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Title: Four Arthurian Romances

Author: active 12th century de Troyes Chrétien

Translator: William Wistar Comfort

Release date: February 1, 1997 [eBook #831]
Most recently updated: August 16, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/831

Credits: Douglas B. Killings and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOUR
ARTHURIAN ROMANCES ***

FOUR ARTHURIAN
ROMANCES:

"EREC ET ENIDE", "CLIGÉS",
"YVAIN", AND "LANCELOT"

by Chrétien de Troyes
Fl. 12th Century A.D.

Originally written in Old French, sometime in the second half
of the 12th Century A.D., by the court poet Chrétien de Troyes.

Contents

SELECTED
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
INTRODUCTION
EREC ET ENIDE
CLIGÉS
YVAIN
LANCELOT

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY:
ORIGINAL TEXT—

Carroll, Carleton W. (Ed.): "Chrétien DeTroyes: Erec and Enide"
(Garland Library of Medieval Literature, New York & London, 1987).
Edited with a translation (see Penguin Classics edition below).
Kibler, William W. (Ed.): "Chrétien DeTroyes: The Knight with the Lion,
or Yvain (Garland Library of Medieval Literature 48A, New York &
London, 1985). Original text with English translation (See Penguin Classics
edition below).
Kibler, William W. (Ed.): "Chrétien DeTroyes: Lancelot, or The Knight
of the Cart (Garland Library of Medieval Literature 1A, New York &
London, 1981). Original text with English translation (See Penguin Classics
edition below).
Micha, Alexandre (Ed.): "Les Romans de Chrétien de Troyes, Vol. II:
Cligés" (Champion, Paris, 1957).
OTHER TRANSLATIONS—
Cline, Ruth Harwood (Trans.): "Chrétien DeTroyes: Yvain, or the Knight
with the Lion" (University of Georgia Press, Athens GA, 1975).
Kibler, William W. & Carleton W. Carroll (Trans.): "Chrétien DeTroyes:
Arthurian Romances" (Penguin Classics, London, 1991). Contains
translations of "Erec et Enide" (by Carroll), "Cligés", "Yvain", "Lancelot",
and DeTroyes' incomplete "Perceval" (by Kibler). Highly recommended.
Owen, D.D.R (Trans.): "Chrétien DeTroyes: Arthurian Romances"
(Everyman Library, London, 1987). Contains translations of "Erec et
Enide", "Cligés", "Yvain", "Lancelot", and DeTroyes' incomplete
"Perceval". NOTE: This edition replaced W.W. Comfort's in the Everyman
Library catalogue. Highly recommended.
RECOMMENDED READING—
Anonymous: "Lancelot of the Lake" (Trans: Corin Corely; Oxford
University Press, Oxford, 1989). English translation of one of the earliest

prose romances concerning Lancelot.
Anonymous: "The Mabinogion" (Ed: Jeffrey Gantz; Penguin Classics,
London, 1976). Contains a translation of "Geraint and Enid", an earlier
Welsh version of "Erec et Enide".
Anonymous: "Yvain and Gawain", "Sir Percyvell of Gales", and "The
Anturs of Arther" (Ed: Maldwyn Mills; Everyman, London, 1992). NOTE:
Texts are in Middle-English; "Yvain and Gawain" is a Middle-English work
based almost exclusively on Chrétien DeTroyes' "Yvain".
Malory, Sir Thomas: "Le Morte D'Arthur" (Ed: Janet Cowen; Penguin
Classics, London, 1969).

INTRODUCTION
Chrétien De Troyes has had the peculiar fortune of becoming the best
known of the old French poets to students of mediaeval literature, and of
remaining practically unknown to any one else. The acquaintance of
students with the work of Chrétien has been made possible in academic
circles by the admirable critical editions of his romances undertaken and
carried to completion during the past thirty years by Professor Wendelin
Foerster of Bonn. At the same time the want of public familiarity with
Chrétien's work is due to the almost complete lack of translations of his
romances into the modern tongues. The man who, so far as we know, first
recounted the romantic adventures of Arthur's knights, Gawain. Yvain, Erec,
Lancelot, and Perceval, has been forgotten; whereas posterity has been
kinder to his debtors, Wolfram yon Eschenbach, Malory, Lord Tennyson,
and Richard Wagner. The present volume has grown out of the desire to
place these romances of adventure before the reader of English in a prose
version based directly upon the oldest form in which they exist.
Such extravagant claims for Chrétien's art have been made in some
quarters that one feels disinclined to give them even an echo here. The
modem reader may form his own estimate of the poet's art, and that
estimate will probably not be high. Monotony, lack of proportion, vain
repetitions, insufficient motivation, wearisome subtleties, and threatened, if
not actual, indelicacy are among the most salient defects which will arrest,
and mayhap confound, the reader unfamiliar with mediaeval literary craft.
No greater service can be performed by an editor in such a case than to
prepare the reader to overlook these common faults, and to set before him
the literary significance of this twelfth-century poet.
Chrétien de Troyes wrote in Champagne during the third quarter of the
twelfth century. Of his life we know neither the beginning nor the end, but
we know that between 1160 and 1172 he lived, perhaps as herald-at-arms
(according to Gaston Paris, based on "Lancelot" 5591-94) at Troyes, where
was the court of his patroness, the Countess Marie de Champagne. She was
the daughter of Louis VII, and of that famous Eleanor of Aquitaine, as she
is called in English histories, who, coming from the South of France in

1137, first to Paris and later to England, may have had some share in the
introduction of those ideals of courtesy and woman service which were
soon to become the cult of European society. The Countess Marie,
possessing her royal mother's tastes and gifts, made of her court a social
experiment station, where these Provencal ideals of a perfect society were
planted afresh in congenial soil. It appears from contemporary testimony
that the authority of this celebrated feudal dame was weighty, and widely
felt. The old city of Troyes, where she held her court, must be set down
large in any map of literary history. For it was there that Chrétien was led to
write four romances which together form the most complete expression we
possess from a single author of the ideals of French chivalry. These
romances, written in eight-syllable rhyming couplets, treat respectively of
Erec and Enide, Cligés, Yvain, and Lancelot. Another poem, "Perceval le
Gallois", was composed about 1175 for Philip, Count of Flanders, to whom
Chrétien was attached during his last years. This last poem is not included
in the present translation because of its extraordinary length of 32,000
verses, because Chrétien wrote only the first 9000 verses, and because Miss
Jessie L. Weston has given us an English version of Wolfram's well-known
"Parzival", which tells substantially the same story, though in a different
spirit. To have included this poem, of which he wrote less than one-third, in
the works of Chrétien would have been unjust to him. It is true the romance
of "Lancelot" was not completed by Chrétien, we are told, but the poem is
his in such large part that one would be over-scrupulous not to call it his.
The other three poems mentioned are his entire. In addition, there are quite
generally assigned to the poet two insignificant lyrics, the pious romance of
"Guillaume d'Angleterre", and the elaboration of an episode from Ovid's
"Metamorphoses" (vi., 426-674) called "Philomena" by its recent editor (C.
de Boer, Paris, 1909). All these are extant and accessible. But since
"Guillaume d'Angleterre" and "Philomena" are not universally attributed to
Chrétien, and since they have nothing to do with the Arthurian material, it
seems reasonable to limit the present enterprise to "Erec and Enide",
"Cligés", "Yvain", and "Lancelot".
Professor Foerster, basing his remark upon the best knowledge we
possess of an obscure matter, has called "Erec and Enide" the oldest
Arthurian romance extant. It is not possible to dispute this significant claim,
but let us make it a little more intelligible. Scholarship has shown that from
the early Middle Ages popular tradition was rife in Britain and Brittany. The

existence of these traditions common to the Brythonic peoples was called to
the attention of the literary world by William of Malmesbury ("Gesta regum
Anglorum") and Geoffrey of Monmouth ("Historia regum Britanniae") in
their Latin histories about 1125 and 1137 respectively, and by the Anglo-
Norman poet Wace immediately afterward. Scholars have waged war over
the theories of transmission of the so-called Arthurian material during the
centuries which elapsed between the time of the fabled chieftain's activity in
500 A.D. and his appearance as a great literary personage in the twelfth
century. Documents are lacking for the dark ages of popular tradition before
the Norman Conquest, and the theorists may work their will. But Arthur and
his knights, as we see them in the earliest French romances, have little in
common with their Celtic prototypes, as we dimly catch sight of them in
Irish, Welsh, and Breton legend. Chrétien belonged to a generation of
French poets who rook over a great mass of Celtic folk-lore they
imperfectly understood, and made of what, of course, it had never been
before: the vehicle to carry a rich freight of chivalric customs and ideals. As
an ideal of social conduct, the code of chivalry never touched the middle
and lower classes, but it was the religion of the aristocracy and of the
twelfth-century "honnete homme". Never was literature in any age closer to
the ideals of a social class. So true is this that it is difficult to determine
whether social practices called forth the literature, or whether, as in the case
of the seventeenth-century pastoral romance in France, it is truer to say that
literature suggested to society its ideals. Be that as it may, it is proper to
observe that the French romances of adventure portray late mediaeval
aristocracy as it fain would be. For the glaring inconsistencies between the
reality and the ideal, one may turn to the chronicles of the period. Yet, even
history tells of many an ugly sin rebuked and of many a gallant deed
performed because of the courteous ideals of chivalry. The debt of our own
social code to this literature of courtesy and frequent self-sacrifice is
perfectly manifest.
What Chrétien's immediate and specific source was for his romances is of
deep interest to the student. Unfortunately, he has left us in doubt. He
speaks in the vaguest way of the materials he used. There is no evidence
that he had any Celtic written source. We are thus thrown back upon Latin
or French literary originals which are lost, or upon current continental lore
going back to a Celtic source. This very difficult problem is as yet unsolved
in the case of Chrétien, as it is in the case of the Anglo-Norman Beroul,

who wrote of Tristan about 1150. The material evidently was at hand and
Chrétien appropriated it, without much understanding of its primitive spirit,
but appreciating it as a setting for the ideal society dreamed of but not
realised in his own day. Add to this literary perspicacity, a good foundation
in classic fable, a modicum of ecclesiastical doctrine, a remarkable facility
in phrase, figure, and rhyme and we have the foundations for Chrétien's art
as we shall find it upon closer examination.
A French narrative poet of the twelfth century had three categories of
subject-matter from which to choose: legends connected with the history of
France ("matiere de France"), legends connected with Arthur and other
Celtic heroes ("matiere de Bretagne"), and stories culled from the history or
mythology of Greece and Rome, current in Latin and French translations
("matiere de Rome la grant"). Chrétien tells us in "Cligés" that his first
essays as a poet were the translations into French of certain parts of Ovid's
most popular works: the "Metamorphoses", the "Ars Amatoria", and
perhaps the "Remedia Amoris". But he appears early to have chosen as his
special field the stories of Celtic origin dealing with Arthur, the Round
Table, and other features of Celtic folk-lore. Not only was he alive to the
literary interest of this material when rationalised to suit the taste of French
readers; his is further the credit of having given to somewhat crude folk-
lore that polish and elegance which is peculiarly French, and which is
inseparably associated with the Arthurian legends in all modern literature.
Though Beroul, and perhaps other poets, had previously based romantic
poems upon individual Celtic heroes like Tristan, nevertheless to Chrétien,
so far as we can see, is due the considerable honour of having constituted
Arthur's court as a literary centre and rallying-point for an innumerable
company of knights and ladies engaged in a never-ending series of amorous
adventures and dangerous quests. Rather than unqualifiedly attribute to
Chrétien this important literary convention, one should bear in mind that all
his poems imply familiarity on the part of his readers with the heroes of the
court of which he speaks. One would suppose that other stories, told before
his versions, were current. Some critics would go so far as to maintain that
Chrétien came toward the close, rather than at the beginning, of a school of
French writers of Arthurian romances. But, if so, we do not possess these
earlier versions, and for lack of rivals Chrétien may be hailed as an
innovator in the current schools of poetry.

And now let us consider the faults which a modern reader will not be
slow to detect in Chrétien's style. Most of his salient faults are common to
all mediaeval narrative literature. They may be ascribed to the extraordinary
leisure of the class for whom it was composed—a class which was always
ready to read an old story told again, and which would tolerate any
description, however detailed. The pastimes of this class of readers were
jousting, hunting, and making love. Hence the preponderance of these
matters in the literature of its leisure hours. No detail of the joust or hunt
was unfamiliar or unwelcome to these readers; no subtle arguments
concerning the art of love were too abstruse to delight a generation steeped
in amorous casuistry and allegories. And if some scenes seem to us
indelicate, yet after comparison with other authors of his times, Chrétien
must be let off with a light sentence. It is certain he intended to avoid what
was indecent, as did the writers of narrative poetry in general. To appreciate
fully the chaste treatment of Chrétien one must know some other forms of
mediaeval literature, such as the fabliaux, farces, and morality plays, in
which courtesy imposed no restraint. For our poet's lack of sense of
proportion, and for his carelessness in the proper motivation of many
episodes, no apology can be made. He is not always guilty; some episodes
betoken poetic mastery. But a poet acquainted, as he was, with some first-
class Latin poetry, and who had made a business of his art, ought to have
handled his material more intelligently, even in the twelfth century. The
emphasis is not always laid with discrimination, nor is his yarn always kept
free of tangles in the spinning.
Reference has been made to Chrétien's use of his sources. The tendency
of some critics has been to minimise the French poet's originality by
pointing out striking analogies in classic and Celtic fable. Attention has
been especially directed to the defence of the fountain and the service of a
fairy mistress in "Yvain", to the captivity of Arthur's subjects in the
kingdom of Gorre, as narrated in "Lancelot", reminding one so insistently
of the treatment of the kingdom of Death from which some god or hero
finally delivers those in durance, and to the reigned death of Fenice in
"Cligés", with its many variants. These episodes are but examples of
parallels which will occur to the observant reader. The difficult point to
determine, in speaking of conceptions so widespread in classic and
mediaeval literature, is the immediate source whence these conceptions
reached Chrétien. The list of works of reference appended to this volume

will enable the student to go deeper into this much debated question, and
will permit us to dispense with an examination of the arguments in this
place. However, such convincing parallels for many of Chrétien's fairy and
romantic episodes have been adduced by students of Irish and Welsh legend
that one cannot fail to be impressed by the fact that Chrétien was in touch,
either by oral or literary tradition, with the populations of Britain and of
Brittany, and that we have here his most immediate inspiration. Professor
Foerster, stoutly opposing the so-called Anglo-Norman theory which
supposes the existence of lost Anglo-Norman romances in French as the
sources of Chrétien de Troyes, is, nevertheless, well within the truth when
he insists upon what is, so far as we are concerned, the essential originality
of the French poet. The general reader will to-day care as little as did the
reader of the twelfth century how the poet came upon the motives and
episodes of his stories, whether he borrowed them or invented them
himself. Any poet should be judged not as a "finder" but as a "user" of the
common stock of ideas. The study of sources of mediaeval poetry, which is
being so doggedly carried on by scholars, may well throw light upon the
main currents of literary tradition, but it casts no reflection, favourable or
otherwise, upon the personal art of the poet in handling his stuff. On that
count he may plead his own cause before the jury.
Chrétien's originality, then, consists in his portrayal of the social ideal of
the French aristocracy in the twelfth century. So far as we know he was the
first to create in the vulgar tongues a vast court, where men and women
lived in conformity with the rules of courtesy, where the truth was told,
where generosity was open-handed, where the weak and the innocent were
protected by men who dedicated themselves to the cult of honour and to the
quest of a spotless reputation. Honour and love combined to engage the
attention of this society; these were its religion in a far more real sense than
was that of the Church. Perfection was attainable under this code of ethics:
Gawain, for example, was a perfect knight. Though the ideals of this court
and those of Christianity are in accord at many points, vet courtly love and
Christian morality are irreconcilable. This Arthurian material, as used by
Chrétien, is fundamentally immoral as judged by Christian standards.
Beyond question, the poets and the public alike knew this to be the case,
and therein lay its charm for a society in which the actual relations or the
sexes were rigidly prescribed by the Church and by feudal practice, rather
than by the sentiments of the individuals concerned. The passionate love of

Tristan for Iseut, of Lancelot for Guinevere, of Cligés for Fenice, fascinate
the conventional Christian society of the twelfth century and of the
twentieth century alike, but there-is only one name among men for such
relations as theirs, and neither righteousness nor reason lie that way. Even
Tennyson, in spite of all he has done to spiritualise this material, was
compelled to portray the inevitable dissolution and ruin of Arthur's court.
Chrétien well knew the difference between right and wrong, between reason
and passion, as the reader of "Cligés" may learn for himself. Fenice was not
Iseut, and she would not have her Cligés to be a Tristan. Infidelity, if you
will, but not "menage a trois". Both "Erec" and "Yvain" present a
conventional morality. But "Lancelot" is flagrantly immoral, and the poet is
careful to state that for this particular romance he is indebted to his
patroness Marie de Champagne. He says it was she who furnished him with
both the "matiere" and the "san", the material of the story and its method of
treatment.
Scholars have sought to fix the chronology of the poet's works, and have
been tempted to speculate upon the evolution of his literary and moral
ideas. Professor Foerster's chronology is generally accepted, and there is
little likelihood of his being in error when he supposes Chrétien's work to
have been done as follows: the lost "Tristan" (the existence of which is
denied by Gaston Paris in "Journal des Savants", 1902, pp. 297 f.), "Erec
and Enide", "Cligés", "Lancelot", "Yvain", "Perceval". The arguments for
this chronology, based upon external as well as internal criticism, may be
found in the Introductions to Professor Foerster's recent editions. When we
speculate upon the development of Chrétien's moral ideas we are not on
such sure ground. As we have seen, his standards vary widely in the
different romances. How much of this variation is due to chance
circumstance imposed by the nature of his subject or by the taste of his
public, and how much to changing conviction it is easy to see, when we
consider some contemporary novelist, how dangerous it is to judge of moral
convictions as reflected in literary work. "Lancelot" must be the keystone of
any theory constructed concerning the moral evolution of Chrétien. The
following supposition is tenable, if the chronology of Foerster is correct.
After the works of his youth, consisting of lyric poems and translations
embodying the ideals of Ovid and of the school of contemporary troubadour
poets, Chrétien took up the Arthurinn material and started upon a new
course. "Erec" is the oldest Arthurinn romance to have survived in any

language, but it is almost certainly not the first to have been written. It is a
perfectly clean story: of love, estrangement, and reconciliation in the
persons of Erec and his charming sweetheart Enide. The psychological
analysis of Erec's motives in the rude testing of Enide is worthy of
attention, and is more subtle than anything previous in French literature
with which we are acquainted. The poem is an episodical romance in the
biography of an Arthurinn hero, with the usual amount of space given to his
adventures. "Cligés" apparently connects a Byzantine tale of doubtful origin
in an arbitrary fashion with the court of Arthur. It is thought that the story
embodies the same motive as the widespread tale of the deception practised
upon Solomon by his wife, and that Chrétien's source, as he himself claims,
was literary (cf. Gaston Paris in "Journal des Savants", 1902, pp. 641-655).
The scene where Fenice feigns death in order to rejoin her lover is a parallel
of many others in literary history, and will, of course, suggest the situation
in Romeo and Juliet. This romance well illustrates the drawing power of
Arthur's court as a literary centre, and its use as a rallying-point for
courteous knights of whatever extraction. The poem has been termed an
"Anti-Tristan", because of its disparaging reference to the love of Tristan
and Iseut, which, it is generally supposed, had been narrated by Chrétien in
his earlier years. Next may come "Lancelot", with its significant dedication
to the Countess of Champagne. Of all the poet's work, this tale of the rescue
of Guinevere by her lover seems to express most closely the ideals of
Marie's court ideals in which devotion and courtesy but thinly disguise free
love. "Yvain" is a return to the poet's natural bent, in an episodical romance,
while "Perceval" crowns his production with its pure and exalted note,
though without a touch of that religious mysticism which later marked
Wolfram yon Eschenbach's "Parzival". "Guillaime d'Angleterre" is a
pseudo-historical romance of adventure in which the worldly distresses and
the final reward of piety are conventionally exposed. It is uninspired, its
place is difficult to determine, and its authorship is questioned by some. It is
aside from the Arthurian material, and there is no clue to its place in the
evolution of Chrétien's art, if indeed it be his work.
A few words must be devoted to Chrétien's place in the history of
mediaeval narrative poetry. The heroic epic songs of France, devoted either
to the conflict of Christendom under the leadership of France against the
Saracens, or else to the strife and rivalry of French vassals among
themselves, had been current for perhaps a century before our poet began to

write. These epic poems, of which some three score have survived, portray
a warlike, virile, unsentimental feudal society, whose chief occupation was
fighting, and whose dominant ideals were faith in God, loyalty to feudal
family ties, and bravery in battle. Woman's place is comparatively obscure,
and of love-making there is little said. It is a poetry of vigorous manhood,
of uncompromising morality, and of hard knocks given and taken for God,
for Christendom, and the King of France. This poetry is written in ten- or
twelve- syllable verses grouped, at first in assonanced, later in rhymed,
"tirades" of unequal length. It was intended for a society which was still
homogeneous, and to it at the outset doubtless all classes of the population
listened with equal interest. As poetry it is monotonous, without sense of
proportion, padded to facilitate memorisation by professional reciters, and
unadorned by figure, fancy, or imagination. Its pretention to historic
accuracy begot prosaicness in its approach to the style of the chronicles. But
its inspiration was noble, its conception of human duties was lofty. It gives
a realistic portrayal of the age which produced it, the age of the first
crusades, and to this day we would choose as our models of citizenship
Roland and Oliver rather than Tristan and Lancelot. The epic poems,
dealing with the pseudo-historical characters who had fought in civil and
foreign wars under Charlemagne, remained the favourite literary pabulum
of the middle classes until the close of the thirteenth century. Professor
Bedier is at present engaged in explaining the extraordinary hold which
these poems had upon the public, and in proving that they exercised a
distinct function when exploited by the Church throughout the period of the
crusades to celebrate local shrines and to promote muscular Christianity.
But the refinement which began to penetrate the ideals of the French
aristocracy about the middle of the twelfth century craved a different
expression in narrative literature. Greek and Roman mythology and history
were seized upon with some effect to satisfy the new demand. The "Roman
de Thebes", the "Roman d'Alexandre", the "Roman de Troie", and its
logical continuation, the "Roman d'Eneas", are all twelfth-century attempts
to clothe classic legend in the dress of mediaeval chivalry. But better fitted
to satisfy the new demand was the discovery by the alert Anglo-Normans
perhaps in Brittany, perhaps in the South of England, of a vast body of
legendary material which, so far as we know, had never before this century
received any elaborate literary treatment. The existence of the literary
demand and this discovery of the material for its prompt satisfaction is one

of the most remarkable coincidences in literary history. It would seem that
the pride of the Celtic populations in a Celtic hero, aided and abetted by
Geoffrey of Monmouth, who first showed the romantic possibilities of the
material, made of the obscure British chieftain Arthur a world conqueror.
Arthur thus became already in Geoffrey's "Historia regum Britaniae" a
conscious protagonist of Charlemagne and his rival in popularity. This
grandiose conception of Arthur persisted in England, but this conception of
the British chieftain did not interest the French. For Chrétien Arthur had no
political significance. He is simply the arbiter of his court in all affairs of
justice and courtesy. Charlemagne's very realistic entourage of virile and
busy barons is replaced by a court of elegant chevaliers and unemployed
ladies. Charlemagne's setting is historical and geographical; Arthur's setting
is ideal and in the air. In the oldest epic poems we find only God-fearing
men and a few self-effacing women; in the Arthurian romances we meet
gentlemen and ladies, more elegant and seductive than any one in the epic
poems, but less fortified by faith and sense of duty against vice because
breathing an enervating atmosphere of leisure and decadent morally.
Though the Church made the attempt in "Parzival", it could never lay its
hands so effectively upon this Celtic material, because it contained too
many elements which were root and branch inconsistent with the essential
teachings of Christianity. A fleeting comparison of the noble end of
Charlemagne's Peers fighting for their God and their King at Ronceval with
the futile and dilettante careers of Arthur's knights in joust and hunt, will
show better than mere words where the difference lies.
The student of the history of social and moral ideals will find much to
interest him in Chrétien's romances. Mediaeval references show that he was
held by his immediate successors, as he is held to-day when fairly viewed,
to have been a master of the art of story-telling. More than any other single
narrative poet, he was taken as a model both in France and abroad.
Professor F. M. Warren has set forth in detail the finer points in the art of
poetry as practised by Chrétien and his contemporary craftsmen (see "Some
Features of Style in Early French Narrative Poetry, 1150-1170 in "Modern
Philology", iii., 179-209; iii., 513-539; iv., 655-675). Poets in his own land
refer to him with reverence, and foreign poets complimented him to a high
degree by direct translation and by embroidering upon the themes which he
had made popular. The knights made famous by Chrétien soon crossed the
frontiers and obtained rights of citizenship in counties so diverse as

Germany, England, Scandinavia, Holland, Italy, and to a lesser extent in
Spain and Portugal. The inevitable tendency of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries to reduce poetry to prose affected the Arthurian material; vast
prose compilations finally embodied in print the matter formerly expressed
in verse, and it was in this form that the stories were known to later
generations until revived interest in the Middle Ages brought to light the
manuscripts in verse.
Aside from certain episodes of Chrétien's romances, the student will be
most interested in the treatment of love as therein portrayed. On this topic
we may hear speaking the man of his time. "Cligés" contains the body of
Chrétien's doctrine of love, while Lancelot is his most perfect lover. His
debt to Ovid has not yet been indicated with sufficient preciseness. An
elaborate code to govern sentiment and its expression was independently
developed by the troubadours of Provence in the early twelfth century.
These Provencal ideals of the courtly life were carried into Northern France
partly as the result of a royal marriage in 1137 and of the crusade of 1147,
and there by such poets as Chrétien they were gathered up and fused with
the Ovidian doctrine into a highly complicated but perfectly definite
statement of the ideal relations of the sexes. Nowhere in the vulgar tongues
can a better statement of these relations be found than in "Cligés."
So we leave Chrétien to speak across the ages for himself and his
generation. He is to be read as a story-teller rather than as a poet, as a
casuist rather than as a philosopher. But when all deductions are made, his
significance as a literary artist and as the founder of a precious literary
tradition distinguishes him from all other poets of the Latin races between
the close of the Empire and the arrival of Dante.
—W. W. COMFORT.

EREC ET ENIDE 11
(Vv. 1-26.) The rustic's proverb says that many a thing is despised that is
worth much more than is supposed. Therefore he does well who makes the
most of whatever intelligence he may possess. For he who neglects this
concern may likely omit to say something which would subsequently give
great pleasure. So Chrétien de Troyes maintains that one ought always to
study and strive to speak well and teach the right; and he derives from a
story of adventure a pleasing argument whereby it may be proved and
known that he is not wise who does not make liberal use of his knowledge
so long as God may give him grace. The story is about Erec the son of Lac
—a story which those who earn a living by telling stories are accustomed to
mutilate and spoil in the presence of kings and counts. And now I shall
begin the tale which will be remembered so long as Christendom endures.
This is Chrétien's boast.
(Vv. 27-66.) One Easter Day in the Springtime, King Arthur held court in
his town of Cardigan. Never was there seen so rich a court; for many a good
knight was there, hardy, bold, and brave, and rich ladies and damsels, gentle
and fair daughters of kings. But before the court was disbanded, the King
told his knights that he wished to hunt the White Stag, 12 in order to observe
worthily the ancient custom. When my lord Gawain heard this, he was sore
displeased, and said: "Sire, you will derive neither thanks nor goodwill
from this hunt. We all know long since what this custom of the White Stag
is: whoever can kill the White Stag must forsooth kiss the fairest maiden of
your court, come what may. But of this there might come great ill, for there
are here five hundred damsels of high birth, gentle and prudent daughters of
kings, and there is none of them but has a bold and valiant knight for her
lover who would be ready to contend, whether right or wrong, that she who
is his lady is the fairest and gentlest of them all." The King replies: "That I
know well; yet will I not desist on that account; for a king's word ought
never to be gainsaid. To-morrow morning we shall all gaily go to hunt the
White Stag in the forest of adventure. And very delightful this hunt will be."
(Vv. 67-114.) And so the affair is arranged for the next morning at
daybreak. The morrow, as soon as it is day, the King gets up and dresses,

and dons a short jacket for his forest ride. He commands the knights to be
aroused and the horses to be made ready. Already they are ahorse, and off
they go, with bows and arrows. After them the Queen mounts her horse,
taking a damsel with her. A maid she was, the daughter of a king, and she
rode a white palfrey. After them there swiftly followed a knight, named
Erec, who belonged to the Round Table, and had great fame at the court. 13
Of all the knights that ever were there, never one received such praise; and
he was so fair that nowhere in the world need one seek a fairer knight than
he. He was very fair, brave, and courteous, though not yet twenty-five years
old. Never was there a man of his age of greater knighthood. And what shall
I say of his virtues? Mounted on his horse, and clad in an ermine mantle, he
came galloping down the road, wearing a coat of splendid flowered silk
which was made at Constantinople. He had put on hose of brocade, well
made and cut, and when his golden spurs were well attached, he sat
securely in his stirrups. He carried no arm with him but his sword. As he
galloped along, at the corner of a street he came up with the Queen, and
said: "My lady, if it please you, I should gladly accompany you along this
road, having come for no other purpose than to bear you company." And the
Queen thanks him: "Fair friend, I like your company well, in truth; for
better I could not have."
(Vv. 115-124.) Then they ride along at full speed until they come into the
forest, where the party who had gone before them had already started the
stag. Some wind the horns and others shout; the hounds plunge ahead after
the stag, running, attacking, and baying; the bowmen shoot amain. And
before them all rode the King on a Spanish hunter.
(Vv. 125-154.) Queen Guinevere was in the wood listening for the dogs;
beside her were Erec and the damsel, who was very courteous and fair. But
those who had pursued the stag were so far from them that, however
intently they might listen to catch the sound of horn or baying of hound,
they no longer could hear either horse, huntsman, or hound. So all three of
them drew rein in a clearing beside the road. They had been there but a
short time when they saw an armed knight along on his steed, with shield
slung about his neck, and his lance in hand. The Queen espied him from a
distance By his right side rode a damsel of noble bearing, and before them,
on a hack, came a dwarf carrying in his hand a knotted scourge. When
Queen Guinevere saw the comely and graceful knight, she desired to know

who he and his damsel were. So she bid her damsel go quickly and speak to
him.
(Vv. 155-274.) "Damsel," says the Queen, "go and bid yonder knight
come to me and bring his damsel with him." The maiden goes on amble
straight toward the knight. But the spiteful dwarf sallies forth to meet her
with his scourge in hand, crying: "Halt, maiden, what do you want here?
You shall advance no farther." "Dwarf," says she, "let me pass. I wish to
speak with yonder knight; for the Queen sends me hither." The dwarf, who
was rude and mean, took his stand in the middle of the road, and said: "You
have no business here. Go back. It is not meet that you should speak to so
excellent a knight." The damsel advanced and tried to pass him by force,
holding the dwarf in slight esteem when she saw that he was so small. Then
the dwarf raised his whip, when he saw her coming toward him and tried to
strike her in the face. She raised her arm to protect herself, but he lifted his
hand again and struck her all unprotected on her bare hand: and so hard did
he strike her on the back of her hand that it turned all black and blue. When
the maiden could do nothing else, in spite of herself she must needs return.
So weeping she turned back. The tears came to her eyes and ran down her
cheeks. When the Queen sees her damsel wounded, she is sorely grieved
and angered and knows not what to do. "Ah, Erec, fair friend," she says, "I
am in great sorrow for my damsel whom that dwarf has wounded. The
knight must be discourteous indeed, to allow such a monster to strike so
beautiful a creature. Erec, fair friend, do you go to the knight and bid him
come to me without delay. I wish to know him and his lady." Erec starts off
thither, giving spurs to his steed, and rides straight toward the knight. The
ignoble dwarf sees him coming and goes to meet him. "Vassal," says he,
"stand back! For I know not what business you have here. I advise you to
withdraw." "Avaunt," says Erec, "provoking dwarf! Thou art vile and
troublesome. Let me pass." "You shall not." "That will I." "You shall not."
Erec thrusts the dwarf aside. The dwarf had no equal for villainy: he gave
him a great blow with his lash right on the neck, so that Erec's neck and
face are scarred with the blow of the scourge; from top to bottom appear the
lines which the thongs have raised on him. He knew well that he could not
have the satisfaction of striking the dwarf; for he saw that the knight was
armed, arrogant, and of evil intent, and he was afraid that he would soon
kill him, should he strike the dwarf in his presence. Rashness is not bravery.
So Erec acted wisely in retreating without more ado. "My lady," he says,

"now matters stand worse; for the rascally dwarf has so wounded me that he
has badly cut my face. I did not dare to strike or touch him; but none ought
to reproach me, for I was completely unarmed. I mistrusted the armed
knight, who, being an ugly fellow and violent, would take it as no jest, and
would soon kill me in his pride. But this much I will promise you; that if I
can, I shall yet avenge my disgrace, or increase it. But my arms are too far
away to avail me in this time of need; for at Cardigan did I leave them this
morning when I came away. And if I should go to fetch them there,
peradventure I should never again find the knight who is riding off apace.
So I must follow him at once, far or near, until I find some arms to hire or
borrow. If I find some one who will lend me arms, the knight will quickly
find me ready for battle. And you may be sure without fail that we two shall
fight until he defeat me, or I him. And if possible, I shall be back by the
third day, when you will see me home again either joyous or sad, I know
not which. Lady, I cannot delay longer, for I must follow after the knight. I
go. To God I commend you." And the Queen in like manner more than five
hundred rimes commends him to God, that he may defend him from harm.
(Vv. 275-310.) Erec leaves the Queen and ceases not to pursue the
knight. The Queen remains in the wood, where now the King had come up
with the Stag. The King himself outstripped the others at the death. Thus
they killed and took the White Stag, and all returned, carrying the Stag, till
they came again to Cardigan. After supper, when the knights were all in
high spirits throughout the hall, the King, as the custom was, because he
had taken the Stag, said that he would bestow the kiss and thus observe the
custom of the Stag. Throughout the court a great murmur is heard: each one
vows and swears to his neighbour that it shall not be done without the
protest of sword or ashen lance. Each one gallantly desires to contend that
his lady is the fairest in the hall. Their conversation bodes no good, and
when my lord Gawain heard it, you must know that it was not to his liking.
Thus he addressed the King: "Sire," he says, "your knights here are greatly
aroused, and all their talk is of this kiss. They say that it shall never be
bestowed without disturbance and a fight." And the King wisely replied to
him: "Fair nephew Gawain, give me counsel now, sparing my honour and
my dignity, for I have no mind for any disturbance."
(Vv. 311-341.) To the council came a great part of the best knights of the
court. King Yder 14 arrived, who was the first to be summoned, and after
him King Cadoalant, who was very wise and bold. Kay and Girflet came

too, and King Amauguin was there, and a great number of other knights
were there with them. The discussion was in process when the Queen
arrived and told them of the adventure which she had met in the forest, of
the armed knight whom she saw, and of the malicious little dwarf who had
struck her damsel on the bare hand with his whip, and who struck Erec, too,
in the same way an ugly blow on the face; but that Erec followed the knight
to obtain vengeance, or increase his shame, and how he said that if possible
he would be back by the third day. "Sire," says the Queen to the King,
"listen to me a moment. If these knights approve what I say, postpone this
kiss until the third day, when Erec will be back." There is none who does
not agree with her, and the King himself approves her words.
(Vv. 342-392.) Erec steadily follows the knight who was armed and the
dwarf who had struck him until they come to a well placed town, strong and
fine 15. They enter straight through the gate. Within the town there was
great joy of knights and ladies, of whom there were many and fair. Some
were feeding in the streets their sparrow-hawks and moulting falcons;
others were giving an airing to their tercels, 16 their mewed birds, and
young yellow hawks; others play at dice or other game of chance, some at
chess, and some at backgammon. The grooms in front of the stables are
rubbing down and currying the horses. The ladies are bedecking themselves
in their boudoirs. As soon as they see the knight coming, whom they
recognised with his dwarf and damsel, they go out three by three to meet
him. The knight they all greet and salute, but they give no heed to Erec, for
they did not know him. Erec follows close upon the knight through the
town, until he saw him lodged. Then, very joyful, he passed on a little
farther until he saw reclining upon some steps a vavasor 17 well on in years.
He was a comely man, with white locks, debonair, pleasing, and frank.
There he was seated all alone, seeming to be engaged in thought. Erec took
him for an honest man who would at once give him lodging. When he
turned through the gate into the yard, the vavasor ran to meet him, and
saluted him before Erec had said a word. "Fair sir," says he, "be welcome. If
you will deign to lodge with me, here is my house all ready for you." Erec
replies: "Thank you! For no other purpose have I come; I need a lodging
place this night."
(Vv. 393-410.) Erec dismounts from his horse, which the host himself
leads away by the bridle, and does great honour to his guest. The vavasor
summons his wife and his beautiful daughter, who were busy in a work-

room—doing I know not what. The lady came out with her daughter, who
was dressed in a soft white under-robe with wide skirts hanging loose in
folds. Over it she wore a white linen garment, which completed her attire.
And this garment was so old that it was full of holes down the sides. Poor,
indeed, was her garb without, but within her body was fair.
(Vv. 411-458.) The maid was charming, in sooth, for Nature had used all
her skill in forming her. Nature herself had marvelled more than five
hundred times how upon this one occasion she had succeeded in creating
such a perfect thing. Never again could she so strive successfully to
reproduce her pattern. Nature bears witness concerning her that never was
so fair a creature seen in all the world. In truth I say that never did Iseut the
Fair have such radiant golden tresses that she could be compared with this
maiden. 18 The complexion of her forehead and face was clearer and more
delicate than the lily. But with wondrous art her face with all its delicate
pallor was suffused with a fresh crimson which Nature had bestowed upon
her. Her eyes were so bright that they seemed like two stars. God never
formed better nose, mouth, and eyes. What shall I say of her beauty? In
sooth, she was made to be looked at; for in her one could have seen himself
as in a mirror. So she came forth from the work-room: and when she saw
the knight whom she had never seen before, she drew back a little, because
she did not know him, and in her modesty she blushed. Erec, for his part,
was amazed when he beheld such beauty in her, and the vavasor said to her:
"Fair daughter dear, take this horse and lead him to the stable along with my
own horses. See that he lack for nothing: take off his saddle and bridle, give
him oats and hay, look after him and curry him, that he may be in good
condition."
(Vv. 459-546) The maiden takes the horse, unlaces his breast-strap, and
takes off his bridle and saddle. Now the horse is in good hands, for she
takes excellent care of him. She throws a halter over his head, rubs him
down, curries him, and makes him comfortable. Then she ties him to the
manger and puts plenty of fresh sweet hay and oats before him. Then she
went back to her father, who said to her: "Fair daughter dear, take now this
gentleman by the hand and show him all honour. Take him by the hand
upstairs." The maiden did not delay (for in her there was no lack of
courtesy) and led him by the hand upstairs. The lady had gone before and
prepared the house. She had laid embroidered cushions and spreads upon
the couches, where they all three sat down Erec with his host beside him,

and the maiden opposite. Before them, the fire burns brightly. The vavasor
had only one man-servant, and no maid for chamber or kitchen work. This
one man was busy in the kitchen preparing meat and birds for supper. A
skilful cook was he, who knew how to prepare meal in boiling water and
birds on the spit. When he had the meal prepared in accordance with the
orders which had been given him, he brought them water for washing in
two basins. The table was soon set, cloths, bread, and wine set out, and they
sat down to supper. They had their fill of all they needed. When they had
finished and when the table was cleared, Erec thus addressed his host, the
master of the house: "Tell me, fair host." he asked, "why your daughter,
who is so passing fair and clever, is so poorly and unsuitably attired." "Fair
friend," the vavasor replies, "many a man is harmed by poverty, and even so
am I. I grieve to see her so poorly clad, and yet I cannot help it, for I have
been so long involved in war that I have lost or mortgaged or sold all my
land. 19 And yet she would be well enough dressed if I allowed her to accept
everything that people wish to give her. The lord of this castle himself
would have dressed her in becoming fashion and would have done her
every manner of favour, for she is his niece and he is a count. And there is
no nobleman in this region, however rich and powerful, who would not
willingly have taken her to wife had I given my consent. But I am waiting
yet for some better occasion, when God shall bestow still greater honour
upon her, when fortune shall bring hither some king or count who shall lead
her away, for there is under Heaven no king or count who would be
ashamed of my daughter, who is so wondrous fair that her match cannot be
found. Fair, indeed, she is; but yet greater far than her beauty, is her
intelligence. God never created any one so discreet and of such open heart.
When I have my daughter beside me, I don't care a marble about all the rest
of the world. She is my delight and my pastime, she is my joy and comfort,
my wealth and my treasure, and I love nothing so much as her own precious
self."
(Vv. 547-690.) When Erec had listened to all that his host told him, he
asked him to inform him whence came all the chivalry that was quartered in
the town. For there was no street or house so poor and small but it was full
of knights and ladies and squires. And the vavasor said to him: "Fair friend,
these are the nobles of the country round; all, both young and old, have
come to a fete which is to be held in this town tomorrow; therefore the
houses are so full. When they shall all have gathered, there will be a great

stir to-morrow; for in the presence of all the people there will be set upon a
silver perch a sparrow-hawk of five or six moultings—the best you can
imagine. Whoever wishes to gain the hawk must have a mistress who is fair,
prudent, and courteous. And if there be a knight so bold as to wish to defend
the worth and the name of the fairest in his eyes, he will cause his mistress
to step forward and lift the hawk from the perch, if no one dares to
interpose. This is the custom they are observing, and for this each year they
gather here." Thereupon Erec speaks and asks him: "Fair host, may it not
displease you, but tell me, if you know, who is a certain knight bearing arms
of azure and gold, who passed by here not long ago, having close beside
him a courtly damsel, preceded by a hump-backed dwarf." To him the host
then made reply: "That is he who will win the hawk without any opposition
from the other knights. I don't believe that any one will offer opposition;
this time there will be no blows or wounds. For two years already he has
won it without being challenged; and if he wins it again this year, he will
have gained permanent possession of it. Every succeeding year he may
keep it without contest or challenge." Quickly Erec makes reply: "I do not
like that knight. Upon my word, had I some arms I should challenge him for
the hawk. Fair host, I beg you as a boon to advise me how I may be
equipped with arms whether old or new, poor or rich, it matters not." And
he replies to him generously: "It were a pity for you to feel concern on that
score! I have good fine arms which I shall be glad to lend you. In the house
I have a triple-woven hauberk, 110 which was selected from among five
hundred. And I have some fine valuable greaves, polished, handsome, and
light in weight. The helmet is bright and handsome, and the shield fresh and
new. Horse, sword, and lance all I will lend you, of course; so let no more
be said." "Thank you kindly, fair gentle host! But I wish for no better sword
that this one which I have brought with me, nor for any other horse than my
own, for I can get along well enough with him. If you will lend me the rest,
I shall esteem it a great favour. But there is one more boon I wish to ask of
you, for which I shall make just return if God grant that I come off from the
battle with honour." And frankly he replies to him: "Ask confidently for
what you want, whatever it be, for nothing of mine shall lack you." Then
Erec said that he wished to defend the hawk on behalf of his daughter; for
surely there will be no damsel who is one hundredth part as beautiful as she.
And if he takes her with him, he will have good and just reason to maintain
and to prove that she is entitled to carry away the hawk. Then he added:

"Sire, you know not what guest you have sheltered here, nor do you know
my estate and kin. I am the son of a rich and puissant king: my father's
name is King Lac, and the Bretons call me Erec. I belong to King Arthur's
court, and have been with him now three years. I know not if any report of
my father or of me has ever reached this land. But I promise you and vow
that if you will fit me out with arms, and will give me your daughter to-
morrow when I strive for the hawk, I will take her to my country, if God
grant me the victory, and I will give her a crown to wear, and she shall be
queen of three cities." "Ah, fair sir! Is it true that you are Erec, the son of
Lac?" "That is who I am, indeed" quoth he. Then the host was greatly
delighted and said: "We have indeed heard of you in this country. Now I
think all the more of you, for you are very valiant and brave. Nothing now
shall you be refused by me. At your request I give you my fair daughter."
Then taking her by the hand, he says: "Here, I give her to you." Erec
received her joyfully, and now has all he desired. Now they are all happy
there: the father is greatly delighted, and the mother weeps for joy. The
maiden sat quiet; but she was very happy and glad that she was betrothed to
him, because he was valiant and courteous: and she knew that he would
some day be king, and she should receive honour and be crowned rich
queen.
(Vv. 691-746.) They had sat up very late that night. But now the beds
were prepared with white sheets and soft pillows, and when the
conversation flagged they all went to bed in happy frame. Erec slept little
that night, and the next morn, at crack of dawn, he and his host rose early.
They both go to pray at church, and hear a hermit chant the Mass of the
Holy Spirit, not forgetting to make an offering. When they had heard Mass
both kneel before the altar and then return to the house. Erec was eager for
the battle; so he asks for arms, and they are given to him. The maiden
herself puts on his arms (though she casts no spell or charm), 111 laces on
his iron greaves, and makes them fast with thong of deer-hide. She puts on
his hauberk with its strong meshes, and laces on his ventail. The gleaming
helmet she sets upon his head, and thus arms him well from tip to toe. At
his side she fastens his sword, and then orders his horse to be brought,
which is done. Up he jumped clear of the ground. The damsel then brings
the shield and the strong lance: she hands him the shield, and he takes it and
hangs it about his neck by the strap. She places the lance in his hand, and
when he had grasped it by the butt-end, he thus addressed the gentle

vavasor: "Fair sire," quoth he, "if you please, make your daughter ready
now; for I wish to escort her to the sparrow-hawk in accordance with our
agreement." The vavasor then without delay had saddled a bay palfrey.
There can nothing be said of the harness because of the dire poverty with
which the vavasor was afflicted. Saddle and bridle were put on, and up the
maiden mounted all free and in light attire, without waiting to be urged.
Erec wished to delay no longer; so off he starts with the host's daughter by
his side, followed by the gentleman and his lady.
(Vv. 747-862.) Erec rides with lance erect and with the comely damsel by
his side. All the people, great and small, gaze at them with wondering eyes
as they pass through the streets. And thus they question each other: "Who is
yonder knight? He must be doughty and brave, indeed, to act as escort for
this fair maid. His efforts will be well employed in proving that this damsel
is the fairest of them all." One man to another says: "In very truth, she
ought to have the sparrow-hawk." Some praised the maid, while many said:
"God! who can this knight be, with the fair damsel by his side?" "I know
not." "Nor I." Thus spake each one. "But his gleaming helmet becomes him
well, and the hauberk, and shield, and his sharp steel sword. He sits well
upon his steed and has the bearing of a valiant vassal, well-shapen in arm,
in limb and foot." While all thus stand and gaze at them, they for their part
made no delay to take their stand by the sparrow-hawk, where to one side
they awaited the knight. And now behold! they see him come, attended by
his dwarf and his damsel. He had heard the report, that a knight had come
who wished to obtain the sparrow-hawk, but he did not believe there could
be in the world a knight so bold as to dare to fight with him. He would
quickly defeat him and lay him low. All the people knew him well, and all
welcome him and escort him in a noisy crowd: knights, squires, ladies, and
damsels make haste to run after him. Leading them all the knight rides
proudly on, with his damsel and his dwarf at his side, and he makes his way
quickly to the sparrow-hawk. But all about there was such a press of the
rough and vulgar crowd that it was impossible to touch the hawk or to come
near where it was. Then the Count arrived on the scene, and threatened the
populace with a switch which he held in his hand. The crowd drew back,
and the knight advanced and said quietly to his lady: "My lady, this bird,
which is so perfectly moulted and so fair, should be yours as your just
portion; for you are wondrous fair and full of charm. Yours it shall surely be
so long as I live. Step forward, my dear, and lift the hawk from the perch."

