wild game. Then he looks at him and
halts, wishing to serve his every wish, and unwilling to proceed
against his will. Yvain understands by his attitude that he is
showing that he awaits his pleasure. He perceives this and
understands that if he holds back he will hold back too, and that
if he follows him he will seize the game which he has scented.
Then he incites and cries to him, as he would do to hunting-dogs.
At once the lion directed his nose to the scent which he had
detected, and by which he was not deceived, for he had not gone a
bow-shot when he saw in a valley a deer grazing all alone. This
deer he will seize, if he has his way. And so he did, at the
first spring, and then drank its blood still warm. When he had
killed it he laid it upon his back and carried it back to his
master, who thereupon conceived a greater affection for him, and
chose him as a companion for all his life, because of the great
devotion he found in him. It was near nightfall now, and it
seemed good to him to spend the night there, and strip from the
deer as much as he cared to eat. Beginning to carve it he splits
the skin along the rib, and taking a steak from the loin he
strikes from a flint a spark, which he catches in some dry brush-
wood; then he quickly puts his steak upon a roasting spit to cook
before the fire, and roasts it until it is quite cooked through.
But there was no pleasure in the meal, for there was no bread, or
wine, or salt, or cloth, or knife, or anything else. While he
was eating, the lion lay at his feet; nor a movement did he make,
but watched him steadily until he had eaten all that he could eat
of the steak. What remained of the deer the lion devoured, even
to the bones. And while all night his master laid his head upon
his shield to gain such rest as that afforded, the lion showed
such intelligence that he kept awake, and was careful to guard
the horse as it fed upon the grass, which yielded some slight
nourishment.
(Vv. 3485-3562.) In the morning they go off together, and the
same sort of existence, it seems, as they had led that night,
they two continued to lead all the ensuing week, until chance
brought them to the spring beneath the pine-tree. There my lord
Yvain almost lost his wits a second time, as he approached the
spring, with its stone and the chapel that stood close by. So
great was his distress that a thousand times he sighed "alas!"
and grieving fell in a swoon; and the point of his sharp sword,
falling from its scabbard, pierced the meshes of his hauberk
right in the neck beside the cheek. There is not a mesh that
does not spread, and the sword cuts the flesh of his neck beneath
the shining mail, so that it causes the blood to start. Then the
lion thinks that he sees his master and companion dead. You
never heard greater grief narrated or told about anything than he
now began to show. He casts himself about, and scratches and
cries, and has the wish to kill himself with the sword with which
he thinks his master has killed himself. Taking the sword from
him with his teeth he lays it on a fallen tree, and steadies it
on a trunk behind, so that it will not slip or give way, when he
hurls his breast against it, His intention was nearly
accomplished when his master recovered from his swoon, and the
lion restrained himself as he was blindly rushing upon death,
like a wild boar heedless of where he wounds himself. Thus my
lord Yvain lies in a swoon beside the stone, but, on recovering,
he violently reproached himself for the year during which he had
overstayed his leave, and for which he had incurred his lady's
hate, and he said: "Why does this wretch not kill himself who has
thus deprived himself of joy? Alas! why do I not take my life?
How can I stay here and look upon what belongs to my lady? Why
does the soul still tarry in my body? What is the soul doing in
so miserable a frame? If it had already escaped away it would
not be in such torment. It is fitting to hate and blame and
despise myself, even as in fact I do. Whoever loses his bliss
and contentment through fault or error of his own ought to hate
himself mortally. He ought to hate and kill himself. And now,
when no one is looking on, why do I thus spare myself? Why do I
not take my life? Have I not seen this lion a prey to such grief
on my behalf that he was on the point just now of thrusting my
sword through his breast? And ought I to fear death who have
changed happiness into grief? Joy is now a stranger to me. Joy?
What joy is that? I shall say no more of that, for no one could
speak of such a thing; and I have asked a foolish question. That
was the greatest joy of all which was assured as my possession,
but it endured for but a little while. Whoever loses such joy
through his own misdeed is undeserving of happiness."
(Vv. 3563-3898.) While he thus bemoaned his fate, a lorn damsel
in sorry plight, who was in the chapel, saw him and heard his
words through a crack in the wall. As soon as he was recovered
from his swoon, she called to him: "God," said she, "who is that
I hear? Who is it that thus complains?" And he replied: "And
who are you?" "I am a wretched one," she said, "the most
miserable thing alive." And he replied: "Be silent, foolish one!
Thy grief is joy and thy sorrow is bliss compared with that in
which I am cast down. In proportion as a man becomes more
accustomed to happiness and joy, so is he more distracted and
stunned than any other man by sorrow when it comes. A man of
little strength can carry, through custom and habit, a weight
which another man of greater strength could not carry for
anything." "Upon my word," she said, "I know the truth of that
remark; but that is no reason to believe that your misfortune is
worse than mine. Indeed, I do not believe it at all, for it
seems to me that you can go anywhere you choose to go, whereas I
am imprisoned here, and such a fate is my portion that to-morrow
I shall be seized and delivered to mortal judgment." "Ah, God!"
said he, "and for what crime?" "Sir knight, may God never have
mercy upon my soul, if I have merited such a fate! Nevertheless,
I shall tell you truly, without deception, why I am here in
prison: I am charged with treason, and I cannot find any one to
defend me from being burned or hanged to-morrow." "In the first
place," he replied, "I may say that my grief and woe are greater
than yours, for you may yet be delivered by some one from the
peril in which you are. Is that not true:" "Yes, but I know not
yet by whom. There are only two men in the world who would dare
on my behalf to face three men in battle." "What? In God's
name, are there three of them?" "Yes, sire, upon my word. There
are three who accuse me of treachery." "And who are they who are
so devoted to you that either one of them would be bold enough to
fight against three in your defence?" "I will answer your
question truthfully: one of them is my lord Gawain, and the other
is my lord Yvain, because of whom I shall to-morrow be handed
over unjustly to the martyrdom of death." "Because of whom?" he
asked, "what did you say?" "Sire, so help me God, because of the
son of King Urien." "Now I understand your words, but you shall
not die, without he dies too. I myself am that Yvain, because of
whom you are in such distress. And you, I take it, are she who
once guarded me safely in the hall, and saved my life and my body
between the two portcullises, when I was troubled and distressed,
and alarmed at being trapped. I should have been killed or
seized, had it not been for your kind aid. Now tell me, my
gentle friend, who are those who now accuse you of treachery, and
have confined you in this lonely place?" "Sire, I shall not
conceal it from you, since you desire me to tell you all. It is
a fact that I was not slow in honestly aiding you. Upon my
advice my lady received you, after heeding my opinion and my
counsel. And by the Holy Paternoster, more for her welfare than
for your own I thought I was doing it, and I think so still. So
much now I confess to you: it was her honour and your desire that
I sought to serve, so help me God! But when it became evident
that you had overstayed the year when you should return to my
mistress, then she became enraged at me, and thought that she had
been deceived by putting trust in my advice. And when this was
discovered by the seneschal--a rascally, underhanded, disloyal
wretch, who was jealous of me because in many matters my lady
trusted me more than she trusted him, he saw that he could now
stir up great enmity between me and her. In full court and in
the presence of all he accused me of having betrayed her in your
favour. And I had no counsel or aid except my own; but I knew
that I had never done or conceived any treacherous act toward my
lady, so I cried out, as one beside herself, and without the
advice of any one, that I would present in my own defence one
knight who should fight against three. The fellow was not
courteous enough to scorn to accept such odds, nor was I at
liberty to retreat or withdraw for anything that might happen.
So he took me at my word, and I was compelled to furnish bail
that I would present within forty days a knight to do battle
against three knights. Since then I have visited many courts; I
was at King Arthur's court, but found no help from any there, nor
did I find any one who could tell me any good news of you, for
they knew nothing of your affairs." "Pray tell me. Where then
was my good and gentle lord Gawain? No damsel in distress ever
needed his aid without its being extended to her." "If I had
found him at court, I could not have asked him for anything which
would have been refused me; but a certain knight has carried off
the Queen, so they told me; surely the King was mad to send her
off in his company. (22) I believe it was Kay who escorted her
to meet the knight who has taken her away; and my lord Gawain in
great distress has gone in search for her. He will never have
any rest until he finds her. Now I have told you the whole truth
of my adventure. To-morrow I shall be put to a shameful death,
and shall be burnt inevitably, a victim of your criminal
neglect." And he replies: "May God forbid that you should be
harmed because of me! So long as I live you shall not die! You
may expect me tomorrow, prepared to the extent of my power to
present my body in your cause, as it is proper that I should do.
But have no concern to tell the people who I am! However the
battle may turn out, take care that I be not recognised!"
"Surely, sire, no pressure could make me reveal your name. I
would sooner suffer death, since you will have it so. Yet, after
all, I beg you not to return for my sake. I would not have you
undertake a battle which will be so desperate. I thank you for
your promised word that you would gladly undertake it, but
consider yourself now released, for it is better that I should
die alone than that I should see them rejoice over your death as
well as mine; they would not spare my life after they had put you
to death. So it is better for you to remain alive than that we
both should meet death." "That is very ungrateful remark, my
dear," says my lord Yvain; "I suppose that either you do not wish
to be delivered from death, or else that you scorn the comfort I
bring you with my aid. I will not discuss the matter more, for
you have surely done so much for me that I cannot fail you in any
need. I know that you are in great distress; but, if it be God's
will, in whom I trust, they shall all three be discomfited. So
no more upon that score: I am going off now to find some shelter
in this wood, for there is no dwelling near at hand." "Sire,"
she says, "may God give you both good shelter and good night, and
protect you as I desire from everything that might do you harm!"
Then my lord Yvain departs, and the lion as usual after him.
They journeyed until they came to a baron's fortified place,
which was completely surrounded by a massive, strong, and high
wall. The castle, being extraordinarily well protected, feared
no assault of catapult or storming-machine; but outside the walls
the ground was so completely cleared that not a single hut or
dwelling remained standing. You will learn the cause of this a
little later, when the time comes. My lord Yvain made his way
directly toward the fortified place, and seven varlets came out
who lowered the bridge and advanced to meet him. But they were
terrified at sight of the lion, which they saw with him, and
asked him kindly to leave the lion at the gate lest he should
wound or kill them. And he replies: "Say no more of that! For I
shall not enter without him. Either we shall both find shelter
here or else I shall stay outside; he is as dear to me as I am
myself. Yet you need have no fear of him! For I shall keep him
so well in hand that you may be quite confident." They made
answer: "Very well!" Then they entered the town, and passed on
until they met knights and ladies and charming damsels coming
down the street, who salute him and wait to remove his armour as
they say: "Welcome to our midst, fair sire! And may God grant
that you tarry here until you may leave with great honour and
satisfaction!" High and low alike extend to him a glad welcome,
and do all they can for him, as they joyfully escort him into the
town. But after they had expressed their gladness they are
overwhelmed by grief, which makes them quickly forget their joy,
as they begin to lament and weep and beat themselves. Thus, for
a long space of time, they cease not to rejoice or make lament:
it is to honour their guest that they rejoice, but their heart is
not in what they do, for they are greatly worried over an event
which they expect to take place on the following day, and they
feel very sure and certain that it will come to pass before
midday. My lord Yvain was so surprised that they so often
changed their mood, and mingled grief with their happiness, that
he addressed the lord of the place on the subject. "For God's
sake," he said, "fair gentle sir, will you kindly inform me why
you have thus honoured me, and shown at once such joy and such
heaviness?" "Yes, if you desire to know, but it would be better
for you to desire ignorance and silence. I will never tell you
willingly anything to cause you grief. Allow us to continue to
lament, and do you pay no attention to what we do!" "It would be
quite impossible for me to see you sad and nor take it upon my
heart, so I desire to know the truth, whatever chagrin may result
to me." "Well, then," he said, "I will tell you all. I have
suffered much from a giant, who has insisted that I should give
him my daughter, who surpasses in beauty all the maidens in the
world. This evil giant, whom may God confound, is named Harpin
of the Mountain. Not a day passes without his taking all of my
possessions upon which he can lay his hands. No one has a better
right than I to complain, and to be sorrowful, and to make
lament. I might well lose my senses from very grief, for I had
six sons who were knights, fairer than any I knew in the world,
and the giant has taken all six of them. Before my eyes he
killed two of them, and to-morrow he will kill the other four,
unless I find some one who will dare to fight him for the
deliverance of my sons, or unless I consent to surrender my
daughter to him; and he says that when he has her in his
possession he will give her over to be the sport of the vilest
and lewdest fellows in his house, for he would scorn to take her
now for himself. That is the disaster which awaits me to-morrow,
unless the Lord God grant me His aid. So it is no wonder, fair
sir, if we are all in tears. But for your sake we strive for the
moment to assume as cheerful a countenance as we can. For he is
a fool who attracts a gentleman to his presence and then does not
honour him; and you seem to be a very perfect gentleman. Now I
have told you the entire story of our great distress. Neither in
town nor in fortress has the giant left us anything, except what
we have here. If you had noticed, you must have seen this
evening that he has not left us so much as an egg, except these
walls which are new; for he has razed the entire town. When he
had plundered all he wished, he set fire to what remained. In
this way he has done me many an evil turn."
(Vv. 3899-3956.) My lord Yvain listened to all that his host
told him, and when he had heard it all he was pleased to answer
him: "Sire, I am sorry and distressed about this trouble of
yours; but I marvel greatly that you have not asked assistance at
good King Arthur's court. There is no man so mighty that he
could not find at his court some who would be glad to try their
strength with his." Then the wealthy man reveals and explains to
him that he would have had efficient help if he had known where
to find my lord Gawain. "He would not have failed me upon this
occasion, for my wife is his own sister; but a knight from a
strange land, who went to court to seek the King's wife, has led
her away. However, he could not have gotten possession of her by
any means of his own invention, had it not been for Kay, who so
befooled the King that he gave the Queen into his charge and
placed her under his protection. He was a fool, and she
imprudent to entrust herself to his escort. And I am the one who
suffers and loses in all this; for it is certain that my
excellent lord Gawain would have made haste to come here, had he
known the facts, for the sake of his nephews and his niece. But
he knows nothing of it, wherefore I am so distressed that my
heart is almost breaking, for he is gone in pursuit of him, to
whom may God bring shame and woe for having led the Queen away."
While listening to this recital my lord Yvain does not cease to
sigh. Inspired by the pity which he feels, he makes this reply:
"Fair gentle sire, I would gladly undertake this perilous
adventure, if the giant and your sons should arrive to-morrow in
time to cause me no delay, for tomorrow at noon I shall be
somewhere else, in accordance with a promise I have made." "Once
for all, fair sire," the good man said, "I thank you a hundred
thousand times for your willingness." And all the people of the
house likewise expressed their gratitude.
(Vv. 3957-4384.) Just then the damsel came out of a room, with
her graceful body and her face so fair and pleasing to look upon.
She was very simple and sad and quiet as she came, for there was
no end to the grief she felt: she walked with her head bowed to
the ground. And her mother, too, came in from an adjoining room,
for the gentleman had sent for them to meet his guest. They
entered with their mantles wrapped about them to conceal their
tears; and he bid them throw back their mantles, and hold up
their heads, saying: "You ought not to hesitate to obey my
behests, for God and good fortune have given us here a very well-
born gentleman who assures me that he will fight against the
giant. Delay no longer now to throw yourselves at his feet!"
"May God never let me see that!" my lord Yvain hastens to
exclaim; "surely it would not be proper under any circumstances
for the sister and the niece of my lord Gawain to prostrate
themselves at my feet. May God defend me from ever giving place
to such pride as to let them fall at my feet! Indeed, I should
never forget the shame which I should feel; but I should be very
glad if they would take comfort until to-morrow, when they may
see whether God will consent to aid them. I have no other
request to make, except that the giant may come in such good time
that I be not compelled to break my engagement elsewhere; for I
would not fail for anything to be present to-morrow noon at the
greatest business I could ever undertake." Thus he is unwilling
to reassure them completely, for he fears that the giant may not
come early enough to allow him to reach in time the damsel who is
imprisoned in the chapel. Nevertheless, he promises them enough
to arouse good hope in them. They all alike join in thanking
him, for they place great confidence in his prowess, and they
think he must be a very good man, when they see the lion by his
side as confident as a lamb would be. They take comfort and
rejoice because of the hope they stake on him, and they indulge
their grief no more. When the time came they led him off to bed
in a brightly lighted room; both the damsel and her mother
escorted him, for they prized him dearly, and would have done so
a hundred thousand times more had they been informed of his
prowess and courtesy. He and the lion together lay down there
and took their rest. The others dared not sleep in the room; but
they closed the door so tight that they could not come out until
the next day at dawn. When the room was thrown open he got up
and heard Mass, and then, because of the promise he had made, he
waited until the hour of prime. Then in the hearing of all he
summoned the lord of the town and said: "My lord, I have no more
time to wait, but must ask your permission to leave at once; I
cannot tarry longer here. But believe truly that I would gladly
and willingly stay here yet awhile for the sake of the nephews
and the niece of my beloved lord Gawain, if I did not have a
great business on hand, and if it were not so far away." At this
the damsel's blood quivered and boiled with fear, as well as the
lady's and the lord's. They were so afraid he would go away that
they were on the point of humbling themselves and casting
themselves at his feet, when they recalled that he would not
approve or permit their action. Then the lord makes him an offer
of all he will take of his lands or wealth, if only he will wait
a little longer. And he replied: "God forbid that ever I should
take anything of yours!" Then the damsel, who is in dismay,
begins to weep aloud, and beseeches him to stay. Like one
distracted and prey to dread, she begs him by the glorious queen
of heaven and of the angels, and by the Lord, not to go but to
wait a little while; and then, too, for her uncle's sake, whom he
says he knows, and loves, and esteems. Then his heart is touched
with deep pity when he hears her adjuring him in the name of him
whom he loves the most, and by the mistress of heaven, and by the
Lord, who is the very honey and sweet savour of pity. Filled
with anguish he heaved a sigh, for were the kingdom of Tarsus at
stake he would not see her burned to whom he had pledged his aid.
If he could not reach her in time, he would be unable to endure
his life, or would live on without his wits on the other hand,
the kindness of his friend, my lord Gawain, only increased his
distress; his heart almost bursts in half at the thought that he
cannot delay. Nevertheless, he does not stir, but delays and
waits so long that the giant came suddenly, bringing with him the
knights: and hanging from his neck he carried a big square stake
with a pointed end, and with this he frequently spurred them on.
For their part they had no clothing on that was worth a straw,
except some soiled and filthy shirts: and their feet and hands
were bound with cords, as they came riding upon four limping
jades, which were weak, and thin, and miserable. As they came
riding along beside a wood, a dwarf, who was puffed up like a
toad, had tied the horses' tails together, and walked beside
them, beating them remorselessly with a four-knotted scourge
until they bled, thinking thereby to be doing something
wonderful. Thus they were brought along in shame by the giant
and the dwarf. Stopping in the plain in front of the city gate,
the giant shouts out to the noble lord that he will kill his sons
unless he delivers to him his daughter, whom he will surrender to
his vile fellows to become their sport. For he no longer loves
her nor esteems her, that he should deign to abase himself to
her. She shall be constantly beset by a thousand lousy and
ragged knaves, vacant wretches, and scullery boys, who all shall
lay hands on her. The worthy man is well-nigh beside himself
when he hears how his daughter will be made a bawd, or else,
before his very eyes, his four sons will be put to a speedy
death. His agony is like that of one who would rather be dead
than alive. Again and again he bemoans his fate, and weeps aloud
and sighs. Then my frank and gentle lord Yvain thus began to
speak to him: "Sire, very vile and impudent is that giant who
vaunts himself out there. But may God never grant that he should
have your daughter in his power! He despises her and insults her
openly. It would be too great a calamity if so lovely a creature
of such high birth were handed over to become the sport of boys.
Give me now my arms and horse! Have the drawbridge lowered, and
let me pass. One or the other must be cast down, either I or he,
I know not which. If I could only humiliate the cruel wretch who
is thus oppressing you, so that he would release your sons and
should come and make amends for the insulting words he has spoken
to you, then I would commend you to God and go about my
business." Then they go to get his horse, and hand over to him
his arms, striving so expeditiously that they soon have him quite
equipped. They delayed as little as they could in arming him.
