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Chapter 5: Europe: Chapter 5: Europe

Chapter 5: Europe
Chapter 5: Europe
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  1. Chapter 5: Europe
  2. As you read, consider the following questions:
  3. THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT (FROM MATTHEW 5-7)
    1. 5.2.1 Questions to consider while reading this selection:
    2. 5.2.2 Matthew 5-7: The Sermon on the Mount
      1. Chapter 5
      2. Chapter 6
      3. Chapter 7
  4. THE PARLIAMENT OF BIRDS AND THE CANTERBURY TALES
    1. 5.3.1 The Parlement of Fowles [The Parliament of Birds]
    2. 5.3.2 The Canterbury Tales
      1. The General Prologue
      2. The Miller’s Tale
        1. The Prologue of the Miller’s Tale
        2. Here begins the Miller’s Tale.
      3. The Wife of Bath’s Tale
        1. The Prologue of the Wife of Bath’s Tale
        2. Here begins the Tale of the Wife of Bath.
      4. The Franklin’s Tale
        1. The Prologue of the Franklin’s Tale
        2. Here begins the Franklin’s Tale.
  5. THE DECAMERON
    1. 5.4.1 The Decameron
      1. Introduction
      2. Day the Third
        1. The Ninth Story
      3. Day the Fourth
        1. The Second Story
      4. Day the Fifth
        1. The Ninth Story
  6. THE DIVINE COMEDY
    1. 5.5.1 Inferno
      1. CANTO I
        1. The Dark Forest. The Hill Of Difficulty. The Panther, the Lion, and the Wolf. Virgil.
      2. CANTO II
        1. The Descent. Dante’s Protest and Virgil’s Appeal. The Intercession of the Three Ladies Benedight.
      3. CANTO III
        1. The Gate of Hell. The Inefficient or Indifferent. Pope Celestine V. The Shores of Acheron.1 Charon.2 The Earthquake and the Swoon.
      4. CANTO IV
        1. The First Circle, Limbo: Virtuous Pagans and the Unbaptized. The Four Poets, Homer, Horace, Ovid, and Lucan. The Noble Castle Of Philosophy.
      5. CANTO V
        1. The Second Circle: the Wanton. Minos. The Infernal Hurricane. Francesca Da Rimini.
      6. CANTO XII
        1. The Minotaur. The Seventh Circle: The Violent. The River Phlegethon.3 The Violent Against Their Neighbours. The Centaurs. Tyrants.
      7. CANTO XIII
        1. The Wood of Thorns. The Harpies. The Violent Against Themselves. Suicides. Pier Della Vigna. Lano and Jacopo Da Sant’ Andrea.
      8. CANTO XV
        1. The Violent Against Nature. Brunetto Latini.
      9. CANTO XXXIV
        1. Fourth Division of the Ninth Circle, the Judecca: Traitors to their Lords and Benefactors. Lucifer, Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius. The Chasm of Lethe. The Ascent.
  7. THE SONG OF ROLAND
    1. 5.6.1 Questions to consider while reading this selection:
    2. 5.6.2 La Chanson de Roland
      1. Charlemagne in Spain
        1. I.
      2. Ganelon’s Treason (summary)
      3. Prelude to the Great Battle.9
        1. LXXXI.
        2. LXXXII.
        3. LXXXIII.
      4. Roland's Pride
        1. LXXXIV.
        2. LXXXV.
        3. LXXXVI.
        4. LXXXVII.
        5. LXXXVIII.
        6. LXXXIX.
        7. XC.
        8. XCI.
        9. XCII.
        10. XCIII.
      5. The Melee
        1. XCIV.
        2. XCV.
        3. XCVI.
        4. XCVII.
        5. XCVIII.
        6. XCIX.
        7. C.
        8. CI.
        9. CII.
        10. CIV.
        11. CV.
        12. CVI.
        13. CVII.
        14. CVIII.
        15. CIX.
        16. CX.
        17. CXI.
        18. CXII.
        19. CXIII.
        20. CXIV.
        21. CXV.
        22. CXVI.
        23. CXVII.
        24. CXVIII.
        25. CXIX.
        26. CXX.
        27. CXXI.
        28. CXXII.
        29. CXXIII.
        30. CXXIV.
        31. CXXV.
        32. CXXVI.
        33. CXXVII.
        34. CXXVIII.
        35. CXXIX.
      6. The Horn
        1. CXXX.
        2. CXXXI.
        3. CXXXII.
        4. CXXXIII.
        5. CXXXIV.
        6. CXXXV.
        7. CXXXVI.
        8. CXXXVII.
        9. CXXXVIII.
        10. CXXXIX.
        11. CXL.
        12. CXLI.
      7. The Rout
        1. CXLII.
        2. CXLIII.
        3. CXLIV.
        4. CXLV.
      8. Olivier's Death
        1. CXLVI.
        2. CXLVII.
        3. CXLVIII.
        4. CXLIX.
        5. CL.
        6. CLI.
        7. CLII.
        8. CLIII.
        9. CLIV.
        10. CLV.
      9. Charlemagne Approaches
        1. CLVI.
        2. CLVII.
        3. CLVIII.
        4. CLIX.
        5. CLX.
        6. CLXI.
        7. CLXII.
      10. The Last Benediction of the Archbishop
        1. CLXIII.
        2. CLXIV.
        3. CLXV.
        4. CLXVI.
        5. CLXVII.
        6. CLXVIII.
        7. CLXIX.
      11. Roland's Death
        1. CLXX.
        2. CLXXI.
        3. CLXXII.
        4. CLXXIII.
        5. CLXXIV.
        6. CLXXV.
        7. CLXXVI.
        8. CLXXVII.
        9. CLXXVIII.
      12. The Chastisement of the Saracens
        1. CLXXIX.
        2. CLXXX.
        3. CLXXXI.
        4. CLXXXII.
      13. Charlemagne and Baligant at Ronceval (Summary and Excerpt)
        1. CCLXIII.
        2. CCLXIV.
      14. The Death of Marsile; Capture of Bramimunde
        1. CCLXVI.
        2. CCLXVII.
        3. CCLXVIII.
      15. The Punishment of Ganelon.
        1. CCLXX.
        2. CCLXXI.
        3. CCLXXII.
        4. CCLXXIII.
        5. CCLXXIV.
        6. CCLXXV.
        7. CCLXXVI.
        8. CCLXXVII.
        9. CCLXXVIII.
        10. CLXXIX.
        11. CCLXXX.
        12. CCLXXXI.
        13. CCLXXXII.
        14. CCLXXXIII.
        15. CCLXXXIV.
        16. CCLXXXV.
        17. CCLXXXVI.
        18. CCLXXXVII.
        19. CCLXXXVIII.
        20. CCLXXXIX.
        21. CCXC.
        22. CCXCI.
        23. CCXCII.
        24. CCXCIII.
  8. THE LAIS OF MARIE DE FRANCE
    1. 5.7.1 The Lais of Marie de France
      1. The Lay of Guigemar
      2. The Lay of Sir Launfal
      3. The Lay of the Were-Wolf
  9. LANCELOT: THE KNIGHT OF THE CART
    1. 5.8.1 Lancelot Knight of the Cart
      1. Part I: Vv. 1 Vv. 1840
      2. Part II: Vv. 1841 Vv. 3684
      3. Part III: Vv. 3685 Vv. 5594
      4. Part IV: Vv. 5595 Vv. 7134
  10. THE SONG OF THE CID
    1. 5.9.1 The Lay of the Cid
      1. Cantar I
        1. The Banishment of the Cid I
      2. Cantar II
        1. The Marriage of the Cid’s Daughters
      3. Cantar III
        1. The Affront of Corpes
  11. THE TRAVELS OF MARCO POLO
    1. 5.10.1 Travels of Marco Polo
      1. Preliminary Notice
      2. Introductory Narrative of the Journey
        1. Prologue
        2. I—Nicolo and Maffio Polo travel into the East
        3. II—They arrive at the Court of the Tartar Emperor of China
        4. III—Their Reception
        5. IV—Sent back on an Embassy to the Pope
        6. V—Find him dead, and await a new Election
        7. VI—Their Return to Kublai
        8. VII—They are honourably received
        9. VIII—Employments and Missions of Marco
        10. IX—They seek to return Home
        11. X—Voyage, and Arrival at Venice
      3. Part I
        1. I—Power and Magnificenco of Kublai
        2. II—Insurrection raised by Nayan
        3. III—Kublai prepares to meet him
        4. IV—Description of the Battle
        5. V—The Death of Nayan
        6. VI—Kublai silences the Mockery of the Jews and Saracens
        7. VII—His Opinions as to the Christian Religion
        8. VIII—Rewards bestowed on his Soldiers
        9. IX—The Person of Kublai—His Wives, Concubines, and Sons
        10. X—His magnificent Palace in Kambaln
        11. XI—Description of the City of Kambalu
        12. XII—The Suburbs—Merchants
        13. XIII—Wicked Administration of Achmac—Insurrection
        14. XIV—Guards of the Great Khan
        15. XV—The Magnificence of his Festivals
        16. XVI—Great Festival at the King’s Birthday
        17. XVII—Festival of the New Year
        18. XVIII—Robes bestowed by the Great Khan
        19. XIX—Profusion of Game supplied to his Court
        20. XX—Leopards and other wild Animals kept for Hunting
        21. XXL—His numerous Dogs and splendid Hunting Expeditions
        22. XXII—Falconry and the Chase after Birds
        23. XXIII—Magnificent Tents of the Great Khan
        24. XXIV—Hunting Palace at Shandu in Tartary
        25. XXV—Palace at Cianganor
        26. XXVI—Paper Money—Immense Wealth of the Great Khan
        27. XXVII—The Twelve Governors of Provinces and their Duty
        28. XXVIII—The Couriers of the Great Khan and their Stations
        29. XXIX—The Care and Bounty of the Monarch towards his Subjects
        30. XXX—Liquor used for Wine in Cathay
        31. XXXI—Stones which are burnt instead of Wood
        32. XXXII—The Astrologers of Kambalu—the Tartar Computation of Time
        33. XXXIII—Religion and Customs of the Tartars (Chinese)
        34. XXXIV—Marco Polo’s Journey—The River Pulisangan and its beautiful Bridge
        35. XXXV—The great City of Gco-gui
        36. XXXVI—The Cities of Ta-in-fu and Pi-an-fu
        37. XXXVII—The Castle of Caya-fu—Story of its King and Prester John
        38. XXXVIII—The great River Kara-moran, and the City Ca-cian-fu
        39. XXXIX—The City of Quen-gian-fu
        40. XL—The Province of Cun-chin
        41. XLI—The Province of Achalech-Manji
        42. XLII—The Province and City of Sin-din-fu
        43. XLIII—The Province of Thibet
        44. XLIV—Another Part of Thibet
        45. XLV—The Province of Kain-du
        46. XLVI—The Province of Caraian
        47. XLVII—The Province of Karazan and its great Serpents
        48. XLVIII—The Province of Kardandan
        49. XLIX—Of the great Battle fought between the Tartars and the King of Mien
        50. L—Of the great Descent
        51. LI—Of the City of Men, and the most beautiful Tomb of the King
        52. LII—Of the Province of Bangala
        53. LIU—Of the Province of Kangigu
        54. LIV—Of the Province of Amu
        55. LV—Of the Province of Tholoman
        56. LVI—Of the Province of Cyn-gui and its Lions
        57. LVII—Arrival at Sin-din-fu, and Journey back to Gin-gui
        58. LVIII—Cities of Ca-cian-fu, Cian-glu, and Cian-gli
        59. LIX—Condi-fu—Rebellion against the Great Khan
        60. LX—Cities of Sin-gui, Lin-gui, Pin-gui, and Cin-gui
        61. LXI—Of the great River Kara-moran
        62. LXII—Of the Province of Manji, and how it was made subject to the Great Khan
        63. LXIII—Of the Piety and Justice of the King towards his Subjects
        64. LXIV—Of the Cities of Koi-gan-zu, Pau-chym, and Chaym
        65. LXV—Of the City of Tin-gui, and its great Saltworks
        66. LXVI—Of the great City of Yan-gui
        67. LXVII—Of the great City of Nan-ghin
        68. LXVIII—Of the City of Sa-yan-fu, and how it was taken
        69. LXIX—Of the City of Sin-gui and the River Kiang, and the Multitude of Cities on that River
        70. LXX—Of the City of Cai-gui
        71. LXXI—Of the City of Cin-ghian-fu
        72. LXXII—Of the City of Cin-ghin-gui, and of a dreadful Slaughter
        73. LXXIII—Of the City of Sin-gui, of Un-gui, and of Ughim
        74. LXXIV—Of the most noble and wonderful City of Kin-sai; and of its Population, Trades, Lake, Villas, and splendid Palace
        75. LXXV—Farther Particulars of that City
        76. LXXVI—Revenues of the Great Khan from Kin-sai and Manji
        77. LXXVII—Tam-pin-gui and other Cities
        78. LXXVIII—The Kingdom of Fu-gui
        79. LXXIX—Of the Cities of Que-lin-fu and Un-quem
        80. LXXX—Of the City of Fu-gui
        81. LXXXI—Of the most noble Port of Zai-tun, and of Ti-min-gui

Chapter 5: Europe

As mentioned in the introduction to Part Two, both the terms “the Middle Ages” and “the Renaissance” are specifically European constructs. The European Renaissance was self-named, with writers in that time period identifying themselves as the “re-birth” (or re-naissance) of classical Greek and Roman ideals and literature. Everything between the classical world and their time period was referred to as the “middle”—or Middle Ages. The term, therefore, should be taken with a grain of salt; obviously, to promote themselves, Renaissance writers were often harsh in their criticism of their immediate predecessors, as most new literary periods are to the previous literary period. To this day, popular culture in the West still has traces of the negative Renaissance attitude towards anything “medieval.” European authors such as Dante would have been quite surprised (and indignant) to hear that he was part of a time period that supposedly was lesser than what followed. Since Dante’s Divine Comedy ranks among the best of world literature to this day, he would be justified in feeling that way.

In chronological terms, the Middle Ages in Europe traditionally are dated from the fall of Rome in 476 C.E. to the arrival of Columbus in North America in 1492 C.E. These dates are not exact, but they at least give us the general magnitude of the time period: roughly a thousand years. Within that stretch of time, scholars usually break the time into early, middle, and late periods of literature.

The selections in this chapter focus on the transformation of a hero and the role of courtly love in aristocratic culture. There are still epic heroes, but now they are often knights (with different sets of concerns from ancient world warriors); in Dante, he takes the previous epic form even further by creating a Christian epic, with a hero who does not need to be a knight (or even all that brave, as long as he has divine help). There is a debate about whether courtly love ever existed outside of literature (or whether it actually inspired knights and ladies to act the way that they did in the stories), but the concept of courtly love drives many medieval stories. Historically, in aristocratic circles, marriage was almost exclusively a business transaction between families; your average knight might not have much chance of marrying the woman he loved, but (courtly love suggests) he might try to get her attention by performing brave deeds. In the most proper scenarios, he would serve her from afar, never expecting a reward for his attentions. It is that kind of courtly love that Cervantes would satirize during the Renaissance in Don Quixote. In more risqué scenarios, the knight might try to convince the (often married) lady to return his affections. Stories in the works of Chrétien de Troyes and Boccaccio play with that theme to both comic and dramatic effect. In the selections found here from Chaucer’s works, Chaucer makes it clear that he finds the whole concept of courtly love questionable (especially from the woman’s point of view) and sometimes outright objectionable. Dante distances himself from his own background as a love poet, turning from earthly love to spiritual love in his writings; the lady he loves from afar (and with whom he never had a relationship) leads him to a love of God.

As you read, consider the following questions:

  • How are medieval epic heroes (such as the Cid and Dante) different from and similar to the warriors of the ancient world?

  • What kind of relationship do the heroes have to their societies, their leaders (rulers), their families, and their religion?

  • How does the text approach courtly love, especially in terms of the behavior expected from knights and ladies? Does it support it or question it?

  • What themes from the ancient world appear in the Middle Ages? In what ways are the stories a continuation of issues and concerns found in works from Part One?

  • How has the role of religion changed in the stories, now that there are no pantheons of gods?

Written by Laura J. Getty

THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT (FROM MATTHEW 5-7)

First century C.E.

The Roman Province of Israel

The Gospel according to Matthew was written sometime between 85 and 90 C.E. and is one of the four canonical gospels of the Christian Bible, also known as the New Testament. The other three gospels are Mark, Luke, and John. All four gospels were anonymously authored, and with the exception of a smattering of Aramaic, they were all written in Greek, the dominant scholarly language of that period in that region of the world. Matthew (along with Mark and Luke) is one of the three synoptic (or “seen together”) gospels, which are the main sources for the historical narrative of Jesus’ life.

The Sermon on the Mount is one of the Five Discourses of Matthew (the sermons of Jesus in the book of Matthew). It is the first and longest sermon by Jesus in the Gospels, taking place shortly after the Temptation of Christ, the gathering of his first four disciples, and his initial healing ministries. The Sermon on the Mount includes the Beatitudes (or blessings), the Lord’s Prayer (also known as the Our Father), and numerous parables and analogies. The Sermon covers laws concerning murder, adultery, divorce, oaths, and revenge and includes Jesus’ famous admonition to “love thy neighbor.” Jesus also warns his disciples against ostentation in prayer and almsgiving, materialism, judging others, and hypocrisy.

There is no other part of the Christian Bible that has been analyzed, interpreted, and written about more than the Sermon on the Mount. Ranging from a strictly literal interpretation of the Sermon to a view that argues that Jesus was establishing general principles for behavior but not hard and fast rules, Christians have debated the meaning of the Sermon for centuries. Philosophers and writers as diverse as St. Augustine, St. Francis of Assisi, Geoffrey Chaucer, and Leo Tolstoy have all weighed in.

Written by Rhonda Kelley

5.2.1 Questions to consider while reading this selection:

  1. According to the Sermon, to what degree is a Christian meant to follow the rules, and how does one go about it?

  2. What are the main virtues of Christian religion as taught in the Sermon?

  3. If a Christian were to follow the Sermon literally, what extreme behaviors would that require? Do you think that following the teachings of Christ is possible?

  4. Compare Jesus’ demands for moral human conduct with the ethics and values of the other cultures we have studied.

  5. Teaching in parables, as Jesus explains to his disciples, puts a burden on the audience that straightforward instruction does not. Why does this method of communication particularly suit a religious or spiritual subject?

5.2.2 Matthew 5-7: The Sermon on the Mount

License: Public Domain

Chapter 5

1 And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him:

2 And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,

3 Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

4 Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

5 Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

6 Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

7 Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.

8 Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.

9 Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.

10 Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

11 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.

12 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.

13 Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.

14 Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.

15 Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.

16 Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.

17 Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.

18 For verily I say unto you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled.

19 Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.

20 For I say unto you, That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.

21 Ye have heard that it was said of them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment:

22 But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.

23 Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee;

24 Leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift. 25 Agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him; lest at any time the adversary deliver thee to the judge, and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison.

26 Verily I say unto thee, Thou shalt by no means come out thence, till thou hast paid the uttermost farthing.

27 Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery:

28 But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.

29 And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

30 And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

31 It hath been said, Whosoever shall put away his wife, let him give her a writing of divorcement:

32 But I say unto you, That whosoever shall put away his wife, saving for the cause of fornication, causeth her to commit adultery: and whosoever shall marry her that is divorced committeth adultery.

33 Again, ye have heard that it hath been said by them of old time, Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths:

34 But I say unto you, Swear not at all; neither by heaven; for it is God’s throne:

35 Nor by the earth; for it is his footstool: neither by Jerusalem; for it is the city of the great King.

36 Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one hair white or black.

37 But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.

38 Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth:

39 But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.

40 And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also.

41 And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.

42 Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.

43 Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.

44 But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;

45 That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

46 For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same?

47 And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so?

48 Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.

Chapter 6

1 Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.

2 Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.

3 But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth:

4 That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly.

5 And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.

6 But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.

7 But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.

8 Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.

9 After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.

10 Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

11 Give us this day our daily bread.

12 And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.

14 For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you:

15 But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

16 Moreover when ye fast, be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance: for they disfigure their faces, that they may appear unto men to fast. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.

17 But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face;

18 That thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret: and thy Father, which seeth in secret, shall reward thee openly.

19 Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:

20 But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:

21 For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

22 The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.

23 But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!

24 No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.

25 Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?

26 Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?

27 Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?

28 And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

29 And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

30 Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?

31 Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?

32 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.

33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.

34 Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Chapter 7

1 Judge not, that ye be not judged.

2 For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.

3 And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

4 Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye?

5 Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother’s eye.

6 Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.

7 Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:

8 For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.

9 Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?

10 Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?

11 If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?

12 Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.

13 Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat:

14 Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.

15 Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

16 Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?

17 Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.

18 A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.

19 Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.

20 Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.

21 Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.

22 Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out devils? and in thy name done many wonderful works?

23 And then will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity.

24 Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock:

25 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.

26 And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand:

27 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.

28 And it came to pass, when Jesus had ended these sayings, the people were astonished at his doctrine:

29 For he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.

THE PARLIAMENT OF BIRDS AND THE CANTERBURY TALES

Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 13421400 C.E.)

The Parliament of Birds (ca. 1381-1382 C.E.)

The Canterbury Tales (ca. 13871400 C.E.)

England

Image 5.1: The works of Geoffrey Chaucer Frontispiece | An intricately designed black and white frontispiece featuring ivy vines featuring the text “The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer now newly imprinted”

Author: Edward Burne-Jones

Source: Archive.org

License: Public Domain

Geoffrey Chaucer’s influence on later British literature is difficult to overstate. The most important English writer before Shakespeare (who re-wrote Chaucer’s version of the Troilus and Criseyde story), Chaucer introduced new words into English (such as “cosmos”), and his stories draw on a wealth of previous authors, especially Ovid and Boccaccio. Unlike Shakespeare, Chaucer’s writing is often translated, since Middle English is substantially different from even the Early Modern English of Shakespeare. The selections in this anthology are focused on a single theme: Chaucer’s revisionist, revolutionary approach to courtly love. Courtly love poetry often focuses on the male perspective exclusively; the female is the object to be obtained, and she usually is not given a voice (or, ultimately, a choice) in the matter. The Parliament of Birds (also called The Parliament of Fowles) gives the female a voice, if not necessarily a choice, while the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales offers, among many other things, a satirical look at how courtly love can be misused: The Prioress and the Monk are only two examples. The Wife of Bath’s Tale and The Franklin’s Tale both offer fascinating alternatives to the regular courtly love scenario, while The Miller’s Tale is a mocking revision of the genre by the Miller, who is responding to the story of courtly love that had just been told by the Knight.

Written by Laura J. Getty

5.3.1 The Parlement of Fowles [The Parliament of Birds]

Geoffrey Chaucer, translated and edited by Gerard NeCastro

License: © Copyright, 2007, All Rights Reserved

The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly—by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous operation, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep. For albeit I know not love myself; nor how he pays people their wage, yet I have very often chanced to read in books of his miracles and his cruel anger there, surely, I read he will ever be lord and sovereign, and his strokes will be so heavy I dare say nothing but, “God save such a lord!” I can say no more.

Somewhat for pleasure and somewhat for learning I am in the habit of reading books, as I have told you. But why speak I of all this? Not long ago I chanced to look at a book, written in antique letters, and there I read very diligently and eagerly through the long day, to learn a certain thing. For, as men say, out of old fields comes all this new corn from year to year; and, in good faith, out of old books comes all this new knowledge that men learn. But now to my theme in this matter: it so delighted me to read on, that the whole day seemed to me rather short. This book of which I speak was entitled Tully on the Dream of Scipio. It had seven chapters, on heaven and hell and earth, and the souls that live in those places; about which I will tell you the substance of Tully’s opinion, as briefly as I can.

First the book tells how, when Scipio had come to Africa, he met Masinissa, who clasped him in his arms for joy. Then it tells their conversation and all the joy that was between them until the day began to end; and then how Scipio’s beloved ancestor Africanus appeared to him that night in his sleep. Then it tells how Africanus showed him Carthage from a starry place, and disclosed to him all his good fortune to come, and said to him that any man, learned or unlettered, who loves the common profit and is virtuous shall go to a blessed place where is joy without end. Then Scipio asked whether people that die here have life and dwelling elsewhere; and Africanus said, “Yes, without doubt,” and added that our space of life in the present world, whatever way we follow, is just a kind of death, and righteous people, after they die, shall go to heaven.

And he showed him the Milky Way, and the earth here, so little in comparison with the hugeness of the heavens; and after that he showed him the nine spheres. And then he heard the melody that proceeds from those nine spheres, which is the fount of music and melody in this world, and the cause of harmony. Then Africanus instructed him not to take delight in this world, since earth is so little and so full of torment and ill favor. Then he told him how in a certain term of years every star should come into its own place, where it first was; and all that has been done by all mankind in this world shall pass out of memory.

Then he asked Africanus to tell him fully the way to come into that heavenly happiness; and he said, “First know yourself to be immortal; and always see that you labor diligently and teach for the common profit, and you shall not fail to come speedily to that dear place that is full of joy and of bright souls. But breakers of the law, in truth, and lecherous folk, after they die, shall ever be whirled about the earth in torment, until many an age be passed; and then, all their wicked deeds forgiven, they shall come to that blessed region, to which may God send you His grace to come.”

Image 5.2: Parliament of Fowls | A black and white illustration of a man in robes looking at the parliament of fowls as they nest in a tree.

Author: Edward Burne-Jones

Source: Archive.org

License: Public Domain

The day began to end, and dark night, which withdraws beasts from their activity, bereft me of my book for the lack of light; and I set forth to my bed, full of brooding and anxious heaviness. For I both had that which I wished not and what I wished that I had not. But at last, wearied with all the day’s labor, my spirit took rest and heavily slept; and as I lay in my sleep, I dreamed how Africanus, in the very same guise in which Scipio saw him that time before, had come and stood at the very side of my bed. When the weary hunter sleeps, quickly his mind returns to the wood; the judge dreams how his cases fare, and the carter how his carts go; the rich dream of gold, the knight fights his foes; the sick man dreams he drinks of the wine cask, the lover that he has his lady. I cannot say whether my reading of Africanus was the cause that I dreamed that he stood there; but thus he spoke, “You have done so well to look upon my old tattered book, of which Macrobius thought not a little, that I would requite you somewhat for your labor.”

Cytherea, you sweet, blessed lady, who with your fire-brand subdues whomsoever you wish, and sends me this dream, be my helper in this, for you are best able! As surely as I saw you in the north-northwest when I began to write my dream, so surely do you give me power to rhyme it and compose it!

This aforesaid Africanus took me from there and brought me out with him to a gate of a park walled with mossy stone; and over the gate on either side, carved in large letters, were verses of very diverse senses, of which I shall tell you the full meaning:

“Through me men go into that blessed place

Where hearts find health and deadly wounds find cure,

Through me men go unto the fount of Grace,

Where green and lusty May shall ever endure.

I lead men to blithe peace and joy secure.

Reader, be glad; throw off your sorrows past.

Open am I; press in and make haste fast.”

On the other side it said:

“Through me men go where all mischance betides,

Where is the mortal striking of the spear,

To which Disdain and Coldness are the guides,

Where trees no fruit or leaf shall ever bear.

This stream shall lead you to the sorrowful weir

Where fish in baleful prison lie all dry.

To shun it is the only remedy.”

These inscriptions were written, the one in gold, the other in black, and I beheld them for a long while, for at the one my heart grew hardy, and the other ever increased my fear; the first warmed me, the other chilled me. For fear of error my wit could not make its choice, to enter or to flee, to lose myself or save myself. Just as a piece of iron set between two load-stones of equal force has no power to move one way or the other—for as much as one draws the other hinders.

So it fared with me, who knew not which would be better, to enter or not, until Africanus my guide caught and pushed me in at the wide gates, saying, “Your doubt stands written on your face, though you tell it not to me. But fear not to come in, for this writing is not meant for you or for any, unless he would be Love’s servant. For in love, I believe, you have lost your sense of taste, even as a sick man loses his taste of sweet and bitter. Nevertheless, dull though you may be, you can still look upon that which you cannot do; for many a man who cannot complete a bout is nevertheless pleased to be at a wrestling match, and judges whether one or another does better. And if you have skill to set it down, I will show you something to write about.”

With that he took my hand in his, from which I took comfort and quickly went in. But Lord, how glad and at ease I was! For everywhere I cast my eyes were trees clad, each according to its kind, with everlasting leaves in fresh color and green as emerald, a joy to behold: the builder oak, eke the hardy ash, the elm the pillar and the coffin for corpses, the boxwood for horns, the holly for whip-handles, the fir to bear sails, the cypress to mourn death, the yew the bowman, the aspen for smooth shafts, the olive of peace, the drunken vine, the victor palm, and the laurel for divination.

By a river in a green meadow, where there is at all points so much sweetness, I saw a garden, full of blossomy boughs, with white, blue, yellow and red flowers; and cold fountain-streams, not at all dead, full of small shining fish with red fins and silver-bright scales. On every bough I heard the birds sing with the voice of angels in their melody. Some busied themselves to lead forth their young. The little bunnies hastened to play. Further on I noticed all about the timid roe, the buck, harts and hinds and squirrels and small beasts of gentle nature. I heard stringed instruments playing harmonies of such ravishing sweetness that God, Maker and Lord of all, never heard better, I believe. At the same time a wind, scarce could it have been gentler, made in the green leaves a soft noise which accorded with the song of the birds above. The air of that place was so mild that never was there discomfort for heat or cold. Every wholesome spice and herb grew there, and no person could age or sicken. There was a thousand times more joy than man can tell. And it would never be night there, but ever bright day in every man’s eye.

I saw Cupid our lord forging and filing his arrows under a tree beside a spring, and his bow lay ready at his feet. And meanwhile his daughter well tempered the arrow-heads in the spring, and by her cunning she piled them after as they should serve, some to slay, some to wound and pierce. Just then I was aware of Pleasure and of Fair Array and Courtesy and Joy and of Deception who has wit and power to cause a being to do folly—she was disguised, I deny it not. And under an oak, I believe, I saw Delight, standing apart with Gentle Breeding. I saw Beauty without any raiment; and Youth, full of sportiveness and jollity, Foolhardiness, Flattery, Desire, Message-sending and Bribery; and three others—their names shall not be told by me.

And upon great high pillars of jasper I saw a temple of brass strongly stand. About the temple many women were dancing ceaselessly, of whom some were beautiful themselves and some gay in dress; only in their kirtles they went, with hair unbound—that was forever their business, year by year. And on the temple I saw many hundred pairs of doves sitting, white and beautiful. Before the temple-door sat Lady Peace full gravely, holding back the curtain, and beside her Lady Patience, with pale face and wondrous discretion, sitting upon a mound of sand. Next to her were Promise and Cunning and a crowd of their followers within the temple and without.

Inside I heard a gust of sighs blowing about, hot as fire, engendered of longing, which caused every altar to blaze ever anew. And well I saw then that all the cause of sorrows that lovers endure is through the bitter goddess Jealousy. As I walked about within the temple I saw the god Priapus standing in sovereign station, his scepter in hand, and in such attire as when the ass confounded him to confusion with its outcry by night. People were busily setting upon his head garlands full of fresh, new flowers of various colors.

In a private corner I found Venus, who was noble and stately in her bearing, sporting with her porter Riches. The place was dark, but in time I saw a little light—it could scarcely have been less. Venus reposed upon a golden bed until the hot sun should seek the west. Her golden hair was bound with a golden thread, but all untressed as she lay. And one could see her naked from the breast to the head; the remnant, in truth, was well covered to my pleasure with a filmy kerchief of Valence; there was no thicker cloth that could also be transparent. The place gave forth a thousand sweet odors. Bacchus, god of wine, sat beside her, and next was Ceres, who saves all from hunger, and, as I said, the Cyprian woman lay in the midst; on their knees two young people were crying to her to be their helper.

But thus I left her lying, and further in the temple I saw how, in scorn of Diana the chaste, there hung on the wall many a broken bow of such maidens as had first wasted their time in her service. And everywhere was painted many stories, of which I shall touch on a few, such as Callisto and Atalanta and many maidens whose name I do not know. There was also Semiramis, Candace, Hercules, Byblis, Dido, Thisbe and Pyramus, Tristram and Isolt, Paris, Achilles, Helen, Cleopatra, Troilus, and Scylla, and the mother of Romulus as well—all were portrayed on the other wall, and their love and by what plight they died.

When I had returned to the sweet and green garden that I spoke of, I walked forth to comfort myself. Then I noticed how there sat a queen who was exceeding in fairness over every other creature, as the brilliant summer sun passes the stars in brightness. This noble goddess Nature was set upon a flowery hill in a verdant glade. All her halls and bowers were wrought of branches according to the art and measure of Nature.

And there was not any bird that is created through procreation that was not ready in her presence to hear her and receive her judgment. For this was Saint Valentine’s day, when every bird of every kind that men can imagine comes to this place to choose his mate. And they made an exceedingly great noise; and earth and sea and the trees and all the lakes were so full that there was scarcely room for me to stand, so full was the entire place. And just as Alan, in The Complaint of Nature, describes Nature in her features and attire, so might men find her in reality.

This noble empress, full of grace, bade every bird take his station, as they were accustomed to stand always on Saint Valentine’s day from year to year. That is to say, the birds of prey were set highest, and then the little birds who eat, as nature inclines them, worms or other things of which I speak not; but water-fowls sat the lowest in the dale; and birds that live on seed sat upon the grass, so many that it was a marvel to see.

There one could find the royal eagle, that pierces the sun with his sharp glance; and other eagles of lower race, of which clerks can tell. There was that tyrant with dun gray feathers, I mean the goshawk, that harasses other birds with his fierce ravening. There was the noble falcon, that with his feet grasps the king’s hand; also the bold sparrow-hawk, foe of quails; the merlin, that often greedily pursues the lark. The dove was there, with her meek eyes; the jealous swan, that sings at his death; and the owl also, that forebodes death; the giant crane, with his trumpet voice; thieving chough; the prating magpie; the scornful jay; the heron, foe to eels; the false lapwing, full of trickery; the starling, that can betray secrets; the tame redbreast; the coward kite; the cock, timekeeper of little thorps; the sparrow, son of Venus; the nightingale, which calls forth the fresh new leaves; the swallow, murderer of the little bees which make honey from the fresh-hued flowers; the wedded turtle-dove, with her faithful heart; the peacock, with his shining angel-feathers; the pheasant, that scorns the cock by night; the vigilant goose; the cuckoo, ever unnatural; the popinjay, full of wantonness; the drake, destroyer of his own kind; the stork, that avenges adultery; the greedy, gluttonous cormorant; the wise raven and the crow, with voice of ill-boding; the ancient thrush and the wintry fieldfare.

What more shall I say? One might find assembled in that place before the noble goddess Nature birds of every sort in this world that have feathers and stature. And each by her consent worked diligently to choose or take graciously his lady or his mate.

But to the point: Nature held on her hand a formel eagle, the noblest in shape that she ever found among her works, the gentlest and goodliest; in her every noble trait so had its seat that Nature herself rejoiced to look upon her and to kiss her beak many times. Nature, vicar of the Almighty Lord, who has knit in harmony hot, cold, heavy, light, moist, and dry in exact proportions, began to speak in a gentle voice: “Birds, take heed of what I say; and for your welfare and to further your needs I will hasten as fast as I can speak. You well know how on Saint Valentine’s day, by my statute and through my ordinance, you come to choose your mates, as I prick you with sweet pain, and then fly on your way. But I may not, to win this entire world, depart from my just order, that he who is most worthy shall begin.

“The tercel eagle, the royal bird above you in degree, as you well know, the wise and worthy one, trusty, true as steel, which you may see I have formed in every part as pleased me best—there is no need to describe his shape to you—he shall choose first and speak as he will. And after him you shall choose in order, according to your nature, each as pleases you; and, as your chance is, you shall lose or win. But whichever of you love ensnares most, to him may God send her who sighs for him most sorely.”

And at this she called the tercel and said, “My son, the choice is fallen to you. Nevertheless under this condition must be the choice of each one here, that his chosen mate will agree to his choice, whatsoever he be who would have her. From year to year this is always our custom. And whoever at this time can win grace has come here in blissful time!”

The royal tercel, with bowed head and humble appearance, delayed not and spoke: “As my sovereign lady, not as my spouse, I choose—and choose with will and heart and mind—the formel of so noble shape upon your hand. I am hers wholly and will serve her always. Let her do as she wishes, to let me live or die; I beseech her for mercy and grace, as my sovereign lady, or else let me die here presently. For surely I cannot live long in torment, for in my heart every vein is cut. Having regard only to my faithfulness, dear heart, have some pity upon my woe. And if I am found untrue to her, disobedient or willfully negligent, a boaster, or in time love elsewhere, I pray you this will be my doom: that I will be torn to pieces by these birds, upon that day when she should ever know me untrue to her or in my guilt unkind. And since no other loves her as well as I, though she never promised me love, she ought to be mine by her mercy; for I can fasten no other bond on her. Never for any woe shall I cease to serve her, however far she may roam. Say what you will, my words are done.”

Even as the fresh red rose newly blown blushes in the summer sun, so grew the color of this woman when she heard all this; she answered no word good or bad, so sorely was she abashed; until Nature said, “Daughter, fear not, be of good courage.”

Then spoke another tercel of a lower order: “That shall not be. I love her better than you, by Saint John, or at least I love her as well, and have served her longer, according to my station. If she should love for long being to me alone should be the reward; and I also dare to say, if she should find me false, unkind, a prater, or a rebel in any way, or jealous, let me be hanged by the neck. And unless I bear myself in her service as well as my wit allows me, to protect her honor in every point, let her take my life and all the wealth I have.”

Then a third tercel eagle said, “Now, sirs, you see how little time we have here, for every bird clamors to be off with his mate or lady dear, and Nature herself as well, because of the delay, will not hear half of what I would speak. Yet unless I speak I must die of sorrow. I boast not at all of long service; but it is as likely that I shall die of woe today as he who has been languishing these twenty winters. And it may well happen that a man may serve better in half a year, even if it were no longer, than another man who has served many years. I do not say this about myself, for I can do no service to my lady’s pleasure; but I dare say that I am her truest man, I believe, and would be most glad to please her. In short, until death may seize me I will be hers, whether I wake or sleep, and true in all that heart can think.”

In all my life since the day I was born never have I heard any man so noble make a plea in love or any other thing—even if a man had time and wit to rehearse their expression and their words. And this discourse lasted from the morning until the sun drew downward so rapidly. The clamor released by the birds rung so loud— “Make an end of this and let us go!”—that I well thought the forest would be splintered. They cried, “Make haste! Alas, you will ruin us! When shall your cursed pleading come to an end? How should a judge believe either side for yea or nay, without any proof?”

The goose, cuckoo and duck so loudly cried, “Kek, kek!”, “Cuckoo!”, “Quack, quack!” that the noise reverberated in my ears. The goose said, “All this is not worth a fly! But from this I can devise a remedy, and I will speak my verdict fair and soon, on behalf of the waterfowl. Let who will smile or frown.”

“And I for the worm-eating fowl,” said the foolish cuckoo; “of my own authority, for the common welfare, I will take the responsibility now, for it would be great charity to release us.” “By God, you may wait a while yet,” said the turtle-dove. “If you are he to choose who shall speak, it would be as well for him to be silent. I am among the birds that eat seed, one of the most unworthy, and of little wit—that I know well. But a creature’s tongue would be better quiet than meddling with such doings about which he knows neither rhyme nor reason. And whosoever does so, overburdens himself in foul fashion, for often one not entrusted to a duty commits offence.”

Nature, who had always an ear to the murmuring of folly at the back, said with ready tongue, “Hold your peace there! And straightway, I hope, I shall find a counsel to let you go and release you from this noise. My judgment is that you shall choose one from each bird-folk to give the verdict for you all.”

The birds all assented to this conclusion. And first the birds of prey by full election chose the tercel-falcon to define all their judgment, and decide as he wished. And they presented him to Nature and she accepted him gladly. The falcon then spoke in this fashion: “It would be hard to determine by reason which best loves this gentle woman; for each has such ready answers that none may be defeated by reasons. I cannot see of what avail are arguments; so it seems there must be battle.”

“All ready!” then cried these tercel-eagles.

“Nay, sirs,” said he, “if I dare say it, you do me wrong, my tale is not done. For, sirs, take it not amiss, I pray, it cannot go thus as you desire. Ours is the voice that has the charge over this, and you must stand by the judges’ decision. Peace, therefore! I say that it would seem in my mind that the worthiest in knighthood, who has longest followed it, the highest in degree and of gentlest blood, would be most fitting for her, if she wish it. And of these three she knows which he is, I believe, for that is easily seen.”

The waterfowl put their heads together, and after short considering, when each had spoken his tedious gabble, they said truly, by one assent, how “the goose, with her gentle eloquence, who so desires to speak for us, shall say our say,” and prayed God would help her. Then the goose began to speak for these waterfowl, and said in her cackling, “Peace! Now every man take heed and hearken what argument I shall put forth. My wits are sharp, I love no delay; I counsel him, I say, even if he were my brother, leave him if she will not love him.”

“Lo here,” said the sparrow-hawk, “a perfect argument for a goose—bad luck to her! Lo, thus it is to have a wagging tongue! Now, fool, it would be better for you to have held your peace than have shown your folly, by God! But to do thus rests not in her wit or will; for it is truly said, ‘a fool cannot be silent.’“

Laughter arose from all the birds of noble kind; and straightway the seed-eating fowl chose the faithful turtle-dove, and called her to them, and prayed her to speak the sober truth about this matter, and asked her counsel. And she answered that she would fully show her mind. “Nay, God forbid a lover should change!” said the turtle-dove, and grew all red with shame. “Though his lady may be cold for evermore, let him serve her ever until he die. In truth I praise not the goose’s counsel, for even if my lady died I would have no other mate, I would be hers until death take me.”

“By my hat, well jested!” said the duck. “That men should love forever, without cause! Who can find reason or wit there? Does one who is mirthless dance merrily? Who should care for him who is carefree? Yea, quack!” said the duck loud and long, “God knows there are more stars than a pair.”

“Now fie, churl!” said the noble falcon. “That thought came straight from the dunghill. You can not see when a thing is proper. You fare with love as owls with light; the day blinds them, but they see very well in darkness. Your nature is so low and wretched that you can not see or guess what love is.”

Then the cuckoo thrust himself forward in behalf of the worm-eating birds, and said quickly, “So that I may have my mate in peace, I care not how long you contend. Let each be single all his life; that is my counsel, since they cannot agree. This is my instruction, and there an end!”

“Yea,” said the merlin, “as this glutton has well filled his paunch, this should suffice for us all! You murderer of the hedge-sparrow on the branch, the one who brought you up, you ruthless glutton! May you live unmated, you mangler of worms! It matters nothing to you, though your tribe may perish. Go, be a stupid fool, as long as the world lasts!”

“Peace now, I command here,” said Nature, “For I have heard the opinions of all, and yet we are no nearer to our goal. But this is my final decision, that she herself shall have the choice of whom she wishes. Whosoever may be pleased or not, he whom she chooses shall have her straightway. For since it cannot here be debated who loves her best, as the falcon said, then will I grant her this favor, that she shall have him alone on whom her heart is set, and he her that has fixed his heart on her. This judgment I, Nature, make; and I cannot speak falsely, nor look with partial eye on any rank. But if it is reasonable to counsel you in choosing a mate, then surely I would counsel you to take the royal tercel, as the falcon said right wisely; for he is noblest and most worthy whom I created so well for my own pleasure; that ought to suffice you.”

The formel answered with timid voice, “Goddess of nature, my righteous lady, true it is that I am ever under your rod, just as every other creature is, and I must be yours as long as my life may last. Therefore, grant me my first request, and straightway I will speak to you my mind.”

“I grant it to you,” said Nature; and this female eagle spoke immediately in this way: “Almighty queen, until this year comes to an end I ask respite, to take counsel with myself; and after that to have my choice free. This is all that I would say. I can say no more, even if you were to slay me. In truth, as yet I will in no manner serve Venus or Cupid”

“Now since it can happen no other way,” Nature said then, “there is no more to be said here. Then I wish these birds to go their way each with his mate, so that they tarry here no longer.” And she spoke to them thus as you shall hear. “To you I speak, you tercels,” said Nature. “Be of good heart, and continue in service, all three; a year is not so long to wait. And let each of you strive according to his degree to do well. For, God knows, she is departed from you this year; and whatsoever may happen afterwards, this interval is appointed to you all.”

And when this work was all brought to an end, Nature gave every bird his mate by just accord, and they went their way. Ah, Lord! The bliss and joy that they made! For each of them took the other in his wings, and wound their necks about each other, ever thanking the noble goddess of nature. But first were chosen birds to sing, as was always their custom year by year to sing a roundel at their departure, to honor Nature and give her pleasure. The tune, I believe, was made in France. The words were such as you may here find in these verses, as I remember them.

Qui bien aime a tard oublie.

“Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,

The winter’s tempest you will break,

And drive away the long nights black!

Saint Valentine, throned aloft,

Thus little birds sing for your sake:

Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,

The winter’s tempest you will shake!

Good cause have they to glad them oft,

His own true-love each bird will take;

Blithe may they sing when they awake,

Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft,

The winter’s tempest you will break,

And drive away the long nights black!”

And with the shouting that the birds raised, as they flew away when their song was done, I awoke; and I took up other books to read, and still I read always. In truth I hope so to read that some day I shall meet with something of which I shall fare the better. And so I will not cease to read: Explicit tractatus de Congregacione Volucrum die sancti Valentini tentum, secundum Galfridum Chaucers. Deo gracias.

5.3.2 The Canterbury Tales

License: © Copyright, 2007, All Rights Reserved

Geoffrey Chaucer, translated and edited by Gerard NeCastro

Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury.

The General Prologue

When the sweet showers of April have pierced to the root the dryness of March and bathed every vein in moisture by which strength are the flowers brought forth; when Zephyr also with his sweet breath has given spirit to the tender new shoots in the grove and field, and the young sun has run half his course through Aries the Ram, and little birds make melody and sleep all night with an open eye, so nature pricks them in their hearts; then people long to go on pilgrimages to renowned shrines in various distant lands, and palmers to seek foreign shores. And especially from every shire’s end in England they make their way to Canterbury, to seek the holy blessed martyr who helped them when they were sick.

One day in that season, as I was waiting at the Tabard Inn at Southwark, about to make my pilgrimage with devout heart to Canterbury, it happened that there came at night to that inn a company of twenty-nine various people, who by chance had joined together in fellowship. All were pilgrims, riding to Canterbury. The chambers and the stables were spacious, and we were lodged well. But in brief, when the sun had gone to rest, I had spoken with every one of them and was soon a part of their company, and agreed to rise early to take our way to where I have told you.

Nevertheless, while I have time and space, before this tale goes further, I think it is reasonable to tell you all the qualities of each of them, as they appeared to me, what sort of people they were, of what station and how they were fashioned. I will begin with a knight.

There was a Knight and a worthy man, who, from the time when he first rode abroad, loved chivalry, faithfulness and honor, liberality and courtesy. He was valiant in his lord’s war and had campaigned, no man farther, in both Christian and heathen lands, and ever was honored for his worth. He was at Alexandria when it was won; many times in Prussia he sat in the place of honor above knights from all nations; he had fought in Lithuania and in Russia, and no Christian man of his did so more often; he had been in Granada at the siege of Algeciras and in Belmaria; he was at Lyeys and in Attalia when they were won, and had landed with many noble armies in the Levant. He had been in fifteen mortal battles, and had thrice fought for our faith in the lists at Tremessen and always slain his foe; he had been also, long before, with the lord of Palathia against another heathen host in Turkey; and ever he had great renown. And though he was valorous, he was prudent, and he was as meek as a maiden in his bearing. In all his life he never yet spoke any discourtesy to any living creature, but was truly a perfect gentle knight. To tell you of his equipment, his horses were good but he was not gaily clad. He wore a jerkin of coarse cloth all stained with rust by his coat of mail, for he had just returned from his travels and went to do his pilgrimage.

His son was with him, a young Squire, a lover and a lusty young soldier. His locks were curled as if laid in a press. He may have been twenty years of age, of average height, amazingly nimble and great of strength. He had been, at one time, in a campaign in Flanders, Artois, and Picardy, and had borne himself well, in so little time, in hope to stand in his lady’s grace. His clothes were embroidered, red and white, like a meadow full of fresh flowers. All the day long he was singing or playing upon the flute; he was as fresh as the month of May. His coat was short, with long, wide sleeves. Well could he sit a horse and ride, make songs, joust and dance, draw and write. He loved so ardently that at nighttime he slept no more than a nightingale. He was courteous, modest and helpful, and carved before his father at table.

They had a Yeoman with them; on that journey they would have no other servants. He was clad in a coat and hood of green, and in his hand he bore a mighty bow and under his belt a neat sheaf of arrows, bright and sharp, with peacock feathers. He knew how to handle his gear like a good yeoman; his arrows did not fall short on account of any poorly adjusted feathers. His head was cropped and his face brown. He understood well all the practice of woodcraft. He wore a gay arm-guard of leather and at one side a sword and buckler; at the other a fine dagger, well fashioned and as sharp as a spear-point; on his breast an image of St. Christopher in bright silver, and over his shoulder a horn on a green baldric. He was a woodsman indeed, I believe.

Image 5.3: The Canterbuy Tales Title Page | The title page for The Canterbury Tales featuring an artist rendering of Geoffrey Chaucer gazing into a well, a paper clutch in his hand.

Author: Edward Burne-Jones

Source: Archive.org

License: Public Domain

There was also a nun, a Prioress, quiet and simple in her smiling; her greatest oath was “by Saint Loy.” She was named Madame Eglantine. Well she sang the divine service, intoned in a seemly manner in her nose, and spoke French elegantly, after the manner of Stratfordatte-Bow, for of Parisian French she knew nothing. She had been well taught the art of eating, and let no morsel fall from her lips, and wet but her finger-tips in the sauce. She knew how to lift and how to hold a bit so that not a drop fell upon her breast. Her pleasure was all in courtesy. She wiped her upper lip so well that no spot of grease was to be seen in her cup after she had drunk; and very dainty she was in reaching for her food. And surely she was of fine behavior, pleasant and amiable of bearing. She took pains to imitate court manners, to be stately in her demeanor and to be held worthy of reverence. But to tell you of her character, she was so charitable and so tender-hearted she would weep if she saw a mouse caught in a trap if it were dead or bleeding. She had certain small dogs, which she fed upon roasted meat or milk and finest wheaten bread. She would weep sorely if one of them died or was struck at sharply with a stick. She was all warm feeling and tender heart. Her wimple was pleated neatly. Her nose was slender, her eyes gray as glass, her mouth small and soft and red. Certainly she had a fine forehead, almost a span high; truly she was not undersized. Her cloak was neatly made, I could tell. About her arm was a coral rosary, the larger beads of green, upon which hung a brooch of shining gold; on it was engraved first an A with a crown, and after that Amor vincit omnia.

Another Nun, her chaplain, was with her, and three Priests.

There was a Monk, a very fine and handsome one, a great rider about the country-side and a lover of hunting, a manly man in all things, fit to be an abbot. He had many fine horses in his stable, and when he rode, men could hear his bridle jingling in a whistling wind as clear and loud as the chapel-bell where this lord was prior. Because the rule of St. Maurus or of St. Benedict was old and something austere, this same monk let such old things pass and followed the ways of the newer world. He gave not a plucked hen for the text that hunters are not holy, or that a careless monk (that is to say, one out of his cloister) is like a fish out of water; for that text he would not give a herring. And I said his opinion was right; why should he study and lose his wits ever poring over a book in the cloister, or toil with his hands and labor as St. Augustine bids? How shall the world be served? Let St. Augustine have his work to himself. Therefore he rode hard, followed greyhounds as swift as birds on the wing. All his pleasure was in riding and hunting the hare, and he spared no cost on those. I saw his sleeves edged at the wrist with fine dark fur, the finest in the country, and to fasten his hood under his chin he had a finely-wrought brooch of gold; in the larger end was a love-knot. His bald head shone like glass; so did his face, as if it had been anointed. He was a sleek, fat lord. His bright eyes rolled in his head, glowing like the fire under a cauldron. His boots were of rich soft leather, his horse in excellent condition. Now certainly he was a fine prelate. He was not pale, like a wasted spirit; best of any roast he loved a fat swan. His palfrey was as brown as a berry.

There was a begging Friar, lively and jolly, a very dignified fellow. In all the four orders there is not one so skilled in gay and flattering talk. He had, at his own expense, married off many young women; he was a noble pillar of his order! He was well beloved and familiar among franklins everywhere in his countryside, and also with worthy town women, for he had, as he said himself, more virtue as confessor than a parson, for he held a papal license. Very sweetly he heard confession, and his absolution was pleasant; he was an easy man to give penance, when he looked to have a good dinner. Gifts to a poor order are a sign that a man has been well confessed, he maintained; if a man gave, he knew he was contrite. For many people are so stern of heart that they cannot weep, though they suffer sorely; therefore, instead of weeping and praying, men may give silver to the poor friars. The tip of his hood was stuffed full of knives and pins as presents to fine women. And certainly he had a pleasant voice in singing, and well could play the fiddle; in singing ballads he bore off the prize. His neck was as white as the fleur-de-lis, and he was as strong as a champion. He knew all the town taverns, and every inn-keeper and bar-maid, better than the lepers and beggar-women. For it accorded not with a man of his importance to have acquaintance with sick lepers; it was not seemly, it profited not, to deal with any such poor trash, but all with rich folk and sellers of victual. But everywhere that advantage might follow he was courteous, lowly and serviceable. Nowhere was any so capable; he was the best beggar in his house, and gave a certain yearly payment so that none of his brethren might trespass on his routes. Though a widow might not have an old shoe to give, so pleasant was his “In principio,” he would have his farthing before he went. He gained more from his begging than he ever needed, I believe! He would romp about like a puppy-dog. On days of reconciliation, or love-days, he was very helpful, for he was not like a cloister-monk or a poor scholar with a threadbare cope, but like a Master of Arts or a cardinal. His half-cope was of double worsted and came from the clothes-press rounding out like a bell. He pleased his whim by lisping a little, to make his English sound sweet upon his tongue, and in his harping and singing his eyes twinkled in his head like the stars on a frosty night. This worthy friar was named Hubert.

There was a Merchant with a forked beard, in parti-colored garb. High he sat upon his horse, a Flanders beaver-hat on his head, and boots fastened neatly with rich clasps. He uttered his opinions pompously, ever tending to the increase of his own profit; at any cost he wished the sea were safeguarded between Middleburg and Orwell. In selling crown-pieces he knew how to profit by the exchange. This worthy man employed his wit cunningly; no creature knew that he was in debt, so stately he was of demeanor in bargaining and borrowing. He was a worthy man indeed, but, to tell the truth, I know not his name.

There was also a Clerk from Oxford who had long gone to lectures on logic. His horse was as lean as a rake, and he was not at all fat, I think, but looked hollow-cheeked, and grave likewise. His little outer cloak was threadbare, for he had no worldly skill to beg for his needs, and as yet had gained himself no benefice. He would rather have had at his bed’s head twenty volumes of Aristotle and his philosophy, bound in red or black, than rich robes or a fiddle or gay psaltery. Even though he was a philosopher, he had little gold in his money-box! But all that he could get from his friends he spent on books and learning, and would pray diligently for the souls of who gave it to him to stay at the schools. Of study he took most heed and care. Not a word did he speak more than was needed, and the little he spoke was formal and modest, short and quick, and full of high matter. All that he said tended toward moral virtue. Gladly would he learn and gladly teach.

There was also a Sergeant of the Law, an excellent man, wary and wise, a frequenter of the porch of Paul’s Church. He was discreet and of great distinction; or seemed such, his words were so sage. He had been judge at court, by patent and full commission; with his learning and great reputation he had earned many fees and robes. Such a man as he for acquiring goods there never was; anything that he desired could be shown to be held in unrestricted possession, and none could find a flaw in his deeds. Nowhere was there so busy a man, and yet he seemed busier than he was. He knew in precise terms every case and judgment since King William the Conqueror, and every statute fully, word for word, and none could chide at his writing. He rode in simple style in a parti-colored coat and a belt of silk with small cross-bars. Of his appearance I will not make a longer story.

Traveling with him was a Franklin, with a beard as white as a daisy, a ruddy face and a sanguine temper. Well he loved a sop of wine of a morning. He was accustomed to live in pleasure, for he was a very son of Epicurus, who held the opinion that perfect felicity stands in pleasure alone. He ever kept an open house, like a true St. Julian in his own country-side. His bread and his wine both were always of the best; never were a man’s wine-vaults better stored. His house was never without a huge supply of fish or meat; in his house it snowed meat and drink, and every fine pleasure that a man could dream of. According to the season of the year he varied his meats and his suppers. Many fat partridges were in his cage and many bream and pike in his fishpond. Woe to his cook unless his sauces were pungent and sharp, and his gear ever in order! All the long day stood a great table in his hall fully prepared. When the justices met at sessions of court, there he lorded it full grandly, and many times he sat as knight of the shire in parliament. A dagger hung at his girdle, and a pouch of taffeta, white as morning’s milk. He had been sheriff and auditor; nowhere was so worthy a vassal.

A Haberdasher, a Carpenter, a Weaver, a Dyer, and an Upholsterer were with us also, all in the same dress of a great and splendid guild. All fresh and new was their gear. Their knives were not tipped with brass but all with fine-wrought silver, like their girdles and their pouches. Each of them seemed a fair burgess to sit in a guildhall on a dais. Each for his discretion was fit to be alderman of his guild, and had goods and income sufficient for that. Their wives would have consented, I should think; otherwise, they would be at fault. It is a fair thing to be called madame, and to walk ahead of other folks to vigils, and to have a mantle carried royally before them.

They had a Cook with them for that journey, to boil chickens with the marrow-bones and tart powder-merchant and cyprus-root. Well he knew a draught of London ale! He could roast and fry and broil and stew, make dainty pottage and bake pies well. It was a great pity, it seemed to me, that he had a great ulcer on his shin, for he made capon-in-cream with the best of them.

There was a Shipman, from far in the West; for anything I know, he was from Dartmouth. He rode a nag, as well as he knew how, in a gown of coarse wool to the knee. He had a dagger hanging on a lace around his neck and under his arm. The hot summer had made his hue brown. In truth he was a good fellow: many draughts of wine had he drawn at Bordeaux while the merchant slept. He paid no heed to nice conscience; on the high seas, if he fought and had the upper hand, he made his victims walk the plank. But in skill to reckon his moon, his tides, his currents and dangers at hand, his harbors and navigation, there was none like him from Hull to Carthage. In his undertakings he was bold and shrewd. His beard had been shaken by many tempests. He knew the harbors well from Gothland to Cape Finisterre, and every creek in Spain and in Brittany. His ship was called the Maudelayne.

With us was a Doctor, a Physician; for skill in medicine and in surgery there was no peer in this entire world. He watched sharply for favorable hours and an auspicious ascendant for his patients’ treatment, for he was well grounded in astrology. He knew the cause of each malady, if it was hot, cold, dry or moist, from where it had sprung and of what humor. He was a thorough and a perfect practitioner. Having found the cause and source of his trouble, quickly he had ready the sick man’s cure. He had his apothecaries all prepared to send him electuaries and drugs, for each helped the other’s gain; their friendship was not formed of late! He knew well the old Aesculapius, Dioscorides and Rufus, Hippocrates, Haly and Galen, Serapion, Rhasis and Avicenna, Averroes, Damascene and Constantine, Bernard, Gatisden and Gilbertine. His own diet was moderate, with no excess, but nourishing and simple to digest. His study was only a little on Scripture. He was clad in red and blue-gray cloth, lined with taffeta and sendal silk. Yet he was but moderate in spending, and kept what he gained during the pestilence. Gold is a medicine from the heart in physicians’ terms; doubtless that was why he loved gold above all else.

There was a Good Wife from near Bath, but she was somewhat deaf, and that was pity. She was so skilled in making cloth that she surpassed those of Ypres and Ghent. In all the parish there was no wife who should march up to make an offering before her, and if any did, so angered she was that truly she was out of all charity. Her kerchiefs were very fine in texture; and I dare swear those that were on her head for Sunday weighed ten pounds. Her hose were of a fine scarlet and tightly fastened, and her shoes were soft and new. Her face was bold and fair and red. All her life she was a worthy woman; she had had five husbands at the church-door, besides other company in her youth, but of that there is no need to speak now. She had thrice been at Jerusalem; many distant streams had she crossed; she had been on pilgrimages to Boulogne and to Rome, to Santiago in Galicia and to Cologne. This wandering by the way had taught her various things. To tell the truth, she was gap-toothed; she sat easily on an ambling horse, wearing a fair wimple and on her head a hat as broad as a buckler or target. About her broad hips was a short riding skirt and on her feet a pair of sharp spurs. Well could she laugh and prattle in company. Love and its remedies she knew all about, I dare give my word, for she had been through the old dance.

There was a good man of religion, a poor Parson, but rich in holy thought and deed. He was also a learned man, a clerk, and would faithfully preach Christ’s gospel and devoutly instruct his parishioners. He was benign, wonderfully diligent, and patient in adversity, as he was often tested. He was loath to excommunicate for unpaid tithes, but rather would give to his poor parishioners out of the church alms and also of his own substance; in little he found sufficiency. His parish was wide and the houses far apart, but not even for thunder or rain did he neglect to visit the farthest, great or small, in sickness or misfortune, going on foot, a staff in his hand. To his sheep did he give this noble example, which he first set into action and afterward taught; these words he took out of the gospel, and this similitude he added also, that if gold will rust, what shall iron do? For if a priest upon whom we trust were to be foul, it is no wonder that an ignorant layman would be corrupt; and it is a shame (if a priest will but pay attention to it) that a shepherd should be defiled and the sheep clean. A priest should give good example by his cleanness how his sheep should live. He would not farm out his benefice, nor leave his sheep stuck fast in the mire, while he ran to London to St. Paul’s, to get an easy appointment as a chantry-priest, or to be retained by some guild, but dwelled at home and guarded his fold well, so that the wolf would not make it miscarry. He was no hireling, but a shepherd. And though he was holy and virtuous, he was not pitiless to sinful men, nor cold or haughty of speech, but both discreet and benign in his teaching; to draw folk up to heaven by his fair life and good example, this was his care. But when a man was stubborn, whether of high or low estate, he would scold him sharply. There was nowhere a better priest than he. He looked for no pomp and reverence, nor yet was his conscience too particular; but the teaching of Christ and his apostles he taught, and first he followed it himself.

With him was his brother, a Ploughman, who had drawn many cartloads of dung. He was a faithful and good toiler, living in peace and perfect charity. He loved God best at all times with all his whole heart, in good and ill fortune, and then his neighbor even as himself. He would thresh and ditch and delve for every poor person without pay, but for Christ’s sake, if he were able. He paid his tithes fairly and well on both his produce and his goods. He wore a ploughman’s frock and rode upon a mare.

There was a Reeve also and a Miller, a Summoner and a Pardoner, a Manciple and myself. There were no more.

The Miller was a stout fellow, big of bones and brawn; and well he showed them, for everywhere he went to a wrestling match he would always carry off the prize ram. He was short-shouldered and broad, a thick, knotty fellow. There was no door that he could not heave off its hinges, or break with his head at a running. His beard was as red as any sow or fox, and broad like a spade as well. Upon the very tip of his nose he had a wart, and on it stood a tuft of red hair like the bristles on a sow’s ears, and his nostrils were black and wide. At his thigh hung a sword and buckler. His mouth was as great as a great furnace. He was a teller of dirty stories and a buffoon, and it was mostly of sin and obscenity. He knew well how to steal corn and take his toll of meal three times over; and yet he had a golden thumb, by God! He wore a white coat and a blue hood. He could blow and play the bagpipe well, and with its noise he led us out of town.

Image 5.4: Hengwrt Manuscript | The top of the page containing the

General Prologue for the Canterbury Tales from the Hengwrt manuscript.

Author: Unknown

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

There was a gentle Manciple of an Inn of Court, of whom other stewards might take example for craftiness in buying victuals. Whether he paid in cash or took on credit, he was so watchful in his buying that he was always ahead and in good standing. Now is it not a full fair gift of God that the wit of such an unlettered man shall surpass the wisdom of a great body of learned men? He had more than a score of masters, expert and diligent in law, of whom in that house there were a dozen worthy to be stewards of lands and revenues of any lord in England, to let him live upon his income, honorably, free from debt, unless he were mad, or live as plainly as he would; or able to help a whole shire in any case that might occur. And yet this Manciple hoodwinked all of them.

The Reeve was a slender, bilious man. His beard was shaven as close as could be, and his hair was cut short around his ears and docked in front like a priest’s. His legs were full and lean like a stick; I could see no calf. He could well keep a bin and a garner and no inspector could get the best of him. In the drought or in the wet he could foretell the yield of his grain and seed. His lord’s sheep, poultry and cattle, his dairy and swine and horses and all his stock, this Reeve had wholly under his governance, and submitted his accounts thereon ever since his lord was twenty years of age; and none could ever find him out in arrears. There was no bailiff nor herdsman nor other churl whose tricks and craftiness he didn’t know. They were as afraid of him as of the plague. His dwelling-place was a pleasant one on a heath, all shaded with green trees. Better than his lord he knew how to pick up wealth, and had a rich private hoard; he knew how to please his master cunningly by giving and lending him out of what was his master’s by right, and to win thanks for that, and a coat and hood as a reward too. In his youth he had learned a good trade and was a fine carpenter and workman. This Reeve sat upon a fine dapple gray cob named Scot. He wore a long surcoat of blue and at his side a rusty blade. He was from Norfolk, near a town they call Baldeswell. His coat was tucked up around him like a friar’s, and he always rode last of us all.

A Summoner was with us there, a fire-red cherubim-faced fellow, salt-phlegmed and pimply, with slits for eyes, scabby black eyebrows and thin ragged beard, and as hot and lecherous as a sparrow. Children were terrified at his visage. No quicksilver, white-lead, brimstone, borax nor ceruse, no cream of tartar nor any ointment that would clean and burn, could help his white blotches or the knobs on his chaps. He loved garlic, onions and leeks too well, and to drink strong wine as red as blood, and then he would talk and cry out like mad. And after drinking deep of wine he would speak no word but Latin, in which he had a few terms, two or three, learned out of some canon. No wonder was that, for he heard it all day long, and you know well how a jay can call “Walter” after hearing it a long time, as well as the pope could. But if he were tested in any other point, his learning was found to be all spent. Questio quid juris, he was always crying. He was a kind and gentle rogue; a better fellow I never knew; for a quart of wine he would allow a good fellow to have his concubine for a year and completely excuse him. Secretly he knew how to swindle anyone. And if anywhere he found a good fellow, he would teach him in such case to have no fear of the archdeacon’s excommunication, unless a man’s soul is in his purse, for it was in his purse he should be punished. “The Archdeacon’s hell is your purse,” he said. (But well I know he lied in his teeth; every guilty man should fear the church’s curse, for it will slay, just as absolution saves, and also let him beware of a significavit.) Within his jurisdiction on his own terms he held all the young people of the diocese, knew their guilty secrets, and was their chief adviser. He had a garland on his head large enough for an ale-house sign, and carried a round loaf of bread as big as a buckler.