The damsel was on the point of stretching forth her hand when Erec
hastened to challenge her, little heeding the other's arrogance. "Damsel," he
cries, "stand back! Go dally with some other bird, for to this one you have
no right. In spite of all, I say this hawk shall never be yours. For a better
one than you claims it—aye, much more fair and more courteous." The
other knight is very wroth; but Erec does not mind him, and bids his own
maiden step forward. "Fair one." he cries, "come forth. Lift the bird from
the perch, for it is right that you should have it. Damsel, come forth! For I
will make boast to defend it if any one is so bold as to intervene. For no
woman excels you in beauty or worth, in grace or honour any more than the
moon outshines the sun." The other could suffer it no longer, when he hears
him so manfully offer himself to do battle. "Vassal," he cries, "who art thou
who dost thus dispute with me the hawk?" Erec boldly answers him: "A
knight I am from another land. This hawk I have come to obtain; for it is
right, I say it in spite of all, that this damsel of mine should have it."
"Away!" cries the other, "it shall never be. Madness has brought thee here.
If thou dost wish to have the hawk, thou shalt pay fight dearly for it." "Pay,
vassal; and how?" "Thou must fight with me, if thou dost not resign it to
me." "You talk madness," cries Erec; "for me these are idle threats; for little
enough do I fear you." "Then I defy thee here and now. The battle is
inevitable." Erec replies: "God help me now; for never did I wish for aught
so much." Now soon you will hear the noise of battle.
(Vv. 863-1080.) The large place was cleared, with the people gathered all
around. They draw off from each other the space of an acre, then drive their
horses together; they reach for each other with the tips of their lances, and
strike each other so hard that the shields are pierced and broken; the lances
split and crack; the saddle-bows are knocked to bits behind. They must
needs lose their stirrups, so that they both fall to the ground, and the horses
run off across the field. Though smitten with the lances, they are quickly on
their feet again, and draw their swords from the scabbards. With great
fierceness they attack each other, and exchange great sword blows, so that
the helmets are crushed and made to ring. Fierce is the clash of the swords,
as they rain great blows upon neck and shoulders. For this is no mere sport:
they break whatever they touch, cutting the shields and shattering the
hauberks. The swords are red with crimson blood. Long the battle lasts; but
they fight so lustily that they become weary and listless. Both the damsels
are in tears, and each knight sees his lady weep and raise her hands to God

and pray that He may give the honours of the battle to the one who strives
for her. "Ha! vassal," quoth the knight to Erec, "let us withdraw and rest a
little; for too weak are these blows we deal. We must deal better blows than
these; for now it draws near evening. It is shameful and highly discreditable
that this battle should last so long. See yonder that gentle maid who weeps
for thee and calls on God. Full sweetly she prays for thee, as does also mine
for me. Surely we should do our best with our blades of steel for the sake of
our lady-loves." Erec replies: "You have spoken well." Then they take a
little rest, Erec looking toward his lady as she softly prays for him. While he
sat and looked on her, great strength was recruited within him. Her love and
beauty inspired him with great boldness. He remembered the Queen, to
whom he pledged his word that he would avenge the insult done him, or
would make it greater yet. "Ah! wretch," says he, "why do I wait? I have
not yet taken vengeance for the injury which this vassal permitted when his
dwarf struck me in the wood." His anger is revived within him as he
summons the knight: "Vassal," quoth he, "I call you to battle anew. Too long
we have rested; let us now renew our strife." And he replies: "That is no
hardship to me." Whereupon, they again fall upon each other. They were
both expert fencers. At his first lunge the knight would have wounded Erec
had he not skilfully parried. Even so, he smote him so hard over the shield
beside his temple that he struck a piece from his helmet. Closely shaving
his white coif, the sword descends, cleaving the shield through to the
buckle, and cutting more than a span from the side of his hauberk. Then he
must have been well stunned, as the cold steel penetrated to the flesh on his
thigh. May God protect him now! If the blow had not glanced off, it would
have cut right through his body. But Erec is in no wise dismayed: he pays
him back what is owing him, and. attacking him boldly, smites him upon
the shoulder so violently a blow that the shield cannot withstand it, nor is
the hauberk of any use to prevent the sword from penetrating to the bone.
He made the crimson blood flow down to his waist-band. Both of the
vassals are hard fighters: they fight with honours even, for one cannot gain
from the other a single foot of ground. Their hauberks are so torn and their
shields so hacked, that there is actually not enough of them left to serve as a
protection. So they fight all exposed. Each one loses a deal of blood, and
both grow weak. He strikes Erec and Erec strikes him. Erec deals him such
a tremendous blow upon the helmet that he quite stuns him. Then he lets
him have it again and again, giving him three blows in quick succession,

which entirely split the helmet and cut the coif beneath it. The sword even
reaches the skull and cuts a bone of his head, but without penetrating the
brain. He stumbles and totters, and while he staggers, Erec pushes him over,
so that he falls upon his right side. Erec grabs him by the helmet and
forcibly drags it from his head, and unlaces the ventail, so that his head and
face are completely exposed. When Erec thinks of the insult done him by
the dwarf in the wood, he would have cut off his head, had he not cried for
mercy. "Ah! vassal," says he, "thou hast defeated me. Mercy now, and do
not kill me, after having overcome me and taken me prisoner: that would
never bring thee praise or glory. If thou shouldst touch me more, thou
wouldst do great villainy. Take here my sword; I yield it thee." Erec,
however, does not take it, but says in reply: "I am within an ace of killing
thee." "Ah! gentle knight, mercy! For what crime, indeed, or for what
wrong shouldst thou hate me with mortal hatred? I never saw thee before
that I am aware, and never have I been engaged in doing thee any shame or
wrong." Erec replies: "Indeed you have." "Ah, sire, tell me when! For I
never saw you, that I can remember, and if I have done you any wrong, I
place myself at your mercy." Then Erec said: "Vassal, I am he who was in
the forest yesterday with Queen Guinevere, when thou didst allow thy ill-
bred dwarf to strike my lady's damsel. It is disgraceful to strike a woman.
And afterwards he struck me, taking me for some common fellow. Thou
wast guilty of too great insolence when thou sawest such an outrage and
didst complacently permit such a monster of a lout to strike the damsel and
myself. For such a crime I may well hate thee; for thou hast committed a
grave offence. Thou shalt now constitute thyself my prisoner, and without
delay go straight to my lady whom thou wilt surely find at Cardigan, if
thither thou takest thy way. Thou wilt reach there this very night, for it is
not seven leagues from here, I think. Thou shalt hand over to her thyself,
thy damsel, and thy dwarf, to do as she may dictate; and tell her that I send
her word that to-morrow I shall come contented, bringing with me a damsel
so fair and wise and fine that in all the world she has not her match. So
much thou mayst tell her truthfully. And now I wish to know thy name."
Then he must needs say in spite of himself: "Sire, my name is Yder, son of
Nut. This morning I had not thought that any single man by force of arms
could conquer me. Now I have found by experience a man who is better
than I. You are a very valiant knight, and I pledge you my faith here and
now that I will go without delay and put myself in the Queen's hands. But

tell me without reserve what your name may be. Who shall I say it is that
sends me? For I am ready to start." And he replies: "My name I will tell
thee without disguise: it is Erec. Go, and tell her that it is I who have sent
thee to her." "Now I'll go, and I promise you that I will put my dwarf, my
damsel, and myself altogether at her disposal (you need have no fear), and I
will give her news of you and of your damsel." Then Erec received his
plighted word, and the Count and all the people round about the ladies and
the gentlemen were present at the agreement. Some were joyous, and some
downcast; some were sorry, and others glad. The most rejoiced for the sake
of the damsel with the white raiment, the daughter of the poor vavasor she
of the gentle and open heart; but his damsel and those who were devoted to
him were sorry for Yder.
(Vv. 1081-1170.) Yder, compelled to execute his promise, did not wish to
tarry longer, but mounted his steed at once. But why should I make a long
story? Taking his dwarf and his damsel, they traversed the woods and the
plain, going on straight until they came to Cardigan. In the bower 112
outside the great hall, Gawain and Kay the seneschal and a great number of
other lords were gathered. The seneschal was the first to espy those
approaching, and said to my lord Gawain: "Sire, my heart divines that the
vassal who yonder comes is he of whom the Queen spoke as having
yesterday done her such an insult. If I am not mistaken, there are three in
the party, for I see the dwarf and the damsel." "That is so," says my lord
Gawain; "it is surely a damsel and a dwarf who are coming straight toward
us with the knight. The knight himself is fully armed, but his shield is not
whole. If the Queen should see him, she would know him. Hello, seneschal,
go call her now!" So he went straightway and found her in one of the
apartments. "My lady," says he, "do you remember the dwarf who yesterday
angered you by wounding your damsel?" "Yes, I remember him right well.
Seneschal, have you any news of him? Why have you mentioned him?"
"Lady, because I have seen a knight-errant armed coming upon a grey
horse, and if my eyes have not deceived me, I saw a damsel with him; and it
seems to me that with him comes the dwarf, who still holds the scourge
from which Erec received his lashing." Then the Queen rose quickly and
said: "Let us go quickly, seneschal, to see if it is the vassal. If it is he, you
may be sure that I shall tell you so, as soon as I see him." And Kay said: "I
will show him to you. Come up into the bower where your knights are
assembled. It was from there we saw him coming, and my lord Gawain

himself awaits you there. My lady, let us hasten thither, for here we have
too long delayed." Then the Queen bestirred herself, and coming to the
windows she took her stand by my lord Gawain, and straightway
recognised the knight. "Ha! my lords," she cries, "it is he. He has been
through great danger. He has been in a battle. I do not know whether Erec
has avenged his grief, or whether this knight has defeated Erec. But there is
many a dent upon his shield, and his hauberk is covered with blood, so that
it is rather red than white." "In sooth, my lady," quoth my lord Gawain, "I
am very sure that you are quite right. His hauberk is covered with blood,
and pounded and beaten, showing plainly that he has been in a fight. We
can easily see that the battle has been hot. Now we shall soon hear from
him news that will give us joy or gloom: whether Erec sends him to you
here as a prisoner at your discretion, or whether he comes in pride of heart
to boast before us arrogantly that he has defeated or killed Erec. No other
news can he bring, I think." The Queen says: "I am of the same opinion."
And all the others say: "It may well be so."
(Vv. 1171-1243.) Meanwhile Yder enters the castle gate, bringing them
news. They all came down from the bower, and went to meet him. Yder
came up to the royal terrace and there dismounted from his horse. And
Gawain took the damsel and helped her down from her palfrey; the dwarf,
for his part, dismounted too. There were more than one hundred knights
standing there, and when the three newcomers had all dismounted they
were led into the King's presence. As soon as Yder saw the Queen, he
bowed low and first saluted her, then the King and his knights, and said:
"Lady, I am sent here as your prisoner by a gentleman, a valiant and noble
knight, whose face yesterday my dwarf made smart with his knotted
scourge. He has overcome me at arms and defeated me. Lady, the dwarf I
bring you here: he has come to surrender to you at discretion. I bring you
myself, my damsel, and my dwarf to do with us as you please." The Queen
keeps her peace no longer, but asks him for news of Erec: "Tell me," she
says, "if you please, do you know when Erec will arrive?" "To-morrow,
lady, and with him a damsel he will bring, the fairest of all I ever knew."
When he had delivered his message, the Queen, who was kind and sensible,
said to him courteously: "Friend, since thou hast thrown thyself upon my
mercy, thy confinement shall be less harsh; for I have no desire to seek thy
harm. But tell me now, so help thee God, what is thy name?" And he
replies: "Lady, my name is Yder, son of Nut." And they knew that he told

the truth. Then the Queen arose, and going before the King, said: "Sire, did
you hear? You have done well to wait for Erec, the valiant knight. I gave
you good advice yesterday, when I counselled you to await his return. This
proves that it is wise to take advice." The King replies: "That is no lie;
rather is it perfectly true that he who takes advice is no fool. Happily we
followed your advice yesterday. But if you care anything for me, release
this knight from his durance, provided he consent to join henceforth my
household and court; and if he does not consent, let him suffer the
consequence." When the King had thus spoken, the Queen straightway
released the knight; but it was on this condition, that he should remain in
the future at the court. He did not have to be urged before he gave his
consent to stay. Now he was of the court and household to which he had not
before belonged. Then valets were at hand to run and relieve him of his
arms.
(Vv. 1244-1319.) Now we must revert to Erec, whom we left in the field
where the battle had taken place. Even Tristan, when he slew fierce Morhot
on Saint Samson's isle 113, awakened no such jubilee as they celebrated here
over Erec. Great and small, thin and stout—all make much of him and
praise his knighthood. There is not a knight but cries: "Lord what a vassal!
Under Heaven there is not his like!" They follow him to his lodgings,
praising him and talking much. Even the Count himself embraces him, who
above the rest was glad, and said: "Sire, if you please, you ought by right to
lodge in my house, since you are the son of King Lac. If you would accept
of my hospitality you would do me a great honour, for I regard you as my
liege. Fair sire, may it please you, I beg you to lodge with me." Erec
answers: "May it not displease you, but I shall not desert my host to-night,
who has done me much honour in giving me his daughter. What say you,
sir? Is it not a fair and precious gift?" "Yes, sire," the Count replies; "the
gift, in truth, is fine and good. The maid herself is fair and clever, and
besides is of very noble birth. You must know that her mother is my sister.
Surely, I am glad at heart that you should deign to take my niece. Once
more I beg you to lodge with me this night." Erec replies: "Ask me no
more. I will not do it." Then the Count saw that further insistence was
useless, and said: "Sire, as it please you! We may as well say no more about
it; but I and my knights will all be with you to-night to cheer you and bear
you company." When Erec heard that, he thanked him, and returned to his
host's dwelling, with the Count attending him. Ladies and knights were

gathered there, and the vavasor was glad at heart. As soon as Erec arrived,
more than a score of squires ran quickly to remove his arms. Any one who
was present in that house could have witnessed a happy scene. Erec went
first and took his seat; then all the others in order sit down upon the
couches, the cushions, and benches. At Erec's side the Count sat down, and
the damsel with her radiant face, who was feeding the much disputed hawk
upon her wrist with a plover's wing. 114 Great honour and joy and prestige
had she gained that day, and she was very glad at heart both for the bird and
for her lord. She could not have been happier, and showed it plainly,
making no secret of her joy. All could see how gay she was, and throughout
the house there was great rejoicing for the happiness of the maid they loved.
(Vv. 1320-1352.) Erec thus addressed the vavasor: "Fair host, fair friend,
fair sire! You have done me great honour, and richly shall it be repaid you.
To-morrow I shall take away your daughter with me to the King's court,
where I wish to take her as my wife; and if you will tarry here a little, I shall
send betimes to fetch you. I shall have you escorted into the country which
is my father's now, but which later will be mine. It is far from here—by no
means near. There I shall give you two towns, very splendid, rich, and fine.
You shall be lord of Roadan, which was built in the time of Adam, and of
another town close by, which is no less valuable. The people call it
Montrevel, and my father owns no better town. 115 And before the third day
has passed, I shall send you plenty of gold and silver, of dappled and grey
furs, and precious silken stuffs wherewith to adorn yourself and your wife
my dear lady. To-morrow at dawn I wish to take your daughter to court,
dressed and arrayed as she is at present. I wish my lady, the Queen, to dress
her in her best dress of satin and scarlet cloth."
(Vv. 1353-1478.) There was a maiden near at hand, very honourable,
prudent, and virtuous. She was seated on a bench beside the maid with the
white shift, and was her own cousin the niece of my lord the Count. When
she heard how Erec intended to take her cousin in such very poor array to
the Queen's court, she spoke about it to the Count. "Sire," she says, "it
would be a shame to you more than to any one else if this knight should
take your niece away with him in such sad array." And the Count made
answer: "Gentle niece, do you give her the best of your dresses." But Erec
heard the conversation, and said: "By no means, my lord. For be assured
that nothing in the world would tempt me to let her have another robe until
the Queen shall herself bestow it upon her." When the damsel heard this,

she replied: "Alas! fair sire, since you insist upon leading off my cousin
thus dressed in a white shift and chemise, and since you are determined that
she shall have none of my dresses, a different gift I wish to make her. I have
three good palfreys, as good as any of king or count, one sorrel, one
dappled, and the other black with white forefeet. Upon my word, if you had
a hundred to pick from, you would not find a better one than the dappled
mount. The birds in the air do not fly more swiftly than the palfrey; and he
is not too lively, but just suits a lady. A child can ride him, for he is neither
skittish nor balky, nor does he bite nor kick nor become unmanageable. Any
one who is looking for something better does not know what he wants. And
his pace is so easy and gentle that a body is more comfortable and easy on
his back than in a boat." Then said Erec: "My dear, I have no objection to
her accepting this gift; indeed, I am pleased with the offer, and do not wish
her to refuse it." Then the damsel calls one of her trusty servants, and says
to him: "Go, friend, saddle my dappled palfrey, and lead him here at once."
And he carries out her command: he puts on saddle and bridle and strives to
make him appear well. Then he jumps on the maned palfrey, which is now
ready for inspection. When Erec saw the animal, he did not spare his praise,
for he could see that he was very fine and gentle. So he bade a servant lead
him back and hitch him in the stable beside his own horse. Then they all
separated, after an evening agreeably spent. The Count goes off to his own
dwelling, and leaves Erec with the vavasor, saying that he will bear him
company in the morning when he leaves. All that night they slept well. In
the morning, when the dawn was bright, Erec prepares to start,
commanding his horses to be saddled. His fair sweetheart, too, awakes,
dresses, and makes ready. The vavasor and his wife rise too, and every
knight and lady there prepares to escort the damsel and the knight. Now
they are all on horseback, and the Count as well. Erec rides beside the
Count, having beside him his sweetheart ever mindful of her hawk. Having
no other riches, she plays with her hawk. Very merry were they as they rode
along; but when the time came to part, the Count wished to send along with
Erec a party of his knights to do him honour by escorting him. But he
announced that none should bide with him, and that he wanted no company
but that of the damsel. Then, when they had accompanied them some
distance, he said: "In God's name, farewell!" Then the Count kisses Erec
and his niece, and commends them both to merciful God. Her father and
mother, too, kiss them again and again, and could not keep back their tears:

at parting, the mother weeps, the father and the daughter too. For such is
love and human nature, and such is affection between parents and children.
They wept from sorrow, tenderness, and love which they had for their child;
yet they knew full well that their daughter was to fill a place from which
great honour would accrue to them. They shed tears of love and pity when
they separated from their daughter, but they had no other cause to weep.
They knew well enough that eventually they would receive great honour
from her marriage. So at parting many a tear was shed, as weeping they
commend one another to God, and thus separate without more delay.
(Vv. 1479-1690.) Erec quit his host; for he was very anxious to reach the
royal court. In his adventure he took great satisfaction; for now he had a
lady passing fair, discreet, courteous, and debonair. He could not look at her
enough: for the more he looks at her, the more she pleases him. He cannot
help giving her a kiss. He is happy to ride by her side, and it does him good
to look at her. Long he gazes at her fair hair, her laughing eyes, and her
radiant forehead, her nose, her face, and mouth, for all of which gladness
fills his heart. He gazes upon her down to the waist, at her chin and her
snowy neck, her bosom and sides, her arms and hands. But no less the
damsel looks at the vassal with a clear eye and loyal heart, as if they were in
competition. They would not have ceased to survey each other even for
promise of a reward! A perfect match they were in courtesy, beauty, and
gentleness. And they were so alike in quality, manner, and customs, that no
one wishing to tell the truth could choose the better of them, nor the fairer,
nor the more discreet. Their sentiments, too, were much alike; so that they
were well suited to each other. Thus each steals the other's heart away. Law
or marriage never brought together two such sweet creatures. And so they
rode along until just on the stroke of noon they approached the castle of
Cardigan, where they were both expected. Some of the first nobles of the
court had gone up to look from the upper windows and see if they could see
them. Queen Guinevere ran up, and even the King came with Kay and
Perceval of Wales, and with them my lord Gawain and Tor, the son of King
Ares; Lucan the cupbearer was there, too, and many another doughty
knight. Finally, they espied Erec coming along in company with his lady.
They all knew him well enough from as far as they could see him. The
Queen is greatly pleased, and indeed the whole court is glad of his coming,
because they all love him so. As soon as he was come before the entrance
hall, the King and Queen go down to meet him, all greeting him in God's

name. They welcome Erec and his maiden, commending and praising her
great beauty. And the King himself caught her and lifted her down from her
palfrey. The King was decked in fine array and was then in cheery mood.
He did signal honour to the damsel by taking her hand and leading her up
into the great stone hall. After them Erec and the Queen also went up hand
in hand, and he said to her: "I bring you, lady, my damsel and my
sweetheart dressed in poor garb. As she was given to me, so have I brought
her to you. She is the daughter of a poor vavasor. Through poverty many an
honourable man is brought low: her father, for instance, is gentle and
courteous, but he has little means. And her mother is a very gentle lady, the
sister of a rich Count. She has no lack of beauty or of lineage, that I should
not marry her. It is poverty that has compelled her to wear this white linen
garment until both sleeves are torn at the side. And yet, had it been my
desire, she might have had dresses rich enough. For another damsel, a
cousin of hers, wished to give her a robe of ermine and of spotted or grey
silk. But I would not have her dressed in any other robe until you should
have seen her. Gentle lady, consider the matter now and see what need she
has of a fine becoming gown." And the Queen at once replies: "You have
done quite right; it is fitting that she should have one of my gowns, and I
will give her straightway a rich, fair gown, both fresh and new." The Queen
then hastily took her off to her own private room, and gave orders to bring
quickly the fresh tunic and the greenish-purple mantle, embroidered with
little crosses, which had been made for herself. The one who went at her
behest came bringing to her the mantle and the tunic, which was lined with
white ermine even to the sleeves. At the wrists and on the neck-band there
was in truth more than half a mark's weight of beaten gold, and everywhere
set in the gold there were precious stones of divers colours, indigo and
green, blue and dark brown. This tunic was very rich, but not a writ less
precious, I trow, was the mantle. As yet, there were no ribbons on it; for the
mantle like the tunic was brand new. The mantle was very rich and fine:
laid about the neck were two sable skins, and in the tassels there was more
than an ounce of gold; on one a hyacinth, and on the other a ruby flashed
more bright than burning candle. The fur lining was of white ermine; never
was finer seen or found. The cloth was skilfully embroidered with little
crosses, all different, indigo, vermilion, dark blue, white, green, blue, and
yellow. The Queen called for some ribbons four ells long, made of silken
thread and gold. The ribbons are given to her, handsome and well matched.

Quickly she had them fastened to the mantle by some one who knew how to
do it, and who was master of the art. When the mantle needed no more
touches, the gay and gentle lady clasped the maid with the white gown and
said to her cheerily: "Mademoiselle, you must change this frock for this
tunic which is worth more than a hundred marks of silver. So much I wish
to bestow upon you. And put on this mantle, too. Another time I will give
you more." Not able to refuse the gift, she takes the robe and thanks her for
it. Then two maids took her aside into a room, where she took off her frock
as being of no further value; but she asked and requested that it be given
away (to some poor woman) for the love of God. Then she dons the tunic,
and girds herself, binding on tightly a golden belt, and afterwards puts on
the mantle. Now she looked by no means ill; for the dress became her so
well that it made her look more beautiful than ever. The two maids wove a
gold thread in amongst her golden hair: but her tresses were more radiant
than the thread of gold, fine though it was. The maids, moreover, wove a
fillet of flowers of many various colours and placed it upon her head. They
strove as best they might to adorn her in such wise that no fault should be
found with her attire. Strung upon a ribbon around her neck, a damsel hung
two brooches of enamelled gold. Now she looked so charming and fair that
I do not believe that you could find her equal in any land, search as you
might, so skilfully had Nature wrought in her. Then she stepped out of the
dressing-room into the Queen's presence. The Queen made much of her,
because she liked her and was glad that she was beautiful and had such
gentle manners. They took each other by the hand and passed into the
King's presence. And when the King saw them, he got up to meet them.
When they came into the great hall, there were so many knights there who
rose before them that I cannot call by name the tenth part of them, or the
thirteenth, or the fifteenth. But I can tell you the names of some of the best
of the knights who belonged to the Round Table and who were the best in
the world.
(Vv. 1691-1750.) Before all the excellent knights, Gawain ought to be
named the first, and second Erec the son of Lac, and third Lancelot of the
Lake. 116 Gornemant of Gohort was fourth, and the fifth was the Handsome
Coward. The sixth was the Ugly Brave, the seventh Meliant of Liz, the
eighth Mauduit the Wise, and the ninth Dodinel the Wild. Let Gandelu be
named the tenth, for he was a goodly man. The others I shall mention
without order, because the numbers bother me. Eslit was there with Briien,

and Yvain the son of Uriien. And Yvain of Loenel was there, as well as
Yvain the Adulterer. Beside Yvain of Cavaliot was Garravain of Estrangot.
After the Knight with the Horn was the Youth with the Golden Ring. And
Tristan who never laughed sat beside Bliobleheris, and beside Brun of
Piciez was his brother Gru the Sullen. The Armourer sat next, who preferred
war to peace. Next sat Karadues the Shortarmed, a knight of good cheer;
and Caveron of Robendic, and the son of King Quenedic and the Youth of
Quintareus and Yder of the Dolorous Mount. Gaheriet and Kay of Estraus,
Amauguin and Gales the Bald, Grain, Gornevain, and Carabes, and Tor the
son of King Aras, Girflet the son of Do, and Taulas, who never wearied of
arms: and a young man of great merit, Loholt the son of King Arthur, 117
and Sagremor the Impetuous, who should not be forgotten, nor Bedoiier the
Master of the Horse, who was skilled at chess and trictrac, nor Bravain, nor
King Lot, nor Galegantin of Wales, nor Gronosis, versed in evil, who was
son of Kay the Seneschal, nor Labigodes the Courteous, nor Count
Cadorcaniois, nor Letron of Prepelesant, whose manners were so excellent,
nor Breon the son of Canodan, nor the Count of Honolan who had such a
head of fine fair hair; he it was who received the King's horn in an evil day;
118 he never had any care for truth.
(Vv. 1751-1844.) When the stranger maiden saw all the knights arrayed
looking steadfastly at her, she bowed her head in embarrassment; nor was it
strange that her face blushed all crimson. But her confusion was so
becoming to her that she looked all the more lovely. When the King saw
that she was embarrassed, he did not wish to leave her side. Taking her
gently by the hand, he made her sit down on his right hand; and on his left
sat the Queen, speaking thus to the King the while. "Sire, in my opinion he
who can win such a fair lady by his arms in another land ought by right to
come to a royal court. It was well we waited for Erec; for now you can
bestow the kiss upon the fairest of the court. I should think none would find
fault with you! for none can say, unless he lie, that this maiden is not the
most charming of all the damsels here, or indeed in all the world." The King
makes answer: "That is no lie; and upon her, if there is no remonstrance, I
shall bestow the honour of the White Stag." Then he added to the knights:
"My lords, what say you? What is your opinion? In body, in face, and in
whatever a maid should have, this one is the most charming and beautiful to
be found, as I may say, before you come to where Heaven and earth meet. I
say it is meet that she should receive the honour of the Stag. And you, my

lords, what do you think about it? Can you make any objection? If any one
wishes to protest, let him straightway speak his mind. I am King, and must
keep my word and must not permit any baseness, falsity, or arrogance. I
must maintain truth and righteousness. It is the business of a loyal king to
support the law, truth, faith, and justice. I would not in any wise commit a
disloyal deed or wrong to either weak or strong. It is not meet that any one
should complain of me; nor do I wish the custom and the practice to lapse,
which my family has been wont to foster. You, too, would doubtless regret
to see me strive to introduce other customs and other laws than those my
royal sire observed. Regardless of consequences, I am bound to keep and
maintain the institution of my father Pendragon, who was a just king and
emperor. Now tell me fully what you think! Let none be slow to speak his
mind, if this damsel is not the fairest of my household and ought not by
right to receive the kiss of the White Stag: I wish to know what you truly
think." Then they all cry with one accord: "Sire, by the Lord and his Cross!
you may well kiss her with good reason, for she is the fairest one there is. In
this damsel there is more beauty than there is of radiance in the sun. You
may kiss her freely, for we all agree in sanctioning it." When the King hears
that this is well pleasing to them all, he will no longer delay in bestowing
the kiss, but turns toward her and embraces her. The maid was sensible, and
perfectly willing that the King should kiss her; she would have been
discourteous, indeed, to resent it. In courteous fashion and in the presence
of all his knights the King kissed her, and said: "My dear. I give you my
love in all honesty. I will love you with true heart, without malice and
without guile." By this adventure the King carried out the practice and the
usage to which the White Stag was entitled at his court.
Here ends the first part of my story. 119
(Vv. 1845-1914.) When the kiss of the Stag was taken according to the
custom of the country, Erec, like a polite and kind man, was solicitous for
his poor host. It was not his intention to fail to execute what he had
promised. Hear how he kept his covenant: for he sent him now five sumpter
mules, strong and sleek, loaded with dresses and clothes, buckrams and
scarlets, marks of gold and silver plate, furs both vair and grey, skins of
sable, purple stuffs, and silks. When the mules were loaded with all that a
gentleman can need, he sent with them an escort of ten knights and
sergeants chosen from his own men, and straightly charged them to salute
his host and show great honour both to him and to his lady, as if it were to

himself in person; and when they should have presented to them the
sumpters which they brought them, the gold, the silver, and money, and all
the other furnishings which were in the boxes, they should escort the lady
and the vavasor with great honour into his kingdom of Farther Wales. 120
Two towns there he had promised them, the most choice and the best
situated that there were in all his land, with nothing to fear from attack.
Montrevel was the name of one, and the other's name was Roadan. When
they should arrive in his kingdom, they should make over to them these two
towns, together with their rents and their jurisdiction, in accordance with
what he had promised them. All was carried out as Erec had ordered. The
messengers made no delay, and in good time they presented to his host the
gold and the silver and the sumpters and the robes and the money, of which
there was great plenty. They escorted them into Erec's kingdom, and strove
to serve them well. They came into the country on the third day, and
transferred to them the towers of the towns; for King Lac made no
objection. He gave them a warm welcome and showed them honour, loving
them for the sake of his son Erec. He made over to them the title to the
towns, and established their suzerainty by making knights and bourgeois
swear that they would reverence them as their true liege lords. When this
was done and accomplished, the messengers returned to their lord Erec,
who received them gladly. When he asked for news of the vavasor and his
lady, of his own father and of his kingdom, the report they gave him was
good and fair.
(Vv. 1915-2024.) Not long after this, the time drew near when Erec was
to celebrate his marriage. The delay was irksome to him, and he resolved no
longer to suffer and wait. So he went and asked of the King that it might
please him to allow him to be married at the court. The King vouchsafed
him the boon, and sent through all his kingdom to search for the kings and
counts who were his liege-men, bidding them that none be so bold as not to
be present at Pentecost. None dares to hold back and not go to court at the
King's summons. Now I will tell you, and listen well, who were these
counts and kings. With a rich escort and one hundred extra mounts Count
Brandes of Gloucester came. After him came Menagormon, who was Count
of Clivelon. And he of the Haute Montagne came with a very rich
following. The Count of Treverain came, too, with a hundred of his knights,
and Count Godegrain with as many more. Along with those whom I have
just mentioned came Maheloas, a great baron, lord of the Isle of Voirre. In

this island no thunder is heard, no lightning strikes, nor tempests rage, nor
do toads or serpents exist there, nor is it ever too hot or too cold. 121
Graislemier of Fine Posterne brought twenty companions, and had with him
his brother Guigomar, lord of the Isle of Avalon. Of the latter we have heard
it said that he was a friend of Morgan the Fay, and such he was in very
truth. Davit of Tintagel came, who never suffered woe or grief. Guergesin,
the Duke of Haut Bois, came with a very rich equipment. There was no lack
of counts and dukes, but of kings there were still more. Garras of Cork, a
doughty king, was there with five hundred knights clad in mantles, hose,
and tunics of brocade and silk. Upon a Cappadocian steed came Aguisel,
the Scottish king, and brought with him his two sons, Cadret and Coi—two
much respected knights. Along with those whom I have named came King
Ban of Gomeret, and he had in his company only young men, beardless as
yet on chin and lip. A numerous and gay band he brought two hundred of
them in his suite; and there was none, whoever he be, but had a falcon or
tercel, a merlin or a sparrow-hawk, or some precious pigeon-hawk, golden
or mewed. Kerrin, the old King of Riel, brought no youth, but rather three
hundred companions of whom the youngest was seven score years old.
Because of their great age, their heads were all as white as snow, and their
beards reached down to their girdles. Arthur held them in great respect. The
lord of the dwarfs came next, Bilis, the king of Antipodes. This king of
whom I speak was a dwarf himself and own brother of Brien. Bilis, on the
one hand, was the smallest of all the dwarfs, while his brother Brien was a
half-foot or full palm taller than any other knight in the kingdom. To display
his wealth and power, Bilis brought with him two kings who were also
dwarfs and who were vassals of his, Grigoras and Glecidalan. Every one
looked at them as marvels. When they had arrived at court, they were
treated with great esteem. All three were honoured and served at the court
like kings, for they were very perfect gentlemen. In brief, when King Arthur
saw all his lords assembled, his heart was glad. Then, to heighten the joy, he
ordered a hundred squires to be bathed whom he wished to dub knights.
There was none of them but had a parti-coloured robe of rich brocade of
Alexandria, each one choosing such as pleased his fancy. All had arms of a
uniform pattern, and horses swift and full of mettle, of which the worst was
worth a hundred livres.
(Vv. 2025-2068.) When Erec received his wife, he must needs call her by
her right name. For a wife is not espoused unless she is called by her proper

name. As yet no one knew her name, but now for the first time it was made
known: Enide was her baptismal name. 122 The Archbishop of Canterbury,
who had come to the court, blessed them, as is his right. When the court
was all assembled, there was not a minstrel in the countryside who
possessed any pleasing accomplishment that did not come to the court. In
the great hall there was much merry-making, each one contributing what he
could to the entertainment: one jumps, another tumbles, another does
magic; there is story-telling, singing, whistling, playing from notes; they
play on the harp, the rote, the fiddle, the violin, the flute, and pipe. The
maidens sing and dance, and outdo each other in the merry-making. At the
wedding that day everything was done which can give joy and incline man's
heart to gladness. Drums are beaten, large and small, and there is playing of
pipes, fifes, horns, trumpets, and bagpipes. What more shall I say? There
was not a wicket or a gate kept closed; but the exits and entrances all stood
ajar, so that no one, poor or rich, was turned away. King Arthur was not
miserly, but gave orders to the bakers, the cooks, and the butlers that they
should serve every one generously with bread, wine, and venison. No one
asked anything whatever to be passed to him without getting all he desired.
(Vv. 2069-2134.) There was great merriment in the palace. But I will
pass over the rest, and you shall hear of the joy and pleasure in the bridal
chamber. Bishops and archbishops were there on the night when the bride
and groom retired. At this their first meeting, Iseut was not filched away,
nor was Brangien put in her place. 123 The Queen herself took charge of
their preparations for the night; for both of them were dear to her. The
hunted stag which pants for thirst does not so long for the spring, nor does
the hungry sparrow-hawk return so quickly when he is called, as did these
two come to hold each other in close embrace. That night they had full
compensation for their long delay. After the chamber had been cleared, they
allow each sense to be gratified: the eyes, which are the entrance-way of
love, and which carry messages to the heart, take satisfaction in the glance,
for they rejoice in all they see; after the message of the eyes comes the far
surpassing sweetness of the kisses inviting love; both of them make trial of
this sweetness, and let their hearts quaff so freely that hardly can they leave
off. Thus, kissing was their first sport. And the love which is between them
emboldened the maid and left her quite without her fears; regardless of
pain, she suffered all. Before she rose, she no longer bore the name of maid;
in the morning she was a new-made dame. That day the minstrels were in

happy mood, for they were all well paid. They were fully compensated for
the entertainment they had given, and many a handsome gift was bestowed
upon them: robes of grey squirrel skin and ermine, of rabbit skins and violet
stuffs, scarlets and silken stuffs. Whether it be a horse or money, each one
got what he deserved according to his skill. And thus the wedding festivities
and the court lasted almost a fortnight with great joy and magnificence. For
his own glory and satisfaction, as well as to honour Erec the more, King
Arthur made all the knights remain a full fortnight. When the third week
began, all together by common consent agreed to hold a tournament. On the
one side, my lord Gawain offered himself as surety that it would take place
between Evroic and Tenebroc: and Meliz and Meliadoc were guarantors on
the other side. Then the court separated.
(Vv. 2135-2292.) A month after Pentecost the tournament assembled, and
the jousting began in the plain below Tenebroc. Many an ensign of red,
blue, and white, many a veil and many a sleeve were bestowed as tokens of
love. Many a lance was carried there, flying the colours argent and green, or
gold and azure blue. There were many, too, with different devices, some
with stripes and some with dots. That day one saw laced on many a helmet
of gold or steel, some green, some yellow, and others red, all aglowing in
the sun; so many scutcheons and white hauberks; so many swords girt on
the left side; so many good shields, fresh and new, some resplendent in
silver and green, others of azure with buckles of gold; so many good steeds
marked with white, or sorrel, tawny, white, black, and bay: all gather
hastily. And now the field is quite covered with arms. On either side the
ranks tremble, and a roar rises from the fight. The shock of the lances is
very great. Lances break and shields are riddled, the hauberks receive
bumps and are torn asunder, saddles go empty and horsemen ramble, while
the horses sweat and foam. Swords are quickly drawn on those who tumble
noisily, and some run to receive the promise of a ransom, others to stave off
this disgrace. Erec rode a white horse, and came forth alone at the head of
the line to joust, if he may find an opponent. From the opposite side there
rides out to meet him Orguelleus de la Lande, mounted on an Irish steed
which bears him along with marvellous speed. On the shield before his
breast Erec strikes him with such force that he knocks him from his horse:
he leaves him prone and passes on. Then Raindurant opposed him, son of
the old dame of Tergalo, covered with blue cloth of silk; he was a knight of
great prowess. Against one another now they charge and deal fierce blows

on the shields about their neck. Erec from lance's length lays him over on
the hard ground. While riding back he met the King of the Red City, who
was very valiant and bold. They grasp their reins by the knots and their
shields by the inner straps. They both had fine arms, and strong swift
horses, and good shields, fresh and new. With such fury they strike each
other that both their lances fly in splinters. Never was there seen such a
blow. They rush together with shields, arms, and horses. But neither girth
nor rein nor breast-strap could prevent the king from coming to earth. So he
flew from his steed, carrying with him saddle and stirrup, and even the reins
of his bridle in his hand. All those who witnessed the jousting were filled
with amazement, and said it cost him dear to joust with such a goodly
knight. Erec did not wish to stop to capture either horse or rider, but rather
to joust and distinguish himself in order that his prowess might appear. He
thrills the ranks in front of him. Gawain animates those who were on his
side by his prowess, and by winning horses and knights to the discomfiture
of his opponents. I speak of my lord Gawain, who did right well and
valiantly. In the fight he unhorsed Guincel, and took Gaudin of the
Mountain; he captured knights and horses alike: my lord Gawain did well.
Girtlet the son of Do, and Yvain, and Sagremor the Impetuous, so evilly
entreated their adversaries that they drove them back to the gates, capturing
and unhorsing many of them. In front of the gate of the town the strife
began again between those within and those without. There Sagremor was
thrown down, who was a very gallant knight. He was on the point of being
detained and captured, when Erec spurs to rescue him, breaking his lance
into splinters upon one of the opponents. So hard he strikes him on the
breast that he made him quit the saddle. Then he made of his sword and
advances upon them, crushing and splitting their helmets. Some flee, and
others make way before him, for even the boldest fears him. Finally, he
distributed so many blows and thrusts that he rescued Sagremor from them,
and drove them all in confusion into the town. Meanwhile, the vesper hour
drew to a close. Erec bore himself so well that day that he was the best of
the combatants. But on the morrow he did much better yet: for he took so
many knights and left so many saddles empty that none could believe it
except those who had seen it. Every one on both sides said that with his
lance and shield he had won the honours of the tournament. Now was Erec's
renown so high that no one spoke save of him, nor was any one of such
goodly favour. In countenance he resembled Absalom, in language he

seemed a Solomon, in boldness he equalled Samson, 124 and in generous
giving and spending he was the equal of Alexander. On his return from the
tourney Erec went to speak with the King. He went to ask him for leave to
go and visit his own land; but first he thanked him like a frank, wise, and
courteous man for the honour which he had done him; for very deep was his
gratitude. Then he asked his permission to leave, for he wished to visit his
own country, and he wished to take his wife with him. This request the King
could not deny, and yet he would have had him stay. He gives him leave
and begs him to return as soon as possible: for in the whole court there was
no better or more gallant knight, save only his dear nephew Gawain; 125
with him no one could be compared. But next after him, he prized Erec
most, and held him more dear than any other knight.
(Vv. 2293-2764.) Erec wished to delay no longer. As soon as he had the
King's leave, he bid his wife make her preparations, and he retained as his
escort sixty knights of merit with horses and with dappled and grey furs. As
soon as he was ready for his journey, he tarried little further at court, but
took leave of the Queen and commended the knights to God. The Queen
grants him leave to depart. At the hour of prime he set out from the royal
palace. In the presence of them all he mounted his steed, and his wife
mounted the dappled horse which she had brought from her own country;
then all his escort mounted. Counting knights and squires, there were full
seven score in the train. After four long days' journey over hills and slopes,
through forests, plains, and streams, they came on the fifth day to Camant,
where King Lac was residing in a very charming town. No one ever saw
one better situated; for the town was provided with forests and meadow-
land, with vineyards and farms, with streams and orchards, with ladies and
knights, and fine, lively youths, and polite, well-mannered clerks who spent
their incomes freely, with fair and charming maidens, and with prosperous
burghers. Before Erec reached the town, he sent two knights ahead to
announce his arrival to the King. When he heard the news, the King had
clerks, knights, and damsels quickly mount, and ordered the bells to be
rung, and the streets to be hung with tapestries and silken stuffs, that his son
might be received with joy; then he himself got on his horse. Of clerks there
were present fourscore, gentle and honourable men, clad in grey cloaks
bordered with sable. Of knights there were full five hundred, mounted on
bay, sorrel, or white-spotted steeds. There were so many burghers and
dames that no one could tell the number of them. The King and his son

galloped and rode on till they saw and recognised each other. They both
jump down from their horses and embrace and greet each other for a long
time, without stirring from the place where they first met. Each party
wished the other joy: the King makes much of Erec, but all at once breaks
off to turn to Enide. On all sides he is in clover: he embraces and kisses
them both, and knows not which of the two pleases him the more. As they
gaily enter the castle, the bells all ring their peals to honour Erec's arrival.
The streets are all strewn with reeds, mint, and iris, and are hung overhead
with curtains and tapestries of fancy silk and satin stuffs. There was great
rejoicing; for all the people came together to see their new lord, and no one
ever saw greater happiness than was shown alike by young and old. First
they came to the church, where very devoutly they were received in a
procession. Erec kneeled before the altar of the Crucifix, and two knights
led his wife to the image of Our Lady. When she had finished her prayer,
she stepped back a little and crossed herself with her right hand, as a well-
bred dame should do. Then they came out from the church and entered the
royal palace, when the festivity began. That day Erec received many
presents from the knights and burghers: from one a palfrey of northern
stock, and from another a golden cup. One presents him with a golden
pigeon-hawk, another with a setter-dog, this one a greyhound, this other a
sparrowhawk, and another a swift Arab steed, this one a shield, this one an
ensign, this one a sword, and this a helmet. Never was a king more gladly
seen in his kingdom, nor received with greater joy, as all strove to serve him
well. Yet greater joy they made of Enide than of him, for the great beauty
which they saw in her, and still more for her open charm. She was seated in
a chamber upon a cushion of brocade which had been brought from
Thessaly. Round about her was many a fair lady; yet as the lustrous gem
outshines the brown flint, and as the rose excels the poppy, so was Enide
fairer than any other lady or damsel to be found in the world, wherever one
might search. She was so gentle and honourable, of wise speech and
affable, of pleasing character and kindly mien. No one could ever be so
watchful as to detect in her any folly, or sign of evil or villainy. She had
been so schooled in good manners that she had learned all virtues which
any lady can possess, as well as generosity and knowledge. All loved her
for her open heart, and whoever could do her any service was glad and
esteemed himself the more. No one spoke any ill of her, for no one could do
so. In the realm or empire there was no lady of such good manners. But

Erec loved her with such a tender love that he cared no more for arms, nor
did he go to tournaments, nor have any desire to joust; but he spent his time
in cherishing his wife. He made of her his mistress and his sweetheart. He
devoted all his heart and mind to fondling and kissing her, and sought no
delight in other pastime. His friends grieved over this, and often regretted
among themselves that he was so deep in love. Often it was past noon
before he left her side; for there he was happy, say what they might. He
rarely left her society, and yet he was as open-handed as ever to his knights
with arms, dress, and money. There was not a tournament anywhere to
which he did not send them well apparelled and equipped. Whatever the
cost might be, he gave them fresh steeds for the tourney and joust. All the
knights said it was a great pity and misfortune that such a valiant man as he
was wont to be should no longer wish to bear arms. He was blamed so
much on all sides by the knights and squires that murmurs reached Enide's
ears how that her lord had turned craven about arms and deeds of chivalry,
and that his manner of life was greatly changed. 126 She grieved sorely over
this, but she did not dare to show her grief; for her lord at once would take
affront, if she should speak to him. So the matter remained a secret, until
one morning they lay in bed where they had had sport together. There they
lay in close embrace, like the true lovers they were. He was asleep, but she
was awake, thinking of what many a man in the country was saying of her
lord. And when she began to think it all over, she could not keep back the
tears. Such was her grief and her chagrin that by mischance she let fall a
word for which she later felt remorse, though in her heart there was no
guile. She began to survey her lord from head to foot, his well-shaped body
and his clear countenance, until her tears fell fast upon the bosom of her
lord, and she said: "Alas, woe is me that I ever left my country! What did I
come here to seek? The earth ought by right to swallow me up when the
best knight, the most hardy, brave, fair, and courteous that ever was a count
or king, has completely abjured all his deeds of chivalry because of me.
And thus, in truth, it is I who have brought shame upon his head, though I
would fain not have done so at any price." Then she said to him: "Unhappy
thou!" And then kept silence and spoke no more. Erec was not sound asleep
and, though dozing, heard plainly what she said. He aroused at her words,
and much surprised to see her weeping, he asked her: "Tell me, my precious
beauty, why do you weep thus? What has caused you woe or sorrow?
Surely it is my wish to know. Tell me now, my gentle sweetheart; and raise

care to keep nothing back, why you said that woe was me? For you said it
of me and of no one else. I heard your words plainly enough." Then was
Enide in a great plight, afraid and dismayed. "Sire," says she, "I know
nothing of what you say." "Lady, why do you conceal it? Concealment is of
no avail. You hare been crying; I can see that, and you do not cry for
nothing. And in my sleep I heard what you said." "Ah! fair sire, you never
heard it, and I dare say it was a dream." "Now you are coming to me with
lies. I hear you calmly lying to me. But if you do not tell me the truth now,
you will come to repent of it later." "Sire, since you torment me thus, I will
tell you the whole truth, and keep nothing back. But I am afraid that you
will not like it. In this land they all say—the dark, the fair, and the ruddy—
that it is a great pity that you should renounce your arms; your reputation
has suffered from it. Every one used to say not long ago that in all the world
there was known no better or more gallant knight. Now they all go about
making game of you—old and young, little and great—calling you a
recreant. Do you suppose it does not give me pain to hear you thus spoken
of with scorn? It grieves me when I hear it said, and yet it grieves me more
that they put the blame for it on me. Yes, I am blamed for it, I regret to say,
and they all assert it is because I have so ensnared and caught you that you
are losing all your merit, and do not care for aught but me. You must choose
another course, so that you may silence this reproach and regain your
former fame; for I have heard too much of this reproach, and yet I did not
dare to disclose it to you. Many a time, when I think of it, I have to weep
for very grief. Such chagrin I felt just now that I could not keep myself
from saying that you were ill-starred." "Lady," said he, "you were in the
right, and those who blame me do so with reason. And now at once prepare
yourself to take the road. Rise up from here, and dress yourself in your
richest robe, and order your saddle to be put on your best palfrey." 127Now
Enide is in great distress: very sad and pensive, she gets up, blaming and
upbraiding herself for the foolish words she spoke: she had now made her
bed, and must lie in it. "Ah!" said she, "poor fool! I was too happy, for there
lacked me nothing. God! why was I so forward as to dare to utter such
folly? God! did not my lord love me to excess? In faith, alas, he was too
fond of me. And now I must go away into exile. But I have yet a greater
grief, that I shall no longer see my lord, who loved me with such tenderness
that there was nothing he held so dear. The best man that was ever born had
become so wrapped up in me that he cared for nothing else. I lacked for

nothing then. I was very happy. But pride it is that stirred me up: because of
my pride, I must suffer woe for telling him such insulting words, and it is
right that I should suffer woe. One does not know what good fortune is until
he has made trial of evil." Thus the lady bemoaned her fate, while she
dressed herself fitly in her richest robe. Yet nothing gave her any pleasure,
but rather cause for deep chagrin. Then she had a maid call one of her
squires, and bids him saddle her precious palfrey of northern stock, than
which no count or king ever had a better. As soon as she had given him the
command, the fellow asked for no delay, but straightway went and saddled
the dappled palfrey. And Erec summoned another squire and bade him bring
his arms to arm his body withal. Then he went up into a bower, and had a
Limoges rug laid out before him on the floor. Meanwhile, the squire ran to
fetch the arms and came back and laid them on the rug. Erec took a seat
opposite, on the figure of a leopard which was portrayed on the rug. He
prepares and gets ready to put on his arms: first, he had laced on a pair of
greaves of polished steel; next, he dons a hauberk, which was so fine that
not a mesh could be cut away from it. This hauberk of his was rich, indeed,
for neither inside nor outside of it was there enough iron to make a needle,
nor could it gather any rust; for it was all made of worked silver in tiny
meshes triple-wove; and it was made with such skill that I can assure you
that no one who had put it on would have been more uncomfortable or sore
because of it, than if he had put on a silk jacket over his undershirt. The
knights and squires all began to wonder why he was being armed; but no
one dared to ask him why. When they had put on his hauberk, a valet laces
about his head a helmet fluted with a band of gold, shining brighter than a
mirror. Then he takes the sword and girds it on, and orders them to bring
him saddled his bay steed of Gascony. Then he calls a valet to him, and
says: "Valet, go quickly, run to the chamber beside the tower where my wife
is, and tell her that she is keeping me waiting here too long. She has spent
too much time on her attire. Tell her to come and mount at once, for I am
awaiting her." And the fellow goes and finds her all ready, weeping and
making moan: and he straightway addressed her thus: "Lady, why do you so
delay? My lord is awaiting you outside yonder, already fully armed. He
would have mounted some time ago, had you been ready." Enide wondered
greatly what her lord's intention was; but she very wisely showed herself
with as cheerful a countenance as possible, when she appeared before him.
In the middle of the courtyard she found him, and King Lac comes running

out. Knights come running, too, striving with each other to reach there first.
There is neither young nor old but goes to learn and ask if he will take any
of them with him. So each offers and presents himself. But he states
definitely and affirms that he will take no companion except his wife,
asserting that he will go alone. Then the King is in great distress. "Fair son,"
says he, "what dost thou intend to do? Thou shouldst tell me thy business
and keep nothing back. Tell me whither thou will go; for thou art unwilling
on any account to be accompanied by an escort of squires or knights. If thou
hast undertaken to fight some knight in single combat, yet shouldst thou not
for that reason fail to take a part of thy knights with thee to betoken thy
wealth and lordship. A king's son ought not to fare alone. Fair son, have thy
sumpters loaded now, and take thirty or forty or more of thy knights, and
see that silver and gold is taken, and whatever a gentleman needs." Finally
Erec makes reply and tells him all in detail how he has planned his journey.
"Sire," says he, "it must be so. I shall take no extra horse, nor have I any use
for gold or silver, squire or sergeant; nor do I ask for any company save that
of my wife alone. But I pray you, whatever may happen, should I die and
she come back, to love her and hold her dear for love of me and for my
prayer, and give her so long as she live, without contention or any strife, the
half of your land to be her own." Upon hearing his son's request, the King
said: "Fair son, I promise it. But I grieve much to see thee thus go off
without escort, and if I had my way, thou shouldst not thus depart." "Sire, it
cannot be otherwise. I go now, and to God commend you. But keep in mind
my companions, and give them horses and arms and all that knight may
need." The King cannot keep back the tears when he is parted from his son.
The people round about weep too; the ladies and knights shed tears and
make great moan for him. There is not one who does not mourn, and many
a one in the courtyard swoons. Weeping, they kiss and embrace him, and
are almost beside themselves with grief. I think they would not have been
more sad if they had seen him dead or wounded. Then Erec said to comfort
them: "My lords, why do you weep so sore? I am neither in prison nor
wounded. You gain nothing by this display of grief. If I go away, I shall
come again when it please God and when I can. To God I commend you
one and all; so now let me go; too long you keep me here. I am sorry and
grieved to see you weep." To God he commends them and they him.
(Vv. 2765-2924.) So they departed, leaving sorrow behind them. Erec
starts, and leads his wife he knows not whither, as chance dictates. "Ride

fast," he says, "and take good care not to be so rash as to speak to me of
anything you may see. Take care never to speak to me, unless I address you
first. Ride on now fast and with confidence." "Sire," says she, "it shall be
done." She rode ahead and held her peace. Neither one nor the other spoke a
word. But Enide's heart is very sad, and within herself she thus laments, soft
and low that he may not hear: "Alas," she says, "God had raised and exalted
me to such great joy; but now He has suddenly cast me down. Fortune who
had beckoned me has quickly now withdrawn her hand. I should not mind
that so much, alas, if only I dared to address my lord. But I am mortified
and distressed because my lord has turned against me, I see it clearly, since
he will not speak to me. And I am not so bold as to dare to look at him."
While she thus laments, a knight who lived by robbery issued forth from the
woods. He had two companions with him, and all three were armed. They
covet the palfrey which Enide rides. "My lords, do you know the news I
bring?" says he to his two companions. "If we do not now make a haul, we
are good-for-nothing cowards and are playing in bad luck. Here comes a
lady wondrous fair, whether married or not I do not know, but she is very
richly dressed. The palfrey and saddle, with the breast-strap and reins, are
worth a thousand livres of Chartres. I will take the palfrey for mine, and the
rest of the booty you may have. I don't want any more for my share. The
knight shall not lead away the lady, so help me God. For I intend to give
him such a thrust as he will dearly pay. I it was who saw him first, and so it
is my right to go the first and offer battle." They give him leave and he rides
off, crouching well beneath his shield, while the other two remain aloof. In
those days it was the custom and practice that in an attack two knights
should not join against one; thus if they too had assailed him, it would seem
that they had acted treacherously. Enide saw the robbers, and was seized
with great fear. "God," says she, "what can I say? Now my lord will be
either killed or made a prisoner; for there are three of them and he is alone.
The contest is not fair between one knight and three. That fellow will strike
him now at a disadvantage; for my lord is off his guard. God, shall I be then
such a craven as not to dare to raise my voice? Such a coward I will not be:
I will not fail to speak to him." On the spot she turns about and calls to him:
"Fair sire, of what are you thinking? There come riding after you three
knights who press you hard. I greatly fear they will do you harm." "What?"
says Erec, "what's that you say? You have surely been very bold to disdain
my command and prohibition. This time you shall be pardoned; but if it

should happen another time, you would not be forgiven." Then turning his
shield and lance, he rushes at the knight. The latter sees him coming and
challenges him. When Erec hears him, he defies him. Both give spur and
clash together, holding their lances at full extent. But he missed Erec, while
Erec used him hard; for he knew well the right attack. He strikes him on the
shield so fiercely that he cracks it from top to bottom. Nor is his hauberk
any protection: Erec pierces and crushes it in the middle of his breast, and
thrusts a foot and a half of his lance into his body. When he drew back, he
pulled out the shaft. And the other fell to earth. He must needs die, for the
blade had drunk of his life's blood. Then one of the other two rushes
forward, leaving his companion behind, and spurs toward Erec, threatening
him. Erec firmly grasps his shield, and attacks him with a stout heart. The
other holds his shield before his breast. Then they strike upon the
emblazoned shields. The knight's lance flies into two bits, while Erec drives
a quarter of lance's length through the other's breast. He will give him no
more trouble. Erec unhorses him and leaves him in a faint, while he spurs at
an angle toward the third robber. When the latter saw him coming on he
began to make his escape. He was afraid, and did not dare to face him; so
he hastened to take refuge in the woods. But his flight is of small avail, for
Erec follows him close and cries aloud: "Vassal, vassal, turn about now, and
prepare to defend yourself, so that I may not slay you in act of flight. It is
useless to try to escape." But the fellow has no desire to turn about, and
continues to flee with might and main. Following and overtaking him, Erec
hits him squarely on his painted shield, and throws him over on the other
side. To these three robbers he gives no further heed: one he has killed,
another wounded, and of the third he got rid by throwing him to earth from
his steed. He took the horses of all three and tied them together by the
bridles. In colour they were not alike: the first was white as milk, the
second black and not at all bad looking, while the third was dappled all
over. He came back to the road where Enide was awaiting him. He bade her
lead and drive the three horses in front of her, warning her harshly never
again to be so bold as to speak a single word unless he give her leave. She
makes answer: "I will never do so, fair sire, if it be your will." Then they
ride on, and she holds her peace.
(Vv. 2925-3085.) They had not yet gone a league when before them in a
valley there came five other knights, with lances in rest, shields held close
in to the neck, and their shining helmets laced up tight; they, too, were on

plunder bent. All at once they saw the lady approach in charge of the three
horses, and Erec who followed after. As soon as they saw them, they
divided their equipment among themselves, just as if they had already taken
possession of it. Covetousness is a bad thing. But it did not turn out as they
expected; for vigorous defence was made. Much that a fool plans is not
executed, and many a man misses what he thinks to obtain. So it befell
them in this attack. One said that he would take the maid or lose his life in
the attempt; and another said that the dappled steed shall be his, and that he
will be satisfied with that. The third said that he would take the black horse.
"And the white one for me," said the fourth. The fifth was not at all
backward, and vowed that he would have the horse and arms of the knight
himself. He wished to win them by himself, and would fain attack him first,
if they would give him leave: and they willingly gave consent. Then he
leaves them and rides ahead on a good and nimble steed. Erec saw him, but
made pretence that he did not yet notice him. When Enide saw them, her
heart jumped with fear and great dismay. "Alas!" said she, "I know not what
to say or do; for my lord severely threatens me, and says that he will punish
me, if I speak a word to him. But if my lord were dead now, there would be
no comfort for me. I should be killed and roughly treated. God! my lord
does not see them! Why, then, do I hesitate, crazed as I am? I am indeed too
chary of my words, when I have not already spoken to him. I know well
enough that those who are coming yonder are intent upon some wicked
deed. And God! how shall I speak to him? He will kill me. Well, let him kill
me! Yet I will not fail to speak to him." Then she softly calls him: "Sire!"
"What?" says he, "what do you want?" "Your pardon, sire. I want to tell you
that five knights have emerged from yonder thicket, of whom I am in mortal
fear. Having noticed them, I am of the opinion that they intend to fight with
you. Four of them have stayed behind, and the other comes toward you as
fast as his steed can carry him. I am afraid every moment lest he will strike
you. 'Tis true, the four have stayed behind; but still they are not far away,
and will quickly aid him, if need arise." Erec replies: "You had an evil
thought, when you transgressed my command—a thing which I had
forbidden you. And yet I knew all the time that you did not hold me in
esteem. Your service has been ill employed; for it has not awakened my
gratitude, but rather kindled the more my ire. I have told you that once, and
I say it again. This once again I will pardon you; but another time restrain
yourself, and do not again turn around to watch me: for in doing so you

would be very foolish. I do not relish your words." Then he spurs across the
field toward his adversary, and they come together. Each seeks out and
assails the other. Erec strikes him with such force that his shield flies from
his neck, and thus he breaks his collar-bone. His stirrups break, and he falls
without the strength to rise again, for he was badly bruised and wounded.
One of the others then appeared, and they attack each other fiercely.
Without difficulty Erec thrusts the sharp and well forged steel into his neck
beneath the chin, severing thus the bones and nerves. At the back of his
neck the blade protrudes, and the hot red blood flows down on both sides
from the wound. He yields his spirit, and his heart is still. The third sallies
forth from his hiding-place on the other side of a ford. Straight through the
water, on he comes. Erec spurs forward and meets him before he came out
of the water, striking him so hard that he beats down flat both rider and
horse. The steed lay upon the body long enough to drown him in the stream,
and then struggled until with difficulty he got upon his feet. Thus he
conquered three of them, when the other two thought it wise to quit the
conflict and not to strive with him. In flight they follow the stream, and
Erec after them in hot pursuit, until he strikes one upon the spine so hard
that he throws him forward upon the saddle-bow. He put all his strength
into the blow, and breaks his lance upon his body, so that the fellow fell
head foremost. Erec makes him pay dearly for the lance which he has
broken on him, and drew his sword from the scabbard. The fellow unwisely
straightened up; for Erec gave him three such strokes that he slaked his
sword's thirst in his blood. He severs the shoulder from his body, so that it
fell down on the ground. Then, with sword drawn, he attacked the other, as
he sought to escape without company or escort. When he sees Erec
pursuing him, he is so afraid that he knows not what to do: he does not dare
to face him, and cannot turn aside; he has to leave his horse, for he has no
more trust in him. He throws away his shield and lance, and slips from his
horse to earth. When he saw him on his feet, Erec no longer cared to pursue
him, but he stooped over for the lance, not wishing to leave that, because of
his own which had been broken. He carries off his lance and goes away, not
leaving the horses behind: he catches all five of them and leads them off.
Enide had hard work to lead them all; for he hands over all five of them to
her with the other three, and commands her to go along smartly, and to keep
from addressing him in order that no evil or harm may come to her. So not a

