YVAIN

or, The Knight with the Lion

(Vv. 1-174.) Arthur, the good King of Britain, whose prowess teaches us

that we, too, should be brave and courteous, held a rich and royal

court upon that precious feast-day which is always known by the name

of Pentecost. [31] The court was at Carduel in Wales. When the meal was

finished, the knights betook themselves whither they were summoned by

the ladies, damsels, and maidens. Some told stories; others spoke of

love, of the trials and sorrows, as well as of the great blessings,

which often fall to the members of its order, which was rich and

flourishing in those days of old. But now its followers are few, having

deserted it almost to a man, so that love is much abased. For lovers

used to deserve to be considered courteous, brave, generous, and

honourable. But now love is a laughing-stock, for those who have no

intelligence of it assert that they love, and in that they lie. Thus

they utter a mockery and lie by boasting where they have no right. [32]

But let us leave those who are still alive, to speak of those of former

time. For, I take it, a courteous man, though dead, is worth more than

a living knave. So it is my pleasure to relate a matter quite worthy of

heed concerning the King whose fame was such that men still speak of him

far and near; and I agree with the opinion of the Bretons that his name

will live on for evermore. And in connection with him we call to mind

those goodly chosen knights who spent themselves for honour's sake. But

upon this day of which I speak, great was their astonishment at seeing

the King quit their presence; and there were some who felt chagrined,

and who did not mince their words, never before having seen the King, on

the occasion of such a feast, enter his own chamber either to sleep or

to seek repose. But this day it came about that the Queen detained him,

and he remained so long at her side that he forgot himself and fell

asleep. Outside the chamber door were Dodinel, Sagremor, and Kay, my

lord Gawain, my lord Yvain, and with them Calogrenant, a very comely

knight, who had begun to tell them a tale, though it was not to his

credit, but rather to his shame. The Queen could hear him as he told his

tale, and rising from beside the King, she came upon them so stealthily

that before any caught sight of her, she had fallen, as it were, right

in their midst. Calogrenant alone jumped up quickly when he saw her

come. Then Kay, who was very quarrelsome, mean, sarcastic, and abusive,

said to him: "By the Lord, Calogrenant, I see you are very bold and

forward now, and certainly it pleases me to see you the most courteous

of us all. And I know that you are quite persuaded of your own

excellence, for that is in keeping with your little sense. And of course

it is natural that my lady should suppose that you surpass us all in

courtesy and bravery. We failed to rise through sloth, forsooth, or

because we did not care! Upon my word, it is not so, my lord; but we

did not see my lady until you had risen first." "Really, Kay," the Queen

then says, "I think you would burst if you could not pour out the poison

of which you are so full. You are troublesome and mean thus to annoy

your companions." "Lady," says Kay, "if we are not better for your

company, at least let us not lose by it. I am not aware that I said

anything for which I ought to be accused, and so I pray you say no more.

It is impolite and foolish to keep up a vain dispute. This argument

should go no further, nor should any one try to make more of it. But

since there must be no more high words, command him to continue the tale

he had begun." Thereupon Calogrenant prepares to reply in this fashion:

"My lord, little do I care about the quarrel, which matters little and

affects me not. If you have vented your scorn on me, I shall never be

harmed by it. You have often spoken insultingly, my lord Kay, to braver

and better men than I, for you are given to this kind of thing. The

manure-pile will always stink, [33] and gadflies sting, and bees will

hum, and so a bore will torment and make a nuisance of himself. However,

with my lady's leave, I'll not continue my tale to-day, and I beg her

to say no more about it, and kindly not give me any unwelcome command."

"Lady," says Kay, "all those who are here will be in your debt, for they

are desirous to hear it out. Don't do it as a favour to me! But by the

faith you owe the King, your lord and mine, command him to continue, and

you will do well." "Calogrenant," the Queen then says, "do not mind the

attack of my lord Kay the seneschal. He is so accustomed to evil speech

that one cannot punish him for it. I command and request you not to

be angered because of him, nor should you fail on his account to say

something which it will please us all to hear; if you wish to preserve

my good-will, pray begin the tale anew." "Surely, lady, it is a very

unwelcome command you lay upon me. Rather than tell any more of my

tale to-day, I would have one eye plucked out, if I did not fear your

displeasure. Yet will I perform your behest, however distasteful it may

be. Then since you will have it so, give heed. Let your heart and ears

be mine. For words, though heard, are lost unless understood within the

heart. Some men there are who give consent to what they hear but do not

understand: these men have the hearing alone. For the moment the heart

fails to understand, the word falls upon the ears simply as the wind

that blows, without stopping to tarry there; rather it quickly passes on

if the heart is not so awake as to be ready to receive it. For the heart

alone can receive it when it comes along, and shut it up within. The

ears are the path and channel by which the voice can reach the heart,

while the heart receives within the bosom the voice which enters through

the ear. Now, whoever will heed my words, must surrender to me his heart

and ears, for I am not going to speak of a dream, an idle tale, or lie,

with which many another has regaled you, but rather shall I speak of

what I saw."

(Vv. 175-268.) "It happened seven years ago that, lonely as a

countryman, I was making my way in search of adventures, fully armed

as a knight should be, when I came upon a road leading off to the right

into a thick forest. The road there was very bad, full of briars and

thorns. In spite of the trouble and inconvenience, I followed the road

and path. Almost the entire day I went thus riding until I emerged from

the forest of Broceliande. [34] Out from the forest I passed into the

open country where I saw a wooden tower at the distance of half a Welsh

league: it may have been so far, but it was not anymore. Proceeding

faster than a walk, I drew near and saw the palisade and moat all round

it, deep and wide, and standing upon the bridge, with a moulted falcon

upon his wrist, I saw the master of the castle. I had no sooner saluted

him than he came forward to hold my stirrup and invited me to

dismount. I did so, for it was useless to deny that I was in need of a

lodging-place. Then he told me more than a hundred times at once that

blessed was the road by which I had come thither. Meanwhile, we crossed

the bridge, and passing through the gate, found ourselves in the

courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard of this vavasor, to whom may

God repay such joy and honour as he bestowed upon me that night, there

hung a gong not of iron or wood, I trow, but all of copper. Upon this

gong the vavasor struck three times with a hammer which hung on a post

close by. Those who were upstairs in the house, upon hearing his voice

and the sound, came out into the yard below. Some took my horse which

the good vavasor was holding; and I saw coming toward me a very fair and

gentle maid. On looking at her narrowly I saw she was tall and slim and

straight. Skilful she was in disarming me, which she did gently and with

address; then, when she had robed me in a short mantle of scarlet stuff

spotted with a peacock's plumes, all the others left us there, so that

she and I remained alone. This pleased me well, for I needed naught

else to look upon. Then she took me to sit down in the prettiest little

field, shut in by a wall all round about. There I found her so elegant,

so fair of speech and so well informed, of such pleasing manners and

character, that it was a delight to be there, and I could have wished

never to be compelled to move. But as ill luck would have it, when night

came on, and the time for supper had arrived. The vavasor came to look

for me. No more delay was possible, so I complied with his request. Of

the supper I will only say that it was all after my heart, seeing that

the damsel took her seat at the table just in front of me. After the

supper the vavasor admitted to me that, though he had lodged many an

errant knight, he knew not how long it had been since he had welcomed

one in search of adventure. Then, as a favour, he begged of me to return

by way of his residence, if I could make it possible. So I said to him:

'Right gladly, sire!' for a refusal would have been impolite, and that

was the least I could do for such a host."

(Vv. 269-580.) "That night, indeed, I was well lodged, and as soon as

the morning light appeared, I found my steed ready saddled, as I had

requested the night before; thus my request was carried out. My kind

host and his dear daughter I commended to the Holy Spirit, and, after

taking leave of all, I got away as soon as possible. I had not proceeded

far from my stopping-place when I came to a clearing, where there were

some wild bulls at large; they were fighting among themselves and making

such a dreadful and horrible noise that if the truth be known, I drew

back in fear, for there is no beast so fierce and dangerous as a bull. I

saw sitting upon a stump, with a great club in his hand, a rustic

lout, as black as a mulberry, indescribably big and hideous; indeed,

so passing ugly was the creature that no word of mouth could do him

justice. On drawing near to this fellow, I saw that his head was bigger

than that of a horse or of any other beast; that his hair was in tufts,

leaving his forehead bare for a width of more than two spans; that his

ears were big and mossy, just like those of an elephant; his eyebrows

were heavy and his face was flat; his eyes were those of an owl, and his

nose was like a cat's; his jowls were split like a wolf, and his teeth

were sharp and yellow like a wild boar's; his beard was black and his

whiskers twisted; his chin merged into his chest and his backbone was

long, but twisted and hunched. [35] There he stood, leaning upon his

club and accoutred in a strange garb, consisting not of cotton or wool,

but rather of the hides recently flayed from two bulls or two beeves:

these he wore hanging from his neck. The fellow leaped up straightway

when he saw me drawing near. I do not know whether he was going to

strike me or what he intended to do, but I was prepared to stand him

off, until I saw him stop and stand stock-still upon a tree trunk, where

he stood full seventeen feet in height. Then he gazed at me but spoke

not a word, any more than a beast would have done. And I supposed that

he had not his senses or was drunk. However, I made bold to say to him:

'Come, let me know whether thou art a creature of good or not.' And

he replied: 'I am a man.' 'What kind of a man art thou?' 'Such as thou

seest me to be: I am by no means otherwise.' 'What dost thou here?' 'I

was here, tending these cattle in this wood.' 'Wert thou really tending

them? By Saint Peter of Rome! They know not the command of any man.

I guess one cannot possibly guard wild beasts in a plain or wood or

anywhere else unless they are tied or confined inside.' 'Well, I tend

and have control of these beasts so that they will never leave this

neighbourhood.' 'How dost thou do that? Come, tell me now!' 'There is

not one of them that dares to move when they see me coming. For when

I can get hold of one I give its two horns such a wrench with my hard,

strong hands that the others tremble with fear, and gather at once round

about me as if to ask for mercy. No one could venture here but me, for

if he should go among them he would be straightway done to death. In

this way I am master of my beasts. And now thou must tell me in turn

what kind of a man thou art, and what thou seekest here.' 'I am, as

thou seest, a knight seeking for what I cannot find; long have I sought

without success.' 'And what is this thou fain wouldst find?' 'Some

adventure whereby to test my prowess and my bravery. Now I beg and

urgently request thee to give me some counsel, if possible, concerning

some adventure or marvellous thing.' Says he: 'Thou wilt have to do

without, for I know nothing of adventure, nor did I ever hear tell

of such. But if thou wouldst go to a certain spring here hard by and

shouldst comply with the practice there, thou wouldst not easily come

back again. Close by here thou canst easily find a path which will

lead thee thither. If thou wouldst go aright, follow the straight path,

otherwise thou mayst easily go astray among the many other paths.

Thou shalt see the spring which boils, though the water is colder than

marble. It is shadowed by the fairest tree that ever Nature formed, for

its foliage is evergreen, regardless of the winter's cold, and an iron

basin is hanging there by a chain long enough to reach the spring. And

beside the spring thou shalt find a massive stone, as thou shalt see,

but whose nature I cannot explain, never having seen its like. On the

other side a chapel stands, small, but very beautiful. If thou wilt take

of the water in the basin and spill it upon the stone, thou shalt see

such a storm come up that not a beast will remain within this wood;

every doe, star, deer, boar, and bird will issue forth. For thou shalt

see such lightning-bolts descend, such blowing of gales and crashing

of trees, such torrents fail, such thunder and lightning, that, if thou

canst escape from them without trouble and mischance, thou wilt be more

fortunate than ever any knight was yet.' I left the fellow then, after

he had pointed our the way. It must have been after nine o'clock and

might have been drawing on toward noon, when I espied the tree and the

chapel. I can truly say that this tree was the finest pine that ever

grew on earth. I do not believe that it ever rained so hard that a

drop of water could penetrate it, but would rather drip from the outer

branches. From the tree I saw the basin hanging, [36] of the finest gold

that was ever for sale in any fair. As for the spring, you may take my

word that it was boiling like hot water. The stone was of emerald, with

holes in it like a cask, and there were four rubies underneath, more

radiant and red than is the morning sun when it rises in the east.

