SAN DIEGO
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MARIE DE FRANCE
(>//('^'
{preface
The popularity of Marie de France in her
own time was due largely to the fact that
she was so entirely in the drift of the literary
tendencies of that day. When these had
exhausted themselves, she was for centuries
almost completely forgotten. During the
past hundred years she has been edited,
criticised and translated by French and
German scholars ; but her Lays, with two
or three exceptions, have remained almost
unknown in English.
This fact is the stranger since, in addition
to their vivid pictures of perhaps the most
attractive period of the Middle Ages, and
to a certain charm in the narration, due
partly to Celtic origin, partly to Marie her-
self, the Layshsive an elementof "humanity,"
that is, of appeal to human experience^ that
seems to make them worth bringing before
a wider circle of readers than those who are
familiar with twelfth-century French.
In translating, I have endeavoured to
keep to the original modes of thought and
ways of speech as far as is consistent with
a reasonably idiomatic use of modern Eng-
lish; but Marie's language is at once so
archaic and so simple, at times almost collo-
quial, that the way of the translator is hard
vii
preface
and craves wary walking. And hence, if I
have departed unduly from the modern
idiom or from the text, or " if any one under-
stand it better than " I could, this must be
my plea.
I have added a general introduction on
Marie's life and work, and separate intro-
ductions to the notes on each lay, dealing
with the sources, as far as they have been
discovered, for the use of students who may
not have access to the materials.
Thanks are due to various friends for
criticisms upon the translation ; and espe-
cially to Mr. Alfred Nutt for this, as well as
for suggestions in regard to the sources.
With the hope that these tales " of old
unhappy far off things " may find friends
among English readers, as they have found
admirers in their old French form, this
little volume has been prepared.
Mid Yell, Shetland Isles,
August 6, 1901,
vni
PROLOGUE
E to whom God has granted
wisdom and eloquence in
speech ought not to hide
these gifts in silence, but
gladly to make use of
them ; for when a goodly-
thing is much talked of,
then first is it in blossom,
and when it is praised of many, then only
has it unfolded its flowers.
Priscian tells us that it was the custom of
the ancients to speak obscurely in their books,
that men of later days, who should learn
them, might employ the whole resources
of their wit in expounding the text, for
the philosophers knew by their own experi-
ence that the more folk gave their time to
this, the more subtle of wit they would
become, and hence the better able to guard
against that which should be avoided. And,
indeed, if any one would keep himself from
sin, he should study and learn and undertake
a wearisome task ; in this way he may spare
himself great sorrow.
This is how I came to think of trans-
lating some good history from Latin into
Romance ; but so many others have under-
taken to do this that it would have been no
(M[tatie be Stance
credit to me. Then I bethought me of
the lays that I had heard. I knew well,
beyond a doubt, that they who first made
them and sent them into the world did this
in remembrance of the adventures they had
heard ; and, as I have heard many of them
told and would not have them forgotten,
I have rhymed them into verses — and many
a night have I waked over it !
In honour of you, noble King, most
excellent and gracious, to whom all joy
does homage, and in whose heart all good
has root, I have set about gathering lays,
and retelling them in rhyme. I said in my
heart, sire, that I would offer them to you ;
and if it pleases you to accept them, you
will give me such great joy that I shall be
glad ever after. Think me not overbold
in offering you this gift !
Now hearken, and I will begin :
GUIGEMAR
NE who is treatingof good
matter is troubled if it
be not well done ; but
hearken, lords, to Marie,
who uses her time as well
as she may. Such an
one, who is talked of for
her good work, ought to
be praised of folk ; but, indeed, wherever
there is a man or woman of great fame,
those who are envious of her good work
often slander her, and with the intent to
lessen her fame play the part of a wretched,
cowardly dog, a cur that bites folk stealthily.
But I will not leave off for this, even though
backbiters and false flatterers work mischief
against me — for to speak ill is their nature.
I will tell you as shortly as I can the
stories that I know to be true, whereof the
Britons have made lays. And in the be-
ginning I will set before you as briefly as
possible, according to the letter of the writ-
ing, an adventure which befel in Britain-
the-Less, in days of old.
In that time Hoilas held the land, often
in peace and often in war. Among his
barons was a lord of L6on, called Oridials,
whom he loved especially. This worthy
7
(^atie ^e Stance
and valiant knight had by his wife two
children, a son and a fair daughter. The
damsel was named Noguent j and the lad,
who was the prettiest boy in all that realm,
Guigemar. His mother loved him to a
marvel, and his father set great store by
him.
Yet as soon as he could bear to part with
the lad, he sent him to serve the king at
court. Guigemar, being gentle and of good
wit, was soon beloved by all^ and when he
came to be of proper age and understanding,
the king dubbed him with due honours and
gave him arms at his will.
Thereupon Guigemar, after scattering
largesse freely, departed from the court and
went to Flanders, where there was always
strife and war, to win him glory. Neither
in Lorraine nor in Burgundy, in Anjou nor
in Gascony, at that time could be found his
peer among knights. Yet he perverted
nature in so far that he cared nothing for
love. There was no dame or damsel under
heaven, however noble or however fair, who
would not at his entreaty have yielded him
her love ; nay, more, many often sought
him, but he had no liking thereto. It did
not appear that he would have aught to
do with love ; hence, friends and strangers
alike held him to be in perilous case.
In the flower of his fame, the knight
returned to his own land, to visit his father
and his liege-lord, his good mother and his
sister, all of whom had greatly longed for
him ; and he tarried with them, I trow, a
whole month.
One evening the wish seized him to go
a-hunting, so he sent for his knights, his
hunters, and his beaters, and in the morning
went into the forest — for this sport pleased
him mightily !
They got track of a great stag ; the
dogs were uncoupled ; the hunters ran
forward; the young knight followed more
slowly, for a servant bore his bow and
quiver and hanger, and he wished to shoot,
if a chance offered, before he went further.
Presently he beheld in a thicket of dense
underbrush a hind with her fawn ; she was
all white and had the horns of a stag upon
her head. When at the brachet's baying
she came forth, he stretched his bow and
drew upon her, piercing her in the fore
part of the hoof so that she straightway
fell. But the arrow rebounded and pierced
his thigh even to the saddle, in such wise
9
(glatie be Stance
that it brought him quickly to the ground.
He fell to the earth on the soft grass beside
the wounded hind. She was hurt sorely, and
moaning with pain, spoke in this manner :
" Oi ! Alas ! I am slain ! and thou,
vassal, who hast wounded me, be thy fate
such that never shalt thou find cure. Be
it that neither herb nor root, nor the potion
of any leech, shall help thee of the wound
in thy thigh until thou art healed by a
woman, who for love of thee shall suffer
such pain and such sorrow as never woman
has had before ; and thou shalt bear as
much for her — whereat shall marvel all who
love, and have loved, and shall love ever after.
Get thee hence, and leave me in peace ! "
Guigemar,as he lay there sorely wounded,
was horror-struck at these words, and be-
thought him into what land he should go
for the healing of his wound, since he was
loth to die. He knew well enough, and
told himself, that never had he seen woman
whom he could love, who therefore should
heal him of his pain. But calling his
varlet he said :
" Friend, put spurs to thy horse and bid
my comrades return, for I would speak
with them."
lO
(Butgemar
The man spurred away ; and Guigemar,
though crying out for anguish, bound the
wound tightly with his tunic, then mounted
and rode on. In his fear that he might
meet some of his men to stop him, or at
least delay him, it seemed long ere he was
thence.
Midway through the forest a grassy road
led him out of the woodland ; and in the
plain below he beheld the banks and cliffs
of a river, an arm of the sea, which formed
there a harbour. In this was a single ship
of which he could see the mast. Right
seaworthy was that boat, so well pitched
within and without that no seam could be
found ; all its pegs and fittings were of
ebony, as precious as any gold under heaven,
and its unfurled sail was of most lovely
silk.
The knight bethought him that he had
never heard tell of a ship landing in these
parts ; but none the less he advanced and
climbed down to the barque. Though
with grievous pain to his wound, he went
on board, thinking to find there those who
had charge of the ship; but he saw no one.
Amid the vessel he came upon a bed,
whereof the feet and sides were Solomon's
II
^arie be Stance
work, of cypress and white ivory inlaid
with gold. The quilt was of silk and
gold tissue ; the other fittings I scarcely
know how to praise ; but this much will I
tell you of the pillow : whoso placed his
head upon it should never have grey hair.
The coverlet was of sable and lined with
Alexandrian purple. In the prow of the
boat were set two candlesticks of fine gold
(the worse worth a treasure-hoard), in which
were two lighted tapers.
Marvelling greatly at all this, he lay
down upon the bed to rest a while, for his
wound pained him. But when he arose
presently to depart, he might not return,
for the vessel was speeding away with him
on the high seas, before a soft, favouring
wind, that left no hope of retreat. 'Tis
no marvel that he was anxious and ill at
ease, for his wound hurt him grievously
and he knew not what to do. Yet he
must go through with the adventure ; so,
praying God to keep watch over him, and
in His might to bring him to some haven
and save him from death, he lay down or
the bed again and fell asleep.
To-day he has borne the worst of his
destiny j before evensong he shall arrive
iz
(Buigemar
where he is to be healed, below the walls
of an ancient city, the capital of that
kingdom.
Now the lord who ruled this city was a
very old man, and had to wife a lady of
high lineage, gentle, courteous, fair and
discreet. But he was jealous out of all
measure, for so are all old men by nature,
each dreading mightily lest he be deceived
— 'tis the way of age !
No laughing matter was the watch that
he kept over her ! At the foot of the donjon
was a garden shut in on all sides. The
walls were of green marble, wondrous high
and thick, with but one entrance, and that
guarded night and day. On the fourth
side was the sea, so that none who must
needs to the castle might enter there, or
depart, save it were by boat.
Here within, this lord, for the safe-
keeping of his wife, had built the fairest
chamber under heaven, and at its entrance
a chapel. The room was all adorned with
paintings; and among other things was a
representation of Venus, the Goddess of
Love, showing the ways and nature of
love, how folk should hold fast to it, and
serve the goddess well and faithfully. She
13
(gEtatte be Stance
was casting into a blazing fire Ovid's book,
wherein he teaches men to eschew love;
and, furthermore, was cursing all who
should ever read that book or obey its
precepts.
In this chamber was the lady imprisoned.
Her husband placed with her, as attendant,
his niece, his sister's child, a maiden of
noble birth and breeding. Between these
two ladies was great love, and whenever
the lord was away, they were always
together until he returned. Besides this
damsel no other person entered within the
wall or issued thence, save an old priest,
grey and ripe of years, who had the key
of the postern and went in to read God's
service before the lady, and to wait upon
her at table.
This self-same day, in the early afternoon,
the lady, attended by her maiden, went
into the garden. She had been sleeping
after her mid-day meal, and now went out
to amuse herself. Looking down towards
the sea, they beheld a ship breasting the
flood and sailing into the harbour, yet
saw no means whereby it was conveyed
thither.
The lady, blushing rosily, turned to
H
(Buigemat
flee — 'tis no marvel that she was afraid —
but the damsel, who was quick-witted and
bolder of heart, comforted her and reassured
her so that they soon went down together.
The maiden, putting aside her mantle,
entered the wondrous skiff, but found
therein no living creature save the sleeping
knight. She paused there and looked at
him, and, seeing him all pale, believed
that he was dead. So she went back and
quickly called her lady, telling her what
she had seen, with piteous lament for the
dead.
The lady answered: " Let us go to him.
If he is dead our priest will help us to
bury him ; and if I find him alive he will
surely speak to us."
With no delay they passed down together
into the boat, the lady going first. When
she had entered the skiff, she paused before
the bed and gazed upon the knight, often
lamenting the fairness of his form, for it
seemed to her that his youth was come to
naught ; and she was sorrowful for him. But
when she put her hand on his breast she
felt it warm, and all sound the heart that
beat against his side. And thereupon the
sleeping knight waked and saw her, and
15
(glarie be Stance
greeted her with much joy, perceiving that
he was come to land. The lady, who had
been weeping sadly for him, answered him
with all kindness, and then asked him how
he had come, and from what land, and
whether he was exiled through war.
"By no means, lady," said he. " But if it
please you to hear my adventure, I will tell
it and hide nothing. I am of Britain-the-
Less, and to-day I went a-hunting in the
woods, where I shot a white hind. But
the arrow flew back and wounded me in
the thigh — and never may I hope to be
healed! The hind made moan and with
bitter curses spoke, vowing that never
should I have remedy save through a
maiden whom I know not where to find !
When I heard my fate I came at once
out of the wood, and seeing this vessel
entered therein (fool that I was !) and the
boat fled away with me ; I know not where
I am arrived, nor what is the name of this
city. Fair lady, for God's sake, I pray
you of your grace, give me counsel, for I
know not whither to go, nor can I steer
my skifF!"
She made answer : " Fair sir and dear,
gladly will I give you counsel. This city
i6
(Bufgemar
is my husband's, and all the land round
about. He is a mighty man of high
degree, but of age right ancient, and, by
my faith, bitterly jealous ! He has shut
me within this close with its one entrance,
where an old priest guards the door. May
God grant that he burn in hell-iire ! Here
am 1 imprisoned night and day; and never
at any time should I dare to go forth
unless he give me leave, or my lord summon
me. Here have I my chamber and my
chapel, and this maiden to serve me ; and
if it please you to tarry until you are better
able to journey, gladly will we entertain
you and serve you with good will !"
Upon these words the knight thanked
the lady sweetly, and said that he would
remain with her. Then he raised himself on
the bed, and they helped him as they could.
Thus they led him into the lady's
chamber, and placed him on the damsel's
bed, behind a rich tapestry which they
devised as a curtain in the room. In
basins of gold they brought water, and
bathed the wound in his thigh, first
staunching the blood with a fair cloth of
white linen ; then they bandaged it tightly,
dealing with him in all tenderness.
ir B
(Starie ^e Stance
When their supper came, at eventide,
the maiden kept enough for the knight
also, and he ate and drank heartily.
But Love had pierced him to the quick,
and set his heart in a tumult ; for the lady-
had so bewitched him that he quite forgot
his native land, and though he felt no
pain from his hurt, he sighed in sore
anguish, and begged the maiden, who was
to serve him, that she leave him alone to sleep.
So she went away to her lady, who was also
in some degree touched by the fire which
so enkindled and inflamed the knight's
heart.
He remained alone, pensive and heavy-
hearted, though not yet knowing why ;
still, he perceived well that if he were
not healed by this lady, his death was
assured.
"Alas!" said he, "what shall I do? I
will go to her and ask her to have mercy
and pity on this despairing wretch. If she
refuse my prayer, and be proud and cruel,
then must I either die or languish all my
life with this wound ! "
Thereupon he sighed; but in a little
while made a new resolve, even to bear
it, for so does he who can no better.
iS
(Buigemar
All that night he wakened, in sighing
and in sore trouble, remembering in his
heart her words and her manner, her
shining eyes and her sweet rnouth, that
had brought this sorrow into his heart !
Between his teeth he cried out for mercy —
almost called her his love !
If he had known how she too was over-
come by love he would have been right
glad, I trow ! Even a little relief would
have lessened somewhat the woe that made
him all pale.
But if he was suffering for love of her,
she indeed had no reason to boast. She
arose in the morning ere dawn, complaining
that love so overwhelmed her that she could
not sleep.
Her maiden knew well by her manner
that she loved this knight now tarrying in
her chamber until he should be healed ; but
she knew not whether he loved the lady or
no. So when the dame was gone to the
chapel, her maiden went and sat down by
the knight's bed, whereupon he called her^
saying :
" Friend, whither is my lady gone ? Why
is she arisen so early?" No more than this
he said, yet he sighed.
»9
(Jttarie be Stance
Said the damsel : " Sir, you are in love !
Now see to it that you hide it not over-
much. It may be that your love is well
bestowed. The man whom my lady
would love ought verily to hold her in
high honour ; yet, if you both should be
constant, your love would be most fitting,
for you are fair and she is fair ! "
He answered the maid : " I am so over-
come by love that I am surely undone,
unless I have succour or aid. Counsel me,
my sweet friend ! What shall I do with
this love ? "
She comforted him with great sweetness,
and assured him that she would aid him as
most she might ; for she was indeed
courteous and debonair.
When the lady had heard mass she came
back, yet could not forget. She was eager
to know how he did, whom she could not
cease to love, and whether he waked or slept.
And at once the damsel called her forth to
come to the knight that she might at
leisure show him all her heart, turn it to
weal or woe.
They greeted each other, shyly both.
He scarcely dared entreat her, for he was
a stranger, and feared that if he showed her
20
his trouble she might hate him and drive
him away. Yet he who shows not his
sickness may not be cured ! Love is a
wound within the heart ; and if it may not
win its way out, 'tis an ill that lasts long,
because it comes of Nature. Many hold it
a light thing, like these churls that call
themselves knights, who seek their own
pleasure through the world, then boast of
their evil deeds. This is not love, but
rather folly, sin, and lechery. Whoever
finds a true lover ought faithfully to serve
and love and obey him. Now Guigemar
loves so exceedingly, that, whether he is
destined to have speedy help or to live
against his will, love gives him courage to
lay bare his heart.
" Lady," he said, " I am dying for love
of you ! My heart is so tortured that
unless you will heal me I must verily die !
I would have you for my lady ; sweet, do
not say me nay ! "
When she had heard this, she answered
modestly, though all smiling : " Friend,
'twould be rather too soon to grant your
prayer ; I am not wont so to do ! "
" Lady," he pleaded, '' for God's sake, be
not angry at what I shall tell you ! 'Tis
21
(^]atie be Stance
well enough for a light woman to make
herself long entreated ; it will increase her
value to be thought unused to love. But
the pure-hearted woman, who is virtuous
and of good discretion, if she find a man to
her liking ought not to treat him too
haughtily before she consent to love him.
Before any one should know or hear of it,
they might have much joy together. Fair
lady, let us end this debate ! "
She knew that his words were true, and
granted him her love, whereupon he kissed
her and henceforth was well at ease, as
they dallied and spoke together, with kisses
and embraces. Surely it is fitting that they
should have a just share of what other folk
are wont to have !
'Tis my belief that Guigemar was with
her a year and a half, living in great joy.
But Fortune is not idle ; nay, in a little
while turns her wheel, putting one up and
another down. So it was with them, for
presently they were discovered.
One morning in the springtide, as the
lady lay beside her knight, she kissed his
lips and his face, saying : " Fair sweet love,
my heart tells me that I shall lose you -, we
shall be spied upon and discovered. If you
die, 1 would fain die ; but if you can escape
you may find another love, and I shall abide
desolate ! "
"Lady," said he, "no more of this.
Never should I have joy or peace with any
woman but yourself ! Have no fear ! "
"Friend, that I may be sure of this,
let me take your tunic and plait in it a fold
below the lappet in such wise that if any
woman can undo it, or know how to take
out the fold, her you may love with my
consent."
He gave it to her, with assurances of his
faith ; and she made the plait in such
manner that no woman could undo it,
unless she used force or knife.
And when she returned the tunic, he
took it upon the covenant that he might
also be assured of her by means of a girdle.
Whoso could open the buckle thereof,
without breaking it or injuring it, him
might she well love. Thereupon he kissed
her, and with that was content.
This very day they were observed and
discovered by a chamberlain of evil cunning,
whom his lord had sent thither to speak
with the lady. He might not enter into
the chamber, but he saw them through
23
(tttarie be Stance
a window, and returned to tell his
lord.
When the baron heard this he was more
sorrowful than ever before in his life. Call-
ing three of his trusty men, he went suddenly
to the chamber, and bade them break
down the door ; and when he found the
knight within, in his great fury told them
to slay him. Guigemar rose to his feet, no
whit a-dread. He seized in both hands a
great beam of pine, on which clothes
usually hung — so awaited them, thinking
to make them sorry one and all ; nay, to
cripple them, every man, ere they could
approach him !
The baron looked at him hard, then
asked him who he was, of what race, and
how he had come there within. Guigemar
told how he had arrived and how the lady
had kept him — told all his fate, of the
wounded hind, of the skifF, and of his own
hurt, confessing that now is he utterly in
the baron's power.
The lord answered that he did not
believe him ; yet if it were indeed as he had
said, and the boat could be found, let him
put it to sea again ; and if he were saved
'twere pity, but if he drowned, well.
24
(Butgemat
The knight assured him once more.
They went down together, found the vessel,
launched it, and it departed with Guigemar
to his own land.
The skifF stayed not at all, but floated
away, while the knight sighed and wept
for his lady, and prayed God Omnipotent
to grant him speedy death, and let him
never come to port unless he might have
his lady, whom he loved more than his life.
In this sorrow he continued until the vessel
had come to the harbour where first he had
found it, hard by his own domain.
Thereupon he disembarked at once, and
beheld a squire, whom he had nurtured,
riding after a knight and leading a horse.
Guigemar knew him and called him by
name ; and the lad, looking up and seeing
his liege lord, dismounted and offered
him the horse. They then went away
together.
Joyous were all Guigemar's friends at
his return, and held him in high honour
throughout the land ; but he was ever
sorrowful and distraught, and when they
urged him to marry refused utterly, saying
that never would he take wife either for
treasure or for love, unless she could
2S
(Starie ^e Stance
unplait the fold in his tunic without tearing
it. These tidingswent through allBrittany j
and there was neither dame nor damsel who
did not go thither to essay it, yet none could
undo it.
But now I must tell you of the lady
whom Guigemar loved so dearly. Her
husband, by the counsel of one of his
barons, imprisoned her in a tower of grey
marble, where ill was the day and the
night worse. No man in the world could
tell the great grief and the sorrow, the
anguish and the woe, that she suffered in
her tower for two years and more, I ween,
with no joy or pleasure whatsoever. Again
and again she made moan for her lover :
" O Guigemar, my lord, woe that ever I
saw you ! 'Tis better to die at once than
to bear long such sorrow as mine ! If only
I might escape, love, I would drown
myself even where you were cast into the
sea ! "
Thereupon she arose and in her despair
went to the door. Lo ! she found there
nor key nor lock ; by good fortune passed
out without hindrance, so came to the
harbour, and even as she was about to
drown herself, found the skiff fastened to a
26
rock. She entered therein, thinking only
how her lover had been drowned here -,
and as she remembered, she could no
longer stand, but even as she reached the
brink, stumbled and fell forward into the
boat. Heavy indeed was her sorrow and
grief !
The skiff floated away, and bore her
quickly thence to a port in Brittany, below
a strong and splendid castle.
Now the lord of this castle, who was
called Meriadus, was making war on one
of his neighbours, and arose in the morning
betimes to send out his men to attack his
foe. He was standing by the window and
saw the skiff arrive ; and thereupon, calling
his chamberlain, he descended the stairs
and came at once to the vessel. They
climbed aboard by means of a ladder, and
found within the lady, who was lovely as a fay.
He took her up in her mantle and bore her
with him to his castle, greatly rejoicing in
his treasure-trove, for she was fair beyond
the telling. Whoever had put her in the
skiff, Meriadus knew well that she was
of gentle birth, and straightway loved her
with such love that never had any woman
greater.
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(Jtlarie ^e Stance
He commended her to his sister, who
was a right fair maid. She took the lady
into her bower, where she was well served
and honoured, richly arrayed and adorned ;
but yet she was ever pensive and mournful.
The lord himself went often to speak
with her, for he loved her with fair intent ;
yet much as he sought her, she never took
heed save to show him the girdle, saying
that she would love only him who could
undo it without breaking. Hearing this,
he answered with ill humour :
" Likewise there is in this land a knight
of great renown, who saves himself from
taking wife, by means of a plait in the right
lappet of his tunic, which may not be un-
done unless knife or force be put to it.
You have made that plait, I trow ! "
At these words she sighed and almost
swooned, whereupon he caught her in his
arms, severed the lace of her robe, and strove
to unclasp the girdle, but might not suc-
ceed. Afterwards was there no knight in
that land, whom he did not make to essay it.
