But the maiden inevitably became the wife, and the whirligig

FRENCH MEDIAEVAL ROMANCES

_From the Lays of Marie de France_

_Translated by Eugene Mason_.

1911

INTRODUCTION

The tales included in this little book of translations are derived

mainly from the "Lays" of Marie de France. I do not profess them to be

a complete collection of her stories in verse. The ascription varies.

Poems which were included in her work but yesterday are withdrawn

to-day, and new matter suggested by scholars to take the place of the

old. I believe it to be, however, a far fuller version of Marie's

"Lays" than has yet appeared, to my knowledge, in English. Marie's

poems are concerned chiefly with love. To complete my book I have

added two famous mediaeval stories on the same excellent theme.

This, then, may be regarded as a volume of French romances, dealing,

generally, with one aspect of mediaeval life.

An age so feminist in its sympathies as ours should be attracted the

more easily to Marie de France, because she was both an artist and a

woman. To deliver oneself through any medium is always difficult. For

a woman of the Middle Ages to express herself publicly by any means

whatever was almost impossible. A great lady, a great Saint or

church-woman, might do so very occasionally. But the individuality

of the ordinary wife was merged in that of her husband, and for one

Abbess of Shrewsbury or Whitby, for one St. Clare or St. Hilda, there

were how many thousand obscure sisters, who were buried in the daily

routine of a life hidden with Christ in God! Doubtless the artistic

temperament burst out now and again in woman, and would take no

denial. It blew where it listed, appearing in the most unexpected

places. A young nun in a Saxon convent, for instance, would write

little dramas in Latin for the amusement and edification of the noble

maidens under her charge. These comedies, written in the days of the

Emperor Otho, can be read with pleasure in the reign of King George,

by those who find fragrant the perfumes of the past. They deal with

the pious legends of the Saints, and are regarded with wistful

admiration by the most modern of Parisian playwrights. In their

combination of audacity and simplicity they could only be performed by

Saxon religious in the times of Otho, or by marionettes in the more

self-conscious life of to-day. Or, again, an Abbess, the protagonist

of one of the great love stories of the world, by sheer force of

personality, would compose letters to one--how immeasurably her moral

inferior, in spite of his genius--expressing with an unexampled

poignancy the most passionate emotions of the heart. Or, to take my

third illustration, here are a woman's poems written in an age when

literature was almost entirely in the hands of men. Consider the

strength of character which alone induced these three ladies to stray

from the beaten paths of their sex. To the average woman it was

enough to be an object of art herself, or to be the inspiration of

masterpieces by man. But these three women of the Middle Ages--and

such as they--shunned the easier way, and, in their several spheres,

were by deliberate effort, self-conscious artists.

The place and date of birth of Marie de France are unknown--indeed

the very century in which she lived has been a matter of dispute. Her

poems are written in the French of northern France; but that does not

prove her necessarily to be a Frenchwoman. French was the tongue

of the English Court, and many Englishmen have written in the same

language. Indeed, it is a very excellent vehicle for expression.

Occasionally, Marie would insert English words in her French text, the

better to convey her meaning; but it does not follow therefrom that

the romances were composed in England. It seems strange that so

few positive indications of her race and home are given in her

poems--nothing is contained beyond her Christian name and the bare

statement that she was of France. She took great pride in her work,

which she wrought to the best of her ability, and was extremely

jealous of that bubble-reputation. Yet whilst this work was an

excellent piece of self-portraiture, it reveals not one single fact

or date on which to go. A consensus of critical opinion presumes that

Marie was a subject of the English Crown, born in an ancient town

called Pitre, some three miles above Rouen, in the Duchy of Normandy.

This speculation is based largely on the unwonted topographical

accuracy of her description of Pitre, given in "The Lay of the Two

Lovers." Such evidence, perhaps, is insufficient to obtain a judgment

in a Court of Law. The date when Marie lived was long a matter of

dispute. The Prologue to her "Lays" contains a dedication to some

unnamed King; whilst her "Fables" is dedicated to a certain Count

William. These facts prove her to have been a person of position and

repute. The King was long supposed to be Henry the Third of England,

and this would suggest that she lived in the thirteenth century.

An early scholar, the Abbé de La Rue, in fact, said that this was

"undoubtedly" the case, giving cogent reasons in support of his

contention. But modern scholarship, in the person of Gaston Paris,

has decided that the King was Henry the Second, of pious memory; the

Count, William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, his natural son by Fair

Rosamund; and that Marie must be placed in the second half of the

twelfth century. This shows that scholarship is not an exact science,

and that such words as "doubtless" should not be employed more than

necessary. A certain Eastern philosopher, when engaged in instructing

the youth of his country, used always to conclude his lectures with

the unvarying formula, "But, gentlemen, all that I have told you is

probably wrong." This sage was a wise man (not always the same thing),

and his example should be had in remembrance. It seems possible (and

one hesitates to use a stronger word) that the "Lays" of Marie were

actually written at the Court of Henry of England. From political

ambition the King was married to Eleanor of Aquitaine, a lady of

literary tastes, who came from a family in which the patronage of

singers was a tradition. Her husband, too, had a pronounced liking for

literature. He was fond of books, and once paid a visit to Glastonbury

to visit King Arthur's tomb. These, perhaps, are limited virtues, but

Henry the Second had need of every rag. It is somewhat difficult to

recognise in that King of the Prologue, "in whose heart all gracious

things are rooted," the actual King who murdered Becket; who turned

over picture-books at Mass, and never confessed or communicated. It is

yet more difficult to perceive "joy as his handmaid" who, because of

the loss of a favourite city, threatened to revenge himself on God, by

robbing Him of that thing--_i.e._, the soul--He desired most in him;