With him rode a gentle Pardoner, of Roncesvalles, his friend and companion, who had come straight from the court of Rome. He sang loudly, “Come here, love, to me,” while the Summoner joined him with a stiff bass; never was there a trumpet of half such a sound. This Pardoner had waxy-yellow hair, hanging smooth, like a hank of flax, spread over his shoulders in thin strands. For sport he wore no hood, which was trussed up in his wallet; riding with his hair disheveled, bareheaded except for his cap, he thought he was all in the latest fashion. His eyes were glaring like a hare’s. He had a veronica sewed on his cap, and his wallet, brimful of pardons hot from Rome, lay before him on his saddle. His voice was as small as a goat’s. He had no beard nor ever would have, his face was as smooth as if lately shaven; I believe he was a mare or a gelding. But as for his trade, from Berwick to Dover there was not such another pardoner. In his bag he had a pillow-case which he said was our Lady’s kerchief, and a small piece of the sail which he said St. Peter had when he walked upon the sea and Jesus Christ caught him. He had a cross of latoun, set full of false gems, and pigs’ bones in a glass. But with these relics, when he found a poor parson dwelling in the country, in one day he gained himself more money than the parson gained in two months. And thus, with flattering deceit and tricks, he made the parson and the people his dupes. But to give him his due, after all he was a noble ecclesiastic in church; he could read well a lesson or legend and best of all sing an offertory. For he knew well that when that was done he must preach and file his tongue smooth, to win silver as he well knew how. Therefore he sang merrily and loud.

Now I have told you in few words the station, the array, the number of this company and why they were assembled in Southwark as well, at this noble inn, the Tabard, close to the Bell tavern. But now it is time to say how we behaved that same evening, when we had arrived at that inn; and afterward I will tell you of our journey and the rest of our pilgrimage.

But first I pray that by your courtesy you ascribe it not to my ill manners if I speak plainly in this matter, telling you their words and cheer, and if I speak their very words as they were. For this you know as well as I, that whoever tells a tale that another has told, he must repeat every word, as nearly as he can, although he may speak ever so rudely and freely. Otherwise, he must tell his tale falsely, or pretend, or find new words. He may not spare any, even if it were his own brother; he is bound to say one word as well as the next. Christ himself spoke plainly in Holy Scriptures and you know well there is no baseness in that. And Plato, whoever can read him, says that the word must be cousin to the deed.

I also pray you to forgive me though I have not set folk here in this tale according to their station, as they should be. My wit is short, you can well understand.

Our host put us all in good spirits, and soon brought us to supper and served us with the best of provisions. The wine was strong and very glad we were to drink. Our Host was a seemly man, fit to be marshal in a banquet-hall, a large man with bright eyes, bold in speech, wise and discreet, lacking nothing of manhood: there is not a fairer burgess in Cheapside. He was in all things a very merry fellow, and after supper, when we had paid our bills, he began to jest and speak of mirth among other things.

“Now gentle people,” he said, “truly you are heartily welcome to me, for, by my word, if I shall tell the truth, I have not seen this year so merry a company at this inn at once. I would gladly make mirth if I only knew how. And I have just now thought of a mirthful thing to give you pleasure, which shall cost nothing. You go to Canterbury, God speed you, and may the blessed martyr duly reward you! I know full well, along the way you mean to tell tales and amuse yourselves, for in truth it is no comfort or mirth to ride along dumb as a stone.

“And therefore, as I said, I will make you a game. If it please you all by common consent to stand by my words and to do as I shall tell you, now, by my father’s soul (and he is in heaven), tomorrow as you ride along, if you are not merry, I will give you my head. Hold up your hands, without more words!”

Our mind was not long to decide. We thought it not worth debating, and agreed with him without more thought, and told him to say his verdict as he wished.

“Gentle people,” said he, “please listen now, but take it not, I pray you, disdainfully. To speak briefly and plainly, this is the point, that each of you for pastime shall tell two tales in this journey to Canterbury, and two others on the way home, of things that have happened in the past. And whichever of you bears himself best, that is to say, that tells now tales most instructive and delighting, shall have a supper at the expense of us all, sitting here in this place, beside this post, when we come back from Canterbury. And to add to your sport I will gladly go with you at my own cost, and be your guide. And whoever opposes my judgment shall pay all that we spend on the way. If you agree that this will be so, tell me now, without more words, and without delay I will plan for that.”

We agreed to this thing and pledged our word with glad hearts, and prayed him to do so, and to be our ruler and to remember and judge our tales, and to appoint a supper at a certain price. We would be ruled at his will in great and small, and thus with one voice we agreed to his judgment. At this the wine was fetched, and we drank and then each went to rest without a longer stay.

In the morning, when the day began to spring, our host arose and played rooster to us all, and gathered us in a flock. Forth we rode, a little faster than a walk, to St. Thomas-a-Watering. There our Host drew up his horse and said, “Listen, gentle people, if you will. You know your agreement; I remind you of it. If what you said at the hour of evensong last night is still what you agree to this morning at the time of matins, let us see who shall tell the first tale. So may I ever drink beer or wine, whoever rebels against my judgment shall pay all that is spent on the journey. Now draw cuts, before we depart further; he who has the shortest shall begin the tales. Sir Knight, my master and my lord,” said he, “now draw your lot, for this is my will, Come nearer, my lady Prioress, and you, sir Clerk, be not shy, study not; set your hands to them, every one of you.”

Without delay every one began to draw, and in short, whether it were by chance or not, the truth is, the lot fell to the Knight, at which every one was merry and glad. He was to tell his tale, as was reasonable, according to the agreement that you have heard. What need is there for more words?

When this good man saw it was so, as one discreet and obedient to his free promise he said, “Since I begin the game, what, in God’s name, welcome be the cut! Now let us ride on, and listen to what I say.” And at that word we rode forth on our journey. And he soon began his tale with a cheerful spirit, and spoke in this way.

Here ends the Prologue of this book.

The Miller’s Tale

Here follow the words between the Host and the Miller.

The Prologue of the Miller’s Tale

When the Knight had ended his tale, in the entire crowd was there nobody, young or old, who did not say it was a noble history and worthy to be called to mind; and especially each of the gentle people. Our Host laughed and swore, “So may I thrive, this goes well! The bag is unbuckled, let see now who shall tell another tale, for truly the sport has begun well. Now you, Sir Monk, if you can, tell something to repay the Knight’s story with.”

The Miller, who had drunk himself so completely pale that he could scarcely sit on his horse, would not take off his hood or hat, or wait and mind his manners for no one, but began to cry aloud in Pilate’s voice, and swore by arms and blood and head, “I know a noble tale for the occasion, to repay the Knight’s story with.”

Our Host saw that he was all drunk with ale and said, “Wait, Robin, dear brother, some better man shall speak first; wait, and let us work thriftily.”

“By God’s soul!” he said, “I will not do that! I will speak, or else go my way!”

“Tell on, in the Devil’s name!” answered our Host. “You are a fool; your wits have been overcome.”

“Now listen, one and all! But first,” said the Miller, “I make a protestation that I am drunk; I know it by my voice. And therefore if I speak as I should not, blame it on the ale of Southwark, I pray you; for I will tell a legend and a life of a carpenter and his wife, and how a clerk made a fool of the carpenter.”

“Shut your trap!” the Reeve answered and said, “Set aside your rude drunken ribaldry. It is a great folly and sin to injure or defame any man, and to bring woman into such bad reputation. You can say plenty about other matters.

This drunken Miller answered back immediately and said, “Oswald, dear brother, he is no cuckold who has no wife. But I do not say, therefore, that you are one. There are many good wives, and always a thousand good to one bad. That you know well yourself, if you have not gone mad. Why are you angry now with my tale? I have a wife as well as you, by God, yet for all the oxen in my plough I would not presume to be able to judge myself if I may be a cuckold; I will believe well I am not one. A husband should not be too inquisitive about God’s private matters, nor of his wife’s. He can find God’s plenty there; he need not inquire about the remainder.”

What more can I say, but this Miller would withhold his word for nobody, and told his churl’s tale in his own fashion. I think that I shall retell it here. And therefore I beg every gentle creature, for the love of God, not to judge that I tell it thus out of evil intent, but only because I must truly repeat all their tales, whether they are better or worse, or else tell some of my matter falsely. And therefore whoever wishes not to hear it, let them turn the leaf over and choose another tale; for they shall find plenty of historical matters, great and small, concerning noble deeds, and morality and holiness as well. Do not blame me if you choose incorrectly. The Miller is a churl, you know well, and so was the Reeve (and many others), and the two of them spoke of ribaldry. Think well, and do not blame me, and people should not take a game seriously as well.

Here ends the Prologue.

Here begins the Miller’s Tale.

A while ago there dwelt at Oxford a rich churl fellow, who took guests as boarders. He was a carpenter by trade. With him dwelt a poor scholar who had studied the liberal arts, but all his delight was turned to learning astrology. He knew how to work out certain problems; for instance, if men asked him at certain celestial hours when there should be drought or rain, or what should happen in any matter; I cannot count every one.

This clerk was named gentle Nicholas. He was well skilled in secret love and consolation; and he was also sly and secretive about it; and as meek as a maiden to look upon. He had a chamber to himself in that lodging-house, without any company, and handsomely decked with sweet herbs; and he himself was as sweet as the root of licorice or any setwall. His Almagest, and other books great and small, his astrolabe, which he used in his art, and his counting-stones for calculating, all lay neatly by themselves on shelves at the head of his bed.

His clothes-press was covered with a red woolen cloth, and above it was set a pleasant psaltery, on which he made melody at night so sweetly that the entire chamber was full of it. He would sing the hymn Angelus ad Virginem, and after that the King’s Note. Often was his merry throat blessed. And so this sweet clerk passed his time by help of what income he had and his friends provided.

This carpenter had newly wedded a wife, eighteen years of age, whom he loved more than his own soul. He was jealous, and held her closely caged, for she was young, and he was much older and judged himself likely to be made a cuckold.

His wit was rude, and he didn’t know Cato’s teaching that instructed that men should wed their equal. Men should wed according to their own station in life, for youth and age are often at odds. But since he had fallen into the snare, he must endure his pain, like other people.

This young wife was fair, and her body moreover was as graceful and slim as any weasel. She wore a striped silken belt, and over her loins an apron white as morning’s milk, all flounced out. Her smock was white and embroidered on the collar, inside and outside, in front and in back, with coal-black silk; and of the same black silk were the strings of her white hood, and she wore a broad band of silk, wrapped high about her hair.

And surely she had a lecherous eye; her eyebrows were arched and black as a sloe berry, and partly plucked out to make them narrow. She was more delicious to look on than the young pear-tree in bloom, and softer than a lamb’s wool. From her belt hung a leather purse, tasseled with silk and with beads of brass.

In all this world there is no man so wise who could imagine such a wench, or so lively a little doll. Her hue shone more brightly than the noble newly forged in the Tower. And as for her singing, it was as loud and lively as a swallow’s sitting on a barn. And she could skip and make merry as any kid or calf following its mother. Her mouth was sweet as honeyed ale or mead, or a hoard of apples laid in the hay or heather. She was skittish as a jolly colt, tall as a mast, and upright as a bolt. She wore a brooch on her low collar as broad as the embossed center of a shield, and her shoes were laced high on her legs. She was a primrose, a pig’s-eye, for a lord to lie in his bed or even a yeoman to wed.

Now sir, and again sir, it so chanced that this gentle Nicholas fell to play and romp with this young wife, as clerks are very artful and sly, on a day when her husband was at Osney. And secretly he caught hold of her genitalia and said: “Surely, unless you will love me, sweetheart, I shall die for my secret love of you. And he held her hard by the thighs and said, “Sweetheart, love me now, or I will die, may God save me!”

She sprang back like a colt in the halter, and wriggled away with her head. “I will not kiss you, in faith,” she said. Why, let me be, let me be, Nicholas, or I will cry out, ‘Alas! Help!’ Take away your hands, by your courtesy!”

But this Nicholas began to beg for her grace, and spoke so fairly and made such offers that at last she granted him her love and swore by Saint Thomas of Kent that she would do his will when she should see her chance.

“My husband is so jealous that unless you are secretive and watch your time, I know very well I am no better than dead. You must be very sly in this thing.”

“No, have no fear about that,” said Nicholas. “A clerk has spent his time poorly if he can not beguile a carpenter!”

And thus they were agreed and pledged to watch for a time, as I have told. When Nicholas had done so, petted her well on her limbs, and kissed her sweetly, he took his psaltery and made melody and played fervently.

Then it happened on a holy day that this wife went to the parish church to work Christ’s own works. Her forehead shone as bright as day, since she had scrubbed it when she had finished her tasks.

Now at that church there was a parish clerk named Absolom. His hair was curly and shone like gold, and spread out like a large broad fan; its neat part ran straight and even. His complexion was rosy, and his eyes as gray as goose-quills. His leather shoes were carved in such a way that they resembled a window in Paul’s Church. He went clad precisely and neatly all in red hose and a kirtle of a light watchet-blue; the laces were set in it fair and thick, and over it he had a lively surplice, as white as a blossom on a twig. God bless me, but he was a sweet lad!

He knew well how to clip and shave and let blood, and make a quittance or a charter for land. He could trip and dance in twenty ways in the manner of Oxford in that day, and cast with his legs back and forth, and play songs on a small fiddle. He could play on his cittern as well, and sometimes sang in a loud treble. In the whole town there was no brew-house or tavern where any tapster might be that he did not visit in his merrymaking. But to tell the truth he was some-what squeamish about farting and rough speech.

This Absalom, so pretty and fine, went on this holy day with a censer, diligently incensing the wives of the parish, and he cast many longing looks on them, and especially on this carpenter’s wife. To look at her seemed to him a sweet employment, as she was so sweet and proper and lusty; I dare say, if she had been a mouse and he a cat, he would have pounced on her immediately. And this sweet parish-clerk had such a love-longing in his heart that at the offertory he would take nothing from any wife; for courtesy, he said, he would take none.

When at night the moon shone very beautifully and Absalom intended to remain awake all night for love’s sake, he took his cittern and went forth, amorous and jolly, until he came to the carpenter’s house a little after the cocks had crowed, and pulled himself up by a casement-window.

Dear lady, if your will so be,

I pray you that you pity me

He sang in his sweet small voice, in nice harmony with his cittern.

This carpenter woke, heard his song and said without hesitation to his wife, “What, Alison! Don’t you hear Absalom chanting this way under our own bedroom-wall?”

“Yes, God knows, John,” she answered him, “I hear every bit of it.”

Thus it went on; what would you have better than well-enough? From day to day this jolly Absalom wooed her until he was all woe-begone. He remained awake all night and all day, he combed his spreading locks and preened himself, he wooed her by go-betweens and agents, and swore he would be her own page; he sang quavering like a nightingale; he sent her mead, and wines sweetened and spiced, and wafers piping hot from the coals, and because she was from the town he proffered her money. For some people will be won by rich gifts and some by blows and some by courtesy. Sometimes, to show his cheerfulness and skill, he would play Herod on a high scaffold.

But in such a case what could help him? She so loved gentle Nicholas that Absalom may as well go blow the buck’s-horn. For all his labor he had nothing but scorn, and thus she made Absalom her ape and turned all his earnest to a joke. This proverb is true—it is no lie. Men say it is just so: “The sly nearby one makes the far dear one loathed.” For though Absalom may go mad for it, because he was far from her eye, this nearby Nicholas stood in his light. Now bear yourself well, gentle Nicholas, for Absalom may wail and sing “Alack!”

And so it happened one Saturday that the carpenter had gone to Oseney, and gentle Nicholas and Alison had agreed upon this, that Nicholas would create a ruse to beguile this poor jealous husband; and if the game went as planned, she should be his, for this was his desire and hers also. And immediately, without more words, Nicholas would delay no longer, but had food and drink for a day or two carried softly into his chamber, and instructed her say to her husband, if he asked about him, that she did not know where he was; that she had not set eyes upon him all that day and she believed he was in some malady, for not by any crying out could her maid rouse him; he would not answer at all, for nothing.

Thus passed forth all that Saturday; Nicholas lay still in his chamber, and ate and slept or did what he wished, until Sunday toward sundown. This simple carpenter had great wonder about Nicholas, what could ail him. “By Saint Thomas,” he said, “I am afraid all is not well with Nicholas. God forbid that he has died suddenly! This world nowadays is so ticklish, surely; to-day I saw carried to church a corpse that I saw at work last Monday. Go up, call at his door,” he said to his boy, “or knock with a stone; see how it is, and tell me straight.”

This boy went up sturdily, stood at the chamber-door, and cried and knocked like mad: “What! How! What are you doing, master Nicholas? How can you sleep all day long?”

But all was for nothing; he heard not a word. Then he found a hole, low down in the wall, where the cat would usually creep in; and through that he looked far into it and at last caught sight of him.

Nicholas sat ever gaping upward as if he were peering at the new moon. Down went the boy, and told his master in what plight he saw this man.

The carpenter began to cross himself and said, “Help us, Saint Frideswide! People know little what shall happen to them. This man with his astronomy is fallen into some madness or some fit; I always thought how it would end this way. Men were not intended to know God’s secrets. Yes, happy is an unlearned man that never had schooling and knows nothing but his beliefs!

“So fared another clerk with his astronomy; he walked in the fields to look upon the stars, to see what was to happen, until he fell into a clay-pit that he did not see! But yet, by Saint Thomas, I am very sorry about gentle Nicholas. By Jesus, King of Heaven, he shall be scolded for his studying if I may. Get me a staff, Robin, so that I can pry under the door while you heave it up. I believe we shall rouse him from his studying!”

And so he went to the chamber door. His boy was a strong lad, and quickly heaved the door up by the hinges, and it immediately fell flat upon the floor. Nicholas sat ever as still as a stone, ever gaping into the air. This carpenter believed he had fallen into despair, and seized him mightily by the shoulders and shook him hard and cried wildly, “What, Nicholas! What, ho! What, look down! Awake, think on Christ’s passion; I cross thee from elves and unearthly creatures!” And at that point he said the night-spell, toward the four corners of the house and on the outside of the threshold of the door:

Jesus Christ and sweet Saint Benedict

Bless this house from every wicked sprit.

For the night-hag, the white pater noster;

Where did you go, Saint Peter’s sister?

At last this gentle Nicholas began to sigh sorely, and said, “Alack! Shall the entire world be destroyed again now?”

“What are you saying?” said the carpenter. “What now! Think on God, as we do, we men that work.”

“Fetch me a drink,” said Nicholas, “and after I will speak privately of a certain thing that concerns you and me both. I will tell it to no other man, you can be sure.”

The carpenter went down and came again bringing a large quart of mighty ale; and when each of them had drunk his share, Nicholas shut his door fast and set the carpenter down beside him.

“John, my dear host,” he said, “you shall swear to me here on your honor that you will reveal this secret to no creature; for it is Christ’s own secret that I show you, and if you tell it to any you are a lost man. For this vengeance you will receive, therefore: if you betray me, you shall run mad!”

“No, may Christ and His holy blood forbid!” said this simple man. “I am no blabber, and though I say it myself, I am not wont to prate. Say what you will, I shall never utter it to man, woman or child, by Him That harrowed hell!”

“Now, John, I will not deceive you,” said Nicholas; “I have found by my astrology, as I have been looking in the shining moon, that now a Monday next, about a quarter through the night, there shall fall a rain so wild and mad that never was Noah’s flood half so great. This world shall all be drowned in less than an hour, so hideous shall be the downpour. Thus shall all mankind perish in the flood.”

“Alas, my wife! And shall she drown?” this carpenter answered, and nearly fell over for sorrow. “Alas, my Alison! Is there no remedy?”

“Why yes, before God, if you will work according to wise advising,” said gentle Nicholas; “but you may not work out of your own head. For thus says Solomon, and he was right trustworthy, “Work all by counsel, and you shall never repent.” And if you will work after good advice, I undertake without mast or sail to save both her and you and me. Have you not heard how Noah was saved, when our Lord had warned him that the entire world should be destroyed with water?”

“Yes,” said the carpenter, “I heard it long, long ago.”

“Have you not heard also,” said Nicholas, “the woe that Noah and his sons had before he could get his wife aboard? He had rather than all his black rams then, I dare be bound, that she had had a ship all to herself! Do you know then what is best to do? This thing calls for haste, and on an urgent matter one may not preach or delay. Go immediately and get us directly into this house a kneading-trough or else a brewing-tub for each of us (but make sure that they are large), in which we may swim as if in a barge and have in enough provisions for a day we will need no more. The water shall slacken and run off about nine o’clock on the next day. But Robin your boy must not know of this, and I cannot save your maid Jill either. Do not ask why, for even if you ask me I will not tell God’s secret. It ought to suffice you, if your wits are not turning, to have as great a grace as Noah had. I shall save your wife, I promise you. Go your way now, and make haste.

“But when you have obtained these three kneading-tubs for us three, then you shall hang them from the rafters high in the roof, so that no man notice our device. And when you have done this, and laid our provisions in them nicely, and an axe as well to strike the cord in two when the water comes, and when you have broken a hole on high in the gable toward the garden over the barn, so that we may freely go on our way when the great shower is past then you will float as merrily, I will be bound, as the white duck after her drake. Then will I call out, ‘How, Alison! How, John! Be merry; the flood will soon pass.’ And you will answer, ‘Hail, Master Nicholas! Good morning, I see you well, it is daylight now!’ And then we shall be lords over the entire world until we die, just as Noah and his wife!

“But one thing I warn you of strictly. Be well advised on that night when we have entered aboard ship that none of us speaks a word, neither calls nor cries, but we must be in our prayers. For that is God’s own precious command. And your wife and you must hang far apart, so that there will be no folly between you, any more in looking than in action. Now that all this plan is explained to you; go, and may God help you! Tomorrow at night, when people are all in bed, we will creep into our kneading-tubs and sit there, awaiting God’s grace. Go your way now; I have no time to make a longer sermon of this. Men say thus: “Send the wise and say nothing.” You are so wise that there is no need to teach you. Go, save our lives, I entreat you.”

This simple carpenter went his way often crying “alack!” and “alas!”, and told the secret to his wife. And she was wary, and knew better than he what this quaint plan was about. But nevertheless she acted as if she would die, and said, “Alas! Go your way at once and help us to escape, or else we are all lost; I am your true, faithful wedded wife. Go, dear spouse, and help to save us!

Lo, how great a thing is feeling! Men may die of imagination, so deep may the impression be. This simple fellow began to quake; he thought he could truly hear Noah’s flood come wallowing like the sea to drown his honey sweet Alison; he wept, wailed and made sorrowful expression, and he sighed with many a sorry gust. He went and got himself a kneading-trough, and after that a tub and a cask, sent them secretly to his house and hung them in the roof. With his own hand he made three ladders, to climb by the rungs and uprights into the tubs hanging among the beams; and supplied tub and trough and cask with bread and cheese as well as good ale in a large jug, sufficient for a day. But before he had made all this gear, he sent his serving boy and girl to London about his business. And as it drew toward night on the Monday, he lit no candle, but shut the door and ordered all things as they should be; and, in brief, up they all three climbed, and sat still while a man could walk a furlong.

“Now mum, and say a pater noster!” said Nicholas; and “Mum!” said John, and “Mum!” Alison. This carpenter sat still and said his prayers, ever listening for the rain, if he could hear it.

The dead sleep, for very weariness and apprehension, fell on this carpenter even about curfew-time or a little later, as I suppose; he groaned sorely in the travail of his spirit, and eke snored, for his head lay uneasily. Down the ladder stalked Nicholas, and Alison sped down very softly; and they were in mirth and glee, until the bells began to sound for lauds, and friars in the chancel began to sing.

This parish-clerk, amorous Absalom, always so woe-begone for love, was at Oseney on that Monday to amuse himself and make merry, with a party; and by chance he secretly asked a cloister-monk after John the carpenter. The monk drew him aside out of the church. “I know not,” he said; “I have not seen him work here since Saturday. I believe he has gone where our abbot has sent him for timber, for he is accustomed to go for timber and remain at the grange a day or two. Or else he is at home, certainly. In truth I cannot say where he is.”

This Absalom grew very merry of heart, and thought, “Now is the time to wake all night, for certainly since daybreak I have not seen him stirring about his door. On my soul, at cockcrow I shall knock secretly at his window which stands low upon his chamber-wall. To Alison now will I tell the whole of my love-longing, and now I shall not fail at the least to have a kiss from her. I shall have some sort of comfort, in faith. My mouth has itched all day long; that is a sign of kissing at least.

All night eke I dreamed I was at a festival. Therefore I will go sleep an hour or two, and then I will wake all night in mirth.”

When the first cock had crowed, up rose this frisky lover, and arrayed him in his gayest with all nicety. But first he chewed cardamoms and licorice to smell sweetly, before he had combed his hair, and put a true-love charm under his tongue, for by this he hoped to find favor. He rambled to the carpenter’s house, and stood still under the casement, which was so low it reached to his breast. He gave a soft half-cough,-”What do you, sweet Alison, honeycomb? My fair bird, my darling! Awake, sweet cinnamon, and speak to me. You think right little upon my sorrow, who sweat for your love wherever I go!

No wonder though I languish and sweat! I mourn like a lamb after the dug. In faith, darling, I have such love-longing that I mourn like the true turtle-dove. I cannot eat, no more than a maiden.”

“Go from the window, Jack-fool,” she said. “On my soul, there will be no singing “Come kiss me now.” I love another better than you, by heaven, Absalom, and else I were at fault. Go your ways, or I will cast a stone at you, and let me sleep, in the Devil’s name!”

“Alas!” he said. “Alackaday that true love was ever so ill bestowed! Then kiss me, since it may be no better, for Jesus’ love, and for the love of me.”

“Will you then go your way with that?” she said. “Yes, surely, sweetheart,” said this Absolom.

“Then make yourself ready,” she said, “I am coming now.”

And to Nicholas she said silently, “Now hush, and you shall laugh your fill.”

This Absolom set himself down on his knees and said, “I am a lord of the highest degree; for after this I hope there will come more. Sweetheart, your grace, and sweet bird, your favor!”

She unlatches the window, and does so in haste. “Take this,” she said, “come now, and move quickly, lest our neighbors see you.”

This Absolom wiped his mouth dry. Dark as pitch, or as coal, was the night, and at the window she put out her hole, and Absolom, who knew no better or worse but with his mouth he kissed her naked ass so sweetly, before he was aware of this.

He started aback, and thought something was amiss, for well he knew a woman has no beard. He felt something all rough and long-haired, and said, “Fy! alas! What have I done?”

“Tee hee!” she said, and shut the window, and Absolom went forth with troubled steps.

“A beard! A beard!” said handy Nicholas, “By God’s body, this goes fair and well.”

This foolish Absolom heard every bit, and on his lips he began to bite angrily, and said to himself, “I shall pay you back.”

Who rubs now, and who chafes now, his lips with dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips, but Absolom, who says over and over, “Alas! I commend my soul unto Satan”? But I would rather be revenged for this insult” he said, “than own this entire town. Alas,” he said, “alas, that I did not turn aside!”

His hot love was now cold and entirely quenched; for from that moment that he had kissed her ass, he cared not a straw for things of love, for he was healed of his sickness. Often the things of love he defied, and wept as does a child that is beaten.

This Absalom walked slowly across the street to a smith called Master Gervase, who forged plough-instruments at his forge. He was busily sharpening coulter and share when Absalom knocked very gently and said, “Unlock the door, Gervase, and do it quickly.”

“What! Who are you?” “It is me, Absalom.”

“What, Absalom! By the cross, why are you up so early? Eh, God bless! What ails you? Some pretty girl, God knows, has brought you to stir so early. By Saint Neot, you know well what I mean!”

This Absalom cared not a peascod for all his mocking, and returned not a word in kind. He had more wool on his distaff than Gervase knew, and said, “Dear friend, that hot coulter in the chimney—lend it to me. I have something to do with it; and I will bring it you again right away.

“Surely,” answered Gervase, “even if it were gold or nobles in a bag all uncounted, you should have it, as I am a faithful smith! Eh, the Devil, what do you want to do with it?”

“That is as it may be,” said Absalom. I shall tell you tomorrow;” and he took up the coulter by the cool handle.

Softly he went out the door and went to the wall of the carpenter’s house. He coughed first, and knocked withal upon the window, as he did before.

“Who is there that knocks so?” Alison answered. “I warrant it a thief!”

“Why nay,” he said, “God knows, my sweet, I am your Absalom, my sweetheart. I have brought you a ring of gold; my mother gave it me, on my life! It is very fine and nicely engraved. I will give you this, if you kiss me!”

This Nicholas had risen to take a piss, and he thought he would contribute to the joke; he should kiss him before he ran off! And he threw up the window in haste and quietly put his ass out—past the buttocks, all the way to the thigh-bone. Thereupon spoke this clerk Absalom, Speak, sweet bird, I know not where thou art. This Nicholas then let fly a fart as great as a thunder-clap, so much so that with the stroke Absalom was almost blinded; and he was ready with his hot iron and smote Nicholas on the ass.

Off went the skin, about a hands-breadth around, the hot coulter burned his rump so, and for the pain he thought he would die. “Help! Water, water! Help, help, for God’s sake!” he cried like a madman.

The carpenter started out of his slumber; he heard one cry wildly “Water!”, and thought, “Alas! Noah’s flood is coming now!” He sat up without a word, and with his axe struck the cord in two, and down went tub and all; they stopped for nothing until they came to the floor, and there he lay in a swoon.

Up started Alison and Nicholas, and cried “Help!” and “Alack!” in the street. The neighbors young and old ran to stare upon him as he lay yet in a swoon, for with the fall he had broken his arm.

But he must even digest his own trouble, for when he spoke he was talked down by Alison and gentle Nicholas. They told every man he was mad, he was aghast so of “Noah’s flood” in his fantasy, that of his folly he had bought him three kneading-tubs and had hung them above in the roof; and had prayed them for God’s sake to sit with him in the roof, to keep him company.

People laughed at his odd quirk; into the roof they peered and gawked, and turned all his trouble into mirth. For whatever the carpenter answered, it was all for naught; no man heard his speeches, he was so sworn down by the great oaths of the others that in the entire city he was held as mad. Every clerk then agreed with every other clerk: “the man is mad, my dear brother!” And every creature laughed over this contention.

Thus the carpenter lost his wife, for all his watching and jealousy; and Nicholas was sore burned. This tale is done, and God save the entire company.

Here ends the Miller’s Tale.

The Wife of Bath’s Tale

The Prologue of the Wife of Bath’s Tale

“Experience, though it would be no authority in this world, would be quite sufficient for me, to speak of the woe that is in marriage; for, gentle people, since I was twelve years old—thank God, Who lives forever—I have had five husbands at the church-door (for I have been wedded so often); and all were worthy men in their ranks. But in truth I was told not long ago that since Christ went only once to a wedding, in Cana of Galilee, by that same example he taught me that I should be wedded only once. Lo! Hear what a sharp word Jesus, man and God, spoke on a certain occasion beside a well, in reproof of the Samaritan woman. He said, ‘You have had five husbands; and that man who has you now is not your husband.’ Thus he said, certainly. What he meant by it I cannot say; but I ask, why the fifth man was no husband to the Samaritan woman.

“How many could she have in marriage? At this point I have never in my life heard a designation of the number. Men may divine and interpret up and down, but well I know, surely, God expressly instructed us to increase and multiply. I can well understand that noble text. Likewise, I know well he said also that my husband should leave father and mother and take me. But he did not mention any number, not bigamy or of octogamy. Why should men speak villainously of them?

“Lo, Sir Solomon the wise king! I believe he had more than one wife, and I wish to God it were lawful for me to be refreshed half so often! What a gift of God he had in all his wives! No man who lives in this world now has so many. God knows this noble king, to my thinking, had a merry life with each of them, so joyous was his lot! Blessed be God that I wedded five! And they were the best that I could pick out, both in their bodies and of their coffers. A variety of schools make perfect scholars, and much practice in a variety of employments truly makes the perfect workman. I have the schooling of five husbands. I would welcome the sixth, whenever he shall come! In truth, I will not keep myself wholly chaste; when my husband has departed from the world, then some other Christian man shall wed me. For then, the apostle says, I am free, in God’s name, to wed where I wish.

“He says that it is no sin to be wedded; it is better to be wedded than to burn. What do I care if people speak badly of cursed Lamech and his bigamy? Well I know Abraham was a holy man, and Jacob as well, as far as I know, and each of them had more than two wives. And many other holy men did as well.

“When have you seen that in any time great God forbade marriage explicitly? Tell me, I pray you. Or where did he command virginity? You know as well as I, without a doubt, that the apostle, when he speaks of maidenhood, says that he had no instructions on it. Men may counsel a woman to be single, but counseling is not commanding; he left it to our own judgment. For if God had commanded maidenhood, then with that same word had he condemned marrying. And certainly, if no seed were sown, from where then should virgins spring? Paul dared not command a thing for which his master gave no order. The prize is set for virginity—win it who can. Let us see who runs best.

“But this command is not to be taken by every creature, but only where Almighty God wishes to give it through his might. The apostle was a virgin, I know well, but nevertheless, though he wrote that he wished every creature to be like him, all that is only advice to be a virgin; and he gave me leave and indulgence to be a wife. So likewise, if my spouse should die, there is no shame or charge of bigamy to marry me. It would be good, he said, to touch no woman, for it is a peril to bring together fire and hay. You know what this example may mean.

“This is the sum of it all: the apostle held virginity to be more perfect than marriage because of weakness. I call them weak unless man and wife would lead all their life in chastity. I grant it well, I have no malice even if maidenhood were set above remarriage. It pleases them to be clean, body and soul; of my own estate I will make no boast. For you well know that not every vessel in a lord’s house is made of gold; some are of wood, and do their lord service. God calls people to him in various manners, and each one has his own gift from—one this, one that, as it pleases God to provide. Virginity is a great perfection, and devoted chastity as well.

Image 5.5: The Wife of Bath Prologue | “The Wife of Bath” prologue, a

tale from The Canterbury Tales, from the Ellesmere manuscript.

Author: User “SkedO”

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

But Christ, the fountain of perfection, did not instruct every person to go sell all that he had and give to the poor, and in such a fashion follow him and his footsteps. “He spoke this to those people who wished to be perfect; and by your leave, gentle people, I am not one of those. I will use the flower of my life in the acts and fruits of marriage.

Tell me also, for what purpose were members of procreation made, and made in such a perfect manner? Trust well, they were not made for nothing. Whosoever wishes to interpret may do so, and interpret things up and down that and say that they were made for purging urine and that both our small things were also to know a female from a male and for no other cause—did someone say no? Those with experience know well it is not so. So that scholars will not be angry with me, I say this: that they are made for both; that is to say, for duty and for ease of procreation, providing we do not displease God. Why should men otherwise set down in their books that man shall yield to his wife her debt? Now with what should he make his payment, if he did not use his blessed instrument? They were made then upon a creature to purge urine, and for procreation as well.

But I do not say that every person who has such equipment is bound to go and use it for procreation. For that reason people should men take no heed of chastity. Christ was a virgin and created as a man, as were many saints since the beginning of the world; yet they always lived in perfect chastity. I will not envy any virginity. Let virgins be called bread of purified wheat-seed, and let us wives be called barley-bread; and yet, as Mark can tell, our Lord Jesus refreshed many people with barley-bread. I will persevere in such a state as God has called us to; I am not particular. In wifehood I will use my instrument as freely as my Maker has sent it. If I am unaccommodating to my husband, may God give me sorrow. My husband shall have it both evening and morning, whenever it pleases him to come forth and pay his debt. I will not stop. I will have a husband who will be both my debtor and servant, and have his tribulation upon his flesh, while I am his wife. As long as I live I, and not he, have the power over his body. The apostle told it to me in this very way, and instructed our husbands to love us well. This entire subject pleases me well, every bit.

Up started the Pardoner, and without delay. “Now lady,” he said, “by God and St. John, you are a noble preacher in this matter! I was about to wed a wife; alas! Why should I pay for it so dearly upon my flesh? I would rather not wed any wife this year.”

“Wait! My tale is not yet begun,” she said. “No, before I go you shall drink out of another barrel that will taste worse than ale. And when I have told my story to you about the tribulation in marriage, in which I have been expert all my life (that is to say, I myself have been the scourge), then you may choose whether you will sip of that same barrel that I shall broach. Be mindful, before you come too close; for I shall tell half a score of examples. ‘Whosoever will not be warned by other men, by him shall other men be corrected’: these same words writes Ptolemy; read his Almagest.”

“Lady,” said this Pardoner, “I would pray you, if it were your pleasure, tell your tale as you began, hold back for no man, and teach us young men from your experience.”

“Gladly,” she said, “if it may please you. But I beg all of you in this company, if I speak according to my fancy, do not take it amiss. For my intent is but to make sport. Now, sirs, I will continue.

“May I never see another drop of ale or wine, if I did not tell the truth about my husbands, as three of them were good, and two of them were bad. The three men were good, rich and old, and they hardly could keep their obligation to me, by which they were bound to me. By God, you know well what I mean by this. May God help me, I laugh when I think how pitifully I made them work at night! And, by my faith, I found it useless. I did not need to make an effort or pay them any respect to win their love. They loved me so well, by God above, that I set no value on their love. A wise woman will always attempt to win love where she has none; but since I had them wholly in my hand and had all their land, why should I bother to please them, unless it were for my profit and pleasure? I ruled them so, by my faith, that many nights they sang ‘alas!’

“Not for them, I believe, was fetched the bacon that some men win at Dunmow in Essex. I governed them so well by my rules that each of them was blissful and glad to bring me beautiful things from the fair. They were glad when I spoke friendly to them, for God knows, I chided them without mercy. Now listen, you wise wives who can understand, hear how craftily I behaved myself.

“Thus shall you speak, and thus you shall put them in the wrong, for there is no man who can swear and lie half so boldly as a woman. I say this for the benefit of wise wives when they have made a little misstep. A wise wife, if she knows what is good for her, shall make a man believe that the jackdaw is mad, and shall use her own maid as a witness to confirm it.

“But now hear how I spoke: -’Old sir fogey, is this how you would have things? Why is my neighbor’s wife so fine? She is honored everywhere she goes, while I have no decent clothes and must sit at home. Are you in love? What are you doing at my neighbor’s house? Is she so fair? What do you whisper with our maid? God bless! Leave behind your tricks, old sir lecher! And if I have a friend or a gossip, completely innocent, and I walk to his house or amuse myself there, you chide me like a fiend. You come home as drunk as a mouse and sit on your bench preaching, with no good reason. You say to me, it is a great evil to wed a poor woman, for the cost; and if she were rich, of noble birth, then you say that it is a torment to suffer her pride and her melancholy. And if she were fair, you say that every lecher will have her, you very knave! She who is assailed on every side cannot remain in chastity for long.

“‘You say that some folk desire us for our wealth, some for our figure, some for our beauty, some because we can sing or dance, some for our manners and mirth, and some for our hands and slim arms. Thus all goes to the Devil, by your account.

“‘You say that a castle wall can not be defended when it is assailed so long from every side. And if a woman be foul, then you say that she covets every man she sees, and will leap on him like a spaniel, until she find some man to do business with her. You say no goose in the lake that is too grey to look for a mate. And you say that it is a hard matter to control a thing that no man would be willing to keep.

“‘Thus you say, old fool, when you are going to bed; that no wise man need marry, nor any man who hopes for heaven. With a wild thunder-clap and fiery lightning-bolt may your withered neck be snapped in two! You say that leaky houses, smoke, and chiding wives, make men flee from their own homes.

“‘Ah, God bless! What ails such an old man to scold like this? You say that we wives will cover our vices until we are safely married, and then we show them. That is a villain’s proverb! You say that oxen, asses, horses, and hounds are tested for some time before men buy them, and so are basins, wash-bowl, spoons, stools, pots, clothes, attire, and all such household stuff; but people make no test of wives until they are wedded. And then, you old rascally dotard, you say, we will show our vices.

“‘You say also it displeases me unless you praise my beauty and gaze ever upon my face and call me “fair lady” everywhere; and unless you make a feast on my birthday, and dress me gay and freshly; and unless you do honor to my nurse, and to my maid in my bower, and to my father’s family—all this you say, old barrel-full of lies.

“‘And yet you have gathered a false suspicion of our apprentice Jankin, for his crisp hair shining like fine gold, and because he escorts me back and forth. I would not have him, even if you should die tomorrow! But tell me this—and bad luck to you!—why do you hide the keys of your chest from me? By God, they are my goods as well as yours! Why do you intend to make a fool of the mistress of your house? Now by the lord who is called St. James, however you may rage, you shall not be master both of my body and of my goods; you must give up one of them, in spite of your eyes.

“‘What good does it do if you inquire after me or spy upon me? You want to lock me in your chest, I believe! You should say, “Wife, go where you wish, take your pleasure, I will believe no tales; I know you for a true wife, Lady Alice.” We love no man who takes note or care where we go; we wish to have our freedom. May he be blessed

of all men, that wise astrologer, Sir Ptolemy, who says this proverb in his book Almagest, “Of all men, he who never cares who has the world in hand has the greatest wisdom.” You are to understand by this proverb that you have enough: why do you need to care how well-off other people are? For in truth, old fogey, you shall have plenty of pleasing thing in the evening. He who will forbid a man to light a candle at his lantern is too great a miser; by God, he should have light, nevertheless. So you have enough; you need not complain.

“‘You say also that if we make ourselves amorous with clothing and with costly dress, it would be a peril to our chastity; and yet—may the plague take you!—you must confirm it with these words of the apostle: “Ye women shall apparel yourselves in garments made with chastity and shame,” he said, “and not with tressed hair and splendid gems and pearls, nor with gold, nor rich clothes.” I would not give a fly for your text or your rubric.

“‘You said also I was like a cat; for a cat, if someone were to singe the cat’s skin, will always dwell at home; but if she were sleek and elegant in her fur, she will not remain in the house an hour, but before any day would dawn, will go forth to show her skin and go a-caterwauling. This is to say, sir rogue, if I am finely dressed, I will run out to show my clothes.

“‘Sir old fool, what ails you to spy after me? Even if you were to ask Argus to be my sentry with his hundred eyes as best he can, in faith, he shall not keep watch over me unless it suits me. Still I could deceive him, as I hope to prosper!

“‘You say also that there are three things that trouble this entire world, and that no creature can endure the fourth. Oh, dear sir rascal, may Jesus shorten your life! Still you preach and say a hateful woman is considered one of these adversities. Are there no other things you can use for comparison without an innocent wife being one of them?

“‘You compare woman’s love to hell, or to barren land where no water can lie. You compare it also to wildfire; the more it burns, the more it desires to consume everything that can be burned. You say that just as worms destroy a tree, so too a wife destroys her husband; those who are tied to women know this.

“Gentle people, in this very way, as you can see, I would firmly swear to my old husbands, that they said this in their drunkenness; and all was false, except I got Jankin and my niece to be my witnesses. O Lord! The pain and woe I did them, though they were innocent, by God’s sweet suffering! For I could bite and whinny like a horse. I knew how to complain, even if I was guilty; or else I would have often been undone. He who first comes to the mill, grinds first; I complained first, and thus our war was ended. They were very glad to excuse themselves hurriedly of things that they never had done in all their lives. I would accuse my old husband of visiting prostitutes, even when they were so sick that they could scarcely stand.

“Yet I tickled his heart because he thought that I had such great fondness for him. I swore that all my walking about at night was to spot wenches whom he slept with. Under that pretext I had many privy jests at him; for all such wit is given to us when we are born. God has given deceit, weeping, and spinning to women by nature, so long as they live.

“And thus I boast of one thing for myself: in the end I had the better in every way, by cunning, or by force, or by some type of device, such as continual murmuring or grumbling. And most chiefly at night they had ill fortune; then I would scold and grant him no pleasure. I would not stay in bed any longer if I felt his arm over my side, until he had paid his ransom to me. And therefore I tell this to every man: let he who can, prosper, for everything has its price. Men may lure no hawks with an empty hand. For the sake of gain I would give them their way, and pretend to have an appetite; and yet I never had pleasure in bacon, from Dunmow or elsewhere. And so I would be chiding them all the time; even if the pope had sat beside them, by my word, I would not spare them at their own table. I repaid them word for word; so may the Almighty Lord help me, if I ere to make my testament right now, I would not owe them a word that has not been repaid. By my wits I made it so that they were glad to surrender, as their best option, or we would have never been at peace. For though my husband looked like a mad lion, he was nonetheless bound to fail in his purpose.

“Then would I say, ‘Good dear, take note how meekly Wilkin our sheep looks; come near, my spouse, let me kiss your cheek. You should be all patient and mild, and have a sweet tender conscience, since you thus preach of the patience of Job. Always endure, since you can preach so well; and unless you do, we must teach you for sure that it is pleasant to have a wife in peace. Truly, one of us two must bend to the other and since a man is more reasonable than a woman, you must be patient. What ails you to grumble and groan in this way? Is it because you want to have my body all to yourself? Why, take it all! Have every bit! By Peter, I curse you, but you love it well! If I would sell my beautiful thing, I could walk as fresh as a rose, but I will keep it for your own taste. You are to blame, by God! I tell you the truth.” We had this sort of words between us; but now I will speak about my fourth husband.

“My fourth husband was a reveller, that is to say, he had a paramour—and I was young and full of frolic, stubborn and strong, and jolly as a magpie. I could dance well to a little harp, and sing like any nightingale, when I had taken a draught of sweet wine. Metellius, the filthy churl, the swine, who with a staff bereft his spouse of her life, because she drank wine, would not have frightened me from drink, if I had been his wife! And when I think of wine I must think of Venus; for just as surely as cold engenders hail, a lecherous mouth leads to a lecherous body. There is no defense in a woman who is full of wine, as lechers know by experience.

“Lord Christ! But when I think about my youth and mirth, it tickles me at the root of my heart! To this very day it does my heart good that I have had my fling in my time. But alas! Age, which envenoms all things, has bereft me of my beauty and energy. Let them go. Farewell! May the Devil go with them! The flour is gone, and there is no more to say; now I sell the bran as best as I can. But even now I will strive to be very merry.

“Now I will tell of my fourth husband. I say I had great resentment in my heart that he had pleasure in any other. But by the Lord and Saint Joce, he was paid back! I made a cross from the same wood for his back; not with my body, in any foul manner, but truly I offered people such generous hospitality that for anger and absolute jealousy I made him fry in his own grease. By God, I was his purgatory on earth, wherefore I hope that his soul is in glory now.

“For God knows, he sat often and sang, when his shoe pinched him bitterly: No creature knew, except God and he, how sorely I twisted him in so many ways. He died when I returned home from Jerusalem, and lies buried under the cross-beam, albeit his tomb is not quite as elaborately crafted as the sepulcher of Darius that Apelles so skilfully made. It would have been a waste to bury him at such an expense! Farewell to him; he is now in his grave and in his coffin—God rest his soul!

“Now will I speak of my fifth husband—may God never allow his soul to enter hell! And yet he was the most villainous to me, as I can still feel on my ribs all in a row, and ever shall to my ending day. But he was so fresh and merry, and could sweet-talk so well that, even if he had beaten me on every bone, he could soon win my beautiful thing again. I believe I loved him best, because he was sparing in his love.

“We women have, to tell the truth, an odd fantasy on this matter; whatever thing we can not easily win we will cry after continually and crave. “Forbid us something, and we desire that thing. Press on us hard, and then we will flee. With much reserve we offer our merchandise; a large crowd at the market makes our wares expensive; wares offered at too low a price will be thought to have little value. Every wise woman knows this.

“My fifth husband—may God bless his soul—which I took for love and not for riches, was sometime an Oxford scholar; and he had left school, and went to board with my good friend, who dwelt in our town. May God keep her soul! Her name was Alisoun. She knew my heart and my private thoughts better than our parish priest, by my soul! To her I revealed all my secrets.

“For had my husband peed on a wall, or done something that would have cost him his life, I would have told his every bit of his secret to her, and to another worthy wife, and to my niece, whom I loved well. And I did so often, God knows, which often made his face red and hot for true shame, and he would blame himself for telling me so great a secret.

“And so it happened that once, in Lent, (as I so often did, I visited my friend, for I still always loved to be merry, and to walk from house to house in March, April, and May, to hear various tales) that Jankin the clerk, my friend dame Alice, and I walked into the fields. All that spring my husband was in London; I had a better opportunity to play, and to see and to be seen by lusty folk. What did I know about how my fortune was to be shaped or in what place? Therefore, I made my visits to holy day vigils, to processions, to sermons, to these pilgrimages, to miracle-plays, and to weddings, and wore my gay scarlet gowns. These worms and moths and mites never ate a bit of them, upon my peril! And do you know why? Because they were well used.

“Now I will tell what happed to me. I say that we walked in the fields, until in truth we had such flirtation together, this clerk and I, that in my foresight I spoke to him, and told him how he should wed me, if I were widowed. For, I am not speaking in boast; I was certainly never to this point without provision for marriage—nor for other things as well. I think that a mouse’s heart is not worth a leek if the mouse has but one hole to run to; and if that one fails, then all is over.

“I persuaded him to think that he had enchanted me; my mother taught me that trick. And I said also I dreamed of him all night; he would have slain me as I lay on my back, and my whole bed was full of real blood; but yet I hoped that he should bring good fortune to me, for blood signifies gold, as I was taught. And all of it was false; I dreamed not a bit of it, but I followed my mother’s teaching all along, as well as in other things besides.

“But now, sir, let me see; what shall I say now? Aha! By God, I have it again. When my fourth husband lay on his bier, I wept ever and made a sorrowful expression, as wives must, for it is the custom; and I covered my face with my kerchief. But since I had been provided with a new mate, I wept rather little, I vow.

“In the morning my husband was borne to church by the neighbors, who mourned for him, and our scholar Jankin was one of them. So may God help me, when I saw him go after the bier, I thought he had so clean and fair a pair of legs and feet that I gave him all my heart to keep. He was twenty winters old, I believe, and if I am to tell the truth, I was forty. But I always had a colt’s tooth. I was gap-toothed; I bore the print of Saint Venus’ birthmark, and that became me well. I was a lusty one, and fair, and rich, and youthful, and merry of heart, may God help me.

“For certainly, I am dominated by the planet Venus in my senses, and my heart is dominated by the planet Mars. Venus gave me my love for pleasure and my wantonness, and Mars my sturdy hardihood. My ascendant was Mars in Taurus. Alas, alas! That ever 1ove was thought a sin! I followed ever my inclination by virtue of my constellation. That made it that I could not withhold my chamber from any good fellow. Yet I have the mark of Mars upon my face and in another private place as well. May God be my salvation indeed, I never loved discreetly, but always followed my appetite, whether he was short or tall, black or white it did not matter to me, as long as he pleased me, how poor he was, nor of what station.

“What should I say but at the end of a month this jolly clerk Jankin, who was so debonair, wedded me with great splendor? And I gave him all the land and wealth that I had ever been given; but afterwards I repented myself sorely, for he would allow nothing that I desired. By God, he struck me once on the ear! That was because I tore a leaf out of his book and my ear grew entirely deaf because of the blow. I was as stubborn as a lioness, and a very chatterbox with my tongue, and I would walk as I had done before from house to house, though he had sworn I should not. For this reason he would often make homilies and teach me old Roman histories how Symplicius Gallus left his wife and forsook her for all his days, just because he saw her one day looking out of his door with her head uncovered.

“He told me the name of another Roman who forsook his wife also because without his knowledge she was to a summer game. And then he would seek in his Bible that proverb of the Ecclesiast where he commands and firmly forbids that a man should allow his wife to go wander about. Then indeed he would say just this,

“He who builds his house out of sallows,

And spurs his blind horse over fallows,

And allows his wife to seek hallows,

Then should be hanged upon the gallows.”

But all for nothing; I did not care one acorn for his proverbs or his old saying, and I would not be scolded by him. I hate anyone who tells me my faults; and, God knows, so too do more of us than I. This made him insanely furious with me, but I would not tolerate him in any case.

“Now, by Saint Thomas, I will tell you the truly, why I tore a leaf out of his book, for which he struck me so that I became deaf. He had a book which he would be still reading, night and day, for his amusement. He called it Valerius and Theophrastus; he always laughed uproariously at this book. And there was also once a scholar at Rome, a cardinal, named Saint Jerome, who composed a book against Jovinian; and besides this in my husband’s book there were Tertullian, Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloise, who was abbess not far from Paris, and also the Proverbs of Solomon, Ovid’s Art of Love and many other books; and all these were bound in one volume.

“And every night and day, when he had leisure and freedom from other outside occupation, it was his habit to read in this book about wicked women; of them he knew more lives and legends than there are of good women in the Bible. For, trust well, it is an impossibility that any scholar will speak well of women, unless it would be of the lives of holy saints; but never of any other woman. Who painted the Lion, tell me? By God, if women had written histories, as scholars have in their chapels, they would have written about men more evil than all the sons of Adam could redress.

“The children of Mercury and the children of Venus are contrary in their actions; Mercury loves wisdom and knowledge, and Venus revelry and extravagance. And, because of their contrary natures, each of these planets descends in sign of the zodiac in which the other is most powerful; thus Mercury is depressed in Pisces, where Venus is exalted, and Venus is depressed where Mercury is exalted. Therefore no woman is praised by any scholar. When the scholar is old and entirely unable to give Venus service that is even worth his old shoe, then he sits down and in his dotage writes that women cannot keep their marriage vow!

“But now to my tale—why I was beaten for a book, by God, as I told you. One night Jankin, our husband, sat by the fire and read in his book, first about Eve, for whose wickedness all mankind was brought to misery, for which Jesus Christ Himself was slain, Who redeemed us with His heart’s blood. Lo! Here you may read explicitly about woman, that she was the ruin of all mankind.

“Then he read to me how Samson lost his hair in his sleep; his sweetheart cut it with her shears, through which treason he lost both his eyes. Then I tell you he read me about Hercules and his Dejanira, who caused him to set fire to himself. Nor did he in any way forget the penance and woe which Socrates had with his two wives, how his wife Xantippe cast piss on his head; this blameless man sat still as a stone, wiped his head, and dared say no more than, “before thunder ceases, the rain comes.”

“Of his cursedness my husband found a relish in the tale of Pasiphae, queen of Crete. Fie! Speak no more of her horrible lust and desire—it is a grisly thing. He read with good devotion about Clytemnestra, who for her wantonness treacherously caused her husband’s death. He told me also for what cause Amphiaraus perished at Thebes; my husband had a legend about his wife Eriphyle, who for a brooch of gold secretly informed the Greeks where her husband had hidden himself; for this reason he met a sorry fate at Thebes. He told me of Livia and Lucilia, who both caused their husbands to die, the one for hate, the other for love. Livia, late one evening, poisoned her husband, because she had become his foe; the wanton Lucilia so loved her husband that she gave him a love-drink, that she might always be in his mind, but of such power that he was dead before morning.

“And thus in one way or the other husbands came to sorrow. And then he told me how one Latumius lamented to Arrius, his fellow, how there grew in his garden such a tree on which, he said, his three wives had hanged themselves with desperate heart. ‘Oh dear brother, give me a slip from this same blessed tree,’ said this Arrius, ‘and it shall be planted in my garden!’

“He read about wives of later times, some of whom have murdered their husbands in their sleep, and had sex with their lovers while the corpse lay all night flat on the floor. And some have driven nails into their husband’s brains while they slept. And some have given them poison in their drink. He spoke more evil than a heart can devise.

“And in all this he knew more proverbs than blades of grass grow in this world. He said, ‘It is better to have your dwelling with a lion or a foul dragon, than with a woman accustomed to scorning.’ ‘It is better,’ he said, ‘to dwell high in the roof, than down in the house with an angry woman; they are so wicked and contrary that they forever hate what their husbands love.’

“He said, ‘A woman casts her shame away when she casts off her undergarments.’ And furthermore, ‘A beautiful woman, unless she is also chaste, is like a gold ring in a sow’s nose.’ Who would think or imagine the woe and pain in my heart.

“And when I saw that he would never leave reading all night in this cursed book, all of the sudden I plucked three leaves out of his book, even as he was reading, and I also struck him on the cheek with my fist so that he fell down backward into our fire. And he started up like a mad lion, and struck me on the head with his fist so that I lay as dead on the floor.

“And he was aghast when he saw how still I was, and would have fled on his way, until at last I came out of my swoon. ‘Oh, have you slain me, false thief,’ I said, ‘and have you murdered me thus for my land? Before I die, I will still kiss you.’ And he came nearer and kneeled down gently and said, ‘Dear sister Alisoun, so God help me, I shall never strike you again! You yourself are to blame for what I have done. Forgive me for it; and I beg you for that.’ And yet again I hit him on the cheek, and said, ‘Thief, I am revenged this much. Now I will die; I can speak no more.’

“But at last with great pain and grief, we fell into agreement between ourselves. He put the full bridle into my hand, to have the governance of house and estate, and over his tongue and hands as well. And I made him burn his book then and there.

“And when I had got for myself all the sovereignty, through a master-stroke, and when he said, ‘My own faithful wife, do as you will the rest of your days; be the guard of your honor, and of my dignity also,’ we had never a dispute after that day. God help me so, I was as loving to him as any wife between Denmark and India, and as true also; and so was he to me. And I pray to God, Who sits in glory, so bless his soul for His sweet compassion! Now I will relate my story, if you will listen.”

The Friar, when he had heard all this, laughed and said, “Now, Madame, so may I have joy, this is a long preamble of a tale!”

When the Summoner heard the Friar make an outcry, he said, “Lo! By God’s two arms! A friar will evermore be meddling. Lo, good men! A fly and a friar will fall into every dish and every affair. Why do you speak of preambling? What! Amble or trot, or hold your peace and go sit down! You hinder our sport in this way.”

“Yes, is that what you want, sir Summoner? Now by my faith,” said the Friar, “I shall tell, before I go, such a tale or two of a summoner that all the people here shall laugh.”

“Now, Friar, I curse your face,” said this Summoner, “and I curse myself, unless I tell stories, two or three, of friars, before I get to Sittingborne, that shall make your heart grieve, for I know well your patience has already left you.”

“Peace, and now!” cried our Host; and said, “Let the woman tell her tale. You act like people who are drunk with ale. Please, Madame, tell your tale; and that is best.”

“All ready, sir, just as you wish,” she said, “if I have the permission of this worthy Friar.”

“Yes, Madame,” he said, “tell your tale now, and I will listen.”

Here ends the Prologue of the Wife of Bath.

Here begins the Tale of the Wife of Bath.

In the old days of King Arthur, of whom Britons speak great glory, this land was entirely filled with fairy power. The elf-queen danced often with her merry company in many green meadows. This long ago was the belief, as I find in books. I speak of many hundred years ago; but in our times no man can see elves any more.

For now the great charity and the prayers of begging friars and other holy friars, who, as thick as motes in a sunbeam, reach every land and every stream, blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers, cities, towns, castles, villages, barns, stables, dairies—all this causes there to be no elves. For where a fairy was accustomed to walk, there the begging friar himself walks now, in the mornings or the afternoons, and says his matins and his holy things as he goes along in his begging. Women may go up and down safely; in every bush or under every tree, there is no incubus, except him, and he will do nothing but dishonor them.

And so it happened that this King Arthur had in his court a lusty young knight, who one day came riding from the river; and it happened that he saw walking ahead of him a maiden, whom he ravished, in spite of all her resistance. For this violation there was such clamor and such appeal to King Arthur, that the knight was condemned by course of law to die; and perhaps the statute in place then was so severe that he would have lost his head, if the queen and other ladies had not so long begged the king for mercy, until he granted him his life at that point, and placed him entirely at the queen’s will, to choose whether she would save him or let him die.

The queen thanked the king very heartily; and after this, upon a day when she saw the opportunity, she spoke in this way to the knight: “You stand now,” she said, “in such a plight that you have even now no assurance of your life. I grant you life, if you can tell me what thing it is that women desire most. Beware, and guard your neck-bone from iron! And if you cannot tell it right now, I will still give you leave to go for twelve months and a day, to search out and learn an answer sufficient for this point. And before you depart, I will have security that you will yield up your body in this place.”

This knight was woeful, and he sighed sorrowfully. But what! He could not do just as he pleased. And, with such a reply that God would provide for him, at last he chose to depart and come at the very end of the year; and he took his leave and went forth along his way.

He sought every house and place where he hoped to find such luck as to learn what women love most. But he could arrive at no coast where he could find two creatures agreeing together on this matter. Some said that women best love riches; some said honor; some said mirth; some, fancy clothes; some, pleasure in bed, and to be widowed often and re-wed. Some said that our hearts are most eased when we be flattered and gratified.

They came very near the truth; a man shall best win us by flattery, I will not deny it, and we are caught by attentiveness and diligence, both great and small. And some said how we love best to be free and to do just as we wish, and that no man should reprove us for our faults, but say that we are wise and never foolish at all. For in truth there is nobody among us who will not kick if someone would claw us on a sore place, just because he tells us the truth. Try this, and he shall find it out that it is true. For though we may be full of vice within, we wish to be considered wise and clean of sin.

And some said that we have great delight to be accounted stable and trustworthy and steadfast in one purpose, and never reveal what men tell us. But that sort of talk is not worth a rake-handle, by God! We women can conceal nothing. Take witness of Midas. Would you like to hear the tale?

Ovid, among other little things, says that Midas had two ass’s ears growing upon his head under his long hair, which deformity he hid artfully from every man’s sight, as best he could, so that nobody knew of it, except his wife. He loved her most and trusted her; and he asked her to tell of his disfigurement to no creature. She swore to him, “No,” not even to gain all the world would she do that villainy and sin, to bring her husband so foul a name; for her own honor she would not do it.

But nevertheless she felt she should die, to hide a secret so long; it swelled so sorely about her heart, it seemed to her, that some word needed to burst from her. And since she dared tell it to no human creature, she ran down to a nearby marsh; her heart was ablaze until she arrived there.

And as a bittern bumbles in the mire, she laid her mouth down unto the water: “Betray me not, you water, with your sound,’ she said; ‘I tell it to you, and to nobody else. My husband has two long ass’s ears. Now my heart is whole and well again; now it is out. In very truth I could keep it in no longer.’

By this you may see that though we wait a time, we can conceal no secret forever; it must come out. If you wish to hear the remainder of the tale, read Ovid; you can find it out there.

This knight, about whom my tale chiefly is, when he saw he could not come by it, that is to say, what women love most—the spirit in his breast was so sorrowful. But home he went, as he could not remain. The day had come when he had to turn homeward. And as he went, deep in care, it happened that he rode under the edge of a forest, where he saw twenty-four ladies and more in a dance. Eagerly he drew toward this dance, in hope of learning some piece of wisdom. But in truth, before he arrived there entirely, the dance vanished—he did not know where it went. He saw no living creature there, except a woman sitting on the grass—no one could imagine a fouler creature.

At the approach of the knight this old woman arose and said, “Sir knight, there is no path that lies this way. Tell me, by your faith, what do you seek? Peradventure it may be better for you; these old people know many things.”

“My dear mother,” said this knight, “in truth I am just a dead man, unless I can say what thing it is that women desire most. If you could instruct me, I would repay you well for your work.”

“Pledge me your word here on my hand,” she said, “that you will do the first thing that I require of you, if it should lie in your power; and before it is night I will tell it you.”

“Take my pledge here,” said the knight, “I agree.”

“Then,” she said, “I dare to boast that your life is safe; for upon my soul I will guarantee that the queen will say as I do. Show me the proudest of the whole court, who wears a kerchief or other head-dress and who dares say no to what I shall teach you. Let us go on, without further words.” Then she whispered a word in his ear, and told him to be glad and have no fear.

When they had arrived at the court, this knight said he had kept his day, as he had promised, and his answer was ready. At that time many noble wives were assembled to hear his answer, and many maidens, and many widows (because they be wise); and the queen herself sat as judge. And then this knight was summoned.

Silence was commanded to every creature, and the knight was ordered to tell in public what thing mortal women most love. This knight stood not like a dumb beast, but without delay answered the question with manly voice, so that all the court heard it.

“My liege lady, over all this world” he said, “women wish to have sovereignty as well over her husband as her love, and to have mastery over him. This is your greatest desire, though you may slay me for this. Do as you wish; I am here at your will.”

In all the court there was neither wife nor maiden nor widow to contradict what he replied, but all declared he was worthy to have his freedom. And at that word, the old woman, whom the knight had seen sitting on the grass, started up.

“Mercy, my sovereign lady!” she said. “Do me justice, before your court departs. I taught the knight this answer, for which he pledged me his word that he would do the first thing I should require of him, if it lay in his power. Before the court, then, I pray you, sir knight,” she said, “that you take me as your wife; for you well know that I have saved your life. If I speak falsely, say no to me, upon your faith!”

This knight answered, “Alas and alack! I know full well that this was my promise. But for the love of God, please choose another request! Take all my goods, and let my body go.”

“No, then,’ she answered, “I curse us both. For though I may be ugly, poor, and old, I would like none of all the metal or ore that is buried under the earth or lies upon it, only that I would be your wife, and your love also.”

“My love!” he said, “No, my damnation! Alas that any of my kindred should be so foully disgraced by such a match!”

But all this was for nothing. This is the conclusion, that he was constrained, and had to wed her. And he took his old wife and went to bed.

Now perhaps some men would say that through my negligence I take no care to tell you all the joy and all the preparations that there were at the celebration that day. To this point I shall briefly answer, and say there was no joy nor celebration at all; but only heaviness and much sorrow. For he wedded her secretly the next morning. And he was so miserable that he hid himself the rest of the day like an owl, as his wife looked so ugly.

Great was his misery when he was alone with his wife; he tossed about and turned back and forth. His old wife lay always smiling, and said, “Ah, God bless, dear husband! Does every knight act this way with his wife? Is this the way of King Arthur’s household? Is every knight of his so hard to please? I am your own love and your wife also, and I have saved your life, and surely, I have never yet done you any wrong. Why do act this way on this first night? You act like a man who has lost his wit. What is my guilt? Tell me, for the love of God, and if I have the power, it shall be amended.”

“Amended!” said this knight. “Alas! No, no! It can not be amended forevermore! You are so loathly and so old, and come of so low a lineage as well, that it is small wonder that I toss and turn. I wish to God my heart would burst!’