When his equipment was complete, there remained nothing but to
lower the bridge and let him go. They lowered it for him, and he
went out. But the lion would by no means stay behind. All those
who were left behind commended the knight to the Saviour, for
they fear exceedingly lest their devilish enemy, who already had
slain so many good men on the same field before their eyes, would
do the same with him. So they pray God to defend him from death,
and return him to them safe and sound, and that He may give him
strength to slay the giant. Each one softly prays to God in
accordance with his wish. And the giant fiercely came at him,
and with threatening words thus spake to him: "By my eyes, the
man who sent thee here surely had no love for thee! No better
way could he have taken to avenge himself on thee. He has chosen
well his vengeance for whatever wrong thou hast done to him."
But the other, fearing naught, replies: "Thou treatest of what
matters not. Now do thy best, and I'll do mine. Idle parley
wearies me." Thereupon my lord Yvain, who was anxious to depart,
rides at him. He goes to strike him on the breast, which was
protected by a bear's skin, and the giant runs at him with his
stake raised in air. My lord Yvain deals him such a blow upon
the chest that he thrusts through the skin and wets the tip of
his lance in his body's blood by way of sauce. And the giant
belabours him with the stake, and makes him bend beneath the
blows. My lord Yvain then draws the sword with which he knew how
to deal fierce blows. He found the giant unprotected, for he
trusted in his strength so much that he disdained to arm himself.
And he who had drawn his blade gave him such a slash with the
cutting edge, and not with the flat side, that he cut from his
cheek a slice fit to roast. Then the other in turn gave him such
a blow with the stake that it made him sing in a heap upon his
horse's neck. Thereupon the lion bristles up, ready to lend his
master aid, and leaps up in his anger and strength, and strikes
and tears like so much bark the heavy bearskin the giant wore,
and he tore away beneath the skin a large piece of his thigh,
together with the nerves and flesh. The giant escaped his
clutches, roaring and bellowing like a bull, for the lion had
badly wounded him. Then raising his stake in both hands, he
thought to strike him, but missed his aim, when the lion leaded
backward so he missed his blow, and fell exhausted beside my lord
Yvain, but without either of them touching the other. Then my
lord Yvain took aim and landed two blows on him. Before he could
recover himself he had severed with the edge of his sword the
giant's shoulder from his body. With the next blow he ran the
whole blade of his sword through his liver beneath his chest; the
giant falls in death's embrace. And if a great oak tree should
fall, I think it would make no greater noise than the giant made
when he tumbled down. All those who were on the wall would fain
have witnessed such a blow. Then it became evident who was the
most fleet of foot, for all ran to see the game, just like hounds
which have followed the beast until they finally come up with
him. So men and women in rivalry ran forward without delay to
where the giant lay face downward. The daughter comes running,
and her mother too. And the four brothers rejoice after the woes
they have endured. As for my lord Yvain they are very sure that
they could not detain him for any reason they might allege, but
they beseech him to return and stay to enjoy himself as soon as
he shall have completed the business which calls him away. And
he replies that he cannot promise them anything, for as yet he
cannot guess whether it will fare well or ill with him. But thus
much did he say to his host: that he wished that his four sons
and his daughter should take the dwarf and go to my lord Gawain
when they hear of his return, and should tell and relate to him
how he has conducted himself. For kind actions are of no use if
you are not willing that they be known. And they reply: "It is
not right that such kindness as this should be kept hid: we shall
do whatever you desire. But tell us what we can say when we come
before him. Whose praises can we speak, when we know not what
your name may be?" And he answers them: "When you come before
him, you may say thus much: that I told you `The Knight with the
Lion' was my name. And at the same time I must beg you to tell
him from me that, if he does not recognise who I am, yet he knows
me well and I know him. Now I must be gone from here, and the
thing which most alarms me is that I may too long have tarried
here, for before the hour of noon be passed I shall have plenty
to do elsewhere, if indeed I can arrive there in time." Then,
without further delay, he starts. But first his host begged him
insistently that he would take with him his four sons: for there
was none of them who would not strive to serve him, if he would
allow it. But it did not please or suit him that any one should
accompany him; so he left the place to them, and went away alone.
And as soon as he starts, riding as fast as his steed can carry
him, he heads toward the chapel. The path was good and straight,
and he knew well how to keep the road. But before he could reach
the chapel, the damsel had been dragged out and the pyre prepared
upon which she was to be placed. Clad only in a shift, she was
held bound before the fire by those who wrongly attributed to her
an intention she had never had. My lord Yvain arrived, and,
seeing her beside the fire into which she was about to be cast,
he was naturally incensed. He would be neither courteous nor
sensible who had any doubt about that fact. So it is true that
he was much incensed; but he cherishes within himself the hope
that God and the Right will be on his side. In such helpers he
confides; nor does he scorn his lion's aid. Rushing quickly
toward the crowd, he shouts: "Let the damsel be, you wicked folk!
Having committed no crime, it is not right that she should be
cast upon a pyre or into a furnace." And they draw off on either
side, leaving a passage-way for him. But he yearns to see with
his own eyes her whom his heart beholds in whatever place she may
be. His eyes seek her until he finds her, while he subdues and
holds in check his heart, just as one holds in check with a
strong curb a horse that pulls. Nevertheless, he gladly gazes at
her, and sighs the while; but he does not sigh so openly that his
action is detected; rather does he stifle his sighs, though with
difficulty. And he is seized with pity at hearing, seeing, and
perceiving the grief of the poor ladies, who cried: "Ah, God, how
hast Thou forgotten us! How desolate we shall now remain when we
lose so kind a friend, who gave us such counsel and such aid, and
interceded for us at court! It was she who prompted madame to
clothe us with her clothes of vair. Henceforth the situation
will change, for there will be no one to speak for us! Cursed be
he who is the cause of our loss! For we shall fare badly in all
this. There will be no one to utter such advice as this: `My
lady, give this vair mantle, this cloak, and this garment to such
and such an honest dame! Truly, such charity will be well
employed, for she is in very dire need of them.' No such words
as these shall be uttered henceforth, for there is no one else
who is frank and courteous; but every one solicits for himself
rather than for some one else, even though he have no need."
(Vv. 4385-4474.) Thus they were bemoaning their fate; and my
lord Yvain who was in their midst, heard their complaints, which
were neither groundless nor assumed. He saw Lunete on her knees
and stripped to her shift, having already made confession, and
besought God's mercy for her sins. Then he who had loved her
deeply once came to her and raised her up, saying: "My damsel,
where are those who blame and accuse you? Upon the spot, unless
they refuse, battle will be offered them." And she, who had
neither seen nor looked at him before, said: "Sire. you come from
God in this time of my great need! The men who falsely accuse me
are all ready before me here; if you had been a little later I
should soon have been reduced to fuel and ashes. You have come
here in my defence, and may God give you the power to accomplish
it in proportion as I am guiltless of the accusation which is
made against me!" The seneschal and his two brothers heard these
words. "Ah!" they exclaim, "woman, chary of uttering truth but
generous with lies! He indeed is mad who for thy words assumes
so great a task. The knight must be simple-minded who has come
here to die for thee, for he is alone and there are three of us.
My advice to him is that he turn back before any harm shall come
to him." Then he replies, as one impatient to begin: "Whoever is
afraid, let him run away! I am not so afraid of your three
shields that I should go off defeated without a blow. I should
be indeed discourteous, if, while yet unscathed and in perfect
case, I should leave the place and field to you. Never, so long
as I am alive and sound, will I run away before such threats.
But I advise thee to set free the damsel whom thou hast unjustly
accused; for she tells me, and I believe her word, and she has
assured me upon the salvation of her soul, that she never
committed, or spoke, or conceived any treason against her
mistress. I believe implicitly what she has told me, and will
defend her as best I can, for I consider the righteousness of her
cause to be in my favour. For, if the truth be known, God always
sides with the righteous cause, for God and the Right are one;
and if they are both upon my side, then I have better company and
better aid than thou." (23) Then the other responds imprudently
that he may make every effort that pleases him and is convenient
to do him injury, provided that his lion shall not do him harm.
And he replies that he never brought the lion to champion his
cause, nor does he wish any but himself to take a hand: but if
the lion attacks him, let him defend himself against him as best
he can, for concerning him he will give no guarantee. Then the
other answers: "Whatever thou mayst say; unless thou now warn thy
lion, and make him stand quietly to one side, there is no use of
thy longer staying here, but begone at once, and so shalt thou be
wise; for throughout this country every one is aware how this
girl betrayed her lady, and it is right that she receive her due
reward in fire and flame." "May the Holy Spirit forbid!" says he
who knows the truth; "may God not let me stir from here until I
have delivered her!" Then he tells the lion to withdraw and to
lie down quietly, and he does so obediently.
(Vv. 4475-4532.) The lion now withdrew, and the parley and
quarrel being ended between them two, they all took their
distance for the charge. The three together spurred toward him,
and he went to meet them at a walk. He did not wish to be
overturned or hurt at this first encounter. So he let them split
their lances, while keeping his entire, making for them a target
of his shield, whereon each one broke his lance. Then he
galloped off until he was separated from them by the space of an
acre; but he soon returned to the business in hand, having no
desire to delay. On his coming up the second time, he reached
the seneschal before his two brothers, and breaking his lance
upon his body, he carried him to earth in spite of himself, and
he gave him such a powerful blow that for a long while he lay
stunned, incapable of doing him any harm. And then the other two
came at him with their swords bared, and both deal him great
blows, but they receive still heavier blows from him. For a
single one of the blows he deals is more than a match for two of
theirs; thus he defends himself so well that they have no
advantage over him, until the seneschal gets up and does his best
to injure him, in which attempt the others join, until they begin
to press him and get the upper hand. Then the lion, who is
looking on, delays no longer to lend him aid; for it seems to him
that he needs it now. And all the ladies, who are devoted to the
damsel, beseech God repeatedly and pray to Him earnestly not to
allow the death or the defeat of him who has entered the fray on
her account. The ladies, having no other weapons, thus assist
him with their prayers. And the lion brings him such effective
aid, that at his first attack, he strikes so fiercely the
seneschal, who was now on his feet, that he makes the meshes fly
from the hauberk like straw, and he drags him down with such
violence that he tears the soft flesh from his shoulder and all
down his side. He strips whatever he touches, so that the
entrails lie exposed. The other two avenge this blow.
(Vv. 4533-4634.) Now they are all even on the field. The
seneschal is marked for death, as he turns and welters in the red
stream of warm blood pouring from his body. The lion attacks the
others; for my lord Yvain is quite unable, though he did his best
by beating or by threatening him, to drive him back; but the lion
doubtless feels confident that his master does not dislike his
aid, but rather loves him the more for it: so he fiercely attacks
them, until they have reason to complain of his blows, and they
wound him in turn and use him badly. When my lord Yvain sees his
lion wounded, his heart is wroth within his breast, and rightly
so; but he makes such efforts to avenge him, and presses them so
hard, that he completely reduces them; they no longer resist him,
but surrender to him at discretion, because of the lion's help,
who is now in great distress; for he was wounded everywhere, and
had good cause to be in pain. For his part, my lord Yvain was by
no means in a healthy state, for his body bore many a wound. But
he is not so anxious about himself as about his lion, which is in
distress. Now he has delivered the damsel exactly in accordance
with his wish, and the lady has very willingly dismissed the
grudge that she bore her. And those men were burned upon the
pyre which had been kindled for the damsel's death; for it is
right and just that he who has misjudged another, should suffer
the same manner of death as that to which he had condemned the
other. Now Lunete is joyous and glad at being reconciled with
her mistress, and together they were more happy than any one ever
was before. Without recognising him, all present offered to him,
who was their lord, their service so long as life should last;
even the lady, who possessed unknowingly his heart, begged him
insistently to tarry there until his lion and he had quite
recovered. And he replied: "Lady, I shall not now tarry here
until my lady removes from me her displeasure and anger: then the
end of all my labours will come." "Indeed," she said, "that
grieves me. I think the lady cannot be very courteous who
cherishes ill-will against you. She ought not to close her door
against so valorous a knight as you, unless he had done her some
great wrong." "Lady,' he replies, "however great the hardship
be, I am pleased by what ever may be her will. But speak to me
no more of that; for I shall say nothing of the cause or crime,
except to those who are informed of it." "Does any one know it,
then, beside you two?" "Yes, truly, lady." "Well, tell us at
least your name, fair sir; then you will be free to go." "Quite
free, my lady? No, I shall not be free. I owe more than I can
pay. Yet, I ought not to conceal from you my name. You will
never hear of `The Knight with the Lion' without hearing of me;
for I wish to be known by that name." "For God's sake, sir, what
does that name mean? For we never saw you before, nor have we
ever heard mentioned this name of yours." "My lady, you may from
that infer that my fame is not widespread." Then the lady says:
"Once more, if it did not oppose your will, I would pray you to
tarry here." "Really, my lady, I should not dare, until I knew
certainly that I had regained my lady's good-will." "Well, then,
go in God's name, fair sir; and, if it be His will, may He
convert your grief and sorrow into joy." "Lady," says he, "may
God hear your prayer." Then he added softly under his breath:
"Lady, it is you who hold the key, and, though you know it not,
you hold the casket in which my happiness is kept under lock."
(Vv. 4635-4674.) Then he goes away in great distress, and there
is no one who recognises him save Lunete, who accompanied him a
long distance. Lunete alone keeps him company, and he begs her
insistently never to reveal the name of her champion. "Sire,"
says she, "I will never do so." Then he further requested her
that she should not forget him, and that she should keep a place
for him in his mistress' heart, whenever the chance arose. She
tells him to be at ease on that score; for she will never be
forgetful, nor unfaithful, nor idle. Then he thanks her a
thousand times, and he departs pensive and oppressed, because of
his lion that he must needs carry, being unable to follow him on
foot. He makes for him a litter of moss and ferns in his shield.
When he has made a bed for him there, he lays him in it as gently
as he can, and carries him thus stretched out full length on the
inner side of his shield. Thus, in his shield he bears him off,
until he arrives before the gate of a mansion, strong and fair.
Finding it closed, he called, and the porter opened it so
promptly that he had no need to call but once. He reaches out to
take his rein, and greets him thus: "Come in, fair sire. I offer
you the dwelling of my lord, if it please you to dismount." "I
accept the offer gladly," he replies, "for I stand in great need
of it, and it is time to find a lodging."
(Vv. 4675-4702.) Thereupon, he passed through the gate, and saw
the retainers in a mass coming to meet him. They greeted him and
helped him from his horse, and laid down upon the pavement his
shield with the lion on it. And some, taking his horse, put it
in a stable: while others very properly relieved him of his arms
and took them. Then the lord of the castle heard the news, and
at once came down into the courtyard, and greeted him. And his
lady came down, too, with all her sons and daughters and a great
crowd of other people, who all rejoiced to offer him a lodging.
They gave him a quiet room, because they deemed that he was sick;
but their good nature was put to a test when they allowed the
lion to go with him. His cure was undertaken by two maidens
skilled in surgery, who were daughters of the lord. I do not
know how many days he stayed there, until he and his lion, being
cured, were compelled to proceed upon their way.
(Vv. 4703-4736.) But within this time it came about that my lord
of Noire Espine had a struggle with Death, and so fierce was
Death's attack that he was forced to die. After his death it
happened that the elder of two daughters whom he had, announced
that she would possess uncontested all the estates for herself
during her entire lifetime, and that she would give no share to
her sister. And the other one said that she would go to King
Arthur's court to seek help for the defence of her claim to the
land. When the former saw that her sister would by no means
concede all the estates to her without contest, she was greatly
concerned, and thought that, if possible, she would get to court
before her. At once she prepared and equipped herself, and
without any tarrying or delay, she proceeded to the court. The
other followed her, and made all the haste she could; but her
journey was all in vain, for her eider sister had already
presented her case to my lord Gawain, and he had promised to
execute her will. But there was an agreement between them that
if any one should learn of the facts from her, he would never
again take arms for her, and to this arrangement she gave
consent.
(Vv. 4737-4758.) Just then the other sister arrived at court,
clad in a short mantle of scarlet cloth and fresh ermine. It
happened to be the third day after the Queen had returned from
the captivity in which Maleagant had detained her with all the
other prisoners; but Lancelot had remained behind, treacherously
confined within a tower. And on that very day, when the damsel
came to court, news was received of the cruel and wicked giant
whom the knight with the lion had killed in battle. In his name,
my lord Gawain was greeted by his nephews and niece, who told him
in detail of all the great service and great deeds of prowess he
had done for them for his sake, and how that he was well
acquainted with him, though not aware of his identity.
(Vv. 4759-4820.) All this was heard by her, who was plunged
thereby into great despair and sorrow and dejection; for, since
the best of the knights was absent, she thought she would find no
aid or counsel at the court. She had already made several loving
and insistent appeals to my lord Gawain; but he had said to her:
"My dear, it is useless to appeal to me; I cannot do it; I have
another affair on hand, which I shall in no wise give up." Then
the damsel at once left him, and presented herself before the
King. "O King," said she, "I have come to thee and to thy court
for aid. But I find none, and I am very much mazed that I can
get no counsel here. Yet it would not be right for me to go away
without taking leave. My sister may know, however, that she
might obtain by kindness whatever she desired of my property; but
I will never surrender my heritage to her by force, if I can help
it, and if I can find any aid or counsel." "You have spoken
wisely," said the King; "since she is present here, I advise,
recommend, and urge her to surrender to you what is your right."
Then the other, who was confident of the best knight in the
world, replied: "Sire, may God confound me, if ever I bestow on
her from my estates any castle, town, clearing, forest, land, or
anything else. But if any knight dares to take arms on her
behalf and desires to defend her cause, let him step forth at
once." "Your offer to her is not fair; she needs more time," the
King replied; "if she desires, she may have forty days to secure
a champion, according to the practice of all courts." To which
the elder sister replied: "Fair King, my lord, you may establish
your laws as it pleases you, and as seems good, nor is it my
place to gainsay you, so I must consent to the postponement, if
she desires it." Whereupon, the other says that she does desire
it, and she makes formal request for it. Then she commended the
King to God, and left the court resolving to devote her life to
the search through all the land for the Knight with the Lion, who
devotes himself to succouring women in need of aid.
(Vv. 4821-4928.) Thus she entered upon her quest, and traversed
many a country without hearing any news of him, which caused her
such grief that she fell sick. But it was well for her that it
happened so; for she came to the dwelling of a friend of hers, by
whom she was dearly loved. By this time her face showed clearly
that she was not in good health. They insisted upon detaining
her until she told them of her plight; whereupon, another damsel
took up the quest wherein she had been engaged, and continued the
search on her behalf. So while the one remained in this retreat,
the other rode rapidly all day long, until the darkness of night
came on, and caused her great anxiety. (24) And her trouble was
doubled when the rain came on with terrible violence, as if God
Himself were doing His worst, while she was in the depths of the
forest. The night and the woods cause her great distress, but
she is more tormented by the rain than by either the woods or the
night. And the road was so bad that her horse was often up to
the girth in mud; any damsel might well be terrified to be in the
woods, without escort, in such bad weather and in such darkness
that she could not see the horse she was riding. So she called
on God first, and His mother next, and then on all the saints in
turn, and offered up many a prayer that God would lead her out
from this forest and conduct her to some lodging-place. She
continued in prayer until she heard a horn, at which she greatly
rejoiced; for she thought now she would find shelter, if she
could only reach the place. So she turned in the direction of
the sound, and came upon a paved road which led straight toward
the horn whose sound she heard; for the horn had given three
long, loud blasts. And she made her way straight toward the
sound, until she came to a cross which stood on the right side of
the road, and there she thought that she might find the horn and
the person who had sounded it. So she spurred her horse in that
direction, until she drew near a bridge, and descried the white
walls and the barbican of a circular castle. Thus, by chance she
came upon the castle, setting her course by the sound which had
led her thither. She had been attracted by the sound of the horn
blown by a watchman upon the walls. As soon as the watchman
caught sight of her, he called to her, then came down, and taking
the key of the gate, opened it for her and said: "Welcome,
damsel, whoe'er you be. You shall be well lodged this night."
"I have no other desire than that," the damsel replied, as he let
her in. After the toil and anxiety she had endured that day, she
was fortunate to find such a lodging-place; for she was very
comfortable there. After the meal the host addressed her, and
inquired where she was going and what was her quest. Whereupon,
she thus replied: "I am seeking one whom I never saw, so far as I
am aware, and never knew; but he has a lion with him, and I am
told that, if I find him, I can place great confidence in him."