and whose very last words were an echo of Job's curse upon the day

that he was born. Marie's phrases may be regarded, perhaps, as a

courtly flourish, rather than as conveying truth with mathematical

precision. If not, we should be driven to suggest an alternative to

the favourite simile of lying like an epitaph. But I think it unlikely

that Marie suffered with a morbidly sensitive conscience. There is

little enough real devotion to be met with in her "Lays"; and if

her last book--a translation from the Latin of the Purgatory of St.

Patrick--is on a subject she avoids in her earlier work, it was

written under the influence of some high prelate, and may be regarded

as a sign that she watched the shadows cast by the western sun

lengthening on the grass.

Gaston Paris suggests 1175 as an approximate date for the composition

of the "Lays" of Marie de France. Their success was immediate and

unequivocal, as indeed was to be expected in the case of a lady

situated so fortunately at Court. We have proof of this in the

testimony of Denis Pyramus, the author who wrote a Life of St. Edmund

the King, early in the following century. He says, in that poem, "And

also Dame Marie, who turned into rhyme and made verses of 'Lays' which

are not in the least true. For these she is much praised, and her

rhyme is loved everywhere; for counts, barons, and knights greatly

admire it, and hold it dear. And they love her writing so much, and

take such pleasure in it, that they have it read, and often copied.

These Lays are wont to please ladies, who listen to them with delight,

for they are after their own hearts." It is no wonder that the lords

and ladies of her century were so enthralled by Marie's romances, for

her success was thoroughly well deserved. Even after seven hundred

years her colours remain surprisingly vivid, and if the tapestry is

now a little worn and faded in places, we still follow with interest

the movements of the figures wrought so graciously upon the arras. Of

course her stories are not original; but was any plot original at

any period of the earth's history? This is not only an old, but an

iterative world. The source of Marie's inspiration is perfectly clear,

for she states it emphatically in quite a number of her Lays. This

adventure chanced in Brittany, and in remembrance thereof the Bretons

made a Lay, which I heard sung by the minstrel to the music of his

rote. Marie's part consisted in reshaping this ancient material in her

own rhythmic and coloured words. Scholars tell us that the essence of

her stories is of Celtic rather than of Breton origin. It may be so;

though to the lay mind this is not a matter of great importance one

way or the other; but it seems better to accept a person's definite

statement until it is proved to be false. The Breton or Celtic

imagination had peculiar qualities of dreaminess, and magic and

mystery. Marie's mind was not cast in a precisely similar mould.

Occasionally she is successful enough; but generally she gives the

effect of building with a substance the significance of which she does

not completely realise. She may be likened to a child playing with

symbols which, in the hand of the enchanter, would be of tremendous

import. Her treatment of Isoude, for example, in "The Lay of the

Honeysuckle," is quite perfect in tone, and, indeed, is a little

masterpiece in its own fashion. But her sketch of Guenevere in "The

Lay of Sir Launfal" is of a character that one does not recall with

pleasure. To see how Arthur's Queen might be treated, we have but

to turn to the pages of a contemporary, and learn from Chrestien de

Troyes' "Knight of the Cart," how an even more considerable poet

than Marie could deal with a Celtic legend. The fact is that Marie's

romances derive farther back than any Breton or Celtic dream. They

were so old that they had blown like thistledown about the four

quarters of the world. Her princesses came really neither from Wales

nor Brittany. They were of that stuff from which romance is shaped.

"Her face was bright as the day of union; her hair dark as the night

of separation; and her mouth was magical as Solomon's seal." You can

parallel her "Lays" from folklore, from classical story and antiquity.

Father and son fight together unwittingly in "The Lay of Milon";

but Rustum had striven with Sohrab long before in far Persia, and

Cuchulain with his child in Ireland. Such stories are common property.

The writer takes his own where he finds it. Marie is none the less

admirable because her stories were narrated by the first man in Eden;

neither are Boccaccio and the Countess D'Aulnoy blameworthy since they

told again what she already had related so well. Marie, indeed, was an

admirable narrator. That was one of her shining virtues. As a piece of

artful tale telling, a specimen of the craft of keeping a situation in

suspense, the arrival of the lady before Arthur's Court, in "The Lay

of Sir Launfal," requires a deal of beating. The justness and fineness

of her sentiment in all that concerns the delicacies of the human

heart are also remarkable. But her true business was that of the

storyteller. In that trade she was almost unapproachable in her day.

There may have been--indeed, there was--a more considerable poet

living; but a more excellent writer of romances, than the author of

"Eliduc," it would have been difficult to find.