word does she reply, but rather keeps silence; and thus they go, leading with
them all the eight horses.
(Vv. 3086-3208.) They rode till nightfall without coming to any town or
shelter. When night came on, they took refuge beneath a tree in an open
field. Erec bids his lady sleep, and he will watch. She replies that she will
not, for it is not right, and she does not wish to do so. It is for him to sleep
who is more weary. Well pleased at this, Erec accedes. Beneath his head he
placed his shield, and the lady took her cloak, and stretched it over him
from head to foot. Thus, he slept and she kept watch, never dozing the
whole night, but holding tight in her hand by the bridle the horses until the
morning broke; and much she blamed and reproached herself for the words
which she had uttered, and said that she acted badly, and was not half so ill-
treated as she deserved to be. "Alas," said she, "in what an evil hour have I
witnessed my pride and presumption! I might have known without doubt
that there was no knight better than, or so good as, my lord. I knew it well
enough before, but now I know it better. For I have seen with my own eyes
how he has not quailed before three or even five armed men. A plague for
ever upon my tongue for having uttered such pride and insult as now
compel me to suffer shame!" All night long she thus lamented until the
morning dawned. Erec rises early, and again they take the road, she in front
and he behind. At noon a squire met them in a little valley, accompanied by
two fellows who were carrying cakes and wine and some rich autumn
cheeses to those who were mowing the hay in the meadows belonging to
Count Galoain. The squire was a clever fellow, and when he saw Erec and
Enide, who were coming from the direction of the woods, he perceived that
they must have spent the night in the forest and had had nothing to eat or
drink; for within a radius of a day's journey there was no town, city or
tower, no strong place or abbey, hospice or place of refuge. So he formed an
honest purpose and turned his steps toward them, saluting them politely and
saving: "Sire, I presume that you have had a hard experience last night. I am
sure you have had no sleep and have spent the night in these woods. I offer
you some of this white cake, if it please you to partake of it. I say it not in
hope of reward: for I ask and demand nothing of you. The cakes are made
of good wheat; I have good wine and rich cheeses, too, a white cloth and
fine jugs. If you feel like taking lunch, you need not seek any farther.
Beneath these white beeches, here on the greensward, you might lay off
your arms and rest yourself a while. My advice is that you dismount." Erec

got down from his horse and said: "Fair gentle friend, I thank you kindly: I
will eat something, without going farther." The young man knew well what
to do: he helped the lady from her horse, and the boys who had come with
the squire held the steeds. Then they go and sit down in the shade. The
squire relieves Erec of his helmet, unlaces the mouth-piece from before his
face; then he spreads out the cloth before them on the thick tuff. He passes
them the cake and wine, and prepares and cuts a cheese. Hungry as they
were, they helped themselves, and gladly drank of the wine. The squire
serves them and omits no attention. When they had eaten and drunk their
fill, Erec was courteous and generous. "Friend," says he, "as a reward, I
wish to present you with one of my horses. Take the one you like the best.
And I pray it may be no hardship for you to return to the town and make
ready there a goodly lodging." And he replies that he will gladly do
whatever is his will. Then he goes up to the horses and, untying them,
chooses the dapple, and speaks his thanks; for this one seems to be the best.
Up he springs by the left stirrup, and leaving them both there, he rode off to
the town at top speed, where he engaged suitable quarters. Now behold! he
is back again: "Now mount, sire, quickly," says he, "for you have a good
fine lodging ready." Erec mounted, and then his lady, and, as the town was
hard by, they soon had reached their lodging-place. There they were
received with joy. The host with kindness welcomed them, and with joy and
gladness made generous provision for their needs.
(Vv. 3209-3458.) When the squire had done for them all the honour that
he could do, he came and mounted his horse again, leading it off in front of
the Count's bower to the stable. The Count and three of his vassals were
leaning out of the bower, when the Count, seeing his squire mounted on the
dappled steed, asked him whose it was. And he replied that it was his. The
Count, greatly astonished, says: "How is that? Where didst thou get him?"
"A knight whom I esteem highly gave him to me, sire," says he. "I have
conducted him within this town, and he is lodged at a burgher's house. He is
a very courteous knight and the handsomest man I ever saw. Even if I had
given you my word and oath, I could not half tell you how handsome he is."
The Count replies: "I suppose and presume that he is not more handsome
than I am." "Upon my word, sire," the sergeant says, "you are very
handsome and a gentleman. There is not a knight in this country, a native of
this land, whom you do not excel in favour. But I dare maintain concerning
this one that he is fairer than you, if he were not beaten black and blue

beneath his hauberk, and bruised. In the forest he has been fighting single-
handed with eight knights, and leads away their eight horses. And there
comes with him a lady so fair that never lady was half so fair as she." 128
When the Count hears this news, the desire takes him to go and see if this is
true or false. "I never heard such a thing," says he; "take me now to his
lodging-place, for certainly I wish to know if thou dost lie or speak the
truth." He replies: "Right gladly, sire. This is the way and the path to follow,
for it is not far from here." "I am anxious to see them," says the Count.
Then he comes down, and the squire gets off his horse, and makes the
Count mount in his place. Then he ran ahead to tell Erec that the Count was
coming to visit him. Erec's lodging was rich indeed—the kind to which he
was accustomed. There were many tapers and candles lighted all about. The
Count came attended by only three companions. Erec, who was of gracious
manners, rose to meet him, and exclaimed: "Welcome, sire!" And the Count
returned his salutation. They both sat down side by side upon a soft white
couch, where they chat with each other. The Count makes him an offer and
urges him to consent to accept from him a guarantee for the payment of his
expenses in the town. But Erec does not deign to accept, saying he is well
supplied with money, and has no need to accept aught from him. They
speak long of many things, but the Count constantly glances about in the
other direction, where he caught sight of the lady. Because of her manifest
beauty, he fixed all his thought on her. He looked at her as much as he
could; he coveted her, and she pleased him so that her beauty filled him
with love. Very craftily he asked Erec for permission to speak with her.
"Sire," he says "I ask a favour of you, and may it not displease you. As an
act of courtesy and as a pleasure, I would fain sit by yonder lady's side.
With good intent I came to see you both, and you should see no harm in
that. I wish to present to the lady my service in all respects. Know well that
for love of you I would do whatever may please her." Erec was not in the
least jealous and suspected no evil or treachery. "Sire," says he, "I have no
objection. You may sit down and talk with her. Don't think that I have any
objection. I give you permission willingly." The lady was seated about two
spear-lengths away from him. And the Count took his seat close beside her
on a low stool. Prudent and courteous, the lady turned toward him. "Alas,"
quoth he, "how grieved I am to see you in such humble state! I am sorry
and feel great distress. But if you would believe my word, you could have
honour and great advantage, and much wealth would accrue to you. Such

beauty as yours is entitled to great honour and distinction. I would make
you my mistress, if it should please you and be your will; you would be my
mistress dear and lady over all my land. When I deign to woo you thus, you
ought not to disdain my suit. I know and perceive that your lord does not
love and esteem you. If you will remain with me, you would be mated with
a worthy lord." "Sire," says Enide, "your proposal is vain. It cannot be. Ah!
better that I were yet unborn, or burnt upon a fire of thorns and my ashes
scattered abroad than that I should ever in any wise be false to my lord, or
conceive any felony or treachery toward him. You have made a great
mistake in making such a proposal to me. I shall not agree to it in any
wise." The Count's ire began to rise. "You disdain to love me, lady?" says
he; "upon my word, you are too proud. Neither for flattery nor for prayer
you will do my will? It is surely true that a woman's pride mounts the more
one prays and flatters her; but whoever insults and dishonours her will often
find her more tractable. I give you my word that if you do not do my will
there soon will be some sword-play here. Rightly or wrongly, I will have
your lord slain right here before your eyes." "Ah, sire," says Enide, "there is
a better way than that you say. You would commit a wicked and treacherous
deed if you killed him thus. Calm yourself again, I pray; for I will do your
pleasure. You may regard me as all your own, for I am yours and wish to
be. I did not speak as I did from pride, but to learn and prove if I could find
in you the true love of a sincere heart. But I would not at any price have you
commit an act of treason. My lord is not on his guard; and if you should kill
him thus, you would do a very ugly deed, and I should have the blame for
it. Every one in the land would say that it had been done with my consent.
Go and rest until the morrow, when my lord shall be about to rise. Then you
can better do him harm without blame and without reproach." With her
heart's thoughts her words do not agree. "Sire," says she, "believe me now!
Have no anxiety; but send here to-morrow your knights and squires and
have me carried away by force. My lord will rush to my defence, for he is
proud and bold enough. Either in earnest or in jest, have him seized and
treated ill, or strike his head off, if you will. I have led this life now long
enough; to tell the truth. I like not the company of this my lord. Rather
would I feel your body lying beside me in a bed. And since we have
reached this point, of my love you may rest assured." The Count replies: "It
is well, my lady! God bless the hour that you were born; in great estate you
shall be held." "Sire," says she, "indeed, I believe it. And yet I would fain

have your word that you will always hold me dear; I could not believe you
otherwise." Glad and merry, the Count replies: "See here, my faith I will
pledge to you loyally as a Count, Madame, that I shall do all your behests.
Have no further fear of that. All you want you shall always have." Then she
took his plighted word; but little she valued or cared for it, except therewith
to save her lord. Well she knows how to deceive a fool, when she puts her
mind upon it. Better it were to lie to him than that her lord should be cut off.
The Count now rose from her side, and commends her to God a hundred
times. But of little use to him will be the faith which she has pledged to
him. Erec knew nothing at all of this that they were plotting to work his
death; but God will be able to lend him aid, and I think He will do so. Now
Erec is in great peril, and does not know that he must be on his guard. The
Count's intentions are very base in planning to steal away his wife and kill
him when he is without defence. In treacherous guise he takes his leave:
"To God I commend you," says he, and Erec replies: "And so do I you,
sire." Thus they separated. Already a good part of the night was passed. Out
of the way, in one of the rooms, two beds were made upon the floor. In one
of them Erec lays him down, in the other Enide went to rest. Full of grief
and anxiety, she never closed her eyes that night, but remained on watch for
her lord's sake; for from what she had seen of the Count, she knew him to
be full of wickedness. She knows full well that if he once gets possession of
her lord, he will not fail to do him harm. He may be sure of being killed: so
for his sake she is in distress. All night she must needs keep her vigil; but
before the dawn, if she can bring it about, and if her lord will take her word,
they will be ready to depart.
(Vv. 3459-3662.) Erec slept all night long securely until daylight. Then
Enide realised and suspected that she might hesitate too long. Her heart was
tender toward her lord, like a good and loyal lady. Her heart was neither
deceitful nor false. So she rises and makes ready, and drew near to her lord
to wake him up. "Ah, sire," says she, "I crave your pardon. Rise quickly
now, for you are betrayed beyond all doubt, though guiltless and free from
any crime. The Count is a proven traitor, and if he can but catch you here,
you will never get away without his having cut you in pieces. He hates you
because he desires me. But if it please God, who knows all things, you shall
be neither slain nor caught. Last evening he would have killed you had I not
assured him that I would be his mistress and his wife. You will see him
return here soon: he wants to seize me and keep me here and kill you if he

can find you." Now Erec learns how loyal his wife is to him. "Lady," says
he, "have our horses quickly saddled; then run and call our host, and tell
him quickly to come here. Treason has been long abroad." Now the horses
are saddled, and the lady summoned the host. Erec has armed and dressed
himself, and into his presence came the host. "Sire," said he, "what haste is
this, that you are risen at such an hour, before the day and the sun appear?"
Erec replies that he has a long road and a full day before him, and therefore
he has made ready to set out, having it much upon his mind; and he added:
"Sire, you have nor yet handed me any statement of my expenses. You have
received me with honour and kindness, and therein great merit redounds to
you. Cancel my indebtedness with these seven horses that I brought here
with me. Do not disdain them, but keep them for your own. I cannot
increase my gift to you by so much as the value of a halter." The burgher
was delighted with this gift and bowed low, expressing his thanks and
gratitude. Then Erec mounts and takes his leave, and they set out upon their
way. As they ride, he frequently warns Enide that if she sees anything she
should not be so bold as to speak to him about it. Meanwhile, there entered
the house a hundred knights well armed, and very much dismayed they
were to find Erec no longer there. Then the Count learned that the lady had
deceived him. He discovered the footsteps of the horses, and they all
followed the trail, the Count threatening Erec and vowing that, if he can
come up with him, nothing can keep him from having his head on the spot.
"A curse on him who now hangs back, and does not spur on fast!" quoth he;
"he who presents me with the head of the knight whom I hate so bitterly,
will have served me to my taste." Then they plunge on at topmost speed,
filled with hostility toward him who had never laid eyes on them and had
never harmed them by deed or word. They ride ahead until they made him
out; at the edge of a forest they catch sight of him before he was hid by the
forest trees. Not one of them halted then, but all rushed on in rivalry. Enide
hears the clang and noise of their arms and horses, and sees that the valley
is full of them. As soon as she saw them, she could not restrain her tongue.
"Ah, sire," she cries, "alas, how this Count has attacked you, when he leads
against you such a host! Sire, ride faster now, until we be within this wood.
I think we can easily distance them, for they are still a long way behind. If
you go on at this pace, you can never escape from death, for you are no
match for them." Erec replies: "Little esteem you have for me, and lightly
you hold my words. It seems I cannot correct you by fair request. But as the

Lord have mercy upon me until I escape from here, I swear that you shall
pay dearly for this speech of yours; that is, unless my mind should change."
Then he straightway turns about, and sees the seneschal drawing near upon
a horse both strong and fleet. Before them all he takes his stand at the
distance of four cross-bow shots. He had not disposed of his arms, but was
thoroughly well equipped. Erec reckons up his opponents' strength, and sees
there are fully a hundred of them. Then he who thus is pressing him thinks
he had better call a hair. Then they ride to meet each other, and strike upon
each other's shield great blows with their sharp and trenchant swords. Erec
caused his stout steel sword to pierce his body through and through, so that
his shield and hauberk protected him no more than a shred of dark-blue silk.
And next the Count comes spurring on, who, as the story tells, was a strong
and doughty knight. But the Count in this was ill advised when he came
with only shield and lance. He placed such trust in his own prowess that he
thought that he needed no other arms. He showed his exceeding boldness by
rushing on ahead of all his men more than the space of nine acres. When
Erec saw him stand alone, he turned toward him; the Count is not afraid of
him, and they come together with clash of arms. First the Count strikes him
with such violence upon the breast that he would have lost his stirrups if he
had not been well set. He makes the wood of his shield to split so that the
iron of his lance protrudes on the other side. But Erec's hauberk was very
solid and protected him from death without the tear of a single mesh. The
Count was strong and breaks his lance; then Erec strikes him with such
force on his yellow painted shield that he ran more than a yard of his lance
through his abdomen, knocking him senseless from his steed. Then he
turned and rode away without further tarrying on the spot. Straight into the
forest he spurs at full speed. Now Erec is in the woods, and the others
paused a while over those who lay in the middle of the field. Loudly they
swear and vow that they will rather follow after him for two or three days
than fail to capture and slaughter him. The Count, though grievously
wounded in the abdomen, hears what they say. He draws himself up a little
and opens his eyes a tiny bit. Now he realises what an evil deed he had
begun to execute. He makes the knights step back, and says: "My lords, I
bid you all, both strong and weak, high and low, that none of you be so bold
as to dare to advance a single step. All of you return now quickly! I have
done a villainous deed, and I repent me of my foul design. The lady who
outwitted me is very honourable, prudent, and courteous. Her beauty fired

me with love for her; because I desired her, I wished to kill her lord and
keep her back with me by force. I well deserved this woe, and now it has
come upon me. How abominably disloyal and treacherous I was in my
madness! Never was there a better knight born of mother than he. Never
shall he receive harm through me if I can in any way prevent it. I command
you all to retrace your steps." Back they go disconsolate, carrying the
lifeless seneschal on the shield reversed. The Count, whose wound was not
mortal, lived on for some time after. Thus was Erec delivered.
(Vv. 3663-3930.) Erec goes off at full speed down a road between two
hedgerows—he and his wife with him. Both putting spurs to their horses,
they rode until they came to a meadow which had been mown. After
emerging from the hedged enclosure they came upon a drawbridge before a
high tower, which was all closed about with a wall and a broad and deep
moat. They quickly pass over the bridge, but had not gone far before the
lord of the place espied them from up in his tower. About this man I can tell
you the truth: that he was very small of stature, but very courageous of
heart. When he sees Erec cross the bridge, he comes down quickly from his
tower, and on a great sorrel steed of his he causes a saddle to be placed,
which showed portrayed a golden lion. Then he orders to be brought his
shield, his stiff, straight lance, a sharp polished sword, his bright shining
helmet, his gleaming hauberk, and triple-woven greaves; for he has seen an
armed knight pass before his list against whom he wishes to strive in arms,
or else this stranger will strive against him until he shall confess defeat. His
command was quickly done: behold the horse now led forth; a squire
brought him around already bridled and with saddle on. Another fellow
brings the arms. The knight passed out through the gate, as quickly as
possible, all alone, without companion. Erec is riding along a hill-side,
when behold the knight comes tearing down over the top of the hill,
mounted upon a powerful steed which tore along at such a pace that he
crushed the stones beneath his hoofs finer than a millstone grinds the corn;
and bright gleaming sparks flew off in all directions, so that it seemed as if
his four feet were all ablaze with fire. Enide heard the noise and
commotion, and almost fell from her palfrey, helpless and in a faint. There
was no vein in her body in which the blood did not turn, and her face
became all pale and white as if she were a corpse. Great is her despair and
dismay, for she does not dare to address her lord, who often threatens and
chides at her and charges her to hold her peace. She is distracted between

two courses to pursue, whether to speak or to hold her peace. She takes
counsel with herself, and often she prepares to speak, so that her tongue
already moves, but the voice cannot issue forth; for her teeth are clenched
with fear, and thus shut up her speech within. Thus she admonishes and
reproaches herself, but she closes her mouth and grits her teeth so that her
speech cannot issue forth. At strife with herself, she said: "I am sure and
certain that I shall incur a grievous loss, if here I lose my lord. Shall I tell
him all, then, openly? Not I. Why not? I would not dare, for thus I should
enrage my lord. And if my lord's ire is once aroused, he will leave me in
this wild place alone, wretched and forlorn. Then I shall be worse off than
now. Worse off? What care I? May grief and sorrow always be mine as long
as I live, if my lord does not promptly escape from here without being
delivered to a violent death. But if I do not quickly inform him, this knight
who is spurring hither will have killed him before he is aware; for he seems
of very evil intent. I think I have waited too long from fear of his vigorous
prohibition. But I will no longer hesitate because of his restraint. I see
plainly that my lord is so deep in thought that he forgets himself; so it is
fight that I should address him." She spoke to him. He threatens her, but has
no desire to do her harm, for he realises and knows full well that she loves
him above all else, and he loves her, too, to the utmost. He rides toward the
knight, who challenges him to battle, and they meet at the foot of the hill,
where they attack and defy each other. Both smite each other with their
iron-tipped lances with all their strength. The shields that hang about their
necks are not worth two coats of bark: the leather tears, and they split the
wood, and they shatter the meshes of the hauberks. Both are pierced to the
vitals by the lances, and the horses fall to earth. Now, both the warriors
were doughty. Grievously, but not mortally, wounded, they quickly got
upon their feet and grasped afresh their lances, which were not broken nor
the worse for wear. But they cast them away on the ground, and drawing
their swords from the scabbard, they attack each other with great fury. Each
wounds and injures the other, for there is no mercy on either side. They deal
such blows upon the helmets that gleaming sparks fly out when their
swords recoil. They split and splinter the shields; they batter and crush the
hauberks. In four places the swords are brought down to the bare flesh, so
that they are greatly weakened and exhausted. And if both their swords had
lasted long without breaking, they would never have retreated, nor would
the battle have come to an end before one of them perforce had died. Enide,

who was watching them, was almost beside herself with grief. Whoever
could have seen her then, as she showed her great woe by wringing her
hands, tearing her hair and shedding tears, could have seen a loyal lady.
And any man would have been a vulgar wretch who saw and did not pity
her. And the knights still fight, knocking the jewels from the helmets and
dealing at each other fearful blows. From the third to the ninth hour the
battle continued so fierce that no one could in any wise make out which was
to have the better of it. Erec exerts himself and strives; he brought his sword
down upon his enemy's helmet, cleaving it to the inner lining of mail and
making him stagger; but he stood firmly and did not fall. Then he attacked
Erec in turn, and dealt him such a blow upon the covering of his shield that
his strong and precious sword broke when he tried to pull it out. When he
saw that his sword was broken, in a spite he threw as far away as he could
the part that remained in his hand. Now he was afraid and must needs draw
back; for any knight that lacks his sword cannot do much execution in battle
or assault. Erec pursues him until he begs him, for God's sake, not to kill
him. "Mercy, noble knight," he cries, "be not so cruel and harsh toward me.
Now that I am left without my sword, you have the strength and the power
to take my life or make me your prisoner, for I have no means of defence."
Erec replies: "When thou thus dost petition me I fain would hear thee admit
outright whether thou art defeated and overcome. Thou shalt not again be
touched by me if thou dost surrender at my discretion." The knight was
slow to make reply. So, when Erec saw him hesitate, in order to further
dismay him, he again attacked him, rushing at him with drawn sword;
whereupon, thoroughly terrified, he cried: "Mercy, sire! Regard me as your
captive, since it cannot be otherwise." Erec answers: "More than that is
necessary. You shall not get off so easily as that. Tell me your station and
your name, and I in turn will tell you mine." "Sire," says he, "you are right.
I am king of this country. My liegemen are Irishmen, and there is none who
does not have to pay me rent. 129 My name is Guivret the Little. I am very
rich and powerful; for there is no landholder whose lands touch mine in any
direction who ever transgresses my command and who does not do my
pleasure. I have no neighbour who does not fear me, however proud and
bold he may be. But I greatly desire to be your confidant and friend from
this time on." Erec replies: "I, too, can boast that I am a noble man. My
name is Erec, son of King Lac. My father is king of Farther Wales, and has
many a rich city, fine hall, and strong town; no king or emperor has more

than he, save only King Arthur. Him, of course, I except; for with him none
can compare." Guivret is greatly astonished at this, and says: "Sire, a great
marvel is this I hear. I was never so glad of anything as of your
acquaintance. You may put full trust in me! And should it please you to
abide in my country within my estates, I shall have you treated with great
honour. So long as you care to remain here, you shall be recognised as my
lord. We both have need of a physician, and I have a castle of mine near
here, not eight leagues away, nor even seven. I wish to take you thither with
me, and there we shall have our wounds tended." Erec replies: "I thank you
for what I have heard you say. However, I will not go, thank you. But only
so much I request of you, that if I should be in need, and you should hear
that I had need of aid, you would not then forget me." "Sire" says he, "I
promise you that never, so long as I am alive, shall you have need of my
help but that I shall go at once to aid you with all the assistance I can
command." "I have nothing more to ask of you," says Erec; "you have
promised me much. You are now my lord and friend, if your deed is as good
as your word." Then each kisses and embraces the other. Never was there
such an affectionate parting after such a fierce battle; for from very
affection and generosity each one cut off long, wide strips from the bottom
of his shirt and bound up the other's wounds. When they had thus bandaged
each other, they commended each other to God.
(Vv. 3931-4280.) So thus they parted. Guivret takes his way back alone,
while Erec resumed his road, in dire need of plaster wherewith to heal his
wounds. He did not cease to travel until he came to a plain beside a lofty
forest all full of stags, hinds, deer, does, and other beasts, and all sorts of
game. Now King Arthur and the Queen and the best of his barons had come
there that very day. The King wished to spend three or four days in the
forest for pleasure and sport, and had commanded tents, pavilions, and
canopies to be brought. My lord Gawain had stepped into the King's tent, all
tired out by a long ride. In front of the tent a white beech stood, and there he
had left a shield of his, together with his ashen lance. He left his steed, all
saddled and bridled, fastened to a branch by the rein. There the horse stood
until Kay the seneschal came by. 130 He came up quickly and, as if to
beguile the time, took the steed and mounted, without the interference of
any one. He took the lance and the shield, too, which were close by under
the tree. Galloping along on the steed, Kay rode along a valley until it came
about by chance that Erec met him. Now Erec recognised the seneschal, and

he knew the arms and the horse, but Kay did not recognise him, for he
could not be distinguished by his arms. So many blows of sword and lance
had he received upon his shield that all the painted design had disappeared
from it. And the lady, who did not wish to be seen or recognised by him,
shrewdly held her veil before her face, as if she were doing it because of the
sun's glare and the dust. Kay approached rapidly and straightway seized
Erec's rein, without so much as saluting him. Before he let him move, he
presumptuously asked him: "Knight," says he, "I wish to know who you are
and whence you come." "You must be mad to stop me thus," says Erec;
"you shall not know that just now." And the other replies: "Be not angry; I
only ask it for your good. I can see and make out clearly that you are
wounded and hurt. If you will come along with me you shall have a good
lodging this night; I shall see that you are well cared for, honoured and
made comfortable: for you are in need of rest. King Arthur and the Queen
are close by here in a wood, lodged in pavilions and tents. In all good faith,
I advise you to come with me to see the Queen and King, who will take
much pleasure in you and will show you great honour." Erec replies: "You
say well; yet will I not go thither for anything. You know not what my
business is: I must yet farther pursue my way. Now let me go; too long I
stay. There is still some daylight left." Kay makes answer: "You speak
madness when you decline to come. I trow you will repent of it. And
however much it may be against your will, you shall both go, as the priest
goes to the council, willy-nilly. To-night you will be badly served, if,
unmindful of my advice, you go there as strangers. Come now quickly, for I
will take you." At this word Erec's ire was roused. "Vassal," says he, "you
are mad to drag me thus after you by force. You have taken me quite off my
guard. I tell you you have committed an offence. For I thought to be quite
safe, and was not on my guard against you." Then he lays his hand upon his
sword and cries: "Hands off my bridle, vassal! Step aside. I consider you
proud and impudent. I shall strike you, be sure of that, if you drag me
longer after you. Leave me alone now." Then he lets him go, and draws off
across the field more than an acre's width; then turns about and, as a man
with evil intent, issues his challenge. Each rushed at the other. But, because
Kay was without armour, Erec acted courteously and turned the point of his
lance about and presented the butt-end instead. Even so, he gave him such a
blow high up on the broad expanse of his shield that he caused it to wound
him on the temple, pinning his arm to his breast: all prone he throws him to

the earth. Then he went to catch the horse and hands him over by the bridle
to Enide. He was about to lead it away, when the wounded man with his
wonted flattery begs him to restore it courteously to him. With fair words he
flatters and wheedles him. "Vassal," says he, "so help me God, that horse is
not mine. Rather does it belong to that knight in whom dwells the greatest
prowess in the world, my lord Gawain the Bold. I tell you so much on his
behalf, in order that you may send it back to him and thus win honour. So
shall you be courteous and wise, and I shall be your messenger." Erec
makes answer: "Take the horse, vassal, and lead it away. Since it belongs to
my lord Gawain it is not meet that I should appropriate it." Kay takes the
horse, remounts, and coming to the royal tent, tells the King the whole
truth, keeping nothing back. And the King summoned Gawain, saying:
"Fair nephew Gawain, if ever you were true and courteous, go quickly after
him and ask him in winsome wise who he is and what his business. And if
you can influence him and bring him along with you to us, take care not to
fail to do so." Then Gawain mounts his steed, two squires following after
him. They soon made Erec out, but did not recognise him. Gawain salutes
him, and he Gawain: their greetings were mutual. Then said my lord
Gawain with his wonted openness: "Sire," says he, "King Arthur sends me
along this way to encounter you. The Queen and King send you their
greeting, and beg you urgently to come and spend some time with them (it
may benefit you and cannot harm), as they are close by." Erec replies: "I am
greatly obliged to the King and Queen and to you who are, it seems, both
kind of heart and of gentle mien. I am not in a vigorous state; rather do I
bear wounds within my body: yet will I not turn aside from my way to seek
a lodging-place. So you need not longer wait: I thank you, but you may be
gone." Now Gawain was a man of sense. He draws back and whispers in
the ear of one of the squires, bidding him go quickly and tell the King to
take measures at once to take down and lower his tents and come and set
them up in the middle of the road three or four leagues in advance of where
they now are. There the King must lodge to-night, if he wishes to meet and
extend hospitality to the best knight in truth whom he can ever hope to see;
but who will not go out of his way for a lodging at the bidding of any one.
The fellow went and gave his message. The King without delay causes his
tents to be taken down. Now they are lowered, the sumpters loaded, and off
they set. The King mounted Aubagu, and the Queen afterwards mounted a
white Norse palfrey. All this while, my lord Gawain did not cease to detain

Erec, until the latter said to him: "Yesterday I covered more ground than I
shall do to-day. Sire, you annoy me; let me go. You have already disturbed a
good part of my day." And my lord Gawain answers him: "I should like to
accompany you a little way, if you do not object; for it is yet a long while
until night. They spent so much time in talking that all the tents were set up
before them, and Erec sees them, and perceives that his lodging is arranged
for him. "Ah! Gawain," he says, "your shrewdness has outwitted me. By
your great cunning you have kept me here. Since it has turned out thus, I
shall tell you my name at once. Further concealment would be useless. I am
Erec, who was formerly your companion and friend." Gawain hears him
and straightway embraces him. He raised up his helmet and unlaced his
mouthpiece. Joyfully he clasps him in his embrace, while Erec embraces
him in turn. Then Gawain leaves him, saying, "Sire, this news will give
great pleasure to my lord; he and my lady will both be glad, and I must go
before to tell them of it. But first I must embrace and welcome and speak
comfortably to my lady Enide, your wife. My lady the Queen has a great
desire to see her. I heard her speak of her only yesterday." Then he steps up
to Enide and asks her how she is, if she is well and in good case. She makes
answer courteously: "Sire, I should have no cause for grief, were I not in
great distress for my lord; but as it is, I am in dismay, for he has hardly a
limb without a wound." Gawain replies: "This grieves me much. It is
perfectly evident from his face, which is all pale and colourless. I could
have wept myself when I saw him so pale and wan, but my joy effaced my
grief, for at sight of him I felt so glad that I forgot all other pain. Now start
and ride along slowly. I shall ride ahead at top-speed to tell the Queen and
the King that you are following after me. I am sure that they will both be
delighted when they hear it." Then he goes, and comes to the King's tent.
"Sire," he cries, "now you and my lady must be glad, for here come Erec
and his wife." The King leaps to his feet with joy. "Upon my word!" he
says, "right glad I am. I could hear no news which could give me so much
happiness." The Queen and all the rest rejoice, and come out from the tents
as fast as they may. Even the King comes forth from his pavilion, and they
met Erec near at band. When Erec sees the King coming, he quickly
dismounts, and Enide too. The King embraces and meets them, and the
Queen likewise tenderly kisses and embraces them: there is no one that
does not show his joy. Right there, upon the spot, they took off Erec's
armour; and when they saw his wounds, their joy turned to sadness. The

King draws a deep sigh at the sight of them, and has a plaster brought
which Morgan, his sister, had made. This piaster, which Morgan had given
to Arthur, was of such sovereign virtue that no wound, whether on nerve or
joint, provided it were treated with the piaster once a day, could fail to be
completely cured and healed within a week. They brought to the King the
piaster which gave Erec great relief. When they had bathed, dried, and
bound up his wounds, the King leads him and Enide into his own royal tent,
saying that he intends, out of love for Erec, to tarry in the forest a full
fortnight, until he be completely restored to health. For this Erec thanks the
King, saying: "Fair sire, my wounds are not so painful that I should desire
to abandon my journey. No one could detain me; to-morrow, without delay,
I shall wish to get off in the morning, as soon as I see the dawn." At this the
King shook his head and said: "This is a great mistake for you not to remain
with us. I know that you are far from well. Stay here, and you will do the
right thing. It will be a great pity and cause for grief if you die in this forest.
Fair gentle friend, stay here now until you are quite yourself again." Erec
replies: "Enough of this. I have undertaken this journey, and shall not tarry
in any wise." The King hears that he would by no means stay for prayer of
his; so he says no more about it, and commands the supper to be prepared at
once and the tables to be spread. The servants go to make their preparations.
It was a Saturday night; so they ate fish and fruit, pike and perch, salmon
and trout, and then pears both raw and cooked. 131 Soon after supper they
ordered the beds to be made ready. The King, who held Erec dear, had him
laid in a bed alone; for he did not wish that any one should lie with him who
might touch his wounds. That night he was well lodged. In another bed
close by lay Enide with the Queen under a cover of ermine, and they all
slept in great repose until the day broke next morning.
(Vv. 4281-4307.) Next day, as soon as it is dawn. Erec arises, dresses,
commands his horses to be saddled, and orders his arms to be brought to
him. The valets run and bring them to him. Again the King and all the
knights urge him to remain; but entreaty is of no avail, for he will not stay
for anything. Then you might have seen them all weep and show such grief
as if they already saw him dead. He puts on his arms, and Enide arises. All
the knights are sore distressed, for they think they will never see them more.
They follow them out from the tents, and send for their own horses, that
they may escort and accompany them. Erec said to them: "Be not angry! but
you shall not accompany me a single step. I'll thank you if you'll stay

behind!" His horse was brought to him, and he mounts without delay.
Taking his shield and lance, he commends them all to God, and they in turn
wish Erec well. Then Enide mounts, and they ride away.
(Vv. 4308-4380.) Entering a forest, they rode on without halting till hour
of prime. While they thus traversed the wood, they heard in the distance the
cry of a damsel in great distress. When Erec heard the cry, he felt sure from
the sound that it was the voice of one in trouble and in need of help.
Straightway calling Enide, he says: "Lady, there is some maiden who goes
through the wood calling aloud. I take it that she is in need of aid and
succour. I am going to hasten in that direction and see what her trouble is.
Do you dismount and await me here, while I go yonder." "Gladly, sire," she
says. Leaving her alone, he makes his way until he found the damsel, who
was going through the wood, lamenting her lover whom two giants had
taken and were leading away with very cruel treatment. The maiden was
rending her garments, and tearing her hair and her tender crimson face. Erec
sees her and, wondering greatly, begs her to tell him why she cries and
weeps so sore. The maiden cries and sighs again, then sobbing, says: "Fair
sire, it is no wonder if I grieve, for I wish I were dead. I neither love nor
prize my life, for my lover has been led away prisoner by two wicked and
cruel giants who are his mortal enemies. God! what shall I do? Woe is me!
deprived of the best knight alive, the most noble and the most courteous.
And now he is in great peril of death. This very day, and without cause, they
will bring him to some vile death. Noble knight, for God's sake, I beg you
to succour my lover, if now you can lend him any aid. You will not have to
run far, for they must still be close by." "Damsel," says Erec, "I will follow
them, since you request it, and rest assured that I shall do all within my
power: either I shall be taken prisoner along with him, or I shall restore him
to you safe and sound. If the giants let him live until I can find him, I intend
to measure my strength with theirs." "Noble knight," the maiden said, "I
shall always be your servant if you restore to me my lover. Now go in God's
name, and make haste, I beseech you." "Which way lies their path?" "This
way, my lord. Here is the path with the footprints." Then Erec started at a
gallop, and told her to await him there. The maid commends him to the
Lord, and prays God very fervently that He should give him force by His
command to discomfit those who intend evil toward her lover.
(Vv. 4381-4579.) Erec went off along the trail, spurring his horse in
pursuit of the giants. He followed in pursuit of them until he caught sight of

them before they emerged from the wood; he saw the knight with bare
limbs mounted naked on a nag, his hands and feet bound as if he were
arrested for highway robbery. The giants had no lances, shields or whetted
swords; but they both had clubs and scourges, with which they were beating
him so cruelly that already they had cut the skin on his back to the bone.
Down his sides and flanks the blood ran, so that the nag was all covered
with blood down to the belly. 132 Erec came along alone after them. He was
very sad and distressed about the knight whom he saw them treat so
spitefully. Between two woods in an open field he came up with them, and
asks: "My lords," says he, "for what crime do you treat this man so ill and
lead him along like a common thief? You are treating him too cruelly. You
are driving him just as if he had been caught stealing. It is a monstrous
insult to strip a knight naked, and then bind him and beat him so
shamefully. Hand him over to me, I beg of you with all good-will and
courtesy. I have no wish to demand him of you forcibly." "Vassal," they say,
"what business is this of yours? You must be mad to make any demand of
us. If you do not like it, try and improve matters." Erec replies: "Indeed, I
like it not, and you shall not lead him away so easily. Since you have left
the matter in my hands, I say whoever can get possession of him let him
keep him. Take your positions. I challenge you. You shall not take him any
farther before some blows have been dealt." "Vassal," they reply, "you are
mad, indeed, to wish to measure your strength with us. If you were four
instead of one, you would have no more strength against us than one lamb
against two wolves." "I do not know how it will turn out," Erec replies; "if
the sky fails and the earth melts, then many a lark will be caught. Many a
man boasts loudly who is of little worth. On guard now, for I am going to
attack you." The giants were strong and fierce, and held in their clenched
hands their big clubs tipped with iron. Erec went at them lance in rest. He
fears neither of them, in spite of their menace and their pride, and strikes
the foremost of them through the eye so deep into the brain that the blood
and brains spurt out at the back of his neck; that one lies dead and his heart
stops beating. When the other saw him dead, he had reason to be sorely
grieved. Furious, he went to avenge him: with both hands he raised his club
on high and thought to strike him squarely upon his unprotected head: but
Erec watched the blow, and received it on his shield. Even so, the giant
landed such a blow that it quite stunned him, and almost made him fall to
earth from his steed. Erec covers himself with his shield and the giant,

recovering himself, thinks to strike again quickly upon his head. But Erec
had drawn his sword, and attacked him with such fierceness that the giant
was severely handled: he strikes him so hard upon the neck that he splits
him down to the saddle-bow. He scatters his bowels upon the earth, and the
body falls full length, split in two halves. The knight weeps with joy and,
worshipping, praises God who has sent him this aid. Then Erec unbound
him, made him dress and arm himself, and mount one of the horses; the
other he made him lead with his right hand, and asks him who he is. And he
replied: "Noble knight, thou art my liege lord. I wish to regard thee as my
lord, as by right I ought to do, for thou hast saved my life, which but now
would have been cut off from my body with great torment and cruelty.
What chance, fair gentle sire, in God's name, guided thee hither to me, to
free me by thy courage from the hands of my enemies? Sire, I wish to do
thee homage. Henceforth, I shall always accompany thee and serve thee as
my lord." Erec sees that he is disposed to serve him gladly, if he may, and
says: "Friend, for your service I have no desire; but you must know that I
came hither to succour you at the instance of your lady, whom I found
sorrowing in this wood. Because of you, she grieves and moans; for full of
sorrow is her heart. I wish to present you to her now. As soon as I have
reunited you with her, I shall continue my way alone; for you have no call
to go with me. I have no need cf your company; but I fain would know your
name." "Sire," says he, "as you wish. Since you desire to know my name, it
must not be kept from you. My name is Cadoc of Tabriol: know that thus I
am called. But since I must part from you. I should like to know, if it may
be, who you are and of what land, where I may sometime find and search
for you, when I shall go a way from here." Erec replies: "Friend, that I will
never confide to you. Never speak of it again; but if you wish to find it out
and do me honour in any wise go quickly now without delay to my lord,
King Arthur, who with might and main is hunting the stag in yonder wood,
as I take it, not five short leagues from here. Go thither quickly and take
him word that you are sent to him as a gift by him whom yesterday within
his tent he joyfully received and lodged. And be careful not to conceal from
him from what peril I set free both your life and body. I am dearly cherished
at the court, and if you present yourself in my name you will do me a
service and honour. There you shall ask who I am; but you cannot know it
otherwise." "Sire," says Cadoc, "I will follow your bidding in all respects.
You need never have any fear that I do not go with a glad heart. I shall tell

the King the full truth regarding the battle which you have fought on my
behalf." Thus speaking, they continued their way until they came to the
maiden where Erec had left her. The damsel's joy knew no bounds when she
saw coming her lover whom she never thought to see again. Taking him by
the hand, Erec presents him to her with the words: "Grieve no longer,
demoiselle! Behold your lover glad and joyous." And she with prudence
makes reply: "Sire, by right you have won us both. Yours we should be, to
serve and honour. But who could ever repay half the debt we owe you?"
Erec makes answer: "My gentle lady, no recompense do I ask of you. To
God I now commend you both, for too long, methinks, I have tarried here."
Then he turns his horse about, and rides away as fast as he can. Cadoc of
Tabriol with his damsel rides off in another direction; and soon he told the
news to King Arthur and the Queen.
(Vv. 4580-4778.) Erec continues to ride at great speed to the place where
Enide was awaiting him in great concern, thinking that surely he had
completely deserted her. And he, too, was in great fear lest some one,
finding her alone, might have carried her off. So he made all haste to return.
But the heat of the day was such, and his arms caused him such distress,
that his wounds broke open and burst the bandages. His wounds never
stopped bleeding before he came directly to the spot where Enide was
waiting for him. She espied him and rejoiced: but she did not realise or
know the pain from which he was suffering; for all his body was bathed in
blood, and his heart hardly had strength to beat. As he was descending a hill
he fell suddenly over upon his horse's neck. As he tried to straighten up, he
lost his saddle and stirrups, falling, as if lifeless, in a faint. Then began such
heavy grief, when Enide saw him fall to earth. Full of fear at the sight of
him, she runs toward him like one who makes no concealment of her grief.
Aloud she cries, and wrings her hands: not a shred of her robe remains
untorn across her breast. She begins to tear her hair and lacerate her tender
face. 133 "Ah God!" she cries, "fair gentle Lord, why dost Thou let me thus
live on? Come Death, and kill me hastily!" With these words she faints
upon his body. When she recovered, she said to herself reproachfully: "Woe
is me, wretched Enide; I am the murderer of my lord, in having killed him
by my speech. My lord would still be now alive, if I in my mad
presumption had not spoken the word which engaged him in this adventure.
Silence never harmed any one, but speech often worketh woe. The truth of
this I have tried and proved in more ways than one." Beside her lord she

took her seat, holding his head upon her lap. Then she begins her dole anew.
"Alas," she says, "my lord, unhappy thou, thou who never hadst a peer; for
in thee was beauty seen and prowess was made manifest; wisdom had given
thee its heart, and largess set a crown upon thee, without which no one is
esteemed. But what did I say? A grievous mistake I made in uttering the
word which has killed my lord—that fatal poisoned word for which I must
justly be reproached; and I recognise and admit that no one is guilty but
myself; I alone must be blamed for this." Then fainting she falls upon the
ground, and when she later sat up again, she only moans again the more:
"God, what shall I do, and why live on? Why does Death delay and hesitate
to come and seize me without respite? Truly, Death holds me in great
contempt! Since Death does not deign to take my life, I must myself
perforce achieve the vengeance for my sinful deed. Thus shall I die in spite
of Death, who will not heed my call for aid. Yet, I cannot die through mere
desire, nor would complaining avail me aught. The sword, which my lord
had gilded on, ought by right to avenge his death. I will not longer consume
myself in distress, in prayer, and vain desire." She draws the sword forth
from its sheath and begins to consider it. God, who is full of mercy, caused
her to delay a little; and while she passes in review her sorrow and her
misfortune, behold there comes riding apace a Count with numerous suite,
who from afar had heard the lady's loud outcry. God did not wish to desert
her; for now she would have killed herself, had she not been surprised by
those who took away from her the sword and thrust it back into its sheath.
The Count then dismounted from his horse and began to inquire of her
concerning the knight, and whether she was his wife or his lady-love. "Both
one and the other, sire," she says, "my sorrow is such as I cannot tell. Woe
is me that I am not dead." And the Count begins to comfort her: "Lady," he
says, "by the Lord, I pray you, to take some pity on yourself! It is meet that
you should mourn, but it is no use to be disconsolate; for you may yet rise
to high estate. Do not sink into apathy, but comfort yourself; that will be
wise, and God will give you joy again. Your wondrous beauty holds good
fortune in store for you; for I will take you as my wife, and make you a
countess and dame of rank: this ought to bring you much consolation. And I
shall have the body removed and laid away with great honour. Leave off
now this grief of yours which in your frenzy you display." And she replies:
"Sire, begone! For God's sake, let me be! You can accomplish nothing here.
Nothing that one could say or do could ever make me glad again." At this

the Count drew back and said: "Let us make a bier, whereon to carry away
this body with the lady to the town of Limors. There the body shall be
interred. Then will I espouse the lady, whether or not she give consent: for
never did I see any one so fair, nor desire any as I do her. Happy I am to
have met with her. Now make quickly and without delay a proper bier for
this dead knight. Halt not for the trouble, nor from sloth." Then some of his
men draw out their swords and soon cut two saplings, upon which they laid
branches cross-wise. Upon this litter they laid Erec down; then hitched two
horses to it. Enide rides alongside, not ceasing to make lament, and often
fainting and falling back; but the horsemen hold her tight, and try to support
her with their arms, and raise her up and comfort her. All the way to Limors
they escort the body, until they come to the palace of the Count. All the
people follow up after them—ladies, knights, and townspeople. In the
middle off the hall upon a dais they stretched the body out full length, with
his lance and shield alongside. The hall is full, the crowd is dense. Each one
is anxious to inquire what is this trouble, what marvel here. Meanwhile the
Count takes counsel with his barons privily. "My lords," he says, "upon the
spot I wish to espouse this lady here. We can plainly judge by her beauty
and prudent mien that she is of very gentle rank. Her beauty and noble
bearing show that the honour of a kingdom or empire might well be
bestowed upon her. I shall never suffer disgrace through her; rather I think
to win more honour. Have my chaplain summoned now, and do you go and
fetch the lady. The half of all my land I will give her as her dower if she
will comply with my desire." Then they bade the chaplain come, in
accordance with the Count's command, and the dame they brought there,
too, and made her marry him perforce; for she flatly refused to give
consent. But in spite of all, the Count married her in accordance with his
wish. And when he had married her, the constable at once had the tables set
in the palace, and had the food prepared; for already it was time for the
evening meal.
(Vv. 4779-4852.) After vespers, that day in May, Enide was in sore
distress, nor did her grief cease to trouble her. And the Count urged her
mildly by prayer and threat to make her peace and be consoled, and he
made her sit down upon a chair, though it was against her will. In spite of
her, they made her take a seat and placed the table in front of her. The
Count takes his place on the other side, almost beside himself with rage to
find that he cannot comfort her. "Lady," he says, "you must now leave off

this grief and banish it. You can have full trust in me, that honour and riches
will be yours. You must surely realise that mourning will not revive the
dead; for no one ever saw such a thing come about. Remember now, though
poor you were, that great riches are within your reach. Once you were poor;
rich now you will be. Fortune has not been stingy toward you, in bestowing
upon you the honour of being henceforth hailed as Countess. It is true that
your lord is dead. If you grieve and lament because of this, do you think
that I am surprised? Nay. But I am giving you the best advice I know how
to give. In that I have married you, you ought to be content. Take care you
do not anger me! Eat now, as I bid you do." And she replies: "Not I, my
lord. In faith, as long as I live I will neither eat nor drink unless I first see
my lord eat who is lying on yonder dais" "Lady, that can never be. People
will think that you are mad when you talk such great nonsense. You will
receive a poor reward if you give occasion to-day for further reproof." To
this she vouchsafed no reply, holding his threats in slight esteem, and the
Count strikes her upon the face. At this she shrieks, and the barons present
blame the Count. "Hold, sire!" they cry to the Count; "you ought to be
ashamed of having struck this lady because she will not eat. You have done
a very ugly deed. If this lady is distressed because of her lord whom she
now sees dead, no one should say that she is wrong." "Keep silence, all."
the Count replies; "the dame is mine and I am hers, and I will do with her as
I please." At this she could not hold her peace, but swears she will never be
his. And the Count springs up and strikes her again, and she cries out aloud.
"Ha! wretch," she says, "I care not what thou say to me, or what thou do! I
fear not thy blows, nor yet thy threats. Beat me and strike me, as thou wilt. I
shall never heed thy power so much as to do thy bidding more or less, even
were thou with thy hands fight now to snatch out my eyes or flay me alive."
(Vv. 4853-4938.) In the midst of these words and disputes Erec recovered
from his swoon, like a man who awakes from sleep. No wonder that he was
amazed at the crowd of people he saw around. But great was his grief and
great his woe when he heard the voice of his wife. He stepped to the floor
from off the dais and quickly drew his sword. Wrath and the love he bore
his wife gave him courage. He runs thither where he sees her, and strikes
the Count squarely upon the head, so that he beats out his brains and,
knocking in his forehead, leaves him senseless and speechless; his blood
and brains flow out. The knights spring from the tables, persuaded that it is
the devil who had made his way among them there. Of young or old there

none remains, for all were thrown in great dismay. Each one tries to outrun
the other in beating a hasty retreat. Soon they were all clear of the palace,
and cry aloud, both weak and strong: "Flee, flee, here comes the corpse!" At
the door the press is great: each one strives to make his escape, and pushes
and shoves as best he may. He who is last in the surging throng would fain
get into the foremost line. Thus they make good their escape in flight, for
one dares not stand upon another's going. Erec ran to seize his shield,
hanging it about his neck by the strap, while Enide lays hands upon the
lance. Then they step out into the courtyard. There is no one so bold as to
offer resistance; for they did not believe it could be a man who had thus
expelled them, but a devil or some enemy who had entered the dead body.
Erec pursues them as they flee, and finds outside in the castle-yard a stable-
boy in the act of leading his steed to the watering-place, all equipped with
bridle and saddle. This chance encounter pleased Erec well: as he steps up
quickly to the horse, the boy in fear straightway yields him up. Erec takes
his seat between the saddle-bows, while Enide, seizing the stirrup, springs
up on to the horse's neck, as Erec, who bade her mount, commanded and
instructed her to do. The horse bears them both away; and finding open the
town gate, they make their escape without detention. In the town there was
great anxiety about the Count who had been killed; but there is no one,
however brave, who follows Erec to take revenge. At his table the Count
was slain; while Erec, who bears his wife away, embraces and kisses and
gives her cheer. In his arms he clasps her against his heart, and says: "Sweet
sister mine, my proof of you has been complete! Be no more concerned in
any wise, for I love you now more than ever I did before; and I am certain
and rest assured that you love me with a perfect love. From this time on for
evermore, I offer myself to do your will just as I used to do before. And if
you have spoken ill of me, I pardon you and call you quit of both the
offence and the word you spoke." Then he kisses her again and clasps her
tight. Now Enide is not ill at ease when her lord clasps and kisses her and
tells her again that he loves her still. Rapidly through the night they ride,
and they are very glad that the moon shines bright.
(Vv. 4939-5058.) Meanwhile, the news has travelled fast, and there is
nothing else so quick. The news had reached Guivret the Little that a knight
wounded with arms had been found dead in the forest, and that with him
was a lady making moan, and so wondrous fair that Iseut would have
seemed her waiting-maid. Count Oringle of Limors had found them both,

and had caused the corpse to be borne away, and wished himself to espouse
the lady; but she refused him. When Guivret heard this news, he was by no
means pleased; for at once the thought of Erec occurred to him. It came into
his heart and mind to go and seek out the lady, and to have the body
honourably interred, if it should turn out to be he. He assembled a thousand
men-at-arms and knights to take the town. If the Count would not surrender
of his own accord the body and the lady, he would put all to fire and flame.
In the moonlight shining clear he led his men on toward Limors, with
helmets laced, in hauberks clad, and from their necks the shields were hung.
Thus, under arms, they all advanced until nearly midnight, when Erec
espied them. Now he expects to be ensnared or killed or captured
inevitably. He makes Enide dismount beside a thicket-hedge. No wonder if
he is dismayed. "Lady, do you stay here," he says, "beside this thicket-
hedge a while, until these people shall have passed. I do not wish them to
catch sight of you, for I do not know what manner of people they are, nor of
what they go in search. I trust we may not attract their attention. But I see
nowhere any place where we could take refuge, should they wish to injure
us. I know not if any harm may come to me, but not from fear shall I fail to
sally out against them. And if any one assails me, I shall not fail to joust
with him. Yet, I am so sore and weary that it is no wonder if I grieve. Now
to meet them I must go, and do you stay quiet here. Take care that no one
see you, until they shall have left you far behind." Behold now Guivret,
with lance outstretched, who espied him from afar. They did not recognise
each other, for the moon had gone behind the shadow of a dark cloud. Erec
was weak and exhausted, and his antagonist was quite recovered from his
wounds and blows. Now Erec will be far from wise if he does not promptly
make himself known. He steps out from the hedge. And Guivret spurs
toward him without speaking to him at all, nor does Erec utter a word to
him: he thought he could do more than he could. Whoever tries to run
farther than he is able must perforce give up or take a rest. They clash
against each other; but the fight was unequal, for one was weak and the
other strong. Guivret strikes him with such force that he carries him down
to earth from his horse's back. Enide, who was in hiding, when she sees her
lord on the ground, expects to be killed and badly used. Springing forth
from the hedge, she runs to help her lord. If she grieved before, now her
anguish is greater. Coming up to Guivret, she seized his horse's rein, and
then said: "Cursed be thou, knight! For thou hast attacked a weak and

exhausted man, who is in pain and mortally wounded, with such injustice
that thou canst not find reason for thy deed. If thou hadst been alone and
helpless, thou wouldst have rued this attack, provided my lord had been in
health. Now be generous and courteous, and kindly let cease this battle
which thou hast begun. For thy reputation would be no better for having
killed or captured a knight who has not the strength to rise, as thou canst
see. For he has suffered so many blows of arms that he is all covered with
wounds" And he replies: "Fear not, lady! I see that loyally you love your
lord, and I commend you for it. Have no fear whatsoever of me or of my
company. But tell me now without concealment what is the name of your
lord; for only advantage will you get from telling me. Whoever he be, tell
me his name; then he shall go safe and unmolested. Neither he nor you have
aught to fear, for you are both in safe hands."
(Vv. 5059-5172.) Then Enide learns that she is safe, she answers him
briefly in a word: "His name is Erec; I ought not to lie, for I see you are
honest and of good intent." Guivret, in his delight, dismounts and goes to
fall at Erec's feet, where he was lying on the ground. "My lord," he says, "I
was going to seek for you, and was on my way to Limors, where I expected
to find you dead. It was told and recounted to me as true that Count Oringle
had carried off to Limors a knight who was mortally wounded, and that he
wickedly intended to marry a lady whom he had found in his company; but
that she would have nothing to do with him. And I was coming urgently to
aid and deliver her. If he refused to hand over to me both the lady and you
without resistance, I should esteem myself of little worth if I left him a foot
of earth to stand upon. Be sure that had I not loved you dearly I should
never have taken this upon myself. I am Guivret, your friend; but if I have
done you any hurt through my failure to recognise you, you surely ought to
pardon me." At this Erec sat up, for he could do no more, and said: "Rise
up, my friend. Be absolved of the harm you have done me, since you did
not recognise me." Guivret gets up, and Erec tells him how he has killed the
Count while he sat at meat, and how he had gained possession again of his
steed in front of the stable, and how the sergeants and the squires had fled
across the yard, crying: "Flee, flee, the corpse is chasing us;" then, how he
came near being caught, and how he escaped through the town and down
the hill, carrying his wife on his horse's neck: all this adventure of his he
told him. Then Guivret said, "Sire, I have a castle here close by, which is
well placed in a healthful site. For your comfort and benefit I wish to take

you there to-morrow and have your wounds cared for. I have two charming
and sprightly sisters who are skilful in the care of wounds: they will soon
completely cure you. 134 To-night we shall let our company lodge here in
the fields until morning; for I think a little rest to-night will do you much
good. My advice is that we spend the night here." Erec replies: "I am in
favour of doing so." So there they stayed and spent the night. They were not
reluctant to prepare a lodging-place, but they found few accommodations,
for the company was quite numerous. They lodge as best they may among
the bushes: Guivret had his tent set up, and ordered tinder to be kindled,
that they might have light and cheer. He has tapers taken out from the
boxes, and they light them within the tent. Now Enide no longer grieves, for
all has turned out well. She strips her lord of his arms and clothes, and
having washed his wounds, she dried them and bound them up again; for
she would let no one else touch him. Now Erec knows no further reason to
reproach her, for he has tried her well and found that she bears great love to
him. And Guivret, who treats them kindly, had a high, long bed constructed
of quilted coverlids, laid upon grass and reed, which they found in
abundance. There they laid Erec and covered him up. Then Guivret opened
a box and took out two patties. "Friend," says he, "now try a little of these
cold patties, and drink some wine mixed with water. I have as much as six
barrels of it, but undiluted it is not good for you; for you are injured and
covered with wounds. Fair sweet friend, now try to eat; for it will do you
good. And my lady will eat some too—your wife who has been to-day in
sore distress on your account. But you have received full satisfaction for all
that, and have escaped. So eat now, and I will eat too, fair friend." Then
Guivret sat down by Erec's side, and so did Enide who was much pleased
by all that Guivret did. Both of them urge him to eat, giving him wine
mixed with water'; for unmixed it is too strong and heating. Erec ate as a
sick man eats, and drank a little—all he dared. But he rested comfortably
and slept all night; for on his account no noise or disturbance was made.
(Vv. 5173-5366.) In the early morning they awoke, and prepared again to
mount and ride. Erec was so devoted to his own horse that he would ride no
other. They gave to Enide a mule, for she had lost her palfrey. But she was
not concerned; to judge by her looks, she gave the matter no thought. She
had a good mule with an easy gait that bore her very comfortably. And it
gave her great satisfaction that Erec was not cast down, but rather assured
them that he would recover completely. Before the third hour they reached

