CLIGÉS [21]

(Vv. 1-44.) He who wrote of Erec and Enide, and translated into French

the commands of Ovid and the Art of Love, and wrote the Shoulder

Bite, [22] and about King Mark and the fair Iseut, [23] and about the

metamorphosis of the Lapwing, [24] the Swallow, and the Nightingale,

will tell another story now about a youth who lived in Greece and was

a member of King Arthur's line. But before I tell you aught of him, you

shall hear of his father's life, whence he came and of what family. He

was so bold and so ambitious that he left Greece and went to England,

which was called Britain in those days, in order to win fame and renown.

This story, which I intend to relate to you, we find written in one of

the books of the library of my lord Saint Peter at Beauvais. [25] From

there the material was drawn of which Chrétien has made this romance.

The book is very old in which the story is told, and this adds to its

authority. [26] From such books which have been preserved we learn the

deeds of men of old and of the times long since gone by. Our books have

informed us that the pre-eminence in chivalry and learning once belonged

to Greece. Then chivalry passed to Rome, together with that highest

learning which now has come to France. God grant that it may be

cherished here, and that it may be made so welcome here that the honour

which has taken refuge with us may never depart from France: God had

awarded it as another's share, but of Greeks and Romans no more is

heard, their fame is passed, and their glowing ash is dead.

(Vv. 45-134.) Chrétien begins his story as we find it in the history,

which tells of an emperor powerful in wealth and honour who ruled over

Greece and Constantinople. A very noble empress, too, there was, by

whom the emperor had two children. But the elder son was already so

far advanced before the younger one was born that, if he had wished, he

might have become a knight and held all the empire beneath his sway.

The name of the elder was Alexander, and the other's name was Alis.

Alexander, too, was the father's name, and the mother's name was

Tantalis. I shall now say nothing more of the emperor and of Alis; but

I shall speak of Alexander, who was so bold and proud that he scorned

to become a knight in his own country. He had heard of King Arthur, who

reigned in those days, and of the knights whom he always kept about

him, thus causing his court to be feared and famed throughout the world.

However, the affair may result and whatever fortune may await him,

nothing can restrain Alexander from his desire to go into Britain, but

he must obtain his father's consent before proceeding to Britain and

Cornwall. So Alexander, fair and brave, goes to speak with the emperor

in order to ask and obtain his leave. Now he will tell him of his desire

and what he wishes to do and undertake. "Fair sire," he says, "in quest

of honour and fame and praise I dare to ask you a boon, which I desire

you to give me now without delay, if you are willing to grant it to me."

The emperor thinks no harm will come from this request: he ought rather

to desire and long for his son's honour. "Fair son," he says, "I grant

you your desire; so tell me now what you wish me to give you." Now the

youth has accomplished his purpose, and is greatly pleased when the boon

is granted him which he so greatly desired. "Sire," says he, "do you

wish to know what it is that you have promised me? I wish to have a

great plenty of gold and silver, and such companions from among your

men as I will select; for I wish to go forth from your empire, and to

present my service to the king who rules over Britain, in order that he

may make me a knight. I promise you never in my life to wear armour on

my face or helmet upon my head until King Arthur shall gird on my sword,

if he will graciously do so. For from no other than from him will I

accept my arms." Without hesitation the emperor replies: "Fair son, for

God's sake, speak not so! This country all belongs to you, as well as

rich Constantinople. You ought not to think me mean, when I am ready

to make you such a gift. I shall be ready soon to have you crowned, and

to-morrow you shall be a knight. All Greece will be in your hands, and

you shall receive from your nobles, as is right, their homage and oaths

of allegiance. Whoever refuses such an offer is not wise."

(Vv. 135-168.) The youth hears the promise how the next morning after

Mass his father is ready to dub him knight; but he says he will seek his

fortune for better or worse in another land. "If you are willing in this

matter to grant the boon I have asked of you, then give me mottled and

grey furs, some good horses and silken stuffs: for before I become

a knight I wish to enrol in King Arthur's service. Nor have I yet

sufficient strength to bear arms. No one could induce me by prayer or

flattery not to go to the foreign land to see his nobles and that king

whose fame is so great for courtesy and prowess. Many men of high degree

lose through sloth the great renown which they might win, were they to

wander about the world. [27] Repose and glory ill agree, as it seems to

me; for a man of wealth adds nothing to his reputation if he spends all

his days at ease. Prowess is irksome to the ignoble man, and cowardice

is a burden to the man of spirit; thus the two are contrary and

opposite. He is the slave of his wealth who spends his days in storing

and increasing it. Fair father, so long as I have the chance, and so

long as my rigour lasts, I wish to devote my effort and energy to the

pursuit of fame."

(Vv. 169-234.) Upon hearing this; the emperor doubtless feels both joy

and grief: he is glad that his son's intention is fixed upon honour,

and on the other hand he is sorrowful because his son is about to be

separated from him. Yet, because of the promise which he made, despite

the grief he feels, he must grant his request; for an emperor must keep

his word. "Fair son," he says, "I must not fail to do your pleasure,

when I see you thus striving for honour. From my treasure you may have

two barges full of gold and silver; but take care to be generous and

courteous and well-behaved." Now the youth is very happy when his father

promises him so much, and places his treasure at his disposal, and bids

him urgently to give and spend generously. And his father explains his

reason for this: "Fair son," he says, "believe me, that generosity is

the dame and queen which sheds glory upon all the other virtues. And the

proof of this is not far to seek. For where could you find a man, be he

never so rich and powerful, who is not blamed if he is mean? Nor could

you find one, however ungracious he may be, whom generosity will not

bring into fair repute? Thus largess makes the gentleman, which

result can be accomplished neither by high birth, courtesy, knowledge,

gentility, money, strength, chivalry, boldness, dominion, beauty, or

anything else. [28] But just as the rose is fairer than any other flower

when it is fresh and newly blown, so there, where largess dwells, it

takes its place above all other virtues, and increases five hundred fold

the value of other good traits which it finds in the man who acquits

himself well. So great is the merit of generosity that I could not tell

you the half of it." The young man has now successfully concluded the

negotiations for what he wished; for his father has acceded to all

his desires. But the empress was sorely grieved when she heard of the

journey which her son was about to take. Yet, whoever may grieve or

sorrow, and whoever may attribute his intention to youthful folly, and

ever may blame and seek to dissuade him, the youth ordered his ships to

be made ready as soon as possible, desiring to tarry no longer in his

native land. At his command the ships were freighted that very night

with wine, meat, and biscuit.

(Vv. 235-338.) The ships were loaded in the port, and the next morning

Alexander came to the strand in high spirits, accompanied by his

companions, who were happy over the prospective voyage. They were

escorted by the emperor and the empress in her grief. At the port they

find the sailors in the ships drawn up beside the cliff. The sea was

calm and smooth, the wind was light, and the weather clear. When he had

taken leave of his father, and bidden farewell to the empress, whose

heart was heavy in her bosom, Alexander first stepped from the small

boat into the skip; then all his companions hastened by fours, threes,

and twos to embark without delay. Soon the sail was spread and the

anchor raised. Those on shore whose heart is heavy because of the men

whom they watch depart, follow them with their gaze as long as they can:

and in order to watch them longer, they all climb a high hill behind

the beach. From there they sadly gaze, as long as their eyes can follow

them. With sorrow, indeed, they watch them go, being solicitous for

the youths, that God may bring them to their haven without accident and

without peril. All of April and part of May they spent at sea. Without

any great danger or mishap they came to port at Southampton. [29]

One day, between three o'clock and vespers, they cast anchor and

went ashore. The young men, who had never been accustomed to endure

discomfort or pain, had suffered so long from their life at sea that

they had all lost their colour, and even the strongest and most vigorous

were weak and faint. In spite of that, they rejoice to have escaped from

the sea and to have arrived where they wished to be. Because of their

depleted state, they spend the night at Southampton in happy frame, and

make inquiries whether the King is in England. They are told that he

is at Winchester, and that they can reach there in a very short time if

they will start early in the morning and keep to the straight road. At

this news they are greatly pleased, and the next morning at daybreak the

youths wake early, and prepare and equip themselves. And when they were

ready, they left Southampton, and kept to the direct road until they

reached Winchester, where the King was. Before six o'clock in the

morning the Greeks had arrived at the court. The squires with the horses

remain below in the yard, while the youths go up into the presence of

the King, who was the best that ever was or ever will be in the world.

And when the King sees them coming, they please him greatly, and meet

with his favour. But before approaching the King's presence, they

remove the cloaks from about their necks, lest they should be considered

ill-bred. Thus, all unmantled, they came before the King, while all the

nobles present held their peace, greatly pleased at the sight of these

handsome and well-behaved young men. They suppose that of course they

are all sons of counts or kings; and, to be sure, so they were, and of a

very charming age, with graceful and shapely forms. And the clothes

they wore were all of the same stuff and cut of the same appearance and

colour. There were twelve of them beside their lord, of whom I need tell

you no more than that there was none better than he. With modesty and

orderly mien, he was handsome and shapely as he stood uncovered before

the King. Then he kneeled before him, and all the others, for honour's

sake, did the same beside their lord.

(Vv. 339-384.) Alexander, with his tongue well skilled in speaking fair

and wisely, salutes the King. "King," he says, "unless the report is

false that spreads abroad your fame, since God created the first man

there was never born a God-fearing man of such puissance as yours. King,

your widespread renown has drawn me to serve and honour you in your

court, and if you will accept my service, I would fain remain here

until I be dubbed a knight by your hand and by no one else. For unless

I receive this honour from your hand, I shall renounce all intention of

being knighted. If you will accept my service until you are willing

to dub me a knight, retain me now, oh gentle King, and my companions

gathered here." To which at once the King replies: "Friend, I refuse

neither you nor your companions. Be welcome all. For surely you seem,

and I doubt it not, to be sons of high-born men. Whence do you come?"

"From Greece." "From Greece?" "Yes." "Who is thy father?" "Upon my word,

sire, the emperor." "And what is thy name, fair friend?" "Alexander is

the name that was given me when I received the salt and holy oil, and

Christianity and baptism." "Alexander, my dear, fair friend. I will keep

you with me very gladly, with great pleasure and delight. For you have

done me signal honour in thus coming to my court. I wish you to be

honoured here, as free vassals who are wise and gentle. You have been

too long upon your knees; now, at my command, and henceforth make your

home with man and in my court; it is well that you have come to us."

(Vv. 385-440.) Then the Greeks rise up, joyful that the King has so

kindly invited them to stay. Alexander did well to come; for he lacks

nothing that he desires, and there is no noble at the court who does not

address him kindly and welcome him. He is not so foolish as to be puffed

up, nor does he vaunt himself nor boast. He makes acquaintance with my

lord Gawain and with the others, one by one. He gains the good graces of

them all, but my lord Gawain grows so fond of him that he chooses him as

his friend and companion. [210] The Greeks took the best lodgings to be

had, with a citizen of the town. Alexander had brought great possessions

with him from Constantinople, intending to give heed above all to the

advice and counsel of the Emperor, that his heart should be ever

ready to give and dispense his riches well. To this end he devotes his

efforts, living well in his lodgings, and giving and spending liberally,

as is fitting in one so rich, and as his heart dictates. The entire

court wonders where he got all the wealth that he bestows; for on all

sides he presents the valuable horses which he had brought from his own

land. So much did Alexander do, in the performance of his service,

that the King, the Queen, and the nobles bear him great affection.

King Arthur about this time desired to cross over into Brittany. So he

summons all his barons together to take counsel and inquire to whom he

may entrust England to be kept in peace and safety until his return.

By common consent, it seems, the trust was assigned to Count Angres of

Windsor, for it was their judgement that there was no more trustworthy

lord in all the King's realm. When this man had received the land, King

Arthur set out the next day accompanied by the Queen and her damsels.

The Bretons make great rejoicing upon hearing the news in Brittany that

the King and his barons are on the way.

(Vv. 441-540.) Into the ship in which the King sailed there entered

no youth or maiden save only Alexander and Soredamors, whom the Queen

brought with her. This maiden was scornful of love, for she had never

heard of any man whom she would deign to love, whatever might be his

beauty, prowess, lordship, or birth. And yet the damsel was so charming

and fair that she might fitly have learned of love, if it had pleased

her to lend a willing ear; but she would never give a thought to love.