Thus matters stood for a long time until
it befel that Meriadus entered into a tour-
nament with his enemy. And so he sum-
moned many knights, and first among them
28
(Buigemar
Guigemar, to whom he offered guerdon if
he would stand by him in this stour, and
would bring friends and comrades to succour
him. Hence Guigemar went thither in
rich array, taking more than an hundred
knights.
Meriadus entertained him with great
honour in his castle. He sent word by two
knights to his sister that she should attire
herself duly and come forth to meet the
guest, and bring also the lady whom he
loved so well ; and she did as he com-
manded.
In their splendid attire they came hand
in hand into the hall. And when this pale
and pensive lady heard Guigemar's name
she could scarce stand ; indeed, if the other
had not held her she would have fallen to
the floor.
The knight rose to meet them, but when
he saw the lady, studied her face and her
bearing, and drew back a little, saying to
himself:
" Is this my sweet friend, my hope, my
heart, my life, my dear lady who loves me ?
Whence is she come ? Who brought her
hither ? Now verily I am thinking non-
sense, for I know well that it cannot be she
29
(gtaifie be Stance
— women are much alike ! My thoughts
are stirred in vain, because this woman only
resembles her for whom my heart longs and
sighs. Yet will I speak to her gladly ! "
Then he advanced and kissed her, and
sat down by her side, though he spoke no
word beyond asking leave to sit there.
Meriadus watched them, sorely troubled
at their looks, yet said to Guigemar, with
a laugh :
" Sir, so please you, this damsel will essay
to unplait your tunic, if perchance she may
succeed."
He answered, " I grant this," and calling
the chamberlain, who had charge of the
tunic, bade him bring it. But when it was
given to the maiden in no wise might she
undo it.
The lady knew the fold well, and her
heart beat wildly for her eagerness to make
the essay, if she might, or dared. Meriadus
perceiving this, was sorrowful as never
before, yet said :
" Dame, do you now try if you can un-
plait it."
When she heard this command, she took
hold of the lappet of the tunic, and undid
it easily.
30
(Butgemat
The knight marvelled, for, though he
knew her well, he could not bring himself
to believe fully, and spoke to her in this wise :
" Love, sweet thing, is it you ? Tell
me truly ! Let me see the girdle where-
with I girt you."
Putting his arms about her, he felt the
girdle, and said further :
"Sweet, what a strange chance that I
have found you thus ! Who brought you
hither ? "
She told him all the sorrow and the an-
guish and the woe of the prison where she
had been, how at length she had escaped
and would have drowned herself, but
chanced upon the skiff, entered it, and was
borne away to this castle. Here the knight
had maintained her in great honour, though
he was always seeking her love — but now
is all her joy returned ! " Friend, take
away your lady ! "
Guigemar rose to his feet and said :
" Hearken to me, sir. I have found here
my dear lady whom I thought to have lost.
I ask and implore you, Meriadus, of your
mercy to give her up to me, and I will be-
come your liegeman and serve you two years
or three with an hundred knights or more."
31
(Slarie be Stance
Then Meriadus answered : " Guigemar,
my good friend, I am no longer so oppressed
or burdened by any war that you should
ask this of me. I found the lady and I
will keep her ; and, moreover, I will main-
tain my right to her against you in com-
bat ! "
When Guigemar heard this he called
his men to horse and rode away with a
challenge, though it grieved him sorely to
leave his lady.
All the knights in the town, who had
come thither to the tournament, followed
Guigemar, pledging him their faith to go
whithersoever he went — 'twere great shame
if any failed him now. That same night
they arrived at the castle which Meriadus
was attacking. The lord of this was joyful
and glad to harbour them ; for he knew
well that with the aid of Guigemar his
war was ended.
On the morrow they rose betimes, armed
themselves in their lodgings, and issued
forth from the town with great clangor,
Guigemar at their head. Finding that the
castle was too strong to be taken by assault,
they laid siege to it, for Guigemar would
not turn hence until he had captured it. His
32
friends and followers grew ever in strength
until at last they reduced those within
by hunger, seized and destroyed the castle,
and slew its lord.
And with great joy Guigemar took away
his lady, for now is all his woe overpassed.
Of this story which you have heard was
made the Lay of Guigemar. Folk tell it to
the harp and to the rote ; and the music
of it is sweet to hear.
33
I
«l
THE ASH TREE
WILL tell you the Lay
of the Ash Tree^ even
as I know it.
Long ago there dwelt
in Brittany two knights
hard by each other.
They were rich and of
good estate, worthy and
valiant men ; kinsmen too they were and of
one land. Each had married him a wife.
One of the dames in due course had
twin-sons ; whereupon her lord was blithe
and merry, and for the joy that he had, sent
his good neighbour tidings how his wife
had two sons, one of whom should be sent
him for fosterage, and should bear his name.
Now as this other knight was sitting at
dinner, lo ! the messenger entered, and
kneeling before the daYs, delivered his tidings,
for which the lord thanked God, and gave
the bearer a good horse.
But the lady laughed as she sat by her
husband at table, for she was false and
proud-hearted, evil of speech and full of
envy. Right foolishly she talked, saying
in the presence of all her folk :
"So help me God, I marvel that this
good man has been so ill-advised as to send
37
OQHatte be Stcince
my lord word of his dishonour, in that his
wife has had twin-children. They are alike
put to shame in this thing, for we know well
that it never could befall a virtuous woman ;
it never was, nor ever shall come to pass ! "
Her husband, who was watching her,
chid her sternly. "Wife," he said, "let be !
You should not speak thus, for truly the
lady has always been of good report."
These words were marked by the folk
of the household, and were soon spread
abroad through all Brittany, so that the
foolish dame was much despised, especially
by women, both rich and poor. And after-
wards grievous misfortune came upon her
because of her folly !
The messenger told his lord what had
happened ; and he, hearing the tale, was
sorrowful and knew not what to do. But
he began to hate his good wife and sorely to
mistrust her, and so kept her inclose durance,
although she was in no wise to blame.
Yet within the year was she avenged.
This same neighbour who had spoken so
ill, herself became the mother of twin-
daughters. And because of this she had
bitter grief, and bewailed herself, saying :
" Alas ! what shall I do ? Now verily
38
t^e (3:00 tree
am I put to shame, and never again shall
be held in honour 1 My husband and my
kinsmen — surely they will lose all faith in
me when they hear of this mischance ! I
judged myself in speaking ill against all
women, when I said that it never happened
— nor have we seen such a thing ! — that a
virtuous woman might have twin-children.
Yet have I two, and, I trow, no worse thing
could befall me ! He who slanders another,
and speaks falsely against him, knows not
what may hang over his own head ; hence,
one should speak of his neighbour only
when he can praise. To save my good
name I must put to death one of the
babes, for it is easier to do penance before
God than to be dishonoured in the sight of
men ! "
Her chamberwomen consoled her as they
could, but declared that they should not
permit this deed ; for murder is no light
thing ! But one of them, a maiden of
gentle birth, whom for a long time the
lady had fostered and cherished with all
tenderness, was much distressed to behold
her grief and to hear her sorrowful lamenta-
tions, and came to comfort her.
" Lady," she said, " this is to no purpose ;
39
QJtatie ^e Stance
you will do better to make an end of your
sorrowing. Give me one of the babes —
so ! To spare you shame I will take it
away, and you shall never see it again. I will
bear it all safe and sound to a monastery,
and leave it where some good man may
find it, and, please God, take it to foster."
The lady hearing this, was joyful, and
promised the damsel fair guerdon for doing
her this service. They wrapped the gentle
babe in a piece of fine linen, and put over
this a spangled silk of wondrous beauty
that the knight had brought back from
Constantinople when he was there. More-
over, with a strip of her girdle, the lady
tied to the child's arm a heavy ring, as
much as an ounce of pure gold, the circlet
being engraved and set with a ruby. This
she did that whosoever found the little maid
might know that she was born of high
folk.
Then the damsel took the babe and went
forth from the chamber. And when the
darkness of evening had fallen, she set out
from the village by a highway leading into
the forest. Straight through the wood she
went, never once leaving the highway, and
came out safely with the child. Presently
40
t^e ($66 tree
she heard far off to the right the barking
of dogs and crowing of cocks ; and in this
direction she turned her steps, hoping to
come upon a village. And after a while she
entered one that seemed fair and thriving,
in which she found an exceeding rich and
well-appointed abbey, where, as I know
well, lived nuns and the abbess who ruled
them.
When the maiden saw the monastery,
with its towers, its walls, and its belfry, she
went quickly up to the gate, and laying
down before it the child that she carried,
made her orison :
" O God," she prayed, " by Thy Holy
Name, Lord, if it be Thy will, save this
little one from death ! "
When she had ended her prayer, she
looked behind her and saw a spreading ash
tree, dense with boughs and branches,
which had been planted there for shade.
So, taking the child in her arms again, she
came running thither and put the little one
within the tree where the trunk split into
four forks. Then, commending it to God,
she returned and told her lady what she had
done.
In this abbey was a porter, whose duty
41
(gtarie ^e Stance
it was to open the outer gate of the monas-
tery when folk came to hear the service.
On this self-same night he rose betimes,
lighted candles and lamps, and rang the
bells. When he opened the gate he spied
the garments on the ash tree, and supposed
that some one had taken them in theft and
had hidden them there — he had no thought
of anything else.
He went thither faster than he well
could, reached up and found the child ;
whereupon not having the heart to leave
it there, he thanked God and carried it
home to his dwelling.
With him lived his daughter, a widow,
who had a little babe in the cradle, still
unweaned. Her the good man roused,
calling :
" Come, daughter, rise now, and light
fire and candle. I have brought in a
child that I found outside in the ash
tree. Give it some milk, warm it, and
bathe it ! "
She at his bidding lighted the fire and
took the little one, warmed it, bathed it,
and gave it milk. And when they had
looked upon the rich and beautiful mantle,
and had found the ring on the httle arm,
42
t^e ®65 tree
they knew well enough that the child was
born of great folk.
On the morrow, after the service, when
the abbess came out of the church, the
porter went up to tell her of the babe that
he had found ; and was straightway com-
manded to bring it to her, just as it was
when he found it.
The porter went home and took the
babe gladly to show his lady. And when
she had looked at it hard for a while, she
said that she would take it to foster and
give out that it was her niece. Moreover,
she forbade the porter to tell how the
matter really stood.
So the abbess herself reared the child,
and called her, because she had been found
in the ash tree, Le Fraisne^ and by this
name she came to be known.
Thus for a long time she remained
concealed, being nurtured within the mon-
astery-close as the niece of the abbess.
When she was seven years old, she was a
fair maid and tall for her age ; and as soon
as she was old enough to understand reason,
the abbess, who loved her with all tender-
ness and clad her richly, had her well in-
structed. By the time that she came to
43
QJtarte be Sv^^nce
the age of beauty, she was the fairest
damsel and the most courteous in all
Brittany. So lovely was she and so man-
nerly, both in bearing and in speech, that
all who beheld her loved her and praised
marvellously j and great lords came to the
abbess, asking leave to see and to speak
with her fair niece.
Now there was a certain lord of Dol,
named Gurun — the best seigneur indeed
that ever was or will be — who heard tell of
this maiden. Straightway he loved her;
and as he was going to a tournament,
came back by way of the abbey. And
when the abbess at his request brought the
maiden before him, he found her so beautiful
and so well taught, so discreet and gracious,
and endued with virtues, that unless he
might win her love he would hold himself
most wretched of men. Yet he was with-
out counsel and knew no way, for if he
came there often the abbess would soon
understand, and would make an end of his
seeing the damsel
But presently he devised a thing : to
endow the abbey with so much of his land
that it would be the richer ever after.
Therefore to win him friendship and leave
44
t^e (^6? tree
to enter there and sojourn at his will, he
gave largely of his possessions. I warrant
you he had other reason than the salvation
of his soul !
Thus he went many times to the convent
and talked with the maiden until at length,
by prayers and promises, he won her love.
And when he was assured of this, he said
to her one day :
" Sweet, now this is how it is : since you
have made me your lover, it is better that
you should come away with me altogether.
I say what I think, you know, that if your
aunt should discover this she would be
sorely distressed. So, if you take my coun-
sel, you will come away with me. Certes !
I will never be false to you, but will care
for you most tenderly ! "
She loved him so dearly that she granted
what he pleased, and so went away with
him to his castle. But perhaps it may yet
be well with her, for she took with her the
silken mantle and the ring, which the abbess
had given her. Indeed the damsel knew all
that had happened from the time that she
was put away : how she was cradled in the
ash tree, how the mantle and the ring, and
nothing else, had been left with her by
45
(gtarie be Stance
those who put her away, and how the
abbess had fostered her as a niece. Know-
ing this story she had kept these things
carefully locked in a coffer, and was un-
willing to leave them behind.
Now this knight with whom she fled
loved her most tenderly j and among all
his liegemen and servants there was not
one, great or small, who did not cherish
her and honour her for her gentlehood.
She was with him a long time, until at
last the knights who had fief of him,
thought ill of it, and told him again and
again that he should put her away and
espouse a lady of noble birth. They would
rejoice if he had heir to hold after him his
land and his heritage ; indeed, he wronged
them too greatly in that, for love of his
mistress, he had neither wife nor child.
Nay, more, they would not hold him as
seigneur, nor be willing to do him service,
unless he yielded to their demand. And
at last the knight consented, upon their
urging, to take wife.
Then further they bethought them who
she should be, and said :
" Sire, there is a nobleman dwelling hard
by you who has spoken with us on this
+6
t^e (^6$ tree
matter. He has but one daughter and no
other heir ; hence with her you may gain
much land. The maiden, who is the
fairest in all this realm, is called La Coidre ;
and so for Le Fraisne whom you give up
you shall have in recompense La Coidre;
for the barren Ash the Hazel with its
pleasant nuts. We shall speak fair for the
maiden, and, please God, shall bring her to
you."
Accordingly they arranged this marriage,
and ratified it on all sides. Alas ! what an
ill chance that these worthy men knew
not that the damsels were twin-sisters ! Le
Fraisne was put away that her lover might
marry her sister.
When she heard of this she gave no sign
of anger, but continued to serve her lord in
all kindness and to honour his folk. But
the knights of the household, nay even the
squires and the pages, grieved marvellously
because they must lose her.
On the day agreed upon for the wedding,
the knight summoned his friends, and
among them the Archbishop of Dol, who
held fief of him.
With the bride came her mother, much
fearing that her daughter would be abused
47
(gtatie be Stance
to the knight by the damsel whom he loved
so well ; hence she was minded to counsel
him that he dismiss her from his household,
and rid himself of her by wedding her to
some honest man.
The marriage feast was held with great
splendour and rejoicing. All the while,
the damsel was in the chamber, yet never
once, for anything that she saw, made sign
of grief nor even of vexation. Sweetly and
right deftly she served before the lady, so
that all the guests, men and women alike,
held her demeanour in great marvel. Even
her mother, who watched her closely, com-
mended her in her own heart, and loved
her, thinking that if she had known what
manner of woman this was, not for her
own daughter's sake would she have undone
her by parting her from her lord.
At night the damsel withdrew to prepare
the bed for the bride. Putting aside her
mantle, she called the chamberlains, and
showed them the way that her lord wished
it — for often enough had she seen it. When
they had made it ready, they placed upon
it as coverlet an old l?ofu-c\oth.. But the
maiden was vexed because it seemed to her
no longer good enough, so she went to her
48
t^c (^0$ ttee
coffer and took out her silken mantle to
lay upon the bed. For her lord's honour
she did this, since the archbishop, according
to his duty, would come into the chamber
to bless the newly-wedded, and to sign
them with the cross.
When the chamber was empty, the
dame entered to bring the bride to bed,
and bade disrobe her. Presently she beheld
the silk coverlet on the bed, the fairest she
had ever looked upon, save that alone which
she had wrapped about her little daughter
whom she had put away. And as she re-
membered all this, her heart trembled.
She called to her the chamberlain, and said :
" Tell me, by thy faith, where this good
silk was found ! "
"Lady," he said, "you shall know at
once. The damsel brought it to throw
over the coverlet, because this seemed to
her not good enough. I trow that the silk
is hers."
Thereupon the lady sent for her, and
she came in, humbly laying aside her
mantle.
"Dear child,"said the lady, "hide nothing
from me. Where did you get this mantle
of fair silk ? How did it come to you ?
49 i>
(gtatrie ^e Stance
Who gave it you ? Now tell me who
gave it you ! "
The damsel answered : " Lady, the
abbess, my aunt, who fostered me, gave it
me, bidding me keep it well, for this and a
ring were left with me by those who sent
me away to be nurtured."
" Dear, may I see the ring? "
" Yes, lady, right willingly."
And when she had brought the ring,
the lady looked at it long, knowing it
as she had known the mantle j and when
she had heard the whole story, being
assured beyond doubt that Le Fraisne
was her daughter, she hid it no longer,
but said :
" Thou art my child, dear heart ! "
For sheer pity she fell back in a swoon ;
but presently recovered and sent in all haste
for her husband.
He came thither greatly amazed ; and no
sooner had he entered the room than she
threw herself at his feet, and kissing them
often, sought pardon for her misdeed.
But he could not understand what she
meant.
" Wife," he said, " what is this you are
saying ? Between us can be no such word
5P
t^c (^05 tree
as pardon but since you will have it so,
you are forgiven. Tell me what you
would."
" My lord, now that you have forgiven
me, I will tell you, if you will listen. Long
ago, through great discourtesy, I spoke
foolishly about my neighbour, and slandered
her because of her twin-children 3 but all
the while I was speaking to my own
hurt, for afterwards, of a truth, I had
twin-daughters. But I concealed one
of them, sending her away to a monas-
tery, and with her your silk mantle and
the ring that you gave me when you
first spoke with me. And now I may
not hide it longer, for I have found
them here, and thereby have discovered
our daughter, whom through my folly I
had lost. This is she, this damsel who
is so modest and wise and fair that she
was loved by the knight who has wedded
her sister."
The baron answered : " This rejoices
my heart ; never before have I been so
glad ! Verily God has been merciful to us
in restoring our daughter before we should
have doubled our sins against her. My
child, come to me ! "
51
(^atie be Stance
And the damsel, hearing all this, was
exceeding glad.
Her father would not delay longer, but
went himself to his son-in-law and the
archbishop, and brought them thither, re-
peating to them this strange chance. And
when the young knight heard it, he was
more glad than ever before in his life. But
the archbishop counselled that they let be
for that night, and on the morrow he would
annul the marriage and wed Gurun to his
love. They accorded that it should be
thus.
On the morrow this was done ; and the
damsel's father with right good will gave
her away as bride, and with her a share in
his heritage. And he, with his wife and
daughter, remained at the wedding as long
as it lasted.
They made anew a banquet so splendid
that even a rich man might well grudge
what they spent upon it. For their joy
in their daughter, fair and stately as a
queen, whom they had so marvellously
recovered, they had a wondrous merry-
making.
Presently they returned to their domain
with their daughter. La Coldrcj and after-
52
$9e dXs^ tree
wards in their own realm she was well
bestowed in marriage.
When this adventure came to be known,
the Lay of the Ash Tree was made thereof,
and so named for the lady's sake.
S3
THE TWO LOVERS
'ONG ago there befell in
Normandy an adventure
often told, of two young
lovers, who through their
love died. Of this the
^ BlLhS^^ Britons made a lay called
i.'^iL^ A y^z}M Les Dous Amanz.
It is well known that
in Neustria, which we call Normandy, there
is a great mountain marvellous high, on
which is the tomb of these lovers. Near
this mountain on one side, a king who was
lord of the Pistreis, with good judgment
and care, had built him a city, and from
his folk called it Pitres. There is still a
town of that name in this place ; and indeed
the whole country, as we know well, is
called the Vale of Pitres.
Now this king had a daughter, a fair
and gentle maiden. She was his only child,
and dearly he loved and cherished her.
Though she was sought in marriage by
great lords, who gladly would have had her
to wife, the king was so loth to part with
her that he would never consent. Since
the death of his queen she had been his
only comfort, and he must needs have her
near him day and night. This too, although
S7
(gtarie ^e Stance
many turned it to ill, and his own men
blamed him for it.
When he heard what folk were saying,
he was sorely perplexed and troubled -, and
began to wonder how he might free himself
from this seeking of his daughter. Accord-
ingly, he made proclamation far and wide,
saying :
Whoso would marry his daughter, let
him know of a truth one thing: it had
been decreed that he must first carry her
in his arms, without pausing for rest, to
the top of the mountain near the city.
When these tidings were known and
spread through the country, many knights
essayed the feat, but could bring it to no
ending. Some indeed by using all their
strength could carry her half-way up the
mountain, but no further; hence there
must let be. A long time she remained
unbestowed, in that no one came to seek
her.
There was in this land a goodly and
noble squire, the son of a count, who above
all others set himself to win glory by his
prowess. He was familiar at the king's
court, since he often sojourned there ; and
he came to love the princess. Again and
58
t^e tt0o feotjere
again he besought her to show him favour
and grant him her love, and inasmuch as
he was brave and courteous, and much
praised of the king, she assented thereto ;
and he thanked her in all humility for her
grace.
Often times they spoke together, and
loved each other well, yet must hide it as
far as they could from all eyes. Grievous
as this was, the lad bethought him that it
was better to endure this constraint than
hasten over much and lose his lady. Yet
was he so sore distraught for love, this fair
and goodly squire, that on a time he came
to his love, and with sorrowful plaint
begged her distressfully to flee with him,
since he could no longer bear this woe.
He knew well that if he asked her of her
father, he might never win her, unless he
could carry her in his arms to the top of
the mountain.
The damsel answered him, saying :
"Friend, I know well that it would not
avail you to attempt this feat — you are not
strong enough. And if I were to flee
with you, my father would be so grieved
and angry that it were torment for him to
live; and certainly I love him too well to
59
(Jttarte ^e Stance
distress him in this way. We must find
other counsel, for to this 1 will not hearken.
But I have a kinswoman in Salerno, a rich
dame and of great rent, who has been there
more than thirty years, and practised the
art of medicine until she is wise in potions
and cunning in herbs and roots. If you go
to her with a letter from me, and show her
all your state, she will consider how she
may help you, and will give you such
draughts and such electuaries that they will
comfort you and give you strength. Then
return to this land and seek me of my
father, even though he deem you but a
child and tell you the condition, that only
by carrying me up the mountain without
pause for rest may a man win me; and
even though he hold with all courtesy that
it may not be otherwise."
The squire, rejoicing greatly in his lady's
counsel, thanked her and asked her leave
to depart to his own domain. There he
speedily provided himself with rich robes
and deniers, with palfreys and pack-horses ;
and taking with him the most trusty of
his men, went to Salerno to speak with his
lady's kinswoman.
He gave her his letter, and when she
60
had read it from beginning to end, she kept
him with her until she knew all his state.
Then she strengthened him with potions,
and further gave him a draught such that
he should never be so for-worn by travail,
nor so weary nor so oppressed that it would
not refresh his whole body, alike his veins
and his bones, and give him his full strength
as soon as he had drunk it.
Thereupon the squire, all joyous and
glad at heart, returned to his own land,
having the draught with him in a phial.
He went straightway to the king to ask
for his daughter, that he might take her
and carry her up the mountain.
The king did not refuse him, though he
thought it great folly, in that he was but a
lad, and many good men, strong and wise,
had essayed this feat and could bring it to
no ending. But he appointed a time, and
summoned his liegemen and his friends,
and all whom he could get together. For
the sake of the princess and of the lad
who undertook the adventure of carrying
her up the mountain, they came thither
from all parts.
On the day of their assembling, the
squire was there first of all, by no means
6i
(gtatie be Stance
forgetting his draught. Then among the
great folk gathered in the meadow along
the Seine, the king led forth his daughter,
who, to help her lover, had made herself as
thin as possible by fasting, and was now
clad in smock alone.
The squire took her in his arms; and
knowing well that she would not betray
him, gave her the little phial with all the
draught, to carry in her hand. Yet I fear
that it will not avail him, for in him is
no measure at all !
He set out with her at a great pace, and
climbed the mountain to half its height.
And for the joy that he had in her, he was
all unmindful of the drink ; but she felt
that he was wearying.