‘Is this,’ she said, ‘the cause of your unrest?’

‘Yes, certainly, and no wonder,’ he said.

“Now, sir,” she replied, “I could amend all this before three days had passed, if I wish, so that you might bear yourself toward me well.

“But when you speak of such gentility as is descended from ancient wealth—so that you knights should therefore would be gentlemen of breeding—such arrogance is not worth a hen. Look who is always most virtuous, openly and secretly, and most inclines to do what gentle deeds he can; take him for the gentlest man. Christ wishes that we claim our gentility from Him, not from our ancestors’ ancient wealth. For though all their heritage of our ancestors, by reason of which we claim high rank, may descend to us, yet they cannot at all bequeath to any of us their virtuous living, which made them to be called gentle men and to bid us follow to them and do in like manner.

The wise poet of Florence, who is named Dante, speaks well on this matter. Lo, this is what Dante’s says in his poetry: “Seldom does a man climb to excellence on his own slim branches, for God, from his goodness, wills that we claim or gentility from Him.” For we may claim nothing from our ancestors, except for temporal things that can be injured and impaired.

“Every creature also knows this as well as I, that if gentility were planted by nature in a certain family all down the line, openly and privately, then they would never cease to do the fair duties of gentility; they could never do any base or vicious deed. Take fire and bear it into the darkest house between here and the mount of Caucasus, and let the doors be shut and leave that place. Nevertheless the fire will burn and blaze as fairly as though twenty thousand men witnessed it; on peril of my life, it will keep to its natural duty until it dies.

“Here you may well see how nobility hangs not from ancient possessions, since people do not always perform its works, as does the fire, according to its nature. For, God knows, one may often see a lord’s son do vicious and shameful deeds; and he who wishes to be esteemed for his gentility because he was born of a noble house and had virtuous and noble ancestors, and yet himself will not perform the deeds of gentility nor follow after his gentle ancestor who is dead, he is not gentle, even if he is a duke or an earl; for base and sinful deeds make a commoner. For gentility then would be nothing but renown of your ancestors for their high worthiness, which is something that has nothing to do with you. Your gentility comes only from God. Then our true gentility comes from divine grace, and was in no fashion bequeathed to us with our earthly station.

“Think how noble was that Tullius Hostilius, as Valerius tells, who rose out of poverty to high nobility. Read Seneca, and Boethius as well; there you shall see expressly that he who does noble deeds is noble. And therefore, dear husband, I conclude in this way: albeit my ancestors were untutored, yet may the high God—and so I hope— grant me grace to live virtuously. Then I am noble, when I begin to live virtuously and to abandon evil.

“And you reproach me for poverty; but the high God on whom we believe chose freely to live in poverty. And surely every man, maiden, or wife, may well know that Jesus, King of Heaven, would not choose a wicked manner of living. Truly cheerful poverty is an honorable thing, so will Seneca say, and other clerks. Whoever keeps himself content with his poverty, I count as rich, even if he does not have not a shirt! He who covets is a poor creature, for he wishes to have that which is not within his power. But he who has nothing, nor covets things, is rich, albeit you count him as only a serving-lad.

“True poverty sings a song of its own. Concerning poverty, Juvenal says merrily:

“The poor man, when he goes along the way,

Before the thieves, he can still sing and play.”

Poverty is a hateful good, I suppose, a great remover from the busyness of the world, and a great teacher of wisdom to one who takes it in patience. All this is poverty, though it may seem wretched; and a possession that no creature will challenge. When a man is humbled, often poverty allows him to know his God and himself as well. It seems to me that poverty is a magnifying glass through which he may see who his true friends are. And therefore, sir, I pray, so that I will not grieve you, scorn me no more for my poverty.

“Now, sir, you reproach me for my old age. And surely, sir, though there may be no authority in any book to tell you so, yet you honorable gentlefolk say that men should do courtesy to an old creature, and for your gentle manners call him Father. And I could find authorities to show this, I believe.

“Now you say I am old and foul: then have no fear that you will be a cuckold. For ugliness and age, upon my life, are great wardens over chastity. But nevertheless, since I know your delight, I shall fulfill your appetite.

“Choose,” she said, “one of these two things: to have me foul and old until I die, and to you a true, humble wife, never in all my days displeasing you; or else to have me young and beautiful, and take your chance on how many visits there will be to your house—or perhaps to some other place—which will be for my sake. Now choose yourself which one you will have.”

This knight thought hard about it and sighed deeply; but at last he spoke in this manner: “My lady and love, and my dear wife, I put myself into your wise governance. Please choose which may be the greatest pleasure and greatest honor to you and me also; I care not which of the two, for it is sufficient to me to please you.”

“Then I have the mastery over you,” she said, “since I may choose and govern as I wish”

“Yes, surely, wife,” he said; “I believe that is for the best.”

“Kiss me,” she said, “we will be angered no longer. For by my faith I will be both unto you—that is to say, both beautiful, yes, and good. I pray to God that I may die mad, but I would be as good and faithful as ever a wife was since the world was new. And if I am not as beautiful to see in the morning as any lady, queen or empress, between the east and the west, do with my life and death as you will. Lift up the curtain, and look how it is.”

And when the knight saw truly that she was so fair and so young, he clasped her in his two arms for joy, his heart bathed in a bath of bliss. A thousand times in a row he kissed her. And she obeyed him in all that might cause him delight or pleasure.

And thus they lived in perfect joy to the end of their lives. And may Jesus Christ send us husbands meek, young, and lusty, and grace to outlive them that we wed.

And I pray Jesus also to shorten their days that will not be ruled by their wives. And old, angry misers—may God send them a true pestilence soon!

Here ends the Wife of Bath’s Tale.

The Franklin’s Tale

Here follow the Words of the Franklin to the Squire, and the Words of the Host to the Franklin.

“In faith, Squire, you have conducted yourself well and nobly. I praise your wit highly,” said the Franklin, with such delicate understanding. In my judgment there is nobody in this company who shall be your peer in eloquence as long as you live. May God give you good fortune, and send you perseverance in virtue, for I have great delight in your speaking. I have a son, and by the Trinity I had rather he would be a man of such discretion as you, than have twenty pounds worth of land, even if it were put in my hand right now.

“Fie on possessions, unless a man is virtuous as well! I have scolded my son, and shall still scold him, because he will not wish to pursue virtue; but his habit is to play at dice and to spend and to lose all that he has. And he had rather talk with a page than converse with any noble person from whom he might properly learn nobility.

“A straw for your gentle manners!” said our Host. “What, Franklin, well you know, by God, that each of you must tell at least a tale or two, or break your word.”

“That I well know, sir,” said the Franklin. “I pray you not to hold me in scorn if I speak a word or two to this man.

“Tell your tale now, without more words.

“Gladly, sir Host,” he said, “I will obey your will; now listen to what I say. I will not contradict you in any way as far, to the extent that my wits will suffice. I pray to God that it may please yow; then I will know well that it is good enough.”

The Prologue of the Franklin’s Tale

“These old gentle Bretons in their time made lays about various adventures, rhymed in their early British tongue; which lays they sang to their instruments of music, or else read them, for their pleasure. And one of them I have in mind, which I will relate with good will as best I can. But, sirs, because I am an unlearned man, at my beginning I pray you to excuse me for my homely speech. In truth, I never learned rhetoric; anything I speak must be bare and plain. I never slept on the Mount of Parnassus, nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero. I know no colors of speech, surely; only such colors as grow in the meadow, or else such as people dye or paint. Colors of rhetoric are too strange for me; my spirit has no feeling in such matters. But if you wish, you shall hear my tale.”

Here begins the Franklin’s Tale.

In Armorica, which is called Brittany, there was a knight who loved and served a lady in the best manner he could. And he underwent many labors and many great enterprises, before he gained her. For she was one of the fairest women under the sun, and had come from such a noble family that this knight scarcely dared for fear to tell her his woe and his pain and distress. But at last she took such pity upon his pains, because of his worthiness and primarily for his humble attentiveness, so that secretly she agreed to take him as husband and lord, in such lordship as men may have over their wives. And in order that they might live more in bliss, he swore to her as a knight, by his own free will, that never at any time in all his life would he take any authority upon himself against her will, nor show jealousy toward her, but obey her and follow her will in all things, as any lover shall do toward his lady; except that he wanted only the sovereignty in name, lest he should shame his rank as husband.

She thanked him, and said with great humility, “Sir, since through your noble mind you offer me so free a rein, God forbid that through my guilt there would ever be war or contention between us two. Sir, I will be your true humble wife until my heart break; take here my pledge.” Thus they were both in quiet and peace.

For one thing, sirs, I dare safely say, friends must comply with one another, if they wish to keep company long. Love will not be constrained by mastery; when mastery comes, the god of love soon beats his wings, and, farewell, he is gone! Love is as free as any spirit. Women by their nature desire liberty and not to be under constraint like a servant; and so do men, if I shall tell the truth. Look who is most patient in love, he has the advantage over all. Patience is a high virtue, certainly; for, as these scholars say, it conquers things that force could never reach.

Men should not scold or complain at every word. Learn to endure, or else, on my life, you shall learn this, whether you wish to or not. For certainly there is nobody in this world who sometimes does not act or speak amiss. Wrath, sickness, the constellation, wine, woe, changing humors, very often cause a man to act or speak amiss.

A man may not be avenged of every wrong; in every creature who knows how to rule his life, there must be moderation, according to the occasion. And therefore, so that he might live at ease, this wise worthy knight promised patience toward her, and she seriously swore to him that there never should be a fault in her. Here one may see a humble and wise agreement; thus she took her servant and her lord: servant in love, and lord in marriage. Then he was in both lordship and servitude. Servitude? No, but superior in lordship, since he has both his ]ady and love; surely, his lady, and his wife as well, who accepted that law of love. And in this happy state he went home with his wife to his country, not far from Penmark, where his dwelling was, and where he lived in happiness and comfort.

Image 5.6: The Franklin’s Tale | A two page featuring a black and white illustration of Dorigen looking out at the rocks on the coast of Brittany, which play an important role in The Franklin’s Tale.

Author: Edward Burne-Jones

Source: Archive.org

License: Public Domain

Who, unless he had been wedded, could tell the joy, the comfort, and wellbeing between husband and wife?

This blessed condition lasted a year and more, until the knight of whom I speak, who was called Arveragus of Kayrrud, laid his plans to go and dwell a year or two in England, which also was called Britain, to seek worship and honor in arms, for he set all his pleasure on such toils. And he dwelt there two years, as the book says.

Now I will leave Arveragus, and will speak of Dorigen his wife, who loved her husband as her heart’s blood. For in his absence she wept and sighed, as these noble wives do (when they will). She mourned, watched, wailed, fasted, lamented; desire for his presence so distracted her that she cared nothing for the whole wide world. Her friends, who knew her heavy thoughts, comforted her in all they could. They preached to her; day and night they told her that she was slaying herself for no good reason, alas! And they comforted her all they could, to make her leave her heaviness.

Through the process of time, as you all know, one may engrave in a stone so long that some figure will be imprinted on it. They comforted her so long that, with the aid of hope and reason, she received the imprint of their consolation. Through this her great sorrow began to assuage; she could not continue forever in such frenzy.

And while she was in all this sorrow, Arveragus had sent home to her letters telling of his welfare, and that he would soon return; otherwise, this sorrow would have slain her heart. Her friends saw her sorrow began to slacken, and on their knees begged her for God’s love to come and roam about with them, to drive away her dark imaginings. And finally she agreed, for well she saw that it was best.

Now her castle stood near to the sea, and for a diversion she often walked with her friends high upon the bank, from which she saw many ships and barges sailing on their course, wherever they would go. But then that became a part of her grief. For often she said to herself, “Alas! Is there no ship of so many that I see that will bring home my lord? Then my heart would be fully cured of its bitter, bitter pains.”

Another time she would sit there and ponder, and from the shore cast her eyes down. But when she saw the grisly black rocks, her heart would so quake for true fear that she could not hold herself on her feet. Then she would sit down on the grass and piteously look into the sea, and with sorrowful, cold sighs say just so: “Eternal God, who through Your providence guides the world by sure government, You make nothing in vain, as they say. But, Lord, these grisly, fiendish, black rocks, which seem more like a foul chaos of work than any fair creation by such a perfect, wise, and unchanging God: why have You created this irrational work? For by this work neither man nor bird nor brute is benefited, south or north, east or west.

“It does no good, in my mind, but harm. Do You not see, Lord, how it destroys mankind? Although they may not be remembered, rocks have slain a hundred thousand bodies of mankind, which is such a fair a part of Your work that You made it in Your own image. Then it should seem You had a great fondness toward men; but how then may it be that You created to destroy them in such a way that do no good, but always harm? I know well that scholars will say as they please by arguments that all is for the best, though I cannot understand their reasons. But may the same God that made the wind blow protect my lord! This is my conclusion; I leave all disputation to scholars. But I wish to God that all these black rocks were sunk into hell, for his sake! These rocks slay my heart for fear.” Thus she would speak to herself, with many piteous tears.

Her friends saw that it was no diversion for her, but only a discomfort, to walk by the sea, and devised for her amusements in other places. They led her by rivers and springs and in other delightful places; they danced and they played at chess and backgammon.

So one day in the morning, they went to amuse themselves for the entire day in a nearby garden, in which they had made their provision of food and other things. This was on the sixth morning of May, and May with his soft rains had painted this garden full of leaves and flowers. And truly the craft of man’s hand had so curiously arrayed this garden that never was a garden of such beauty, unless it would be paradise itself.

The scent and the fresh sight of flowers would have gladdened any heart that was ever born, unless too great a sickness or too great a sorrow distressed it; so full was it of delight and beauty.

After dinner they began to dance and sing, except Dorigen, who always made complaint or moan, because she saw not her husband and also her love enter into the dance. But nevertheless she must wait for a time and with good hope let her sorrow pass.

Upon this dance, among other men, there danced before Dorigen a squire who was fresher and more joyful in apparel than is the month of May, I believe. He sang and danced to surpass any man who is or was since the world was made. He was, if one would describe him, one of the most handsome men alive: young, strong, virtuous, rich, and wise; and well beloved and held in great honor. And in short, if I am to tell the truth, this servant to Venus, this lively squire, who was called Aurelius, had loved Dorigen, entirely without her knowledge, more than any creature for two years and more, as it happened, but never dared he tell her his woe. He drank all his penance without a cup.

He was in despair, he dared say nothing except that in his songs he would reveal his woe to some degree, as in a general complaining; he said he loved, and was in no way beloved. Of such matter he made many lays, songs, complaints, roundels, and virelays, about how he would dare not utter his sorrow, but languishes like a fury in hell; and die he must, he said, as did Echo for Narcissus, who dared not tell her woe. In other manner than this that I speak of he dared not reveal his passion to her; except that, by chance, sometimes at dances, where young people perform their customs of courtship, it may well be that he looked upon her face in such a way as a man who asks for grace; but she knew nothing of his intent.

Nevertheless it happened, before they went from that garden, that because he was her neighbor and a man of good reputation, and she had known him for a long time, they began to speak. And Aurelius drew more and more toward his matter and when he saw his time, he said thus: “Madame, by God That made this world, If I had known it would gladden your heart, I wish that the day when your Arveragus went over the sea, I, Aurelius, had gone to a place from which I never should have returned. For I well know that my service is in vain; my reward is but the breaking of my heart. Have pity upon my bitter pains, Madame, for with a word you may slay me or save me. I wish to God that I were buried here at your feet! I have now no time to say more; have mercy, sweet, or you will cause me to die!”

She looked at Aurelius: “Is this your desire?” she said. “Is this what you wish to say? Never before did I know what was in your mind. But now, Aurelius, I know it. By that God that gave me breath and soul, never in word or deed shall I be an untrue wife. As long as I have any senses, I will be his to whom I am bound. Take this for my final answer.”

But in sport after that she said, “Aurelius, by the high God in heaven, yet would I consent to be your love, since I see you so piteously lamenting. Whenever that day comes that all along the coast of Brittany you remove all the rocks, stone by stone, so that they no longer obstruct the passage of ship or boat—I say, when you have made the coast so clear of rocks that there is no stone to be seen, then I will love you best of all men. Take here my pledge, in all that I can ever do.”

“Is there no other mercy in you?” he said.

“No,” she said, “by that Lord that made me! For I well know that shall never happen. Let such follies pass out of your heart. What delight should a man ever have to go about loving the wife of another man, who has her body whenever he wishes?”

Aurelius gave many sore sighs. He was woeful when he heard this; and with a sorrowful heart he answered, “Madame, this would be impossible! Then I must die of a sudden and horrible death.” And with that word he turned back.

Then many of her other friends came roaming up and down in the paths, and knew nothing of this affair, but speedily began new revel; until the bright sun lost his hue, and the horizon had taken away from him his light (this is as much as to say, it was evening). And they went home in joy and contentment, except, alas, wretched Aurelius alone! He went to his house with sorrowful heart; he saw that he could never escape death, and felt his heart grow cold. Up to the heaven he held his hands and set himself down on his bare knees, and raving said his prayer; for true woe he was out of his wits and knew not what he spoke.

With piteous heart he began his complaint to the gods, and first to the sun: “Apollo,” he said, “lord and ruler of every plant, herb, tree, and flower, who gives to each of them his times and seasons, according to your height in the sky, as your lodging changes toward north or south; lord Phoebus, cast your merciful eye upon wretched Aurelius, who is so lost. Behold, lord, my lady has decreed my guiltless death, unless your kindness should have some pity upon my dying heart. For well I know, lord Phoebus, that you may help me best of all except my lady, if you wish. Now promise to hear me tell you in what way I may be helped.

“Your blessed sister, Lucina the bright, chief goddess and queen of the sea (though Neptune has his godhead in the sea, yet is she empress over him), you well know, lord, that just as it is her desire to be kindled and lightened by your orb, for which reason she follows you eagerly, so too the sea desires by its nature to follow her, being goddess both in the sea and in rivers great and small.

“Therefore, Lord Phoebus, this is my prayer: perform this miracle or break my heart; that now at this next opposition, which shall be in the sign of the Lion, pray Lucina to bring a flood so great that it shall rise above the highest rock in Armorican Britanny by at least five fathoms, and let this flood last two years.

“Then, certainly, I may say to my lady, ‘Keep your promise, the rocks are gone.’ Lord Phoebus, do this miracle; ask her to go the same speed as you; I say, ask your sister that these two years she will go no faster in her course than you. Then shall she always be exactly at full, and the spring flood-tide will last day and night. And if she will not promise to grant me my dear sovereign lady in such a manner, pray her to sink every rock into her own dark region under the ground where Pluto dwells, or nevermore shall I gain my lady. Barefoot I will go a pilgrimage to your temple at Delphi. Lord Phoebus; see the tears on my cheeks, and have some pity on my pains.”

And with that he fell down in a swoon and for a long time lay in a trance. His brother, who knew his trouble, caught him up and brought him to his bed. In this woe and torment I let this woeful creature lie in despair. He may choose, as far as I am concerned, whether he will live or die.

Arveragus was come home, with other valiant knights, in health and great honor as the flower of chivalry. Oh, now you are happy, Dorigen, who has in your arms your lively husband, the vigorous knight, the valiant warrior, who loves you as his own heart’s life. He never thought to be suspicious whether any creature had spoken to her of love while he was gone; he had no fear of that. He gave no heed to any such matter, but danced, jousted, and showed her great enjoyment. Thus I leave them in happiness and bliss, and will tell of the sick Aurelius.

Two years and more the wretched Aurelius lay in languor and mad torment, before he could walk a step on earth; and he had no comfort in this time, except from his brother, a scholar, who knew of all this woeful matter. For in truth he dared say no word about it to any other creature. He carried it under his breast more secretly than Pamphilus carried his love for Galatea. His breast was whole, to outward view, but ever in his heart was the keen arrow. And you well know that in surgery the cure of a wound healed only on the surface is perilous, unless men could touch the arrow or get at it.

His brother wept and wailed privately, until at last it came to his mind that while he was at Orleans, in France, as young scholars who are desirous of studying curious arts seek in every nook and corner to learn this special knowledge, it came to his mind that, one day while he studied at Orleans, he saw a book of natural magic, which his friend, who was then a bachelor of law, had secretly left upon his desk, though he was there for a different field of study. This book spoke much of the celestial influences concerning the twenty-eight mansions which belong to the moon, and such folly as is not worth a fly in our day. For the faith of the Holy Church that is in our doctrine will not allow any illusion to harm us.

And as soon as he remembered this book his heart began to dance for joy, and he said quietly to himself, “My brother shall be cured speedily; for I am sure there are arts by which men create various apparitions, such as these deceiving magicians conjure up. For often at feasts, I have heard tell, within a large hall these magicians have made water and a barge come in and row up and down in the hall. Sometimes a grim lion has seemed to come, and sometimes flowers spring as in a meadow, sometimes a vine, with grapes white and red, sometimes a castle of mortar and stone. And when they wished, they caused it all to disappear immediately; so it seemed to every man’s sight.

“Now then, I conclude thus, that if I could find some old comrade at Orleans who is acquainted with these mansions of the moon, or other natural magic besides, he should well cause my brother to possess his love. For by means of an illusion a clerk may make it appear to a man’s sight that every one of the black rocks of Brittany be removed, and that ships come and go along the shore, and that this continue a day or two in such form. Then my brother would be entirely cured. Then she must keep her promise, or else at least he shall shame her.”

Why should I make this a longer story? He came to his brother’s bed and gave him such encouragement to go to Orleans that he started up at once and went ahead on his way in hopes to be relieved of his care. When they had almost arrived at that city, about two or three furlongs away, they met a young clerk roaming by himself who greeted them politely in Latin, and then said a marvelous thing. “I know the cause of your coming,” he said. And before they went a foot further, he told them all that was in their minds. This scholar of Brittany asked him about the companions whom he had known in old days, and he answered him that they were dead; for which he wept many tears.

Aurelius alighted quickly from his horse and went forth home to his house with this magician, who made them well at ease; no provision that might give pleasure. Aurelius had never seen in his life a house so well appointed.

Before he went to supper, the magician showed him forests and parks full of wild beasts; there he saw harts with their lofty horns, the largest that eye ever saw. He beheld a hundred of them slain by dogs, and some bleeding from bitter arrow-wounds. When these wild deer vanished, he saw falconers upon a fair river, slaying the heron with their hawks. Then he saw knights jousting on a plain. And after this, the magician did him the pleasure to show him his lady in a dance, in which he himself was dancing, as it seemed to him. And when this master who created the magic saw that it was time, he clapped his hands, and, farewell, all our revel was gone.

And yet while they saw all this marvelous sight, they never stirred out of the house, but sat still in his study, where his books were, and no other creature but the three of them.

This master called his squire to him, and said thus: “Is our supper ready? It is almost an hour, I will swear, since I told you make our supper, when these honorable men went with me into my study, where my books are.”

“Sir,” said this squire, “when it pleases you it will be entirely ready, even if you wish to have it right now.” “Let us go to supper, then,” he said, “that is best. These people in love must take repose sometime.”

After supper they fell into talk over the sum which should be this master’s reward for removing all the rocks of Brittany, and from the Gironde to the mouth of Seine. He raised difficulties and swore that he would not have less than a thousand pounds, and he would not be glad to do it for that sum, so God save him!

Aurelius answered directly, with a joyous heart, “Fie on a thousand pound! I would give this wide world, which men say is a ball, if I were lord of it. This bargain is done, for we are agreed. You shall be paid faithfully, by my word. But take care now that you delay us here no longer than tomorrow, for any negligence or sloth.”

“No,” this clerk said, “take here my faith in pledge to you.”

Aurelius went to bed when he wished, and rested nearly all that night. Despite all his labor and his hope of bliss, his woeful heart had relief from suffering. In the morning, when it was day, they took the shortest road to Brittany, Aurelius and this magician, and dismounted at the place where they wished to be. And, as books remind me, this was the cold, frosty season of December. Phoebus grew old and of hue like latten, who in his hot declination shone with his bright beams like burnished gold; but now he had descended into Capricorn, where he shone fully pale, I dare well say. The bitter frosts, with sleet and rain, have destroyed the green in every garden. Janus with his double beard sits by the fire and drinks the wine out of his ox-horn; before him stands brawn of the tusked boar, and every lusty man cries, “Noel!”

Aurelius offered his master all the hospitality and reverence he could, and asked him to do his duty to bring him out of his bitter pains, or with a sword he would slit his own heart. This cunning scholar so pitied this man that he made as much haste as he could, day and night, to look for the most beneficial time for his experiment; that is to say, to create an appearance, by such an illusion or crafty trick—I do not have vocabulary of astrology—that she and every person should think and say that the rocks of Brittany were gone, or else sunk under the earth.

So at last he found his time to work his tricks and stage his miserable performance of wicked superstition. He brought forth his Toledo tables, well corrected; there lacked nothing, neither his tables of collected or expanded years, nor his roots, nor his other gear, such as his centres and his arguments, and his tables of proportional parts for his equations. And for his calculations he knew full well how far Alnath in the eighth sphere was pushed from the head of that fixed Aries above, which is calculated to be in the ninth sphere; cunningly he calculated by means of all this. When he had found his first mansion, by proportion he knew the rest, and he well knew the rising of his moon, in which was the planet’s face and term, and all the rest. And he knew well the moon to be in a mansion favorable to his enterprise, and knew also the other matters to be observed for working such illusions and such misdoings as heathen people used in those days.

For this reason he no longer delayed, but through his magic it seemed for a week or two that all the rocks were gone. Aurelius, who was still despairing whether he should have his love or fare badly, waited night and day for this miracle. And when he knew that there was no hindrance, but that every rock was gone, he fell down at his master’s feet immediately and said, “I, Aurelius, woeful wretch, thank you, lord, and Venus my lady, who have helped me from my cold misery.” And he made his way forth to the temple where he knew he should see his lady. And when he saw his time, he then saluted his dear sovereign lady with a timid heart and humble face.

This woeful man said, “My own lady, whom I most fear and love as best I know how, and whom of all this world I would be most loathe to displease, if I did not suffer so much distress for the love of you that soon I must die here at your feet, I should never tell you how woebegone I am. But surely I must either die or make my complaint, as you slay me, an innocent man, with true pain. But though you have no pity for my death, consider this carefully before you break your pledge.

“For the sake of God in heaven, please repent before you murder me because I love you. For well you know what you promised, Madame; not that I claim anything of you as a right, my sovereign lady, but only ask it as a favor. Nevertheless, in a garden yonder, at such a spot, you know very well what you promised me, and you pledged your word in my hand, to love me best; God knows, you said so, though I may be unworthy of it. Madame, I say it for your honor, more than to save my heart’s life; I have done as you said, and if you wish, you may go and see. Do as you wish; remember your promise, for, alive or dead, you shall find me right in that garden. It all depends on you, to make me live or die. But well I know the rocks are gone.

He takes his leave, and she stood astonished; not a drop of blood was in all her face. She thought never to have come into such a trap. She said, “Alas that ever this should happen! For I never deemed that such a monstrosity or marvel could happen, by any possibility. It is against the course of nature. And home she went, a sorrowful creature; scarcely could she walk for utter fear, and for a whole day or two she wept and wailed and swooned, so that it was pitiful to behold. But why she was so she told no creature, for Arveragus was gone out of town.

But with a pale face and sorrowful expression she spoke to herself, and said thus in her complaint as I shall tell you. She said, “Alas! I complain about you, Fortune, who has bound me unawares in your chain, from which to escape I know no help, except only death or dishonor; one of these two it is necessary for me to choose. But nevertheless I had rather forfeit my life than have shame on my body, or lose my fair reputation, or know myself false. And by my death, surely, I may escape.

“Alas, have not many noble wives and many maidens slain themselves before this, rather than do wrong with her body? Yes, surely; lo! These histories testify it. When the thirty tyrants, full of cursedness, had slain Phidon at a feast in Athens, by their malice they commanded men to arrest his daughters and bring them before them entirely naked, to fulfill their foul pleasure, and they made them dance in their father’s blood upon the pavement. May God give them damnation! For this reason these woeful maidens, in fear of this, secretly leaped into a well and drowned themselves, rather than lose their maidenhood; so the books relate.

“The people of Messene had fifty Lacedaemon maidens sought out, with whom they wished to satisfy their lust; but of that entire band there was none who was not slain, and with good will chose to die rather than consent to be robbed of her maidenhood. Why should I, then, fear to die?

“Lo also, the tyrant Aristoclides. He loved a maiden named Stymphalides, who, when her father was slain one night, went directly to Diana’s temple, and laid hold of the image of Diana with her two hands, and would never let go. No creature could tear her hands from it, until she was slain in that very place. Now since maidens have had such scorn to be defiled with man’s base pleasure, it seems to me that a wife ought indeed rather to slay herself than be defiled.

“What shall I say of Hasdrubal’s wife, who slew herself at Carthage? For when she saw that the Romans had won the city, she took all her children and skipped down into the fire, and chose rather to die than that any Roman dishonored her.

“Did not Lucrece slay herself at Rome, alas, when she was violated by Tarquin, because she deemed it a shame to live when she had lost her honor?

The seven maidens of Miletus also for true fear and woe slew themselves rather than the people of Gaul should violate them.

I could tell now more than a thousand stories, I believe, concerning this matter. When Abradates was slain, his dear wife slew herself and let her blood flow into Abradates’ deep, wide wounds, saying, “My body, at least, no creature shall defile, if I can hinder it.”

“Why should I cite more examples of this, since so many have slain themselves rather than be defiled? I will end thus, for it is better for me to slay myself than so to be defiled. I will be true to Arveragus, or slay myself in some way, as did the dear daughter of Democion, because she would not be defiled. O Scedasus, it is a great pity to read how your daughters died, who slew themselves for the same cause, alas! It was as great pity, or indeed greater, for the Theban maiden that slew herself even for the same grief, to escape Nicanor. Another Theban maiden did likewise; because one of Macedonia had violated her, she redressed her maidenhood by her death. What shall I say of the wife of Niceratus, who for a like cause took her life? How true also was his love to Alcibiades, and chose rather to die than to suffer his body to be unburied! Lo, what a wife was Alcestis! What says Homer of Penelope the good? All Greece knows of her chastity. It is written thus of Laodamia, in truth, that when Protesilaus was slain at Troy, she would live no longer after his days. I may tell the same of noble Portia; she could not live without Brutus, to whom she had fully given her whole heart. The perfect wifehood of Artemisia is honored through all barbarian lands. O queen Teuta, your wifely chastity may be a mirror to all wives. The same thing I say of Bilia, of Rhodogune and of Valeria.”

Thus Dorigen made her complaint a day or two, at all times intending to die. But nevertheless Arveragus, this worthy knight, came home the third evening, and asked her why she wept so sorely. And she began to weep ever more bitterly.

“Alas that ever I was born! Thus I said,” she said, “this was my oath,” and she told him what you have already heard; there is no need to tell more.

This husband, with cheerful countenance and in friendly fashion, answered and said as I shall tell you; “Is there anything else but this, Dorigen?”

“Nay, nay,” she said, “so may God help me; God forbid there would be more; this is too much.”

“Yes, wife,” he replied; “leave sleeping that which is quiet. It may yet be well today, by chance. You shall keep your pledge, by my faith! For may God so surely have mercy on me, for the true love I have for you I had far rather be stabbed to the heart, than you should not hold your pledge. A promise is the highest thing that a man may keep.” But with that word he burst out weeping immediately, and said, “I forbid you, on pain of death, as long as your life lasts, to tell this matter to any creature. I will endure all my woe as best I can, and make no such sign of grief that people might judge or guess harm of you.”

And he called forth a squire and maid, and said, “Go forth directly with Dorigen and bring her to such a place.” They took their leave and went their way, but they knew not why she went there. He would tell his intention to no creature. Perhaps in truth many of you will think him a foolish man in this, that he would put his wife in jeopardy; listen to the tale, before you exclaim against her. She may have better fortune than you might suppose; and when you have heard the tale, you may judge.

This squire Aurelius, who was so amorous of Dorigen, happened by chance to meet her amidst the town, right in the busiest street, as she was bound straight for the garden where she had promised to go. And he also was bound for the garden; for he always noted well when she would go out of her house to any place. But thus they met, by chance or good fortune; and he saluted her with joyous mood, and asked where she was going.

And she answered, as if she were mad, “To the garden, as my husband ordered, to keep my promise, Alas! Alas!” Aurelius wondered about what had happened, and in his heart he had great compassion about her and her lament, and about Arveragus, the worthy knight who had told her to maintain everything she had promised, so loath was he that his wife should break her pledge. And Aurelius’ heart was moved to great pity, and this made him consider carefully what would be best, so that he felt he would rather refrain from his desire rather than to be guilty of such a wretched and dishonorable act against nobility and all gentility.

For this reason he said thus in few words: “Madame, say to Arveragus, your lord, that since I see his great nobility to you (and I well see your distress), that it seemed better to him to suffer shame (and that would be a pity) than you should break your pledge to me, I would rather suffer perpetual woe than part the love between you. Into your hand, Madame, I release, cancelled, every assurance and every bond that you have made to me to this day from the time when you were born. I pledge my word that I shall never reproach you on the score of any promise. And here I take my leave of the best and truest wife that in all my days I have ever known. But let every woman beware what she promises; let her at least think of Dorigen.” Thus surely a squire can do a gentle deed, as well as can a knight.

She thanked him upon her bare knees, and went home to her husband and told him everything, even as you have heard me tell it. And be assured, he was so well pleased that I could not tell how much; why should I explain this matter any further? Arveragus and his wife Dorigen led forth their days in sovereign bliss.

Never again was there trouble between them. Evermore he cherished her as though she were a queen, and she was true to him. Concerning these two people you will get no more from me.

Aurelius, who had forfeited all the expense, cursed the time when he was born. “Alas! alas!” he said, “that I promised a thousand pounds’ weight of refined gold to this philosopher! What shall I do? I see nothing more but that I am undone. I must sell my heritage and be a beggar. I cannot remain here and shame all my family here, unless I can gain his mercy. But nevertheless I will seek of him to let me pay on certain days each year, and will thank him for his great courtesy. I will keep my word, I will not be false.”

With sore heart he went to his coffer and brought to this clerk gold of the value of five hundred pounds, I believe, and asked him through his noble courtesy to grant him certain days to pay the remnant, and said, “Master, I dare well boast that I never failed of my word as yet. For truly my debt shall be paid to you, whatever may happen to me, even if I must go begging in my undergarments alone. But would you promise, upon security, to give me a respite for two or three years; then it will be well with me. For otherwise I must sell my heritage. There is no more to say.”

This philosopher answered gravely and said thus, when he heard these words, “Have I not kept my covenant with you?”

“Yes, surely, well and truly,” he said. “Have you not had your lady just as you desired?”

“No, no,” he said and sighed sorrowfully.

“What was the cause? Tell me, if you can.”

Aurelius began his tale immediately, and told him everything, as you have heard. There is no need to rehearse it again. He said, “Arveragus on account of his nobility would rather have died in sorrow and woe than that his wife would be false to her pledge.” He told him also the sorrow of Dorigen, how loath she was to be a wicked wife, and that she had rather have died that day, and that it was through innocence she had sworn her oath. “She never heard tell before of magic illusion; that made me have pity upon her. And just as he sent her freely to me, so freely I sent her back to him. This is everything; there is no more to say.”

This philosopher answered: “Dear friend, each of you did a gentle deed toward the other. You are a squire, he is a knight. But may God in his blessed power forbid, but a clerk may truly do a gentle deed as well as any of you.

Sir, I release you from your debt of a thousand pounds, as freely as if you had only now crept out of the earth and had never known me before now. For, sir, I will not take a penny from you for all my skill and all my labor. You have paid well for my subsistence. It is enough. And farewell, and have a good day.” And he took his horse and went forth on his journey.

Gentle people, I would ask you this question now: Which do you think was the most noble? Now tell me, before you go farther. I know no more; my tale is finished.

Here is ended the Franklin’s Tale.

THE DECAMERON

Giovanni Boccaccio ( 13131375 C.E.)

Begun ca. 1349 and finished by 1353 C.E.

Italy

Boccaccio began writing his Decameron shortly after an outbreak of the plague in Florence, Italy, in 1348 that killed about three quarters of the population. The introduction to this frame tale depicts the horrors of the plague, with vivid descriptions of the dying and laments about the lack of a cure. In his story, seven women and three men leave Florence to take refuge in the countryside. They justify their decision in several ways: the right to self-preservation; the bad morals and lewd behavior of many of their neighbors (who are convinced that they are going to die anyway); and their own feelings of abandonment by their families. They decide to tell stories to pass the time: one story each for ten days (the Greek for “ten” is “deka” and for “day” is “hemera,” from which Boccaccio derives his title). Each day, one of them chooses a theme for the stories. As entertaining as the stories are, the discussions between the stories are what make the collection special; the speakers carry on a battle of the sexes as they debate the meaning and relative value of each story. The same dynamic can be found in two other frame tales in this anthology, one of which was influenced by the Decameron: the Thousand and One Nights (written before the Decameron) with its gripping frame story of Shahrazad; and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, with the conversations (and arguments) among the pilgrims who are telling the tales.

Written by Laura J. Getty

5.4.1 The Decameron

Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by John Payne

License: Public Domain

Introduction

To the Ladies

Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by Léopold Flameng

License: Public Domain

When I reflect how disposed you are by nature to compassion, I cannot help being apprehensive lest what I now offer to your acceptance should seem to have but a harsh and offensive beginning; for it presents at the very outset the mournful remembrance of that most fatal plague, so terrible yet in the memories of us all. But let not this dismay you from reading further, as though every page were to cost you sighs and tears. Rather let this beginning, disagreeable as it is, seem to you but as a rugged and steep mountain placed before a delightful valley, which appears more beautiful and pleasant, as the way to it was more difficult: for as joy usually ends in sorrow, so again the end of sorrow is joy. To this short fatigue (I call it short, because contained in few words,) immediately succeeds the mirth and pleasure I had before promised you; and which, but for that promise, you would scarcely expect to find. And in truth could I have brought you by any other way than this, I would gladly have done it: but as the occasion of the occurrences, of which I am going to treat, could not well be made out without such a relation, I am forced to use this Introduction.

In the year then of our Lord 1348, there happened at Florence, the finest city in all Italy, a most terrible plague; which, whether owing to the influence of the planets, or that it was sent from God as a just punishment for our sins, had broken out some years before in the Levant, and after passing from place to place, and making incredible havoc all the way, had now reached the west. There, spite of all the means that art and human foresight could suggest, such as keeping the city clear from filth, the exclusion of all suspected persons, and the publication of copious instructions for the preservation of health; and notwithstanding manifold humble supplications offered to God in processions and otherwise; it began to show itself in the spring of the aforesaid year, in a sad and wonderful manner. Unlike what had been seen in the east, where bleeding from the nose is the fatal prognostic, here there appeared certain tumours in the groin or under the arm-pits, some as big as a small apple, others as an egg; and afterwards purple spots in most parts of the body; in some cases large and but few in number, in others smaller and more numerous—both sorts the usual messengers of death. To the cure of this malady, neither medical knowledge nor the power of drugs was of any effect; whether because the disease was in its own nature mortal, or that the physicians (the number of whom, taking quacks and women pretenders into the account, was grown very great,) could form no just idea of the cause, nor consequently devise a true method of cure; whichever was the reason, few escaped; but nearly all died the third day from the first appearance of the symptoms, some sooner, some later, without any fever or other accessory symptoms. What gave the more virulence to this plague, was that, by being communicated from the sick to the hale, it spread daily, like fire when it comes in contact with large masses of combustibles. Nor was it caught only by conversing with, or coming near the sick, but even by touching their clothes, or anything that they had before touched. It is wonderful, what I am going to mention; and had I not seen it with my own eyes, and were there not many witnesses to attest it besides myself, I should never venture to relate it, however worthy it were of belief. Such, I say, was the quality of the pestilential matter, as to pass not only from man to man, but, what is more strange, it has been often known, that anything belonging to the infected, if touched by any other creature, would certainly infect, and even kill that creature in a short space of time. One instance of this kind I took particular notice of: the rags of a poor man just dead had been thrown into the street; two hogs came up, and after rooting amongst the rags, and shaking them about in their mouths, in less than an hour they both turned round, and died on the spot.

These facts, and others of the like sort, occasioned various fears and devices amongst those who survived, all tending to the same uncharitable and cruel end; which was, to avoid the sick, and everything that had been near them, expecting by that means to save themselves. And some holding it best to live temperately, and to avoid excesses of all kinds, made parties, and shut themselves up from the rest of the world; eating and drinking moderately of the best, and diverting themselves with music, and such other entertainments as they might have within door; never listening to anything from without, to make them uneasy. Others maintained free living to be a better preservative, and would baulk no passion or appetite they wished to gratify, drinking and reveling incessantly from tavern to tavern, or in private houses (which were frequently found deserted by the owners, and therefore common to every one), yet strenuously avoiding, with all this brutal indulgence, to come near the infected. And such, at that time, was the public distress, that the laws, human and divine, were no more regarded; for the officers, to put them in force, being either dead, sick, or in want of persons to assist them, every one did just as he pleased. A third sort of people chose a method between these two: not confining themselves to rules of diet like the former, and yet avoiding the intemperance of the latter ; but eating and drinking what their appetites required, they walked everywhere with odours and nose gays to smell to ; as holding it best to corroborate the brain: for the whole atmosphere seemed to them tainted with the stench of dead bodies, arising partly from the distemper itself, and partly from the fermenting of the medicines within them. Others with less humanity, but perchance, as they supposed, with more security from danger, decided that the only remedy for the pestilence was to avoid it: persuaded, therefore, of this, and taking care for themselves only, men and women in great numbers left the city, their houses, relations, and effects, and fled into the country: as if the wrath of God had been restrained to visit those only within the walls of the city; or else concluding, that none ought to stay in a place thus doomed to destruction.

Thus divided as they were in their views, neither did all die, nor all escape; but falling sick indifferently, as well those of one as of another opinion; they who first set the example by forsaking others, now languished themselves without pity. I pass over the little regard that citizens and relations showed to each other; for their terror was such, that a brother even fled from his brother, a wife from her husband, and, what is more uncommon, a parent from his own child. Hence numbers that fell sick could have no help but what the charity of friends, who were very few, or the avarice of servants supplied; and even these were scarce and at extravagant wages, and so little used to the business that they were fit only to reach what was called for, and observe when their employer died; and this desire of getting money often cost them their lives. From this desertion of friends, and scarcity of servants, an unheard-of custom prevailed; no lady, however young or handsome, would scruple to be attended by a man-servant, whether young or old it mattered not, and to expose herself naked to him, the necessity of the distemper requiring it, as though it was to a woman; which might make those who recovered, less modest for the time to come. And many lost their lives, who might have escaped, had they been looked after at all. So that, between the scarcity of servants, and the violence of the distemper, such numbers were continually dying, as made it terrible to hear as well as to behold. Whence, from mere necessity, many customs were introduced different from what had been before known in the city.

It had been usual, as it now is, for the women who were friends and neighbours to the deceased, to meet together at his house, and to lament with his relations; at the same time the men would get together at the door, with a number of clergy, according to the person’s circumstances; and the corpse was carried by people of his own rank, with the solemnity of tapers and singing, to that church where the deceased had desired to be buried. This custom was now laid aside, and, so far from having a crowd of women to lament over them, great numbers passed out of the world without a witness. Few were they who had the tears of their friends at their departure; those friends were laughing and making themselves merry the while; for even the women had learned to postpone every other concern to that of their own lives. Nor was a corpse attended by more than ten or a dozen, nor those citizens of credit, but fellows hired for the purpose; who would put themselves under the bier, and carry it with all possible haste to the nearest church; and the corpse was interred, without any great ceremony, where they could find room. With regard to the lower sort, and many of a middling rank, the scene was still more affecting; for they staying at home either through poverty or hopes of succour in distress, fell sick daily by thousands, and, having nobody to attend them, generally died: some breathed their last in the streets, and others shut up in their own houses, where the stench that came from them made the first discovery of their deaths to the neighbourhood. And, indeed, every place was filled with the dead. Hence it became a general practice, as well out of regard for the living as pity for the dead, for the neighbours, assisted by what porters they could meet with, to clear all the houses, and lay the bodies at the doors; and every morning great numbers might be seen brought out in this manner, to be carried away on biers, or tables, two or three at a time; and sometimes it has happened that a wife and her husband, two or three brothers, and a father and son, have been laid on together. It has been observed also, whilst two or three priests have walked before a corpse with their crucifix, that two or three sets of porters have fallen in with them; and where they knew but of one dead body, they have buried six, eight, or more : nor was there any to follow, and shed a few tears over them ; for things were come to that pass, that men’s lives were no more regarded than the lives of so many beasts. Thus it plainly appeared, that what the wisest in the ordinary course of things, and by a common train of calamities, could never be taught, namely, to bear them patiently, this, by the excess of calamity, was now grown a familiar lesson to the most simple and unthinking. The consecrated ground no longer containing the numbers which were continually brought thither, especially as they were desirous of laying every one in the parts allotted to their families, they were forced to dig trenches, and to put them in by hundreds, piling them up in rows, as goods are stowed in a ship, and throwing in a little earth till they were filled to the top.

Not to dwell upon every particular of our misery, I shall observe, that it fared no better with the adjacent country; for, to omit the different boroughs about us, which presented the same view in miniature with the city, you might see the poor distressed labourers, with their families, without either the aid of physicians, or help of servants, languishing on the highways, in the fields, and in their own houses, and dying rather like cattle than human creatures. The consequence was that, growing dissolute in their manners like the citizens, and careless of everything, as supposing every day to be their last, their thoughts were not so much employed how to improve, as how to use their substance for their present support. The oxen, asses, sheep, goats, swine, and the dogs themselves, ever faithful to their masters, being driven from their own homes, were left to roam at will about the fields, and among the standing corn, which no one cared to gather, or even to reap ; and many times, after they had filled themselves in the day, the animals would return of their own accord like rational creatures at night.

What can I say more, if I return to the city? Unless that such was the cruelty of Heaven, and perhaps of men, that between March and July following, according to authentic reckonings, upwards of a hundred thousand souls perished in the city only; whereas, before that calamity, it was not supposed to have contained so many inhabitants. What magnificent dwellings, what noble palaces were then depopulated to the last inhabitant! What families became extinct! What riches and vast possessions were left, and no known heir to inherit them! What numbers of both sexes, in the prime and vigour of youth, whom in the morning neither Galen, Hippocrates, nor Æsculapius himself, would have denied to be in perfect health, breakfasted in the morning with their living friends, and supped at night with their departed friends in the other world or else to show by our habits the greatness of our distress. And if we go hence, it is either to see multitudes of the dead and sick carried along the streets; or persons who had been outlawed for their villanies, now facing it out publicly, in safe defiance of the laws; or the scum of the city, enriched with the public calamity, and insulting us with ribald ballads. Nor is anything now talked of, but that such a one is dead, or dying; and, were any left to mourn, we should hear nothing but lamentations. Or if we go home — I know not whether it fares with you as with myself—when I find out of a numerous family not one left besides a maidservant, I am frightened out of my senses; and go where I will, the ghosts of the departed seem always before me; not like the persons whilst they were living, but assuming a ghastly and dreadful aspect. Therefore the case is the same, whether we stay here, depart hence, or go home; especially as there are few left but ourselves who are able to go, and have a place to go to. Those few too, I am told, fall into all sorts of debauchery; and even cloistered ladies, supposing themselves entitled to equal liberties with others, are as bad as the worst. Now if this be so (as you see plainly it is), what do we here? What are we dreaming of? Why are we less regardful of our lives than other people of theirs? Are we of less value to ourselves, or are our souls and bodies more firmly united, and so in less danger of dissolution? It is monstrous to think in such a manner; so many of both sexes dying of this distemper in the very prime of their youth afford us an undeniable argument to the contrary. Wherefore, lest through our own willfulness or neglect, this calamity, which might have been prevented, should befall us, I should think it best (and I hope you will join with me,) for us to quit the town, and avoiding, as we would death itself, the bad example of others, to choose some place of retirement, of which every one of us has more than one, where we may make ourselves innocently merry, without offering the least violence to the dictates of reason and our own consciences. There will our ears be entertained with the warbling of the birds, and our eyes with the verdure of the hills and valleys; with the waving of cornfields like the sea itself; with trees of a thousand different kinds, and a more open and serene sky; which, however overcast, yet affords a far more agreeable prospect than these desolate walls. The air also is pleasanter, and there is greater plenty of everything, attended with few inconveniences: for, though people die there as well as here, yet we shall have fewer such objects before us, as the inhabitants are less in number; and on the other part, if I judge right, we desert nobody, but are rather ourselves forsaken. For all our friends, either by death, or endeavouring to avoid it, have left us, as if we in no way belonged to them. As no blame then can ensue from following this advice, and perhaps sickness and death from not doing so, I would have us take our maids, and everything we may be supposed to want, and enjoy all the diversions which the season will permit, to-day in one place, to-morrow in another; and so continue to do, unless death should interpose, until we see what end Providence designs for these things. And of this too let me remind you, that our characters will stand as fair by our going away reputably, as those of others will do who stay at home with discredit.”

The ladies having heard what Pampinea had to offer, not only approved of it, but had actually began to concert measures for their instant departure, when Filomena, who was a most discreet person, remarked: “Though Pampinea has spoken well, yet there is no occasion to run headlong into the affair, as you are about to do. We are but women, nor is any of us so ignorant as not to know how little able we shall be to conduct such an affair, without some man to help us. We are naturally fickle, obstinate, suspicious, and fearful; and I doubt much, unless we take somebody into our scheme to manage it for us, lest it soon be at an end; and perhaps, little to our reputation. Let us provide against this, therefore, before we begin.”

Eliza then replied: “It is true, man is our sex’s chief or head, and without his management, it seldom happens that any undertaking of ours succeeds well. But how are these men to be come at? We all know that the greater part of our male acquaintance are dead, and the rest all dispersed abroad, avoiding what we seek to avoid, and without our knowing where to find them. To take strangers with us, would not be altogether so proper: for, whilst we have regard to our health, we should so contrive matters, that, wherever we go to repose and divert ourselves, no scandal may ensue from it.”

Whilst this matter was in debate, behold, three gentlemen came into the church, the youngest not less than twenty-five years of age, and in whom neither the adversity of the times, the loss of relations and friends, nor even fear for themselves, could stifle, or indeed cool, the passion of love. One was called Pamfilo, the second Filostrato, and the third Dioneo, all of them well bred, and pleasant companions; and who, to divert themselves in this time of affliction, were then in pursuit of their mistresses, who as it chanced were three of these seven ladies, the other four being all related to one or other of them. These gentlemen were no sooner within view, than the ladies had immediately their eyes upon them, and Pampinea said, with a smile, “See, fortune is with us, and has thrown in our way three prudent and worthy gentlemen, who will conduct and wait upon us, if we think fit to accept of their service.” Neifile, with a blush, because she was one that had an admirer, answered: “Take care what you say, I know them all indeed to be persons of character, and fit to be trusted, even in affairs of more consequence, and in better company; but, as some of them are enamoured of certain ladies here, I am only concerned lest we be drawn into some scrape or scandal, without either our fault or theirs.” Filomena replied: “Never tell me what other people may think, so long as I know myself to be virtuous; God and the truth will be my defence; and if they be willing to go, we will say with Pampinea, that fortune is with us.”

The rest hearing her speak in this manner, gave consent that the gentlemen should be invited to partake in this expedition. Without more words, Pampinea, who was related to one of the three rose up, and made towards them, as they stood watching at a distance. Then, after a cheerful salutation, she acquainted them with the design in hand, and entreated that they would, out of pure friendship, oblige them with their company. The gentlemen at first took it all for a jest, but, being assured to the contrary, immediately answered that they were ready; and, to lose no time, gave the necessary orders for what they wished to have done. Every thing being thus prepared, and a messenger dispatched before, whither they intended to go, the next morning, which was Wednesday, by break of day, the ladies, with some of their women, and the gentlemen, with every one his servant, set out from the city, and, after they had travelled two short miles, came to the place appointed.

It was a little eminence, remote from any great road, covered with trees and shrubs of an agreeable verdure; and on the top was a stately palace, with a grand and beautiful court in the middle: within were galleries, and fine apartments elegantly fitted up, and adorned with most curious paintings; around it were fine meadows, and most delightful gardens, with fountains of the purest and best water. The vaults also were stored with the richest wines, suited rather to the taste of copious topers, than of modest and virtuous ladies. This palace they found cleared out, and everything set in order for their reception, with the rooms all graced with the flowers of the season, to their great satisfaction. The party being seated, Dioneo, who was the pleasantest of them all, and full of words, began “Your wisdom it is, ladies, rather than any foresight of ours, which has brought us hither. I know not how you have disposed of your cares; as for mine, I left them all behind me when I came from home. Either prepare, then, to be as merry as myself (I mean with decency), or give me leave to go back again, and resume my cares where I left them.” Pampinea made answer, as if she had disposed of hers in like manner: “You say right, sir, we will be merry; we fled from our troubles for no other reason. But, as extremes are never likely to last, I, who first proposed the means by which such an agreeable company is now met together, being desirous to make our mirth of some continuance, do find there is a necessity for our appointing a principal, whom we shall honour and obey in all things as our head; and whose province it shall be to regulate our diversions. And that every one may make trial of the burthen which attends care, as well as the pleasure which there is in superiority, nor therefore envy what he has not yet tried, I hold it best that every one should experience both the trouble and the honour for one day. The first, I propose, shall be elected by us all, and, on the approach of evening, hall name a person to succeed for the following day: and each one, during the time of his or her government, shall give orders concerning the place where, and the manner how, we are to live.”

These words were received with the highest satisfaction, and the speaker was, with one consent, appointed president for the first day: whilst Filomena, running to a laurel-tree, (for she had often heard how much that tree has always been esteemed, and what honour was conferred on those who were deservedly crowned with it,) made a garland, and put it upon Pampinea’s head. That garland, whilst the company continued together, was ever after to be the ensign of sovereignty.

Pampinea, being thus elected queen, enjoined silence, and having summoned to her presence the gentlemen’s servants, and their own women, who were four in number: “To give you the first example,” said she, “how, by proceeding from good to better, we may live orderly and pleasantly, and continue together, without the least reproach, as long as we please, in the first place I declare Parmeno, Dioneo’s servant, master of my household, and to him I commit the care of my family, and everything relating to my hall. Sirisco, Pamfilo’s servant, I appoint my treasurer, and to be under the direction of Parmeno; and Tindaro I command to wait on Filostrato and the other two gentlemen, whilst their servants are thus employed. Mysia, my woman, and Licisca, Filomena’s, I order into the kitchen, there to get ready what shall be provided by Parmeno. To Lauretta’s Chimera, and Fiammetta’s Stratilia, I give the care of the ladies’ chambers, and to keep the room clean where we sit. And I will and command you all, on pain of my displeasure, that wherever you go, or whatever you hear and see, you bring no news here but what is good.” These orders were approved by all; and the queen, rising from her seat, with a good deal of gaiety, added: “Here are gardens and meadows, where you may divert yourselves till nine o’clock, when I shall expect you back, that we may dine in the cool of the day.”

The company were now at liberty, and the gentlemen and ladies took a pleasant walk in the garden, talking over a thousand merry things by the way, and diverting themselves by singing love songs, and weaving garlands of flowers. Returning at the time appointed, they found Parmeno busy in the execution of his office: for in a saloon below was the table set forth, covered with the neatest linen, with glasses reflecting a lustre like silver: and water having been presented to them to wash their hands, by the queen’s order, Parmeno desired them to sit down. The dishes were now served up in the most elegant manner, and the best wines brought in, the servants waiting all the time with the most profound silence; and being well pleased with their entertainment, they dined with all the facetiousness and mirth imaginable. When dinner was over, as they could all dance, and some both play and sing well, the queen ordered in the musical instruments. Dioneo took a lute, and Fiammetta a viol, in obedience to the royal command; a dance was struck up, and the queen, with the rest of the company, took an agreeable turn or two, whilst the servants were sent to dinner; and when the dance was ended, they began to sing, and continued till the queen thought it time to break up. Her permission being given, the gentlemen retired to their chambers, remote from the ladies’ lodging rooms, and the ladies did the same, and undressed themselves for bed.

It was little more than three, when the queen rose, and ordered all to be called, alleging that much sleep in the daytime was unwholesome. Then they went into a meadow of deep grass, where the sun had little power; and having the benefit of a pleasant breeze, they sat down in a circle, as the queen had commanded, and she addressed them in this manner:—“As the sun is high, and the heat excessive, and nothing is to be heard but the chirping of the cicalas among the olives, it would be madness for us to think of moving yet: this is an airy place, and here are chess-boards and backgammon tables to divert yourselves with; but if you will be ruled by me, you will not play at all, since it often makes the one party uneasy, without any great pleasure to the other, or to the lookers-on; but let us begin and tell stories, and in this manner one person will entertain the whole company ; and by the time it has gone round, the worst part of the day will be over, and then we can divert ourselves as we like best. If this be agreeable to you, then (for I wait to know your pleasure) let us begin; if not, you are at your own disposal till the evening.” This motion being approved by all, the queen continued, “Let every one for this first day take what subject he fancies most:” and turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, she bade him begin. He readily obeyed, and spoke to this effect, so as to be distinctly heard by the whole company.

Day the Third

The Ninth Story

Gillette de narbonne recovereth the king of france of a fistula and demandeth for her husband bertrand de roussillon, who marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to florence, where, he paying court to a young lady, gillette, in the person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after, holding her dear, he entertaineth her for his wife.

Lauretta’s story being now ended, it rested but with the queen to tell, an she would not infringe upon Dioneo’s privilege; wherefore, without waiting to be solicited by her companions, she began all blithesomely to speak thus: “Who shall tell a story that may appear goodly, now we have heard that of Lauretta? Certes, it was well for us that hers was not the first, for that few of the others would have pleased after it, as I misdoubt me will betide of those which are yet to tell this day. Natheless, be that as it may, I will e’en recount to you that which occurreth to me upon the proposed theme.

There was in the kingdom of France a gentleman called Isnard, Count of Roussillon, who, for that he was scant of health, still entertained about his person a physician, by name Master Gerard de Narbonne. The said count had one little son, and no more, hight Bertrand, who was exceeding handsome and agreeable, and with him other children of his own age were brought up. Among these latter was a daughter of the aforesaid physician, by name Gillette, who vowed to the said Bertrand an infinite love and fervent more than pertained unto her tender years. The count dying and leaving his son in the hands of the king, it behoved him betake himself to Paris, whereof the damsel abode sore disconsolate, and her own father dying no great while after, she would fain, an she might have had a seemly occasion, have gone to Paris to see Bertrand: but, being straitly guarded, for that she was left rich and alone, she saw no honourable way thereto; and being now of age for a husband and having never been able to forget Bertrand, she had, without reason assigned, refused many to whom her kinsfolk would have married her.

Now it befell that, what while she burned more than ever for love of Bertrand, for that she heard he was grown a very goodly gentleman, news came to her how the King of France, by an imposthume which he had had in his breast and which had been ill tended, had gotten a fistula, which occasioned him the utmost anguish and annoy, nor had he yet been able to find a physician who might avail to recover him thereof, albeit many had essayed it, but all had aggravated the ill; wherefore the king, despairing of cure, would have no more counsel nor aid of any. Hereof the young lady was beyond measure content and bethought herself that not only would this furnish her with a legitimate occasion of going to Paris, but that, should the king’s ailment be such as she believed, she might lightly avail to have Bertrand to husband. Accordingly, having aforetime learned many things of her father, she made a powder of certain simples useful for such an infirmity as she conceived the king’s to be and taking horse, repaired to Paris.

Before aught else she studied to see Bertrand and next, presenting herself before the king, she prayed him of his favour to show her his ailment. The king, seeing her a fair and engaging damsel, knew not how to deny her and showed her that which ailed him. Whenas she saw it, she was certified incontinent that she could heal it and accordingly said, ‘My lord, an it please you, I hope in God to make you whole of this your infirmity in eight days’ time, without annoy or fatigue on your part.’ The king scoffed in himself at her words, saying, ‘That which the best physicians in the world have availed not neither known to do, how shall a young woman know?’ Accordingly, he thanked her for her good will and answered that he was resolved no more to follow the counsel of physicians. Whereupon quoth the damsel, ‘My lord, you make light of my skill, for that I am young and a woman; but I would have you bear in mind that I medicine not of mine own science, but with the aid of God and the science of Master Gerard de Narbonne, who was my father and a famous physician whilst he lived.’

The king, hearing this, said in himself, ‘It may be this woman is sent me of God; why should I not make proof of her knowledge, since she saith she will, without annoy of mine, cure me in little time?’ Accordingly, being resolved to essay her, he said, ‘Damsel, and if you cure us not, after causing us break our resolution, what will you have ensue to you therefor?’ ‘My lord,’ answered she, ‘set a guard upon me and if I cure you not within eight days, let burn me alive; but, if I cure you, what reward shall I have?’ Quoth the king, ‘You seem as yet unhusbanded; if you do this, we will marry you well and worshipfully.’ ‘My lord,’ replied the young lady, ‘I am well pleased that you should marry me, but I will have a husband such as I shall ask of you, excepting always any one of your sons or of the royal house.’ He readily promised her that which she sought, whereupon she began her cure and in brief, before the term limited, she brought him back to health.

Image 5.7: Giovanni Boccaccio and Florentines who have Fled from the Plague | In this introduction to The Decameron, the author is shown alongside his ten characters (three men and seven women) who left Florence to escape the plague.

Author: Master of 1482 and follower (illuminators)

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

The king, feeling himself healed, said, ‘Damsel, you have well earned your husband’; whereto she answered, ‘Then, my lord, I have earned Bertrand de Roussillon, whom I began to love even in the days of my childhood and have ever since loved over all.’ The king deemed it a grave matter to give him to her; nevertheless, having promised her and unwilling to fail of his faith, he let call the count to himself and bespoke him thus: ‘Bertrand, you are now of age and accomplished [in all that behoveth unto man’s estate]; wherefore it is our pleasure that you return to govern your county and carry with you a damsel, whom we have given you to wife.’ ‘And who is the damsel, my lord?’ asked Bertrand; to which the king answered, ‘It is she who hath with her medicines restored to us our health.’

Bertrand, who had seen and recognized Gillette, knowing her (albeit she seemed to him very fair) to be of no such lineage as sorted with his quality, said all disdainfully, ‘My lord, will you then marry me to a she-leach? Now God forbid I should ever take such an one to wife!’ ‘Then,’ said the king, ‘will you have us fail of our faith, the which, to have our health again, we pledged to the damsel, who in guerdon thereof demanded you to husband?’ ‘My lord,’ answered Bertrand, ‘you may, an you will, take from me whatsoever I possess or, as your liegeman, bestow me upon whoso pleaseth you; but of this I certify you, that I will never be a consenting party unto such a marriage.’ ‘Nay,’ rejoined the king, ‘but you shall, for that the damsel is fair and wise and loveth you dear; wherefore we doubt not but you will have a far happier life with her than with a lady of higher lineage.’ Bertrand held his peace and the king let make great preparations for the celebration of the marriage.

The appointed day being come, Bertrand, sore against his will, in the presence of the king, espoused the damsel, who loved him more than herself. This done, having already determined in himself what he should do, he sought leave of the king to depart, saying he would fain return to his county and there consummate the marriage; then, taking horse, he repaired not thither, but betook himself into Tuscany, where, hearing that the Florentines were at war with those of Sienna, he determined to join himself to the former, by whom he was joyfully received and made captain over a certain number of men-at-arms; and there, being well provided of them, he abode a pretty while in their service.

The newly-made wife, ill content with such a lot, but hoping by her fair dealing to recall him to his county, betook herself to Roussillon, where she was received of all as their liege lady. There, finding everything waste and disordered for the long time that the land had been without a lord, with great diligence and solicitude, like a discreet lady as she was, she set all in order again, whereof the count’s vassals were mightily content and held her exceeding dear, vowing her a great love and blaming the count sore for that he accepted not of her. The lady, having thoroughly ordered the county, notified the count thereof by two knights, whom she despatched to him, praying him that, an it were on her account he forbore to come to his county, he should signify it to her and she, to pleasure him, would depart thence; but he answered them very harshly, saying, ‘For that, let her do her pleasure; I, for my part, will return thither to abide with her, whenas she shall have this my ring on her finger and in her arms a son by me begotten.’ Now the ring in question he held very dear and never parted with it, by reason of a certain virtue which it had been given him to understand that it had.

The knights understood the hardship of the condition implied in these two well nigh impossible requirements, but, seeing that they might not by their words avail to move him from his purpose, they returned to the lady and reported to her his reply; whereat she was sore afflicted and determined, after long consideration, to seek to learn if and where the two things aforesaid might be compassed, to the intent that she might, in consequence, have her husband again. Accordingly, having bethought herself what she should do, she assembled certain of the best and chiefest men of the county and with plaintive speech very orderly recounted to them that which she had already done for love of the count and showed them what had ensued thereof, adding that it was not her intent that, through her sojourn there, the count should abide in perpetual exile; nay, rather she purposed to spend the rest of her life in pilgrimages and works of mercy and charity for her soul’s health; wherefore she prayed them take the ward and governance of the county and notify the count that she had left him free and vacant possession and had departed the country, intending nevermore to return to Roussillon. Many were the tears shed by the good folk, whilst she spoke, and many the prayers addressed to her that it would please her change counsel and abide there; but they availed nought. Then, commending them to God, she set out upon her way, without telling any whither she was bound, well furnished with monies and jewels of price and accompanied by a cousin of hers and a chamberwoman, all in pilgrims’ habits, and stayed not till she came to Florence, where, chancing upon a little inn, kept by a decent widow woman, she there took up her abode and lived quietly, after the fashion of a poor pilgrim, impatient to hear news of her lord.

It befell, then, that on the morrow of her arrival she saw Bertrand pass before her lodging, a-horseback with his company, and albeit she knew him full well, natheless she asked the good woman of the inn who he was. The hostess answered, ‘That is a stranger gentleman, who calleth himself Count Bertrand, a pleasant man and a courteous and much loved in this city; and he is the most enamoured man in the world of a she-neighbour of ours, who is a gentlewoman, but poor. Sooth to say, she is a very virtuous damsel and abideth, being yet unmarried for poverty, with her mother, a very good and discreet lady, but for whom, maybe, she had already done the count’s pleasure.’ The countess took good note of what she heard and having more closely enquired into every particular and apprehended all aright, determined in herself how she should do.