Now Love will make her grieve, and will avenge himself for all the pride

and scorn with which she has always treated him. Carefully Love has

aimed his dart with which he pierced her to the heart. Now she grows

pale and trembles, and in spite of herself must succumb to Love. Only

with great difficulty can she restrain herself from casting a glance

toward Alexander; but she must be on her guard against her brother, my

lord Gawain. Dearly she pays and atones for her great pride and disdain.

Love has heated for her a bath which heats and burns her painfully. At

first it is grateful to her, and then it hurts; one moment she likes it,

and the next she will have none of it. She accuses her eyes of treason,

and says: [211] "My eyes, you have betrayed me now! My heart, usually

so faithful, now bears me ill-will because of you. Now what I see

distresses me. Distresses? Nay, verily, rather do I like it well. And if

I actually see something that distresses me, can I not control my eyes?

My strength must indeed have failed, and little should I esteem myself,

if I cannot control my eyes and make them turn their glance elsewhere.

Thus, I shall be able to baffle Love in his efforts to get control of

me. The heart feels no pain when the eye does not see; so, if I do not

look at him, no harm will come to me. He addresses me no request or

prayer, as he would do were he in love with me. And since he neither

loves nor esteems me, shall I love him without return? If his beauty

allures my eyes, and my eyes listen to the call, shall I say that I love

him just for that? Nay, for that would be a lie. Therefore, he has no

ground for complaint, nor can I make any claim against him. One cannot

love with the eyes alone. What crime, then, have my eyes committed, if

their glance but follows my desire? What is their fault and what their

sin? Ought I to blame them, then? Nay, verily. Who, then, should be

blamed? Surely myself, who have them in control. My eye glances at

nothing unless it gives my heart delight. My heart ought not to have any

desire which would give me pain. Yet its desire causes me pain. Pain?

Upon my faith, I must be mad, if to please my heart I wish for something

which troubles me. If I can, I ought to banish any wish that distresses

me. If I can? Mad one, what have I said? I must, indeed, have little

power if I have no control over myself. Does Love think to set me in

the same path which is wont to lead others astray? Others he may lead

astray, but not me who care not for him. Never shall I be his, nor

ever was, and I shall never seek his friendship." Thus she argues with

herself, one moment loving, and hating the next. She is in such doubt

that she does not know which course she had better adopt. She thinks to

be on the defence against Love, but defence is not what she wants. God!

She does not know that Alexander is thinking of her too! Love bestows

upon them equally such a share as is their due. He treats them very

fairly and justly, for each one loves and desires the other. And this

love would be true and right if only each one knew what was the other's

wish. But he does not know what her desire is, and she knows not the

cause of his distress.

(Vv. 541-574.) The Queen takes note of them and sees them often blanch

and pale and heave deep sighs and tremble. But she knows no reason why

they should do so, unless it be because of the sea where they are. I

think she would have divined the cause had the sea not thrown her off

her guard, but the sea deceives and tricks her, so that she does not

discover love because of the sea; and it is from love that comes the

bitter pain that distresses them. [212] But of the three concerned,

the Queen puts all the blame upon the sea; for the other two accuse the

third to her, and hold it alone responsible for their guilt. Some one

who is not at fault is often blamed for another's wrong. Thus, the Queen

lays all the blame and guilt upon the sea, but it is unfair to put the

blame upon the sea, for it is guilty of no misdeed. Soredamors' deep

distress continued until the vessel came to port. As for the King, it is

well known that the Bretons were greatly pleased, and served him gladly

as their liege lord. But of King Arthur I will not longer speak in

this place; rather shall you hear me tell how Love distresses these two

lovers whom he has attacked.

(Vv. 575-872.) Alexander loves and desires her; and she, too, pines for

the love of him, but he knows it not, nor will he know it until he

has suffered many a pain and many a grief. It is for her sake that he

renders to the Queen loving service, as well as to her maids-in-waiting;

but to her on whom his thoughts are fixed, he dares not speak or address

a word. If she but dared to assert to him the right which she thinks she

has, she would gladly inform him of the truth; but she does not dare,

and cannot do it. They dare neither speak nor act in accordance with

what each sees in the other--which works a great hardship to them both,

and their love but grows and flames the more. However, it is the custom

of all lovers to feast their eyes gladly with gazing, if they can do

no more; and they assume that, because they find pleasure in that which

causes their love to be born and grow, therefore it must be to their

advantage; whereas it only harms them more, just as he who approaches

and draws close beside the fire burns himself more than he who holds

aloof. Their love waxes and grows anon; but each is abashed before the

other, and so much is hidden and concealed that no flame or smoke arises

from the coals beneath the ashes. The heat is no less on this account,

but rather is better sustained beneath the ashes than above. Both of

them are in great torment; for, in order that none may perceive their

trouble, they are forced to deceive people by a feigned bearing; but at

night comes the bitter moan, which each one makes within his breast. Of

Alexander I will tell you first how he complains and vents his grief.

Love presents before his mind her for whom he is in such distress; it is

she who has filched his heart away, and grants him no rest upon his bed,

because, forsooth, he delights to recall the beauty and the grace of her

who, he has no hope, will ever bring him any joy. "I may as well hold

myself a madman." he exclaims. "A madman? Truly, I am beside myself,

when I dare not speak what I have in mind; for it would speedily fare

worse with me (if I held my peace). I have engaged my thoughts in a mad

emprise. But is it not better to keep my thoughts to myself than to be

called a fool? My wish will never then be known. Shall I then conceal

the cause of my distress, and not dare to seek aid and healing for my

wound? He is mad who feels himself afflicted, and seeks not what will

bring him health, if perchance he may find it anywhere; but many a one

seeks his welfare by striving for his heart's desire, who pursues only

that which brings him woe instead. And why should one ask for advice,

who does not expect to gain his health? He would only exert himself

in vain. I feel my own illness to be so grievous that I shall never be

healed by any medicine or draught, by any herb or root. For some ills

there is no remedy, and mine lies so deep within that it is beyond the

reach of medicine. Is there no help, then? Methinks I have lied. When

first I felt this malady, if I had dared to make mention of it. I might

have spoken with a physician who could have completely cured me. But I

like not to discuss such matters; I think he would pay me no heed and

would not consent to accept a fee. No wonder, then, if I am terrified;

for I am very ill, yet I do not know what disease this is which has me

in its grip, and I know not whence this pain has come. I do not know? I

know full well that it is Love who does me this injury. How is that? Can

Love do harm? Is he not gentle and well-bred? I used to think that there

was naught but good in Love; but I have found him full of enmity. He who

has not had experience of him does not know what tricks Love plays.

He is a fool who joins his ranks; for he always seeks to harm his

followers. Upon my faith, his tricks are bad. It is poor sport to play

with him, for his game will only do me harm. What shall I do, then?

Shall I retreat? I think it would be wise to do so, but I know not

how to do it. If Love chastens and threatens me in order to teach and

instruct me, ought I to disdain my teacher? He is a fool who scorns his

master. I ought to keep and cherish the lesson which Love teaches me,

for great good may soon come of it. But I am frightened because he beats

me so. And dost thou complain, when no sign of blow or wound appears?

Art thou not mistaken? Nay, for he has wounded me so deep that he has

shot his dart to my very heart, and has not yet drawn it out again.

[213] How has he pierced thy body with it, when no wound appears

without? Tell me that, for I wish to know. How did he make it enter in?

Through the eye. Through the eye? But he has not put it out? He did not

harm the eye at all, but all the pain is in the heart. Then tell me, if

the dart passed through the eye, how is it that the eye itself is not

injured or put out. If the dart entered through the eye, why does the

heart in the breast complain, when the eye, which received the first

effect, makes no complaint of it at all? I can readily account for that:

the eye is not concerned with the understanding, nor has it any part in

it; but it is the mirror of the heart, and through this mirror passes,

without doing harm or injury, the flame which sets the heart on fire.

For is not the heart placed in the breast just like a lighted candle

which is set in a lantern? If you take the candle away no light will

shine from the lantern; but so long as the candle lasts the lantern is

not dark at all, and the flame which shines within does it no harm or

injury. Likewise with a pane of glass, which might be very strong and

solid, and yet a ray of the sun could pass through it without cracking

it at all; yet a piece of glass will never be so bright as to enable one

to see, unless a stronger light strikes its surface. Know that the same

thing is true of the eyes as of the glass and the lantern; for the

light strikes the eyes in which the heart is accustomed to see itself

reflected, and lo! it sees some light outside, and many other things,

some green, some purple, others red or blue; and some it dislikes, and

some it likes, scorning some and prizing others. But many an object

seems fair to it when it looks at it in the glass, which will deceive it

if it is not on its guard. My mirror has greatly deceived me; for in

it my heart saw a ray of light with which I am afflicted, and which has

penetrated deep within me, causing me to lose my wits. I am ill-treated

by my friend, who deserts me for my enemy. I may well accuse him of

felony for the wrong he has done to me. I thought I had three friends,

my heart and my two eyes together; but it seems that they hate me. Where

shall I ever find a friend, when these three are my enemies, belonging

to me, yet putting me to death? My servants mock at my authority, in

doing what they please without consulting my desire. After my experience

with these who have done me wrong, I know full well that a good man's

love may be befouled by wicked servants in his employ. He who is

attended by a wicked servant will surely have cause to rue it, sooner or

later. Now I will tell you how the arrow, which has come into my keeping

and possession, is made and fashioned; but I fear greatly that I shall

fail in the attempt; for the fashion of it is so fine that it will be no

wonder if I fail. Yet I shall devote all my effort to telling you how

it seems to me. The notch and the feathers are so close together, when

carefully examined, that the line of separation is as fine as a hair's

breadth; but the notch is so smooth and straight that in it surely no

improvement could be made. The feathers are coloured as if they were

of gold or gilt; but gilt is here beside the mark, for I know these

feathers were more brilliant than any gilt. This dart is barbed with the

golden tresses that I saw the other day at sea. That is the dart which

awakes my love. God! What a treasure to possess! Would he who could gain

such a prize crave other riches his whole life long? For my part I could

swear that I should desire nothing else; I would not give up even the

barb and the notch for all the gold of Antioch. And if I prize so highly

these two things, who could estimate the value of what remains? That is

so fair and full of charm, so dear and precious, that I yearn and long

to gaze again upon her brow, which God's hand has made so clear that it

were vain to compare with it any mirror, emerald, or topaz. But all this

is of little worth to him who sees her flashing eyes; to all who gaze on

them they seem like twin candles burning. And whose tongue is so expert

as to describe the fashion of her well-shaped nose and radiant face, in

which the rose suffuses the lily so as to efface it somewhat, and thus

enhance the glory of her visage? And who shall speak of her laughing

mouth, which God shaped with such great skill that none might see it and

not suppose that she was laughing? And what about her teeth? They are so

close to one another that it seems they are all of one solid piece,

and in order that the effect might still be enhanced Nature added her

handiwork; for any one, to see her part her lips, would suppose that the

teeth were of ivory or of silver. There is so much to be said were I

to portray each detailed charm of chin and ears, that it would not be

strange were I to pass over some little thing. Of her throat I shall

only say that crystal beside it looks opaque. And her neck beneath her

hair is four times as white as ivory. Between the border of her gown and

the buckle at the parted throat, I saw her bosom left exposed and whiter

than new-fallen snow. My pain would be indeed assuaged, if I had seen

the dart entire. Gladly would I tell, if I but knew, what was the nature

of the shaft. But I did nor see it, and it is not my fault if I do

not attempt to describe something I have never seen. At that time Love

showed me only the notch and the barb; for the shaft was hidden in the

quiver, to wit, in the robe and shift in which the damsel was arrayed.

Upon my faith, malady which tortures me is the arrow--it is the dart at

which I am a wretch to be enraged. I am ungrateful to be incensed. Never

shall a straw be broken because of any distrust or quarrel that may

arise between Love and me. Now let Love do what he will with me as with

one who belongs to him; for I wish it, and so it pleases me. I hope that

this malady may never leave me, but that it may thus always maintain its

hold, and that health may never come to me except from the source of my

illness."