The ladies who found the "Lays" of Marie after their own hearts

were not only admirers of beautiful stories; they had the delicate

privilege also of admiring themselves in their habit as they

lived--perhaps even lovelier than in reality--amidst their accustomed

surroundings. The pleasure of a modern reader in such tales as these

is enhanced by the light they throw on the household arrangements and

customs of the gentlefolk of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It

may be of interest to consider some of these domestic arrangements, as

illustrated by stories included in the present volume.

The corporate life of a mediaeval household centered in the hall. It

was office and dining and billiard room, and was common to gentle and

simple alike. The hall was by far the largest room in the house. It

was lighted by windows, and warmed by an open fire of logs. The smoke

drifted about the roof, escaping finally by the simple means of a

lantern placed immediately above the hearth. A beaten floor was

covered by rushes and fresh hay, or with rugs in that part affected by

the more important members of the household. The lord himself and his

wife sat in chairs upon a raised daïs. The retainers were seated

on benches around the wall, and before them was spread the dining

table--a mere board upon trestles--which was removed when once the

meal was done. After supper, chess and draughts were played, or (as

we may see in "The Lay of the Thorn") minstrels sang ballads and the

guest contributed to the general entertainment by the recital of such

jests and adventures as commended themselves to his taste. If the hall

may be considered as the dining room of the mediaeval home, the garden

might almost be looked upon as the drawing room. You would probably

get more real privacy in the garden than in any other part of the

crowded castle, including the lady's chamber. It is no wonder that

we read of Guenevere taking Launfal aside for a little private

conversation in her pleasaunce. It was not only the most private,

but also the most delightful room in the house--ceiled with blue and

carpeted with green. The garden was laid out elaborately with a perron

and many raised seats. Trees stood about the lawn in tubs, and there

was generally a fountain playing in the centre, or possibly a pond,

stocked with fish. Fruit trees and flower beds grew thickly about the

garden, and a pleasanter place of perfume and colour and shade it

would be difficult to imagine in the summer heat. The third room of

which we hear continually in these romances is the lady's chamber. It

served the purpose of a boudoir as well as that of a sleeping room,

and consequently had little real privacy. It contained the marriage

chest with its store of linen, and also the bed. This bed recurs

eternally in mediæval tales. It was used as a seat during the day, and

as a resting-place of nights. It was a magnificent erection, carved

and gilded, and inlaid with ivory. Upon it was placed a mattress of

feathers, and a soft pillow. The sheets were of linen or silk, and

over all was spread a coverlet of some precious material. An excellent

description of such a couch is given in "The Lay of Gugemar." This

chamber served also as a bath room, and there the bath was taken,

piping hot, in the strange vessel, fashioned somewhat like a churn,

that we see in pictures of the Middle Ages.

Of the dress of the ladies who moved about the castle, seeing

themselves reflected from Marie's pages as in a polished mirror, I

am not competent to speak. The type of beauty preferred by the old

romancers was that of a child's princess of fairy tale--blue-eyed,

golden-haired, and ruddy of cheek. The lady would wear a shift of

linen, "white as meadow flower." Over this was worn a garment of fur

or silk, according to the season; and, above all, a vividly coloured

gown, all in one line from neck to feet, shapen closely to the figure,

or else the more loosely fitting bliaut. Her girdle clipped her

closely about the waist, falling to the hem of her skirt, and her feet

were shod in soundless shoes, without heels. The hair was arranged in

two long braids, brought forward over her shoulders; as worn by those

smiling Queens wrought upon the western porch of Chartres Cathedral.

Out of doors, and, indeed, frequently within, as may be proved by a

reference to "The Lay of the Ash Tree," the lady was clad in a mantle

and a hood. It must have taken a great deal of time and travail to

appear so dainty a production. But to become poetry for others, it is

necessary for a woman first to be prose to herself.

I am afraid the raw material of this radiant divinity had much to

endure before she suffered her sea change. In mediaeval illustrations

we see the maiden sitting demurely in company, with downcast eyes, and

hands folded modestly in her lap. This unnatural restraint was induced

by the lavish compulsion of the rod. If there was one text, above all

others, approved and acted upon by fathers and mothers of the Middle

Ages, it was that exhorting parents not to cocker their child, neither

to wink at his follies, but to beat him on the sides with a stick.

Turn to "The Lay of the Thorn," and mark the gusto with which a mother

disciplines her maid. Parents trained their children with blows.

Husbands (ah, the audacity of the mediaeval husband) scattered the

like seeds of kindness on their wives. In a book written for the

edification of his unmarried daughters, Chaucer's contemporary, the

Knight of La Tour Landry, tells the following interesting anecdote.

A man had a scolding wife, who railed ungovernably upon him before

strangers, "and he that was angry of her governance smote her with his

first down to the earth; and then with his foot he struck her on the

visage, and broke her nose; and all her life after that she had her

nose crooked, the which shent and disfigured her visage after, that

she might not for shame show her visage, it was so foul blemished. And

this she had for her evil and great language that she was wont to say

to her husband. And therefore the wife ought to suffer, and let the

husband have the words, and to be master." May I give yet another

illustration before we pass from the subject. This time it is taken

not from a French knight, but from a sermon of the great Italian

preacher, St. Bernardino of Siena. "There are men who can bear more

patiently with a hen that lays a fresh egg every day than with their

own wives; and sometimes when the hen breaks a pipkin or a cup he

will spare it a beating, simply for love of the fresh egg which he

is unwilling to lose. Oh, raving madmen! who cannot bear a word from

their own wives, though they bear them such fair fruit; but when the

woman speaks a word more than they like, then they catch up a stick,

and begin to cudgel her; while the hen that cackles all day, and gives

you no rest, you take patience with her for the sake of her miserable

egg--and sometimes she will break more in your house than she herself

is worth, yet you bear it in patience for the egg's sake. Many

fidgetty fellows, who sometimes see their wives turn out less neat and

dainty than they would like, smite them forthwith; and meanwhile the

hen may make a mess on the table, and you suffer her. Have patience;

it is not right to beat your wife for every cause, no!"