Now not one word will I say which is not true. I wished to see the

marvellous appearing of the tempest and the storm; but therein I was not

wise, for I would gladly have repented, if I could, when I had sprinkled

the perforated stone with the water from the basin. But I fear I poured

too much, for straightway I saw the heavens so break loose that from

more than fourteen directions the lightning blinded my eyes, and all at

once the clouds let fall snow and rain and hail. The storm was so fierce

and terrible that a hundred times I thought I should be killed by the

bolts which fell about me and by the trees which were rent apart. Know

that I was in great distress until the uproar was appeased. But God gave

me such comfort that the storm did not continue long, and all the winds

died down again. The winds dared not blow against God's will. And when

I saw the air clear and serene I was filled with joy again. For I have

observed that joy quickly causes trouble to be forgot. As soon as the

storm was completely past, I saw so many birds gathered in the pine tree

(if any one will believe my words) that not a branch or twig was to be

seen which was not entirely covered with birds. [37] The tree was all

the more lovely then, for all the birds sang in harmony, yet the note of

each was different, so that I never heard one singing another's note. I,

too, rejoiced in their joyousness, and listened to them until they had

sung their service through, for I have never heard such happy song, nor

do I think any one else will hear it, unless he goes to listen to what

filled me with such joy and bliss that I was lost in rapture. I stayed

there until I heard some knights coming, as I thought it seemed that

there must be ten of them. But all the noise and commotion was made

by the approach of a single knight. When I saw him coming on alone

I quickly caught my steed and made no delay in mounting him. And the

knight, as if with evil intent, came on swifter than an eagle, looking

as fierce as a lion. From as far as his voice could reach he began to

challenge me, and said: 'Vassal, without provocation you have caused

me shame and harm. If there was any quarrel between us you should first

have challenged me, or at least sought justice before attacking me. But,

sir vassal, if it be within my power, upon you shall fall the punishment

for the damage which is evident. About me here lies the evidence of my

woods destroyed. He who has suffered has the right to complain. And I

have good reason to complain that you have driven me from my house with

lightning-bolt and rain. You have made trouble for me, and cursed be he

who thinks it fair. For within my own woods and town you have made such

an attack upon me that resources of men of arms and of fortifications

would have been of no avail to me; no man could have been secure, even

if he had been in a fortress of solid stone and wood. But be assured

that from this moment there shall be neither truce nor peace between

us.' At these words we rushed together, each one holding his shield well

gripped and covering himself with it. The knight had a good horse and a

stout lance, and was doubtless a whole head taller than I. Thus, I was

altogether at a disadvantage, being shorter than he, while his horse was

stronger than mine. You may be sure that I will tell the facts, in order

to cover up my shame. With intent to do my best, I dealt him as hard a

blow as I could give, striking the top of his shield, and I put all my

strength into it with such effect that my lance flew all to splinters.

His lance remained entire, being very heavy and bigger than any knight's

lance I ever saw. And the knight struck me with it so heavily that he

knocked me over my horse's crupper and laid me flat upon the ground,

where he left me ashamed and exhausted, without bestowing another glance

upon me. He took my horse, but me he left, and started back by the way

he came. And I, who knew not what to do, remained there in pain and

with troubled thoughts. Seating myself beside the spring I rested there

awhile, not daring to follow after the knight for fear of committing

some rash act of madness. And, indeed, had I had the courage, I knew not

what had become of him. Finally, it occurred to me that I would keep my

promise to my host and would return by way of his dwelling. This idea

pleased me, and so I did. I laid off all my arms in order to proceed

more easily, and thus with shame I retraced my steps. When I reached

his home that night, I found my host to be the same good-natured and

courteous man as I had before discovered him to be. I could not observe

that either his daughter or he himself welcomed me any less gladly,

or did me any less honour than they had done the night before. I am

indebted to them for the great honour they all did me in that house; and

they even said that, so far as they knew or had heard tell, no one had

ever escaped, without being killed or kept a prisoner, from the place

whence I returned. Thus I went and thus I returned, feeling, as I did

so, deeply ashamed. So I have foolishly told you the story which I never

wished to tell again."

(Vv. 581-648.) "By my head," cries my lord Yvain, "you are my own

cousin-german, and we ought to love each other well. But I must consider

you as mad to have concealed this from me so long. If I call you mad, I

beg you not to be incensed. For if I can, and if I obtain the leave, I

shall go to avenge your shame." "It is evident that we have dined," says

Kay, with his ever-ready speech; "there are more words in a pot full of

wine than in a whole barrel of beer. [38] They say that a cat is merry

when full. After dinner no one stirs, but each one is ready to

slay Noradin, [39] and you will take vengeance on Forre! Are your

saddle-cloths ready stuffed, and your iron greaves polished, and your

banners unfurled? Come now, in God's name, my lord Yvain, is it to-night

or to-morrow that you start? Tell us, fair sire, when you will start for

this rude test, for we would fain convoy you thither. There will be no

provost or constable who will not gladly escort you. And however it may

be, I beg that you will not go without taking leave of us; and if you

have a bad dream to-night, by all means stay at home!" "The devil,

Sir Kay," the Queen replies, "are you beside yourself that your tongue

always runs on so? Cursed be your tongue which is so full of bitterness!

Surely your tongue must hate you, for it says the worst it knows to

every man. Damned be any tongue that never ceases to speak ill! As for

your tongue, it babbles so that it makes you hated everywhere. It cannot

do you greater treachery. See here: if it were mine, I would accuse it

of treason. Any man that cannot be cured by punishment ought to be tied

like a madman in front of the chancel in the church." "Really, madame,"

says my lord Yvain, "his impudence matters not to me. In every court my

lord Kay has so much ability, knowledge, and worth that he will never be

deaf or dumb. He has the wit to reply wisely and courteously to all that

is mean, and this he has always done. You well know if I lie in saying

so. But I have no desire to dispute or to begin our foolishness again.

For he who deals the first blow does not always win the fight, but

rather he who gains revenge. He who fights with his companion had better

fight against some stranger. I do not wish to be like the hound that

stiffens up and growls when another dog yaps at him."

(Vv. 649-722.) While they were talking thus, the King came out of his

room where he had been all this time asleep. And when the knights saw

him they all sprang to their feet before him, but he made them at once

sit down again. He took his place beside the Queen, who repeated to him

word for word, with her customary skill, the story of Calogrenant. The

King listened eagerly to it, and then he swore three mighty oaths by the

soul of his father Utherpendragon, and by the soul of his son, and of

his mother too, that he would go to see that spring before a fortnight

should have passed; and he would see the storm and the marvels there by

reaching it on the eve of my lord Saint John the Baptist's feast; there

he would spend the night, and all who wished might accompany him. All

the court thought well of this, for the knights and the young bachelors

were very eager to make the expedition. But despite the general joy and

satisfaction my lord Yvain was much chagrined, for he intended to go

there all alone; so he was grieved and much put out because of the King

who planned to go. The chief cause of his displeasure was that he knew

that my lord Kay, to whom the favour would not be refused if he should

solicit it, would secure the battle rather than he himself, or else

perchance my lord Gawain would first ask for it. If either one of these

two should make request, the favour would never be refused him. But,

having no desire for their company, he resolves not to wait for them,

but to go off alone, if possible, whether it be to his gain or hurt. And

whoever may stay behind, he intends to be on the third day in the forest

of Broceliande, and there to seek if possibly he may find the narrow

wooded path for which he yearns eagerly, and the plain with the strong

castle, and the pleasure and delight of the courteous damsel, who is

so charming and fair, and with the damsel her worthy sire, who is so

honourable and nobly born that he strives to dispense honour. Then he

will see the bulls in the clearing, with the giant boor who watches

them. Great is his desire to see this fellow, who is so stout and big

and ugly and deformed, and as black as a smith. Then, too, he will see,

if possible, the stone and the spring itself, and the basin and the

birds in the pine-tree, and he will make it rain and blow. But of all

this he will not boast, nor, if he can help it, shall any one know

of his purpose until he shall have received from it either great

humiliation or great renown: then let the facts be known.

(Vv. 723-746.) My lord Yvain gets away from the court without any one

meeting him, and proceeds alone to his lodging place. There he found all

his household, and gave orders to have his horse saddled; then, calling

one of his squires who was privy to his every thought, he says: "Come

now, follow me outside yonder, and bring me my arms. I shall go out at

once through yonder gate upon my palfrey. For thy part, do not delay,

for I have a long road to travel. Have my steed well shod, and bring him

quickly where I am; then shalt thou lead back my palfrey. But take good

care, I adjure thee, if any one questions thee about me, to give him no

satisfaction. Otherwise, whatever thy confidence in me, thou need never

again count on my goodwill." "Sire," he says, "all will be well, for no

one shall learn anything from me. Proceed, and I shall follow you."

(Vv. 747-906.) My lord Yvain mounts at once, intending to avenge, if

possible, his cousin's disgrace before he returns. The squire ran for

the arms and steed; he mounted at once without delay, since he was

already equipped with shoes and nails. Then he followed his master's

track until he saw him standing mounted, waiting to one side of the road

in a place apart. He brought him his harness and equipment, and then

accoutred him. My lord Yvain made no delay after putting on his arms,

but hastily made his way each day over the mountains and through the

valleys, through the forests long and wide, through strange and wild

country, passing through many gruesome spots, many a danger and many a

strait, until he came directly to the path, which was full of brambles

and dark enough; then he felt he was safe at last, and could not now

lose his way. Whoever may have to pay the cost, he will not stop until

he sees the pine which shades the spring and stone, and the tempest of

hail and rain and thunder and wind. That night, you may be sure, he had

such lodging as he desired, for he found the vavasor to be even more

polite and courteous than he had been told, and in the damsel he

perceived a hundred times more sense and beauty than Calogrenant had

spoken of, for one cannot rehearse the sum of a lady's or a good man's

qualities. The moment such a man devotes himself to virtue, his story

cannot be summed up or told, for no tongue could estimate the honourable

deeds of such a gentleman. My lord Yvain was well content with the

excellent lodging he had that night, and when he entered the clearing

the next day, he met the bulls and the rustic boor who showed him the

way to take. But more than a hundred times he crossed himself at sight

of the monster before him--how Nature had ever been able to form such

a hideous, ugly creature. Then to the spring he made his way, and found

there all that he wished to see. Without hesitation and without sitting

down he poured the basin full of water upon the stone, when straightway

it began to blow and rain, and such a storm was caused as had been

foretold. And when God had appeased the storm, the birds came to perch

upon the pine, and sang their joyous songs up above the perilous spring.

But before their jubilee had ceased there came the knight, more blazing

with wrath than a burning log, and making as much noise as if he were

chasing a lusty stag. As soon as they espied each other they rushed

together and displayed the mortal hate they bore. Each one carried a

stiff, stout lance, with which they dealt such mighty blows that they

pierced the shields about their necks, and cut the meshes of their

hauberks; their lances are splintered and sprung, while the fragments

are cast high in air. Then each attacks the other with his sword, and in

the strife they cut the straps of the shields away, and cut the shields

all to bits from end to end, so that the shreds hang down, no longer

serving as covering or defence; for they have so split them up that they

bring down the gleaming blades upon their sides, their arms, and hips.

Fierce, indeed, is their assault; yet they do not budge from their

standing-place any more than would two blocks of stone. Never were there

two knights so intent upon each other's death. They are careful not to

waste their blows, but lay them on as best they may; they strike and

bend their helmets, and they send the meshes of their hauberks flying

so, that they draw not a little blood, for the hauberks are so hot with

their body's heat that they hardly serve as more protection than a coat.