"I can testify to that," the other said: "for the day before
yesterday God sent him here to me in my dire need. Blessed be
the paths which led him to my dwelling. For he made me glad by
avenging me of a mortal enemy and killing him before my eyes.
Outside yonder gate you may see to-morrow the body of a mighty
giant, whom he slew with such ease that he hardly had to sweat."
"For God's sake, sire," the damsel said, "tell me now the truth,
if you know whither he went, and where he is." "I don't know,"
he said, "as God sees me here; but to-morrow I will start you on
the road by which he went away from here." "And may God," said
she, "lead me where I may hear true news of him. For if I find
him, I shall be very glad."
(Vv. 4929-4964.) Thus they continued in long converse until at
last they went to bed. When the day dawned, the maid arose,
being in great concern to find the object of her quest. And the
master of the house arose with all his companions, and set her
upon the road which led straight to the spring beneath the pine.
And she, hastening on her way toward the town, came and asked the
first men whom she met, if they could tell her where she would
find the lion and the knight who travelled in company. And they
told her that they had seen him defeat three knights in that very
place. Whereupon, she said at once: "For God's sake, since you
have said so much, do not keep back from me anything that you can
add." "No," they replied; "we know nothing more than we have
said, nor do we know what became of him. If she for whose sake
he came here, cannot give you further news, there will be no one
here to enlighten you. You will not have far to go, if you wish
to speak with her; for she has gone to make prayer to God and to
hear Mass in yonder church, and judging by the time she has been
inside, her orisons have been prolonged."
(Vv. 4965-5106.) While they were talking thus, Lunete came out
from the church, and they said: "There she is." Then she went to
meet her, and they greeted each other. She asked Lunete at once
for the information she desired; and Lunete said that she would
have a palfrey saddled; for she wished to accompany her, and
would take her to an enclosure where she had left him. The other
maiden thanked her heartily. Lunete mounts the palfrey which is
brought without delay, and, as they ride, she tells her how she
had been accused and charged with treason, and how the pyre was
already kindled upon which she was to be laid, and how he had
come to help her in just the moment of her need. While speaking
thus, she escorted her to the road which led directly to the spot
where my lord Yvain had parted from her. When she had
accompanied her thus far, she said: "Follow this road until you
come to a place where, if it please God and the Holy Spirit, you
will hear more reliable news of him than I can tell. I very well
remember that I left him either near here, or exactly here, where
we are now; we have not seen each other since then, and I do not
know what he has done. When he left me, he was in sore need of a
plaster for his wounds. So I will send you along after him, and
if it be God's will, may He grant that you find him to-night or
to-morrow in good health. Now go: I commend you to God. I must
not follow you any farther, lest my mistress be displeased with
me." Then Lunete leaves her and turns back; while the other
pushed on until she found a house, where my lord Yvain had
tarried until he was restored to health. She saw people gathered
before the gate, knights, ladies and men-at-arms, and the master
of the house; she saluted them, and asked them to tell her, if
possible, news of a knight for whom she sought. "Who is he?"
they ask. "I have heard it said that he is never without a lion."
"Upon my word, damsel," the master says, "he has just now left
us. You can come up with him to-night, if you are able to keep
his tracks in sight, and are careful not to lose any time."
"Sire," she answers, "God forbid. But tell me now in what
direction I must follow him." And they tell her: "This way,
straight ahead," and they beg her to greet him on their behalf.
But their courtesy was not of much avail; for, without giving any
heed, she galloped off at once. The pace seemed much too slow to
her, though her palfrey made good time. So she galloped through
the mud just the same as where the road was good and smooth,
until she caught sight of him with the lion as his companion.
Then in her gladness she exclaims: "God, help me now. At last I
see him whom I have so long pursued, and whose trace I have long
followed. But if I pursue and nothing gain, what will it profit
me to come up with him? Little or nothing, upon my word. If he
does not join in my enterprise, I have wasted all my pains."
Thus saying, she pressed on so fast that her palfrey was all in a
sweat; but she caught up with him and saluted him. He thus at
once replied to her: "God save you, fair one, and deliver you
from grief and woe." "The same to you, sire, who, I hope, will
soon be able to deliver me." Then she draws nearer to him, and
says: "Sire, I have long searched for you. The great fame of
your merit has made me traverse many a county in my weary search
for you. But I continued my quest so long, thank God, that at
last I have found you here. And if I brought any anxiety with
me, I am no longer concerned about it, nor do I complain or
remember it now. I am entirely relieved; my worry has taken
flight the moment I met with you. Moreover, the affair is none
of mine: I come to you from one that is better than I, a woman
who is more noble and excellent. But if she be disappointed in
her hopes of you, then she has been betrayed by your fair renown,
for she has no expectation of other aid. My damsel, who is
deprived of her inheritance by a sister, expects with your help
to win her suit; she will have none but you defend her cause. No
one can make her believe that any one else could bear her aid.
By securing her share of the heritage, you will have won and
acquired the love of her who is now disinherited, and you will
also increase your own renown. She herself was going in search
for you to secure the boon for which she hoped; no one else would
have taken her place, had she not been detained by an illness
which compels her to keep her bed. Now tell me, please, whether
you will dare to come, or whether you will decline." "No," he
says; "no man can win praise in a life of ease; and I will not
hold back, but will follow you gladly, my sweet friend,
whithersoever it may please you. And if she for whose sake you
have sought me out stands in some great need of me, have no fear
that I shall not do all I can for her. Now may God grant me the
happiness and grace to settle in her favour her rightful claim."
(Vv. 5107-5184.) (25) Thus conversing, they two rode away until
they approached the town of Pesme Avanture. They had no desire
to pass it by, for the day was already drawing to a close. They
came riding to the castle, when all the people, seeing them
approach, called out to the knight: "Ill come, sire, ill come.
This lodging-place was pointed out to you in order that you might
suffer harm and shame. An abbot might take his oath to that."
"Ah," he replied, "foolish and vulgar folk, full of all mischief,
and devoid of honour, why have you thus assailed me?" "Why? you
will find out soon enough, if you will go a little farther. But
you shall learn nothing more until you have ascended to the
fortress." At once my lord Yvain turns toward the tower, and the
crowd cries out, all shouting aloud at him: "Eh, eh, wretch,
whither goest thou? If ever in thy life thou hast encountered
one who worked thee shame and woe, such will be done thee there,
whither thou art going, as will never be told again by thee." My
lord Yvain, who is listening, says: "Base and pitiless people,
miserable and impudent, why do you assail me thus, why do you
attack me so? What do you wish of me, what do you want, that you
growl this way after me?" A lady, who was somewhat advanced in
years, who was courteous and sensible, said: "Thou hast no cause
to be enraged: they mean no harm in what they say; but, if thou
understoodest them aright, they are warning thee not to spend the
night up there; they dare not tell thee the reason for this, but
they are warning and blaming thee because they wish to arouse thy
fears. This they are accustomed to do in the case of all who
come, so that they may not go inside. And the custom is such
that we dare not receive in our own houses, for any reason
whatsoever, any gentleman who comes here from a distance. The
responsibility now is thine alone; no one will stand in thy way.
If thou wishest, thou mayst go up now; but my advice is to turn
back again." "Lady," he says, "doubtless it would be to my
honour and advantage to follow your advice; but I do not know
where I should find a lodging-place to-night." "Upon my word,"
says she, "I'll say no more, for the concern is none of mine. Go
wherever you please. Nevertheless, I should be very glad to see
you return from inside without too great shame; but that could
hardly be." "Lady," he says, "may God reward you for the wish.
However, my wayward heart leads me on inside, and I shall do what
my heart desires." Thereupon, he approaches the gate,
accompanied by his lion and his damsel. Then the porter calls to
him, and says: "Come quickly, come. You are on your way to a
place where you will be securely detained, and may your visit be
accursed."
(Vv. 5185-5346.) The porter, after addressing him with this very
ungracious welcome, hurried upstairs. But my lord Yvain, without
making reply, passed straight on, and found a new and lofty hall;
in front of it there was a yard enclosed with large, round,
pointed stakes, and seated inside the stakes he saw as many as
three hundred maidens, working at different kinds of embroidery.
Each one was sewing with golden thread and silk, as best she
could. But such was their poverty, that many of them wore no
girdle, and looked slovenly, because so poor; and their garments
were torn about their breasts and at the elbows, and their shifts
were soiled about their necks. Their necks were thin, and their
faces pale with hunger and privation. They see him, as he looks
at them, and they weep, and are unable for some time to do
anything or to raise their eyes from the ground, so bowed down
they are with woe. When he had contemplated them for a while, my
lord Yvain turned about and moved toward the door; but the porter
barred the way, and cried: "It is no use, fair master; you shall
not get out now. You would like to be outside: but, by my head,
it is of no use. Before you escape you will have suffered such
great shame that you could not easily suffer more; so you were
not wise to enter here, for there is no question of escaping
now." "Nor do I wish to do so, fair brother," said he; "but tell
me, by thy father's soul, whence came the damsels whom I saw in
the yard, weaving cloths of silk and gold. I enjoy seeing the
work they do, but I am much distressed to see their bodies so
thin, and their faces so pale and sad. I imagine they would be
fair and charming, if they had what they desire." "I will tell
you nothing," was the reply; "seek some one else to tell you."
"That will I do, since there is no better way." Then he searches
until he finds the entrance of the yard where the damsels were at
work: and coming before them, he greets them all, and sees tears
flowing from their eyes, as they weep. Then he says to them:
"May it please God to remove from your hearts, and turn to joy,
this grief, the cause of which I do not know." One of them
answers: "May you be heard by God, to whom you have addressed
your prayer. It shall not be concealed from you who we are, and
from what land: I suppose that is what you wish to know." "For
no other purpose came I here," says he. (26) "Sire, it happened
a long while ago that the king of the Isle of Damsels went
seeking news through divers courts and countries, and he kept on
his travels like a dunce until he encountered this perilous
place. It was an unlucky hour when he first came here, for we
wretched captives who are here receive all the shame and misery
which we have in no wise deserved. And rest assured that you
yourself may expect great shame, unless a ransom for you be
accepted. But, at any rate, so it came about that my lord came
to this town, where there are two sons of the devil (do not take
it as a jest) who were born of a woman and an imp. These two
were about to fight with the king, whose terror was great, for he
was not yet eighteen years old, and they would have been able to
cleave him through like a tender lamb. So the king, in his
terror, escaped his fate as best he could, by swearing that he
would send hither each year, as required, thirty of his damsels,
and with this rent he freed himself. And when he swore, it was
agreed that this arrangement should remain in force as long as
the two devils lived. But upon the day when they should be
conquered and defeated in battle, he would be relieved from this
tribute, and we should be delivered who are now shamefully given
over to distress and misery. Never again shall we know what
pleasure is. But I spoke folly just now in referring to our
deliverance, for we shall never more leave this place. We shall
spend our days weaving cloths of silk, without ever being better
clad. We shall always be poor and naked, and shall always suffer
from hunger and thirst, for we shall never be able to earn enough
to procure for ourselves any better food. Our bread supply is
very scarce--a little in the morning and less at night, for
none of us can gain by her handiwork more than fourpence a day
for her daily bread. And with this we cannot provide ourselves
with sufficient food and clothes. For though there is not one of
us who does not earn as much as twenty sous (27) a week, yet we
cannot live without hardship. Now you must know that there is
not a single one of us who does not do twenty sous worth of work
or more, and with such a sum even a duke would be considered
rich. So while we are reduced to such poverty, he, for whom we
work, is rich with the product of our toil. We sit up many
nights, as well as every day, to earn the more, for they threaten
to do us injury, when we seek some rest, so we do not dare to
rest ourselves. But why should I tell you more? We are so
shamefully treated and insulted that I cannot tell you the fifth
part of it all. But what makes us almost wild with rage is that
we very often see rich and excellent knights, who fight with the
two devils, lose their lives on our account. They pay dearly for
the lodging they receive, as you will do to-morrow. For, whether
you wish to do so or not, you will have to fight singlehanded and
lose your fair renown with these two devils." "May God, the true
and spiritual, protect me," said my lord Yvain, "and give you
back your honour and happiness, if it be His will. I must go now
and see the people inside there, and find out what sort of
entertainment they will offer me." "Go now, sire, and may He
protect you who gives and distributes all good things."
(Vv. 5347-5456.) Then he went until he came to the hall where he
found no one, good or bad, to address him. Then he and his
companion passed through the house until they came to a garden.
They never spoke of, or mentioned, stabling their horses. But
what matters it? For those who considered them already as their
own had stabled them carefully. I do not know whether their
expectation was wise, for the horses' owners are still perfectly
hale. The horses, however, have oats and hay, and stand in
litter up to their belly. My lord Yvain and his company enter
the garden. There he sees, reclining upon his elbow upon a
silken rug, a gentleman, to whom a maiden was reading from a
romance about I know not whom. There had come to recline there
with them and listen to the romance a lady, who was the mother of
the damsel, as the gentleman was her father; they had good reason
to enjoy seeing and hearing her, for they had no other children.
She was not yet sixteen years old, and was so fair and full of
grace that the god of Love would have devoted himself entirely to
her service, if he had seen her, and would never have made her
fall in love with anybody except himself. For her sake he would
have become a man, and would lay aside his deity, and would smite
his own body with that dart whose wound never heals unless some
base physician attends to it. It is not fitting that any one
should recover until he meets with faithlessness. Any one who is
cured by other means is not honestly in love. I could tell you
so much about this wound, if you were pleased to listen to it,
that I would not get through my tale to-day. But there would be
some one who would promptly say that I was telling you but an
idle tale; for people don't fall in love nowadays, nor do they
love as they used to do, so they do not care to hear of it. (28)
But hear now in what fashion and with what manner of hospitality
my lord Yvain was received. All those who were in the garden
leaped to their feet when they saw him come, and cried out: "This
way, fair sire. May you and all you love be blessed with all
that God can do or say." I know not if they were deceiving him,
but they receive him joyfully and act as if they are pleased that
he should be comfortably lodged. Even the lord's daughter serves
him very honourably, as one should treat a worthy guest. She
relieves him of all his arms, nor was it the least attention she
bestowed on him when she herself washed his neck and face. The
lord wishes that all honour should be shown him, as indeed they
do. She gets out from her wardrobe a folded shirt, white
drawers, needle and thread for his sleeves, which she sews on,
thus clothing him. (29) May God want now that this attention and
service may not prove too costly to him! She gave him a handsome
jacket to put on over his shirt, and about his neck she placed a
brand new spotted mantle of scarlet stuff. She takes such pains
to serve him well that he feels ashamed and embarrassed. But the
damsel is so courteous and open-hearted and polite that she feels
she is doing very little. And she knows well that it is her
mother's will that she shall leave nothing undone for him which
she thinks may win his gratitude. That night at table he was so
well served with so many dishes that there were too many. The
servants who brought in the dishes might well have been wearied
by serving them. That night they did him all manner of honour,
putting him comfortably to bed, and not once going near him again
after he had retired. His lion lay at his feet, as his custom
was. In the morning, when God lighted His great light for the
world, as early as was consistent in one who was always
considerate, my lord Yvain quickly arose, as did his damsel too.
They heard Mass in a chapel, where it was promptly said for them
in honour of the Holy Spirit.
(Vv. 5457-5770.) After the Mass my lord Yvain heard bad news,
when he thought the time had come for him to leave and that
nothing would stand in his way; but it could not be in accordance
with his wish. When he said: "Sire, if it be your will, and with
your permission, I am going now," the master of the house
replied: "Friend, I will not grant you permission yet. There is
a reason why I cannot do so, for there is established in this
castle a very terrible practice which I am bound to observe. I
shall now cause to approach two great, strong fellows of mine,
against whom, whether right or wrong, you must take arms. If you
can defend yourself against them, and conquer and slay them both,
my daughter desires you as her lord, and the suzerainty of this
town and all its dependencies awaits you." "Sire," said he, "for
all this I have no desire. So may God never bestow your daughter
upon me, but may she remain with you; for she is so fair and so
elegant that the Emperor of Germany would be fortunate to win her
as his wife." "No more, fair guest," the lord replied: "there is
no need of my listening to your refusal, for you cannot escape.
He who can defeat the two, who are about to attack you, must by
right receive my castle, and all my land, and my daughter as his
wife. There is no way of avoiding or renouncing the battle. But
I feel sure that your refusal of my daughter is due to cowardice,
for you think that in this manner you can completely avoid the
battle. Know, however, without fail that you must surely fight.
No knight who lodges here can possibly escape. This is a settled
custom and statute, which will endure yet for many a year, for my
daughter will never be married until I see them dead or
defeated." "Then I must fight them in spite of myself. But I
assure you that I should very gladly give it up. In spite of my
reluctance, however, I shall accept the battle, since it is
inevitable." Thereupon, the two hideous, black sons of the devil
come in, both armed with a crooked club of a cornelian cherry-
tree, which they had covered with copper and wound with brass.
They were armed from the shoulders to the knees, but their head
and face were bare, as well as their brawny legs. Thus armed,
they advanced, bearing in their hands round shields, stout and
light for fighting. The lion begins to quiver as soon as he sees
them, for he sees the arms they have, and perceives that they
come to fight his master. He is aroused, and bristles up at
once, and, trembling with rage and bold impulse, he thrashes the
earth with his tail, desiring to rescue his master before they
kill him. And when they see him they say: "Vassal, remove the
lion from here that he may not do us harm. Either surrender to
us at once, or else, we adjure you, that lion must be put where
he can take no part in aiding you or in harming us. You must
come alone to enjoy our sport, for the lion would gladly help
you, if he could." My lord Yvain then replies to them: "Take him
away yourselves if you are afraid of him. For I shall be well
pleased and satisfied if he can contrive to injure you, and I
shall be grateful for his aid." They answer: "Upon my word that
will not do; you shall never receive any help from him. Do the
best you can alone, without the help of any one. You must fight
single-handed against us two. If you were not alone, it would be
two against two; so you must follow our orders, and remove your
lion from here at once, however much you may dislike to do so."
"Where do you wish him to be?" he asks, "or where do you wish me
to put him?" Then they show him a small room, and say: "Shut him
up in there." "It shall be done, since it is your will." Then
he takes him and shuts him up. And now they bring him arms for
his body, and lead out his horse, which they give to him, and he
mounts. The two champions, being now assured about the lion,
which is shut up in the room, come at him to injure him and do
him harm. They give him such blows with the maces that his
shield and helmet are of little use, for when they hit him on the
helmet they batter it in and break it; and the shield is broken
and dissolved like ice, for they make such holes in it that one
could thrust his fists through it: their onslaught is truly
terrible. And he--what does he do against these two devils?
Urged on by shame and fear, he defends himself with all his
strength. He strains every nerve, and exerts himself to deal
heavy, and telling blows; they lost nothing by his gifts, for he
returned their attentions with double measure. In his room, the
lion's heart is heavy and sad, for he remembers the kind deed
done for him by this noble man, who now must stand in great need
of his service and aid. If now he could escape from there, he
would return him the kindness with full measure and full bushel,
without any discount whatsoever. He looks about in all
directions, but sees no way of escape. He hears the blows of the
dangerous and desperate fight, and in his grief he rages and is
beside himself. He investigates, until he comes to the
threshold, which was beginning to grow rotten; and he scratches
at it until he can squeeze himself in as far as his haunches,
when he sticks fast. Meanwhile, my lord Yvain was hard pressed
and sweating freely, for he found that the two fellows were very
strong, fierce, and persistent. He had received many a blow, and
repaid it as best he could, but without doing them any harm, for
they were well skilled in fencing, and their shields were not of
a kind to be hacked by any sword, however sharp and well tempered
it might be. So my lord Yvain had good reason to fear his death,
yet he managed to hold his own until the lion extricated himself
by continued scratching beneath the threshold. If the rascals
are not killed now, surely they will never be. For so long as
the lion knows them to be alive, they can never obtain truce or
peace with him. He seizes one of them, and pulls him down to
earth like a tree-trunk. The wretches are terrified, and there
is not a man present who does not rejoice. For he whom the lion
has dragged down will never be able to rise again, unless the
other succours him. He runs up to bring him aid, and at the same
time to protect himself, lest the lion should attack him as soon
as he had despatched the one whom he had thrown down; he was more
afraid of the lion than of his master. But my lord Yvain will be
foolish now if he allows him longer life, when he sees him turn
his back, and sees his neck bare and exposed; this chance turned
out well for him. When the rascal exposed to him his bare head
and neck, he dealt him such a blow that he smote his head from
his shoulders so quietly that the fellow never knew a word about
it. Then he dismounts, wishing to help and save the other one
from the lion, who holds him fast. But it is of no use, for
already he is in such straits that a physician can never arrive
in time; for the lion, coming at him furiously, so wounded him at
the first attack, that he was in a dreadful state. Nevertheless,
he drags the lion back, and sees that he had torn his shoulder
from its place. He is in no fear of the fellow now, for his club
has fallen from his hand, and he lies like a dead man without
action or movement; still he has enough strength to speak, and he
said as clearly as he could: "Please take your lion away, fair
sire, that he may not do me further harm. Henceforth you may do
with me whatever may be your desire. Whoever begs and prays for
mercy, ought not to have his prayer refused, unless he addresses
a heartless man. I will no longer defend myself, nor will I ever
get up from here with my own strength; so I put myself in your
hands." "Speak out then," he says, "if thou dost admit that thou
art conquered and defeated." "Sire," he says, "it is evident. I
am defeated in spite of myself, and I surrender, I promise you."