Accordingly, having learned the house and name of the lady whose daughter the count loved, she one day repaired privily thither in her pilgrim’s habit and finding the mother and daughter in very poor case, saluted them and told the former that, an it pleased her, she would fain speak with her alone. The gentlewoman, rising, replied that she was ready to hearken to her and accordingly carried her into a chamber of hers, where they seated themselves and the countess began thus, ‘Madam, meseemeth you are of the enemies of Fortune, even as I am; but, an you will, belike you may be able to relieve both yourself and me.’ The lady answered that she desired nothing better than to relieve herself by any honest means; and the countess went on, ‘Needs must you pledge me your faith, whereto an I commit myself and you deceive me, you will mar your own affairs and mine.’ ‘Tell me anything you will in all assurance,’ replied the gentlewoman; ‘for never shall you find yourself deceived of me.’

Thereupon the countess, beginning with her first enamourment, recounted to her who she was and all that had betided her to that day after such a fashion that the gentlewoman, putting faith in her words and having, indeed, already in part heard her story from others, began to have compassion of her. The countess, having related her adventures, went on to say, ‘You have now, amongst my other troubles, heard what are the two things which it behoveth me have, an I would have my husband, and to which I know none who can help me, save only yourself, if that be true which I hear, to wit, that the count my husband is passionately enamoured of your daughter.’ ‘Madam,’ answered the gentlewoman, ‘if the count love my daughter I know not; indeed he maketh a great show thereof. But, an it be so, what can I do in this that you desire?’ ‘Madam,’ rejoined the countess, ‘I will tell you; but first I will e’en show you what I purpose shall ensue thereof to you, an you serve me. I see your daughter fair and of age for a husband and according to what I have heard, meseemeth I understand the lack of good to marry her withal it is that causeth you keep her at home. Now I purpose, in requital of the service you shall do me, to give her forthright of mine own monies such a dowry as you yourself shall deem necessary to marry her honorably.’

The mother, being needy, was pleased with the offer; algates, having the spirit of a gentlewoman, she said, ‘Madam, tell me what I can do for you; if it consist with my honour, I will willingly do it, and you shall after do that which shall please you.’ Then said the countess, ‘It behoveth me that you let tell the count my husband by some one in whom you trust, that your daughter is ready to do his every pleasure, so she may but be certified that he loveth her as he pretendeth, the which she will never believe, except he send her the ring which he carrieth on his finger and by which she hath heard he setteth such store. An he send you the ring, you must give it to me and after send to him to say that your daughter is ready do his pleasure; then bring him hither in secret and privily put me to bed to him in the stead of your daughter. It may be God will vouchsafe me to conceive and on this wise, having his ring on my finger and a child in mine arms of him begotten, I shall presently regain him and abide with him, as a wife should abide with her husband, and you will have been the cause thereof.’

This seemed a grave matter to the gentlewoman, who feared lest blame should haply ensue thereof to her daughter; nevertheless, bethinking her it were honourably done to help the poor lady recover her husband and that she went about to do this to a worthy end and trusting in the good and honest intention of the countess, she not only promised her to do it, but, before many days, dealing with prudence and secrecy, in accordance with the latter’s instructions, she both got the ring (albeit this seemed somewhat grievous to the count) and adroitly put her to bed with her husband, in the place of her own daughter. In these first embracements, most ardently sought of the count, the lady, by God’s pleasure, became with child of two sons, as her delivery in due time made manifest. Nor once only, but many times, did the gentlewoman gratify the countess with her husband’s embraces, contriving so secretly that never was a word known of the matter, whilst the count still believed himself to have been, not with his wife, but with her whom he loved; and whenas he came to take leave of a morning, he gave her, at one time and another, divers goodly and precious jewels, which the countess laid up with all diligence.

Then, feeling herself with child and unwilling to burden the gentlewoman farther with such an office, she said to her, ‘Madam, thanks to God and you, I have gotten that which I desired, wherefore it is time that I do that which shall content you and after get me gone hence.’ The gentlewoman answered that, if she had gotten that which contented her, she was well pleased, but that she had not done this of any hope of reward, nay, for that herseemed it behoved her to do it, an she would do well. ‘Madam,’ rejoined the countess, ‘that which you say liketh me well and so on my part I purpose not to give you that which you shall ask of me by way of reward, but to do well, for that meseemeth behoveful so to do.’ The gentlewoman, then, constrained by necessity, with the utmost shamefastness, asked her an hundred pounds to marry her daughter withal; but the countess, seeing her confusion and hearing her modest demand, gave her five hundred and so many rare and precious jewels as were worth maybe as much more. With this the gentlewoman was far more than satisfied and rendered the countess the best thanks in her power; whereupon the latter, taking leave of her, returned to the inn, whilst the other, to deprive Bertrand of all farther occasion of coming or sending to her house, removed with her daughter into the country to the house of one of her kinsfolk, and he, being a little after recalled by his vassals and hearing that the countess had departed the country, returned to his own house.

Image 5.8: Boccaccio by morghen | Engraved portrait of Boccaccio, by the artist Raffaello Sanzio Morghen.

Author: Raffaello Sanzio Morghen

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

The countess, hearing that he had departed Florence and returned to his county, was mightily rejoiced and abode at Florence till her time came to be delivered, when she gave birth to two male children, most like their father, and let rear them with all diligence. Whenas it seemed to her time, she set out and came, without being known of any, to Montpellier, where having rested some days and made enquiry of the count and where he was, she learned that he was to hold a great entertainment of knights and ladies at Roussillon on All Saints’ Day and betook herself thither, still in her pilgrim’s habit that she was wont to wear. Finding the knights and ladies assembled in the count’s palace and about to sit down to table, she went up, with her children in her arms and without changing her dress, into the banqueting hall and making her way between man and man whereas she saw the count, cast herself at his feet and said, weeping, ‘I am thine unhappy wife, who, to let thee return and abide in thy house, have long gone wandering miserably about the world. I conjure thee, in the name of God, to accomplish unto me thy promise upon the condition appointed me by the two knights I sent thee; for, behold, here in mine arms is not only one son of thine, but two, and here is thy ring. It is time, then, that I be received of thee as a wife, according to thy promise.’

The count, hearing this, was all confounded and recognized the ring and the children also, so like were they to him; but yet he said, ‘How can this have come to pass?’ The countess, then, to his exceeding wonderment and that of all others who were present, orderly recounted that which had passed and how it had happened; whereupon the count, feeling that she spoke sooth and seeing her constancy and wit and moreover two such goodly children, as well for the observance of his promise as to pleasure all his liegemen and the ladies, who all besought him thenceforth to receive and honour her as his lawful wife, put off his obstinate despite and raising the countess to her feet, embraced her and kissing her, acknowledged her for his lawful wife and those for his children. Then, letting clothe her in apparel such as beseemed her quality, to the exceeding joyance of as many as were there and of all other his vassals who heard the news, he held high festival, not only all that day, but sundry others, and from that day forth still honoured her as his bride and his wife and loved and tendered her over all.”

Day the Fourth

The Second Story

Fra alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth of her window into the canal and taketh refuge in the house of a poor man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the woods, to the piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his brethren and put in prison.

The story told by Fiammetta had more than once brought the tears to the eyes of the ladies her companions; but, it being now finished, the king with a stern countenance said, “My life would seem to me a little price to give for half the delight that Guiscardo had with Ghismonda, nor should any of you ladies marvel thereat, seeing that every hour of my life I suffer a thousand deaths, nor for all that is a single particle of delight vouchsafed me. But, leaving be my affairs for the present, it is my pleasure that Pampinea follow on the order of the discourse with some story of woeful chances and fortunes in part like to mine own; which if she ensue like as Fiammetta hath begun, I shall doubtless begin to feel some dew fallen upon my fire.” Pampinea, hearing the order laid upon her, more by her affection apprehended the mind of the ladies her companions than that of Filostrato by his words, wherefore, being more disposed to give them some diversion than to content the king, farther than in the mere letter of his commandment, she bethought herself to tell a story, that should, without departing from the proposed theme, give occasion for laughter, and accordingly began as follows:

“The vulgar have a proverb to the effect that he who is naught and is held good may do ill and it is not believed of him; the which affordeth me ample matter for discourse upon that which hath been proposed to me and at the same time to show what and how great is the hypocrisy of the clergy, who, with garments long and wide and faces paled by art and voices humble and meek to solicit the folk, but exceeding loud and fierce to rebuke in others their own vices, pretend that themselves by taking and others by giving to them come to salvation, and to boot, not as men who have, like ourselves, to purchase paradise, but as in a manner they were possessors and lords thereof, assign unto each who dieth, according to the sum of the monies left them by him, a more or less excellent place there, studying thus to deceive first themselves, an they believe as they say, and after those who put faith for that matter in their words. Anent whom, were it permitted me to discover as much as it behoved, I would quickly make clear to many simple folk that which they keep hidden under those huge wide gowns of theirs. But would God it might betide them all of their cozening tricks, as it betided a certain minor friar, and he no youngling, but held one of the first casuists in Venice; of whom it especially pleaseth me to tell you, so as peradventure somewhat to cheer your hearts, that are full of compassion for the death of Ghismonda, with laughter and pleasance.

There was, then, noble ladies, in Imola, a man of wicked and corrupt life, who was called Berto della Massa and whose lewd fashions, being well known of the Imolese, had brought him into such ill savour with them that there was none in the town who would credit him, even when he said sooth; wherefore, seeing that his shifts might no longer stand him in stead there, he removed in desperation to Venice, the receptacle of every kind of trash, thinking to find there new means of carrying on his wicked practices. There, as if conscience-stricken for the evil deeds done by him in the past, feigning himself overcome with the utmost humility and waxing devouter than any man alive, he went and turned Minor Friar and styled himself Fra Alberta da Imola; in which habit he proceeded to lead, to all appearance, a very austere life, greatly commending abstinence and mortification and never eating flesh nor drinking wine, whenas he had not thereof that which was to his liking. In short, scarce was any ware of him when from a thief, a pimp, a forger, a manslayer, he suddenly became a great preacher, without having for all that forsworn the vices aforesaid, whenas he might secretly put them in practice. Moreover, becoming a priest, he would still, whenas he celebrated mass at the altar, an he were seen of many, beweep our Saviour’s passion, as one whom tears cost little, whenas he willed it. Brief, what with his preachings and his tears, he contrived on such wise to inveigle the Venetians that he was trustee and depository of well nigh every will made in the town and guardian of folk’s monies, besides being confessor and counsellor of the most part of the men and women of the place; and doing thus, from wolf he was become shepherd and the fame of his sanctity was far greater in those parts than ever was that of St. Francis at Assisi.

It chanced one day that a vain simple young lady, by name Madam Lisetta da Ca Quirino, wife of a great merchant who was gone with the galleys into Flanders, came with other ladies to confess to this same holy friar, at whose feet kneeling and having, like a true daughter of Venice as she was (where the women are all feather-brained), told him part of her affairs, she was asked of him if she had a lover. Whereto she answered, with an offended air, ‘Good lack, sir friar, have you no eyes in your head? Seem my charms to you such as those of yonder others? I might have lovers and to spare, an I would; but my beauties are not for this one nor that. How many women do you see whose charms are such as mine, who would be fair in Paradise?’ Brief, she said so many things of this beauty of hers that it was a weariness to hear. Fra Alberto incontinent perceived that she savoured of folly and himseeming she was a fit soil for his tools, he fell suddenly and beyond measure in love with her; but, reserving blandishments for a more convenient season, he proceeded, for the nonce, so he might show himself a holy man, to rebuke her and tell her that this was vainglory and so forth. The lady told him he was an ass and knew not what one beauty was more than another, whereupon he, unwilling to vex her overmuch, took her confession and let her go away with the others.

Image 5.9: A Tale from the decameron | An oil painting by John William Waterhouse, showing the characters of The Decameron sitting together as they tell their stories.

Author: Unknown

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

He let some days pass, then, taking with him a trusty companion of his, he repaired to Madam Lisetta’s house and withdrawing with her into a room apart, where none might see him, he fell on his knees before her and said, ‘Madam, I pray you for God’s sake pardon me that which I said to you last Sunday, whenas you bespoke me of your beauty, for that the following night I was so cruelly chastised there that I have not since been able to rise from my bed till to-day.’ Quoth Mistress Featherbrain, ‘And who chastised you thus?’ ‘I will tell you,’ replied the monk. ‘Being that night at my orisons, as I still use to be, I saw of a sudden a great light in my cell and ere I could turn me to see what it might be, I beheld over against me a very fair youth with a stout cudgel in his hand, who took me by the gown and dragging me to my feet, gave me such a drubbing that he broke every bone in my body. I asked him why he used me thus and he answered, “For that thou presumedst to-day, to disparage the celestial charms of Madam Lisetta, whom I love over all things, save only God.” “Who, then, are you?” asked I; and he replied that he was the angel Gabriel. “O my lord,” said I, “I pray you pardon me”; and he, “So be it; I pardon thee on condition that thou go to her, as first thou mayst, and get her pardon; but if she pardons thee not, I will return to thee and give thee such a bout of it that I will make thee a woeful man for all the time thou shalt live here below.” That which he said to me after I dare not tell you, except you first pardon me.’

My Lady Addlepate, who was somewhat scant of wit, was overjoyed to hear this, taking it all for gospel, and said, after a little, ‘I told you, Fra Alberto, that my charms were celestial, but, so God be mine aid, it irketh me for you and I will pardon you forthright, so you may come to no more harm, provided you tell me truly that which the angel said to you after.’ ‘Madam,’ replied Fra Alberto, ‘since you pardon me, I will gladly tell it you; but I must warn you of one thing, to wit, that whatever I tell you, you must have a care not to repeat it to any one alive, an you would not mar your affairs, for that you are the luckiest lady in the world. The angel Gabriel bade me tell you that you pleased him so much that he had many a time come to pass the night with you, but that he feared to affright you. Now he sendeth to tell you by me that he hath a mind to come to you one night and abide awhile with you and (for that he is an angel and that, if he came in angel-form, you might not avail to touch him,) he purposeth, for your delectation, to come in guise of a man, wherefore he biddeth you send to tell him when you would have him come and in whose form, and he will come hither; whereof you may hold yourself blest over any other lady alive.’

My Lady Conceit answered that it liked her well that the angel Gabriel loved her, seeing she loved him well nor ever failed to light a candle of a groat before him, whereas she saw him depictured, and that what time soever he chose to come to her, he should be dearly welcome and would find her all alone in her chamber, but on this condition, that he should not leave her for the Virgin Mary, whose great well-wisher it was said he was, as indeed appeareth, inasmuch as in every place where she saw him [limned], he was on his knees before her. Moreover, she said it must rest with him to come in whatsoever form he pleased, so but she was not affrighted.

Then said Fra Alberto, ‘Madam, you speak sagely and I will without fail take order with him of that which you tell me. But you may do me a great favour, which will cost you nothing; it is this, that you will him come with this my body. And I will tell you in what you will do me a favour; you must know that he will take my soul forth of my body and put it in Paradise, whilst he himself will enter into me; and what while he abideth with you, so long will my soul abide in Paradise.’ ‘With all my heart,’ answered Dame Littlewit. ‘I will well that you have this consolation, in requital of the buffets he gave you on my account.’ Then said Fra Alberto, ‘Look that he find the door of your house open to-night, so he may come in thereat, for that, coming in human form, as he will, he might not enter save by the door.’ The lady replied that it should be done, whereupon the monk took his leave and she abode in such a transport of exultation that her breech touched not her shift and herseemed a thousand years till the angel Gabriel should come to her.

Meanwhile, Fra Alberto, bethinking him that it behoved him play the cavalier, not the angel, that night proceeded to fortify himself with confections and other good things, so he might not lightly be unhorsed; then, getting leave, as soon as it was night, he repaired with one of his comrades to the house of a woman, a friend of his, whence he was used whiles to take his start what time he went to course the fillies; and thence, whenas it seemed to him time, having disguised himself, he betook him to the lady’s house. There he tricked himself out as an angel with the trappings he had brought with him and going up, entered the chamber of the lady, who, seeing this creature all in white, fell on her knees before him. The angel blessed her and raising her to her feet, signed to her to go to bed, which she, studious to obey, promptly did, and the angel after lay down with his devotee. Now Fra Alberto was a personable man of his body and a lusty and excellent well set up on his legs; wherefore, finding himself in bed with Madam Lisetta, who was young and dainty, he showed himself another guess bedfellow than her husband and many a time that night took flight without wings, whereof she avowed herself exceeding content; and eke he told her many things of the glories of heaven. Then, the day drawing near, after taking order for his return, he made off with his trappings and returned to his comrade, whom the good woman of the house had meanwhile borne amicable company, lest he should get a fright, lying alone.

As for the lady, no sooner had she dined than, taking her waiting-woman with her, she betook herself to Fra Alberto and gave him news of the angel Gabriel, telling him that which she had heard from him of the glories of life eternal and how he was made and adding to boot, marvellous stories of her own invention. ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I know not how you fared with him; I only know that yesternight, whenas he came to me and I did your message to him, he suddenly transported my soul amongst such a multitude of roses and other flowers that never was the like thereof seen here below, and I abode in one of the most delightsome places that was aye until the morning; but what became of my body meanwhile I know not.’ ‘Do I not tell you?’ answered the lady. ‘Your body lay all night in mine arms with the angel Gabriel. If you believe me not, look under your left pap, whereas I gave the angel such a kiss that the marks of it will stay by you for some days to come.’ Quoth the friar, ‘Say you so? Then will I do to-day a thing I have not done this great while; I will strip myself, to see if you tell truth.’ Then, after much prating, the lady returned home and Fra Alberto paid her many visits in angel-form, without suffering any hindrance.

However, it chanced one day that Madam Lisetta, being in dispute with a gossip of hers upon the question of female charms, to set her own above all others, said, like a woman who had little wit in her noddle, ‘An you but knew whom my beauty pleaseth, in truth you would hold your peace of other women.’ The other, longing to hear, said, as one who knew her well, ‘Madam, maybe you say sooth; but knowing not who this may be, one cannot turn about so lightly.’ Thereupon quoth Lisetta, who was eath enough to draw, ‘Gossip, it must go no farther; but he I mean is the angel Gabriel, who loveth me more than himself, as the fairest lady (for that which he telleth me) who is in the world or the Maremma.’ The other had a mind to laugh, but contained herself, so she might make Lisetta speak farther, and said, ‘Faith, madam, an the angel Gabriel be your lover and tell you this, needs must it be so; but methought not the angels did these things.’ ‘Gossip,’ answered the lady, ‘you are mistaken; zounds, he doth what you wot of better than my husband and telleth me they do it also up yonder; but, for that I seem to him fairer than any she in heaven, he hath fallen in love with me and cometh full oft to lie with me; seestow now?’

The gossip, to whom it seemed a thousand years till she should be whereas she might repeat these things, took her leave of Madam Lisetta and foregathering at an entertainment with a great company of ladies, orderly recounted to them the whole story. They told it again to their husbands and other ladies, and these to yet others, and so in less than two days Venice was all full of it. Among others to whose ears the thing came were Lisetta’s brothers-in-law, who, without saying aught to her, bethought themselves to find the angel in question and see if he knew how to fly, and to this end they lay several nights in wait for him. As chance would have it, some inkling of the matter came to the ears of Fra Alberto, who accordingly repaired one night to the lady’s house, to reprove her, but hardly had he put off his clothes ere her brothers-in-law, who had seen him come, were at the door of her chamber to open it.

Fra Alberto, hearing this and guessing what was to do, started up and having no other resource, opened a window, which gave upon the Grand Canal, and cast himself thence into the water. The canal was deep there and he could swim well, so that he did himself no hurt, but made his way to the opposite bank and hastily entering a house that stood open there, besought a poor man, whom he found within, to save his life for the love of God, telling him a tale of his own fashion, to explain how he came there at that hour and naked. The good man was moved to pity and it behoving him to go do his occasions, he put him in his own bed and bade him abide there against his return; then, locking him in, he went about his affairs. Meanwhile, the lady’s brothers-in-law entered her chamber and found that the angel Gabriel had flown, leaving his wings there; whereupon, seeing themselves baffled, they gave her all manner hard words and ultimately made off to their own house with the angel’s trappings, leaving her disconsolate.

Broad day come, the good man with whom Fra Alberto had taken refuge, being on the Rialto, heard how the angel Gabriel had gone that night to lie with Madam Lisetta and being surprised by her kinsmen, had cast himself for fear into the canal, nor was it known what was come of him, and concluded forthright that this was he whom he had at home. Accordingly, he returned thither and recognizing the monk, found means after much parley, to make him fetch him fifty ducats, an he would not have him give him up to the lady’s kinsmen. Having gotten the money and Fra Alberto offering to depart thence, the good man said to him, ‘There is no way of escape for you, an it be not one that I will tell you. We hold to-day a festival, wherein one bringeth a man clad bear-fashion and another one accoutred as a wild man of the woods and what not else, some one thing and some another, and there is a hunt held in St. Mark’s Place, which finished, the festival is at an end and after each goeth whither it pleaseth him with him whom he hath brought. An you will have me lead you thither, after one or other of these fashions, I can after carry you whither you please, ere it be spied out that you are here; else I know not how you are to get away, without being recognized, for the lady’s kinsmen, concluding that you must be somewhere hereabout, have set a watch for you on all sides.’

Hard as it seemed to Fra Alberto to go on such wise, nevertheless, of the fear he had of the lady’s kinsmen, he resigned himself thereto and told his host whither he would be carried, leaving the manner to him. Accordingly, the other, having smeared him all over with honey and covered him with down, clapped a chain about his neck and a mask on his face; then giving him a great staff in on hand and in the other two great dogs which he had fetched from the shambles he despatched one to the Rialto to make public proclamation that whoso would see the angel Gabriel should repair to St. Mark’s Place; and this was Venetian loyalty! This done, after a while, he brought him forth and setting him before himself, went holding him by the chain behind, to the no small clamour of the folk, who said all, ‘What be this? What be this?’ till he came to the place, where, what with those who had followed after them and those who, hearing the proclamation, were come thither from the Rialto, were folk without end. There he tied his wild man to a column in a raised and high place, making a show of awaiting the hunt, whilst the flies and gads gave the monk exceeding annoy, for that he was besmeared with honey. But, when he saw the place well filled, making as he would unchain his wild man, he pulled off Fra Alberto’s mask and said, ‘Gentlemen, since the bear cometh not and there is no hunt toward, I purpose, so you may not be come in vain, that you shall see the angel Gabriel, who cometh down from heaven to earth anights, to comfort the Venetian ladies.’

No sooner was the mask off than Fra Alberto was incontinent recognized of all, who raised a general outcry against him, giving him the scurviest words and the soundest rating was ever given a canting knave; moreover, they cast in his face, one this kind of filth and another that, and so they baited him a great while, till the news came by chance to his brethren, whereupon half a dozen of them sallied forth and coming thither, unchained him and threw a gown over him; then, with a general hue and cry behind them, they carried him off to the convent, where it is believed he died in prison, after a wretched life. Thus then did this fellow, held good and doing ill, without it being believed, dare to feign himself the angel Gabriel, and after being turned into a wild man of the woods and put to shame, as he deserved, bewailed, when too late, the sins he had committed. God grant it happen thus to all other knaves of his fashion!”

Day the Fifth

The Ninth Story

Federigo degli alberighi loveth and is not loved. He wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him but one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress to eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning this, changeth her mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again.

Filomena having ceased speaking, the queen, seeing that none remained to tell save only herself and Dioneo, whose privilege entitled him to speak last, said, with blithe aspect, “It pertaineth now to me to tell and I, dearest ladies, will willingly do it, relating a story like in part to the foregoing, to the intent that not only may you know how much the love of you can avail in gentle hearts, but that you may learn to be yourselves, whenas it behoveth, bestowers of your guerdons, without always suffering fortune to be your guide, which most times, as it chanceth, giveth not discreetly, but out of all measure.

You must know, then, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, who was of our days and maybe is yet a man of great worship and authority in our city and illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, much more for his fashions and his merit than for the nobility of his blood, being grown full of years, delighted oftentimes to discourse with his neighbours and others of things past, the which he knew how to do better and more orderly and with more memory and elegance of speech than any other man. Amongst other fine things of his, he was used to tell that there was once in Florence a young man called Federigo, son of Messer Filippo Alberighi and renowned for deeds of arms and courtesy over every other bachelor in Tuscany, who, as betideth most gentlemen, became enamoured of a gentlewoman named Madam Giovanna, in her day held one of the fairest and sprightliest ladies that were in Florence; and to win her love, he held jousts and tourneyings and made entertainments and gave gifts and spent his substance without any stint; but she, being no less virtuous than fair, recked nought of these things done for her nor of him who did them. Federigo spending thus far beyond his means and gaining nought, his wealth, as lightly happeneth, in course of time came to an end and he abode poor, nor was aught left him but a poor little farm, on whose returns he lived very meagrely, and to boot a falcon he had, one of the best in the world. Wherefore, being more in love than ever and himseeming he might no longer make such a figure in the city as he would fain do, he took up his abode at Campi, where his farm was, and there bore his poverty with patience, hawking whenas he might and asking of no one.

Federigo being thus come to extremity, it befell one day that Madam Giovanna’s husband fell sick and seeing himself nigh upon death, made his will, wherein, being very rich, he left a son of his, now well grown, his heir, after which, having much loved Madam Giovanna, he substituted her to his heir, in case his son should die without lawful issue, and died. Madam Giovanna, being thus left a widow, betook herself that summer, as is the usance of our ladies, into the country with her son to an estate of hers very near that of Federigo; wherefore it befell that the lad made acquaintance with the latter and began to take delight in hawks and hounds, and having many a time seen his falcon flown and being strangely taken therewith, longed sore to have it, but dared not ask it of him, seeing it so dear to him. The thing standing thus, it came to pass that the lad fell sick, whereat his mother was sore concerned, as one who had none but him and loved him with all her might, and abode about him all day, comforting him without cease; and many a time she asked him if there were aught he desired, beseeching him tell it her, for an it might be gotten, she would contrive that he should have it. The lad, having heard these offers many times repeated, said, ‘Mother mine, an you could procure me to have Federigo’s falcon, methinketh I should soon be whole.’

The lady hearing this, bethought herself awhile and began to consider how she should do. She knew that Federigo had long loved her and had never gotten of her so much as a glance of the eye; wherefore quoth she in herself, ‘How shall I send or go to him to seek of him this falcon, which is, by all I hear, the best that ever flew and which, to boot, maintaineth him in the world? And how can I be so graceless as to offer to take this from a gentleman who hath none other pleasure left?’ Perplexed with this thought and knowing not what to say, for all she was very certain of getting the bird, if she asked for it, she made no reply to her son, but abode silent. However, at last, the love of her son so got the better of her that she resolved in herself to satisfy him, come what might, and not to send, but to go herself for the falcon and fetch it to him. Accordingly she said to him, ‘My son, take comfort and bethink thyself to grow well again, for I promise thee that the first thing I do to-morrow morning I will go for it and fetch it to thee.’ The boy was rejoiced at this and showed some amendment that same day.

Next morning, the lady, taking another lady to bear her company, repaired, by way of diversion, to Federigo’s little house and enquired for the latter, who, for that it was no weather for hawking nor had been for some days past, was then in a garden he had, overlooking the doing of certain little matters of his, and hearing that Madam Giovanna asked for him at the door, ran thither, rejoicing and marvelling exceedingly. She, seeing him come, rose and going with womanly graciousness to meet him, answered his respectful salutation with ‘Give you good day, Federigo!’ then went on to say, ‘I am come to make thee amends for that which thou hast suffered through me, in loving me more than should have behooved thee; and the amends in question is this that I purpose to dine with thee this morning familiarly, I and this lady my companion.’ ‘Madam,’ answered Federigo humbly, ‘I remember me not to have ever received any ill at your hands, but on the contrary so much good that, if ever I was worth aught, it came about through your worth and the love I bore you; and assuredly, albeit you have come to a poor host, this your gracious visit is far more precious to me than it would be an it were given me to spend over again as much as that which I have spent aforetime.’ So saying, he shamefastly received her into his house and thence brought her into his garden, where, having none else to bear her company, he said to her, ‘Madam, since there is none else here, this good woman, wife of yonder husbandman, will bear you company, whilst I go see the table laid.’

Never till that moment, extreme as was his poverty, had he been so dolorously sensible of the straits to which he had brought himself for the lack of those riches he had spent on such disorderly wise. But that morning, finding he had nothing wherewithal he might honourably entertain the lady, for love of whom he had aforetime entertained folk without number, he was made perforce aware of his default and ran hither and thither, perplexed beyond measure, like a man beside himself, inwardly cursing his ill fortune, but found neither money nor aught he might pawn. It was now growing late and he having a great desire to entertain the gentle lady with somewhat, yet choosing not to have recourse to his own labourer, much less any one else, his eye fell on his good falcon, which he saw on his perch in his little saloon; whereupon, having no other resource, he took the bird and finding him fat, deemed him a dish worthy of such a lady. Accordingly, without more ado, he wrung the hawk’s neck and hastily caused a little maid of his pluck it and truss it and after put it on the spit and roast it diligently. Then, the table laid and covered with very white cloths, whereof he had yet some store, he returned with a blithe countenance to the lady in the garden and told her that dinner was ready, such as it was in his power to provide. Accordingly, the lady and her friend, arising, betook themselves to table and in company with Federigo, who served them with the utmost diligence, ate the good falcon, unknowing what they did.

Image 5.10: decameron | An image from The Decameron, illustrated by Taddeo Crivelli, depicting the seven women and three men from Boccaccio’s manuscript.

Author: User “Cassmus”

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

Presently, after they had risen from table and had abidden with him awhile in cheerful discourse, the lady, thinking it time to tell that wherefor she was come, turned to Federigo and courteously bespoke him, saying, ‘Federigo, I doubt not a jot but that, when thou hearest that which is the especial occasion of my coming hither, thou wilt marvel at my presumption, remembering thee of thy past life and of my virtue, which latter belike thou reputedst cruelty and hardness of heart; but, if thou hadst or hadst had children, by whom thou mightest know how potent is the love one beareth them, meseemeth certain that thou wouldst in part hold me excused. But, although thou hast none, I, who have one child, cannot therefore escape the common laws to which other mothers are subject and whose enforcements it behoveth me ensue, need must I, against my will and contrary to all right and seemliness, ask of thee a boon, which I know is supremely dear to thee (and that with good reason, for that thy sorry fortune hath left thee none other delight, none other diversion, none other solace), to wit, thy falcon, whereof my boy is so sore enamoured that, an I carry it not to him, I fear me his present disorder will be so aggravated that there may presently ensue thereof somewhat whereby I shall lose him. Wherefore I conjure thee,—not by the love thou bearest me and whereto thou art nowise beholden, but by thine own nobility, which in doing courtesy hath approved itself greater than in any other,—that it please thee give it to me, so by the gift I may say I have kept my son alive and thus made him for ever thy debtor.’

Federigo, hearing what the lady asked and knowing that he could not oblige her, for that he had given her the falcon to eat, fell a-weeping in her presence, ere he could answer a word. The lady at first believed that his tears arose from grief at having to part from his good falcon and was like to say that she would not have it. However, she contained herself and awaited what Federigo should reply, who, after weeping awhile, made answer thus: ‘Madam, since it pleased God that I should set my love on you, I have in many things reputed fortune contrary to me and have complained of her; but all the ill turns she hath done me have been a light matter in comparison with that which she doth me at this present and for which I can never more be reconciled to her, considering that you are come hither to my poor house, whereas you deigned not to come what while I was rich, and seek of me a little boon, the which she hath so wrought that I cannot grant you; and why this cannot be I will tell you briefly. When I heard that you, of your favour, were minded to dine with me, I deemed it a light thing and a seemly, having regard to your worth and the nobility of your station, to honour you, as far as in me lay, with some choicer victual than that which is commonly set before other folk; wherefore, remembering me of the falcon which you ask of me and of his excellence, I judged him a dish worthy of you. This very morning, then, you have had him roasted upon the trencher, and indeed I had accounted him excellently well bestowed; but now, seeing that you would fain have had him on other wise, it is so great a grief to me that I cannot oblige you therein that methinketh I shall never forgive myself therefor.’ So saying, in witness of this, he let cast before her the falcon’s feathers and feet and beak.

The lady, seeing and hearing this, first blamed him for having, to give a woman to eat, slain such a falcon, and after inwardly much commended the greatness of his soul, which poverty had not availed nor might anywise avail to abate. Then, being put out of all hope of having the falcon and fallen therefore in doubt of her son’s recovery, she took her leave and returned, all disconsolate, to the latter, who, before many days had passed, whether for chagrin that he could not have the bird or for that his disorder was e’en fated to bring him to that pass, departed this life, to the inexpressible grief of his mother. After she had abidden awhile full of tears and affliction, being left very rich and yet young, she was more than once urged by her brothers to marry again, and albeit she would fain not have done so, yet, finding herself importuned and calling to mind Federigo’s worth and his last magnificence, to wit, the having slain such a falcon for her entertainment, she said to them, ‘I would gladly, an it liked you, abide as I am; but, since it is your pleasure that I take a [second] husband, certes I will never take any other, an I have not Federigo degli Alberighi.’ Whereupon her brothers, making mock of her, said ‘Silly woman that thou art, what is this thou sayest? How canst thou choose him, seeing he hath nothing in the world?’ ‘Brothers mine,’ answered she, ‘I know very well that it is as you say; but I would liefer have a man that lacketh of riches than riches that lack of a man.’ Her brethren, hearing her mind and knowing Federigo for a man of great merit, poor though he was, gave her, with all her wealth, to him, even as she would; and he, seeing himself married to a lady of such worth and one whom he had loved so dear and exceeding rich, to boot, became a better husband of his substance and ended his days with her in joy and solace.”

THE DIVINE COMEDY

Dante Alighieri (1265-1321 C.E.)

Composed between 13081321 C.E.

Italy

Durante degli Alighieri, known to us as Dante, called his masterpiece simply La Commedia (The Comedy), not because it is funny, but because it begins sadly and ends happily. It is a deceptively simple title for such a complex and detailed work; as an example, Dante intended the first three lines to be read with four levels of meaning (literal, allegorical, moral, and anagogical/mystical). Boccaccio, author of The Decameron, added the word “Divine” to the title, both for the subject matter and the quality of the work. In the story, Dante appears as the main character, although this “pilgrim” should not be confused with the author himself: The character has no clue about what is happening, while the author controls all. The Divine Comedy exists because Dante made the switch from writing love lyrics (with the focus on earthly love) to writing about spiritual love after his muse, Beatrice, died duringone of the plagues in Florence. Just as Beatrice inspired Dante from afar during life (the two never had a romantic relationship), she becomes after death the angelic inspiration to turn his attention to God. Dante plays with several traditions in his work: It is a Christian epic, where the epic hero does not need to be brave (in fact, he faints several times) as long as he has divine intervention; it is a pro-Trojan work, following Virgil’s lead in the Aeneid; and it uses classical imagery and mythology to represent ideas (literally, Cerberus is a three-headed dog from Greek mythology, but he appears on the level of the Gluttonous to represent the concept of gulping down food). Virgil’s influence manifests itself in several other ways: not only as the epic poet who was, according to Dante, his great master, but also as the poet who wrote of the foundation of the Roman Empire. Dante believed that a strong Holy Roman Empire (based in what is now Germany) would lead to the Second Coming of Christ, whose birth came during the original pax Romana (peace of Rome). It makes perfect sense, therefore, that Beatrice would task Virgil with being Dante’s guide until she assumes that duty before the ascent through Heaven. It also would explain the urgency of Dante’s prose; Dante believes that little time is left before the end of the world, so his work attempts to persuade its audience to change their ways now. In the first book, Inferno (Hell), Dante finds ways to represent how the punishment is the crime, often with astonishing creativity; in Purgatorio (Purgatory), Dante describes the way that sins are purged; and in Paradiso (Heaven), Dante displays his knowledge of the arts and sciences of his day. Geographically, Hell is described as a downward funnel, while the island of Purgatory is a funnel leading upward. Earth exists (for Dante) as a globe around which all other heavenly bodies move; Heaven exists in those circles that form around the Earth, with God in the space beyond. Heaven is therefore described both as a rose (with the petals forming the circles) and as a type of stadium, where everyone sits facing out, rather than in. Dante’s goal at the end of the epic is to be granted a vision of God as he looks out into the empyrean.

[We have included “Inferno” from Dante’s The Divine Comedy. Visit http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/ epub/1004/pg1004-images.html to read The Divine Comedy in its entirety.]

Written by Laura J. Getty

Image 5.11: Portrait of Dante Alighieri | In this depiction, Dante wears a laurel wreath and a rather angry scowl.

Image 5.11: Portrait of Dante Alighieri | In this depiction, Dante wears a laurel wreath and a rather angry scowl.

Author: Gustave Doré

Source: WikiArt

License: Public Domain

5.5.1 Inferno

Dante Alighieri, translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

License: Public Domain

CANTO I

The Dark Forest. The Hill Of Difficulty. The Panther, the Lion, and the Wolf. Virgil.

Midway upon the journey of our life

  I found myself within a forest dark,

  For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say

  What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,

  Which in the very thought renews the fear.

So bitter is it, death is little more;

  But of the good to treat, which there I found,

  Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

I cannot well repeat how there I entered,

  So full was I of slumber at the moment

  In which I had abandoned the true way.

But after I had reached a mountain's foot,

  At that point where the valley terminated,

  Which had with consternation pierced my heart,

Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders,

  Vested already with that planet's rays

  Which leadeth others right by every road.

Then was the fear a little quieted

  That in my heart's lake had endured throughout

  The night, which I had passed so piteously.

And even as he, who, with distressful breath,

  Forth issued from the sea upon the shore,

  Turns to the water perilous and gazes;

So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward,

  Turn itself back to re-behold the pass

  Which never yet a living person left.

After my weary body I had rested,

  The way resumed I on the desert slope,

  So that the firm foot ever was the lower.

And lo! almost where the ascent began,

  A panther light and swift exceedingly,

  Which with a spotted skin was covered o'er!

And never moved she from before my face,

  Nay, rather did impede so much my way,

  That many times I to return had turned.

The time was the beginning of the morning,

  And up the sun was mounting with those stars

  That with him were, what time the Love Divine

At first in motion set those beauteous things;

  So were to me occasion of good hope,

  The variegated skin of that wild beast,

The hour of time, and the delicious season;

  But not so much, that did not give me fear

  A lion's aspect which appeared to me.

He seemed as if against me he were coming

  With head uplifted, and with ravenous hunger,

  So that it seemed the air was afraid of him;

And a she-wolf, that with all hungerings

  Seemed to be laden in her meagreness,

  And many folk has caused to live forlorn!

She brought upon me so much heaviness,

  With the affright that from her aspect came,

  That I the hope relinquished of the height.

And as he is who willingly acquires,

  And the time comes that causes him to lose,

  Who weeps in all his thoughts and is despondent,

E'en such made me that beast withouten peace,

  Which, coming on against me by degrees

  Thrust me back thither where the sun is silent.

While I was rushing downward to the lowland,

  Before mine eyes did one present himself,

  Who seemed from long-continued silence hoarse.

When I beheld him in the desert vast,

  "Have pity on me," unto him I cried,

  "Whiche'er thou art, or shade or real man!"

He answered me: "Not man; man once I was,

  And both my parents were of Lombardy,

  And Mantuans by country both of them.

'Sub Julio' was I born, though it was late,

  And lived at Rome under the good Augustus,

  During the time of false and lying gods.

A poet was I, and I sang that just

  Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy,

  After that Ilion the superb was burned.

But thou, why goest thou back to such annoyance?

  Why climb'st thou not the Mount Delectable,

  Which is the source and cause of every joy?"

"Now, art thou that Virgilius and that fountain

  Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech?"

  I made response to him with bashful forehead.

"O, of the other poets honour and light,

  Avail me the long study and great love

  That have impelled me to explore thy volume!

Thou art my master, and my author thou,

  Thou art alone the one from whom I took

  The beautiful style that has done honour to me.

Behold the beast, for which I have turned back;

  Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage,

  For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble."

"Thee it behoves to take another road,"

  Responded he, when he beheld me weeping,

  "If from this savage place thou wouldst escape;

Because this beast, at which thou criest out,

  Suffers not any one to pass her way,

  But so doth harass him, that she destroys him;

And has a nature so malign and ruthless,

  That never doth she glut her greedy will,

  And after food is hungrier than before.

Many the animals with whom she weds,

  And more they shall be still, until the Greyhound

  Comes, who shall make her perish in her pain.

He shall not feed on either earth or pelf,

  But upon wisdom, and on love and virtue;

  'Twixt Feltro and Feltro shall his nation be;

Of that low Italy shall he be the saviour,

  On whose account the maid Camilla died,

  Euryalus, Turnus, Nisus, of their wounds;

Through every city shall he hunt her down,

  Until he shall have driven her back to Hell,

  There from whence envy first did let her loose.

Therefore I think and judge it for thy best

  Thou follow me, and I will be thy guide,

  And lead thee hence through the eternal place,

Where thou shalt hear the desperate lamentations,

  Shalt see the ancient spirits disconsolate,

  Who cry out each one for the second death;

And thou shalt see those who contented are

  Within the fire, because they hope to come,

  Whene'er it may be, to the blessed people;

To whom, then, if thou wishest to ascend,

  A soul shall be for that than I more worthy;

  With her at my departure I will leave thee;

Because that Emperor, who reigns above,

  In that I was rebellious to his law,

  Wills that through me none come into his city.

He governs everywhere, and there he reigns;

  There is his city and his lofty throne;

  O happy he whom thereto he elects!"

And I to him: "Poet, I thee entreat,

  By that same God whom thou didst never know,

  So that I may escape this woe and worse,

Thou wouldst conduct me there where thou hast said,

  That I may see the portal of Saint Peter,

  And those thou makest so disconsolate."

Then he moved on, and I behind him followed.

Image 5.12: Inferno: Canto One | Dante flees through a dark forest, pursued by three dangerous animals, a lion, a leopard, and a wolf.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

CANTO II

The Descent. Dante’s Protest and Virgil’s Appeal. The Intercession of the Three Ladies Benedight.

Day was departing, and the embrowned air

  Released the animals that are on earth

  From their fatigues; and I the only one

Made myself ready to sustain the war,

  Both of the way and likewise of the woe,

  Which memory that errs not shall retrace.

O Muses, O high genius, now assist me!

  O memory, that didst write down what I saw,

  Here thy nobility shall be manifest!

And I began: "Poet, who guidest me,

  Regard my manhood, if it be sufficient,

  Ere to the arduous pass thou dost confide me.

Thou sayest, that of Silvius the parent,

  While yet corruptible, unto the world

  Immortal went, and was there bodily.

But if the adversary of all evil

  Was courteous, thinking of the high effect

  That issue would from him, and who, and what,

To men of intellect unmeet it seems not;

  For he was of great Rome, and of her empire

  In the empyreal heaven as father chosen;

The which and what, wishing to speak the truth,

  Were stablished as the holy place, wherein

  Sits the successor of the greatest Peter.

Upon this journey, whence thou givest him vaunt,

  Things did he hear, which the occasion were

  Both of his victory and the papal mantle.

Thither went afterwards the Chosen Vessel,

  To bring back comfort thence unto that Faith,

  Which of salvation's way is the beginning.

But I, why thither come, or who concedes it?

  I not Aeneas am, I am not Paul,

  Nor I, nor others, think me worthy of it.

Therefore, if I resign myself to come,

  I fear the coming may be ill-advised;

  Thou'rt wise, and knowest better than I speak."

And as he is, who unwills what he willed,

  And by new thoughts doth his intention change,

  So that from his design he quite withdraws,

Such I became, upon that dark hillside,

  Because, in thinking, I consumed the emprise,

  Which was so very prompt in the beginning.

"If I have well thy language understood,"

  Replied that shade of the Magnanimous,

  "Thy soul attainted is with cowardice,

Which many times a man encumbers so,

  It turns him back from honoured enterprise,

  As false sight doth a beast, when he is shy.

That thou mayst free thee from this apprehension,

  I'll tell thee why I came, and what I heard

  At the first moment when I grieved for thee.

Among those was I who are in suspense,

  And a fair, saintly Lady called to me

  In such wise, I besought her to command me.

Her eyes where shining brighter than the Star;

  And she began to say, gentle and low,

  With voice angelical, in her own language:

'O spirit courteous of Mantua,

  Of whom the fame still in the world endures,

  And shall endure, long-lasting as the world;

A friend of mine, and not the friend of fortune,

  Upon the desert slope is so impeded

  Upon his way, that he has turned through terror,

And may, I fear, already be so lost,

  That I too late have risen to his succour,

  From that which I have heard of him in Heaven.

Bestir thee now, and with thy speech ornate,

  And with what needful is for his release,

  Assist him so, that I may be consoled.

Beatrice am I, who do bid thee go;

  I come from there, where I would fain return;

  Love moved me, which compelleth me to speak.

When I shall be in presence of my Lord,

  Full often will I praise thee unto him.'

  Then paused she, and thereafter I began:

'O Lady of virtue, thou alone through whom

  The human race exceedeth all contained

  Within the heaven that has the lesser circles,

So grateful unto me is thy commandment,

  To obey, if 'twere already done, were late;

  No farther need'st thou ope to me thy wish.

But the cause tell me why thou dost not shun

  The here descending down into this centre,

  From the vast place thou burnest to return to.'

'Since thou wouldst fain so inwardly discern,

  Briefly will I relate,' she answered me,

  'Why I am not afraid to enter here.

Of those things only should one be afraid

  Which have the power of doing others harm;

  Of the rest, no; because they are not fearful.

God in his mercy such created me

  That misery of yours attains me not,

  Nor any flame assails me of this burning.

A gentle Lady is in Heaven, who grieves

  At this impediment, to which I send thee,

  So that stern judgment there above is broken.

In her entreaty she besought Lucia,

  And said, "Thy faithful one now stands in need

  Of thee, and unto thee I recommend him."

Lucia, foe of all that cruel is,

  Hastened away, and came unto the place

  Where I was sitting with the ancient Rachel.

"Beatrice" said she, "the true praise of God,

  Why succourest thou not him, who loved thee so,

  For thee he issued from the vulgar herd?

Dost thou not hear the pity of his plaint?

  Dost thou not see the death that combats him

  Beside that flood, where ocean has no vaunt?"

Never were persons in the world so swift

  To work their weal and to escape their woe,

  As I, after such words as these were uttered,

Came hither downward from my blessed seat,

  Confiding in thy dignified discourse,

  Which honours thee, and those who've listened to it.'

After she thus had spoken unto me,

  Weeping, her shining eyes she turned away;

  Whereby she made me swifter in my coming;

And unto thee I came, as she desired;

  I have delivered thee from that wild beast,

  Which barred the beautiful mountain's short ascent.

What is it, then? Why, why dost thou delay?

  Why is such baseness bedded in thy heart?

  Daring and hardihood why hast thou not,

Seeing that three such Ladies benedight

  Are caring for thee in the court of Heaven,

  And so much good my speech doth promise thee?"

Even as the flowerets, by nocturnal chill,

  Bowed down and closed, when the sun whitens them,

  Uplift themselves all open on their stems;

Such I became with my exhausted strength,

  And such good courage to my heart there coursed,

  That I began, like an intrepid person:

"O she compassionate, who succoured me,

  And courteous thou, who hast obeyed so soon

  The words of truth which she addressed to thee!

Thou hast my heart so with desire disposed

  To the adventure, with these words of thine,

  That to my first intent I have returned.

Now go, for one sole will is in us both,

  Thou Leader, and thou Lord, and Master thou."

  Thus said I to him; and when he had moved,

I entered on the deep and savage way.

Image 5.13: Inferno: Canto Two | The Roman poet Virgil explains that he has been sent to guide Dante through the underworld.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

Image 5.14: Inferno: Canto Twenty-Six | Dante and Virgil travel through the eighth circle of Hell, where sinners are punished for fraud by being turned into tongues of fire.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

CANTO III

The Gate of Hell. The Inefficient or Indifferent. Pope Celestine V. The Shores of Acheron.1 Charon.2 The Earthquake and the Swoon.

"Through me the way is to the city dolent;

  Through me the way is to eternal dole;

  Through me the way among the people lost.

Justice incited my sublime Creator;

  Created me divine Omnipotence,

  The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.

Before me there were no created things,

  Only eterne, and I eternal last.

  All hope abandon, ye who enter in!"

These words in sombre colour I beheld

  Written upon the summit of a gate;

  Whence I: "Their sense is, Master, hard to me!"

And he to me, as one experienced:

  "Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,

  All cowardice must needs be here extinct.

We to the place have come, where I have told thee

  Thou shalt behold the people dolorous

  Who have foregone the good of intellect."

And after he had laid his hand on mine

  With joyful mien, whence I was comforted,

  He led me in among the secret things.

There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud

  Resounded through the air without a star,

  Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.

Languages diverse, horrible dialects,

  Accents of anger, words of agony,

  And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,

Made up a tumult that goes whirling on

  For ever in that air for ever black,

  Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes.

And I, who had my head with horror bound,

  Said: "Master, what is this which now I hear?

  What folk is this, which seems by pain so vanquished?"

And he to me: "This miserable mode

  Maintain the melancholy souls of those

  Who lived withouten infamy or praise.

Commingled are they with that caitiff choir

  Of Angels, who have not rebellious been,

  Nor faithful were to God, but were for self.

The heavens expelled them, not to be less fair;

  Nor them the nethermore abyss receives,

  For glory none the damned would have from them."

And I: "O Master, what so grievous is

  To these, that maketh them lament so sore?"

  He answered: "I will tell thee very briefly.

These have no longer any hope of death;

  And this blind life of theirs is so debased,

  They envious are of every other fate.

No fame of them the world permits to be;

  Misericord and Justice both disdain them.

  Let us not speak of them, but look, and pass."

And I, who looked again, beheld a banner,

  Which, whirling round, ran on so rapidly,

  That of all pause it seemed to me indignant;

And after it there came so long a train

  Of people, that I ne'er would have believed

  That ever Death so many had undone.

When some among them I had recognised,

  I looked, and I beheld the shade of him

  Who made through cowardice the great refusal.

Forthwith I comprehended, and was certain,

  That this the sect was of the caitiff wretches

  Hateful to God and to his enemies.

These miscreants, who never were alive,

  Were naked, and were stung exceedingly

  By gadflies and by hornets that were there.

These did their faces irrigate with blood,

  Which, with their tears commingled, at their feet

  By the disgusting worms was gathered up.

And when to gazing farther I betook me.

  People I saw on a great river's bank;

  Whence said I: "Master, now vouchsafe to me,

That I may know who these are, and what law

  Makes them appear so ready to pass over,

  As I discern athwart the dusky light."

And he to me: "These things shall all be known

  To thee, as soon as we our footsteps stay

  Upon the dismal shore of Acheron."

Then with mine eyes ashamed and downward cast,

  Fearing my words might irksome be to him,

  From speech refrained I till we reached the river.

And lo! towards us coming in a boat

  An old man, hoary with the hair of eld,

  Crying: "Woe unto you, ye souls depraved!

Hope nevermore to look upon the heavens;

  I come to lead you to the other shore,

  To the eternal shades in heat and frost.

And thou, that yonder standest, living soul,

  Withdraw thee from these people, who are dead!"

  But when he saw that I did not withdraw,

He said: "By other ways, by other ports

  Thou to the shore shalt come, not here, for passage;

  A lighter vessel needs must carry thee."

And unto him the Guide: "Vex thee not, Charon;

  It is so willed there where is power to do

  That which is willed; and farther question not."

Thereat were quieted the fleecy cheeks

  Of him the ferryman of the livid fen,

  Who round about his eyes had wheels of flame.

But all those souls who weary were and naked

  Their colour changed and gnashed their teeth together,

  As soon as they had heard those cruel words.

God they blasphemed and their progenitors,

  The human race, the place, the time, the seed

  Of their engendering and of their birth!

Thereafter all together they drew back,

  Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore,

  Which waiteth every man who fears not God.

Charon the demon, with the eyes of glede,

  Beckoning to them, collects them all together,

  Beats with his oar whoever lags behind.

As in the autumn-time the leaves fall off,

  First one and then another, till the branch

  Unto the earth surrenders all its spoils;

In similar wise the evil seed of Adam

  Throw themselves from that margin one by one,

  At signals, as a bird unto its lure.

So they depart across the dusky wave,

  And ere upon the other side they land,

  Again on this side a new troop assembles.

"My son," the courteous Master said to me,

  "All those who perish in the wrath of God

  Here meet together out of every land;

And ready are they to pass o'er the river,

  Because celestial Justice spurs them on,

  So that their fear is turned into desire.

This way there never passes a good soul;

  And hence if Charon doth complain of thee,

  Well mayst thou know now what his speech imports."

This being finished, all the dusk champaign

  Trembled so violently, that of that terror

  The recollection bathes me still with sweat.

The land of tears gave forth a blast of wind,

  And fulminated a vermilion light,

  Which overmastered in me every sense,

And as a man whom sleep hath seized I fell.

Image 5.15: Purgatorio: Canto One | After leaving Hell, Dante and Virgil encounter Cato the Younger, who says that Dante must clean himself before he can enter Purgatory.

Image 5.15: Purgatorio: Canto One | After leaving Hell, Dante and Virgil encounter Cato the Younger, who says that Dante must clean himself before he can enter Purgatory.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

Image 5.16: Purgatorio: Canto Twenty-Two | Dante passes through the sixth layer of Purgatory, where gluttony transforms to temperance.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

CANTO IV

The First Circle, Limbo: Virtuous Pagans and the Unbaptized. The Four Poets, Homer, Horace, Ovid, and Lucan. The Noble Castle Of Philosophy.

Broke the deep lethargy within my head

  A heavy thunder, so that I upstarted,

  Like to a person who by force is wakened;

And round about I moved my rested eyes,

  Uprisen erect, and steadfastly I gazed,

  To recognise the place wherein I was.

True is it, that upon the verge I found me

  Of the abysmal valley dolorous,

  That gathers thunder of infinite ululations.

Obscure, profound it was, and nebulous,

  So that by fixing on its depths my sight

  Nothing whatever I discerned therein.

"Let us descend now into the blind world,"

  Began the Poet, pallid utterly;

  "I will be first, and thou shalt second be."

And I, who of his colour was aware,

  Said: "How shall I come, if thou art afraid,

  Who'rt wont to be a comfort to my fears?"

And he to me: "The anguish of the people

  Who are below here in my face depicts

  That pity which for terror thou hast taken.

Let us go on, for the long way impels us."

  Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter

  The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss.

There, as it seemed to me from listening,

  Were lamentations none, but only sighs,

  That tremble made the everlasting air.

And this arose from sorrow without torment,

  Which the crowds had, that many were and great,

  Of infants and of women and of men.

To me the Master good: "Thou dost not ask

  What spirits these, which thou beholdest, are?

  Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther,

That they sinned not; and if they merit had,

  'Tis not enough, because they had not baptism

  Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest;

And if they were before Christianity,

  In the right manner they adored not God;

  And among such as these am I myself.

For such defects, and not for other guilt,

  Lost are we and are only so far punished,

  That without hope we live on in desire."

Great grief seized on my heart when this I heard,

  Because some people of much worthiness

  I knew, who in that Limbo were suspended.

"Tell me, my Master, tell me, thou my Lord,"

  Began I, with desire of being certain

  Of that Faith which o'ercometh every error,

"Came any one by his own merit hence,

  Or by another's, who was blessed thereafter?"

  And he, who understood my covert speech,

Replied: "I was a novice in this state,

  When I saw hither come a Mighty One,

  With sign of victory incoronate.

Hence he drew forth the shade of the First Parent,

  And that of his son Abel, and of Noah,

  Of Moses the lawgiver, and the obedient

Abraham, patriarch, and David, king,

  Israel with his father and his children,

  And Rachel, for whose sake he did so much,

And others many, and he made them blessed;

  And thou must know, that earlier than these

  Never were any human spirits saved."

We ceased not to advance because he spake,

  But still were passing onward through the forest,

  The forest, say I, of thick-crowded ghosts.

Not very far as yet our way had gone

  This side the summit, when I saw a fire

  That overcame a hemisphere of darkness.

We were a little distant from it still,

  But not so far that I in part discerned not

  That honourable people held that place.

"O thou who honourest every art and science,

  Who may these be, which such great honour have,

  That from the fashion of the rest it parts them?"

And he to me: "The honourable name,

  That sounds of them above there in thy life,

  Wins grace in Heaven, that so advances them."

In the mean time a voice was heard by me:

  "All honour be to the pre-eminent Poet;

  His shade returns again, that was departed."

After the voice had ceased and quiet was,

  Four mighty shades I saw approaching us;

  Semblance had they nor sorrowful nor glad.

To say to me began my gracious Master:

  "Him with that falchion in his hand behold,

  Who comes before the three, even as their lord.

That one is Homer, Poet sovereign;

  He who comes next is Horace, the satirist;

  The third is Ovid, and the last is Lucan.

Because to each of these with me applies

  The name that solitary voice proclaimed,

  They do me honour, and in that do well."

Thus I beheld assemble the fair school

  Of that lord of the song pre-eminent,

  Who o'er the others like an eagle soars.

When they together had discoursed somewhat,

  They turned to me with signs of salutation,

  And on beholding this, my Master smiled;

And more of honour still, much more, they did me,

  In that they made me one of their own band;

  So that the sixth was I, 'mid so much wit.

Thus we went on as far as to the light,

  Things saying 'tis becoming to keep silent,

  As was the saying of them where I was.

We came unto a noble castle's foot,

  Seven times encompassed with lofty walls,

  Defended round by a fair rivulet;

This we passed over even as firm ground;

  Through portals seven I entered with these Sages;

  We came into a meadow of fresh verdure.

People were there with solemn eyes and slow,

  Of great authority in their countenance;

  They spake but seldom, and with gentle voices.

Thus we withdrew ourselves upon one side

  Into an opening luminous and lofty,

  So that they all of them were visible.

There opposite, upon the green enamel,

  Were pointed out to me the mighty spirits,

  Whom to have seen I feel myself exalted.

I saw Electra with companions many,

  'Mongst whom I knew both Hector and Aeneas,

  Caesar in armour with gerfalcon eyes;

I saw Camilla and Penthesilea

  On the other side, and saw the King Latinus,

  Who with Lavinia his daughter sat;

I saw that Brutus who drove Tarquin forth,

  Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia,

  And saw alone, apart, the Saladin.

When I had lifted up my brows a little,

  The Master I beheld of those who know,

  Sit with his philosophic family.

All gaze upon him, and all do him honour.

  There I beheld both Socrates and Plato,

  Who nearer him before the others stand;

Democritus, who puts the world on chance,

  Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales,

  Zeno, Empedocles, and Heraclitus;

Of qualities I saw the good collector,

  Hight Dioscorides; and Orpheus saw I,

  Tully and Livy, and moral Seneca,

Euclid, geometrician, and Ptolemy,

  Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicenna,

  Averroes, who the great Comment made.

I cannot all of them pourtray in full,

  Because so drives me onward the long theme,

  That many times the word comes short of fact.

The sixfold company in two divides;

  Another way my sapient Guide conducts me

  Forth from the quiet to the air that trembles;

And to a place I come where nothing shines.

Image 5.17: Purgatorio: Canto Thirty | In this illustration, Dante is criticized by Beatrice for loving other women after her death, and they both observe the griffin.

Image 5.17: Purgatorio: Canto Thirty | In this illustration, Dante is criticized by Beatrice for loving other women after her death, and they both observe the griffin.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

Image 5.18: Paradiso: Canto Four | Beatrice and Dante face one another and discuss free will.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

CANTO V

The Second Circle: the Wanton. Minos. The Infernal Hurricane. Francesca Da Rimini.

Thus I descended out of the first circle

  Down to the second, that less space begirds,

  And so much greater dole, that goads to wailing.

There standeth Minos horribly, and snarls;

  Examines the transgressions at the entrance;

  Judges, and sends according as he girds him.

I say, that when the spirit evil-born

  Cometh before him, wholly it confesses;

  And this discriminator of transgressions

Seeth what place in Hell is meet for it;

  Girds himself with his tail as many times

  As grades he wishes it should be thrust down.

Always before him many of them stand;

  They go by turns each one unto the judgment;

  They speak, and hear, and then are downward hurled.

"O thou, that to this dolorous hostelry

  Comest," said Minos to me, when he saw me,

  Leaving the practice of so great an office,

"Look how thou enterest, and in whom thou trustest;

  Let not the portal's amplitude deceive thee."

  And unto him my Guide: "Why criest thou too?

Do not impede his journey fate-ordained;

  It is so willed there where is power to do

  That which is willed; and ask no further question."

And now begin the dolesome notes to grow

  Audible unto me; now am I come

  There where much lamentation strikes upon me.

I came into a place mute of all light,

  Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest,

  If by opposing winds 't is combated.

The infernal hurricane that never rests

  Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine;

  Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them.

When they arrive before the precipice,

  There are the shrieks, the plaints, and the laments,

  There they blaspheme the puissance divine.

I understood that unto such a torment

  The carnal malefactors were condemned,

  Who reason subjugate to appetite.

And as the wings of starlings bear them on

  In the cold season in large band and full,

  So doth that blast the spirits maledict;

It hither, thither, downward, upward, drives them;

  No hope doth comfort them for evermore,

  Not of repose, but even of lesser pain.

And as the cranes go chanting forth their lays,

  Making in air a long line of themselves,

  So saw I coming, uttering lamentations,

Shadows borne onward by the aforesaid stress.

  Whereupon said I: "Master, who are those

  People, whom the black air so castigates?"

"The first of those, of whom intelligence

  Thou fain wouldst have," then said he unto me,

  "The empress was of many languages.

To sensual vices she was so abandoned,

  That lustful she made licit in her law,

  To remove the blame to which she had been led.

She is Semiramis, of whom we read

  That she succeeded Ninus, and was his spouse;

  She held the land which now the Sultan rules.

The next is she who killed herself for love,

  And broke faith with the ashes of Sichaeus;

  Then Cleopatra the voluptuous."

Helen I saw, for whom so many ruthless

  Seasons revolved; and saw the great Achilles,

  Who at the last hour combated with Love.

Paris I saw, Tristan; and more than a thousand

  Shades did he name and point out with his finger,

  Whom Love had separated from our life.

After that I had listened to my Teacher,

  Naming the dames of eld and cavaliers,

  Pity prevailed, and I was nigh bewildered.

And I began: "O Poet, willingly

  Speak would I to those two, who go together,

  And seem upon the wind to be so light."

And, he to me: "Thou'lt mark, when they shall be

  Nearer to us; and then do thou implore them

  By love which leadeth them, and they will come."

Soon as the wind in our direction sways them,

  My voice uplift I: "O ye weary souls!

  Come speak to us, if no one interdicts it."

As turtle-doves, called onward by desire,

  With open and steady wings to the sweet nest

  Fly through the air by their volition borne,

So came they from the band where Dido is,

  Approaching us athwart the air malign,

  So strong was the affectionate appeal.

"O living creature gracious and benignant,

  Who visiting goest through the purple air

  Us, who have stained the world incarnadine,

If were the King of the Universe our friend,

  We would pray unto him to give thee peace,

  Since thou hast pity on our woe perverse.

Of what it pleases thee to hear and speak,

  That will we hear, and we will speak to you,

  While silent is the wind, as it is now.

Sitteth the city, wherein I was born,

  Upon the sea-shore where the Po descends

  To rest in peace with all his retinue.

Love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize,

  Seized this man for the person beautiful

  That was ta'en from me, and still the mode offends me.

Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving,

  Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly,

  That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me;

Love has conducted us unto one death;

  Caina waiteth him who quenched our life!"

  These words were borne along from them to us.

As soon as I had heard those souls tormented,

  I bowed my face, and so long held it down

  Until the Poet said to me: "What thinkest?"

When I made answer, I began: "Alas!

  How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire,

  Conducted these unto the dolorous pass!"

Then unto them I turned me, and I spake,

  And I began: "Thine agonies, Francesca,

  Sad and compassionate to weeping make me.

But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs,

  By what and in what manner Love conceded,

  That you should know your dubious desires?"

And she to me: "There is no greater sorrow

  Than to be mindful of the happy time

  In misery, and that thy Teacher knows.

But, if to recognise the earliest root

  Of love in us thou hast so great desire,

  I will do even as he who weeps and speaks.

One day we reading were for our delight

  Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthral.

  Alone we were and without any fear.

Full many a time our eyes together drew

  That reading, and drove the colour from our faces;

  But one point only was it that o'ercame us.

When as we read of the much-longed-for smile

  Being by such a noble lover kissed,

  This one, who ne'er from me shall be divided,

Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.

  Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it.

  That day no farther did we read therein."

And all the while one spirit uttered this,

  The other one did weep so, that, for pity,

  I swooned away as if I had been dying,

And fell, even as a dead body falls.

CANTO XII

The Minotaur. The Seventh Circle: The Violent. The River Phlegethon.3 The Violent Against Their Neighbours. The Centaurs. Tyrants.

The place where to descend the bank we came

  Was alpine, and from what was there, moreover,

  Of such a kind that every eye would shun it.

Such as that ruin is which in the flank

  Smote, on this side of Trent, the Adige,

  Either by earthquake or by failing stay,

For from the mountain's top, from which it moved,

  Unto the plain the cliff is shattered so,

  Some path 'twould give to him who was above;

Even such was the descent of that ravine,

  And on the border of the broken chasm

  The infamy of Crete was stretched along,

Who was conceived in the fictitious cow;

  And when he us beheld, he bit himself,

  Even as one whom anger racks within.

My Sage towards him shouted: "Peradventure

  Thou think'st that here may be the Duke of Athens,

  Who in the world above brought death to thee?

Get thee gone, beast, for this one cometh not

  Instructed by thy sister, but he comes

  In order to behold your punishments."

As is that bull who breaks loose at the moment

  In which he has received the mortal blow,

  Who cannot walk, but staggers here and there,

The Minotaur beheld I do the like;

  And he, the wary, cried: "Run to the passage;

  While he wroth, 'tis well thou shouldst descend."

Thus down we took our way o'er that discharge

  Of stones, which oftentimes did move themselves

  Beneath my feet, from the unwonted burden.

Thoughtful I went; and he said: "Thou art thinking

  Perhaps upon this ruin, which is guarded

  By that brute anger which just now I quenched.

Now will I have thee know, the other time

  I here descended to the nether Hell,

  This precipice had not yet fallen down.

But truly, if I well discern, a little

  Before His coming who the mighty spoil

  Bore off from Dis, in the supernal circle,

Upon all sides the deep and loathsome valley

  Trembled so, that I thought the Universe

  Was thrilled with love, by which there are who think

The world ofttimes converted into chaos;

  And at that moment this primeval crag

  Both here and elsewhere made such overthrow.

But fix thine eyes below; for draweth near

  The river of blood, within which boiling is

  Whoe'er by violence doth injure others."