Penevric, a strong castle, well and handsomely situated. There dwelt the
two sisters of Guivret; for the place was agreeable enough. Guivret escorted
Erec to a delightful, airy room in a remote part of the castle. His sisters, at
his request, exerted themselves to cure Erec; and Erec placed himself in
their hands, for they inspired him with perfect confidence. First, they
removed the dead flesh, then applied plaster and lint, devoting to his care all
their skill, like women who knew their business well. Again and again they
washed his wounds and applied the plaster. Four times or more each day
they made him eat and drink, allowing him, however, no garlic or pepper.
But whoever might go in or out Enide was always with him, being more
than any one else concerned. Guivret often came in to ask and inquire if he
wanted anything. He was well kept and well served, and everything that he
wished was willingly done. But the damsels cheerfully and gladly showed
such devotion in caring for him that by the end of a fortnight he felt no hurt
or pain. Then, to bring his colour back, they began to give him baths. There
was no need to instruct the damsels, for they understood the treatment well.
When he was able to walk about. Guivret had two loose gowns made of two
different kinds of silk, one trimmed with ermine, the other with vair. One
was of a dark purple colour, and the other striped, sent to him as a present
by a cousin of his from Scotland. Enide had the purple gown trimmed with
ermine, which was very precious, while Erec had the striped stuff with the
fur, which was no less valuable. Now Erec was strong and well, cured and
recovered. Now that Enide was very happy and had everything she desired,
her great beauty returned to her; for her great distress had affected her so
much that she was very pale and wan. Now she was embraced and kissed,
now she was blessed with all good things, now she had her joy and
pleasures; for unadorned they lie in bed and each enfolds and kisses the
other; nothing gives them so much joy. They have had so much pain and
sorrow, he for her, and she for him, that now they have their satisfaction.
Each vies in seeking to please the other. Of their further sport I must not
speak. Now they have so welded their love and forgotten their grief that
they scarcely remember it any more. But now they must go on their way; so
they asked his leave to depart from Guivret, in whom they had found a
friend indeed; for he had honoured and served them in every way. When he
came to take leave, Erec said: "Sire, I do not wish to delay longer my
departure for my own land. Order everything to be prepared and collected,
in order that I may have all I need. I shall wish to start to-morrow morning,

as soon as it is day. I have stayed so long with you that I feel strong and
vigorous. God grant, if it please Him, that I may live to meet you again
somewhere, when I may be able in my turn to serve and honour you. Unless
I am captured or detained, I do not expect to tarry anywhere until I reach
the court of King Arthur, whom I hope to find either at Robais or Carduel."
To which Guivret makes prompt reply, "Sire, you shall not go off alone! For
I myself shall go with you and shall take companions with us, if it be your
pleasure." Erec accedes to this advice, and says that, in accordance with his
plans, he wishes the journey to be begun. That night they make preparations
for their journey, not wishing to delay there longer. They all make ready and
prepare. In the early morning, when they awake, the saddles are placed
upon the steeds. Before he leaves, Erec goes to bid farewell to the damsels
in their rooms; and Enide (who was glad and full of joy) thither follows
him. When their preparations for departure were made, they took their leave
of the damsels. Erec, who was very courteous, in taking leave of them,
thanks them for his health and life, and pledges to them his service. Then he
took one of them by the hand she who was the nearer to him and Enide took
the other's hand: hand in hand they came up from the bedroom into the
castle hall. Guivret urges them to mount at once without delay. Enide thinks
the time will never come for them to mount. They bring around to the block
for her a good-tempered palfrey, a soft stepper, handsome and well shaped.
The palfrey was of fine appearance and a good mount: it was no less
valuable than her own which had stayed behind at Limors. That other one
was dappled, this one was sorrel; but the head was of another colour: it was
marked in such a way that one cheek was all white, while the other was
raven black. Between the two colours there was a line, greener than a grape-
vine leaf, which separated the white from the black. Of the bridle, breast-
strap, and saddle I can surely say that the workmanship was rich and
handsome. All the breast-strap and bridle was of gold set with emeralds.
The saddle was decorated in another style, covered with a precious purple
cloth. The saddle-bows were of ivory, on which was carved the story of
how Aeneas came from Troy, how at Carthage with great joy Dido received
him to her bed, how Aeneas deceived her, and how for him she killed
herself, how Aeneas conquered Laurentum and all Lombardy, of which he
was king all his life. 135 Cunning was the workmanship and well carved, all
decorated with fine gold. A skilful craftsman, who made it spent more than
seven years in carving it, without touching any other piece of work. I do not

know whether he sold it; but he ought to have obtained a good price for it.
Now that Enide was presented with this palfrey, she was well compensated
for the loss of her own. The palfrey, thus richly apparelled, was given to her
and she mounted it gladly; then the gentlemen and squires quickly mounted
too. For their pleasure and sport Guivret caused to be taken with them rich
falcons, both young and moulted, many a tercel and sparrow-hawk, and
many a setter and greyhound.
(Vv. 5367-5446.) 136 They rode straight on from morn till eve more than
thirty Welsh leagues, and then came to the towers of a stronghold, rich and
fair, girt all about with a new wall. And all around, beneath this wall, ran a
very deep stream, roaring rushing like a storm. Erec stops to look at it, and
ask and find out if any one could truly tell him who was the lord of this
town. "Friend," said he to his kind companion, "could you tell me the name
of this town, and whose it is? Tell me if it belongs to a count or a king.
Since you have brought me here, tell me, if you know." "Sire," he says, "I
know very well, and will tell you the truth about it. The name of the town is
Brandigant, and it is so strong and fine that it fears neither king nor
emperor. If France, and all of England, and all who live from here to Liege
were ranged about to lay a siege, they would never take it in their lives; for
the isle on which the town stands stretches away four leagues or more, and
within the enclosure grows all that a rich town needs: fruit and wheat and
wine are found; and of wood and water there is no lack. It fears no assault
on any side, nor could anything reduce it to starvation. King Evrain had it
fortified, and he has possessed it all his days unmolested, and will possess it
all his life. But not because he feared any one did he thus fortify it; but the
town is more pleasing so. For if it had no wall or tower, but only the stream
that encircles it, it would still be so secure and strong that it would have no
fear of the whole world." "God!" said Erec, "what great wealth! Let us go
and see the fortress, and we shall take lodging in the town, for I wish to stop
here." "Sire," said the other in great distress, "were it not to disappoint you,
we should not stop here. In the town there is a dangerous passage."
"Dangerous?" says Erec; "do you know about it? Whatever it be, tell us
about it; for very gladly would I know." "Sire," says he, "I should fear that
you might suffer some harm there. I know there is so much boldness and
excellence in your heart that, were I to tell you what I know of the perilous
and hard adventure, you would wish to enter in. I have often heard the story,
and more than seven years have passed since any one that went in quest of

the adventure has come back from the town; yet, proud, bold knights have
come hither from many a land. Sire, do not treat this as a jest: for you will
never learn the secret from me until you shall have promised me, by the
love you have sworn to me, that never by you will be undertaken this
adventure, from which no one escapes without receiving shame or death."
(Vv. 5447-5492.) Now Erec hears what pleases him, and begs Guivret
not to be grieved, saying: "Ah, fair sweet friend, permit that our lodging be
made in the town, and do not be disturbed. It is time to halt for the night,
and so I trust that it will not displease you; for if any honour comes to us
here you ought to be very glad. I appeal to you conceding the adventure that
you tell me just the name of it, and I'll not insist upon the rest." "Sire." he
says, "I cannot be silent and refuse the information you desire. The name is
very fair to say, but the execution is very hard: for no one can come from it
alive. The adventure, upon my word, is called 'the Joy of the Court.'" "God!
there can be nothing but good in joy," says Erec; "I go to seek it. Don't go
now and discourage me about this or anything else, fair gentle friend; but
let us have our lodgings taken, for great good may come to us of this.
Nothing could restrain me from going to seek the Joy." "Sire," says he,
"God grant your prayer, that you may find joy and return without mishap. I
clearly see that we must go in. Since otherwise it may not be, let us go in.
Our lodging is secured; for no knight of high degree, as I have heard it said
and told, can enter this castle with intent to lodge here but that King Evrain
offers to shelter him. So gentle and courteous is the King that he has given
notice to all his townsmen, appealing to their love for him, that any
gentleman from afar should not find lodging in their houses, so that he
himself may do honour to all gentlemen who may wish to tarry here."

(Vv. 5493-5668.) 137 Thus they proceed toward the castle, passing the list
and the drawbridge; and when they passed the listing-place, the people who
were gathered in the streets in crowds see Erec in all his beauty, and
apparently they think and believe that all the others are in his train.
Marvelling much, they stare at him; the whole town was stirred and moved,
as they take counsel and discuss about him. Even the maidens at their song
leave off their singing and desist, as all together they look at him; and
because of his great beauty they cross themselves, and marvellously they
pity him. One to another whispers low: "Alas! This knight, who is passing,
is on his way to the 'Joy of the Court.' He will be sorry before he returns; no
one ever came from another land to claim the 'Joy of the Court' who did not
receive shame and harm, and leave his head there as a forfeit." Then, that he
may hear their words, they cry-aloud: "God defend thee, knight, from harm;
for thou art wondrously handsome, and thy beauty is greatly to be pitied, for
to-morrow we shall see it quenched. Tomorrow thy death is come; to-
morrow thou shalt surely die if God does not guard and defend thee." Erec
hears and understands that they are speaking of him through the lower
town: more than two thousand pitied him; but nothing causes him dismay.
He passes on without delay, bowing gaily to men and women alike. And
they all salute him too; and most of them swear with anxiety, fearing more
than he does himself, for his shame and for his hurt. The mere sight of his
countenance, his great beauty and his bearing, has so won to him the hearts
of all, that knights, ladies, and maids alike fear his harm. King Evrain hears
the news that men were arriving at his court who brought with them a
numerous train, and by his harness it appeared that their leader was a count
or king. King Evrain comes down the street to meet them, and saluting them
he cries: "Welcome to this company, both to the master and all his suite.
Welcome, gentlemen! Dismount." They dismounted, and there were plenty
to receive and take their horses. Nor was King Evrain backward when he
saw Enide coming; but he straightway saluted her and ran to help her to
dismount. Taking her white and tender hand, he led her up into the palace,
as was required by courtesy, and honoured her in every way he could, for he
knew right well what he ought to do, without nonsense and without malice.
He ordered a chamber to be scented with incense, myrrh, and aloes. When
they entered, they all complimented King Evrain on its fine appearance.
Hand in hand they enter the room, the King escorting them and taking great
pleasure in them. But why should I describe to you the paintings and the

silken draperies with which the room was decorated? I should only waste
time in folly, and I do not wish to waste it, but rather to hasten on a little;
for he who travels the straight road passes him who turns aside; therefore I
do not wish to tarry. When the time and hour arrived, the King orders
supper to be prepared; but I do not wish to stop over that if I can find some
more direct way. That night they had in abundance all that heart desires and
craves: birds, venison, and fruit, and wines of different sorts. But better than
all is a happy cheer! For of all dishes the sweetest is a joyful countenance
and a happy face. They were very richly served until Erec suddenly left off
eating and drinking, and began speaking of what rested most upon his heart:
he remembered 'the Joy', and began a conversation about it in which King
Evrain joined. "Sire" says he, "it is time now to tell you what I intend, and
why I have come here. Too long I have refrained from speech, and now can
no longer conceal my object. I ask you for 'the Joy' of the Court, for I covet
nothing else so much. Grant it to me, whatever it be, if you are in control of
it." "In truth, fair friend." the King replies, "I hear you speak great
nonsense. This is a very parlous thing, which has caused sorrow to many a
worthy man; you yourself will eventually be killed and undone if you will
not heed my counsel. But if you were willing to take my word, I should
advise you to desist from soliciting so grievous a thing in which you would
never succeed. Speak of it no more! Hold your peace! It would be
imprudent on your part not to follow my advice. I am not at all surprised
that you desire honour and fame; but if I should see you harmed or injured
in your body I should be distressed at heart. And know well that I have seen
many a man ruined who solicited this joy. They were never any the better
for it, but rather did they all die and perish. Before to-morrow's evening
come you may expect a like reward. If you wish to strive for the Joy, you
shall do so, though it grieve me sore. It is something from which you are
free to retreat and draw back if you wish to work your welfare. Therefore I
tell you, for I should commit treachery and do you wrong were I not to tell
you all the truth." Erec hears him and admits that the King with reason
counsels him. But the greater the wonder and the more perilous the
adventure, the more he covets it and yearns for it, saying: "Sire, I can tell
you that I find you a worthy and a loyal man, and I can put no blame on
you. I wish to undertake this boon, however it may fall out with me. The die
is cast, for I shall never draw back from anything I have undertaken without
exerting all my strength before I quit the field." "I know that well," the King

replied; "you are acting against my will. You shall have the Joy which you
desire. But I am in great despair; for I greatly fear you will be undone. But
now be assured that you shall have what you desire. If you come out of it
happily, you will have won such great honour that never did man win
greater; and may God, as I desire, grant you a joyous deliverance."
(Vv. 5669-5738.) All that night they talked of it, until the beds were
prepared and they went to rest. In the morning, when it was daylight, Erec,
who was on the watch, saw the clear dawn and the sun, and quickly rising,
clothed himself. Enide again is in distress, very sad and ill at ease; all night
she is greatly disquieted with the solicitude and fear which she felt for her
lord, who is about to expose himself to great peril. But nevertheless he
equips himself, for no one can make him change his mind. For his
equipment the King sent him, when he arose, arms which he put to good
use. Erec did not refuse them, for his own were worn and impaired and in
bad state. He gladly accepted the arms and had himself equipped with them
in the hall. When he was armed, he descends the steps and finds his horse
saddled and the King who had mounted. Every one in the castle and in the
houses of the town hastened to mount. In all the town there remained
neither man nor woman, erect or deformed, great or small, weak or strong,
who is able to go and does not do so. When they start, there is a great noise
and clamour in all the streets; for those of high and low degree alike cry
out: "Alas, alas! oh knight, the Joy that thou wishest to win has betrayed
thee, and thou goest to win but grief and death." And there is not one but
says: "God curse this joy! which has been the death of so many gentlemen.
To-day it will wreak the worst woe that it has ever yet wrought." Erec hears
well and notes that up and down they said of him: "Alas, alas, ill-starred
wert thou, fair, gentle, skilful knight! Surely it would not be just that thy life
should end so soon, or that harm should come to wound and injure thee."
He hears clearly the words and what they said; but notwithstanding, he
passes on without lowering his head, and without the bearing of a craven.
Whoever may speak, he longs to see and know and understand why they are
all in such distress, anxiety, and woe. The King leads him without the town
into a garden that stood near by; and all the people follow after, praying that
from this trial God may grant him a happy issue. But it is not meet that I
should pass on, from weariness and exhaustion of tongue, without telling
you the whole truth about the garden, according as the story runs.

(Vv. 5739-5826.) 138 The garden had around it no wall or fence except of
air: yet, by a spell, the garden was on all sides so shut in by the air that
nothing could enter there any more than if the garden were enclosed in iron,
unless it flew in over the top. And all through the summer and the winter,
too, there were flowers and ripe fruits there; and the fruit was of such a
nature that it could be eaten inside; the danger consisted in carrying it out;
for whoever should wish to carry out a little would never be able to find the
gate, and never could issue from the garden until he had restored the fruit to
its place. And there is no flying bird under heaven, pleasing to man, but it
sings there to delight and to gladden him, and can be heard there in numbers
of every kind. And the earth, however far it stretch, bears no spice or root of
use in making medicine, but it had been planted there, and was to be found
in abundance. Through a narrow entrance the people entered—King Evrain
and all the rest. Erec went riding, lance in rest, into the middle of the
garden, greatly delighting in the song of the birds which were singing there;
they put him in mind of his Joy the thing he most was longing for. But he
saw a wondrous thing, which might arouse fear in the bravest warrior of all
whom we know, be it Thiebaut the Esclavon, 139 or Ospinel, or Fernagu.
For before them, on sharpened stakes, there stood bright and shining
helmets, and each one had beneath the rim a man's head. But at the end
there stood a stake where as yet there was nothing but a horn. 140 He knows
not what this signifies, yet draws not back a step for that; rather does he ask
the King, who was beside him at the right, what this can be. The King
speaks and explains to him: "Friend," he says, "do you know the meaning of
this thing that you see here? You must be in great terror of it, if you care at
all for your own body; for this single stake which stands apart, where you
see this horn hung up, has been waiting a very long time, but we know not
for whom, whether for you or someone else. Take care lest thy head be set
up there; for such is the purpose of the stake. I had warned you well of that
before you came here. I do not expect that you will escape hence, but that
you will be killed and rent apart. For this much we know, that the stake
awaits your head. And if it turns out that it be placed there, as the matter
stands agreed, as soon as thy head is fixed upon it another stake will be set
up beside it which will await the arrival of some one else—I know not
when or whom. I will tell you nothing of the horn; but never has any one
been able to blow it. 141 However, he who shall succeed in blowing it his
fame and honour will grow until it distance all those of his country, and he

shall find such renown that all will come to do him honour, and will hold
him to be the best of them all. Now there is no more of this matter. Have
your men withdraw; for 'the Joy' will soon arrive, and will make you sorry, I
suspect."
(Vv. 5827-6410.) Meanwhile King Evrain leaves his side, and Erec
stoops over before Enide, whose heart was in great distress, although she
held her peace; for grief on lips is of no account unless it also touch the
heart. And he who well knew her heart, said to her: "Fair sister dear, gentle,
loyal, and prudent lady, I am acquainted with your thoughts. You are in fear,
I see that well, and yet you do not know for what; but there is no reason for
your dismay until you shall see that my shield is shattered and that my body
is wounded, and until you see the meshes of my bright hauberk covered
with blood, and my helmet broken and smashed, and me defeated and
weary, so that I can no longer defend myself, but must beg and sue for
mercy against my will; then you may lament, but now you have begun too
soon. Gentle lady, as yet you know not what this is to be; no more do I. You
are troubled without cause. But know this truly: if there were in me only so
much courage as your love inspires, truly I should not fear to face any man
alive. But I am foolish to vaunt myself; yet I say it not from any pride, but
because I wish to comfort you. So comfort yourself, and let it be! I cannot
longer tarry here, nor can you go along with me; for, as the King has
ordered, I must not take you beyond this point." Then he kisses her and
commends her to God, and she him. But she is much chagrined that she
cannot follow and escort him, until she may learn and see what this
adventure is to be, and how he will conduct himself. But since she must
stay behind and cannot follow him, she remains sorrowful and grieving.
And he went off alone down a path, without companion of any sort, until he
came to a silver couch with a cover of gold-embroidered cloth, beneath the
shade of a sycamore; and on the bed a maiden of comely body and lovely
face, completely endowed with all beauty, was seated all alone. I intended
to say no more of her; but whoever could consider well all her attire and her
beauty might well say that never did Lavinia of Laurentum, who was so fair
and comely, possess the quarter of her beauty. Erec draws near to her,
wishing to see her more closely, and the onlookers go and sit down under
the trees in the orchard. Then behold, there comes a knight armed with
vermilion arms, and he was wondrous tall; and if he were not so
immeasurably tall, under the heavens there would be none fairer than he;

but, as every one averred, he was a foot taller than any knight he knew.
Before Erec caught sight of him, he cried out: "Vassal, vassal! You are mad,
upon my life, thus to approach my damsel. I should say you are not worthy
to draw near her. You will pay dearly for your presumption, by my head!
Stand back!" And Erec stops and looks at him, and the other, too, stood still.
Neither made advance until Erec had replied all that he wished to say to
him. "Friend," he says, "one can speak folly as well as good sense. Threaten
as much as you please, and I will keep silence; for in threatening there is no
sense. Do you know why? A man sometimes thinks he has won the game
who afterward loses it. So he is manifestly a fool who is too presumptuous
and who threatens too much. If there are some who flee there are plenty
who chase, but I do not fear you so much that I am going to run away yet. I
am ready to make such defence, if there is any who wishes to offer me
battle, that he will have to do his uttermost, or otherwise he cannot escape."
"Nay," quoth he, "so help me God! know that you shall have the battle, for I
defy and challenge you." And you may know, upon my word, that then the
reins were not held in. The lances they had were not light, but were big and
square; nor were they planed smooth, but were rough and strong. Upon the
shields with mighty strength they smote each other with their sharp
weapons, so that a fathom of each lance passes through the gleaming
shields. But neither touches the other's flesh, nor was either lance cracked;
each one, as quickly as he could, draws back his lance, and both rushing
together, return to the fray. One against the other rides, and so fiercely they
smite each other that both lances break and the horses fall beneath them.
But they, being seated on their steeds, sustain no harm; so they quickly rise,
for they were strong and lithe. They stand on foot in the middle of the
garden, and straightway attack each other with their green swords of
German steel, and deal great wicked blows upon their bright and gleaming
helmets, so that they hew them into bits, and their eyes shoot out flame. No
greater efforts can be made than those they make in striving and toiling to
injure and wound each other. Both fiercely smite with the gilded pommel
and the cutting edge. Such havoc did they inflict upon each other's teeth,
cheeks, nose, hands, arms, and the rest, upon temples, neck, and throat that
their bones all ache. They are very sore and very tired; yet they do not
desist, but rather only strive the more. Sweat, and the blood which flows
down with it, dim their eyes, so that they can hardly see a thing; and very
often they missed their blows, like men who did not see to wield their

swords upon each other. They can scarcely harm each other now; yet, they
do not desist at all from exercising all their strength. Because their eyes are
so blinded that they completely lose their sight, they let their shields fall to
the ground, and seize each other angrily. Each pulls and drags the other, so
that they fall upon their knees. Thus, long they fight until the hour of noon
is past, and the big knight is so exhausted that his breath quite fails him.
Erec has him at his mercy, and pulls and drags so that he breaks all the
lacing of his helmet, and forces him over at his feet. He falls over upon his
face against Erec's breast, and has not strength to rise again. Though it
distresses him, he has to say and own: "I cannot deny it, you have beaten
me; but much it goes against my will. And yet you may be of such degree
and fame that only credit will redound to me; and insistently I would
request, if it may be in any way, that I might know your name, and he
thereby somewhat comforted. If a better man has defeated me, I shall be
glad, I promise you; but if it has so fallen out that a baser man than I has
worsted me, then I must feel great grief indeed." "Friend, dost thou wish to
know my name?" says Erec; "Well, I shall tell thee ere I leave here; but it
will be upon condition that thou tell me now why thou art in this garden.
Concerning that I will know all what is thy name and what the Joy; for I am
very anxious to hear the truth from beginning to end of it." "Sire," says he,
"fearlessly I will tell you all you wish to know." Erec no more withholds his
name, but says: "Didst thou ever hear of King Lac and of his son Erec?"
"Yea, sire, I knew him well; for I was at his father's court for many a day
before I was knighted, and, if he had had his will, I should never have left
him for anything." "Then thou oughtest to know me well, if thou weft ever
with me at the court of my father, the King." "Then, upon my faith, it has
turned out well. Now hear who has detained me so long in this garden. I
will tell the truth in accordance with your injunction, whatever it may cost
me. That damsel who yonder sits, loved me from childhood and I loved her.
It pleased us both, and our love grew and increased, until she asked a boon
of me, but did not tell me what it was. Who would deny his mistress aught?
There is no lover but would surely do all his sweet-heart's pleasure without
default or guile, whenever he can in any way. I agreed to her desire; but
when I had agreed, she would have it, too, that I should swear. I would have
done more than that for her, but she took me at my word. I made her a
promise, without knowing what. Time passed until I was made a knight.
King Evrain, whose nephew I am, dubbed me a knight in the presence of

many honourable men in this very garden where we are. My lady, who is
sitting there, at once recalled to me my word, and said that I had promised
her that I would never go forth from here until there should come some
knight who should conquer me by trial of arms. It was right that I should
remain, for rather than break my word, I should never have pledged it.
Since I knew the good there was in her, I could nor reveal or show to the
one whom I hold most dear that in all this I was displeased; for if she had
noticed it, she would have withdrawn her heart, and I would not have had it
so for anything that might happen. Thus my lady thought to detain me here
for a long stay; she did not think that there would ever enter this garden any
vassal who could conquer me. In this way she intended to keep me
absolutely shut up with her all the days of my life. And I should have
committed an offence if I had had resort to guile and not defeated all those
against whom I could prevail; such escape would have been a shame. And I
dare to assure you that I have no friend so dear that I would have feigned at
all in fighting with him. Never did I weary of arms, nor did I ever refuse to
fight. You have surely seen the helmets of those whom I have defeated and
put to death; but the guilt of it is not mine, when one considers it aright. I
could not help myself, unless I were willing to be false and recreant and
disloyal. Now I have told you the truth, and be assured that it is no small
honour which you have gained. You have given great joy to the court of my
uncle and my friends; for now I shall be released from here; and because all
those who are at the court will have joy of it, therefore those who awaited
the joy called it 'Joy of the Court'. They have awaited it so long that now it
will be granted them by you who have won it by your fight. You have
defeated and bewitched my prowess and my chivalry. Now it is right that I
tell you my name, if you would know it. I am called Mabonagrain; but I am
not remembered by that name in any land where I have been, save only in
this region; for never, when I was a squire, did I tell or make known my
name. Sire, you knew the truth concerning all that you asked me. But I must
still tell you that there is in this garden a horn which I doubt not you have
seen. I cannot issue forth from here until you have blown the horn; but then
you will have released me, and then the Joy will begin. Whoever shall hear
and give it heed no hindrance will detain him, when he shall hear the sound
of the horn, from coming straight-way to the court. Rise up, sire! Go
quickly now! Go take the horn right joyfully; for you have no further cause
to wait; so do that which you must do." Now Erec rose, and the other rises

with him, and both approach the horn. Erec takes it and blows it, putting
into it all his strength, so that the sound of it reaches far. Greatly did Enide
rejoice when she heard the note, and Guivret was greatly delighted too. The
King is glad, and so are his people; there is not one who is not well suited
and pleased at this. No one ceases or leaves off from making merry and
from song. Erec could boast that day, for never was such rejoicing made; it
could not be described or related by mouth of man, but I will tell you the
sum of it briefly and with few words. The news spreads through the country
that thus the affair has turned out. Then there was no holding back from
coming to the court. All the people hasten thither in confusion, some on foot
and some on horse, without waiting for each other. And those who were in
the garden hastened to remove Erec's arms, and in emulation they all sang a
song about the Joy; and the ladies made up a lay which they called 'the Lay
of Joy', 142 but the lay is not well known. Erec was well sated with joy and
well served to his heart's desire; but she who sat on the silver couch was not
a bit pleased. The joy which she saw was not at all to her taste. But many
people have to keep still and look on at what gives them pain. Enide acted
graciously; because she saw her sitting pensive, alone on the couch, she felt
moved to go and speak with her and tell her about her affairs and about
herself, and to strive, if possible, to make her tell in return about herself, if
it did not cause her too great distress. Enide thought to go alone, wishing to
take no one with her, but some of the most noble and fairest dames and
damsels followed her out of affection to bear her company, and also to
comfort her to whom the joy brings great chagrin; for she assumed that now
her lover would be no longer with her so much as he had been, inasmuch as
he desired to leave the garden. However disappointing it may be, no one
can prevent his going away, for the hour and the time have come. Therefore
the tears ran down her face from her eyes. Much more than I can say was
she grieving and distressed; nevertheless she sat up straight. But she does
not care so much for any of those who try to comfort her that she ceases her
moan. Enide salutes her kindly; but for a while the other could not reply a
word, being prevented by the sighs and sobs which torment and distress her.
Some time it was before the damsel returned her salutation, and when she
had looked at her and examined her for a while, it seemed that she had seen
and known her before. But not being very certain of it, she was not slow to
inquire from whence she was, of what country, and where her lord was
born; she inquires who they both are. Enide replies briefly and tells her the

truth, saying: "I am the niece of the Count who holds sway over Lalut, the
daughter of his own sister; at Lalut I was born and brought up." The other
cannot help smiling, without hearing more, for she is so delighted that she
forgets her sorrow. Her heart leaps with joy which she cannot conceal. She
runs and embraces Enide, saying: "I am your cousin! This is the very truth,
and you are my father's niece; for he and your father are brothers. But I
suspect that you do not know and have never heard how I came into this
country. The Count, your uncle, was at war, and to him there came to fight
for pay knights of many lands. Thus, fair cousin, it came about, that with
these hireling knights there came one who was the nephew of the king of
Brandigan. He was with my father almost a year. That was, I think, twelve
years ago, and I was still but a little child. He was very handsome and
attractive. There we had an understanding between us that pleased us both. I
never had any wish but his, until at last he began to love me and promised
and swore to me that he would always be my lover, and that he would bring
me here; that pleased us both alike. He could not wait, and I was longing to
come hither with him; so we both came away, and no one knew of it but
ourselves. In those days you and I were both young and little girls. I have
told you the truth; so now tell me in turn, as I have told you, all about your
lover, and by what adventure he won you." "Fair cousin, he married me in
such a way that my father knew all about it, and my mother was greatly
pleased. All our relatives knew it and rejoiced over it, as they should do.
Even the Count was glad. For he is so good a knight that better cannot be
found, and he does not need to prove his honour and knighthood, and he is
of very gentle birth: I do not think that any can be his equal. He loves me
much, and I love him more, and our love cannot be greater. Never yet could
I withhold my love from him, nor should I do so. For is not my lord the son
of a king? For did he not take me when I was poor and naked? Through him
has such honour come to me that never was any such vouchsafed to a poor
helpless girl. And if it please you, I will tell you without lying how I came
to be thus raised up; for never will I be slow to tell the story." Then she told
and related to her how Erec came to Lalut; for she had no desire to conceal
it. She told her the adventure word for word, without omission. But I pass
over it now, because he who tells a story twice makes his tale now tiresome.
While they were thus conversing, one lady slipped away alone, who sent
and told it all to the gentlemen, in order to increase and heighten their
pleasure too. All those who heard it rejoiced at this news. And when

Mabonagrain knew it he was delighted for his sweetheart because now she
was comforted. And she who bore them quickly the news made them all
happy in a short space. Even the King was glad for it; although he was very
happy before, yet now he is still happier, and shows Erec great honour.
Enide leads away her fair cousin, fairer than Helen, more graceful and
charming. Now Erec and Mabonagrain, Guivret and King Evrain, and all
the others run to meet them and salute them and do them honour, for no one
is grudging or holds back. Mabonagrain makes much of Enide, and she of
him. Erec and Guivret, for their part, rejoice over the damsel as they all kiss
and embrace each other. They propose to return to the castle, for they have
stayed too long in the garden. They are all prepared to go out; so they sally
forth joyfully, kissing each other on the way. All go out after the King, but
before they reached the castle, the nobles were assembled from all the
country around, and all those who knew of the Joy, and who could do so,
came hither. Great was the gathering and the press. Every one, high and
low, rich and poor, strives to see Erec. Each thrusts himself before the other,
and they all salute him and bow before him, saying constantly: "May God
save him through whom joy and gladness come to our court! God save the
most blessed man whom God has ever brought into being!" Thus they bring
him to the court, and strive to show their glee as their hearts dictate. Breton
zithers, harps, and viols sound, fiddles, psalteries, and other stringed
instruments, and all kinds of music that one could name or mention. But I
wish to conclude the matter briefly without too long delay. The King
honours him to the extent of his power, as do all the others ungrudgingly.
There is no one who does not gladly offer to do his service. Three whole
days the Joy lasted, before Erec could get away. On the fourth he would no
longer tarry for any reason they could urge. There was a great crowd to
accompany him and a very great press when it came to taking leave. If he
had wished to reply to each one, he would not have been able in half a day
to return the salutations individually. The nobles he salutes and embraces;
the others he commends to God in a word, and salutes them. Enide, for her
part, is not silent when she takes leave of the nobles. She salutes them all by
name, and they in turn do the like. Before she goes, she kisses her cousin
very tenderly and embraces her. Then they go and the Joy is over.
(Vv. 6411-6509.) They go off and the others return. Erec and Guivret do
not tarry, but keep joyfully on their way, until they came in nine days to
Robais, where they were told the King was. The day before he had been

bled privately in his apartments; with him he had only five hundred nobles
of his household. Never before at any time was the King found so alone,
and he was much distressed that he had no more numerous suite at his
court. At that time a messenger comes running, whom they had sent ahead
to apprise the King of their approach. This man came in before the
assembly, found the King and all his people, and saluting him correctly,
said: "I am a messenger of Erec and of Guivret the Little." Then he told him
how they were coming to see him at his court. The King replies: "Let them
be welcome, as valiant and gallant gentlemen! Nowhere do I know of any
better than they two. By their presence my court will be much enhanced."
Then he sent for the Queen and told her the news. The others have their
horses saddled to go and meet the gentlemen. In such haste are they to
mount that they did not put on their spurs. I ought to state briefly that the
crowd of common people, including squires, cooks, and butlers, had already
entered the town to prepare for the lodgings. The main party came after, and
had already drawn so near that they had entered the town. Now the two
parties have met each other, and salute and kiss each other. They come to
the lodgings and make themselves comfortable, removing their hose and
making their toilet by donning their rich robes. When they were completely
decked out, they took their way to the court. They come to court, where the
King sees them, and the Queen, who is beside herself with impatience to
see Erec and Enide. The King makes them take seats beside him, kisses
Erec and Guivret; about Enide's neck he throws his arms and kisses her
repeatedly, in his great joy. Nor is the Queen slow in embracing Erec and
Enide. One might well rejoice to see her now so full of joy. Every one
enters with spirit into the merry-making. Then the King causes silence to be
made, and appeals to Erec and asks news of his adventures. When the noise
had ceased, Erec began his story, telling him of his adventures, without
forgetting any detail. Do you think now that I shall tell you what motive he
had had in starting out? Nay, for you know the whole truth about this and
the rest, as I have revealed it to you. To tell the story again would burden
me; for the tale is not short, that any one should wish to begin it afresh and
re-embelish it, as he told and related it: of the three knights whom he
defeated, and then of the five, and then of the Count who strove to do him
harm, and then of the two giants—all in order, one after the other, he told
him of his adventures up to the point where he met Count Oringle of
Limors. "Many a danger have you gone through, fair gentle friend," said the

King to him; "now tarry in this country at my court, as you are wont to do."
"Sire, since you wish it, I shall remain very gladly three or four years entire.
But ask Guivret to remain here too a request in which I would fain join."
The King prays him to remain, and he consents to stay. So they both stay:
the King kept them with him, and held them dear and honoured them.
(Vv. 6510-6712.) Erec stayed at court, together with Guivret and Enide,
until the death of his father, the king, who was an old man and full of years.
The messengers then started out: the nobles who went to seek him, and who
were the greatest men of the land, sought and searched for him until they
found him at Tintagel three weeks before Christmas; they told him the truth
what had happened to his old, white-haired father, and how he now was
dead and gone. This grieved Erec much more than he showed before the
people. But sorrow is not seemly in a king, nor does it become a king to
mourn. There at Tintagel where he was, he caused vigils for the dead and
Masses to be sung; he promised and kept his promises, as he had vowed to
the religious houses and churches; he did well all that he ought to do: he
chose out more than one hundred and sixty-nine of the wretched poor, and
clothed them all in new garments. To the poor clerks and priors he gave, as
was right, black copes and warm linings to wear beneath. For God's sake he
did great good to all: to those who were in need he distributed more than a
barrel of small coins. When he had shared his wealth, he then did a very
wise thing in receiving his land from the King's hand; and then he begged
the King to crown him at his court. The King bade him quickly be prepared;
for they shall both be crowned, he together with his wife, at the approaching
Christmastide; and he added: "You must go hence to Nantes in Brittany;
there you shall carry a royal ensign with crown on head and sceptre in hand;
this gift and privilege I bestow upon you." Erec thanked the King, and said
that that was a noble gift. At Christmas the King assembles all his nobles,
summoning them individually and commanding them to come to Nantes.
He summoned them all, and none stayed behind. Erec, too, sent word to
many of his followers, and summoned them to come thither; but more came
than he had bidden, to serve him and do him honour. I cannot tell you or
relate who each one was, and what his name; but whoever came or did not
come, the father and mother of my lady Enide were not forgotten. Her
father was sent for first of all, and he came to court in handsome style, like
a great lord and a chatelain. There was no great crowd of chaplains or of
silly, gaping yokels, but of excellent knights and of people well equipped.

Each day they made a long day's journey, and rode on each day with great
joy and great display, until on Christmas eve they came to the city of
Nantes. They made no halt until they entered the great hall where the King
and his courtiers were. Erec and Enide see them, and you may know how
glad they were. To meet them they quickly make their way, and salute and
embrace them, speaking to them tenderly and showing their delight as they
should. When they had rejoiced together, taking each other by the hand,
they all four came before the King, saluting him and likewise the Queen,
who was sitting by his side. Taking his host by the hand, Erec said: "Sire,
behold my good host, my kind friend, who did me such honour that he
made me master in his own house. Before he knew anything about me, he
lodged me well and handsomely. All that he had he made over to me, and
even his daughter he bestowed upon me, without the advice or counsel of
any one." "And this lady with him," the King inquires, "who is she?" Erec
does not conceal the truth: "Sire," says he, "of this lady I may say that she is
the mother of my wife." "Is she her mother?" "Yes, truly, sire." "Certainly, I
may then well say that fair and comely should be the flower born of so fair
a stem, and better the fruit one picks; for sweet is the smell of what springs
from good. Fair is Enide and fair she should be in all reason and by right;
for her mother is a very handsome lady, and her father is a goodly knight.
Nor does she in aught belie them; for she descends and inherits directly
from them both in many respects." Then the King ceases and sits down,
bidding them be seated too. They do not disobey his command, but
straightway take seats. Now is Enide filled with joy when she sees her
father and mother, for a very long time had passed since she had seen them.
Her happiness now is greatly increased, for she was delighted and happy,
and she showed it all she could, but she could not make such demonstration
but that her joy was yet greater. But I wish to say no more of that, for my
heart draws me toward the court which was now assembled in force. From
many a different country there were counts and dukes and kings, Normans,
Bretons. Scotch, and Irish: from England and Cornwall there was a very
rich gathering of nobles; for from Wales to Anjou, in Maine and in Poitou,
there was no knight of importance, nor lady of quality, but the best and the
most elegant were at the court at Nantes, as the King had bidden them. Now
hear, if you will, the great joy and grandeur, the display and the wealth, that
was exhibited at the court. Before the hour of nones had sounded, King
Arthur dubbed four hundred knights or more all sons of counts and of

kings. To each one he gave three horses and two pairs of suits, in order that
his court may make a better showing. Puissant and lavish was the King; for
the mantles he bestowed were not of serge, nor of rabbit-skins, nor of cheap
brown fur, but of heavy silk and ermine, of spotted fur and flowered silks,
bordered with heavy and stiff gold braid. Alexander, who conquered so
much that he subdued the whole world, and who was so lavish and rich,
compared with him was poor and mean. Caesar, the Emperor of Rome, and
all the kings whose names you hear in stories and in epic songs, did not
distribute at any feast so much as Arthur gave on the day that he crowned
Erec; nor would Caesar and Alexander dare to spend so much as he spent at
the court. The raiment was taken from the chests and spread about freely
through the halls; one could take what he would, without restraint. In the
midst of the court, upon a rug, stood thirty bushels of bright sterlings; 143
for since the time of Merlin until that day sterlings had currency throughout
Britain. There all helped themselves, each one carrying away that night all
that he wanted to his lodging-place. At nine o'clock on Christmas day, all
came together again at court. The great joy that is drawing near for him had
completely filched Erec's heart away. The tongue and the mouth of no man,
however skilful, could describe the third, or the fourth, or the fifth part of
the display which marked his coronation. So it is a mad enterprise I
undertake in wishing to attempt to describe it. But since I must make the
effort, come what may, I shall not fail to relate a part of it, as best I may.
(Vv. 6713-6809.) The King had two thrones of white ivory, well
constructed and new, of one pattern and style. He who made them beyond a
doubt was a very skilled and cunning craftsman. For so precisely did he
make the two alike in height, in breadth, and in ornamentation, that you
could nor look at them from every side to distinguish one from the other
and find in one aught that was not in the other. There was no part of wood,
but all of gold and fine ivory. Well were they carved with great skill, for the
two corresponding sides of each bore the representation of a leopard, and
the other two a dragon's shape. A knight named Bruiant of the Isles had
made a gift and present of them to King Arthur and the Queen. King Arthur
sat upon the one, and upon the other he made Erec sit, who was robed in
watered silk. As we read in the story, we find the description of the robe,
and in order that no one may say that I lie, I quote as my authority
Macrobius, 144 who devoted himself to the description of it. Macrobius
instructs me how to describe, according as I have found it in the book, the

workmanship and the figures of the cloth. Four fairies had made it with
great skill and mastery. 145 One represented there geometry, how it
estimates and measures the extent of the heavens and the earth, so that
nothing is lacking there; and then the depth and the height, and the width,
and the length; then it estimates, besides, how broad and deep the sea is,
and thus measures the whole world. Such was the work of the first fairy.
And the second devoted her effort to the portrayal of arithmetic, and she
strove hard to represent clearly how it wisely enumerates the days and the
hours of time, and the water of the sea drop by drop, and then all the sand,
and the stars one by one, knowing well how to tell the truth, and how many
leaves there are in the woods: such is the skill of arithmetic that numbers
have never deceived her, nor will she ever be in error when she wishes to
apply her sense to them. The third design was that of music, with which all
merriment finds itself in accord, songs and harmonies, and sounds of string:
of harp, of Breton violin, and of viol. This piece of work was good and fine;
for upon it were portrayed all the instruments and all the pastimes. The
fourth, who next performed her task, executed a most excellent work; for
the best of the arts she there portrayed. She undertook astronomy, which
accomplishes so many marvels and draws inspiration from the stars, the
moon, and the sun. Nowhere else does it seek counsel concerning aught
which it has to do. They give it good and sure advice. Concerning whatever
inquiry it make of them, whether in the past or in the future, they give it
information without falsehood and without deception. This work was
portrayed on the stuff of which Erec's robe was made, all worked and
woven with thread of gold. The fur lining that was sewed within, belonged
to some strange beasts whose heads are all white, and whose necks are as
black as mulberries, and which have red backs and green bellies, and dark
blue tail. These beasts live in India and they are called "barbiolets". They
eat nothing but spices, cinnamon, and fresh cloves. What shall I tell you of
the mantle? It was very rich and fine and handsome; it had four stones in
the tassels—two chrysolites on one side, and two amethysts on the other,
which were mounted in gold.
(Vv. 6810-6946.) As yet Enide had not come to the palace. When the
King sees that she delays, he bids Gawain go quickly to bring her and the
Queen. Gawain hastens and was not slow, and with him King Cadoalant
and the generous King of Galloway. Guivret the Little accompanies them,
followed by Yder the son of Nut. So many of the other nobles ran thither to

escort the two ladies that they would have sufficed to overcome a host; for
there were more than a thousand of them. The Queen had made her best
effort to adorn Enide. Into the palace they brought her the courteous
Gawain escorting her on one side, and on the other the generous King of
Galloway, who loved her dearly on account of Erec who was his nephew.
When they came to the palace, King Arthur came quickly toward them, and
courteously seated Enide beside Erec; for he wished to do her great honour.
Now he orders to be brought forth from his treasure two massive crowns of
fine gold. As soon as he had spoken and given the command, without delay
the crowns were brought before him, all sparkling with carbuncles, of
which there were four in each. The light of the moon is nothing compared
with the light which the least of the carbuncles could shed. Because of the
radiance which they shed, all those who were in the palace were so dazzled
that for a moment they could see nothing; and even the King was amazed,
and yet filled with satisfaction, when he saw them to be so clear and bright.
He had one of them held by two damsels, and the other by two gentlemen.
Then he bade the bishops and priors and the abbots of the Church step
forward and anoint the new King, as the Christian practice is. Now all the
prelates, young and old, came forward; for at the court there were a great
number of bishops and abbots. The Bishop of Nantes himself, who was a
very worthy and saintly man, anointed the new King in a very holy and
becoming manner, and placed the crown upon his head. King Arthur had a
sceptre brought which was very fine. Listen to the description of the
sceptre, which was clearer than a pane of glass, all of one solid emerald,
fully as large as your fist. I dare to tell you in very truth that in all the world
there is no manner of fish, or of wild behest, or of man, or of flying bird
that was not worked and chiselled upon it with its proper figure. The sceptre
was handed to the King, who looked at it with amazement; then he put it
without delay into King Erec's right hand; and now he was King as he ought
to be. Then he crowned Enide in turn. Now the bells ring for Mass, and they
go to the main church to hear the Mass and service; they go to pray at the
cathedral. You would have seen weeping with joy the father of Queen Enide
and her mother, Carsenefide. In truth this was her mother's name, and her
father's name was Liconal. Very happy were they both. When they came to
the cathedral, the procession came out from the church with relics and
treasures to meet them. Crosses and prayerbooks and censers and
reliquaries, with all the holy relics, of which there were many in the church,

were all brought out to meet them; nor was there any lack of chants made.
Never were seen so many kings, counts, dukes, and nobles together at a
Mass, and the press was so great and thick that the church was completely
filled. No low-born man could enter there, but only ladies and knights.
Outside the door of the church a great number still remained, so many were
there come together who could not get inside the church. When they had
heard all the Mass they returned to the palace. It was all prepared and
decorated: tables set and cloths spread five hundred tables and more were
there; but I do not wish to make you believe a thing which does not seem
true. It would seem too great a lie were I to say that five hundred tables
were set in rows in one palace, so I will not say it; rather were there five
hails so filled with them that with great difficulty could one make his way
among the tables. At each table there was in truth a king or a duke or a
count; and full a hundred knights were seated at each table. A thousand
knights served the bread, and a thousand served the wine, and a thousand
the meat—all of them dressed in fresh fur robes of ermine. All are served
with divers dishes. Even if I did not see them, I might still be able to tell
you about them; but I must attend to something else than to tell you what
they had to eat. They had enough, without wanting more; joyfully and
liberally they were served to their heart's desire.
(Vv. 6947-6958.) When this celebration was concluded, the King
dismissed the assemblage of kings, dukes, and counts, of which the number
was immense, and of the other humble folk who had come to the festival.
He rewarded them liberally with horses, arms and silver, cloths and
brocades of many kinds, because of his generosity, and because of Erec
whom he loved so much. Here the story ends at last.
——Endnotes: Erec Et Enide
NOTE: Endnotes supplied by Prof. Foerster are indicated by "(F.)"; all
other endnotes are supplied by W.W. Comfort.
11 (return)
[ A Welsh version, "Geraint the Son of Erbin", included in
Lady Charlotte Guest's translation of "The Mabinogion"
(London, 1838-49; a modern edition will be found in
Everyman Library, London, 1906), tells the same story as
"Erec et Enide" with some variations. This Welsh version
has also been translated into modern French by J. Loth ("Les
Mabinogion", Paris, 1889), where it may be consulted with
the greatest confidence. The relation of the Welsh prose to
the French poem is a moot point. Cf. E. Philipot in

"Romania", XXV. 258-294, and earlier, K. Othmer, "Ueber
das Verhaltnis Chrestiens Erec und Enide zu dem
Mabinogion des rothen Buch von Hergest" (Koln, 1889); G.
Paris in "Romania", XIX. 157, and id. XX. 148-166.]
12 (return)
[ We frequently read in the romances of a hunt at Easter (F.).
As here, so in "Fergus" (ed. Martin, Halle, 1872), p. 2 f., the
knights hunt a white stag, which Perceval finally slays, but
there is no mention of the ceremony of the bestowal of a
kiss.]
13 (return)
[ Chrétien nowhere gives any description of the nature of the
Round Table. With him, it is an institution. Layamon in
"Brut" and Wace in "Le Roman de Brut" are more specific in
their accounts of this remarkable piece of furniture. From
their descriptions, and from other sources in Welsh and Irish
literature, it is reasonable to suppose that the Round Table
had a place in primitive Celtic folk-lore. Cf. L.F. Mott, "The
Round Table" in "Pub. of the Modern Language Association
of America", XX. 231-264; A.C.L. Brown, "The Round
Table before Wace" in "Harvard Studies and Notes in
Philology and Literature", vii. 183-205 (Boston, 1900); Miss
J.L Weston, "A Hitherto Unconsidered Aspect of the Round
Table" in "Melanges de philologie romane offerts a M.
Wilmotte", ii. 883-894, 2 vols. (Paris, 1910).]
14 (return)
[ There exists a romance devoted to Yder, of which G. Paris
printed a resume in "Hist. Litt. de la France", XXX., and
which has been recently edited by Heinrich Gelzer: "Der
altfranzosische Yderroman" (Dresden, 1913). There are
apparently three different knight of this name in the old
French romances (F.).]
15 (return)
[ The word "chastel" (from "castellum") is usually to be
translated as "town" or strong place within fortifications.
Only where it plainly refers to a detached building will the
word "castle" be used.]
16 (return)
[ A "tercel" is a species of falcon, of which the male bird is
one-third smaller than the female.]
17 (return)
[ A "vavasor" (from "vassus vassallorum") was a low order
of vassal, but a freeman. The vavasors are spoken of with
respect in the old French romances, as being of honourable
character, though not of high birth.]
18 (return)
[ The numerous references to the story of King Mark,
Tristan, and Iseut in the extant poems of Chrétien support

his own statement, made at the outset of "Cligés", that he
himself composed a poem on the nephew and wife of the
King of Cornwall. We have fragments of poems on Tristan
by the Anglo-Norman poets Beroul and Thomas, who were
contemporaries of Chrétien. Foerster's hypothesis that the
lost "Tristan" of Chrétien antedated "Erec" is doubtless
correct. That the poet later treated of the love of Cligés and
Fenice as a sort of literary atonement for the inevitable
moral laxity of Tristan and Iseut has been held by some, and
the theory is acceptable in view of the references to be met
later in "Cligés". For the contrary opinion of Gaston Paris
see "Journal des Savants" (1902), p. 297 f.]
19 (return)
[ In the Mabinogi "Geraint the Son of Erbin", the host
explains that he had wrongfully deprived his nephew of his
possessions, and that in revenge the nephew had later taken
all his uncle's property, including an earldom and this town.
See Guest, "The Mabinogion".]
110 (return)
[ The hauberk was a long shirt of mail reaching to the knees,
worn by knights in combat. The helmet, and the "coiffe"
beneath it, protected the head; the "ventail" of linked meshes
was worn across the lower part of the face, and was attached
on each side of the neck to the "coiffe", so that it protected
the throat; the greaves covered the legs. The body of the
knight was thus well protected against blow of sword or
lance. Cf. Vv.711 f.]
111 (return)
[ This passage seems to imply that charms and enchantments
were sometimes used when a knight was armed (F.).]
112 (return)
[ The "loges", so often mentioned in old French romances,
were either window-balconies or architectural points of
vantage commanding some pleasing prospect. The
conventional translation in the old English romances is
"bower".]
113 (return)
[ Tristan killed Morholt, the uncle of Iseut, when he came to
claim tribute form King Mark (cf. Bedier, "Le Roman de
Tristan", etc., i. 85 f., 2 vols., Paris, 1902). The combat took
place on an island, unnamed in the original text (id. i. 84),
but later identified with St. Samson's Isle, one of the Scilly
Isles.]
114 (return)
[ The same act of feeding a hunting-bird with a plover's
wing is mentioned in "Le Roman de Thebes", 3857-58 (ed.
"Anciens Textes").]