"Then thou needest have no further fear of me, and my lion will
leave thee alone." Then he is surrounded by all the crowd, who
arrive on the scene in haste. And both the lord and his lady
rejoice over him, and embrace him, and speak to him of their
daughter, saying: "Now you will be the lord and master of us all,
and our daughter will be your wife, for we bestow her upon you as
your spouse." "And for my part," he says. "I restore her to you.
Let him who has her keep her. I have no concern with her, though
I say it not in disparagement. Take it not amiss if I do not
accept her, for I cannot and must not do so. But deliver to me
now, if you will, the wretched maidens in your possession. The
agreement, as you well know, is that they shall all go free."
"What you say is true," he says: "and I resign and deliver them
freely to you: there will be no dispute on that score. But you
will be wise to take my daughter with all my wealth, for she is
fair, and charming, and sensible. You will never find again such
a rich marriage as this." "Sire," he replies, "you do not know
of my engagements and my affairs, and I do not dare to explain
them to you. But, you may be sure, when I refuse what would
never be refused by any one who was free to devote his heart and
intentions to such a fair and charming girl, that I too would
willingly accept her hand if I could, or if I were free to accept
her or any other maid. But I assure you that I cannot do it: so
let me depart in peace. For the damsel, who escorted me hither,
is awaiting me. She has kept me company, and I would not
willingly desert her whatever the future may have in store."
"You wish to go, fair sire? But how? My gate will never be
opened for you unless my judgment bids me give the command;
rather shall you remain here as my prisoner. You are acting
haughtily and making a mistake when you disdain to take my
daughter at my request." "Disdain, my lord? Upon my soul, I do
not disdain her. Whatever the penalty may be, I cannot marry a
wife or tarry here. I shall follow the damsel who is my guide:
for otherwise it cannot be. But, with your consent, I will
pledge you my right hand, and you may take my word, that, just as
you see me now, I will return if possible, and then will accept
your daughter's hand, whenever it may seem good ro you."
"Confound any one," he says, "who asks you for your word or
promise or pledge. If my daughter pleases you, you will
return quickly enough. You will not return any sooner. I think,
for having given your word or sworn an oath. Begone now. I
release you from all oaths and promises. If you are detained by
rain or wind, or by nothing at all, it is of no consequence to
me. I do not hold my daughter so cheap as to bestow her upon you
forcibly. Now go about your business. For it is quite the same
to me whether you go or whether you stay."
(Vv. 5771-5871.) Thereupon my lord Yvain turns away and delays
no longer in the castle. He escorted the poor and ill-clad
wretches, who were now released from captivity, and whom the lord
committed to his care. These maidens feel that now they are
rich, as they file out in pairs before him from the castle. I do
not believe that they would rejoice so much as they do now were
He who created the whole world to descend to earth from Heaven.
Now all those people who had insulted him in every possible way
come to beseech him for mercy and peace, and escort him on his
way. He replies that he knows nothing of what they mean. "I do
not understand what you mean," he says; "but I have nothing
against you. I do not remember that you ever said anything that
harmed me." They are very glad for what they hear, and loudly
praise his courtesy, and after escorting him a long distance,
they all commend him to God. Then the damsels, after asking his
permission, separated from him. When they left him, they all
bowed to him, and prayed and expressed the wish that God might
grant him joy and health, and the accomplishment of his desire,
wherever in the future he should go. Then he, who is anxious to
be gone, says that he hopes God will save them all. "Go," he
says, "and may God conduct you into your countries safe and
happy." Then they continue their way joyfully; and my lord Yvain
departs in the other direction. All the days of that week he
never ceases to hurry on under the escort of the maid, who was
well acquainted with the road, and with the retired place where
she had left the unhappy and disconsolate damsel who had been
deprived of her inheritance. But when she heard news of the
arrival of the maiden and of the Knight with the Lion. There
never was such joy as she felt within her heart. For now she
thinks that, if she insists, her sister will cede her a part of
her inheritance. The damsel had long lain sick, and had just
recovered from her malady. It had seriously affected her, as was
apparent from her face. Straightway she went forth to meet them,
greeting them and honouring them in every way she could. There
is no need to speak of the happiness that prevailed that night in
the house. No mention will be made of it, for the story would be
too long to tell. I pass over all that, until they mounted next
morning and went away. They rode until they saw the town where
King Arthur had been staying for a fortnight or more. And there,
too, was the damsel who had deprived her sister of her heritage,
for she had kept close to the court, waiting for the arrival of
her sister, who now draws near. But she does not worry much, for
she does not think that her sister can find any knight who can
withstand my lord Gawain's attack, and only one day of the forty
yet remains. If this single day had passed, she would have had
the reasonable and legal right to claim the heritage for herself
alone. But more stands in the way than she thinks or believes.
That night they spent outside the town in a small and humble
house, where, in accordance with their desire, they were not
recognised. At the first sign of dawn the next morning they
necessarily issue forth, but ensconce themselves in hiding until
broad daylight.
(Vv. 5872-5924.) I know not how many days had passed since my
lord Gawain had so completely disappeared that no one at court
knew anything about him, except only the damsel in whose cause he
was to fight. He had concealed himself three or four leagues
from the court, and when he returned he was so equipped that even
those who knew him perfectly could not recognise him by the arms
he bore. The damsel, whose injustice toward her sister was
evident, presented him at court in the sight of all, for she
intended with his help to triumph in the dispute where she had no
rights. So she said to the King: "My lord, time passes. The
noon hour will soon be gone, and this is the last day. As you
see, I am prepared to defend my claim. If my sister were going
to return, there would be nothing to do but await her arrival.
But I may praise God that she is not coming back again. It is
evident that she cannot better her affairs, and that her trouble
has been for naught. For my part, I have been ready all the time
up to this last day, to prove my claim to what is mine. I have
proved my point entirely without a fight, and now I may
rightfully go to accept my heritage in peace; for I shall render
no accounting for it to my sister as long as I live, and she will
lead a wretched and miserable existence." Then the King, who
well knew that the damsel was disloyally unjust toward her
sister, said to her: "My dear, upon my word, in a royal court one
must wait as long as the king's justice sits and deliberates upon
the verdict. It is not yet time to pack up, for it is my belief
that your sister will yet arrive in time." Before the King had
finished, he saw the Knight with the Lion and the damsel with
him. They two were advancing alone, having slipped away from the
lion, who had stayed where they spent the night.
(Vv. 5925-5990.) The King saw the damsel whom he did not fail to
recognise, and he was greatly pleased and delighted to see her,
for he was on her side of the quarrel, because he had regard for
what was right. Joyfully he cried out to her as soon as he
could: "Come forward, fair one: may God save you!" When the
other sister hears these words, she turns trembling, and sees her
with the knight whom she had brought to defend in her claim: then
she turned blacker than the earth. The damsel, after being
kindly welcomed by all, went to where the King was sitting. When
she had come before him, she spoke to him thus: "God save the
King and his household. If my rights in this dispute can be
settled by a champion, then it will be done by this knight who
has followed me hither. This frank and courteous knight had many
other things to do elsewhere; but he felt such pity for me that
he cast aside all his other affairs for the sake of mine. Now,
madame, my very dear sister, whom I love as much as my own heart,
would do the right and courteous thing if she would let me have
so much of what is mine by right that there might be peace
between me and her; for I ask for nothing that is hers." "Nor do
I ask for anything that is thine," the other replied; "for thou
hast nothing, and nothing shalt thou have. Thou canst never talk
so much as to gain anything by thy words. Thou mayest dry up
with grief." Then the other, who was very polite and sensible
and courteous, replied with the words: "Certainly I am sorry that
two such gentlemen as these should fight on our behalf over so
small a disagreement. But I cannot disregard my claim, for I am
in too great need of it. So I should be much obliged to you if
you would give me what is rightly mine." "Surely," the other
said, "any one would be a fool to consider thy demands. May I
burn in evil fire and flame if I give thee anything to ease thy
life! The banks of the Seine will meet, and the hour of prime
will be called noon, before I refuse to carry out the fight."
"May God and the right, which I have in this cause, and in which
I trust and have trusted till the present time, aid him, who in
charity and courtesy has offered himself in my service, though he
knows not who I am, and though we are ignorant of each other's
identity."
(Vv. 5991-6148.) So they talked until their conversation ceased,
and then produced the knights in the middle of the court. Then
all the people crowd about, as people are wont to do when they
wish to witness blows in battle or in joust. But those who were
about to fight did not recognise each other, though their
relations were wont to be very affectionate. Then do they not
love each other now? I would answer you both "yes" and "no."
And I shall prove that each answer is correct. In truth, my lord
Gawain loves Yvain and regards him as his companion, and so does
Yvain regard him, wherever he may be. Even here, if he knew who
he was, he would make much of him, and either one of them would
lay down his head for the other before he would allow any harm to
come to him. Is not that a perfect and lofty love? Yes, surely.
But, on the other hand, is not their hate equally manifest? Yes;
for it is a certain thing that doubtless each would be glad to
have broken the other's head, and so to have injured him as to
cause his humiliation. Upon my word, it is a wondrous thing,
that Love and mortal Hate should dwell together. God! How can
two things so opposed find lodging in the same dwelling-place?
It seems to me they cannot live together; for one could not dwell
with the other, without giving rise to noise and contention, as
soon as each knew of the other's presence. But upon the ground-
floor there may be several apartments: for there are halls and
sleeping-rooms. It may be the same in this case: I think Love
had ensconced himself in some hidden room, while Hate had betaken
herself to the balconies looking on the high-road, because she
wishes to be seen. Just now Hate is in the saddle, and spurs and
pricks forward as she can, to get ahead of Love who is indisposed
to move. Ah! Love, what has become of thee? Come out now, and
thou shalt see what a host has been brought up and opposed to
thee by the enemies of thy friends. The enemies are these very
men who love each other with such a holy love for love, which is
neither false nor feigned, is a precious and a holy thing. In
this case Love is completely blind, and Hate, too, is deprived of
sight. For if Love had recognised these two men, he must have
forbidden each to attack the other, or to do any thing to cause
him harm. In this respect, then, Love is blind and discomfited
and beguiled; for, though he sees them, he fails to recognise
those who rightly belong to him. And though Hate is unable to
tell why one of them should hate the other, yet she tries to
engage them wrongfully, so that each hates the other mortally.
You know, of course, that he cannot be said to love a man who
would wish to harm him and see him dead. How then? Does Yvain
wish to kill his friend, my lord Gawain? Yes, and the desire is
mutual. Would, then, my lord Gawain desire to kill Yvain with
his own hands, or do even worse than I have said? Nay, not
really, I swear and protest. One would not wish to injure or
harm the other, in return for all that God has done for man, or
for all the empire of Rome. But this, in turn, is a lie of mine,
for it is plainly to be seen that, with lance raised high in
rest, each is ready to attack the other, and there will be no
restraint of the desire of each to wound the other with intent to
injure him and work him woe. Now tell me! When one will have
defeated the other, of whom can he complain who has the worst of
it? For if they go so far as to come to blows, I am very much
afraid that they will continue the battle and the strife until
victory be definitely decided. If he is defeated, will Yvain be
justified in saying that he has been harmed and wronged by a man
who counts him among his friends, and who has never mentioned him
but by the name of friend or companion? Or, if it comes about
perchance that Yvain should hurt him in turn, or defeat him in
any way, will Gawain have the right to complain? Nay, for he
will not know whose fault it is. In ignorance of each other's
identity, they both drew off and took their distance. At this
first shock, their lances break, though they were stout, and made
of ash. Not a word do they exchange, for if they had stopped to
converse their meeting would have been different. In that case,
no blow would have been dealt with lance or sword; they would
have kissed and embraced each other rather than sought each
other's harm. For now they attack each other with injurious
intent. The condition of the swords is not improved, nor that of
the helmets and shields, which are dented and split; and the
edges of the swords are nicked and dulled. For they strike each
other violently, not with the fiat of the swords, but with the
edge, and they deal such blows with the pommels upon the nose-
guards and upon the neck, forehead and cheeks, that they are all
marked black and blue where the blood collects beneath the skin.
And their hauberks are so torn, and their shields so broken in
pieces, that neither one escaped without wounds. Their breath is
almost exhausted with the labour of the strife; they hammer away
at each other so lustily that every hyacinth and emerald set in
their helmets is crushed and smashed. For they give each other
such a battering with their pommels upon the helmets that they
are quite stunned, as they almost beat out each other's brains.
The eyes in their heads gleam like sparks, as, with stout square
fists, and strong nerves, and hard bones, they strike each other
upon the mouth as long as they can grip their swords, which are
of great service to them in dealing their heavy blows.
(Vv. 6149-6228.) When they had for a long time strained
themselves, until the helmets were crushed, and the hauberks'
meshes were torn apart with the hammering of the swords, and the
shields were split and cracked, they drew apart a little to give
their pulse a rest and to catch their breath again. However,
they do not long delay, but run at each other again more fiercely
than before. And all declare that they never saw two more
courageous knights. "This fight between them is no jest, but
they are in grim earnest. They will never be repaid for their
merits and deserts." The two friends, in their bitter struggle,
heard these words, and heard how the people were talking of
reconciling the two sisters; but they had no success in placating
the elder one. And the younger one said she would leave it to
the King, and would not gainsay him in anything. But the elder
one was so obstinate that even the Queen Guinevere and the
knights and the King and the ladies and the townspeople side with
the younger sister, and all join in beseeching the King to give
her a third or a fourth part of the land in spite of the elder
sister, and to separate the two knights who had displayed such
bravery, for it would be too bad if one should injure the other
or deprive him of any honour. And the King replied that he would
take no hand in making peace, for the elder sister is so cruel
that she has no desire for it. All these words were heard by the
two, who were attacking each other so bitterly that all were
astonished thereat; for the battle is waged so evenly that it is
impossible to judge which has the better and which the worse.
Even the two men themselves, who fight, and who are purchasing
honour with agony, are filled with amazement and stand aghast,
for they are so well matched in their attack, that each wonders
who it can be that withstands him with such bravery. They fight
so long that the day draws on to night, while their arms grow
weary and their bodies sore, and the hot, boiling blood flows
from many a spot and trickles down beneath their hauberks: they
are in such distress that it is no wonder if they wish to rest.
Then both withdraw to rest themselves, each thinking within
himself that, however long he has had to wait, he now at last has
met his match. For some time they thus seek repose, without
daring to resume the fight. They feel no further desire to
fight, because of the night which is growing dark, and because of
the respect they feel for each other's might. These two
considerations keep them apart, and urge them to keep the peace.
But before they leave the field they will discover each other's
identity, and joy and mercy will be established between them.
(Vv. 6229-6526.) My brave and courteous lord Yvain was the first
to speak. But his good friend was unable to recognise him by his
utterance; for he was prevented by his low tone and by his voice
which was hoarse, weak, and broken; for his blood was all stirred
up by the blows he had received. "My lord," he says, "the night
comes on! I think no blame or reproach will attach to us if the
night comes between us. But I am willing to admit, for my own
part, that I feel great respect and admiration for you, and never
in my life have I engaged in a battle which has made me smart so
much, nor did I ever expect to see a knight whose acquaintance I
should so yearn to make. You know well how to land your blows
and how to make good use of them: I have never known a knight who
was so skilled in dealing blows. It was against my will that I
received all the blows you have bestowed on me to-day; I am
stunned by the blows you have I struck upon my head." "Upon my
word," my lord Gawain replies, "you are not so stunned and faint
but that I am as much so, or more. And if I should tell you the
simple truth, I think you would not be loath to hear it, for if I
have lent you anything of mine, you have fully paid me back,
principal and interest; for you were more ready to pay back than
I was to accept the payment. But however that may be, since you
wish me to inform you of my name, it shall not be kept from you:
my name is Gawain the son of King Lot." As soon as my lord Yvain
heard that, he was amazed and sorely troubled; angry and grief-
stricken, he cast upon the ground his bloody sword and broken
shield, then dismounted from his horse, and cried: "Alas, what
mischance is this! Through what unhappy ignorance in not
recognising each other have we waged this battle! For if I had
known who you were, I should never have fought with you; but,
upon my word, I should have surrendered without a blow." "How is
that?" my lord Gawain inquires, "who are you, then?" "I am
Yvain, who love you more than any man in the whole wide world,
for you have always been fond of me and shown me honour in every
court. But I wish to make you such amends and do you such honour
in this affair that I will confess myself to have been defeated."
"Will you do so much for my sake?" my gentle lord Gawain asks
him; "surely I should be presumptuous to accept any such amends
from you. This honour shall never be claimed as mine, but it
shall be yours, to whom I resign it." "Ah, fair sire, do not
speak so. For that could never be. I am so wounded and
exhausted that I cannot endure more." "Surely, you have no cause
to be concerned." his friend and companion replies; "but for my
part, I am defeated and overcome; I say it not as a compliment;
for there is no stranger in the world, to whom I would not say as
much, rather than receive any more blows." Thus saying, he got
down from his horse, and they threw their arms about each other's
neck, kissing each other, and each continuing to assert that it
is he who has met defeat. The argument is still in progress when
the King and the knights come running up from every side, at the
sight of their reconciliation; and great is their desire to hear
how this can be, and who these men are who manifest such
happiness. The King says: "Gentlemen, tell us now who it is that
has so suddenly brought about this friendship and harmony between
you two, after the hatred and strife there has been this day?"
Then his nephew, my lord Gawain, thus answers him: "My lord, you
shall be informed of the misfortune and mischance which have been
the cause of our strife. Since you have tarried in order to hear
and learn the cause of it, it is right to let you know the truth.
I, Gawain, who am your nephew, did not recognise this companion
of mine, my lord Yvain, until he fortunately, by the will of God,
asked me my name. After each had informed the other of his name,
we recognised each other, but not until we had fought it out.
Our struggle already has been long; and if we had fought yet a
little longer, it would have fared ill with me, for, by my head,
he would have killed me, what with his prowess and the evil cause
of her who chose me as her champion. But I would rather be
defeated than killed by a friend in battle." Then my lord
Yvain's blood was stirred, as he said to him in reply: "Fair dear
sire, so help me God, you have no right to say so much. Let my
lord, The King, well know in this battle I am surely the one who
has been defeated and overcome!" "I am the one" "No, I am."
Thus each cries out, and both are so honest and courteous that
each allows the victory and crown to be the other's prize, while
neither one of them will accept it. Thus each strives to
convince the King and all the people that he has been defeated
and overthrown. But when he had listened to them for a while,
the King terminated the dispute. He was well pleased with what
he heard and with the sight of them in each other's arms, though
they had wounded and injured each other in several places. "My
lords," he says, "there is deep affection between you two. You
give clear evidence of that, when each insists that it is he who
has been defeated. Now leave it all to me! For I think I can
arrange it in such a way that it will redound to your honour, and
every one will give consent." Then they both promised him that
they would do his will in every particular. And the King says
that he will decide the quarrel fairly and faithfully. "Where is
the damsel," he inquires, "who has ejected her sister from her
land, and has forcibly and cruelly disinherited her?" "My lord,"
she answers, "here I am." "Are you there? Then draw near to me!
I saw plainly some time ago that you were disinheriting her. But
her right shall no longer be denied; for you yourself have avowed
the truth to me. You must now resign her share to her." "Sire,"
she says, "if I uttered a foolish and thoughtless word, you ought
not to take me up in it. For God's sake, sire, do not be hard on
me! You are a king, and you ought to guard against wrong and
error." The King replies: "That is precisely why I wish to give
your sister her rights; for I have never defended what is wrong.