O blind cupidity, O wrath insane,

  That spurs us onward so in our short life,

  And in the eternal then so badly steeps us!

I saw an ample moat bent like a bow,

  As one which all the plain encompasses,

  Conformable to what my Guide had said.

And between this and the embankment's foot

  Centaurs in file were running, armed with arrows,

  As in the world they used the chase to follow.

Beholding us descend, each one stood still,

  And from the squadron three detached themselves,

  With bows and arrows in advance selected;

And from afar one cried: "Unto what torment

  Come ye, who down the hillside are descending?

  Tell us from there; if not, I draw the bow."

My Master said: "Our answer will we make

  To Chiron, near you there; in evil hour,

  That will of thine was evermore so hasty."

Then touched he me, and said: "This one is Nessus,

  Who perished for the lovely Dejanira,

  And for himself, himself did vengeance take.

And he in the midst, who at his breast is gazing,

  Is the great Chiron, who brought up Achilles;

  That other Pholus is, who was so wrathful.

Thousands and thousands go about the moat

  Shooting with shafts whatever soul emerges

  Out of the blood, more than his crime allots."

Near we approached unto those monsters fleet;

  Chiron an arrow took, and with the notch

  Backward upon his jaws he put his beard.

After he had uncovered his great mouth,

  He said to his companions: "Are you ware

  That he behind moveth whate'er he touches?

Thus are not wont to do the feet of dead men."

  And my good Guide, who now was at his breast,

  Where the two natures are together joined,

Replied: "Indeed he lives, and thus alone

  Me it behoves to show him the dark valley;

  Necessity, and not delight, impels us.

Some one withdrew from singing Halleluja,

  Who unto me committed this new office;

  No thief is he, nor I a thievish spirit.

But by that virtue through which I am moving

  My steps along this savage thoroughfare,

  Give us some one of thine, to be with us,

And who may show us where to pass the ford,

  And who may carry this one on his back;

  For 'tis no spirit that can walk the air."

Upon his right breast Chiron wheeled about,

  And said to Nessus: "Turn and do thou guide them,

  And warn aside, if other band may meet you."

We with our faithful escort onward moved

  Along the brink of the vermilion boiling,

  Wherein the boiled were uttering loud laments.

People I saw within up to the eyebrows,

  And the great Centaur said: "Tyrants are these,

  Who dealt in bloodshed and in pillaging.

Here they lament their pitiless mischiefs; here

  Is Alexander, and fierce Dionysius

  Who upon Sicily brought dolorous years.

That forehead there which has the hair so black

  Is Azzolin; and the other who is blond,

  Obizzo is of Esti, who, in truth,

Up in the world was by his stepson slain."

  Then turned I to the Poet; and he said,

  "Now he be first to thee, and second I."

A little farther on the Centaur stopped

  Above a folk, who far down as the throat

  Seemed from that boiling stream to issue forth.

A shade he showed us on one side alone,

  Saying: "He cleft asunder in God's bosom

  The heart that still upon the Thames is honoured."

Then people saw I, who from out the river

  Lifted their heads and also all the chest;

  And many among these I recognised.

Thus ever more and more grew shallower

  That blood, so that the feet alone it covered;

  And there across the moat our passage was.

"Even as thou here upon this side beholdest

  The boiling stream, that aye diminishes,"

  The Centaur said, "I wish thee to believe

That on this other more and more declines

  Its bed, until it reunites itself

  Where it behoveth tyranny to groan.

Justice divine, upon this side, is goading

  That Attila, who was a scourge on earth,

  And Pyrrhus, and Sextus; and for ever milks

The tears which with the boiling it unseals

  In Rinier da Corneto and Rinier Pazzo,

  Who made upon the highways so much war."

Then back he turned, and passed again the ford.

Image 5.19: Paradiso: Canto Twenty | Heavenly souls form shapes with their bodies, eventually transforming into an eagle, one of the symbols of ancient Rome.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

CANTO XIII

The Wood of Thorns. The Harpies. The Violent Against Themselves. Suicides. Pier Della Vigna. Lano and Jacopo Da Sant’ Andrea.

Not yet had Nessus reached the other side,

  When we had put ourselves within a wood,

  That was not marked by any path whatever.

Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour,

  Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled,

  Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison.

Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense,

  Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold

  'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places.

There do the hideous Harpies make their nests,

  Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades,

  With sad announcement of impending doom;

Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human,

  And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged;

  They make laments upon the wondrous trees.

And the good Master: "Ere thou enter farther,

  Know that thou art within the second round,"

  Thus he began to say, "and shalt be, till

Thou comest out upon the horrible sand;

  Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see

  Things that will credence give unto my speech."

I heard on all sides lamentations uttered,

  And person none beheld I who might make them,

  Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still.

I think he thought that I perhaps might think

  So many voices issued through those trunks

  From people who concealed themselves from us;

Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off

  Some little spray from any of these trees,

  The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain."

Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward,

  And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn;

  And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?"

After it had become embrowned with blood,

  It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me?

  Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever?

Men once we were, and now are changed to trees;

  Indeed, thy hand should be more pitiful,

  Even if the souls of serpents we had been."

As out of a green brand, that is on fire

  At one of the ends, and from the other drips

  And hisses with the wind that is escaping;

So from that splinter issued forth together

  Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip

  Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid.

"Had he been able sooner to believe,"

  My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul,

  What only in my verses he has seen,

Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand;

  Whereas the thing incredible has caused me

  To put him to an act which grieveth me.

But tell him who thou wast, so that by way

  Of some amends thy fame he may refresh

  Up in the world, to which he can return."

And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me,

  I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not,

  That I a little to discourse am tempted.

I am the one who both keys had in keeping

  Of Frederick's heart, and turned them to and fro

  So softly in unlocking and in locking,

That from his secrets most men I withheld;

  Fidelity I bore the glorious office

  So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses.

The courtesan who never from the dwelling

  Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes,

  Death universal and the vice of courts,

Inflamed against me all the other minds,

  And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus,

  That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings.

My spirit, in disdainful exultation,

  Thinking by dying to escape disdain,

  Made me unjust against myself, the just.

I, by the roots unwonted of this wood,

  Do swear to you that never broke I faith

  Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour;

And to the world if one of you return,

  Let him my memory comfort, which is lying

  Still prostrate from the blow that envy dealt it."

Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent,"

  The Poet said to me, "lose not the time,

  But speak, and question him, if more may please thee."

Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire

  Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me;

  For I cannot, such pity is in my heart."

Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man

  Do for thee freely what thy speech implores,

  Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased

To tell us in what way the soul is bound

  Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst,

  If any from such members e'er is freed."

Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward

  The wind was into such a voice converted:

  "With brevity shall be replied to you.

When the exasperated soul abandons

  The body whence it rent itself away,

  Minos consigns it to the seventh abyss.

It falls into the forest, and no part

  Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it,

  There like a grain of spelt it germinates.

It springs a sapling, and a forest tree;

  The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves,

  Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet.

Like others for our spoils shall we return;

  But not that any one may them revest,

  For 'tis not just to have what one casts off.

Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal

  Forest our bodies shall suspended be,

  Each to the thorn of his molested shade."

We were attentive still unto the trunk,

  Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us,

  When by a tumult we were overtaken,

In the same way as he is who perceives

  The boar and chase approaching to his stand,

  Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches;

And two behold! upon our left-hand side,

  Naked and scratched, fleeing so furiously,

  That of the forest, every fan they broke.

He who was in advance: "Now help, Death, help!"

  And the other one, who seemed to lag too much,

  Was shouting: "Lano, were not so alert

Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!"

  And then, perchance because his breath was failing,

  He grouped himself together with a bush.

Behind them was the forest full of black

  She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot

  As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain.

On him who had crouched down they set their teeth,

  And him they lacerated piece by piece,

  Thereafter bore away those aching members.

Thereat my Escort took me by the hand,

  And led me to the bush, that all in vain

  Was weeping from its bloody lacerations.

"O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea,

  What helped it thee of me to make a screen?

  What blame have I in thy nefarious life?"

When near him had the Master stayed his steps,

  He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many

  Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?"

And he to us: "O souls, that hither come

  To look upon the shameful massacre

  That has so rent away from me my leaves,

Gather them up beneath the dismal bush;

  I of that city was which to the Baptist

  Changed its first patron, wherefore he for this

Forever with his art will make it sad.

  And were it not that on the pass of Arno

  Some glimpses of him are remaining still,

Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it

  Upon the ashes left by Attila,

  In vain had caused their labour to be done.

Of my own house I made myself a gibbet."

CANTO XV

The Violent Against Nature. Brunetto Latini.

Now bears us onward one of the hard margins,

  And so the brooklet's mist o'ershadows it,

  From fire it saves the water and the dikes.

Even as the Flemings, 'twixt Cadsand and Bruges,

  Fearing the flood that tow'rds them hurls itself,

  Their bulwarks build to put the sea to flight;

And as the Paduans along the Brenta,

  To guard their villas and their villages,

  Or ever Chiarentana feel the heat;

In such similitude had those been made,

  Albeit not so lofty nor so thick,

  Whoever he might be, the master made them.

Now were we from the forest so remote,

  I could not have discovered where it was,

  Even if backward I had turned myself,

When we a company of souls encountered,

  Who came beside the dike, and every one

  Gazed at us, as at evening we are wont

To eye each other under a new moon,

  And so towards us sharpened they their brows

  As an old tailor at the needle's eye.

Thus scrutinised by such a family,

  By some one I was recognised, who seized

  My garment's hem, and cried out, "What a marvel!"

And I, when he stretched forth his arm to me,

  On his baked aspect fastened so mine eyes,

  That the scorched countenance prevented not

His recognition by my intellect;

  And bowing down my face unto his own,

  I made reply, "Are you here, Ser Brunetto?"

And he: "May't not displease thee, O my son,

  If a brief space with thee Brunetto Latini

  Backward return and let the trail go on."

I said to him: "With all my power I ask it;

  And if you wish me to sit down with you,

  I will, if he please, for I go with him."

"O son," he said, "whoever of this herd

  A moment stops, lies then a hundred years,

  Nor fans himself when smiteth him the fire.

Therefore go on; I at thy skirts will come,

  And afterward will I rejoin my band,

  Which goes lamenting its eternal doom."

I did not dare to go down from the road

  Level to walk with him; but my head bowed

  I held as one who goeth reverently.

And he began: "What fortune or what fate

  Before the last day leadeth thee down here?

  And who is this that showeth thee the way?"

"Up there above us in the life serene,"

  I answered him, "I lost me in a valley,

  Or ever yet my age had been completed.

But yestermorn I turned my back upon it;

  This one appeared to me, returning thither,

  And homeward leadeth me along this road."

And he to me: "If thou thy star do follow,

  Thou canst not fail thee of a glorious port,

  If well I judged in the life beautiful.

And if I had not died so prematurely,

  Seeing Heaven thus benignant unto thee,

  I would have given thee comfort in the work.

But that ungrateful and malignant people,

  Which of old time from Fesole descended,

  And smacks still of the mountain and the granite,

Will make itself, for thy good deeds, thy foe;

  And it is right; for among crabbed sorbs

  It ill befits the sweet fig to bear fruit.

Old rumour in the world proclaims them blind;

  A people avaricious, envious, proud;

  Take heed that of their customs thou do cleanse thee.

Thy fortune so much honour doth reserve thee,

  One party and the other shall be hungry

  For thee; but far from goat shall be the grass.

Their litter let the beasts of Fesole

  Make of themselves, nor let them touch the plant,

  If any still upon their dunghill rise,

In which may yet revive the consecrated

  Seed of those Romans, who remained there when

  The nest of such great malice it became."

"If my entreaty wholly were fulfilled,"

  Replied I to him, "not yet would you be

  In banishment from human nature placed;

For in my mind is fixed, and touches now

  My heart the dear and good paternal image

  Of you, when in the world from hour to hour

You taught me how a man becomes eternal;

  And how much I am grateful, while I live

  Behoves that in my language be discerned.

What you narrate of my career I write,

  And keep it to be glossed with other text

  By a Lady who can do it, if I reach her.

This much will I have manifest to you;

  Provided that my conscience do not chide me,

  For whatsoever Fortune I am ready.

Such handsel is not new unto mine ears;

  Therefore let Fortune turn her wheel around

  As it may please her, and the churl his mattock."

My Master thereupon on his right cheek

  Did backward turn himself, and looked at me;

  Then said: "He listeneth well who noteth it."

Nor speaking less on that account, I go

  With Ser Brunetto, and I ask who are

  His most known and most eminent companions.

And he to me: "To know of some is well;

  Of others it were laudable to be silent,

  For short would be the time for so much speech.

Know them in sum, that all of them were clerks,

  And men of letters great and of great fame,

  In the world tainted with the selfsame sin.

Priscian goes yonder with that wretched crowd,

  And Francis of Accorso; and thou hadst seen there

  If thou hadst had a hankering for such scurf,

That one, who by the Servant of the Servants

  From Arno was transferred to Bacchiglione,

  Where he has left his sin-excited nerves.

More would I say, but coming and discoursing

  Can be no longer; for that I behold

  New smoke uprising yonder from the sand.

A people comes with whom I may not be;

  Commended unto thee be my Tesoro,

  In which I still live, and no more I ask."

Then he turned round, and seemed to be of those

  Who at Verona run for the Green Mantle

  Across the plain; and seemed to be among them

The one who wins, and not the one who loses.

Image 5.20: Paradiso: Canto Thirty-Three | Dante witnesses the Virgil Mary, and Saint Bernard offers her a prayer on Dante’s behalf.

Author: Teodolinda Barolini

Source: Digital Dante

License: Public Domain

CANTO XXXIV

Fourth Division of the Ninth Circle, the Judecca: Traitors to their Lords and Benefactors. Lucifer, Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius. The Chasm of Lethe. The Ascent.

"'Vexilla Regis prodeunt Inferni'

  Towards us; therefore look in front of thee,"

  My Master said, "if thou discernest him."

As, when there breathes a heavy fog, or when

  Our hemisphere is darkening into night,

  Appears far off a mill the wind is turning,

Methought that such a building then I saw;

  And, for the wind, I drew myself behind

  My Guide, because there was no other shelter.

Now was I, and with fear in verse I put it,

  There where the shades were wholly covered up,

  And glimmered through like unto straws in glass.

Some prone are lying, others stand erect,

  This with the head, and that one with the soles;

  Another, bow-like, face to feet inverts.

When in advance so far we had proceeded,

  That it my Master pleased to show to me

  The creature who once had the beauteous semblance,

He from before me moved and made me stop,

  Saying: "Behold Dis, and behold the place

  Where thou with fortitude must arm thyself."

How frozen I became and powerless then,

  Ask it not, Reader, for I write it not,

  Because all language would be insufficient.

I did not die, and I alive remained not;

  Think for thyself now, hast thou aught of wit,

  What I became, being of both deprived.

The Emperor of the kingdom dolorous

  From his mid-breast forth issued from the ice;

  And better with a giant I compare

Than do the giants with those arms of his;

  Consider now how great must be that whole,

  Which unto such a part conforms itself.

Were he as fair once, as he now is foul,

  And lifted up his brow against his Maker,

  Well may proceed from him all tribulation.

O, what a marvel it appeared to me,

  When I beheld three faces on his head!

  The one in front, and that vermilion was;

Two were the others, that were joined with this

  Above the middle part of either shoulder,

  And they were joined together at the crest;

And the right-hand one seemed 'twixt white and yellow;

  The left was such to look upon as those

  Who come from where the Nile falls valley-ward.

Underneath each came forth two mighty wings,

  Such as befitting were so great a bird;

  Sails of the sea I never saw so large.

 No feathers had they, but as of a bat

  Their fashion was; and he was waving them,

  So that three winds proceeded forth therefrom.

Thereby Cocytus wholly was congealed.

  With six eyes did he weep, and down three chins

  Trickled the tear-drops and the bloody drivel.

At every mouth he with his teeth was crunching

  A sinner, in the manner of a brake,

  So that he three of them tormented thus.

To him in front the biting was as naught

  Unto the clawing, for sometimes the spine

  Utterly stripped of all the skin remained.

"That soul up there which has the greatest pain,"

  The Master said, "is Judas Iscariot;

  With head inside, he plies his legs without.

Of the two others, who head downward are,

  The one who hangs from the black jowl is Brutus;

  See how he writhes himself, and speaks no word.

And the other, who so stalwart seems, is Cassius.

  But night is reascending, and 'tis time

  That we depart, for we have seen the whole."

As seemed him good, I clasped him round the neck,

  And he the vantage seized of time and place,

  And when the wings were opened wide apart,

He laid fast hold upon the shaggy sides;

  From fell to fell descended downward then

  Between the thick hair and the frozen crust.

When we were come to where the thigh revolves

  Exactly on the thickness of the haunch,

  The Guide, with labour and with hard-drawn breath,

Turned round his head where he had had his legs,

  And grappled to the hair, as one who mounts,

  So that to Hell I thought we were returning.

"Keep fast thy hold, for by such stairs as these,"

  The Master said, panting as one fatigued,

  "Must we perforce depart from so much evil."

Then through the opening of a rock he issued,

  And down upon the margin seated me;

  Then tow'rds me he outstretched his wary step.

I lifted up mine eyes and thought to see

  Lucifer in the same way I had left him;

  And I beheld him upward hold his legs.

And if I then became disquieted,

  Let stolid people think who do not see

  What the point is beyond which I had passed.

"Rise up," the Master said, "upon thy feet;

  The way is long, and difficult the road,

  And now the sun to middle-tierce returns."

It was not any palace corridor

  There where we were, but dungeon natural,

  With floor uneven and unease of light.

"Ere from the abyss I tear myself away,

  My Master," said I when I had arisen,

  "To draw me from an error speak a little;

Where is the ice? and how is this one fixed

  Thus upside down? and how in such short time

  From eve to morn has the sun made his transit?"

And he to me: "Thou still imaginest

  Thou art beyond the centre, where I grasped

  The hair of the fell worm, who mines the world.

That side thou wast, so long as I descended;

  When round I turned me, thou didst pass the point

  To which things heavy draw from every side,

And now beneath the hemisphere art come

  Opposite that which overhangs the vast

  Dry-land, and 'neath whose cope was put to death

The Man who without sin was born and lived.

  Thou hast thy feet upon the little sphere

  Which makes the other face of the Judecca.

Here it is morn when it is evening there;

  And he who with his hair a stairway made us

  Still fixed remaineth as he was before.

Upon this side he fell down out of heaven;

  And all the land, that whilom here emerged,

  For fear of him made of the sea a veil,

And came to our hemisphere; and peradventure

  To flee from him, what on this side appears

  Left the place vacant here, and back recoiled."

A place there is below, from Beelzebub

  As far receding as the tomb extends,

  Which not by sight is known, but by the sound

Of a small rivulet, that there descendeth

  Through chasm within the stone, which it has gnawed

  With course that winds about and slightly falls.

The Guide and I into that hidden road

  Now entered, to return to the bright world;

  And without care of having any rest

We mounted up, he first and I the second,

  Till I beheld through a round aperture

  Some of the beauteous things that Heaven doth bear;

Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars.

[NOTE: Our selection omits a number of cantos depicting various sins of fraud. The final third of the Inferno (Cantos XVIII-XXXIV) catalogs two different kinds of fraud: the first section (cantos XVIII-XXX) depicts “simple” fraud, deceiving others who have no special trust in the sinner (for example fortune-telling); the second and more damnable (XXXI-XXXIV), complex fraud or treachery, involves deceiving people who have a trusted relationship with the sinner (for example betraying one’s family or country). We have included just two cantos from “simple” fraud (XXVI and XXVII); these relate the stories of how Ulysses (Latin for Odysseus) and Guido da Montefeltro, two powerful and gifted individuals, come to be damned. After their stories, we conclude with the sins of complex fraud (XXXII-XXXIV), which take us to the end of the Inferno.]

THE SONG OF ROLAND

Anonymous or possibly composed by a poet named Turold

Floruit or fl 1075-1100

Composed ca. eleventh century CE

French

The Song of Roland is actually founded upon an historical event, the Battle of Roncevaux Pass (778 CE), in which Roland, commander of the rear guard of Charlemagne’s army, was defeated by the Basques. This chanson de geste (“song of mighty deeds”) provides a powerful fusion of Germanic warrior and Christian cultures. The Song briskly moves its source material into a mythic dimension, with a 200 year old, semi-divine Charlemagne assigning his twelve peers and their troops to guard a high mountain pass in the Pyrenees against attack by 400,000 Saracen Muslims (an obvious epic inflation). In the figure of Ganelon, stepfather of Roland who betrays him, the epic depicts the qualities most abhorred by a warrior culture, deceit and disloyalty. In the figure of the martyred and brave—even to a point of rashness—Roland, the epic creates an ideal of the masculine fighting hero, despite the fact that he would have done well to listen to the advice of his wise friend Oliver. Composed of various threads from the oral tradition and written down sometime in the eleventh century, the Song of Roland served as an inspiration for the Crusaders. As such, it offers a particularly scurrilous portrait of Muslim warriors as cowards and villains who worship pagan deities. One of the first works in the French literary tradition, the Song of Roland memorializes its militant Christian culture through vivid description and dramatic action, especially in its set-pieces of hand-tohand combat. In proclaiming that “pagans are wrong and the Christians are right,” the epic offers a world of moral absolutes with little room for shadings.

Written by Doug Thomson

5.6.1 Questions to consider while reading this selection:

  1. How are the Muslims (Saracens) depicted in the epic?

  1. What are the characteristics of the ideal masculine hero as can be gathered from depictions of the epic’s various characters? How does this ideal hero compare and contrast with other epic heroes ?

  2. In Laisse XCIV, Roland asserts that “We [the French] have the right, these gluttons [the Saracens] have the wrong!” What do you make of the moral absolutes that govern the poem (Christians right, pagans wrong. period)?

  3. Archbishop Turpin is the leading religious figure in the epic. What do you make of his brand of Christianity?

5.6.2 La Chanson de Roland

Translated from the Seventh Edition of Leon Gautier by Léonce Rabillon

Edited, annotated, and compiled by Rhonda L. Kelley

License: CC BY-SA 4.0

Charlemagne in Spain

I.

Carle our most noble Emperor and King,4

Hath tarried now full seven years in Spain,5

Conqu’ring the highland regions to the sea;

No fortress stands before him unsubdued,

Nor wall, nor city left, to be destroyed,

Save Sarraguce,6 high on a mountain set.

There rules the King Marsile who loves not God,

Apollo7 worships and Mohammed serves;

Nor can he from his evil doom escape.

Aoi.8

Ganelon’s Treason (summary)

At the end of his seven-year campaign against Spain, Charlemagne finds he cannot penetrate the walls of King Marsile’s Saragossa. Fearful of a siege, Marsile promises through a messenger that if Charlemagne will leave Spain, then Marsile will present himself with a ransom at Charlemagne’s court to be converted to Christianity. Charlemagne accepts the offer and sends an ambassador to convey same.

On the advice of Roland, Charlemagne’s nephew and leader of his rear-guard, the Franks send Ganelon, Roland’s stepfather, to deliver the message. Because all of the previous ambassadors to Marsile had died horrible deaths, Ganelon assumes that Roland is setting him up for a similar fate. In retaliation to the perceived insult, Ganelon betrays Roland and Charlemagne to King Marsile. Knowing that Roland would lead several other Paladins and the rear-guard, Ganelon tells Marsile how to ambush the rear-guard at the narrow mountain pass of Ronceval.

Prelude to the Great Battle.9

LXXXI.

Olivier10 from the summit of a hill11

On his right hand looks o'er a grassy vale,

And views the Pagans'12 onward marching hordes;

Then straight he called his faithful friend Rollánd:

"From Spain a distant rumbling noise I hear,

So many hauberks white and flashing helms

I see!—This will inflame our French men's hearts.

The treason is the work of Ganelon

Who named us for this post before the King."

"Hush! Olivier!"—the Count Rollánd replies,

"'Tis my step-father, speak no other word."

Aoi.

LXXXII.

Count Olivier is posted on a hill

From whence Spain's Kingdom he descries,13 and all

The swarming host of Saracens; their helms

So bright bedecked with gold, and their great shields,

Their 'broidered hauberks, and their waving flags,

He cannot count the squadrons; in such crowds

They come, his sight reached not unto their end.

Then all bewildered he descends the hill,

Rejoins the French, and all to them relates.

Aoi.

LXXXIII.

Said Olivier: "I have seen Pagans more

Than eyes e'er saw upon the earth; at least

One hundred thousand warriors armed with shields,

In their white hauberks clad, with helmets laced,

Lances in rest, and burnished brazen spears.

Battle ye will have, such as ne'er was before.

French Lords, may God inspire you with his strength!

Stand firm your ground, that we may not succumb."

The French say: "Cursed be those who fly the field!

Ready to die, not one shall fail you here."

Aoi.

Roland's Pride

LXXXIV.

Olivier said: "So strong the Pagan host;

Our French, methinks, in number are too few;

Companion Rollánd, sound your horn,14 that Carle15

May hear and send his army back to help."

Rollánd replies:—"Great folly would be mine,

And all my glory in sweet France be lost.

No, I shall strike great blows with Durendal;16

To the golden hilt the blade shall reek with blood.

In evil hour the felon17 Pagans came

Unto the Pass, for all are doomed to die!"

Aoi.

LXXXV.

"Rollànd, companion, sound your olifant,18

That Carle may hear and soon bring back the host.

With all his Baronage19 the king will give

Us help!"—Replied Rollánd:—"May God fore-fend

That for my cause my kindred e'er20 be blamed,

Or that dishonor fall upon sweet France.

Nay, I will deal hard blows with Durendal,

This my good sword now girt unto my side

Whose blade you'll see all reeking with red blood.

Those felon Pagans have for their ill fate

Together met—yea, death awaits them all."

Aoi.

LXXXVI.

"Companion Rollánd, sound your olifant!

If Carle who passes through the mounts shall hear,

To you I pledge my word, the French return."

Answered Rollánd:—"May God forbid!—Ne'er be

It said by living man that Pagans could

Cause me to blow my horn, to bring disgrace

Upon my kin!—When on the battle field,

I'll strike one thousand seven hundred blows,

And Durendal all bleeding shall you see.

[The French are brave and bravely will they strike.]

Those Spanish Moors are doomed to certain death."

Aoi.

LXXXVII.

Olivier said:—"To me there seems no shame;

I have beheld the Moors21 of Spain; they swarm

O'er mountains, vales and lands, hide all the plains;

Great is this stranger host; our number small."

Rollánd replies:—"The more my ardor grows.

God and his [blessed] angels grant that France

Lose naught of her renown through my default.

Better to die than in dishonor [live.]

The more we strike the more Carle's love we gain!"

Aoi.

LXXXVIII.

Rollánd is brave and Olivier is wise;

Both knights of wond'rous courage—and in arms

And mounted on their steeds, they both will die

Ere 22 they will shun the fight. Good are the Counts23

And proud their words.—The Pagan felons ride

In fury on!—"Rollánd," said Olivier,

"One moment, look! Our foes so close, and Carle

Afar from us—you have not deigned to blow

Your horn! If came the king, no hurt were ours.

Cast your eyes toward the great defiles24 of Aspre;25

There see this most unhappy rear-guard. [Those

Who here fight, ne'er shall fight on other fields."]

Rollànd retorts:—"Speak not such shameful words.

Woe unto him who bears a coward's heart

Within his breast. There firm shall we remain;

The combat and the blows from us shall come."

Aoi.

LXXXIX.

Now when Rollánd the battle sees at hand,

More than a leopard's or a lion's pride

He shows. He calls the French and Olivier:

"Companion, friend, pray, speak of this no more.

The Emperor who left his French in trust

To us, has chos'n those twenty thousand men.

Right well he knows none has a coward's soul.

A man should suffer hurt for his good lord,

Endure great cold or scorching heat, and give

Even to his flesh and blood—Strike with your lance,

And I with Durendal, my trusty sword,

Carle's gift. If here I die, may he who wins

It, say:—'Twas once the sword of a brave knight."

Aoi.

XC.

Turpin the Archbishop from another side,

Spurring his courser, mounts a hill and calls

The French around. This sermon to them speaks:

"Seigneurs Barons, Carle left us here: for him,

Our King, our duty is to die, to aid

In saving Christendom, the Faith of Christ

Uphold. There, battle will ye have, for there

Before your eyes behold the Saracens.

Confess your sins, and for God's mercy pray!

For your soul's cure I absolution give....

If you should die, as holy martyrs ye

Will fall, and places find in Paradise!"

The French alight and fall upon their knees;

The Godly Archbishop grants them benison,

Giving for penance his command to strike.

Aoi.

XCI.

The French arise. They stand assoiled and quit

Of all sins, blessed by Turpin in God's name.

On swift destriers26 they mount, armed cap-a-pie27

Calls Olivier:—"Companion, sire, full well

You know, it is Count Ganelon who has

Betrayed us all, and guerdon28 rich received

In gold and silver; well the Emp'ror should

Avenge us! King Marsile a bargain made

Of us, but swords will make the reck'ning good."

Aoi.

XCII.

Through the defiles of Spain hath passed Rollánd

Mounted on Veillantif,29 his charger swift

And strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms.

On goes the brave Rollánd, his lance borne up

Skyward, beneath its point a pennon bound,

Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand.

Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles.

Behind him follows Olivier his friend;

The French with joy, him as their champion, hail.

He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance,

But casts a sweet and humble look upon

His French, and to them speaks with courteous tone:

"Seigneurs Barons, march steadily and close.

These Pagans hither came to find a grave;

We here shall conquer such great spoil to-day

As never yet was gained by Kings of France."

Even as he spoke the word, the armies met.

Aoi.

XCIII.

Said Olivier:—"No care have I to speak,

Since you deigned not to blow your olifant,

All hope of help from Carle for you is lost.

He knows no word of this; the fault lies not

In him, nor are yon Knights to blame—ride on

And gallop to the charge as best you can.

Seigneurs Barons, recoil not from the foe,

In God's name! bearing ever this in mind,

Hard blows to deal and hard blows to endure

Forget we not the war-cry of King Carle!"

At this word all the French together shout.

Who then had heard the cry, "Montjoie!"30 had known

What courage is. Then all together rush

Right onward; God! with what an onset fierce!

Deeply they spur their steeds for greater speed;

They burn to fight. What else can they desire?

The Saracens stand firm and nothing fear....

Behold the Franks and Pagans hand to hand....

Aoi.

The Melee

XCIV.

The nephew of Marsile—his name Aëlroth,31

Forward the first of all spurs on his horse

Against our French, hurling forth insulting words:

"To-day, French villains, ye will joust with us;

Who was to guard you, has betrayed you; mad

Must be the King who left you in the pass.

So now the honor of sweet France is lost,

And Carle the great shall lose his right arm here."

Rollànd heard.—God! what pain to him! He drives

His golden spurs into his courser's flanks,

And rushes at full speed against Aëlroth;

His shield he breaks, dismails the hauberk linked;

Cleaving his breast, he severs all the bones,

And from the spine the ribs disjoint. The lance

Forth from his body thrusts the Pagan's soul;

The Heathen's corse32 reels from his horse, falls down

Upon the earth, the neck cloven in two halves.

Rollánd still taunts him:—"Go thou, wretch, and know

Carle was not mad. Ne'er did he treason love,

And he did well to leave us in the pass.

To-day sweet France will not her honor lose!

Strike, Frenchmen, strike; the first sword-stroke is ours;

We have the right, these gluttons have the wrong!"

Aoi.

XCV.

Then comes a Duke whose name is Falsarun;

He is the brother of the King Marsile.

The lands of Dathan and of Abirun

He holds: no viler wretch lives under Heaven.

Vast is his forehead, and the space between

His deeply sunken eyes is half a foot.

Seeing his nephew dead, in grief he bounds

Forth from the serried ranks, and shouts aloud

The Pagan war-cry, furious 'gainst the French.

"To-day," he cries, "at last sweet France shall lose

Her fame!"—When Olivier heard this, in wrath

He pricks with golden spurs his charger's flanks,

And, like true baron, lifts his arm to strike,

Shivers the Pagan's shield, his hauberk tears

Apart. The pennon's folds pass through his breast

As with the shaft he hurls him from the selle,33

A mangled corpse;—here lies he on the ground.

Unto the prostrate body Olivier

Says proudly:—"Wretch, to me thy threats are vain!

Strike boldly, Franks! The victory shall be ours!

Montjoie!" he shouts, the battle-cry of Carle.

Aoi.

XCVI.

A king, named Corsablis, from Barbarie,34

A distant land, is there.—The Pagan host

He calls;—"The field is ours with ease: the French

So few in numbers we may well disdain,

Nor Carle shall rescue one; all perish here.

To-day, they all are doomed to death!" Turpin

The Archbishop heard him; lived no man on earth

He hated more than Corsablis; he pricks

His horse with both his spurs of purest gold,

And 'gainst him rushes with tremendous force.

The shield and hauberk split; and with a stroke

Of the long lance into his body driven,

Corsablis lifeless drops across the path;

Him, though a corpse, Turpin addresses thus:

"Thou, coward Pagan, thou hast lied! Great Carl

My lord, was ever and will ever be

Our help; and Frenchmen know not how to fly.

As for thy fellows, we can keep them here;

I tell you, each this day shall die.—Strike, Franks,

Yourselves forget not. This first blow, thank God,

Is ours! Montjoie!" cries he, to hold the field.

Aoi.

XCVII.

Gérin35 attacks Malprimis de Brigal

Whose good shield now was not a denier36 worth:

The crystal boss all broken, and one half

Fall'n on the ground. Down to the flesh Gérin

His hauberk cleaves, and passes through his heart

The brazen point of a stout lance. Then falls

The Pagan chief and dies by that good blow;

And Sathanas37 bears off the wretched soul.

Aoi.

XCVIII.

Gérier,38 his comrade, strikes the Amurafle,39

Breaks his good shield, his hauberk white unmails,

Plants in his heart a spear's steel point with such

Good aim, one blow has pierced the body through;

And his strong lance-thrust hurls him dead to earth.—

Said Olivier: "A noble combat ours!"

Aoi.

XCIX.

Duke Sansun40 rushes on the Almazour;41

He splits the shield with painted flowers and gold

Embossed. The strong-mailed hauberk shelters not,

As he is pierced through liver, heart and lungs.

For him may mourn who will—death-struck he falls:

"That is a Baron's stroke!" the Archbishop cries.

Aoi.

C.

Anseïs42 gives his steed the rein, and charges

Fierce on Turgis de Turteluse; beneath

The golden boss asunder breaks the shield,

Rips up the hauberk double-linked; so true

The thrust, that all the steel passed through his breast.

With this one blow the shaft has struck him dead.

Rollánd exclaimed: "The stroke is of a Knight!"

Aoi.

CI.

Then Engelier,43 the Gascuin44 of Burdele,

Spurs deep his horse, and casting loose the rein,

Rushes upon Escremiz de Valterne;

Breaks down the buckler fastened to his throat

And rends his gorget-mail; full in the breast

The lance strikes deep and passes in between

The collar bones; dead from the saddle struck

He falls.—And Turpin says: "Ye all are lost!"

Aoi.

CII.

Othon45 assails a Pagan, Estorgant,

His thrust hits hard the leather of the shield,

Effacing its bright colors red and white,

Breaks in his hauberk's sides, and plunges deep

Within his heart a strong and trenchant spear,

From off the flying steed striking him dead.

This done, he says:—"No hope for you remains!"

Aoi.

CIII.

And Bérengier46 smites now Estramaris,

Splits down his shield, shivers his coat of mail

In shreds and through his bosom drives a lance.

Dead 'midst one thousand Saracens he drops.

Of their twelve Peers47 now ten have breathed their last:

Chernuble—Margariz, the Count, survive.

Aoi.

CIV.

Most valiant Knight is Margariz. 'Mid all

Beauteous, strong, slender, quick of hand. He spurs

His horse and charges Olivier; beneath

The boss of purest gold his shield breaks down,

Then at his side a pointed lance he aims;

But God protects him, for the blow ne'er reached

The flesh. The point grazed only, wounding not.

Then Margariz unhindered rides away

And sounds his horn to rally his own men.

Aoi.

CV.

The battle rages fierce. All men engage.

Rollánd, the dauntless, combats with his lance

As long as holds the shaft. Fifteen good blows

It dealt, then broke and fell; now his good sword,

Loved Durendal, he draws, spurs on his steed

'Gainst Chernubles, splits his bright helm adorned

With gems; one blow cleaves through mail-cap and skull,

Cutting both eyes and visage in two parts,

And the white hauberk with its close-linked mail;

Down to the body's fork, the saddle all

Of beaten gold, still deeper goes the sword,

Cuts through the courser's chine, nor seeks the joint.

Upon the verdant grass fall dead both knight

And steed. And then he cries: "Wretch! ill inspired

To venture here! Mohammed helped thee not....

Wretches like you this battle shall not win."

Aoi.

CVI.

The Count Rollànd rides through the battle-field

And makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand,

A mighty carnage of the Saracens.

Ah! had you then beheld the valiant Knight

Heap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground;

His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore,

And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed!

Still Olivier halts not in his career.

Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach,

And all the French strike well and massacre

The foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall.

Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France!

Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!"

Aoi.

CVII.

Olivier grasps the truncheon48 of his lance,

Spurs through the storm and fury of the fight,

And rushes on the Pagan Malsarun,

Breaks down his shield with flowers and gold embossed,

Thrusts from their orbs his eyes; his brains dashed out

Are crushed and trampled 'neath the victor's feet;

With seven hundred men of theirs he fell.

The Count next slew Turgis and Estorgus;

But now the shaft breaks short off by his hand.

Then said Rollánd: "What mean you, Compagnon?49

In such a fight as this 'tis not a staff

We need, but steel and iron, as I deem.

Where now that sword called Halteclere, with hilt

Of gold and crystal pommel?" "I lack time

To draw it," valiant Olivier replies,

"So busy is my hand in dealing blows!"

Aoi.

CVIII.

Lord Olivier then his good sword unsheathed,

For which Rollánd entreated him so much,

And showed it to his friend with knightly pride;

Strikes down a Pagan, Justin de Val-Ferrée,

Whose head is severed by the blow; cuts through

Th' embroider'd hauberk, through the body, through

The saddle all with studs and gold embossed,

And through the back-bone of the steed. Both man

And steed fall on the grass before him, dead.

Rollánd exclaims: "Henceforth, you are indeed

My brother! These, the strokes loved by King Carle!"

And echoes round the cry: "Montjoie! Montjoie!"

Aoi.

CIX.

The Count Gérin sits on his horse, Sorel,

And his companion Gérier, on Passe-Cerf,

They loose the reins, and both spur on against

A Pagan, Timozel. One strikes the shield,

The other strikes the hauberk;—in his heart

The two spears meet and hurl him lifeless down.

I never heard it said nor can I know

By which of them the swifter blow was struck.—

Esperveris, son to Borel, was next

By Engelier de Burdele50 slain. Turpin

With his own hand gave death to Siglorel

Th' Enchanter who once entered hell, led there

By Jupiter's craft. Turpin said:—"Forfeit paid

For crime!"—"The wretch is vanquished," cried Rollánd,

"My brother Olivier, such blows I love!"

Aoi.

CX.

The combat paused not. Franks and Pagans vie

In dealing blows; attacking now, and now

Defending. Splintered spears, dripping with blood

So many; o'er the field such numbers strewn:

Of banners torn and shattered gonfalons!

So many valiant French mowed in their prime,

Whom mothers and sweet wives will never see

Again, nor those of France who in the Pass

Await them! Carle for these shall weep and mourn.

But what avails? Naught can he help them now.

Ill service rendered Ganelon to them

The day when he to Sarraguce repaired

To sell his kin. Ere long for this he lost

Both limb and life, judged and condemned at Aix,

There to be hanged with thirty of his race

Who were not spared the punishment of death.

Aoi.

CXI.

The battle rages. Wonders all perform;

Rollánd and Olivier strike hard; Turpin

Th' Archbishop, deals more than a thousand blows;

The twelve Peers dally not upon the field,

While all the French together fight as if

One man. By hundreds and by thousands fall

The Pagans: none scapes death, save those who fly

Whether they will or no, all lose their lives.

And yet the French have lost their strongest arms,

Their fathers and their kin they will ne'er see

Again, nor Carle who waits them in the Pass.

Meantime in France an awful scourge prevails:

Wind, storm, rain, hail and flashing lightning bolts

Conflict confusedly, and naught more true,

The earth shook from Saint Michiel-del-Peril

As far as to the Saints, from Besançon

Unto the [sea-port] of Guitzand; no house

Whose walls unshaken stood; darkness at noon

Shrouded the sky. No beam of light above

Save when a flash rips up the clouds. Dismayed

Beholders cry:—"The world's last day has come,

The destined end of all things is at hand!"

Unwitting of the truth, their speech is vain....

'Tis dolour51 for the death of Count Rollánd!

Aoi.

CXII.

The French [strike] hard; they strike with all their force.

In multitudes—by thousands die their foes;

Not two out of one hundred thousand now

Survive. [Turpin] says:—"Brave are all our men;—

None braver under Heaven—In the Geste52

Of France 'tis writ true vassals have our Kings."

Seeking their friends, they overrun the field.

Their eyes are filled with tenderness and tears

For their dear kindred they so fondly loved....

Now King Marsile with his great host appears....

Aoi.

CXIII.

Marsile advances 'midst a valley deep,

Surrounded by the mighty host he brought,

In twenty squadrons mustered and arrayed.

Bright shine the helmets strewn with gold and gems,

And shields and hauberks graved. They sound a charge

With seven hundred clarions sending forth

Loud blasts throughout the land—Thus said Rollánd:

"Companion Olivier, my brother, friend,

The traitor, Ganelon, has sworn our death....

His treason is too sure; the Emp'ror Carle

For this vile crime will take a vengeance deep.

A long and cruel battle we shall have,

Ere this unknown to man. There, I will fight

With my good Durendal; you, friend, will strike

With Halteclere—Those noble swords we bore

Throughout so many lands; such combats won

By them, vile strains must never chant their deeds."

Aoi.

CXIV.

When the French see the Pagan cohorts swarm

The country o'er, they call on Olivier,

Rollánd and the twelve Peers to guard their lives.

Unto them now the Archbishop speaks his mind:

"Barons, be not unworthy of yourselves!

Fly not the field, for God's sake, that brave men

Sing not ill songs of you! Far better die

In battle. Doomed, I know, we are to death,

And ere this day has passed, our lives are o'er.

But for one thing ye can believe my word:

For you God's Paradise stands open wide,

And seats await you 'mid the blessèd Saints."

These words of comfort reassure the French;

All in one voice cry out:—"Montjoie! Montjoie!"

Aoi.

CXV.

There was a Saracen from Sarraguce

Lord of one half the city—Climorin,

Unlike a Baron; he received the faith

Of Ganelon, and sealed the treacherous bond

By pressing on his lip a kiss—Besides

Unto him gave his sword and carbuncle.53

"I will," said he, "put your great France to shame

And from the Emperor's head shake off the crown!"

Mounted on Barbamouche that faster flies

Than hawk or swallow on the wing, he spurs

His courser hard, and dropping on its neck

The rein, he strikes Engelier de Gascuigne;

Hauberk nor shield is for him a defense:

Deep in the core the Pagan thrusts his spear

So mightily, its point comes out behind,

And with the shaft o'erturns him on the field

A corse;—he cries. "Fit for destruction these!

Strike, Pagans, strike, and let us break their lines!"

The French cry: "God! to lose so brave a Knight!"....

Aoi.

CXVI.

The Count Rollánd calls Olivier: "You know,

Companion, sire, Engelier is no more....

No better Knight had we"—The Count replies:

"God grant that I avenge him well!" He drives

His golden spurs into his charger's flanks;

And waving Halteclere's blood dripping blade,

The Pagan he assails, and deals a blow....

O'erthrown is Climorin. The fiends of hell

Bear off his soul. The Knight then slays the Duke

Alphaïen, beheads Escababi,

Unhorses seven Arabs with such skill

They rise no more to fight. Then said Rollánd:

"Wroth is my sire, and by my side achieves

Renown! by such good blows Carl's love is gained.

Strike, Chevaliers!54 strike on!"—he cries aloud.

Aoi.

CXVII.

From otherwhere is Valdabrun who armed

Marsile a Knight; lord of four hundred ships.

There is no sailor but swears by his name;

'Twas he by treason took Jerusalem,

Who there the shrine of Solomon profaned,

And slew before the Fonts the Patriarch;

'Twas he, received Count Ganelon's vile oath

And gave him with his sword a thousand marks;

Faster than falcon in its flight his steed

Named Graminond. He sharply spurs his flanks

And rushes 'gainst the mighty Duke Sansun,

Breaks down his shield—the hauberk rends, and thrusts

Within his breast the pennon of the flag;

The shaft o'erthrows him from the saddle, dead.

"Strike Pagans! strike, for we shall conquer them!"

The French say:—"God! what Baron true we lose!"

Aoi.

CXVIII.

When Count Rollánd sees Sansun lifeless fall,

You may well know what grief was his. He spurs

His horse down on the Pagan. Durendal

More worth than precious gold he lifts to strike

With all his might; gold studded helm, head, trunk,

Hauberk asunder cleaves; the blow, e'en through

The gold boss'd saddle, strikes the courser's back,

Killing both horse and man. Blame or approve

Who may. The Pagans say:—"Hard is this blow!"

Retorts Rollánd:—"For yours no pity can

I feel—With you the vaunting and the wrong!"

Aoi.

CXIX.

An African fresh from the desert land

Was there, Malquidant, son of king Malcud;

His armor highly wrought in beaten gold

Outshines all others in the sun's bright rays.

Mounted upon his horse named Salt-Perdut,

He aims a blow at Anseïs' shield, and cuts

The azure and vermillion all away.

His hauberk rives asunder, side from side,

And through his body pass both point and shaft.

The Count is dead.—His last breath spent and flown.

The French say:—"Baron, such great woe for you!"

Aoi.

CXX.

The Archbishop Turpin rides across the fields;

No shaven priest sang ever mass so well

As he, and showed such prowess in his deeds.

He to the Pagan:—"May God send all ills

To thee, who slew the knight my heart bewails!"

Turpin spurs hard his good steed 'gainst the wretch;

One blow strikes down his strong Toledo shield:

The miscreant dead upon the green sward falls.

Aoi.

CXXI.

Elsewhere stands Grandomie who is the son

Of Capuel king of Cappadoce. He sits

A steed named Marmorie, than flying bird

More swift. Loosening the rein, and spurring deep,

To smite Gérin with all his force he rides;

Torn from the neck which bears it, shattered falls

The purple shield, through the rent mail he drives

The whole blue pennon in his breast. Gérin

Drops lifeless by this blow, against a rock.

The Pagan also slays Gérier, his friend,

And Bérengier, and Gui de Saint-Antoine;

Assailing then the noble Duke Austoire

Who holds Valence and fiefs along the Rosne,

He strikes him dead. The Saracens extol

Their triumph, but how many fall of ours!

Aoi.

CXXII.

Hearing the Frenchmen's sobs, the Count Rollánd

Grasps in his hand his sword, all reeking blood.

His mighty heart nigh breaking with his grief,

Cries to the foe:—"May God all evils send

On thee! him hast thou slain for whom thou shalt

Most dearly pay!—" He spurs his flying steed....

Conquer who may—these two fight hand to hand.

Aoi.

CXXIII.

A wise and valiant knight was Grandonie,

Virtuous and fearless vassal. 'Mid his way

Encountering Count Rollánd, though never seen

Before, at once he knew 'twas he, as well

By his proud mien and noble beauty, as

By his fair countenance and lofty look.

Awe-struck, despite himself, he vainly tries

To fly, but rooted to the spot he stays.

The Count Rollánd smites him so skillfully,

He splits in two the nazal, helm, nose, mouth,

And teeth, the body and mailed-armor, then

Hews through the golden selle, both silver-flaps;

With a still deeper stroke the courser's back

Is gashed. So both are slain past remedy.

The men of Spain cry out all sorrowful;

But say the French:—"Well our defender strikes."

Aoi.

CXXIV.

Marv'lous the battle, and the tumult fierce;

The French of strength and fury full, raise high

Their swords: backs, ribs and wrists are slashed; the flesh

Cut through rent garments to the quick; along

The verdant soil the red blood runs in streams.

The Pagans cry:—"We cannot more endure!

Great land, Mohammed curse thee!—More than all

This people bold."—Not one who does not cry

"Marsile! ride on, O King, thy aid we need!"

Aoi.

CXXV.

A battle fierce and wonderful!—Hard strike

The French with glittering lance, and there you might

Have seen what miseries man can suffer: Mowed

And heaped in bloody mounds, all gasping out

Their lives, some on their backs, some on their teeth—

The Saracens give way, willing or not;

By the French lances forced, they fly the field.

Aoi.

CXXVI.

Marsile his warriors massacred beholds,

And, bidding all his horns and trumpets blow,

Rides forward, and his whole van rides with him.

In the van rode a Saracen, Abisme,

The vilest wretch among his men, sunk deep

In crimes and shame, who has no faith in God,

Sainte Marie's son; as black as melted pitch

His face; more fond of blood and treason foul

Than of the gold of all Galice. None saw

Him laugh or play; for courage and rash deeds

He pleased the vile Marsile whose dragon flag

He bears. No pity can the Archbishop feel

For him, and at his sight he craves to try

His arm, all softly saying to himself:

"This Saracen is but a heretic;

Far better die than not to give him death.

Ne'er cowardice nor coward I endured!"

Aoi.

CXXVII.

The Archbishop gives the signal for the fight;

He rides the horse he captured from Grossaille,

A King he slew among the Danes: a horse

Of wondrous fleetness, light-hoofed, slender-limbed;

Thigh short; with broad and mighty haunch; the flanks

Are long, and very high his spine; pure white

His tail, and yellow is his mane—his ears

Are small—light brown his head. This paragon

Of all the beasts of earth has not his peer.

The Archbishop, baron-like, spurs on the horse,

Full bent upon the encounter with Abisme;

He gains his side and hard he strikes his shield

Glittering with gems, topaz and amethyst,

Crystals and carbuncles, which to him gave

The Emir Galafés—a demon's gift

To this in Val-Metas. Him Turpin smites

Nor mercy shows; 'gainst such a blow avails

The shield but little; sheer from side to side

Passes the blade ... dead on the place he falls.

At such exploit amazed, the French exclaim:

"The archbishop's crosier in his hand is safe!"

Aoi.

CXXVIII.

The Count Rollánd calls Olivier: "With me,

Companion, sire, confess that 'mong brave knights

The archbishop upon earth or under Heav'n

Has not his peer in casting spear or lance."

Olivier answers:—"To his rescue on!"

At this the French once more resume the fight.

Hard are the blows, rough is the strife—Meantime

The Christian host in greatest sorrow mourn.

Aoi.

CXXIX.

Whoever could this fight describe? Rollánd

And Olivier vie with Turpin in skill

And glorious deeds—The slain can counted be;

In charts and briefs their numbers are enrolled:

More than four thousand fell, so says the Geste.

Four times the French arms were victorious,

But on the fifth, a cruel fate they met;

The knights of France found there a grave, except

Three more whose lives God saved; yet those brave knights,

Ere falling, their last breath will dearly sell.

Aoi.

The Horn

CXXX.

Seeing so many warriors fall'n around,

Rollánd unto his comrade Olivier

Spoke thus: "Companion fair and dear, for God

Whose blessing rest on you, those vassals true

And brave lie corses on the battle-field:

Look! We must mourn for France so sweet and fair,

From henceforth widowed of such valiant knights.

Carle, 'would you were amongst us, King and friend!

What can we do, say, brother Olivier,

To bring him news of this sore strait of ours!"

Olivier answers:—"I know not; but this

I know; for us is better death than shame."

Aoi.

CXXXI.

Rollánd says;—"I will blow mine olifant,

And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledge

My word the French at once retrace their steps."

Said Olivier:—"This a great shame would be,

One which to all your kindred would bequeathe

A lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you,

You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, now

With my consent you shall not;—if you blow

Your horn, of valor true you show no proof.

Already, both your arms are drenched with blood."

Responds the Count:—"These arms have nobly struck."

Aoi.

CXXXII.

"The strife is rude," Rollánd says—"I will blow

My horn, that Carle may hear."—Said Olivier:—

"This would not courage be. What I desired,

Companion, you disdained. Were the king here,

Safe would we be, but yon brave men are not

To blame"—"By this my beard," said Olivier,

"I swear, if e'er I see again sweet Aude,

My sister, in her arms you ne'er shall lie."

Aoi.

CXXXIII.

Rollánd asked Olivier—"Why show to me

Your anger, friend!"—"Companion, yours the fault;

True courage means not folly. Better far

Is prudence than your valiant rage. Our French

Their lives have lost, your rashness is the cause.

And now our arms can never more give Carle

Their service good. Had you believed your friend,

Amongst us would he be, and ours the field,

The King Marsile, a captive or a corse.

Rollànd, your valor brought ill fortune, nor

Shall Carle the great e'er more our help receive,

A man unequaled till God's judgment-day.

Here you shall die, and dying, humble France, ...

This day our loyal friendship ends—ere falls

The Vesper-eve, dolorously we part!"

Aoi.

CXXXIV.

The Archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drives

Into his horse his spurs of purest gold,

And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them,

Says:—"Sire Rollánd, and you, Sire Olivier,

In God's name be no feud between you two;

No more your horn shall save us; nathless55 'twere

Far better Carle should come and soon avenge

Our deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foes

Would not return. But as our Franks alight,

Find us or slain or mangled on the field,

They will our bodies on their chargers' backs

Lift in their shrouds with grief and pity, all

In tears, and bury us in holy ground:

And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feed

On us—" Replies Rollánd:—"Well have you said."

Aoi.

CXXXV.

Rollánd raised to his lips the olifant,

Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force.

High are the mountains, and from peak to peak

The sound re-echoes; thirty leagues away

'Twas heard by Carle and all his brave compeers.

Cried the king:—"Our men make battle!—" Ganelon

Retorts in haste:—"If thus another dared

To speak, we should denounce it as a lie."

Aoi.

CXXXVI.

The Count Rollánd in his great anguish blows

His olifant so mightily, with such

Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth

The crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst.

Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds;

Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks,

The French all listen with attentive ear.

"That is Rollánd's horn!—" Carle cried, "which ne'er yet

Was, save in battle, blown!—" But Ganelon

Replies:—"No fight is there!—you, sire, are old,

Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray,

And as a child your speech. Well do you know

Rollánd's great pride. 'Tis marvelous God bears

With him so long. Already took he Noble

Without your leave. The Pagans left their walls

And fought Rollánd, your brave Knight, in the field;

With his good blade he slew them all, and then

Washed all the plain with water, that no trace

Of blood was left—yea, oftentimes he runs

After a hare all day and blows his horn.

Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers;

And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rollánd?

None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace;

Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land."

Aoi.

CXXXVII.

Rollánd with bleeding mouth and temples burst,

Still in his anguish, blows his olifant;

Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims:

"That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies:

"Rollánd it is, and in a sore distress,

Upon my faith, a battle rages there!

A traitor he who would deceive you now.

To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save!

Plainly enough you hear his call for help."

Aoi.

CXXXVIII.

Carle orders all the trumpeters to sound

The march. The French alight. They arm themselves

With helmets, hauberks and gold hilted swords,

Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons white

And red and blue. The barons of the host

Leap on their steeds, all spurring on; while through

The pass they march, each to the other says:

"Could we but reach Rollánd before he dies,

What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!"

But what avails?—Too late they will arrive.

Aoi.

CXXXIX.

The ev'n56 is clear, the sun its radiant beams

Reflects upon the marching legions. Spears,

Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers,

Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues.

Burning with wrath the Emperor rides on;

The French with sad and angered looks. None there

But weeps aloud. All tremble for Rollánd.

The King commands Count Ganelon be seized

And given to the scullions of his house.

Their chief, named Bègue, he calls and bids: "Guard well

This man as one who all my kin betrayed."

Him Bègue received, and set upon the Count

One hundred of his kitchen comrades—best

And worst;—they pluck his beard on lip and cheek;

Each deals him with his fist four blows, and falls

On him with lash and stick; they chain his neck

As they would chain a bear, and he is thrown

For more dishonor on a sumpter57 mule,

There guarded so until to Carle brought back.

Aoi.

CXL.

High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible,

The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams.

In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow,

Answ'ring the olifant. With angry look

Rides on the Emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief,

Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears,

Praying that God may guard Rollánd, until

They reach the battle-field. With him what blows

Will they not strike? Alas! what boots it now?

Too late they are and can not come in time.

Aoi.

CXLI.

Carle in great anger rides—his snow-white beard

O'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the Barons spur,

For never one but inwardly doth rage

That he is far from their great chief, Rollánd,

Who combats now the Saracens of Spain:

If wounded he, will one of his survive?

O God! What Knights those sixty left by him!

Nor King nor captain better ever had....

Aoi.

The Rout

CXLII.

The Count Rollánd casts o'er the mounts and vales

A glance: French corses strew the plains in heaps;

He for them mourns as gentle chevalier.

At such a sight the noble hero weeps:

"Seigneurs, to you may God be merciful!

To all your souls may He grant Paradise,

And there may they on beds of heavenly flowers

Repose!—No better vassals lived! so long

Have ye served me! So many lands for Carle

Ye won!—The Emperor for this ill fate

Has nurtured you!—O land of France, most sweet

Art thou, but now forsaken and a waste.

Barons of France, to-day I see you die

For me; nor can I save or e'en defend

Your lives. Be God your aid, who ne'er played false!

Olivier, brother, I must not fail thee!

If other death comes not, of grief I die.

Come, sire companion ... come to fight again!"

Aoi.

CXLIII.

Soon to the field returns the Count Rollánd

With Durendal in hand; as a true knight

He fights. Faldrun del Pin he cleaves in half

With twenty-four among the bravest foes.

Never was man so bent upon revenge.

As run wild deer before the chasing hounds,

Before Rollánd the Pagans flee.—"Well done!"

The Archbishop cries, "Such valor a true Knight

Should have, when mounted, armed, on his good steed!

Else, not four deniers is he worth: a monk

In cloister should he be, and spend his life

In praying for our sins!...." "Strike," said Rollànd,

"No quarter!"58—At the word the French renew

The combat ... yet the Christian loss was great.

Aoi.

CXLIV.

When soldiers on the battle-field expect

No quarter—desperate they fight; and thus

The French, like lions, fiercely stand at bay.

Like a true baron King Marsile rides forth

Upon his steed Gaignon, and spurs him on

Against Bevum, of Belne and Digun lord,

His buckler cleaves, his hauberk with a blow

Shatters, and lays him dead upon the field.

Then fall beneath the Pagan King, Ivoire

And Ivun; then Gerard de Roussillon. 59—

The Count Rollánd is nigh and cries aloud:

"God give damnation unto thee who thus

So foully slay'st my friends! But ere we part,

Dearly shalt thou abye it, and to-day

Shalt learn the name my good sword bears."—He strikes

The King a true Knight's stroke, and his right hand

Lops at the wrist; then Turfaleu the fair,

Marsile's own son, beheads.60 The Pagans say:

"Aid us, Mahum!61 Avenge us, Gods of ours,

On Carle, who brought such villains to our land,

As rather than depart will die."—And each

To each cries: "Let us fly!"—Upon the word,

A hundred thousand turn in sudden flight.

Whoever calls them, ne'er will they return.

Aoi.

CXLV.

Alas, it not avails! If Marsile flies,

His uncle Marganice unhurt remained.

'Tis he who held Carthage, Alferne, Garnaille,

And Ethiopia, a land accursed;

Chief of the Blacks, a thick-nosed, large-eared race.

Of these he more than fifty thousand leads,

Who ride on proudly, full of wrath, and shout

The Pagan war-cry.—"Here," said Count Rollànd,

"Here shall we fall as martyrs. Well I know

Our end is nigh; but dastard I count him

Who sells not dear his life. Barons, strike well,

Strike with your burnished swords, and set such price

On death and life, that naught of shame shall fall

On our sweet France. When Carle, my lord, shall come

Upon this field, and see such slaughter here

Of Saracens, fifteen to one of ours,

Then will he breathe a blessing on his Knights."

Aoi.

Olivier's Death

CXLVI.

When sees Rollánd this tribe accursed, more black

Than ink, with glist'ning teeth, their only gleam

Of white, he said:—"Truly I know to-day

We die! Strike, Frenchmen, that is my command."

And Olivier, "Woe to the laggards," cries.

These words the French hearts fired to meet the fray.

Aoi.

CXLVII.

The Pagans, when they mark how few the French,

Are filled with pride and comfort, and they say

One to the other:—"Their King Carle is wrong!"—

Upon his sorrel steed sits Marganice;

Urging him hard with pricking spurs of gold,

Encounters Olivier—strikes him behind,

Drives his white hauberk-links into his heart,

And through in front came forth the pointed lance.

The Kalif62 cries:—"That blow struck home! Carlmagne,

For thy mishap, left you to guard the Pass!

That he has wronged us, little may he boast.

Your death alone for us a vengeance full!"

Aoi.

CXLVIII.

Olivier knows his death-wound. In his hand

He grasps Halteclere's bright steel, and strikes a blow

Well aimed upon the Kalif's pointed helm;

He scatters golden flow'rs and gems in dust.

His head the trenchant blade cleaves to the teeth,

And dead the Kalif falls.—"Pagan accursed,"

He cries, "not here shalt thou say Carle lost aught;

To wife nor lady shalt thou ever boast

In thine own land, that thou hast reft from Carle

One denier's63 worth, or me or others harmed!"

And then he called Rollànd unto his aid.

Aoi.

CXLIX.

Olivier feels that he is hurt to death.

No vengeance can suffice him; Baron-like

He strikes amid the press, cuts shields embossed

And ashen shafts, and spears, feet, shoulders, wrists

And breasts of horsemen. He who saw him thus

Dismember Saracens, corse over corse

Heap on the ground, would of a vassal true

Remembrance keep. Nor does he now forget

The rallying cry of Carle:—"Montjoie!" he cries

Loudly and clear; then calls Rollánd, his friend

And compeer:—"Sire companion, stand by me!

This day our breaking hearts forever part!"

Aoi.

CL.

Rollánd looks Olivier full in the face;

Pale, livid, colorless; pure crimson blood

Drips from his body, and streams on the earth.

"God!" cried Rollánd, "I know not what to do,

Companion, friend, thy courage was betrayed

To-day; nor will such courage e'er be seen

In human heart. Sweet France, oh! how shalt thou,

As widow,64 wail thy vassals true and brave,

Humbled and wrecked! The great heart of King Carle

Will break!" He spake and on his saddle swooned.

Aoi.

CLI.

Behold Rollánd, there, fainting on his steed,

While Olivier stands wounded to the death.

So great the loss of blood, his troubled eyes

See naught afar or near, nor mortal man

Can recognize. Encount'ring there Rollánd,

Upon his golden-studded helm he struck

A dreadful blow, which to the nose-plate cleft,

And split the crest in twain, but left the head

Untouched. Rollánd at this, upon him looks,

And softly, sweetly asks:—"Sire compagnon!

Was that blow meant for me? I am Rollánd

By whom you are beloved so well; to me

Could you by any chance, defiance give?"

Said Olivier:—"I hear your speech, but see

You now no more. May God behold you, friend!

I struck the blow; beseech you, pardon me."

Rollánd responds:—"I am not wounded—here

And before God I pardon you." At this,

Each to the other bends in courtesy.

With such great tenderness and love they part.

Aoi.

CLII.

Olivier feels the agony of death;

His vacant eyes roll wildly in his head,

And all his hearing and his sight are lost.

Dismounting, on the ground he lies, and smites

His breast, aloud confessing all his sins;

With joined hands tow'rd Heaven lifted up

He prays to God to give him Paradise,

To bless Carl'magne, sweet France, and far beyond

All other men, Rollánd, his compagnon.

His heart fails—forward droops his helmet—prone

Upon the earth he lies—'tis over now....

The Count is dead. Rollánd, the Baron, mourns

And weeps as never mortal mourned before.

Aoi.

CLIII.

When sees the Count Rollánd the breath of life

Gone from his friend, his body stretched on earth,

His face low in the dust, his tears gush out

With heavy sobs. Then tenderly he speaks:

"Alas! for all thy valor, comrade dear!

Year after year, day after day, a life

Of love we led; ne'er didst thou wrong to me,

Nor I to thee. If death takes thee away,

My life is but a pain." While speaking thus,

The Marchis65 faints on Veillantif, his steed.

But still firm in his stirrups of pure gold:

Where'er Rollánd may ride, he cannot fall.

Aoi.

CLIV.

Scarce hath the Count recovered from his swoon,

When all the great disaster meets his sight;

The French lie on the field; all lost to him

Save the Archbishop and Gualtier de l'Hum,

Who had descended from the mountain height

Where he the men of Spain all day withstood

Till all his own fell 'neath the Pagan swords.

Willed he or not, he fled into the vale,

And now upon Rollánd he calls for aid;

"Most gentle Count, most valiant, where art thou?

Ne'er had I fear where'er thou wert!—'tis I,

Gualtier, who conquered Maëlgut, who am

Old gray-haired Droün's nephew; till this day

My courage won thy love. So well I fought

Against the Saracens, my spear was broke,

My shield was pierced, my hauberk torn and wrung,

And in my body eight steel darts I bear.

Done are my days, but dear the last I sold!"

The words of that brave knight Rollánd has heard,

Spurs on his steed and gallops to his help.

Aoi.

CLV.

With grief and rage Rollánd's great heart is full;

Amidst the thick ranks of a swarming foe

He rides. He fights—and twenty Pagans fall

Slain by his hand; by Gualtier's six, and five

By the Archbishop's. Loud the Pagans cry:

"Vile wretches these! Let none escape alive!

Eternal shame to them who dare not make

Attack; foul recreants those who let their flight

Avail."—Renewing then their hues and cries,

The Pagans rush from all parts 'gainst the knights.

Aoi.

Charlemagne Approaches

CLVI.

The Count Rollánd was ever great in war;

Most valiant is Gualtier de l'Hum; Turpin

The Archbishop, of a valor proved: each leaves

The other naught to do, and 'mid the throng

Strikes Pagans down, who though one thousand foot

And forty thousand horsemen mustering, yet

Dare not approach, forsooth; but from afar

Against them hurl their jav'lins, spears and darts,

Their lances and winged arrows. First of all

Is slain Gualtier; Turpin de Reins' good shield

Is pierced, his helmet broken, and his head

Wounded, his hauberk shattered and dislinked;

Four spears have pierced his body; his good steed

Dies under him. Alas! the Archbishop falls.

Aoi.

CLVII.

Hardly had Turpin fallen on the earth,

By four spear-shafts transfixed, when the brave knight

Sprang quickly to his feet once more. His look

Sought for Rollánd to whom he ran in haste.