115 (return)
[ For such figurative expressions used to complement the
negative, cf. Gustav Dreyling, "Die Ausdruckweise der
ubertriebenen Verkleinerung im altfranzosischen Karlsepos",
in Stengel's "Ausgaben und Abhandlungen", No. 82
(Marsburg, 1888); W.W. Comfort in "Modern Language
Notes" (Baltimore, February 1908).]
116 (return)
[ Chrétien in his later romances will avoid compiling such a
prosaic blue-book as is found in this passage, though similar
lists of knights occur in the old English romances as late as
Malory, though of some of them but little is known.
Unfortunately, we have for the old French romances no such
complete work as that furnished for the epic poems by E.
Langois, "Table des noms propres de toute nature compris
dans les chansons de geste" (Paris, 1904).]
117 (return)
[ The only mention by Chrétien of this son of Arthur, whose
role is absolutely insignificant in the Arthurian romances.]
118 (return)
[ What was this drinking-cup, and who sent it to Arthur? We
have "Le Lai du cor" (ed. Wulff, Lund, 1888), which tells
how a certain King Mangount of Moraine sent a magic
drinking-cup to Arthur. No one could drink of this cup
without spilling the contents if he were a cuckold. Drinking
from this cup was, then, one of the many current tests of
chastity. Further light may be thrown on the passage in our
text by the English poem "The Cokwold's Daunce" (in C.H.
Hartshorne's "Ancient Metrical Ballads", London, 1829),
where Arthur is described as a cuckold himself and as
having always by him a horn (cup) which he delights in
trying on his knights as a test of their ladies' chastity. For
bibliography see T.P. Cross, "Notes on the Chastity-Testing
Horns and Mantle" in "Modern Philology", x. 289-299.]
119 (return)
[ A unique instance of such a division of the material in
Chrétien's poems (F.).]
120 (return)
[ Outre-Gales=Estre-Gales (v.3883)=Extra-Galliam.]
121 (return)
[ Such fanciful descriptions of men and lands are common in
the French epic poems, where they are usually applied to the
Saracens (F.). Cf. W.w. Comfort, "The Saracens in Christian
Poetry" in "The Dublin Review", July 1911; J. Malsch, "Die
Charakteristik der Volker im altfranzosischen nationalen
Epos" (Heidelberg, 1912).]
122 (return)
[ With what seems to us mistaken taste, Chrétien frequently

thus delays mentioning the name of his leading charecters.
The father and mother of Enide remain anonymous until the
end of this poem. The reader will remark other instances of
this peculiarity in "Yvain" and "Lancelot".]
123 (return)
[ The maid Brangien was substituted for Iseut, the bride,
upon the first night after her marriage with Mark. Similar
traditions are associated with the marriage of Arthur and
Guinevere, and of Pepin and Berte aus grans pies, the
parents of Charlemagne. Adenet le Roi toward the end of the
13th century is the author of the most artistic treatments of
Berte's history (ed. A. Scheler, Bruxelles, 1874). Cf. W.W.
Comfort, "Adenet le Roi: The End of a Literary Era" in "The
Quarterly Review", April 1913.]
124 (return)
[ The reading "Sanson" (=Samson) is Foerster's most recent
(1904) suggestion to replace the word "lion" which stands in
all the MSS. Solomon's name has always been synonymous
with wisdom, and Alexander's generosity was proverbial in
the Middle Ages. For Alexander, cf. Paul Meyer, "Alexandre
le Grand dans la litterature francaise du moyen age", 2 vols.
(Paris, 1886), vol ii., pp. 372-376, and Paget Toynbee,
"Dante Studies and Researches" (London, 1902), p. 144.]
125 (return)
[ Of Arthur's several nephews, Gawain is represented by
Chrétien as peerless in respect of courage and courtesy. In
the English romances his character steadily deteriorates.]
126 (return)
[ This sentence contains the motive for all the action in the
sequel. The same situation is threatened in "Yvain", but there
Gawain rescues the hero from the lethargy, ignoble in the
eyes of a feudal audience, into which he was falling. Cf. also
"Marques de Rome" ("Lit. Verein in Stuttgart", Tubingen,
1889), p. 36, where the Empress of Rome thus incites her
husband to the chase: "Toz jors cropez vos a Postel; vos
n'estes point chevalereus, si come vos deussiez estre, si
juenes hom come vos estes"; also J. Gower, "Le Mirour de
l'omme, 22, 813 ff.:
"Rois est des femmes trop decu, Qant plus les ayme que son dieu, Dont
laist honour pour foldelit: Cil Rois ne serra pas cremu, Q'ensi voet laisser
sou escu Et querre le bataille ou lit."]
127 (return)
[ This brusque command, implying so sudden a change in
Erec's attitude toward his wife, initiates a long series of tests
of Enide's devotion, which fill the rest of the romance. Why
did Erec treat his wife with such severity? In the Mabinogi
of "Geraint the Son of Erbin", it is plain that jealousy was
the hero's motive. The reader of "Erec" may judge whether,

as we believe, the hero's sudden resolve is not rather that of
a man piqued at being justly reproved by his wife for a
delinquency he had not himself remarked; irate at his wife's
imputation, and fearful of having forfeited her respect, he
starts out to redeem his reputation in her eyes, and to maker
her retract any insinuation she had made. Erec is simply
angry with himself, but he expends his wrath upon his
defenceless wife until he is reassured of her love and respect
for him.]
128 (return)
[ The situation here is a common one. Parallels will be found
in the "Voyage de Charlemagne", in the first tale of the
"Arabian Nights", in the poem "Biterolf and Dietlieb", and
in the English ballad of "King Arthur and King Cornwall".
Professor Child, in his "English and Scotch Ballads",
indexes the ballads in his collection, which present this
motive, under the following caption: "King who regards
himself as the richest, most magnificent, etc., in the world, is
told that there is one who outstrips him, and undertakes to
see for himself whether this is so, threatening death to the
person who has affirmed his inferiority in case this is
disproved."]
129 (return)
[ The presence of the Irish in this connection is explained by
G. Paris in "Romania", xx. 149.]
130 (return)
[ Kay the Seneschal appears here for the first time in
Chrétien's poems with the character which he regularly
ascribes to him. Readers of Arthurian romance are all
familiar with Sir Kay; they will find that in Chrétien, the
seneschal, in addition to his undeniable qualities of bravery
and frankness, has less pleasing traits; he is foolhardy,
tactless, mean, and a disparager of others' merit. He figures
prominently in "Yvain" and "Lancelot". His poetic history
has not yet been written. His role in the German romances
has been touched upon by Dr. Friedrich Sachse, "Ueber den
Ritter Kei" (Berlin, 1860).]
131 (return)
[ No meat was eaten because it was the eve of Sunday.]
132 (return)
[ In the French epic poems and romances of adventure alike
it is customary for giants and all manner of rustic boors to
carry clubs, the arms of knighthood being appropriate for
such ignoble creatures. Other instances of this convention
will be remarked in the text.]
133 (return)
[ There follows and excellent example of an old French
lament for the dead. Such a wail was known in old French as

a "regret", a word which has lost its specific meaning in
English.]
134 (return)
[ Many examples will be met of women skilled in the
practice of medicine and surgery. On the subject, cf. A.
Hertel, "Versauberte Oertlichkeiten und Gegenstande in der
altfranzosschen Dichtung" (Hanover, 1908); Georg
Manheimer, "Etwas liber die Aerzte im alten Frankreich" in
"Romanische Forschungen", vi. 581-614.]
135 (return)
[ The reference here and in v.5891 is probably suggested by
the "Roman d'Eneas", which tells the same story as Virgil's
"Aeneid", in old French eight-syllable rhymed couplets, and
which is dated by the most recent scholarship 1160 circ. Cf.
F.M. Warren in "Modern Philology", iii. 179-209; iii. 513-
539; iv. 655-675. Also M. Wilmotte, "L'Evolution du roman
francais aux environs de 1150" (Paris, 1903). Scenes from
classical and medieval romance were for a long time
favourite subject of portrayal upon cloths and tapestries, as
well as of illuminations for manuscripts.]
136 (return)
[ Various conjectures have been advanced concerning the
significance of this strange adventure and its mysterious
name "La Joie de la cour". It is a quite extraneous episode,
and Tennyson in his artistic use of our hero and heroine in
the Idyl of "Geraint and Enid" did well to omit it. Chrétien's
explanation, a little farther on, of "La Joie de la cour" is
lame and unsatisfactory, as if he himself did not understand
the significance of the matter upon which he was working.
Cf. E. Philipot in "Romania", xxv. 258-294; K. Othmer,
"Ueber das Verhaltnis Chrestiens Erec und Enide zu dem
Mabinogion des rothen Buch von Hergest" (Bonn, 1889); G.
Paris in "Romania", xx. 152 f.]
137 (return)
[ The following description of Erec's reception is repeated
with variations at the time of Yvain's entrance in the
"Chastel de Pesme Avanture" ("Yvain", 5107 f.) (F.).]
138 (return)
[ For such conventional mediaeval descriptions of other-
world castles, palaces, and landscapes, cf. O.M. Johnston in
"Ztsch fur romanische Philologie", xxxii. 705-710.]
139 (return)
[ Tiebaut li Esclavon, frequently mentioned in the epic
poems, was a Saracen king, the first husband of Guibourne,
who later married the Christian hero Guillaume d'Orange.
Opinel was also a Saracen, mentioned in "Gaufrey", p. 132,
and the hero of a lost epic poem (see G. Paris, "Historie
poetique de Charlemagne", p. 127). Fernagu was another
Saracen king, killed in a famous encounter by Roland,

"Otinel", p. 9 (F.). For further references to these characters,
see E. Langlois, "Table des noms propres de toute nature
compris dans les chansons de geste" (Paris, 1904).]
140 (return)
[ There is a similar picket fence topped with helmets in the
"Las de la Mule sanz frain", v. 433 (ed. By R.T. Hill,
Baltimore, 1911).]
141 (return)
[ For such magic horns, cf. A. Hertel, "Verzauberte
Oertlichkeiten", etc. (Hanover, 1908).]
142 (return)
[ In fact, nothing is known of this "lai", if, indeed, it ever
existed. For a recent definition of "lai", se L. Foulet in
"Ztsch. fur romanische Philologie", xxxii. 161 f.]
143 (return)
[ The sterling was the English silver penny, 240 of which
equalled 1 Pound Sterling of silver of 5760 grains 925 fine.
It is early described as "denarius Angliae qui vocatur
sterlingus" ("Ency. Brit").]
144 (return)
[ Macrobius was a Neoplatonic philosopher and Latin
grammarian of the early part of the 5th century A.D. He is
best known as the author of the "Saturnalia" and of a
commentary upon Cicero's "Somnium Scipionis" in that
author's "De republica". It is this latter work that is probably
in the mind of Chrétien, as well as of Gower, who refers to
him in his "Mirour l'omme", and of Jean de Meun, the
author of the second part of the "Roman de la Rose".]
145 (return)
[ For fairies and their handiwork in the Middle Ages, cf.
L.F.A. Maury, "Les Fees du moyen age" (Paris, 1843);
Keightley, "Fairy Mythology" (London, 1860); Lucy A.
Paton, "Studies in the Fairy Mythology of Arthurian
Romance", Radcliffe Monograph (Boston, 1903); D.B.
Easter, "The Magic Elements in the romans d'aventure and
the romans bretons" (Baltimore, 1906).]

CLIGÉS21
(Vv. 1-44.) He who wrote of Erec and Enide, and translated into French
the commands of Ovid and the Art of Love, and wrote the Shoulder Bite, 22
and about King Mark and the fair Iseut, 23 and about the metamorphosis of
the Lapwing, 24 the Swallow, and the Nightingale, will tell another story
now about a youth who lived in Greece and was a member of King Arthur's
line. But before I tell you aught of him, you shall hear of his father's life,
whence he came and of what family. He was so bold and so ambitious that
he left Greece and went to England, which was called Britain in those days,
in order to win fame and renown. This story, which I intend to relate to you,
we find written in one of the books of the library of my lord Saint Peter at
Beauvais. 25 From there the material was drawn of which Chrétien has
made this romance. The book is very old in which the story is told, and this
adds to its authority. 26 From such books which have been preserved we
learn the deeds of men of old and of the times long since gone by. Our
books have informed us that the pre-eminence in chivalry and learning once
belonged to Greece. Then chivalry passed to Rome, together with that
highest learning which now has come to France. God grant that it may be
cherished here, and that it may be made so welcome here that the honour
which has taken refuge with us may never depart from France: God had
awarded it as another's share, but of Greeks and Romans no more is heard,
their fame is passed, and their glowing ash is dead.
(Vv. 45-134.) Chrétien begins his story as we find it in the history, which
tells of an emperor powerful in wealth and honour who ruled over Greece
and Constantinople. A very noble empress, too, there was, by whom the
emperor had two children. But the elder son was already so far advanced
before the younger one was born that, if he had wished, he might have
become a knight and held all the empire beneath his sway. The name of the
elder was Alexander, and the other's name was Alis. Alexander, too, was the
father's name, and the mother's name was Tantalis. I shall now say nothing
more of the emperor and of Alis; but I shall speak of Alexander, who was so
bold and proud that he scorned to become a knight in his own country. He
had heard of King Arthur, who reigned in those days, and of the knights

whom he always kept about him, thus causing his court to be feared and
famed throughout the world. However, the affair may result and whatever
fortune may await him, nothing can restrain Alexander from his desire to go
into Britain, but he must obtain his father's consent before proceeding to
Britain and Cornwall. So Alexander, fair and brave, goes to speak with the
emperor in order to ask and obtain his leave. Now he will tell him of his
desire and what he wishes to do and undertake. "Fair sire," he says, "in
quest of honour and fame and praise I dare to ask you a boon, which I
desire you to give me now without delay, if you are willing to grant it to
me." The emperor thinks no harm will come from this request: he ought
rather to desire and long for his son's honour. "Fair son," he says, "I grant
you your desire; so tell me now what you wish me to give you." Now the
youth has accomplished his purpose, and is greatly pleased when the boon
is granted him which he so greatly desired. "Sire," says he, "do you wish to
know what it is that you have promised me? I wish to have a great plenty of
gold and silver, and such companions from among your men as I will select;
for I wish to go forth from your empire, and to present my service to the
king who rules over Britain, in order that he may make me a knight. I
promise you never in my life to wear armour on my face or helmet upon my
head until King Arthur shall gird on my sword, if he will graciously do so.
For from no other than from him will I accept my arms." Without hesitation
the emperor replies: "Fair son, for God's sake, speak not so! This country all
belongs to you, as well as rich Constantinople. You ought not to think me
mean, when I am ready to make you such a gift. I shall be ready soon to
have you crowned, and to-morrow you shall be a knight. All Greece will be
in your hands, and you shall receive from your nobles, as is right, their
homage and oaths of allegiance. Whoever refuses such an offer is not wise."
(Vv. 135-168.) The youth hears the promise how the next morning after
Mass his father is ready to dub him knight; but he says he will seek his
fortune for better or worse in another land. "If you are willing in this matter
to grant the boon I have asked of you, then give me mottled and grey furs,
some good horses and silken stuffs: for before I become a knight I wish to
enrol in King Arthur's service. Nor have I yet sufficient strength to bear
arms. No one could induce me by prayer or flattery not to go to the foreign
land to see his nobles and that king whose fame is so great for courtesy and
prowess. Many men of high degree lose through sloth the great renown
which they might win, were they to wander about the world. 27 Repose and

glory ill agree, as it seems to me; for a man of wealth adds nothing to his
reputation if he spends all his days at ease. Prowess is irksome to the
ignoble man, and cowardice is a burden to the man of spirit; thus the two
are contrary and opposite. He is the slave of his wealth who spends his days
in storing and increasing it. Fair father, so long as I have the chance, and so
long as my rigour lasts, I wish to devote my effort and energy to the pursuit
of fame."
(Vv. 169-234.) Upon hearing this; the emperor doubtless feels both joy
and grief: he is glad that his son's intention is fixed upon honour, and on the
other hand he is sorrowful because his son is about to be separated from
him. Yet, because of the promise which he made, despite the grief he feels,
he must grant his request; for an emperor must keep his word. "Fair son," he
says, "I must not fail to do your pleasure, when I see you thus striving for
honour. From my treasure you may have two barges full of gold and silver;
but take care to be generous and courteous and well-behaved." Now the
youth is very happy when his father promises him so much, and places his
treasure at his disposal, and bids him urgently to give and spend generously.
And his father explains his reason for this: "Fair son," he says, "believe me,
that generosity is the dame and queen which sheds glory upon all the other
virtues. And the proof of this is not far to seek. For where could you find a
man, be he never so rich and powerful, who is not blamed if he is mean?
Nor could you find one, however ungracious he may be, whom generosity
will not bring into fair repute? Thus largess makes the gentleman, which
result can be accomplished neither by high birth, courtesy, knowledge,
gentility, money, strength, chivalry, boldness, dominion, beauty, or anything
else. 28 But just as the rose is fairer than any other flower when it is fresh
and newly blown, so there, where largess dwells, it takes its place above all
other virtues, and increases five hundred fold the value of other good traits
which it finds in the man who acquits himself well. So great is the merit of
generosity that I could not tell you the half of it." The young man has now
successfully concluded the negotiations for what he wished; for his father
has acceded to all his desires. But the empress was sorely grieved when she
heard of the journey which her son was about to take. Yet, whoever may
grieve or sorrow, and whoever may attribute his intention to youthful folly,
and ever may blame and seek to dissuade him, the youth ordered his ships
to be made ready as soon as possible, desiring to tarry no longer in his

native land. At his command the ships were freighted that very night with
wine, meat, and biscuit.
(Vv. 235-338.) The ships were loaded in the port, and the next morning
Alexander came to the strand in high spirits, accompanied by his
companions, who were happy over the prospective voyage. They were
escorted by the emperor and the empress in her grief. At the port they find
the sailors in the ships drawn up beside the cliff. The sea was calm and
smooth, the wind was light, and the weather clear. When he had taken leave
of his father, and bidden farewell to the empress, whose heart was heavy in
her bosom, Alexander first stepped from the small boat into the skip; then
all his companions hastened by fours, threes, and twos to embark without
delay. Soon the sail was spread and the anchor raised. Those on shore
whose heart is heavy because of the men whom they watch depart, follow
them with their gaze as long as they can: and in order to watch them longer,
they all climb a high hill behind the beach. From there they sadly gaze, as
long as their eyes can follow them. With sorrow, indeed, they watch them
go, being solicitous for the youths, that God may bring them to their haven
without accident and without peril. All of April and part of May they spent
at sea. Without any great danger or mishap they came to port at
Southampton. 29 One day, between three o'clock and vespers, they cast
anchor and went ashore. The young men, who had never been accustomed
to endure discomfort or pain, had suffered so long from their life at sea that
they had all lost their colour, and even the strongest and most vigorous were
weak and faint. In spite of that, they rejoice to have escaped from the sea
and to have arrived where they wished to be. Because of their depleted
state, they spend the night at Southampton in happy frame, and make
inquiries whether the King is in England. They are told that he is at
Winchester, and that they can reach there in a very short time if they will
start early in the morning and keep to the straight road. At this news they
are greatly pleased, and the next morning at daybreak the youths wake
early, and prepare and equip themselves. And when they were ready, they
left Southampton, and kept to the direct road until they reached Winchester,
where the King was. Before six o'clock in the morning the Greeks had
arrived at the court. The squires with the horses remain below in the yard,
while the youths go up into the presence of the King, who was the best that
ever was or ever will be in the world. And when the King sees them
coming, they please him greatly, and meet with his favour. But before

approaching the King's presence, they remove the cloaks from about their
necks, lest they should be considered ill-bred. Thus, all unmantled, they
came before the King, while all the nobles present held their peace, greatly
pleased at the sight of these handsome and well-behaved young men. They
suppose that of course they are all sons of counts or kings; and, to be sure,
so they were, and of a very charming age, with graceful and shapely forms.
And the clothes they wore were all of the same stuff and cut of the same
appearance and colour. There were twelve of them beside their lord, of
whom I need tell you no more than that there was none better than he. With
modesty and orderly mien, he was handsome and shapely as he stood
uncovered before the King. Then he kneeled before him, and all the others,
for honour's sake, did the same beside their lord.
(Vv. 339-384.) Alexander, with his tongue well skilled in speaking fair
and wisely, salutes the King. "King," he says, "unless the report is false that
spreads abroad your fame, since God created the first man there was never
born a God-fearing man of such puissance as yours. King, your widespread
renown has drawn me to serve and honour you in your court, and if you will
accept my service, I would fain remain here until I be dubbed a knight by
your hand and by no one else. For unless I receive this honour from your
hand, I shall renounce all intention of being knighted. If you will accept my
service until you are willing to dub me a knight, retain me now, oh gentle
King, and my companions gathered here." To which at once the King
replies: "Friend, I refuse neither you nor your companions. Be welcome all.
For surely you seem, and I doubt it not, to be sons of high-born men.
Whence do you come?" "From Greece." "From Greece?" "Yes." "Who is
thy father?" "Upon my word, sire, the emperor." "And what is thy name,
fair friend?" "Alexander is the name that was given me when I received the
salt and holy oil, and Christianity and baptism." "Alexander, my dear, fair
friend. I will keep you with me very gladly, with great pleasure and delight.
For you have done me signal honour in thus coming to my court. I wish you
to be honoured here, as free vassals who are wise and gentle. You have been
too long upon your knees; now, at my command, and henceforth make your
home with man and in my court; it is well that you have come to us."
(Vv. 385-440.) Then the Greeks rise up, joyful that the King has so
kindly invited them to stay. Alexander did well to come; for he lacks
nothing that he desires, and there is no noble at the court who does not
address him kindly and welcome him. He is not so foolish as to be puffed

up, nor does he vaunt himself nor boast. He makes acquaintance with my
lord Gawain and with the others, one by one. He gains the good graces of
them all, but my lord Gawain grows so fond of him that he chooses him as
his friend and companion. 210 The Greeks took the best lodgings to be had,
with a citizen of the town. Alexander had brought great possessions with
him from Constantinople, intending to give heed above all to the advice and
counsel of the Emperor, that his heart should be ever ready to give and
dispense his riches well. To this end he devotes his efforts, living well in his
lodgings, and giving and spending liberally, as is fitting in one so rich, and
as his heart dictates. The entire court wonders where he got all the wealth
that he bestows; for on all sides he presents the valuable horses which he
had brought from his own land. So much did Alexander do, in the
performance of his service, that the King, the Queen, and the nobles bear
him great affection. King Arthur about this time desired to cross over into
Brittany. So he summons all his barons together to take counsel and inquire
to whom he may entrust England to be kept in peace and safety until his
return. By common consent, it seems, the trust was assigned to Count
Angres of Windsor, for it was their judgement that there was no more
trustworthy lord in all the King's realm. When this man had received the
land, King Arthur set out the next day accompanied by the Queen and her
damsels. The Bretons make great rejoicing upon hearing the news in
Brittany that the King and his barons are on the way.
(Vv. 441-540.) Into the ship in which the King sailed there entered no
youth or maiden save only Alexander and Soredamors, whom the Queen
brought with her. This maiden was scornful of love, for she had never heard
of any man whom she would deign to love, whatever might be his beauty,
prowess, lordship, or birth. And yet the damsel was so charming and fair
that she might fitly have learned of love, if it had pleased her to lend a
willing ear; but she would never give a thought to love. Now Love will
make her grieve, and will avenge himself for all the pride and scorn with
which she has always treated him. Carefully Love has aimed his dart with
which he pierced her to the heart. Now she grows pale and trembles, and in
spite of herself must succumb to Love. Only with great difficulty can she
restrain herself from casting a glance toward Alexander; but she must be on
her guard against her brother, my lord Gawain. Dearly she pays and atones
for her great pride and disdain. Love has heated for her a bath which heats
and burns her painfully. At first it is grateful to her, and then it hurts; one

moment she likes it, and the next she will have none of it. She accuses her
eyes of treason, and says: 211 "My eyes, you have betrayed me now! My
heart, usually so faithful, now bears me ill-will because of you. Now what I
see distresses me. Distresses? Nay, verily, rather do I like it well. And if I
actually see something that distresses me, can I not control my eyes? My
strength must indeed have failed, and little should I esteem myself, if I
cannot control my eyes and make them turn their glance elsewhere. Thus, I
shall be able to baffle Love in his efforts to get control of me. The heart
feels no pain when the eye does not see; so, if I do not look at him, no harm
will come to me. He addresses me no request or prayer, as he would do
were he in love with me. And since he neither loves nor esteems me, shall I
love him without return? If his beauty allures my eyes, and my eyes listen
to the call, shall I say that I love him just for that? Nay, for that would be a
lie. Therefore, he has no ground for complaint, nor can I make any claim
against him. One cannot love with the eyes alone. What crime, then, have
my eyes committed, if their glance but follows my desire? What is their
fault and what their sin? Ought I to blame them, then? Nay, verily. Who,
then, should be blamed? Surely myself, who have them in control. My eye
glances at nothing unless it gives my heart delight. My heart ought not to
have any desire which would give me pain. Yet its desire causes me pain.
Pain? Upon my faith, I must be mad, if to please my heart I wish for
something which troubles me. If I can, I ought to banish any wish that
distresses me. If I can? Mad one, what have I said? I must, indeed, have
little power if I have no control over myself. Does Love think to set me in
the same path which is wont to lead others astray? Others he may lead
astray, but not me who care not for him. Never shall I be his, nor ever was,
and I shall never seek his friendship." Thus she argues with herself, one
moment loving, and hating the next. She is in such doubt that she does not
know which course she had better adopt. She thinks to be on the defence
against Love, but defence is not what she wants. God! She does not know
that Alexander is thinking of her too! Love bestows upon them equally such
a share as is their due. He treats them very fairly and justly, for each one
loves and desires the other. And this love would be true and right if only
each one knew what was the other's wish. But he does not know what her
desire is, and she knows not the cause of his distress.
(Vv. 541-574.) The Queen takes note of them and sees them often blanch
and pale and heave deep sighs and tremble. But she knows no reason why

they should do so, unless it be because of the sea where they are. I think she
would have divined the cause had the sea not thrown her off her guard, but
the sea deceives and tricks her, so that she does not discover love because of
the sea; and it is from love that comes the bitter pain that distresses them.
212 But of the three concerned, the Queen puts all the blame upon the sea;
for the other two accuse the third to her, and hold it alone responsible for
their guilt. Some one who is not at fault is often blamed for another's
wrong. Thus, the Queen lays all the blame and guilt upon the sea, but it is
unfair to put the blame upon the sea, for it is guilty of no misdeed.
Soredamors' deep distress continued until the vessel came to port. As for the
King, it is well known that the Bretons were greatly pleased, and served
him gladly as their liege lord. But of King Arthur I will not longer speak in
this place; rather shall you hear me tell how Love distresses these two
lovers whom he has attacked.
(Vv. 575-872.) Alexander loves and desires her; and she, too, pines for
the love of him, but he knows it not, nor will he know it until he has
suffered many a pain and many a grief. It is for her sake that he renders to
the Queen loving service, as well as to her maids-in-waiting; but to her on
whom his thoughts are fixed, he dares not speak or address a word. If she
but dared to assert to him the right which she thinks she has, she would
gladly inform him of the truth; but she does not dare, and cannot do it. They
dare neither speak nor act in accordance with what each sees in the other—
which works a great hardship to them both, and their love but grows and
flames the more. However, it is the custom of all lovers to feast their eyes
gladly with gazing, if they can do no more; and they assume that, because
they find pleasure in that which causes their love to be born and grow,
therefore it must be to their advantage; whereas it only harms them more,
just as he who approaches and draws close beside the fire burns himself
more than he who holds aloof. Their love waxes and grows anon; but each
is abashed before the other, and so much is hidden and concealed that no
flame or smoke arises from the coals beneath the ashes. The heat is no less
on this account, but rather is better sustained beneath the ashes than above.
Both of them are in great torment; for, in order that none may perceive their
trouble, they are forced to deceive people by a feigned bearing; but at night
comes the bitter moan, which each one makes within his breast. Of
Alexander I will tell you first how he complains and vents his grief. Love
presents before his mind her for whom he is in such distress; it is she who

has filched his heart away, and grants him no rest upon his bed, because,
forsooth, he delights to recall the beauty and the grace of her who, he has no
hope, will ever bring him any joy. "I may as well hold myself a madman."
he exclaims. "A madman? Truly, I am beside myself, when I dare not speak
what I have in mind; for it would speedily fare worse with me (if I held my
peace). I have engaged my thoughts in a mad emprise. But is it not better to
keep my thoughts to myself than to be called a fool? My wish will never
then be known. Shall I then conceal the cause of my distress, and not dare
to seek aid and healing for my wound? He is mad who feels himself
afflicted, and seeks not what will bring him health, if perchance he may find
it anywhere; but many a one seeks his welfare by striving for his heart's
desire, who pursues only that which brings him woe instead. And why
should one ask for advice, who does not expect to gain his health? He
would only exert himself in vain. I feel my own illness to be so grievous
that I shall never be healed by any medicine or draught, by any herb or root.
For some ills there is no remedy, and mine lies so deep within that it is
beyond the reach of medicine. Is there no help, then? Methinks I have lied.
When first I felt this malady, if I had dared to make mention of it. I might
have spoken with a physician who could have completely cured me. But I
like not to discuss such matters; I think he would pay me no heed and
would not consent to accept a fee. No wonder, then, if I am terrified; for I
am very ill, yet I do not know what disease this is which has me in its grip,
and I know not whence this pain has come. I do not know? I know full well
that it is Love who does me this injury. How is that? Can Love do harm? Is
he not gentle and well-bred? I used to think that there was naught but good
in Love; but I have found him full of enmity. He who has not had
experience of him does not know what tricks Love plays. He is a fool who
joins his ranks; for he always seeks to harm his followers. Upon my faith,
his tricks are bad. It is poor sport to play with him, for his game will only
do me harm. What shall I do, then? Shall I retreat? I think it would be wise
to do so, but I know not how to do it. If Love chastens and threatens me in
order to teach and instruct me, ought I to disdain my teacher? He is a fool
who scorns his master. I ought to keep and cherish the lesson which Love
teaches me, for great good may soon come of it. But I am frightened
because he beats me so. And dost thou complain, when no sign of blow or
wound appears? Art thou not mistaken? Nay, for he has wounded me so
deep that he has shot his dart to my very heart, and has not yet drawn it out

again. 213 How has he pierced thy body with it, when no wound appears
without? Tell me that, for I wish to know. How did he make it enter in?
Through the eye. Through the eye? But he has not put it out? He did not
harm the eye at all, but all the pain is in the heart. Then tell me, if the dart
passed through the eye, how is it that the eye itself is not injured or put out.
If the dart entered through the eye, why does the heart in the breast
complain, when the eye, which received the first effect, makes no complaint
of it at all? I can readily account for that: the eye is not concerned with the
understanding, nor has it any part in it; but it is the mirror of the heart, and
through this mirror passes, without doing harm or injury, the flame which
sets the heart on fire. For is not the heart placed in the breast just like a
lighted candle which is set in a lantern? If you take the candle away no light
will shine from the lantern; but so long as the candle lasts the lantern is not
dark at all, and the flame which shines within does it no harm or injury.
Likewise with a pane of glass, which might be very strong and solid, and
yet a ray of the sun could pass through it without cracking it at all; yet a
piece of glass will never be so bright as to enable one to see, unless a
stronger light strikes its surface. Know that the same thing is true of the
eyes as of the glass and the lantern; for the light strikes the eyes in which
the heart is accustomed to see itself reflected, and lo! it sees some light
outside, and many other things, some green, some purple, others red or
blue; and some it dislikes, and some it likes, scorning some and prizing
others. But many an object seems fair to it when it looks at it in the glass,
which will deceive it if it is not on its guard. My mirror has greatly
deceived me; for in it my heart saw a ray of light with which I am afflicted,
and which has penetrated deep within me, causing me to lose my wits. I am
ill-treated by my friend, who deserts me for my enemy. I may well accuse
him of felony for the wrong he has done to me. I thought I had three
friends, my heart and my two eyes together; but it seems that they hate me.
Where shall I ever find a friend, when these three are my enemies,
belonging to me, yet putting me to death? My servants mock at my
authority, in doing what they please without consulting my desire. After my
experience with these who have done me wrong, I know full well that a
good man's love may be befouled by wicked servants in his employ. He
who is attended by a wicked servant will surely have cause to rue it, sooner
or later. Now I will tell you how the arrow, which has come into my
keeping and possession, is made and fashioned; but I fear greatly that I shall

fail in the attempt; for the fashion of it is so fine that it will be no wonder if
I fail. Yet I shall devote all my effort to telling you how it seems to me. The
notch and the feathers are so close together, when carefully examined, that
the line of separation is as fine as a hair's breadth; but the notch is so
smooth and straight that in it surely no improvement could be made. The
feathers are coloured as if they were of gold or gilt; but gilt is here beside
the mark, for I know these feathers were more brilliant than any gilt. This
dart is barbed with the golden tresses that I saw the other day at sea. That is
the dart which awakes my love. God! What a treasure to possess! Would he
who could gain such a prize crave other riches his whole life long? For my
part I could swear that I should desire nothing else; I would not give up
even the barb and the notch for all the gold of Antioch. And if I prize so
highly these two things, who could estimate the value of what remains?
That is so fair and full of charm, so dear and precious, that I yearn and long
to gaze again upon her brow, which God's hand has made so clear that it
were vain to compare with it any mirror, emerald, or topaz. But all this is of
little worth to him who sees her flashing eyes; to all who gaze on them they
seem like twin candles burning. And whose tongue is so expert as to
describe the fashion of her well-shaped nose and radiant face, in which the
rose suffuses the lily so as to efface it somewhat, and thus enhance the glory
of her visage? And who shall speak of her laughing mouth, which God
shaped with such great skill that none might see it and not suppose that she
was laughing? And what about her teeth? They are so close to one another
that it seems they are all of one solid piece, and in order that the effect
might still be enhanced Nature added her handiwork; for any one, to see her
part her lips, would suppose that the teeth were of ivory or of silver. There
is so much to be said were I to portray each detailed charm of chin and ears,
that it would not be strange were I to pass over some little thing. Of her
throat I shall only say that crystal beside it looks opaque. And her neck
beneath her hair is four times as white as ivory. Between the border of her
gown and the buckle at the parted throat, I saw her bosom left exposed and
whiter than new-fallen snow. My pain would be indeed assuaged, if I had
seen the dart entire. Gladly would I tell, if I but knew, what was the nature
of the shaft. But I did nor see it, and it is not my fault if I do not attempt to
describe something I have never seen. At that time Love showed me only
the notch and the barb; for the shaft was hidden in the quiver, to wit, in the
robe and shift in which the damsel was arrayed. Upon my faith, malady

which tortures me is the arrow—it is the dart at which I am a wretch to be
enraged. I am ungrateful to be incensed. Never shall a straw be broken
because of any distrust or quarrel that may arise between Love and me.
Now let Love do what he will with me as with one who belongs to him; for
I wish it, and so it pleases me. I hope that this malady may never leave me,
but that it may thus always maintain its hold, and that health may never
come to me except from the source of my illness."
(Vv. 873-1046.) Alexander's complaint is long enough; but that of the
maiden is nothing less. All night she lies in such distress that she cannot
sleep or get repose. Love has confined within her heart a struggle and
conflict which disturbs her breast, and which causes her such pain and
anguish that she weeps and moans all night, and tosses about with sudden
starts, so that she is almost beside herself. And when she has tossed and
sobbed and groaned and started up and sighed again then she looked within
her heart to see who and what manner of man it was for whom Love was
tormenting her. And when she has refreshed herself somewhat with thinking
to her heart's content, she stretches and tosses about again, and ridicules all
the thoughts she has had. Then she takes another course, and says: "Silly
one, what matters it to me if this youth is of good birth and wise and
courteous and valorous? All this is simply to his honour and credit. And as
for his beauty, what care I? Let his beauty be gone with him! But if so, it
will be against my will, for it is not my wish to deprive him of anything.
Deprive? No, indeed! That I surely will not do. If he had the wisdom of
Solomon, and if Nature had bestowed on him all the beauty she can place in
human form, and if God had put in my power to undo it all, yet would I not
injure him; but I would gladly, if I could, make him still more wise and fair.
In faith, then, I do not hate him! And am I for that reason his friend? Nay, I
am not his any more than any other man's. Then what do I think of him so
much, if he pleases me no more than other men? I do not know; I am all
confused; for I never thought so much about any man in the world, and if I
had my will, I should see him all the time, and never take my eyes from
him. I feel such joy at the sight of him! Is this love? Yes, I believe it is. I
should not appeal to him so often, if I did not love him above all others. So
I love him, then, let it be agreed. Then shall I not do what I please? Yes,
provided he does not refuse. This intention of mine is wrong; but Love has
so filled my heart that I am mad and beside myself, nor will any defence
avail me now, if I must endure the assault of Love. I have demeaned myself

prudently toward Love so long, and would never accede to his will; but now
I am more than kindly disposed toward him. And what thanks will he owe
to me, if he cannot have my loving service and good-will? By force he has
humbled my pride, and now I must follow his pleasure. Now I am ready to
love, and I have a master, and Love will teach me—but what? How I am to
serve his will. But of that I am very well informed, and am so expert in
serving him that no one could find fault with me. I need learn no more of
that. Love would have it, and so would I, that I should be sensible and
modest and kind and approachable to all for the sake of one I love. Shall I
love all men, then, for the sake of one? I should be pleasant to every one,
but Love does not bid me be the true friend of every one. Love's lessons are
only good. It is not without significance that I am called by the name of
Soredamors. 214 I am destined to love and be loved in turn, and I intend to
prove it by my name, if I can find the explanation there. There is some
significance in the fact that the first part of my name is of golden colour; for
what is golden is the best. For this reason I highly esteem my name,
because it begins with that colour with which the purest gold harmonises.
And the end of the name calls Love to my mind; for whoever calls me by
my right name always refreshes me with love. And one half gilds the other
with a bright coat of yellow gold; for Soredamors has the meaning of 'one
gilded over with Love.' Love has highly honoured me in gilding me over
with himself. A gilding of real gold is not so fine as that which makes me
radiant. And I shall henceforth do my best to be his gilding, and shall never
again complain of it. Now I love and ever more shall love. Whom? Truly,
that is a fine question! Him whom Love bids me love, for no other shall
ever have my love. What will he care in his ignorance, unless I tell him of it
myself? What shall I do, if I do not make to him my prayer? Whoever
desires anything ought to ask for it and make request. What? Shall I beseech
him, then? Nay. Why? Did ever such a thing come about that a woman
should be so forward as to make love to any man; unless she were clean
beside herself. I should be mad beyond question if I uttered anything for
which I might be reproached. If he should know the truth through word of
mine I think he would hold me in slight esteem, and would often reproach
me with having solicited his love. May love never be so base that I should
be the first to prefer a request which would lower me in his eyes! Alas,
God! How will he ever know the truth, since I shall not tell him of it? As
yet I have very little cause to complain. I will wait until his attention is

aroused, if ever it is to be aroused. He will surely guess the truth, I think, if
ever he has had commerce with Love, or has heard of it by word of mouth.
Heard of it? That is a foolish thing to say. Love is not of such easy access
that any one may claim acquaintance by hear-say only and without personal
experience. I have come to know that well enough myself; for I could never
learn anything of love through flattery and wooing words, though I have
often been in the school of experience, and have been flattered many a time.
But I have always stood aloof, and now he makes me pay a heavy penalty:
now I know more about it than does the ox of ploughing. But one thing
causes me despair: I fear he has never been in love. And if he is not in love,
and never has been so, then I have sowed in the sea where no seed can take
root. So there is nothing to do but wait and suffer, until I see whether I can
lead him on by hints and covered words. I shall continue this until he is sure
of my love and dares to ask me for it. So there is nothing more about the
matter, but that I love him and am his. If he loves me not, yet will I love
him."
(Vv. 1047-1066.) Thus he and she utter their complaint, unhappy at night
and worse by day, each hiding the truth from the other's eyes. In such
distress they remained a long time in Brittany, I believe, until the end of the
summer came. At the beginning of October there came messengers by
Dover from London and Canterbury, bearing to the King news which
troubled him. The messengers told him that he might be tarrying too long in
Brittany; for, he to whom he had entrusted the kingdom was intending to
withstand him, and had already summoned a great army of his vassals and
friends, and had established himself in London for the purpose of defending
the city against Arthur when he should return.
(Vv. 1067-1092.) When the King heard this news, angry and sore
displeased he summons all his knights. In order the better to spur them on to
punish the traitor, he tells them that they are entirely to blame for his trouble
and strife; for on their advice he entrusted his land to the hands of the
traitor, who is worse than Ganelon. 215 There is not a single one who does
not agree that the King is right, for he had only followed their advice; but
now this man is to be outlawed, and you may be sure that no town or city
will avail to save his body from being dragged out by force. Thus they all
assure the King, giving him their word upon oath, that they will deliver the
traitor to him, or never again claim their fiefs. And the King proclaims

throughout Brittany that no one who can bear arms shall refuse to follow
him at once.
(Vv. 1093-1146.) All Brittany is now astir. Never was such an army seen
as King Arthur brought together. When the ships came to set sail, it seemed
that the whole world was putting out to sea; for even the water was hid from
view, being covered with the multitude of ships. It is certainly true that, to
judge by the commotion, all Brittany is under way. Now the ships have
crossed the Channel, and the assembled host is quartered on the shore.
Alexander bethought himself to go and pray the King to make him a knight,
for if ever he should win renown it will be in this war. Prompted by his
desire, he takes his companions with him to accomplish what he has in
mind. On reaching the King's quarters, they found him seated before his
tent. When he saw the Greeks approaching, he summoned them to him,
saying: "Gentlemen, do not conceal what business has brought you here."
Alexander replied on behalf of all, and told him his desire: "I have come,"
he says, "to request of you, as I ought to do of my liege lord, on behalf of
my companions and myself, that you should make us knights." The King
replies: "Very gladly; nor shall there be any delay about it, since you have
preferred your request." Then the King commands that equipment shall be
furnished for twelve knights. Straightway the King's command is done. As
each one asks for his equipment, it is handed to him—rich arms and a good
horse: thus each one received his outfit. The arms and robes and horse were
of equal value for each of the twelve; but the harness for Alexander s body,
if it should be valued or sold, was alone worth as much as that of all the
other twelve. At the water's edge they stripped, and then washed and bathed
themselves. Not wishing that any other bath should be heated for them, they
washed in the sea and used it as their tub. 216
(Vv. 1147-1196.) All this is known to the Queen, who bears Alexander no
ill will, but rather loves, esteems, and values him. She wishes to make
Alexander a gift, but it is far more precious than she thinks. She seeks and
delves in all her boxes until she finds a white silk shirt, well made of
delicate texture, and very soft. Every thread in the stitching of it was of
gold, or of silver at least. Soredamors had taken a hand in the stitching of it
here and there, and at intervals, in the sleeves and neck, she had inserted
beside the gold a strand of her own hair, to see if any man could be found
who, by close examination, could detect the difference. For the hair was
quite as bright and golden as the thread of gold itself. The Queen takes the

shirt and presents it to Alexander. Ah, God! What joy would Alexander have
felt had he known what the Queen was giving him! And how glad would
she, too, have been, who had inserted her own hair, if she had known that
her lover was to own and wear it! She could then have taken great comfort;
for she would not have cared so much for all the hair she still possessed as
for the little that Alexander had. But, more is the pity, neither of them knew
the truth. The Queen's messenger finds the youths on the shore where they
are bathing, and gives the shirt to Alexander. He is greatly pleased with it,
esteeming the present all the more because it was given him by the Queen.
But if he had known the rest, he would have valued it still more; in
exchange for it he would not have taken the whole world, but rather would
have made a shrine of it and worshipped it, doubtless, day and night.
(Vv. 1197-1260.) Alexander delays no longer, but dresses himself at
once. When he was dressed and ready, he returned to the King's tent with all
his companions. The Queen, it seems, had come there, too, wishing to see
the new knights present themselves. They might all be called handsome, but
Alexander with his shapely body was the fairest of them all. Well, now that
they are knights I will say no more of them for the present, but will tell of
the King and of his host which came to London. Most of the people
remained faithful to him, though many allied themselves with the
opposition. Count Angres assembled his forces, consisting of all those
whose influence could be gained by promises or gifts. When he had
gathered all his strength, he slipped away quietly at night, fearing to be
betrayed by the many who hated him. But before he made off, he sacked
London as completely as possible of provisions, gold and silver, which he
divided among his followers. This news was told to the King, how the
traitor had escaped with all his forces, and that he had carried off from the
city so many supplies that the distressed citizens were impoverished and
destitute. Then the King replied that he would not take a ransom for the
traitor, but rather hang him, if he could catch him or lay hands on him.
Thereupon, all the army proceeded to Windsor. However it may be now, in
those days the castle was not easy to take when any one chose to defend it.
The traitor made it secure, as soon as he planned his treacherous deed, with
a triple line of walls and moats, and had so braced the walls inside with
sharpened stakes that catapults could not throw them down. They had taken
great pains with the fortifications, spending all of June, July, and August in
building walls and barricades, making moats and drawbridges, ditches,

obstructions, and barriers, and iron portcullises and a great square tower of
stone. The gate was never closed from fear or against assault. The castle
stood upon a high hill, and around beneath it flows the Thames. The host
encamped on the river bank, and that day they have time only to pitch camp
and set up the tents.
(Vv. 1261-1348.) The army is in camp beside the Thames, and all the
meadow is filled with green and red tents. The sun, striking on the colours,
causes the river to flash for more than a league around. Those in the town
had come down to disport themselves upon the river bank with only their
lances in their hands and their shields grasped before their breasts, and
carrying no other arms at all. In coming thus, they showed those without the
walls that they stood in no fear of them. Alexander stood aloof and watched
the knights disporting themselves at feats of arms. He yearns to attack them,
and summons his companions one by one by name. First Cornix, whom he
dearly loved, then the doughty Licorides, then Nabunal of Mvcene, and
Acorionde of Athens, and Ferolin of Salonica, and Calcedor from Africa,
Parmenides and Francagel, mighty Torin and Pinabel, Nerius and Neriolis.
"My lords," he says, "I feel the call to go with shield and lance to make the
acquaintance of those who disport themselves yonder before our eyes. I see
they scorn us and hold us in slight esteem, when they come thus without
their arms to exercise before our very eyes. We have just been knighted, and
have not yet given an account of ourselves against any knight or manikin.
217 We have kept our first lances too long intact. And for what were our
shields intended? As yet, they have not a hole or crack to show. There is no
use in having them except in a combat or a fight. Let's cross the ford and
rush at them!" "We shall not fail you," all reply; and each one adds: "So
help me God, who fails you now is no friend of yours." Then they fasten on
their swords, tighten their saddles and girths, and mount their steeds with
shields in hand. When they had hung the shields about their necks, and
taken their lances with the gaily coloured ensigns, they all proceed to the
ford at once. Those on the farther side lower their lances, and quickly ride
to strike at them. But they (on the hither bank) knew how to pay them back,
not sparing nor avoiding them, nor yielding to them a foot of ground.
Rather, each man struck his opponent so fiercely that there is no knight so
brave but is compelled to leave the saddle. They did not underestimate the
experience, skill, and bravery of their antagonists, but made their first blows
count, and unhorsed thirteen of them. The report spread to the camp of the

fight and of the blows that were being struck. There would soon have been
a merry strife if the others had dared to stand their ground. All through the
camp they run to arms, and raising a shout they cross the ford. And those on
the farther bank take to flight, seeing no advantage in staying where they
are. And the Greeks pursue them with blows of lance and sword. Though
they struck off many a head they themselves did not receive a wound, and
gave a good account of themselves that day. But Alexander distinguished
himself, who by his own efforts led off four captive knights in bonds. The
sands are strewn with headless dead, while many others lie wounded and
injured.
(Vv. 1349-1418.) Alexander courteously presents the victims of his first
conquest to the Queen, not wishing them to fall into the hands of the King,
who would have had them all hanged. The Queen, however, had them
seized and safely kept under guard, as being charged with treason.
Throughout the camp they talk of the Greeks, and all maintain that
Alexander acted very courteously and wisely in not surrendering the
knights whom he had captured to the King, who would surely have had
them burned or hanged. But the King is not so well satisfied, and sending
promptly to the Queen he bids her come into his presence and not detain
those who have proved treacherous towards him, for either she must give
them up or offend him by keeping them. While the Queen was in
conference with the King, as was necessary, about the traitors, the Greeks
remained in the Queen's tent with her maids-in-waiting. While his twelve
companions conversed with them, Alexander uttered not a word.
Soredamors took note of this, seated as she was close by his side. Her head
resting upon her hand, it was plain that she was lost in thought. 218 Thus
they sat a long time, until Soredamors saw on his sleeve and about his neck
the hair which she had stitched into the shirt. Then she drew a little closer
thinking now to find an excuse for speaking a word to him. She considers
how she can address him first, and what the first word is to be—whether
she should address him by his name; and thus she takes counsel with
herself: "What shall I say first?" she says; "shall I address him by his name,
or shall I call him 'friend'? Friend? Not I. How then? Shall I call him by his
name? God! The name of 'friend' is fair and sweet to take upon the lips. If I
should dare to call him 'friend'! Should I dare? What forbids me to do so?
The fact that that implies a lie. A lie? I know not what the result will be, but
I shall be sorry if I do not speak the truth. Therefore, it is best to admit that I

should not like to speak a lie. God! yet he would not speak a lie were he to
call me his sweet friend! And should I lie in thus addressing him? We ought
both to tell the truth. But if I lie the fault is his. But why does his name
seem so hard to me that I should wish to replace it by a surname? I think it
is because it is so long that I should stop in the middle. But if I simply
called him 'friend', I could soon utter so short a name. Fearing lest I should
break down in uttering his proper name, I would fain shed my blood if his
name were simply 'my sweet friend.'"
(Vv. 1419-1448.) She turns this thought over in her mind until the Queen
returns from the King who had summoned her. Alexander, seeing her come,
goes to meet her, and inquires what is the King's command concerning the
prisoners, and what is to be their fate. "Friend," says she, "he requires of me
to surrender them at his discretion, and to let his justice be carried out.
Indeed, he is much incensed that I have not already handed them over. So I
must needs send them to him, since I see no help for it." Thus they passed
that day; and the next day there was a great assembly of all the good and
loyal knights before the royal tent to sit in judgment and decide by what
punishment and torture the four traitors should die. Some hold that they
should be flayed alive, and others that they should be hanged or burned.
And the King, for his part, maintains that traitors ought to be torn asunder.
Then he commands them to be brought in. When they are brought, he
orders them to be bound, and says that they shall not be torn asunder until
they are taken beneath the town, so that those within may see the sight. 219
(Vv. 1449-1472.) When this sentence was pronounced, the King
addresses Alexander, calling him his dear friend. "My friend," he says,
"yesterday I saw you attack and defend yourself with great bravery. I wish
now to reward your action! I will add to your company five hundred Welsh
knights and one thousand troopers from that land. In addition to what I have
given you, when the war is over I will crown you king of the best kingdom
in Wales. Towns and castles, cities and halls will I give you until the time
you receive the land which your father holds, and of which you are to be
emperor." Alexander's companions join him in thanking the King kindly for
this boon, and all the nobles of the court say that the honour which the King
has bestowed upon Alexander is well deserved.
(Vv. 1473-1490.) As soon as Alexander sees his force, consisting of the
companions and the men-at-arms whom it had pleased the King to give

him, straightway they begin to sound the horns and trumpets throughout the
camp. Men of Wales and Britain, of Scotland and Cornwall, both good and
bad without exception—all take arms, for the forces of the host were
recruited from all quarters. The Thames was low because of the drought
resulting from a summer without rain, so that all the fish were dead, and the
ships were stranded upon the shore, and it was possible to ford the stream
even in the widest part.
(Vv. 1491-1514.) After fording the Thames, the army divided, some
taking possession of the valley, and others occupying the high ground.
Those in the town take notice of them, and when they see approaching the
wonderful array, bent upon reducing and taking the town, they prepare on
their side to defend it. But before any assault is made, the King has the
traitors drawn by four horses through the valleys and over the hills and
unploughed fields. At this Count Angres is much distressed, when he sees
those whom he held dear dragged around outside the town. And his people,
too, are much dismayed, but in spite of the anxiety which they feel, they
have no mind to yield the place. They must needs defend themselves, for
the King makes it plain to all that he is angry, and ill-disposed, and they see
that if he should lay hands upon them he would make them die a shameful
death.
(Vv.1515-1552.) When the four had been torn asunder and their limbs lay
strewn upon the field, then the assault begins. But all their labour is in vain,
for no matter how much they cast and shoot, their efforts are of no effect.
Yet they strive to do their utmost, hurling their javelins amain, and shooting
darts and bolts. On all sides is heard the din of cross-bows and slings as the
arrows and the round stones fly thick, like rain mixed with hail. Thus all
day long the struggle of attack and defence continues, until the night
separates them. And the King causes to be proclaimed what gift he will
bestow upon him who shall effect the surrender of the town: a cup of great
price weighing fifteen marks of gold, the richest in his treasure, shall be his
reward. The cup will be very fine and rich, and, to tell the truth, the cup is
to be esteemed for the workmanship rather than for the material of which it
is made. But good as the workmanship may be, and fine though the gold, if
the truth be told, the precious stones set in the outside of the cup were of
most value. He through whose efforts the town shall be taken is to have the
cup, if he be only a foot soldier; and if the town is taken by a knight, with

the cup in his possession he shall never seek his fortune in vain, if there is
any to be found in the world.
(Vv. 1553-1712.) When this news was announced, Alexander had not
forgotten his custom of going to see the Queen each evening. That night,
too, he had gone thither and was seated beside the Queen. Soredamors was
sitting alone close by them, looking at him with such satisfaction that she
would not have exchanged her lot for Paradise. The Queen took Alexander
by the hand, and examined the golden thread which was showing the effects
of wear; but the strand of hair was becoming more lustrous, while the
golden thread was tarnishing. And she laughed as she happened to recall
that the embroidery was the work of Soredamors. Alexander noticed this,
and begged her to tell him, if suitable, why she laughed. The Queen was
slow to make reply, and looking toward Soredamors, bade her come to her.
Gladly she went and knelt before her. Alexander was overjoyed when he
saw her draw so near that he could have touched her. But he is not so bold
as even to look at her; but rather does he so lose his senses that he is well-
nigh speechless. And she, for her part, is so overcome that she has not the
use of her eyes; but she casts her glance upon the ground without fastening
it upon anything. The Queen marvels greatly at seeing her now pale, now
crimson, and she notes well in her heart the bearing and expression of each
of them. She notices and thinks she sees that these changes of colour are the
fruit of love. But not wishing to embarrass them, she pretends to understand
nothing of what she sees. In this she did well, for she gave no evidence of
what was in her mind beyond saying: "Look here, damsel, and tell us truly
where the shirt was sewed that this knight has on, and if you had any hand
in it or worked anything of yours into it." Though the maiden feels some
shame, yet she tells the story gladly; for she wishes the truth to be known
by him, who, when he hears her tell of how the shirt was made, can hardly
restrain himself for joy from worshipping and adoring the golden hair. His
companions and the Queen, who were with him, annoy him and embarrass
him; for their presence prevents him from raising the hair to his eyes and
mouth, as he would fain have done, had he not thought that it would be
remarked. He is glad to have so much of his lady, but he does not hope or
expect ever to receive more from her: his very desire makes him dubious.
Yet, when he has left the Queen and is by himself, he kisses it more than a
hundred thousand times, feeling how fortunate he is. All night long he
makes much of it, but is careful that no one shall see him. As he lies upon