And you have surely heard how your knight and hers have left the
matter in my hands. I shall not say what is altogether pleasing
to you; for your injustice is well known. In his desire to
honour the other, each one says that he has been defeated. But
there is no need to delay further: since the matter has been left
to me, either you will do in all respects what I say, without
resistance, or I shall announce that my nephew has been defeated
in the fight. That would be the worst thing that could happen to
your cause, and I shall be sorry to make such a declaration." In
reality, he would not have said it for anything; but he spoke
thus in order to see if he could frighten her into restoring the
heritage to her sister; for he clearly saw that she never would
surrender anything to her for any words of his unless she was
influenced by force or fear. In fear and apprehension, she
replied to him: "Fair lord, I must now respect your desire,
though my heart is very loath to yield. Yet, however hard it may
go with me, I shall do it, and my sister shall have what belongs
to her. I give her your own person as a pledge of her share in
my inheritance, in order that she may be more assured of it."
"Endow her with it, then, at once," the King replies; "let her
receive it from your hands, and let her vow fidelity to you! Do
you love her as your vassal, and let her love you as her
sovereign lady and as her sister." Thus the King conducts the
affair until the damsel takes possession of her land, and offers
her thanks to him for it. Then the King asked the valiant and
brave knight who was his nephew to allow himself to be disarmed;
and he requested my lord Yvain to lay aside his arms also; for
now they may well dispense with them. Then the two vassals lay
aside their arms and separate on equal terms. And while they are
taking off their armour, they see the lion running up in search
of his master. As soon as he catches sight of him, he begins to
show his joy. Then you would have seen people draw aside, and
the boldest among them takes to flight. My lord Yvain cries out:
"Stand still, all! Why do you flee? No one is chasing you.
Have no fear that yonder lion will do you harm. Believe me,
please, when I say that he is mine, and I am his, and we are both
companions." Then it was known of a truth by all those who had
heard tell of the adventures of the lion and of his companion
that this must be the very man who had killed the wicked giant.
And my lord Gawain said to him: "Sir companion, so help me God,
you have overwhelmed me with shame this day. I did not deserve
the service that you did me in killing the giant to save my
nephews and my niece. I have been thinking about you for some
time, and I was troubled because it was said that we were
acquainted as loving friends. I have surely thought much upon
the subject: but I could not hit upon the truth, and had never
heard of any knight that I had known in any land where I had
been, who was called `The Knight with the Lion.'" While they
chatted thus they took their armour off, and the lion came with
no slow step to the place where his master sat, and showed such
joy as a dumb beast could. Then the two knights had to be
removed to a sick-room and infirmary, for they needed a doctor
and piaster to cure their wounds. King Arthur, who loved them
well, had them both brought before him, and summoned a surgeon
whose knowledge of surgery was supreme. He exercised his art in
curing them, until he had healed their wounds as well and as
quickly as possible. When he had cured them both, my lord Yvain.
who had his heart set fast on love, saw clearly that he could not
live, but that he finally would die unless his lady took pity
upon him; for he was dying for love of her; so he thought he
would go away from the court alone, and would go to fight at the
spring that belonged to her, where he would cause such a storm of
wind and rain that she would be compelled perforce to make peace
with him; otherwise, there would be no end to the disturbance of
the spring, and to the rain and wind.
(Vv. 6527-6658.) As soon as my lord Yvain felt that he was cured
and sound again, he departed without the knowledge of any one.
But he had with him his lion, who never in his life wished to
desert him. They travelled until they saw the spring and made
the rain descend. Think not that this is a lie of mine, when I
tell you that the disturbance was so violent that no one could
tell the tenth part of it: for it seemed as if the whole forest
must surely be engulfed. The lady fears for her town, lest it,
too, will crumble away; the walls totter, and the tower rocks so
that it is on the verge of falling down. The bravest Turk would
rather be a captive in Persia than be shut up within those walls.
The people are so stricken with terror that they curse all their
ancestors, saying: "Confounded be the man who first constructed a
house in this neighbourhood, and all those who built this town!
For in the wide world they could not have found so detestable a
spot, for a single man is able here to invade and worry and harry
us." "You must take counsel in this matter, my lady," says
Lunete; "you will find no one who will undertake to aid you in
this time of need unless you seek for him afar. In the future we
shall never be secure in this town, nor dare to pass beyond the
walls and gate. You know full well that, were some one to summon
together all your knights for this cause, the best of them would
not dare to step forward. If it is true that you have no one to
defend your spring, you will appear ridiculous and humiliated.
It will redound greatly to your honour, forsooth, if he who has
attacked you shall retire without a fight! Surely you are in a
bad predicament if you do not devise some other plan to benefit
yourself." The lady replies: "Do thou, who art so wise, tell me
what plan I can devise, and I will follow thy advice." "Indeed,
lady, if I had any plan, I should gladly propose it to you. But
you have great need of a wiser counsellor. So I shall certainly
not dare to intrude, and in common with the others I shall endure
the rain and wind until, if it please God, I shall see some
worthy man appear here in your court who will assume the
responsibility and burden of the battle; but I do not believe
that that will happen to-day, and we have not yet seen the worst
of your urgent need." Then the lady replies at once: "Damsel,
speak now of something else! Say no more of the people of my
household; for I cherish no further expectation that the spring
and its marble brim will ever be defended by any of them. But,
if it please God, let us hear now what is your opinion and plan;
for people always say that in time of need one can test his
friend." (30) "My lady, if there is any one who thinks he could
find him who slew the giant and defeated the three knights, he
would do well to go to search for him. But so long as he shall
incur the enmity, wrath, and displeasure of his lady, I fancy
there is not under heaven any man or woman whom he would follow,
until he had been assured upon oath that everything possible
would be done to appease the hostility which his lady feels for
him, and which is so bitter that he is dying of the grief and
anxiety it causes him." And the lady said: "Before you enter
upon the quest, I am prepared to promise you upon my word and to
swear that, if he will return to me, I will openly and frankly do
all I can to bring about his peace of mind." Then Lunete replies
to her: "Lady, have no fear that you cannot easily effect his
reconciliation, when once it is your desire to do so; but, if you
do not object, I will take your oath before I start." "I have no
objection," the lady says. With delicate courtesy, Lunete
procured at once for her a very precious relic, and the lady fell
upon her knees. Thus Lunete very courteously accepted her upon
her oath. In administering the oath, she forgot nothing which it
might be an advantage to insert. "Lady," she says, "now raise
your hand! I do not wish that the day after to-morrow you should
lay any charge upon me; for you are not doing anything for me,
but you are acting for your own good. If you please now, you
shall swear that you will exert yourself in the interests of the
Knight with the Lion until he recover his lady's love as
completely as he ever possessed it." The lady then raised her
right hand and said: "I swear to all that thou hast said, so help
me God and His holy saint, that my heart may never fail to do all
within my power. If I have the strength and ability, I will
restore to him the love and favour which with his lady he once
enjoyed."
(Vv. 6659-6716.) Lunete has now done well her work; there was
nothing which she had desired so much as the object which she had
now attained. They had already got out for her a palfrey with an
easy pace. Gladly and in a happy frame of mind Lunete mounts and
rides away, until she finds beneath the pine-tree him whom she
did not expect to find so near at hand. Indeed, she had thought
that she would have to seek afar before discovering him. As soon
as she saw him, she recognised him by the lion, and coming toward
him rapidly, she dismounted upon the solid earth. And my lord
Yvain recognised her as soon as he saw her, and greeted her, as
she saluted him with the words: "Sire, I am very happy to have
found you so near at hand." And my lord Yvain said in reply:
"How is that? Were you looking for me, then?" "Yes, sire, and
in all my life I have never felt so glad, for I have made my
mistress promise, if she does not go back upon her word, that she
will be again your lady as was once the case, and that you shall
be her lord; this truth I make bold to tell." My lord Yvain was
greatly elated at the news he hears, and which he had never
expected to hear again. He could not sufficiently show his
gratitude to her who had accomplished this for him. He kisses
her eyes, and then her face, saying: "Surely, my sweet friend, I
can never repay you for this service. I fear that ability and
time will fail me to do you the honour and service which is your
due." "Sire, she replies, "have no concern, and let not that
thought worry you! For you will have an abundance of strength
and time to show me and others your good will. If I have paid
this debt I owed, I am entitled to only so much gratitude as the
man who borrows another's goods and then discharges the
obligation. Even now I do not consider that I have paid you the
debt I owed." "Indeed you have, as God sees me, more than five
hundred thousand times. Now, when you are ready, let us go. But
have you told her who I am?" "No, I have not, upon my word. She
knows you only by the name of `The Knight with the Lion.'"
(Vv. 6717-6758.) Thus conversing they went along, with the lion
following after them, until they all three came to the town.
They said not a word to any man or woman there, until they
arrived where the lady was. And the lady was greatly pleased as
soon as she heard that the damsel was approaching, and that she
was bringing with her the lion and the knight, whom she was very
anxious to meet and know and see. All clad in his arms, my lord
Yvain fell at her feet upon his knees, while Lunete, who was
standing by, said to her: "Raise him up, lady, and apply all your
efforts and strength and skill in procuring that peace and pardon
which no one in the world, except you, can secure for him." Then
the lady bade him rise, and said: "He may dispose of all my
power! I shall be very happy, if possible, to accomplish his
wish and his desire." "Surely, my lady," Lunete replied, "I
would not say it if it were not true. But all this is even more
possible for you than I have said: but now I will tell you the
whole truth, and you shall see: you never had and you never will
have such a good friend as this gentleman. God, whose will it is
that there should be unending peace and love between you and him,
has caused me to find him this day so near at hand. In order to
test the truth of this, I have only one thing to say: lady,
dismiss the grudge you bear him! For he has no other mistress
than you. This is your husband, my lord Yvain."
(Vv. 6759-6776.) The lady, trembling at these words, replied:
"God save me! You have caught me neatly in a trap! You will
make me love, in spite of myself, a man who neither loves nor
esteems me. This is a fine piece of work, and a charming way of
serving me! I would rather endure the winds and the tempests all
my life: And if it were not a mean and ugly thing to break one's
word, he would never make his peace or be reconciled with me.
This purpose would have always lurked within me, as a fire
smoulders in the ashes; but I do not wish to renew it now, nor do
I care to refer to it, since I must be reconciled with him."
(Vv. 6777-6798.) My lord Yvain hears and understands that his
cause is going well, and that he will be peacefully reconciled
with her. So he says: "Lady, one ought to have mercy on a
sinner. I have had to pay, and dearly to pay, for my mad act.
It was madness that made me stay away, and I now admit my guilt
and sin. I have been bold, indeed, in daring to present myself
to you; but if you will deign to keep me now, I never again shall
do you any wrong." She replied: "I will surely consent to that;
for if I did not do all I could to establish peace between you
and me, I should be guilty of perjury. So, if you please, I
grant your request." "Lady," says he, "so truly as God in this
mortal life could not otherwise restore me to happiness, so may
the Holy Spirit bless me five hundred times!"
(Vv. 6799-6813.) Now my lord Yvain is reconciled, and you may
believe that, in spite of the trouble he has endured, he was
never so happy for anything. All has turned out well at last;
for he is beloved and treasured by his lady, and she by him. His
troubles no longer are in his mind; for he forgets them all in
the joy he feels with his precious wife. And Lunete, for her
part, is happy too: all her desires are satisfied when once she
had made an enduring peace between my polite lord Yvain and his
sweetheart so dear and so elegant.
(Vv. 6814-6818.) Thus Chretien concludes his romance of the
Knight with the Lion; for I never heard any more told of it, nor
will you ever hear any further particulars, unless some one
wishes to add some lies.
ENDNOTES:
NOTE: Endnotes supplied by Prof. Foerster are indicated by
"(F.)"; all other endnotes are supplied by W.W. Comfort.
(1) "cele feste, qui tant coste,
Qu'an doit clamer la pantecoste."
This rhyme is frequently met in mediaeval narrative poems.
(F.)
(2) The contemporary degeneracy of lovers and of the art of love
is a favourite theme of mediaeval poets.
(3) Cf. "Roman de la Rose", 9661, for the stinking manure pit.
(F.)
(4) The forest of Broceliande is in Brittany, and in it Chretien
places the marvellous spring of Barenton, of which we read
in the sequel. In his version the poet forgets that the sea
separates the court at Carduel from the forest of
Broceliande. His readers, however, probably passed over
this "lapsus". The most famous passage relating to this
forest and its spring is found in Wace, "Le Roman de Rou et
des dues de Normandie", vv. 6395-6420, 2 vols. (Heilbronn,
1877-79). Cf. further the informing note by W.L. Holland,
"Chretien von Troies", p. 152 f. (Tubingen, 1854).
(5) This grotesque portrait of the "vilain" is perfectly
conventional in aristocratic poetry, and is also applied to
some Saracens in the epic poems. Cf. W.W. Comfort in "Pub.
of the Modern Language Association of America", xxi. 494 f.,
and in "The Dublin Review", July 1911.
(6) For the description of the magic fountain, cf. W.A. Nitze,
"The Fountain Defended" in "Modern Philology", vii. 145-164;
G.L. Hamilton, "Storm-making Springs", etc., in "Romantic
Review", ii. 355-375; A.F. Grimme in "Germania", xxxiii. 38;
O.M. Johnston in "Transactions and Proceedings of the
American Philological Association", xxxiii., p. lxxxiii. f.
(7) Eugen Kolbing, "Christian von Troyes Yvain und die
Brandanuslegende" in "Ztsch. fur vergleichende
Literaturgeschichte" (Neue Folge, xi. Brand, 1897), pp. 442-
448, has pointed out other striking allusions in the Latin
"Navigatio S. Brandans" (ed. Wahlund, Upsala, 1900) and
elsewhere in Celtic legend to trees teeming with singing
birds, in which the souls of the blessed are incorporated.
A more general reference to trees, animated by the souls of
the dead, is found in J.G. Frazer, "The Golden Bough" (2nd
ed. 1900), vol. I., p. 178 f.
(8) Cf. A. Tobler in "Ztsch. fur romanische Philologie", iv. 80-
85, who gives many other instances of boasting after meals.
See next note.
(9) Noradin is the Sultan Nureddin Mahmud (reigned 1146-1173), a
contemporary of the poet; Forre is a legendary Saracen king
of Naples, mentioned in the epic poems (cf. E. Langlois,
"Table des noms propres de toute nature compris dans les
chansons de geste", Paris, 1904; Albert Counson, "Noms
epiques entres dans le vocabulaire commun" in "Romanische
Forschungen", xxiii. 401-413). These names are mentioned
here in connection with the brave exploits which Christian
knights, while in their cups, may boast that they will
accomplish (F.). This practice of boasting was called
indulging in "gabs" (=Eng. "gab"), a good instance of which
will be found in "Le Voyage de Charlemagne a Jeruslaem" (ed.
Koschwitz), v. 447 ff.
(10) It is evident in this passage that Chretien's version is not
clear; the reader cannot be sure in what sort of an
apartment Yvain is secreted. The passage is perfectly
clear, however, in the Welsh "Owein", as shown by A.C.L.
Brown in "Romanic Review", iii. 143-172, "On the Independent
Character of the Welsh `Owain'", where he argues
convincingly for an original older than either the extant
French of Welsh versions.
(11) The damsel's surprise and fright at the sight of Yvain,
which puzzled Professor Foerster, is satisfactorily
explained by J. Acher in "Ztsch. fur franzosische Sprache
und Literatur", xxxv. 150.
(12) For magic rings, cf. A. Hertel, "Verzauberte
Oertlichkeiten", etc. (Hanover, 1908); D.B. Easter, "The
Magic Elements in the romans d'aventure and the romans
bretons" (Baltimore, 1906).
(13) Much has been written on the widespread belief that a dead
person's wounds would bleed afresh in the presence of his
murderer. The passage in our text is interesting as being
the earliest literary reference to the belief. Other
instances will be found in Shakespear ("King Richard III.,
Act. I., Sc. 2), Cervantes ("Don Quixote"), Scott
("Ballads"), and Schiller ("Braut von Messina"). In the
15th and 16th centuries especially, the bleeding of the dead
became in Italy, Germany, France, and Spain an absolute or
contributory proof of guilt in the eyes of the law. The
suspected culprit might be subjected to this ordeal as part
of the inquisitional method to determine guilt. For
theories of the origin of this belief and of its use in
legal trials, as well as for more extended bibliography, cf.
Karl Lehmann in "Germanistische Abhandlungen fur Konrad von
Maurer" (Gottingen, 1893), pp. 21-45; C.V. Christensen,
"Baareproven" (Copenhagen, 1900).
(14) W.L. Holland in his note for this passage recalls Schiller's
"Jungfrau von Orleans", Act III. Sc. 7, and Shakespeare,
first part of "King Henry IV.", Act V. Sc. 4:
"When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough."
(15) Foerster regards this excuse for Kay's defeat as ironical.
(16) It is hoped that the following passage may have retained in
the translation some of the gay animation which clothes this
description of a royal entry into a mediaeval town.
(17) This idea forms the dominating motive, it will be recalled,
in "Erec et Enide" (cf. note to "Erec", v. 2576).
(18) The parallel between Yvain's and Roland's madness will occur
to readers of Ariosto's "Orlando Furioso", though in the
former case Yvain's madness seems to be rather a retribution
for his failure to keep his promise, while Roland's madness
arises from excess of love.
(19) Argonne is the name of a hilly and well-wooded district in
the north-east of France, lying between the Meuse and the
Aisne.
(20) An allusion to the well-known epic tradition embodied in the
"Chanson de Roland". It was common for mediaeval poets to
give names to both the horses and the swords of their
heroes.
(21) For the faithful lion in the Latin bestiaries and mediaeval
romances, see the long note of W.L. Holland, "Chretien von
Troies" (Tubingen, 1854), p. 161 f., and G. Baist in
Zeitschrift fur romanische Philologie, xxi. 402-405. To the
examples there cited may be added the episodes in "Octavian"
(15th century), published in the "Romanische Bibliothek"
(Heilbronn, 1883).
(22) This is the first of three references in this poem to the
abduction of Guinevere as fully narrated in the poem of
"Lancelot". The other references are in v. 3918 and v.4740
f.
(23) Yvain here states the theory of the judicial trial by
combat. For another instance see "Lancelot", v. 4963 f.
Cf. M. Pfeffer in "Ztsch. fur romanische Philogie", ix. 1-
74, and L. Jordan, id. Xxix. 385-401.
(24) A similar description of a distressed damsel wandering at
night in a forest is found in "Berte aus grans pies", by
Adenet le Roi (13th century).
(25) The lion is forgotten for the moment, but will appear again
v. 5446. (F.)
(26) This entire passage belongs in the catagory of widespread
myths which tell of a tribute of youths or maidens paid to
some cruel monster, from which some hero finally obtains
deliverance. Instances are presented in the adventures of
Theseus and Tristan.
(27) The old French monetary table was as follows:
10 as = 1 denier; 12 deniers = 1 sol; 20 sous = 1 livre
(28) It appears to be the poet's prerogative in all epochs of
social history to bemoan the degeneracy of true love in his
own generation.
(29) The sleeves of shirts were detachable, and were sewed on
afresh when a clean garment was put on. (F.)
(30) This was an axiom of feudal society, and occurs more
frequently in feudal literature than any other statement of
mediaeval social relations.
LANCELOT
or, The Knight of the Cart
(Vv. 1-30.) Since my lady of Champagne wishes me to undertake to
write a romance, (1) I shall very gladly do so, being so devoted
to her service as to do anything in the world for her, without
any intention of flattery. But if one were to introduce any
flattery upon such an occasion, he might say, and I would
subscribe to it, that this lady surpasses all others who are
alive, just as the south wind which blows in May or April is more
lovely than any other wind. But upon my word, I am not one to
wish to flatter my lady. I will simply say: "The Countess is
worth as many queens as a gem is worth of pearls and sards." Nay
I shall make no comparison, and yet it is true in spite of me; I
will say, however, that her command has more to do with this work
than any thought or pains that I may expend upon it. Here
Chretien begins his book about the Knight of the Cart. The
material and the treatment of it are given and furnished to him
by the Countess, and he is simply trying to carry out her concern
and intention. Here he begins the story.