One word he said:—"Unconquered yet am I!

While life doth last, a true knight yields it not!"

He draws Almace, his sword of burnished steel,

And rushing 'mid the throng, one thousand blows

And more he deals.—Carle said in after days,

Turpin spared none, as dead upon the field

He saw four hundred men, some cut in twain,

Some with lopped heads: so says the Geste of France,

And one who saw the field, the brave Saint-Gille

For whom God showed his might; who in the cloister

Of Loüm wrote the record of these deeds.

Who knows not this, he knows not any thing.

Aoi.

CLVIII.

As hero fights the Count Rollánd; but all

His body burns with heat and drips with sweat;

His head is torn by pain; his temple burst

By that strong blast he gave the olifant.

Still would he know if Carle returns; once more

He blows his horn—Alas, with feeble blast.

Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits:

"Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace;

I hear his dying blast upon his horn.

If we would find him yet alive, we need

Urge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!"

Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals;

The hills reëcho, and the vales respond.

The Pagans hear—and stay their gabbling mirth.

One to the other says:—"'Tis Carle who comes!"

Aoi.

CLIX.

The Pagans say:—"The Emperor returns;

These are the clarions of the French we hear.

If Carle should come, 'twill be our doom; if lives

Rollánd, the war begins anew, and Spain

Our land is lost to us for evermore."

Four hundred warriors well armed cap-a-pie,

The bravest of the host, then closed their ranks

And dashed in fierce attack against Rollánd.

Mighty the deeds the Count must now achieve!

Aoi.

CLX.

As they draw near, Rollánd calls up his pride

And summons all his strength to meet the charge.

No foot of ground he yields while life remains.

Firm on his courser Veillantif he sits

And gores his flanks with spurs of purest gold.

Into the thickest ranks he and Turpin

The Archbishop rush. And now the Pagans all

Unto each other cry: "Hence, friends, away!

The horns of those of France we now have heard,

Carlemagne the mighty Emperor returns!"

Aoi.

CLXI.

Ne'er could the Count Rollánd a coward love,

Nor proud, nor wicked men, nor faithless knights.

He calls to the Archbishop: "You, on foot,

And I on horseback, sire! For love of you

I by your side will stand; together we

Will share or good or ill; I leave you not

For aught of human mold. This day we shall

Hurl back the Pagan charge, and Durendal

Shall deal his mightiest blows!"—To this replies

The Archbishop: "Traitor he who strikes not well!

King Carle returns—Great shall his vengeance be!"

Aoi.

CLXII.

The Pagans say: "For such ill were we born!

What fatal morn this day for us has ris'n!

Dead lie our lords and Peers! With his great host

King Carle returns, the mighty Baron—Hark!

His clarions sound, and loud the cry 'Montjoie;'

Rollánd has so great pride, no man of flesh

Can make him yield, or vanquished fall. 'Twere best

We pierced him from afar, and left him lying

Upon the field!"——'Twas done: darts, lances, spears,

Javelins, winged arrows flew so thick,

That his good shield was pierced, his hauberk rent

And torn apart—his body yet unharmed.

Veillantif, pierced with thirty wounds, falls dead

Beneath the Count.—The affrighted Pagans fly.

The Count Rollánd stands on the field, alone.

Aoi.

The Last Benediction of the Archbishop

CLXIII.

Raging in wrath the Pagans fly, and toward

The land of Spain they haste. The Count Rollánd

Pursues them not, for Veillantif lies dead.

On foot he stands whether he will or not.

To help Turpin, the Archbishop, fast he ran,

His helm unclasped, removed the hauberk white

And light, then ripped the sides of his blialt66

To find his gaping wounds; then tenderly

Pressing him in his arms, on the green sward

He laid him gently down, and fondly prayed:

"O noble man, grant me your leave in this;

Our brave compeers, so dear to us, have breathed

Their last—we should not leave them on the field;

I will their bodies seek and gather here,

To lay them out before you."—"Go, and soon

Return," the Archbishop said; "the field is yours

And also mine, thanks to Almighty God!"

Aoi.

CLXIV.

Alone the Count Rollánd retraced his steps

Throughout the field. Vales, mounts, he searched, and found

Gerin and his companion Gerier, then

Berengier and Otun; here Anseïs,

There Sansun, then beyond, Gerard the old

De Roussillon he found—one after one

He bore each knight within his arms, and placed

Them gently, side by side, before the knees

Of Turpin who cannot restrain his tears;

With lifted hands he blesses them and says:

"Most hapless Knights!—May God the Glorious

Receive your souls, and in his Paradise

'Mid holy flowers place them!—In this hour

Of death, my deepest grief is that no more

The mighty Emperor I shall behold!"

Aoi.

CLXV.

Rollánd turns back, and searching through the field,

Has found, alas! his comrade Olivier....

He pressed him 'gainst his bosom tenderly,

And, as he could, returning to Turpin,

Stretched on a shield he lays him down among

The other knights. The Archbishop then assoils67

And signs him with the holy cross. The grief

And pity were more sore than heart can bear....

Then said Rollánd:—"Fair comrade Olivier,

Son of the good Count Renier, he who held

The marches to the distant shores of Gennes;

To break a lance, to pierce a shield, the brave

To counsel, traitors to dismay and foil,

No land e'er saw a better chevalier."

Aoi.

CLXVI.

When Count Rollánd beheld his Peers lie dead,

And Olivier, that friend so tenderly

Beloved, his soul by pity was o'erflowed;

Tears from his eyes gush out, his countenance

Turns pale; distressed, he can no longer stand.

Would he or not, he swooned and fell to earth.

The Archbishop said: "Baron, what woe is yours!"

Aoi.

CLXVII.

The Archbishop, when he saw Count Rollánd swoon,

Felt keener grief than e'er he felt before;

Stretched forth his hand, and took the olifant.—

Ronceval there is a running stream;

Thence will he water bring to Count Rollánd.

Staggering, with feeble steps, thither he goes,

But loss of blood has made him all too weak:

Ere he has gone an acre's length, his heart

Fails, and he sinks in mortal agony.

Aoi.

CLXVIII.

Meantime the Count Rollánd revives.—Erect

He stands, but with great pain; then downward looks

And upward. Then he sees the noble lord

The Archbishop, holy minister of God,

Beyond his comrades lying on the sward

Stretched out.—He lifts his eyes to Heav'n, recalls

His sins, and raising both his joinèd hands,

He prays Our God to grant him paradise.—

Turpin, Carle's Knight, is dead, who all his life,

With doughty blows and sermons erudite,

Ne'er ceased to fight the Pagans. May the Lord

Grant him His holy blessing evermore!

Aoi.

CLXIX.

The Count Rollánd sees lifeless on the field

The Archbishop lie; gush from the gaping wounds

His entrails in the dust, and through his skull

The oozing brain pours o'er his brow.—In form

Of holy Cross upon his breast Rollánd

Disposes both his hands so fair and white,

And mourned him in the fashion of his land:

"O noble man! O knight of lineage pure!

To the Glorious One of Heav'n I thee commend;

For ne'er was man who Him more truly served,

Nor since the Apostles' days, such prophet, strong,

To keep God's law and draw the hearts of men.

From ev'ry pain your soul be freed, and wide

Before it ope the Gates of Paradise!"

Aoi.

Roland's Death

CLXX.

Rollánd now feels his death is drawing nigh:

From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.

For all his peers he prays that God may call

Their souls to Him; to the Angel Gabriel

He recommends his spirit. In one hand

He takes the olifant, that no reproach

May rest upon him; in the other grasps

Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,

Far as an arblast68 sends a shaft, across

A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.

Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,

Four terraces of marble spread:—he falls

Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near.

Aoi.

CLXXI.

High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.

Four terraces are there, of marble bright:

There Count Rollánd lies senseless on the grass.

Him at this moment spies a Saracen

Who lies among the corpses, feigning death,

His face and body all besmeared with blood.

Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds

Upon the Baron.—Handsome, brave and strong

He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.

He seized the body of Rollánd, and grasped

His arms, exclaiming thus:—"Here vanquished Carle's

Great nephew lies!"—"This sword to Araby

I'll bear."—He drew it;—this aroused the Count.

Aoi.

CLXXII.

Rollánd perceived an alien hand would rob

Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word

He spoke:—"I trow,69 not one of us art thou!"

Then with his olifant from which he parts

Never, he smites the golden studded helm,

Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes

Are from their sockets beaten out—o'erthrown

Dead at the Baron's feet he falls:—"O wretch,"

He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,

Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of this

Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,

Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."

Aoi.

CLXXIII.

Now feels Rollánd that death is near at hand

And struggles up with all his force; his face

Grows livid;—[Durendal, his naked sword]

He holds;—beside him rises a gray rock

On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief

And rage—The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor

Is notched; then cries the Count:—"Saint Mary, help!

O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!

Though we two part, I care not less for thee.

What victories together thou and I,

Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds

White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp

Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,

Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"

Aoi.

CLXXIV.

Rollánd smites hard the rock of Sardonix;70

The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt;

Then seeing that he can not break his sword,

Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal:

"O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against

The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!

When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,

The God of Heaven by his Angel sent

Command that he should give thee to a Count,

A valiant captain; it was then the great

And gentle King did gird thee to my side.—

With thee I won for him Anjou—Bretaigne;71

For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine

And Normandie72 the free; I won Provence

And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie,73 and all

The Romanie;74 I won for him Bavière,75

All Flandre76—Buguerie77—all Puillanie,78

Costentinnoble79 which allegiance paid,

And Saxonie80 submitted to his power;

For him I won Escoce81 and Galle,82 Irlande83

And Engleterre84 he made his royal seat;

With thee I conquered all the lands and realms

Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.

Now for this sword I mourn.... Far better die

Than in the hands of Pagans let it fall!

May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"

Aoi.

CLXXV.

Upon the grey rock mightily he smites,

Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword

But grinds.—It breaks not—nor receives a notch,

And upwards springs more dazzling in the air.

When sees the Count Rollánd his sword can never break,

Softly within himself its fate he mourns:

"O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!

In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth

Of great saint Pierre—some blood of Saint Basile,

A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis,

A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.

It is not right that Pagans should own thee;

By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms

I shall have conquered once that now are ruled

By Carle, the King with beard all blossom-white,

And by them made great emperor and Lord.

May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."

Aoi.

CLXXVI.

The Count Rollánd feels through his limbs the grasp

Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart

A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine

He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.

Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,

And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,

That Carle and all his knightly host may say:

"The gentle Count a conqueror has died...."

Then asking pardon for his sins, or great

Or small, he offers up his glove to God.

Aoi.

CLXXVII.

The Count Rollánd feels now his end approach.

Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain,

He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says:

"Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace,

Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small,

Until this hour committed since my birth!"

Then his right glove he offers up to God,

And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.

Aoi.

CLXXVIII.

Beneath a pine Rollánd doth lie, and looks

Toward Spain—He broods on many things of yore:

On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,

On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord

Who nurtured him;—he sighs—nor can restrain

His tears, but can not yet himself forget;

Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God

He prays:—"Our Father, never yet untrue,

Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved

Thy Daniel from the lions' claws—Oh, free

My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"

His right hand glove he offered up to God;

Saint Gabriel took the glove.—With head reclined

Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined

He breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,

Saint-Raphaël, Saint Michiel del Peril.

Together with them Gabriel came.—All bring

The soul of Count Rollánd to Paradise....

Aoi.

The Chastisement of the Saracens

CLXXIX.

Rollánd is dead: God has his soul in heaven.

To Ronceval the Emperor has come.

There, neither road nor any path is seen,

Nor vacant space, nor ell, nor foot of land

That mounds of mangled bodies cover not,

Pagans or French.—The Emperor exclaims:

"Fair nephew, where art thou? The Archbishop, where?

And Olivier, alas, where are they all?

Gérin, Gérier, the two companions, where

Are they? And where is Otes and Bérengier,

Ives and Ivoire both to my heart so dear?

The Gascuin Engelier, Sansun the Duke,

Anseïs the rash, Gerard de Roussillon

The old, and my twelve Peers I left behind,

What fate is theirs?"—What boots it? None replies."—

"—God,” cries the King, "what grief is mine to think

"I stood not here the battle to begin."

He tears his beard with anger; all his knights

And barons weep great tears; dizzy with woe

And swooning, twenty thousand fall to earth.

Duke Naimes feels pity overflow his heart.

Aoi.

CLXXX.

No baron is there now, no chevalier

Who, in his pity, sheds not tears for sons,

For brothers—nephews—friends—and for liege-lords.

Many have fallen swooning on the earth,

But Duke Naimes bore himself as valorous knight:

He foremost said to Carle:—"Behold two leagues

Away!—The roads are dark with clouds of dust.

There swarm the Pagan tribes.... Ride on them now,

Avenge this bitter woe."—"O God," said Carle,

"Are they already flown so far?—our rights

And honor shield! Those Pagans took from me

The flower of my Sweet France!"—The King commands

Gebuin, Otun, Tedbalt de Reins and Count

Milun:—"Watch ye the field, the vales, the mounts;

The slain, leave to their rest; see that no beast

Nor lion, squire nor page approach. I charge

You, let no man upon them lay his hand

Until, with God's assistance, we return."

They lovingly and with sweet tone reply:

"Thus shall we do, just Emperor, dear sire!"

Upon the field they keep one thousand knights.

Aoi.

CLXXXI.

Now bids the Emperor his trumpets blow,

Then forward at the head of his great host

He rides, that Baron true. Of those of Spain

He finds the tracks, points out the road; in quick

Pursuit all follow Carle.... When sees the King

The eve decline, he on the verdant grass

Dismounts, and prostrate prays to God our Lord

The sun to stay, the shades of night hold back

And longer make the day. To him appears

A Counselor-Angel with the swift command;

"Ride on, O King, nor fear that night shall fall!

God knows that thou hast lost the flower of France;

But vengeance canst have now upon that horde

Of unbelievers." Thus the Angel spake.

The Emp'ror rises and remounts his steed.

Aoi.

CLXXXII.

To Carlemagne Our Lord now showed his might;

The sun stays in its course. The Pagans fly,

And fast the French pursuing, overtake

Them in the Val-Tenebre. They drive them on

Toward Sarraguce, while close behind them fall

The upraised swords, and strew the ground with dead.

No issue, no escape, by road or pass!

In front deep Ebro rolls its mighty waves:

No boat, no barge, no raft. They call for help

On Tervagant, then plunge into the flood.

Vain was their trust: some, weighted with their arms,

Sink in a moment; others are swept down,

And those most favored swallow monstrous draughts.

All drown most cruelly. The French cry out:

"For your own woe wished ye to see Rollánd!"

Aoi.

Charlemagne and Baligant at Ronceval (Summary and Excerpt)

Meanwhile, back at Saragossa, Marsile has summoned the aid of Baligant, his liege lord. Marsile, dying and unable to lead, hands over the defense of Saragossa to Baligant.

Baligant leads his army to engage Charlemagne at Ronceval, where the Franks are mourning and honoring the dead. Both armies fight with distinction, and Charlemagne meets Baligant on the battle field:

CCLXIII.

The mighty Emir85 with a giant's strength

Smites Carle86 upon the helm of burnished steel,

Which splits in twain beneath the ponderous blow,

Cuts through the silky hair, shears from the scalp

Fully the breadth of a man's palm and more,

Baring the skull. Carle staggers, nearly falls,

But God willed not that he should die or yield.

Saint Gabriel, with eager flight once more

Descends, demanding:—"What ails thee, great King?"

Aoi.

CCLXIV.

When Carle the Angel's heavenly accent hears,

All thought or dread of death forsakes his soul,

And in him springs again his former strength.

The Emir by the royal sword of France

Is struck, his helm all bright with gems is rent,

His cloven skull pours out the brain, his face

Is cleft to the very roots of his white beard:

Dead falls the Pagan past recovery.

Then shouts the King his rallying cry, "Montjoie!"

Hearing his shout, Duke Naimes hastes up, and brings

The charger Tecendur for Carle the great

To mount. The Pagans turn their backs—God wills

They should not stay. The Franks have their desires.

Aoi.

The Death of Marsile; Capture of Bramimunde

CCLXVI.

Amidst the sultry heat and clouds of dust

The Pagans rousèd, by their foes harassed,

Flee far for Sarraguce. To her high tower

Ascends Queen Bramimunde, where, seeing thus

The routed Arabs fly, she calls her priests

And canons, subjects to false law, by God

Ne'er loved: their crowns no holy tonsure wear.

She cries aloud:—"Aid us, Mahum!87 Oh aid!

O gentle King! Already vanquished are

Our men, the Emir88 slain in shameful death!"

On hearing this, Marsile turned to the wall

His covered face, and amid bitter tears

His life departed. Soon the eager fiends

Bore off to judgment his sin-burthened89 soul.

Aoi.

CCLXVII.

The Pagans all are slain [or put to flight];

Carle wins the day. The gates of Sarraguce

Are stormed, and well he knows, defense is vain.

He takes the city. All the Christian host

Pour in, and there repose their limbs this night.

The King with snow-white beard is filled with pride:

Queen Bramimunde gives up the citadels;

Ten of these forts are large, and fifty small.

Well helped are they whom God Almighty aids.

Aoi.

CCLXVIII.

The sunny day had passed, the shades of night

Had fallen; bright the moonlight; all the stars

In heaven shone. Carle ruled in Sarraguce.

Unto one thousand men he gave command

To search throughout the city's synagogues

And mosques for all their idols and graved signs

Of gods—these to be broken up and crushed

By ax and iron mallet he ordains.

Nor sorcery nor falsehood left. King Carle

Believes in God and serves him faithfully.

Then bishops bless the fountains, leading up

The Heathens to the blest baptismal Font.

If one perchance resist the King, condemned

Is he to die, or hanged, or burnt, or slain.

More than one hundred thousand are baptized

True Christians; but not so Queen Bramimunde:

A captive shall she go unto sweet France

And be converted by the King through love.

Aoi.

The Punishment of Ganelon.

CCLXX.

From Spain at last the Emperor has returned

To Aix, the noblest seat of France; ascends

His palace, enters in the stately hall.—

Now comes to greet him the fair [lady] Aude,

And asks the King:—"Where is Rollánd the chief

Who pledged his faith to take me for his wife?"

Sore-pained, heart-broken, Carle, with weeping eyes,

Tears his white beard.—"Ah! sister well beloved,

Thou askest me of one who is no more.

A worthier match I give thee in exchange;

Loewis it is. I can not better say.

He is my son, and will protect my realms."

Aude answers:—"To my ear these words are strange.

May God, His saints, His angels, all forfend

That, if Rollánd lives not, I still should live."

Her color fades, she falls prone at the feet

Of Carlemagne—dead ... God's mercy on her soul!

Barons of France mourn her with pitying tears.

Aoi.

CCLXXI.

Such was the end of Aude the beautiful.

The King, in hope 'tis but a swoon, with tears

And pity taking both her hands, uplifts

Her form; the head upon the shoulders sinks.

As soon as Carle knows it is death indeed,

Four countesses he summons, bids them bear

In haste the Lady to a nunnery.——

All night they watched the body, and at morn

Beside a shrine gently she was entombed

With highest honors by the King's command.

Aoi.

CCLXXII.

The Emperor is once more at Aix. There stands

Amid the city 'fore the palace gate,

In iron chains, the traitor Ganelon.

His hands are fastened to a stake with thongs

Of deer-skin by the sergeants who then beat

His body well with staves and heavy cords.

Such treatment was his true desert. He waits

His coming doom, in agony of soul.

Aoi.

CCLXXIII.

Written it is in ancient Geste of France

That Carle then summoned men from all his lands,

Who met at Aix's Chapelle. A solemn feast

It was; some say the Baron Saint Silvestre's.

This day began the plea and history

Of Ganelon who wove the treason's plot.

The Emperor bade them drag him to his bar.

Aoi.

CCLXXIV.

"Seigneurs Barons," said to them Carle the King,

"Judge Ganelon according to the law.—

Among my host with me to Spain he came;

His craft lost twenty thousand of my Franks;

My nephew, whom ye nevermore shall see,

And Olivier, the brave and courteous Knight.

The traitor sold my brave twelve Peers for gain."

Then Ganelon:—"May I be cursed ere I

Deny. Of wealth and honors had [Rollánd]

Deprived me, and for this, his loss and death

I wrought, but treason none I will confess."

Respond the French:—"On this we counsel take."

Aoi.

CCLXXV.

In presence of the King stands Ganelon

With bearing hardy, florid countenance;

Were he but loyal, as a Baron true

His mien. Upon the French and judges he

Has cast a glance, and on his thirty kin

Who 'round him stand; then with firm voice exclaims:

"Barons! Now hear me all, for love of God!

I to the Emperor's host belonged, and served

Him ever in all faith and love. Rollánd,

His nephew, hatred bore to me, and fain

Had doomed my days to torture and to death.

As message-bearer I to King Marsile

Was sent, wisdom alone my shield and guard;

I gave defiance to Rollánd the bold,

To Olivier and to their comrades all:

By Carle and all his Barons this was heard.

Revenge this was, but treason it was none."

Reply the French:—"All this we well shall weigh."

Aoi.

CCLXXVI.

On seeing the great plea was to commence,

Thirty good Knights were called by Ganelon

Out of his kin, and one among them makes

A speech all others hark: 'tis Pinabel

Of Castel de Sorence, of greatest skill

In words, and apt with reason plausible;

Withal, a vassal brave to guard his arms.

Thus to him Ganelon:—"In you my trust

I place; my life from death, my name from shame

Preserve!"—Said Pinabel:—"Thou shalt be saved.

Dare one French Knight condemn thee to be hanged,

And would the Emperor make us both to meet

In combat, my good sword will his rash word

Believe."—And at his feet falls Ganelon.

Aoi.

CCLXXVII.

Baiviers, Saines, Poitevins, Normans and French

In council met;—Allemans, Tiedeis in great

Array. Those from Alverne most courteous prove

And show more kindness unto Pinabel.

One to the others said:—"To leave this plea

Right would it be, and pray Carl'magne, this once

To pardon Ganelon who, from this day,

Will serve his lord with truer faith and love.

Rollánd lies in his grave; nor wealth, nor gold

Restores him to your eyes. This cruel fight

Is folly."—All the Knights approve, save one,

Tierri, a brother of the Lord Geffrei.

Aoi.

CCLXXVIII.

To Carle his Barons come again, and say:

"We pray you, sire, acquit Count Ganelon;

Then will he serve you with true faith and love.

Grant him his life which springs from noble race.

Rollánd lies in his grave; ne'er shall we see

Him more, nor treasures e'er can bring him back."

Exclaimed the King: "Vile traitors are ye all!"

Aoi.

CLXXIX.

Now, seeing all will fail him, o'er Carle's eyes

And features gloom descends; by grief o'erwhelmed

He cries: "Unhappy that I am!" Then stood

[Tierri], the brother of Geffrei, the Duke

D'Anjou, before the King. Thin, light of frame,

Hair raven-black, [face] somewhat brown of hue,

In height nor tall nor short; with courtesy

He spake thus to the Emp'ror: "Fair sire King,

Be not cast down. That I have served you well

Ere this, you know. 'Tis my ancestral right

To sit among the judges of the plea.

However guilty was Rollánd against

Count Ganelon, his duty to the King

Should have restrained his hate. A treason foul

Ganelon wrought against Rollánd; forsworn

In perjury tow'rd you, he lost himself.

For all his crimes his death I here demand,

Death by the cord; his body to the dogs

Be thrown away—the perjurer's just doom.

Should any of his kin deny the words

I speak, this sword of mine girt to my side

Will make them good."—All cry: "Well have you said."

Aoi.

CCLXXX.

Then toward the King advances Pinabel;

Tall, strong and swift, and brave. Strike he but once,

No second blow need follow; to the King

He said: "Sire, unto you belongs this plea.

Command these clamors to be hushed. There stands

Tierri who now his judgment has pronounced.

The lie I give him and to fight defy!"

With this his right hand glove of deer-skin gave

Unto the King who said: "I must receive

Good pledges." Of his kin then thirty knights

Were given as legal sureties of his pledge.

"I also give my pledge," the Emperor said,

"And have them guarded safe till judgment pass."

Aoi.

CCLXXXI.

When Tierri sees that now the fight is near,

He gives the Emperor his right hand glove.

To him the sureties Carle himself provides,

Bids that they bring four benches to the place

Whereon the combatants shall sit. The terms

Are judged by all the others as most fair.

Ogier de Dannemarche was chosen to rule

The lists. Then for their steeds and arms both called.

Aoi.

CCLXXXII.

Both knights now made them ready for the fight,

Were shriven, assoiled, and blessed; a mass have heard,

Communion have received, and richest alms

Bequeathed to monasteries.—Before striking

They both appear.—Gold spurs their heels adorn;

They wear white hauberks light and strong; bright helms

Clasp on their heads, and gold hilt swords are girt

Upon their thighs, and to their necks are bound

Strong quartered shields; they wield in each right hand

A trenchant sword, and on fleet steeds they mount;

Then melt in tears one hundred thousand knights

Who for Rollánd's sake wish Tierri well.

Yea—but God knows what way the thing will end.

Aoi.

CCLXXXIII.

Beyond the town of Aix a plain extends:

And here our Barons will the combat try.

Most valiant knights are both; the steeds they ride

Are swift and stout; with spurs in flanks, and freed

Of rein, they dash.—The warriors all their might

And skill unite to strike the surest blow.

Bucklers beneath the shock are torn and crushed,

White hauberks rent in shreds, asunder bursts

Each courser's girth, the saddles, turning, fall.

One hundred thousand men look weeping on....

Aoi.

CCLXXXIV.

Both knights leap on the earth, and, quick as light,

Stand face to face.—Strong, fiery Pinabel

And Tierri for each other seek. Their steeds

Are fled.—But their gold-hilted swords they wield;

And on the helms of steel they shower such blows

As rashed the thongs. Loudly the knights lament,

And Carle exclaims:—"Show thou the right, O God!"

Aoi.

CCLXXXV.

Cried Pinabel:—"Tierri, surrender thou!

Thy vassal I will be in faith and love,

And to thy pleasure will I yield my wealth;

But let the King forgive Count Ganelon!"

Tierri replied:—"Thy offers all are vain;

Vile treason were it such a pact to make;

But God shall judge us and make plain the right."

Aoi.

CCLXXXVI.

Then Tierri spake:—"I hold thee, Pinabel,

As Baron true, great, strong, of handsome mold;

Thy peers acknowledge thee as valiant knight;

Well, let this combat cease, between the King

And thee a covenant I will strive to make.

On Ganelon such justice shall be done

That future ages shall record the doom."

They grasp again their swords and hew

Each other's gold-encrusted helm with rage

So rash that sparkling fires spurt through the air.

No power will now disjoint the combatants:

The death of one can only close the strife.

Aoi.

CCLXXXVII.

No braver man than Pinabel.—Such blows

He deals on Tierri's helmet of Provence,

That the sparks fly in showers, and, falling, set

The grass ablaze. Then aiming at his foe

His keen-edged brand, down to the brow cuts through

His helm; the blade glides down across his face,

And plows his right cheek with a deep red gash;

Unto his stomach is the haubert rent,

But God protects him, and averts his death.

Aoi.

CCLXXXVIII.

Tierri, on seeing blood gush from his brow

And tinge the grassy field, strikes Pinabel

On his steel-burnished helmet, and cuts through

To the nose-plate. His head is cleft in twain

And gushes forth the brain. This fatal blow

Gives Pinabel his death, and ends the fight.

The French exclaim:—"O wondrous work of God!

Full right it is that Ganelon be hanged

With all his kin who sureties were for him!"

Aoi.

CCLXXXIX.

Tierri had won, and on the battle-field

The Emperor Carle arrived with an escort

Of forty Barons,—Naimes the Duke, Ogier

De Dannemarche, Geffrei d'Anjou, Willalmes

De Blaive.—In close embrace the King has pressed

Tierri, and with his mantle's sables wiped

The warrior's face; then lays his furs aside

And on his shoulders others are arrayed.

Meanwhile the knight, by friendly hands disarmed,

On an Arabian mule is placed, and so

This valorous Baron full of joy returns

To Aix.—Amid the place they all dismount,

And now the sureties must abide their doom.

Aoi.

CCXC.

Carlemagne around him calls his counts and dukes:

"What counsel give ye touching those I kept,

Unto this plea who came for Ganelon

Themselves sworn hostages for Pinabel?"

Respond the French:—"Let none of them survive!"—

Carle then commands a road-keeper, Basbrun:

"Hang them all up on yon accursed tree!

By this gray beard of mine, I swear, if one

Escape, thou diest but a villain's death!"—

Answered the man:—"What else but to obey?"—

Then by a hundred sergeants roughly seized,

Those thirty men are hanged.—Who man betrays

Destroys himself and others drags to death.

Aoi.

CCXCI.

And now have turned away Baiviers, Allemans,

Poitevins, Bretons and Normans; but more

Than all, the French advise that Ganelon

Should die a death of torture. Then they tie

With cords his hands and feet. Four sergeants bring

Four wild and fiery destriers, made mad

By a mare 'mid the field. A fearful end

For Ganelon; bound between them, limb from limb

Is rent away, each nerve and muscle stretched

And torn. The clear blood streams upon the green.

Thus perished Ganelon by a felon's death....

Traitors of evil deeds must never boast.

Aoi.

CCXCII.

When the Emperor Carle had wreaked his full revenge,

He called the bishops from the realms of France,

And from Baviere, and those of Alemaigne:

"Now in my [court] have I a captive, sprung

From noble race. Such sermons has she heard,

So good examples seen, she will believe

In the true God, and Christian faith embrace.

Baptize her so that He may save her soul;

God-mothers choose her of our noblest dames."

With a great company the Baths at Aix

Were thronged, and soon before the holy Fonts

The Queen received the name of Juliane:

Henceforth a Christian holding fast the Truth.

Aoi.

CCXCIII.

But when the Emperor had made complete

His justice and his heavy wrath assuaged,

And brought Queen Bramimunde to Christian faith,

The day was over and the night had fall'n.

The King sought rest within his vaulted room.

Saint Gabriel brought him word from God and said:

"Carle, of thy empire summon all the hosts

For swiftest marching to the land of Bire;

So shalt thou succor King Vivien in Imphe,

The city compassed by the Pagan foe.

The Christians look to thee and cry for help."—

Will has he none to go, the King, but moans:—

"O, God," quoth he, "so troublous is my life!"—

Whereat he weeps, and tears his hoary beard.

Aoi.

THE LAIS OF MARIE DE FRANCE

Marie de France

Written in the late 1100s C.E.

France (Anglo-Norman)

In her works, the author states that her name is Marie, and she is from France. No other detail about the author’s life is known, although there are quite a few educated guesses about her possible ties to various royal courts. Marie writes in Anglo-Norman (a version of medieval French), and she says that her lais are versions of oral tales told by Breton minstrels (from Brittany, on the coast of France).

Her lais are some of the earliest forms of courtly love literature that survive, influencing later knightly romances (such as Sir Launfal), stories of King Arthur’s knights (such as Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival), and certain stories in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (in particular, the Franklin’s Tale, which is itself based on a Breton lai).

Written by Laura J. Getty

Image 5.21: Marie de France | Marie de France sits and writes her manuscript on a pedestal.

Author: Master of Jean de Papeleu

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

5.7.1 The Lais of Marie de France

Marie de France, translated by Eugene Mason

License: Public Domain

The Lay of Guigemar

Hearken, oh gentles, to the words of Marie. When the minstrel tells his tale, let the folk about the fire heed him willingly. For his part the singer must be wary not to spoil good music with unseemly words. Listen, oh lordlings, to the words of Marie, for she pains herself grievously not to forget this thing. The craft is hard—then approve the more sweetly him who carols the tune. But this is the way of the world, that when a man or woman sings more tunably90 than his fellows, those about the fire fall upon him, pell-mell, for reason of their envy. They rehearse diligently the faults of his song, and steal away his praise with evil words. I will brand these folk as they deserve. They, and such as they, are like mad dogs—cowardly and felon—who traitorously bring to death men better than themselves. Now let the japer, and the smiler with his knife, do me what harm they may. Verily they are in their right to speak ill of me.

Hearken, oh gentles, to the tale I set before you, for thereof the Bretons already have made a Lay. I will not do it harm by many words, and here is the commencement of the matter. According to text and scripture, now I relate a certain adventure, which bechanced in the realm of Brittany, in days long gone before.

In that time when Arthur maintained his realm, the now in peace, the now in war, the King counted amongst his vassals a certain baron, named Oridial. This knight was lord of Leon, and was very near to his prince’s heart, both in council chamber and in field. From his wife he had gotten two children, the one a son and the other a fair daughter. Nogent, he had called the damsel at the font, and the dansellon91 was named Guigemar—no goodlier might be found in any realm. His mother had set all her love upon the lad, and his father shewed him every good that he was able. When the varlet was no more a child, Oridial sent him to the King, to be trained as a page in the courtesies of the Court. Right serviceable was he in his station, and meetly praised of all. The term of his service having come, and he being found of fitting years and knowledge, the King made him knight with his own hand, and armed him in rich harness, according to his wish. So Guigemar gave gifts to all those about his person, and bidding farewell, took leave, and departed from the Court. Guigemar went his way to Flanders, being desirous of advancement, for in that kingdom ever they have strife and war. Neither in Loraine nor Burgundy, Anjou nor Gascony, might be found in that day a better knight than he, no, nor one his peer. He had but one fault, since of love he took no care. There was neither dame nor maiden beneath the sky, however dainty and kind, to whom he gave thought or heed, though had he required her love of any damsel, very willingly would she have granted his desire. Many there were who prayed him for his love, but might have no kiss in return. So seeing that he refrained his heart in this fashion, men deemed him a strange man, and one fallen into a perilous case.

In the flower of his deeds the good knight returned to his own land, that he might see again his father and lord, his mother and his sister, even as he very tenderly desired. He lodged with them for the space of a long month, and at the end of that time had envy to hunt within the wood. The night being come, Guigemar summoned his prickers92 and his squires,93 and early in the morning rode within the forest. Great pleasure had Guigemar in the woodland, and much he delighted in the chase. A tall stag was presently started, and the hounds being uncoupled, all hastened in pursuit—the huntsmen before, and the good knight following after, winding upon his horn. Guigemar rode at a great pace after the quarry, a varlet riding beside, bearing his bow, his arrows and his spear. He followed so hotly that he over-passed the chase. Gazing about him he marked, within a thicket, a doe hiding with her fawn. Very white and wonderful was this beast, for she was without spot, and bore antlers upon her head. The hounds bayed about her, but might not pull her down. Guigemar bent his bow, and loosed a shaft at the quarry. He wounded the deer a little above the hoof, so that presently she fell upon her side. But the arrow glanced away, and returning upon itself, struck Guigemar in the thigh, so grievously, that straightway he fell from his horse upon the ground. Guigemar lay upon the grass, beside the deer which he had wounded to his hurt. He heard her sighs and groans, and perceived the bitterness of her pity. Then with mortal speech the doe spake to the wounded man in such fashion as this, “Alas, my sorrow, for now am I slain. But thou, Vassal, who hast done me this great wrong, do not think to hide from the vengeance of thy destiny. Never may surgeon and his medicine heal your hurt. Neither herb nor root nor potion can ever cure the wound within your flesh: For that there is no healing. The only balm to close that sore must be brought by a woman, who for her love will suffer such pain and sorrow as no woman in the world has endured before. And to the dolorous lady, dolorous knight. For your part you shall do and suffer so great things for her, that not a lover beneath the sun, or lovers who are dead, or lovers who yet shall have their day, but shall marvel at the tale. Now, go from hence, and let me die in peace.”

Guigemar was wounded twice over—by the arrow, and by the words he was dismayed to hear. He considered within himself to what land he must go to find this healing for his hurt, for he was yet too young to die. He saw clearly, and told it to his heart, that there was no lady in his life to whom he could run for pity, and be made whole of his wound. He called his varlet before him,

“Friend,” said he, “go forthwith, and bring my comrades to this place, for I have to speak with them.”

The varlet went upon his errand, leaving his master sick with the heat and fever of his hurt. When he was gone, Guigemar tore the hem from his shirt, and bound it straitly94 about his wound. He climbed painfully upon the saddle, and departed without more ado, for he was desirous to be gone before any could come to stay him from his purpose. A green path led through the deep forest to the plain, and his way across the plain brought him to a cliff, exceeding high, and to the sea. Guigemar looked upon the water, which was very still, for this fair harbourage was land-locked from the main. Upon this harbour lay one only vessel, bearing a rich pavilion of silk, daintily furnished both without and within, and well it seemed to Guigemar that he had seen this ship before. Beneath the sky was no ship so rich or precious, for there was not a sail but was spun of silk, and not a plank, from keel to mast, but showed of ebony. Too fair was the nave for mortal man, and Guigemar held it in sore displeasure. He marvelled greatly from what country it had come, and wondered long concerning this harbour, and the ship that lay therein. Guigemar got him down from his horse upon the shore, and with mighty pain and labour climbed within the ship. He trusted to find merchantmen and sailors therein, but there was none to guard, and none he saw. Now within the pavilion was a very rich bed, carved by cunning workmen in the days of King Solomon. This fair bed was wrought of cypress wood and white ivory, adorned with gold and gems most precious. Right sweet were the linen cloths upon the bed, and so soft the pillow, that he who lay thereon would sleep, were he sadder than any other in the world. The counterpane was of purple from the vats of Alexandria, and overall was set a right fair coverlet of cloth of gold. The pavilion was litten95 by two great waxen torches, placed in candlesticks of fine gold, decked with jewels worth a lord’s ransom. So the wounded knight looked on ship and pavilion, bed and candle, and marvelled greatly. Guigemar sat him down upon the bed for a little, because of the anguish of his wound. After he had rested a space he got upon his feet, that he might quit the vessel, but he found that for him there was no return. A gentle wind had filled the sails, and already he was in the open sea. When Guigemar saw that he was far from land, he was very heavy and sorrowful. He knew not what to do, by reason of the mightiness of his hurt. But he must endure the adventure as best he was able; so he prayed to God to take him in His keeping, and in His good pleasure to bring him safe to port, and deliver him from the peril of death. Then climbing upon the couch, he laid his head upon the pillow, and slept as one dead, until, with vespers, the ship drew to that haven where he might find the healing for his hurt.

Guigemar had come to an ancient city, where the King of that realm held his court and state. This King was full of years, and was wedded to a dame of high degree. The lady was of tender age, passing fresh and fair, and sweet of speech to all. Therefore was the King jealous of his wife beyond all measure. Such is the wont of age, for much it fears that old and young cannot mate together, and that youth will turn to youth. This is the death in life of the old.

The castle of this ancient lord had a mighty keep. Beneath this tower was a right fair orchard, together with a close, shut in by a wall of green marble, very strong and high. This wall had one only gate, and the door was watched of warders, both night and day. On the other side of this garden was the sea, so that none might do his errand in the castle therefrom, save in a boat. To hold his dame in the greater surety, the King had built a bower within the wall; there was no fairer chamber beneath the sun. The first room was the Queen’s chapel. Beyond this was the lady’s bedchamber, painted all over with shapes and colours most wonderful to behold. On one wall might be seen Dame Venus, the goddess of Love, sweetly flushed as when she walked the water, lovely as life, teaching men how they should bear them in loyal service to their lady. On another wall, the goddess threw Ovid’s book within a fire of coals. A scroll issuing from her lips proclaimed that those who read therein, and strove to ease them of their pains, would find from her neither service nor favour. In this chamber the lady was put in ward, and with her a certain maiden to hold her company. This damsel was her niece, since she was her sister’s child, and there was great love betwixt the twain. When the Queen walked within the garden, or went abroad, this maiden was ever by her side, and came again with her to the house. Save this damsel, neither man nor woman entered in the bower, nor issued forth from out the wall. One only man possessed the key of the postern, an aged priest, very white and frail. This priest recited the service of God within the chapel, and served the Queen’s plate and cup when she ate meat at table.

Now, on a day, the Queen had fallen asleep after meat, and on her awaking would walk a little in the garden. She called her companion to her, and the two went forth to be glad amongst the flowers. As they looked across the sea they marked a ship drawing near the land, rising and falling upon the waves. Very fearful was the Queen thereat, for the vessel came to anchorage, though there was no helmsman to direct her course. The dame’s face became sanguine for dread, and she turned her about to flee, because of her exceeding fear. Her maiden, who was of more courage than she, stayed her mistress with many comforting words. For her part she was very desirous to know what this thing meant. She hastened to the shore, and laying aside her mantle, climbed within this wondrous vessel. Thereon she found no living soul, save only the knight sleeping fast within the pavilion. The damsel looked long upon the knight, for pale he was as wax, and well she deemed him dead. She returned forthwith to the Queen, and told her of this marvel, and of the good knight who was slain.

“Let us go together on the ship,” replied the lady. “If he be dead we may give him fitting burial, and the priest shall pray meetly for his soul. Should he be yet alive perchance he will speak, and tell us of his case.”

Without more tarrying the two damsels mounted on the ship, the lady before, and her maiden following after. When the Queen entered in the pavilion she stayed her feet before the bed, for joy and grief of what she saw. She might not refrain her eyes from gazing on the knight, for her heart was ravished with his beauty, and she sorrowed beyond measure, because of his grievous hurt. To herself she said, “In a bad hour cometh the goodly youth.” She drew near the bed, and placing her hand upon his breast, found that the flesh was warm, and that the heart beat strongly in his side. Guigemar awoke at the touch, and saluted the dame as sweetly as he was able, for well he knew that he had come to a Christian land. The lady, full of thought, returned him his salutation right courteously, though the tears were yet in her eyes. Straightway she asked of him from what realm he came, and of what people, and in what war he had taken his hurt.

“Lady,” answered Guigemar, “in no battle I received this wound. If it pleases you to hear my tale I will tell you the truth, and in nothing will I lie. I am a knight of Little Brittany. Yesterday I chased a wonderful white deer within the forest. The shaft with which I struck her to my hurt, returned again on me, and caused this wound upon my thigh, which may never be cured, nor made whole. For this wondrous Beast raised her plaint in a mortal tongue. She cursed me loudly, with many evil words, swearing that never might this sore be healed, save by one only damsel in the world, and her I know not where to find. When I heard my luckless fate I left the wood with what speed I might, and coming to a harbour, not far from thence, I lighted on this ship. For my sins I climbed therein. Then without oars or helm this boat ravished me from shore; so that I know not where I have come, nor what is the name of this city. Fair lady, for God’s love, counsel me of your good grace, for I know not where to turn, nor how to govern the ship.”

The lady made answer, “Fair sir, willingly shall I give you such good counsel as I may. This realm and city are the appanage96 of my husband. He is a right rich lord, of high lineage, but old and very full of years. Also he is jealous beyond all measure; therefore it is that I see you now. By reason of his jealousy he has shut me fast between high walls, entered by one narrow door, with an ancient priest to keep the key. May God requite him for his deed. Night and day I am guarded in this prison, from whence I may never go forth, without the knowledge of my lord. Here are my chamber and my chapel, and here I live, with this, my maiden, to bear me company. If it pleases you to dwell here for a little, till you may pass upon your way, right gladly we shall receive you, and with a good heart we will tend your wound, till you are healed.”

When Guigemar heard this speech he rejoiced greatly. He thanked the lady with many sweet words, and consented to sojourn in her hall awhile. He raised himself upon his couch, and by the courtesy of the damsels left the ship. Leaning heavily upon the lady, at the end he won to her maiden’s chamber, where there was a fair bed covered with a rich dossal of broidered silk, edged with fur. When he was entered in this bed, the damsels came bearing clear water in basins of gold, for the cleansing of his hurt. They stanched the blood with a towel of fine linen, and bound the wound strictly, to his exceeding comfort. So after the vesper meal was eaten, the lady departed to her own chamber, leaving the knight in much ease and content.

Now Guigemar set his love so fondly upon the lady that he forgot his father’s house. He thought no more of the anguish of his hurt, because of another wound that was beneath his breast. He tossed and sighed in his unrest, and prayed the maiden of his service to depart, so that he might sleep a little. When the maid was gone, Guigemar considered within himself whether he might seek the dame, to know whether her heart was warmed by any ember of the flame that burned in his. He turned it this way and that, and knew not what to do. This only was clear, that if the lady refused to cure his wound, death, for him, was sure and speedy.

“Alas,” said he, “what shall I do! Shall I go to my lady, and pray her pity on the wretch who has none to give him counsel? If she refuse my prayer, because of her hardness and pride, I shall know there is nought for me but to die in my sorrow, or, at least, to go heavily all the days of my life.”

Then he sighed, and in his sighing lighted on a better purpose; for he said within himself that doubtless he was born to suffer, and that the best of him was tears. All the long night he spent in vigil and groanings and watchfulness. To himself he told over her words and her semblance. He remembered the eyes and the fair mouth of his lady, and all the grace and the sweetness, which had struck like a knife at his heart. Between his teeth he cried on her for pity, and for a little more would have called her to his side. Ah, had he but known the fever of the lady, and how terrible a lord to her was Love, how great had been his joy and solace. His visage would have been the more sanguine, which was now so pale of colour, because of the dolour that was his. But if the knight was sick by reason of his love, the dame had small cause to boast herself of health. The lady rose early from her bed, since she might not sleep. She complained of her unrest, and of Love who rode her so hardly. The maiden, who was of her company, saw clearly enough that all her lady’s thoughts were set upon the knight, who, for his healing, sojourned in the chamber. She did not know whether his thoughts were given again to the dame. When, therefore, the lady had entered in the chapel, the damsel went straightway to the knight. He welcomed her gladly, and bade her be seated near the bed. Then he inquired, “Friend, where now is my lady, and why did she rise so early from her bed?”

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

“Sir,” replied the maiden softly, “you love, and are discreet, but be not too discreet therein. In such a love as yours there is nothing to be ashamed. He who may win my lady’s favour has every reason to be proud of his fortune. Altogether seemly would be your friendship, for you are young, and she is fair.”

The knight made answer to the maiden, “I am so fast in the snare, that I pray the fowler to slay me, if she may not free me from the net. Counsel me, fair sweet friend, if I may hope of kindness at her hand.”

Then the maiden of her sweetness comforted the knight, and assured him of all the good that she was able. So courteous and refined was the maid.

When the lady had heard Mass, she hastened back to the chamber. She had not forgotten her friend, and greatly she desired to know whether he was awake or asleep, of whom her heart was fain. She bade her maiden to summon him to her chamber, for she had a certain thing in her heart to show him at leisure, were it for the joy or the sorrow of their days.

Guigemar saluted the lady, and the dame returned the knight his courtesy, but their hearts were too fearful for speech. The knight dared ask nothing of his lady, for reason that he was a stranger in a strange land, and was adread to show her his love. But—as says the proverb—he who will not tell of his sore, may not hope for balm to his hurt. Love is a privy wound within the heart, and none knoweth of that bitterness but the heart alone. Love is an evil which may last for a whole life long, because of man and his constant heart. Many there be who make of Love a gibe and a jest, and with specious words defame him by boastful tales. But theirs is not love. Rather it is folly and lightness, and the tune of a merry song. But let him who has found a constant lover prize her above rubies, and serve her with loyal service, being altogether at her will. Guigemar loved in this fashion, and therefore Love came swiftly to his aid. Love put words in his mouth, and courage in his heart, so that his hope might be made plain.

“Lady,” said he, “I die for your love. I am in fever because of my wound, and if you care not to heal my hurt I would rather die. Fair friend, I pray you for grace. Do not gainsay me with evil words.”

The lady hearkened with a smile to Guigemar’s speech. Right daintily and sweetly she replied, “Friend, yea is not a word of two letters. I do not grant such a prayer every day of the week, and must you have your gift so quickly?”

“Lady,” cried he, “for God’s sake pity me, and take it not amiss. She, who loves lightly, may make her lover pray for long, so that she may hide how often her feet have trodden the pathway with another friend. But the honest dame, when she has once given her heart to a friend, will not deny his wish because of pride. The rather she will find her pride in humbleness, and love him again with the same love he has set on her. So they will be glad together, and since none will have knowledge or hearing of the matter, they will rejoice in their youth. Fair, sweet lady, be this thy pleasure?”

When the lady heard these words well she found them honest and true. Therefore without further prayings and ado she granted Guigemar her love and her kiss. Henceforward Guigemar lived greatly at his ease, for he had sight and speech of his friend, and many a time she granted him her embrace and tenderness, as is the wont of lovers when alone.

For a year and a half Guigemar dwelt with his lady, in solace and great delight. Then Fortune turned her wheel, and in a trice cast those down, whose seat had been so high. Thus it chanced to them, for they were spied upon and seen.

On a morning in summer time the Queen and her beau sat fondly together. The knight embraced her, eyes and face, but the lady stayed him, saying, “Fair sweet friend, my heart tells me that I shall lose you soon, for this hidden thing will quickly be made clear. If you are slain, may the same sword kill me. But if you win forth, well I know that you will find another love, and that I shall be left alone with my thoughts. Were I parted from you, may God give me neither joy, nor rest, nor peace, if I would seek another friend. Of that you need have no fear. Friend, for surety and comfort of my heart deliver me now some sark97 of thine. Therein I will set a knot, and make this covenant with you, that never will you put your love on dame or maiden, save only on her who shall first unfasten this knot. Then you will ever keep faith with me, for so cunning shall be my craft, that no woman may hope to unravel that coil, either by force or guile, or even with her knife.”

So the knight rendered the sark to his lady, and made such bargain as she wished, for the peace and assurance of her mind. For his part the knight took a fair girdle,98 and girt it closely about the lady’s middle. Right secret was the clasp and buckle of this girdle. Therefore he required of the dame that she would never grant her love, save to him only, who might free her from the strictness of this bond, without injury to band or clasp. Then they kissed together, and entered into such covenant as you have heard.

That very day their hidden love was made plain to men. A certain chamberlain was sent by that ancient lord with a message to the Queen. This unlucky wretch, finding that in no wise could he enter within the chamber, looked through the window, and saw. Forthwith he hastened to the King, and told him that which he had seen. When the agèd lord understood these words, never was there a sadder man than he. He called together the most trusty sergeants of his guard, and coming with them to the Queen’s chamber, bade them to thrust in the door. When Guigemar was found therein, the King commanded that he should be slain with the sword, by reason of the anguish that was his. Guigemar was in no whit dismayed by the threat. He started to his feet, and gazing round, marked a stout rod of fir, on which it is the use for linen to be hung. This he took in hand, and faced his foes, bidding them have a care, for he would do a mischief to them all. The King looked earnestly upon the fearless knight, inquiring of him who he was, and where he was born, and in what manner he came to dwell within his house. So Guigemar told over to him this story of his fate. He showed him of the Beast that he had wounded to his hurt; of the ship, and of his bitter wound; of how he came within the realm, and of the lady’s surgery. He told all to the ancient lord, to the last moment when he stood within his power. The King replied that he gave no credence to his word, nor believed that the story ran as he had said. If, however, the vessel might be found, he would commit the knight again to the waves. He would go the more heavily for the knight’s saving, and a glad day would it be if he made shipwreck at sea. When they had entered into this covenant together, they went forth to the harbour, and there discovered the barge, even as Guigemar had said. So they set him thereon, and prayed him to return unto his own realm.

Image 5.22: The Lai of Sir Launfal | A beautiful, welldressed maiden rides a white horse through a crowd.

Author: Reginald L. Knowles

Source: Hathi Trust Digital Library

License: Public Domain

Without sail or oar the ship parted from that coast, with no further tarrying. The knight wept and wrung his hands, complaining of his lady’s loss, and of her cherishing. He prayed the mighty God to grant him speedy death, and never to bring him home, save to meet again with her who was more desirable than life. Whilst he was yet at his orisons, the ship drew again to that port, from whence she had first come. Guigemar made haste to get him from the vessel, so that he might the more swiftly return to his own land. He had gone but a little way when he was aware of a squire of his household, riding in the company of a certain knight. This squire held the bridle of a destrier99 in his hand, though no man rode thereon. Guigemar called to him by name, so that the varlet looking upon him, knew again his lord. He got him to his feet, and bringing the destrier to his master, set the knight thereon. Great was the joy, and merry was the feast, when Guigemar returned to his own realm. But though his friends did all that they were able, neither song nor game could cheer the knight, nor turn him from dwelling in his unhappy thoughts. For peace of mind they urged that he took to himself a wife, but Guigemar would have none of their counsel. Never would he wed a wife, on any day, either for love or for wealth, save only that she might first unloose the knot within his shirt. When this news was noised about the country, there was neither dame nor damsel in the realm of Brittany, but essayed to unfasten the knot. But there was no lady who could gain to her wish, whether by force or guile.

Now will I show of that lady, whom Guigemar so fondly loved. By the counsel of a certain baron the ancient King set his wife in prison. She was shut fast in a tower of grey marble, where her days were bad, and her nights worse. No man could make clear to you the great pain, the anguish and the dolour, that she suffered in this tower, wherein, I protest, she died daily. Two years and more she lay bound in prison, where warders came, but never joy or delight. Often she thought upon her friend.

“Guigemar, dear lord, in an evil hour I saw you with my eyes. Better for me that I die quickly, than endure longer my evil lot. Fair friend, if I could but win to that coast whence you sailed, very swiftly would I fling myself in the sea, and end my wretched life.” When she had said these words she rose to her feet, and coming to the door was amazed to find therein neither bolt nor key. She issued forth, without challenge from sergeant or warder, and hastening to the harbour, found there her lover’s ship, made fast to that very rock, from which she would cast her down. When she saw the barge she climbed thereon, but presently bethought her that on this ship her friend had gone to perish in the sea. At this thought she would have fled again to the shore, but her bones were as water, and she fell upon the deck. So in sore travail and sorrow, the vessel carried her across the waves, to a port of Brittany, guarded by a castle, strong and very fair. Now the lord of this castle was named Meriadus. He was a right warlike prince, and had made him ready to fight with the prince of a country nearby. He had risen very early in the morning, to send forth a great company of spears, the more easily to ravage this neighbour’s realm. Meriadus looked forth from his window, and marked the ship which came to port. He hastened down the steps of the perron,100 and calling to his chamberlain, came with what speed he might to the ship. Then mounting the ladder he stood upon the deck. When Meriadus found within the ship a dame, who for beauty seemed rather a fay101 than a mere earthly woman, he seized her by her mantle, and brought her swiftly to his keep. Right joyous was he because of his good fortune, for lovely was the lady beyond mortal measure. He made no question as to who had set her on the barge. He knew only that she was fair, and of high lineage, and that his heart turned towards her with so hot a love as never before had he put on dame or damsel. Now there dwelt within the castle a sister of this lord, who was yet unwed. Meriadus bestowed the lady in his sister’s chamber, because it was the fairest in the tower. Moreover he commanded that she should be meetly served, and held in all reverence. But though the dame was so richly clothed and cherished, ever was she sad and deep in thought. Meriadus came often to cheer her with mirth and speech, by reason that he wished to gain her love as a free gift, and not by force. It was in vain that he prayed her for grace, since she had no balm for his wound. For answer she showed him the girdle about her body, saying that never would she give her love to man, save only to him who might unloose the buckle of that girdle, without harm to belt or clasp. When Meriadus heard these words, he spoke in haste and said, “Lady, there dwells in this country a very worthy knight, who will take no woman as wife, except she first untie a certain crafty knot in the hem of a shirt, and that without force or knife. For a little I would wager that it was you who tied this knot.”

When the lady heard thereof her breath went from her, and near she came to falling on the ground. Meriadus caught her in his arms, and cut the laces of her bodice, that she might have the more air. He strove to unfasten her girdle, but might not dissever the clasp. Yea, though every knight in the realm essayed to unfasten that cincture, it would not yield, except to one alone.

Now Meriadus made the lists ready for a great jousting, and called to that tournament all the knights who would aid him in his war. Many a lord came at his bidding, and with them Guigemar, amongst the first. Meriadus had sent letters to the knight, beseeching him, as friend and companion, not to fail him in this business. So Guigemar hastened to the need of his lord, and at his back more than one hundred spears. All these Meriadus welcomed very gladly, and gave them lodging within his tower. In honour of his guest, the prince sent two gentlemen to his sister, praying her to attire herself richly, and come to hall, together with the dame whom he loved so dearly well. These did as they were bidden, and arrayed in their sweetest vesture, presently entered in the hall, holding each other by the hand. Very pale and pensive was the lady, but when she heard her lover’s name her feet failed beneath her, and had not the maiden held her fast, she would have fallen on the floor. Guigemar rose from his seat at the sight of the dame, her fashion and her semblance, and stood staring upon her. He went a little apart, and said within himself, “Can this be my sweet friend, my hope, my heart, my life, the fair lady who gave me the grace of her love? From whence comes she; who might have brought her to this far land? But I speak in my folly, for well I know that this is not my dear. A little red, a little white, and all women are thus shapen. My thoughts are troubled, by reason that the sweetness of this lady resembles the sweetness of that other, for whom my heart sighs and trembles. Yet needs must that I have speech of the lady.”

Guigemar drew near to the dame. He kissed her courteously, and found no word to utter, save to pray that he might be seated at her side. Meriadus spied upon them closely, and was the more heavy because of their trouble. Therefore he feigned mirth.

“Guigemar, dear lord, if it pleases you, let this damsel essay to untie the knot of your sark, if so be she may loosen the coil.”

Guigemar made answer that very willingly he would do this thing. He called to him a squire who had the shirt in keeping, and bade him seek his charge, and deliver it to the dame. The lady took the sark in hand. Well she knew the knot that she had tied so cunningly, and was so willing to unloose; but for reason of the trouble at her heart, she did not dare essay. Meriadus marked the distress of the damsel, and was more sorrowful than ever was lover before.

“Lady,” said he, “do all that you are able to unfasten this coil.”

So at his commandment she took again to her the hem of the shirt, and lightly and easily unravelled the tie.

Guigemar marvelled greatly when he saw this thing. His heart told him that of a truth this was his lady, but he could not give faith to his eyes.

“Friend, are you indeed the sweet comrade I have known? Tell me truly now, is there about your body the girdle with which I girt you in your own realm?”

He set his hands to her waist, and found that the secret belt was yet about her sides.

“Fair sweet friend, tell me now by what adventure I find you here, and who has brought you to this tower?”

So the lady told over to her friend the pain and the anguish and the dolour of the prison in which she was held; of how it chanced that she fled from her dungeon, and lighting upon a ship, entered therein, and came to this fair haven; of how Meriadus took her from the barge, but kept her in all honour, save only that ever he sought for her love; “but now, fair friend, all is well, for you hold your lady in your arms.”

Guigemar stood upon his feet, and beckoned with his hand.

“Lords,” he cried, “hearken now to me. I have found my friend, whom I have lost for a great while. Before you all I pray and require of Meriadus to yield me my own. For this grace I give him open thanks. Moreover I will kneel down, and become his liege man. For two years, or three, if he will, I will bargain to serve in his quarrels, and with me, of riders, a hundred or more at my back.”

Then answered Meriadus, “Guigemar, fair friend, I am not yet so shaken or overborne in war, that I must do as you wish, right humbly. This woman is my captive. I found her: I hold her: and I will defend my right against you and all your power.”

When Guigemar heard these proud words he got to horse speedily, him and all his company. He threw down his glove, and parted in anger from the tower. But he went right heavily, since he must leave behind his friend. In his train rode all those knights who had drawn together to that town for the great tournament. Not a knight of them all but plighted faith to follow where he led, and to hold himself recreant and shamed if he failed his oath.

That same night the band came to the castle of the prince with whom Meriadus was at war. He welcomed them very gladly, and gave them lodging in his tower. By their aid he had good hope to bring this quarrel to an end. Very early in the morning the host came together to set the battle in array. With clash of mail and noise of horns they issued from the city gate, Guigemar riding at their head. They drew before the castle where Meriadus lay in strength, and sought to take it by storm. But the keep was very strong, and Meriadus bore himself as a stout and valiant knight. So Guigemar, like a wary captain, sat himself down before the town, till all the folk of that place were deemed by friend and sergeant to be weak with hunger. Then they took that high keep with the sword, and burnt it with fire. The lord thereof they slew in his own hall; but Guigemar came forth, after such labours as you have heard, bearing his lady with him, to return in peace to his own land.

From this adventure that I have told you, has come the Lay that minstrels chant to harp and viol—fair is that song and sweet the tune.

The Lay of Sir Launfal

I will tell you the story of another Lai. It relates the adventures of a rich and mighty baron, and the Breton calls it, the Lai of Sir Launfal.

King Arthur—that fearless knight and courteous lord—removed to Wales, and lodged at Caerleon-on-Usk, since the Picts and Scots did much mischief in the land. For it was the wont of the wild people of the north to enter in the realm of Logres, and burn and damage at their will. At the time of Pentecost, the King cried a great feast. Thereat he gave many rich gifts to his counts and barons, and to the Knights of the Round Table. Never were such worship and bounty shown before at any feast, for Arthur bestowed honours and lands on all his servants—save only on one. This lord, who was forgotten and misliked of the King, was named Launfal. He was beloved by many of the Court, because of his beauty and prowess, for he was a worthy knight, open of heart and heavy of hand. These lords, to whom their comrade was dear, felt little joy to see so stout a knight misprized. Sir Launfal was son to a King of high descent, though his heritage was in a distant land. He was of the King’s household, but since Arthur gave him naught, and he was of too proud a mind to pray for his due, he had spent all that he had. Right heavy was Sir Launfal, when he considered these things, for he knew himself taken in the toils. Gentles, marvel not overmuch hereat. Ever must the pilgrim go heavily in a strange land, where there is none to counsel and direct him in the path.

Now, on a day, Sir Launfal got him on his horse, that he might take his pleasure for a little. He came forth from the city, alone, attended by neither servant nor squire. He went his way through a green mead, till he stood by a river of clear running water. Sir Launfal would have crossed this stream, without thought of pass or ford, but he might not do so, for reason that his horse was all fearful and trembling. Seeing that he was hindered in this fashion, Launfal unbitted his steed, and let him pasture in that fair meadow, where they had come. Then he folded his cloak to serve him as a pillow, and lay upon the ground. Launfal lay in great misease, because of his heavy thoughts, and the discomfort of his bed. He turned from side to side, and might not sleep. Now as the knight looked towards the river he saw two damsels coming towards him; fairer maidens Launfal had never seen. These two maidens were richly dressed in kirtles closely laced and shapen to their persons and wore mantles of a goodly purple hue. Sweet and dainty were the damsels, alike in raiment and in face. The elder of these ladies carried in her hands a basin of pure gold, cunningly wrought by some crafty smith—very fair and precious was the cup; and the younger bore a towel of soft white linen. These maidens turned neither to the right hand nor to the left, but went directly to the place where Launfal lay. When Launfal saw that their business was with him, he stood upon his feet, like a discreet and courteous gentleman. After they had greeted the knight, one of the maidens delivered the message with which she was charged.

“Sir Launfal, my demoiselle, as gracious as she is fair, prays that you will follow us, her messengers, as she has a certain word to speak with you. We will lead you swiftly to her pavilion, for our lady is very near at hand. If you but lift your eyes you may see where her tent is spread.”

Right glad was the knight to do the bidding of the maidens. He gave no heed to his horse, but left him at his provand in the meadow. All his desire was to go with the damsels, to that pavilion of silk and divers colours, pitched in so fair a place. Certainly neither Semiramis, in the days of her most wanton power, nor Octavian, the Emperor of all the West, had so gracious a covering from sun and rain. Above the tent was set an eagle of gold, so rich and precious, that none might count the cost. The cords and fringes thereof were of silken thread, and the lances which bore aloft the pavilion were of refined gold. No King on earth might have so sweet a shelter, not though he gave in fee the value of his realm. Within this pavilion Launfal came upon the Maiden. Whiter she was than any altar lily, and more sweetly flushed than the new born rose in time of summer heat. She lay upon a bed with napery and coverlet of richer worth than could be furnished by a castle’s spoil. Very fresh and slender showed the lady in her vesture

of spotless linen. About her person she had drawn a mantle of ermine, edged with purple dye from the vats of Alexandria. By reason of the heat her raiment was unfastened for a little, and her throat and the rondure of her bosom showed whiter and more untouched than hawthorn in May. The knight came before the bed, and stood gazing on so sweet a sight. The Maiden beckoned him to draw near, and when he had seated himself at the foot of her couch, spoke her mind.

“Launfal,” she said, “fair friend, it is for you that I have come from my own far land. I bring you my love. If you are prudent and discreet, as you are goodly to the view, there is no emperor nor count, nor king, whose day shall be so filled with riches and with mirth as yours.”

When Launfal heard these words he rejoiced greatly, for his heart was litten by another’s torch.

“Fair lady,” he answered, “since it pleases you to be so gracious, and to dower so graceless a knight with your love, there is naught that you may bid me do—right or wrong, evil or good—that I will not do to the utmost of my power. I will observe your commandment, and serve in your quarrels. For you I renounce my father and my father’s house. This only I pray, that I may dwell with you in your lodging, and that you will never send me from your side.”

When the maiden heard the words of him whom so fondly she desired to love, she was altogether moved, and granted him forthwith her heart and her tenderness. To her bounty she added another gift besides. Never might Launfal be desirous of aught, but he would have according to his wish. He might waste and spend at will and pleasure, but in his purse ever there was to spare. No more was Launfal sad. Right merry was the pilgrim, since one had set him on the way, with such a gift, that the more pennies he bestowed, the more silver and gold were in his pouch.

But the Maiden had yet a word to say.

“Friend,” she said, “hearken to my counsel. I lay this charge upon you, and pray you urgently, that you tell not to any man the secret of our love. If you show this matter, you will lose your friend, for ever and a day. Never again may you see my face. Never again will you have seisin102 of that body, which is now so tender in your eyes.”

Launfal plighted faith, that right strictly he would observe this commandment. So the Maiden granted him her kiss and her embrace, and very sweetly in that fair lodging passed the day till evensong was come.

Right loath was Launfal to depart from the pavilion at the vesper hour, and gladly would he have stayed, had he been able, and his lady wished.

“Fair friend,” said she, “rise up, for no longer may you tarry. The hour is come that we must part. But one thing I have to say before you go. When you would speak with me I shall hasten to come before your wish. Well I deem that you will only call your friend where she may be found without reproach or shame of men. You may see me at your pleasure; my voice shall speak softly in your ear at will; but I must never be known of your comrades, nor must they ever learn my speech.”

Right joyous was Launfal to hear this thing. He sealed the covenant with a kiss, and stood upon his feet. Then there entered the two maidens who had led him to the pavilion, bringing with them rich raiment, fitting for a knight’s apparel. When Launfal had clothed himself therewith, there seemed no goodlier varlet under heaven, for certainly he was fair and true. After these maidens had refreshed him with clear water, and dried his hands upon the napkin, Launfal went to meat. His friend sat at table with him, and small will had he to refuse her courtesy. Very serviceably the damsels bore the meats, and Launfal and the Maiden ate and drank with mirth and content. But one dish was more to the knight’s relish than any other. Sweeter than the dainties within his mouth, was the lady’s kiss upon his lips.