" Dear," she said, " drink now. I know
well that you are weary, and thus will you
regain your strength."
The squire answered, " Sweet, I feel my
heart all strong. By no means would I
stop long enough to drink, while I am able
to go three steps. Yonder folk would cry
out upon us and would confuse me with
their noise, so that they might easily hinder
me. I will not stop here."
When he had climbed two-thirds of the
62
way, he could scarcely stand. Again and
again the maiden implored him, " Love,
drink the potion ! " But now he would
not hear her or heed, as he struggled on in
great anguish. He came at last to the
mountain-top, but so for-spent that he fell
there and rose not again, for the heart
failed in his breast.
The maiden, as she looked upon her
lover, deemed him in swoon ; and falling
on her knees by his side, strove to give him
the drink. But he could not speak to her,
and died as I have told you.
She mourned him with much shrill
crying; and presently cast from her and
shattered the vessel with its draught. The
mountain was well sprinkled with it, so that
in summer all the land thereabouts was the
richer for it. There is many a good herb
found to-day that had its root in the potion.
But to speak again of the maiden. Never
in all her life was she so sorrowful as now
in losing her lover. She threw herself upon
him, clasped him in her arms and held him
close, often kissing his eyes and mouth,
until her grief touched her to the quick;
and there she died, this damsel so gentle
and wise and fair.
63
(gtarie be Stance
The king and his men awaited them
long; and perceiving at last that they
would not come, went up and found them
thus. Thereupon the king fell to the earth
in a swoon, and when he could speak made
exceeding great dole ; and so did the folk
from other lands.
Three days they kept the twain above
earth, then placed them in a marble tomb,
by the counsel of all buried them on the
mountain ; and presently went their ways.
The story of the two young lovers, from
whom the mountain is called La Cote des
Deux Arnants^ befell even as I have told you ;
and the Britons made it into a lay.
64
YONEC
INCE I have under-
taken these lays, how-
ever great the labour,
I will not leave them
unfinished; but will tell
in rhyme all the adven-
turesthat I know. And
now it is in my thought
to tell you ot Yonec, whose son he was,
and how his father, Muldumarec, first
came to his mother.
In Britain long ago there dwelt a rich
man and very ancient, who was provost of
Caruent, and lord of the land round about.
This city is on the river Duelas, where in
ancient times folk crossed by a ferry.
Now this old man was heavy-burdened
with years, yet since he had a goodly heri-
tage, he took wife for the sake of children
to hold his land after him. The lady who
was bestowed upon him was of high rank,
and moreover discreet and gentle and pass-
ing fair, so that for her beauty he loved
her well. What need of more words? As
far as Lincoln, nay, even to Iceland, there
was none so lovely as she ! It was a great
sin to marry her to this lord, for in that
she was so fair and sweet, he thought only
67
Otarie be Stance
how to guard her well, and shut her up in
a great paved chamber in his tower.
And the better to keep watch over her,
he placed there also his sister, an ancient
dame, and widowed of her husband. There
were other women as well, I trow, in a
chamber by themselves ; but the lady might
not speak to them unless the aged dame
gave her leave.
In this wise, even though they had no
child, he kept her more than seven years,
so that she never once went out of the
tower to see either kinsman or friend. And
when her lord went there to sleep, he
would not allow usher or chamberlain to
enter the room or to light candle for him.
Accordingly, the lady was in such deep
sadness that with her tears and sighs and
lamentations she lost her beauty, even as
one who has no care for it; and wished
only that death would come quickly and
take her.
One morning in the beginning of April
when birds sing all the while, this lord
arose early and went to walk in the woods,
bidding the old woman to rise at once and
make fast the door after him. She did as
he commanded, then passed into another
68
^onec
room with her psalter in her hand, to read
verses therein.
The lady, wide-awake and in tears,
watched the clear light of the sun; and
when she perceived that the old woman
was gone forth from the chamber, sighed
and fell into bitter weeping, bewailing
herself and saying:
"Alas, would that I had never been
born ! Hard is my fate, in that I am shut
up in this tower, and may never leave it
until I die. This jealous old man, of whom
is he afraid, that he keeps me in such close
prison ? Indeed, he is foolish and cowardly
in thus fearing ever to be betrayed. I may
not even go to church to hear God's ser-
vice! If only I might talk with other
people, and go with my husband when he
takes his pleasure, I would show him fair
looks, nor have any wish to be false to him.
Accursed be my kinsmen and the others
who bestowed me upon this Jealous, and
wedded me to him, for now am I always
puUing and dragging at a strong cord ! He
will never die! When he was baptized, he
was plunged into the river of hell, so that
his nerves and his veins are all hard, and
filled with the sap of life I
69
QJtarie be Stance
" Yet I have heard tell sometimes, how in
this land long ago folk found ways to rescue
the unhappy. Knights could have sweet
and fair maidens, if they would; and ladies
might have goodly and courteous lovers,
strong men and valiant, and this without
any blame whatsoever, for they were in-
visible to all save themselves. If this may
be, and has been, if it ever befell any one,
may the Almighty God grant me my
heart's desire ! "
When she had ended her plaint, she
beheld the shadow of a great bird athwart
a narrow window — and knew not what
this might be. It flew into the room, a
falcon seemingly of five or six moultings,
and crouched before her. And when it
had been . there a little while, even as she
watched it, it changed into a fair and
gentle knight.
Now the lady held this for a great
marvel. Her blood curdled and froze, and
she covered her head for affright. But the
stranger was full of courtesy, and at once
reassured her.
" Lady," he said, " have no fear. The
falcon is a gentle bird, even though the
mystery of his coming be dark to you.
70
^onec
Look to it that you be unobserved, then
take me for your lover. To this very end
am I come hither, for I have loved you
long, and in my heart desired you. I have
never loved woman save you alone, nor
will I love any other ; but I could not
leave my own country to come to you
until you wished for me. Now I may be
your lover ! "
The lady took courage, uncovered her
head and answered the knight, saying that
she would have him for her friend on one
condition. If he believed in God, she was
content that there be love between them,
for he was the fairest knight that she had
looked upon in all her life, nor would she
ever again see one so goodly.
" Lady, you speak well," said he. " In
no wise would I that you have any cause
to doubt or to suspect me. I believe verily
in the Creator, who delivered us from the
woe of death, wherein our father, Adam,
placed us, because of the bitter apple. He is,
and was always, and shall be, life and light to
sinners. If still you doubt me in this, send
for your chaplain, saying that illness has
come upon you, and you would take the
Sacrament, which God has ordained in the
71
(gtarie be Stance
world to save sinners. I will make myself
like you in appearance, and thus will re-
ceive the Body of the Lord God ; and I
will tell you all my creed, so that you shall
be in no manner of doubt."
She answered that he spoke well. There-
upon he sat down beside her ; but in
no wise would he as yet kiss her or em-
brace.
Presently the old woman returned, and
finding the lady awake, said that it was
time to arise, and that she would fetch her
garments. But the lady answered that she
was ill, and that the chaplain should be
sent for, to come at once, for she was in
great fear of death.
The aged dame said : ^' Well, you must
bear it. My lord has gone into the woods,
and none may enter here within save
myself."
Then indeed the lady was greatly af-
frighted, and made pretence of swooning.
And when the other saw this, she was so
dismayed that she undid the chamber door
and asked for the priest. He came thither
as quickly as he could, bearing corpus domin'i ;
and when the knight had received it, and
had drunk wine from the chalice, the
^onec
chaplain went away again, and the old
woman made fast the door.
Never have I seen so fair a couple as
this lady and her lover. But presently
when they had been happy together awhile,
and had talked to their heart's content, the
knight took leave, for he must needs return
to his own country. Most sweetly she
prayed him to come back to her often.
" Lady," he said, " whenever you please.
Not an hour shall pass by without my
coming, if only you take heed, so that
neither of us be suspected. This old woman
will watch day and night to betray us ; and
when she perceives our love, will bear word
of it to her lord. If it should happen as
I say, and we should be betrayed, I could
never escape, but should have to die here."
With these words he departed ; but left
the lady well content. On the morrow
she arose quite recovered ; and the whole
week was full of joy to her. She tended
her body with such great care that she soon
regained her beauty. Now is she happier
in biding at home than in going to any
mirth whatsoever. Often she longs to see
her friend and to be happy with him, and
as soon as her husband is departed, night
73
(glatie ^e Stance
and day, early and late, she has him at her
will. May God grant them long to joy !
For the great gladness that she had in
seeing her lover so often, her whole appear-
ance was changed. Hence, her husband,
who was right crafty, perceived in his heart
that things were otherwise than usual ; and
mistrusting his sister somewhat, took her to
task one day, saying that he marvelled that
his wife should so apparel herself, and asking
what this meant.
The old dame answered that she knew
not, for none might speak with her, nor
had she lover or friend. Only one thing
had she herself perceived, that the lady
remained alone more willingly than she
was wont to do.
Thereupon the lord made answer :
"By my faith," he said, "I believe it
well. But now it behoves you to do some-
thing. In the morning when I have risen
and you have made fast the door, pretend
to go away and leave her lying alone. But
stay in some secret place, and watch and
mark what this may be, and whence it
comes that she has in herself such great
joy."
And with this counsel they parted.
74-
^onec
Alas, in evil plight were they who were
thus plotted against, to their betrayal and
their undoing !
Three days later, I have heard tell, the
lord feigned to go away, saying to his wife
that the king had sent for him by letter,
but that he would soon return. Then he
went out of the chamber, and made fast
the door; and the old dame arose and hid
behind a curtain, in the hope of seeing and
hearing what she was eager to know.
The lady lay still but not asleep, for she
was longing for her friend. He came at
once, nor delayed even a moment. Great
was their joy together, as appeared both by
words and by looks, until it was time to
arise, when he must needs depart.
The old woman watched well, noting
how he came and went, though when she
saw him now man and now falcon, she was
in great fear.
Upon the return of the lord, who had
not journeyed far, she revealed to him the
truth concerning the knight. He fell into
deep study, and speedily devised a trap
whereby to slay the stranger. He had
great prongs of iron forged, and their edges
sharpened in front until they were keener
75
(Jttaifie ^e Stance
than any razor under heaven. When he
had them all finished, and pointed in dif-
ferent directions, he placed them, well
serried and firmly fixed, on the window by
which the knight entered when he visited
the lady. God ! that he knew nothing or
the treachery planned by these wretches !
On the morrow morning, the lord arose
at dawn, saying that he would go a-hunting.
The old woman helped him forth, then
lay down again to sleep until it should be
full day.
The lady was awake and waiting for him
whom she loved dearly ; and said to her-
self that now was a time when he might
well come and be with her.
As soon as she had wished for him, he
came with no delay, flying into the win-
dow; but the prongs were in the way, and
one of them pierced his body, so that the
red blood gushed out.
When he knew that he was wounded to
the death, he freed himself from the iron,
and entering alighted in front of the lady,
on the bed, so that all the coverings were
blood-stained. Thereupon she shrank back
in horror at the sight. He said to her:
" My sweet friend, for love of you I am
76
losing my life. Surely I have told you
that your changed looks would undo us."
Hearing this, she fell back in a swoon ;
and remained thus while one might run a
league.
Sweetly he strove to comfort her, saying
that grief was of no avail; let her think of
the child that was to comj, the strong and
valiant son, who would be her comfort ; and
he, who should be called Yonec, would
avenge them both by slaying their enemy.
But the knight could stay no longer, for
his wound bled unceasingly; and so de-
parted with great sorrow and anguish.
Yet she followed him, crying aloud, and
passed through the window after him — 'tis
a marvel that she was not killed, for there
where she escaped was a fall of twenty
feet.
Clad in her smock only, she followed
the track of the knight's blood along the
windings and wanderings of the road until
it brought her finally to a cave, where the
entrance was all wet with the blood. She
could see nothing beyond, yet knowing
well that her lover had passed through here,
she followed as quickly as she could, held
her way straight on through the darkness,
77
(glatie ^e Stance
until she came out of the cave into a most
fair meadow.
Here she found the grass all blood-
stained, and shuddering followed the track
across the field, until she perceived close at
hand a city, quite encompassed with a
wall. Every house there within, alike hall
and tower, was made entirely of silver —
wondrous were all the buildings ! About
the city were moorlands and forests and
parks, and on the side where the donjon
was, flowed a stream large enough for the
landing of boats ; indeed, more than three
hundred masts could be seen there.
The lower part of the gate was un-
fastened, and the lady entered the city ;
and still following the blood-tracks, passed
through the streets to the castle.
And all the way none spoke to her ; nay,
she did not even see man or woman in that
place.
She came at last to the palace, with its
pavement all blood-stained, and entered a
fair chamber wherein she found a sleeping
knight. But she did not know him, so
passed on into another room still more
spacious, wherein was only a bed and upon
it a knight asleep.
78
She went her way yet further, and in the
third chamber found her lover's bed. Its
feet were made of the finest gold; the
coverlets I know not how to praise; the
candlesticks, in which tapers were burning
night and day, were worth all the gold of
a city.
She knew the knight as soon as she had
beheld him, went forward all in affright
and fell swooning by his side. He raised
her up as one who loved her dearly, often
calling himself wretched ; and when she
was recovered, comforted her with all
tenderness.
" Dear love, for God's sake, I pray you,
go hence; flee from here! As soon as I
shall die, this very day, here within shall
be so great mourning, that if you were
found here, you would be most harshly
dealt with, for my people will know that
they have lost me through my love of you.
It is for your sake that I am anxious and
distressed ! "
The lady answered, "Dear, I would
rather die here with you than suffer torture
from my husband ; if I return to him he
will surely kill me!"
But the knight reassured her by giving
79
(gt'atie be Stance
her a little ring and showing how, as long
as she should keep this, her husband would
not remember any thing that had happened,
nor in any wise deal with her harshly. He
also put into her charge his sword, adjuring
her to let no man have it, but to keep it
well for her son. And when he should be
grown and tall, and a brave and strong
knight, she would go with him and her
husband to a feast, and on the way they
would come to an abbey, wherein by the
side of a tomb they would hear told again
the story of his death, how he was slain
basely. "Then give him the sword! Tell
him how he was born and who was his
father; soon enough they shall see what he
will make of it!"
When he had revealed everything to
her, he gave her a costly robe to put on ;
then made her hurry away.
She departed, bearing with her the ring
and the sword, in which she found com-
fort. And after she had left the city, she
had not gone half a league before she heard
the tolling of bells and in the castle the
sound of dole for the dying lord.
And when she knew that he was dead,
in her grief she swooned as many as four
80
times. But at last she was able to hold
her way to the cave, entered in and passed
beyond — so returned to her own country.
She lived with her husband many a day
and many a year; but he never blamed her
for this deed, nor spoke ill to her, nor
mocked at her.
In due time her son was born and was
called Yonec. He was tenderly nurtured
and carefully reared, so that in all the
realm was no lad so fair, so strong, so
brave, so generous, so open-handed. When
he came of age, he was dubbed knight;
and — hearken now to what befel in this
very year !
After the custom of the country, the old
lord was summoned with his friends to the
feast of St. Aaron, which was celebrated
in Caerleon and many other cities. So he
went thither with his wife and son in
splendid array. Although they set out for
Caerleon, they did not know the way
thither, so took with them a young lad as
guide. And presently they came to a
castled town, the fairest in all that age, in
which was an abbey for religious men.
Their guide brought them there for
harbourage ; and in the abbot's ovi n
8l F
(glatie be Stance
chamber they were well served and held in
honour.
On the morrow they went to hear mass,
then would have departed ; but the abbot
went to them and prayed them earnestly to
tarry, and he would show them his dor-
mitory, his chapter-house and his refectory.
Since they had been so well harboured
there, the lord was not loth to grant this.
On this same day after dinner, they
went to the monastic buildings, and first
of all to the chapter house. Here they
found a great tomb covered with a spangled
silk all bordered with costly gold -em-
broidery. At the head, at the feet, and at
the sides, were twenty lighted tapers, in
candlesticks of fine gold. The censers,
with which for great honour they clouded
that tomb all day long, were made of
amethyst.
The strangers asked the folk of the land
whose this tomb was and what manner of
man lay there. And they began to weep,
and said sorrowfully that he was the best
and strongest knight, the bravest, fairest,
and best-beloved, that was born in that age.
" Of this land he was king — and never
was any so courteous ! At Caeruent he was
82
beguiled and slain for love of a lady. Never
since then have we had a Hege-lord, but
have been waiting many a day for a son
who should be born of that lady, as he told
us, and commanded us to do."
When the lady heard these words, with
a loud voice she called her son, saying :
"Fair son, you have heard how God has
led us thither ! He who lies there is your
father, slain treacherously by this old man !
Now I yield and deliver to you his sword,
for long enough have I kept it !"
In the presence of all she showed whose
son he was, telling how the knight had
been wont to come and visit her, and how
her husband had entrapped him. And
when she had told the whole story, she
fell swooning on the grave, and never spoke
again; and thus passed away.
When her son saw that she had died,
with the sword that had been his father's,
he struck off the old man's head, and so
avenged both his parents.
When it was known through the city
what had befallen, they took the lady
and placed her with great honour in her
lover's tomb. May God grant them sweet
mercy !
83
(Jtlarie be Stance
Yonec they made their liege-lord before
they departed from that place.
Some who heard this adventure told,
long afterwards made of it a lay, to show
the pain and the sorrow that these suffered
for love's sake.
84
THE NIGHTINGALE
I
WILL tell you an ad-
venture whereof the
Britons made a lay. This
is called Laustic^ I under-
stand, in their country, but
russignol in French, and
in plain English, «//?/^^^/^.
In the country near
St. Malo was a well-known village, in which
two knights, whose bounty gave it fair name,
had their homes and their parks.
The one was married to a lady who was
wise, courteous and debonair ; and marvel-
lously he doted upon her, as often comes to
pass in such a case.
The other was a bachelor who was known
among his fellows for his prowess and his
great courage. So eagerly did he seek
honour that he was often at tournaments,
spent freely, and gave largesse abundantly
of what he had.
Now he came to love his neighbour's
wife, and by dint of his entreaties and
prayers brought it about that she loved him
above all things. This was partly for his
deserts, partly because of the good which
she heard said of him, and partly because
he was ever at hand.
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(Tttarie ^e Stance
They loved each other well, yet wisely,
so guarding their secret that they were not
observed, nor discovered, nor even mis-
trusted. It was easy for them to do this,
since their dwellings, both halls and donjons,
stood side by side, with no bar or barrier
between them save a high wall of grey
stone.
When the lady stood at the window of
the chamber in which she slept, she could
speak with her lover, and he from his side
with her; and they could exchange gifts
by throwing or by tossing.
They had nothing at all to grieve them ;
but were quite happy, except that they
might not meet as they would, for the lady
was straitly guarded when her lord was in
the country. But at least none might
hinder them from going to the window,
either by day or by night, and there gazing
upon each other and talking together.
A long time they were in love, until at
length came summer, when wood and
meadow were green once more, and
copses were a-flower. The little birds
right sweetly trilled their joy at the tips of
the blossoms. 'Tis no marvel that he who
has love-longing in his heart should give
88
heed thereto; and so, I tell you truly, it
was with this knight and this lady, both in
words and in glances.
The nights when the moon shone clear,
the lady rose from her husband's side, as he
lay asleep, and wrapping herself in her
mantle, went to stand at the window, for
she knew that her lover would be there,
since like herself he waked most of the
night for love-longing. It was joy to them
to see each other, since they might have no
more.
So often she arose and stood there that
at last her husband was vexed, and often
asked her why she arose and whither she
went.
" My lord," she answered, " there is no
joy in this world like that of hearing the
nightingale sing, and this is why I come to
stand here. So sweetly have I heard him
trill at night, and such great pleasure has
his song given me, that I long for it until
I cannot close an eye in sleep !"
When her husband heard this, he laughed
for sheer vexation and ill-humour ; and
bethought him that he would ensnare the
nightingale.
Accordingly, there was no lad in his
89
a^dxie be Stance
household who did not make trap or toil
or net, to place in the copse. In every
hazel and every chestnut they put net or
lime, until at length they trapped and
caught the bird, and brought it alive to
their lord.
He, greatly pleased, took it into his wife's
chamber, calling out:
" Wife, where are you ? Come here and
speak to us ! I have limed the nightingale
for which you have waked so often. Hence-
forth, you may lie in peace -, he shall trouble
you no more ! "
When the lady heard this, she was both
vexed and sorrowful, and demanded the
bird of her husband. But he in his passion
slew it, wringing its neck with his two
hands — a churlish deed ! — and flung the
body at his wife, so that the front of her
smock, a little above the breast, was stained
with its blood. Thereupon he left the
chamber.
The lady with bitter tears took up the
little body, and cursed all who had devised
traps and nets to ensnare the nightingale ;
for they had made an end of her great joy.
" Alas ! " she said, " woe's me ! Never
again may I rise at night, and stand at the
90
t^e (IJig^tingafe
window to see my love. I know of a truth
he will deem me false, and for this must I
take counsel. I will send him the nightin-
gale at once, and so tell him the whole
story."
In a piece of gold-embroidered samite,
duly inscribed, she wrapped the little bird ;
and calling one of her pages, charged him
with the message to her lover.
He went to the knight, and with greet-
ings from his lady told all the message;
and delivered to him the nightingale.
When the young lord had heard all the
story, he grieved at the mischance; and
being neither churlish nor slothful, he had
a little casket fashioned, not of iron or steel,
but all of fine gold set with rare and costly
gems. Then he placed the nightingale
within, and had a splendid cover sealed
upon it; and everywhere that he went
carried the casket about with him.
Not long did their adventure remain
unknown ; it was put into story, and the
Britons made of it a lay which is called
Laustjc,
THE HONEYSUCKLE
«
IS my wish and purpose
to tell you truly how,
ft-«-^;^s i^t=;w\ wherefore, and by
^^^^ K^^ ii whom, the Lay of the
Honeysuckle was made.
Many have told it to me
and I have also found
it in writing, the story
of Tristram and of the queen, and of their
faithful love that brought manifold woes
upon them, and at length upon the same
day death itself.
When King Mark heard that Tristram
loved the queen, he was bitterly wroth, and
banished his nephew from the realm. So
the knight went away to his own land.
South Wales, where he was born ; and
tarried there a whole year, knowing no
way of return. But at last he was so ex-
ceeding sorrowful and distraught for love,
that he put himself in peril of death and
of undoing; hence, departed from his own
land and went straight into Cornwall,
where the queen was dwelling. Marvel
not at this, for he who loves loyally, is
woful and full of despair when he lacks his
heart's desire.
Now Tristram would not that any man
95
(J^atie ^e Stance
see him, so he entered all alone into the
forest; and came out only at evensong,
when it was time to take harbourage. He
lodged at night with poor peasant folk, and
asked them tidings of the king. From
them he heard that all the barons had been
summoned to Tintagel where the king,
together with the queen, would hold high
court at Pentecost, in great mirth and
revelry. Upon these tidings Tristram was
glad at heart, since the queen could not
pass by without his seeing her.
On the day that the king journeyed,
Tristram returned to the forest, along the
road by which he knew the queen must
come. There he cut into a hazel-branch,
and stripped it four-square, and when
he had made it ready, with his knife he
wrote his name. If the queen should
see it, she would know the mark as her
lover's; and indeed she would watch well
for such a thing, since it had happened
before that she had met him in this way.
This was the import of the writing that
he set upon it : that he had been there long,
waiting to catch a glimpse of her, or to
know how he might see her, for without
her he could not live. The twain of them
96
t^e goneggucftfe
were like the hazel with the honeysuckle
clinging to it; when they are all inter-
twined and clasped together, they thrive
well, but if they be parted, the hazel dies
at once, and likewise the honeysuckle.
" Sweet love, so is it with us : nor you
without me, nor I without you!"
The queen came riding in cavalcade,
and still kept looking a little in front of
her, until she saw the hazel, and studying
it well, knew all the letters. Thereupon
she bade the knights who were attending
her to halt, as she would dismount and
rest awhile. And they did as she com-
manded.