At the commencement of this Introduction I stated that Marie's

romances are concerned mainly with love. Her talent was not very

wide nor rich, and I have no doubt that there were facets of her

personality which she was unable to get upon paper. The prettiest

girl in the world can only give what she has to give. By the time any

reader reaches the end of this volume he will be assured that the

stories are stories of love. Probably he will have noticed also that,

in many cases, the lady who inspires the most delicate of sentiments

is, incidentally, a married woman. He may ask why this was so; and in

answer I propose to conclude my paper with a few observations upon the

subject of mediaeval love.

I doubt in my own mind whether romance writers do not exaggerate what

was certainly a characteristic of the Middle Ages. To be ordinary

is to be uninteresting; and it is obvious that the stranger the

experience, the more likely is it to attract the interest and

attention of the hearer. Blessed is the person--as well as the

country--who has no history. But it was really very difficult for

the twelfth century poet to write a love story, with a maiden as the

central figure. The noble maiden seldom had a love story. It is

true enough that she was sometimes referred to in the choice of her

husband: two young ladies in "A Story of Beyond the Sea" are both

consulted in the matter. As a rule, however, her inclination was not

permitted to stand in the way of the interests of her parents or

guardians. She was betrothed in childhood, and married very young, for

mercenary or political reasons, to a husband much older than herself.

We read of a girl of twelve being married to a man of fifty. There was

no great opportunity for a love story here; and the strange entreaty,

on the part of the nameless French poet, to love the maidens for the

sake of Christ's love, passed over the heads of the romance writers.

Not that the mediæval maidens showed any shrinking from matrimony.

"Fair daughter, I have given you a husband." "Blessed be God," said

the damsel. There spoke a contented spirit. Things have changed, and

we can but sigh after the good old times.

But the maiden inevitably became the wife, and the whirligig of Time

brought in his revenges. The lady now found herself the most important

member of her sex, in a dwelling filled with men. She had few women

about her person, and the confidant of a great dame in old romance is,

frequently enough, her chamberlain. These young men had no chance of

marriage, and naturally strove to gain the attention of a lady, whose

favour was to them so important a matter. A mediæval knight was the

sworn champion of God and the ladies--but more especially the latter.

The chatelaine, herself, found time hang heavily on her hands.

Amusements were few; books limited in number; a husband not of

absorbing interest; so she turned to such distractions as presented

themselves. The prettier a lady, the sweeter the incense and flattery

swung beneath her nose; for this was one of the disadvantages of

marrying an attractive woman. "It is hard to keep a wife whom everyone

admires; and if no one admires her it is hard to have to live with her

yourself." One of these distractions took the shape of Courts of Love,

where the bored but literary chatelaine discussed delicate problems of

conduct pertaining to the heart. The minstrel about the lady's castle,

for his part, sought her favourable notice not only by his songs but

also by giving an object lesson of his melancholy condition. One would

imagine that his proceedings were not always calculated to further

their purpose. A famous singer, for instance, in honour of a lady who

was named Lupa, caused himself to be sewn in a wolf's skin, and ran

before the hounds till he was pulled down, half dead. Another great

minstrel and lover bought a leper's gown and bowl and clapper from

some afflicted wretch. He mutilated his forefinger, and sat before his

lady's door, in the company of a piteous crowd of sick and maimed, to

await her alms. No doubt he trusted that his devotion would procure

him a different kind of charity. From such discussions as these, and

from conduct such as this, a type of love came into being which was

peculiar to the period. Since the lovers were not bound in the sweet

and common union of children and home, since on the side of the lady

all was of grace and nought of debt, they searched out other bands to

unite them together. These they found in a system of devotion, silence

and faithfulness, which added a dignity to their relations. These

virtues they took so seriously that we find the Chatelaine of Vergi

dying because she believed her lover to have betrayed her trust. The

mediaeval romancer contemplated such unions with joy and pity; but

for all their virtues we must not deceive ourselves with words. Such

honour was rooted in dishonour, and the measure of their guilt was

that they debased the moral currency. Presently the greatest of all

the poets of the Middle Ages would arise, to teach a different fashion

of devotion. His was a love that sought no communion with its object,

neither speech nor embrace. It was sufficient for Dante to contemplate

Beatrice from afar, as one might kneel before the picture of a saint.

I do not say that a love like this--so spiritual and so aloof--will

ever be possible to men. It did not suffice even to Dante, for all

his tremendous moral muscle. Human love must always and inevitably be

founded on a physical basis. But the burning drop of idealism that

Dante contributed to the passion of the Middle Ages has made possible

the love of which we now and again catch a glimpse in the union of

select natures. And that the seed of such flowering may be carried

about the world is one of the fairest hopes and possibilities of the

human race.