As they drive the sword-point at the face, it is marvellous that so

fierce and bitter a strife should last so long. But both are possessed

of such courage that one would not for aught retreat a foot before his

adversary until he had wounded him to death. Yet, in this respect they

were very honourable in not trying or deigning to strike or harm their

steeds in any way; but they sat astride their steeds without putting

foot to earth, which made the fight more elegant. At last my lord Yvain

crushed the helmet of the knight, whom the blow stunned and made so

faint that he swooned away, never having received such a cruel blow

before. Beneath his kerchief his head was split to the very brains, so

that the meshes of his bright hauberk were stained with the brains and

blood, all of which caused him such intense pain that his heart almost

ceased to beat. He had good reason then to flee, for he felt that he had

a mortal wound, and that further resistance would not avail. With this

thought in mind he quickly made his escape toward his town, where the

bridge was lowered and the gate quickly opened for him; meanwhile my

lord Yvain at once spurs after him at topmost speed. As a gerfalcon

swoops upon a crane when he sees him rising from afar, and then draws so

near to him that he is about to seize him, yet misses him, so flees the

knight, with Yvain pressing him so close that he can almost throw his

arm about him, and yet cannot quite come up with him, though he is so

close that he can hear him groan for the pain he feels. While the one

exerts himself in flight the other strives in pursuit of him, fearing to

have wasted his effort unless he takes him alive or dead; for he still

recalls the mocking words which my lord Kay had addressed to him. He

had not yet carried out the pledge which he had given to his cousin;

nor will they believe his word unless he returns with the evidence. The

knight led him a rapid chase to the gate of his town, where they entered

in; but finding no man or woman in the streets through which they

passed, they both rode swiftly on till they came to the palace-gate.

(Vv. 907-1054.) The gate was very high and wide, yet it had such a

narrow entrance-way that two men or two horses could scarcely enter

abreast or pass without interference or great difficulty; for it was

constructed just like a trap which is set for the rat on mischief bent,

and which has a blade above ready to fall and strike and catch, and

which is suddenly released whenever anything, however gently, comes in

contact with the spring. In like fashion, beneath the gate there were

two springs connected with a portcullis up above, edged with iron and

very sharp. If anything stepped upon this contrivance the gate descended

from above, and whoever below was struck by the gate was caught and

mangled. Precisely in the middle the passage lay as narrow as if it were

a beaten track. Straight through it exactly the knight rushed on, with

my lord Yvain madly following him apace, and so close to him that he

held him by the saddle-bow behind. It was well for him that he was

stretched forward, for had it not been for this piece of luck he would

have been cut quite through; for his horse stepped upon the wooden

spring which kept the portcullis in place. Like a hellish devil the gate

dropped down, catching the saddle and the horse's haunches, which it cut

off clean. But, thank God, my lord Yvain was only slightly touched when

it grazed his back so closely that it cut both his spurs off even with

his heels. And while he thus fell in dismay, the other with his mortal

wound escaped him, as you now shall see. Farther on there was another

gate just like the one they had just passed; through this the knight

made his escape, and the gate descended behind him. Thus my lord Yvain

was caught, very much concerned and discomfited as he finds himself

shut in this hallway, which was all studded with gilded nails, and whose

walls were cunningly decorated with precious paints. [310] But about

nothing was he so worried as not to know what had become of the knight.

While he was in this narrow place, he heard open the door of a little

adjoining room, and there came forth alone a fair and charming maiden

who closed the door again after her. When she found my lord Yvain, at

first she was sore dismayed. [311] "Surely, sir knight," she says, "I

fear you have come in an evil hour. If you are seen here, you will be

all cut to pieces. For my lord is mortally wounded, and I know it is you

who have been the death of him. My lady is in such a state of grief, and

her people about her are crying so that they are ready to die with rage;

and, moreover, they know you to be inside. But as yet their grief is

such that they are unable to attend to you. The moment they come

to attack you, they cannot fail to kill or capture you, as they may

choose." And my lord Yvain replies to her: "If God will they shall never

kill me, nor shall I fall into their hands." "No," she says, "for I

shall do my utmost to assist you. It is not manly to cherish fear. So

I hold you to be a man of courage, when you are not dismayed. And rest

assured that if I could I would help you and treat you honourably, as

you in turn would do for me. Once my lady sent me on an errand to the

King's court, and I suppose I was not so experienced or courteous or

so well behaved as a maiden ought to be; at any rate, there was not a

knight there who deigned to say a word to me except you alone who stand

here now; but you, in your kindness, honoured and aided me. For the

honour you did me then I shall now reward you. I know full well what

your name is, and I recognised you at once: your name is my lord Yvain.

You may be sure and certain that if you take my advice you will never be

caught or treated ill. Please take this little ring of mine, which you

will return when I shall have delivered you." [312] Then she handed him

the little ring and told him that its effect was like that of the bark

which covers the wood so that it cannot be seen; but it must be worn so

that the stone is within the palm; then he who wears the ring upon his

finger need have no concern for anything; for no one, however sharp his

eyes may be, will be able to see him any more than the wood which is

covered by the outside bark. All this is pleasing to my lord Yvain. And

when she had told him this, she led him to a seat upon a couch covered

with a quilt so rich that the Duke of Austria had none such, and she

told him that if he cared for something to eat she would fetch it for

him; and he replied that he would gladly do so. Running quickly into the

chamber, she presently returned, bringing a roasted fowl and a cake, a

cloth, a full pot of good grape-wine covered with a white drinking-cup;

all this she offered to him to eat. And he, who stood in need of food,

very gladly ate and drank.

(Vv. 1055-1172.) By the time he had finished his meal the knights were

astir inside looking for him and eager to avenge their lord, who was

already stretched upon his bier. Then the damsel said to Yvain: "Friend,

do you hear them all seeking you? There is a great noise and uproar

brewing. But whoever may come or go, do not stir for any noise of

theirs, for they can never discover you if you do not move from this

couch. Presently you will see this room all full of ill-disposed and

hostile people, who will think to find you here; and I make no doubt

that they will bring the body here before interment, and they will begin

to search for you under the seats and the beds. It will be amusing for a

man who is not afraid when he sees people searching so fruitlessly, for

they will all be so blind, so undone, and so misguided that they will be

beside themselves with rage. I cannot tell you more just now, for I dare

no longer tarry here. But I may thank God for giving me the chance and

the opportunity to do some service to please you, as I yearned to do."

Then she turned away, and when she was gone all the crowd with one

accord had come from both sides to the gates, armed with clubs and

swords. There was a mighty crowd and press of hostile people surging

about, when they espied in front of the gate the half of the horse which

had been cut down. Then they felt very sure that when the gates were

opened they would find inside him whose life they wished to take. Then

they caused to be drawn up those gates which had been the death of many

men. But since no spring or trap was laid for their passage they all

came through abreast. Then they found at the threshold the other half of

the horse that had been killed; but none of them had sharp enough eyes

to see my lord Yvain, whom they would gladly have killed; and he saw

them beside themselves with rage and fury, as they said: "How can this

be? For there is no door or window here through which anything could

escape, unless it be a bird, a squirrel, or marmot, or some other even

smaller animal; for the windows are barred, and the gates were closed

as soon as my lord passed through. The body is in here, dead or alive,

since there is no sign of it outside there; we can see more than half

of the saddle in here, but of him we see nothing, except the spurs which

fell down severed from his feet. Now let us cease this idle talk, and

search in all these comers, for he is surely in here still, or else we

are all enchanted, or the evil spirits have filched him away from us."

Thus they all, aflame with rage, sought him about the room, beating

upon the walls, and beds, and seats. But the couch upon which he lay was

spared and missed the blows, so that he was not struck or touched. But

all about they thrashed enough, and raised an uproar in the room with

their clubs, like a blind man who pounds as he goes about his search.

While they were poking about under the beds and the stools, there

entered one of the most beautiful ladies that any earthly creature ever

saw. Word or mention was never made of such a fair Christian dame, and

yet she was so crazed with grief that she was on the point of taking her

life. All at once she cried out at the top of her voice, and then fell

prostrate in a swoon. And when she had been picked up she began to claw

herself and tear her hair, like a woman who had lost her mind. She tears

her hair and rips her dress, and faints at every step she takes; nor can

anything comfort her when she sees her husband borne along lifeless

in the bier; for her happiness is at an end, and so she made her loud

lament. The holy water and the cross and the tapers were borne in

advance by the nuns from a convent; then came missals and censers

and the priests, who pronounce the final absolution required for the

wretched soul.

(Vv. 1173-1242.) My lord Yvain heard the cries and the grief that can

never be described, for no one could describe it, nor was such ever set

down in a book. The procession passed, but in the middle of the room a

great crowd gathered about the bier, for the fresh warm blood trickled

out again from the dead man's wound, and this betokened certainly that

the man was still surely present who had fought the battle and had

killed and defeated him. Then they sought and searched everywhere, and

turned and stirred up everything, until they were all in a sweat with

the trouble and the press which had been caused by the sight of the

trickling crimson blood. Then my lord Yvain was well struck and beaten

where he lay, but not for that did he stir at all. And the people became

more and more distraught because of the wounds which burst open, and

they marvelled why they bled, without knowing whose fault it was. [313]

And each one to his neighbour said: "The murderer is among us here, and

yet we do not see him, which is passing strange and mysterious." At this

the lady showed such grief that she made an attempt upon her life, and

cried as if beside herself: "All God, then will the murderer not be

found, the traitor who took my good lord's life? Good? Aye, the best of

the good, indeed! True God, Thine will be the fault if Thou dost let him

thus escape. No other man than Thou should I blame for it who dost hide

him from my sight. Such a wonder was never seen, nor such injustice, as

Thou dost to me in not allowing me even to see the man who must be so

close to me. When I cannot see him, I may well say that some demon or

spirit has interposed himself between us, so that I am under a spell. Or

else he is a coward and is afraid of me: he must be a craven to stand in

awe of me, and it is an act of cowardice not to show himself before

me. Ah, thou spirit, craven thing! Why art thou so in fear of me, when

before my lord thou weft so brave? O empty and elusive thing, why cannot

I have thee in my power? Why cannot I lay hands upon thee now? But how

could it ever come about that thou didst kill my lord, unless it was

done by treachery? Surely my lord would never have met defeat at thy

hands had he seen thee face to face. For neither God nor man ever knew

of his like, nor is there any like him now. Surely, hadst thou been a

mortal man, thou wouldst never have dared to withstand my lord, for no

one could compare with him." Thus the lady struggles with herself, and

thus she contends and exhausts herself. And her people with her, for

their part, show the greatest possible grief as they carry off the

body to burial. After their long efforts and search they are completely

exhausted by the quest, and give it up from weariness, inasmuch as they

can find no one who is in any way guilty. The nuns and priests, having

already finished the service, had returned from the church and were gone

to the burial. But to all this the damsel in her chamber paid no heed.

Her thoughts are with my lord Yvain, and, coming quickly, she said to

him: "Fair sir, these people have been seeking you in force. They have

raised a great tumult here, and have poked about in all the corners more

diligently than a hunting-dog goes ferreting a partridge or a quail.

Doubtless you have been afraid." "Upon my word, you are right," says he:

"I never thought to be so afraid. And yet, if it were possible I should

gladly look out through some window or aperture at the procession

and the corpse." Yet he had no interest in either the corpse or the

procession, for he would gladly have seen them all burned, even had it

cost him a thousand marks. A thousand marks? Three thousand, verily,

upon my word. But he said it because of the lady of the town, of whom he

wished to catch a glimpse. So the damsel placed him at a little window,

and repaid him as well as she could for the honour which he had done

her. From this window my lord Yvain espies the fair lady, as she says:

"Sire, may God have mercy upon your soul! For never, I verily believe,

did any knight ever sit in saddle who was your equal in any respect.

No other knight, my fair sweet lord, ever possessed your honour or

courtesy. Generosity was your friend and boldness your companion. May

your soul rest among the saints, my fair dear lord." Then she strikes

and tears whatever she can lay her hands upon. Whatever the outcome

may be, it is hard for my lord Yvain to restrain himself from running

forward to seize her hands. But the damsel begs and advises him, and

even urgently commands him, though with courtesy and graciousness, not

to commit any rash deed, saying: "You are well off here. Do not stir

for any cause until this grief shall be assuaged; let these people all

depart, as they will do presently. If you act as I advise, in accordance

with my views, great advantage may come to you. It will be best for you

to remain seated here, and watch the people inside and out as they

pass along the way without their seeing you. But take care not to speak

violently, for I hold that man to be rather imprudent than brave who

goes too far and loses his self-restraint and commits some deed of

violence the moment he has the time and chance. So if you cherish some

rash thought be careful not to utter it. The wise man conceals his

imprudent thought and works out righteousness if he can. So wisely take

good care not to risk your head, for which they would accept no ransom.

Be considerate of yourself and remember my advice. Rest assured until

I return, for I dare not stay longer now. I might stay so long, I fear,

that they would suspect me when they did not see me in the crowd, and

then I should suffer for it."