Calling to her the maiden Brenguein,
who kept good faith with her, she wandered
far from her folk ; and as she turned aside
from the road a little, found in the woods
him whom she loved more than any other
living thing.
And gladness dwelt with them while he
spoke with her at his will, and she showed
him all her heart, how she had made accord
with the king, who now repented him of
banishing his nephew upon an evil charge.
But at last they must go their ways,
though they wept sorely at the parting;
97 G
(Jttarie b'e Stance
for Tristram must needs return to Wales
until his uncle summoned him.
For the joy that he had in his lady,
whom he saw by means of the writing on
the hazel, Tristram, who was skilled in
harping, made a new lay for the remem-
brance of her words, just as she had spoken
them. This is called Gotelef in English,
and Ch'ievrefoil in French. It is truth that
I have told you in this lay.
i
98
ELIDUC
WILL tell you the story
of a most ancient Breton
lay, even as 1 have heard
it, and as I believe it to
be true.
There dwelt in Brit-
tany a knight called
Eliduc, who was noble
and courteous, brave and high-hearted —
indeed, the most valiant man in the realm.
He had married a lady of high lineage, a
gentle dame, and of good discretion ; and
with her he lived a long time in faithful
love. But at last it happened that he
sought service in a war abroad, and there
came to love a damsel called Guilliadun,
daughter to a king and queen, and withal
the fairest maid in her land. NowEliduc's
wife was called Guildeluec ; and from these
two, the lay is named Guildeluec and
Guilliadun. It hight Eliduc at first, but the
name has been changed because the story
has to do chiefly with the two ladies. And
now I will tell you truly how the adven-
ture befell, whereof the lay was made.
Eliduc was very dear to his lord, the
King of Lesser Britain, and rendered unto
him such faithful service that whenever
lOI
(Starie ^e Stance
the king must needs be absent, he for his
prowess was made warden of the land.
And still better fortune befell him, for he
had the right to hunt in the royal forests,
so that no forester dared gainsay him or
grudge him at any time. But for envy
of his good fortune — as befalls others often-
times— he was brought into disfavour with
his lord, being so accused and slandered
that he was banished from court without a
hearing, yet knew not wherefore. Again
and again he entreated the king to show
him justice, and not hearken to false
charges, inasmuch as he had served him
with good will.
Since the king would hear nothing of it,
he must needs depart, so went home, and
summoning all his friends, told them of
the king's anger — 'twas an ill return for
his faithful service ! As the peasant says in
proverb, when he chides his ploughman,
"Lord's favour is no fief'j so he is wise
and prudent who, with all due loyalty to
his lord, expends his love upon his good
neighbours. The knight said further that
he would not remain in the land, but would
journey over sea to the realm of Loengre,
and there take his pleasure for awhile.
I07.
I
His wife he would leave in his domain,
commending her to the charge of his
vassals and his friends. In this purpose he
remained, and arrayed himself richly, his
friends grieving sorely at his departure.
He took ten knights with him, and his
wife conducted him on the way. When
it came to the parting she made exceeding
great lamentation ; but he assured her that
he would keep good faith with her. There-
upon he set forth, held straight on his way
until he came to the sea, crossed over and
arrived at Totnes.
There were many kings in that land,
and they were at strife and war with one
another. Among them was one who lived
near Exeter, a puissant man but of very great
age. He had no son to inherit after him, but
only a daughter of an age to wed ; and be-
cause he would not give her in marriage to
his neighbour, this other was making war
upon him, and laying waste all his land, had
even besieged him in a castle so closely that
he had no man who dared make sally against
the foe, or engage in melee or combat.
Upon hearing of this war, Eliduc decided
to go no further, but to remain in the
land, and aid as most he might this king
103
(glarte ^e Stance
who was so wronged and humiliated and
hard-pressed. So he sent messengers with
letters to say that he had departed from his
own country and was come to help the
king; but if the king did not wish to
retain him, the knight asked for safe-
conduct through the realm, that he might
go further to seek service.
The king looked kindly upon the mes-
sengers, and entertained them well. Calling
his constable, he gave commands straight-
way that an escort be prepared to conduct
the knight thither; and that hostels be
made ready where the strangers might
lodge; and he further set at their disposal
as much as they would spend for a month.
The escort was arrayed and sent for
Eliduc, and he was received with great
honour, for he was passing welcome to the
king. He was lodged with a kind and
worthy burgess, who gave up to him his
fair tapestried chamber. Here Eliduc had
a splendid feast served, and invited the
needy knights who sojourned in the city.
Furthermore, he admonished all his men
that none be so forward as to take gift or
denier for the first forty days.
On the third day after his arrival, there
104
J
arose cries in the city that the foe were
come and spread throughout the land, and
would advance to the very gates and assail
the town.
Eliduc hearing the clamour of the
frightened folk, armed himself at once,
and bade his comrades do likewise. There
were forty mounted knights dwelling in
that town (though some were wounded
and many had been captured) ; and when
they saw Eliduc mounting his horse, all
who were able came out of their hostels
armed, and went forth from the gate with
him, waiting for no summons.
"Sir," they said, "we will go with you,
and do as you shall do."
He made answer: "Gramercy ! Is there
none among you here who knows a narrow
pass meet for an ambush, where we may
take them unawares? True, if we await
them here, we shall probably fight, but
to no advantage, if any knows better
counsel."
And they said: "Sir, i' faith, in the
thicket hard by yonder wood is a narrow
road, by which they usually return when
they have been plundering, riding unarmed
on their palfreys. Again and again they
loS
(gtatie be Stance
repair thither, thus putting themselves in
jeopardy of speedy death, so that they
might easily be overcome and put to shame
and worsted."
Eliduc answered : "Friends, I give you
my word that he who does not venture
often where he expects to lose shall never
win much, nor attain to great renown. Now
ye are all the king's men, and should keep
good faith with him. Come with me
where I shall go, and do as I shall do ; and
I promise you faithfully that ye shall come
to no harm as long as I can aid you. If
we gain anything, it will be to our glory
to have weakened our foes."
They took his pledge, and guided him
to the forest, where they placed themselves
in ambush along the road until the enemy
should return. Eliduc commanded in all
things, devising and explaining how they
should leap out suddenly with loud cries.
As soon as the enemy had come to the
narrow pass . . . Eliduc shouted to his
comrades to do worthily. And they gave
hard blows, sparing not at all, so that the
foe, taken by surprise, were quickly con-
fused and scattered, and in a little while
vanquished. Their constable was captured
K>6
(Efibuc
and so many other knights that the squires
had much ado to take charge of them,
Five-and-twenty were the men of this
land, and they took prisoner thirty of those
from abroad, and as much armour as they
would. 'Twas a marvellous booty; and the
knights returned home rejoicing in their
exploit.
The king, meanwhile, was on a tower, in
great fear for his men, and complaining
bitterly of Eliduc, for he supposed, or at
least dreaded, that through treason he might
have led the knights of that city into
danger. And when these came back all
in array, and all encumbered with booty
and prisoners, so that they were many
more at their home-coming than when
they went forth, the king did not know
them, and so was in doubt and suspense.
He gave commands that the gates be
closed, and that soldiers be stationed on the
walls to shoot, and to hurl darts at them.
But all this was needless, for they sent a
squire spurring in advance, to tell of the
stranger's achievement, how he had van-
quished the foe, and how nobly he had
borne himself — there never was such a
knight ! — and how the constable had been
107
(gtatie be Stance
captured, and nine-and-twenty others, be-
sides many wounded and many slain.
The king rejoiced marvellously at these
tidings, and descended from the tower to
meet Eliduc, and to thank him for his
good service. He in turn delivered up his
prisoners; and divided the booty among
the other knights. For his own use he kept
only three horses that he liked especially.
All his share he distributed and gave out
among the prisoners as well as among the
other folk.
After this feat of which I have told you,
the king greatly loved and cherished him,
and for a whole year retained him in his
service, and likewise his comrades. More-
over, after taking his oath, he made him
warden of the land.
Now Eliduc was courteous and discreet,
a goodly knight, and strong and open-
handed; hence, the king's daughter heard
him talked of and his virtues recounted.
Accordingly, by one of her trusty chamber-
lains she prayed and commanded him to visit
her, that they might have friendly speech
together, and become acquainted — indeed,
she marvelled greatly that he had not come
to her before !
io8
Eliduc answered that he would most
gladly go to make her acquaintance.
Attended by a single knight, he mounted
his horse and rode to her bower, where he
sent the chamberlain before, and followed
when his coming had been announced.
With sweet courtesy, with gentle manner
and with noble bearing, he spoke as one
skilled in speech, and thanked the fair lady
Guilliadun, in that she had been pleased
to summon him to her presence.
She took him by the hand, and they sat
down together upon a couch, speaking of
many things. She looked at him attentively,
studying his face, his stature and his bearing,
and said to herself, " There is no fault in
him." And all at once, as she was praising
him in her heart. Love flung his dart at her,
bidding her love the knight, whereupon she
grew pale and sighed. But she would not
put her thought into speech, lest he hold
her too lightly.
He tarried there a long while, but at last
took leave — though she granted it unwil-
lingly— and returned to his hostel. He was
right pensive and sadly distraught for think-
ing of the fair princess, how she had so
sweetly called him, and how she had sighed.
109
(^latie be Stance
His only regret was that he had been in the
land so long, and had not seen her often.
But even as he said this he repented, mind-
ing him of his wife, and how he had pro-
mised to keep good faith with her.
On the other hand, the maid, as soon as
she beheld him, loved him more than any
other in the world, and wished to have him
for her lover. All the night she lay awake,
and had neither sleep nor rest. On the
morrow morning she arose, and going to a
window, called thither her chamberlain and
showed him all her state, saying:
" By my faith, 'tis ill with me ! I am
fallen into evil case ! I love the stranger-
knight, Eliduc, so that I have no rest at
night, nor can I close my eyes in sleep. If
he would return my love and be my be-
trothed, I would do all his will, and he
indeed might win great good therefrom,
for he should be king of this land ! But if
he will not love me, I must die of grief
for very love of his wisdom and his cour-
tesy!"
When she had said what she would, the
chamberlain whom she had called, gave her
excellent counsel — let no man think ill
of it!
(Bfibuc
" Lady," he said, " since you love him,
send to him and tell him so. It were well,
perhaps, to send him a girdle or riband or
ring, and if he should accept it gratefully
and be joyous at the message, you would
be sure of his love. There is no emperor
under heaven who, if you would love him,
ought not to be right glad !"
And when the damsel had heard this
counsel, she answered :
" How shall 1 know by my gift whether
he will love me ? Never have I seen knight
— whether he loved or hated — who had to
be entreated to keep willingly the present
one sent him. I should hate bitterly to be
a jest to him ! Still, one may know some-
what by his manner — make ready, and
go!"
" I am all ready," he said.
" Give him a golden ring, and my girdle.
Greet him from me a thousand times ! "
The chamberlain turned away, leaving
her in such state that she all but called him
back ; but yet she let him go, and began
to lament in this wise :
"Alas! now is my heart captive for a
stranger from another land ! I know not
if he is of high degree, yet if be should go
(Wlatie ^e Stance
hence suddenly, I should be left mourning.
Foolishly have I set my heart's desire, for I
never spoke with him save yesterday ; and
now I have sent to entreat his love. I
think that he will blame me — yet if he is
gentle, he will show me grace ! Now is
everything at hazard, and if he cares not
for my love, I shall be in such sorrow
that never again in my life shall I have
joy!".
While she was thus bemoaning herself,
the chamberlain hastened and came to
Eliduc. As had been devised, he greeted
the knight according to the maiden's bid-
ding, and gave him the little ring and the
girdle. Eliduc thanked him, put the gold
ring on his finger, and girt himself with
the girdle. But there was no further
speech between them, save that the knight
proffered gifts, of which the chamberlain
would have none.
Returning to his lady, whom he found in
her bower, he greeted her on the knight's
part and thanked her for her present.
" Come," she said, " hide nothing from
me. Will he love me with true love ? "
"As I think," he answered. "The
knight is not wanton, but I hold him
(Efi^uc
rather as courteous and discreet in knowing
how to hide his heart. I greeted him from
you and gave him your gifts, whereupon
he girt him himself with your girdle, draw-
ing it close about him, and put the little
ring on his finger. Nor said I more to
him, nor he to me."
"Did he not receive it in token of love?
If not, I am undone ! "
He answered: "By my faith, I know
not; yet, hearken to me, unless he wished
you well, he would have none of your
gifts."
" You speak folly ! " said she. " I know
well that he does not hate me, for I have
never wronged him in aught, save in loving
him tenderly; and if for that he hates me,
he deserves to die ! Never by you, or by
any other, will I ask anything of him until
I myself speak to him and show how love
for him sways me. But I know not
whether he remains? "
The chamberlain answered : " Lady, the
king has retained him under oath to serve
faithfully for a year ; hence, you may have
time enough to show him your pleasure."
When she heard that he would remain,
she was exceeding joyful and glad at heart.
113 H
(gtarie be Stance
She knew nothing of the sorrow that came
upon him as soon as he had beheld her, for
his only joy was in thinking of her, and
he held himself in evil case since he had
promised his wife, before he left his domain,
to love none but herself. Now is his heart
in sore conflict, for he would fain keep his
faith, yet in no wise may he doubt that he
loves the maiden Guilliadun, so sweet to
gaze upon and to speak with, to kiss and
to embrace. But he would not seek her love,
since it would be dishonourable to his wife,
and to the king as well.
For all this, he was so tormented for
love that he mounted his horse presently,
and rode away with his companions to the
castle. But the reason of his going was
not so much to speak with the king as to
see the maiden, if he might.
Now the king was risen from dinner and
entered into his daughter's bower, where
he was playing chess with a knight from
oversea ; and from across the chess-board
the princess was watching the game.
As Eliduc came forward, the king showed
him great favour, and bade him sit by his
side; then, turning to his daughter, he
said : " Damsel, acquaint you with this
114
(Efi^uc
knight, and show him all honour 5 for there
is none more worthy among five hundred ! "
Upon her father's command, the maiden
turned joyfully to greet Eliduc; and they
sat afar off from the others. Love so over-
came them that she dared say no word to
him and he could scarce speak to her. Yet
he thanked her for her gift, which was to
him the dearest thing he had. Thereupon
she said that she was glad at heart : she
had sent him the ring and the girdle because
she loved him so well that she would wil-
lingly take him for her husband ; and if
this might not be, of a truth, never would
she have living man ! But now, let him
show his heart !
" Lady," he said, " I thank you for the
grace of your love, which fills me with joy !
That I stand so high in your favour, makes
me glad beyond the telling, yet the future
rests not with me, for, although I am bound
to remain a year with the king, having
given my oath not to depart until his v/ar
is ended, after that, I ought to return to
my own land without delay, if you will
grant me leave."
The maiden answered : " My friend,
o;ramercy! So very wise are you and
115
(gtatie be Stance
courteous, that ere that time you will have
devised what you will do with me. I love
and trust you above everything! "
Thus they accorded well, and at that
time spake no more. Eliduc returned to
his dwelling full of joy; for he had dealt
honourably and yet might speak with his
lady as often as he would, and between
them was the fulness of love's joy.
Accordingly, he entered into the war
with such zeal that he seized and took
captive the lord who fought against the
king, and set free all the land. For his
prowess, for his wit and for his largesse, he
was praised far and wide, and fair fortune
befell him.
Now while these things were happening,
his own lord had sent three messengers
forth from the land to seek him ; for he
was harassed in war, endangered and hard
bestead, so that he was losing all his castles,
and all his land was being wasted. Often
had he repented of banishing Eliduc,
through foolish hearkening to evil counsel ;
and the traitors who had accused and slan-
dered and wronged the knight, he had cast
out of the land, and into exile sent for
fever. And now in his sore distress he sent
ii6
(Efibuc
for his vassal, commanding and adjuring
him by the bond of homage between them,
to come to his lord's aid in this time of
sore need.
At these tidings Eliduc was sorrowful
for the maiden whom he loved passing
well, and who loved him with all her
heart. His hope and intent was that their
love might continue to show itself in the
giving of fair gifts and in speaking together,
without foolish trifling or dalliance; but
she thought to have him for her lord, if she
might keep his love, for she knew not that
he had wife.
"Alas!" he cried, "that ever I came
here ; too long have I been in this land !
Would I had never seen it ! I have come
to love the princess Guilliadun so dearly,
and she loves me so well, that if we must
part, one of us will die, or perhaps both !
And yet I must go, for my lord has sum-
moned me by letter, and I am bound to
him by oath ; and then again — my wife !
Now it behoves me to take heed, for 1
must depart without fail, and if I were to
wed my love, the Church would interfere.
Everything goes ill with me ! God —
how hard is this parting! But whoever
117
(glatfie be Stance
deem it wrong, I will always deal rightly
with her, doing her will and following her
counsel. The king, her father, has peace
now, and looks for no further war; hence,
for my lord's need I must ask leave before
the end of my time for abiding in this land.
I will go speak to the maid, and show her
all my case ; and when she has told me her
will, I will do it as far as I may."
He tarried no longer, but went at once
to the king to ask leave, relating to him
what had happened and reading the letter
from his lord, who was so hard-pressed.
And when the king heard that Eliduc
might in no wise remain, he became sor-
rowful and troubled in thought, and offered
largely of his possessions, one-third of his
heritage and of his treasure ; if only Eliduc
would remain, he would give him cause to
be grateful all his life.
" Pardieu^'' said Eliduc, " since my lord
is now so oppressed, and has summoned
me from afar, I must go hence for his
occasions, nor in any wise remain. But if
you have need of my service, I will return
to you gladly with a strong force of
knights."
For this the king thanked him, and with
ii8
(B'fibuc
all courtesy gave him leave to depart,
setting at his disposal all the treasures of
his mansion, gold and silver, dogs and
horses, rich and beautiful silk. Of these
took he measurably. Thereupon he added
to the king, as v^as fitting, that he would
like to say farewell to his daughter, if it
pleased him. The king answered, "With
all my heart," and sent forward a page to
open the chamber door.
Eliduc went with him, and when the
lady saw the knight, she called him by
name, and said he was six thousand times
welcome. He asked her counsel in this
matter, briefly showing the need for his
journey ; but ere he had told her all, or
taken leave, or even asked it, she turned
pale and swooned for grief. Seeing this,
Eliduc began to lament, and kissed her
often, weeping sorely, and held her in his
arms until she had recovered from her
swoon.
" P^r^/V«," he said, " my sweet love, try
to bear what I tell you. You are my life
and my death, and in you is all my comfort !
And though I must needs return to my
land, and have already taken leave of your
father, I counsel that there be troth-plight
119
(glarie be Stance
between us, and, whatsoever befall me, I
will do your will ! "
"Take me with you," she cried, "since
you will not stay longer! Or if you
will not, I must kill myself, for never more
shall I have joy or content! "
Eliduc answered tenderly that indeed he
loved her with true love: "Sweet, I am
bound to your father by oath, from now
until the term which was set, and if I took
you with me, I should belie my faith to
him. I promise you faithfully and swear
that if you will grant me leave and respite
now, and set a day afterwards, and if you
wish me to return, nothing in the world
shall hinder me, if I be aUve and well.
My life is all in your hands ! "
When she perceived his great love, she
granted him a term, and set a day when he
should come and take her with him. In
bitter grief they exchanged gold rings, and
with sweet kisses parted. Eliduc went
down to the sea, and with a good wind
was quickly across.
Upon his return his lord rejoiced greatly,
and likewise his friends and his kinsmen
and many other folk; and above all his
good wife, who was so fair and wise and
120
(Bfibuc
gentle. But he was always thinking upon
the love that overmastered him ; and showed
no joy or pleasure at all — indeed, he might
never be glad again until he saw his beloved.
He kept his secret well ; and yet his wife
grieved in heart, and often mourned by
herself, for she knew not what this might
be. Again and again she asked him if he
had not heard from some one that she had
been false to him or had sinned against
him while he was out of the land. She
would most gladly prove her innocence
before his folk, whenever he pleased.
" Wife," he said, " I charge you with
no sin or misdeed whatsoever. But in the
land where I have been, I promised and
swore to the king that I would return to
him, for he has great need of me. If my
lord had peace, I would not stay here eight
days longer. I must endure great anxiety
before I may return, yea, never until that
time shall I take pleasure in anything that
I see ; for I would not break my pledge."
With this the lady let be. He went to
his lord and so much aided and supported
him that by his counsel the king saved all
the land.
But when the time appointed by the
121
(glarie be Stance
maiden drew near, he made ready for his
departure; and having brought the enemy
to terms, he arrayed himself for the journey,
and likewise those he would take with him.
These were only his two nephews whom
he loved especially, the trusty chamberlain
who had brought the message, and his
squires; he had no desire for other com-
rades. These few he made promise and
swear to keep silence on this undertaking.
He put out to sea at once, and was
quickly across in the land where he was so
eagerly expected.
Now, for prudence sake, Eliduc took
lodging far from the harbour that he might
not be seen or recognized, and arrayed his
chamberlain to bear word to the princess,
that he had kept her command, and was
now arrived ; and when the darkness of
evening had fallen, she should come forth
from the city with the chamberlain, and he
himself would meet her.
The chamberlain changed his dress for
disguise and went on foot all the way to
the city where the king's daughter was.
He devised a means to be admitted to her
bower, and greeting the maiden, said that
her lover was come. Upon hearing these
122
(Efibuc
tidings she was all startled and confused, wept
tenderly for joy, and often kissed the mes-
senger. He said further that at eventide
she must go with him, for all the day
he had been planning their flight. In
the darkness of evening they set out from
the city, the chamberlain and herself —
no more than they two. She had great
fear of being seen, for she was clad in a
silken robe, delicately embroidered with
gold, and had wrapped about her only a
short mantle.
But her lover had come to meet her, and
was awaiting them a bow-shot's length
from the gate, by the hedge that enclosed
a fair wooded park. When the chamberlain
brought her up, he dismounted to kiss her;
and they had exceeding great joy together.
Soon, however, he placed her on a horse,
mounted, took the reins, and rode away at
full speed. When they arrived at Totnes
harbour, they embarked at once, he and
his own men only, and the lady Guilliadun.
At first they had a favouring breeze to
waft them across, and calm weather ; but
even as they were nearing the shore, there
came a storm at sea, and a wind arose
before them, which drove them far from
123
(VXaxie be Stance
their haven, broke and split their mast and
tore all their sail. Devoutly they called on
God, on St. Nicholas and St. Clement, and
Our Lady, the Virgin Mary, that she
entreat her Son to save them from death,
and bring them safe to land. One hour
backwards, another forwards — thus they
coasted along, for they were in the heart of
the tempest. And presently one of the
sailors cried aloud :
" What shall we do ? Lord, you have
here with you the one for whose sake we
perish ! We shall never come to land, for
you have lawful wedded wife, and yet bear
away this other, against God and the law,
against right and honour! Let us cast her
into the sea, and we may arrive at once ! "
At these words Eliduc in his wrath all
but hurt the fellow. " Thou dastard ! " he
cried, "wretch! foul traitor! be still! If
I could leave my lady, you should pay
dearly for this ! "
He held the princess in his arms, sooth-
ing her as best he could both for her terror
of the sea and for her woe in hearing that
her lover had wife in his own land. But
she fell forward in a swoon, and continued
in that state, all pale and colourless, neither
124
(Bftbuc
reviving nor breathing. He thought of a
truth that she was dead, and fell into bitter
grief. He arose and went to the sailor
who had spoken, struck him with a gaft
and stretched him prone, then hurled him
overboard, head foremost into the sea,
where the waves swept the body away.
Thereupon the knight took the helm, and
so steered the ship and held it firm, that he
made the haven and came to land ; and
when they were arrived safely, he cast
anchor and put down the gangway.
And still the maid lay with the look of
death upon her, so that Eliduc in his heavy
grief longed to lie dead by her side.
But he asked counsel of his comrades as
to whither he should take her, for he would
not part from her until she should be buried
with great honour and fair service, as be-
came a king's daughter, in holy ground.