(Vv. 31-172.) Upon a certain Ascension Day King Arthur had come
from Caerleon, and had held a very magnificent court at Camelot
as was fitting on such a day. (2) After the feast the King did
not quit his noble companions, of whom there were many in the
hall. The Queen was present, too, and with her many a courteous
lady able to converse in French. And Kay, who had furnished the
meal, was eating with the others who had served the food. While
Kay was sitting there at meat, behold there came to court a
knight, well equipped and fully armed, and thus the knight
appeared before the King as he sat among his lords. He gave him
no greeting, but spoke out thus: "King Arthur, I hold in
captivity knights, ladies, and damsels who belong to thy dominion
and household; but it is not because of any intention to restore
them to thee that I make reference to them here; rather do I wish
to proclaim and serve thee notice that thou hast not the strength
or the resources to enable thee to secure them again. And be
assured that thou shalt die before thou canst ever succour them."
The King replies that he must needs endure what he has not the
power to change; nevertheless, he is filled with grief. Then the
knight makes as if to go away, and turns about, without tarrying
longer before the King; but after reaching the door of the hall,
he does not go down the stairs, but stops and speaks from there
these words: "King, if in thy court there is a single knight in
whom thou hast such confidence that thou wouldst dare to entrust
to him the Queen that he might escort her after me out into the
woods whither I am going, I will promise to await him there, and
will surrender to thee all the prisoners whom I hold in exile in
my country if he is able to defend the Queen and if he succeeds
in bringing her back again." Many who were in the palace heard
this challenge, and the whole court was in an uproar. Kay, too,
heard the news as he sat at meat with those who served. Leaving
the table, he came straight to the King, and as if greatly
enraged, he began to say: "O King, I have served thee long,
faithfully, and loyally; now I take my leave, and shall go away,
having no desire to serve thee more." The King was grieved at
what he heard, and as soon as he could, he thus replied to him:
"Is this serious, or a joke?" And Kay replied: "O King, fair
sire, I have no desire to jest, and I take my leave quite
seriously. No other reward or wages do I wish in return for the
service I have given you. My mind is quite made up to go away
immediately." "Is it in anger or in spite that you wish to go?"
the King inquired; "seneschal, remain at court, as you have done
hitherto, and be assured that I have nothing in the world which I
would not give you at once in return for your consent to stay."
"Sire," says Kay, "no need of that. I would not accept for each
day's pay a measure of fine pure gold." Thereupon, the King in
great dismay went off to seek the Queen. "My lady," he says,
"you do not know the demand that the seneschal makes of me. He
asks me for leave to go away, and says he will no longer stay at
court; the reason of this I do not know. But he will do at your
request what he will not do for me. Go to him now, my lady dear.
Since he will not consent to stay for my sake, pray him to remain
on your account, and if need be, fall at his feet, for I should
never again be happy if I should lose his company." (3) The King
sends the Queen to the seneschal, and she goes to him. Finding
him with the rest, she went up to him, and said: "Kay, you may be
very sure that I am greatly troubled by the news I have heard of
you. I am grieved to say that I have been told it is your
intention to leave the King. How does this come about? What
motive have you in your mind? I cannot think that you are so
sensible or courteous as usual. I want to ask you to remain:
stay with us here, and grant my prayer." "Lady," he says, "I
give you thanks; nevertheless, I shall not remain." The Queen
again makes her request, and is joined by all the other knights.
And Kay informs her that he is growing tired of a service which
is unprofitable. Then the Queen prostrates herself at full
length before his feet. Kay beseeches her to rise, but she says
that she will never do so until he grants her request. Then Kay
promises her to remain, provided the King and she will grant in
advance a favour he is about to ask. "Kay," she says, "he will
grant it, whatever it may be. Come now, and we shall tell him
that upon this condition you will remain." So Kay goes away with
the Queen to the King's presence. The Queen says: "I have had
hard work to detain Kay; but I have brought him here to you with
the understanding that you will do what he is going to ask." The
King sighed with satisfaction, and said that he would perform
whatever request he might make.
(Vv. 173-246.) "Sire," says Kay, "hear now what I desire, and
what is the gift you have promised me. I esteem myself very
fortunate to gain such a boon with your consent. Sire, you have
pledged your word that you would entrust to me my lady here, and
that we should go after the knight who awaits us in the forest."
Though the King is grieved, he trusts him with the charge, for he
never went back upon his word. But it made him so ill-humoured
and displeased that it plainly showed in his countenance. The
Queen, for her part, was sorry too, and all those of the
household say that Kay had made a proud, outrageous, and mad
request. Then the King took the Queen by the hand, and said: "My
lady, you must accompany Kay without making objection." And Kay
said: "Hand her over to me now, and have no fear, for I shall
bring her back perfectly happy and safe." The King gives her
into his charge, and he takes her off. After them all the rest
go out, and there is not one who is not sad. You must know that
the seneschal was fully armed, and his horse was led into the
middle of the courtyard, together with a palfrey, as is fitting,
for the Queen. The Queen walked up to the palfrey, which was
neither restive nor hard-mouthed. Grieving and sad, with a sigh
the Queen mounts, saying to herself in a low voice, so that no
one could hear: "Alas, alas, if you only knew it, I am sure you
would never allow me without interference to be led away a step."
(4) She thought she had spoken in a very low tone; but Count
Guinable heard her, who was standing by when she mounted. When
they started away, as great a lament was made by all the men and
women present as if she already lay dead upon a bier. They do
not believe that she will ever in her life come back. The
seneschal in his impudence takes her where that other knight is
awaiting her. But no one was so much concerned as to undertake
to follow him; until at last my lord Gawain thus addressed the
King his uncle: "Sire," he says, "you have done a very foolish
thing, which causes me great surprise; but if you will take my
advice, while they are still near by, I and you will ride after
them, and all those who wish to accompany us. For my part, I
cannot restrain myself from going in pursuit of them at once. It
would not be proper for us not to go after them, at least far
enough to learn what is to become of the Queen, and how Kay is
going to comport himself." "Ah, fair nephew," the King replied,
"you have spoken courteously. And since you have undertaken the
affair, order our horses to be led out bridled and saddled that
there may be no delay in setting out."
(Vv. 247-398.) The horses are at once brought out, all ready and
with the saddles on. First the King mounts, then my lord Gawain,
and all the others rapidly. Each one, wishing to be of the
party, follows his own will and starts away. Some were armed,
but there were not a few without their arms. My lord Gawain was
armed, and he bade two squires lead by the bridle two extra
steeds. And as they thus approached the forest, they saw Kay's
horse running out; and they recognised him, and saw that both
reins of the bridle were broken. The horse was running wild, the
stirrup-straps all stained with blood, and the saddle-bow was
broken and damaged. Every one was chagrined at this, and they
nudged each other and shook their heads. My lord Gawain was
riding far in advance of the rest of the party, and it was not
long before he saw coming slowly a knight on a horse that was
sore, painfully tired, and covered with sweat. The knight first
saluted my lord Gawain, and his greeting my lord Gawain returned.
Then the knight, recognising my lord Gawain, stopped and thus
spoke to him: "You see, sir, my horse is in a sweat and in such
case as to be no longer serviceable. I suppose that those two
horses belong to you now, with the understanding that I shall
return the service and the favour, I beg you to let me have one
or the other of them, either as a loan or outright as a gift."
And he answers him: "Choose whichever you prefer." Then he who
was in dire distress did not try to select the better or the
fairer or the larger of the horses, but leaped quickly upon the
one which was nearer to him, and rode him off. Then the one he
had just left fell dead, for he had ridden him hard that day, so
that he was used up and overworked. The knight without delay
goes pricking through the forest, and my lord Gawain follows in
pursuit of him with all speed, until he reaches the bottom of a
hill. And when he had gone some distance, he found the horse
dead which he had given to the knight, and noticed that the
ground had been trampled by horses, and that broken shields and
lances lay strewn about, so that it seemed that there had been a
great combat between several knights, and he was very sorry and
grieved not to have been there. However, he did not stay there
long, but rapidly passed on until he saw again by chance the
knight all alone on foot, completely armed, with helmet laced,
shield hanging from his neck, and with his sword girt on. He had
overtaken a cart. In those days such a cart served the same
purpose as does a pillory now; and in each good town where there
are more than three thousand such carts nowadays, in those times
there was only one, and this, like our pillories, had to do
service for all those who commit murder or treason, and those who
are guilty of any delinquency, and for thieves who have stolen
others' property or have forcibly seized it on the roads.
Whoever was convicted of any crime was placed upon a cart and
dragged through all the streets, and he lost henceforth all his
legal rights, and was never afterward heard, honoured, or
welcomed in any court. The carts were so dreadful in those days
that the saying was then first used: "When thou dost see and meet
a cart, cross thyself and call upon God, that no evil may befall
thee." The knight on foot, and without a lance, walked behind
the cart, and saw a dwarf sitting on the shafts, who held, as a
driver does, a long goad in his hand. Then he cries out: "Dwarf,
for God's sake, tell me now if thou hast seen my lady, the Queen,
pass by here." The miserable, low-born dwarf would not give him
any news of her, but replied: "If thou wilt get up into the cart
I am driving thou shalt hear to-morrow what has happened to the
Queen." Then he kept on his way without giving further heed.
The knight hesitated only for a couple of steps before getting
in. Yet, it was unlucky for him that he shrank from the
disgrace, and did not jump in at once; for he will later rue his
delay. But common sense, which is inconsistent with love's
dictates, bids him refrain from getting in, warning him and
counselling him to do and undertake nothing for which he may reap
shame and disgrace. Reason, which dares thus speak to him,
reaches only his lips, but not his heart; but love is enclosed
within his heart, bidding him and urging him to mount at once
upon the cart. So he jumps in, since love will have it so,
feeling no concern about the shame, since he is prompted by
love's commands. And my lord Gawain presses on in haste after
the cart, and when he finds the knight sitting in it, his
surprise is great. "Tell me," he shouted to the dwarf, "if thou
knowest anything of the Queen." And he replied: "If thou art so
much thy own enemy as is this knight who is sitting here, get in
with him, if it be thy pleasure, and I will drive thee along with
him." When my lord Gawain heard that, he considered it great
foolishness, and said that he would not get in, for it would be
dishonourable to exchange a horse for a cart: "Go on, and
wherever thy journey lies, I will follow after thee."
(Vv. 399-462.) Thereupon they start ahead, one mounted on his
horse, the other two riding in the cart, and thus they proceed in
company. Late in the afternoon they arrive at a town, which, you
must know, was very rich and beautiful. All three entered
through the gate; the people are greatly amazed to see the knight
borne upon the cart, and they take no pains to conceal their
feelings, but small and great and old and young shout taunts at
him in the streets, so that the knight hears many vile and
scornful words at his expense. (5) They all inquire: "To what
punishment is this knight to be consigned? Is he to be rayed, or
hanged, or drowned, or burned upon a fire of thorns? Tell us,
thou dwarf, who art driving him, in what crime was he caught? Is
he convicted of robbery? Is he a murderer, or a criminal?" And
to all this the dwarf made no response, vouchsafing to them no
reply. He conducts the knight to a lodging-place; and Gawain
follows the dwarf closely to a tower, which stood on the same
level over against the town. Beyond there stretched a meadow,
and the tower was built close by, up on a lofty eminence of rock,
whose face formed a sharp precipice. Following the horse and
cart, Gawain entered the tower. In the hall they met a damsel
elegantly attired, than whom there was none fairer in the land,
and with her they saw coming two fair and charming maidens. As
soon as they saw my lord Gawain, they received him joyously and
saluted him, and then asked news about the other knight: "Dwarf,
of what crime is this knight guilty, whom thou dost drive like a
lame man?" He would not answer her question, but he made the
knight get out of the cart, and then he withdrew, without their
knowing whither he went. Then my lord Gawain dismounts, and
valets come forward to relieve the two knights of their armour.
The damsel ordered two green mantles to be brought, which they
put on. When the hour for supper came, a sumptuous repast was
set. The damsel sat at table beside my lord Gawain. They would
not have changed their lodging-place to seek any other, for all
that evening the damsel showed them gear honour, and provided
them with fair and pleasant company.
(Vv. 463-538.) When they had sat up long enough, two long, high
beds were prepared in the middle of the hall; and there was
another bed alongside, fairer and more splendid than the rest;
for, as the story testifies, it possessed all the excellence that
one could think of in a bed. When the time came to retire, the
damsel took both the guests to whom she had offered her
hospitality; she shows them the two fine, long, wide beds, and
says: "These two beds are set up here for the accommodation of
your bodies; but in that one yonder no one ever lay who did not
merit it: it was not set up to be used by you." The knight who
came riding on the cart replies at once: "Tell me, he says, "for
what cause this bed is inaccessible." Being thoroughly informed
of this, she answers unhesitatingly: "It is not your place to ask
or make such an inquiry. Any knight is disgraced in the land
after being in a cart, and it is not fitting that he should
concern himself with the matter upon which you have questioned
me; and most of all it is not right that he should lie upon the
bed, for he would soon pay dearly for his act. So rich a couch
has not been prepared for you, and you would pay dearly for ever
harbouring such a thought." He replies: "You will see about that
presently." .... "Am I to see it?" .... "Yes." .... "It will soon
appear." .... "By my head," the knight replies, "I know not who
is to pay the penalty. But whoever may object or disapprove, I
intend to lie upon this bed and repose there at my ease." Then
he at once disrobed in the bed, which was long and raised half an
ell above the other two, and was covered with a yellow cloth of
silk and a coverlet with gilded stars. The furs were not of
skinned vair but of sable; the covering he had on him would have
been fitting for a king. The mattress was not made of straw or
rushes or of old mats. At midnight there descended from the
rafters suddenly a lance, as with the intention of pinning the
knight through the flanks to the coverlet and the white sheets
where he lay. (6) To the lance there was attached a pennon all
ablaze. The coverlet, the bedclothes, and the bed itself all
caught fire at once. And the tip of the lance passed so close to
the knight's side that it cut the skin a little, without
seriously wounding him. Then the knight got up, put out the fire
and, taking the lance, swung it in the middle of the hall, all
this without leaving his bed; rather did he lie down again and
slept as securely as at first.
(Vv. 539-982.) In the morning, at daybreak, the damsel of the
tower had Mass celebrated on their account, and had them rise
and dress. When Mass had been celebrated for them, the knight
who had ridden in the cart sat down pensively at a window, which
looked out upon the meadow, and he gazed upon the fields below.
The damsel came to another window close by, and there my lord
Gawain conversed with her privately for a while about something,
I know not what. I do not know what words were uttered, but
while they were leaning on the window-sill they saw carried along
the river through the fields a bier, upon which there lay a
knight, (7) and alongside three damsels walked, mourning
bitterly. Behind the bier they saw a crowd approaching, with a
tall knight in front, leading a fair lady by the horse's rein.
The knight at the window knew that it was the Queen. He
continued to gaze at her attentively and with delight as long as
she was visible. And when he could no longer see her, he was
minded to throw himself out and break his body down below. And
he would have let himself fall out had not my lord Gawain seen
him, and drawn him back, saying: "I beg you, sire, be quiet now.
For God's sake, never think again of committing such a mad deed.
It is wrong for you to despise your life." "He is perfectly
right," the damsel says; "for will not the news of his disgrace
be known everywhere? Since he has been upon the cart, he has
good reason to wish to die, for he would be better dead than
alive. His life henceforth is sure to be one of shame, vexation,
and unhappiness." Then the knights asked for their armour, and
armed themselves, the damsel treating them courteously, with
distinction and generosity; for when she had joked with the
knight and ridiculed him enough, she presented him with a horse
and lance as a token of her goodwill. The knights then
courteously and politely took leave of the damsel, first saluting
her, and then going off in the direction taken by the crowd they
had seen. Thus they rode out from the town without addressing
them. They proceeded quickly in the direction they had seen
taken by the Queen, but they did not overtake the procession,
which had advanced rapidly. After leaving the fields, the
knights enter an enclosed place, and find a beaten road. They
advanced through the woods until it might be six o'clock, (8) and
then at a crossroads they met a damsel, whom they both saluted,
each asking and requesting her to tell them, if she knows,
whither the Queen has been taken. Replying intelligently, she
said to them: "If you would pledge me your word, I could set you
on the right road and path, and I would tell you the name of the
country and of the knight who is conducting her; but whoever
would essay to enter that country must endure sore trials, for
before he could reach there he must suffer much." Then my lord
Gawain replies: "Damsel, so help me God, I promise to place all
my strength at your disposal and service, whenever you please, if
you will tell me now the truth." And he who had been on the cart
did not say that he would pledge her all his strength; but he
proclaims, like one whom love makes rich, powerful and bold for
any enterprise, that at once and without hesitation he will
promise her anything she desires, and he puts himself altogether
at her disposal. "Then I will tell you the truth," says she.
Then the damsel relates to them the following story: "In truth,
my lords, Meleagant, a tall and powerful knight, son of the King
of Gorre, has taken her off into the kingdom whence no foreigner
returns, but where he must perforce remain in servitude and
banishment." Then they ask her: "Damsel, where is this country?
Where can we find the way thither?" She replies: "That you shall
quickly learn; but you may be sure that you will meet with many
obstacles and difficult passages, for it is not easy to enter
there except with the permission of the king, whose name is
Bademagu; however, it is possible to enter by two very perilous
paths and by two very difficult passage-ways. One is called the
water-bridge, because the bridge is under water, and there is the
same amount of water beneath it as above it, so that the bridge
is exactly in the middle; and it is only a foot and a half in
width and in thickness. This choice is certainly to be avoided.
and yet it is the less dangerous of the two. In addition there
are a number of other obstacles of which I will say nothing. The
other bridge is still more impracticable and much more perilous,
never having been crossed by man. It is just like a sharp sword,
and therefore all the people call it `the sword-bridge'. Now I
have told you all the truth I know." But they ask of her once
again: "Damsel, deign to show us these two passages." To which
the damsel makes reply: "This road here is the most direct to the
water-bridge, and that one yonder leads straight to the sword-
bridge." Then the knight, who had been on the cart, says: "Sire,
I am ready to share with you without prejudice: take one of these
two routes, and leave the other one to me; take whichever you
prefer." "In truth," my lord Gawain replies, "both of them are
hard and dangerous: I am not skilled in making such a choice, and
hardly know which of them to take; but it is not right for me to
hesitate when you have left the choice to me: I will choose the
water-bridge." The other answers: "Then I must go
uncomplainingly to the sword-bridge, which I agree to do."
Thereupon, they all three part, each one commending the others
very courteously to God. And when she sees them departing, she
says: "Each one of you owes me a favour of my choosing, whenever
I may choose to ask it. Take care not to forget that." "We
shall surely not forget it, sweet friend," both the knights call
out. Then each one goes his own way, and he of the cart is
occupied with deep reflections, like one who has no strength or
defence against love which holds him in its sway. His thoughts
are such that he totally forgets himself, and he knows not
whether he is alive or dead, forgetting even his own name, not
knowing whether he is armed or not, or whither he is going or
whence he came. Only one creature he has in mind, and for her
his thought is so occupied that he neither sees nor hears aught
else. (9) And his horse bears him along rapidly, following no
crooked road, but the best and the most direct; and thus
proceeding unguided, he brings him into an open plain. In this
plain there was a ford, on the other side of which a knight stood
armed, who guarded it, and in his company there was a damsel who
had come on a palfrey. By this time the afternoon was well
advanced, and yet the knight, unchanged and unwearied, pursued
his thoughts. The horse, being very thirsty, sees clearly the
ford, and as soon as he sees it, hastens toward it. Then he on
the other side cries out: "Knight, I am guarding the ford, and
forbid you to cross." He neither gives him heed, nor hears his
words, being still deep in thought. In the meantime, his horse
advanced rapidly toward the water. The knight calls out to him
that he will do wisely to keep at a distance from the ford, for
there is no passage that way; and he swears by the heart within
his breast that he will smite him if he enters the water. But
his threats are not heard, and he calls out to him a third time:
"Knight, do not enter the ford against my will and prohibition;
for, by my head, I shall strike you as soon as I see you in the
ford." But he is so deep in thought that he does not hear him.