(Vv. 1339-1506.) Then she goes off, and he remains, not knowing how to

comport himself. He is loath to see them bury the corpse without his

securing anything to take back as evidence that he has defeated and

killed him. If he has no proof or evidence he will be held in contempt,

for Kay is so mean and obstinate, so given to mockery, and so annoying,

that he could never succeed in convincing him. He would go about for

ever insulting him, flinging his mockery and taunts as he did the other

day. These taunts are still fresh and rankling in his heart. But with

her sugar and honey a new Love now softened him; he had been to hunt

upon his lands and had gathered in his prey. His enemy carries off

his heart, and he loves the creature who hates him most. The lady, all

unaware, has well avenged her lord's death. She has secured greater

revenge than she could ever have done unless she had been aided by Love,

who attacks him so gently that he wounds his heart through his eyes.

And this wound is more enduring than any inflicted by lance or sword.

A sword-blow is cured and healed at once as soon as a doctor attends to

it, but the wound of love is worst when it is nearest to its physician.

This is the wound of my lord Yvain, from which he will never more

recover, for Love has installed himself with him. He deserts and goes

away from the places he was wont to frequent. He cares for no lodging

or landlord save this one, and he is very wise in leaving a poor

lodging-place in order to betake himself to him. In order to devote

himself completely to him, he will have no other lodging-place, though

often he is wont to seek out lowly hostelries. It is a shame that

Love should ever so basely conduct himself as to select the meanest

lodging-place quite as readily as the best. But now he has come where he

is welcome, and where he will be treated honourably, and where he will

do well to stay. This is the way Love ought to act, being such a noble

creature that it is marvellous how he dares shamefully to descend to

such low estate. He is like him who spreads his balm upon the ashes and

dust, who mingles sugar with gall, and suet with honey. However, he did

not act so this time, but rather lodged in a noble place, for which no

one can reproach him. When the dead man had been buried, all the people

dispersed, leaving no clerks or knights or ladies, excepting only

her who makes no secret of her grief. She alone remains behind, often

clutching at her throat, wringing her hands, and beating her palms, as

she reads her psalms in her gilt lettered psalter. All this while my

lord Yvain is at the window gazing at her, and the more he looks at her

the more he loves her and is enthralled by her. He would have wished

that she should cease her weeping and reading, and that she should

feel inclined to converse with him. Love, who caught him at the window,

filled him with this desire. But he despairs of realising his wish, for

he cannot imagine or believe that his desire can be gratified. So he

says: "I may consider myself a fool to wish for what I cannot have.

Her lord it was whom I wounded mortally, and yet do I think I can be

reconciled with her? Upon my word, such thoughts are folly, for at

present she has good reason to hate me more bitterly than anything. I am

right in saying 'at present', for a woman has more than one mind. That

mind in which she is just now I trust she will soon change; indeed, she

will change it certainly, and I am mad thus to despair. God grant that

she change it soon! For I am doomed to be her slave, since such is the

will of Love. Whoever does not welcome Love gladly, when he comes to

him, commits treason and a felony. I admit (and let whosoever will,

heed what I say) that such an one deserves no happiness or joy. But if I

lose, it will not be for such a reason; rather will I love my enemy.

For I ought not to feel any hate for her unless I wish to betray Love.

I must love in accordance with Love's desire. And ought she to regard me

as a friend? Yes, surely, since it is she whom I love. And I call her

my enemy, for she hates me, though with good reason, for I killed the

object of her love. So, then, am I her enemy? Surely no, but her true

friend, for I never so loved any one before. I grieve for her fair

tresses, surpassing gold in their radiance; I feel the pangs of anguish

and torment when I see her tear and cut them, nor can her tears e'er

be dried which I see falling from her eyes; by all these things I am

distressed. Although they are full of ceaseless, ever-flowing tears, yet

never were there such lovely eves. The sight of her weeping causes me

agony, but nothing pains me so much as the sight of her face, which she

lacerates without its having merited such treatment. I never saw such a

face so perfectly formed, nor so fresh and delicately coloured. And then

it has pierced my heart to see her clutch her throat. Surely, it is all

too true that she is doing the worst she can. And yet no crystal nor any

mirror is so bright and smooth. God! why is she thus possessed, and why

does she not spare herself? Why does she wring her lovely hands and beat

and tear her breast? Would she not be marvellously fair to look upon

when in happy mood, seeing that she is so fair in her displeasure?

Surely yes, I can take my oath on that. Never before in a work of beauty

was Nature thus able to outdo herself, for I am sure she has gone beyond

the limits of any previous attempt. How could it ever have happened

then? Whence came beauty so marvellous? God must have made her with His

naked hand that Nature might rest from further toil. If she should try

to make a replica, she might spend her time in vain without succeeding

in her task. Even God Himself, were He to try, could not succeed, I

guess, in ever making such another, whatever effort He might put forth."

(Vv. 1507-1588.) Thus my lord Yvain considers her who is broken with her

grief, and I suppose it would never happen again that any man in prison,

like my lord Yvain in fear for his life, would ever be so madly in love

as to make no request on his own behalf, when perhaps no one else will

speak for him. He stayed at the window until he saw the lady go away,

and both the portcullises were lowered again. Another might have grieved

at this, who would prefer a free escape to tarrying longer where he was.

But to him it is quite indifferent whether they be shut or opened. If

they were open he surely would not go away, no, even were the lady to

give him leave and pardon him freely for the death of her lord. For he

is detained by Love and Shame which rise up before him on either hand:

he is ashamed to go away, for no one would believe in the success of his

exploit; on the other hand, he has such a strong desire to see the lady

at least, if he cannot obtain any other favour, that he feels little

concern about his imprisonment. He would rather die than go away. And

now the damsel returns, wishing to bear him company with her solace

and gaiety, and to go and fetch for him whatever he may desire. But she

found him pensive and quite worn out with the love which had laid hold

of him; whereupon she addressed him thus: "My lord Yvain, what sort of

a time have you had to-day?" "I have been pleasantly occupied," was his

reply. "Pleasantly? In God's name, is that the truth? What? How can one

enjoy himself seeing that he is hunted to death, unless he courts and

wishes it?" "Of a truth," he says, "my gentle friend, I should by no

means wish to die; and yet, as God beholds me, I was pleased, am pleased

now, and always shall be pleased by what I saw." "Well, let us say no

more of that," she makes reply, "for I can understand well enough what

is the meaning of such words. I am not so foolish or inexperienced that

I cannot understand such words as those; but come now after me, for I

shall find some speedy means to release you from your confinement. I

shall surely set you free to-night or to-morrow, if you please. Come

now, I will lead you away." And he thus makes reply: "You may be sure

that I will never escape secretly and like a thief. When the people are

all gathered out there in the streets, I can go forth more honourably

than if I did so surreptitiously." Then he followed her into the little

room. The damsel, who was kind, secured and bestowed upon him all that

he desired. And when the opportunity arose, she remembered what he

had said to her how he had been pleased by what he saw when they were

seeking him in the room with intent to kill him.

(Vv. 1589-1652.) The damsel stood in such favour with her lady that she

had no fear of telling her anything, regardless of the consequences, for

she was her confidante and companion. Then, why should she be backward

in comforting her lady and in giving her advice which should redound to

her honour? The first time she said to her privily: "My lady, I greatly

marvel to see you act so extravagantly. Do you think you can recover

your lord by giving away thus to your grief?" "Nay, rather, if I had my

wish," says she, "I would now be dead of grief." "And why?" "In order to

follow after him." "After him? God forbid, and give you again as good a

lord, as is consistent with His might." "Thou didst never speak such a

lie as that, for He could never give me so good a lord again." "He will

give you a better one, if you will accept him, and I can prove it."

"Begone! Peace! I shall never find such a one." "Indeed you shall, my

lady, if you will consent. Just tell me, if you will, who is going to

defend your land when King Arthur comes next week to the margin of the

spring? You have already been apprised of this by letters sent you by

the Dameisele Sauvage. Alas, what a kind service she did for you! you

ought to be considering how you will defend your spring, and yet you

cease not to weep! If it please you, my dear lady, you ought not to

delay. For surely, all the knights you have are not worth, as you well

know, so much as a single chamber-maid. Neither shield nor lance will

ever be taken in hand by the best of them. You have plenty of craven

servants, but there is not one of them brave enough to dare to mount a

steed. And the King is coming with such a host that his victory will

be inevitable." The lady, upon reflection, knows very well that she is

giving her sincere advice, but she is unreasonable in one respect, as

also are other women who are, almost without exception, guilty of their

own folly, and refuse to accept what they really wish. "Begone," she

says; "leave me alone. If I ever hear thee speak of this again it will

go hard with thee, unless thou flee. Thou weariest me with thy idle

words." "Very well, my lady," she says; "that you are a woman is

evident, for woman will grow irate when she hears any one give her good

advice."

(Vv. 1653-1726.) Then she went away and left her alone. And the lady

reflected that she had been in the wrong. She would have been very glad

to know how the damsel could ever prove that it would be possible to

find a better knight than her lord had ever been. She would be very glad

to hear her speak, but now she has forbidden her. With this desire in

mind, she waited until she returned. But the warning was of no avail,

for she began to say to her at once: "My lady, is it seemly that you

should thus torment yourself with grief? For God's sake now control

yourself, and for shame, at least, cease your lament. It is not fitting

that so great a lady should keep up her grief so long. Remember your

honourable estate and your very gentle birth! Think you that all virtue

ceased with the death of your lord? There are in the world a hundred as

good or better men." "May God confound me, if thou dost not lie! Just

name to me a single one who is reputed to be so excellent as my lord was

all his life." "If I did so you would be angry with me, and would fly

into a passion and you would esteem me less." "No, I will not, I assure

thee." "Then may it all be for your future welfare if you would but

consent, and may God so incline your will! I see no reason for holding

my peace, for no one hears or heeds what we say. Doubtless you will

think I am impudent, but I shall freely speak my mind. When two knights

have met in an affray of arms and when one has beaten the other, which

of the two do you think is the better? For my part I award the prize

to the victor. Now what do you think?" "It seems to me you are laying a

trap for me and intend to catch me in my words." "Upon my faith, you may

rest assured that I am in the right, and I can irrefutably prove to you

that he who defeated your lord is better than he was himself. He beat

him and pursued him valiantly until he imprisoned him in his house."

"Now," she replies, "I hear the greatest nonsense that was ever uttered.

Begone, thou spirit charged with evil! Begone, thou foolish and tiresome

girl! Never again utter such idle words, and never come again into my

presence to speak a word on his behalf!" "Indeed, my lady, I knew full

well that I should receive no thanks from you, and I said so before I

spoke. But you promised me you would not be displeased, and that you

would not be angry with me for it. But you have failed to keep your

promise, and now, as it has turned out, you have discharged your wrath

on me, and I have lost by not holding my peace."

(Vv. 1727-1942.) Thereupon she goes back to the room where my lord Yvain

is waiting, comfortably guarded by her vigilance. But he is ill at ease

when he cannot see the lady, and he pays no attention, and hears no word

of the report which the damsel brings to him. The lady, too, is in great

perplexity all night, being worried about how she should defend the

spring; and she begins to repent of her action to the damsel, whom she

had blamed and insulted and treated with contempt. She feels very sure

and certain that not for any reward or bribe, nor for any affection

which she may bear him, would the maiden ever have mentioned him; and

that she must love her more than him, and that she would never give her

advice which would bring her shame or embarrassment: the maid is too

loyal a friend for that. Thus, lo! the lady is completely changed: she

fears now that she to whom she had spoken harshly will never love her

again devotedly; and him whom she had repulsed, she now loyally and with

good reason pardons, seeing that he had done her no wrong. So she argues

as if he were in her presence there, and thus she begins her argument:

"Come," she says, "canst thou deny that my lord was killed by thee?"