His men were all perplexed and had nothing
to say, so the knight bethought him what
he should do. He remembered that near
his dwelling, itself so close to the sea that
it could be reached by mid-day, in the great
forest which stretched round about it for
thirty leagues, a holy hermit had had a cell
and chapel for forty years. Now since he
125
(^atte ^e Stance
knew this good man, he resolved to take
the maid thither and bury her in his chapel ;
and to give enough land to found an abbey,
and to place therein a convent of monks or
nuns or canons, who should pray for her
unceasingly, " God grant her sweet mercy ! "
So he had his horses brought, mounted
with his men, and taking oath of them not
to betray him, rode away on his palfrey
with his lady in his arms. They journeyed
straight on, until they came to the chapel
in the wood, where they knocked and
called, but found no one to answer, or to
open to them, so that Eliduc must needs
make one of his men climb over the wall to
unbar and open the door. Within they found
the new-made tomb of the holy man, who
had died eight days before. At this the
knight was sorely troubled and distressed ;
and when his men would have made the
lady's grave, he put them back, saying :
"This must not be until I have taken
counsel with the wise folk of the land, as
to how I shall sanctify the place for abbey
or for monastery. Let us lay her before
the altar here, and commend her to God."
He bade them forthwith bring robes and
prepare a couch, on which he placed the
126
(Bfi^uc
maiden whom he thought dead. But when
he came to the parting, he thought to die
of grief. He kissed her eyes and her face,
saying :
" Dear, please God, never more will I
bear arms or live out my life in the world !
Fair love — alas, that you ever saw me ;
sweet dear — alas, that you came with me !
Pretty one, now had you been queen per-
haps, were it not for the true love and
loyal, with which you loved me. My heart
aches sorely for you ! On the day that I
bury you I shall put on the cowl ; and at
your tomb day after day cry out anew my
grief!"
At last he left the maiden, and made fast
the door of the chapel ; and then he sent
a messenger to his dwelling to announce
to his wife that he was on his way home,
but was weary and travel-worn.
Upon hearing these tidings she rejoiced
greatly, and, arraying herself to meet her
lord, received him in all kindness ; yet she
got but little joy of him, for his looks were
so forbidding that none dared accost him,
and he spoke no loving word.
He was two days in the house ; and
after mass in the morning went forth alone
127
on the road to the forest chapel, where the
damsel lay. He found her neither revived
nor seeming to breathe, yet he marvelled
in seeing her still white and red, with no
loss of her fair colour, save that she was a
little pale. In his bitter anguish he wept
and prayed for her soul ; and having prayed,
returned home.
One day, when he went forth from the
church, his wife set a squire to watch him,
promising to give horse and arms if he
would follow his lord and see where he
went. And as she bade him, he followed
unperceived through the wood, saw Eliduc
enter the chapel and heard his mourning.
When the knight came out again, the
squire returned to his lady, and told her of
all the cries of grief and lamentation that
her lord had made in the hermitage. All
her heart was stirred, and she said :
" Let us go at once and search through
the hermitage. My lord must go, I think,
to the king's court. This hermit has been
some time dead, and though I know well
that my husband loved him, he never would
do thus for his sake, nor feel such lasting
grief."
For the time she let be ; but that same
128
(Bftbuc
day, after noon, when Eliduc went to the
king's court, she came with her squire to
the hermitage. When she entered the
chapel, and saw the bed with the maiden,
who was Hke a fresh-blown rose, she put aside
the robes and gazed upon the slender body,
the long arms, and white hands with graceful
fingers slim and shapely, and then she
knew verily why her lord was in such
grief. Calling the squire, she showed him
the marvel.
" See," she said, " this woman, like a
jewel in her fairness ! She is my lord's
friend, for whom he is all sorrowful. P
faith, I wonder not, since so lovely a
woman is dead ! As much for pity as for
love, I shall never again have joy ! "
She began to weep and make moan for
the maiden. As she sat lamenting by the
bedside, a weasel ran from under the altar,
and because it passed over the corse, the
squire struck it with his staff and killed it.
He threw it upon the floor, but it lay there
only while one might run a league, before
its mate sped thither and saw it. And
when, after running about the dead weasel's
head, and lifting it with its foot, the little
creature could not get its mate to rise, it
129 I
(Jtllarie be Stance
gave signs of grief, and sped out of the
chapel among the herbs in the wood. Here
it seized in its teeth a flower crimson of
hue, and returned at once to place it in the
mouth of its mate. Within the hour the
weasel came to life. When the lady saw
this, she cried to the squire,
" Stop it ! strike it, good lad ! Let it
not escape ! "
He threw his staff so that the weasel
dropped the flower ; whereupon the lady
rose and picking up the pretty blossom,
placed it in the maiden's mouth. And
presently, as she waited there, the damsel
revived and breathed, saying as she opened
her eyes, "Dear God, I have slept long! "
The lady gave thanks to God, and asked
the maid who she was, and she answered :
" Lady, I am of Logres, daughter to a
king in that land. I loved dearly a good
knight, Eliduc, and he brought me away
with him j but he did wrong in beguiling
me, for he has a wedded wife, and neither
told me of her, nor ever made sign of such
a thing. And when I heard speak of this
wife, I swooned in my grief; and he, most
unknightly, has abandoned me all desolate
in a strange land. He has betrayed me,
130
(Bftbuc
though I know not why. Foolish is she
who puts her trust in man ! "
"Fair maid," answered the other, "there
is no living thing in all the world that can
give him joy! One may say truly that
since he believes you dead, he has fallen
into strange despair ; every day he has
come to look upon you, though deeming
to find you lifeless. I am his wife, and
indeed my heart is heavy for him. Be-
cause he showed such great grief, I longed
to know whither he went, came after him,
and found you. I have great joy in find-
ing you alive ; and will take you back with
me and restore you to your friend. As for
myself, I will release him from his vows,
and veil my head ! "
Thus the lady comforted her and took
her away, at the same time sending a squire
to go for his lord. He journeyed until he
came to him, and greeting him courteously,
told him what had befallen. Thereupon
Eliduc waited for no companion, but
mounted at once, and rode home that self-
same night. When he found his lady alive
he rendered thanks sweetly to his wife, and
was more glad than he had ever been before.
Again and again he kissed the maiden and
131
(glatie be Stcinee
she him most tenderly, and they had passing
great joy together.
When his wife saw their happiness, she
accosted her lord and asked his leave to
depart and be a nun in God's service;
further, she asked him to give her part of
his land whereon she might build an abbey,
and said that he should marry the one
whom he loved so much, since it was
neither well nor fitting to maintain two
wives, nor would the law permit it.
Eliduc granted this, and parted from her
in all kindness, saying that he would do all
her will, and would give her of his land.
Thus near the castle in a boskage hard by
the chapel and the hermitage, she built her
church and monastic dwellings, and added
thereto land enough and rich possessions,
so that she might be well content to live
there. When it was all finished, she veiled
her head, and took with her thirty nuns to
establish the new order of her life.
Eliduc wedded his lady; and on that day
held feast with great honour and splendid
service. They lived together many a year
in perfect love, giving alms largely and
doing much good, until at length they
turned them to God wholly.
132
(Efibuc
Thereupon, with good counsel and care,
Eliduc built a church also near the castle
but on the other side, and bestowed upon
it the greater part of his land, and all his
gold and silver. He placed there men or
good religion to establish the order of the
house; and when all things were ready,
after no long delay, he gave himself also to
the service of God Omnipotent. He placed
his beloved lady with his former wife, by
whom she was received honourably as a
sister, was admonished to serve God, and
instructed in the rules of the order. To-
gether they prayed God to show sweet
mercy to their friend ; and he prayed for
them, sending messengers to know how it
was with them and how each did. Much
they strove, each singly, to love God with
good faith, and so made a fair ending, by
the grace of the True and Holy God.
The chivalrous Britons of olden time
made a lay of the adventure of these three,
that it might not be forgotten.
M3
INTRODUCTION
WILL tell my name that
I may be remembered :
I am called Marie, and
I am of France." This
is one of the few defi-
nite statements that the
most famous writer of
mediaeval lays makes
about herself. She says further: that she
has collected and translated her Lays in
honour of an unnamed " noble king," to
whom she intends to present them ; that
she has translated her Fables^ "which folk
call Esope," from English, for love of a
certain " Count William," and that she
has turned her Purgatory of Saint Patrick
into " Romanz," " for the convenience of
lay folk."
Our knowledge of her is somewhat
extended by two early allusions. Denis
Pyramus, a contemporary, in his Vie de
Saint Edmond^ mentions her immediately
after the author of Partonope^ and in much
the same terms. He says :
"And also Dame Marie, who turned
into rhyme and made verses of lays which
are not in the least true. For these she is
much praised, and her rhyme is loved every-
137
Jntrobucfton
where ; for counts, barons, and knights
greatly admire it, and hold it dear. And
they love her writing so much, and take
such pleasure in it, that they have it read
and often copied. These lays are wont to
please ladies, who listen to them with de-
light, for they are after their own hearts."
This passage gives a clear impression of
Marie's popularity — an impression height-
ened perhaps by her naive allusion to her
own fame and to the jealousy that it
caused [Guigemar, p. 7), and by her re-
ference, in the Epilogue to the Fables, to
" these many clerks " {i.e., scribes), who
would like to take to themselves the credit
of her work.
The second allusion is in the Couronne-
mens Renart, written after the middle of
the thirteenth century. The author states
that he is writing in honour of " Count
William, who was formerly Count of
Flanders," and has begun his prologue
" like Marie, who for him treated of
Izopet." This passage, with its apparent
identification of Marie's " Count William "
with a Count of Flanders, who from other
evidence was Guillaume de Dampierre,
(died 1 251), misled critics at first as to
138
Jnitotuciion
Marie's date and country ; but as the in-
ternal evidence in her works speaks decisively
for the twelfth century and against Flanders
as her home, the only possible conclusion
from the passage is that the author was
wrong. It may have been a mere accidental
blunder on his part ; but there are several
facts which point towards deliberate falsifi-
cation. His book was really intended for
the younger brother of Guillaume de Dam-
pierre, the Marquis de Namur, whom he
wished to instruct in worldly wisdom, and
it is followed in the manuscript by Marie's
Fables [Izopet). His statement that he is
imitating Marie is fully borne out by the
text. In identifying the two counts as one,
he seems to try to follow her Anglo-Norman
spelling of the name, having TFilliauTne
where she has Willalme -, but in his con-
clusion he has the ordinary French form
Guillaume. Again, his phrasing is reminis-
cent of hers : her patron is " flurs — de
chevalerie, d'enseignement, de curteisie,"
while the author of Couronnemens Renart
speaks of " la noble chevalerie " of his,
calls him " si senes, si larges, si preus, si
cortois " ; and where Marie's is " le plus
vaillant de cest reialme," his is also " preu
139
3nftobuction
vaillant." When it is remembered that the
poet would doubtless win favour from his
patron by ascribing to the latter's brother
the credit of having inspired so popular a
work as the Fables^ he can scarcely be
acquitted of either falsifying the facts or of
turning his uncertainty to meet his own ends.
While there is a consensus of opinion
among critics to-day that Marie belongs to
the second half of the twelfth century, there
is some difference of opinion as to the order
and more exact placing of her separate
works. Dr. Warnke, who edited the Fables
in 1898, and has just brought out a second
edition of the Lays (1901), suggests the
following order: (i) the Lays^ 11 60-70 ;
(2) the Fables y 1 170-80 ; (3) the Purgatory^
after 1 190. It is impossible here to give the
various reasons for this order ; but it may
be observed that Pyramus mentions only
the Lays^ while, if we may jvidge from the
number of manuscripts, the Fables came to
be even more popular, and again that Marie's
Prologue to the Lays seems to imply that
this is her first work. If the identification
of Count William with William Longespde
(see p. 143) be correct, the Fables were cer-
tainly finished after 1 1 7 o, because at that time
140
Jnttobttctton
he could not have won the position which
Marie ascribes to him. And the Purgatory
was probably written after 1190, since the
Latin from which it was translated seems to
have been written between 1 185 and 1 189.*
As to Marie's original home, it was
either Normandy or that part of the Isle de
France which borders upon Normandy.
Certain it is, as Professor Suchier suggests,
that she shows a closer acquaintance with
the little village of Pitres by Pont de I'Arche,
near Rouen, than with any other place
mentioned in the Lays. While as a rule
she is content to name her scene, with
very little or no description, in The Two
Lovers^ she devotes thirteen lines to a
sort of general description of the locality.
Further, her descriptions are reasonably
accurate : the mountain seems " marvel-
lous high," being the last of a range and
jutting abruptly out of the plain ; the
village is not close to the foot of the hill,
but is " near " and " on one side " ; " in
the meadow along the Seine " agrees with
local tradition as to the point from which
the lovers set out.
* It is uncertain that Ille et Galeron^ written about 1 167,
was based on Eliduc. See below, pp. 158, 195-6.
141
3nfro^ucfion
Moreover, there are several phrases which
seem to shov^^ personal acquaintance with
the village, such as, " There is still a town
of that name in this place ; and indeed the
whole country, as we know well, is called
the Vale of Pitres " ; and " There is many
a good herb found to-day."
On the whole, the claim of Pitres, since
it does not conflict with the dialect, is
worth attention.
Though when and under what circum-
stances Marie left France is unknown, it is
generally agreed that she did much or all of
her literary work in England. This ap-
pears from the traces of Anglo-Norman
in her dialect, and from her occasional use
of English words (such as nihtegale^ gotelef^
welkey sepande\ as well as in the fact that
she certainly translated her Fables from
English. Where else could she have
learned the lano;ua2:e well enousfh for that
purpose ? Moreover, by one or two un-
conscious slips of the pen she strengthens
this conclusion. In the Purgatory she
translates the Latin " in Angliam redie-
runt" by " vindrent aluec en Angleterre,"
i.e.^ she changes " went back " into " came
hither " ; and again in Milun she refers to
142
3ntto^ucfion
the lands round about Brittany as " terres
de la," i.e., lands yonder.
The Count William to whom the Fables
were dedicated probably lived in England,
and probably knew little or no English, as
the book was translated for him. The
man who best answers to Marie's descrip-
tion, " the most valiant of this realm " and
" the flower of knighthood," is William
Longespee or Longsword (i 150-1226),
Earl of Salisbury, a natural son of
Henry II and Fair Rosamond. Curiously
enough, Marie's phrase " flurs de chevalrie "
is almost the equivalent of one in the
Latin inscription on the earl's tomb in
Salisbury Cathedral, " flos comitum "
(flower of knights).
The king to whom Marie dedicated her
Lays was almost certainly Henry II (who
reigned 1154-89) ; and though we should
scarcely accept to-day her flattering estimate
of his character, he was a generous patron
of literature, as we know from Wace in his
Roman de Rou^ 11. 5315 ff., 10,455 ff-j so
that Marie seems justified in her dedication.
There is nothins: in her work to con-
tradict the belief that the t'lth Dame bestowed
upon her by Denis Pyramus, indicates thatshe
H3
3nftobuction
was a lady of rank. On the contrary, there
is much to confirm it: her education, the
tone of her dedications taken in connection
with the rank of the persons to whom they
were addressed, the refinement of her work,
and especially her representation of V amour
courtois. This artificial love-code, based
on Ovid as he was understood at that time,
formulated in the twelfth century under
the direction of Marie de Champagne, step-
daughter of Henry II, appears in the Lays
quite as much as in the romances of Chretien
de Troyes. The atmosphere which Marie
unconsciously reveals in her work is the
very court atmosphere of the time.
She was certainly well educated, even
bookish, for her time. She prides herself on
her knowledge of Latin (see Prologue) ; and
she certainly knew it well enough to trans-
late the Turgatory with a fair degree of
accuracy. She knew English at a time when
it was a strange tongue, even in England,
among the upper classes. It is uncertain
whether she knew Welsh or Breton (the
use of two Breton words, bisclavret and
laustic^ both titles of lays, is very little
evidence), and she may easily have derived
her materials at second or third hand. She
144
3nftrobuction
nowhere states that she translates directly
from " Bretun " ; she says only that
" li Bretun " made the lays originally. Still,
without being in any sense a scholar, she
was a woman of considerable attainment.
A curious change in attitude is observ-
able between the Lays and Fables on the
one hand and the Purgatory on the other.
In the former she shows no interest in
religious matters. In seven of the lays
there are no religious allusions, while in the
other five they are largely perfunctory.
Very few prayers are introduced, and those
are as short as possible. By comparing, for
instance, the prayers in Guigemar^ pp. 12,25,
with those of La Manekine (11. 1095-I160
and 4601-4738) by the Sire de Beaumanoir,
who was a layman, we see that the latter
in describing similar situations of peril
introduces prayers of proportionately twice
and three times the length of those in
Guigemar. Again, Marie seems to consider
penance a very easy matter (see The Ash
Tree, p. 39) ; she cannot resist a laugh at
the Seigneur of Dol for his donation to the
abbey {ib. pp. 44-5) ; she takes the
blessing of the archbishop very lightly in-
deed {ib. p. 49) ; her creed in JTonec (pp.
145 K
Jnfto^ucfion
71-2) would hardly satisfy the orthodox ;
and the divorce question in Eliduc (pp. 1 31-2)
troubles her not at all. It can scarcely be
denied that her attitude is thoroughly
worldly.
An apparent exception to this statement is
found in the conclusion to ^'//Wwr (pp. 132-3).
If it was from remorse that Eliduc put his
second wife into the convent with his first,
and founded for himself another monastery,
at least we are not told that this was the
reason ; it seems rather to be due to the
gradual growth of a religious spirit in him
as he became older. But in either case,
the ending is tacked on so abruptly as to
suggest that it was done later by some one
who did not approve of the story as it
stood.
In Gilles de Trasignies, a similar story, the
ending is that the second wife at once
voluntarily follows the example of the first
in entering a convent, and the husband,
being deprived of both, does the same.
Whether Gilles depends upon Eliduc, or
both go back to a common original, or each
has chanced to solve the problem in this
way, it is certain at least that both repre-
sent a clumsy attempt to fit anon-Christian
146
Jnftcbucfion
tale (in that it was originally polygamous,
see Notes on Eliduc) into the Christian
system.
Whether this conclusion was due to
Marie's original, or to some monkish copyist,
or to Marie herself in later years, cannot
perhaps be determined. In favour of the
last view may be urged her own change of
attitudeas seen in the Purgatory. Although
this is a fairly close translation of the Latin
treatise by the monk of Saltrey, there are
several indications of a religious attitude on
the part of the translator. First, the choice
of subject would indicate this ; again,
though the dedication to some " bel pere "
is certainly in the original, and refers to the
abbot at whose request the book was
written, there seems no reason why Marie
should have translated it, unless she in-
tended it to refer to some ecclesiastic of her
acquaintance, the more so as both her
other works have elaborate dedications;
and further, among the few lines that she
inserts are several that bear out this point
of view. There is no word now of her
own fame ; she is doing this work " for
God." And in contrast to her allusion in
the Fables to " these many clerks," this poem
147
is done "that it may be intelligible and
suitable to lay folk."
These reasons, of course, prove nothing
more than that, like Denis Pyramus, she
turned in her later years from romances to
religion ; and, one might add, passed
through a stage of interest in didactic litera-
ture (the Fables) between the two. But
as Henry II died in 1189, and as she was
almost certainly connected with his court,
it seems not impossible that she late in life
severed her connection with the court, in
whatever capacity she was there, and
entered a monastery. This is pure con-
jecture, but it accords with the known
facts.
While the Fables are interesting chiefly
in their relation to i^^sop, and the Purgatory
has its chief value as being a forerunner of
the Divine Comedy^ the Lays have a threefold
interest: (i) in their relation to ancient folk-
lore, especially Celtic ; (2) in their relation
to the later romances ; (3) in their intrinsic
literary value.
The question as to whether the French
lays are of Welsh or of Breton origin has
become one of the famous battle-grounds in
mediaeval literature. The early scholars,
148
Jnttobucfion
De la Rue, Roquefort, and others, ac-
cepted the word Breton as meaning un-
doubtedly Armorican ; and Villemarque,
when he brought forward his Barzaz Breiz
as containing the source of one of the lays
{The Nightingale)^ maintained this theory.
But M. Gaston Paris somewhat later ad-
vanced a strong plea in favour of Welsh
originals for lost Anglo-Norman poems,
themselves the direct sources for the extant
lays. Within the last decade a number of
German scholars, headed by Professor
Zimmer, have returned to the exclusively-
Breton theory, supporting their position by
philological, geographical, and historical
arguments ; and these have in turn been
attacked by MM. Loth, F. Lot, and others,
who, while admitting some of their conten-
tions, hold that both Breton and Welsh
materials furnished sources for the lays.
(For a brief summary of the main lines of
argument, see Bedier, Marie de France^
Revue des deux mondes^ torn. 107.)
Dr. Warnke, in his new edition of the
Lays (1901) maintains on the whole the
theory of a Breton origin ; but the last
word has by no means been spoken on the
subject.
H9
3ntrobuction
While it is impossible here even to sum-
marise the various lines of argument adopted,
a few facts may be noted which bear upon
the question :
I. The history of France and England,
of Wales and Brittany, during the twelfth
century, shows many points of contact.
Henry II continued the conquest of South
Wales begun under Henry I. Welshmen fled
to their Breton kindred for refuge from the
Norman, many indeed being exiled. Further,
Henry I spent most of the latter part of his
life in France, and Henry II carried out a
continuous and in the end fairly successful
warfare of subjugation in Brittany. Henry's
son Geoffrey married Constance, the heiress
of Brittany, and became reigning duke, to
whom all the native seigneurs were forced
to do homage. The English were at
Nantes, at Dol, at St. Michel. The English
court was held frequently for months in the
various Breton towns. It seems inevitable
that under such conditions there should
have been a very extensive interchange of
ideas and stories among these races. Further,
a bit of evidence to show the Welsh influ-
ence may be given from Giraldus Cam-
brensis, Itlnerarium Cambria^ lib. I., cap. i.
150
Jnfrobucfion
Here we find the closest parallel to Marie's
story of the hind with stag's horns, who,
when shot, afflicted her slayer with blind-
ness in the right eye and with paralysis.
Giraldus adds that he had the story from
one who knew the man, and also that the
head and horns of the strange beast were
taken to Henry II. The story may be a
mere fabrication, based on earlier fairy tales
of the sort, which are found especially in
Irish literature ; but the fact remains that
it is associated with Wales and with
Henry II.
2. The tendency of popular literature is
to accumulate and assimilate to itself ele-
ments from all other popular literatures
with which it comes historically into con-
tact. Granted the continued association
of the English Normans with both Bretons
and Welsh, it seems impossible to limit
their sources to either the one or the other
people.
3. The evidence of the lays themselves
is in favour of a two-fold origin. As to
scene, they vary : Guigemar in its names of
persons and places seems purely Breton,
while The Honeysuckle seems purely Welsh.
The scene of Equitan^ The Vnfortunatey
151
3nfrobucfton
The Ash Treey The Nightingale, and The
Werewolf is Brittany ; but the localisation
does not extend beyond the bare mention
of a name here and there. The weight of
evidence for Tonec and Lanval seems to
point towards Great Britain (though the
hero of the variant Graeknt in the case of
the latter is distinctly Breton). In Milun
and Eliduc the scene shifts from Great
Britain to Brittany and vice versa, the
former hero being a native of South Wales,
the latter of Brittany; but it should be
noted that here, in both cases, the more
definite descriptions deal with Great Britain.
The Two Lovers is Norman. (See Notes
on the separate lays.)
4. The sources of the lays, so far as it is
possible to determine them by a comparison
of parallel versions, are certainly, in large
measure, Celtic, but by no means exclu-
sively Breton. It may be due to accidents
of preservation that Irish literature furnishes
the largest number of parallels, Welsh next,
while Breton and Scotch-Gaelic can give
nothing more than isolated suggestions ; still
the fact rather makes against the exclusively
Breton theory. (See Notes as above.)