his bed, he finds a vain delight and solace in what can give him no
satisfaction. All night he presses the shirt in his arms, and when he looks at
the golden hair, he feels like the lord of the whole wide world. Thus Love
makes a fool of this sensible man, who finds his delight in a single hair and
is in ecstasy over its possession. But this charm will come to an end for him
before the sun's bright dawn. For the traitors are met in council to discuss
what they can do; and what their prospects are. To be sure they will be able
to make a long defence of the town if they determine so to do; but they
know the King's purpose to be so firm that he will not give up his efforts to
take the town so long as he lives, and when that time comes they needs
must die. And if they should surrender the town, they need expect no mercy
for doing so. Thus either outcome looks dark indeed, for they see no help,
but only death in either case. But this decision at last is reached, that the
next morning, before dawn appears, they shall issue secretly from the town
and find the camp disarmed, and the knights still sleeping in their beds.
Before they wake and get their armour on there will have been such
slaughter done that posterity will always speak of the battle of that night.
Having no further confidence in life, the traitors as a last resort all subscribe
to this design. Despair emboldened them to fight, whatever the result might
be; for they see nothing sure in store for them save death or imprisonment.
Such an outcome is not attractive; nor do they see any use in flight, for they
see no place where they could find refuge should they betake themselves to
flight, being completely surrounded by the water and their enemies. So they
spend no more time in talk, but arm and equip themselves and make a sally
by an old postern gate 220 toward the north-west, that being the side where
they thought the camp would least expect attack. In serried ranks they
sallied forth, and divided their force into five companies, each consisting of
two thousand well armed foot, in addition to a thousand knights. That night
neither star nor moon had shed a ray across the sky. But before they reached
the tents, the moon began to show itself, and I think it was to work them
woe that it rose sooner than was its wont. Thus God, who opposed their
enterprise, illumined the darkness of the night, having no love for these evil
men, but rather hating them for their sin. For God hates traitors and
treachery more than any other sin. So the moon began to shine in order to
hamper their enterprise.
(Vv. 1713-1858.) They are much hampered by the moon, as it shines
upon their shields, and they are handicapped by their helmets, too, as they

glitter in the moonlight. They are detected by the pickets keeping watch
over the host, who now shout throughout the camp: "Up, knights, up! Rise
quickly, take your arms and arm yourselves! The traitors are upon us."
Through all the camp they run to arms, and hastily strive to equip
themselves in the urgent need; but not a single one of them left his place
until they were all comfortably armed and mounted upon their steeds. While
they are arming themselves, the attacking forces are eager for battle and
press forward, hoping to catch them off their guard and find them disarmed.
They bring up from different directions the five companies into which they
had divided their troops: some hug the woods, others follow the river, the
third company deploys upon the plain, while the fourth enters a valley, and
the fifth proceeds beside a rocky cliff. For they planned to fall upon the
tents suddenly with great fury. But they did not find the path clear. For the
King's men resist them, defying them courageously and reproaching them
for their treason. Their iron lance-tips are splintered and shattered as they
meet; they come together with swords drawn, striking each other and
casting each other down upon the face. They rush upon each other with the
fury of lions, which devour whatever they capture. In this first rush there
was heavy slaughter on both sides. When they can no longer maintain
themselves, help comes to the traitors, who are defending themselves
bravely and selling their lives dearly. They see their troops from four sides
arrive to succour them. And the King's men ride hard with spur to attack
them. They deal such blows upon their shields that, beside the wounded,
they unhorse more than five hundred of them. Alexander, with his Greeks,
has no thought of sparing them, making every effort to prevail into the
thickest of the fight he goes to strike a knave whose shield and hauberk are
of no avail to keep him from falling to the earth. When he has finished with
him, he offers his service to another freely and without stint, and serves
him, too, so savagely that he drives the soul from his body quite, and leaves
the apartment without a tenant. After these two, he addresses himself to
another, piercing a noble and courteous knight clean through and through,
so that the blood spurts out on the other side, and his expiring soul takes
leave of the body. Many he killed and many stunned, for like a flying
thunderbolt he blasts all those whom he seeks out. Neither coat of mail nor
shield can protect him whom he strikes with lance or sword. His
companions, too, are generous in the spilling of blood and brains, for they,
too, know well how to deal their blows. And the royal troops butcher so

many of them that they break them up and scatter them like low-born folk
who have lost their heads. So many dead lay about the fields, and so long
did the battle rage, that long before the day dawned the ranks were so cut in
pieces that the rows of dead stretched for five leagues along the stream.
Count Angres leaves his banner on the field and steals away, accompanied
by only seven of his men. Towards his town he made his way by a secret
path, thinking that no one could see him. But Alexander notices this, and
sees them escaping from the troops, and he thinks that if he can slip away
without the knowledge of any one, he will go to catch up with them. But
before he got down into the valley, he saw thirty knights following him
down the path, of whom six were Greeks, and twenty-four were men of
Wales. These intended to follow him at a distance until he should stand in
need of them. When Alexander saw them coming, he stopped to wait for
them, without failing to observe what course was taken by those who were
making their way back to the town. Finally, he saw them enter it. Then he
began to plan a very daring deed and a very marvellous design. And when
he had made up his mind, he turned toward his companions and thus
addressed them: "My lords," says he, "whether it be folly or wisdom,
frankly grant me my desire if you care for my good-will." And they
promised him never to oppose his will in aught. Then he says: "Let us
change our outer gear, by taking the shields and lances from the traitors
whom we have killed. Thus, when we approach the town, the traitors within
will suppose that we are of their party, and regardless of the fate in store for
them, they will throw open the gates for us. And do you know what reward
we shall offer them? If God so will we shall take them all dead or alive.
Now, if any of you repents of his promise, be sure that, so long as I live, I
shall never hold him dear."
(Vv. 1859-1954.) All the others grant his boon, and, despoiling the
corpses of their shields, they arm themselves with them instead. The men
within the town had mounted to the battlements, and, recognising the
shields, suppose that they belong to their party, never dreaming of the ruse
hidden beneath the shields. The gatekeeper opens the gate for them and
admits them to the town. He is beguiled and deceived in not addressing
them a word; for no one of them speaks to him, but silently and mute they
pass, making such a show of grief that they trail their lances after them and
support themselves upon their shields. Thus it seems that they are in great
distress, as they pass on at their own sweet will until they are within the

triple walls. Inside they find a number of men-at-arms and knights with the
Count. I cannot tell you just how many; but they were unarmed, except
eight of them who had just returned from the fight, and even they were
preparing to remove their arms. But their haste was ill considered; for now
the other party make no further pretence, but without any challenge by way
of warning, they brace themselves in the stirrups, and let their horses charge
straight at them, attacking them with such rigour that they lay low more
than thirty-one of them. The traitors in great dismay shout out: "We are
betrayed, betrayed!" But the assailants take no heed of this, and let those
whom they find unarmed feel the temper of their swords. Indeed, three of
those whom they found still armed were so roughly handled that but five
remained alive. Count Angres rushed at Calcedor, and in the sight of all
struck him upon his golden shield with such violence that he stretched him
dead upon the ground. Alexander is greatly troubled, and is almost beside
himself with rage when he sees his companion dead; his blood boils with
anger, but his strength and courage are doubled as he strikes the Count with
such fury that he breaks his lance. If possible, he would avenge his friend.
But the Count was a powerful man and a good and hardy knight, whose
match it would have been hard to find, had he not been a base traitor. He
now returns the blow, making his lance double up so that it splits and
breaks; but the other's shield holds firm, and neither gives way before the
other any more than a rock would do, for both men were passing strong.
But the fact that the Count was in the wrong disturbs him greatly and
troubles him. 221 The anger of each rises higher as they both draw their
swords after their lances had been broken. No escape would have been
possible if these two swordsmen had persisted in continuing the fight. But
at last one or the other must die. The Count dares not longer hold his
ground, when he sees lying dead about him his men who had been caught
unarmed. Meanwhile the others press them hard, cutting, slashing, and
carving them, spilling their brains, and reproaching the Count for his
treachery. When he hears himself accused of treason, he flees for safety to
his tower, followed by his men. And their enemies follow after them,
fiercely charging them from the rear, and not letting a single one escape of
all upon whom they lay their hands. They kill and slay so many of them that
I guess not more than seven made good their escape.
(Vv. 1955-2056.) When they had got inside the tower, they made a stand
at the gate; for those who were coming close behind had followed so

closely after them that they too would have pressed in had the gateway been
left exposed. The traitors make a brave defence, waiting for succour from
their friends, who were arming themselves down in the town. But upon the
advice of Nabunal, who was a Greek of great wisdom, the approach was
blocked so that relief could not arrive in time; for those below had tarried
too long, either from cowardice or sloth. Now there was only one entrance
to the stronghold; so that, if they stop that entrance-way, they need have no
fear that any force shall approach to do them harm. Nabunal bids and
exhorts twenty of them to hold the gate; for soon such a company might
arrive with force as would do them harm by their assault and attack. While
these twenty hold the gate, the remaining ten should attack the tower and
prevent the Count from barricading himself inside. Nabunal's advice is
taken: ten remain to continue the assault at the entrance of the tower, while
twenty go to defend the gate. In doing so, they delay almost too long; for
they see approaching, furious and keen for the fight, a company containing
many cross-bow men and foot soldiers of different grades who carried arms
of divers sorts. Some carried light missiles, and others Danish axes, lances
and Turkish swords, bolts for cross-bows, arrows and javelins. The Greeks
would have had to pay a heavy score, if this crowd had actually fallen upon
them; but they did not reach the place in time. Nabunal by his foresight and
counsel had blocked their plans, and they were forced to remain outside.
When they see that they are shut out, they pause in their advance, as it is
evident they can gain nothing by making an assault. Then there begins such
weeping and wailing of women and young children, of old men and youths,
that those in the town could not have heard a thunder-clap from heaven. At
this the Greeks are overjoyed; for now they know of a certainty that the
Count by no good luck can escape capture. Four of them mount the walls to
keep watch lest those outside by any means or ruse should enter the
stronghold and fall upon them. The remaining sixteen returned to where the
ten were fighting. The day was already breaking, and the ten had fought so
well that they had forced their way within the tower. The Count took his
stand against a post, and, armed with a battleaxe, defended himself with
great bravery. Those whom he reaches, he splits in half. And his men line
up about him, and are not slow to avenge themselves in this last stand of the
day, Alexander's men have reason to complain, for of the original sixteen
there remain now but thirteen. Alexander is almost beside himself when he
sees the havoc wrought among his dead or exhausted followers. Yet his

thoughts are fixed on vengeance: finding at hand a long heavy club, he
struck one of the rascals with it so fiercely that neither shield nor hauberk
was worth a button in preventing him from failing to the ground. After
finishing with him, he pursues the Count, and raising his club to strike him
he deals him such a blow with his square club that the axe falls from his
hands; and he was so stunned and bewildered that he could not have stood
up unless he had leaned against the wall.
(Vv. 2057-2146.) After this blow the battle ceases. Alexander leaps at the
Count and holds him so that he cannot move. Of the others nothing need be
said, for they were easily mastered when they saw the capture of their lord.
All are made prisoners with the Count and led away in disgrace, in
accordance with their deserts. Of all this the men outside knew nothing. But
when morning came they found their companions shields lying among the
slain when the battle was over. Then the Greeks, misled, made a great
lament for their lord. Recognising his shield, all are in an agony of grief,
swooning at sight of his shield and saying that now they have lived too
long. Cornix and Nerius first swoon, then, recovering their senses, wish
they were dead. So do Torin and Acorionde. The tears run down in floods
from their eyes upon their breasts. Life and joy seem hateful now. And
Parmenides more than the rest tore his hair in dire distress. No greater grief
could be shown than that of these five for their lord. Yet, their dismay is
groundless, for it is another's body which they bear away when they think to
have their lord. Their distress is further increased by the sight of the other
shields, which cause them to mistake these corpses for their companions. So
over them they lament and swoon. But they are deceived by all these
shields, for of their men only one was killed, whose name was Neriolis.
Him, indeed, they would have borne away had they known the truth. But
they are in as great anxiety for the others as for him; so they bore them all
away. In every case but one they were misled. But like the man who dreams
and takes a fiction for the truth, so the shields cause them to suppose this
illusion to be a reality. It is the shields, then, that cause this mistake. 222
Carrying the corpses, they move away and come to their tents, where there
was a sorrowing troop. Upon hearing the lament raised by the Greeks, soon
all the others gathered, until there was but one great outcry. Now
Saredamors thinks of her wretched estate when she hears the cry and lament
over her lover. Their anguish and distress cause her to lose her senses and
her colour, and her grief and sorrow are increased because she dares not

openly show a trace of her distress. She shut up her grief within her heart.
Had any one looked at her, he could have seen by the expression of her face
what agony she was in; but every one was so engrossed with his own
sorrow that he had no care for another's grief. Each one lamented his own
loss. For they find the river bank covered with their relatives and friends,
who had been wounded or roughly treated. Each one wept for his own
heavy and bitter loss: here is a son weeping for a father, there a father for a
son; one swoons at the sight of his cousin, another over his nephew. Thus
fathers, brothers, and relatives bemoan their loss on every side. But above
all is noticeable the sorrow of the Greeks; and yet they might have
anticipated great joy, for the deepest grief of all the camp will soon be
changed into rejoicing.
(Vv. 2147-2200.) The Greeks outside continue their lament, while those
inside strive to let them know the news which will cause them to rejoice.
They disarm and bind their prisoners, who pray and beg of them to strike
off their heads straightway. But the Greeks are unwilling, and disdain their
entreaties, saying that them will keep then under guard and hand them over
to the King, who will grant them such recompense as shall require their
services. When they had disarmed them all they made them go up on the
wall that they might be seen by the troops below. This privilege is not to
their liking, and when they saw their lord bound as a prisoner, they were
unhappy men. Alexander upon the walls swears to God and all the saints
that he will not let one of them live, but will kill them all speedily, unless
they will go to surrender to the King before he can seize them. "Go," says
he, "confidently to the King at my command, and cast yourselves upon his
mercy. None of you, except the Count, has deserved to die. You shall not
lose either life or limb if you surrender to the King. If you do not deliver
yourselves from death by crying for mercy, you need have little hope of
saving your lives or bodies. Go forth disarmed to meet the King, and tell
him from me that Alexander sends you to him. Your action will not be in
vain; for my lord the King is so gentle and courteous that he will lay aside
his wrath and anger. But if you wish to act otherwise, you must expect to
die, for his heart will be closed to pity." All agree in accepting this advice,
and do not hesitate until they come to the King's tent, where they all fall at
his feet. The story they told was soon known throughout the camp. The
King and all his men mounted and spurred their horses to the town without
delay.

(Vv. 2201-2248.) Alexander goes out from the town to meet the King,
who was greatly pleased, and to surrender to him the Count. The King did
not delay in fitly punishing him. But Alexander is congratulated and praised
by the King and all the others who esteem him highly. Their joy drives
away the grief which they had felt not long before. But no joy of the others
can compare with the exultation of the Greeks. The King presents him with
the precious cup, weighing fifteen marks, and tells him confidently that
there is nothing in his possession so valuable that he would not place it in
his hands upon request—save only the crown and the Queen. Alexander
dares not mention his heart's desire, though he knows well that he would
not be refused in asking for his sweetheart's hand. But he fears so much lest
he might displease her, whose heart would have been made glad, that he
prefers to suffer without her rather than to win her against her will.
Therefore, he asks for a little time, not wishing to prefer his request until he
is sure of her pleasure. But he asked for no respite or delay in accepting the
cup of gold. He takes the cup, and courteously begs my lord Gawain to
accept this cup as a gift from him, which Gawain did most reluctantly.
When Soredamors learned the truth about Alexander she was greatly
pleased and delighted. When she heard that he was alive, she was so happy
that it seemed to her as though she could never be sad again. But she
reflects that he is slower in coming than is his wont. Yet in good time she
will have her wish, for both of them in rivalry are occupied with one
common thought.
(Vv. 2249-2278.) It seemed to Alexander an age before he could feast his
eyes with even one soft glance from her. Long ago he would fain have gone
to the Queen's tent, if he had not been detained elsewhere. He was much put
out by this delay, and as soon as he could, he betook himself to the Queen
in her tent. The Queen went to greet him, and, without his having confided
in her, she had already read his thoughts, and knew what was passing in his
mind. She greets him at the entrance of the tent, and strives to make him
welcome, well knowing for what purpose he has come. Desirous of
according him a favour, she beckons Soredamors to join them, and they
three engage in conversation at some distance from the rest. The Queen first
speaks, in whose mind there was no doubt that this couple were in love. Of
this fact she is quite sure, and is persuaded moreover that Soredamors could
not have a better lover. She took her place between the two and began to
say what was appropriate.

(Vv. 2279-2310.) "Alexander," says the Queen, "any love is worse than
hate, when it torments and distresses its devotee. Lovers know not what
they do when they conceal their passion from one another. Love is a serious
business, and whoever does not boldly lay its foundation firm can hardly
succeed in completing the edifice. They say there is nothing so hard to cross
as the threshold. Now I wish to instruct you in the lore of love; for I know
well that Love is tormenting you. Therefore, I have undertaken to instruct
you; and do you take good care not to keep anything back from me, for I
have plainly seen in the faces of you both that of two hearts you have made
but one. So beware, and conceal nothing from me! You are acting very
foolishly in not speaking out your mind; for concealment will be the death
of you; thus you will be the murderers of Love. Now I counsel you to
exercise no tyranny, and to seek no passing gratification in your love; but to
be honourably joined together in marriage. So, I believe, your love shall
long endure. I can assure you that, if you agree to this, I will arrange the
marriage."
(Vv. 2311-2360.) When the Queen had spoken her mind, Alexander thus
made reply: "Lady," he says, "I enter no defence against the charge you
make, but rather admit the truth of all you say. I wish never to be deserted
by love, but always to fix my thoughts on it. I am pleased and delighted by
what you have so kindly said. Since you know what my wishes are, I see no
reason why I should conceal them from you. Long ago, if I had dared I
would have confessed them openly; for the silence has been hard. But it
may well be that for some reason this maiden may not wish that I be hers
and she mine. But even if she grant me no rights over her, yet will I place
myself in her hands." At these words she trembled, having no desire to
refuse the gift. Her heart's desire betrays itself in her words and her
countenance. Falteringly she gives herself to him, and says that without
exception her will, her heart, and her body all is at the disposal of the
Queen, to do with her as she may please. The Queen clasps them both in her
arms, and presents one to the other. Then laughingly she adds: "I give over
to thee, Alexander, thy sweetheart's body, and I know that thy heart does not
draw back. Whoever may like it or like it not, I give each of you to the
other. Do thou, Soredamors, take what is thine, and thou, Alexander, take
what is thine!" Now she has her own entire, and he has his without lack. At
Windsor that day, with the approval and permission of my lord Gawain and
the King, the marriage was celebrated. No one could tell, I am sure, so

much of the magnificence and the food, of the pleasure and entertainment,
at this wedding without falling short of the truth. Inasmuch as it would be
distasteful to some, I do not care to waste further words upon the matter, but
am anxious to turn to another subject.
(Vv. 2361-2382.) That day at Windsor Alexander had all the honour and
happiness that he could desire. Three different joys and honours were his:
one was the town which he captured; another was the present of the best
kingdom in Wales, which King Arthur had promised to give him when the
war was over; that very day he made him king in his hall. But the greatest
joy of all was the third—that his sweetheart was queen of the chess-board
where he was king. Before five months had passed, Soredamors found
herself with child, and carried it until the time was fulfilled. The seed
remained in germ until the fruit was fully matured. No more beautiful child
was ever born before or since than he whom they now called Cligés.
(Vv. 2383-2456.) So Cligés was born, in whose honour this story has
been put in the Romance tongue. You shall hear me tell of him and of his
valorous deeds, when he shall have grown to manhood and obtained a good
report. But meanwhile in Greece it came about that he who ruled over
Constantinople drew near his end. He died, as indeed he must, not being
able to outlive his time. But before he died he assembled all the nobles of
his land to send and seek for his son Alexander, who was happily detained
in Britain. The messengers start out from Greece, and begin their voyage
over the seas; but a tempest catches them in its grasp, and damages their
ship and company. They were all drowned at sea, except one unfaithful
wretch, who was more devoted to Alis the younger son than to Alexander
the eider. When he escaped from the sea, he returned to Greece with the
story that they had all been lost at sea as they were conducting their lord
back from Britain, and that he was the only survivor of the tragedy. They
believed this lie of his, and, taking Alis without objection or dissent, they
crowned him emperor of Greece. But it was not long before Alexander
learned that Alis was emperor. Then he took leave of King Arthur, unwilling
to let his brother usurp his land without protest. The King makes no
opposition to his plan, but bids him take with him so great a company of
Welshmen, Scots, and Cornishmen that his brother will not dare to
withstand him when he sees him come with such a host. Alexander, had he
pleased, might have led a mighty force; but he has no desire to harm his
own people, if his brother will consent to do his will. He took with him

forty knights besides Soredamors and his son; these two persons, who were
so dear to him, he did not wish to leave behind. Escorted as far as Shoreham
by the entire court, they there embarked, and with fair winds their ship
made way more quickly than a fleeing stag. Within a month, I think, they
arrived in port before Athens, a rich and powerful city. Indeed, the emperor
was residing there, and had convoked, a great assembly of his noblemen. As
soon as they arrived Alexander sent a privy messenger into the city to learn
whether they would receive him, or whether they would resist his claim to
be their only lawful lord.
(Vv. 2457-2494.) He who was chosen for this mission was a courteous
knight with good judgment, named Acorionde, a rich man and eloquent; he
was a native of the country, too, having been born in Athens. His ancestors
for generations had always exercised lordship in the city. When he had
learned that the emperor was in the city he went and challenged the crown
on behalf of his brother Alexander, accusing him openly of having usurped
it unlawfully. Arriving at the palace, he finds plenty of people who welcome
him; but he says nothing to any of those who greet him until he learns what
is their attitude and disposition toward their lawful lord. Coming into the
presence of the emperor he neither greets him nor bows before him nor calls
him emperor. "Alis," he says, "I bring thee tidings of Alexander, who is out
yonder in the harbour. Listen to thy brother's message: he asks thee for what
belongs to him, nor does he demand what is unjust. Constantinople, which
thou dost hold, should be his and shall be his. It would be neither just nor
right that discord should arise between you two. So give him the crown
without contest, for it is right that thou shouldst surrender it."
(Vv. 2495-2524.) Alis replies: "Fair gentle friend, thou hast undertaken a
mad enterprise in bearing this message. There is little comfort in thy speech,
for well I know that my brother is dead. I should rejoice, indeed, to learn
that he was still alive. But I shall not believe the news until I have seen him
with my eyes. He died some time ago, alas! What thou sayest is not
credible. And if he lives, why does he not come? He need never fear that I
will not bestow on him some lands. He is a fool to hold aloof from me, for
in serving me he will find profit. But no one shall possess the crown and
empire beside me." He liked not the speech of the emperor, and did not fail
to speak his mind in the reply he made. "Alis," he says, "may God confound
me if the matter is thus allowed to stand. I defy thee in thy brother's name,
and dutifully speaking in his name, I summon all those whom I see here to

renounce thee and to join his cause. It is right that they should side with him
and recognise him as their lord. Let him who is loyal now stand forth."
(Vv. 2525-2554.) Upon saying this he leaves the court, and the emperor
summons those in whom he has most confidence. He requests their advice
concerning this defiance upon his brother's part, and wishes to learn if he
can trust them to lend no support or help to his brother's claim. Thus he tries
to test the loyalty of each; but he finds not one who sides with him in the
dispute, rather do they all bid him remember the war which Eteocles
undertook against his own brother Polynices, and how each one died by the
other's hand. 223 "So, too, it may happen to you, if you undertake a war, and
all the land will be distressed." Therefore, they advise that such a peace be
sought as shall be both reasonable and just, and that neither one make
excessive demands. Thus Alis understands that if he does not make an
equitable agreement with his brother all his vassals will desert him; so he
says that he will respect their wishes in making any suitable contract,
provided that however the affair may rum out the crown shall remain in his
possession.
(Vv. 2555-2618.) In order to secure a firm and stable peace Alis sends
one of his officers to Alexander, bidding him come to him in person and
receive the government of the land, but stipulating that he should leave to
him the honour of emperor in name and of wearing the crown: thus, if
Alexander is willing, peace may be established between them. When this
news was brought to Alexander his men made ready with him and came to
Athens, where they were received with joy. But Alexander is not willing
that his brother should have the sovereignty of the empire and of the crown
unless he will pledge his word never to take a wife, and that after him
Cligés shall be emperor of Constantinople. Upon this the brothers both
agreed. Alexander dictated the terms of the oath, and his brother agreed and
gave his word that he would never in his life take a wife in marriage. So
peace is made, and they are friends again, to the great satisfaction of the
lords. They hold Alis as their emperor, but all business is referred to
Alexander. What he commands is done, and little is done except through
him. Alis has nothing but the name of emperor; but Alexander is served and
loved; and he who does not serve him for love must needs do so from fear.
Through the effect of one or the other of these two motives he has all the
land within his power. But he whom they call Death spares neither the
strong man nor the weak, but kills and slays them all. So Alexander had to

die; for a disease caught him in its grip from which he could obtain no
relief. But before he was surprised by death he summoned his son and said
to him: "Fair son Cligés, thou canst never know that prowess and valour are
thine unless thou go first to make test of them with the Bretons and French
at King Arthur's court. If adventure takes thee thither, so conduct and
demean thyself that thy identity be not known until thou hast tried thy
strength with the most excellent knights of that court. I beg thee to heed my
counsel in this matter, and if the occasion arises have no fear to measure thy
skill with thy uncle, my lord Gawain. Do not forget this advice, I pray."
(Vv. 2619-2665.) After he had thus exhorted him, he did not live long.
Soredamors' grief was such that she could not survive him, but died after
him of a broken heart. Alis and Cligés both mourned him becomingly, but
finally they ceased their grief, for sorrow, like everything else, must be
outlived. To continue in sorrow is wrong, for no good can come from it. So
the mourning was ended, and the emperor refrained for a long time from
taking a wife, being careful of his word. But there is no court in all the
world which is free from evil counsel. Great men often go astray, and do
not observe loyalty because of the bad advice they take. Thus, the emperor
hears his men giving him advice and counselling him to take a wife; and
daily they so exhort and urge him that by their very insistence they persuade
him to break his oath, and to accede to their desire. But he insists that she
who is to be mistress of Constantinople must be gentle, fair, wise, rich, and
noble. Then his counsellors say that they wish to prepare to go away to the
German land, and seek the daughter of the emperor. She is the choice they
propose to him; for the emperor of Germany is very rich and powerful, and
his daughter is so charming that never was there a maid of her beauty in
Christendom. The emperor grants them full authority, and they set out upon
the journey well provided with all they need. They proceeded on their way
until they found the emperor at Regensburg, when they asked him to give
them his oldest daughter at the instance of their lord.
(Vv. 2669-2680.) The emperor was pleased with this request, and gladly
gave them his daughter; for in doing so, he does not debase himself, nor
diminish his honour in any way. But he says that he had promised her to the
Duke of Saxony, and that they would not be able to lead her away unless
the emperor should come with a great army, so that the duke would be
unable to do him any harm or injury while homeward bound.

(Vv. 2681-2706.) When the messengers heard the emperor's reply, they
took leave and departed. They returned to their lord, and bore him the
answer. And the emperor selected a chosen company of the most
experienced knights whom he could find, and took with him his nephew, in
whose interests he had vowed never to marry a wife, but he will not respect
this vow if he can once reach Cologne. 224 Upon a certain day he leaves
Greece and draws near to Germany, intending to take a wife despite all
blame and reproach; but his honour will be smirched. Upon reaching
Cologne, he found that the emperor had assembled all his court for a
festival. When the company of the Greeks reached Cologne, there was such
a great number of Greeks and Germans that it was necessary to lodge more
than sixty thousand of them outside the city.
(Vv.2707-2724.) Great was the crowd of people, and great the joy of the
two emperors when they met. When the barons had gathered in the vast
palace, the emperor summoned his charming daughter. The maiden made no
delay in coming straightway into the palace. She had been made very fair
and shapely by the Creator, whose pleasure it had been to arouse the
people's admiration. God, who had fashioned her, never gave man a word
which could adequately express such beauty as she possessed.
(Vv. 2725-2760.) Fenice was the maiden's name, and for this there was
good reason: 225 for if the Phoenix bird is unique as the most beautiful of all
the birds, so Fenice, it seems to me, had no equal in beauty. She was such a
miracle and marvel that Nature was never able to make her like again. In
order to be more brief, I will not describe in words her arms, her body, her
head and hands; for if I should live a thousand years, and if my skill were to
double every day, yet should I waste all my time in trying to tell the truth
about her. I know very well, if I should undertake it, that I would exhaust
my brain and waste my pains: it would be but misspent energy. 226 The
damsel hastened until she came into the palace, with head uncovered and
face unveiled; and the radiance of her beauty lighted the palace more
brightly than four carbuncles would have done. Cligés stood, his over-cloak
removed, in his uncle's presence. The day outside was somewhat dark, but
he and the maiden were both so fair that a ray shone forth from their beauty
which illumined the palace, just as the morning sun shines clear and red.
(Vv. 2761-2792.) I wish to attempt in a very few words to describe the
beauty of Cligés. He was in his flower, being now almost fifteen years of

age. He was more comely and charming than Narcissus who saw his
reflection in the spring beneath the elm-tree, and, when he saw it, he loved
it so that he died, they say, because he could not get it. Narcissus was fair,
but had little sense; 227 but as fine gold surpasses copper, so was Cligés
better endowed with wisdom, and even then I have not said all. His locks
seemed made of fine gold, and his face was of a fresh rosy colour. He had a
well-formed nose and shapely mouth, and in stature he was built upon
Nature's best pattern; for in him she had united gifts which she is wont to
scatter wide. Nature was so lavish with him that she gave him all she could,
and placed all in one receptacle. Such was Cligés, who combined good
sense and beauty, generosity and strength. He possessed the wood as well as
the bark; he knew more of fencing and of the bow than did Tristan, King
Mark's nephew, and more about birds and hounds than he. 228 In Cligés
there lacked no good thing.
(Vv. 2793-2870.) Cligés stood in all his beauty before his uncle, and
those who did not know who he was looked at him with eager curiosity.
And on the other hand, the interest was aroused of those who did not know
the maiden: wonderingly they gaze upon her. But Cligés, under the sway of
love, let his eyes rest on her covertly, and withdrew them again so discreetly
that in their passage to and fro no one could blame his lack of skill. Blithely
he looks upon the maid, but does not note that she repays him in kind. Not
flattering him, but in sincere love, she gives him her eyes, and takes back
his. This exchange seems good to her, and would have seemed to her better
still had she known something of who he was. But she knows nothing
except that he is fair, and that, if she is ever to love any one for beauty's
sake, she need not seek elsewhere to bestow her heart. She handed over to
him the possession of her eyes and heart, and he pledged his in turn to her.
Pledged? Rather gave outright. Gave? Nay, upon my faith, I lie; for no one
can give away his heart. I must express it some other way. I will not say it,
as some have done who make two hearts dwell in one body, for it bears not
even the semblance of truth that there should be in one body two hearts; and
even if they could be so united, it would never seem true. But if it please
you to heed my words, I shall be able explain how two hearts form but one
without coming to be identified. Only so far are they merged in one as the
desire of each passes from one to the other, thus joining in one common
desire; and because of this harmony of desire, there are some who are wont
to say that each one has both hearts; but one heart cannot be in two places.

Each one always keeps his own heart, though the desire be shared by both,
just as many different men may sing a song or tune in unison. By this
comparison I prove that for one body to contain two hearts it is not enough
to know each other's wish, nor yet for one to know what the other loves and
what he hates; just as voices which are heard together seem to be merged in
one, and yet do not all come from one mouth, so it is with a body which can
contain but one heart. But there is no need of further argument, for other
matters press upon me. I must speak now of the damsel and of Cligés, and
you shall hear of the Duke of Saxony, who has sent to Cologne a young
nephew of his. This youth informs the emperor that his uncle, the duke,
sends word that he need expect no peace or trace with him, unless he sends
to him his daughter, and that the one who is intending to carry her away
with him had better not start home, for he will find the road occupied and
well defended unless the maiden be surrendered.
(Vv. 2871-3010.) The youth spoke his message well, without pride and
without insult. But he found neither knight nor emperor who would answer
him. When he saw that they all held their peace and treated him with scorn,
he left the court in defiant mood. But youth and thirst for daring deeds made
Cligés defy him in combat as he left. For the contest they mount their
steeds, three hundred of them on either side, exactly equal thus in strength.
All the palace is quite emptied of knights and ladies, who mount to the
balconies, battlements, and windows to see and watch those who were
about to fight. Even the maiden, whose will Love had subdued beneath his
sway, sought for a point from which to see. She took her place at a window,
where she sat with great delight, because from there she could get a view of
him whom she holds secretly in her heart with no desire to remove him
thence; for she will never love any other man. But she does not know his
name, nor who he is, nor of what race; for it is not proper to ask questions;
but she yearns to hear tidings which will bring joy to her heart. She looks
out of the window at the shields with their gleaming gold, and she gazes at
those who wear the shields about their necks, as they prepare for the trial at
arms. But all her thoughts and glances soon rest upon one object, and to all
others she is indifferent. Whereever Cligés goes, she seeks to follow him
with her eyes. And he in turn does his best for her, and battles openly, in
order that she at least may hear it said that he is bold and very skilled: thus
she will be compelled to prize him for his prowess. He attacks the duke's
nephew, who was breaking many a lance and sorely discomfiting the

Greeks. But Cligés, who is displeased at this, braces himself firmly in his
stirrups, and goes to strike him so speedily that in spite of himself he had to
vacate the saddle-bows. When he got up, the uproar was great; for the youth
arose and mounted, thinking to avenge his shame. But many a man only
falls into deeper disgrace who thinks to avenge his shame when he has the
chance. The young man rushes at Cligés, who lowers his lance to meet him,
and thrusts at him with such force that he carries him to earth again. Now
his shame is doubled, and all his followers are in dismay, seeing that they
can never leave the field with honour; for not one of them is so valiant that
he can keep his seat in the saddle when Cligés thrust reaches him. But those
of Germany and the Greeks are overjoyed when they see their party drive
off the Saxons, who retreat discomfited. With mockery they pursue them
until they come up with them at a stream, into which they drive them for a
plunge. In the deepest part of the ford Cligés unhorsed the duke's nephew
and so many of his men that they escaped grieving and sad in their shame
and confusion. But Cligés, twice victor, returned in glee, and entered a gate
which was near the apartment where the maiden was; and as he passed
through the gate she exacted as toll a tender glance, which he paid her as
their eyes met. Thus was the maiden subdued by the man. But there is not a
German of the lowland or highland, possessing the power of speech who
does not cry: "God! who is this in whom such beauty is radiant? God! how
has it happened that so suddenly he has attained such great success?" Thus
one man and another asks: "Who is this youth, who is he, I say?" Thus,
soon throughout the city it is known what his name is, and who is his father,
and what pledge that was which had been made to him by the emperor. So
much was said and noised about that the news reached the ears of her who
in her heart rejoiced because she could no more say that Love had made
sport of her, nor had she any ground for complaint. For Love has made her
give her heart to the fairest, most courteous, and valiant man that could
anywhere be found. But some force must be employed, if she would gain
possession of him who is not free do her will. This makes her anxious and
distraught. For she has no one with whom to take counsel concerning him
for whom she pines, but must waste herself in thought and vigils. She
becomes so affected by these cares that she loses her colour and grows wan,
and it becomes plain to all that her loss of colour betokens an unfulfilled
desire. She plays less now than she used to do, and laughs less and loses her
gaiety. But she conceals her trouble and passes it off, if any one asks what

her ailment is. Her old nurse's name was Thessala, 229 who was skilled in
necromancy, having been born in Thessaly, where devilish charms are
taught and wrought; for the women of that country perform many a charm
and mystic rite.
(Vv. 3011-3062.) Thessala saw pale and wan her whom Love holds in his
bonds, and thus she addressed her with advice: "God!" she said, "are you
bewitched, my lady dear, that your face should be so pale? I wonder what
your trouble is. Tell me, if you can, where this pain attacks you most, for if
any one can cure you, you may safely trust me to give you back your health
again. I can cure the dropsy, gout, quinsy, and asthma; I am so expert in
examining the urine and the pulse that you need consult no other physician.
And I dare say that I know more than ever Medea 230 knew of enchantments
and of charms which tests have proven to be true. I have never spoken to
you of this, though I have cared for you all your life; and now I should not
mention it did I not plainly see that you are so afflicted as to need my
ministrations. My lady, you will do well to tell me what your sickness is
before its hold becomes more severe. The emperor has committed you to
me in order that I may care for you, and my devotion has been such that I
have kept you safe and sound. Now all my pains will come to naught if I do
not relieve this malady. Take care not to conceal from me whether this is
sickness or something else." The damsel dares not openly expose her desire
in all its fullness for she is in fear lest she be disapproved and blamed. And
when she hears and understands how Thessala boasts and highly rates
herself as being expert in enchantments, charms, and potions, she decides to
tell her what is the cause of her pale and colourless face; but first she makes
her promise to keep her secret and never to oppose her will.
(Vv. 3063-3216.) "Nurse," she said, "I truly thought I felt no pain, but I
shall soon feel differently. For as soon as I begin to think about it, I feel
great pain, and am dismayed. But when one has no experience, how can one
tell what is sickness and what is health? My illness is different from all
others; for when I wish to speak of it, it causes me both joy and pain, so
happy I am in my distress. And if it can be that sickness brings delight, then
my trouble and joy are one, and in my illness consists my health. So I do
not know why I complain, for I know not whence my trouble comes, unless
it is caused by my desire. Perchance my desire is my disease, but I find so
much joy in it that the suffering it causes me is grateful, and there is so
much contentment in my pain that it is sweet to suffer so. Nurse Thessala,

now tell me true, is not this a deceitful ill, to charm and torment me both at
once? I do not see how I can tell whether this is a disease or not. Nurse, tell
me now its name, nature, and character. But understand well that I have no
desire to be cured of it, for my distress is very dear to me." Thessala, who
was very wise about love and its symptoms knows full well from what she
hears that it is love which is tormenting her; the tender, endearing terms she
uses are certain proof that she is in love, for all other woes are hard to bear,
except that alone which comes from love; but love transforms its bitterness
into sweetness and joy, then often transforms them back again. The nurse,
who was expert in this matter, thus replies to her: "Have no fear, for I will
tell you at once the name of your malady. You told me, I believe, that the
pain which you feel seems rather to be joy and health: now of such a nature
is love-sickness, for in it, too, there is joy and bliss. You are in love, then, as
I can prove to you, for I find no pleasure in any malady save only in love.
All other sickness is always bad and horrible, but love is sweet and
peaceable. You are in love; of that I am sure, nor do I see any wrong in that.
But I shall consider it very wrong, if through some childish folly you
conceal from me your heart." "Nurse, there is no need of your speaking so.
But first I must be sure and certain that under no circumstances will you
speak of it to any living soul." "My lady, surely the winds will speak of it
before I do without your leave, and I will give you my word so to favour
your desires that you may safely trust in having your joy fulfilled through
my services." "In that case, Nurse, I shall be cured. But the emperor is
giving me in marriage, wherefore I grieve and am sorrowful; for he who has
won my heart is the nephew of him whom I must take. And though he may
find joy in me, yet is my joy forever lost, and no respite is possible. I would
rather be torn limb from limb than that men should speak of us as they
speak of the loves of Iseut and Tristan, of so many unseemly stories are told
that I should be ashamed to mention them. I could never bring myself to
lead the life that Iseut led. Such love as hers was far too base; for her body
belonged to two, whereas her heart was possessed by one. Thus all her life
was spent, refusing her favours to neither one. But mine is fixed on one
object, and under no circumstances will there be any sharing of my body
and heart. Never will my body be portioned out between two shareholders.
Who has the heart has the body, too, and may bid all others stand aside. But
I cannot clearly see how he whom I love can have my body when my father
gives me to another, and his will I do not dare resist. And when this other is

lord of my body, and does something which displeases me, it is not right for
me to summon another to my aid. Nor can this man marry a wife without
breaking his plighted word; for, unless injustice be done, Cligés is to have
the empire after his uncle's death. But I should be well served by you, if you
were so skilful as to present him, to whom I am pledged and engaged, from
having any claim upon me. O Nurse, exert yourself to the end that he may
not break the pledge which he gave to the father of Cligés, when he
promised him solemnly never to take a wife in marriage. For now, if he
should marry me his promise would be broken. But Cligés is so dear to me
that I would rather be under ground than that he should ever lose through
me a penny of the fortune which should be his. May never a child be born
to me to cause his disinheritance! Nurse, now do your best, and I will
always be your slave." Then the nurse tells her and assures her that she will
cast so many charms, and prepare so many potions and enchantments that
she need never have any worry or fear concerning the emperor after he shall
have drunk of the potion which she will give him; even when they shall lie
together and she be at his side, she may be as secure as if there were a wall
between them. "But do not be alarmed, if, in his sleep, he sports with you,
for when he is plunged in sleep he will have his sport with you, and he will
be convinced that he has had you when wide awake, nor will he think it is
all a dream, a fiction, and illusion. Thus he will have his sport with you
when asleep, he will think he is awake."
(Vv. 3217-3250.) The maiden is highly pleased and delighted by the
nurse's kindness and offer of help. Her nurse inspires good hope in her by
the promise which she makes, and which she binds herself to keep; with
this hope she expects to obtain her desire, in spite of wearisome delay, for if
Cligés' nature is as noble as she takes it to be he cannot fail to take pity
upon her when he learns that she loves him, and that she has imposed
virginity upon herself in order to insure his inheritance. So the maiden
believes her nurse, and puts full confidence in her. One promises to the
other, and gives her word, that this plot shall be kept so secret as never to be
revealed. At this point their conversation ceases, and the next morning the
emperor summons his daughter. At his command she goes to him. But why
should I weary you with details? The two emperors have so settled the
matter that the marriage is solemnised, and joy reigns in the palace. But I do
not wish to stop to describe all this in detail. Rather will I address myself to
Thessala, as she diligently prepares and tempers her potions.

(Vv. 3251-3328.) Thessala steeps her drink, putting in spices in
abundance to sweeten and temper it. After having well beaten and mixed it,
she strains it clear, with no sharp or bitter taste, for the spices she puts in
give it a sweet and pleasant fragrance. When the potion was prepared, the
day had drawn to a close, the tables were set for supper, and the cloths were
spread. But Thessala delays the supper, because she must discover by what
device and what agent she can have the potion served. At supper, finally, all
were seated, and more than six dishes had been passed, and Cligés served
behind his uncle's place. Thessala, as she watches him, thinks how ill he
serves his own interests, and how he is assisting in his own disinheritance,
and the thought torments and worries her. Then in her kindness she
conceives the plan of having the potion served by him to whom it will bring
both joy and honour. So Thessala summoned Cligés; and when he had come
to her, he asked her why she had sent for him. "Friend," said she, "I wish to
present the emperor at this meal with a beverage which he will esteem
highly, and I want him to taste no other to-night, either at supper or when he
goes to bed. I think he cannot fail to relish it, for he never has tasted a better
drink or one that has cost so much. And I warn you, take good care to let no
one else drink of it, for there is but a little of it. And this, too, I beg of you,
not to let him know whence it came; but tell him it came about by chance
that you found it among the presents, and tasted it yourself, and detected the
aroma of the sweet spices in the air; then, seeing the wine to be all clear you
poured it into his cup. If by chance he should inquire, you can satisfy him
with this reply. But have no suspicion yourself, after what I have said, for
the drink is pure and healthful, full excellent spices, and I think it may some
day bring you joy." When he heard that advantage would come to him, he
took the potion and went away, for he did not know there was any harm in
it. He set it in a crystal cup before the emperor, who took it without
question, trusting in his nephew. After taking a long draught of the
beverage, he straightway feels its strength, as it descends from head to
heart, and rises again from heart to head, and penetrates every part of him
without doing the slightest harm. And by the time they left the tables, the
emperor had drunk so much of the pleasing drink that he can never escape it
influence. Every night he will sleep under its influence, and its effects will
be such that he will think he is awake when sound asleep.
(Vv. 3329-3394.) Now the emperor has been deceived. Many bishops and
abbots were present to bless and hallow the marriage-bed. When the time

came to retire, the emperor, as was his right, lay beside his wife that night.
"As was his right;" but the statement is inexact, for he neither kissed nor
fondled her, yet they lay together in one bed. At first the maiden trembled
with fear and anxiety lest the potion should not act. But it has so mastered
him that he will never desire her or any other woman except in his sleep.
But when asleep he will have such sport with her as one may have in
dreams, and he will think the dream is true. Nevertheless, she is on her
guard, and at first, holds aloof from him, so that he cannot approach her.
But now he must needs fall asleep; then he sleeps and dreams, though, the
senses are awake, and he exerts himself to win the favours of the maid,
while she, realising the danger, defends her virginity. He woos her and calls
her gently his sweetheart, and thinks he possesses her, but in vain. But he is
gratified by this vain semblance, embracing, kissing, and fondling an empty
thing, seeing and speaking to no purpose, struggling and striving without
effect. Surely the potion was effective in thus possessing and mastering
him. All his pains are of no avail, as he thinks and is persuaded that the
fortress is won. Thus he thinks and is convinced, when he desists after his
vain efforts. But now I may say once for all that his satisfaction was never
more than this. To such relations with her he will for ever be condemned if
indeed he can lead her to his own land; but before he can get her to safety, I
judge that there is trouble in store for him. For while he is on his journey
home, the duke, to whom his bride had been betrothed, will appear upon the
scene. The duke gathered a numerous force, and garrisoned the frontiers,
while at court he had his spies to inform him each day of the emperor's
doings and preparations, and how long they are going to stay, and by what
route they intend to return. The emperor did not tarry long after the
marriage, but left Cologne in high spirits. The German emperor escorted
him with a numerous company, fearing and dreading the force of the Duke
of Saxony.
(Vv. 3395-3424.) The two emperors pursued their journey until they were
beyond Regensburg, where one evening they were encamped in a meadow
by the Danube. The Greeks were in their tents in the fields bordering upon
the Black Forest. Opposite to them the Saxons were lodged, spying upon
them. The duke's nephew stood alone upon a hill, whence he could
reconnoitre for a chance to inflict some loss or harm on the enemy. From
that point of vantage he espied Cligés with three of his young men
disporting themselves with lances and shields, eager for a conflict and

shock of arms. If he could get the chance the duke's nephew would gladly
attack them and do them harm. Starting out with five companions he
concealed them in a valley close by a wood, so that the Greeks never saw
them until they emerged from the valley; then the duke's nephew made an
attack, and striking Cligés, wounded him slightly in the back. Cligés,
bending over, avoids the lance which passed him, inflicting only a slight
hurt.
(Vv. 3425-3570.) When Cligés felt himself wounded, he charged the
youth, and struck him with such force that he drove his lance quite through
his heart, and stretched him dead. Then all the Saxons in fear of him betook
themselves to flight through the woods. And Cligés, ignorant of the
ambuscade, courageously but imprudently leaving his companions behind,
pursues them to the place where the duke's troops were in force preparing to
attack the Greeks. Alone he goes in hot pursuit after the youths, who, in
despair over their lord whom they had lost, come running to the duke and
tell him weeping of his nephew's death. The duke saw no joke in this affair;
and, swearing by God and all His saints that he will take no joy or pride in
life so long as the slayer of his nephew remains alive, he adds that whoever
will bring him his head will be his friend and will serve him well. Then a
knight made boast that if he can find the guilty man, he will present him
with Cligés' head. Cligés follows the young men until he falls among the
Saxons, when he is seen by him who had undertaken to carry off his head,
and who starts after him without delay. But Cligés haste had turned back to
escape from his enemies and came in to where he had left his companions;
he found none there, for they had returned to camp to relate their adventure.
And the emperor ordered to horse the Greeks and Germans in one band.
Soon all through the camp the knights are arming and mounting.
Meanwhile Cligés is hotly pursued by his enemy, all armed and with helmet
closed. Cligés, who never wished to be numbered among the coward and
craven-hearted, notices that he comes alone. First, the knight challenged
him, calling him "fellow," unable to conceal his rage: "Young fellow," he
cried, "thou shalt leave me here a pledge for my lord whom thou hast killed.
If I do not carry away thy head with me, I am not worth a counterfeit
besant. I must make of it a present to the duke, and will accept no other
forfeit. In return for his nephew, I shall make such restitution that he will
profit by the exchange." Cligés hears him reproaching him thus boldly and
with impudence. "Vassal," he says, "be on your guard! For I will defend my

head, and you shall not get it without my leave." Then the attack begins.
The other missed his blow, while Cligés struck him with such force that
horse and rider went down together in one heap. The horse fell upon him so
heavily that he shattered completely one of his legs. Cligés dismounted on
the greensward and disarmed him. When he had disarmed him, he
appropriated his weapons, and cut off his enemy's head with the sword
which had just now been his. After severing his head he fixed it firmly on
the point of his lance, thinking to offer it to the duke, to whom his nephew
had promised to present his own if he could meet him in the strife. Cligés
had no sooner put on the dead man's helmet and taken his shield and
mounted his steed, letting his own stray at large to terrify the Greeks, than
he saw advancing with more than a hundred banners flying several full
squadrons of Greeks and Germans. Now the fierce and cruel struggles will
soon begin between the Saxons and the Greeks. As soon as Cligés sees his
men advancing, he betakes himself toward the Saxons, his own men hotly
pursuing him, and not knowing him in his disguise. It is no wonder that his
uncle is in despair and fear, when he sees the head he is carrying off. So all
the host pursue him fast, while Cligés leads them on to provoke a fight,
until the Saxons see him drawing near. But they, too, are quite misled by the
arms with which he has armed and equipped himself. He succeeds in
deceiving and mocking them; for the duke and all the rest, when they saw
him approaching lance in rest, cried out: "Here comes our knight! On the
point of his lance he carries Cligés' head, and the Greeks are hotly pursuing
him!" Then, as they give their horses rein, Cligés spurs to meet the Saxons,
crouching low beneath his shield, the lance out straight with the head
affixed. Now, though he was braver than a lion, he was no stronger than any
other man. Both parties think that he is dead, and while the Saxons rejoice,
the Greeks and Germans grieve. But before long the truth will out. For
Cligés no longer held his peace: but, rushing fiercely at a Saxon, he struck
him with his ashen lance upon the head and in the breast, so that he made
him lose his stirrups, and at the same time he cried aloud: "Strike
gentlemen, for I am Cligés whom you seek. Come on, my bold and hardy
knights! Let none hold back, for the first joust is already won! He is a
coward who does not relish such a dish."
(Vv. 3571-3620.) The emperor's joy was great when he heard the voice of
his nephew Cligés summoning and exhorting them; he was greatly pleased
and comforted. But the duke is greatly chagrined now when he sees he is

betrayed, unless his force should prove the stronger. While he draws
together his troops in serried lines, the Greeks do the same, and pressing
them close, attack and rush upon them. On both sides lances are lowered as
they meet for the proper reception of a hostile host. At the first shock
shields are pierced and lances shattered, girths are cut and stirrups broken,
while the horses of those who fall to earth are left without a rider. But
regardless of what any other does, Cligés and the duke meet in the fray;
holding their lances low, they strike one another upon the shield with such
violence that the strong and well-made lances fly into splinters. Cligés was
skilful on horseback, and sits straight in his saddle without shaking or
losing his balance. But the duke has lost his seat, and in spite of himself
quits the saddle-bows. Cligés struggled and strove to capture him and carry
him away, but his strength did not suffice, for the Saxons were around about
fighting to rescue him. Nevertheless, Cligés escapes from the conflict
without receiving harm and with a precious prize; for he makes off with the
duke's steed, which was whiter than wool, and was worth more to a
gentleman than the fortune of Octavian 231 at Rome. The steed was an
Arabian. The Greeks and Germans are overjoyed to see Cligés on such a
mount, for they had already remarked the excellence and beauty of the Arab
steed. But they were not on their guard against an ambuscade; and before
they are aware of it great damage will be done.
(Vv. 3621-3748.) A spy came to the duke, bringing him welcome news.
"Duke," says the spy, "not a man remains in all the encampment of the
Greeks who is able to defend himself. If thou wilt take my word for it, now
is the time to have the emperor's daughter seized, while the Greeks are seen
intent upon the battle and the strife. Lend me a hundred of thy knights, and I
will put the lady in their hands. By an old and secluded path I will lead
them so carefully that they will not be seen or met by any man of Germany,
until they can seize the damsel in her tent and carry her off so handily that
no resistance will be made." At this the duke is highly pleased. He sent a
hundred and more tried knights with the spy, who so successfully conducted
them that they carried the maiden away captive without exerting any force;
for they could abduct her easily. After carrying her some distance from the
tents, they send her on under escort of twelve of their number whom they
accompany but a short distance. While the twelve led the damsel on, the
others went to tell the duke how successful they had been. The duke's desire
being now satisfied, he at once makes a truce with the Greeks until next

day. The truce was sworn by both parties. The duke's men then turned back,
while the Greeks without delay repaired each man to his own tent. But
Cligés stays behind alone, stationed upon a little hill where no one caught
sight of him, until he saw the twelve pass by with her whom they were
carrying off at topmost speed. Cligés, in his thirst for glory, rides at them
without delay; for he thinks within himself, and his heart tells him, that it is
not for nothing that they flee. So, as soon as he espied them, he spurred
after them; and when they saw him coming on, a foolish thought occurred
to them: "It is the duke," they said, "who comes. Let us rein in a little; for
he has left the troops and is riding hard after us alone." Every man thinks
that so it is. They all want to turn back to meet him, but each one wishes to
go alone. Meanwhile, Cligés must needs descend a deep valley between two
mountains. He would never have recognised their blazons, if they had not
come to meet him, or if they had not awaited him. Six of the twelve come to
meet him in an encounter they will soon regret. The other six stay with the
damsel, leading her gently at a walk and easy jog. And the six ride quickly
on, spurring up the valley, until he who had the swiftest horse reached him
first and cried aloud: "Hail, Duke of Saxony! God bless thee! Duke, we
have recovered thy lady. The Greeks shall not get her now, for she shall be
placed in thy hands." When Cligés heard the words this fellow shouts, his
heart is not gay; rather is it strange that he does not lose his wits. Never was
any wild beast—leopard, tiger, or lion—upon seeing its young captured, so
fierce and furious as Cligés, who sets no value upon his life if he deserts his
sweetheart now. He would rather die than not win her back. In his trouble
he feels great wrath, which gives him the courage he requires. He urges and
spurs the Arab steed, and rushes to give the Saxon such a blow upon his
painted shield that without exaggeration, he makes his heart feel the lance.
This gives Cligés confidence. He drove and spurred the Arab charger on for
more than the space of an acre before he came upon the next Saxon, for
they came up singly, each fearless of his predecessor's fare, for Cligés fights
them one by one. As he takes them thus individually, no one receives
another's aid. He makes a rush at the second one, who, like the first, thought
to give him joy by telling him of his own evil fate. But Cligés has no
concern to heed his talk and idle charter. Thrusting his lance into his body
so that the blood spurts out when it is withdrawn, he deprives him of life
and the gift of speech. After these two he meets the third, who expects to
find him in good humour and to make him rejoice over his own mischance.