When supper was ended, Launfal rose from table, for his horse stood waiting without the pavilion. The destrier was newly saddled and bridled, and showed proudly in his rich gay trappings. So Launfal kissed, and bade farewell, and went his way. He rode back towards the city at a slow pace. Often he checked his steed, and looked behind him, for he was filled with amazement, and all bemused concerning this adventure. In his heart he doubted that it was but a dream. He was altogether astonished, and knew not what to do. He feared that pavilion and Maiden alike were from the realm of faery.

Launfal returned to his lodging, and was greeted by servitors, clad no longer in ragged raiment. He fared richly, lay softly, and spent largely, but never knew how his purse was filled. There was no lord who had need of a lodging in the town, but Launfal brought him to his hall, for refreshment and delight. Launfal bestowed rich gifts. Launfal redeemed the poor captive. Launfal clothed in scarlet the minstrel. Launfal gave honour where honour was due. Stranger and friend alike he comforted at need. So, whether by night or by day, Launfal lived greatly at his ease. His lady, she came at will and pleasure, and, for the rest, all was added unto him.

Now it chanced, the same year, about the feast of St. John, a company of knights came, for their solace, to an orchard, beneath that tower where dwelt the Queen. Together with these lords went Gawain and his cousin, Yvain the fair. Then said Gawain, that goodly knight, beloved and dear to all,

“Lords, we do wrong to disport ourselves in this pleasaunce without our comrade Launfal. It is not well to slight a prince as brave as he is courteous, and of a lineage prouder than our own.”

Then certain of the lords returned to the city, and finding Launfal within his hostel, entreated him to take his pastime with them in that fair meadow. The Queen looked out from a window in her tower, she and three ladies of her fellowship. They saw the lords at their pleasure, and Launfal also, whom well they knew. So the Queen chose of her Court thirty damsels—the sweetest of face and most dainty of fashion—and commanded that they should descend with her to take their delight in the garden. When the knights beheld this gay company of ladies come down the steps of the perron, they rejoiced beyond measure. They hastened before to lead them by the hand, and said such words in their ear as were seemly and pleasant to be spoken. Amongst these merry and courteous lords hasted not Sir Launfal. He drew apart from the throng, for with him time went heavily, till he might have clasp and greeting of his friend. The ladies of the Queen’s fellowship seemed but kitchen wenches to his sight, in comparison with the loveliness of the maiden. When the Queen marked Launfal go aside, she went his way, and seating herself upon the herb, called the knight before her. Then she opened out her heart.

“Launfal, I have honoured you for long as a worthy knight, and have praised and cherished you very dearly. You may receive a queen’s whole love, if such be your care. Be content: he to whom my heart is given, has small reason to complain him of the alms.”

“Lady,” answered the knight, “grant me leave to go, for this grace is not for me. I am the King’s man, and dare not break my troth. Not for the highest lady in the world, not even for her love, will I set this reproach upon my lord.”

When the Queen heard this, she was full of wrath, and spoke many hot and bitter words.

“Launfal,” she cried, “well I know that you think little of woman and her love. There are sins more black that a man may have upon his soul. Traitor you are, and false. Right evil counsel gave they to my lord, who prayed him to suffer you about his person. You remain only for his harm and loss.”

Launful was very dolent to hear this thing. He was not slow to take up the Queen’s glove, and in his haste spake words that he repented long, and with tears.

“Lady,” said he, “I am not of that guild of which you speak. Neither am I a despiser of woman, since I love, and am loved, of one who would bear the prize from all the ladies in the land. Dame, know now and be persuaded, that she, whom I serve, is so rich in state, that the very meanest of her maidens, excels you, Lady Queen, as much in clerkly skill and goodness, as in sweetness of body and face, and in every virtue.”

The Queen rose straightway to her feet, and fled to her chamber, weeping. Right wrathful and heavy was she, because of the words that had besmirched her. She lay sick upon her bed, from which, she said, she would never rise, till the King had done her justice, and righted this bitter wrong. Now the King that day had taken his pleasure within the woods. He returned from the chase towards evening, and sought the chamber of the Queen. When the lady saw him, she sprang from her bed, and kneeling at his feet, pleaded for grace and pity. Launfal—she said— had shamed her, since he required her love. When she had put him by, very foully had he reviled her, boasting that his love was already set on a lady, so proud and noble, that her meanest wench went more richly, and smiled more sweetly, than the Queen. Thereat the King waxed marvellously wrathful, and swore a great oath that he would set Launfal within a fire, or hang him from a tree, if he could not deny this thing, before his peers.

Arthur came forth from the Queen’s chamber, and called to him three of his lords. These he sent to seek the knight who so evilly had entreated the Queen. Launfal, for his part, had returned to his lodging, in a sad and sorrowful case. He saw very clearly that he had lost his friend, since he had declared their love to men. Launfal sat within his chamber, sick and heavy of thought. Often he called upon his friend, but the lady would not hear his voice. He bewailed his evil lot, with tears; for grief he came nigh to swoon; a hundred times he implored the Maiden that she would deign to speak with her knight. Then, since the lady yet refrained from speech, Launfal cursed his hot and unruly tongue. Very near he came to ending all this trouble with his knife. Naught he found to do but to wring his hands, and call upon the Maiden, begging her to forgive his trespass, and to talk with him again, as friend to friend.

But little peace is there for him who is harassed by a King. There came presently to Launfal’s hostel those three barons from the Court. These bade the knight forthwith to go with them to Arthur’s presence, to acquit him of this wrong against the Queen. Launfal went forth, to his own deep sorrow. Had any man slain him on the road, he would have counted him his friend. He stood before the King, downcast and speechless, being dumb by reason of that great grief, of which he showed the picture and image.

Arthur looked upon his captive very evilly.

“Vassal,” said he, harshly, “you have done me a bitter wrong. It was a foul deed to seek to shame me in this ugly fashion, and to smirch the honour of the Queen. Is it folly or lightness which leads you to boast of that lady, the least of whose maidens is fairer, and goes more richly, than the Queen?”

Launfal protested that never had he set such shame upon his lord. Word by word he told the tale of how he denied the Queen, within the orchard. But concerning that which he had spoken of the lady, he owned the truth, and his folly. The love of which he bragged was now lost to him, by his own exceeding fault. He cared little for his life, and was content to obey the judgment of the Court.

Right wrathful was the King at Launfal’s words. He conjured his barons to give him such wise counsel herein, that wrong might be done to none. The lords did the King’s bidding, whether good came of the matter, or evil. They gathered themselves together, and appointed a certain day that Launfal should abide the judgment of his peers. For his part Launfal must give pledge and surety to his lord, that he would come before this judgment in his own body. If he might not give such surety then he should be held captive till the appointed day. When the lords of the King’s household returned to tell him of their counsel, Arthur demanded that Launfal should put such pledge in his hand, as they had said. Launfal was altogether mazed and bewildered at this judgment, for he had neither friend nor kindred in the land. He would have been set in prison, but Gawain came first to offer himself as his surety, and with him, all the knights of his fellowship. These gave into the King’s hand as pledge, the fiefs and lands that they held of his Crown. The King having taken pledge from the sureties, Launfal returned to his lodging, and with him certain knights of his company. They blamed him greatly because of his foolish love, and chastened him grievously by reason of the sorrow he made before men. Every day they came to his chamber, to know of his meat and drink, for much they feared that presently he would become mad.

The lords of the household came together on the day appointed for this judgment. The King was on his chair, with the Queen sitting at his side. The sureties brought Launfal within the hall, and rendered him into the hands of his peers. Right sorrowful were they because of his plight. A great company of his fellowship did all that they were able to acquit him of this charge. When all was set out, the King demanded the judgment of the Court, according to the accusation and the answer. The barons went forth in much trouble and thought to consider this matter. Many amongst them grieved for the peril of a good knight in a strange land; others held that it were well for Launfal to suffer, because of the wish and malice of their lord. Whilst they were thus perplexed, the Duke of Cornwall rose in the council, and said,

“Lords, the King pursues Launfal as a traitor, and would slay him with the sword, by reason that he bragged of the beauty of his maiden, and roused the jealousy of the Queen. By the faith that I owe this company, none complains of Launfal, save only the King. For our part we would know the truth of this business, and do justice between the King and his man. We would also show proper reverence to our own liege lord. Now, if it be according to Arthur’s will, let us take oath of Launfal, that he seek this lady, who has put such strife between him and the Queen. If her beauty be such as he has told us, the Queen will have no cause for wrath. She must pardon Launfal for his rudeness, since it will be plain that he did not speak out of a malicious heart. Should Launfal fail his word, and not return with the lady, or should her fairness fall beneath his boast, then let him be cast off from our fellowship, and be sent forth from the service of the King.”

This counsel seemed good to the lords of the household. They sent certain of his friends to Launfal, to acquaint him with their judgment, bidding him to pray his damsel to the Court, that he might be acquitted of this blame. The knight made answer that in no wise could he do this thing. So the sureties returned before the judges, saying that Launfal hoped neither for refuge nor for succour from the lady, and Arthur urged them to a speedy ending, because of the prompting of the Queen.

The judges were about to give sentence upon Launfal, when they saw two maidens come riding towards the palace, upon two white ambling palfreys. Very sweet and dainty were these maidens, and richly clothed in garments of crimson sendal,103 closely girt and fashioned to their bodies. All men, old and young, looked willingly upon them, for fair they were to see. Gawain, and three knights of his company, went straight to Launfal, and showed him these maidens, praying him to say which of them was his friend. But he answered never a word. The maidens dismounted from their palfreys, and coming before the dais where the King was seated, spake him fairly, as they were fair.

“Sire, prepare now a chamber, hung with silken cloths, where it is seemly for my lady to dwell: for she would lodge with you awhile.”

This gift the King granted gladly. He called to him two knights of his household, and bade them bestow the maidens in such chambers as were fitting to their degree. The maidens being gone, the King required of his barons to proceed with their judgment, saying that he had sore displeasure at the slowness of the cause.

“Sire,” replied the barons, “we rose from Council, because of the damsels who entered in the hall. We will at once resume the sitting, and give our judgment without more delay.”

The barons again were gathered together, in much thought and trouble, to consider this matter. There was great strife and dissension amongst them, for they knew not what to do. In the midst of all this noise and tumult, there came two other damsels riding to the hall on two Spanish mules. Very richly arrayed were these damsels in raiment of fine needlework, and their kirtles were covered by fresh fair mantles, embroidered with gold. Great joy had Launfal’s comrades when they marked these ladies. They said between themselves that doubtless they came for the succour of the good knight. Gawain, and certain of his company, made haste to Launfal, and said,

“Sir, be not cast down. Two ladies are near at hand, right dainty of dress, and gracious of person. Tell us truly, for the love of God, is one of these your friends?”

But Launfal answered very simply that never before had he seen these damsels with his eyes, nor known and loved them in his heart.

The maidens dismounted from their mules, and stood before Arthur, in the sight of all. Greatly were they praised of many, because of their beauty, and of the colour of their face and hair. Some there were who deemed already that the Queen was overborne.

The elder of the damsels carried herself modestly and well, and sweetly told over the message wherewith she was charged.

“Sire, make ready for us chambers, where we may abide with our lady, for even now she comes to speak with thee.”

The King commanded that the ladies should be led to their companions, and bestowed in the same honourable fashion as they. Then he bade the lords of his household to consider their judgment, since he would endure no further respite. The Court already had given too much time to the business, and the Queen was growing wrathful, because of the blame that was hers. Now the judges were about to proclaim their sentence, when, amidst the tumult of the town, there came riding to the palace the flower of all the ladies of the world. She came mounted upon a palfrey, white as snow, which carried her softly, as though she loved her burthen. Beneath the sky was no goodlier steed, nor one more gentle to the hand. The harness of the palfrey was so rich, that no king on earth might hope to buy trappings so precious, unless he sold or set his realm in pledge. The Maiden herself showed such as I will tell you. Passing slim was the lady, sweet of bodice and slender of girdle. Her throat was whiter than snow on branch, and her eyes were like flowers in the pallor of her face. She had a witching mouth, a dainty nose, and an open brow. Her eyebrows were brown, and her golden hair parted in two soft waves upon her head. She was clad in a shift of spotless linen, and above her snowy kirtle was set a mantle of royal purple, clasped upon her breast. She carried a hooded falcon upon her glove, and a greyhound

followed closely after. As the Maiden rode at a slow pace through the streets of the city, there was none, neither great nor small, youth nor sergeant, but ran forth from his house, that he might content his heart with so great beauty. Every man that saw her with his eyes, marvelled at a fairness beyond that of any earthly woman. Little he cared for any mortal maiden, after he had seen this sight. The friends of Sir Launfal hastened to the knight, to tell him of his lady’s succour, if so it were according to God’s will.

“Sir comrade, truly is not this your friend? This lady is neither black nor golden, mean nor tall. She is only the most lovely thing in all the world.”

When Launfal heard this, he sighed, for by their words, he knew again his friend. He raised his head, and as the blood rushed to his face, speech flowed from his lips.

“By my faith,” cried he, “yes, she is indeed my friend. It is a small matter now whether men slay me, or set me free; for I am made whole of my hurt just by looking on her face.”

The Maiden entered in the palace—where none so fair had come before—and stood before the King, in the presence of his household. She loosed the clasp of her mantle, so that men might the more easily perceive the grace of her person. The courteous King advanced to meet her, and all the Court got them on their feet, and pained themselves in her service. When the lords had gazed upon her for a space, and praised the sum of her beauty, the lady spake to Arthur in this fashion, for she was anxious to begone.

“Sire, I have loved one of thy vassals,—the knight who stands in bonds. Sir Launfal. He was always misprized in thy Court, and his every action turned to blame. What he said, that thou knowest; for over hasty was his tongue before the Queen. But he never craved her in love, however loud his boasting. I cannot choose that he should come to hurt or harm by me. In the hope of freeing Launfal from his bonds, I have obeyed thy summons. Let now thy barons look boldly upon my face, and deal justly in this quarrel between the Queen and me.”

The King commanded that this should be done, and looking upon her eyes, not one of the judges but was persuaded that her favour exceeded that of the Queen.

Since then Launfal had not spoken in malice against his lady, the lords of the household gave him again his sword. When the trial had come thus to an end the Maiden took her leave of the King, and made her ready to depart. Gladly would Arthur have had her lodge with him for a little, and many a lord would have rejoiced in her service, but she might not tarry. Now without the hall stood a great stone of dull marble, where it was the wont of lords, departing from the Court, to climb into the saddle, and Launfal by the stone. The Maiden came forth from the doors of the palace, and mounting on the stone, seated herself on the palfrey, behind her friend. Then they rode across the plain together, and were no more seen.

The Bretons tell that the knight was ravished by his lady to an island, very dim and very fair, known as Avalon. But none has had speech with Launfal and his faery love since then, and for my part I can tell you no more of the matter.

The Lay of the Were-Wolf

Amongst the tales I tell you once again, I would not forget the Lay of the Were-Wolf. Such beasts as he are known in every land. Bisclavaret he is named in Brittany; whilst the Norman calls him Garwal.

It is a certain thing, and within the knowledge of all, that many a christened man has suffered this change, and ran wild in woods, as a Were-Wolf. The Were-Wolf is a fearsome beast. He lurks within the thick forest, mad and horrible to see. All the evil that he may, he does. He goeth to and fro, about the solitary place, seeking man, in order to devour him. Hearken, now, to the adventure of the Were-Wolf, that I have to tell.

In Brittany there dwelt a baron who was marvellously esteemed of all his fellows. He was a stout knight, and a comely, and a man of office and repute. Right private was he to the mind of his lord, and dear to the counsel of his neighbours. This baron was wedded to a very worthy dame, right fair to see, and sweet of semblance. All his love was set on her, and all her love was given again to him. One only grief had this lady. For three whole days in every week her lord was absent from her side. She knew not where he went, nor on what errand. Neither did any of his house know the business which called him forth.

On a day when this lord was come again to his house, altogether joyous and content, the lady took him to task, right sweetly, in this fashion, “Husband,” said she, “and fair, sweet friend, I have a certain thing to pray of you. Right willingly would I receive this gift, but I fear to anger you in the asking. It is better for me to have an empty hand, than to gain hard words.”

When the lord heard this matter, he took the lady in his arms, very tenderly, and kissed her.

“Wife,” he answered, “ask what you will. What would you have, for it is yours already?”

“By my faith,” said the lady, “soon shall I be whole. Husband, right long and wearisome are the days that you spend away from your home. I rise from my bed in the morning, sick at heart, I know not why. So fearful am I, lest you do aught to your loss, that I may not find any comfort. Very quickly shall I die for reason of my dread. Tell me now, where you go, and on what business! How may the knowledge of one who loves so closely, bring you to harm?”

“Wife,” made answer the lord, “nothing but evil can come if I tell you this secret. For the mercy of God do not require it of me. If you but knew, you would withdraw yourself from my love, and I should be lost indeed.”

When the lady heard this, she was persuaded that her baron sought to put her by with jesting words. Therefore she prayed and required him the more urgently, with tender looks and speech, till he was overborne, and told her all the story, hiding naught.

“Wife, I become Bisclavaret. I enter in the forest, and live on prey and roots, within the thickest of the wood.”

After she had learned his secret, she prayed and entreated the more as to whether he ran in his raiment, or went spoiled of vesture.

“Wife,” said he, “I go naked as a beast.”

“Tell me, for hope of grace, what you do with your clothing?”

“Fair wife, that will I never. If I should lose my raiment, or even be marked as I quit my vesture, then a WereWolf I must go for all the days of my life. Never again should I become man, save in that hour my clothing were given back to me. For this reason never will I show my lair.”

Image 5.23: German Woodcut | This woodcut depicts a werewolf transforming.

Author: User “Vearthy”

Source: Wikimedia Commons

license: Public Domain

“Husband,” replied the lady to him, “I love you better than all the world. The less cause have you for doubting my faith, or hiding any tittle from me. What savour is here of friendship? How have I made forfeit of your love; for what sin do you mistrust my honour? Open now your heart, and tell what is good to be known.”

So at the end, outwearied and overborne by her importunity, he could no longer refrain, but told her all.

“Wife,” said he, “within this wood, a little from the path, there is a hidden way, and at the end thereof an ancient chapel, where oftentimes I have bewailed my lot. Near by is a great hollow stone, concealed by a bush, and there is the secret place where I hide my raiment, till I would return to my own home.”

On hearing this marvel the lady became sanguine of visage, because of her exceeding fear. She dared no longer to lie at his side, and turned over in her mind, this way and that, how best she could get her from him. Now there was a certain knight of those parts, who, for a great while, had sought and required this lady for her love. This knight had spent long years in her service, but little enough had he got thereby, not even fair words, or a promise. To him the dame wrote a letter, and meeting, made her purpose plain.

“Fair friend,” said she, “be happy. That which you have coveted so long a time, I will grant without delay. Never again will I deny your suit. My heart, and all I have to give, are yours, so take me now as love and dame.”

Right sweetly the knight thanked her for her grace, and pledged her faith and fealty. When she had confirmed him by an oath, then she told him all this business of her lord—why he went, and what he became, and of his ravening within the wood. So she showed him of the chapel, and of the hollow stone, and of how to spoil the WereWolf of his vesture. Thus, by the kiss of his wife, was Bisclavaret betrayed. Often enough had he ravished his prey in desolate places, but from this journey he never returned. His kinsfolk and acquaintance came together to ask of his tidings, when this absence was noised abroad. Many a man, on many a day, searched the woodland, but none might find him, nor learn where Bisclavaret was gone.

The lady was wedded to the knight who had cherished her for so long a space. More than a year had passed since Bisclavaret disappeared. Then it chanced that the King would hunt in that self-same wood where the WereWolf lurked. When the hounds were unleashed they ran this way and that, and swiftly came upon his scent. At the view the huntsman winded on his horn, and the whole pack were at his heels. They followed him from morn to eve, till he was torn and bleeding, and was all adread lest they should pull him down. Now the King was very close to the quarry, and when Bisclavaret looked upon his master, he ran to him for pity and for grace. He took the stirrup within his paws, and fawned upon the prince’s foot. The King was very fearful at this sight, but presently he called his courtiers to his aid.

“Lords,” cried he, “hasten hither, and see this marvellous thing. Here is a beast who has the sense of man. He abases himself before his foe, and cries for mercy, although he cannot speak. Beat off the hounds, and let no man do him harm. We will hunt no more to-day, but return to our own place, with the wonderful quarry we have taken.”

The King turned him about, and rode to his hall, Bisclavaret following at his side. Very near to his master the Were-Wolf went, like any dog, and had no care to seek again the wood. When the King had brought him safely to his own castle, he rejoiced greatly, for the beast was fair and strong, no mightier had any man seen. Much pride had the King in his marvellous beast. He held him so dear, that he bade all those who wished for his love, to cross the Wolf in naught, neither to strike him with a rod, but ever to see that he was richly fed and kennelled warm. This commandment the Court observed willingly. So all the day the Wolf sported with the lords, and at night he lay within the chamber of the

King. There was not a man who did not make much of the beast, so frank was he and debonair. None had reason to do him wrong, for ever was he about his master, and for his part did evil to none. Every day were these two companions together, and all perceived that the King loved him as his friend.

Hearken now to that which chanced.

The King held a high Court, and bade his great vassals and barons, and all the lords of his venery to the feast. Never was there a goodlier feast, nor one set forth with sweeter show and pomp. Amongst those who were bidden, came that same knight who had the wife of Bisclavaret for dame. He came to the castle, richly gowned, with a fair company, but little he deemed whom he would find so near. Bisclavaret marked his foe the moment he stood within the hall. He ran towards him, and seized him with his fangs, in the King’s very presence, and to the view of all. Doubtless he would have done him much mischief, had not the King called and chidden him, and threatened him with a rod. Once, and twice, again, the Wolf set upon the knight in the very light of day. All men marvelled at his malice, for sweet and serviceable was the beast, and to that hour had shown hatred of none. With one consent the household deemed that this deed was done with full reason, and that the Wolf had suffered at the knight’s hand some bitter wrong. Right wary of his foe was the knight until the feast had ended, and all the barons had taken farewell of their lord, and departed, each to his own house. With these, amongst the very first, went that lord whom Bisclavaret so fiercely had assailed. Small was the wonder that he was glad to go.

No long while after this adventure it came to pass that the courteous King would hunt in that forest where Bisclavaret was found. With the prince came his wolf, and a fair company. Now at nightfall the King abode within a certain lodge of that country, and this was known of that dame who before was the wife of Bisclavaret. In the morning the lady clothed her in her most dainty apparel, and hastened to the lodge, since she desired to speak with the King, and to offer him a rich present. When the lady entered in the chamber, neither man nor leash might restrain the fury of the Wolf. He became as a mad dog in his hatred and malice. Breaking from his bonds he sprang at the lady’s face, and bit the nose from her visage. From every side men ran to the succour104 of the dame. They beat off the wolf from his prey, and for a little would have cut him in pieces with their swords. But a certain wise counsellor said to the King,

“Sire, hearken now to me. This beast is always with you, and there is not one of us all who has not known him for long. He goes in and out amongst us, nor has molested any man, neither done wrong or felony to any, save only to this dame, one only time as we have seen. He has done evil to this lady, and to that knight, who is now the husband of the dame. Sire, she was once the wife of that lord who was so close and private to your heart, but who went, and none might find where he had gone. Now, therefore, put the dame in a sure place, and question her straitly, so that she may tell—if perchance she knows thereof—for what reason this Beast holds her in such mortal hate. For many a strange deed has chanced, as well we know, in this marvellous land of Brittany.”

The King listened to these words, and deemed the counsel good. He laid hands upon the knight, and put the dame in surety in another place. He caused them to be questioned right straitly, so that their torment was very grievous. At the end, partly because of her distress, and partly by reason of her exceeding fear, the lady’s lips were loosed, and she told her tale. She showed them of the betrayal of her lord, and how his raiment was stolen from the hollow stone. Since then she knew not where he went, nor what had befallen him, for he had never come again to his own land. Only, in her heart, well she deemed and was persuaded, that Bisclavaret was he.

Straightway the King demanded the vesture of his baron, whether this were to the wish of the lady, or whether it were against her wish. When the raiment was brought him, he caused it to be spread before Bisclavaret, but the Wolf made as though he had not seen. Then that cunning and crafty counsellor took the King apart, that he might give him a fresh rede.105

“Sire,” said he, “you do not wisely, nor well, to set this raiment before Bisclavaret, in the sight of all. In shame and much tribulation must he lay aside the beast, and again become man. Carry your wolf within your most secret chamber, and put his vestment therein. Then close the door upon him, and leave him alone for a space. So we shall see presently whether the ravening beast may indeed return to human shape.”

The King carried the Wolf to his chamber, and shut the doors upon him fast. He delayed for a brief while, and taking two lords of his fellowship with him, came again to the room. Entering therein, all three, softly together, they found the knight sleeping in the King’s bed, like a little child. The King ran swiftly to the bed and taking his friend in his arms, embraced and kissed him fondly, above a hundred times. When man’s speech returned once more, he told him of his adventure. Then the King restored to his friend the fief that was stolen from him, and gave such rich gifts, moreover, as I cannot tell. As for the wife who had betrayed Bisclavaret, he bade her avoid his country, and chased her from the realm. So she went forth, she and her second lord together, to seek a more abiding city, and were no more seen.

The adventure that you have heard is no vain fable. Verily and indeed it chanced as I have said. The Lay of the Were-Wolf, truly, was written that it should ever be borne in mind.

LANCELOT: THE KNIGHT OF THE CART

Chrétien de Troyes

Ca. 1175-1181 C.E.

France

The French writer Wace translated Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, one of the most popular sources for Arthurian stories, into French in 1155 C.E. (and added the idea of the Round Table, not found in previous works on King Arthur). Not long after that, Chrétien de Troyes began writing his five Arthurian stories: Erec and Enide, Cligès, Lancelot, Yvain, and Perceval. His importance in the history of Arthurian literature is considerable, since he introduces a French knight who is the best knight of King Arthur’s court: Lancelot. Previously, British knights had been the greatest knight of the court, and other authors would follow Chrétien’s lead: the German Parzival in Wolfram von Eschenbach’s work, for example, becomes the best knight, while the anonymous author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight restores a British knight to the honored spot, and Thomas Malory in his Le Morte d’Arthur creates a British/French hybrid by making Galahad (the son of Lancelot and the British Elaine) the best knight. It was also Chrétien who made Lancelot the lover of Queen Guinevere. Prior to Chrétien, other knights had been Guinevere’s lover, but after Chrétien, the story was altered permanently. Many other writers before Chrétien had written about the Arthurian legends, but his version was considered the best (just as Homer’s versions of Greek legends surpassed previous versions). All of his stories examine the difficulty of following multiple codes at once: the knight with his liege lord; the knightly lover with his lady; and the knight with his religion. To be loyal to one’s lady can mean prioritizing her over one’s liege lord, or even over one’s religious and moral code. It is precisely this problem that Lancelot faces in Chrétien’s story.

Written by Laura J. Getty

5.8.1 Lancelot Knight of the Cart

Chrétien de Troyes, translated by W. W. Comfort

License: Public Domain

Part I: Vv. 1 Vv. 1840

Since my lady of Champagne wishes me to undertake to write a romance I shall very gladly do so, being so devoted to her service as to do anything in the world for her, without any intention of flattery. But if one were to introduce any flattery upon such an occasion, he might say, and I would subscribe to it, that this lady surpasses all others who are alive, just as the south wind which blows in May or April is more lovely than any other wind. But upon my word, I am not one to wish to flatter my lady. I will simply say: “The Countess is worth as many queens as a gem is worth of pearls and sards.” Nay I shall make no comparison, and yet it is true in spite of me; I will say, however, that her command has more to do with this work than any thought or pains that I may expend upon it. Here Chretien begins his book about the Knight of the Cart. The material and the treatment of it are given and furnished to him by the Countess, and he is simply trying to carry out her concern and intention. Here he begins the story.

Image 5.24: The Lai of the Honeysuckle | Tristan and Iseult walk together through a forest with bright flowers.

Author: Reginald L. Knowles

Source: Hathi Trust Digital Library

License: Public Domain

Upon a certain Ascension Day King Arthur had come from Caerleon, and had held a very magnificent court at Camelot as was fitting on such a day. After the feast the King did not quit his noble companions, of whom there were many in the hall. The Queen was present, too, and with her many a courteous lady able to converse in French. And Kay, who had furnished the meal, was eating with the others who had served the food. While Kay was sitting there at meat, behold there came to court a knight, well equipped and fully armed, and thus the knight appeared before the King as he sat among his lords. He gave him no greeting, but spoke out thus: “King Arthur, I hold in captivity knights, ladies, and damsels who belong to thy dominion and household; but it is not because of any intention to restore them to thee that I make reference to them here; rather do I wish to proclaim and serve thee notice that thou hast not the strength or the resources to enable thee to secure them again. And be assured that thou shalt die before thou canst ever succour them.“ The King replies that he must needs endure what he has not the power to change; nevertheless, he is filled with grief. Then the knight makes as if to go away, and turns about, without tarrying longer before the King; but after reaching the door of the hall, he does not go down the stairs, but stops and speaks from there these words: “King, if in thy court there is a single knight in whom thou hast such confidence that thou wouldst dare to entrust to him the Queen that he might escort her after me out into the woods whither I am going, I will promise to await him there, and will surrender to thee all the prisoners whom I hold in exile in my country if he is able to defend the Queen and if he succeeds in bringing her back again.” Many who were in the palace heard this challenge, and the whole court was in an uproar. Kay, too, heard the news as he sat at meat with those who served. Leaving the table, he came straight to the King, and as if greatly enraged, he began to say: “O King, I have served thee long, faithfully, and loyally; now I take my leave, and shall go away, having no desire to serve thee more.” The King was grieved at what he heard, and as soon as he could, he thus replied to him: “Is this serious, or a joke?” And Kay replied: “O King, fair sire, I have no desire to jest, and I take my leave quite seriously. No other reward or wages do I wish in return for the service I have given you. My mind is quite made up to go away immediately.” “Is it in anger or in spite that you wish to go?” the King inquired; “seneschal, remain at court, as you have done hitherto, and be assured that I have nothing in the world which I would not give you at once in return for your consent to stay.” “Sire,” says Kay, “no need of that. I would not accept for each day’s pay a measure of fine pure gold.” Thereupon, the King in great dismay went off to seek the Queen. “My lady,” he says, “you do not know the demand that the seneschal makes of me. He asks me for leave to go away, and says he will no longer stay at court; the reason of this I do not know. But he will do at your request what he will not do for me. Go to him now, my lady dear. Since he will not consent to stay for my sake, pray him to remain on your account, and if need be, fall at his feet, for I should never again be happy if I should lose his company.” The King sends the Queen to the seneschal, and she goes to him. Finding him with the rest, she went up to him, and said: “Kay, you may be very sure that I am greatly troubled by the news I have heard of you. I am grieved to say that I have been told it is your intention to leave the King. How does this come about?

What motive have you in your mind? I cannot think that you are so sensible or courteous as usual. I want to ask you to remain: stay with us here, and grant my prayer.” “Lady,” he says, “I give you thanks; nevertheless, I shall not remain.” The Queen again makes her request, and is joined by all the other knights. And Kay informs her that he is growing tired of a service which is unprofitable. Then the Queen prostrates herself at full length before his feet. Kay beseeches her to rise, but she says that she will never do so until he grants her request. Then Kay promises her to remain, provided the King and she will grant in advance a favour he is about to ask. “Kay,” she says, “he will grant it, whatever it may be. Come now, and we shall tell him that upon this condition you will remain.” So Kay goes away with the Queen to the King‘s presence. The Queen says: “I have had hard work to detain Kay; but I have brought him here to you with the understanding that you will do what he is going to ask.” The King sighed with satisfaction, and said that he would perform whatever request he might make.

“Sire,” says Kay, “hear now what I desire, and what is the gift you have promised me. I esteem myself very fortunate to gain such a boon with your consent. Sire, you have pledged your word that you would entrust to me my lady here, and that we should go after the knight who awaits us in the forest.” Though the King is grieved, he trusts him with the charge, for he never went back upon his word. But it made him so ill-humoured and displeased that it plainly showed in his countenance. The Queen, for her part, was sorry too, and all those of the household say that Kay had made a proud, outrageous, and mad request. Then the King took the Queen by the hand, and said: “My lady, you must accompany Kay without making objection.” And Kay said: “Hand her over to me now, and have no fear, for I shall bring her back perfectly happy and safe.” The King gives her into his charge, and he takes her off. After them all the rest go out, and there is not one who is not sad. You must know that the seneschal was fully armed, and his horse was led into the middle of the courtyard, together with a palfrey, as is fitting, for the Queen. The Queen walked up to the palfrey, which was neither restive nor hard-mouthed. Grieving and sad, with a sigh the Queen mounts, saying to herself in a low voice, so that no one could hear: “Alas, alas, if you only knew it, I am sure you would never allow me without interference to be led away a step.” She thought she had spoken in a very low tone; but Count Guinable heard her, who was standing by when she mounted. When they started away, as great a lament was made by all the men and women present as if she already lay dead upon a bier. They do not believe that she will ever in her life come back. The seneschal in his impudence takes her where that other knight is awaiting her. But no one was so much concerned as to undertake to follow him; until at last my lord Gawain thus addressed the King his uncle: “Sire,” he says, “you have done a very foolish thing, which causes me great surprise; but if you will take my advice, while they are still near by, I and you will ride after them, and all those who wish to accompany us. For my part, I cannot restrain myself from going in pursuit of them at once. It would not be proper for us not to go after them, at least far enough to learn what is to become of the Queen, and how Kay is going to comport himself.” “Ah, fair nephew,” the King replied, “you have spoken courteously. And since you have undertaken the affair, order our horses to be led out bridled and saddled that there may be no delay in setting out.”

The horses are at once brought out, all ready and with the saddles on. First the King mounts, then my lord Gawain, and all the others rapidly. Each one, wishing to be of the party, follows his own will and starts away. Some were armed, but there were not a few without their arms. My lord Gawain was armed, and he bade two squires lead by the bridle two extra steeds. And as they thus approached the forest, they saw Kay’s horse running out; and they recognised him, and saw that both reins of the bridle were broken. The horse was running wild, the stirrup-straps all stained with blood, and the saddle-bow was broken and damaged. Every one was chagrined at this, and they nudged each other and shook their heads. My lord Gawain was riding far in advance of the rest of the party, and it was not long before he saw coming slowly a knight on a horse that was sore, painfully tired, and covered with sweat. The knight first saluted my lord Gawain, and his greeting my lord Gawain returned. Then the knight, recognising my lord Gawain, stopped and thus spoke to him: “You see, sir, my horse is in a sweat and in such case as to be no longer serviceable. I suppose that those two horses belong to you now, with the understanding that I shall return the service and the favour, I beg you to let me have one or the other of them, either as a loan or outright as a gift.” And he answers him: “Choose whichever you prefer.” Then he who was in dire distress did not try to select the better or the fairer or the larger of the horses, but leaped quickly upon the one which was nearer to him, and rode him off. Then the one he had just left fell dead, for he had ridden him hard that day, so that he was used up and overworked. The knight without delay goes pricking through the forest, and my lord Gawain follows in pursuit of him with all speed, until he reaches the bottom of a hill. And when he had gone some distance, he found the horse dead which he had given to the knight, and noticed that the ground had been trampled by horses, and that broken shields and lances lay strewn about, so that it seemed that there had been a great combat between several knights, and he was very sorry and grieved not to have been there. However, he did not stay there long, but rapidly passed on until he saw again by chance the knight all alone on foot, completely armed, with helmet laced, shield hanging from his neck, and with his sword girt on. He had overtaken a cart. In those days such a cart served the same purpose as does a pillory now; and in each good town where there are more than three thousand such carts nowadays, in those times there was only one, and this, like our pillories, had to do service for all those who commit murder or treason, and those who are guilty of any delinquency, and for thieves who have stolen others’ property or have forcibly seized it on the roads. Whoever was convicted of any crime was placed upon a cart and dragged through all the streets, and he lost henceforth all his legal rights, and was never afterward heard, honoured, or welcomed in any court. The carts were so dreadful in those days that the saying was then first used: “When thou dost see and meet a cart, cross thyself and call upon God, that no evil may befall thee.” The knight on foot, and without a lance, walked behind the cart, and saw a dwarf sitting on the shafts, who held, as a driver does, a long goad in his hand. Then he cries out: “Dwarf, for God’s sake, tell me now if thou hast seen my lady, the Queen, pass by here.” The miserable, low-born dwarf would not give him any news of her, but replied: “If thou wilt get up into the cart I am driving thou shalt hear to-morrow what has happened to the Queen.” Then he kept on his way without giving further heed. The knight hesitated only for a couple of steps before getting in. Yet, it was unlucky for him that he shrank from the disgrace, and did not jump in at once; for he will later rue his delay. But common sense, which is inconsistent with love’s dictates, bids him refrain from getting in, warning him and counselling him to do and undertake nothing for which he may reap shame and disgrace. Reason, which dares thus speak to him, reaches only his lips, but not his heart; but love is enclosed within his heart, bidding him and urging him to mount at once upon the cart. So he jumps in, since love will have it so, feeling no concern about the shame, since he is prompted by love’s commands. And my lord Gawain presses on in haste after the cart, and when he finds the knight sitting in it, his surprise is great. “Tell me,” he shouted to the dwarf, “if thou knowest anything of the Queen.” And he replied: “If thou art so much thy own enemy as is this knight who is sitting here, get in with him, if it be thy pleasure, and I will drive thee along with him.” When my lord Gawain heard that, he considered it great foolishness, and said that he would not get in, for it would be dishonourable to exchange a horse for a cart: “Go on, and wherever thy journey lies, I will follow after thee.”

Thereupon they start ahead, one mounted on his horse, the other two riding in the cart, and thus they proceed in company. Late in the afternoon they arrive at a town, which, you must know, was very rich and beautiful. All three entered through the gate; the people are greatly amazed to see the knight borne upon the cart, and they take no pains to conceal their feelings, but small and great and old and young shout taunts at him in the streets, so that the knight hears many vile and scornful words at his expense. They all inquire: “To what punishment is this knight to be consigned? Is he to be rayed, or hanged, or drowned, or burned upon a fire of thorns? Tell us, thou dwarf, who art driving him, in what crime was he caught? Is he convicted of robbery? Is he a murderer, or a criminal?” And to all this the dwarf made no response, vouchsafing to them no reply. He conducts the knight to a lodging-place; and Gawain follows the dwarf closely to a tower, which stood on the same level over against the town. Beyond there stretched a meadow, and the tower was built close by, up on a lofty eminence of rock, whose face formed a sharp precipice. Following the horse and cart, Gawain entered the tower. In the hall they met a damsel elegantly attired, than whom there was none fairer in the land, and with her they saw coming two fair and charming maidens. As soon as they saw my lord Gawain, they received him joyously and saluted him, and then asked news about the other knight: “Dwarf, of what crime is this knight guilty, whom thou dost drive like a lame man?” He would not answer her question, but he made the knight get out of the cart, and then he withdrew, without their knowing whither he went. Then my lord Gawain dismounts, and valets come forward to relieve the two knights of their armour. The damsel ordered two green mantles to be brought, which they put on. When the hour for supper came, a sumptuous repast was set. The damsel sat at table beside my lord Gawain. They would not have changed their lodging-place to seek any other, for all that evening the damsel showed them gear honour, and provided them with fair and pleasant company.

When they had sat up long enough, two long, high beds were prepared in the middle of the hall; and there was another bed alongside, fairer and more splendid than the rest; for, as the story testifies, it possessed all the excellence that one could think of in a bed. When the time came to retire, the damsel took both the guests to whom she had offered her hospitality; she shows them the two fine, long, wide beds, and says: “These two beds are set up here for the accommodation of your bodies; but in that one yonder no one ever lay who did not merit it: it was not set up to be used by you.” The knight who came riding on the cart replies at once: “Tell me, he says, “for what cause this bed is inaccessible.” Being thoroughly informed of this, she answers unhesitatingly: “It is not your place to ask or make such an inquiry. Any knight is disgraced in the land after being in a cart, and it is not fitting that he should concern himself with the matter upon which you have questioned me; and most of all it is not right that he should lie upon the bed, for he would soon pay dearly for his act. So rich a couch has not been prepared for you, and you would pay dearly for ever harbouring such a thought.” He replies: “You will see about that presently.” “Am I to see it?” .... “Yes.” .... “It will soon appear.” “By my head,” the knight replies, “I know not who is to pay the penalty. But whoever may object or disapprove, I intend to lie upon this bed and repose there at my ease.” Then he at once disrobed in the bed, which was long and raised half an ell above the other two, and was covered with a yellow cloth of silk and a coverlet with gilded stars. The furs were not of skinned vair but of sable; the covering he had on him would have been fitting for a king. The mattress was not made of straw or rushes or of old mats. At midnight there descended from the rafters suddenly a lance, as with the intention of pinning the knight through the flanks to the coverlet and the white sheets where he lay. To the lance there was attached a pennon all ablaze. The coverlet, the bedclothes, and the bed itself all caught fire at once. And the tip of the lance passed so close to the knight’s side that it cut the skin a little, without seriously wounding him. Then the knight got up, put out the fire and, taking the lance, swung it in the middle of the hall, all this without leaving his bed; rather did he lie down again and slept as securely as at first.

Image 5.25: Idylls of the King | Sir Lancelot rides away down a forest path toward a distant castle.

Author: Holger Thölking

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

In the morning, at daybreak, the damsel of the tower had Mass celebrated on their account, and had them rise and dress. When Mass had been celebrated for them, the knight who had ridden in the cart sat down pensively at a window, which looked out upon the meadow, and he gazed upon the fields below. The damsel came to another window close by, and there my lord Gawain conversed with her privately for a while about something, I know not what. I do not know what words were uttered, but while they were leaning on the window-sill they saw carried along the river through the fields a bier, upon which there lay a knight, and alongside three damsels walked, mourning bitterly. Behind the bier they saw a crowd approaching, with a tall knight in front, leading a fair lady by the horse’s rein. The knight at the window knew that it was the Queen. He continued to gaze at her attentively and with delight as long as she was visible. And when he could no longer see her, he was minded to throw himself out and break his body down below. And he would have let himself fall out had not my lord Gawain seen him, and drawn him back, saying: “I beg you, sire, be quiet now. For God’s sake, never think again of committing such a mad deed. It is wrong for you to despise your life.” “He is perfectly right,” the damsel says; “for will not the news of his disgrace be known everywhere? Since he has been upon the cart, he has good reason to wish to die, for he would be better dead than alive. His life henceforth is sure to be one of shame, vexation, and unhappiness.” Then the knights asked for their armour, and armed themselves, the damsel treating them courteously, with distinction and generosity; for when she had joked with the knight and ridiculed him enough, she presented him with a horse and lance as a token of her goodwill. The knights then courteously and politely took leave of the damsel, first saluting her, and then going off in the direction taken by the crowd they had seen. Thus they rode out from the town without addressing them. They proceeded quickly in the direction they had seen taken by the Queen, but they did not overtake the procession, which had advanced rapidly. After leaving the fields, the knights enter an enclosed place, and find a beaten road. They advanced through the woods until it might be six o’clock, and then at a crossroads they met a damsel, whom they both saluted, each asking and requesting her to tell them, if she knows, whither the Queen has been taken. Replying intelligently, she said to them: “If you would pledge me your word, I could set you on the right road and path, and I would tell you the name of the country and of the knight who is conducting her; but whoever would essay to enter that country must endure sore trials, for before he could reach there he must suffer much.” Then my lord Gawain replies: “Damsel, so help me God, I promise to place all my strength at your disposal and service, whenever you please, if you will tell me now the truth.” And he who had been on the cart did not say that he would pledge her all his strength; but he proclaims, like one whom love makes rich, powerful and bold for any enterprise, that at once and without hesitation he will promise her anything she desires, and he puts himself altogether at her disposal. “Then I will tell you the truth,” says she. Then the damsel relates to them the following story: “In truth, my lords, Meleagant, a tall and powerful knight, son of the King of Gorre, has taken her off into the kingdom whence no foreigner returns, but where he must perforce remain in servitude and banishment.” Then they ask her: “Damsel, where is this country? Where can we find the way thither?” She replies: “That you shall quickly learn; but you may be sure that you will meet with many obstacles and difficult passages, for it is not easy to enter there except with the permission of the king, whose name is Bademagu; however, it is possible to enter by two very perilous paths and by two very difficult passage-ways. One is called the water-bridge, because the bridge is under water, and there is the same amount of water beneath it as above it, so that the bridge is exactly in the middle; and it is only a foot and a half in width and in thickness. This choice is certainly to be avoided. and yet it is the less dangerous of the two. In addition there are a number of other obstacles of which I will say nothing. The other bridge is still more impracticable and much more perilous, never having been crossed by man. It is just like a sharp sword, and therefore all the people call it `the sword-bridge’. Now I have told you all the truth I know.” But they ask of her once again: “Damsel, deign to show us these two passages.” To which the damsel makes reply: “This road here is the most direct to the water-bridge, and that one yonder leads straight to the sword-bridge.” Then the knight, who had been on the cart, says: “Sire, I am ready to share with you without prejudice: take one of these two routes, and leave the other one to me; take whichever you prefer.” “In truth,” my lord Gawain replies, “both of them are hard and dangerous: I am not skilled in making such a choice, and hardly know which of them to take; but it is not right for me to hesitate when you have left the choice to me: I will choose the water-bridge.” The other answers: “Then I must go uncomplainingly to the sword-bridge, which I agree to do.” Thereupon, they all three part, each one commending the others very courteously to God. And when she sees them departing, she says: “Each one of you owes me a favour of my choosing, whenever I may choose to ask it. Take care not to forget that.” “We shall surely not forget it, sweet friend,” both the knights call out. Then each one goes his own way, and he of the cart is occupied with deep reflections, like one who has no strength or defence against love which holds him in its sway. His thoughts are such that he totally forgets himself, and he knows not whether he is alive or dead, forgetting even his own name, not knowing whether he is armed or not, or whither he is going or whence he came. Only one creature he has in mind, and for her his thought is so occupied that he neither sees nor hears aught else. And his horse bears him along rapidly, following no crooked road, but the best and the most direct; and thus proceeding unguided, he brings him into an open plain. In this plain there was a ford, on the other side of which a knight stood armed, who guarded it, and in his company there was a damsel who had come on a palfrey. By this time the afternoon was well advanced, and yet the knight, unchanged and unwearied, pursued his thoughts. The horse, being very thirsty, sees clearly the ford, and as soon as he sees it, hastens toward it. Then he on the other side cries out: “Knight, I am guarding the ford, and forbid you to cross.” He neither gives him heed, nor hears his words, being still deep in thought. In the meantime, his horse advanced rapidly toward the water. The knight calls out to him that he will do wisely to keep at a distance from the ford, for there is no passage that way; and he swears by the heart within his breast that he will smite him if he enters the water. But his threats are not heard, and he calls out to him a third time: “Knight, do not enter the ford against my will and prohibition; for, by my head, I shall strike you as soon as I see you in the ford.” But he is so deep in thought that he does not hear him. And the horse, quickly leaving the bank, leaps into the ford and greedily begins to drink. And the knight says he shall pay for this, that his shield and the hauberk he wears upon his back shall afford him no protection. First, he puts his horse at a gallop, and from a gallop he urges him to a run, and he strikes the knight so hard that he knocks him down flat in the ford which he had forbidden him to cross. His lance flew from his hand and the shield from his neck. When he feels the water, he shivers, and though stunned, he jumps to his feet, like one aroused from sleep, listening and looking about him with astonishment, to see who it can be who has struck him. Then face to face with the other knight, he said: “Vassal, tell me why you have struck me, when I was not aware of your presence, and when I had done you no harm.” “Upon my word, you had wronged me,” the other says: “did you not treat me disdainfully when I forbade you three times to cross the ford, shouting at you as loudly as I could? You surely heard me challenge you at least two or three times, and you entered in spite of me, though I told you I should strike you as soon as I saw you in the ford.” Then the knight replies to him: “Whoever heard you or saw you, let him be damned, so far as I am concerned. I was probably deep in thought when you forbade me to cross the ford. But be assured that I would make you reset it, if I could just lay one of my hands on your bridle.” And the other replies: “Why, what of that? If you dare, you may seize my bridle here and now. I do not esteem your proud threats so much as a handful of ashes.” And he replies: “That suits me perfectly. However the affair may turn out, I should like to lay my hands on you.” Then the other knight advances to the middle of the ford, where the other lays his left hand upon his bridle, and his right hand upon his leg, pulling, dragging, and pressing him so roughly that he remonstrates, thinking that he would pull his leg out of his body. Then he begs him to let go, saying: “Knight, if it please thee to fight me on even terms, take thy shield and horse and lance, and joust with me.” He answers: “That will I not do, upon my word; for I suppose thou wouldst run away as soon as thou hadst escaped my grip.” Hearing this, he was much ashamed, and said: “Knight, mount thy horse, in confidence for I will pledge thee loyally my word that I shall not flinch or run away.” Then once again he answers him: “First, thou wilt have to swear to that, and I insist upon receiving thy oath that thou wilt neither run away nor flinch, nor touch me, nor come near me until thou shalt see me on my horse; I shall be treating thee very generously, if, when thou art in my hands, I let thee go.” He can do nothing but give his oath; and when the other hears him swear, he gathers up his shield and lance which were floating in the ford and by this time had drifted well downstream; then he returns and takes his horse. After catching and mounting him, he seizes the shield by the shoulder-straps and lays his lance in rest. Then each spurs toward the other as fast as their horses can carry them. And he who had to defend the ford first attacks the other, striking him so hard that his lance is completely splintered. The other strikes him in return so that he throws him prostrate into the ford, and the water closes over him. Having accomplished that, he draws back and dismounts, thinking he could drive and chase away a hundred such. While he draws from the scabbard his sword of steel, the other jumps up and draws his excellent flashing blade. Then they clash again, advancing and covering themselves with the shields which gleam with gold. Ceaselessly and without repose they wield their swords; they have the courage to deal so many blows that the battle finally is so protracted that the Knight of the Cart is greatly ashamed in his heart, thinking that he is making a sorry start in the way he has undertaken, when he has spent so much time in defeating a single knight. If he had met yesterday a hundred such, he does not think or believe that they could have withstood him; so now he is much grieved and wroth to be in such an exhausted state that he is missing his strokes and losing time. Then he runs at him and presses him so hard that the other knight gives way and flees. However reluctant he may be, he leaves the ford and crossing free. But the other follows him in pursuit until he falls forward upon his hands; then he of the cart runs up to him, swearing by all he sees that he shall rue the day when he upset him in the ford and disturbed his revery. The damsel, whom the knight had with him, upon hearing the threats, is in great fear, and begs him for her sake to forbear from killing him; but he tells her that he must do so, and can show him no mercy for her sake, in view of the shameful wrong that he has done him. Then, with sword drawn, he approaches the knight who cries in sore dismay: “For God’s sake and for my own, show me the mercy I ask of you.” And he replies: “As God may save me, no one ever sinned so against me that I would not show him mercy once, for God’s sake as is right, if he asked it of me in God’s name. And so on thee I will have mercy; for I ought not to refuse thee when thou hast besought me. But first, thou shalt give me thy word to constitute thyself my prisoner whenever I may wish to summon thee.” Though it was hard to do so, he promised him. At once the damsel said: “O knight, since thou hast granted the mercy he asked of thee, if ever thou hast broken any bonds, for my sake now be merciful and release this prisoner from his parole. Set him free at my request, upon condition that when the time comes, I shall do my utmost to repay thee in any way that thou shalt choose.” Then he declares himself satisfied with the promise she has made, and sets the knight at liberty. Then she is ashamed and anxious, thinking that he will recognise her, which she did not wish. But he goes away at once, the knight and the damsel commending him to God, and taking leave of him. He grants them leave to go, while he himself pursues his way, until late in the afternoon he met a damsel coming, who was very fair and charming, well attired and richly dressed. The damsel greets him prudently and courteously, and he replies: “Damsel, God grant you health and happiness.” Then the damsel said to him: “Sire, my house is prepared for you, if you will accept my hospitality, but you shall find shelter there only on condition that you will lie with me; upon these terms I propose and make the offer.” Not a few there are who would have thanked her five hundred times for such a gift; but he is much displeased, and made a very different answer: “Damsel, I thank you for the offer of your house, and esteem it highly, but, if you please, I should be very sorry to lie with you.” “By my eyes,” the damsel says, “then I retract my offer.” And he, since it is unavoidable, lets her have her way, though his heart grieves to give consent. He feels only reluctance now; but greater distress will be his when it is time to go to bed. The damsel, too, who leads him away, will pass through sorrow and heaviness. For it is possible that she will love him so that she will not wish to part with him. As soon as he had granted her wish and desire, she escorts him to a fortified place, than which there was none fairer in Thessaly; for it was entirely enclosed by a high wall and a deep moat, and there was no man within except him whom she brought with her.

Here she had constructed for her residence a quantity of handsome rooms, and a large and roomy hall. Riding along a river bank, they approached their lodging-place, and a drawbridge was lowered to allow them to pass. Crossing the bridge, they entered in, and found the hall open with its roof of tiles. Through the open door they pass, and see a table laid with a broad white cloth, upon which the dishes were set, and the candles burning in their stands, and the gilded silver drinking-cups, and two pots of wine, one red and one white. Standing beside the table, at the end of a bench, they found two basins of warm water in which to wash their hands, with a richly embroidered towel, all white and clean, with which to dry their hands. No valets, servants, or squires were to be found or seen. The knight, removing his shield from about his neck, hangs it upon a hook, and, taking his lance, lays it above upon a rack. Then he dismounts from his horse, as does the damsel from hers. The knight, for his part, was pleased that she did not care to wait for him to help her to dismount. Having dismounted, she runs directly to a room and brings him a short mantle of scarlet cloth which she puts on him. The hall was by no means dark; for beside the light from the stars, there were many large twisted candles lighted there, so that the illumination was very bright. When she had thrown the mantle about his shoulders, she said to him: “Friend, here is the water and the towel; there is no one to present or offer it to you except me whom you see. Wash your hands, and then sit down, when you feel like doing so. The hour and the meal, as you can see, demand that you should do so.” He washes, and then gladly and readily takes his seat, and she sits down beside him, and they eat and drink together, until the time comes to leave the table.

When they had risen from the table, the damsel said to the knight: “Sire, if you do not object, go outside and amuse yourself; but, if you please, do not stay after you think I must be in bed. Feel no concern or embarrassment; for then you may come to me at once, if you will keep the promise you have made.” And he replies: “I will keep my word, and will return when I think the time has come.” Then he went out, and stayed in the courtyard until he thought it was time to return and keep the promise he had made. Going back into the hall, he sees nothing of her who would be his mistress; for she was not there. Not finding or seeing her, he said: “Wherever she may be, I shall look for her until I find her.” He makes no delay in his search, being bound by the promise he had made her. Entering one of the rooms, he hears a damsel cry aloud, and it was the very one with whom he was about to lie. At the same time, he sees the door of another room standing open, and stepping toward it, he sees right before his eyes a knight who had thrown her down, and was holding her naked and prostrate upon the bed. She, thinking that he had come of course to help her, cried aloud: “Help, help, thou knight, who art my guest. If thou dost not take this man away from me, I shall find no one to do so; if thou dost not succour me speedily, he will wrong me before thy eyes. Thou art the one to lie with me, in accordance with thy promise; and shall this man by force accomplish his wish before thy eyes? Gentle knight, exert thyself, and make haste to bear me aid.” He sees that the other man held the damsel brutally uncovered to the waist, and he is ashamed and angered to see him assault her so; yet it is not jealousy he feels, nor will he be made a cuckold by him. At the door there stood as guards two knights completely armed and with swords drawn. Behind them there stood four men-at-arms, each armed with an axe the sort with which you could split a cow down the back as easily as a root of juniper or broom. The knight hesitated at the door, and thought: “God, what can I do? I am engaged in no less an affair than the quest of Queen Guinevere. I ought not to have the heart of a hare, when for her sake I have engaged in such a quest. If cowardice puts its heart in me, and if I follow its dictates, I shall never attain what I seek. I am disgraced, if I stand here; indeed, I am ashamed even to have thought of holding back. My heart is very sad and oppressed: now I am so ashamed and distressed that I would gladly die for having hesitated here so long. I say it not in pride: but may God have mercy on me if I do not prefer to die honourably rather than live a life of shame! If my path were unobstructed, and if these men gave me leave to pass through without restraint, what honour would I gain? Truly, in that case the greatest coward alive would pass through; and all the while I hear this poor creature calling for help constantly, and reminding me of my promise, and reproaching me with bitter taunts.” Then he steps to the door, thrusting in his head and shoulders; glancing up, he sees two swords descending. He draws back, and the knights could not check their strokes: they had wielded them with such force that the swords struck the floor, and both were broken in pieces. When he sees that the swords are broken, he pays less attention to the axes, fearing and dreading them much less. Rushing in among them, he strikes first one guard in the side and then another. The two who are nearest him he jostles and thrusts aside, throwing them both down flat; the third missed his stroke at him, but the fourth, who attacked him, strikes him so that he cuts his mantle and shirt, and slices the white flesh on his shoulder so that the blood trickles down from the wound. But he, without delay, and without complaining of his wound, presses on more rapidly, until he strikes between the temples him who was assaulting his hostess. Before he departs, he will try to keep his pledge to her. He makes him stand up reluctantly. Meanwhile, he who had missed striking him comes at him as fast as he can and, raising his arm again, expects to split his head to the teeth with the axe. But the other, alert to defend himself, thrusts the knight toward him in such a way that he receives the axe just where the shoulder joins the neck, so that they are cleaved apart. Then the knight seizes the axe, wresting it quickly from him who holds it; then he lets go the knight whom he still held, and looks to his own defence; for the knights from the door, and the three men with axes are all attacking him fiercely. So he leaped quickly between the bed and the wall, and called to them: “Come on now, all of you. If there were thirty-seven of you, you would have all the fight you wish, with me so favourably placed; I shall never be overcome by you.” And the damsel watching him, exclaimed: “By my eyes, you need have no thought of that henceforth where I am.” Then at once she dismisses the knights and the men-at-arms, who retire from there at once, without delay or objection. And the damsel continues: “Sire you have well defended me against the men of my household. Come now, and I’ll lead you on.” Hand in hand they enter the hall, but he was not at all pleased, and would have willingly dispensed with her.

In the midst of the hall a bed had been set up, the sheets of which were by no means soiled, but were white and wide and well spread out. The bed was not of shredded straw or of coarse spreads. But a covering of two silk cloths had been laid upon the couch. The damsel lay down first, but without removing her chemise. He had great trouble in removing his hose and in untying the knots. He sweated with the trouble of it all; yet, in the midst of all the trouble, his promise impels and drives him on. Is this then an actual force? Yes, virtually so; for he feels that he is in duty bound to take his place by the damsel’s side. It is his promise that urges him and dictates his act. So he lies down at once, but like her, he does not remove his shirt. He takes good care not to touch her; and when he is in bed, he turns away from her as far as possible, and speaks not a word to her, like a monk to whom speech is forbidden. Not once does he look at her, nor show her any courtesy. Why not? Because his heart does not go out to her. She was certainly very fair and winsome, but not every one is pleased and touched by what is fair and winsome. The knight has only one heart, and this one is really no longer his, but has been entrusted to some one else, so that he cannot bestow it elsewhere. Love, which holds all hearts beneath its sway, requires it to be lodged in a single place. All hearts? No, only those which it esteems. And he whom love deigns to control ought to prize himself the more. Love prized his heart so highly that it constrained it in a special manner, and made him so proud of this distinction that I am not inclined to find fault with him, if he lets alone what love forbids, and remains fixed where it desires. The maiden clearly sees and knows that he dislikes her company and would gladly dispense with it, and that, having no desire to win her love, he would not attempt to woo her. So she said: “My lord, if you will not feel hurt, I will leave and return to bed in my own room, and you will be more comfortable. I do not believe that you are pleased with my company and society. Do not esteem me less if I tell you what I think. Now take your rest all night, for you have so well kept your promise that I have no right to make further request of you. So I commend you to God; and shall go away.” Thereupon she arises: the knight does not object, but rather gladly lets her go, like one who is the devoted lover of some one else; the damsel clearly perceived this, and went to her room, where she undressed completely and retired, saying to herself: “Of all the knights I have ever known, I never knew a single knight whom I would value the third part of an angevin in comparison with this one. As I understand the case, he has on hand a more perilous and grave affair than any ever undertaken by a knight; and may God grant that he succeed in it.” Then she fell asleep, and remained in bed until the next day’s dawn appeared.

At daybreak she awakes and gets up. The knight awakes too, dressing, and putting on his arms, without waiting for any help. Then the damsel comes and sees that he is already dressed. Upon seeing him, she says: “May this day be a happy one for you.” “And may it be the same to you, damsel,” the knight replies, adding that he is waiting anxiously for some one to bring out his horse. The maiden has some one fetch the horse, and says: “Sire, I should like to accompany you for some distance along the road, if you would agree to escort and conduct me according to the customs and practices which were observed before we were made captive in the kingdom of Logres.” In those days the customs and privileges were such that, if a knight found a damsel or lorn maid alone, and if he cared for his fair name, he would no more treat her with dishonour than he would cut his own throat. And if he assaulted her, he would be disgraced for ever in every court. But if, while she was under his escort, she should be won at arms by another who engaged him in battle, then this other knight might do with her what he pleased without receiving shame or blame. This is why the damsel said she would go with him, if he had the courage and willingness to safe guard her in his company, so that no one should do her any harm. And he says to her: “No one shall harm you, I promise you, unless he harm me first.” “Then,” she says, “I will go with you.” She orders her palfrey to be saddled, and her command is obeyed at once. Her palfrey was brought together with the knight’s horse. Without the aid of any squire, they both mount, and rapidly ride away. She talks to him, but not caring for her words, he pays no attention to what she says. He likes to think, but dislikes to talk. Love very often inflicts afresh the wound it has given him. Yet, he applied no poultice to the wound to cure it and make it comfortable, having no intention or desire to secure a poultice or to seek a physician, unless the wound becomes more painful. Yet, there is one whose remedy he would gladly seek They follow the roads and paths in the right direction until they come to a spring, situated in the middle of a field, and bordered by a stone basin. Some one had forgotten upon the stone a comb of gilded ivory. Never since ancient times has wise man or fool seen such a comb. In its teeth there was almost a handful of hair belonging to her who had used the comb.

When the damsel notices the spring, and sees the stone, she does not wish her companion to see it; so she turns off in another direction. And he, agreeably occupied with his own thoughts, does not at once remark that she is leading him aside; but when at last he notices it, he is afraid of being beguiled, thinking that she is yielding and is going out of the way in order to avoid some danger. “See here, damsel,” he cries, “you are not going right; come this way! No one, I think, ever went straight who left this road.” “Sire, this is a better way for us,” the damsel says, “I am sure of it.” Then he replies to her: “I don’t know, damsel, what you think; but you can plainly see that the beaten path lies this way; and since I have started to follow it, I shall not turn aside. So come now, if you will, for I shall continue along this way.” Then they go forward until they come near the stone basin and see the comb. The knight says: “I surely never remember to have seen so beautiful a comb as this.” “Let me have it,” the damsel says. “Willingly, damsel,” he replies. Then he stoops over and picks it up. While holding it, he looks at it steadfastly, gazing at the hair until the damsel begins to laugh. When he sees her doing so, he begs her to tell him why she laughs. And she says: “Never mind, for I will never tell you.” “Why not?” he asks. “Because I don’t wish to do so.” And when he hears that, he implores her like one who holds that lovers ought to keep faith mutually: “Damsel, if you love anything passionately, by that I implore and conjure and beg you not to conceal from me the reason why you laugh.” “Your appeal is so strong,” she says, “that I will tell you and keep nothing back. I am sure, as I am of anything, that this comb belonged to the Queen. And you may take my word that those are strands of the Queen’s hair which you see to be so fair and light and radiant, and which are clinging in the teeth of the comb; they surely never grew anywhere else.” Then the knight replied: “Upon my word, there are plenty of queens and kings; what queen do you mean?” And she answered: “In truth, fair sire, it is of King Arthur’s wife I speak.” When he hears that, he has not strength to keep from bowing his head over his saddle-bow. And when the damsel sees him thus, she is amazed and terrified, thinking he is about to fall. Do not blame her for her fear, for she thought him in a faint. He might as well have swooned, so near was he to doing so; for in his heart he felt such grief that for a long time he lost his colour and power of speech. And the damsel dismounts, and runs as quickly as possible to support and succour him; for she would not have wished for anything to see him fall. When he saw her, he felt ashamed, and said: “Why do you need to bear me aid?” You must not suppose that the damsel told him why; for he would have been ashamed and distressed, and it would have annoyed and troubled him, if she had confessed to him the truth. So she took good care not to tell the truth, but tactfully answered him: “Sire, I dismounted to get the comb; for I was so anxious to hold it in my hand that I could not longer wait.” Willing that she should have the comb, he gives it to her, first pulling out the hair so carefully that he tears none of it. Never will the eye of man see anything receive such honour as when he begins to adore these tresses. A hundred thousand times he raises them to his eyes and mouth, to his forehead and face: he manifests his joy in every way, considering himself rich and happy now. He lays them in his bosom near his heart, between the shirt and the flesh. He would not exchange them for a cartload of emeralds and carbuncles, nor does he think that any sore or illness can afflict him now; he holds in contempt essence of pearl, treacle, and the cure for pleurisy; even for St. Martin and St. James he has no need; for he has such confidence in this hair that he requires no other aid. But what was this hair like? If I tell the truth about it, you will think I am a mad teller of lies. When the mart is full at the yearly fair of St. Denis, and when the goods are most abundantly displayed, even then the knight would not take all this wealth, unless he had found these tresses too. And if you wish to know the truth, gold a hundred thousand times refined, and melted down as many times, would be darker than is night compared with the brightest summer day we have had this year, if one were to see the gold and set it beside this hair. But why should I make a long story of it? The damsel mounts again with the comb in her possession; while he revels and delights in the tresses in his bosom. Leaving the plain, they come to a forest and take a short cut through it until they come to a narrow place, where they have to go in single file; for it would have been impossible to ride two horses abreast. Just where the way was narrowest, they see a knight approach. As soon as she saw him, the damsel recognised him, and said: “Sir knight, do you see him who yonder comes against us all armed and ready for a battle? I know what his intention is: he thinks now that he cannot fail to take me off defenceless with him. He loves me, but he is very foolish to do so. In person, and by messenger, he has been long wooing me. But my love is not within his reach, for I would not love him under any consideration, so help me God! I would kill myself rather than bestow my love on him. I do not doubt that he is delighted now, and is as satisfied as if he had me already in his power. But now I shall see what you can do, and I shall see how brave you are, and it will become apparent whether your escort can protect me. If you can protect me now, I shall not fail to proclaim that you are brave and very worthy.” And he answered her: “Go on, go on!” which was as much as to say: “I am not concerned; there is no need of your being worried about what you have said.”