EUGENE MASON.

The originals of these narratives are to be found in Roquefort's

edition of the Poésies de Marie de France; in a volume of the

Nouvelles Françoises en Prose, edited by Moland and D'Héricault; and

in M. Gaston Raynaud's text of La Chatelaine de Vergi.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

I. PROLOGUE BY WAY OF DEDICATION

II. THE LAY OF GUGEMAR

III. THE LAY OF THE DOLOROUS KNIGHT

IV. THE LAY OF ELIDUC

V. THE LAY OF THE NIGHTINGALE

VI. THE LAY OF SIR LAUNFAL

VII. THE LAY OF THE TWO LOVERS

VIII. THE LAY OF THE WERE-WOLF

IX. THE LAY OF THE ASH TREE

X. THE LAY OF THE HONEYSUCKLE

XI. THE LAY OF EQUITAN

XII. THE LAY OF MILON

XIII. THE LAY OF YONEC

XIV. THE LAY OF THE THORN

XV. THE LAY OF GRAELENT

XVI. A STORY OF BEYOND THE SEA

XVII. THE CHATELAINE OF VERGI

I

PROLOGUE

BY WAY OF DEDICATION

Those to whom God has given the gift of comely speech, should not hide

their light beneath a bushel, but should willingly show it abroad. If

a great truth is proclaimed in the ears of men, it brings forth fruit

a hundred-fold; but when the sweetness of the telling is praised of

many, flowers mingle with the fruit upon the branch.

According to the witness of Priscian, it was the custom of ancient

writers to express obscurely some portions of their books, so that

those who came after might study with greater diligence to find the

thought within their words. The philosophers knew this well, and were

the more unwearied in labour, the more subtle in distinctions, so that

the truth might make them free. They were persuaded that he who would

keep himself unspotted from the world should search for knowledge,

that he might understand. To set evil from me, and to put away my

grief, I purposed to commence a book. I considered within myself

what fair story in the Latin or Romance I could turn into the common

tongue. But I found that all the stories had been written, and

scarcely it seemed the worth my doing, what so many had already done.

Then I called to mind those Lays I had so often heard. I doubted

nothing--for well I know--that our fathers fashioned them, that men

should bear in remembrance the deeds of those who have gone before.

Many a one, on many a day, the minstrel has chanted to my ear. I would

not that they should perish, forgotten, by the roadside. In my turn,

therefore, I have made of them a song, rhymed as well as I am able,

and often has their shaping kept me sleepless in my bed.

In your honour, most noble and courteous King, to whom joy is a

handmaid, and in whose heart all gracious things are rooted, I have

brought together these Lays, and told my tales in seemly rhyme. Ere

they speak for me, let me speak with my own mouth, and say, "Sire, I

offer you these verses. If you are pleased to receive them, the fairer

happiness will be mine, and the more lightly I shall go all the days

of my life. Do not deem that I think more highly of myself than I

ought to think, since I presume to proffer this, my gift." Hearken now

to the commencement of the matter.

II

THE LAY OF GUGEMAR

Hearken, oh gentles, to the words of Marie. When the minstrel tells

his tale, let the folk about the fire heed him willingly. For his part

the singer must be wary not to spoil good music with unseemly words.

Listen, oh lordlings, to the words of Marie, for she pains herself

grievously not to forget this thing. The craft is hard--then approve

the more sweetly him who carols the tune. But this is the way of the

world, that when a man or woman sings more tunably than his fellows,

those about the fire fall upon him, pell-mell, for reason of their

envy. They rehearse diligently the faults of his song, and steal away

his praise with evil words. I will brand these folk as they deserve.

They, and such as they, are like mad dogs--cowardly and felon--who

traitorously bring to death men better than themselves. Now let the

japer, and the smiler with his knife, do me what harm they may. Verily

they are in their right to speak ill of me.

Hearken, oh gentles, to the tale I set before you, for thereof the

Bretons already have made a Lay. I will not do it harm by many words,

and here is the commencement of the matter. According to text and

scripture, now I relate a certain adventure, which bechanced in the

realm of Brittany, in days long gone before.

In that time when Arthur maintained his realm, the now in peace, the

now in war, the King counted amongst his vassals a certain baron,

named Oridial. This knight was lord of Leon, and was very near to his

prince's heart, both in council chamber and in field. From his wife he

had gotten two children, the one a son and the other a fair daughter.

Nogent, he had called the damsel at the font, and the dansellon was

named Gugemar--no goodlier might be found in any realm. His mother had

set all her love upon the lad, and his father shewed him every good

that he was able. When the varlet was no more a child, Oridial sent

him to the King, to be trained as a page in the courtesies of the

Court. Right serviceable was he in his station, and meetly praised

of all. The term of his service having come, and he being found of

fitting years and knowledge, the King made him knight with his own

hand, and armed him in rich harness, according to his wish. So Gugemar

gave gifts to all those about his person, and bidding farewell, took

leave, and departed from the Court. Gugemar went his way to Flanders,

being desirous of advancement, for in that kingdom ever they have

strife and war. Neither in Loraine nor Burgundy, Anjou nor Gascony,

might be found in that day a better knight than he, no, nor one his

peer. He had but one fault, since of love he took no care. There was

neither dame nor maiden beneath the sky, however dainty and kind, to

whom he gave thought or heed, though had he required her love of any

damsel, very willingly would she have granted his desire. Many there

were who prayed him for his love, but might have no kiss in return. So

seeing that he refrained his heart in this fashion, men deemed him a

strange man, and one fallen into a perilous case.