The form of the original sources has
152
Jnfrobuctton
been discussed largely. It is agreed that
they were as a rule popular folk-stories,
adapted for the court circles of the twelfth
century ; but the number of siftings, of
revisions, of additions, compressions, muti-
lations, alterations and combinations that
they passed through before Marie gave them
their present shape, it is impossible at present
to determine. At first one is inclined to
make the number large ; but after com-
paring with Marie^ on the one hand the
primitive Irish tales of the S'llva Gadelica,
and on the other the fully developed ro-
mances of Ille et Galeron and Galereyit de
Bretagne^ both dating from the twelfth
century, one is inclined to emphasize the
difference between the lays and romances
rather than that between the lays and early
folk-tales. Marie's poems contain, to a far
larger degree than do the romances, traces
of their Celtic originals in their delicate
grace and simplicity and child-like naivete^
though it is also true that the primitive
barbaric elements have been largely elimi-
nated.
Still they are undoubtedly several removes
from the Celtic materials. In holding this,
it is not necessary to question Marie's
153
3nfirobucfion
truthfulness, for though she often says that
"li Bretun" made them, and that she has
heard them (and sometimes read them) she
never once makes the claim that she herself
got them from the Britons.
Did Marie's material reach her in the
form of verse or prose? The theory set
forth by M. Bedier [Revue des deux
mondes^ tom. 107, p. 849 fF.) and by Dr.
Warnke (second edition of the Lays)^
seems to accord best with the known facts.
This is briefly: that the narrative lays in
Marie have developed out of an early form,
in which the story was told in prose, and
the emotions of the characters, usually in
the form of a speech, were expressed in a
short lyric, the prose being spoken, the
poetry sung; that it was the music that
first attracted the French minstrels, and
roused curiosity as to the meaning; and
since it would have been extremely difficult
for them to render the verse adequately
into French verse, it came about that the
prose parts were done into verse, while the
lay itself was either entirely omitted or
embodied in a greatly altered or compressed
state.
There is abundant evidence as to the lyric
154
3nftobuctton
character of the original lays. I shall quote
only Galerent de Bretagne^ 11. 70 10-15 :
" Nor did he fail to know both words
and music, the note of Galeren le Breton.
And all the ladies and knights hearkened to
it, though none understood the delight of
the words save they two (/.^., who knew
Breton) ; but the song was sweet and made
them all listen."
Further, Gottfried von Strassburg men-
tions a Welsh and an Irish harper as
playing Breton lays. Giraldus Cambrensis,
Descrip. Camb.^ lib. I, cap. xii, testifies to
Welsh "cantilenis rhythmicis" (rhythmic
songs) and to the fame of Welsh music ; and
a singing contest of minstrels, a sort of early
eisteddfod^ at the court of Prince Rhys in
1 177, is mentioned lin the Welsh Chronicle
(quoted by Hoare, ed. Gir. Camb., II, p. 53).
Again, this prose and verse form blended
is common in the early Irish stories, the
only Celtic tales which in their existing
form antedate the twelfth century. In the
Silva Gadelica^ the singing of a lao'id^ a short
lyric expression of the speaker's emotions,
occurs very often.
Lastly, this explanation makes clear
several puzzling statements in the little
155
Unito^uciion
introductions and conclusions of Marie. It
explains her use of the word rhyme, her
apparent distinction between conte or narra-
tive and lay, her use of the expression " I
have heard told " (conte). It explains : " The
stories {contes) that I know to be true, of
which the Britons have made lays, I will
tell you " {conterai\ when taken in con-
nection with " Of this conte that you have
heard, was made the Lay of Guigemar
which is told to the harp and to the rote —
sweet is the music thereof" ; also, " I will
tell you the Lay of the Ash, according to the
cunte that I know " ; and " He who would
treat of various stories " [cuntes), and "Of
their love and weal, the ancients made a
lay, and I who have put it into writing,
take great pleasure in retelling it " {recunter).
But the two most interesting passages are
in The Unfortunate and in The Honeysuckle.
In the former we have the description of
the making of a lay, which could have been
little more than a lament. The lady says :
" In that I have loved you all so much, I
will that my grief be remembered. Of you
four I will make a lay and call it ^atre
Doels " {four woes, or, perhaps, elegies ?).
The knight bids her make it over again and
.56
introduction
call it The Unfortunate^ because he alone is
unhappy ; his three companions have died
gloriously, while he was only wounded and
lives to look upon her whom he loves so
dearly, and yet cannot win her love.
Clearly Marie does not attempt to give
even the substance of the lay, she gives only
"the adventure" upon which it was
founded ; she tells how it came to be made,
and how it was changed (for the lady ac-
cepts the knight's emendation). Again, in
The Honeysuckle^ Marie claims distinctly
that she is only telling how^ by whom and
of what the lay was made.
It seems probable then that the French
lays were rhymed out of prose stories which
contained lyrics called lays ; and that the
French versions were so named partly
because it was the lyric lays that especially
attracted the French audience, and partly
because they also were in verse form. Per-
haps Aucassin and Nicolete represents, in some
degree, the song-story form of the originals.
That the French lays themselves were
sung with a definite melody, it is impos-
sible to believe ; that they were given in
a sort of chant, with some musical accom-
paniment, is probable.
157
3nfto^ucfion
The influence of Marie's lays upon the
development of mediaeval literature was at
first considerable. They were in the drift
of the tendencies of that time, as is shown
perhaps by the fact that her stories of
Lanval and M'llun are repeated in the
anonymous lays, Graelent and Doon. The
Honeysuckle^ indeed, appears to be merely
an ofFshoot of the Tristan legend ; but
The Ash Tree is the source for the romance
of Galerent de ^retagne while Eliduc is akin
to the source for the romance of Ille and
Galeron. Aside from these facts, Guigemar
and Eliduc by their length and complexity
suggest the evolution of the lay into the
romance. As we have no manuscript of
the Lays later than the beginning of the
fourteenth century, we may conclude that
their popularity was exhausted by that time,
or rather that they were superseded by the
romances which they had helped to develop.
All of Marie's lays except Eliduc were
translated into Norse about the middle of
the thirteenth century. Until recent times
only two have been done into English, The
Ash Tree about 1300, and Lanval no less
than three times during the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries.
158
Jnfto^ucfton
With the awakening interest in things
mediaeval towards the close of the eight-
eenth century began the critical study of
the life and work of Marie de France.
The writings of Le Grand d'Aussy,
Roquefort, Robert and De la Rue were
followed by those of Mall and Warnke.
While many eminent critics to-day busy
themselves with the problems of Marie's
life and work, very few attempts at trans-
lation or imitation have been made. In
1816, Miss Matilda Betham published a
poem entitled Lay of MariCy in which a
purely fictitious account of the mediaeval
poet is given. In an appendix she gives
Way's metrical translation of Guigemar and
Lanval (from his Fabliaux)^ and Scott's
prose version of The Honeysuckle (appendix
to 5/r Tristre?n). In 1872, Mr. O'Shaugh-
nessy published free metrical versions, with
much additional material, of several of the
lays, but they afFord little conception of
the originals. Miss Weston has included
Lanval 3.nd The TVerezvolfxn her collection
oi Four French Lais, 1 900.*
* Arthurian Romances unrepresented in Malory,
No. 3. A translation of Ellduc by Mrs. Kemp- Welch has
appeared in the Monthly Rcuuiv^ July, 1 90 1 .
Jntrobucfion
In determining the intrinsic merit of the
lays, it is necessary first to endeavour to
put aside the qualities due to the originals,
and then to judge of their worth from the
standpoint of revelation of personality and
of the artistic skill shown in the treatment.
It is by a comparison of the early Celtic
tales with the fully-developed romances of
Marie's own time that we are enabled to
put aside the qualities of style to which she
may not lay credit. Further, judging by her
literal rendering of the Purgatory, we must
expect to find her peculiarities in the little
unconscious touches and expressions of
sympathy rather than in a definite theory
of modification of her sources. While we
may not credit her with the dainty bits of
nature and little scenes from life scattered
throughout the lays, we may praise her
judgment for keeping them (though, to be
sure, we do not know how many others
she has omitted) ; and further, we can
praise the discretion and restraint which
kept her from over-embroidering with in-
congruous details the delicate fancies of her
originals. Whether it is from a sense of
duty to her originals, or from a natural
simplicity of mind, as opposed to the
1 60
3nfto^ucfion
subtlety of Chretien de Troyes or Benoit
de Sainte-More, she has a child-like delight
in the external and tangible, in the story for
itself, that is rather refreshing in an age
over-fond of analysing situations and states
of mind. The sentimentality to which
M. Bedier attributes her popularity among
women seems to me a quality of the
subject-matter, the treatment being brusque,
and at times almost flippant.
Whatever her rank and position may
have been, she is essentially aristocratic in
her tastes; she is imbued with the ideals
of chivalry, with its rigid standards of
courtesy and its un-modern morality; she
does not escape, superficially, the impress
of the Church. Yet when we examine
these qualities, we see that they need
further modification. Here and there we
find gleams of sympathy with " poor
peasant folk"; again her conception of
Vamour courtois^ complete as it is, is not
altogether orthodox. Usually she favours
the lovers as against the husband — one
of the fundamental principles of ramour
courtois being that the husband could not
continue to be the lover — but in Equitan
and The JVerewolf she distinctly condemns
i6i
3nftobuction
the wife's treachery, seeming also to dis-
approve of her intrigue, while in Eltduc^
the hero has most modern ideas on the duty
of conjugal faithfulness. And as to religion,
it was quite unimportant to her until she
wrote the Purgatory.
She is French in her light-heartedness,
which now and then is touched with a
dash of wit or a delicate bit of humour, as
in her account of Gurun's generosity in
The Ash Tree, and of the old porter, or
her description of the lovers in The
Nightmgale.
On the whole, the impression one gets
is of a clever, lively woman, delicate-
minded yet not too orthodox, with no
great power of originality, who being quite
aware of her knack of saying things prettily,
turns to literature partly as a pastime and
partly out of ambition.
That she had an ideal appears from
the introduction to Guigemar ; that she
worked hard, from this as well as from the
Prologue. Yet, while the first impression
which one derives from the lays is one
of charm, due perhaps to the clear-cut
pictures and fitness of the phrasing to the
ideas, structurally they are not " well told."
162
Jnfrobucfton
They show the lack of unif)'ing power, so
common a defect in mediaeval narratives ;
the various elements in the plot are often
badly combined, the centre of interest is
shifted unskilfully at times, and on the
whole we feel that it is brevity of material
perhaps rather than artistic skill in handling
it, that saves Marie from the exa2:2;erated
faults of some of her contemporaries.
The characters are largely conventional ;
there is a fixed type of physical and
spiritual qualities for hero, heroine, and
villain. Yet at intervals we find flashes
of insight into human nature, some of
them so unimportant to the tale that they
would seem to be Marie's own ; such as,
the laugh of the angry husband in The
Nightingale^ the mutual shyness of the
lovers and Guilliadun's reception of the
chamberlain in Eliduc^ the finding of the
waif in The Ash Tree^ and the guilty
mother's feeling when she recognises her
daughter, in the same poem.
Smoothness, lightness, and ease in
managing her verse — the common octo-
syllabic rhyming couplet of the time,
perhaps best represented in English by
Chaucer's later Dethe of Blaunche the
163
Jnito'^Viciion
Duchesse — Marie shared with most of her
contemporaries. Compared with the ex-
quisite Tightness of Aucassin and Nicolete^
her Lays seem artificial, while set over
against the gorgeous and elaborate fancies
of Chretien de Troyes, they seem almost
childishly simple. But she had some poetic
instinct and some experience of life in the
most brilliant period of the Middle Ages ;
moreover, she had a pretty gift of miniature
painting, a clever touch in phrasing, the
wisdom to choose ancient folk-tales, beauti-
ful in themselves, and the patience to re-
mould them conscientiously and to " wake
ni2;hts " in the work. The results were
perhaps not unworthy of the great king to
whom they were presented.
.6+
NOTES
(Uofeg
PROLOGUE.
Page 3. — Priscian tells us. Author of a famous text-
book on grammar, the histitutiones Grammaticae. He
Hved at the end of the 5th century, and his book was
widely studied during the Middle Ages. The passage to
which Marie alludes occurs at the beginning, where
Priscian discusses at length the question of imitating the
Greeks, but does not make the statement which Marie
attributes to him.
Page 3. — Mii^ht employ the whole resources of their wit,
Dante, in his De Vulgari Eloquentia, lib. I, i, speaks
in somewhat the same manner of the literary language,
saying that few acquire the use of it, " because we can
be guided and instructed in it only by the expenditure of
much time and by assiduous study."
Page 3. — Keep himself from sin . . . spare himself great
sorrozv. The author of Renard le Conirefait, writing in
the early part of the 13th century, expresses in some
detail a similar thought. He speaks of the advantage ot
leisure for the production of good literary work, and tells
how people who read old stories and translate Latin into
Romance, are able to put sin and sorrow away from
them.
GUIGEMAR.
This lay belongs t "> the same class of fairy stories as
Graelent, Lanval, Guingamor and Dt'sir^, while traces
167
(hoicB
of the influence of this type of tale are to be seen in Dolo-
pathos (the seventh story in the collection), in La Naissance
die Chevalier au Cygne [Piibl. of the Mod. Lang. Assoc,
of America, IV), and in Partoiiopeus de Blois. Less
distinctly it appears also in certain features of the English
Generidcs (translated from a lost French original), in
Emard (also from a lost French poem), and in Mdusine.
It is alluded to in Erec et Enide, 1. 1954 ff., and in the
continuation of the Perceval, 11. 21,779, 21,857-79.
It appears then that the story was widely known in the
I2th century, the date of most of the above-mentioned
works, and that its influence extended into the 13th,
and even later. It seems worth while to consider briefly
(i) the relation of Gnigemar to the other members of the
group, and (2) the probable source of this type of story.
Professor Zimmer has shown [Zisch. f fr. Spr. u.
Liu., XIII, p. 8 ff.) that Guingamor and Guigemar
are variant forms of the same name. It does not of
course follow that the stories are identical, as there are
frequent instances of different and inconsistent tales
attaching themselves to one hero.
Comparing the five lays for resemblances and differ-
ences, we find :
1. Gicig. alone has the definite theme that contempt ot
love leads to excessive suffering through love. In Lanv.
Grael. and Dds. the suffering is caused by disobedience
to the fairy mistress, while in Gtiing. also this idea
appears, though subordinated to the narrative of the
knight's adventures.
2. Guig. and Dh. alone have the introduction dealing
wiih the hero's early life and education.
3. In G2iig. and Dis. alone we have the strange deer
(though details and circumstances vary). In Giilng. a
boar is used instead. Lanv. and Grael. agree in omit-
ting the incident.
4. Lanv. Grael. and Guing. agree in having the
wooing by the queen, though in the last, it is soon lost
sight of, and in the other two it leads to the trial of the
knight and his rescue by the fairy. In Dds. also he
finally goes to fairyland with his lady, though under
different circumstances. In Guig» alone he wins the
168
(Itofes
lady in battle and takes her away with him, to his own
home apparently,
5. In Gtiig. alone we have journeys across the sea,
though in Guing., Lanv. and Grael. there is a "perilous
river" to be crossed.
6. In the love episode itself, Grael. and Lanv. agree,
and, on the whole, Dds. though with several additions.
Guing., though with a different arrangement of episodes,
is also fundamentally the same. Guig. is entirely different.
Here the attempt is made to convert the fairy mistress
into a mortal, and as she is the wife of a jealous old man,
the love-story becomes an intrigue similar to that in the
first part of Yonec, plus the account of the adventures at
Meriaduc's castle, where the lovers are finally united.
From even this brief comparison, it appears \hd,\.La7zv.
and Grael. are undoubtedly the same story, while Guing.
and Dds. are simply other versions of it with inde-
pendent alterations and additions, Guing. and Dds.
both show features approaching nearer to Guig. than
the other two. It would seem, then, that in its first
part Guig. goes back to the source of Guing. and
Dds.., while, in the second, it depends upon an entirely
different story of marital jealousy. It is the imperfect
blending of the two that accounts for the many incon-
sistencies and obscurities in the lay. To mention only a
few : the lady is mortal, yet she alone can heal the
knight's wound ; she has foreknowledge of the discovery
of the love intrigue, yet is powerless to prevent it; she is
imprisoned for more than two years, and escapes finally
in a most mysterious way ; she has no control over the
fairy ship, yet it serves her as well as her lover ; she fives
in " the capital city of that realm," but neither city nor
realm has a name ; the jealous husband is simply dropped
from the story, as soon as the lovers have escaped from
his castle. Especially obscure is the part played by the
hind : she is apparently much distressed, about to die of
the wound inflicted by Gnigcinar, yet through her he
attains his happiness. She does not conduct him to the
ship, and yet, unless she is in some way connected with
the ship, it is difficult to see how she plays any further
part in the story.
169
(tioicB
Partotwpeus de Blois, written by a contemporary ol
Marie, contains the story in the following form : the
knight is separated from his companions during a hunt,
and is led by a boar to the ship which conveys him, with-
out visible propelHng agencies, to the land where he finds
his lady. It is noteworthy that she is not a fay, but a
mortal who has studied magic, that she sends the ship,
that he loses her through breaking a taboo, and wins her
again in a tournament. These facts, when taken in con-
nection with the inconsistencies in Guigemar, suggest
that the original form of this version may have been
somewhat along these lines.
From the numerous verbal resemblances, especially in
rhyme-words, among the five lays, Partonopeiis and
Dolopathos, we may infer that the minstrels, in retelling
the story, combined a degree of verbal memory with
fresh material introduced for the sake of variety, accord-
ing to their own fancy and stock of experience.
The basic story can be paralleled in general outline
and in some details in Irish, and to some extent in
Welsh. In Irish, we have the hero-tales of Con?ila and
the Fairy A/aiden {]a.cobs, Celtic Fairy Tales, and Joyce,
Old Celtic Romances), Oisin in Tirnanoge (Joyce) and
the Voyage of Bran. Of these, the first and last are
older than the lays, and the second, though modern in
form, bears the marks of considerable antiquity. Oisin
and Bran share with Guingamor the feature of a return
to earth after an abode in fairyland. There is a group
of similar stories in Welsh (RhyS, Celtic Folklore), and
there are several told in much the same manner in Map's
De Nugis Curialium^ twelfth century, distinc. II, cap.
xi-xiv, and IV, viii-xi), in which a fairy comes
out of a lake, or in a boat, or appears by the lake-side,
or in the forest, and wins the love of a shepherd or
farmer. In most of these she is lost through the break-
ing of a taboo, though in others he is taken away to
fairyland and never heard of again, and in one, at least,
he returns after seven years.
Several episodes are paralleled repeatedly in Celtic
literature. The magic deer (or sometimes boar) into
which a fairy transforms herself, or which is under her
170
control, is especially common. Finn's fairy sweetheart,
in The Colloijuy (O'Grady, Silva Gadelica, p. 163),
could take the form of any animal she pleased. In The
Chase of Slieve Fuad (Joyce) is a doe, "very large and
fierce, with a great pair of sharp, dangerous antlers,"
which is used by an enchantress to decoy certain heroes.
In Jensen's Eddystone, in The Chase 0/ Slieve CuUinn
(Joyce), and in various other Celtic tales, a hind of
supernatural origin occurs; and in various other mediaeval
works, as 7)'(?/e/ and Gottfried's T'rw^a;/, we find similar
strange beasts. Another sort of parallel is furnished by
Giraldus Cambrensis [cf. Introductioii, p. 151) in his
story of the Welsh hunter who received such sore bodily
injury upon killing a hind with stag's horns. Again, we
find still another sort of parallel in the Scotch-Gaelic
Leeching of Cay ?i' s Leg []^cobs, More Celtic Fairy Tales),
in which the heroine appears first as a roe-buck, and
later, when her husband has broken three promises which
she exacted of him, turns into a filly and wounds a man,
by kicking him in the thigh, so that he can be healed
only by a magic salve.
According to the oldest recorded Irish version of this
same tale, given in Silva Gadelica, p. 332 ff. of the
translation, O'Cronigan meets the fairy in the woods, and
she takes refuge in the form of a hare in his bosom,
promising him the dearest boon he could ask in return
for his help. He deserts his own wife and lives with the
fairy very happily for three years. Then at a feast which
O'Cronigan gives, Cian falls in love with her, and when
she refuses to be his, he knocks her down, whereupon she
becomes a mare and rushes to the door. It is when he
tries to stop her that she kicks him and injures his leg, so
that no leech can heal it. At the end of a year his nephew
brings him a salve which cures him, apparently a magic
salve, though this is not perfectly clear. Ihis older version
is interesting because the logic is clearer between the
transformation of the woman and the wounding of the
man. And, again, the flight of the fairy when she is
struck affords an interesting suggestion at least of the
taboos (in Map and Rhys) laid upon the husband by the
fairy-wife, not to strike her.
5tote0
A similar story forms the opening of Macphie's Black
Dog {Scottish Celtic Revieiu, I), It is in his introduction
to this that Campbell makes a statement which throws
considerable light on the part played by the hind, which
is, that the belief is common in the Highlands that
deer are the fairies' cattle ; hence arises the hostility of
the fairies towards deer-hunters, and hence, also, their
predilection for transforming themselves into deer.
The marvellous hind then is clearly a fairy, who being
wounded to the death while in this form (and that fairies
became mortal during their transformation is shown
repeatedly — cf. Yonec, also Macphie's Black Dog, in
which the fairy shows her true form as soon as the gun
is pointed at her, and becomes a stag again as soon as it
is lowered), takes her revenge on Guigemar by choosing,
perhaps, what she considers the most unlikely mode of
healing for him. It is difficult to see why the wound in
the foot should be fatal ; either this was the one vulner-
able spot, or perhaps the arrow was poisoned.
In Partonopeus the boat was sent by the lady, and as
the lady in this story was, according to Erec et Enide,
1. I9S4 ff. , no less a person than Morgain la fee, the
fairy queen herself, it is very probable that originally
she sent the boat to save the knight.
A magic boat appears in Ccnnla, in the Fate of the
Children of Turenn (Joyce), and in one of the Welsh
versions (Rhys I, p. 17).
The theme of the jealous husband is too common to
be definitely localised. As it is treated in Guigemar,
however, its resemblance to Yonec is noteworthy, the
greatest differences being that the lover comes in a
magic boat instead of as a bird, and when the intrigue is
discovered, is turned adrift in the hope that he may
perish, instead of being killed outright. Ahlstrom's argu-
ments {Stud. i. den. fornfr. Lais-Litt.) that this part
of the lay shows Oriental influence have not been generally
accepted.
Although the parallels given belong entirely to Great
Britain, critics agree that the names used point to a
Breton origin for the lay. Guigemar's home is in L^on,
a province m the north-west of Brittany. His name had
172
(Uotee
been borne by five lords of Ldon, two of whom were
famous men and contemporary with Marie ; Hoilas is
Hoel or Howel, the name of six dukes of Brittany,
though Marie probably refers to the Arthurian Hoel,
mentioned in Wace and Geoffrey of Monmouth ; and
Meriaduc was the name (Conan Meriaduc in full), of
a mythical leader of the fifth century, under whose
rule the (fabulous) conquest of Brittany was accom-
plished, as we read in Geoffrey of Monmouth.
Meriadoc is the name of one of the traitors in several
versions of the Tristan story. He is also the hero of the
French romance, Li Chevaliers as Deus Espees, and of
the Latin prose Vita Meriadoci (recently edited by Pro-
fessor Bruce). However, there seems to be no connec-
tion between any of these stories and the Meriaduc in
Guigeniar ; mdeed, they are all associated with Wales,
while, according to Marie, Mt-riaduc lived in Brittany.
That there was a well-known castle bearing his name,
near St. Pol-de-Leon, seems certain. It is mentioned in
the prologue to the Vie de Saifit Goeznou, written 1019,
as Castrum Meriadoci (De la Borderie, Hist, de Bret.,
n, p. 526) ; and again, in a fourteenth-century Latin
poem as semirutum (half-ruined) castelluni Meriadoc hi
(De la Borderie, HI, p. 389). There may well have
been traditions about Meriadoc current in Brittany, one
of which served as a basis for this part of the story, or
Marie m.ay have laid the scene at this castle because it
was a familiar landmark.