And the horse, quickly leaving the bank, leaps into the ford and
greedily begins to drink. And the knight says he shall pay for
this, that his shield and the hauberk he wears upon his back
shall afford him no protection. First, he puts his horse at a
gallop, and from a gallop he urges him to a run, and he strikes
the knight so hard that he knocks him down flat in the ford which
he had forbidden him to cross. His lance flew from his hand and
the shield from his neck. When he feels the water, he shivers,
and though stunned, he jumps to his feet, like one aroused from
sleep, listening and looking about him with astonishment, to see
who it can be who has struck him. Then face to face with the
other knight, he said: "Vassal, tell me why you have struck me,
when I was not aware of your presence, and when I had done you no
harm." "Upon my word, you had wronged me," the other says: "did
you not treat me disdainfully when I forbade you three times to
cross the ford, shouting at you as loudly as I could? You surely
heard me challenge you at least two or three times, and you
entered in spite of me, though I told you I should strike you as
soon as I saw you in the ford." Then the knight replies to him:
"Whoever heard you or saw you, let him be damned, so far as I am
concerned. I was probably deep in thought when you forbade me to
cross the ford. But be assured that I would make you reset it,
if I could just lay one of my hands on your bridle." And the
other replies: "Why, what of that? If you dare, you may seize my
bridle here and now. I do not esteem your proud threats so much
as a handful of ashes." And he replies: "That suits me
perfectly. However the affair may turn out, I should like to lay
my hands on you." Then the other knight advances to the middle
of the ford, where the other lays his left hand upon his bridle,
and his right hand upon his leg, pulling, dragging, and pressing
him so roughly that he remonstrates, thinking that he would pull
his leg out of his body. Then he begs him to let go, saying:
"Knight, if it please thee to fight me on even terms, take thy
shield and horse and lance, and joust with me." He answers:
"That will I not do, upon my word; for I suppose thou wouldst run
away as soon as thou hadst escaped my grip." Hearing this, he
was much ashamed, and said: "Knight, mount thy horse, in
confidence for I will pledge thee loyally my word that I shall
not flinch or run away." Then once again he answers him: "First,
thou wilt have to swear to that, and I insist upon receiving thy
oath that thou wilt neither run away nor flinch, nor touch me,
nor come near me until thou shalt see me on my horse; I shall be
treating thee very generously, if, when thou art in my hands, I
let thee go." He can do nothing but give his oath; and when the
other hears him swear, he gathers up his shield and lance which
were floating in the ford and by this time had drifted well
down-stream; then he returns and takes his horse. After catching
and mounting him, he seizes the shield by the shoulder-straps and
lays his lance in rest. Then each spurs toward the other as fast
as their horses can carry them. And he who had to defend the
ford first attacks the other, striking him so hard that his lance
is completely splintered. The other strikes him in return so
that he throws him prostrate into the ford, and the water closes
over him. Having accomplished that, he draws back and dismounts,
thinking he could drive and chase away a hundred such. While he
draws from the scabbard his sword of steel, the other jumps up
and draws his excellent flashing blade. Then they clash again,
advancing and covering themselves with the shields which gleam
with gold. Ceaselessly and without repose they wield their
swords; they have the courage to deal so many blows that the
battle finally is so protracted that the Knight of the Cart is
greatly ashamed in his heart, thinking that he is making a sorry
start in the way he has undertaken, when he has spent so much
time in defeating a single knight. If he had met yesterday a
hundred such, he does not think or believe that they could have
withstood him; so now he is much grieved and wroth to be in such
an exhausted state that he is missing his strokes and losing
time. Then he runs at him and presses him so hard that the other
knight gives way and flees. However reluctant he may be, he
leaves the ford and crossing free. But the other follows him in
pursuit until he falls forward upon his hands; then he of the
cart runs up to him, swearing by all he sees that he shall rue
the day when he upset him in the ford and disturbed his revery.
The damsel, whom the knight had with him, upon hearing the
threats, is in great fear, and begs him for her sake to forbear
from killing him; but he tells her that he must do so, and can
show him no mercy for her sake, in view of the shameful wrong
that he has done him. Then, with sword drawn, he approaches the
knight who cries in sore dismay: "For God's sake and for my own,
show me the mercy I ask of you." And he replies: "As God may
save me, no one ever sinned so against me that I would not show
him mercy once, for God's sake as is right, if he asked it of me
in God's name. And so on thee I will have mercy; for I ought not
to refuse thee when thou hast besought me. But first, thou shalt
give me thy word to constitute thyself my prisoner whenever I may
wish to summon thee." Though it was hard to do so, he promised
him. At once the damsel said: "O knight, since thou hast granted
the mercy he asked of thee, if ever thou hast broken any bonds,
for my sake now be merciful and release this prisoner from his
parole. Set him free at my request, upon condition that when the
time comes, I shall do my utmost to repay thee in any way that
thou shalt choose." Then he declares himself satisfied with the
promise she has made, and sets the knight at liberty. Then she
is ashamed and anxious, thinking that he will recognise her,
which she did not wish. But he goes away at once, the knight and
the damsel commending him to God, and taking leave of him. He
grants them leave to go, while he himself pursues his way, until
late in the afternoon he met a damsel coming, who was very fair
and charming, well attired and richly dressed. The damsel greets
him prudently and courteously, and he replies: "Damsel, God grant
you health and happiness." Then the damsel said to him: "Sire,
my house is prepared for you, if you will accept my hospitality,
but you shall find shelter there only on condition that you will
lie with me; upon these terms I propose and make the offer." Not
a few there are who would have thanked her five hundred times for
such a gift; but he is much displeased, and made a very different
answer: "Damsel, I thank you for the offer of your house, and
esteem it highly, but, if you please, I should be very sorry to
lie with you." "By my eyes," the damsel says, "then I retract my
offer." And he, since it is unavoidable, lets her have her way,
though his heart grieves to give consent. He feels only
reluctance now; but greater distress will be his when it is time
to go to bed. The damsel, too, who leads him away, will pass
through sorrow and heaviness. For it is possible that she will
love him so that she will not wish to part with him. As soon as
he had granted her wish and desire, she escorts him to a
fortified place, than which there was none fairer in Thessaly;
for it was entirely enclosed by a high wall and a deep moat, and
there was no man within except him whom she brought with her.
(Vv. 983-1042.) Here she had constructed for her residence a
quantity of handsome rooms, and a large and roomy hall. Riding
along a river bank, they approached their lodging-place, and a
drawbridge was lowered to allow them to pass. Crossing the
bridge, they entered in, and found the hall open with its roof of
tiles. Through the open door they pass, and see a table laid
with a broad white cloth, upon which the dishes were set, and the
candles burning in their stands, and the gilded silver drinking-
cups, and two pots of wine, one red and one white. Standing
beside the table, at the end of a bench, they found two basins of
warm water in which to wash their hands, with a richly
embroidered towel, all white and clean, with which to dry their
hands. No valets, servants, or squires were to be found or seen.
The knight, removing his shield from about his neck, hangs it
upon a hook, and, taking his lance, lays it above upon a rack.
Then he dismounts from his horse, as does the damsel from hers.
The knight, for his part, was pleased that she did not care to
wait for him to help her to dismount. Having dismounted, she
runs directly to a room and brings him a short mantle of scarlet
cloth which she puts on him. The hall was by no means dark; for
beside the light from the stars, there were many large twisted
candles lighted there, so that the illumination was very bright.
When she had thrown the mantle about his shoulders, she said to
him: "Friend, here is the water and the towel; there is no one to
present or offer it to you except me whom you see. Wash your
hands, and then sit down, when you feel like doing so. The hour
and the meal, as you can see, demand that you should do so." He
washes, and then gladly and readily takes his seat, and she sits
down beside him, and they eat and drink together, until the time
comes to leave the table.
(Vv. 1043-1206.) When they had risen from the table, the damsel
said to the knight: "Sire, if you do not object, go outside and
amuse yourself; but, if you please, do not stay after you think I
must be in bed. Feel no concern or embarrassment; for then you
may come to me at once, if you will keep the promise you have
made." And he replies: "I will keep my word, and will return
when I think the time has come." Then he went out, and stayed in
the courtyard until he thought it was time to return and keep the
promise he had made. Going back into the hall, he sees nothing
of her who would be his mistress; for she was not there. Not
finding or seeing her, he said: "Wherever she may be, I shall
look for her until I find her." He makes no delay in his search,
being bound by the promise he had made her. Entering one of the
rooms, he hears a damsel cry aloud, and it was the very one with
whom he was about to lie. At the same time, he sees the door of
another room standing open, and stepping toward it, he sees right
before his eyes a knight who had thrown her down, and was holding
her naked and prostrate upon the bed. She, thinking that he had
come of course to help her, cried aloud: "Help, help, thou
knight, who art my guest. If thou dost not take this man away
from me, I shall find no one to do so; if thou dost not succour
me speedily, he will wrong me before thy eyes. Thou art the one
to lie with me, in accordance with thy promise; and shall this
man by force accomplish his wish before thy eyes? Gentle knight,
exert thyself, and make haste to bear me aid." He sees that the
other man held the damsel brutally uncovered to the waist, and he
is ashamed and angered to see him assault her so; yet it is not
jealousy he feels, nor will he be made a cuckold by him. At the
door there stood as guards two knights completely armed and with
swords drawn. Behind them there stood four men-at-arms, each
armed with an axe the sort with which you could split a cow down
the back as easily as a root of juniper or broom. The knight
hesitated at the door, and thought: "God, what can I do? I am
engaged in no less an affair than the quest of Queen Guinevere.
I ought not to have the heart of a hare, when for her sake I have
engaged in such a quest. If cowardice puts its heart in me, and
if I follow its dictates, I shall never attain what I seek. I am
disgraced, if I stand here; indeed, I am ashamed even to have
thought of holding back. My heart is very sad and oppressed: now
I am so ashamed and distressed that I would gladly die for having
hesitated here so long. I say it not in pride: but may God have
mercy on me if I do not prefer to die honourably rather than live
a life of shame! If my path were unobstructed, and if these men
gave me leave to pass through without restraint, what honour
would I gain? Truly, in that case the greatest coward alive
would pass through; and all the while I hear this poor creature
calling for help constantly, and reminding me of my promise, and
reproaching me with bitter taunts." Then he steps to the door,
thrusting in his head and shoulders; glancing up, he sees two
swords descending. He draws back, and the knights could not
check their strokes: they had wielded them with such force that
the swords struck the floor, and both were broken in pieces.
When he sees that the swords are broken, he pays less attention
to the axes, fearing and dreading them much less. Rushing in
among them, he strikes first one guard in the side and then
another. The two who are nearest him he jostles and thrusts
aside, throwing them both down flat; the third missed his stroke
at him, but the fourth, who attacked him, strikes him so that he
cuts his mantle and shirt, and slices the white flesh on his
shoulder so that the blood trickles down from the wound. But he,
without delay, and without complaining of his wound, presses on
more rapidly, until he strikes between the temples him who was
assaulting his hostess. Before he departs, he will try to keep
his pledge to her. He makes him stand up reluctantly.
Meanwhile, he who had missed striking him comes at him as fast as
he can and, raising his arm again, expects to split his head to
the teeth with the axe. But the other, alert to defend himself,
thrusts the knight toward him in such a way that he receives the
axe just where the shoulder joins the neck, so that they are
cleaved apart. Then the knight seizes the axe, wresting it
quickly from him who holds it; then he lets go the knight whom he
still held, and looks to his own defence; for the knights from
the door, and the three men with axes are all attacking him
fiercely. So he leaped quickly between the bed and the wall, and
called to them: "Come on now, all of you. If there were thirty-
seven of you, you would have all the fight you wish, with me so
favourably placed; I shall never be overcome by you." And the
damsel watching him, exclaimed: "By my eyes, you need have no
thought of that henceforth where I am." Then at once she
dismisses the knights and the men-at-arms, who retire from there
at once, without delay or objection. And the damsel continues:
"Sire you have well defended me against the men of my household.
Come now, and I'll lead you on." Hand in hand they enter the
hall, but he was not at all pleased, and would have willingly
dispensed with her.
(Vv. 1207-1292.) In the midst of the hall a bed had been set up,
the sheets of which were by no means soiled, but were white and
wide and well spread out. The bed was not of shredded straw or
of coarse spreads. But a covering of two silk cloths had been
laid upon the couch. The damsel lay down first, but without
removing her chemise. He had great trouble in removing his hose
and in untying the knots. He sweated with the trouble of it all;
yet, in the midst of all the trouble, his promise impels and
drives him on. Is this then an actual force? Yes, virtually so;
for he feels that he is in duty bound to take his place by the
damsel's side. It is his promise that urges him and dictates his
act. So he lies down at once, but like her, he does not remove
his shirt. He takes good care not to touch her; and when he is
in bed, he turns away from her as far as possible, and speaks not
a word to her, like a monk to whom speech is forbidden. Not once
does he look at her, nor show her any courtesy. Why not?
Because his heart does not go out to her. She was certainly very
fair and winsome, but not every one is pleased and touched by
what is fair and winsome. The knight has only one heart, and
this one is really no longer his, but has been entrusted to some
one else, so that he cannot bestow it elsewhere. Love, which
holds all hearts beneath its sway, requires it to be lodged in a
single place. All hearts? No, only those which it esteems. And
he whom love deigns to control ought to prize himself the more.
Love prized his heart so highly that it constrained it in a
special manner, and made him so proud of this distinction that I
am not inclined to find fault with him, if he lets alone what
love forbids, and remains fixed where it desires. The maiden
clearly sees and knows that he dislikes her company and would
gladly dispense with it, and that, having no desire to win her
love, he would not attempt to woo her. So she said: "My lord, if
you will not feel hurt, I will leave and return to bed in my own
room, and you will be more comfortable. I do not believe that
you are pleased with my company and society. Do not esteem me
less if I tell you what I think. Now take your rest all night,
for you have so well kept your promise that I have no right to
make further request of you. So I commend you to God; and shall
go away." Thereupon she arises: the knight does not object, but
rather gladly lets her go, like one who is the devoted lover of
some one else; the damsel clearly perceived this, and went to her
room, where she undressed completely and retired, saying to
herself: "Of all the knights I have ever known, I never knew a
single knight whom I would value the third part of an angevin in
comparison with this one. As I understand the case, he has on
hand a more perilous and grave affair than any ever undertaken by
a knight; and may God grant that he succeed in it." Then she
fell asleep, and remained in bed until the next day's dawn
appeared.
(Vv. 1293-1368.) At daybreak she awakes and gets up. The knight
awakes too, dressing, and putting on his arms, without waiting
for any help. Then the damsel comes and sees that he is already
dressed. Upon seeing him, she says: "May this day be a happy one
for you." "And may it be the same to you, damsel," the knight
replies, adding that he is waiting anxiously for some one to
bring out his horse. The maiden has some one fetch the horse,
and says: "Sire, I should like to accompany you for some distance
along the road, if you would agree to escort and conduct me
according to the customs and practices which were observed before
we were made captive in the kingdom of Logres." In those days
the customs and privileges were such that, if a knight found a
damsel or lorn maid alone, and if he cared for his fair name, he
would no more treat her with dishonour than he would cut his own
throat. And if he assaulted her, he would be disgraced for ever
in every court. But if, while she was under his escort, she
should be won at arms by another who engaged him in battle, then
this other knight might do with her what he pleased without
receiving shame or blame. This is why the damsel said she would
go with him, if he had the courage and willingness to safe guard
her in his company, so that no one should do her any harm. And
he says to her: "No one shall harm you, I promise you, unless he
harm me first." "Then," she says, "I will go with you." She
orders her palfrey to be saddled, and her command is obeyed at
once. Her palfrey was brought together with the knight's horse.
Without the aid of any squire, they both mount, and rapidly ride
away. She talks to him, but not caring for her words, he pays no
attention to what she says. He likes to think, but dislikes to
talk. Love very often inflicts afresh the wound it has given
him. Yet, he applied no poultice to the wound to cure it and
make it comfortable, having no intention or desire to secure a
poultice or to seek a physician, unless the wound becomes more
painful. Yet, there is one whose remedy he would gladly seek
.... (10) They follow the roads and paths in the right direction
until they come to a spring, situated in the middle of a field,
and bordered by a stone basin. Some one had forgotten upon the
stone a comb of gilded ivory. Never since ancient times has wise
man or fool seen such a comb. In its teeth there was almost a
handful of hair belonging to her who had used the comb.
(Vv. 1369-1552.) When the damsel notices the spring, and sees
the stone, she does not wish her companion to see it; so she
turns off in another direction. And he, agreeably occupied with
his own thoughts, does not at once remark that she is leading him
aside; but when at last he notices it, he is afraid of being
beguiled, thinking that she is yielding and is going out of the
way in order to avoid some danger. "See here, damsel," he cries,
"you are not going right; come this way! No one, I think, ever
went straight who left this road." "Sire, this is a better way
for us," the damsel says, "I am sure of it." Then he replies to
her: "I don't know, damsel, what you think; but you can plainly
see that the beaten path lies this way; and since I have started
to follow it, I shall not turn aside. So come now, if you will,
for I shall continue along this way." Then they go forward until
they come near the stone basin and see the comb. The knight
says: "I surely never remember to have seen so beautiful a comb
as this." "Let me have it," the damsel says. "Willingly,
damsel," he replies. Then he stoops over and picks it up. While
holding it, he looks at it steadfastly, gazing at the hair until
the damsel begins to laugh. When he sees her doing so, he begs
her to tell him why she laughs. And she says: "Never mind, for I
will never tell you." "Why not?" he asks. "Because I don't wish
to do so." And when he hears that, he implores her like one who
holds that lovers ought to keep faith mutually: "Damsel, if you
love anything passionately, by that I implore and conjure and beg
you not to conceal from me the reason why you laugh." "Your
appeal is so strong," she says, "that I will tell you and keep
nothing back. I am sure, as I am of anything, that this comb
belonged to the Queen. And you may take my word that those are
strands of the Queen's hair which you see to be so fair and light
and radiant, and which are clinging in the teeth of the comb;
they surely never grew anywhere else." Then the knight replied:
"Upon my word, there are plenty of queens and kings; what queen
do you mean?" And she answered: "In truth, fair sire, it is of
King Arthur's wife I speak." When he hears that, he has not
strength to keep from bowing his head over his saddle-bow. And
when the damsel sees him thus, she is amazed and terrified,
thinking he is about to fall. Do not blame her for her fear, for
she thought him in a faint. He might as well have swooned, so
near was he to doing so; for in his heart he felt such grief that
for a long time he lost his colour and power of speech. And the
damsel dismounts, and runs as quickly as possible to support and
succour him; for she would not have wished for anything to see
him fall. When he saw her, he felt ashamed, and said: "Why do
you need to bear me aid?" You must not suppose that the damsel
told him why; for he would have been ashamed and distressed, and
it would have annoyed and troubled him, if she had confessed to
him the truth. So she took good care not to tell the truth, but
tactfully answered him: "Sire, I dismounted to get the comb; for
I was so anxious to hold it in my hand that I could not longer
wait." Willing that she should have the comb, he gives it to
her, first pulling out the hair so carefully that he tears none
of it. Never will the eye of man see anything receive such
honour as when he begins to adore these tresses. A hundred
thousand times he raises them to his eyes and mouth, to his
forehead and face: he manifests his joy in every way, considering
himself rich and happy now. He lays them in his bosom near his
heart, between the shirt and the flesh. He would not exchange
them for a cartload of emeralds and carbuncles, nor does he think
that any sore or illness can afflict him now; he holds in
contempt essence of pearl, treacle, and the cure for pleurisy;
(11) even for St. Martin and St. James he has no need; for he has
such confidence in this hair that he requires no other aid. But
what was this hair like? If I tell the truth about it, you will
think I am a mad teller of lies. When the mart is full at the
yearly fair of St. Denis, (12) and when the goods are most
abundantly displayed, even then the knight would not take all
this wealth, unless he had found these tresses too. And if you
wish to know the truth, gold a hundred thousand times refined,
and melted down as many times, would be darker than is night
compared with the brightest summer day we have had this year, if
one were to see the gold and set it beside this hair. But why
should I make a long story of it? The damsel mounts again with
the comb in her possession; while he revels and delights in the
tresses in his bosom. Leaving the plain, they come to a forest
and take a short cut through it until they come to a narrow
place, where they have to go in single file; for it would have
been impossible to ride two horses abreast. Just where the way
was narrowest, they see a knight approach. As soon as she saw
him, the damsel recognised him, and said: "Sir knight, do you see
him who yonder comes against us all armed and ready for a battle?
I know what his intention is: he thinks now that he cannot fail
to take me off defenceless with him. He loves me, but he is very
foolish to do so. In person, and by messenger, he has been long
wooing me. But my love is not within his reach, for I would not
love him under any consideration, so help me God! I would kill
myself rather than bestow my love on him. I do not doubt that he
is delighted now, and is as satisfied as if he had me already in
his power. But now I shall see what you can do, and I shall see
how brave you are, and it will become apparent whether your
escort can protect me. If you can protect me now, I shall not
fail to proclaim that you are brave and very worthy." And he
answered her: "Go on, go on!" which was as much as to say: "I am
not concerned; there is no need of your being worried about what
you have said."