(Vv. 873-1046.) Alexander's complaint is long enough; but that of the

maiden is nothing less. All night she lies in such distress that

she cannot sleep or get repose. Love has confined within her heart a

struggle and conflict which disturbs her breast, and which causes her

such pain and anguish that she weeps and moans all night, and tosses

about with sudden starts, so that she is almost beside herself. And when

she has tossed and sobbed and groaned and started up and sighed again

then she looked within her heart to see who and what manner of man it

was for whom Love was tormenting her. And when she has refreshed herself

somewhat with thinking to her heart's content, she stretches and tosses

about again, and ridicules all the thoughts she has had. Then she takes

another course, and says: "Silly one, what matters it to me if this

youth is of good birth and wise and courteous and valorous? All this is

simply to his honour and credit. And as for his beauty, what care I? Let

his beauty be gone with him! But if so, it will be against my will, for

it is not my wish to deprive him of anything. Deprive? No, indeed! That

I surely will not do. If he had the wisdom of Solomon, and if Nature had

bestowed on him all the beauty she can place in human form, and if God

had put in my power to undo it all, yet would I not injure him; but I

would gladly, if I could, make him still more wise and fair. In faith,

then, I do not hate him! And am I for that reason his friend? Nay, I am

not his any more than any other man's. Then what do I think of him so

much, if he pleases me no more than other men? I do not know; I am all

confused; for I never thought so much about any man in the world, and

if I had my will, I should see him all the time, and never take my eyes

from him. I feel such joy at the sight of him! Is this love? Yes, I

believe it is. I should not appeal to him so often, if I did not love

him above all others. So I love him, then, let it be agreed. Then shall

I not do what I please? Yes, provided he does not refuse. This intention

of mine is wrong; but Love has so filled my heart that I am mad and

beside myself, nor will any defence avail me now, if I must endure the

assault of Love. I have demeaned myself prudently toward Love so long,

and would never accede to his will; but now I am more than kindly

disposed toward him. And what thanks will he owe to me, if he cannot

have my loving service and good-will? By force he has humbled my pride,

and now I must follow his pleasure. Now I am ready to love, and I have

a master, and Love will teach me--but what? How I am to serve his will.

But of that I am very well informed, and am so expert in serving him

that no one could find fault with me. I need learn no more of that. Love

would have it, and so would I, that I should be sensible and modest and

kind and approachable to all for the sake of one I love. Shall I love

all men, then, for the sake of one? I should be pleasant to every one,

but Love does not bid me be the true friend of every one. Love's lessons

are only good. It is not without significance that I am called by the

name of Soredamors. [214] I am destined to love and be loved in turn,

and I intend to prove it by my name, if I can find the explanation

there. There is some significance in the fact that the first part of

my name is of golden colour; for what is golden is the best. For this

reason I highly esteem my name, because it begins with that colour with

which the purest gold harmonises. And the end of the name calls Love to

my mind; for whoever calls me by my right name always refreshes me with

love. And one half gilds the other with a bright coat of yellow gold;

for Soredamors has the meaning of 'one gilded over with Love.' Love has

highly honoured me in gilding me over with himself. A gilding of

real gold is not so fine as that which makes me radiant. And I shall

henceforth do my best to be his gilding, and shall never again complain

of it. Now I love and ever more shall love. Whom? Truly, that is a fine

question! Him whom Love bids me love, for no other shall ever have

my love. What will he care in his ignorance, unless I tell him of it

myself? What shall I do, if I do not make to him my prayer? Whoever

desires anything ought to ask for it and make request. What? Shall I

beseech him, then? Nay. Why? Did ever such a thing come about that a

woman should be so forward as to make love to any man; unless she were

clean beside herself. I should be mad beyond question if I uttered

anything for which I might be reproached. If he should know the truth

through word of mine I think he would hold me in slight esteem, and

would often reproach me with having solicited his love. May love never

be so base that I should be the first to prefer a request which would

lower me in his eyes! Alas, God! How will he ever know the truth, since

I shall not tell him of it? As yet I have very little cause to complain.

I will wait until his attention is aroused, if ever it is to be aroused.

He will surely guess the truth, I think, if ever he has had commerce

with Love, or has heard of it by word of mouth. Heard of it? That is a

foolish thing to say. Love is not of such easy access that any one may

claim acquaintance by hear-say only and without personal experience.

I have come to know that well enough myself; for I could never learn

anything of love through flattery and wooing words, though I have often

been in the school of experience, and have been flattered many a time.

But I have always stood aloof, and now he makes me pay a heavy penalty:

now I know more about it than does the ox of ploughing. But one thing

causes me despair: I fear he has never been in love. And if he is not in

love, and never has been so, then I have sowed in the sea where no seed

can take root. So there is nothing to do but wait and suffer, until

I see whether I can lead him on by hints and covered words. I shall

continue this until he is sure of my love and dares to ask me for it. So

there is nothing more about the matter, but that I love him and am his.

If he loves me not, yet will I love him."

(Vv. 1047-1066.) Thus he and she utter their complaint, unhappy at night

and worse by day, each hiding the truth from the other's eyes. In such

distress they remained a long time in Brittany, I believe, until the end

of the summer came. At the beginning of October there came messengers

by Dover from London and Canterbury, bearing to the King news which

troubled him. The messengers told him that he might be tarrying too long

in Brittany; for, he to whom he had entrusted the kingdom was intending

to withstand him, and had already summoned a great army of his vassals

and friends, and had established himself in London for the purpose of

defending the city against Arthur when he should return.

(Vv. 1067-1092.) When the King heard this news, angry and sore

displeased he summons all his knights. In order the better to spur them

on to punish the traitor, he tells them that they are entirely to blame

for his trouble and strife; for on their advice he entrusted his land to

the hands of the traitor, who is worse than Ganelon. [215] There is not

a single one who does not agree that the King is right, for he had only

followed their advice; but now this man is to be outlawed, and you may

be sure that no town or city will avail to save his body from being

dragged out by force. Thus they all assure the King, giving him their

word upon oath, that they will deliver the traitor to him, or never

again claim their fiefs. And the King proclaims throughout Brittany that

no one who can bear arms shall refuse to follow him at once.

(Vv. 1093-1146.) All Brittany is now astir. Never was such an army seen

as King Arthur brought together. When the ships came to set sail, it

seemed that the whole world was putting out to sea; for even the water

was hid from view, being covered with the multitude of ships. It is

certainly true that, to judge by the commotion, all Brittany is under

way. Now the ships have crossed the Channel, and the assembled host is

quartered on the shore. Alexander bethought himself to go and pray the

King to make him a knight, for if ever he should win renown it will be

in this war. Prompted by his desire, he takes his companions with him

to accomplish what he has in mind. On reaching the King's quarters, they

found him seated before his tent. When he saw the Greeks approaching, he

summoned them to him, saying: "Gentlemen, do not conceal what business

has brought you here." Alexander replied on behalf of all, and told him

his desire: "I have come," he says, "to request of you, as I ought to do

of my liege lord, on behalf of my companions and myself, that you should

make us knights." The King replies: "Very gladly; nor shall there be any

delay about it, since you have preferred your request." Then the

King commands that equipment shall be furnished for twelve knights.

Straightway the King's command is done. As each one asks for his

equipment, it is handed to him--rich arms and a good horse: thus each

one received his outfit. The arms and robes and horse were of equal

value for each of the twelve; but the harness for Alexander s body, if

it should be valued or sold, was alone worth as much as that of all the

other twelve. At the water's edge they stripped, and then washed and

bathed themselves. Not wishing that any other bath should be heated for

them, they washed in the sea and used it as their tub. [216]

(Vv. 1147-1196.) All this is known to the Queen, who bears Alexander no

ill will, but rather loves, esteems, and values him. She wishes to make

Alexander a gift, but it is far more precious than she thinks. She seeks

and delves in all her boxes until she finds a white silk shirt, well

made of delicate texture, and very soft. Every thread in the stitching

of it was of gold, or of silver at least. Soredamors had taken a hand in

the stitching of it here and there, and at intervals, in the sleeves and

neck, she had inserted beside the gold a strand of her own hair, to see

if any man could be found who, by close examination, could detect the

difference. For the hair was quite as bright and golden as the thread of

gold itself. The Queen takes the shirt and presents it to Alexander. Ah,

God! What joy would Alexander have felt had he known what the Queen was

giving him! And how glad would she, too, have been, who had inserted her

own hair, if she had known that her lover was to own and wear it! She

could then have taken great comfort; for she would not have cared

so much for all the hair she still possessed as for the little that

Alexander had. But, more is the pity, neither of them knew the truth.

The Queen's messenger finds the youths on the shore where they are

bathing, and gives the shirt to Alexander. He is greatly pleased with

it, esteeming the present all the more because it was given him by the

Queen. But if he had known the rest, he would have valued it still more;

in exchange for it he would not have taken the whole world, but rather

would have made a shrine of it and worshipped it, doubtless, day and

night.

(Vv. 1197-1260.) Alexander delays no longer, but dresses himself at

once. When he was dressed and ready, he returned to the King's tent with

all his companions. The Queen, it seems, had come there, too, wishing

to see the new knights present themselves. They might all be called

handsome, but Alexander with his shapely body was the fairest of them

all. Well, now that they are knights I will say no more of them for the

present, but will tell of the King and of his host which came to

London. Most of the people remained faithful to him, though many allied

themselves with the opposition. Count Angres assembled his forces,

consisting of all those whose influence could be gained by promises or

gifts. When he had gathered all his strength, he slipped away quietly at

night, fearing to be betrayed by the many who hated him. But before he

made off, he sacked London as completely as possible of provisions, gold

and silver, which he divided among his followers. This news was told to

the King, how the traitor had escaped with all his forces, and that

he had carried off from the city so many supplies that the distressed

citizens were impoverished and destitute. Then the King replied that

he would not take a ransom for the traitor, but rather hang him, if he

could catch him or lay hands on him. Thereupon, all the army proceeded

to Windsor. However it may be now, in those days the castle was not easy

to take when any one chose to defend it. The traitor made it secure, as

soon as he planned his treacherous deed, with a triple line of walls

and moats, and had so braced the walls inside with sharpened stakes that

catapults could not throw them down. They had taken great pains with the

fortifications, spending all of June, July, and August in building walls

and barricades, making moats and drawbridges, ditches, obstructions, and

barriers, and iron portcullises and a great square tower of stone. The

gate was never closed from fear or against assault. The castle stood

upon a high hill, and around beneath it flows the Thames. The host

encamped on the river bank, and that day they have time only to pitch

camp and set up the tents.

(Vv. 1261-1348.) The army is in camp beside the Thames, and all the

meadow is filled with green and red tents. The sun, striking on the

colours, causes the river to flash for more than a league around. Those

in the town had come down to disport themselves upon the river bank with

only their lances in their hands and their shields grasped before their

breasts, and carrying no other arms at all. In coming thus, they showed

those without the walls that they stood in no fear of them. Alexander

stood aloof and watched the knights disporting themselves at feats of

arms. He yearns to attack them, and summons his companions one by one

by name. First Cornix, whom he dearly loved, then the doughty Licorides,

then Nabunal of Mvcene, and Acorionde of Athens, and Ferolin of

Salonica, and Calcedor from Africa, Parmenides and Francagel, mighty

Torin and Pinabel, Nerius and Neriolis. "My lords," he says, "I feel the

call to go with shield and lance to make the acquaintance of those who

disport themselves yonder before our eyes. I see they scorn us and hold

us in slight esteem, when they come thus without their arms to exercise

before our very eyes. We have just been knighted, and have not yet given

an account of ourselves against any knight or manikin. [217] We have

kept our first lances too long intact. And for what were our shields

intended? As yet, they have not a hole or crack to show. There is no use

in having them except in a combat or a fight. Let's cross the ford and

rush at them!" "We shall not fail you," all reply; and each one adds:

"So help me God, who fails you now is no friend of yours." Then they

fasten on their swords, tighten their saddles and girths, and mount

their steeds with shields in hand. When they had hung the shields about

their necks, and taken their lances with the gaily coloured ensigns,

they all proceed to the ford at once. Those on the farther side lower

their lances, and quickly ride to strike at them. But they (on the

hither bank) knew how to pay them back, not sparing nor avoiding them,

nor yielding to them a foot of ground. Rather, each man struck his

opponent so fiercely that there is no knight so brave but is compelled

to leave the saddle. They did not underestimate the experience, skill,

and bravery of their antagonists, but made their first blows count, and

unhorsed thirteen of them. The report spread to the camp of the fight

and of the blows that were being struck. There would soon have been a

merry strife if the others had dared to stand their ground. All through

the camp they run to arms, and raising a shout they cross the ford. And

those on the farther bank take to flight, seeing no advantage in staying

where they are. And the Greeks pursue them with blows of lance and

sword. Though they struck off many a head they themselves did not

receive a wound, and gave a good account of themselves that day. But

Alexander distinguished himself, who by his own efforts led off four

captive knights in bonds. The sands are strewn with headless dead, while

many others lie wounded and injured.