In the flower of his deeds the good knight returned to his own land,

that he might see again his father and lord, his mother and his

sister, even as he very tenderly desired. He lodged with them for the

space of a long month, and at the end of that time had envy to hunt

within the wood. The night being come, Gugemar summoned his prickers

and his squires, and early in the morning rode within the forest.

Great pleasure had Gugemar in the woodland, and much he delighted in

the chase. A tall stag was presently started, and the hounds being

uncoupled, all hastened in pursuit--the huntsmen before, and the good

knight following after, winding upon his horn. Gugemar rode at a great

pace after the quarry, a varlet riding beside, bearing his bow, his

arrows and his spear. He followed so hotly that he over-passed the

chase. Gazing about him he marked, within a thicket, a doe hiding with

her fawn. Very white and wonderful was this beast, for she was without

spot, and bore antlers upon her head. The hounds bayed about her, but

might not pull her down. Gugemar bent his bow, and loosed a shaft

at the quarry. He wounded the deer a little above the hoof, so that

presently she fell upon her side. But the arrow glanced away, and

returning upon itself, struck Gugemar in the thigh, so grievously,

that straightway he fell from his horse upon the ground. Gugemar lay

upon the grass, beside the deer which he had wounded to his hurt. He

heard her sighs and groans, and perceived the bitterness of her pity.

Then with mortal speech the doe spake to the wounded man in such

fashion as this, "Alas, my sorrow, for now am I slain. But thou,

Vassal, who hast done me this great wrong, do not think to hide from

the vengeance of thy destiny. Never may surgeon and his medicine heal

your hurt. Neither herb nor root nor potion can ever cure the wound

within your flesh: For that there is no healing. The only balm to

close that sore must be brought by a woman, who for her love will

suffer such pain and sorrow as no woman in the world has endured

before. And to the dolorous lady, dolorous knight. For your part you

shall do and suffer so great things for her, that not a lover beneath

the sun, or lovers who are dead, or lovers who yet shall have their

day, but shall marvel at the tale. Now, go from hence, and let me die

in peace."

Gugemar was wounded twice over--by the arrow, and by the words he was

dismayed to hear. He considered within himself to what land he must go

to find this healing for his hurt, for he was yet too young to die. He

saw clearly, and told it to his heart, that there was no lady in his

life to whom he could run for pity, and be made whole of his wound. He

called his varlet before him,

"Friend," said he, "go forthwith, and bring my comrades to this place,

for I have to speak with them."

The varlet went upon his errand, leaving his master sick with the heat

and fever of his hurt. When he was gone, Gugemar tore the hem from his

shirt, and bound it straitly about his wound. He climbed painfully

upon the saddle, and departed without more ado, for he was with child

to be gone before any could come to stay him from his purpose. A green

path led through the deep forest to the plain, and his way across the

plain brought him to a cliff, exceeding high, and to the sea. Gugemar

looked upon the water, which was very still, for this fair harbourage

was land-locked from the main. Upon this harbour lay one only vessel,

bearing a rich pavilion of silk, daintily furnished both without and

within, and well it seemed to Gugemar that he had seen this ship

before. Beneath the sky was no ship so rich or precious, for there was

not a sail but was spun of silk, and not a plank, from keel to mast,

but showed of ebony. Too fair was the nave for mortal man, and Gugemar

held it in sore displeasure. He marvelled greatly from what country it

had come, and wondered long concerning this harbour, and the ship that

lay therein. Gugemar got him down from his horse upon the shore, and

with mighty pain and labour climbed within the ship. He trusted to

find merchantmen and sailors therein, but there was none to guard, and

none he saw. Now within the pavilion was a very rich bed, carved by

cunning workmen in the days of King Solomon. This fair bed was wrought

of cypress wood and white ivory, adorned with gold and gems most

precious. Right sweet were the linen cloths upon the bed, and so soft

the pillow, that he who lay thereon would sleep, were he sadder than

any other in the world. The counterpane was of purple from the vats

of Alexandria, and over all was set a right fair coverlet of cloth of

gold. The pavilion was litten by two great waxen torches, placed in

candlesticks of fine gold, decked with jewels worth a lord's ransom.

So the wounded knight looked on ship and pavilion, bed and candle, and

marvelled greatly. Gugemar sat him down upon the bed for a little,

because of the anguish of his wound. After he had rested a space he

got upon his feet, that he might quit the vessel, but he found that

for him there was no return. A gentle wind had filled the sails, and

already he was in the open sea. When Gugemar saw that he was far from

land, he was very heavy and sorrowful. He knew not what to do, by

reason of the mightiness of his hurt. But he must endure the adventure

as best he was able; so he prayed to God to take him in His keeping,

and in His good pleasure to bring him safe to port, and deliver him

from the peril of death. Then climbing upon the couch, he laid his

head upon the pillow, and slept as one dead, until, with vespers, the

ship drew to that haven where he might find the healing for his hurt.