"That," says he, "I cannot deny. Indeed, I fully admit it." "Tell me,

then, the reason of thy deed. Didst thou do it to injure me, prompted by

hatred or by spite?" "May death not spare me now, if I did it to injure

you." "In that case, thou hast done me no wrong, nor art thou guilty

of aught toward him. For he would have killed thee, if he could. So it

seems to me that I have decided well and righteously." Thus, by her own

arguments she succeeds in discovering justice, reason, and common sense,

how that there is no cause for hating him; thus she frames the matter to

conform with her desire, and by her own efforts she kindles her love, as

a bush which only smokes with the flame beneath, until some one blows

it or stirs it up. If the damsel should come in now, she would win the

quarrel for which she had been so reproached, and by which she had

been so hurt. And next morning, in fact, she appeared again, taking

the subject up where she had let it drop. Meanwhile, the lady bowed

her head, knowing she had done wrong in attacking her. But now she is

anxious to make amends, and to inquire concerning the name, character,

and lineage of the knight: so she wisely humbles herself, and says: "I

wish to beg your pardon for the insulting words of pride which in my

rage I spoke to you: I will follow your advice. So tell me now, if

possible, about the knight of whom you have spoken so much to me: what

sort of a man is he, and of what parentage? If he is suited to become

my mate, and provided he be so disposed, I promise you to make him my

husband and lord of my domain. But he will have to act in such a way

that no one can reproach me by saying: 'This is she who took him who

killed her lord.'" "In God's name, lady, so shall it be. You will have

the gentlest, noblest, and fairest lord who ever belonged to Abel's

line." "What is his name?" "My lord Yvain." "Upon my word, if he is King

Urien's son he is of no mean birth, but very noble, as I well know."

"Indeed, my lady, you say the truth." "And when shall we be able to see

him?" "In five days' time." "That would be too long; for I wish he were

already come. Let him come to-night, or to-morrow, at the latest." "My

lady, I think no one could fly so far in one day. But I shall send one

of my squires who can run fast, and who will reach King Arthur's court

at least by to-morrow night, I think; that is the place we must seek for

him." "That is a very long time. The days are long. But tell him that

to-morrow night he must be back here, and that he must make greater

haste than usual. If he will only do his best, he can do two days'

journey in one. Moreover, to-night the moon will shine; so let him turn

night into day. And when he returns I will give him whatever he wishes

me to give." "Leave all care of that to me; for you shall have him in

your hands the day after to-morrow at the very latest. Meanwhile you

shall summon your men and confer with them about the approaching visit

of the King. In order to make the customary defence of your spring it

behoves you to consult with them. None of them will be so hardy as to

dare to boast that he will present himself. In that case you will have

a good excuse for saving that it behoves you to marry again. A certain

knight, highly qualified, seeks your hand; but you do not presume to

accept him without their unanimous consent. And I warrant what the

outcome will be: I know them all to be such cowards that in order to put

on some one else the burden which would be too heavy for them, they

will fall at your feet and speak their gratitude; for thus their

responsibility will be at an end. For, whoever is afraid of his own

shadow willingly avoids, if possible, any meeting with lance or spear;

for such games a coward has no use." "Upon my word," the lady replies,

"so I would have it, and so I consent, having already conceived the plan

which you have expressed; so that is what we shall do. But why do you

tarry here? Go, without delay, and take measures to bring him here,

while I shall summon my liege-men." Thus concluded their conference. And

the damsel pretends to send to search for my lord Yvain in his country;

while every day she has him bathed, and washed, and groomed. And besides

this she prepares for him a robe of red scarlet stuff, brand new and

lined with spotted fur. There is nothing necessary for his equipment

which she does not lend to him: a golden buckle for his neck, ornamented

with precious stones which make people look well, a girdle, and a wallet

made of rich gold brocade. She fitted him out perfectly, then informed

her lady that the messenger had returned, having done his errand

well. "How is that?" she says, "is he here? Then let him come at once,

secretly and privily, while no one is here with me. See to it that no

one else come in, for I should hate to see a fourth person here." At

this the damsel went away, and returned to her guest again. However, her

face did not reveal the joy that was in her heart; indeed, she said

that her lady knew that she had been sheltering him, and was very much

incensed at her. "Further concealment is useless now. The news about

you has been so divulged that my lady knows the whole story and is very

angry with me, heaping me with blame and reproaches. But she has given

me her word that I may take you into her presence without any harm or

danger. I take it that you will have no objection to this, except for

one condition (for I must not disguise the truth, or I should be unjust

to you): she wishes to have you in her control, and she desires such

complete possession of your body that even your heart shall not be at

large." "Certainly," he said, "I readily consent to what will be no

hardship to me. I am willing to be her prisoner." "So shall you be:

I swear it by this right hand laid upon you!. Now come and, upon my

advice, demean yourself so humbly in her presence that your imprisonment

may not be grievous. Otherwise feel no concern. I do not think that your

restraint will be irksome." Then the damsel leads him off, now

alarming, now reassuring him, and speaking to him mysteriously about

the confinement in which he is to find himself; for every lover is a

prisoner. She is right in calling him a prisoner; for surely any one who

loves is no longer free.

(Vv. 1943-2036.) Taking my lord Yvain by the hand, the damsel leads him

where he will be dearly loved; but expecting to be ill received, it

is not strange if he is afraid. They found the lady seated upon a red

cushion. I assure you my lord Yvain was terrified upon entering the

room, where he found the lady who spoke not a word to him. At this he

was still more afraid, being overcome with fear at the thought that he

had been betrayed. He stood there to one side so long that the damsel

at last spoke up and said: "Five hundred curses upon the head of him who

takes into a fair lady's chamber a knight who will not draw near,

and who has neither tongue nor mouth nor sense to introduce himself."

Thereupon, taking him by the arm, she thrust him forward with the words:

"Come, step forward, knight, and have no fear that my lady is going to

snap at you; but seek her good-will and give her yours. I will join you

in your prayer that she pardon you for the death of her lord, Esclados

the Red." Then my lord Yvain clasped his hands, and failing upon his

knees, spoke like a lover with these words: "I will not crave your

pardon, lady, but rather thank you for any treatment you may inflict on

me, knowing that no act of yours could ever be distasteful to me." "Is

that so, sir? And what if I think to kill you now?" "My lady, if it

please you, you will never hear me speak otherwise." "I never heard of

such a thing as this: that you put yourself voluntarily and absolutely

within my power, without the coercion of any one." "My lady, there is

no force so strong, in truth, as that which commands me to conform

absolutely to your desire. I do not fear to carry out any order you

may be pleased to give. And if I could atone for the death, which came

through no fault of mine, I would do so cheerfully." "What?" says she,

"come tell me now and be forgiven, if you did no wrong in killing my

lord?" "Lady," he says, "if I may say it, when your lord attacked me,

why was I wrong to defend myself? When a man in self-defence kills

another who is trying to kill or capture him, tell me if in any way he

is to blame." "No, if one looks at it aright. And I suppose it would

have been no use, if I had had you put to death. But I should be glad

to learn whence you derive the force that bids you to consent

unquestioningly to whatever my will may dictate. I pardon you all your

misdeeds and crimes. But be seated, and tell us now what is the cause of

your docility?" "My lady," he says, "the impelling force comes from

my heart, which is inclined toward you. My heart has fixed me in this

desire." "And what prompted your heart, my fair sweet friend?" "Lady, my

eyes." "And what the eyes?" "The great beauty that I see in you." "And

where is beauty's fault in that?" "Lady, in this: that it makes me

love." "Love? And whom?" "You, my lady dear." "I?" "Yes, truly."

"Really? And how is that?" "To such an extent that my heart will not

stir from you, nor is it elsewhere to be found; to such an extent that I

cannot think of anything else, and I surrender myself altogether to you,

whom I love more than I love myself, and for whom, if you will, I am

equally ready to die or live." "And would you dare to undertake the

defence of my spring for love of me?" "Yes, my lady, against the world."

"Then you may know that our peace is made."

(Vv. 2037-2048.) Thus they are quickly reconciled. And the lady, having

previously consulted her lords, says: "We shall proceed from here to the

hall where my men are assembled, who, in view of the evident need, have

advised and counselled me to take a husband at their request. And I

shall do so, in view of the urgent need: here and now I give myself to

you; for I should not refuse to accept as lord, such a good knight and a

king's son."

(Vv. 2049-2328.) Now the damsel has brought about exactly what she had

desired. And my lord Yvain's mastery is more complete than could be told

or described; for the lady leads him away to the hall, which was full of

her knights and men-at-arms. And my lord Yvain was so handsome that they

all marvelled to look at him, and all, rising to their feet, salute and

bow to my lord Yvain, guessing well as they did so: "This is he whom

my lady will select. Cursed be he who opposes him! For he seems a

wonderfully fine man. Surely, the empress of Rome would be well married

with such a man. Would now that he had given his word to her, and she to

him, with clasped hand, and that the wedding might take place to-day

or tomorrow." Thus they spoke among themselves. At the end of the hall

there was a seat, and there in the sight of all the lady took her place.

And my lord Yvain made as if he intended to seat himself at her feet;

but she raised him up, and ordered the seneschal to speak aloud, so

that his speech might be heard by all. Then the seneschal began, being

neither stubborn nor slow of speech: "My lords," he said, "we are

confronted by war. Every day the King is preparing with all the haste he

can command to come to ravage our lands. Before a fortnight shall have

passed, all will have been laid waste, unless some valiant defender

shall appear. When my lady married first, not quite seven years ago, she

did it on your advice. Now her husband is dead, and she is grieved. Six

feet of earth is all he has, who formerly owned all this land, and who

was indeed its ornament. [314] It is a pity he lived so short a while.

A woman cannot bear a shield, nor does she know how to fight with lance.

It would exalt and dignify her again if she should marry some worthy

lord. Never was there greater need than now; do all of you recommend

that she take a spouse, before the custom shall lapse which has been

observed in this town for more than the past sixty years." At this, all

at once proclaim that it seems to them the right thing to do, and they

all throw themselves at her feet. They strengthen her desire by their

consent; yet she hesitates to assert her wishes until, as if against

her will, she finally speaks to the same intent as she would have done,

indeed, if every one had opposed her wish: "My lords, since it is your

wish, this knight who is seated beside me has wooed me and ardently

sought my hand. He wishes to engage himself in the defence of my rights

and in my service, for which I thank him heartily, as you do also. It is

true I have never known him in person, but I have often heard his name.

Know that he is no less a man than the son of King Urien. Beside his

illustrious lineage, he is so brave, courteous, and wise that no one

has cause to disparage him. You have all already heard, I suppose, of

my lord Yvain, and it is he who seeks my hand. When the marriage is

consummated, I shall have a more noble lord than I deserve." They all

say: "If you are prudent, this very day shall not go by without the

marriage being solemnised. For it is folly to postpone for a single hour

an advantageous act." They beseech her so insistently that she consents

to what she would have done in any case. For Love bids her do that for

which she asks counsel and advice; but there is more honour for him in

being accepted with the approval of her men. To her their prayers are

not unwelcome; rather do they stir and incite her heart to have its way.

The horse, already under speed, goes faster yet when it is spurred. In

the presence of all her lords, the lady gives herself to my lord Yvain.

From the hand of her chaplain he received the lady, Laudine de Landuc,

daughter of Duke Laudunet, of whom they sing a lay. That very day

without delay he married her, and the wedding was celebrated. There

were plenty of mitres and croziers there, for the lady had summoned her

bishops and abbots. Great was the joy and rejoicing, there were many

people, and much wealth was displayed--more than I could tell you of,

were I to devote much thought to it. It is better to keep silent than to

be inadequate. So my lord Yvain is master now, and the dead man is quite

forgot. He who killed him is now married to his wife, and they enjoy the

marriage rights. The people love and esteem their living lord more than

they ever did the dead. They served him well at his marriage-feast,

until the eve before the day when the King came to visit the marvellous

spring and its stone, bringing with him upon this expedition his

companions and all those of his household; not one was left behind. And

my lord Kay remarked: "Ah, what now has become of Yvain, who after his

dinner made the boast that he would avenge his cousin's shame? Evidently

he spoke in his cups. I believe that he has run away. He would not

dare to come back for anything. He was very presumptuous to make such a

boast. He is a bold man who dares to boast of what no one would praise

him for, and who has no proof of his great feats except the words of

some false flatterer. There is a great difference between a coward and a

hero; for the coward seated beside the fire talks loudly about himself,

holding all the rest as fools, and thinking that no one knows his real

character. A hero would be distressed at hearing his prowess related by

some one else. And yet I maintain that the coward is not wrong to praise

and vaunt himself, for he will find no one else to lie for him. If he

does not boast of his deeds, who will? All pass over him in silence,

even the heralds, who proclaim the brave, but discard the cowards." When

my lord Kay had spoken thus, my lord Gawain made this reply: "My lord

Kay, have some mercy now! Since my lord Yvain is not here, you do not

know what business occupies him. Indeed, he never so debased himself as

to speak any ill of you compared with the gracious things he has said."