(Vv. 1349-1418.) Alexander courteously presents the victims of his first

conquest to the Queen, not wishing them to fall into the hands of the

King, who would have had them all hanged. The Queen, however, had them

seized and safely kept under guard, as being charged with treason.

Throughout the camp they talk of the Greeks, and all maintain that

Alexander acted very courteously and wisely in not surrendering the

knights whom he had captured to the King, who would surely have had them

burned or hanged. But the King is not so well satisfied, and sending

promptly to the Queen he bids her come into his presence and not detain

those who have proved treacherous towards him, for either she must give

them up or offend him by keeping them. While the Queen was in conference

with the King, as was necessary, about the traitors, the Greeks

remained in the Queen's tent with her maids-in-waiting. While his twelve

companions conversed with them, Alexander uttered not a word. Soredamors

took note of this, seated as she was close by his side. Her head resting

upon her hand, it was plain that she was lost in thought. [218] Thus

they sat a long time, until Soredamors saw on his sleeve and about his

neck the hair which she had stitched into the shirt. Then she drew a

little closer thinking now to find an excuse for speaking a word to him.

She considers how she can address him first, and what the first word is

to be--whether she should address him by his name; and thus she takes

counsel with herself: "What shall I say first?" she says; "shall I

address him by his name, or shall I call him 'friend'? Friend? Not I.

How then? Shall I call him by his name? God! The name of 'friend' is

fair and sweet to take upon the lips. If I should dare to call him

'friend'! Should I dare? What forbids me to do so? The fact that that

implies a lie. A lie? I know not what the result will be, but I shall be

sorry if I do not speak the truth. Therefore, it is best to admit that

I should not like to speak a lie. God! yet he would not speak a lie were

he to call me his sweet friend! And should I lie in thus addressing him?

We ought both to tell the truth. But if I lie the fault is his. But why

does his name seem so hard to me that I should wish to replace it by a

surname? I think it is because it is so long that I should stop in the

middle. But if I simply called him 'friend', I could soon utter so short

a name. Fearing lest I should break down in uttering his proper name, I

would fain shed my blood if his name were simply 'my sweet friend.'"

(Vv. 1419-1448.) She turns this thought over in her mind until the Queen

returns from the King who had summoned her. Alexander, seeing her come,

goes to meet her, and inquires what is the King's command concerning

the prisoners, and what is to be their fate. "Friend," says she, "he

requires of me to surrender them at his discretion, and to let his

justice be carried out. Indeed, he is much incensed that I have not

already handed them over. So I must needs send them to him, since I see

no help for it." Thus they passed that day; and the next day there was

a great assembly of all the good and loyal knights before the royal tent

to sit in judgment and decide by what punishment and torture the four

traitors should die. Some hold that they should be flayed alive, and

others that they should be hanged or burned. And the King, for his part,

maintains that traitors ought to be torn asunder. Then he commands them

to be brought in. When they are brought, he orders them to be bound, and

says that they shall not be torn asunder until they are taken beneath

the town, so that those within may see the sight. [219]

(Vv. 1449-1472.) When this sentence was pronounced, the King addresses

Alexander, calling him his dear friend. "My friend," he says, "yesterday

I saw you attack and defend yourself with great bravery. I wish now

to reward your action! I will add to your company five hundred Welsh

knights and one thousand troopers from that land. In addition to what I

have given you, when the war is over I will crown you king of the best

kingdom in Wales. Towns and castles, cities and halls will I give you

until the time you receive the land which your father holds, and

of which you are to be emperor." Alexander's companions join him in

thanking the King kindly for this boon, and all the nobles of the court

say that the honour which the King has bestowed upon Alexander is well

deserved.

(Vv. 1473-1490.) As soon as Alexander sees his force, consisting of the

companions and the men-at-arms whom it had pleased the King to give him,

straightway they begin to sound the horns and trumpets throughout the

camp. Men of Wales and Britain, of Scotland and Cornwall, both good and

bad without exception--all take arms, for the forces of the host were

recruited from all quarters. The Thames was low because of the drought

resulting from a summer without rain, so that all the fish were dead,

and the ships were stranded upon the shore, and it was possible to ford

the stream even in the widest part.

(Vv. 1491-1514.) After fording the Thames, the army divided, some taking

possession of the valley, and others occupying the high ground. Those

in the town take notice of them, and when they see approaching the

wonderful array, bent upon reducing and taking the town, they prepare

on their side to defend it. But before any assault is made, the King has

the traitors drawn by four horses through the valleys and over the hills

and unploughed fields. At this Count Angres is much distressed, when he

sees those whom he held dear dragged around outside the town. And his

people, too, are much dismayed, but in spite of the anxiety which they

feel, they have no mind to yield the place. They must needs defend

themselves, for the King makes it plain to all that he is angry, and

ill-disposed, and they see that if he should lay hands upon them he

would make them die a shameful death.

(Vv.1515-1552.) When the four had been torn asunder and their limbs lay

strewn upon the field, then the assault begins. But all their labour is

in vain, for no matter how much they cast and shoot, their efforts are

of no effect. Yet they strive to do their utmost, hurling their javelins

amain, and shooting darts and bolts. On all sides is heard the din of

cross-bows and slings as the arrows and the round stones fly thick,

like rain mixed with hail. Thus all day long the struggle of attack and

defence continues, until the night separates them. And the King causes

to be proclaimed what gift he will bestow upon him who shall effect the

surrender of the town: a cup of great price weighing fifteen marks of

gold, the richest in his treasure, shall be his reward. The cup will be

very fine and rich, and, to tell the truth, the cup is to be esteemed

for the workmanship rather than for the material of which it is made.

But good as the workmanship may be, and fine though the gold, if the

truth be told, the precious stones set in the outside of the cup were of

most value. He through whose efforts the town shall be taken is to have

the cup, if he be only a foot soldier; and if the town is taken by a

knight, with the cup in his possession he shall never seek his fortune

in vain, if there is any to be found in the world.

(Vv. 1553-1712.) When this news was announced, Alexander had not

forgotten his custom of going to see the Queen each evening. That night,

too, he had gone thither and was seated beside the Queen. Soredamors was

sitting alone close by them, looking at him with such satisfaction

that she would not have exchanged her lot for Paradise. The Queen took

Alexander by the hand, and examined the golden thread which was showing

the effects of wear; but the strand of hair was becoming more lustrous,

while the golden thread was tarnishing. And she laughed as she happened

to recall that the embroidery was the work of Soredamors. Alexander

noticed this, and begged her to tell him, if suitable, why she laughed.

The Queen was slow to make reply, and looking toward Soredamors, bade

her come to her. Gladly she went and knelt before her. Alexander was

overjoyed when he saw her draw so near that he could have touched her.

But he is not so bold as even to look at her; but rather does he so lose

his senses that he is well-nigh speechless. And she, for her part, is so

overcome that she has not the use of her eyes; but she casts her glance

upon the ground without fastening it upon anything. The Queen marvels

greatly at seeing her now pale, now crimson, and she notes well in her

heart the bearing and expression of each of them. She notices and thinks

she sees that these changes of colour are the fruit of love. But not

wishing to embarrass them, she pretends to understand nothing of what

she sees. In this she did well, for she gave no evidence of what was in

her mind beyond saying: "Look here, damsel, and tell us truly where the

shirt was sewed that this knight has on, and if you had any hand in

it or worked anything of yours into it." Though the maiden feels some

shame, yet she tells the story gladly; for she wishes the truth to be

known by him, who, when he hears her tell of how the shirt was made, can

hardly restrain himself for joy from worshipping and adoring the golden

hair. His companions and the Queen, who were with him, annoy him and

embarrass him; for their presence prevents him from raising the hair to

his eyes and mouth, as he would fain have done, had he not thought that

it would be remarked. He is glad to have so much of his lady, but he

does not hope or expect ever to receive more from her: his very desire

makes him dubious. Yet, when he has left the Queen and is by himself, he

kisses it more than a hundred thousand times, feeling how fortunate he

is. All night long he makes much of it, but is careful that no one shall

see him. As he lies upon his bed, he finds a vain delight and solace in

what can give him no satisfaction. All night he presses the shirt in his

arms, and when he looks at the golden hair, he feels like the lord of

the whole wide world. Thus Love makes a fool of this sensible man,

who finds his delight in a single hair and is in ecstasy over its

possession. But this charm will come to an end for him before the sun's

bright dawn. For the traitors are met in council to discuss what they

can do; and what their prospects are. To be sure they will be able to

make a long defence of the town if they determine so to do; but they

know the King's purpose to be so firm that he will not give up his

efforts to take the town so long as he lives, and when that time comes

they needs must die. And if they should surrender the town, they need

expect no mercy for doing so. Thus either outcome looks dark indeed, for

they see no help, but only death in either case. But this decision at

last is reached, that the next morning, before dawn appears, they shall

issue secretly from the town and find the camp disarmed, and the knights

still sleeping in their beds. Before they wake and get their armour

on there will have been such slaughter done that posterity will always

speak of the battle of that night. Having no further confidence in life,

the traitors as a last resort all subscribe to this design. Despair

emboldened them to fight, whatever the result might be; for they see

nothing sure in store for them save death or imprisonment. Such an

outcome is not attractive; nor do they see any use in flight, for they

see no place where they could find refuge should they betake themselves

to flight, being completely surrounded by the water and their enemies.

So they spend no more time in talk, but arm and equip themselves and

make a sally by an old postern gate [220] toward the north-west, that

being the side where they thought the camp would least expect attack.

In serried ranks they sallied forth, and divided their force into five

companies, each consisting of two thousand well armed foot, in addition

to a thousand knights. That night neither star nor moon had shed a ray

across the sky. But before they reached the tents, the moon began to

show itself, and I think it was to work them woe that it rose sooner

than was its wont. Thus God, who opposed their enterprise, illumined

the darkness of the night, having no love for these evil men, but rather

hating them for their sin. For God hates traitors and treachery more

than any other sin. So the moon began to shine in order to hamper their

enterprise.

(Vv. 1713-1858.) They are much hampered by the moon, as it shines upon

their shields, and they are handicapped by their helmets, too, as they

glitter in the moonlight. They are detected by the pickets keeping watch

over the host, who now shout throughout the camp: "Up, knights, up! Rise

quickly, take your arms and arm yourselves! The traitors are upon us."

Through all the camp they run to arms, and hastily strive to equip

themselves in the urgent need; but not a single one of them left his

place until they were all comfortably armed and mounted upon their

steeds. While they are arming themselves, the attacking forces are eager

for battle and press forward, hoping to catch them off their guard and

find them disarmed. They bring up from different directions the five

companies into which they had divided their troops: some hug the woods,

others follow the river, the third company deploys upon the plain, while

the fourth enters a valley, and the fifth proceeds beside a rocky cliff.

For they planned to fall upon the tents suddenly with great fury.

But they did not find the path clear. For the King's men resist them,

defying them courageously and reproaching them for their treason. Their

iron lance-tips are splintered and shattered as they meet; they come

together with swords drawn, striking each other and casting each other

down upon the face. They rush upon each other with the fury of lions,

which devour whatever they capture. In this first rush there was heavy

slaughter on both sides. When they can no longer maintain themselves,

help comes to the traitors, who are defending themselves bravely and

selling their lives dearly. They see their troops from four sides arrive

to succour them. And the King's men ride hard with spur to attack them.