(Vv. 1553-1660.) While they were proceeding, talking thus, the
knight, who was alone, rode rapidly toward them on the run. He
was the more eager to make haste, because he felt more sure of
success; he felt that he was lucky now to see her whom he most
dearly loves. As soon as he approaches her, he greets her with
words that come from his heart: "Welcome to her, whence-soever
she comes, whom I most desire, but who has hitherto caused me
least joy and most distress!" It is not fitting that she should
be so stingy of her speech as not to return his greeting, at
least by word of mouth. The knight is greatly elated when the
damsel greets him; though she does not take the words seriously,
and the effort costs her nothing. Yet, if he had at this moment
been victor in a tournament, he would not have so highly esteemed
himself, nor thought he had won such honour and renown. Being
now more confident of his worth, he grasped the bridle rein, and
said: "Now I shall lead you away: I have to-day sailed well on my
course to have arrived at last at so good a port. Now my
troubles are at an end: after dangers, I have reached a haven;
after sorrow, I have attained happiness; after pain, I have
perfect health; now I have accomplished my desire, when I find
you in such case that I can without resistance lead you away with
me at once." Then she says: "You have no advantage; for I am
under this knight's escort." "Surely, the escort is not worth
much," he says, "and I am going to lead you off at once. This
knight would have time to eat a bushel of salt before he could
defend you from me; I think I could never meet a knight from whom
I should not win you. And since I find you here so opportunely,
though he too may do his best to prevent it, yet I will take you
before his very eyes, however disgruntled he may be." The other
is not angered by all the pride he hears expressed, but without
any impudence or boasting, he begins thus to challenge him for
her: "Sire, don't be in a hurry, and don't waste your words, but
speak a little reasonably. You shall not be deprived of as much
of her as rightly belongs to you. You must know, however, that
the damsel has come hither under my protection. Let her alone
now, for you have detained her long enough!" The other gives
them leave to burn him, if he does not take her away in spite of
him. Then the other says: "It would not be right for me to let
you take her away; I would sooner fight with you. But if we
should wish to fight, we could not possibly do it in this narrow
road. Let us go to some level place--a meadow or an open
field." And he replies that that will suit him perfectly:
"Certainly, I agree to that: you are quite right, this road is
too narrow. My horse is so much hampered here that I am afraid
he will crush his flank before I can turn him around." Then with
great difficulty he turns, and his horse escapes without any
wound or harm. Then he says: "To be sure, I am much chagrined
that we have not met in a favourable spot and in the presence of
other men, for I should have been glad to have them see which is
the better of us two. Come on now, let us begin our search: we
shall find in the vicinity some large, broad, and open space."
Then they proceed to a meadow, where there were maids, knights,
and damsels playing at divers games in this pleasant place. They
were not all engaged in idle sport, but were playing backgammon
and chess or dice, and were evidently agreeably employed. Most
were engaged in such games as these; but the others there were
engaged in sports, dancing, singing, tumbling, leaping, and
wrestling with each other.
(Vv. 1661-1840.) A knight somewhat advanced in years was on the
other side of the meadow, seared upon a sorrel Spanish steed.
His bridle and saddle were of gold, and his hair was turning
grey. One hand hung at his side with easy grace. The weather
being fine, he was in his shirt sleeves, with a short mantle of
scarlet cloth and fur slung over his shoulders, and thus he
watched the games and dances. On the other side of the field,
close by a path, there were twenty-three knights mounted on good
Irish steeds. As soon as the three new arrivals come into view,
they all cease their play and shout across the fields: "See,
yonder comes the knight who was driven in the cart! Let no one
continue his sport while he is in our midst. A curse upon him
who cares or deigns to play so long as he is here!" Meanwhile he
who loved the damsel and claimed her as his own, approached the
old knight, and said: "Sire, I have attained great happiness; let
all who will now hear me say that God has granted me the thing
that I have always most desired; His gift would not have been so
great had He crowned me as king, nor would I have been so
indebted to Him, nor would I have so profited; for what I have
gained is fair and good." "I know not yet if it be thine," the
knight replies to his son. But the latter answers him: "Don't
you know? Can't you see it, then? For God's sake, sire, have no
further doubt, when you see that I have her in my possession. In
this forest, whence I come, I met her as she was on her way. I
think God had fetched her there for me, and I have taken her for
my own." "I do not know whether this will be allowed by him whom
I see coming after thee; he looks as if he is coming to demand
her of thee." During this conversation the dancing had ceased
because of the knight whom they saw, nor were they gaily playing
any more because of the disgust and scorn they felt for him. But
the knight without delay came up quickly after the damsel, and
said: "Let the damsel alone, knight, for you have no right to
her! If you dare, I am willing at once to fight with you in her
defence." Then the old knight remarked: "Did I not know it?
Fair son, detain the damsel no longer, but let her go." He does
not relish this advice, and swears that he will not give her up:
"May God never grant me joy if I give her up to him! I have her,
and I shall hold on to her as something that is mine own. The
shoulder-strap and all the armlets of my shield shall first be
broken, and I shall have lost all confidence in my strength and
arms, my sword and lance, before I will surrender my mistress to
him." And his father says: "I shall not let thee fight for any
reason thou mayest urge. Thou art too confident of thy bravery.
So obey my command." But he in his pride replies: "What? Am I a
child to be terrified? Rather will I make my boast that there is
not within the sea-girt land any knight, wheresoever he may
dwell, so excellent that I would let him have her, and whom I
should not expect speedily to defeat." The father answers: "Fair
son, I do not doubt that thou dost really think so, for thou art
so confident of thy strength. But I do not wish to see thee
enter a contest with this knight." Then he replies: "I shall be
disgraced if I follow your advice. Curse me if I heed your
counsel and turn recreant because of you, and do not do my utmost
in the fight. It is true that a man fares ill among his
relatives: I could drive a better bargain somewhere else, for you
are trying to take me in. I am sure that where I am not known, I
could act with better grace. No one, who did not know me, would
try to thwart my will; whereas you are annoying and tormenting
me. I am vexed by your finding fault with me. You know well
enough that when any one is blamed, he breaks out still more
passionately. But may God never give me joy if I renounce my
purpose because of you; rather will I fight in spite of you!"
"By the faith I bear the Apostle St. Peter," his father says,
"now I see that my request is of no avail. I waste my time in
rebuking thee; but I shall soon devise such means as shall compel
thee against thy will to obey my commands and submit to them."
Straightway summoning all the knights to approach, he bids them
lay hands upon his son whom he cannot correct, saying: "I will
have him bound rather than let him fight. You here are all my
men, and you owe me your devotion and service: by all the fiefs
you hold from me, I hold you responsible, and I add my prayer.
It seems to me that he must be mad, and that he shows excessive
pride, when he refuses to respect my will." Then they promise to
take care of him, and say that never, while he is in their
charge, shall he wish to fight, but that he must renounce the
damsel in spite of himself. Then they all join and seize him by
the arms and neck. "Dost thou not think thyself foolish now?"
his father asks; "confess the truth: thou hast not the strength
or power to fight or joust, however distasteful and hard it may
be for thee to admit it. Thou wilt be wise to consent to my will
and pleasure. Dost thou know what my intention is? In order
somewhat to mitigate thy disappointment, I am willing to join
thee, if thou wilt, in following the knight to-day and to-morrow,
through wood and plain, each one mounted on his horse. Perhaps
we shall soon find him to be of such a character and bearing that
I might let thee have thy way and fight with him." To this
proposal the other must perforce consent. Like the man who has
no alternative, he says that he will give in, provided they both
shall follow him. And when the people in the field see how this
adventure has turned out, they all exclaim: "Did you see? He who
was mounted on the cart has gained such honour here that he is
leading away the mistress of the son of my lord, and he himself
is allowing it. We may well suppose that he finds in him some
merit, when he lets him take her off. Now cursed a hundred times
be he who ceases longer his sport on his account! Come, let us
go back to our games again." Then they resume their games and
dances.
(Vv. 1841-1966.) Thereupon the knight turns away, without longer
remaining in the field, and the damsel accompanies him. They
leave in haste, while the father and his son ride after them
through the mown fields until toward three o'clock, when in a
very pleasant spot they come upon a church; beside the chancel
there was a cemetery enclosed by a wall. The knight was both
courteous and wise to enter the church on foot and make his
prayer to God, while the damsel held his horse for him until he
returned. When he had made his prayer, and while he was coming
back, a very old monk suddenly presented himself; whereupon the
knight politely requests him to tell him what this place is; for
he does not know. And he tells him it is a cemetery. And the
other says: "Take me in, so help you God!" "Gladly, sire," and
he takes him in. Following the monk's lead, the knight beholds
the most beautiful tombs that one could find as far as Dombes
(13) or Pampelune; and on each tomb there were letters cut,
telling the names of those who were destined to be buried there.
And he began in order to read the names, and came upon some which
said: "Here Gawain is to lie, here Louis, and here Yvain." After
these three, he read the names of many others among the most
famed and cherished knights of this or any other land. Among the
others, he finds one of marble, which appears to be new, and is
more rich and handsome than all the rest. Calling the monk, the
knight inquired: "Of what use are these tombs here?" And the
monk replied: "You have already read the inscriptions; if you
have understood, you must know what they say, and what is the
meaning of the tombs." "Now tell me, what is this large one
for?" And the hermit answered: "I will tell you. That is a very
large sarcophagus, larger than any that ever was made; one so
rich and well-carved was never seen. It is magnificent without,
and still more so within. But you need not be concerned with
that, for it can never do you any good; you will never see inside
of it; for it would require seven strong men to raise the lid of
stone, if any one wished to open it. And you may be sure that to
raise it would require seven men stronger than you and I. There
is an inscription on it which says that any one who can lift this
stone of his own unaided strength will set free all the men and
women who are captives in the land, whence no slave or noble can
issue forth, unless he is a native of that land. No one has ever
come back from there, but they are detained in foreign prisons;
whereas they of the country go and come in and out as they
please." At once the knight goes to grasp the stone, and raises
it without the slightest trouble, more easily than ten men would
do who exerted all their strength. And the monk was amazed, and
nearly fell down at the sight of this marvellous thing; for he
thought he would never see the like again, and said: "Sire, I am
very anxious to know your name. Will you tell me what it is?"
"Not I," says the knight, "upon my word." "I am certainly sorry,
for that," he says; "but if you would tell me, you would do me a
great favour, and might benefit yourself. Who are you, and where
do you come from?" "I am a knight, as you may see, and I was
born in the kingdom of Logre. After so much information, I
should prefer to be excused. Now please tell me, for your part,
who is to lie within this tomb." "Sire, he who shall deliver all
those who are held captive in the kingdom whence none escapes."
And when he had told him all this, the knight commended him to
God and all His saints. And then, for the first time, he felt
free to return to the damsel. The old white-haired monk escorts
him out of the church, and they resume their way. While the
damsel is mounting, however, the hermit relates to her all that
the knight had done inside, and then he begged her to tell him.
if she knew, what his name was; but she assured him that she did
not know, but that there was one sure thing she could say,
namely, that there was not such a knight alive where the four
winds of heaven blow.
(Vv. 1967-2022.) Then the damsel takes leave of him, and rides
swiftly after the knight. Then those who were following them
come up and see the hermit standing alone before the church. The
old knight in his shirt sleeves said: "Sire, tell us, have you
seen a knight with a damsel in his company?" And he replies: "I
shall not be loath to tell you all I know, for they have just
passed on from here. The knight was inside yonder, and did a
very marvellous thing in raising the stone from the huge marble
tomb, quite unaided and without the least effort. He is bent
upon the rescue of the Queen, and doubtless he will rescue her,
as well as all the other people. You know well that this must be
so, for you have often read the inscription upon the stone. No
knight was ever born of man and woman, and no knight ever sat in
a saddle, who was the equal of this man." Then the father turns
to his son, and says: "Son, what dost thou think about him now?
Is he not a man to be respected who has performed such a feat?
Now thou knowest who was wrong, and whether it was thou or I. I
would not have thee fight with him for all the town of Amiens;
and yet thou didst struggle hard, before any one could dissuade
thee from thy purpose. Now we may as well go back, for we should
be very foolish to follow him any farther." And he replies: "I
agree to that. It would be useless to follow him. Since it is
your pleasure, let us return." They were very wise to retrace
their steps. And all the time the damsel rides close beside the
knight, wishing to compel him to give heed to her. She is
anxious to learn his name, and she begs and beseeches him again
and again to tell her, until in his annoyance he answers her:
"Have I not already told you that I belong in King Arthur's
realm? I swear by God and His goodness that you shall not learn
my name." Then she bids him give her leave to go, and she will
turn back, which request he gladly grants.
(Vv. 2023-2198.) Thereupon the damsel departs, and he rides on
alone until it grew very late. After vespers, about compline, as
he pursued his way, he saw a knight returning from the wood where
he had been hunting. With helmet unlaced, he rode along upon his
big grey hunter, to which he had tied the game which God had
permitted him to take. This gentleman came quickly to meet the
knight, offering him hospitality. "Sire," he says, "night will
soon be here. It is time for you to be reasonable and seek a
place to spend the night. I have a house of mine near at hand,
whither I shall take you. No one ever lodged you better than I
shall do, to the extent of my resources: I shall be very glad, if
you consent." "For my part, I gladly accept," he says. The
gentleman at once sends his son ahead, to prepare the house and
start the preparations for supper. The lad willingly executes
his command forthwith, and goes off at a rapid pace, while the
others, who are in no haste, follow the road leisurely until they
arrive at the house. The gentleman's wife was a very
accomplished lady; and he had five sons, whom he dearly loved,
three of them mere lads, and two already knights; and he had two
fair and charming daughters, who were still unmarried. They were
not natives of the land, but were there in durance, having been
long kept there as prisoners away from their native land of
Logres. When the gentleman led the knight into his yard, the
lady with her sons and daughters jumped up and ran to meet them,
vying in their efforts to do him honour, as they greeted him and
helped him to dismount. Neither the sisters nor the five
brothers paid much attention to their father, for they knew well
enough that he would have it so. They honoured the knight and
welcomed him; and when they had relieved him of his armour, one
of his host's two daughters threw her own mantle about him,
taking it from her own shoulders and throwing it about his neck.
I do not need to tell how well he was served at supper; but when
the meal was finished, they felt no further hesitation in
speaking of various matters. First, the host began to ask him
who he was, and from what land, but he did not inquire about his
name. The knight promptly answered him: "I am from the kingdom
of Logres, and have never been in this land before." And when
the gentleman heard that, he was greatly amazed, as were his wife
and children too, and each one of them was sore distressed. Then
they began to say to him: "Woe that you have come here, fair
sire, for only trouble will come of it! For, like us, you will
be reduced to servitude and exile." "Where do you come from,
then?" he asked. "Sire, we belong in your country. Many men
from your country are held in servitude in this land. Cursed be
the custom, together with those who keep it up! No stranger
comes here who is not compelled to stay here in the land where he
is detained. For whoever wishes may come in, but once in, he has
to stay. About your own fate, you may be at rest, you will
doubtless never escape from here." He replies: "Indeed, I shall
do so, if possible." To this the gentleman replies: "How? Do
you think you can escape?" "Yes, indeed, if it be God's will;
and I shall do all within my power." "In that case, doubtless
all the rest would be set free; for, as soon as one succeeds in
fairly escaping from this durance, then all the rest may go forth
unchallenged." Then the gentleman recalled that he had been told
and informed that a knight of great excellence was making his way
into the country to seek for the Queen, who was held by the
king's son, Meleagant; and he said to himself: "Upon my word, I
believe it is he, and I'll tell him so." So he said to him:
"Sire, do not conceal from me your business, if I promise to give
you the best advice I know. I too shall profit by any success
you may attain. Reveal to me the truth about your errand, that
it may be to your advantage as well as mine. I am persuaded that
you have come in search of the Queen into this land and among
these heathen people, who are worse than the Saracens." And the
knight replies: "For no other purpose have I come. I know not
where my lady is confined, but I am striving hard to rescue her,
and am in dire need of advice. Give me any counsel you can."
And he says: "Sire, you have undertaken a very grievous task.
The road you are travelling will lead you straight to the sword-
bridge. (14) You surely need advice. If you would heed my
counsel, you would proceed to the sword-bridge by a surer way,
and I would have you escorted thither." Then he, whose mind is
fixed upon the most direct way, asks him: "Is the road of which
you speak as direct as the other way?" "No, it is not," he says;
"it is longer, but more sure." Then he says: "I have no use for
it; tell me about this road I am following!" "I am ready to do
so," he replies; "but I am sure you will not fare well if you
take any other than the road I recommend. To-morrow you will
reach a place where you will have trouble: it is called `the
stony passage'. Shall I tell you how bad a place it is to pass?
Only one horse can go through at a time; even two men could not
pass abreast, and the passage is well guarded and defended. You
will meet with resistance as soon as you arrive. You will
sustain many a blow of sword and lance, and will have to return
full measure before you succeed in passing through." And when he
had completed the account, one of the gentleman's sons, who was a
knight, stepped forward, saying: "Sire, if you do not object, I
will go with this gentleman." Then one of the lads jumps up, and
says: "I too will go." And the father gladly gives them both
consent. Now the knight will not have to go alone, and he
expresses his gratitude, being much pleased with the company.
(Vv. 2199-2266.) Then the conversation ceases, and they take the
knight to bed, where he was glad to fall asleep. As soon as
daylight was visible he got up, and those who were to accompany
him got up too. The two knights donned their armour and took
their leave, while the young fellow started on ahead. Together
they pursued their way until they came at the hour of prime to
"the stony passage." In the middle of it they found a wooden
tower, where there was always a man on guard. Before they drew
near, he who was on the tower saw them and cried twice aloud:
"Woe to this man who comes!" And then behold! A knight issued
from the tower, mounted and armed with fresh armour, and escorted
on either side by servants carrying sharp axes. Then, when the
other draws near the passage, he who defends it begins to heap
him with abuse about the cart, saying: "Vassal, thou art bold and
foolish, indeed, to have entered this country. No man ought ever
to come here who had ridden upon a cart, and may God withhold
from him His blessing!" Then they spur toward each other at the
top of their horses' speed. And he who was to guard the passage-
way at once breaks his lance and lets the two pieces fall; the
other strikes him in the neck, reaching him beneath the shield,
and throws him over prostrate upon the stones. Then the servants
come forward with the axes, but they intentionally fail to strike
him, having no desire to harm or damage him; so he does not deign
to draw his sword, and quickly passes on with his companions.
One of them remarks to the other: "No one has ever seen so good a
knight, nor has he any equal. Is not this a marvellous thing,
that he has forced a passage here?" And the knight says to his
brother: "Fair brother, for God's sake, make haste to go and tell
our father of this adventure." But the lad asserts and swears
that he will not go with the message, and will never leave the
knight until he has dubbed and knighted him; let his brother go
with the message, if he is so much concerned.
(Vv. 2267-2450.) Then they go on together until about three
o'clock, when they come upon a man, who asks them who they are.
And they answer: "We are knights, busy about our own affairs."
Then the man says to the knight: "Sire, I should be glad to offer
hospitality to you and your companions here." This invitation he
delivers to him whom he takes to be the lord and master of the
others. And this one replies to him: "I could not seek shelter
for the night at such an hour as this; for it is not well to
tarry and seek one's ease when one has undertaken some great
task. And I have such business on hand that I shall not stop for
the night for some time yet." Then the man continues: "My house
is not near here, but is some distance ahead. It will be late
when you reach there, so you may proceed, assured that you will
find a place to lodge just when it suits you." "In that case,"
he says, "I will go thither." Thereupon the man starts ahead as
guide, and the knight follows along the path. And when they had
proceeded some distance, they met a squire who was coming along
at a gallop, mounted upon a nag that was as fat and round as an
apple. And the squire calls our to the man: "Sire, sire, make
haste! For the people of Logres have attacked in force the
inhabitants of this land, and war and strife have already broken
out; and they say that this country has been invaded by a knight
who has been in many battles, and that wherever he wishes to go,
no one, however reluctantly, is able to deny him passage. And
they further say that he will deliver those who are in this
country, and will subdue our people. Now take my advice and make
haste!" Then the man