"Sire," says Kay, "I'll hold my peace. I'll not say another word to-day,

since I see you are offended by my speech." Then the King, in order to

see the rain, poured a whole basin full of water upon the stone beneath

the pine, and at once the rain began to pour. It was not long before my

lord Yvain without delay entered the forest fully armed, tiding faster

than a gallop on a large, sleek steed, strong, intrepid, and fleet of

foot. And it was my lord Kay's desire to request the first encounter.

For, whatever the outcome might be, he always wished to begin the fight

and joust the first, or else he would be much incensed. Before all the

rest, he requested the King to allow him to do battle first. The King

says: "Kay, since it is your wish, and since you are the first to make

the request, the favour ought not to be denied." Kay thanks him first,

then mounts his steed. If now my lord Yvain can inflict a mild disgrace

upon him, he will be very glad to do so; for he recognises him by his

arms. [315] Each grasping his shield by the straps, they rush together.

Spurring their steeds, they lower the lances, which they hold tightly

gripped. Then they thrust them forward a little, so that they grasped

them by the leather-wrapped handles, and so that when they came together

they were able to deal such cruel blows that both lances broke in

splinters clear to the handle of the shaft. My lord Yvain gave him such

a mighty blow that Kay took a summersault from out of his saddle and

struck with his helmet on the ground. My lord Yvain has no desire to

inflict upon him further harm, but simply dismounts and takes his horse.

This pleased them all, and many said: "Ah, ah, see how you prostrate

lie, who but now held others up to scorn! And yet it is only right to

pardon you this time; for it never happened to you before." Thereupon

my lord Yvain approached the King, leading the horse in his hand by the

bridle, and wishing to make it over to him. "Sire," says he, "now take

this steed, for I should do wrong to keep back anything of yours." "And

who are you?" the King replies; "I should never know you, unless I heard

your name, or saw you without your arms." Then my lord told him who

he was, and Kay was overcome with shame, mortified, humbled, and

discomfited, for having said that he had run away. But the others were

greatly pleased, and made much of the honour he had won. Even the King

was greatly gratified, and my lord Gawain a hundred times more than any

one else. For he loved his company more than that of any other knight

he knew. And the King requested him urgently to tell him, if it be his

will, how he had fared; for he was very curious to learn all about his

adventure; so the King begs him to tell the truth. And he soon told him

all about the service and kindness of the damsel, not passing over

a single word, not forgetting to mention anything. And after this he

invited the King and all his knights to come to lodge with him, saying

they would be doing him great honour in accepting his hospitality. And

the King said that for an entire week he would gladly do him the honour

and pleasure, and would bear him company. And when my lord Yvain had

thanked him, they tarry no longer there, but mount and take the most

direct road to the town. My lord Yvain sends in advance of the company

a squire beating a crane-falcon, in order that they might not take the

lady by surprise, and that her people might decorate the streets against

the arrival of the King. When the lady heard the news of the King's

visit she was greatly pleased; nor was there any one who, upon hearing

the news, was not happy and elated. And the lady summons them all and

requests them to go to meet him, to which they make no objection or

remonstrance, all being anxious to do her will.

(Vv. 2329-2414.) [316] Mounted on great Spanish steeds, they all go to

meet the King of Britain, saluting King Arthur first with great courtesy

and then all his company. "Welcome," they say, "to this company, so full

of honourable men! Blessed be he who brings them hither and presents us

with such fair guests!" At the King's arrival the town resounds with

the joyous welcome which they give. Silken stuffs are taken out and hung

aloft as decorations, and they spread tapestries to walk upon and drape

the streets with them, while they wait for the King's approach. And they

make still another preparation, in covering the streets with awnings

against the hot rays of the sun. Bells, horns, and trumpets cause

the town to ring so that God's thunder could not have been heard. The

maidens dance before him, flutes and pipes are played, kettle-drums,

drums, and cymbals are beaten. On their part the nimble youths leap, and

all strive to show their delight. With such evidence of their joy, they

welcome the King fittingly. And the Lady came forth, dressed in imperial

garb a robe of fresh ermine--and upon her head she wore a diadem all

ornamented with rubies. No cloud was there upon her face, but it was

so gay and full of joy that she was more beautiful, I think, than any

goddess. Around her the crowd pressed close, as they cried with one

accord: "Welcome to the King of kings and lord of lords!" The King could

not reply to all before he saw the lady coming toward him to hold his

stirrup. However, he would not wait for this, but hastened to dismount

himself as soon as he caught sight of her. Then she salutes him with

these words: "Welcome a hundred thousand times to the King, my lord, and

blessed be his nephew, my lord Gawain!" The King replies: "I wish

all happiness and good luck to your fair body and your face, lovely

creature!" Then clasping her around the waist, the King embraced her

gaily and heartily as she did him, throwing her arms about him. I will

say no more of how gladly she welcomed them, but no one ever heard of

any people who were so honourably received and served. I might tell you

much of the joy should I not be wasting words, but I wish to make brief

mention of an acquaintance which was made in private between the moon

and the sun. Do you know of whom I mean to speak? He who was lord of the

knights, and who was renowned above them all, ought surely to be called

the sun. I refer, of course, to my lord Gawain, for chivalry is enhanced

by him just as when the morning sun sheds its rays abroad and lights all

places where it shines. And I call her the moon, who cannot be otherwise

because of her sense and courtesy. However, I call her so not only

because of her good repute, but because her name is, in fact, Lunete.

(Vv. 2415-2538.) The damsel's name was Lunete, and she was a charming

brunette, prudent, clever, and polite. As her acquaintance grows with

my lord Gawain, he values her highly and gives her his love as to his

sweetheart, because she had saved from death his companion and friend;

he places himself freely at her service. On her part she describes and

relates to him with what difficulty she persuaded her mistress to take

my lord Yvain as her husband, and how she protected him from the hands

of those who were seeking him; how he was in their midst but they did

not see him. My lord Gawain laughed aloud at this story of hers, and

then he said: "Mademoiselle, when you need me and when you don't, such

as I am, I place myself at your disposal. Never throw me off for some

one else when you think you can improve your lot. I am yours, and do

you be from now on my demoiselle!" "I thank you kindly, sire," she said.

While the acquaintance of these two was ripening thus, the others, too,

were engaged in flirting. For there were perhaps ninety ladies there,

each of whom was fair and charming, noble and polite, virtuous and

prudent, and a lady of exalted birth, so the men could agreeably employ

themselves in caressing and kissing them, and in talking to them and

in gazing at them while they were seated by their side; that much

satisfaction they had at least. My lord Yvain is in high feather because

the King is lodged with him. And the lady bestows such attention upon

them all, as individuals and collectively, that some foolish person

might suppose that the charming attentions which she showed them were

dictated by love. But such persons may properly be rated as fools for

thinking that a lady is in love with them just because she is courteous

and speaks to some unfortunate fellow, and makes him happy and caresses

him. A fool is made happy by fair words, and is very easily taken in.

That entire week they spent in gaiety; forest and stream offered plenty

of sport for any one who desired it. And whoever wished to see the land

which had come into the hands of my lord Yvain with the lady whom he

had married, could go to enjoy himself at one of the castles which stood

within a radius of two, three, or four leagues. When the King had stayed

as long as he chose, he made ready to depart. But during the week they

had all begged urgently, and with all the insistence at their command,

that they might take away my lord Yvain with them. "What? Will you

be one of those." said my lord Gawain to him, "who degenerate after

marriage? [317] Cursed be he by Saint Mary who marries and then

degenerates! Whoever has a fair lady as his mistress or his wife should

be the better for it, and it is not right that her affection should be

bestowed on him after his worth and reputation are gone. Surely you,

too, would have cause to regret her love if you grew soft, for a

woman quickly withdraws her love, and rightly so, and despises him who

degenerates in any way when he has become lord of the realm. Now ought

your fame to be increased! Slip off the bridle and halter and come to

the tournament with me, that no one may say that you are jealous. Now

you must no longer hesitate to frequent the lists, to share in the

onslaught, and to contend with force, whatever effort it may cost!

Inaction produces indifference. But, really, you must come, for I shall

be in your company. Have a care that our comradeship shall not fail

through any fault of yours, fair companion; for my part, you may count

on me. It is strange how a man sets store by the life of ease which

has no end. Pleasures grow sweeter through postponement; and a little

pleasure, when delayed, is much sweeter to the taste than great pleasure

enjoyed at once. The sweets of a love which develops late are like

a fire in a green bush; for the longer one delays in lighting it the

greater will be the heat it yields, and the longer will its force

endure. One may easily fall into habits which it is very difficult

to shake off, for when one desires to do so, he finds he has lost the

power. Don't misunderstand my words, my friend: if I had such a fair

mistress as you have, I call God and His saints to witness, I should

leave her most reluctantly; indeed, I should doubtless be infatuated.

But a man may give another counsel, which he would not take himself,

just as the preachers, who are deceitful rascals, and preach and

proclaim the right but who do not follow it themselves."

(Vv. 2539-2578.) My lord Gawain spoke at such length and so urgently

that he promised him that he would go; but he said that he must consult

his lady and ask for her consent. Whether it be a foolish or a prudent

thing to do, he will not fail to ask her leave to return to Britain.

Then he took counsel with his wife, who had no inkling of the permission

he desired, as he addressed her with these words: "My beloved lady, my

heart and soul, my treasure, joy, and happiness, grant me now a favour

which will redound to your honour and to mine." The lady at once gives

her consent, not knowing what his desire is, and says: "Fair lord, you

may command me your pleasure, whatever it be." Then my lord Yvain

at once asks her for permission to escort the King and to attend at

tournaments, that no one may reproach his indolence. And she replies:

"I grant you leave until a certain date; but be sure that my love will

change to hate if you stay beyond the term that I shall fix. Remember

that I shall keep my word; if you break your word I will keep mine. If

you wish to possess my love, and if you have any regard for me, remember

to come back again at the latest a year from the present date a week

after St. John's day; for to-day is the eighth day since that feast.

You will be checkmated of my love if you are not restored to me on that

day."

(Vv. 2579-2635.) My lord Yvain weeps and sighs so bitterly that he can

hardly find words to say: "My lady, this date is indeed a long way off.

If I could be a dove, whenever the fancy came to me, I should often

rejoin you here. And I pray God that in His pleasure He may not detain

me so long away. But sometimes a man intends speedily to return who

knows not what the future has in store for him. And I know not what will

be my fate--perhaps some urgency of sickness or imprisonment may keep

me back: you are unjust in not making an exception at least of actual

hindrance." "My lord," says she, "I will make that exception. And yet

I dare to promise you that, if God deliver you from death, no hindrance

will stand in your way so long as you remember me. So put on your finger

now this ring of mine, which I lend to you. And I will tell you all

about the stone: no true and loyal lover can be imprisoned or lose any

blood, nor can any harm befall him, provided he carry it and hold it

dear, and keep his sweetheart in mind. You will become as hard as iron,

and it will serve you as shield and hauberk. I have never before been

willing to lend or entrust it to any knight, but to you I give it

because of my affection for you." Now my lord Yvain is free to go, but

he weeps bitterly on taking leave. The King, however, would not tarry

longer for anything that might be said: rather was he anxious to have

the palfreys brought all equipped and bridled. They acceded at once to

his desire, bringing the palfreys forth, so that it remained only to

mount. I do not know whether I ought to tell you how my lord Yvain took

his leave, and of the kisses bestowed on him, mingled with tears and

steeped in sweetness. And what shall I tell you about the King how the

lady escorts him, accompanied by her damsels and seneschal? All this

would require too much time. When he sees the lady's tears, the King

implores her to come no farther, but to return to her abode. He begged

her with such urgency that, heavy at heart, she turned about followed by

her company.