They deal such blows upon their shields that, beside the wounded, they

unhorse more than five hundred of them. Alexander, with his Greeks,

has no thought of sparing them, making every effort to prevail into the

thickest of the fight he goes to strike a knave whose shield and hauberk

are of no avail to keep him from falling to the earth. When he has

finished with him, he offers his service to another freely and without

stint, and serves him, too, so savagely that he drives the soul from his

body quite, and leaves the apartment without a tenant. After these two,

he addresses himself to another, piercing a noble and courteous knight

clean through and through, so that the blood spurts out on the other

side, and his expiring soul takes leave of the body. Many he killed and

many stunned, for like a flying thunderbolt he blasts all those whom

he seeks out. Neither coat of mail nor shield can protect him whom he

strikes with lance or sword. His companions, too, are generous in the

spilling of blood and brains, for they, too, know well how to deal their

blows. And the royal troops butcher so many of them that they break them

up and scatter them like low-born folk who have lost their heads. So

many dead lay about the fields, and so long did the battle rage, that

long before the day dawned the ranks were so cut in pieces that the rows

of dead stretched for five leagues along the stream. Count Angres leaves

his banner on the field and steals away, accompanied by only seven of

his men. Towards his town he made his way by a secret path, thinking

that no one could see him. But Alexander notices this, and sees them

escaping from the troops, and he thinks that if he can slip away without

the knowledge of any one, he will go to catch up with them. But before

he got down into the valley, he saw thirty knights following him down

the path, of whom six were Greeks, and twenty-four were men of Wales.

These intended to follow him at a distance until he should stand in need

of them. When Alexander saw them coming, he stopped to wait for them,

without failing to observe what course was taken by those who were

making their way back to the town. Finally, he saw them enter it. Then

he began to plan a very daring deed and a very marvellous design. And

when he had made up his mind, he turned toward his companions and thus

addressed them: "My lords," says he, "whether it be folly or wisdom,

frankly grant me my desire if you care for my good-will." And they

promised him never to oppose his will in aught. Then he says: "Let

us change our outer gear, by taking the shields and lances from the

traitors whom we have killed. Thus, when we approach the town, the

traitors within will suppose that we are of their party, and regardless

of the fate in store for them, they will throw open the gates for us.

And do you know what reward we shall offer them? If God so will we shall

take them all dead or alive. Now, if any of you repents of his promise,

be sure that, so long as I live, I shall never hold him dear."

(Vv. 1859-1954.) All the others grant his boon, and, despoiling the

corpses of their shields, they arm themselves with them instead. The

men within the town had mounted to the battlements, and, recognising the

shields, suppose that they belong to their party, never dreaming of the

ruse hidden beneath the shields. The gatekeeper opens the gate for

them and admits them to the town. He is beguiled and deceived in not

addressing them a word; for no one of them speaks to him, but silently

and mute they pass, making such a show of grief that they trail their

lances after them and support themselves upon their shields. Thus it

seems that they are in great distress, as they pass on at their own

sweet will until they are within the triple walls. Inside they find a

number of men-at-arms and knights with the Count. I cannot tell you

just how many; but they were unarmed, except eight of them who had just

returned from the fight, and even they were preparing to remove their

arms. But their haste was ill considered; for now the other party make

no further pretence, but without any challenge by way of warning, they

brace themselves in the stirrups, and let their horses charge straight

at them, attacking them with such rigour that they lay low more than

thirty-one of them. The traitors in great dismay shout out: "We are

betrayed, betrayed!" But the assailants take no heed of this, and let

those whom they find unarmed feel the temper of their swords. Indeed,

three of those whom they found still armed were so roughly handled that

but five remained alive. Count Angres rushed at Calcedor, and in the

sight of all struck him upon his golden shield with such violence that

he stretched him dead upon the ground. Alexander is greatly troubled,

and is almost beside himself with rage when he sees his companion dead;

his blood boils with anger, but his strength and courage are doubled

as he strikes the Count with such fury that he breaks his lance. If

possible, he would avenge his friend. But the Count was a powerful man

and a good and hardy knight, whose match it would have been hard to

find, had he not been a base traitor. He now returns the blow, making

his lance double up so that it splits and breaks; but the other's shield

holds firm, and neither gives way before the other any more than a rock

would do, for both men were passing strong. But the fact that the Count

was in the wrong disturbs him greatly and troubles him. [221] The anger

of each rises higher as they both draw their swords after their lances

had been broken. No escape would have been possible if these two

swordsmen had persisted in continuing the fight. But at last one or the

other must die. The Count dares not longer hold his ground, when he sees

lying dead about him his men who had been caught unarmed. Meanwhile the

others press them hard, cutting, slashing, and carving them, spilling

their brains, and reproaching the Count for his treachery. When he hears

himself accused of treason, he flees for safety to his tower, followed

by his men. And their enemies follow after them, fiercely charging them

from the rear, and not letting a single one escape of all upon whom they

lay their hands. They kill and slay so many of them that I guess not

more than seven made good their escape.

(Vv. 1955-2056.) When they had got inside the tower, they made a stand

at the gate; for those who were coming close behind had followed so

closely after them that they too would have pressed in had the gateway

been left exposed. The traitors make a brave defence, waiting for

succour from their friends, who were arming themselves down in the town.

But upon the advice of Nabunal, who was a Greek of great wisdom, the

approach was blocked so that relief could not arrive in time; for those

below had tarried too long, either from cowardice or sloth. Now there

was only one entrance to the stronghold; so that, if they stop that

entrance-way, they need have no fear that any force shall approach to do

them harm. Nabunal bids and exhorts twenty of them to hold the gate;

for soon such a company might arrive with force as would do them harm

by their assault and attack. While these twenty hold the gate, the

remaining ten should attack the tower and prevent the Count from

barricading himself inside. Nabunal's advice is taken: ten remain to

continue the assault at the entrance of the tower, while twenty go to

defend the gate. In doing so, they delay almost too long; for they see

approaching, furious and keen for the fight, a company containing many

cross-bow men and foot soldiers of different grades who carried arms

of divers sorts. Some carried light missiles, and others Danish axes,

lances and Turkish swords, bolts for cross-bows, arrows and javelins.

The Greeks would have had to pay a heavy score, if this crowd had

actually fallen upon them; but they did not reach the place in time.

Nabunal by his foresight and counsel had blocked their plans, and they

were forced to remain outside. When they see that they are shut out,

they pause in their advance, as it is evident they can gain nothing by

making an assault. Then there begins such weeping and wailing of women

and young children, of old men and youths, that those in the town

could not have heard a thunder-clap from heaven. At this the Greeks are

overjoyed; for now they know of a certainty that the Count by no good

luck can escape capture. Four of them mount the walls to keep watch lest

those outside by any means or ruse should enter the stronghold and

fall upon them. The remaining sixteen returned to where the ten were

fighting. The day was already breaking, and the ten had fought so well

that they had forced their way within the tower. The Count took his

stand against a post, and, armed with a battleaxe, defended himself with

great bravery. Those whom he reaches, he splits in half. And his men

line up about him, and are not slow to avenge themselves in this last

stand of the day, Alexander's men have reason to complain, for of the

original sixteen there remain now but thirteen. Alexander is almost

beside himself when he sees the havoc wrought among his dead or

exhausted followers. Yet his thoughts are fixed on vengeance: finding at

hand a long heavy club, he struck one of the rascals with it so fiercely

that neither shield nor hauberk was worth a button in preventing him

from failing to the ground. After finishing with him, he pursues the

Count, and raising his club to strike him he deals him such a blow with

his square club that the axe falls from his hands; and he was so stunned

and bewildered that he could not have stood up unless he had leaned

against the wall.

(Vv. 2057-2146.) After this blow the battle ceases. Alexander leaps at

the Count and holds him so that he cannot move. Of the others nothing

need be said, for they were easily mastered when they saw the capture

of their lord. All are made prisoners with the Count and led away in

disgrace, in accordance with their deserts. Of all this the men outside

knew nothing. But when morning came they found their companions shields

lying among the slain when the battle was over. Then the Greeks, misled,

made a great lament for their lord. Recognising his shield, all are in

an agony of grief, swooning at sight of his shield and saying that

now they have lived too long. Cornix and Nerius first swoon, then,

recovering their senses, wish they were dead. So do Torin and Acorionde.

The tears run down in floods from their eyes upon their breasts. Life

and joy seem hateful now. And Parmenides more than the rest tore his

hair in dire distress. No greater grief could be shown than that of

these five for their lord. Yet, their dismay is groundless, for it is

another's body which they bear away when they think to have their lord.

Their distress is further increased by the sight of the other shields,

which cause them to mistake these corpses for their companions. So over

them they lament and swoon. But they are deceived by all these shields,

for of their men only one was killed, whose name was Neriolis. Him,

indeed, they would have borne away had they known the truth. But they

are in as great anxiety for the others as for him; so they bore them

all away. In every case but one they were misled. But like the man who

dreams and takes a fiction for the truth, so the shields cause them to

suppose this illusion to be a reality. It is the shields, then, that

cause this mistake. [222] Carrying the corpses, they move away and come

to their tents, where there was a sorrowing troop. Upon hearing the

lament raised by the Greeks, soon all the others gathered, until there

was but one great outcry. Now Saredamors thinks of her wretched estate

when she hears the cry and lament over her lover. Their anguish and

distress cause her to lose her senses and her colour, and her grief and

sorrow are increased because she dares not openly show a trace of her

distress. She shut up her grief within her heart. Had any one looked at

her, he could have seen by the expression of her face what agony she was

in; but every one was so engrossed with his own sorrow that he had no

care for another's grief. Each one lamented his own loss. For they find

the river bank covered with their relatives and friends, who had been

wounded or roughly treated. Each one wept for his own heavy and bitter

loss: here is a son weeping for a father, there a father for a son;

one swoons at the sight of his cousin, another over his nephew. Thus

fathers, brothers, and relatives bemoan their loss on every side. But

above all is noticeable the sorrow of the Greeks; and yet they might

have anticipated great joy, for the deepest grief of all the camp will

soon be changed into rejoicing.

(Vv. 2147-2200.) The Greeks outside continue their lament, while

those inside strive to let them know the news which will cause them to

rejoice. They disarm and bind their prisoners, who pray and beg of them

to strike off their heads straightway. But the Greeks are unwilling, and

disdain their entreaties, saying that them will keep then under guard

and hand them over to the King, who will grant them such recompense as

shall require their services. When they had disarmed them all they made

them go up on the wall that they might be seen by the troops below. This

privilege is not to their liking, and when they saw their lord bound as

a prisoner, they were unhappy men. Alexander upon the walls swears to

God and all the saints that he will not let one of them live, but will

kill them all speedily, unless they will go to surrender to the King

before he can seize them. "Go," says he, "confidently to the King at

my command, and cast yourselves upon his mercy. None of you, except the

Count, has deserved to die. You shall not lose either life or limb if

you surrender to the King. If you do not deliver yourselves from death

by crying for mercy, you need have little hope of saving your lives or

bodies. Go forth disarmed to meet the King, and tell him from me that

Alexander sends you to him. Your action will not be in vain; for my lord

the King is so gentle and courteous that he will lay aside his wrath and

anger. But if you wish to act otherwise, you must expect to die, for his

heart will be closed to pity." All agree in accepting this advice, and

do not hesitate until they come to the King's tent, where they all fall

at his feet. The story they told was soon known throughout the camp.

The King and all his men mounted and spurred their horses to the town

without delay.

(Vv. 2201-2248.) Alexander goes out from the town to meet the King, who

was greatly pleased, and to surrender to him the Count. The King did not

delay in fitly punishing him. But Alexander is congratulated and praised

by the King and all the others who esteem him highly. Their joy drives

away the grief which they had felt not long before. But no joy of the

others can compare with the exultation of the Greeks. The King presents

him with the precious cup, weighing fifteen marks, and tells him

confidently that there is nothing in his possession so valuable that he

would not place it in his hands upon request--save only the crown and

the Queen. Alexander dares not mention his heart's desire, though he

knows well that he would not be refused in asking for his sweetheart's

hand. But he fears so much lest he might displease her, whose heart

would have been made glad, that he prefers to suffer without her rather

than to win her against her will. Therefore, he asks for a little time,

not wishing to prefer his request until he is sure of her pleasure. But

he asked for no respite or delay in accepting the cup of gold. He takes

the cup, and courteously begs my lord Gawain to accept this cup as

a gift from him, which Gawain did most reluctantly. When Soredamors

learned the truth about Alexander she was greatly pleased and delighted.

When she heard that he was alive, she was so happy that it seemed to

her as though she could never be sad again. But she reflects that he is

slower in coming than is his wont. Yet in good time she will have her

wish, for both of them in rivalry are occupied with one common thought.