Spurring eagerly he came up to him; but before he has time to say a word,
Cligés ran a fathom of his lance through the middle of his body, leaving him
senseless on the ground. To the fourth he gives such a blow that he leaves
him fainting on the field. After the fourth he goes at the fifth, and after him
he attacks the sixth. None of them could defend himself, but each was left
silent and mute. He stood in less fear of the others now, and more hardily
pressed after them, taking no further thought of the six dead men.
(Vv. 3749-3816.) Feeling no further care for them, he starts to present a
debt of shame and woe to the others who are leading the maid away. He
caught up with them, and made such an onslaught upon them as a hungry
and ravenous wolf makes when leaping upon its prey. Now he feels his luck
has come, when he can display his chivalry and bravery openly before her
who is his very life. Now may he die, if he does not rescue her! And she,
too, is at death's door from anxiety for his sake, though she does not know
that he is no near. Lance in rest, Cligés made an attack which pleased him
well; for he struck first one Saxon and then another, so that with a single
rush he carried them both to earth, though it cost him his ashen lance. And
they both fall in such distress, being wounded in the body, that they have no
power to rise again and do him any harm or ill. The other four in bitter rage
join in an attack upon Cligés; but he neither quails nor trembles, and they
are unable to dislodge him from his seat. Quickly drawing his keen sword
from its sheath, in order to please her who awaits his love, he rode hard at a
Saxon and, striking him with his whetted blade, he severed his head and
half his neck from the body: such was the limit of his pity. Fenice, who
witnesses what transpires, does not know yet that this is Cligés. She wishes
that it were he, indeed, but because of the present danger she says to herself
that she would not have him there. Thus, doubly she shows the devotion of
a sweetheart, fearing at once his death, and desiring that honour may be his.
And Cligés sword in hand attacks the other three, who face him bravely and
puncture and split his shield. But they are unable to lay hands upon him, or
to pierce the meshes of his hauberk. And whatever Cligés reaches cannot
stand against his blow, but must needs be split and torn apart; for he turns
faster than a top driven and lashed by the whip. Boldness and love, which
holds him enthralled, make him eager for the fray. He pressed the Saxons so
hard that he left them all dead and defeated, some only wounded, and others
dead—except one whom he let escape, disdaining to kill him when left
alone at his mercy; besides, he wished him to tell the duke of the loss and

injury he had sustained. But before this fellow left Cligés, he begged him to
tell him his name, which later he repeated to the duke, thus rousing his
bitter ire.
(Vv. 3817-3864.) Now bad luck had fallen to the duke, who was in great
distress and grief. And Cligés takes back Fenice, whose love torments and
troubles him. If he does not confess to her now, love will long be his enemy,
and hers too, if she holds her peace and speaks not the word which will
bring him joy; for now each can tell the other privily the thoughts that lie
within the heart. But they so fear to be refused that they dare not reveal
their hearts. For his part, he fears lest she will not accept his love, whereas
she, too, would have spoken out had she not feared to be rejected. In spite
of this, the eyes of each reveal the hidden thought, if only they had heeded
this evidence. They converse by glance of eye, but their tongues are so
cowardly that they dare not speak in any wise of the love which possesses
them. No wonder if she hesitates to begin, for a maid must be a simple and
shrinking thing; but he—why does he wait and hold back who was so bold
for her just now, but now in her presence is cowardly? God! whence comes
this fear, that he should shrink from a lonely girl, feeble and timid, simple
and mild? It is as if I should see the dog flee before the hare, and the fish
chase the beaver, the lamb the wolf, and the dove the eagle. In the same
fashion the labourer would forsake his pick with which he strives to earn a
livelihood, and the falcon would flee from the duck, and the gerfalcon from
the heron, and the pike from the minnow, and the stag would chase the lion,
and everything would be reversed. Now I feel within me the desire to give
some reason why it should happen to true lovers that they lose their sense
and boldness to say what they have in mind when they have leisure and
place and time.
(Vv. 3865-3914.) Ye who are interested in the art of Love, who do
faithfully maintain the customs and usage of his court, who never failed to
obey his law, whatever the result might be, tell me if there is anything that
pleases because of love without causing us to tremble and grow pale. If any
one oppose me in this, I can at once refute his argument; for whoever does
not grow pale and tremble, whoever does not lose his senses and memory, is
trying to filch and get by stealth what does not by right belong to him. The
servant who does not fear his master ought not to remain in his employ nor
do his service. He who does not esteem his lord does not fear him, and
whoever does not esteem him does not hold him dear, but rather tries to

deceive him and to steal from him what is his. The servant ought to tremble
with fear when his master calls or summons him. And whoever commits
himself to Love owns him as his lord and master, and is bound to do him
reverence and fear him much and honour him, if he wishes to be numbered
in his court. Love without alarm or fear is like a fire without flame or heat,
day without sun, comb without honey, summer without flowers, winter
without frost, sky without moon, and a book without letters. Such is my
argument in refutation, for where fear is absent love is not to be mentioned.
Whoever would love must needs feel fear, for otherwise he cannot be in
love. But let him fear only her whom he loves, and for her sake be brave
against all others. Then if he stands in awe of his lady-love Cligés is guilty
of nothing wrong. Even so, he would not have failed to speak straightway
with her of love, whatever the outcome might have been, had it not been
that she was his uncle's wife. This causes the festering of his wound, and it
torments and pains him the more because he dares not utter what he fain
would say.
(Vv. 3915-3962.) Thus they make their way back to their own people,
and if they speak of anything it is nothing of much concern. Each seated on
a white horse, they rode rapidly toward the camp, which was plunged in
great sorrow. The whole army is beside itself with grief, but they are
altogether wrong in supposing Cligés to be dead: hence their bitter and
poignant grief. And for Fenice, too, they are in dismay, thinking never to
win her back again. Thus, for her and him the whole army is in great
distress. But soon upon their return the whole affair will change its aspect;
for now they have reached the camp again, and have quickly changed the
grief to joy. Joy returns and sorrow flees. All the troops come together and
sally forth to welcome them. The two emperors, upon hearing the report
about Cligés and the damsel, go to meet them with joyful hearts, and each
can hardly wait to hear how Cligés found and recovered the empress. Cligés
tells them, and, as they listen, they are amazed and are loud in their praises
of his courage and devotion. But, for his part, the duke is furious, swearing
and proclaiming his determination to fight Cligés, if he dares, in single
combat; and it shall be agreed that if Cligés wins the battle the emperor
shall proceed unchallenged, and freely take the maiden with him, and if he
should kill or defeat Cligés, who had done him such injury, then let there be
no truce or stay to prevent each party from doing its best. This is what the
duke desires, and by an interpreter of his, who knew both the Greek and the

German tongues, he announces to the two emperors his desire thus to
arrange the battle.
(Vv. 3963-4010.) The messenger delivered his message so well in both
languages that all could understand it. The entire army was in an uproar,
saying that may God forbid that Cligés ever engage in the battle. Both
emperors are in a fright, but Cligés throws himself at their feet and begs
them not to grieve, but if ever he did them any favour, he prays them to
grant him this battle as a guerdon and reward. And if the right to fight
should be denied him, then he will never again serve for a single day his
uncle's cause and honour. The emperor, who loved his nephew as he should,
raised him by the hand and said: "Fair nephew, I am deeply grieved to know
you are so keen to fight; for after joy, sorrow is to be expected. 232 You have
made me glad, I cannot deny it; but it is hard for me to yield the point and
send you forth to this battle, when I see you still so young. And yet I know
you to be so confident of yourself that I dare not ever refuse anything that
you choose to ask of me. Be assured that, merely to gratify you, it should be
done; but if my request has any power, you would never assume this task."
"My lord, there is no need of further speech," said Cligés; "may God damn
me, if I would take the whole world, and miss this battle! I do not know
why I should seek from you any postponement or long delay." The emperor
weeps with pity, while Cligés sheds tears of joy when the permission to
fight is granted him. Many a tear was shed that day, and no respite or delay
was asked. Before the hour of prime, by the duke's own messenger the
challenge to battle was sent back to him accepted as he had proposed.
(Vv. 4011-4036.) The duke, who thinks and confidently trusts that Cligés
will be unable to stave off death and defeat at his hands, has himself quickly
armed. Cligés, who is anxious for the fight, feels no concern as to how he
shall defend himself. He asks the emperor for his arms, and desires him to
dub him a knight. So the emperor generously gives him his arms, and he
takes them, his heart being keen for the battle which he anticipates with joy
and eagerness. No time is lost in arming him. And when he was armed from
head to foot, the emperor, all sorrowing, girds the sword upon his side. Thus
Cligés completely armed mounts his white Arab steed; from his neck he
hangs by the straps an ivory shield, such as will never break or split; and
upon it there was neither colour nor design. All his armour was white, and
the steed, and the harness, too, was all whiter than any snow.

(Vv. 4037-4094.) Cligés and the duke, now being armed, summon each
other to meet half way, and they stipulate that their men shall take their
stand on either side, but without their swords and lances, under oath and
pledge that not a man will be so rash, so long as the battle lasts, as to dare to
move for any reason, any more than he would dare to pluck out his own
eye. When this had been agreed upon, they came together, each yearning
ardently for the glory he hopes to win and for the joy of victory. But before
a single blow was dealt, the empress has herself borne thither, solicitous for
Cligés' fate. It seems to her that if he dies, she, too, must needs do so. No
comfort can avail to keep her from joining him in death, for, without him,
life has no joys for her. When all were gathered on the field—high and low,
young and old—and the guards had taken their place, then both seized their
lances and rushed together so savagely that they both broke their lances and
fell to the ground, unable to keep their saddles. But not being wounded,
they quickly get upon their feet and attack each other without delay. Upon
their resonant helmets they play such a tune with swords that it seems to
those who are looking on that the helmets are on fire and send forth sparks.
And when the swords rebound in air, gleaming sparks fly off from them as
from a smoking piece of iron which the smith beats upon his anvil after,
drawing it from the forge. Both of the vassals are generous in dealing blows
in great plenty, and each has the best of intentions to repay quickly what he
borrows; neither one holds back from repaying promptly capital and
interest, without accounting and without measure. But the duke is much
chagrined with anger and discomfiture when he fails to defeat and slay
Cligés in the first assault. Such a marvellously great and mighty blow he
deals him that he falls at his feet upon his knee.
(Vv. 4095-4138.) When this blow brought Cligés down, the emperor was
struck with fear, and would have been no more dismayed had he himself
been beneath the shield. Nor could Fenice in her fear longer contain herself,
whatever the effect might be, from crying: "God help him!" as loud as she
could. But that was the only word she uttered, for straightway her voice
failed her, and she fell forward upon her face, which was somewhat
wounded by the fall. Two high nobles raised her up and supported her upon
her feet until she returned to consciousness. But in spite of her countenance,
none who saw her guessed why she had swooned. Not a man there blamed
her, but rather praised her for her act, for each one supposes that she would
have done the same thing for him, if he had been in Cligés' place, but in all

this they are quite astray. Cligés heard, and well understood, the sound of
Fenice's cry. Her voice restored his strength and courage, as he leaped up
quickly, and came with fury, toward the duke, so charging and attacking
him that the duke in turn was now dismayed. For now he found him more
fierce for the fray, stronger and more agile and energetic than when at first
they came together. And because he feared his onslaught, he cried: "Young
man, so help me God, I see thou art brave and very bold. If it were not for
my nephew now, whom I shall never more forget, I would gladly make
peace with thee, and leave thy quarrel without interfering in it more."

(Vv. 4139-4236.) "Duke," says Cligés, "what is your pleasure now? Must
one not surrender his right when he is unable to recover it? When one of
two evils must be faced, one should choose the lesser one. Your nephew
was not wise to become angrily embroiled with me. You may be sure that I
shall treat you in like fashion, if I get the chance, unless you agree to my
terms of peace." The duke, to whom it seems that Cligés' vigour is steadily
growing, thinks that he had better desist in mid-career before he is utterly
undone. Nevertheless, he does not openly give in, but says: "Young man, I
see thou art skilful and alert and not lacking in courage. But thou art yet too
young; therefore I feel assured that if I defeat and kill thee I shall gain no
praise or fame, and I should never like to confess in the hearing of a man of
honour that I had fought with thee, for I should but do thee honour, and
myself win shame. But if thou art aware of honour's worth, it will always be
a glorious thing for thee to have withstood me for two rounds at arms. So
now my heart and feeling bid me let thee have thy way, and no longer fight
with thee." 233 "Duke," says Cligés, "that will not do. In the hearing of all
you must repeat those words, for it shall never be said and noised abroad
that you let me off and had mercy on me. In the hearing of all those who are
gathered here, you must repeat your words, if you wish to be reconciled
with me." So the duke repeats his words in the hearing of all. Then they
make peace and are reconciled. But however the matter be regarded Cligés
had all the honour and glory of it, and the Greeks were greatly pleased. For
their part, the Saxons could not laugh, all of them having plainly seen that
their lord was worn out and exhausted just now; but there is no doubt at all
that, if he could have helped himself, this peace would never have been
made, and that Cligés' soul would have been drawn from his body had it
proven possible. The duke goes back to Saxony sorrowing, downcast, and
filled with shame; for of his men there are not even two who do not regard
him as worsted, defeated, and disgraced. The Saxons with all their shame
have now returned to Saxony, while the Greeks without delay make their
way with joy and gladness toward Constantinople, for Cligés by his
prowess has opened the way for them. The emperor of Germany no longer
follows and convoys them. Taking leave of the Greek troops and of his
daughter and Cligés, and finally of the emperor, he stayed behind in
Germany. And the emperor of the Greeks goes off happily and in joyous
mood. Cligés, brave and courteous, calls to mind his sire's command. If his
uncle, the emperor, will give him his permission, he will go and ask him for

leave to return to Britain and there converse with his great-uncle, the King;
for he is desirous of seeing and knowing him. So he presents himself before
the emperor, and requests that he consent to let him go to Britain to see his
uncle and his friends. Gently he proffered his request. But his uncle refused,
when he had listened to the request he made. "Fair nephew," he said, "it is
not my will that you should wish to leave me. I shall never give you without
regret this permission to go away. For it is my pleasure and desire that you
should be my companion and lord, with me, of all my empire."
(Vv. 4237-4282.) Now Cligés hears something that does not suit him
when his uncle refuses the prayer and request he made. "Fair sire," said he,
"I am not brave and wise enough, nor would it be seemly for me to join
myself with you or any one else in the duty of governing this empire; I am
too young and inexperienced. They put gold to the test when they wish to
learn if it is fine. And so it is my wish, in brief, to try to prove myself,
wherever I can find the test. In Britain, if I am brave, I can apply myself to
the whetstone and to the real true test, whereby my prowess shall be proved.
In Britain are the gentlemen whom honour and prowess distinguish. And he
who wishes to win honour should associate himself with them, for honour is
won and gained by him who associates with gentlemen. And so I ask you
for leave to go, and you may be very sure that if you do not grant me the
boon and send me thither I shall go without your leave." "Fair nephew, I
will give you leave, seeing you are so disposed that I cannot keep you back
either by force or prayer of mine. Now since prayer, prohibition, and force
do not avail, may God give you the desire and inclination promptly to
return. I wish you to take with you more than a bushel of gold and silver,
and I will give for your pleasure such horses as you may choose." He had
no sooner spoken than Cligés bowed before him. All that the emperor,
mentioned and promised him was straightway brought thither.
(Vv. 4283-4574.) Cligés took all the money and companions that he
wished and needed. For his personal use he took four horses of different
colours: one white, one sorrel, one fallow red, and one black. But I must
have passed over something which it is not proper to omit. Cligés goes to
ask and obtain leave to depart from his sweetheart Fenice; for he wishes to
commend her to God's safe keeping. Coming before her, he throws himself
upon his knees, weeping so bitterly that the tears moisten his tunic and
ermine, the while keeping his eyes upon the ground; for he dares not raise
his eyes to her, as if he were guilty of some crime and misdeed toward her,

for which he seems overcome with shame. And Fenice, who timidly and
fearfully looks at him, does not know the occasion of his coming, and
speaks to him with difficulty. "Rise, friend and fair sir! Sit here beside me,
and weep no more, and tell me what your pleasure is." "Lady, what shall I
say, and what leave unsaid? I come to ask your leave." "Leave? To do
what?" "Lady, I must go off to Britain." "Then tell me what your business
is, before I give you leave to go." "Lady, my father, before he departed this
life and died, begged me not to fail to go to Britain as soon as I should be
made a knight. I should not wish for any reason to disregard his command. I
must not falter until I have accomplished the journey. It is a long road from
here to Greece, and if I should go thither, the journey would be too long
from Constantinople to Britain. But it is right that I should ask leave from
you to whom I altogether belong." Many a covert sigh and sob marked the
separation. But the eyes of none were keen enough, nor the ears of any
sharp enough, to learn from what he saw and heard that there was any love
between these two. Cligés, in spite of the grief he felt, took his leave at the
first opportunity. He is full of thought as he goes away, and so are the
emperor and many others who stay behind. But more than all the others,
Fenice is pensive: she finds no bottom or bound to the reflections which
occupy her, so abundantly are her cares multiplied. She was still oppressed
with thought when she arrived in Greece. There she was held in great
honour as mistress and empress; but her heart and mind belong to Cligés,
wherever he goes, and she wishes her heart never to return to her, unless it
is brought back to her by him who is perishing of the same disease with
which he has smitten her. If he should get well, she would recover too, but
he will never be its victim without her being so as well. Her trouble appears
in her pale and changed colour; for the fresh, clear, and radiant colour
which Nature had given her is now a stranger to her face. She often weeps
and often sighs. Little she cares for her empire and for the riches that are
hers. She always cherishes in her remembrance the hour when Cligés went
away, and the leave he took of her, how he changed colour and grew pale,
and how tearful his expression was, for he came to weep in her presence
humbly and simply upon his knees, as if constrained to worship her. All this
is sweet and pleasant for her to remember and think about. And afterward,
as a little treat, she takes on her tongue instead of spice a sweet word which
for all Greece she would not wish him to have used contrary to the sense
she had understood when he first had uttered it; for she lives upon no other

dainty, and there is nothing else that pleases her. This word alone sustains
and nourishes her, and assuages all her pain. She cares to eat and drink of
no other dish or beverage, for when the two lovers came to part, Cligés had
said he was "altogether hers." This word is so sweet and tastes so good that
from the tongue it stirs her heart, and she takes it into her mouth and heart
to be all the more sure of it. Under any other lock she would not dare to
store this treasure. Nowhere could it be lodged so well as in her own
bosom. She will never leave it exposed at any price, being in such fear of
robbers and thieves. But there is no ground for her anxiety, and she need
have no fear of the birds of prey, for her treasure is not movable, but is
rather like a house which cannot be destroyed by fire or flood, but will
always stay fixed in a single place. But she feels no confidence in the
matter, so she worries and strives to find and hold some ground on which to
stand, interpreting the situation in divers ways. She both opposes and
defends her position, and engages in the following argument: "With what
intention should Cligés say 'I am altogether yours' unless it was love that
prompted him? What power can I have over him that he should esteem me
so highly as to make me the mistress of his heart? Is he not more fair than I,
and of higher rank than I? I see in it naught but love, which could vouchsafe
me such a boon. I, who cannot escape its power, will prove by my own case
that unless he loved me he would never say that he was mine; unless love
holds him in its toils, Cligés could never say that he was mine any more
than I could say that I was altogether his unless love had put me in his
hands. For if he loves me not, at least he does not fear me. I hope that love
which gives me to him will in return give him to me. But now I am sore
dismayed because it is so trite a word, and I may simply be deceived, for
many there be who in flattering terms will say even to a total stranger, 'I and
all that I have are yours,' and they are more idle chatterers than the jays. So
I do not know what to think, for it might well turn out that he said it just to
flatter me. Yet I saw his colour change, and I saw him weeping piteously. In
my judgment, the tears and his face confused and pale were not produced
by treachery, nor were they the fruits of trickery. Those eyes from which I
saw tears roll down were not guilty of falsehood. Signs enough of love I
saw, if I know anything about it. Yes, in an evil hour I thought of love; woe
is me that I ever learned it, for the experience has been bitter. Has it indeed?
Yes, verily. I am dead when I cannot see him who has stolen my heart away
by his cajoling flattery, because of which my heart leaves its dwelling, and

will not abide with me, hating my home and establishment. In truth I have
been ill treated by him who has my heart in his keeping. He who robs me
and takes what is mine cannot love me, of that I am sure. But am I sure?
Why then did he weep? Why? It was not in vain, for there was cause
enough. I must not assume that I was the cause of it, for one is always loath
to leave people whom one loves and knows. So it is not strange if he was
sorry and grieved and if he wept when he left some one whom he knew. But
he who gave him this advice to go and dwell in Britain could not have
smitten me more effectively. He is cut to the quick who loses his heart. He
who deserves it, should be treated ill; but I have never deserved such
treatment. Alas, unhappy one, why has Cligés killed me when I am
innocent? But I am unjust to accuse him thus without cause. Surely Cligés
would never have deserted me if his heart were like mine. I am sure his
heart is not like mine. And if my heart is lodged in his it will never draw
away, and his will never part from mine, for my heart follows him secretly:
they have formed such a goodly company. But, after all, to tell the truth,
they are very different and contrary. How are they different and contrary?
Why, his is the master and mine the slave; and the slave can have no will of
his own, but only do his master's will and forsake all other affairs. But what
reference has that to me? My heart and service are no concern to him. This
arrangement distresses me, that one is master of us both. Why is not my
heart as independent as his? Then their power would be equalised. My heart
is now a prisoner, unable to move itself unless his moves as well. And
whether his heart wanders or stays still, mine must needs prepare to follow
him in his train. God! why are our bodies not so near one another that I
could in some way bring back my heart! Bring back? Foolish one, if I
should remove it from its joy I should be the death of it. Let it stay there! I
have no desire to dislodge it, but rather wish that it tarry with its lord until
he feel some pity for it. For rather over there than here ought he to have
mercy on his servant, because they are both in a foreign land. If my heart
knows well the language of flattery, as is necessary for the courtier, it will
be rich ere it comes back. Whoever wishes to stand in the good graces of his
lord and sit beside him on his right, to be in the fashion now-a-days, must
remove the feather from his head, even when there is none there. But there
is one bad feature of this practice: while he is smoothing down his master,
who is filled with evil and villainy, he will never be so courteous as to tell
him the truth; rather he makes him think and believe that no one could

compare with him in prowess and in knowledge, and the master thinks that
he is speaking the truth. That man does not know himself who takes
another's word about qualities which he does not possess. For even if he is a
wicked and insolent wretch, and as cowardly as a hare, mean, crazy, and
misshapen, and a villain both in word and deed—yet some man will praise
him to his face who behind his back will mock at him. But when in his
hearing he speaks of him to some other, he praises him, while his lord
pretends not to hear what they say between themselves; if, however, he
thought that he would not be heard, he would say something his master
would not like. And if his master is pleased to lie, the servant is all ready
with his consent, and will never be backward in averring that all his master
says is true. He who frequents courts and lords must ever be ready with a
lie. So, too, must my heart do if it would find favour with its lord. Let it
flatter and be obsequious. But Cligés is such a knight, so fair, so open, and
so loyal, that my heart, in praising him, need never be false or perfidious,
for in him there is nothing to be improved. Therefore I wish my heart to
serve him, for, as the people's proverb runs, 'He who serves a noble man is
bad indeed if he does not improve in his company.'"
(Vv. 4575-4628.) Thus love harrows Fenice. But this torment is her
delight, of which she can never grow weary. And Cligés now has crossed
the sea and come to Wallingford. There he took expensive quarters in great
state. But his thoughts are always of Fenice, not forgetting her for a single
hour. While he delays and tarries there, his men, acting under his
instructions, made diligent inquiries. They were informed that King Arthur's
barons and the King in person had appointed a tourney to be held in the
plain before Oxford, which lies close to Wallingford. 234 There the struggle
was arranged, and it was to last four days. But Cligés will have abundant
time to prepare himself if in the meantime he needs anything, for more than
a fortnight must elapse before the tournament begins. He orders three of his
squires to go quickly to London and there buy three different sets of arms,
one black, another red, the third green, and that on the way back each shall
be kept covered with new cloth, so that if any one should meet them on the
road he may not know the colour of the arms they carry. The squires start at
once and come to London, where they find available everything they need.
Having finished this errand, they return at once without losing any time.
When the arms they had brought were shown to Cligés he was well pleased
with them. He ordered them to be set away and concealed, together with

those which the emperor had given him by the Danube, when he knighted
him. I do not choose to tell you now why he had them stored away; but it
will be explained to you when all the high barons of the land are mounted
on their steeds and assemble in search of fame.
(Vv. 4629-4726.) On the day which had been agreed upon, the nobles of
renown came together. King Arthur, with all his men whom he had selected
from among the best, took up his position at Oxford, while most of the
knights ranged themselves near Wallingford. Do not expect me to delay the
story and tell you that such and such kings and counts were there, and that
this, that, and the other were of the number. 235 When the time came for the
knights to gather, in accordance with the custom of those days, there came
forth alone between two lines one of King Arthur's most valiant knights to
announce that the tourney should begin. But in this case no one dares to
advance and confront him for the joust. There is none who does not hold
back. And there are some who ask: "Why do these knights of ours delay,
without stepping forward from the ranks? Some one will surely soon
begin." And the others make reply: "Don't you see, then, what an adversary
yonder party has sent against us? Any one who does not know should learn
that he is a pillar, 236 able to stand beside the best three in the world." "Who
is he, then?" "Why, don't you see? It is Sagremor the Wild." "Is it he?" "It
surely is." Cligés listens and hears what they say, as he sits on his horse
Morel, clad in armour blacker than a mulberry: for all his armour was black.
As he emerges from the ranks and spurs Morel free of the crowd, there is
not one, upon seeing him, but exclaims to his neighbour: "That fellow rides
well lance in rest; he is a very, skilful knight and carries his arms right
handily; his shield fits well about his neck. But he must be a fool to
undertake of his own free will to joust with one of the most valiant knights
to be found in all the land. Who can he be? Where was he born? Who
knows him here?" "Not I." "Nor I." "There is not a flake of snow on him;
but all his armour is blacker far than the cloak of any monk or prior." While
thus they talk, the two contestants give their horses rein without delay, for
they are very eager and keen to come together in the fight. Cligés strikes
him so that he crushes the shield against his arm, and the arm against his
body, whereupon Sagremor falls full length. Cligés goes unerringly and
bids him declare himself his prisoner, which Sagremor does at once. Now
the tourney is fairly begun, and adversaries meet in rivalry. Cligés rushes
about the field, seeking adversaries with whom to joust, but not a knight

presents himself whom he does not cast down or take prisoner. He excels in
glory, all the knights on either side, for wherever he goes to battle, there the
fight is quickly ended. That man may be considered brave who holds his
ground to joust with him, for it is more credit to dare face him than it is to
defeat another knight. And if Cligés leads him away prisoner, for this at
least he gains renown that he dared to wait and fight with him. Cligés wins
the fame and glory of all the tournament. When evening came, he secretly
repaired to his lodging-place in order that none might have any words with
him. And lest any one should seek the house where the black arms are
displayed, he puts them away in a room in order that no one may find them
or see them, and he hangs up his green arms at the street-door, where they
will be in evidence, and where passers-by will see them. And if any one
asks and inquires where his lodging is, he cannot learn when he sees no sign
of the black shield for which he seeks.
(Vv. 4727-4758.) By this ruse Cligés remains hidden in the town. And
those who were his prisoners went from one end of the town to the other
asking for the black knight, but none could give them any information.
Even King Arthur himself has search made up and down for him; but there
is only one answer: "We have not seen him since we left the lists, and do
not know what became of him." More than twenty young men seek him,
whom the King sent out; but Cligés so successfully concealed himself that
they cannot find a trace of him. King Arthur is filled with astonishment
when he is informed that no one of high or low degree can point out his
lodging-place, any more than if he were in Caesarea, Toledo, or Crete.
"Upon my word," he says, "I know not what they may say, but to me this
seems a marvellous thing. Perchance it was a phantom that appeared in our
midst. Many a knight has been unhorsed, and noble men have pledged faith
to one whose house they cannot find, or even his country or locality; each
of these men perforce must fail to keep his pledge." Thus the King spoke
his mind, but he might as well have held his peace.
(Vv. 4759-4950.) That evening among all the barons there was much talk
of the black knight, for indeed they spoke of nothing else. The next day they
armed themselves again without summons and without request. Lancelot of
the Lake, in whom there is no lack of courage, rides forth with lance upright
to await a contestant in the first joust. Here comes Cligés tiding fast,
greener than the grass of the field, and mounted on a fallow red steed,
carrying its mane on the right-hand side. Wherever Cligés spurs the horse,

there is no one, either with hair or without, who does not look at him
amazed and exclaim to his neighbour on either side: "This knight is in all
respects more graceful and skilful than the one who yesterday wore the
black arms, just as a pine is more beautiful than a white beech, and the
laurel than the elder-bush. As yet we know not who yesterday's victor was;
but we shall know to-night who this man is." Each one makes reply: "I don't
know him, nor did I ever see him, that I am aware. But he is fairer than he
who fought yesterday, and fairer than Lancelot of the Lake. If this man rode
armed in a bag and Lancelot in silver and gold, this man would still be
fairer than he." Thus they all take Cligés' part. And the two champions drive
their steeds together with all the force of spur. Cligés gives him such a blow
upon the golden shield with the lion portrayed thereon that he knocks him
down from his saddle and stands over him to receive his surrender. For
Lancelot there was no help; so he admitted himself his prisoner. Then the
noise began afresh with the shock of breaking lances. Those who are on
Cligés' side place all their confidence in him. For of those whom he
challenges and strikes, there is none so strong but must fall from his horse
to earth. That day Cligés did so well, and unhorsed and took captive so
many knights, that he gave double the satisfaction to his side, and won for
himself twice the glory that he had gained on the preceding day. When
evening came, he betook himself as fast as he could to his lodging-place,
and quickly ordered out the vermilion shield and his other arms, while he
ordered the arms which he had worn that day to be laid away: the host
carefully put them aside. Again that evening the knights whom he had
captured sought for him, but without hearing any news of him. In their
lodging-places, most of those who speak of him do so with praise and
admiration. The next day the gay and doughty knights return to the contest.
From the Oxford side comes forth a vassal of great renown—his name was
Perceval of Wales. As soon as Cligés saw him start, and learned certainly
who it was, when he had heard the name of Perceval he was very anxious to
contest with him. He issued straightway from the ranks upon a Spanish
sorrel steed, and completely clad in vermilion armour. Then all gaze at him,
wondering more than ever before, and saying that they had never seen so
perfect a knight. And the contestants without delay spur forward until their
mighty blows land upon their shields. The lances, though they were short
and stout, bend until they look like hoops. In the sight of all who were
looking on, Cligés struck Perceval so hard that he knocked him from his

horse and made him surrender without a long struggle or much ado. When
Perceval had pledged his word then the joust began again, and the
engagement became general. Every knight whom Cligés meets he forces to
earth. He did not quit the lists that day even for a single hour, while all the
others struck at him as at a tower—individually, of course, and not in
groups of two or three, for such was not the custom then. Upon his shield,
as upon an anvil, the others strike and pound, splitting and hewing it to bits.
But every one who strikes him there, he pays back by casting him from his
stirrups and saddle; and no one, unless he wished to lie, could fail to say
when the jousting ceased that the knight with the red shield had won all the
glory on that day. And all the best and most courtly knights would fain have
made his acquaintance. But their desire was not felt before he had departed
secretly, seeing the sun already set; and he had his vermilion shield and all
his other harness removed, and ordered his white arms to be brought out, in
which he had first been dubbed a knight, while the other arms and the
steeds were fastened outside by the door. Those who notice this realise and
exclaim that they have all been defeated and undone by one single man; for
each day he has disguised himself with a different horse and set of armour,
thus seeming to change his identity; for the first time now they noticed this.
And my lord Gawain proclaimed that he never saw such a champion, and
therefore he wished to make his acquaintance and learn his name,
announcing that on the morrow he himself will be the first at the rally of the
knights. Yet, withal, he makes no boast; on the other hand, he says that he
fully expects the stranger knight will have all the advantage with the lance;
but it may be that with the sword he will not be his superior (for with the
sword Gawain had no master). Now it is Gawain's desire to measure his
strength on the morrow with this strange knight who changes every day his
arms, as well as his horse and harness. His moultings will soon be
numerous if he continues thus each day, as is his custom, to discard his old
and assume new plumage. Thus, when he thought of the sword and the
lance respectively. Gawain disparaged and esteemed highly the prowess of
his foe. The next day he sees Cligés come back whiter than the fleur-delis,
his shield grasped tight by the inside straps and seated on his white Arab
steed, as he had planned the night before. Gawain, brave and illustrious,
seeks no repose on the battleground, but spurs and rides forward,
endeavouring as best he may to win honour in the fray, if he can find an
opponent. In a moment they will both be on the field. For Cligés had no

desire to hold back when he overheard the words of the men who said:
"There goes Gawain, who is no weakling either on foot or ahorse. He is a
man whom no one will attack." When Cligés hears these words, he rushes
toward him in mid-field; they both advance and come together with a
swifter leap than that of the stag who hears the sound of the dogs as they
come baying after him. The lances are thrust at the shields, and the blows
produce such havoc that the lances split, crack and break clear down to the
butt-end, and the saddle-bows behind give away, and the girths and breast-
straps snap. Both come to earth at once and draw their naked swords, while
the others gather round to watch the battle. Then King Arthur stepped
forward to separate them and establish peace. But before the truce was
sworn, the white hauberks were badly torn and rent apart, the shields were
cracked and hewed to bits, and the helmets crushed.
(Vv. 4951-5040.) The King viewed them with pleasure for a while, as did
many others who said that they esteemed the white knight's deeds of arms
no less than those of my lord Gawain, and they were not ready yet to say
which was the better and which the worse, nor which was likely to win, if
they had been allowed to fight to a finish; but it did not please the King to
let them do more than they had done. So he stepped forward to separate
them, saying: "Stop now! Woe if another blow be struck! Make peace now,
and be good friends. Fair nephew Gawain, I make this request of you; for
without resentment and hate it is not becoming for a gentleman to continue
to fight and defy his foe. But if this knight would consent to come to my
court and join our sport it would not be to his sorrow or hurt. Nephew, make
this request of him." "Gladly, my lord." Cligés has no desire to refuse, and
gladly consents to go when the tourney is concluded. For now he has more
than sufficiently carried out the injunction of his father. And the King says
he has no desire that the tournament shall last too long, and that they can
afford to stop at once. So the knights drew off, according to the wish and
order of the King. Now that he is to follow in the royal suite, Cligés sends
for all his armour. As soon as he can, he comes to court; but first, he
completely changed his gear, and came dressed in the style of the French.
As soon as he arrived at court, all ran to meet him without delay, making
such joy and festival that never was there greater seen, and all those call
him lord whom he had captured in the joust; but he would hear none of this,
and said they might all go free, if they were quite sure and satisfied that it
was he who had captured them. And there was not one who did not cry:

"You were the man; we are sure of that! We value highly your acquaintance,
and we ought to love and esteem you and call you our lord, for none of us
can equal you. Just as the sun outshines the little stars, so that their light
cannot be seen in the sky when the sun's rays appear, so is our prowess
extinguished and abased in the presence of yours, though ours too was once
famous in the world." Cligés knows not what to reply, for in his opinion
they all praise him more than he deserves; it pleases him, but he feels
ashamed, and the blood rises in his face, revealing to all his modesty.
Escorting him into the middle of the hall, they led him to the King, where
all ceased their words of compliment and praise. The time for the meal had
come, and those whose duty it was hastened to set the tables. The tables in
the hall were quickly spread, then while some took the towels, and others
held the basins, they offered water to all who came. When all had washed,
they took their seats. And the King, taking Cligés by the hand, made him sit
down in front of him, for he wished to learn this very day, if possible, who
he was. Of the meal I need not further speak, for the courses were as well
supplied as if beef were selling at a penny.
(Vv. 5041-5114.) When all the courses had been served, the King no
longer held his peace. "My friend," he says, "I wish to learn if it was from
pride that you did not deign to come to court as soon as you arrived in this
country, and why you kept aloof from people, and why you changed your
arms; and tell me what your name is, too, and from what race you spring."
Cligés replies: "It shall not be hid." He told and related to the King
everything he wished to know. And when the King had heard it all, he
embraced him, and made much of him, while all joined in greeting him.
And when my lord Gawain learned the truth, he, more than the others,
cordially welcomed him. Thus, all unite in saluting him, saying that he is
very fair and brave. The King loves and honours him above all his nephews.
Cligés tarries with the King until the summer comes around, in the
meantime visiting all Brittany, France, and Normandy, where he did so
many knightly deeds that he thoroughly proved his worth. But the love
whose wound he bears gives him no peace or relief. The inclination of his
heart keeps him fixed upon a single thought. To Fenice his thought harks
back, who from afar afflicts his heart. The desire takes him to go back; for
he has been deprived too long of the sight of the most desired lady who was
ever desired by any one. He will not prolong this privation, but prepares to
return to Greece, and sets out, after taking leave. The King and my lord

Gawain were grieved, I can well believe, when they could no longer detain
him. But he is anxious to return to her whom he loves and so covets that the
way seems long to him as he passes over land and sea: so ardently he longs
for the sight of her who has stolen and filched Iris heart away. But she
makes him recompense in full; for she pays him, as it were rent, the coin of
her own heart, which is no less dear to her. But he is by no means sure of
that, having no contract or agreement to show; wherefore his anxiety is
great. And she is in just as great distress, harried and tormented by love,
taking no pleasure in aught she sees since that moment when she saw him
last. The fact that she does not even know whether he be alive or not fills
her heart with anguish. But Cligés draws nearer day by day, being fortunate
in having favourable winds, until he joyfully comes to port before
Constantinople. When the news reached the city, none need ask if the
emperor was glad; but a hundred times greater was the empress's joy.
(Vv. 5115-5156.) Cligés, with his company, having landed at
Constantinople, has now returned to Greece. The richest and most noble
men all come to meet him at the port. And when the emperor encounters
him, who before all others had gone to meet him with the empress by his
side, he runs to embrace and greet him in the presence of them all. And
when Fenice welcomes him, each changes colour in the other's presence,
and it is indeed a marvel, when they are so close together, how they keep
from embracing each other and bestowing such kisses as love would have;
but that would have been folly and madness. The people come together
from all sides with the desire to see him, and conduct him through the city,
some on foot and some on horseback, until they bring him to the imperial
palace. No words can ever tell the joy and honour and courteous service
that were there displayed. But each one strove as best he might to do
everything which he thought would please and gratify Cligés. And his uncle
hands over to him all his possessions, except the crown: he wishes him to
gratify his pleasure fully, and to take all he desires of his wealth, either in
the form of land or treasure. But he has no care for silver or gold, so long as
he dares not reveal his thoughts to her because of whom he can find no
repose; and yet he has plenty of time and opportunity to speak, if he were
not afraid of being repelled; for now he can see her every day, and sit beside
her "tete-a-tete" without opposition or hindrance, for no one sees any harm
in that.

(Vv. 5157-5280.) Some time after his return, he came alone one day to
the room of her who was not his enemy, and you may be sure that the door
was not barred at his approach. By her side he took his seat, while the
others moved away, so that no one might be seated near them and hear their
words. First, Fenice spoke of Britain, and asked him about the character and
appearance of my lord Gawain, until her words finally hit upon the subject
which filled her with dread. She asked him if he had given his love to any
dame or damsel in that land. Cligés was not obstinate or slow to respond to
this demand, but he knew at once what reply to make as soon as she had put
the question. "Lady," he says, "I was in love while there, but not with any
one of that land. In Britain my body was without my heart, as a piece of
bark without the wood. Since leaving Germany I have not known what
became of my heart, except that it came here after you. My heart was here,
and my body was there. I was not really away from Greece; for hither my
heart had come, for which I now have come back again; yet, it does not
return to its lodging-place, nor can I draw it back to me, nor do I wish to do
so, if I could. And you—how has it fared with you, since you came to this
country? What joy have you had here? Do you like the people, do you like
the land? I ought not to ask you any other question than whether the country
pleases you." "It has not pleased me until now; but at present I feel a certain
joy and satisfaction, which, you may be sure, I would not lose for Pavia or
Piacenza. From this joy I cannot wrest my heart, nor shall I ever use force
in the attempt. Nothing but the bark is left in me, for I live and exist without
a heart. I have never been in Britain, and yet without me my heart has been
engaged in business there I know not what." "Lady, when was it that your
heart was there? Tell me when it went thither—the time and season—if it be
a thing that you can fairly tell me or any one else. Was it there while I was
there?" "Yes, but you were not aware of it. It was there as long as you were,
and came away again with you." "God! I never saw it, nor knew it was
there. God! why did I not know it? If I had been informed of this, surely,
my lady, I would have borne it pleasant company." "You would have repaid
me with the consolation which you really owed to me, for I should have
been very gracious to your heart if it had been pleased to come where it
might have known I was." "Lady, surely it came to you." "To me? Then it
came to no strange place, for mine also went to you." "Then, lady,
according to what you say, our hearts are here with us now, for my heart is
altogether in your hands." "You in turn have mine, my friend; so we are in

perfect accord. And you may be sure, so help me God, that your uncle has
never shared in me, for it was not my pleasure, and he could not. Never has
he yet known me as Adam knew his wife. In error I am called a wife; but I
am sure that whoever calls me wife does not know that I am still a maid.
Even your uncle is not aware of it, for, having drunk of the sleeping potion,
he thinks he is awake when he is asleep, and he fancies he has his sport with
me while I lie in his embrace. But his exclusion has been complete. My
heart is yours, and my body too, and from me no one shall ever learn how
to practise villainy. For when my heart went over to you it presented you
with the body too, and it made a pledge that none other should ever share in
it. Love for you has wounded me so deep that I should never recover from
it, any more than the sea can dry up. If I love you, and you love me, you
shall never be called Tristan, nor I Iseut; 237 for then our love would not be
honourable. But I make you this promise, that you shall never have other
joy of me than that you now have, unless you can devise some means
whereby I can be removed from your uncle and his society without his
finding me again, or being able to blame either you or me, or having any
ground for accusation. And to-morrow you shall tell me of the best plan you
have devised, and I, too, will think of it. To-morrow, as soon as I arise,
come and speak with me; then each of us will speak his mind, and we shall
proceed to execute whatever seems best."
(Vv. 5281-5400.) As soon as Cligés heard her will be fully agreed with
her, and said that would be the best thing to do. He leaves her happy, and
goes off with a light heart himself. That night each one lies awake thinking
over, with great delight, what the best plan will be. The next morning, as
soon as they had arisen, they meet again to take counsel privately, as indeed
they must. Cligés speaks first and says what he had thought of in the night:
"My lady," says he, "I think, and am of the opinion, that we could not do
better than go to Britain; I thought I might take you there; now do not
refuse, for never was Helen so joyfully received at Troy when Paris took
her thither but that still greater joy would be felt over you and me in the
land of the King, my uncle. And if this plan does not meet with your favour,
tell me what you think, for I am ready, whatever may happen, to abide by
your decision." And she replies: "This is my answer: I will never go off
with you thus; for after we had gone away, every one would speak of us as
they do of Iseut the Blond and of Tristan. And everywhere all men and
women would speak evil of our love. No one would believe, nor is it natural

that they should do so, the truth of the matter. Who would believe that I
have thus, all to no purpose, evaded and escaped from your uncle still a
maid? I should be regarded simply as wanton and dissolute, and you would
be thought mad. It is well to remember and observe the injunction of St.
Paul: if any one is unwilling to live chaste, St. Paul counsels him to act so
that he shall receive no criticism, or blame, or reproach. 238 It is well to stop
evil mouths, and therefore, if you agree, I have a proposal to make: it seems
best to me to consent to feign that I am dead. I shall fall sick in a little
while. And you in the meantime may plan some preparations for a place of
burial. Put all your wits to work to the end that a sepulchre and bier be so
constructed that I shall not die in it, or be stifled, and that no one shall
mount guard over it at night when you come to take me out. So now seek
such a retreat for me, where no one may see me excepting you; and let no
one provide for any need of mine except you, to whom I surrender and give
myself. Never, my whole life long, do I wish to be served by other man than
you. My lord and my servant you shall be; whatever you do shall seem
good to me; and never shall I be mistress of any empire unless you are its
master. Any wretched place, however dark and foul, will seem brighter to
me than all these halls if you are with me. If I have you where I can see
you, I shall be mistress of boundless treasure, and the world will belong to
me. And if the business is carefully managed, no harm will come of it, and
no one will ever be able to speak ill of it, for it will be believed throughout
the empire that I am mouldering in the ground. My maid, Thessala, who has
been my nurse, and in whom I have great confidence, will give me faithful
aid, for she is very clever, and I trust her fully." And Cligés, when he heard
his sweetheart, replies: "My lady, if this is feasible, and if you think your
nurse's advice reliable, we have nothing to do but make our preparations
without delay; but if we commit any imprudence, we are lost without
escape. In this city there is an artisan who cuts and carves wonderful
images: there is no land where he is not known for the figures which he has
shapen and carved and made. John is his name, and he is a serf of mine. No
one could cope with John's best efforts in any art, however varied it might
be. For, compared with him, they are all novices, and like a child with
nurse. By imitating his handiwork the artisans of Antioch and Rome have
learned all they know how to do—and besides there is no more loyal man.
Now I want to make a test, and if I can put trust in him I will set him and all
his descendants free; and I shall not fail to tell him of all our plan if he will

swear and give his word to me that he will aid me loyally, and will never
divulge my secret."
(Vv. 5401-5466.) And she replies: "So let it be." With her permission
Cligés left the room and went away. And she sends for Thessala, her maid,
whom she brought with her from her native land. Thessala came at once
without delay, yet not knowing why she was summoned. When she asked
Fenice privately what was her desire and pleasure, she concealed none of
her intentions from her. "Nurse," she said, "I know full well that anything I
tell you will go no further, for I have tried you thoroughly and have found
you very prudent. I love you for all you have done for me. In all my
troubles I appeal to you without seeking counsel elsewhere. You know why
I lie awake, and what my thoughts and wishes are. My eyes behold only one
object which pleases me, but I can have no pleasure or joy in it if I do not
first buy it with a heavy price. For I have now found my peer; and if I love
him he loves me in return, and if I grieve he grieves too for my pain and
sorrow. Now I must acquaint you with a plan and project upon which we
two have privately agreed." Then she told and explained to her how she was
willing to feign illness, and would complain so bitterly that at last she
would pretend to be dead, and how Cligés would steal her away at night,
and then they would be together all their days. She thinks that in no other
way she could longer bear to live. But if she was sure that she would
consent to lend her aid, the matter would be arranged in accordance with
their wishes. "But I am tired of waiting for my joy and luck." Then her
nurse assured her that she would help her in every way, telling her to have
no further fear. She said that as soon as she set to work she would bring it
about that there would be no man, upon seeing her, who would not certainly
believe that the soul had left the body after she had drunk of a potion which
would leave her cold, colourless, pale, and stiff, without power of speech
and deprived of health; yet she would be alive and well, and would have no
sensations of any kind, and would be none the worse for a day and a night
entire spent in the sepulchre and bier. 239
(Vv. 5467-5554.) When Fenice heard these words, she thus spoke in
reply: "Nurse, I commit myself to you, and, with full confidence in you,
will take no steps in my own behalf. I am in your hands; so think of my
interests, and tell all the people who are here to betake themselves away, for
I am ill, and they bother me." So, like a prudent woman, she said to them:
"My lords, my lady is not well, and desires you all to go away. You are

talking loud and making a noise, and the noise is disagreeable to her. She
can get no rest or repose so long as you are in the room. I never remember
her to have complained of such a sickness as this so violent and serious
does it seem. So go away, and don't feel hurt." As soon as she had issued
this command, they all quickly go away. And Cligés sent for John to come
quickly, and thus in private spoke to him: "John, dost thou know what I am
about to say? Thou art my slave and I thy master, and I can give away or
sell thy body like a thing which is my own. But if I could trust thee in an
affair I meditate, thou wouldst go for ever free, as well as the heirs which
may be born of thee." John, in his desire for freedom, replies at once: "My
lord, there is nothing I would not gladly do to see myself, my wife, and
children free. Tell me what your orders are, for nothing can be so hard as to
cause me any work or pain or be hard for me to execute. For that matter,
even were it against my will, I must needs obey your commands and give
up my own affairs." "True, John; but this is a matter of which I hardly dare
to speak, unless thou wilt assure me upon thy oath thou wilt faithfully give
me aid and never betray me." "Willingly, sire," John makes reply: "have
never a fear on that account! For I will swear and pledge my word that, so
long as I live, I will never say a word which I think will grieve you or cause
you harm." "Ah John, even were I to die for it, there is no man to whom I
would dare mention the matter in which I desire thy counsel; I would rather
have my eye plucked out; I would rather be put to death by thee than that
thou shouldst speak of it to another man. But I hold thee to be so loyal and
prudent that I will reveal to thee all my thought. I am sure thou wilt observe
my wishes, both by aiding me and holding thy peace." "Truly, sire so, help
me God!" Then Cligés speaks and explains to him openly the adventurous
plan. And when he had revealed the project—as you have heard me set it
forth—then John said that he would promise to construct the sepulchre in
accordance with his best skill, and said that he would take him to see a
certain house of his which no one yet had ever seen—not even his wife or
any child of his. This house, which he had built, he would show him, if he
cared to go with him to the place where in absolute privacy he works and
paints and carves. He would show him the finest and prettiest place that he
had ever seen. Cligés replies: "Let us go thither then."
(Vv. 5555-5662.) Below the city, in a remote spot, John had expended
much labour in the construction of a tower. Thither he conducted Cligés,
leading him through the different storeys, which were decorated with fine

painted pictures. He shows him the rooms and the fire-places, taking him
everywhere up and down. Cligés examines this lonely house where no one
lives or has access. He passes from one room to another, until he thinks he
has seen it all, and he is much pleased with the tower and says he thinks it is
very fine. The lady will be comfortable there as long as she lives, for no one
will know of her dwelling place. "No sire, you are right; she will never be
discovered here. But do you think you have seen all of my tower and fair
retreat? There still remain rooms so concealed that no man could ever find
them out. And if you choose to test the truth of this by investigating as
thoroughly as you can, you can never be so shrewd and clever in your
search as to find another story here, unless I show you and point it out. You
must know that baths are not lacking here, nor anything else which a lady
needs, and which I can think of or recall. The lady will be here at her ease.
Below the level of the ground the tower widens out, as you will see, and
you cannot anywhere find any entrance-door. The door is made of hard
stone with such skill and art that you cannot find the crack." Cligés says:
"These are wonderful things I hear. Lead on and I will follow you, for I am
anxious to see all this." Then John started on, taking Cligés by the hand,
until he came to a smooth and polished door, all coloured and painted over.
When John came to the wall, he stopped, holding Cligés by the right hand.
"Sire," he says, "there is no one who could see a window or a door in this
wall; and do you think that any one could pass through it without using
violence and breaking it down?" And Cligés replies that he does not think
so, and that he will never think so, unless he sees it first. Then John says
that he shall see it at once, and that he will open a door in the wall for him.
John, who constructed this piece of work, unfastens the door in the wall and
opens it for him, so that he has to use no strength or violence to force it;
then, one stepping before the other, they descend by a winding-stair to a
vaulted apartment where John used to do his work, when it pleased him to
labour at anything. "Sire," he says, "of all the men God ever made, no one
but us two has ever been where we are now. And you shall see presently
how convenient the place is. My advice is that you choose this as your
retreat, and that your sweetheart be lodged here. These quarters are good
enough for such a guest; for there are bedrooms, and bathrooms with hot
water in the tubs, which comes through pipes under the ground. Whoever is
looking for a comfortable place in which to establish and conceal his lady,
would have to go a long way before he would find anything so charming.