(Vv. 2639-2773.) My lord Yvain is so distressed to leave his lady that

his heart remains behind. The King may take his body off, but he cannot

lead his heart away. She who stays behind clings so tightly to his heart

that the King has not the power to take it away with him. When the body

is left without the heart it cannot possibly live on. For such a marvel

was never seen as the body alive without the heart. Yet this marvel now

came about: for he kept his body without the heart, which was wont to be

enclosed in it, but which would not follow the body now. The heart has

a good abiding-place, while the body, hoping for a safe return to its

heart, in strange fashion takes a new heart of hope, which is so often

deceitful and treacherous. He will never know in advance, I think, the

hour when this hope will play him false, for if he overstays by single

day the term which he has agreed upon, it will be hard for him to gain

again his lady's pardon and goodwill. Yet I think he will overstay

the term, for my lord Gawain will not allow him to part from him, as

together they go to joust wherever tournaments are held. And as the year

passes by my lord Yvain had such success that my lord Gawain strove

to honour him, and caused him to delay so long that all the first year

slipped by, and it came to the middle of August of the ensuing year,

when the King held court at Chester, whither they had returned the day

before from a tournament where my lord Yvain had been and where he had

won the glory and the story tells how the two companions were unwilling

to lodge in the town, but had their tents set up outside the city, and

held court there. For they never went to the royal court, but the King

came rather to join in theirs, for they had the best knights, and the

greatest number, in their company. Now King Arthur was seated in their

midst, when Yvain suddenly had a thought which surprised him more than

any that had occurred to him since he had taken leave of his lady, for

he realised that he had broken his word, and that the limit of his

leave was already exceeded. He could hardly keep back his tears, but he

succeeded in doing so from shame. He was still deep in thought when

he saw a damsel approaching rapidly upon a black palfrey with white

forefeet. As she got down before the tent no one helped her to dismount,

and no one went to take her horse. As soon as she made out the King, she

let her mantle fall, and thus displayed she entered the tent and came

before the King, announcing that her mistress sent greetings to the

King, and to my lord Gawain and all the other knights, except

Yvain, that disloyal traitor, liar, hypocrite, who had deserted her

deceitfully. "She has seen clearly the treachery of him who pretended

he was a faithful lover while he was a false and treacherous thief. This

thief has traduced my lady, who was all unprepared for any evil, and

to whom it never occurred that he would steal her heart away. Those who

love truly do not steal hearts away; there are, however, some men,

by whom these former are called thieves, who themselves go about

deceitfully making love, but in whom there is no real knowledge of the

matter. The lover takes his lady's heart, of course, but he does not run

away with it; rather does he treasure it against those thieves who,

in the guise of honourable men, would steal it from him. But those are

deceitful and treacherous thieves who vie with one another in stealing

hearts for which they care nothing. The true lover, wherever he may go,

holds the heart dear and brings it back again. But Yvain has caused my

lady's death, for she supposed that he would guard her heart for her,

and would bring it back again before the year elapsed. Yvain, thou wast

of short memory when thou couldst not remember to return to thy mistress

within a year. She gave thee thy liberty until St. John's day, and thou

settest so little store by her that never since has a thought of her

crossed thy mind. My lady had marked every day in her chamber, as the

seasons passed: for when one is in love, one is ill at ease and cannot

get any restful sleep, but all night long must needs count and reckon

up the days as they come and go. Dost thou know how lovers spend their

time? They keep count of the time and the season. Her complaint is not

presented prematurely or without cause, and I am not accusing him in any

way, but I simply say that we have been betrayed by him who married

my lady. Yvain, my mistress has no further care for thee, but sends thee

word by me never to come back to her, and no longer to keep her ring.

She bids thee send it back to her by me, whom thou seest present here.

Surrender it now, as thou art bound to do."

(Vv. 2774-3230.) Senseless and deprived of speech, Yvain is unable to

reply. And the damsel steps forth and takes the ring from his finger,

commending to God the King and all the others except him, whom she

leaves in deep distress. And his sorrow grows on him: he feels oppressed

by what he hears, and is tormented by what he sees. He would rather be

banished alone in some wild land, where no one would know where to seek

for him, and where no man or woman would know of his whereabouts any

more than if he were in some deep abyss. He hates nothing so much as he

hates himself, nor does he know to whom to go for comfort in the death

he has brought upon himself. But he would rather go insane than not

take vengeance upon himself, deprived, as he is, of joy through his own

fault. He rises from his place among the knights, fearing he will lose

his mind if he stays longer in their midst. On their part, they pay no

heed to him, but let him take his departure alone. They know well enough

that he cares nothing for their talk or their society. And he goes away

until he is far from the tents and pavilions. Then such a storm broke

loose in his brain that he loses his senses; he tears his flesh and,

stripping off his clothes, he flees across the meadows and fields,

leaving his men quite at a loss, and wondering what has become of him.

[318] They go in search of him through all the country around--in the

lodgings of the knights, by the hedgerows, and in the gardens--but they

seek him where he is not to be found. Still fleeing, he rapidly pursued

his way until he met close by a park a lad who had in his hand a bow and

five barbed arrows, which were very sharp and broad. He had sense enough

to go and take the bow and arrows which he held. However, he had no

recollection of anything that he had done. He lies in wait for the

beasts in the woods, killing them, and then eating the venison raw. Thus

he dwelt in the forest like a madman or a savage, until he came upon a

little, low-lying house belonging to a hermit, who was at work clearing

his ground. When he saw him coming with nothing on, he could easily

perceive that he was not in his right mind; and such was the case, as

the hermit very well knew. So, in fear, he shut himself up in his little

house, and taking some bread and fresh water, he charitably set it

outside the house on a narrow window-ledge. And thither the other comes,

hungry for the bread which he takes and eats. I do not believe that he

ever before had tasted such hard and bitter bread. The measure of barley

kneaded with the straw, of which the bread, sourer than yeast, was made,

had not cost more than five sous; and the bread was musty and as dry

as bark. But hunger torments and whets his appetite, so that the

bread tasted to him like sauce. For hunger is itself a well mixed and

concocted sauce for any food. My lord Yvain soon ate the hermit's bread,

which tasted good to him, and drank the cool water from the jar. When he

had eaten, he betook himself again to the woods in search of stags and

does. And when he sees him going away, the good man beneath his roof

prays God to defend him and guard him lest he ever pass that way again.

But there is no creature, with howsoever little sense, that will not

gladly return to a place where he is kindly treated. So, not a day

passed while he was in this mad fit that he did not bring to his door

some wild game. Such was the life he led; and the good man took it upon

himself to remove the skin and set a good quantity of the venison to

cook; and the bread and the water in the jug was always standing on the

window-ledge for the madman to make a meal. Thus he had something to eat

and drink: venison without salt or pepper, and good cool water from the

spring. And the good man exerted himself to sell the hide and buy bread

made of barley, or oats, or of some other grain; so, after that, Yvain

had a plentiful supply of bread and venison, which sufficed him for

a long time, until one day he was found asleep in the forest by two

damsels and their mistress, in whose service they were. When they saw

the naked man, one of the three ran and dismounted and examined him

closely, before she saw anything about him which would serve to identify

him. If he had only been richly attired, as he had been many a time, and

if she could have seen him then she would have known him quickly enough.

But she was slow to recognise him, and continued to look at him until

at last she noticed a scar which he had on his face, and she recollected

that my lord Yvain's face was scarred in this same way; she was sure of

it, for she had often seen it. Because of the scar she saw that it was

he beyond any doubt; but she marvelled greatly how it came about that

she found him thus poor and stripped. Often she crosses herself in

amazement, but she does not touch him or wake him up; rather does

she mount her horse again, and going back to the others, tells them

tearfully of her adventure. I do not know if I ought to delay to tell

you of the grief she showed; but thus she spoke weeping to her mistress:

"My lady, I have found Yvain, who has proved himself to be the best

knight in the world, and the most virtuous. I cannot imagine what sin

has reduced the gentleman to such a plight. I think he must have had

some misfortune, which causes him thus to demean himself, for one may

lose his wits through grief. And any one can see that he is not in his

right mind, for it would surely never be like him to conduct himself

thus indecently unless he had lost his mind. Would that God had restored

to him the best sense he ever had, and would that he might then consent

to render assistance to your cause! For Count Alier, who is at war with

you, has made upon you a fierce attack. I should see the strife between

you two quickly settled in your favour if God favoured your fortunes

so that he should return to his senses and undertake to aid you in this

stress." To this the lady made reply: "Take care now! For surely, if he

does not escape, with God's help I think we can clear his head of all

the madness and insanity. But we must be on our way at once! For I

recall a certain ointment with which Morgan the Wise presented me,

saying there was no delirium of the head which it would not cure."

Thereupon, they go off at once toward the town, which was hard by, for

it was not any more than half a league of the kind they have in that

country; and, as compared with ours, two of their leagues make one and

four make two. And he remains sleeping all alone, while the lady goes

to fetch the ointment. The lady opens a case of hers, and, taking out a

box, gives it to the damsel, and charges her not to be too prodigal in

its use: she should rub only his temples with it, for there is no use of

applying it elsewhere; she should anoint only his temples with it, and

the remainder she should carefully keep, for there is nothing the matter

with him except in his brain. She sends him also a robe of spotted fur,

a coat, and a mantle of scarlet silk. The damsel takes them, and leads

in her right hand an excellent palfrey. And she added to these, of her

own store, a shirt, some soft hose, and some new drawers of proper cut.

With all these things she quickly set out, and found him still asleep

where she had left him. After putting her horse in an enclosure where

she tied him fast, she came with the clothes and the ointment to the

place where he was asleep. Then she made so bold as to approach the

madman, so that she could touch and handle him: then taking the

ointment she rubbed him with it until none remained in the box, being

so solicitous for his recovery that she proceeded to anoint him all over

with it; and she used it so freely that she heeded not the warning of

her mistress, nor indeed did she remember it. She put more on than was

needed, but in her opinion it was well employed. She rubbed his temples

and forehead, and his whole body down to the ankles. She rubbed his

temples and his whole body so much there in the hot sunshine that the

madness and the depressing gloom passed completely out of his brain. But

she was foolish to anoint his body, for of that there was no need. If

she had had five measures of it she would doubtless have done the same

thing. She carries off the box, and takes hidden refuge by her horse.

But she leaves the robe behind, wishing that, if God calls him back to

life, he may see it all laid out, and may take it and put it on. She

posts herself behind an oak tree until he had slept enough, and was

cured and quite restored, having regained his wits and memory. Then he

sees that he is as naked as ivory, and feels much ashamed; but he would

have been yet more ashamed had he known what had happened. As it is, he

knows nothing but that he is naked. He sees the new robe lying before

him, and marvels greatly how and by what adventure it had come there.

But he is ashamed and concerned, because of his nakedness, and says that

he is dead and utterly undone if any one has come upon him there and

recognised him. Meanwhile, he clothes himself and looks out into the

forest to see if any one was approaching. He tries to stand up and

support himself, but cannot summon the strength to walk away, for his

sickness has so affected him that he can scarcely stand upon his feet.

Thereupon, the damsel resolves to wait no longer, but, mounting, she

passed close by him, as if unaware of his presence. Quite indifferent as

to whence might come the help, which he needed so much to lead him away

to some lodging-place, where he might recruit his strength, he calls out

to her with all his might. And the damsel, for her part, looks about

her as if not knowing what the trouble is. Confused, she goes hither and

thither, not wishing to go straight up to him. Then he begins to call

again: "Damsel, come this way, here!" And the damsel guided toward him

her soft-stepping palfrey. By this ruse she made him think that she knew

nothing of him and had never seen him before; in so doing she was wise

and courteous. When she had come before him, she said: "Sir knight, what

do you desire that you call me so insistently?" "Ah," said he, "prudent

damsel, I have found myself in this wood by some mishap--I know not

what. For God's sake and your belief in Him, I pray you to lend me,

taking my word as pledge, or else to give me outright, that palfrey

you are leading in your hand." "Gladly, sire: but you must accompany me

whither I am going." "Which way?" says he. "To a town that stands near

by, beyond the forest." "Tell me, damsel, if you stand in need of me."

"Yes," she says, "I do; but I think you are not very well. For the next

two weeks at least you ought to rest. Take this horse, which I hold in

my right hand, and we shall go to our lodging-place." And he, who had no

other desire, takes it and mounts, and they proceed until they come to a

bridge over a swift and turbulent stream. And the damsel throws into the

water the empty box she is carrying, thinking to excuse herself to her

mistress for her ointment by saying that she was so unlucky as to let

the box fall into the water for, when her palfrey stumbled under her,

the box slipped from her gasp, and she came near falling in too, which

would have been still worse luck. It is her intention to invent this

story when she comes into her mistress' presence. Together they held

their way until they came to the town, where the lady detained my lord

Yvain and asked her damsel in private for her box and ointment: and the

damsel repeated to her the lie as she had invented it, not daring to

tell her the truth. Then the lady was greatly enraged, and said: "This

is certainly a very serious loss, and I am sure and certain that the

box will never be found again. But since it has happened so, there is

nothing more to be done about it. One often desires a blessing which

turns out to be a curse; thus I, who looked for a blessing and joy from

this knight, have lost the dearest and most precious of my possessions.