(Vv. 2249-2278.) It seemed to Alexander an age before he could feast

his eyes with even one soft glance from her. Long ago he would fain have

gone to the Queen's tent, if he had not been detained elsewhere. He was

much put out by this delay, and as soon as he could, he betook himself

to the Queen in her tent. The Queen went to greet him, and, without his

having confided in her, she had already read his thoughts, and knew what

was passing in his mind. She greets him at the entrance of the tent, and

strives to make him welcome, well knowing for what purpose he has come.

Desirous of according him a favour, she beckons Soredamors to join them,

and they three engage in conversation at some distance from the rest.

The Queen first speaks, in whose mind there was no doubt that this

couple were in love. Of this fact she is quite sure, and is persuaded

moreover that Soredamors could not have a better lover. She took her

place between the two and began to say what was appropriate.

(Vv. 2279-2310.) "Alexander," says the Queen, "any love is worse than

hate, when it torments and distresses its devotee. Lovers know not what

they do when they conceal their passion from one another. Love is a

serious business, and whoever does not boldly lay its foundation firm

can hardly succeed in completing the edifice. They say there is nothing

so hard to cross as the threshold. Now I wish to instruct you in the

lore of love; for I know well that Love is tormenting you. Therefore, I

have undertaken to instruct you; and do you take good care not to keep

anything back from me, for I have plainly seen in the faces of you both

that of two hearts you have made but one. So beware, and conceal nothing

from me! You are acting very foolishly in not speaking out your mind;

for concealment will be the death of you; thus you will be the murderers

of Love. Now I counsel you to exercise no tyranny, and to seek no

passing gratification in your love; but to be honourably joined together

in marriage. So, I believe, your love shall long endure. I can assure

you that, if you agree to this, I will arrange the marriage."

(Vv. 2311-2360.) When the Queen had spoken her mind, Alexander thus made

reply: "Lady," he says, "I enter no defence against the charge you make,

but rather admit the truth of all you say. I wish never to be deserted

by love, but always to fix my thoughts on it. I am pleased and delighted

by what you have so kindly said. Since you know what my wishes are, I

see no reason why I should conceal them from you. Long ago, if I had

dared I would have confessed them openly; for the silence has been hard.

But it may well be that for some reason this maiden may not wish that I

be hers and she mine. But even if she grant me no rights over her, yet

will I place myself in her hands." At these words she trembled, having

no desire to refuse the gift. Her heart's desire betrays itself in her

words and her countenance. Falteringly she gives herself to him, and

says that without exception her will, her heart, and her body all is at

the disposal of the Queen, to do with her as she may please. The Queen

clasps them both in her arms, and presents one to the other. Then

laughingly she adds: "I give over to thee, Alexander, thy sweetheart's

body, and I know that thy heart does not draw back. Whoever may like it

or like it not, I give each of you to the other. Do thou, Soredamors,

take what is thine, and thou, Alexander, take what is thine!" Now she

has her own entire, and he has his without lack. At Windsor that day,

with the approval and permission of my lord Gawain and the King, the

marriage was celebrated. No one could tell, I am sure, so much of the

magnificence and the food, of the pleasure and entertainment, at this

wedding without falling short of the truth. Inasmuch as it would be

distasteful to some, I do not care to waste further words upon the

matter, but am anxious to turn to another subject.

(Vv. 2361-2382.) That day at Windsor Alexander had all the honour and

happiness that he could desire. Three different joys and honours were

his: one was the town which he captured; another was the present of the

best kingdom in Wales, which King Arthur had promised to give him when

the war was over; that very day he made him king in his hall. But the

greatest joy of all was the third--that his sweetheart was queen of the

chess-board where he was king. Before five months had passed, Soredamors

found herself with child, and carried it until the time was fulfilled.

The seed remained in germ until the fruit was fully matured. No more

beautiful child was ever born before or since than he whom they now

called Cligés.

(Vv. 2383-2456.) So Cligés was born, in whose honour this story has

been put in the Romance tongue. You shall hear me tell of him and of his

valorous deeds, when he shall have grown to manhood and obtained a good

report. But meanwhile in Greece it came about that he who ruled over

Constantinople drew near his end. He died, as indeed he must, not being

able to outlive his time. But before he died he assembled all the nobles

of his land to send and seek for his son Alexander, who was happily

detained in Britain. The messengers start out from Greece, and begin

their voyage over the seas; but a tempest catches them in its grasp, and

damages their ship and company. They were all drowned at sea, except one

unfaithful wretch, who was more devoted to Alis the younger son than to

Alexander the eider. When he escaped from the sea, he returned to

Greece with the story that they had all been lost at sea as they were

conducting their lord back from Britain, and that he was the only

survivor of the tragedy. They believed this lie of his, and, taking Alis

without objection or dissent, they crowned him emperor of Greece. But

it was not long before Alexander learned that Alis was emperor. Then he

took leave of King Arthur, unwilling to let his brother usurp his land

without protest. The King makes no opposition to his plan, but bids him

take with him so great a company of Welshmen, Scots, and Cornishmen that

his brother will not dare to withstand him when he sees him come with

such a host. Alexander, had he pleased, might have led a mighty force;

but he has no desire to harm his own people, if his brother will consent

to do his will. He took with him forty knights besides Soredamors and

his son; these two persons, who were so dear to him, he did not wish

to leave behind. Escorted as far as Shoreham by the entire court, they

there embarked, and with fair winds their ship made way more quickly

than a fleeing stag. Within a month, I think, they arrived in port

before Athens, a rich and powerful city. Indeed, the emperor was

residing there, and had convoked, a great assembly of his noblemen. As

soon as they arrived Alexander sent a privy messenger into the city to

learn whether they would receive him, or whether they would resist his

claim to be their only lawful lord.

(Vv. 2457-2494.) He who was chosen for this mission was a courteous

knight with good judgment, named Acorionde, a rich man and eloquent;

he was a native of the country, too, having been born in Athens. His

ancestors for generations had always exercised lordship in the city.

When he had learned that the emperor was in the city he went and

challenged the crown on behalf of his brother Alexander, accusing him

openly of having usurped it unlawfully. Arriving at the palace, he finds

plenty of people who welcome him; but he says nothing to any of those

who greet him until he learns what is their attitude and disposition

toward their lawful lord. Coming into the presence of the emperor he

neither greets him nor bows before him nor calls him emperor. "Alis,"

he says, "I bring thee tidings of Alexander, who is out yonder in the

harbour. Listen to thy brother's message: he asks thee for what belongs

to him, nor does he demand what is unjust. Constantinople, which thou

dost hold, should be his and shall be his. It would be neither just nor

right that discord should arise between you two. So give him the crown

without contest, for it is right that thou shouldst surrender it."

(Vv. 2495-2524.) Alis replies: "Fair gentle friend, thou hast undertaken

a mad enterprise in bearing this message. There is little comfort in

thy speech, for well I know that my brother is dead. I should rejoice,

indeed, to learn that he was still alive. But I shall not believe the

news until I have seen him with my eyes. He died some time ago, alas!

What thou sayest is not credible. And if he lives, why does he not come?

He need never fear that I will not bestow on him some lands. He is a

fool to hold aloof from me, for in serving me he will find profit. But

no one shall possess the crown and empire beside me." He liked not the

speech of the emperor, and did not fail to speak his mind in the reply

he made. "Alis," he says, "may God confound me if the matter is thus

allowed to stand. I defy thee in thy brother's name, and dutifully

speaking in his name, I summon all those whom I see here to renounce

thee and to join his cause. It is right that they should side with him

and recognise him as their lord. Let him who is loyal now stand forth."

(Vv. 2525-2554.) Upon saying this he leaves the court, and the emperor

summons those in whom he has most confidence. He requests their advice

concerning this defiance upon his brother's part, and wishes to learn

if he can trust them to lend no support or help to his brother's claim.

Thus he tries to test the loyalty of each; but he finds not one who

sides with him in the dispute, rather do they all bid him remember the

war which Eteocles undertook against his own brother Polynices, and how

each one died by the other's hand. [223] "So, too, it may happen to you,

if you undertake a war, and all the land will be distressed." Therefore,

they advise that such a peace be sought as shall be both reasonable and

just, and that neither one make excessive demands. Thus Alis understands

that if he does not make an equitable agreement with his brother all his

vassals will desert him; so he says that he will respect their wishes in

making any suitable contract, provided that however the affair may rum

out the crown shall remain in his possession.

(Vv. 2555-2618.) In order to secure a firm and stable peace Alis sends

one of his officers to Alexander, bidding him come to him in person and

receive the government of the land, but stipulating that he should leave

to him the honour of emperor in name and of wearing the crown: thus, if

Alexander is willing, peace may be established between them. When this

news was brought to Alexander his men made ready with him and came to

Athens, where they were received with joy. But Alexander is not willing

that his brother should have the sovereignty of the empire and of the

crown unless he will pledge his word never to take a wife, and that

after him Cligés shall be emperor of Constantinople. Upon this the

brothers both agreed. Alexander dictated the terms of the oath, and his

brother agreed and gave his word that he would never in his life take a

wife in marriage. So peace is made, and they are friends again, to the

great satisfaction of the lords. They hold Alis as their emperor, but

all business is referred to Alexander. What he commands is done, and

little is done except through him. Alis has nothing but the name of

emperor; but Alexander is served and loved; and he who does not serve

him for love must needs do so from fear. Through the effect of one or

the other of these two motives he has all the land within his power. But

he whom they call Death spares neither the strong man nor the weak, but

kills and slays them all. So Alexander had to die; for a disease caught

him in its grip from which he could obtain no relief. But before he

was surprised by death he summoned his son and said to him: "Fair son

Cligés, thou canst never know that prowess and valour are thine unless

thou go first to make test of them with the Bretons and French at King

Arthur's court. If adventure takes thee thither, so conduct and demean

thyself that thy identity be not known until thou hast tried thy

strength with the most excellent knights of that court. I beg thee to

heed my counsel in this matter, and if the occasion arises have no fear

to measure thy skill with thy uncle, my lord Gawain. Do not forget this

advice, I pray."

(Vv. 2619-2665.) After he had thus exhorted him, he did not live long.

Soredamors' grief was such that she could not survive him, but

died after him of a broken heart. Alis and Cligés both mourned him

becomingly, but finally they ceased their grief, for sorrow, like

everything else, must be outlived. To continue in sorrow is wrong, for

no good can come from it. So the mourning was ended, and the emperor

refrained for a long time from taking a wife, being careful of his word.

But there is no court in all the world which is free from evil counsel.

Great men often go astray, and do not observe loyalty because of the bad

advice they take. Thus, the emperor hears his men giving him advice and

counselling him to take a wife; and daily they so exhort and urge him

that by their very insistence they persuade him to break his oath, and

to accede to their desire. But he insists that she who is to be mistress

of Constantinople must be gentle, fair, wise, rich, and noble. Then his

counsellors say that they wish to prepare to go away to the German land,

and seek the daughter of the emperor. She is the choice they propose

to him; for the emperor of Germany is very rich and powerful, and his

daughter is so charming that never was there a maid of her beauty in

Christendom. The emperor grants them full authority, and they set out

upon the journey well provided with all they need. They proceeded on

their way until they found the emperor at Regensburg, when they asked

him to give them his oldest daughter at the instance of their lord.

(Vv. 2669-2680.) The emperor was pleased with this request, and gladly

gave them his daughter; for in doing so, he does not debase himself, nor

diminish his honour in any way. But he says that he had promised her

to the Duke of Saxony, and that they would not be able to lead her away

unless the emperor should come with a great army, so that the duke would

be unable to do him any harm or injury while homeward bound.

(Vv. 2681-2706.) When the messengers heard the emperor's reply, they

took leave and departed. They returned to their lord, and bore him

the answer. And the emperor selected a chosen company of the most

experienced knights whom he could find, and took with him his nephew,

in whose interests he had vowed never to marry a wife, but he will not

respect this vow if he can once reach Cologne. [224] Upon a certain day

he leaves Greece and draws near to Germany, intending to take a wife

despite all blame and reproach; but his honour will be smirched. Upon

reaching Cologne, he found that the emperor had assembled all his court

for a festival. When the company of the Greeks reached Cologne, there

was such a great number of Greeks and Germans that it was necessary to

lodge more than sixty thousand of them outside the city.