When you shall have explored it thoroughly you will find this place very
suitable." Then John showed him everything, fine chambers and painted
vaults, pointing out many examples of his work which pleased Cligés much.
When they had examined the whole tower, Cligés said: "John, my friend, I
set you free and all your descendants, and my life is absolutely in your
hands. I desire that my sweetheart be here all alone, and that no one shall
know of it excepting me and you and her." John makes answer: "I thank
you, sire. Now we have been here long enough, and as we have nothing
more to do, let us return." "That is right," says Cligés, "let us be gone."
Then they go away, and leave the tower. Upon their return they hear every
one in the city saying to his neighbour: "Don't you know the marvellous
news about my lady, the empress? May the Holy Spirit give her health—the
gentle and prudent lady; for she lies sick of a grievous malady."
(Vv. 5663-5698.) When Cligés heard this talk he went in haste to the
court. But there was no joy or gladness there: for all the people were sad
and prostrated because of the empress, who is only feigning to be ill; for the
illness of which she complains causes her no grief or pain. But she has told
them all that she wishes no one to enter her room so long as her sickness
maintains its grip with its accompanying pains in her heart and head. She
makes an exception, however, in favour of the emperor and his nephew, not
wishing to place a ban upon them; but she will not care if the emperor, her
lord, does not come. For Cligés' sake she is compelled to pass through great
pain and peril. It distresses her that he does not come, for she has no desire
to see any one but him. Cligés, however, will soon be there, to tell her of
what he has seen and found. He came into the room and spoke to her, but
stayed only a moment, for Fenice, in order that they might think she was
annoyed by what pleased her so, cried out aloud: "Be gone, be gone! You
disturb and bother me too much, for I am so seriously ill that I shall never
rise up again." Cligés, though pleased with this, goes away with a sad face:
you would never see so woeful a countenance. To judge from his
appearance he is very sad; but within his heart is gay in anticipation of its
joy.
(Vv. 5699-5718.) The empress, without being really ill, complains and
pretends that she is sick. And the emperor, who has faith in her, ceases not
to grieve, and summons a physician. But she will not allow any one to see
her or touch her. The emperor may well feel chagrined when she says that
she will never have but one doctor, who can easily restore her to health

whenever it pleases him to do so. He can cause her to die or to live, and to
him she trusts her health and life. They think that she refers to God; but her
meaning is very different, for she is thinking of no one but Cligés. He is her
god who can bring her health, or who can cause her death.
(Vv. 5719-5814.) Thus the empress takes care that no physician shall
examine her; and more completely to deceive the emperor she refuses to eat
or drink, until she grows all pale and blue. Meanwhile her nurse keeps busy
about her, and with great shrewdness sought privily all through the city,
without the knowledge of any one, until she found a woman who was
hopelessly ill with a mortal disease. In order to perfect her ruse she used to
go to see her often and promised to cure her of her illness; so each day she
used to take a urinal in which to examine the urine, until she saw one day
that no medicine could ever be of any help, and that she would die that very
day. This urine Thessala carried off and kept until the emperor arose, when
she went to him and said: "If now it be your will, my lord, send for all your
physicians; for my mistress has passed some water; she is very ill with this
disease, and she desires the doctors to see it, but she does not wish them to
come where she is." The doctors came into the hall and found upon
examination that the urine was very bad and colourless, and each one said
what he thought about it. Finally, they all agreed that she would never
recover, and that she would scarcely live till three o'clock, when, at the
latest, God would take her soul to Himself. This conclusion they reached
privately, when the emperor asked and conjured them to tell him the truth.
They reply that they have no confidence in her recovery, and that she cannot
live past three o'clock but will yield up her soul before that time. When the
emperor heard this, he almost fell unconscious to the floor, as well as many
others who heard the news. Never did any people make such moan as there
was then throughout the palace. However, I will speak no further of their
grief; but you shall hear of Thessala's activities—how she mixes and brews
the potion. She mixed and stirred it up, for she had provided herself a long
time in advance with everything which she would need for the potion. A
little before three o'clock she gives her the potion to drink. At once her sight
became dimmed, her face grew as pale and white as if she had lost her
blood: she could not have moved a foot or hand, if they had flayed her
alive, and she does not stir or say a word, although she perceives and hears
the emperor's grief and the cries which fill the hall. The weeping crowds
lament through all the city, saying: "God! what woe and misfortune has

been brought upon us by wicked death! O covetous and voracious death!
Death is worse than a she-wolf which always remains insatiable. Such a
cruel bite thou hast never inflicted upon the world! Death, what hast thou
done? May God confound thee for having put out the light of perfect
beauty! Thou hast done to death the fairest and most lovely creature, had
she but lived, whom God has ever sought to form. God's patience surely is
too great when He suffers thee to have the power to break in pieces what
belongs to Him. Now God ought to be wroth with thee, and cast thee out of
thy bailiwick; for thy impudence has been too great, as well as thy pride and
disrespect." Thus the people storm about and wring their arms and beat their
hands; while the priests read their psalms, making prayers for the good lady,
that God may have mercy on her soul.
(Vv. 5815-5904.) 240 In the midst of the tears and cries, as the story runs,
there arrived aged physicians from Salerno, where they had long sojourned.
At the sight of the great mourning they stopped to ask and inquire the cause
of the cries and tears—why all the people are in such sorrow and distress.
And this is the answer they receive: "God! gentlemen, don't you know? The
whole world would be beside itself as we are, if it but knew of the great
sorrow and grief and woe and loss which has come to us this day. God!
where have you come from, then, that you do not know what has happened
just now in this city? We will tell you the truth, for we wish you to join with
us in the grief we feel. Do you not know about grim Death, who desires and
covets all things, and everywhere lies in wait for what is best, do you not
know what mad act she has committed to-day, as it is her wont to do? God
has illuminated the world with one great radiance, with one bright light. But
Death cannot restrain herself from acting as her custom is. Every day, to the
extent of her power, she blots out the best creature she can find. So she
wishes to try her power, and in one body she has carried off more
excellence than she has left behind. She would have done better to take the
whole world, and leave alive and sound this prey which now she has carried
off. Beauty, courtesy, and knowledge, and all that a lady can possess of
goodness has been taken and filched from us by Death, who has destroyed
all goodness in the person of our lady, the empress. Thus Death has
deprived us all of life." "Ah, God!" the doctors say, "we know that Thou art
wroth with this city because we did not reach here sooner. If we had arrived
here yesterday, Death might have boasted of her strength if she could wrest
her prey from us." "Gentlemen, madame would not have allowed you at any

price to see her or to exercise your skill. Of good physicians there was no
lack, but madame would not permit any one of them to see her or to
investigate her malady." "No?" "Truly, sirs, that she would not." Then they
recalled the case of Solomon, who was so hated by his wife that she
deceived him by feigning death. 241 They think this woman has done the
same. But if they could in any way bring about her cure, no one could make
them lie or keep them from exposing the truth, if they discovered any
trickery. So to the court they take their way, where there was such a noise
and cry that you could not have heard God's thunder crash. The chief of
these three doctors, who knew the most, drew near the bier. No one says to
him "Keep hands off," and no one tries to hold him back. He places his
hand on her breast and side, and surely feels that life is still in the body: he
perceives and knows that well enough. He sees the emperor standing by,
mad and tormented by his grief. Seeing him, he calls aloud: "Emperor,
console thyself! I am sure and plainly see that this lady is not dead. Leave
off thy grief, and be comforted! If I do not restore her alive to thee, thou
mayst kill me or string me up."
(Vv. 5995-5988.) At once throughout the palace the noise is quieted and
hushed. And the emperor bade the doctor tell him fully his orders and
wishes, whatever they might be. If he can restore life in the empress he will
be sire and lord over the emperor himself; but if he has in any respect lied
to him he will be hanged like a common thief. And the doctor said: "I
consent to that, and may you never have mercy upon me if I do not cause
her to speak to you here! Without tarrying and without delay have the
palace cleared at once, and let not a single soul remain. I must examine in
private the illness which afflicts the lady. These two doctors, who are my
friends, will remain with me alone in the room, and let every one else go
out." This order would have been opposed by Cligés, John, and Thessala;
but all the others who were there might have turned against them if they had
tried to oppose his order. So they hold their peace and approve what they
hear approved by the others, and leave the palace. After the three doctors
had forcibly tipped apart the lady's winding-sheer, without using any knife
or scissors, they said to her: "Lady, don't be frightened, have no fear, but
speak to us with confidence! We know well enough that you are perfectly
sound and in good state. Be sensible and obliging now, and do not despair
of anything, for if you have any need of us we will all three assure you of
our aid, whether for good or ill. We shall be very loyal to you, both in

keeping our counsel and in helping you. Do not keep us talking here! Since
we put at your disposal our skill and service, you should surely not refuse."
Thus they think to hoodwink and deceive her, but they have no success; for
she has no need or care for the service which they promise her; so they are
wasting their time in a vain effort. When the three physicians see that they
will make nothing out of her either by prayer or flattery, then they take her
from her bier, and begin to beat and belabour her. But their efforts are
foolish, for not a word can they extract from her. Then they threaten and try
to terrify her by saying that if she does not speak she will soon have reason
to repent of her folly, for they are going to do such a wonderful thing to her
that such a thing was never done to the body of any wretched woman. "We
know that you are alive, and will not deign to speak to us. We know that
you are feigning death, and would thus deceive the emperor. Have no fear
of us! If any of us has angered you, before we do you further harm, cease
your mad behaviour now, for you are acting wickedly; and we will lend you
our aid in any enterprise—wise or mad." But it cannot be; they have no
success. Then they renew their attack, striking her with thongs upon the
back, so that the welts are plainly seen, and they combine to tear her tender
flesh until they cause the blood to flow.
(Vv. 5989-6050.) When they had beaten her with the thongs until they
had slashed her flesh, and when the blood is dropping down, as it trickles
from among the wounds, even then their efforts are of no avail to extract
from her a sigh or word, nor to make her stir or move. Then they say that
they must procure fire and lead, which they will melt and lay upon her
hands, rather than fail in their efforts to make her speak. After securing a
light and some lead they kindle a fire and melt the lead. Thus the miserable
villains torment and afflict the lady, by taking the lead all boiling hot from
the fire and pouring it into the palms of her hands. Not satisfied with
pouring the lead clean through her palms, the cowardly rascals say that, if
she does not speak at once they will straightway stretch her on the grate
until she is completely grilled. Yet, she holds her peace, and does not refuse
to have her body beaten and maltreated by them. Now they were on the
point of placing her upon the fire to be roasted and grilled when more than a
thousand ladies, who were stationed before the palace, come to the door and
through a little crack catch sight of the torture and anguish which they were
inflicting upon the lady, as with coal and flame they accomplished her
martyrdom. They bring clubs and hammers to smash and break down the

door. Great was the noise and uproar as they battered and broke in the door.
If now they can lay hands on the doctors, the latter will not have long to
wait before they receive their full deserts. With a single rush the ladies enter
the palace, and in the press is Thessala, who has no other aim than to reach
her mistress. Beside the fire she finds her stripped, severely wounded and
injured. She puts her back in the bier again, and over her she spreads a
cloth, while the ladies go to give their reward to the three doctors, without
wishing to wait for the emperor or his seneschal. Out of the windows they
threw them down into the court-yard, breaking the necks, ribs, arms, and
legs of all: no better piece of work was ever done by any ladies.
(Vv. 6051-6162.) Now the three doctors have received their gruesome
reward at the hands of the ladies. But Cligés is terror-stricken and filled
with grief upon hearing of the pain and martyrdom which his sweetheart
has endured for him. He is almost beside himself, fearing greatly, and with
good reason, that she may be dead or badly injured by the torture inflicted
upon her by the three physicians who now are dead. So he is in despair and
despondency when Thessala comes, bringing with her a very precious
ointment with which she has already gently rubbed the body and wounds of
her mistress. When they laid her back in her bier the ladies wrapped her
again in a cloth of Syrian stuff, leaving her face uncovered. All that night
there is no abatement of the cries they raise unceasingly. Throughout the
city, high and low, poor and rich, are beside themselves with grief, and it
seems as if each one boasts that he will outdo all others in his woe, and
would fain never be comforted. All that night the grief continues. The next
morning John came to the court; and the emperor sends for him and issues
to him this command: "John, if ever thou wroughtest a fine piece of work,
now put forth and show all thy skill in constructing such a sepulchre as for
beauty and workmanship shall have no match." And John, who had already
performed the task, says that he has already completed one which is very
fine and cleverly wrought; but when he began the work he had no thought
that other than a holy body should be laid in it. "Now let the empress be laid
in it and buried in some sacred place, for she, I think, is sanctified." "You
have spoken well," says the emperor; "she shall be buried yonder in my lord
Saint Peter's Church, where bodies are wont to be interred. For before her
death she made this request of me, that I should have her buried there. Now
go about your task, and place your sepulchre in the best position in the
cemetery, where it ought rightfully to be." John replies: "Very well, my

lord." John at once takes his leave, and prepares the sepulchre with great
skill; a feather-bed he placed inside, because the stone was hard and cold;
and in order that the odour may be sweet, he spreads flowers and leaves
about. Another reason for doing this was that no one might perceive the
mattress he had laid within the grave. Already Mass had been said for the
dead in the churches and parishes, and the bells were tolling continuously as
is proper for the dead. Orders are given to bring the body to be laid in the
sepulchre, which John with all his skill has constructed so richly and
handsomely. In all Constantinople none remains, whether small or great,
who does not follow the body in tears, cursing and reproaching Death.
Knights and youths alike grow faint, while the ladies and damsels beat their
breasts as they thus find fault with Death: "O Death," cries each, "why didst
thou not take ransom for my lady? Surely, thy gain was slight enough,
whereas the loss to us is great." And in this grief Cligés surely bears his
part, as he suffers and laments more than all the others do, and it is strange
he does not kill himself. But still he decides to put this off until the hour and
the time shall come for him to disinter her and get possession of her and see
whether she be alive or not. Over the gave stand the men who let down the
body into its place; but, with John there, they do not meddle with the
adjustment of the sarcophagus, and since they were so prostrated that they
could not see, John had plenty of time to perform his special task. When the
coffin was in its place, and nothing else was in the grave, he sealed up
tightly all the joints. When this was done, any one would have been skilful
who, except by force or violence, could take away or loosen anything which
John had put inside.
(Vv. 6163-6316.) Fenice lies in the sepulchre until the darkness of night
came on. But thirty knights mount guard over her, and there are ten tapers
burning there, which light up the place all about. The knights were weary
and exhausted by the strain they had undergone; so they ate and drank that
night until they all fell sound asleep. When night came on, Cligés steals
away from the court and from all his followers, so that there was not a
single knight or servant who knew what had become of him. He did not
stop until he found John, who advises him as best he can. He furnishes him
with arms, but he will never have any need of them. Once armed, they both
spur to the cemetery. The cemetery was enclosed all about with a high wall,
so that the knights, who had gone asleep after making the gate fast within,
could rest assured that no one would enter there. Cligés does not see how he

can get in, for there is no passing through the gate. And yet, somehow he
must pass through, for love bids him and drives him on. He tries the wall
and climbs up, being strong and agile. Inside was a garden planted with
trees, one of which stood so near the wall that it touched it. Now Cligés had
what he needed, and after letting himself down by the tree, the first thing he
did was to go to open the gate for John. Seeing the knights asleep, they
extinguished all the lights, so that the place remained in darkness. And John
now uncovers the grave and opens the coffin, taking care to do it no harm.
Cligés steps into the grave and lifts out his Sweetheart, all weak and
prostrate, whom he fondles, kisses, and embraces. He does not know
whether to rejoice or regret that she does not stir or move. And John, as
quickly as he could, closed up the sepulchre again, so that it was not
apparent that any one had tampered with it. Then they betook themselves as
fast as they could to the tower. When they had set her in the tower, in the
rooms which were beneath the level of the ground, they took off her grave
clothes; and Cligés, who knew nothing of the potion which she had taken,
which made her dumb and kept her motionless, thinks that she is dead, and
is in despair with anxiety as he heavily sighs and weeps. But soon the time
will come for the potion to lose its force. And Fenice, who hears his grief,
struggles and strives for strength to comfort him by word or glance. Her
heart almost bursts because of the sorrow which he shows. "Ah Death!" he
says, "how mean thou art, to spare and reprieve all things despicable and
vile—to let them live on and endure. Death! art thou beside thyself or
drunk, who hast killed my lady without me? This is a marvellous thing I
see: my lady is dead, and I still live on! Ah, precious one, why does your
lover live to see you dead? One now could rightly say that you have died in
my service, and that it is I who have killed and murdered you. Sweetheart,
then I am the death that has smitten you. Is not that wrong? For it is my
own life I have lost in you, and have preserved your life in me. For did not
your health and life belong to me, sweet one? And did not mine belong to
you? For I loved nothing excepting you, and our double existence was as
one. So now I have done what was right in keeping your soul in my body
while mine has escaped from your body, and one ought to go to seek the
company of the other, wherever it may be, and nothing ought to separate
them." At this she heaves a gentle sigh and whispers faintly: "Lover mine, I
am not altogether dead, but very near it. I value my life but little now. I
thought it a jest and a mere pretence; but now I am indeed to be pitied, for

death has not treated this as a jest. It will be a marvel if I escape alive. For
the doctors have seriously wounded me, and broken my flesh and disfigured
me. And yet, if it was possible for my nurse to come here, and if efforts
were of any avail, she would restore me to health again." "Do not worry,
dear, about that," says Cligés, "for this very night I will bring her here."
"Dear, let John go for her now." So John departed and looked for her until
he found her, and told her how he wished her to come along and to let no
other cause detain her; for Fenice and Cligés have sent for her to come to a
tower where they are awaiting her; and that Fenice is in a grievous state, so
that she must come provided with ointments and remedies, and to bear in
mind that she will not live long, if she does not quickly come to bear her
aid. Thessala runs at once and, taking ointments, plaster, and remedies
which she has prepared, she meets John again. Secretly they go out from the
city, until they come straight to the tower. When Fenice sees her nurse, she
feels already cured, because of the loving faith and trust she places in her.
And Cligés greets her affectionately, and says: "Welcome, nurse, whom I
love and prize. Nurse, for God's sake, what do you think of this young
lady's malady? What is your opinion? Will she recover?" "Yes, my lord,
have no fear but that I shall restore her completely. A fortnight will not pass
before I make her so well that she was never before so lively and strong."
(Vv. 6317-6346.) While Thessala is busy with her remedies, John goes to
provide the tower with everything that is necessary. Cligés goes to the tower
and comes away bravely and openly, for he has lodged a moulting falcon
there, and he says that he goes to visit it; thus no one can guess that he goes
there for any other reason than for the falcon. He makes long stays there
night and day. He orders John to guard the tower, so that no one shall enter
against his will. Fenice now has no further cause to complain, for Thessala
has completely cured her. If Cligés were Duke of Almeria, Morocco, or
Tudela, he would not consider it all worth a holly-berry compared with the
joy which he now feels. Certainly Love did not debase itself when it joined
these two, for it seems to them, when they embrace and kiss each other, that
all the world must be better for their joy and happiness. Now ask me no
more of this, for one can have no wish in which the other does not
acquiesce. Thus they have but one desire, as if they two themselves were
one.
(Vv. 6347-6392.) Fenice was in the tower, I believe, all that year and full
two months of the next, until summer came again. When the trees bring

forth their flowers and leaves, and the little birds rejoice, singing gaily their
litanies, it came about that Fenice one morning heard the song of the
nightingale. Cligés was holding her tightly clasped with his arms about her
waist and neck, and she held him in a like embrace, as she said: "Dear fair
lover mine. A garden would do me good, in which I could disport myself.
For more than fifteen months I have not seen the light of moon or sun. If
possible, I would fain go out yonder into the daylight, for here in this tower
I am confined. If there was a garden near, where I could go and amuse
myself, it would often do me good." Then Cligés promises her to consult
with John about it as soon as he can see him. At that very moment John
came in, as he was often wont to do, and Cligés spoke to him of what
Fenice desired. John replies: "All that she asks for is already provided and
supplied. This tower is well equipped with what she wishes and requires."
Then Fenice was very glad, and asked John to take her there, which he said
he would very gladly do. Then John goes and opens a door, constructed in a
fashion which I cannot properly describe. No one but John could have made
it, and no one could have asserted that there was any door or window there
—so perfectly was it concealed.
(Vv. 6393-6424.) When Fenice saw the door open, and the sun come
streaming in, as she had not seen it for many a day, her heart beat high with
joy; she said that now there was nothing lacking, since she could leave her
dungeon-tower, and that she wished for no other lodging-place. She passed
out through the door into the garden, with its pleasures and delights. In the
middle of the garden stood a grafted tree loaded with blooming flowers and
leaves, and with a wide-spreading top. The branches of it were so trained
that they all hung downwards until they almost touched the ground; the
main trunk, however, from which they sprang, rose straight into the air.
Fenice desires no other place. Beneath the tree the turf is very pleasant and
fine, and at noon, when it is hot, the sun will never be high enough for its
rays to penetrate there. John had shown his skill in arranging and training
the branches thus. There Fenice goes to enjoy herself, where they set up a
bed for her by day. There they taste of joy and delight. And the garden is
enclosed about with a high wall connected with the tower, so that nothing
can enter there without first passing through the tower.
(Vv. 6425-6586.) Fenice now is very happy: there is nothing to cause her
displeasure, and nothing is lacking which she desires, when her lover is at
liberty to embrace her beneath the blossoms and the leaves. 242 At the

season when people take the sparrow-hawk and setter and hunt the lark and
brown-thrush or stalk the quail and partridge, it chanced that a knight of
Thrace, who was young and alert and inclined to knightly sport, came one
day close by the tower in his search for game. The hawk of Bertrand (for
such was his name) having missed a lark, had flown away, and Bertrand
thought how great his loss would be if he should lose his hunting-bird.
When he saw it come down and light in a garden beneath the tower he was
glad, for he thought he could not lose it now. At once he goes and clambers
up the wall until he succeeds in getting over it, when beneath the tree he
sees Fenice and Cligés lying asleep and naked in close embrace. "God!"
said he, "what has happened to me now? What marvel is this I see? Is that
not Cligés? It surely is. Is not that the empress with him there? Nay, but it
looks like her. Never did one thing so resemble another. Her nose, her
mouth, and brow are like those of my lady the empress. Never did Nature
make two creatures of such similitude. There is no feature in this woman
here which I have not seen in my lady. If she were alive, I should say that it
was certainly she herself." Just then a pear falls down and strikes close by
Fenice's ear. She jumps and awakes and, seeing Bertrand, cries out aloud:
"My dear, my dear, we are lost. Yonder is Bertrand. If he escapes you, we
are caught in a bad trap, for he will tell that he has seen us." Then Bertrand
realised that it was the empress beyond any doubt. He sees the necessity of
leaving at once, for Cligés had brought with him his sword into the garden,
and had laid it down beside the bed. He jumped up now and grasped his
sword, while Bertrand hastily took his leave. As fast as he could he scaled
the wall, and was almost safely over when Cligés coming after him raised
his sword and struck him with such violence that he severed his leg below
the knee, as if it had been a fennel stalk. In spite of this, Bertrand got away,
though badly wounded and maimed. Beside themselves with grief and
wrath at the sight of his sorry state, his men on the other side picked him
up, and insistently inquired who it was who had used him thus. "Don't
speak to me now," he says, "but help me to mount my horse. No mention
shall be made of this excepting to the emperor. He who thus has treated me
must be, and doubtless is, in great terror; for he is in great danger of his
life." Then they set him upon his palfrey and lead him through the city,
sorely grieved in their fright the while. After them more than twenty
thousand others come, following them to the court. And all the people run
together, each striving to be there first. Bertrand made his complaint aloud,

in the hearing of all, to the emperor: but they took him for an idle chatterer
when he said that he had seen the empress all exposed. The city is in a
ferment of excitement: some regard the news they hear as simple nonsense,
others advise and urge the emperor to visit the tower himself. Great is the
noise and confusion of the people who prepare to accompany him. But they
find nothing in the tower, for Fenice and Cligés make their escape, taking
with them Thessala, who comforts them and declares to them that, if
perchance they see people coming after them to arrest them, they need have
no fear; that they would never approach to do them harm within the range
of a strong cross-bow. And the emperor within the tower has John sought
for and brought. He orders him to be bound and tied saying that he will
have him hanged or burnt, and will have his ashes scattered wide. He shall
receive his due reward for the shame he has caused the emperor; but this
reward will not be agreeable, because John has hidden in the tower his
nephew with his wife. "Upon my word, you tell the truth," says John; "I will
not lie, but will go still further and declare the truth, and if I have done any
wrong it is right that I should be seized. But I offer this as my excuse: that a
servant ought to refuse nothing when his lawful lord commands. Now,
every one knows forsooth that I am his, and this tower is too." "It is not,
John. Rather is it thine." "Mine, sire? Yes, after him: but neither do I belong
to myself, nor have I anything which is mine, except what he pleased to
bestow on me. And if you should think to say that my lord is guilty of
having done you wrong, I am ready to take up his defence without any
command from him. But I feel emboldened to proclaim openly what is on
my mind, just as I have thought it out, for I know full well that I must die.
So I will speak regardless of results. For if I die for my lord's sake, I shall
not die an ignoble death, for the facts are generally known about that oath
and pledge which you gave to your brother, that after you Cligés should be
emperor, who now is banished as a wanderer. But if God will, he shall yet
be emperor! Hence you are open to reproach, for you ought not to have
taken a wife; yet you married her and did Cligés a wrong, and he has done
you no wrong at all. And if I am punished with death by you, and if I die
wrongfully for his sake, and if he is still alive, he will avenge my death on
you. Now go and do the best you can, for if I die you shall also die."
(Vv. 6587-6630.) The emperor trembles with wrath upon hearing the
mocking words addressed to him by John. "John," he says, "thou shalt have
so much respite, until we find thy lord, who has done such wrong to me,

though I loved him dearly and had no thought of defrauding him.
Meanwhile, thou shalt stay in prison. If thou knowest what has become of
him, tell me at once, I order thee." "I tell you? How can I commit such
treachery? Were the life to be drawn from my body I would not reveal my
lord to you, even if I knew his whereabouts. As a matter of fact, I do not
know any more than you where they have gone, so help me God! But there
is no need for your jealousy. I do not so much fear your wrath that I should
not say, so that all can hear, how you have been deceived, even my words
are not believed. You were deceived and tricked by potion you drank on
your wedding night. Unless it happened in dream, when you were asleep,
you have never had your pleasure with her; but the night made you dream,
and the dream gave you as much satisfaction as if it had happened in your
waking hours that she had held you in her arms: that was the sum of your
satisfaction. Her heart was so devoted to Cligés that she feigned death for
his sake; and he had such confidence in me that he explained it all to me
and established her in my house, which rightfully belongs to him. You
ought not to find fault with me. I ought, indeed, to be burnt or hanged, were
I to betray my lord or refuse to do his will."
(Vv. 6631-6784.) When the emperor's attention is recalled to the potion
which he had been pleased to drink, and with which Thessala had deceived
him, then he realised for the first time that he had never had pleasure with
his wife, unless it had happened in a dream: thus it was but an illusory joy.
And he says that if he does not take vengeance for the shame and disgrace
inflicted upon him by the traitor who has seduced his wife, he will never
again be happy. "Now quick!" he says, "as far as Pavia, and from here to
Germany, let no castle, town, or city remain in which search is not made. I
will hold that man above all others dear who will bring to me captive the
two of them. Now up and down, near and far, go diligently and search!"
Then they started out with zeal and spent all that day in the search. But in
the number Cligés had some friends, who, if they found them, would have
led them to some hiding-place rather than hale them back again. All that
fortnight they exhausted themselves in a fruitless search. For Thessala, who
is acting as their guide, conducts them by her arts and charms in such
security that they feel no dread or fear of all the strength of the emperor.
They seek repose in no town or city; yet they have all they wish or desire,
even more so than is usually the case. For all they need is procured for them
by Thessala, who searches and scours and purveys for them. Nor is there

any who hunts them now, for all have returned to their homes again.
Meanwhile Cligés is not idle, but starts to find his uncle, King Arthur. He
continued his search until he found him, and to him he made his claim and
protest about his uncle, the emperor, who, in order to disinherit him, had
disloyally taken a wife, which it was not right for him to do; for he had
sworn to his father that he would never marry in his life. And the King says
that with a fleet he will proceed to Constantinople, and that he will fill a
thousand ships with knights, and three thousand more with men-at-arms,
until no city or burg, town or castle, however strong or however high, will
be able to withstand their assault. Then Cligés did not forget to thank the
King for the aid he offered him. The King sends out to seek and summon all
the high barons of the land, and causes to be requisitioned and equipped
ships, war vessels, boats, and barks. He has a hundred ships loaded and
filled with shields, lances, bucklers, and armour fit for knights. The King
makes such great preparations for the war that never did Caesar or
Alexander make the like. He orders to assemble at his summons all
England, and all Flanders, Normandy, France, and Brittany, and all the men
as far as the Pyrenees. 243 Already they were about to set sail, when
messengers arrived from Greece who delayed the embarkation and kept the
King and his people back. Among the messengers who came was John, that
trusty man, for he would never be a witness or messenger of any news
which was not true, and which he did not know for a certainty. The
messengers were high born men of Greece, who came in search for Cligés.
They made inquiry and asked for him, until they found him at the King's
court, when they said to him: "God save you, sire! Greece is made over to
you, and Constantinople is given to you by all those of your empire,
because of the right you have to them. Your uncle (but you know it not) is
dead of the grief he felt because he could not discover you. His grief was
such that he lost his mind; he would neither drink nor eat, but died like a
man beside himself. Fair sire, now come back again! For all your lords have
sent for you. Greatly they desire and long for you, wishing to make you
their emperor." Some there were that rejoiced at this; and others there were
who would have gladly seen their guests elsewhere, and the fleet make sail
for Greece. But the expedition is given up, and the King dismisses his men,
and the hosts depart to their homes again. And Cligés hurriedly makes haste
in his desire to return to Greece. He has no wish to tarry. His preparations
made, he took his leave of the King, and then of all his friends, and taking

Fenice with him, he goes away. They travel until they arrive in Greece,
where they receive him with the jubilation which they ought to show to
their rightful lord, and they give him his sweetheart to be his wife. Both of
them are crowned at once. His mistress he has made his wife, but he still
calls her his mistress and sweetheart, and she can complain of no loss of
affection, for he loves her still as his mistress, and she loves him, too, as a
lady ought to love her lover. And each day saw their love grow stronger: he
never doubted her, nor did she blame him for anything. She was never kept
confined, as so many women have been who have lived since her time. For
never since has there been an emperor who did not stand in fear of his wife,
lest he should be deceived by her, upon his hearing the story of how Fenice
deceived Alis, first with the potion which he drank, and then later by that
other ruse. Therefore, every empress, however rich and noble she may be, is
guarded in Constantinople as in a prison, for the emperor has no confidence
in her when he remembers the story of Fenice. He keeps her constantly
guarded in her room, nor is there ever allowed any man in her presence,
unless he be a eunuch from his youth; in the case of such there is no fear or
doubt that Love will ensnare them in his bonds. Here ends the work of
Chrétien. 244
——Endnotes: Cligés
Endnotes supplied by Prof. Foerster are indicated by "(F.)"; all other
endnotes are supplied by W.W. Comfort.
21 (return)
[ There is no English version corresponding to the old
French "Cligés". The English metrical romance "Sir Cleges"
has nothing to do with the French romance.]
22 (return)
[ Ovid in "Metamorphosis", vi. 404, relates how Tantalus at
a feast to the gods offered them the shoulder of his own son.
It is not certain, however, that Chrétien is referring here to
this slight episode of the "Metamorphosis".]
23 (return)
[ This allusion is generally taken as evidence that the poet
had written previously of the love of Tristan and Iseut.
Gaston Paris, however, in one of his last utterances ("Journal
des Savants", 1902, p. 297), says: "Je n'hesite pas a dire que
l'existence d'un poeme sur Tristan par Chrétien de Troies, a
laquelle j'ai cru comme presque tout le monde, me parait
aujourd'hui fort peu probable; j'en vais donner les raisons."]
24 (return)
[ The story of Philomela or Philomena, familiar in Chaucer's

"Legende of Good Women", is told by Ovid in
"Metamorphosis", vi. 426-674. Cretiens li Gois is cited by
the author of the "Ovide moralise" as the author of the
episode of Philomena incorporated in his long didactic
poem. This episode has been ascribed to Chrétien de Troyes
by many recent critics, and has been separately edited by C.
de Boer, who offers in his Introduction a lengthy discussion
of its authorship. See C. de Boer, "Philomena, conte raconte
d'apres Ovide par Chrétien de Troyes" (Paris, 1909).]
25 (return)
[ The present cathedral of Beauvais is dedicated to St. Peter,
and its construction was begun in 1227. The earlier structure
here referred to, destroyed in 1118, probably was also
dedicated to the same saint. (F.)]
26 (return)
[ The real kernal of the Cligés story, stripped of its lengthy
introduction concerning Alexandre and Soredamors, is told
in a few lines in "Marques de Rome", p. 135 (ed. J. Alton in
"Lit. Verein in Stuttgart", No. 187, Tubingen, 1889), as one
of the tales or "exempla" recounted by the Empress of Rome
to the Emperor and the Seven Sages. No names are given
except that of Cligés himself; the version owes nothing to
Chrétien's poem, and seems to rest upon a story which the
author may have heard orally. See Foerster's "Einleitung to
Cligés" (1910), p. 32 f.]
27 (return)
[ This criticism of ignoble leisure on the part of a warrior is
found also in "Erec et Enide" and "Yvain".]
28 (return)
[ This allegorical tribute to "largesse" is quite in the spirit of
the age. When professional poets lived upon the bounty of
their patrons, it is not strange that their poetry should dwell
upon the importance of generosity in their heroes. For an
exhaustive collection of "chastisements" or
"enseignements", such as that here given to Alexandre by his
father, see Eugen Altner, "Ueber die chastiements in den
altfranzosischen chansons de geste" (Leipzig, 1885).]
29 (return)
[ As Miss Weston has remarked ("The Three Days'
Tournament", p. 45), the peculiar georgraphy of this poem
"is distinctly Anglo-Norman rather than Arthurian".]
210 (return)
[ For this intimate relation between heroes, so common in
the old French heroic and romantic poems, see Jacques
Flach, "Le compagnonnage dans les chansons de geste" in
"Etudes romances dediees a Gaston Paris" (Paris, 1891).
Reviewed in "Romania", xxii. 145.]

211 (return)
[ Here begins one of those long dialogues, where one person
is represented as taking both sides of an argument. This
rhetorical device, so wearisome to modern readers, is used
by Chrétien preferably when some sentiment or deep
emotion is to be portrayed. Ovid may well have suggested
the device, but Ovid never abuses it as does the more prolix
mediaeval poet. For the part playing by the eyes in
mediaeval love sophistry, see J.F. Hanford, "The Debate of
Heart and Eye" in "Modern Language Notes", xxvi. 161-
165; and H.R. Lang, "The Eyes as Generators of Love." id.
xxiii. 126-127.]
212 (return)
[ For play upon words and for fanciful derivation of proper
names in mediaeval romance literature, see the interesting
article of Adolf Tobler in "Vermischte Beitrage", ii. 211-266.
Gaston Paris ("Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 354) points out
that Thomas used the same scene and the play upon the
same words "mer", "amer", and "amers" in his "Tristan" and
was later imitated by Gottfried von Strassburg.]
213 (return)
[ According to the 12th century troubadours, the shafts of
Love entered the victim's body through the eyes, and thence
pierced the heart.]
214 (return)
[ For fanciful derivation of proper names, cf. A. Tobler,
"Vermischte Beitrage", ii. 211-266.]
215 (return)
[ Ganelon, the traitor in the "Chanson de Roland", to whose
charge is laid the defeat of Charlemagne's rear-guard at
Ronceval, became the arch-traitor of mediaeval literature. It
will be recalled that Dante places him in the lowest pit of
Hell ("Inferno", xxxii. 122). (NOTE: There is a slight time
discrepance here. Roland, Ganelon, and the Battle of
Ronceval were said to have happened in 8th Century A.D.,
fully 300 years after Arthur and the Round Table.—DBK).]
216 (return)
[ For the ceremonies attendant upon the conferring of
knighthood, see Karl Treis, "Die Formalitaten des
Ritterschlags in der altfranzosischen Epik" (Berlin, 1887).]
217 (return)
[ The "quintainne" was "a manikin mounted on a pivot and
armed with a club in such a way that, when a man struck it
unskilfully with his lance, it turned and landed a blow upon
his back" (Larousse).]
218 (return)
[ This conventional attitude of one engaged in thought or a

prey to sadness has been referred to by G.L. Hamilton in
"Ztsch fur romanische Philologie", xxxiv. 571-572.]
219 (return)
[ Many traitors in old French literature suffered the same
punishments as Ganelon, and were drawn asunder by horses
("Roland", 3960-74).]
220 (return)
[ The same rare words "galerne" and "posterne" occur in
rhyme in the "Roman de Thebes", 1471-72.]
221 (return)
[ This qualified praise is often used in speaking of traitors
and of Saracens.]
222 (return)
[ The failure to identify the warriors is due to the fact that
the knights are totally encased in armour.]
223 (return)
[ A reference to the "Roman de Thebes", 1160 circ.]
224 (return)
[ The disregard of Alis for his nephew Cligés is similar to
that of King Mark for Tristan in another legend. In the latter,
however, Tristan joins with the other courtiers in advising
his uncle to marry, though he himself had been chosen heir
to the throne by Mark. cf. J. Bedier, "Le Roman de Tristan",
2 vols. (Paris, 1902), i. 63 f.]
225 (return)
[ See Endnote #14 above.]
226 (return)
[ Cf. Shakespeare, "Othello", ii. I, where Cassio, speaking of
Othello's marriage with Desdemona, says: "he hath achieved
a maid That paragons description and wild fame; One that
excels the quirks of blazoning pens, And in the essential
vesture of creation Does tire the enginer."]
227 (return)
[ Ovid ("Metamorphosis", iii. 339-510) is Chrétien's
authority.]
228 (return)
[ Cf. L. Sudre, "Les allusions a la legende de Tristan dans la
litterature du moyen age", "Romania", xv. 435 f. Tristan was
famed as a hunter, fencer, wrestler, and harpist.]
229 (return)
[ "The word 'Thessala' was a common one in Latin, as
meaning 'enchantress', 'sorceress', 'witch', as Pliny himself
tells us, adding that the art of enchantment was not,
however, indigenous to Thessaly, but came originally from
Persia." ("Natural History", xxx. 2).—D.B. Easter, "Magic
Elements in the romans d'aventure and the romans bretons,
p. 7. (Baltimore, 1906). A Jeanroy in "Romania", xxxiii. 420

note, says: "Quant au nom de Thessala, il doit venir de
Lucain, tres lu dans les ecoles au XIIe siecle." See also G.
Paris in "Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 441 note. Thessala is
mentioned in the "Roman de la Violetta", v. 514, in company
with Brangien of the Tristan legend.]
230 (return)
[ Medea, the wife of Jason, is the great sorceress of classic
legend.]
231 (return)
[ This personage was regarded in the Middle Ages as an
Emperor of Rome. In the 13th-century poem of "Octavian"
(ed. Vollmuller, Heilbronn, 1883) he is represented as a
contemporary of King Dagobert!]
232 (return)
[ This commonplace remark is quoted as a proverb of the
rustic in "Ipomedon", 1671-72; id., 10, 348-51; "Roman de
Mahomet", 1587-88; "Roman de Renart", vi. 85-86; Gower's
"Mirour de l'omme", 28, 599, etc.]
233 (return)
[ It is curious to note that Corneille puts almost identical
words in the mouth of Don Gomes as he addresses the Cid
("Le Cid", ii. 2).]
234 (return)
[ For this tournament and its parallels in folk-lore, see Miss
J.L. Weston, "The Three Days' Tournament" (London,
1902). She argues (p. 14 f. and p. 43 f.) against Foerster's
unqualified opinion of the originality of Chrétien in his use
of this current description of a tournament, an opinion set
forth in his "Einleitung to Lancelot", pp. 43, 126, 128, 138.]
235 (return)
[ Note that Chrétien here deliberately avoids such a list of
knights as he introduces in "Erec". (F.)]
236 (return)
[ It must be admitted that the text, which is offered by all but
one MS., is here unintelligible. The reference, if any be
intended, is not clear. (F.)]
237 (return)
[ Much has been made of this expression as intimating that
Chrétien wrote "Cligés" as a sort of disavowal of the
immorality of his lost "Tristan". Cf. Foerster, "Cligés" (Ed.
1910), p. xxxix f., and Myrrha Borodine, "La femme et
l'amour au XXIe Seicle d'apres les poemes de Chrétien de
Troyes" (Paris, 1909). G. Paris has ably defended another
interpretation of the references in "Cligés" to the Tristan
legend in "Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 442 f.]
238 (return)
[ This curious moral teaching appears to be a perversion of
three passages form St. Paul's Epistles: I Cor. vii. 9, I Cor. x.

32, Eph. v. 15. Cf. H. Emecke, "Chrétien von Troyes als
Personlichkeit und als Dichter" (Wurzburg, 1892).]
239 (return)
[ "This feature of a woman who, thanks to some charm,
preserves her virginity with a husband whom she does not
love, is found not only in widespread stories, but in several
French epic poems. In only one, "Les Enfances Guillaume",
does the husband, like Alis, remain ignorant of the fraud of
which he is the victim, and think that he really possesses the
woman.... If Chrétien alone gave to the charm of the form of
a potion, it is in imitation of the love potion in "Tristan". (G.
Paris in "Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 446). For many
other references to the effect of herb potions, cf. A. Hertel,
"Verzauberte Oerlichkeiten und Gegenstande in der
altfranzosische erzahlende Dichtung", p. 41 ff. (Hanover,
1908).]
240 (return)
[ I have pointed out the curious parallel between the
following passage and Dante's "Vita Nova", 41 ("Romantic
Review", ii. 2). There is no certain evidence that Dante knew
Chrétien's work (cf. A. Farinelli, "Dante e la Francia", vol. i.,
p. 16 note), but it would be strange if he did not know such a
distinguished predecessor.]
241 (return)
[ For the legend of Solomon deceived by his wife, see
Foerster "Cligés" (ed. 1910), p. xxxii. f., and G. Paris in
"Romania", ix. 436-443, and in "Journal des Savants", 1902,
p. 645 f. For an additional reference, add "Ipomedon",
9103.]
242 (return)
[ For an imitation of the following scene, see Hans Herzog
in "Germania", xxxi. 325.]
243 (return)
[ "Porz d'Espaingne" refers to the passes in the Pyrenees
which formed the entrance-ways to Spain. Cf. The "Cilician
Gates" in Xenophon's "Anabasis".]
244 (return)
[ Chrétien here insists upon his divergence from the famous
dictum attributed to the Countess Marie de Champagne by
Andre le Chapelain: "Praeceptum tradit amoris, quod nulla
etiam coniugata regis poterit amoris praemio coronari, nisi
extra coniugii foedera ipsius amoris militae cernatur
adiuneta". (Andreae Capellini, "De Amore", p. 154; Ed.
Trojel, Havniae, 1892).

YVAIN
or, The Knight with the Lion

(Vv. 1-174.) Arthur, the good King of Britain, whose prowess teaches us
that we, too, should be brave and courteous, held a rich and royal court
upon that precious feast-day which is always known by the name of
Pentecost. 31 The court was at Carduel in Wales. When the meal was
finished, the knights betook themselves whither they were summoned by
the ladies, damsels, and maidens. Some told stories; others spoke of love, of
the trials and sorrows, as well as of the great blessings, which often fall to
the members of its order, which was rich and flourishing in those days of
old. But now its followers are few, having deserted it almost to a man, so
that love is much abased. For lovers used to deserve to be considered
courteous, brave, generous, and honourable. But now love is a laughing-
stock, for those who have no intelligence of it assert that they love, and in
that they lie. Thus they utter a mockery and lie by boasting where they have
no right. 32 But let us leave those who are still alive, to speak of those of
former time. For, I take it, a courteous man, though dead, is worth more
than a living knave. So it is my pleasure to relate a matter quite worthy of
heed concerning the King whose fame was such that men still speak of him
far and near; and I agree with the opinion of the Bretons that his name will
live on for evermore. And in connection with him we call to mind those
goodly chosen knights who spent themselves for honour's sake. But upon
this day of which I speak, great was their astonishment at seeing the King
quit their presence; and there were some who felt chagrined, and who did
not mince their words, never before having seen the King, on the occasion
of such a feast, enter his own chamber either to sleep or to seek repose. But
this day it came about that the Queen detained him, and he remained so
long at her side that he forgot himself and fell asleep. Outside the chamber
door were Dodinel, Sagremor, and Kay, my lord Gawain, my lord Yvain,
and with them Calogrenant, a very comely knight, who had begun to tell
them a tale, though it was not to his credit, but rather to his shame. The
Queen could hear him as he told his tale, and rising from beside the King,

she came upon them so stealthily that before any caught sight of her, she
had fallen, as it were, right in their midst. Calogrenant alone jumped up
quickly when he saw her come. Then Kay, who was very quarrelsome,
mean, sarcastic, and abusive, said to him: "By the Lord, Calogrenant, I see
you are very bold and forward now, and certainly it pleases me to see you
the most courteous of us all. And I know that you are quite persuaded of
your own excellence, for that is in keeping with your little sense. And of
course it is natural that my lady should suppose that you surpass us all in
courtesy and bravery. We failed to rise through sloth, forsooth, or because
we did not care! Upon my word, it is not so, my lord; but we did not see my
lady until you had risen first." "Really, Kay," the Queen then says, "I think
you would burst if you could not pour out the poison of which you are so
full. You are troublesome and mean thus to annoy your companions."
"Lady," says Kay, "if we are not better for your company, at least let us not
lose by it. I am not aware that I said anything for which I ought to be
accused, and so I pray you say no more. It is impolite and foolish to keep up
a vain dispute. This argument should go no further, nor should any one try
to make more of it. But since there must be no more high words, command
him to continue the tale he had begun." Thereupon Calogrenant prepares to
reply in this fashion: "My lord, little do I care about the quarrel, which
matters little and affects me not. If you have vented your scorn on me, I
shall never be harmed by it. You have often spoken insultingly, my lord
Kay, to braver and better men than I, for you are given to this kind of thing.
The manure-pile will always stink, 33 and gadflies sting, and bees will hum,
and so a bore will torment and make a nuisance of himself. However, with
my lady's leave, I'll not continue my tale to-day, and I beg her to say no
more about it, and kindly not give me any unwelcome command." "Lady,"
says Kay, "all those who are here will be in your debt, for they are desirous
to hear it out. Don't do it as a favour to me! But by the faith you owe the
King, your lord and mine, command him to continue, and you will do well."
"Calogrenant," the Queen then says, "do not mind the attack of my lord Kay
the seneschal. He is so accustomed to evil speech that one cannot punish
him for it. I command and request you not to be angered because of him,
nor should you fail on his account to say something which it will please us
all to hear; if you wish to preserve my good-will, pray begin the tale anew."
"Surely, lady, it is a very unwelcome command you lay upon me. Rather
than tell any more of my tale to-day, I would have one eye plucked out, if I

did not fear your displeasure. Yet will I perform your behest, however
distasteful it may be. Then since you will have it so, give heed. Let your
heart and ears be mine. For words, though heard, are lost unless understood
within the heart. Some men there are who give consent to what they hear
but do not understand: these men have the hearing alone. For the moment
the heart fails to understand, the word falls upon the ears simply as the wind
that blows, without stopping to tarry there; rather it quickly passes on if the
heart is not so awake as to be ready to receive it. For the heart alone can
receive it when it comes along, and shut it up within. The ears are the path
and channel by which the voice can reach the heart, while the heart receives
within the bosom the voice which enters through the ear. Now, whoever
will heed my words, must surrender to me his heart and ears, for I am not
going to speak of a dream, an idle tale, or lie, with which many another has
regaled you, but rather shall I speak of what I saw."
(Vv. 175-268.) "It happened seven years ago that, lonely as a
countryman, I was making my way in search of adventures, fully armed as a
knight should be, when I came upon a road leading off to the right into a
thick forest. The road there was very bad, full of briars and thorns. In spite
of the trouble and inconvenience, I followed the road and path. Almost the
entire day I went thus riding until I emerged from the forest of Broceliande.
34 Out from the forest I passed into the open country where I saw a wooden
tower at the distance of half a Welsh league: it may have been so far, but it
was not anymore. Proceeding faster than a walk, I drew near and saw the
palisade and moat all round it, deep and wide, and standing upon the bridge,
with a moulted falcon upon his wrist, I saw the master of the castle. I had
no sooner saluted him than he came forward to hold my stirrup and invited
me to dismount. I did so, for it was useless to deny that I was in need of a
lodging-place. Then he told me more than a hundred times at once that
blessed was the road by which I had come thither. Meanwhile, we crossed
the bridge, and passing through the gate, found ourselves in the courtyard.
In the middle of the courtyard of this vavasor, to whom may God repay
such joy and honour as he bestowed upon me that night, there hung a gong
not of iron or wood, I trow, but all of copper. Upon this gong the vavasor
struck three times with a hammer which hung on a post close by. Those
who were upstairs in the house, upon hearing his voice and the sound, came
out into the yard below. Some took my horse which the good vavasor was
holding; and I saw coming toward me a very fair and gentle maid. On

looking at her narrowly I saw she was tall and slim and straight. Skilful she
was in disarming me, which she did gently and with address; then, when
she had robed me in a short mantle of scarlet stuff spotted with a peacock's
plumes, all the others left us there, so that she and I remained alone. This
pleased me well, for I needed naught else to look upon. Then she took me to
sit down in the prettiest little field, shut in by a wall all round about. There I
found her so elegant, so fair of speech and so well informed, of such
pleasing manners and character, that it was a delight to be there, and I could
have wished never to be compelled to move. But as ill luck would have it,
when night came on, and the time for supper had arrived. The vavasor came
to look for me. No more delay was possible, so I complied with his request.
Of the supper I will only say that it was all after my heart, seeing that the
damsel took her seat at the table just in front of me. After the supper the
vavasor admitted to me that, though he had lodged many an errant knight,
he knew not how long it had been since he had welcomed one in search of
adventure. Then, as a favour, he begged of me to return by way of his
residence, if I could make it possible. So I said to him: 'Right gladly, sire!'
for a refusal would have been impolite, and that was the least I could do for
such a host."
(Vv. 269-580.) "That night, indeed, I was well lodged, and as soon as the
morning light appeared, I found my steed ready saddled, as I had requested
the night before; thus my request was carried out. My kind host and his dear
daughter I commended to the Holy Spirit, and, after taking leave of all, I got
away as soon as possible. I had not proceeded far from my stopping-place
when I came to a clearing, where there were some wild bulls at large; they
were fighting among themselves and making such a dreadful and horrible
noise that if the truth be known, I drew back in fear, for there is no beast so
fierce and dangerous as a bull. I saw sitting upon a stump, with a great club
in his hand, a rustic lout, as black as a mulberry, indescribably big and
hideous; indeed, so passing ugly was the creature that no word of mouth
could do him justice. On drawing near to this fellow, I saw that his head
was bigger than that of a horse or of any other beast; that his hair was in
tufts, leaving his forehead bare for a width of more than two spans; that his
ears were big and mossy, just like those of an elephant; his eyebrows were
heavy and his face was flat; his eyes were those of an owl, and his nose was
like a cat's; his jowls were split like a wolf, and his teeth were sharp and
yellow like a wild boar's; his beard was black and his whiskers twisted; his

chin merged into his chest and his backbone was long, but twisted and
hunched. 35 There he stood, leaning upon his club and accoutred in a
strange garb, consisting not of cotton or wool, but rather of the hides
recently flayed from two bulls or two beeves: these he wore hanging from
his neck. The fellow leaped up straightway when he saw me drawing near. I
do not know whether he was going to strike me or what he intended to do,
but I was prepared to stand him off, until I saw him stop and stand stock-
still upon a tree trunk, where he stood full seventeen feet in height. Then he
gazed at me but spoke not a word, any more than a beast would have done.
And I supposed that he had not his senses or was drunk. However, I made
bold to say to him: 'Come, let me know whether thou art a creature of good
or not.' And he replied: 'I am a man.' 'What kind of a man art thou?' 'Such as
thou seest me to be: I am by no means otherwise.' 'What dost thou here?' 'I
was here, tending these cattle in this wood.' 'Wert thou really tending them?
By Saint Peter of Rome! They know not the command of any man. I guess
one cannot possibly guard wild beasts in a plain or wood or anywhere else
unless they are tied or confined inside.' 'Well, I tend and have control of
these beasts so that they will never leave this neighbourhood.' 'How dost
thou do that? Come, tell me now!' 'There is not one of them that dares to
move when they see me coming. For when I can get hold of one I give its
two horns such a wrench with my hard, strong hands that the others tremble
with fear, and gather at once round about me as if to ask for mercy. No one
could venture here but me, for if he should go among them he would be
straightway done to death. In this way I am master of my beasts. And now
thou must tell me in turn what kind of a man thou art, and what thou seekest
here.' 'I am, as thou seest, a knight seeking for what I cannot find; long have
I sought without success.' 'And what is this thou fain wouldst find?' 'Some
adventure whereby to test my prowess and my bravery. Now I beg and
urgently request thee to give me some counsel, if possible, concerning some
adventure or marvellous thing.' Says he: 'Thou wilt have to do without, for I
know nothing of adventure, nor did I ever hear tell of such. But if thou
wouldst go to a certain spring here hard by and shouldst comply with the
practice there, thou wouldst not easily come back again. Close by here thou
canst easily find a path which will lead thee thither. If thou wouldst go
aright, follow the straight path, otherwise thou mayst easily go astray
among the many other paths. Thou shalt see the spring which boils, though
the water is colder than marble. It is shadowed by the fairest tree that ever

Nature formed, for its foliage is evergreen, regardless of the winter's cold,
and an iron basin is hanging there by a chain long enough to reach the
spring. And beside the spring thou shalt find a massive stone, as thou shalt
see, but whose nature I cannot explain, never having seen its like. On the
other side a chapel stands, small, but very beautiful. If thou wilt take of the
water in the basin and spill it upon the stone, thou shalt see such a storm
come up that not a beast will remain within this wood; every doe, star, deer,
boar, and bird will issue forth. For thou shalt see such lightning-bolts
descend, such blowing of gales and crashing of trees, such torrents fail,
such thunder and lightning, that, if thou canst escape from them without
trouble and mischance, thou wilt be more fortunate than ever any knight
was yet.' I left the fellow then, after he had pointed our the way. It must
have been after nine o'clock and might have been drawing on toward noon,
when I espied the tree and the chapel. I can truly say that this tree was the
finest pine that ever grew on earth. I do not believe that it ever rained so
hard that a drop of water could penetrate it, but would rather drip from the
outer branches. From the tree I saw the basin hanging, 36 of the finest gold
that was ever for sale in any fair. As for the spring, you may take my word
that it was boiling like hot water. The stone was of emerald, with holes in it
like a cask, and there were four rubies underneath, more radiant and red
than is the morning sun when it rises in the east. Now not one word will I
say which is not true. I wished to see the marvellous appearing of the
tempest and the storm; but therein I was not wise, for I would gladly have
repented, if I could, when I had sprinkled the perforated stone with the
water from the basin. But I fear I poured too much, for straightway I saw
the heavens so break loose that from more than fourteen directions the
lightning blinded my eyes, and all at once the clouds let fall snow and rain
and hail. The storm was so fierce and terrible that a hundred times I thought
I should be killed by the bolts which fell about me and by the trees which
were rent apart. Know that I was in great distress until the uproar was
appeased. But God gave me such comfort that the storm did not continue
long, and all the winds died down again. The winds dared not blow against
God's will. And when I saw the air clear and serene I was filled with joy
again. For I have observed that joy quickly causes trouble to be forgot. As
soon as the storm was completely past, I saw so many birds gathered in the
pine tree (if any one will believe my words) that not a branch or twig was to
be seen which was not entirely covered with birds. 37 The tree was all the