However, I beg you to serve him in all respects." "Ah, lady, how wisely

now you speak! For it would be too bad to convert one misfortune into

two."

(Vv. 3131-3254.) Then they say no more about the box, but minister in

every way they can to the comfort of my lord Yvain, bathing him and

washing his hair, having him shaved and clipped, for one could have

taken up a fist full of hair upon his face. His every want is satisfied:

if he asks for arms, they are furnished him: if he wants a horse, they

provide him with one that is large and handsome, strong and spirited.

He stayed there until, upon a Tuesday, Count Alier came to the town with

his men and knights, who started fires and took plunder. Those in the

town at once rose up and equipped themselves with arms. Some armed and

some unarmed, they issued forth to meet the plunderers, who did not

deign to retreat before them, but awaited them in a narrow pass. My lord

Yvain struck at the crowd; he had had so long a rest that his strength

was quite restored, and he struck a knight upon his shield with such

force that he sent down in a heap, I think, the knight together with his

horse. The knight never rose again, for his backbone was broken and

his heart burst within his breast. My lord Yvain drew back a little to

recover. Then protecting himself completely with his shield, he spurred

forward to clear the pass. One could not have counted up to four before

one would have seen him cast down speedily four knights. Whereupon,

those who were with him waxed more brave, for many a man of poor and

timid heart, at the sight of some brave man who attacks a dangerous task

before his eyes, will be overwhelmed by confusion and shame, which will

drive out the poor heart in his body and give him another like to a

hero's for courage. So these men grew brave and each stood his ground in

the fight and attack. And the lady was up in the tower, whence she saw

the fighting and the rush to win and gain possession of the pass, and

she saw lying upon the ground many who were wounded and many killed,

both of her own party and of the enemy, but more of the enemy than of

her own. For my courteous, bold, and excellent lord Yvain made them

yield just as a falcon does the teal. And the men and women who had

remained within the town declared as they watched the strife: "Ah, what

a valiant knight! How he makes his enemies yield, and how fierce is his

attack! He was about him as a lion among the fallow deer, when he is

impelled by need and hunger. Then, too, all our other knights are more

brave and daring because of him, for, were it not for him alone, not a

lance would have been splintered nor a sword drawn to strike. When such

an excellent man is found he ought to be loved and dearly prized. See

now how he proves himself, see how he maintains his place, see how he

stains with blood his lance and bare sword, see how he presses the enemy

and follows them up, how he comes boldly to attack them, then gives

away and turns about; but he spends little time in giving away, and soon

returns to the attack. See him in the fray again, how lightly he esteems

his shield, which he allows to be cut in pieces mercilessly. Just see

how keen he is to avenge the blows which are dealt at him. For, if some

one should use all the forest of Argone [319] to make lances for him,

I guess he would have none left by night. For he breaks all the lances

that they place in his socket, and calls for more. And see how he

wields the sword when he draws it! Roland never wrought such havoc with

Durendal against the Turks at Ronceval or in Spain! [320] If he had in

his company some good companions like himself, the traitor, whose attack

we are suffering, would retreat today discomfited, or would stand his

ground only to find defeat." Then they say that the woman would be

blessed who should be loved by one who is so powerful in arms, and who

above all others may be recognised as a taper among candles, as a moon

among the stars, and as the sun above the moon. He so won the hearts of

all that the prowess which they see in him made them wish that he had

taken their lady to wife, and that he were master of the land.

(Vv. 3255-3340.) Thus men and women alike praised him, and in doing so

they but told the truth. For his attack on his adversaries was such

that they vie with one another in flight. But he presses hard upon their

heels, and all his companions follow him, for by his side they feel

as safe as if they were enclosed in a high and thick stone wall.

The pursuit continues until those who flee become exhausted, and the

pursuers slash at them and disembowel their steeds. The living roll

over upon the dead as they wound and kill each other. They work dreadful

destruction upon each other; and meanwhile the Count flees with my

lord Yvain after him, until he comes up with him at the foot of a steep

ascent, near the entrance of a strong place which belonged to the Count.

There the Count was stopped, with no one near to lend him aid; and

without any excessive parley my lord Yvain received his surrender. For

as soon as he held him in his hands, and they were left just man to

man, there was no further possibility of escape, or of yielding, or of

self-defence; so the Count pledged his word to go to surrender to the

lady of Noroison as her prisoner, and to make such peace as she might

dictate. And when he had accepted his word he made him disarm his head

and remove the shield from about his neck, and the Count surrendered to

him his sword. Thus he won the honour of leading off the Count as his

prisoner, and of giving him over to his enemies, who make no secret of

their joy. But the news was carried to the town before they themselves

arrived. While all come forth to meet them, the lady herself leads the

way. My lord Yvain holds his prisoner by the hand, and presents him to

her. The Count gladly acceded to her wishes and demands, and secured

her by his word, oath, and pledges. Giving her pledges, he swears to her

that he will always live on peaceful terms with her, and will make good

to her all the loss which she can prove, and will build up again the

houses which he had destroyed. When these things were agreed upon in

accordance with the lady's wish, my lord Yvain asked leave to depart.

But she would not have granted him this permission had he been willing

to take her as his mistress, or to marry her. But he would not allow

himself to be followed or escorted a single step, but rather departed

hastily: in this case entreaty was of no avail. So he started out to

retrace his path, leaving the lady much chagrined, whose joy he had

caused a while before. When he will not tarry longer she is the more

distressed and ill at ease in proportion to the happiness he had brought

to her, for she would have wished to honour him, and would have made

him, with his consent, lord of all her possessions, or else she would

have paid him for his services whatever sum he might have named. But he

would not heed any word of man or woman. Despite their grief he left the

knights and the lady who vainly tried to detain him longer.

(Vv. 3341-3484.) Pensively my lord Yvain proceeded through a deep wood,

until he heard among the trees a very loud and dismal cry, and he turned

in the direction whence it seemed to come. And when he had arrived upon

the spot he saw in a cleared space a lion, and a serpent which held

him by the tail, burning his hind-quarters with flames of fire. My lord

Yvain did not gape at this strange spectacle, but took counsel with

himself as to which of the two he should aid. Then he says that he will

succour the lion, for a treacherous and venomous creature deserves to

be harmed. Now the serpent is poisonous, and fire bursts forth from its

mouth--so full of wickedness is the creature. So my lord Yvain decides

that he will kill the serpent first. Drawing his sword he steps forward,

holding the shield before his face in order not to be harmed by the

flame emerging from the creature's throat, which was larger than a pot.

If the lion attacks him next, he too shall have all the fight he wishes;

but whatever may happen afterwards he makes up his mind to help him now.

For pity urges him and makes request that he should bear succour and aid

to the gentle and noble beast. With his sword, which cuts so clean, he

attacks the wicked serpent, first cleaving him through to the earth and

cutting him in two, then continuing his blows until he reduces him to

tiny bits. But he had to cut off a piece of the lion's tail to get at

the serpent's head, which held the lion by the tail. He cut off only so

much as was necessary and unavoidable. When he had set the lion free, he

supposed that he would have to fight with him, and that the lion would

come at him; but the lion was not minded so. Just hear now what the

lion did! He acted nobly and as one well-bred; for he began to make

it evident that he yielded himself to him, by standing upon his two

hind-feet and bowing his face to the earth, with his fore-feet joined

and stretched out toward him. Then he fell on his knees again, and all

his face was wet with the tears of humility. My lord Yvain knows for a

truth that the lion is thanking him and doing him homage because of the

serpent which he had killed, thereby delivering him from death. He was

greatly pleased by this episode. He cleaned his sword of the serpent's

poison and filth; then he replaced it in its scabbard, and resumed his

way. And the lion walks close by his side, unwilling henceforth to part

from him: he will always in future accompany him, eager to serve and

protect him. [321] He goes ahead until he scents in the wind upon his

way some wild beasts feeding; then hunger and his nature prompt him to

seek his prey and to secure his sustenance. It is his nature so to do.

He started ahead a little on the trail, thus showing his master that he

had come upon and detected the odour and scent of some wild game.

Then he looks at him and halts, wishing to serve his every wish, and

unwilling to proceed against his will. Yvain understands by his attitude

that he is showing that he awaits his pleasure. He perceives this and

understands that if he holds back he will hold back too, and that if he

follows him he will seize the game which he has scented. Then he incites

and cries to him, as he would do to hunting-dogs. At once the lion

directed his nose to the scent which he had detected, and by which he

was not deceived, for he had not gone a bow-shot when he saw in a valley

a deer grazing all alone. This deer he will seize, if he has his way.

And so he did, at the first spring, and then drank its blood still warm.

When he had killed it he laid it upon his back and carried it back to

his master, who thereupon conceived a greater affection for him, and

chose him as a companion for all his life, because of the great devotion

he found in him. It was near nightfall now, and it seemed good to him

to spend the night there, and strip from the deer as much as he cared to

eat. Beginning to carve it he splits the skin along the rib, and taking

a steak from the loin he strikes from a flint a spark, which he catches

in some dry brush-wood; then he quickly puts his steak upon a roasting

spit to cook before the fire, and roasts it until it is quite cooked

through. But there was no pleasure in the meal, for there was no bread,

or wine, or salt, or cloth, or knife, or anything else. While he was

eating, the lion lay at his feet; nor a movement did he make, but

watched him steadily until he had eaten all that he could eat of the

steak. What remained of the deer the lion devoured, even to the bones.

And while all night his master laid his head upon his shield to gain

such rest as that afforded, the lion showed such intelligence that he

kept awake, and was careful to guard the horse as it fed upon the grass,

which yielded some slight nourishment.

(Vv. 3485-3562.) In the morning they go off together, and the same sort

of existence, it seems, as they had led that night, they two continued

to lead all the ensuing week, until chance brought them to the spring

beneath the pine-tree. There my lord Yvain almost lost his wits a second

time, as he approached the spring, with its stone and the chapel that

stood close by. So great was his distress that a thousand times he

sighed "alas!" and grieving fell in a swoon; and the point of his sharp

sword, falling from its scabbard, pierced the meshes of his hauberk

right in the neck beside the cheek. There is not a mesh that does not

spread, and the sword cuts the flesh of his neck beneath the shining

mail, so that it causes the blood to start. Then the lion thinks that

he sees his master and companion dead. You never heard greater grief

narrated or told about anything than he now began to show. He casts

himself about, and scratches and cries, and has the wish to kill himself

with the sword with which he thinks his master has killed himself.

Taking the sword from him with his teeth he lays it on a fallen tree,

and steadies it on a trunk behind, so that it will not slip or give

way, when he hurls his breast against it, His intention was nearly

accomplished when his master recovered from his swoon, and the lion

restrained himself as he was blindly rushing upon death, like a wild

boar heedless of where he wounds himself. Thus my lord Yvain lies in

a swoon beside the stone, but, on recovering, he violently reproached

himself for the year during which he had overstayed his leave, and

for which he had incurred his lady's hate, and he said: "Why does this

wretch not kill himself who has thus deprived himself of joy? Alas! why

do I not take my life? How can I stay here and look upon what belongs

to my lady? Why does the soul still tarry in my body? What is the soul

doing in so miserable a frame? If it had already escaped away it would

not be in such torment. It is fitting to hate and blame and despise

myself, even as in fact I do. Whoever loses his bliss and contentment

through fault or error of his own ought to hate himself mortally. He

ought to hate and kill himself. And now, when no one is looking on, why

do I thus spare myself? Why do I not take my life? Have I not seen this

lion a prey to such grief on my behalf that he was on the point just now

of thrusting my sword through his breast? And ought I to fear death who

have changed happiness into grief? Joy is now a stranger to me. Joy?

What joy is that? I shall say no more of that, for no one could speak of

such a thing; and I have asked a foolish question. That was the greatest

joy of all which was assured as my possession, but it endured for but

a little while. Whoever loses such joy through his own misdeed is

undeserving of happiness."