(Vv.2707-2724.) Great was the crowd of people, and great the joy of the

two emperors when they met. When the barons had gathered in the vast

palace, the emperor summoned his charming daughter. The maiden made no

delay in coming straightway into the palace. She had been made very fair

and shapely by the Creator, whose pleasure it had been to arouse the

people's admiration. God, who had fashioned her, never gave man a word

which could adequately express such beauty as she possessed.

(Vv. 2725-2760.) Fenice was the maiden's name, and for this there

was good reason: [225] for if the Phoenix bird is unique as the most

beautiful of all the birds, so Fenice, it seems to me, had no equal in

beauty. She was such a miracle and marvel that Nature was never able to

make her like again. In order to be more brief, I will not describe in

words her arms, her body, her head and hands; for if I should live a

thousand years, and if my skill were to double every day, yet should

I waste all my time in trying to tell the truth about her. I know very

well, if I should undertake it, that I would exhaust my brain and waste

my pains: it would be but misspent energy. [226] The damsel hastened

until she came into the palace, with head uncovered and face unveiled;

and the radiance of her beauty lighted the palace more brightly than

four carbuncles would have done. Cligés stood, his over-cloak removed,

in his uncle's presence. The day outside was somewhat dark, but he and

the maiden were both so fair that a ray shone forth from their beauty

which illumined the palace, just as the morning sun shines clear and

red.

(Vv. 2761-2792.) I wish to attempt in a very few words to describe the

beauty of Cligés. He was in his flower, being now almost fifteen years

of age. He was more comely and charming than Narcissus who saw his

reflection in the spring beneath the elm-tree, and, when he saw it,

he loved it so that he died, they say, because he could not get it.

Narcissus was fair, but had little sense; [227] but as fine gold

surpasses copper, so was Cligés better endowed with wisdom, and even

then I have not said all. His locks seemed made of fine gold, and his

face was of a fresh rosy colour. He had a well-formed nose and shapely

mouth, and in stature he was built upon Nature's best pattern; for in

him she had united gifts which she is wont to scatter wide. Nature was

so lavish with him that she gave him all she could, and placed all in

one receptacle. Such was Cligés, who combined good sense and beauty,

generosity and strength. He possessed the wood as well as the bark;

he knew more of fencing and of the bow than did Tristan, King Mark's

nephew, and more about birds and hounds than he. [228] In Cligés there

lacked no good thing.

(Vv. 2793-2870.) Cligés stood in all his beauty before his uncle, and

those who did not know who he was looked at him with eager curiosity.

And on the other hand, the interest was aroused of those who did not

know the maiden: wonderingly they gaze upon her. But Cligés, under the

sway of love, let his eyes rest on her covertly, and withdrew them again

so discreetly that in their passage to and fro no one could blame his

lack of skill. Blithely he looks upon the maid, but does not note that

she repays him in kind. Not flattering him, but in sincere love, she

gives him her eyes, and takes back his. This exchange seems good to her,

and would have seemed to her better still had she known something of who

he was. But she knows nothing except that he is fair, and that, if she

is ever to love any one for beauty's sake, she need not seek elsewhere

to bestow her heart. She handed over to him the possession of her eyes

and heart, and he pledged his in turn to her. Pledged? Rather gave

outright. Gave? Nay, upon my faith, I lie; for no one can give away his

heart. I must express it some other way. I will not say it, as some have

done who make two hearts dwell in one body, for it bears not even the

semblance of truth that there should be in one body two hearts; and even

if they could be so united, it would never seem true. But if it please

you to heed my words, I shall be able explain how two hearts form but

one without coming to be identified. Only so far are they merged in one

as the desire of each passes from one to the other, thus joining in one

common desire; and because of this harmony of desire, there are some who

are wont to say that each one has both hearts; but one heart cannot be

in two places. Each one always keeps his own heart, though the desire

be shared by both, just as many different men may sing a song or tune

in unison. By this comparison I prove that for one body to contain two

hearts it is not enough to know each other's wish, nor yet for one to

know what the other loves and what he hates; just as voices which are

heard together seem to be merged in one, and yet do not all come from

one mouth, so it is with a body which can contain but one heart. But

there is no need of further argument, for other matters press upon me.

I must speak now of the damsel and of Cligés, and you shall hear of

the Duke of Saxony, who has sent to Cologne a young nephew of his. This

youth informs the emperor that his uncle, the duke, sends word that

he need expect no peace or trace with him, unless he sends to him his

daughter, and that the one who is intending to carry her away with him

had better not start home, for he will find the road occupied and well

defended unless the maiden be surrendered.

(Vv. 2871-3010.) The youth spoke his message well, without pride and

without insult. But he found neither knight nor emperor who would answer

him. When he saw that they all held their peace and treated him with

scorn, he left the court in defiant mood. But youth and thirst for

daring deeds made Cligés defy him in combat as he left. For the contest

they mount their steeds, three hundred of them on either side, exactly

equal thus in strength. All the palace is quite emptied of knights and

ladies, who mount to the balconies, battlements, and windows to see and

watch those who were about to fight. Even the maiden, whose will Love

had subdued beneath his sway, sought for a point from which to see. She

took her place at a window, where she sat with great delight, because

from there she could get a view of him whom she holds secretly in her

heart with no desire to remove him thence; for she will never love any

other man. But she does not know his name, nor who he is, nor of what

race; for it is not proper to ask questions; but she yearns to hear

tidings which will bring joy to her heart. She looks out of the window

at the shields with their gleaming gold, and she gazes at those who wear

the shields about their necks, as they prepare for the trial at arms.

But all her thoughts and glances soon rest upon one object, and to all

others she is indifferent. Whereever Cligés goes, she seeks to follow

him with her eyes. And he in turn does his best for her, and battles

openly, in order that she at least may hear it said that he is bold and

very skilled: thus she will be compelled to prize him for his prowess.

He attacks the duke's nephew, who was breaking many a lance and sorely

discomfiting the Greeks. But Cligés, who is displeased at this, braces

himself firmly in his stirrups, and goes to strike him so speedily that

in spite of himself he had to vacate the saddle-bows. When he got up,

the uproar was great; for the youth arose and mounted, thinking to

avenge his shame. But many a man only falls into deeper disgrace who

thinks to avenge his shame when he has the chance. The young man rushes

at Cligés, who lowers his lance to meet him, and thrusts at him with

such force that he carries him to earth again. Now his shame is doubled,

and all his followers are in dismay, seeing that they can never leave

the field with honour; for not one of them is so valiant that he can

keep his seat in the saddle when Cligés thrust reaches him. But those of

Germany and the Greeks are overjoyed when they see their party drive off

the Saxons, who retreat discomfited. With mockery they pursue them until

they come up with them at a stream, into which they drive them for

a plunge. In the deepest part of the ford Cligés unhorsed the duke's

nephew and so many of his men that they escaped grieving and sad in

their shame and confusion. But Cligés, twice victor, returned in glee,

and entered a gate which was near the apartment where the maiden was;

and as he passed through the gate she exacted as toll a tender glance,

which he paid her as their eyes met. Thus was the maiden subdued by the

man. But there is not a German of the lowland or highland, possessing

the power of speech who does not cry: "God! who is this in whom such

beauty is radiant? God! how has it happened that so suddenly he has

attained such great success?" Thus one man and another asks: "Who is

this youth, who is he, I say?" Thus, soon throughout the city it is

known what his name is, and who is his father, and what pledge that was

which had been made to him by the emperor. So much was said and noised

about that the news reached the ears of her who in her heart rejoiced

because she could no more say that Love had made sport of her, nor had

she any ground for complaint. For Love has made her give her heart to

the fairest, most courteous, and valiant man that could anywhere be

found. But some force must be employed, if she would gain possession of

him who is not free do her will. This makes her anxious and distraught.

For she has no one with whom to take counsel concerning him for whom

she pines, but must waste herself in thought and vigils. She becomes so

affected by these cares that she loses her colour and grows wan, and

it becomes plain to all that her loss of colour betokens an unfulfilled

desire. She plays less now than she used to do, and laughs less and

loses her gaiety. But she conceals her trouble and passes it off, if any

one asks what her ailment is. Her old nurse's name was Thessala, [229]

who was skilled in necromancy, having been born in Thessaly, where

devilish charms are taught and wrought; for the women of that country

perform many a charm and mystic rite.

(Vv. 3011-3062.) Thessala saw pale and wan her whom Love holds in his

bonds, and thus she addressed her with advice: "God!" she said, "are you

bewitched, my lady dear, that your face should be so pale? I wonder what

your trouble is. Tell me, if you can, where this pain attacks you most,

for if any one can cure you, you may safely trust me to give you back

your health again. I can cure the dropsy, gout, quinsy, and asthma; I am

so expert in examining the urine and the pulse that you need consult no

other physician. And I dare say that I know more than ever Medea [230]

knew of enchantments and of charms which tests have proven to be true.

I have never spoken to you of this, though I have cared for you all your

life; and now I should not mention it did I not plainly see that you are

so afflicted as to need my ministrations. My lady, you will do well to

tell me what your sickness is before its hold becomes more severe. The

emperor has committed you to me in order that I may care for you, and my

devotion has been such that I have kept you safe and sound. Now all my

pains will come to naught if I do not relieve this malady. Take care

not to conceal from me whether this is sickness or something else." The

damsel dares not openly expose her desire in all its fullness for she

is in fear lest she be disapproved and blamed. And when she hears and

understands how Thessala boasts and highly rates herself as being expert

in enchantments, charms, and potions, she decides to tell her what

is the cause of her pale and colourless face; but first she makes her

promise to keep her secret and never to oppose her will.

(Vv. 3063-3216.) "Nurse," she said, "I truly thought I felt no pain, but

I shall soon feel differently. For as soon as I begin to think about it,

I feel great pain, and am dismayed. But when one has no experience,

how can one tell what is sickness and what is health? My illness is

different from all others; for when I wish to speak of it, it causes me

both joy and pain, so happy I am in my distress. And if it can be that

sickness brings delight, then my trouble and joy are one, and in my

illness consists my health. So I do not know why I complain, for I know

not whence my trouble comes, unless it is caused by my desire. Perchance

my desire is my disease, but I find so much joy in it that the suffering

it causes me is grateful, and there is so much contentment in my pain

that it is sweet to suffer so. Nurse Thessala, now tell me true, is not

this a deceitful ill, to charm and torment me both at once? I do not see

how I can tell whether this is a disease or not. Nurse, tell me now its

name, nature, and character. But understand well that I have no desire

to be cured of it, for my distress is very dear to me." Thessala, who

was very wise about love and its symptoms knows full well from what she

hears that it is love which is tormenting her; the tender, endearing

terms she uses are certain proof that she is in love, for all other

woes are hard to bear, except that alone which comes from love; but love

transforms its bitterness into sweetness and joy, then often transforms

them back again. The nurse, who was expert in this matter, thus replies

to her: "Have no fear, for I will tell you at once the name of your

malady. You told me, I believe, that the pain which you feel seems

rather to be joy and health: now of such a nature is love-sickness,

for in it, too, there is joy and bliss. You are in love, then, as I can

prove to you, for I find no pleasure in any malady save only in love.

All other sickness is always bad and horrible, but love is sweet and

peaceable. You are in love; of that I am sure, nor do I see any wrong in

that. But I shall consider it very wrong, if through some childish

folly you conceal from me your heart." "Nurse, there is no need of

your speaking so. But first I must be sure and certain that under no

circumstances will you speak of it to any living soul." "My lady, surely

the winds will speak of it before I do without your leave, and I will

give you my word so to favour your desires that you may safely trust in

having your joy fulfilled through my services." "In that case, Nurse,

I shall be cured. But the emperor is giving me in marriage, wherefore

I grieve and am sorrowful; for he who has won my heart is the nephew of

him whom I must take. And though he may find joy in me, yet is my joy

forever lost, and no respite is possible. I would rather be torn limb

from limb than that men should speak of us as they speak of the loves of

Iseut and Tristan, of so many unseemly stories are told that I should

be ashamed to mention them. I could never bring myself to lead the

life that Iseut led. Such love as hers was far too base; for her body

belonged to two, whereas her heart was possessed by one. Thus all her

life was spent, refusing her favours to neither one. But mine is fixed

on one object, and under no circumstances will there be any sharing

of my body and heart. Never will my body be portioned out between two

shareholders. Who has the heart has the body, too, and may bid all

others stand aside. But I cannot clearly see how he whom I love can have

my body when my father gives me to another, and his will I do not dare

resist. And when this other is lord of my body, and does something which

displeases me, it is not right for me to summon another to my aid.