Gugemar had come to an ancient city, where the King of that realm held

his court and state. This King was full of years, and was wedded to

a dame of high degree. The lady was of tender age, passing fresh and

fair, and sweet of speech to all. Therefore was the King jealous of

his wife beyond all measure. Such is the wont of age, for much it

fears that old and young cannot mate together, and that youth will

turn to youth. This is the death in life of the old.

The castle of this ancient lord had a mighty keep. Beneath this tower

was a right fair orchard, together with a close, shut in by a wall of

green marble, very strong and high. This wall had one only gate, and

the door was watched of warders, both night and day. On the other side

of this garden was the sea, so that none might do his errand in the

castle therefrom, save in a boat. To hold his dame in the greater

surety, the King had built a bower within the wall; there was no

fairer chamber beneath the sun. The first room was the Queen's chapel.

Beyond this was the lady's bedchamber, painted all over with shapes

and colours most wonderful to behold. On one wall might be seen Dame

Venus, the goddess of Love, sweetly flushed as when she walked the

water, lovely as life, teaching men how they should bear them in loyal

service to their lady. On another wall, the goddess threw Ovid's book

within a fire of coals. A scroll issuing from her lips proclaimed that

those who read therein, and strove to ease them of their pains, would

find from her neither service nor favour. In this chamber the lady was

put in ward, and with her a certain maiden to hold her company. This

damsel was her niece, since she was her sister's child, and there was

great love betwixt the twain. When the Queen walked within the garden,

or went abroad, this maiden was ever by her side, and came again with

her to the house. Save this damsel, neither man nor woman entered in

the bower, nor issued forth from out the wall. One only man possessed

the key of the postern, an aged priest, very white and frail. This

priest recited the service of God within the chapel, and served the

Queen's plate and cup when she ate meat at table.

Now, on a day, the Queen had fallen asleep after meat, and on her

awaking would walk a little in the garden. She called her companion to

her, and the two went forth to be glad amongst the flowers. As they

looked across the sea they marked a ship drawing near the land, rising

and falling upon the waves. Very fearful was the Queen thereat, for

the vessel came to anchorage, though there was no helmsman to direct

her course. The dame's face became sanguine for dread, and she turned

her about to flee, because of her exceeding fear. Her maiden, who was

of more courage than she, stayed her mistress with many comforting

words. For her part she was very desirous to know what this thing

meant. She hastened to the shore, and laying aside her mantle, climbed

within this wondrous vessel. Thereon she found no living soul, save

only the knight sleeping fast within the pavilion. The damsel looked

long upon the knight, for pale he was as wax, and well she deemed

him dead. She returned forthwith to the Queen, and told her of this

marvel, and of the good knight who was slain.

"Let us go together on the ship," replied the lady. "If he be dead we

may give him fitting burial, and the priest shall pray meetly for his

soul. Should he be yet alive perchance he will speak, and tell us of

his case."

Without more tarrying the two damsels mounted on the ship, the lady

before, and her maiden following after. When the Queen entered in the

pavilion she stayed her feet before the bed, for joy and grief of what

she saw. She might not refrain her eyes from gazing on the knight,

for her heart was ravished with his beauty, and she sorrowed beyond

measure, because of his grievous hurt. To herself she said, "In a bad

hour cometh the goodly youth." She drew near the bed, and placing her

hand upon his breast, found that the flesh was warm, and that the

heart beat strongly in his side. Gugemar awoke at the touch, and

saluted the dame as sweetly as he was able, for well he knew that he

had come to a Christian land. The lady, full of thought, returned him

his salutation right courteously, though the tears were yet in her

eyes. Straightway she asked of him from what realm he came, and of

what people, and in what war he had taken his hurt.

"Lady," answered Gugemar, "in no battle I received this wound. If it

pleases you to hear my tale I will tell you the truth, and in nothing

will I lie. I am a knight of Little Brittany. Yesterday I chased a

wonderful white deer within the forest. The shaft with which I struck

her to my hurt, returned again on me, and caused this wound upon my

thigh, which may never be searched, nor made whole. For this wondrous

Beast raised her plaint in a mortal tongue. She cursed me loudly, with

many evil words, swearing that never might this sore be healed, save

by one only damsel in the world, and her I know not where to find.

When I heard my luckless fate I left the wood with what speed I might,

and coming to a harbour, not far from thence, I lighted on this ship.

For my sins I climbed therein. Then without oars or helm this boat

ravished me from shore; so that I know not where I have come, nor what

is the name of this city. Fair lady, for God's love, counsel me of

your good grace, for I know not where to turn, nor how to govern the

ship."

The lady made answer, "Fair sir, willingly shall I give you such good

counsel as I may. This realm and city are the appanage of my husband.