Summing up, we may say, I think, that Guigemar is a
composite of a story belonging to the Lanval-Guin-
gamor group, but varying iu the direction of Partono-
peus, and of a story similar to the first part of Yo/iec.
Moreover, it seems probable that the combination was
not made before the middle of the twelfth century, that
is, if not due to Marie herself, it must have been made by
her immediate predecessor. Among the reasons for
believing this are: (i) Conan Meniaduc is scarcely
known in literature before Geoffrey of Monmouth ;
(2) the hind episode iis related by Marie would be far
more telling after the similar episode had been related
n connection with Henry H ; (3) the sign of welding
173
(Itofec
are still so very apparent. If the two stories had been
long handed down together, these signs would have dis-
appeared before the story reached Marie, and hence
became fixed in its final literary form. As it is, the lay
seems to mark a transition from the old simple folk-tale
in the direction of the elaborate episodic romance.*
Page 7. — W/io uses her time — io speak ill is their
vatiire. An attitude very similar to Marie's towards her
work is shown by the poet Renart in his introduction to
the Lai de VOmbre. His general line of thought is :
that he would rather employ his wit in good composition
than be idle ; and instead of tearing down the work of
others, will build up some good thing, some pleasant
work, even although churlish folk should scoff at him for
employing his " courtesy" in this way ; for he is foolish
who stops because of mockery or blame ; if any wretch
sticks out his longue at this work, he is acting only
according to his nature.
The companson of a churlish backbiter to a dog occurs
also in Le Donnei des Ainants, 11. 67-75 [Romania, xxv) :
' ' The mastiff and the churl in body and in nature are
much alike. A dog shows friendliness by wagging his
tail, then bites with his teeth — and a churl does much
the same. When the churl most flatters you, beware
lest he do you mischief ; and when he shows you honour,
'tis not from courtesy, but from fear."
Page 8. — Noguent. Curiously enough the sister is
introduced and named, though Marie frequently has no
names for her principal characters (out of fifty important
characters only sixteen have names), and then dropped
from the story. Perhaps originally Noguent's story also
was given.
Pages 11-12. — Solomon's work. The details of the
ship bear some resemblance to Parfonopeus, 11. 701-59.
The phrase " Solomon's work" is explained by several
passages in the later Grand S. Graal{cf. Lonelich's version,
* For further reference and discussion on the sources of the
Lays, see Koliler's Vergleichende Atimerkungen, with Warnke's
additions, in Warnke's second edition. For this poem especially
see Schofield's Lay of Gtthtgamor, in Harvard Sitidies and
Notes, V.
(ttoita
E. E. T. S. , chap, xxviii, pp. 353-65; chap, xxx, pp.
390-404 ; chap, xxxi, pp. 412-17), m which occurs a
description of the ship built by Solomon, an account of
its building and its symbolism. In the Gra?2d S. Graal,
Solomon builds the ship for the perfect knight who is to
come of his line, and puts in it David's sword and crown
with various other things for his use. When the sym-
bolism of the ship is fully explained, we learn that it
represents the Holy Church, and the sea, the world ; the
bed is the Holy Altar, also Christ's Cross, and so on.
No one may enter the ship unless he is full of faith, and
the moment he loses faith it splits ; otherwise, it cannot
be injured. Ii is not to be supposed that Marie intended
to imply the elaborate symbolism found in the Gra?id S.
Graal, nor is it certain that it even existed in her day ;
but she may have read some legend of a fine ship
built by Solomon, and carried in her mind a few of the
details. But the phrase more probably refers to the
kind of ornamentation. (See Du Mcfril, Floire et Blan-
chijlor, 1. 556, where a marble tomb is inlaid with gold
and silver de latri/oire Salemon; also, Furster, De Venus
la Deesse d' Amour, st. 214, where an ivory saddle is
icilaid trestot de Vnevre Salejnon.) Perhaps I Kings,
chap, vi, with its description of Solomon's Temple, which
was so largely ' ' overlaid with gold ' may have given rise
to the term.
Page 12. — Whoso placed his head zipoji it. The
pillow suggests one in Genervdes (ed. Furnivall, 11. 291-
326):
" Vnder whos heid it lay a stound,
With what sekenes he wer bound,
As long as it vndre him lay,
Shuld noon yuell doo him betray."
Page 14. — Ovids book. While the book of Ovid men-
tioned is evidently the De Remedio Amoris, it seems not
impossible that the painting which represented " the ways
and nature of love," might have been in illustration of
the far more famous Ars A materia. That Venus should
be displeased with the De Remedio is, of course, natural.
Her method of dealing with it is distinctly mediaeval.
She burns it as heretical works were burned, and
(Uofee
"anathematizes" all who should read it, or follow its
teachings. These paintings show marvellous lack of
diplomacy on the part of the jealous husband ; but perhaps
the description is entirely without reference to the
situation.
Page 21. — Churls that call themselves knights.
" Villeins courteous " is the literal translation, and the
m eaning is, men of knightly rank who do deeds worthy
only of "villeins," i.e., peasants. The aristocratic tone
is characteristic of Marie.
Page 23. — Plait in it a fold — whoso could open the
buckle thereof. The plait and girdle, though probably
originally magic, scarcely need 10 be so considered here.
They do not occur in any other form of the story, and
bear only a remote resemblance to other similar objects
in mediaeval or classical literature, as, the Gordian knot,
and the knot tauglit Ulysses by Circe [Od. viii, 1. 448) ;
and the girdle in the Bevers-saga. It is noteworthy that
in Generydes (ed. Furnivall), 11. 539-47, 605-20, 2325-
2488, and Generidcs (ed. Wright), 11. 190-6, 1 163-1253,
Aufreus' shirt-sleeve is stained by the tears of liis
mistress, and can be washed clean only by herself ; and
it is by this means that, after a long separation, he
finally discovers her.
Page 24. — A great beam of fine. The great beam
which Guigemar seizes but does not use, may be a sur-
vival from a more primitive form of the story.
THE ASH TREE.
This story falls into two distinct parts: the first
hinges upon the common mediaeval belief that it was
impossible for a virtuous wife to have twins, and the
second is the theme of the patient resignation of a man's
love by a woman who has the best claim to it.
The lay as it stands is unique, but the elements of
which it is composed were familiar matter in the Middle
Ages. The first part appears in many forms in various
popular tales, especially in Germany. In a large
number of cases, the story is simply that a lady of rank
reproves a beggar woman who has had twins or triplets,
176
Qtotee
and is herself punished by having many more children
at a birth. (For the titles of various collections of these
popular tales, see Warnke, second edition of the Lais.)
In a Dutch version (in the Chronicle of Hermann
Korner published in Eccard's Corpus historicum niedii
aevi, II, pp. 951:^-956), one lady of rank accuses another
and is the cause of her hubbaud's putting her away. In
this feature, it is manifestly nearer to The Ash Tree than
the preceding forms of the story, though in its details
widely different. In a Danish ballad (Grundtvig's
Dantnarks gamle Folkeviser, V, 386, No. 285 E), there is
no question of slandering a neighbour, but the woman is
punished for making, in public, a general statement
similar to that in The Ash Tree ; and, as in the lay, she
tries to get rid of one child (here by throwing it into
the water). There is also a Spanish romance in which
it is the law that all mothers of twins should be burned
or cast into the sea. The queen has two sons and
disposes of one of them by putting him into a casket
with gold and jewels, and letting this drift out to sea.
Like Le Fraisne, he is named from the place where he is
found, Espiiielo, from a thorn-bush where the waves cast
him ashore. Similar is the Italian poem Gibello in
which the child, instead of being thrown inlo the sea, is
given to foreign merchants whom the nurse happens to
meet.
I'his story early became blended with the story of the
man who married a swan-maiden, whose children were
either monstrous, or were reported to be so by her
mother-in-law, who thus took opportunity to wreak her
malice. This is the case in Le Chevalier au Cyg?te et
Godefroidde Bouillon,-p\xh\\she<l by Baron de Reiffenberg,
as may be seen by a comparison vvith La Naissance du
Chevalier au cygne, where something of the wife's super-
natural character is retained. Upon a prose version of
the former romance depends the English prose History of
the noble Helyas, Knixht of the Szuanfie, and the Dutch
folk-book of the Ridder met de Zwan.
In another French romance. La Chanson du Chevalier
au Cygfie et de Godefroi de Bouillon, published by
Hippeau, the king laments that he has no children, upon
177 M
Qtotee
seeing a woman with twins, whereupon the queen*
makes the spiteful remark that occurs in The Ash Tree,
and is punished by having seven children at once. This
poem is the source of a Latin Historia de viilite de la
Cygne, published in de Reiffenberg's edition, and of the
English Romance of the Chctielere Assigj/e.
In still another group of stories this motif is combined
with an attempt on the part of a jealous mother-in-law to
separate her son from his wife by proving that the wife
has really been false to her husband. Here belong the
Italian Libro di Fioravafitr, the slory of which occurs
also in the Reali di Francia (Libro II, cap. 42), and
the French and English versions of Octavian.
The second part of the story seems to have been
widely known. It bears a certain general resemblance
in idea to the story of Griselda, as told by Petrarch,
Boccaccio and Chaucer, but varies so utterly in its details
that it cannot be regarded as the source of these, in
which the heroine is really of humble birth, is the wife of
the hero, and is put aside temporarily, after she has
endured patiently various other trials, only as a crowning
test of her wifely obedience.
There is a ballad, found in Danish, Swedish, Dutch,
German and Scotch, which bears a stronger resemblance
to the second part of The Ash Tree. In this, the heroine
is kidnapped when a child by robbers who sell her to the
knight, though in the Scotch versions he himself stole
her. After they have lived together many years and
have had seven children, he puts her aside on account of
her unknown birth, or because he can get more "gold
and gear" from another, and marries her sister; but the
recognition comes in time. In several of the Scotch
versions, the bride suggests driving her away, a trait
which may have been suggested by the mother-in-law's
attitude in Marie ; and in one .Swedish and one Dutch
version, the brooch by which she was recognised was one
which she had when she was stolen — a detail, perhaps,
* However, as the queen is found by the king on a hunting-
trip, when he stops to rest by a fountain in a wood, much as in
La Naissance, presumably she was originally a fairy in this
case also.
178
(Jtofee
derived from the episode of the ring and the mantle {c_f.
Grundtvig, Danmarks ganile Volkeviser, V, p. 13 ff.,
and Child's Ballads, II, p. 63 ff.)
While there seems no reason for doubting that this lay
is derived from a Celtic source, — indeed, the details con-
cerning the lay sung in Galerent dc Bretagne as Breton
in character, increase the probability of this— it does not
seem to have been as widely diffused as some of the
other lays. That the episode of the twins is only an
introduction, which did not belong originally to the
story, is shown by the ballads ; and when this is put
aside, the tale is found elsewhere only in this group of
ballads. M. de la Borderie suggests (III, p. 223)
that it may be a local legend attaching itself to the
village of La Coudre, about two leagues from Dol,
which in the Middle Ages was a flourishing community.
Page 39. — He who slanders another. There are
similar proverbs among Marie's /''ii^/^j .- "Therefoie no
one ought to find fault with, or blame, the deed of
another, nor bring another into ill repute ; let each
criticise himself ! One may easily reprehend another's
deed, who ought to be chiding himself" (No. liii) ;
also, " Such people secure the ill of another in such a
way that the same comes upon themselves" (No. Ixviii).
Page 40. — Spangled silk. Literally wheeled, i.e.,
covered with wheel-shaped ornaments, a design popular
at that time.
Page 43. — Le FraisJie. Cf. La Coldre, p. 47. In the
names is indicated the popular origin of the tale. Names
are given from some physical peculiarity or from some
circumstance connected with the early history of the
ohild. Cf. Cinderella, Snow- White, Gold-Tree, Silver-
Tree, Tom Thumb, Little One-Eye.
Page 46. — Espouse a lady of noble birth. He could
not marry Le Fraisne because of her unknown origin.
The Middle English translation (Weber's Metrical
Romances, I, 1. 312) explains this: "Of was (whose)
kin he knewe non." The same reason is suggested in
most of the ballads.
Page 46. — They would not hold him as seigneur. A
similar instance of the power of vassals over their liege-
(rtofeg
lord is seen in the story of Pwyll, Prince of Dyved
(Guest's Mabinogiofi), where the hero is counselled to put
away his wife because she is supposed to have murdered
her child.
Page 47. — The Archbishop of Dol. The allusion to
the Archbishopric of Dol gives one limit for the date of
the poem, as this See was suppressed in 1199.
Page 48. — Bofu. An unknown kind of rich cloth,
usually mentioned in connection with silk, vair, gris.
See Godefroy, Dictionnaire de l' Aficienne Lattgue
Franraise.
Page 49. — Laying aside her man fie. This was a
mark of respect at that time, probably symbolising a
willingness to serve. Cf. p. 48, where the act is simply
one of convenience,
THE TWO LOVERS.
This story seems to be a local legend (see hitroduction,
pp. 141-2) which exerted no appreciable influence upon
mediaeval literature. It is perfectly well known among
tlie peasantry of the district to-day, as I ascertamed by
inquiry, and is said to be published under the title
L Histoire des Deux Amanfs, perhaps a modern chap-
book. The story survives also in a series of paintings,
dating apparently from the early part of the 19th
century, which are preserved in the chateau built out of
the ruins of the old " Prieur6 des Deux Amants." This
monastery stood until the i8th century on the summit of
La cote des Dejix Amants, the "mountain marvellous
high " (350 feet above the Seine and fairly steep, so much
so that one part of the ascent is by a series of winding
steps cut out of the turf).
No connection can be established between the present-
day popular version and older folk-loie. It is possible
that the modern form has a purely literary ancestry, and
is derived from Moric. This much may be said : at the
end of the 18th century, the story was revived by
the poet David Duval de Sanadon in a so-called "fab-
liau," UOrigine du Prieiin' des Deux Amants, which is
known to have had a purely literary origin and to depend
(TJofe0
ultimately upon Marie, but whether the modern popular
version is derived from these literary productions or is a
faint and far-away reflection of Marie's source, it is
impossible to say, without examining the popular
version.
The lay contains several hints that Marie herself may
have used a hterary source. The most important of
these is the use of the word Netistria. After the time of
Charlemagne it was used only in an historical sense,
Marie seems to have found it necessary to translate it for
her hearers ; it is therefore extremely improbable that it
would have been used by the people. Moreover, it was
used several times by Wace, in phrasing very similar to
Marie's {Romafi de Rou, 11. 94, 141-2, 1 189). It occurs also
in Geoffrey, but only once and without explanation.
This is one of a number of slight links by which Marie's
work seems to be connected with the \vorks of these two
men. It was, of course, almost inevitable that she should
have read them.
While it may be that Neustria is only a touch of
pedantry borrowed by Marie from Wace, there are
several grounds for holding that she mav Ijave got the
story from some narrative attached to the history of the
priory. This was known by its curious name as early as
1031, when it was mentioned in connection with a grant of
land. There are several theories to account for the
name : one, that it was applied spiritually to a sculptured
group of Christ and Mary Magdalen — it was dedicated to
the latter — over the door ; another that it was originally
des deux amonts, from the fact that it stood in the angle
formed by two intersecting ranges of hills. However
this may be, in popular tradition (La Rochefoucauld,
Not. hist, sur Varrond. des Andelis, pp. 54-6) it was
founded in the 12th century over the tomb of the lovers.
This tradition may be based entirely upon Marie ; but on
the other hand, the stress which she herself puts upon the
tomb, both at the beginning and at the end of her poem,
rather suggests that this was a familiar object in her day,
especially when it was taken in connection with the lact
that the site of the chapel wherein stood the tomb of the
lovers is still pointed out as being occupied by the library of
181
(Uofee
the present chateau. It is not impossible that some such
story as Marie's original may have been fabricated, or, if
it already existed, attached to the priory to explain its
origin. This would obviously attract attention to the
priory, and would bring travellers there, to its profit.
And again, this process was not unknown in the Middle
Ages. The Abbey of St. Albans in England attached
stories of the two OfFas to its early history to enhance its
greatness.
It is a curious coincidence that the hill is said still to
furnish a few rare botanical specimens. The Marquis
de Blosseville {Extraits du Precis des Travatix de
r Academic impdriale des Sciejices, Belles lettres etArts de
Rouen, annde 1867-8, p. 525) states that M. Prdvost
found two, one of which was Phytheuvia orbicularis, or
herb of love. This rather points towards a confusion in
idea of the potion from Salerno with the plants supposed
in popular tales to spring from the graves of lovers who
coine to a tragic end. In Duval's poem it is said that
popular superstition makes this ' ' an herb of love, a
philtre of happiness ;" but ,the authority for the state-
ment is unknown.
The story, as Marie tells it, contains undoubtedly an
allusion to the popular mediaeval tale of the king who
fell in love with his own daughter, the earliest known
form of which is the late Greek romance Apollonius of
Tyre. For English versions, see Gower, Confessio Avian-
lis, book, vlii, 1. 271 ff., ed. Macaulay, Pericles, Prince of
Tyre, included among Shakespeare's plays, and Eviari.
For other versions, see Suchier, La Manckine, p. xxv ff. )
I see no grounds for determining whether the allusion
is a survival from an older form of the story, suppressed
by Marie, or her source, or wlicther it has been intro-
duced as a plausi ble reason for tlie king's decree. Perhaps
the balance of probability lies with the latter, partly
because there seems no adequate motive for suppressing
so popular a story, and partly becnuse its very familiarity
in the minds of Marie's audience would seem to justify
tlie allusion. Moreover, the Apollonius story, though
undoubtedly of different origin, has the further resem-
blance that the king sets a riddle to all the wooers of his
182
(Uofes
daughter, which they must guess in order to win her, and
he fully believes that the solution is impossible. From
this it is easy to see how the motive for the task of the
one story could be transferred to the other.
The notion of a task set for the lover by the father of
his beloved is not uncommon. It is found in several
Greek tales (sec Rohde, Dcr Griechischc Roman , p. 420).
A closer resemblance to the form of the task as given in
the lay is found in a Persian story (Liebricht, Zur
Volkskunde, p. io8 ff. ), wherein the lover must run an
incredibly long distance to win the lady, and drops dead
before he reaches the goal. In an Egyptian story
(Masp6ro, Contes de l'ancien7ie Egypte, p. 33 fif. , and
Petrie, Egyptian Tales, second series, p. 13 ff.) the
princess is in a house seventy cubits from the ground,
and her hand is to be given to the suitor who succeeds
in chmbing up to her.
The only trace of direct influence by the lay, or its
original, that has been noted, i'? a Calabrian love-song
of the present day (quoted in a German translation bv
Warnke), in which the hero is to win his sweetheart
only on condition that he carry her in his arms, without
resting, over twelve high mountains.
Page bo.—Saleme. In Salerno, 34 miles south-east
of Naples, was the most famous medical school in Europe
at this time, the so-called Civitas Hippocrafica. It was
especially well known to the Normans, being the centre
of their power in Italy until 1191, when the court was
transferred to Palermo. After this time A-ab influence
came gradually to dominate, and by the middle of the
13th century, had usurped completely tlie position held
by the school of Salerno. Two' facts are interesting in
connection with the allusion in the lay: (i) that the
school was especially celebrated for its preparations of
drugs, and (2) that the women physicians were quite as
famous as the men. An interesting illustration of this
last fact is seen in Ruteboeufs poem I e dit de l' Erbcrie
(M6on, Fabliaux et contes, and B^n-t-^rh, Chrestomathie)
which purports to be the speech of a travelling-physician,
one of the followers of the celebrated Trotula {Dame.
Trote) who flourished in the nth century. References
■83
(Jtofes
to this school are common, Marie alludes to it again in
her Fables, and in Gottfried von Strassburg's Tristan,
^' 7333-5. the wounded hero, wishing to conceal the
fact that he is going to Ireland to be healed, gives out
that he is going to S d "rno.
YONEC.
This lay is undoubtedly founded on a folk-tale, many
versions of which are known throughout Europe.
According to one form of the story, L Oiseau Bleu told
by the Countess d'Aulnoy in the 17th century, the
princess is shut in a tower by her step-mother, and her
betrothed visits her in the form of a blue bird, being
compelled to take this form by the enchantment of a
malevolent fairy. The step-mother upon discovering
these visits, places v/ithin tlie tree on which he alights,
which faces the lady's window, swords, knives, razors
and daggers. He is severely wounded but not killed,
and later, the princess is set free, finds him in human
form in his own kingdom, and, convincing him of h<T
innocence in his injuries, weds him.
In another and more modera version, told in Italy,
Austria, Portugal, Austria, Greece and Denmark (for
references, see Wnrnke), the prince assumes the bird-
form at will and lays it aside in the presence of the
lady ; and again, he is not healed until the lady in the
course of her search for him learns the only way by which
this may be accomplished.
The two great differences between both popular ver-
sions and Yonec are: (i) the treachery in every case
comes through a woman (in Yonec, to be sure, she is a
spy and assistant), the heroine being unmarried : (2) all
the popular versions end happily, the revenge in the
second part of Yonec not being called for, since the hero
does not die.
The earliest known version of the tale is a pre-eleventh
century Irish account. It is found as a part of The
Destruction of Da Derga's Hostel (see Mr. Nutt's article
in Folk-Lore, II, p. 87 ff, and Mr. Whitley Stokes's
translation in the Revue Celtique for January 1901). The
,84
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heroine, who is condemned to death by her own father,
wins mercy from the thralls who are to carry out the
order. They therefore shut her in a house with no door
but only a window and a skylight. Here she is seen by
the followers of a king, who, being childless and knowing
a prophecy that a woman of unknown race should bear
him a son, believes that this is the woman and resolves
to seek her in marriage. But before this can happen,
she is visited by a man, who comes flying as a bird,
through the skylight, and lays aside his bird-skin. He
prophecies that she shall have a son by him, and tells
what he shall be called. She then marries the king, the
son is born and carefully reared. From this point the
story is different, for the king dies and the bird-man
does not reappear, though when the young man is grown
and is following s^me birds, these suddenly take human
form and remind him of the taboo laid upon him by his
father, not to kill birds, because of his relationship with
them.
The Celtic form of the story is evidently imperfect and
compressed ; but enough remains to give Marie's lay a
much longer pedigree than it seemed, at first, to have.
The idea of the transformation of people into birds, by
means of enchantment or fairy-like properties in them-
selves, is common in Celtic literature. It occurs in the
story of the Children nf Lir (Jacobs, More Celtic Fairy
Tales), in The Sea Maiden (Jacobs, Celtic Fairy Tales),
and in the Sick-bed of Cuchullin (Arbois de Jubainville,
L Epopee Celtique en Irlajide) ; also, in the wide-spread
Swan-Children and Swan-Maiden tales which certainly
haveCdtic affinities, even if they are not Celtic in origin.
The second part of the story, after the wounding of
the falcon, is an account of a visit to his kingdom. As
to the nature of this realm, considerable confusion seems
to have existed in Marie's mind. The entrance is
through a cave, and suggests at once the Celtic fairyland
within the hills, as well as the Teutonic supernatural
dwellers in them, yet the hero dies (perhaps like Undine,
made mortal through love ?) and is buried in a great
abbey on the road from Caeriient to Caerleon. Again,
there is confusion, when we read that the lady followed
185
(TloieB
him through the window (20 feet from the ground, and
lined with sharp iron prongs !), and after a long journey
on foot through the cave into his own land returned,
apparently the same day, with a magic ring to make her
husband forget the whole occurrence (in Cticlmllin' s
Sick-bed a draught of magic liquor served the same pur-
pose). Later on, she arrives, with her husband and son,
after a day's journey on horseback, at the place where he
is buried — a much greater distance, with no cave and
apparently nothing supernatural about the situation.
Further, the knight's body has not been moved, for he is
said to have been king of " this land." Another curious
thing is, that the abbey is described as the "fairest
castie of that age " ; perhaps we are to suppose that it
was the knight's own castle, wherein the monks were
established to keep watch over his tomb until the son
should come. Altogether, the most natural conclusion
seems to be, that the fairy tale of the first part is blended
with a human story of murder and vengeance, and the
sign of the junction is in this very confusion. As was
noted above, Yonec is the only version that has the
vengeance story, for which I have not been able to find
any parallel thus far.