Nor can this man marry a wife without breaking his plighted word; for,

unless injustice be done, Cligés is to have the empire after his uncle's

death. But I should be well served by you, if you were so skilful as

to present him, to whom I am pledged and engaged, from having any claim

upon me. O Nurse, exert yourself to the end that he may not break the

pledge which he gave to the father of Cligés, when he promised him

solemnly never to take a wife in marriage. For now, if he should marry

me his promise would be broken. But Cligés is so dear to me that I would

rather be under ground than that he should ever lose through me a penny

of the fortune which should be his. May never a child be born to me to

cause his disinheritance! Nurse, now do your best, and I will always be

your slave." Then the nurse tells her and assures her that she will cast

so many charms, and prepare so many potions and enchantments that she

need never have any worry or fear concerning the emperor after he shall

have drunk of the potion which she will give him; even when they shall

lie together and she be at his side, she may be as secure as if there

were a wall between them. "But do not be alarmed, if, in his sleep, he

sports with you, for when he is plunged in sleep he will have his sport

with you, and he will be convinced that he has had you when wide awake,

nor will he think it is all a dream, a fiction, and illusion. Thus he

will have his sport with you when asleep, he will think he is awake."

(Vv. 3217-3250.) The maiden is highly pleased and delighted by the

nurse's kindness and offer of help. Her nurse inspires good hope in her

by the promise which she makes, and which she binds herself to keep;

with this hope she expects to obtain her desire, in spite of wearisome

delay, for if Cligés' nature is as noble as she takes it to be he cannot

fail to take pity upon her when he learns that she loves him, and

that she has imposed virginity upon herself in order to insure his

inheritance. So the maiden believes her nurse, and puts full confidence

in her. One promises to the other, and gives her word, that this plot

shall be kept so secret as never to be revealed. At this point their

conversation ceases, and the next morning the emperor summons his

daughter. At his command she goes to him. But why should I weary you

with details? The two emperors have so settled the matter that the

marriage is solemnised, and joy reigns in the palace. But I do not wish

to stop to describe all this in detail. Rather will I address myself to

Thessala, as she diligently prepares and tempers her potions.

(Vv. 3251-3328.) Thessala steeps her drink, putting in spices in

abundance to sweeten and temper it. After having well beaten and mixed

it, she strains it clear, with no sharp or bitter taste, for the spices

she puts in give it a sweet and pleasant fragrance. When the potion was

prepared, the day had drawn to a close, the tables were set for supper,

and the cloths were spread. But Thessala delays the supper, because

she must discover by what device and what agent she can have the potion

served. At supper, finally, all were seated, and more than six dishes

had been passed, and Cligés served behind his uncle's place. Thessala,

as she watches him, thinks how ill he serves his own interests, and how

he is assisting in his own disinheritance, and the thought torments and

worries her. Then in her kindness she conceives the plan of having

the potion served by him to whom it will bring both joy and honour. So

Thessala summoned Cligés; and when he had come to her, he asked her why

she had sent for him. "Friend," said she, "I wish to present the emperor

at this meal with a beverage which he will esteem highly, and I want him

to taste no other to-night, either at supper or when he goes to bed.

I think he cannot fail to relish it, for he never has tasted a better

drink or one that has cost so much. And I warn you, take good care to

let no one else drink of it, for there is but a little of it. And this,

too, I beg of you, not to let him know whence it came; but tell him it

came about by chance that you found it among the presents, and tasted it

yourself, and detected the aroma of the sweet spices in the air; then,

seeing the wine to be all clear you poured it into his cup. If by chance

he should inquire, you can satisfy him with this reply. But have no

suspicion yourself, after what I have said, for the drink is pure and

healthful, full excellent spices, and I think it may some day bring you

joy." When he heard that advantage would come to him, he took the potion

and went away, for he did not know there was any harm in it. He set

it in a crystal cup before the emperor, who took it without question,

trusting in his nephew. After taking a long draught of the beverage, he

straightway feels its strength, as it descends from head to heart, and

rises again from heart to head, and penetrates every part of him without

doing the slightest harm. And by the time they left the tables, the

emperor had drunk so much of the pleasing drink that he can never escape

it influence. Every night he will sleep under its influence, and its

effects will be such that he will think he is awake when sound asleep.

(Vv. 3329-3394.) Now the emperor has been deceived. Many bishops and

abbots were present to bless and hallow the marriage-bed. When the time

came to retire, the emperor, as was his right, lay beside his wife that

night. "As was his right;" but the statement is inexact, for he neither

kissed nor fondled her, yet they lay together in one bed. At first the

maiden trembled with fear and anxiety lest the potion should not act.

But it has so mastered him that he will never desire her or any other

woman except in his sleep. But when asleep he will have such sport with

her as one may have in dreams, and he will think the dream is true.

Nevertheless, she is on her guard, and at first, holds aloof from him,

so that he cannot approach her. But now he must needs fall asleep;

then he sleeps and dreams, though, the senses are awake, and he exerts

himself to win the favours of the maid, while she, realising the danger,

defends her virginity. He woos her and calls her gently his sweetheart,

and thinks he possesses her, but in vain. But he is gratified by this

vain semblance, embracing, kissing, and fondling an empty thing, seeing

and speaking to no purpose, struggling and striving without effect.

Surely the potion was effective in thus possessing and mastering him.

All his pains are of no avail, as he thinks and is persuaded that the

fortress is won. Thus he thinks and is convinced, when he desists after

his vain efforts. But now I may say once for all that his satisfaction

was never more than this. To such relations with her he will for ever be

condemned if indeed he can lead her to his own land; but before he can

get her to safety, I judge that there is trouble in store for him. For

while he is on his journey home, the duke, to whom his bride had been

betrothed, will appear upon the scene. The duke gathered a numerous

force, and garrisoned the frontiers, while at court he had his spies to

inform him each day of the emperor's doings and preparations, and how

long they are going to stay, and by what route they intend to return.

The emperor did not tarry long after the marriage, but left Cologne in

high spirits. The German emperor escorted him with a numerous company,

fearing and dreading the force of the Duke of Saxony.

(Vv. 3395-3424.) The two emperors pursued their journey until they were

beyond Regensburg, where one evening they were encamped in a meadow by

the Danube. The Greeks were in their tents in the fields bordering upon

the Black Forest. Opposite to them the Saxons were lodged, spying

upon them. The duke's nephew stood alone upon a hill, whence he could

reconnoitre for a chance to inflict some loss or harm on the enemy.

From that point of vantage he espied Cligés with three of his young men

disporting themselves with lances and shields, eager for a conflict and

shock of arms. If he could get the chance the duke's nephew would gladly

attack them and do them harm. Starting out with five companions he

concealed them in a valley close by a wood, so that the Greeks never saw

them until they emerged from the valley; then the duke's nephew made an

attack, and striking Cligés, wounded him slightly in the back. Cligés,

bending over, avoids the lance which passed him, inflicting only a

slight hurt.

(Vv. 3425-3570.) When Cligés felt himself wounded, he charged the youth,

and struck him with such force that he drove his lance quite through his

heart, and stretched him dead. Then all the Saxons in fear of him betook

themselves to flight through the woods. And Cligés, ignorant of the

ambuscade, courageously but imprudently leaving his companions behind,

pursues them to the place where the duke's troops were in force

preparing to attack the Greeks. Alone he goes in hot pursuit after the

youths, who, in despair over their lord whom they had lost, come running

to the duke and tell him weeping of his nephew's death. The duke saw

no joke in this affair; and, swearing by God and all His saints that he

will take no joy or pride in life so long as the slayer of his nephew

remains alive, he adds that whoever will bring him his head will be his

friend and will serve him well. Then a knight made boast that if he

can find the guilty man, he will present him with Cligés' head. Cligés

follows the young men until he falls among the Saxons, when he is seen

by him who had undertaken to carry off his head, and who starts after

him without delay. But Cligés haste had turned back to escape from his

enemies and came in to where he had left his companions; he found none

there, for they had returned to camp to relate their adventure. And the

emperor ordered to horse the Greeks and Germans in one band. Soon all

through the camp the knights are arming and mounting. Meanwhile Cligés

is hotly pursued by his enemy, all armed and with helmet closed. Cligés,

who never wished to be numbered among the coward and craven-hearted,

notices that he comes alone. First, the knight challenged him, calling

him "fellow," unable to conceal his rage: "Young fellow," he cried,

"thou shalt leave me here a pledge for my lord whom thou hast killed.

If I do not carry away thy head with me, I am not worth a counterfeit

besant. I must make of it a present to the duke, and will accept no

other forfeit. In return for his nephew, I shall make such restitution

that he will profit by the exchange." Cligés hears him reproaching him

thus boldly and with impudence. "Vassal," he says, "be on your guard!

For I will defend my head, and you shall not get it without my leave."

Then the attack begins. The other missed his blow, while Cligés struck

him with such force that horse and rider went down together in one heap.

The horse fell upon him so heavily that he shattered completely one of

his legs. Cligés dismounted on the greensward and disarmed him. When he

had disarmed him, he appropriated his weapons, and cut off his enemy's

head with the sword which had just now been his. After severing his head

he fixed it firmly on the point of his lance, thinking to offer it to

the duke, to whom his nephew had promised to present his own if he

could meet him in the strife. Cligés had no sooner put on the dead man's

helmet and taken his shield and mounted his steed, letting his own stray

at large to terrify the Greeks, than he saw advancing with more than a

hundred banners flying several full squadrons of Greeks and Germans. Now

the fierce and cruel struggles will soon begin between the Saxons and

the Greeks. As soon as Cligés sees his men advancing, he betakes himself

toward the Saxons, his own men hotly pursuing him, and not knowing him

in his disguise. It is no wonder that his uncle is in despair and fear,

when he sees the head he is carrying off. So all the host pursue him

fast, while Cligés leads them on to provoke a fight, until the Saxons

see him drawing near. But they, too, are quite misled by the arms with

which he has armed and equipped himself. He succeeds in deceiving

and mocking them; for the duke and all the rest, when they saw him

approaching lance in rest, cried out: "Here comes our knight! On the

point of his lance he carries Cligés' head, and the Greeks are hotly

pursuing him!" Then, as they give their horses rein, Cligés spurs

to meet the Saxons, crouching low beneath his shield, the lance out

straight with the head affixed. Now, though he was braver than a lion,

he was no stronger than any other man. Both parties think that he is

dead, and while the Saxons rejoice, the Greeks and Germans grieve. But

before long the truth will out. For Cligés no longer held his peace:

but, rushing fiercely at a Saxon, he struck him with his ashen lance

upon the head and in the breast, so that he made him lose his stirrups,

and at the same time he cried aloud: "Strike gentlemen, for I am Cligés

whom you seek. Come on, my bold and hardy knights! Let none hold back,

for the first joust is already won! He is a coward who does not relish

such a dish."

(Vv. 3571-3620.) The emperor's joy was great when he heard the voice of

his nephew Cligés summoning and exhorting them; he was greatly pleased

and comforted. But the duke is greatly chagrined now when he sees he

is betrayed, unless his force should prove the stronger. While he

draws together his troops in serried lines, the Greeks do the same, and

pressing them close, attack and rush upon them. On both sides lances are

lowered as they meet for the proper reception of a hostile host. At the

first shock shields are pierced and lances shattered, girths are cut and

stirrups broken, while the horses of those who fall to earth are left

without a rider. But regardless of what any other does, Cligés and the

duke meet in the fray; holding their lances low, they strike one another

upon the shield with such violence that the strong and well-made lances

fly into splinters. Cligés was skilful on horseback, and sits straight

in his saddle without shaking or losing his balance. But the duke has

lost his seat, and in spite of himself quits the saddle-bows. Cligés

struggled and strove to capture him and carry him away, but his strength

did not suffice, for the Saxons were around about fighting to rescue

him. Nevertheless, Cligés escapes from the conflict without receiving

harm and with a precious prize; for he makes off with the duke's steed,

which was whiter than wool, and was worth more to a gentleman than the

fortune of Octavian [231] at Rome. The steed was an Arabian. The Greeks

and Germans are overjoyed to see Cligés on such a mount, for they had

already remarked the excellence and beauty of the Arab steed. But they

were not on their guard against an ambuscade; and before they are aware

of it great damage will be done.