He is a right rich lord, of high lineage, but old and very full of

years. Also he is jealous beyond all measure; therefore it is that I

see you now. By reason of his jealousy he has shut me fast between

high walls, entered by one narrow door, with an ancient priest to keep

the key. May God requite him for his deed. Night and day I am guarded

in this prison, from whence I may never go forth, without the

knowledge of my lord. Here are my chamber and my chapel, and here I

live, with this, my maiden, to bear me company. If it pleases you to

dwell here for a little, till you may pass upon your way, right gladly

we shall receive you, and with a good heart we will tend your wound,

till you are healed."

When Gugemar heard this speech he rejoiced greatly. He thanked the

lady with many sweet words, and consented to sojourn in her hall

awhile. He raised himself upon his couch, and by the courtesy of the

damsels left the ship. Leaning heavily upon the lady, at the end he

won to her maiden's chamber, where there was a fair bed covered with a

rich dossal of broidered silk, edged with fur. When he was entered in

this bed, the damsels came bearing clear water in basins of gold, for

the cleansing of his hurt. They stanched the blood with a towel of

fine linen, and bound the wound strictly, to his exceeding comfort. So

after the vesper meal was eaten, the lady departed to her own chamber,

leaving the knight in much ease and content.

Now Gugemar set his love so fondly upon the lady that he forgot his

father's house. He thought no more of the anguish of his hurt, because

of another wound that was beneath his breast. He tossed and sighed in

his unrest, and prayed the maiden of his service to depart, so that

he might sleep a little. When the maid was gone, Gugemar considered

within himself whether he might seek the dame, to know whether her

heart was warmed by any ember of the flame that burned in his. He

turned it this way and that, and knew not what to do. This only was

clear, that if the lady refused to search his wound, death, for him,

was sure and speedy.

"Alas," said he, "what shall I do! Shall I go to my lady, and pray her

pity on the wretch who has none to give him counsel? If she refuse

my prayer, because of her hardness and pride, I shall know there is

nought for me but to die in my sorrow, or, at least, to go heavily all

the days of my life."

Then he sighed, and in his sighing lighted on a better purpose; for he

said within himself that doubtless he was born to suffer, and that

the best of him was tears. All the long night he spent in vigil and

groanings and watchfulness. To himself he told over her words and her

semblance. He remembered the eyes and the fair mouth of his lady, and

all the grace and the sweetness, which had struck like a knife at his

heart. Between his teeth he cried on her for pity, and for a little

more would have called her to his side. Ah, had he but known the fever

of the lady, and how terrible a lord to her was Love, how great had

been his joy and solace. His visage would have been the more sanguine,

which was now so pale of colour, because of the dolour that was his.

But if the knight was sick by reason of his love, the dame had small

cause to boast herself of health. The lady rose early from her bed,

since she might not sleep. She complained of her unrest, and of Love

who rode her so hardly. The maiden, who was of her company, saw

clearly enough that all her lady's thoughts were set upon the knight,

who, for his healing, sojourned in the chamber. She did not know

whether his thoughts were given again to the dame. When, therefore,

the lady had entered in the chapel, the damsel went straightway to the

knight. He welcomed her gladly, and bade her be seated near the bed.

Then he inquired, "Friend, where now is my lady, and why did she rise

so early from her bed?"

Having spoken so far, he became silent, and sighed.

"Sir," replied the maiden softly, "you love, and are discreet, but be

not too discreet therein. In such a love as yours there is nothing to

be ashamed. He who may win my lady's favour has every reason to be

proud of his fortune. Altogether seemly would be your friendship, for

you are young, and she is fair."

The knight made answer to the maiden, "I am so fast in the snare, that

I pray the fowler to slay me, if she may not free me from the net.

Counsel me, fair sweet friend, if I may hope of kindness at her hand."

Then the maiden of her sweetness comforted the knight, and assured him

of all the good that she was able. So courteous and debonair was the

maid.

When the lady had heard Mass, she hastened back to the chamber. She

had not forgotten her friend, and greatly she desired to know whether

he was awake or asleep, of whom her heart was fain. She bade her

maiden to summon him to her chamber, for she had a certain thing in

her heart to show him at leisure, were it for the joy or the sorrow of

their days.

Gugemar saluted the lady, and the dame returned the knight his

courtesy, but their hearts were too fearful for speech. The knight

dared ask nothing of his lady, for reason that he was a stranger in a

strange land, and was adread to show her his love. But--as says the

proverb--he who will not tell of his sore, may not hope for balm to

his hurt. Love is a privy wound within the heart, and none knoweth of

that bitterness but the heart alone. Love is an evil which may last

for a whole life long, because of man and his constant heart. Many

there be who make of Love a gibe and a jest, and with specious words

defame him by boastful tales. But theirs is not love. Rather it is

folly and lightness, and the tune of a merry song. But let him who

has found a constant lover prize her above rubies, and serve her with

loyal service, being altogether at her will. Gugemar loved in this

fashion, and therefore Love came swiftly to his aid. Love put words in

his mouth, and courage in his heart, so that his hope might be made

plain.

"Lady," said he, "I die for your love. I am in fever because of my

wound, and if you care not to heal my hurt I would rather die. Fair

friend, I pray you for grace. Do not gainsay me with evil words."

The lady hearkened with a smile to Gugemar's speech. Right daintily

and sweetly she replied, "Friend, yea is not a word of two letters. I

do not grant such a prayer every day of the week, and must you have

your gift so quickly?"