Mr. Nutt suggests that the story of the Wooing of
Etain {Voyage of Bran, II) shows certain resemblances
in general outline to Yonec. This tells of a rivalry between
a mortal and a fairy (who has the power of transforming
himself into a bird) for the love of a woman, and of a
consequent feud which results in the overthrow of the
race of the mortal. Yo7iec may well be a reminiscence of
this or a similar stor}^
Luzel, L^gendes ChrMennes. dc la Basse-Bretagne, III,
has the story of a girl who is turned into a blue bird ;
but, apart from this fact, it shows little resemblance to
Yo?iec.
The scene of the lay appears to l>e southern England
and Wales, Caeriient being probably Winchester, the
British caer being the Latin casfra which became Chester.
Tlie Old English form was Wintanceaster. There is still
visible the site of the British city, on St. Katharine's Hill,
about a mile from the present town, an extensive cjrth-
186
(Uofeg
work crowning the hill-top. At the base of the hill are
two small rivers, or rather two branches of the Itchen,
while the numerous rivulets and the marshy state of the
meadows may indicate that once there was a consider-
able river with " crossing by ferry," which Marie clearly
implies was not the case in her own time. The river
Duelas in Brittany has been taken as the site by the
followers of Zimmer; but against this it may be said
that Marie's spelling is uncertain (other MSS. read
Dualas, Ditalas), and that, as far as we know, no city of
Caeriient is, or has ever been, located upon that river.
Page 67. — Iceland. Yslande in the French. Yrlande
was much more familiar to the people of the 12th
century, and, moreover, gives more point to the com-
parison which would then mean, from Lincoln (Nicole in
the Anglo-Norman spelling — cf. Tristan, ed. Michel I,
p. 138, 1. 2835) to Ireland — i.c,^ from east to west in the
British Isles.
Page 69. — Plunged into the river of hell. Perhaps a
reminiscence of the dipping of Achilles into Lethe, which
made him invulnerable.
Page 71. — / could not have come to you. So Lanval's
fairy mistress comes to him only when he wishes for
her.
Page 72. — 1 %vill make myself like you. The power
of taking on the appearance of another person is illus-
trated also in the story oi Pioyll, Prince of Dyfed{Mabi?io-
gion, pp. 339, 341-4), where the hero exchanges appear-
ance and kingdom with a fairy king for a year.
Page jj.—Cave. Fairyland is often represented as
across a river, or as an isle in the ocean. The classic
parallels are Hades and the Hesperides. The mediceval
confusion between fairyland and the world of departed
spirits is well seen in the Middle English poem Sir
Orpheo (from a lost French lay) in which Eurydice is
represented as Queen of the l-'airies.
. Page jS.— Parks. French defcis, i.e., enclosed spaces
not open to the public. According to Godefroy, the
word is so used in Normandy to-day.
Page 79.— -^5 soon as I shall die. Although the
knight's kingdom is described as fairyland, he is here
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(Uofe0
treated as a mortal and his powers of transformation
must be looked upon as due to magic. Probably Marie
cared very little about his exact nature ; the story was all
in all to her.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
A proof of the popularity of the story on which this lay
is based is its appearance in several collections of tales.
In the Eenard Contrefait, 13th century, the account
is apparently founded on the lay itself, while in the
Latin (and French) and English Gesta Romanoriim
different versions are given.
In the Latin (and French) Gesta, the hero is married to
an old woman, the lovers' meetings have nothing to do
with the nightingale, except that the hero is brought to
kill the husband by considering his own possible fate at
at the hands of one who so brutally killed the bird
in wl.ich his wife took pleasure ; and after the death of
his wife the hero marries his sweetheart. In the fact
that the husband gave his wife the bird's heart to eat,
there is the suggestion of the popular story which is told
in Ignaures, in tlie Ch<'iiehii7i de Coney and in various
other forms, of the serving of a knight's heart in this way
— a suggestion which tends to identify the hero with the
bird.
In the English Gesta, the connection between the two
is yet clearer : the lover sings as well as the nightingale,
and the lady who is listening to the former makes the
latter her excuse for standing at the window.
In Le Donnei des Aniants (see p. 174 above) the identi-
fication is complete. Here Tristan is the lover, and,
having been long separated from Yseult he steals into the
garden at night and there imitates in his singing the
nightingale, the popinjay, the oriole and the birds of the
wood. Yseult hears him, and knowing him by the song,
steals away from Mark and out into the garden to meet
her lover. Though other birds are mentioned, it is espe-
cially the song of the nightingale at the close of summer
(Romania XXV, 1. 465 ff.) that Tristan imitates.
188
(Uofee
M. Gaston Paris bclii-ves that the story in the Doniiei
is based on a Celtic original, and suggests also the
probability of some relation between this story and the
lay. What the connection is, is difficult to determine.
Certainly the Latm Gesta is the most garbled, yet even it
had one episode which implied the identification of the
knight with the bird ; and it is only by this connection
that the husband's act in killing the bird is adequately
motived. Moreover, the death of the husband and
happy ending fcr the lovers in which all versions of the
Gesta depart from the lay and the Donnei, is just such a
change as would be expected in popular adaptations of
old stories, while Marie's version is in harmony with
the tragic ending of the Tris'an; again, it, like the
ep'sode in the Donnei, stops abruptly, leaving one with
a sense of dissatisfaction, which would be quite absent if
one could regard the little poem as belonging to a
perfectly familiar story.
Considering the main idea in each case (i) the lover's
imitation of the nightingale's song {Le Donnei), and
(2) the lady's use of the nightingale's song as an excuse
for meeting her lover (Marie), I find it easier to believe
that the two lays were originally analogous than iden-
tical, and I cannot see that the one theme is more likely
than the other to have been the primitive form out of
which the other developed. My belief that they were
only analogous, is strengthened by the fact that Marie
associated the Tristan story with South Wales and Corn-
wall, and places the scene of The Nightingale in
Brittany.
Traces of the story upon which the lay is founded
occur in references in Alexander Neckham, De Natu7'is
Rerum, in the English Ozvl and the Nightingale, and in
a 15th-century French lyric (f[uoted in Warnke).
The Marquis de la Villemarque, in his Barzaz-Breiz,
published a Breton ballad called Ann Eostik, wliichwas
at one time thought to represent Marie's original ; but
later investigations, to show that it is rather based upon
the lay itself, have been generally accepted. I subjoin a
literal translation of the rendering into modern French,
to show the great difference in treatment between the
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oiea
popular version and the court-poetry as represented
by the lay.
"The young wife of St. Malo wept yesterday at her
window : ' Alas ! alas ! I am undone ! My poor nightin-
gale is slain !'
" 'Tell me, my young wife, why you arise so often
from your bed, so often from my side at midnight, bare-
headed and bare-footed? Why do you rise thus?'
" ' If I arise thus at midnight from my bed, 'tis to see
the great ships come and go.'
" ' 'Tis surely not for a ship that you go so often to the
wmdow ; 'tis not for any ships, two or three ; "tis not to
look at them more than at the moon and stars.
Madame, tell me wherefore you arise night after night ? '
" ' I get up to go look at my baby in his cradle.'
" ' 'Tis not to look at your son asleep. Tell me no
stories. Why do you arise thus ? '
" 'Dear little old man, be not vexed; I will tell you
the truth. 'Tis a nightingale that I hear singing every
night on a rose-bush in the garden. 'Tis a nightingale
that I hear every night, singing so gaily, singing so
sweetly, singing so sweetly, singing so musically, night
after night, night after night, until the very sea is still.'
" When the old man heard this, he thought, and said
to himself in the depths of his heart : ' Whether this be
true or false, the nightingale shall be caught ! '
" And when the dawn grew bright, he went to find the
gardener.
" " ' Good gardener, now listen ; there is something that
vexes me. There is a nightingale in the garden that
does nothing but sing all night long, so sweetly that he
keeps me awake. If you have caught it by this evening,
1 will give you a crown of gold.'
" Hearing this, the gardener put a trap in the garden,
caught the bird, and carried it to his master.
" And the old man, when he held it, laughed with all
his heart, and still laughing he strangled it and threw it
on his wife's knees.
" ' Hey now, my young wife, here is your pretty
nightingale. For your sake have I trapped it ; I hope,
my dear, you are pleased. '
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"On hearing this news the young lover said very
sadly :
'" Lo, now, we are caught, my sweet and I ! Never
again may we look at each other in the moonlight at the
window, as we were wont to do!'" (Translated from
Hertz, Spieltnannslmch. Villemarque's rendering varies
in a few unimportant details.)
It is perhaps worth while to call attention to the fact
that the modern ballad is not based entirely upon the
lay, Marie represents the two knights as equals in rank
and age. The Gesta versions represent the husband as
old, the lover as young and poor. The Breton ballad
lays much stress upon the difference in age between the
husband, and his wife and lier young lover. Certainly
here is one trait peculiar to the popular versions found in
a poem which in almost every other respect agrees with
the literary version. It may be that it was arbitrarily
transferred from the one to the other, or that the two
became confused during the formation of the ballad ; but
it may also be that, notwithstanding its modern form,
there is more that is ancient in the Breton ballad, than
has generally been accredited to it.
THE HONEYSUCKLE.
This lay is so distinctly episodic that it could have
little interest for an audience unfamiliar with the story of
Tristan and Yseult. Its dependence upon Celtic sources
has been questioned chiefly on the ground of its episodic
character ; and Dr. Brugger claims that it is based upon
the lyric Lai du chievrefoil (most accessible in IJartsch,
Chrestoinathie de l^ancienfranrals, 3rded.,p. 257), which
in the Berne MS. is attributed to Tristan himself. An
examination of the lyric, however, shows not the slightest
reason for connecting it with Tristan. The scribe may
easily have been led astray by the identity of title,
knowing from Marie tiiat Tristan had composed a lay on
this subject. And the author states that he calls his
poem Hoircy suckle because it may be compared to the
flower in its sweetness.
As to a Celtic source, it must be observed that Marie
does not specifically state that she had this story from
"li Bretun." She says only that she had heard many
tell it, and had also found it in writing ; further, that it
was composed by Tristram, whom she associates with
South Wales. Without concluding that the source was
tlierefore Welsh, or, from the use of the En^^lish title
Go/ele/ths.1 it was English, we may note at least two
facts which should be consid^^red in dealing with the
question: (i) undoubtedly la)s of non-Celtic source
were included among "lays of Britain"; (2) so far as
Marie's sources can be tested, there seems no reason for
charging her with untruth at any point. She states that
six of the lays were made by " li Bretun" {Guigemar,
Eqititan, Lanval, The Two Lovers, The Nightingale,
and E lid lie), and implies this in the case of a seventh
{The Werewolf). Of the other five, The Unfortunate,
though the scene is laid in Nantes, belongs essentially to
the time of chivalry and has no deep roots in earher lore
— it may well have been based upon a real incident. The
Ash Tree has the look of a local legend attached to the
neighbourhood of Dol, but there is no certain proof ; the
other three, as far as we may judge from their content
and relationships, attach themselves chiefly to Wales.
More especially with reference to The Honeysuckle, it
may be noted that the sort of meeting there described, is
similar to the meetings described by Gottfried von
Strassburg, 11. 14,427-48. Upon the advice of Brangaene,
Tristan cuts his initial and Yseult's into a piece of wood
and throws it into the brook, which carries it through
the garden to Yseult ; and so he meets her in the garden.
There is some likeness also to the two meetings of the
lovers in the forest, as told by Eilhart d'Oberg, 11. 6527
ff. and 7620 ff.
Note also that Marie's statement, "other times had
she met him in this way," might well allude to the scenes
described in Gottfried and Eilljart. Altogether, it seems
likely that these fragmentary lays may be based on Celtic
sources ; and the likelihood is perhaps rather increased
by the fact that they do not exactly fit into the story as
told by Thomas or B^roul. It is easier to suppose that
they represent varying accounts (especially as both Marie
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(9^ofe0
and Thomas emphasise the diversity of narratives on the
subject), than to suppose that they are, at this early
period, inventions similar to the short lyrics interspersed
through the later prose romance.
The exact subject of Tristram's lay, to which Marie
alludes, is sometimes misunderstood, ; but her words
are explicit : it consisted of what the queen said to him
when they met, and it was for remembrance of her words
that he made it. It is not impossible that the message
on the hazel, of which the sentence beginning "Sweet
lo/e," p. 97, is quoted directly, may be the substance
of another lay, and, indeed, as this is the only part of
the poem that justifies ihd use of the title Honeysuckle,
we must suppose either that this was the case and that
Marie confused it or purposely blended it with the lay
of Yseult's words, or that the two episodes vvere combined
in the original lay.
Page 95. — Many have told it. There are numerous
versions of the story in mediaeval French, German,
Norse, Italian, and English (Scotch). The French
versions (together with one in Greek) were published by
M. Michel ; the most important German versions are
the poems of Gottfried von Strassburg (based upon the
French poem of Thomas), of Eilhart d'Oberg (based
upon the French version of B6roul). In modern times
the story has been treated by Wagner, Tennyson,
Arnold, and Swinbvirne.
Page 96. — Hazel. Divining-rods have most com-
monly been made of hazel, because of its supposed
power of finding hidden things. Perhaps this may be
the reason why Tristram chose it — to carry out the
symbolism of the whole procedure.
Page 96.— This was the import of the writing. We
cannot suppose that Tristram wrote out in full the
message of which the "import" fills seventeen lines.
Even if it had been possible, Yseult could not have read
it as she rode along, nor was there any need for her to
do so, as the branch served merely to indicate Tristram's
whereabouts. The message was probably conveyed to
her by the symbolism of the hazel and the honeysuckle.
The meaning of the passage seems to be that he cut
193 N
(IJofes
out a four-sided piece {quarree, Latin qnadrata), i.e.,
made a sort of tablet by stripping off (j>are) the bark, and
wrote his name within the space so marked. Cf. the
Old English poem, The Lover s Message, with the com-
bined initials at the end. In this case, however, the
tablet was apparently cut out of the tree and sent to the
lady. The Irish Scd Baili Bimberlaig {Rev. Celt.,
XIII) shows several interesting points of contact with
this lay. It tells of tablets, made cut of wood that grew
upon the gi-aves of two lovers, upon which were written,
in ogham, poems, chiefly of love. These tablets when
brought together had such attractive force for each other
that they twined together ' ' as the woodbine (honeysuckle)
round a branch, nor was it possible to sever them. "
ELIDUC.
This lay bears the stamp of considerable antiquity,
both in the old popular superstitions contained in it, and
in the original theme, which in admitting the practice of
bigamy goes back to a primitive state of civilisation.
The story of a man who becomes involved with two
women exists in at least four versions, in addition to
Elidtic : in the German Graf von Gleichen which
attaches itself to a 13th centiu-y tomb at Erfurt (first
appears in 1539) ; in the French Gilles de Trasignies
(romance of the 15th century, probably based on a poem
of 14th) ; in the modern Gaehc Gold-Tree and Silver-
Tree, and in the romance of Ilk et Galeron, finished
about 1 167, and founded on an earlier lay.
Graf von Gleichen, imprisoned by a Saracen king
during a crusade, is restoied to liberty by the king's
daughter on condition that he marry her. He has
already a wife, but nevertheless flees with the princess to
Rome, where he obtains a dispensation from the Pope to
keep iDOth wives, and the two women love each other
dearly.
In Gilks de Trasignies the story approaches closer to
Elidnc, in that the hero wins his second wife by freeing
her father from a war v>aged by an unsuccessful suitor
for herself. Further, he marries the second wife in the
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(J>ote0
belief that the first is dead, and when the real situation
becomes clear, the first insists upon taking the veil.
Thereupon the second wife does likewise, and the
husband follows the example. The ending is very
similar to that in Ellduc.
The modern Gaelic story has an introduction in which
a mother who is jealous of her daughter's beauty tries to
kill her. She is, however, rescued and married to a
prince in another land. But her mother learns of her
whereabouts by means of a magic trout that she has,
and following her up, succeeds in poisoning her so that
she falls in a trance as if dead. She continues so beauti-
ful that the prince keeps her in a room of his house,
where she is discovered by a second wife whom the
prince marries later on ; and is restored to life by the
removal from her finger of the poisoned stab that caused
her death. The second wife then offers to depart, but
the prince insists upon keeping them both. Afterwards
the wicked mother is duly punished, and the three live
together happily.
It appears at once that the trance incident is very
much like Grimm's story of Little Snow- White.
In Ille et Galeron the hero leaves his first wife
because he has lost an eye in a tournament, and fears
that she will not continue to love him. He marries the
second out of pity for her great love, in the belief that
the first is dead ; and when the latter finds him with his
second wife, she takes the veil.
Comparing these five versions, we get the following
results :
1. The introductory episode of the jealous mother is
found only in Gold-Tr. (and is very evidently the Little
Siio'jj- White story) ; but it is connected with the trance,
and in Elid. we have the trance, though its cause and its
cure are different.
2. In Gold-Tr. and Gleich. only, we have the frank
admission of bigamy, though in the former the first wife
offers to give up her place ; in Elid. , Ille and Tras. the
first wife retires into a nunnery in favour of the second.
Certainly Gold-Tr. must represent the most primitive
form of the legend, with Gleich. on the one side as a
Qtofes
not altogeiher successful attempt to bring it within the
Christian code, and Elid., I lie and Tras. on the other,
as somewhat closely related to one another, and as a
far more successful solution of the problem.
As to the more detailed relationships existing among
the five stories, the fact that the jealous mother, trance
and bigamy elements are combined in Gold-Tr., and the
two latter (however moditieri) distinctly suggested in
Elid. , while Lillle Snorz'- IVkite seems to connect the two
former closely, seems to indicate that all three entered
into the original story. If this be true, in Germany it
appears broken into two stories. Snow- WMleai\d Gleick.,
while in France, only the bigamy part has been pre-
served (with the exception of the trance in Elid.).
llle is based either upon Elid. or upon a lay, very
similar to Elid., having the same name as itself. In
favour of the latter view may be urged 1. 928 ff., which
may be interpreted to agree with the latter theory, and
also the fact that Elid. has both the storm at sea and the
trance not found in llle, while ///^ has the loss of the eye
not in Elid.
Both Glcich and Tras. seem to represent the arbitrary
use of a legend to explrin an historic fact — namely, the
representation on a tomb of a man with two wives.
Of the various elements in the story as a whole, the
bigamy certainly indicated a state of affairs quite common
among the early Celts (see Mr, Nutt's article in Folk-Lore
III, p. 26 ff. ). A parallel to the situation is found also in
the story of Amleth as given in Saxo Grammaticus. The
circumstances are different, but the kindly reception of
the second wife by the first is in agreement with the
Eliduc-siory. Moreover, in Cuchullin's Sick-bed, we
find both the trance and the double marriage, though the
two wives are far from harmonious — from which we may
conclude not that this tale is a close parallel, but that the
elements of which both stories are composed were
familiar to the Celts.
The trance and restoration in Gold-Tr. and in Elid.
show a fundamental difference. Gold-Tr. is very similar
to Snow- White; in both it is a question of poisoning and
of cure by the removal of the poisonous object. In Elid,
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(Uofe0
the princess falls into a death-like swoon through a painful
shock and is restored by means of a magic herb brought
by a weasel to restore its dead mate to lile. It would seem
as if the original situation had become obscured and
replaced by an incident very common in Greek literature
(see Rohde, p. 125) in which it is very often a serpent
thait revives its mate. In Grimm's story Die drei
Schlangenbldtter this form of the story occurs. As to the
kind of flower used, the bare suggestion may be given
that according to Gayot, Les Peiits Quadruples, II, p.
194, the weasel preserves itself from snake-bite by means
of vervain. As this fiower was well known in popular
flower-lore, and folk-medicine, and its color ranges
through shades of purphsh red, it is not impossible that it
may be meant. The fact that the weasel protects itself
by means of certain herbs against snake-bites is said to
have been obsen-ed by Aristotle (Gayot, II, 194) ; hence,
in mediaeval lore^ it may easily have been extended
to mean against any form of death. Gir. Camb. in his
Topog. Hibern., distinc, I, cap. xxvii, tells of weasels
restoring their dead by means of a yellow flower. Cf.
Hertz, Spielmannsbuch, note on this passage.
There is a curious incident in Elid. not found in ary
other version, and probably therefore extraneous, the
proposition to throw the princess overboard, in order to
enable the ship to advance. The notion of making a
sacrifice to the sea, or of appeasing it by the death of a
guilty person, is exceedingly old and very wide-spread,
We find it in the story of Jonah, in the romance of
Tristan le Lionois, in many ballads '~,\\c\i2iZ Bonnie Annie^
Brown Robin's Confession, and the Norse, Swedish and
Danish Herr Peter, in popular tales of France and
Germany, in the Pali-Jatakas, a Buddhistic tale (see
Journal Asiatique, s^rie vii, xi, p, 360 ff. ), in Greek
and Latin stories (seeWarnke, for references). In nearly
every case, the guilty person, or the one to be sacrificed,
is determined by lot ; but in Elid. the princess, who is
perhaps looked upon as the cause of Eliduc's sin, is
pointed out directly for sacrifice. It is noteworthy that
the ship does not advance towards the haven until seme
one is thrown overheard, the some one being the
Qtote0
untortunate sailor who suggested the need of this severe
remedy. Moreover, it is curious to observe that he
voiced the moral sentiments of the story, according to
which Eliduc is plainly in the wrong, and yet he becomes
the villain and is so treated, merely because he stands in
the hero's way.
Page. ioi. — But at last in her land. These lines
contain a brief introduction in the form of a summary of
the story, but with no indication of the outcome. This is
true also of Yonec, and in T/ie Two Lovers the tragic
outcome is told. In The Honeysuckle, the theme of the
whole story, of which the lay is not even an integral part,
is given.
Page ioi.—// hight Eliduc at first. The same
uncertainty as to the naming of the lay is seen in Le
Chaitival, The Unfortunate, which at first was to be
called Les Quatre Doels, The Four Woes. In the latter
case, Marie says, some called it by the one title and some
by the other ; but with Eliduc, she seemed to approve
of the title Gnildeluec and Guilliadun^ while admitting
that the first title was Eliduc. One of the manuscripts
reads Guildeluiic ha Gualadun, ha being the Cornish,
Breton and Welsh equivalents of the old French e, and.
The corresponding Irish forms are acus and agus.
Page 102. — The feasant says. I have not found this
curious proverb, among the numerous popular sayings
attributed to the villein or peasant at this time. The
sentiment is perhaps appropriate for a villein, but the
language is curiously feudal.
Page 103. — /« his domain. The source of Eliduc is
claimed for Brittany, partly because of the name (an
Elisuc was abbot of Landevenec in 1057, and Pro-
fessor Zimmer states that the names are identical, and
partly because the hero's home is in Brittany. It may be
observed, however, that Geoffrey of Monmouth and
Wace have an " Aliduc," whom they place at Tintagel,
and the former has also a " Mapeledauc," i.e., son of
Eledauc; and farther, that the localisation on the
Devonshire side is far moi-e definite than on the Breton,
where we do not know the name of Eliduc's residence,
nor yet of his king's.
(Uofee
Page 106. — Narrow pass. There is a gap here of
about two lines in the MS.
Page 121.— Prove her innocence. Perhaps by the
ordeal of red-hot iron, as Yseult did {cf. Scotch Sir
Tristrevi, 11, 2278-86).
Page 124.— 5/. Nicholas. Of ^Nlyra, While on a
pilgrimage to Jerusalem, he miraculously stilled a storm at
sea, hence came to be the patron saint of travellers and
merchants. On the Norman font in Winchester
Cathedral this event is represented, together with three
or four other miracles of the saint.
St. Clement. Perhaps Clement of Alexandria, who in
Marie's day was still a saint, but has since been removed
from the calendar. There was also a St. Clement, the
first Bishop of Metz, whose life was written at least
twice during the 12th century.
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