While they were proceeding, talking thus, the knight, who was alone, rode rapidly toward them on the run. He was the more eager to make haste, because he felt more sure of success; he felt that he was lucky now to see her whom he most dearly loves. As soon as he approaches her, he greets her with words that come from his heart: “Welcome to her, whence-soever she comes, whom I most desire, but who has hitherto caused me least joy and most distress!” It is not fitting that she should be so stingy of her speech as not to return his greeting, at least by word of mouth. The knight is greatly elated when the damsel greets him; though she does not take the words seriously, and the effort costs her nothing. Yet, if he had at this moment been victor in a tournament, he would not have so highly esteemed himself, nor thought he had won such honour and renown. Being now more confident of his worth, he grasped the bridle rein, and said: “Now I shall lead you away: I have to-day sailed well on my course to have arrived at last at so good a port. Now my troubles are at an end: after dangers, I have reached a haven; after sorrow, I have attained happiness; after pain, I have perfect health; now I have accomplished my desire, when I find you in such case that I can without resistance lead you away with me at once.” Then she says: “You have no advantage; for I am under this knight’s escort.” “Surely, the escort is not worth much,” he says, “and I am going to lead you off at once. This knight would have time to eat a bushel of salt before he could defend you from me; I think I could never meet a knight from whom I should not win you. And since I find you here so opportunely, though he too may do his best to prevent it, yet I will take you before his very eyes, however disgruntled he may be.” The other is not angered by all the pride he hears expressed, but without any impudence or boasting, he begins thus to challenge him for her: “Sire, don’t be in a hurry, and don’t waste your words, but speak a little reasonably. You shall not be deprived of as much of her as rightly belongs to you. You must know, however, that the damsel has come hither under my protection. Let her alone now, for you have detained her long enough!” The other gives them leave to burn him, if he does not take her away in spite of him. Then the other says: “It would not be right for me to let you take her away; I would sooner fight with you. But if we should wish to fight, we could not possibly do it in this narrow road. Let us go to some level place—a meadow or an open field.” And he replies that that will suit him perfectly: “Certainly, I agree to that: you are quite right, this road is too narrow. My horse is so much hampered here that I am afraid he will crush his flank before I can turn him around.” Then with great difficulty he turns, and his horse escapes without any wound or harm. Then he says: “To be sure, I am much chagrined that we have not met in a favourable spot and in the presence of other men, for I should have been glad to have them see which is the better of us two. Come on now, let us begin our search: we shall find in the vicinity some large, broad, and open space.” Then they proceed to a meadow, where there were maids, knights, and damsels playing at divers games in this pleasant place. They were not all engaged in idle sport, but were playing backgammon and chess or dice, and were evidently agreeably employed. Most were engaged in such games as these; but the others there were engaged in sports, dancing, singing, tumbling, leaping, and wrestling with each other.

A knight somewhat advanced in years was on the other side of the meadow, seared upon a sorrel Spanish steed. His bridle and saddle were of gold, and his hair was turning grey. One hand hung at his side with easy grace. The weather being fine, he was in his shirt sleeves, with a short mantle of scarlet cloth and fur slung over his shoulders, and thus he watched the games and dances. On the other side of the field, close by a path, there were twenty-three knights mounted on good Irish steeds. As soon as the three new arrivals come into view, they all cease their play and shout across the fields: “See, yonder comes the knight who was driven in the cart! Let no one continue his sport while he is in our midst. A curse upon him who cares or deigns to play so long as he is here!” Meanwhile he who loved the damsel and claimed her as his own, approached the old knight, and said: “Sire, I have attained great happiness; let all who will now hear me say that God has granted me the thing that I have always most desired; His gift would not have been so great had He crowned me as king, nor would I have been so indebted to Him, nor would I have so profited; for what I have gained is fair and good.” “I know not yet if it be thine,” the knight replies to his son. But the latter answers him: “Don’t you know? Can’t you see it, then? For God’s sake, sire, have no further doubt, when you see that I have her in my possession. In this forest, whence I come, I met her as she was on her way. I think God had fetched her there for me, and I have taken her for my own.” “I do not know whether this will be allowed by him whom I see coming after thee; he looks as if he is coming to demand her of thee.” During this conversation the dancing had ceased because of the knight whom they saw, nor were they gaily playing any more because of the disgust and scorn they felt for him. But the knight without delay came up quickly after the damsel, and said: “Let the damsel alone, knight, for you have no right to her! If you dare, I am willing at once to fight with you in her defence.” Then the old knight remarked: “Did I not know it? Fair son, detain the damsel no longer, but let her go.” He does not relish this advice, and swears that he will not give her up: “May God never grant me joy if I give her up to him! I have her, and I shall hold on to her as something that is mine own. The shoulder-strap and all the armlets of my shield shall first be broken, and I shall have lost all confidence in my strength and arms, my sword and lance, before I will surrender my mistress to him.” And his father says: “I shall not let thee fight for any reason thou mayest urge. Thou art too confident of thy bravery. So obey my command.” But he in his pride replies: “What? Am I a child to be terrified? Rather will I make my boast that there is not within the sea-girt land any knight, wheresoever he may dwell, so excellent that I would let him have her, and whom I should not expect speedily to defeat.” The father answers: “Fair son, I do not doubt that thou dost really think so, for thou art so confident of thy strength. But I do not wish to see thee enter a contest with this knight.” Then he replies: “I shall be disgraced if I follow your advice. Curse me if I heed your counsel and turn recreant because of you, and do not do my utmost in the fight. It is true that a man fares ill among his relatives: I could drive a better bargain somewhere else, for you are trying to take me in. I am sure that where I am not known, I could act with better grace. No one, who did not know me, would try to thwart my will; whereas you are annoying and tormenting me. I am vexed by your finding fault with me. You know well enough that when any one is blamed, he breaks out still more passionately. But may God never give me joy if I renounce my purpose because of you; rather will I fight in spite of you!” “By the faith I bear the Apostle St. Peter,” his father says, “now I see that my request is of no avail. I waste my time in rebuking thee; but I shall soon devise such means as shall compel thee against thy will to obey my commands and submit to them.” Straightway summoning all the knights to approach, he bids them lay hands upon his son whom he cannot correct, saying: “I will have him bound rather than let him fight. You here are all my men, and you owe me your devotion and service: by all the fiefs you hold from me, I hold you responsible, and I add my prayer. It seems to me that he must be mad, and that he shows excessive pride, when he refuses to respect my will.” Then they promise to take care of him, and say that never, while he is in their charge, shall he wish to fight, but that he must renounce the damsel in spite of himself. Then they all join and seize him by the arms and neck. “Dost thou not think thyself foolish now?” his father asks; “confess the truth: thou hast not the strength or power to fight or joust, however distasteful and hard it may be for thee to admit it. Thou wilt be wise to consent to my will and pleasure. Dost thou know what my intention is? In order somewhat to mitigate thy disappointment, I am willing to join thee, if thou wilt, in following the knight to-day and to-morrow, through wood and plain, each one mounted on his horse. Perhaps we shall soon find him to be of such a character and bearing that I might let thee have thy way and fight with him.” To this proposal the other must perforce consent. Like the man who has no alternative, he says that he will give in, provided they both shall follow him. And when the people in the field see how this adventure has turned out, they all exclaim: “Did you see? He who was mounted on the cart has gained such honour here that he is leading away the mistress of the son of my lord, and he himself is allowing it. We may well suppose that he finds in him some merit, when he lets him take her off. Now cursed a hundred times be he who ceases longer his sport on his account! Come, let us go back to our games again.” Then they resume their games and dances.

Part II: Vv. 1841 Vv. 3684

Thereupon the knight turns away, without longer remaining in the field, and the damsel accompanies him. They leave in haste, while the father and his son ride after them through the mown fields until toward three o’clock, when in a very pleasant spot they come upon a church; beside the chancel there was a cemetery enclosed by a wall. The knight was both courteous and wise to enter the church on foot and make his prayer to God, while the damsel held his horse for him until he returned. When he had made his prayer, and while he was coming back, a very old monk suddenly presented himself; whereupon the knight politely requests him to tell him what this place is; for he does not know. And he tells him it is a cemetery. And the other says: “Take me in, so help you God!” “Gladly, sire,” and he takes him in. Following the monk’s lead, the knight beholds the most beautiful tombs that one could find as far as Dombes or Pampelune; and on each tomb there were letters cut, telling the names of those who were destined to be buried there. And he began in order to read the names, and came upon some which said: “Here Gawain is to lie, here Louis, and here Yvain.” After these three, he read the names of many others among the most famed and cherished knights of this or any other land. Among the others, he finds one of marble, which appears to be new, and is more rich and handsome than all the rest. Calling the monk, the knight inquired: “Of what use are these tombs here?” And the monk replied: “You have already read the inscriptions; if you have understood, you must know what they say, and what is the meaning of the tombs.” “Now tell me, what is this large one for?” And the hermit answered: “I will tell you. That is a very large sarcophagus, larger than any that ever was made; one so rich and well-carved was never seen. It is magnificent without, and still more so within. But you need not be concerned with that, for it can never do you any good; you will never see inside of it; for it would require seven strong men to raise the lid of stone, if any one wished to open it. And you may be sure that to raise it would require seven men stronger than you and I. There is an inscription on it which says that any one who can lift this stone of his own unaided strength will set free all the men and women who are captives in the land, whence no slave or noble can issue forth, unless he is a native of that land. No one has ever come back from there, but they are detained in foreign prisons; whereas they of the country go and come in and out as they please.” At once the knight goes to grasp the stone, and raises it without the slightest trouble, more easily than ten men would do who exerted all their strength. And the monk was amazed, and nearly fell down at the sight of this marvellous thing; for he thought he would never see the like again, and said: “Sire, I am very anxious to know your name. Will you tell me what it is?” “Not I,” says the knight, “upon my word.” “I am certainly sorry, for that,” he says; “but if you would tell me, you would do me a great favour, and might benefit yourself. Who are you, and where do you come from?” “I am a knight, as you may see, and I was born in the kingdom of Logre. After so much information, I should prefer to be excused. Now please tell me, for your part, who is to lie within this tomb.” “Sire, he who shall deliver all those who are held captive in the kingdom whence none escapes.” And when he had told him all this, the knight commended him to God and all His saints. And then, for the first time, he felt free to return to the damsel. The old white-haired monk escorts him out of the church, and they resume their way. While the damsel is mounting, however, the hermit relates to her all that the knight had done inside, and then he begged her to tell him. if she knew, what his name was; but she assured him that she did not know, but that there was one sure thing she could say, namely, that there was not such a knight alive where the four winds of heaven blow.

Then the damsel takes leave of him, and rides swiftly after the knight. Then those who were following them come up and see the hermit standing alone before the church. The old knight in his shirt sleeves said: “Sire, tell us, have you seen a knight with a damsel in his company?” And he replies: “I shall not be loath to tell you all I know, for they have just passed on from here. The knight was inside yonder, and did a very marvellous thing in raising the stone from the huge marble tomb, quite unaided and without the least effort. He is bent upon the rescue of the Queen, and doubtless he will rescue her, as well as all the other people. You know well that this must be so, for you have often read the inscription upon the stone. No knight was ever born of man and woman, and no knight ever sat in a saddle, who was the equal of this man.” Then the father turns to his son, and says: “Son, what dost thou think about him now? Is he not a man to be respected who has performed such a feat? Now thou knowest who was wrong, and whether it was thou or I. I would not have thee fight with him for all the town of Amiens; and yet thou didst struggle hard, before any one could dissuade thee from thy purpose. Now we may as well go back, for we should be very foolish to follow him any farther.” And he replies: “I agree to that. It would be useless to follow him. Since it is your pleasure, let us return.” They were very wise to retrace their steps. And all the time the damsel rides close beside the knight, wishing to compel him to give heed to her. She is anxious to learn his name, and she begs and beseeches him again and again to tell her, until in his annoyance he answers her: “Have I not already told you that I belong in King Arthur’s realm? I swear by God and His goodness that you shall not learn my name.” Then she bids him give her leave to go, and she will turn back, which request he gladly grants.

Thereupon the damsel departs, and he rides on alone until it grew very late. After vespers, about compline, as he pursued his way, he saw a knight returning from the wood where he had been hunting. With helmet unlaced, he rode along upon his big grey hunter, to which he had tied the game which God had permitted him to take. This gentleman came quickly to meet the knight, offering him hospitality. “Sire,” he says, “night will soon be here. It is time for you to be reasonable and seek a place to spend the night. I have a house of mine near at hand, whither I shall take you. No one ever lodged you better than I shall do, to the extent of my resources: I shall be very glad, if you consent.” “For my part, I gladly accept,” he says. The gentleman at once sends his son ahead, to prepare the house and start the preparations for supper. The lad willingly executes his command forthwith, and goes off at a rapid pace, while the others, who are in no haste, follow the road leisurely until they arrive at the house. The gentleman’s wife was a very accomplished lady; and he had five sons, whom he dearly loved, three of them mere lads, and two already knights; and he had two fair and charming daughters, who were still unmarried. They were not natives of the land, but were there in durance, having been long kept there as prisoners away from their native land of Logres. When the gentleman led the knight into his yard, the lady with her sons and daughters jumped up and ran to meet them, vying in their efforts to do him honour, as they greeted him and helped him to dismount. Neither the sisters nor the five brothers paid much attention to their father, for they knew well enough that he would have it so. They honoured the knight and welcomed him; and when they had relieved him of his armour, one of his host’s two daughters threw her own mantle about him, taking it from her own shoulders and throwing it about his neck. I do not need to tell how well he was served at supper; but when the meal was finished, they felt no further hesitation in speaking of various matters. First, the host began to ask him who he was, and from what land, but he did not inquire about his name. The knight promptly answered him: “I am from the kingdom of Logres, and have never been in this land before.” And when the gentleman heard that, he was greatly amazed, as were his wife and children too, and each one of them was sore distressed. Then they began to say to him: “Woe that you have come here, fair sire, for only trouble will come of it! For, like us, you will be reduced to servitude and exile.” “Where do you come from, then?” he asked. “Sire, we belong in your country. Many men from your country are held in servitude in this land. Cursed be the custom, together with those who keep it up! No stranger comes here who is not compelled to stay here in the land where he is detained. For whoever wishes may come in, but once in, he has to stay. About your own fate, you may be at rest, you will doubtless never escape from here.” He replies: “Indeed, I shall do so, if possible.” To this the gentleman replies: “How? Do you think you can escape?” “Yes, indeed, if it be God’s will; and I shall do all within my power.” “In that case, doubtless all the rest would be set free; for, as soon as one succeeds in fairly escaping from this durance, then all the rest may go forth unchallenged.” Then the gentleman recalled that he had been told and informed that a knight of great excellence was making his way into the country to seek for the Queen, who was held by the king’s son, Meleagant; and he said to himself: “Upon my word, I believe it is he, and I’ll tell him so.” So he said to him: “Sire, do not conceal from me your business, if I promise to give you the best advice I know. I too shall profit by any success you may attain. Reveal to me the truth about your errand, that it may be to your advantage as well as mine. I am persuaded that you have come in search of the Queen into this land and among these heathen people, who are worse than the Saracens.” And the knight replies: “For no other purpose have I come. I know not where my lady is confined, but I am striving hard to rescue her, and am in dire need of advice. Give me any counsel you can.” And he says: “Sire, you have undertaken a very grievous task. The road you are travelling will lead you straight to the sword-bridge. You surely need advice. If you would heed my counsel, you would proceed to the sword-bridge by a surer way, and I would have you escorted thither.” Then he, whose mind is fixed upon the most direct way, asks him: “Is the road of which you speak as direct as the other way?” “No, it is not,” he says; “it is longer, but more sure.” Then he says: “I have no use for it; tell me about this road I am following!” “I am ready to do so,” he replies; “but I am sure you will not fare well if you take any other than the road I recommend. To-morrow you will reach a place where you will have trouble: it is called `the stony passage’. Shall I tell you how bad a place it is to pass? Only one horse can go through at a time; even two men could not pass abreast, and the passage is well guarded and defended. You will meet with resistance as soon as you arrive. You will sustain many a blow of sword and lance, and will have to return full measure before you succeed in passing through.” And when he had completed the account, one of the gentleman’s sons, who was a knight, stepped forward, saying: “Sire, if you do not object, I will go with this gentleman.” Then one of the lads jumps up, and says: “I too will go.” And the father gladly gives them both consent. Now the knight will not have to go alone, and he expresses his gratitude, being much pleased with the company.

Then the conversation ceases, and they take the knight to bed, where he was glad to fall asleep. As soon as daylight was visible he got up, and those who were to accompany him got up too. The two knights donned their armour and took their leave, while the young fellow started on ahead. Together they pursued their way until they came at the hour of prime to “the stony passage.” In the middle of it they found a wooden tower, where there was always a man on guard. Before they drew near, he who was on the tower saw them and cried twice aloud: “Woe to this man who comes!” And then behold! A knight issued from the tower, mounted and armed with fresh armour, and escorted on either side by servants carrying sharp axes. Then, when the other draws near the passage, he who defends it begins to heap him with abuse about the cart, saying: “Vassal, thou art bold and foolish, indeed, to have entered this country. No man ought ever to come here who had ridden upon a cart, and may God withhold from him His blessing!” Then they spur toward each other at the top of their horses’ speed. And he who was to guard the passage-way at once breaks his lance and lets the two pieces fall; the other strikes him in the neck, reaching him beneath the shield, and throws him over prostrate upon the stones. Then the servants come forward with the axes, but they intentionally fail to strike him, having no desire to harm or damage him; so he does not deign to draw his sword, and quickly passes on with his companions. One of them remarks to the other: “No one has ever seen so good a knight, nor has he any equal. Is not this a marvellous thing, that he has forced a passage here?” And the knight says to his brother: “Fair brother, for God’s sake, make haste to go and tell our father of this adventure.” But the lad asserts and swears that he will not go with the message, and will never leave the knight until he has dubbed and knighted him; let his brother go with the message, if he is so much concerned.

Then they go on together until about three o’clock, when they come upon a man, who asks them who they are. And they answer: “We are knights, busy about our own affairs.” Then the man says to the knight: “Sire, I should be glad to offer hospitality to you and your companions here.” This invitation he delivers to him whom he takes to be the lord and master of the others. And this one replies to him: “I could not seek shelter for the night at such an hour as this; for it is not well to tarry and seek one’s ease when one has undertaken some great task. And I have such business on hand that I shall not stop for the night for some time yet.” Then the man continues: “My house is not near here, but is some distance ahead. It will be late when you reach there, so you may proceed, assured that you will find a place to lodge just when it suits you.” “In that case,” he says, “I will go thither.” Thereupon the man starts ahead as guide, and the knight follows along the path. And when they had proceeded some distance, they met a squire who was coming along at a gallop, mounted upon a nag that was as fat and round as an apple. And the squire calls our to the man: “Sire, sire, make haste! For the people of Logres have attacked in force the inhabitants of this land, and war and strife have already broken out; and they say that this country has been invaded by a knight who has been in many battles, and that wherever he wishes to go, no one, however reluctantly, is able to deny him passage. And they further say that he will deliver those who are in this country, and will subdue our people. Now take my advice and make haste!” Then the man starts at a gallop, and the others are greatly delighted at the words they have heard, for they are eager to help their side. And the vavasor’s son says: “Hear what this squire says! Come and let us aid our people who are fighting their enemies!” Meanwhile the man rides off, without waiting for them, and makes his way rapidly toward a fortress which stood upon a fortified hill; thither he hastens, till he comes to the gate, while the others spur after him. The castle was surrounded by a high wall and moat. As soon as they had got inside, a gate was lowered upon their heels, so that they could not get out again. Then they say: “Come on, come on! Let us not stop here!” and they rapidly pursue the man until they reach another gate which was not closed against them. But as soon as the man had passed through, a portcullis dropped behind him. Then the others were much dismayed to see themselves shut in, and they think they must be bewitched. But he, of whom I have more to tell, wore upon his finger a ring, whose stone was of such virtue that any one who gazed at it was freed from the power of enchantment. Holding the ring before his eyes, he gazed at it, and said: “Lady, lady, so help me God, now I have great need of your succour!” This lady was a fairy, who had given it to him, and who had cared for him in his infancy. And he had great confidence that, wherever he might be, she would aid and succour him. But after appealing to her and gazing upon the ring, he realises that there is no enchantment here, but that they are actually shut in and confined. Then they come to the barred door of a low and narrow postern gate. Drawing their swords, they all strike it with such violence that they cut the bar. As soon as they were outside the tower, they see that a fierce strife was already begun down in the meadows, and that there are at least a thousand knights engaged, beside the low-bred infantry. While they were descending to the plain, the wise and moderate son of the vavasor remarked: “Sire, before we arrive upon the field, it would be wise for us, it seems to me, to find out and learn on which side our people are. I do not know where they are placed, but I will go and find out, if you wish it so.” “I wish you would do so,” he replies, “go quickly, and do not fail to come back again at once.” He goes and returns at once, saying: “It has turned out well for us, for I have plainly seen that these are our troops on this side of the field.” Then the knight at once rode into the fight and jousted with a knight who was approaching him, striking him in the eye with such violence that he knocked him lifeless to the ground. Then the lad dismounts, and taking the dead knight’s horse and arms, he arms himself with skill and cleverness. When he was armed, he straightway mounts, taking the shield and the lance, which was heavy, stiff, and decorated, and about his waist he girt a sharp, bright, and flashing sword. Then he followed his brother and lord into the fight. The latter demeaned himself bravely in the melee for some time, breaking, splitting, and crushing shields, helmets and hauberks. No wood or steel protected the man whom he struck; he either wounded him or knocked him lifeless from the horse. Unassisted, he did so well that he discomfited all whom he met, while his companions did their part as well. The people of Logres, not knowing him, are amazed at what they see, and ask the vavasor’s sons about the stranger knight. This reply is made to them: “Gentlemen, this is he who is to deliver us all from durance and misery, in which we have so long been confined, and we ought to do him great honour when, to set us free, he has passed through so many perils and is ready to face many more. He has done much, and will do yet more.” Every one is overjoyed at hearing this welcome news. The news travelled fast, and was noised about, until it was known by all. Their strength and courage rise, so that they slay many of those still alive, and apparently because of the example of a single knight they work greater havoc than because of all the rest combined. And if it had not been so near evening, all would have gone away defeated; but night came on so dark that they had to separate.

When the battle was over, all the captives pressed about the knight, grasping his rein on either side, and thus addressing him: “Welcome, fair sire,” and each one adds: “Sire, for the name of God, do not fail to lodge with me!” What one says they all repeat, for young and old alike insist that he must lodge with them, saying: “You will be more comfortably lodged with me than with any one else.” Thus each one addresses him to his face, and in the desire to capture him, each one drags him from the rest, until they almost come to blows. Then he tells them that they are very foolish and silly to struggle so. “Cease this wrangling among yourselves, for it does no good to me or you. Instead of quarrelling among ourselves, we ought rather to lend one another aid. You must not dispute about the privilege of lodging me, but rather consider how to lodge me in such a place that it may be to your general advantage, and that I may be advanced upon my way.” Then each one exclaims at once: “That is my house, or, No, it is mine,” until the knight replies: “Follow my advice and say nothing more; the wisest of you is foolish to contend this way. You ought to be concerned to further my affairs, and instead you are seeking to turn me aside. If you had each individually done me all the honour and service it is possible to do, and I had accepted your kindness, by all the saints of Rome I swear that I could not be more obliged to you than I am now for your good-will. So may God give me joy and health, your good intentions please me as much as if each one of you had already shown me great honour and kindness: so let the will stand for the deed!” Thus he persuades and appeases them all. Then they take him quickly along the road to a knight’s residence, where they seek to serve him: all rejoice to honour and serve him throughout the evening until bedtime, for they hold him very dear. Next morning, when the time came to separate, each one offers and presents himself, with the desire to accompany him; but it is not his will or pleasure that any one shall go with him except the two whom he had brought with him. Accompanied by them alone, he resumed his journey. That day they rode from morn till evening without encountering any adventure. When it was now very late, and while they were riding rapidly out of a forest, they saw a house belonging to a knight, and seated at the door they saw his wife, who had the bearing of a gentle lady. As soon as she espied them coming, she rose to her feet to meet them, and greeted them joyfully with a smile: “Welcome! I wish you to accept my house; this is your lodging; pray dismount” “Lady, since it is your will, we thank you, and will dismount; we accept your hospitality for the night.” When they had dismounted, the lady had the horses taken by members of her well-ordered household. She calls her sons and daughters who come at once: the youths were courteous, handsome, and well-behaved, and the daughters were fair. She bids the lads remove the saddles and curry the horses well; no one refused to do this, but each carried out her instructions willingly. When she ordered the knights to be disarmed, her daughters step forward to perform this service. They remove their armour, and hand them three short mantles to put on. Then at once they take them into the house which was very handsome. The master was not at home, being out in the woods with two of his sons. But he presently returned, and his household, which was well-ordered, ran to meet him outside the door. Quickly they untie and unpack the game he brings, and tell him the news: “Sire, sire, you do not know that you have three knights for guests.” “God be praised for that,” he says. Then the knight and his two sons extend a glad welcome to their guests. The rest of the household were not backward, for even the least among them prepared to perform his special task. While some run to prepare the meal, others light the candles in profusion; still others get a towel and basins, and offer water for the hands: they are not niggardly in all this. When all had washed, they take their seats. Nothing that was done there seemed to be any trouble or burdensome. But at the first course there came a surprise in the form of a knight outside the door. As he sat on his charger, all armed from head to feet, he looked prouder than a bull, and a bull is a yew proud beast. One leg was fixed in the stirrup, but the other he had thrown over the mane of his horse’s neck, to give himself a careless and jaunty air. Behold him advancing thus, though no one noticed him until he came forward with the words: “I wish to know which is the man who is so foolish and proud a numskull that he has come to this country and intends to cross the sword-bridge. All his pains will come to naught, and his expedition is in vain.” Then he, who felt no fear at all, thus replies with confidence: “I am he who intends to cross the bridge.” “Thou? Thou? How didst thou dare to think of such a thing? Before undertaking such a course, thou oughtest to have thought of the end that is in store for thee, and thou oughtest to have in mind the memory of the cart on which thou didst ride. I know not whether thou feelest shame for the ride thou hadst on it, but no sensible man would have embarked on such an enterprise as this if he had felt the reproach of his action.”

Not a word does he deign to reply to what he hears the other say; but the master of the house and all the others express their surprise openly: “Ah, God, what a misfortune this is,” each one of them says to himself; “cursed be the hour when first a cart was conceived or made! For it is a very vile and hateful thing. Ah, God, of what was he accused? Why was he carried in a cart? For what sin, or for what crime? He will always suffer the reproach. If he were only clear of this disgrace, no knight could be found in all the world, however his valour might be proved, who would equal the merit of this knight. If all good knights could be compared, and if the truth were to be known, you could find none so handsome or so expert.” Thus they expressed their sentiments. Then he began his speech of impudence: “Listen, thou knight, who art bound for the sword-bridge! If thou wishest, thou shalt cross the water very easily and comfortably. I will quickly have thee ferried over in a skiff. But once on the other side, I will make thee pay me toll, and I will take thy head, if I please to do so, or if not, thou shalt be held at my discretion.” And he replies that he is not seeking trouble, and that he will never risk his head in such an adventure for any consideration. To which the other answers at once: “Since thou wilt not do this, whosesoever the shame and loss may be, thou must come outside with me and there engage me hand to hand.” Then, to beguile him. the other says: “If I could refuse, I would very gladly excuse myself; but in truth I would rather fight than be compelled to do what is wrong.” Before he arose from the table where they were sitting, he told the youths who were serving him, to saddle his horse at once, and fetch his arms and give them to him. This order they promptly execute: some devote themselves to arming him, while others go to fetch his horse. As he slowly rode along completely armed, holding his shield tight by the straps, you must know that he was evidently to be included in the list of the brave and fair. His horse became him so well that it is evident he must be his own, and as for the shield he held by the straps and the helmet laced upon his head, which fitted him so well, you would never for a moment have thought that he had borrowed it or received it as a loan; rather, you would be so pleased with him that you would maintain that he had been thus born and raised: for all this I should like you to take my word.

Outside the gate, where the battle was to be fought, there was a stretch of level ground well adapted for the encounter. When they catch sight of each other, they spur hotly to the attack and come together with such a shock, dealing such blows with their lances, that they first bend, then buckle up, and finally fly into splinters. With their swords they then hew away at their shields, helmets, and hauberks. The wood is cut and the steel gives way, so that they wound each other in several places. They pay each other such angry blows that it seems as if they had made a bargain. The swords often descend upon the horses’ croups, where they drink and feast upon their blood; their riders strike them upon the flanks until at last they kill them both. And when both have fallen to earth, they attack each other afoot; and if they had cherished a mortal hatred, they could not have assailed each other more fiercely with their swords. They deal their blows with greater frequency than the man who stakes his money at dice and never fails to double the stakes every time he loses; yet, this game of theirs was very different; for there were no losses here, but only fierce blows and cruel strife. All the people came out from the house: the master, his lady, his sons and daughters; no man or woman, friend or stranger, stayed behind, but all stood in line to see the fight in progress in the broad, level field. The Knight of the Cart blames and reproaches himself for faintheartedness when he sees his host watching him and notices all the others looking on. His heart is stirred with anger, for it seems to him that he ought long since to have beaten his adversary. Then he strikes him, rushing in like a storm and bringing his sword down close by his head; he pushes and presses him so hard that he drives him from his ground and reduces him to such a state of exhaustion that he has little strength to defend himself. Then the knight recalls how the other had basely reproached him about the cart; so he assails him and drubs him so soundly that not a string or strap remains unbroken about the neck-band of his hauberk, and he knocks the helmet and ventail from his head. His wounds and distress are so great that he has to cry for mercy. Just as the lark cannot withstand or protect itself against the hawk which outflies it and attacks it from above, so he in his helplessness and shame, must invoke him and sue for mercy. And when he hears him beg for mercy, he ceases his attack and says: “Dost thou wish for mercy?” He replies: “You have asked a very clever question; any fool could ask that. I never wished for anything so much as I now wish for mercy.” Then he says to him: “Thou must mount, then, upon a cart. Nothing thou couldst say would have any influence with me, unless thou mountest the cart, to atone for the vile reproaches thou didst address to me with thy silly mouth.” And the knight thus answers him: “May it never please God that I mount a cart!” “No?” he asks; “then you shall die.” “Sire, you can easily put me to death; but I beg and beseech you for God’s sake to show me mercy and not compel me to mount a cart. I will agree to anything, however grievous, excepting that. I would rather die a hundred times than undergo such a disgrace. In your goodness and mercy you can tell me nothing so distasteful that I will not do it.”

While he is thus beseeching him, behold across the field a maiden riding on a tawny mule, her head uncovered and her dress disarranged. In her hand she held a whip with which she belaboured the mule; and in truth no horse could have galloped so fast as was the pace of the mule. The damsel called out to the Knight of the Cart: “May God bless thy heart, Sir Knight, with whatever delights thee most!” And he, who heard her gladly, says: “May God bless you, damsel, and give you joy and health!” Then she tells him of her desire. “Knight,” she says, “in urgent need I have come from afar to thee to ask a favour, for which thou wilt deserve the best guerdon I can make to thee; and I believe that thou wilt yet have need of my assistance.” And he replies: “Tell me what it is you wish; and if I have it, you shall have it at once, provided it be not something extravagant.” Then she says: “It is the head of the knight whom thou hast just defeated; in truth, thou hast never dealt with such a wicked and faithless man. Thou wilt be committing no sin or wrong, but rather doing a deed of charity, for he is the basest creature that ever was or ever shall be.” And when he who had been vanquished hears that she wishes him to be killed, he says to him: “Don’t believe her, for she hates me; but by that God who was at once Father and Son, and who chose for His mother her who was His daughter and handmaiden, I beg you to have mercy upon me!” “Ah, knight!” the maid exclaims, “pay no attention to what this traitor says! May God give thee all the joy and honour to which thou dost aspire, and may He give thee good success in thy undertaking.” Then the knight is in a predicament, as he thinks and ponders over the question: whether to present to her the head she asks him to cut off, or whether he shall allow himself to be touched by pity for him. He wishes to respect the wishes of both her and him. Generosity and pity each command him to do their will; for he was both generous and tender-hearted. But if she carries off the head, then will pity be defeated and put to death; whereas, if she does not carry off the head, generosity will be discomfited. Thus, pity and generosity hold him so confined and so distressed that he is tormented and spurred on by each of them in turn. The damsel asks him to give her the head, and on the other hand the knight makes his request, appealing to his pity and kindness. And, since he has implored him, shall he not receive mercy? Yes, for it never happened that, when he had put down an enemy and compelled him to sue for mercy, he would refuse such an one his mercy or longer bear him any grudge. Since this is his custom, he will not refuse his mercy to him who now begs and sues for it. And shall she have the head she covets? Yes, if it be possible. “Knight,” he says, “it is necessary for thee to fight me again, and if thou dost care to defend thy head again, I will show thee such mercy as to allow thee to resume the helmet; and I will give thee time to arm thy body and thy head as well as possible. But, if I conquer thee again, know that thou shalt surely die.” And he replies: “I desire nothing better than that, and ask for no further favour.” “And I will give thee this advantage,” he adds: “I will fight thee as I stand, without changing my present position.” Then the other knight makes ready, and they begin the fight again eagerly. But this time the knight triumphed more quickly than he had done at first. And the damsel at once cries out: “Do not spare him, knight, for anything he may say to thee. Surely he would not have spared thee, had he once defeated thee. If thou heedest what he says, be sure that he will again beguile thee. Fair knight, cut off the head of the most faithless man in the empire and kingdom, and give it to me! Thou shouldst present it to me, in view of the guerdon I intend for thee. For another day may well come when, if he can, he will beguile thee again with his words.” He, thinking his end is near, cries aloud to him for mercy; but his cry is of no avail, nor anything that he can say. The other drags him by the helmet, tearing all the fastening, and he strikes from his head the ventail and the gleaming coif. Then he cries out more loudly still: “Mercy, for God’s sake! Mercy, sir!” But the other answers: “So help me, I shall never again show thee pity, after having once let thee off.” “Ah,” he says, “thou wouldst do wrong to heed my enemy and kill me thus.” While she, intent upon his death, admonishes him to cut off his head, and not to believe a word he says. He strikes: the head flies across the sward and the body fails. Then the damsel is pleased and satisfied. Grasping the head by the hair, the knight presents it to the damsel, who takes it joyfully with the words: “May thy heart receive such delight from whatever it most desires as my heart now receives from what I most coveted. I had only one grief in life, and that was that this man was still alive. I have a reward laid up for thee which thou shalt receive at the proper time. I promise thee that thou shalt have a worthy reward for the service thou hast rendered me. Now I will go away, with the prayer that God may guard thee from harm.” Then the damsel leaves him, as each commends the other to God. But all those who had seen the battle in the plain are overjoyed, and in their joy they at once relieve the knight of his armour, and honour him in every way they can. Then they wash their hands again and take their places at the meal, which they eat with better cheer than is their wont. When they had been eating for some time, the gentleman turned to his guest at his side, and said: “Sire, a long while ago we came hither from the kingdom of Logres. We were born your countrymen, and we should like to see you win honour and fortune and joy in this country; for we should profit by it as well as you, and it would be to the advantage of many others, if you should gain honour and fortune in the enterprise you have undertaken in this land.” And he makes answer: “May God hear your desire.”

When the host had dropped his voice and ceased speaking, one of his sons followed him and said: “Sire, we ought to place all our resources at your service, and give them outright rather than promise them; if you have any need of our assistance, we ought not to wait until you ask for it. Sire, be not concerned over your horse which is dead. We have good strong horses here. I want you to take anything of ours which you need, and you shall choose the best of our horses in place of yours.” And he replies: “I willingly accept.” Thereupon, they have the beds prepared and retire for the night. The next morning they rise early, and dress, after which they prepare to start. Upon leaving, they fail in no act of courtesy, but take leave of the lady, her lord, and all the rest. But in order to omit nothing, I must remark that the knight was unwilling to mount the borrowed steed which was standing ready at the door; rather, he caused him to be ridden by one of the two knights who had come with him, while he took the latter’s horse instead, for thus it pleased him best to do. When each was seated on his horse, they all asked for leave to depart from their host who had served them so honourably. Then they ride along the road until the day draws to a close, and late in the afternoon they reach the sword-bridge.

At the end of this very difficult bridge they dismount from their steeds and gaze at the wicked-looking stream, which is as swift and raging, as black and turgid, as fierce and terrible as if it were the devil’s stream; and it is so dangerous and bottomless that anything failing into it would be as completely lost as if it fell into the salt sea. And the bridge, which spans it, is different from any other bridge; for there never was such a one as this. If any one asks of me the truth, there never was such a bad bridge, nor one whose flooring was so bad. The bridge across the cold stream consisted of a polished, gleaming sword; but the sword was stout and stiff, and was as long as two lances. At each end there was a tree-trunk in which the sword was firmly fixed. No one need fear to fall because of its breaking or bending, for its excellence was such that it could support a great weight. But the two knights who were with the third were much discouraged; for they surmised that two lions or two leopards would be found tied to a great rock at the other end of the bridge. The water and the bridge and the lions combine so to terrify them that they both tremble with fear, and say: “Fair sire, consider well what confronts you; for it is necessary and needful to do so. This bridge is badly made and built, and the construction of it is bad. If you do not change your mind in time, it will be too late to repent. You must consider which of several alternatives you will choose. Suppose that you once get across (but that cannot possibly come to pass, any more than one could hold in the winds and forbid them to blow, or keep the birds from singing, or re-enter one’s mother’s womb and be born again—all of which is as impossible as to empty the sea of its water); but even supposing that you got across, can you think and suppose that those two fierce lions that are chained on the other side will not kill you, and suck the blood from your veins, and eat your flesh and then gnaw your bones? For my part, I am bold enough, when I even dare to look and gaze at them. If you do not take care, they will certainly devour you. Your body will soon be torn and rent apart, for they will show you no mercy. So take pity on us now, and stay here in our company! It would be wrong for you to expose yourself intentionally to such mortal peril.” And he, laughing, replies to them: “Gentlemen, receive my thanks and gratitude for the concern you feel for me: it comes from your love and kind hearts. I know full well that you would not like to see any mishap come to me; but I have faith and confidence in God, that He will protect me to the end. I fear the bridge and stream no more than I fear this dry land; so I intend to prepare and make the dangerous attempt to cross. I would rather die than turn back now.” The others have nothing more to say; but each weeps with pity and heaves a sigh. Meanwhile he prepares, as best he may, to cross the stream, and he does a very marvellous thing in removing the armour from his feet and hands. He will be in a sorry state when he reaches the other side. He is going to support himself with his bare hands and feet upon the sword, which was sharper than a scythe, for he had not kept on his feet either sole or upper or hose. But he felt no fear of wounds upon his hands or feet; he preferred to maim himself rather than to fall from the bridge and be plunged in the water from which he could never escape. In accordance with this determination, he passes over with great pain and agony, being wounded in the hands, knees, and feet. But even this suffering is sweet to him: for Love, who conducts and leads him on, assuages and relieves the pain. Creeping on his hands, feet, and knees, he proceeds until he reaches the other side. Then he recalls and recollects the two lions which he thought he had seen from the other side; but, on looking about, he does not see so much as a lizard or anything else to do him harm. He raises his hand before his face and looks at his ring, and by this test he proves that neither of the lions is there which he thought he had seen, and that he had been enchanted and deceived; for there was not a living creature there. When those who had remained behind upon the bank saw that he had safely crossed, their joy was natural; but they do not know of his injuries. He, however, considers himself fortunate not to have suffered anything worse. The blood from his wounds drips on his shirt on all sides. Then he sees before him a tower, which was so strong that never had he seen such a strong one before: indeed, it could not have been a better tower. At the window there sat King Bademagu, who was very scrupulous and precise about matters of honour and what was right, and who was careful to observe and practise loyalty above all else; and beside him stood his son, who always did precisely the opposite so far as possible, for he found his pleasure in disloyalty, and never wearied of villainy, treason, and felony. From their point of vantage they had seen the knight cross the bridge with trouble and pain. Meleagant’s colour changed with the rage and displeasure he felt; for he knows now that he will be challenged for the Queen; but his character was such that he feared no man, however strong or formidable. If he were not base and disloyal, there could no better knight be found; but he had a heart of wood, without gentleness and pity. What enraged his son and roused his ire, made the king happy and glad. The king knew of a truth that he who had crossed the bridge was much better than any one else. For no one would dare to pass over it in whom there dwelt any of that evil nature which brings more shame upon those who possess it than prowess brings of honour to the virtuous. For prowess cannot accomplish so much as wickedness and sloth can do: it is true beyond a doubt that it is possible to do more evil than good.

I could say more on these two heads, if it did not cause me to delay. But I must turn to something else and resume my subject, and you shall hear how the king speaks profitably to his son: “Son,” he says, “it was fortunate that thou and I came to look out this window; our reward has been to witness the boldest deed that ever entered the mind of man. Tell me now if thou art not well disposed toward him who has performed such a marvellous feat. Make peace and be reconciled with him, and deliver the Queen into his hands. Thou shalt gain no glory in battle with him, but rather mayst thou incur great loss. Show thyself to be courteous and sensible, and send the Queen to meet him before he sees thee. Show him honour in this land of thine, and before he asks it, present to him what he has come to seek. Thou knowest well enough that he has come for the Queen Guinevere. Do not act so that people will take thee to be obstinate, foolish, or proud. If this man has entered thy land alone, thou shouldst bear him company, for one gentleman ought not to avoid another, but rather attract him and honour him with courtesy. One receives honour by himself showing it; be sure that the honour will be thine, if thou doest honour and service to him who is plainly the best knight in the world.” And he replies: “May God confound me, if there is not as good a knight, or even a better one than he!” It was too bad that he did not mention himself, of whom he entertains no mean opinion. And he adds: “I suppose you wish me to clasp my hands and kneel before him as his liegeman, and to hold my lands from him? So help me God, I would rather become his man than surrender to him the Queen! God forbid that in such a fashion I should deliver her to him! She shall never be given up by me, but rather contested and defended against all who are so foolish as to dare to come in quest of her.” Then again the king says to him: “Son, thou wouldst act very courteously to renounce this pretension. I advise thee and beg thee to keep the peace. Thou knowest well that the honour will belong to the knight, if he wins the Queen from thee in battle. He would doubtless rather win her in battle than as a gift, for it will thus enhance his fame. It is my opinion that he is seeking her, not to receive her peaceably, but because he wishes to win her by force of arms. So it would be wise on thy part to deprive him of the satisfaction of fighting thee. I am sorry to see thee so foolish; but if thou dost not heed my advice, evil will come of it, and the ensuing misfortune will be worse for thee. For the knight need fear no hostility from any one here save thee. On behalf of myself and all my men, I will grant him a truce and security. I have never yet done a disloyal deed or practised treason and felony, and I shall not begin to do so now on thy account any more than I would for any stranger. I do not wish to flatter thee, for I promise that the knight shall not lack any arms, or horse or anything else he needs, in view of the boldness he has displayed in coming thus far. He shall be securely guarded and well defended against all men here excepting thee. I wish him clearly to understand that, if he can maintain himself against thee, he need have no fear of any one else.” “I have listened to you in silence long enough,” says Meleagant, “and you may say what you please. But little do I care for all you say. I am not a hermit, nor so compassionate and charitable, and I have no desire to be so honourable as to give him what I most love. His task will not be performed so quickly or so lightly; rather will it turn out otherwise than as you and he expect. You and I need not quarrel because you aid him against me. Even if he enjoys peace and a truce with you and all your men, what matters that to me? My heart does not quail on that account; rather, so help me God, I am glad that he need not feel concern for any one here but me; I do not wish you to do on my account anything which might be construed as disloyalty or treachery. Be as compassionate as you please, but let me be cruel.” “What? Wilt thou not change thy mind?” “No,” he says. “Then I will say nothing more. I will leave thee alone to do thy best and will go now to speak with the knight. I wish to offer and present to him my aid and counsel in all respects; for I am altogether on his side.”

Then the king goes down and orders them to bring his horse. A large steed is brought to him, upon which he springs by the stirrup, and he rides off with some of his men: three knights and two squires he bade to go with him. They did not stop their ride downhill until they came to the bridge, where they see him stanching his wounds and wiping the blood from them. The king expects to keep him as his guest for a long time while his wounds are healing; but he might as well expect to drain the sea. The king hastens to dismount, and he who was grievously wounded, stood up at once to meet him, though he did not know him, and he gave no more evidence of the pain he felt in his feet and hands than if he had been actually sound. The king sees that he is exerting himself, and quickly runs to greet him with the words: “Sire, I am greatly amazed that you have fallen upon us in this land. But be welcome, for no one will ever repeat the attempt: it never happened in the past, and it will never happen in the future that any one should perform such a hardy feat or expose himself to such peril. And know that I admire you greatly for having executed what no one before ever dared to conceive. You will find me very kindly disposed, and loyal and courteous toward you. I am the king of this land, and offer you freely all my counsel and service; and I think I know pretty well what you have come here to seek. You come, I am sure, to seek the Queen.” “Sire,” he replies, “your surmise is correct; no other cause brings me here.” “Friend, you must suffer hardship to obtain her,” he replies; “and you are sorely wounded, as I see by the wounds and the flowing blood. You will not find him who brought her hither so generous as to give her up without a struggle; but you must tarry, and have your wounds cared for until they are completely healed. I will give you some of `the three Marys’ ointment, and something still better, if it can be found, for I am very solicitous about your comfort and your recovery. And the Queen is so confined that no mortal man has access to her—not even my son, who brought her here with him and who resents such treatment, for never was a man so beside himself and so desperate as he. But I am well disposed toward you, and will gladly give you, so help me God, all of which you stand in need. My son himself will not have such good arms but that I will give you some that are just as good, and a horse, too, such as you will need, though my son will be angry with me. Despite the feelings of any one, I will protect you against all men. You will have no cause to fear any one excepting him who brought the Queen here. No man ever menaced another as I have menaced him, and I came near driving him from my land, in my displeasure because he will not surrender her to you. To be sure, he is my son; but feel no concern, for unless he defeats you in battle, he can never do you the slightest harm against my will.” “Sire,” he says, “I thank you. But I am losing time here which I do not wish to waste. I have no cause to complain, and have no wound which is paining me. Take me where I can find him; for with such arms as I have, I am ready to divert myself by giving and receiving blows.” “Friend, you had better wait two or three weeks until your wounds are healed, for it would be well for you to tarry here at least two weeks, and not on any account could I allow it, or look on, while you fought in my presence with such arms and with such an outfit.” And he replies: “With your permission, no other arms would be used than these, for I should prefer to fight with them, and I should not ask for the slightest postponement, adjournment or delay. However, in deference to you, I will consent to wait until to-morrow; but despite what any one may say, longer I will not wait.” Then the king assured him that all would be done as he wished; then he has the lodging-place prepared, and insistently requests his men, who are in the company, to serve him, which they do devotedly. And the king, who would gladly have made peace, had it been possible, went at once to his son and spoke to him like one who desires peace and harmony, saying: “Fair son, be reconciled now with this knight without a fight! He has not come here to disport himself or to hunt or chase, but he comes in search of honour and to increase his fame and renown, and I have seen that he stands in great need of rest. If he had taken my advice, he would not have rashly undertaken, either this month or the next, the battle which he so greatly desires. If thou makest over the Queen to him, dost thou fear any dishonour in the deed? Have no fear of that, for no blame can attach to thee; rather is it wrong to keep that to which one has no rightful claim. He would gladly have entered the battle at once, though his hands and feet are not sound, but cut and wounded.” Meleagant answers his father thus: “You are foolish to be concerned. By the faith I owe St. Peter, I will not take your advice in this matter. I should deserve to be drawn apart with horses, if I heeded your advice. If he is seeking his honour, so do I seek mine; if he is in search of glory, so am I; if he is anxious for the battle, so am I a hundred times more so than he.” “I see plainly,” says the king, “that thou art intent upon thy mad enterprise, and thou shalt have thy fill of it. Since such is thy pleasure, to-morrow thou shalt try thy strength with the knight.” “May no greater hardship ever visit me than that!” Meleagant replies; “I would much rather it were to-day than to-morrow. Just see how much more downcast I am than is usual! My eyes are wild, and my face is pale! I shall have no joy or satisfaction or any cause for happiness until I am actually engaged with him.”

The king understands that further advice and prayers are of no avail, so reluctantly he leaves his son and, taking a good, strong horse and handsome arms, he sends them to him who well deserves them, together with a surgeon who was a loyal and Christian man. There was in the world no more trusty man, and he was more skilled in the cure of wounds than all the doctors of Montpeilier. That night he treated the knight as best he could, in accordance with the king’s command. Already the news was known by the knights and damsels, the ladies and barons of all the country-side, and all through the night until daybreak strangers and friends were making long journeys from all the country round. When morning came, there was such a press before the castle that there was not room to move one’s foot. And the king, rising early in his distress about the battle, goes directly to his son, who had already laced upon his head the helmet which was of Poitiers make. No delay or peace is possible, for though the king did his best, his efforts are of no effect. In the middle of the castle-square, where all the people are assembled, the battle will be fought in compliance with the king’s wish and command. The king sends at once for the stranger knight, and he is conducted to the grounds which were filled with people from the kingdom of Logres. For just as people are accustomed to go to church to hear the organ on the annual feast-days of Pentecost or Christmas, so they had all assembled now. All the foreign maidens from King Arthur’s realm had fasted three days and gone barefoot in their shifts, in order that God might endow with strength and courage the knight who was to fight his adversary on behalf of the captives. Very early, before prime had yet been sounded, both of the knights fully armed were led to the place, mounted upon two horses equally protected. Meleagant was very graceful, alert, and shapely; the hauberk with its fine meshes, the helmet, and the shield hanging from his neck—all these became him well. All the spectators. however, favoured the other knight, even those who wished him ill, and they say that Meleagant is worth nothing compared with him. As soon as they were both on the ground, the king comes and detains them as long as possible in an effort to make peace between them, but he is unable to persuade his son. Then he says to them: “Hold in your horses until I reach the top of the tower. It will be only a slight favour, if you will wait so long for me.” Then in sorrowful mood he leaves them and goes directly to the place where he knew he would find the Queen. She had begged him the evening before to place her where she might have an unobstructed view of the battle; he had granted her the boon, and went now to seek and fetch her, for he was very anxious to show her honour and courtesy. He placed her at one window, and took his place at another window on her right. Beside them, there were gathered there many knights and prudent dames and damsels, who were natives of that land; and there were many others, who were captives, and who were intent upon their orisons and prayers. Those who were prisoners were praying for their lord, for to God and to him they entrusted their succour and deliverance. Then the combatants without delay make all the people stand aside; then they clash the shields with their elbows, and thrust their arms into the straps, and spur at each other so violently that each sends his lance two arms’ length through his opponent’s shield, causing the lance to split and splinter like a flying spark. And the horses meet head on, clashing breast to breast, and the shields and helmets crash with such a noise that it seems like a mighty thunder-clap; not a breast-strap, girth, rein or surcingle remains unbroken, and the saddle-bows, though strong, are broken to pieces. The combatants felt no shame in falling to earth, in view of their mishaps, but they quickly spring to their feet, and without waste of threatening words rush at each other more fiercely than two wild boars, and deal great blows with their swords of steel like men whose hate is violent. Repeatedly they trim the helmets and shining hauberks so fiercely that after the sword the blood spurts out. They furnished an excellent battle, indeed, as they stunned and wounded each other with their heavy, wicked blows. Many fierce, hard, long bouts they sustained with equal honour, so that the onlookers could discern no advantage on either side. But it was inevitable that he who had crossed the bridge should be much weakened by his wounded hands. The people who sided with him were much dismayed, for they notice that his strokes are growing weaker, and they fear he will get the worst of it; it seemed to them that he was weakening, while Meleagant was triumphing, and they began to murmur all around. But up at the window of the tower there was a wise maiden who thought within herself that the knight had not undertaken the battle either on her account or for the sake of the common herd who had gathered about the list, but that his only incentive had been the Queen; and she thought that, if he knew that she was at the window seeing and watching him, his strength and courage would increase. And if she had known his name, she would gladly have called to him to look about him. Then she came to the Queen and said: “Lady, for God’s sake and your own as well as ours, I beseech you to tell me, if you know, the name of yonder knight, to the end that it may be of some help to him.” “Damsel,” the Queen replies, “you have asked me a question in which I see no hate or evil, but rather good intent; the name of the knight, I know, is Lancelot of the Lake.” “God, how happy and glad at heart I am!” the damsel says. Then she leans forward and calls to him by name so loudly that all the people hear: “Lancelot, turn about and see who is here taking note of thee!”

Part III: Vv. 3685 Vv. 5594

When Lancelot heard his name, he was not slow to turn around: he turns and sees seated up there at the window of the tower her whom he desired most in the world to see. From the moment he caught sight of her, he did not turn or take his eyes and face from her, defending himself with backhand blows. And Meleagant meanwhile attacked him as fiercely as he could, delighted to think that the other cannot withstand him now; and they of the country are well pleased too, while the foreigners are so distressed that they can no longer support themselves, and many of them fall to earth either upon their knees or stretched out prone; thus some are glad, and some distressed. Then the damsel cried again from the window: “Ah, Lancelot, how is it that thou dost now conduct thyself so foolishly? Once thou wert the embodiment of prowess and of all that is good, and I do not think God ever made a knight who could equal thee in valour and in worth. But now we see thee so distressed that thou dealest back-hand blows and fightest thy adversary, behind thy back. Turn, so as to be on the other side, and so that thou canst face toward this tower, for it will help thee to keep it in view.” Then Lancelot is so ashamed and mortified that he hates himself, for he knows full well that all have seen how, for some time past, he has had the worst of the fight. Thereupon he leaps backward and so manoeuvres as to force Meleagant into a position between him and the tower. Meleagant makes every effort to regain his former position. But Lancelot rushes upon him, and strikes him so violently upon his body and shield whenever he tries to get around him, that he compels him to whirl about two or three times in spite of himself. Lancelot’s strength and courage grow, partly because he has love’s aid, and partly because he never hated any one so much as him with whom he is engaged. Love and mortal hate, so fierce that never before was such hate seen, make him so fiery and bold that Meleagant ceases to treat it as a jest and begins to stand in awe of him, for he had never met or known so doughty a knight, nor had any knight ever wounded or injured him as this one does. He is glad to get away from him, and he winces and sidesteps, fearing his blows and avoiding them. And Lancelot does not idly threaten him, but drives him rapidly toward the tower where the Queen was stationed on the watch. There upon the tower he did her the homage of his blows until he came so close that, if he advanced another step, he would lose sight of her. Thus Lancelot drove him back and forth repeatedly in whatever direction he pleased, always stopping before the Queen, his lady, who had kindled the flame which compels him to fix his gaze upon her. And this same flame so stirred him against Meleagant that he was enabled to lead and drive him wherever he pleased. In spite of himself he drives him on like a blind man or a man with a wooden leg. The king sees his son so hard pressed that he is sorry for him and he pities him, and he will not deny him aid and assistance if possible; but if he wishes to proceed courteously, he must first beg the Queen’s permission. So he began to say to her: “Lady, since I have had you in my power, I have loved you and faithfully served and honoured you. I never consciously left anything undone in which I saw your honour involved; now repay me for what I have done. For I am about to ask you a favour which you should not grant unless you do so willingly. I plainly see that my son is getting the worst of this battle; I do not speak so because of the chagrin I feel, but in order that Lancelot, who has him in his power, may not kill him. Nor ought you to wish to see him killed; not because he has not wronged both you and him, but because I make the request of you: so tell him, please, to stop beating him. If you will, you can thus repay me for what I have done for you.” “Fair sire, I am willing to do so at your request,” the Queen replies; “had I mortal hatred for your son, whom it is true I do not love, yet you have served me so well that, to please you, I am quite willing that he should desist.” These words were not spoken privately, but Lancelot and Meleagrant heard what was said. The man who is a perfect lover is always obedient and quickly and gladly does his mistress’ pleasure. So Lancelot was constrained to do his Lady’s will, for he loved more than Pyramus, if that were possible for any man to do. Lancelot heard what was said, and as soon as the last word had issued from her mouth, “since you wish him to desist, I am willing that he should do so,” Lancelot would not have touched him or made a movement for anything, even if the other had killed him. He does not touch him or raise his hand. But Meleagant, beside himself with rage and shame when he hears that it has been necessary to intercede in his behalf, strikes him with all the strength he can muster. And the king went down from the tower to upbraid his son, and entering the list he addressed him thus: “How now? Is this becoming, to strike him when he is not touching thee? Thou art too cruel and savage, and thy prowess is now out of place! For we all know beyond a doubt that he is thy superior.” Then Meleagant, choking with shame, says to the king: “I think you must be blind! I do not believe you see a thing. Any one must indeed be blind to think I am not better than he.” “Seek some one to believe thy words!” the king replies, “for all the people know whether thou speakest the truth or a lie. All of us know full well the truth.” Then the king bids his barons lead his son away, which they do at once in execution of his command: they led away Meleagant. But it was not necessary to use force to induce Lancelot to withdraw, for Meleagant might have harmed him grievously, before he would have sought to defend himself. Then the king says to his son: “So help me God, now thou must make peace and surrender the Queen. Thou must cease this quarrel once for all and withdraw thy claim.” “That is great nonsense you have uttered! I hear you speak foolishly. Stand aside! Let us fight, and do not mix in our affairs!” But the king says he will take a hand, for he knows well that, were the fight to continue, Lancelot would kill his son. “He kill me! Rather would I soon defeat and kill him, if you would leave us alone and let us fight.” Then the king says: “So help me God, all that thou sayest is of no avail.” “Why is that?” he asks. “Because I will not consent. I will not so trust in thy folly and pride as to allow thee to be killed. A man is a fool to court death, as thou dost in thy ignorance. I know well that thou hatest me because I wish to save thy life. God will not let me see and witness thy death, if I can help it, for it would cause me too much grief.” He talks to him and reproves him until finally peace and good-will are restored. The terms of the peace are these: he will surrender the Queen to Lancelot, provided that the latter without reluctance will fight them again within a year of such time as he shall choose to summon him: this is no trial to Lancelot. When peace is made, all the people press about, and it is decided that the battle shall be fought at the court of King Arthur, who holds Britain and Cornwall in his sway: there they decide that it shall be. And the Queen has to consent, and Lancelot has to promise, that if Meleagant can prove him recreant, she shall come back with him again without the interference of any one. When the Queen and Lancelot had both agreed to this, the arrangement was concluded, and they both retired and removed their arms. Now the custom in the country was that when one issued forth, all the others might do so too. All called down blessings upon Lancelot: and you may know that he must have felt great joy, as in truth he did. All the strangers assemble and rejoice over Lancelot, speaking so as to be heard by him: “Sire, in truth we were joyful as soon as we heard your name, for we felt sure at once that we should all be set free.” There was a great crowd present at this glad scene, as each one strives and presses forward to touch him if possible. Any one who succeeded in touching him was more delighted than he could tell. There was plenty of joy, and of sorrow too; those who were now set free rejoiced unrestrainedly; but Meleagant and his followers have not anything they want, but are pensive, gloomy, and downcast. The king turns away from the list, taking with him Lancelot, who begs him to take him to the Queen. “I shall not fail to do so,” the king replies; “for it seems to me the proper thing to do. And if you like, I will show you Kay the seneschal.” At this Lancelot is so glad that he almost falls at his feet. Then the king took him at once into the hall, where the Queen had come to wait for him.

When the Queen saw the king holding Lancelot by the hand, she rose before the king, but she looked displeased with clouded brow, and she spoke not a word. “Lady, here is Lancelot come to see you,” says the king; “you ought to be pleased and satisfied.” “I, sire? He cannot please me. I care nothing about seeing him.” “Come now, lady,” says the king who was very frank and courteous, “what induces you to act like this? You are too scornful toward a man who has served you so faithfully that he has repeatedly exposed his life to mortal danger on this journey for your sake, and who has defended and rescued you from my son Meleagant who had deeply wronged you.” “Sire, truly he has made poor use of his time. I shall never deny that I feel no gratitude toward him.” Now Lancelot is dumbfounded; but he replies very humbly like a polished lover: “Lady, certainly I am grieved at this, but I dare not ask your reason.” The Queen listened as Lancelot voiced his disappointment, but in order to grieve and confound him, she would not answer a single word, but returned to her room. And Lancelot followed her with his eyes and heart until she reached the door; but she was not long in sight, for the room was close by. His eyes would gladly have followed her, had that been possible; but the heart, which is more lordly and masterful in its strength, went through the door after her, while the eyes remained behind weeping with the body. And the king said privily to him: “Lancelot, I am amazed at what this means: and how it comes about that the Queen cannot endure the sight of you, and that she is so unwilling to speak with you. If she is ever accustomed to speak with you, she ought not to be niggardly now or avoid conversation with you, after what you have done for her. Now tell me, if you know, why and for what misdeed she has shown you such a countenance.” “Sire, I did not notice that just now; but she will not look at me or hear my words, and that distresses and grieves me much.” “Surely,” says the king, “she is in the wrong, for you have risked your life for her. Come away now, fair sweet friend, and we shall go to speak with the seneschal.” “I shall be glad to do so,” he replies. Then they both go to the seneschal. As soon as Lancelot came where he was, the seneschal’s first exclamation was: “How thou hast shamed me!” “I? How so?” Lancelot inquires; “tell me what disgrace have I brought upon you?” “A very great disgrace, for thou hast carried out what I could not accomplish, and thou hast done what I could not do.”

Then the king left them together in the room, and went out alone. And Lancelot inquires of the seneschal if he has been badly off. “Yes,” he answers, “and I still am so. I was never more wretched than I am now. And I should have died a long time ago, had it not been for the king, who in his compassion has shown me so much gentleness and kindness that he willingly let me lack nothing of which I stood in need; but I was furnished at once with everything that I desired. But opposed to the kindness which he showed me, was Meleagant his son, who is full of wickedness, and who summoned the physicians to him and bade them apply such ointments as would kill me. Such a father and stepfather have I had! For when the king had a good plaster applied to my wounds in his desire that I should soon be cured, his treacherous son, wishing to put me to death, had it promptly taken off and some harmful salve applied. But I am very sure that the king was ignorant of this; he would not tolerate such base and murderous tricks. But you do not know how courteous he has been to my lady: no frontier tower since the time that Noah built the ark was ever so carefully guarded, for he has guarded her so vigilantly that, though his son chafed under the restraint, he would nor let him see her except in the presence of the king himself. Up to the present time the king in his mercy has shown her all the marks of consideration which she herself proposed. She alone had the disposition of her affairs. And the king esteemed her all the more for the loyalty she showed. But is it true, as I am told, that she is so angry with you that she has publicly refused to speak with you?” “You have been told the exact truth,” Lancelot replies, “but for God’s sake, can you tell me why she is so displeased with me?” He replies that he does not know, and that he is greatly surprised at it. “Well, let it be as she pleases,” says Lancelot, feeling his helplessness; “I must now take my leave, and I shall go to seek my lord Gawain who has entered this land, and who arranged with me that he would proceed directly to the waterbridge.” Then, leaving the room, he appeared before the king and asked for leave to proceed in that direction. And the king willingly grants him leave to go. Then those whom Lancelot had set free and delivered from prison ask him what they are to do. And he replies: “All those who desire may come with me, and those who wish to stay with the Queen may do so: there is no reason why they should accompany me.” Then all those, who so desire, accompany him, more glad and joyous than is their wont. With the Queen remain her damsels who are light of heart, and many knights and ladies too. But there is not one of those who stay behind, who would not have preferred to return to his own country to staying there. But on my lord Gawain’s account, whose arrival is expected, the Queen keeps them, saying that she will never stir until she has news of him.

The news spreads everywhere that the Queen is free to go, and that all the other prisoners have been set at liberty and are free to go whenever it suits and pleases them. Wherever the people of the land gather together, they ask each other about the truth of this report, and never talk of anything else. They are very much enraged that all the dangerous passes have been overcome, and that any one may come and go as he pleases. But when the natives of the country, who had not been present at the battle, learned how Lancelot had been the victor, they all betook themselves to the place where they knew he must pass by, thinking that the king would be well pleased if they should seize Lancelot and hale him back to him. All of his own men were without their arms, and therefore they were at a disadvantage when they saw the natives of the country coming under arms. It was not strange that they seized Lancelot, who was without his arms. They lead him back prisoner, his feet lashed together beneath his horse. Then his own men say: “Gentlemen, this is an evil deed; for the king has given us his safe-conduct, and we are under his protection.” But the others reply: “We do not know how that may be; but as we have taken you, you must return with us to court.” The rumour, which swiftly flies and runs, reaches the king, that his men have seized Lancelot and put him to death. When the king hears it, he is sorely grieved and swears angrily by his head that they who have killed him shall surely die for the deed; and that, if he can seize or catch them, it shall be their fate to be hanged, burned, or drowned. And if they attempt to deny their deed, he will not believe what they say, for they have brought him such grief and shame that he would be disgraced were vengeance not to be exacted from them; but he will be avenged without a doubt. The news of this spread until it reached the Queen, who was sitting at meat. She almost killed herself on hearing the false report about Lancelot, but she supposes it to be true, and therefore she is in such dismay that she almost loses the power to speak; but, because of those present, she forces herself to say: “In truth, I am sorry for his death, and it is no wonder that I grieve, for he came into this country for my sake, and therefore I should mourn for him.” Then she says to herself, so that the others should not hear, that no one need ask her to drink or eat, if it is true that he is dead, in whose life she found her own. Then grieving she rises from the table, and makes her lament, but so that no one hears or notices her. She is so beside herself that she repeatedly grasps her throat with the desire to kill herself; but first she confesses to herself, and repents with self-reproach, blaming and censuring herself for the wrong she had done him, who, as she knew, had always been hers, and would still be hers, if he were alive. She is so distressed at the thought of her cruelty, that her beauty is seriously impaired. Her cruelty and meanness affected her and marred her beauty more than all the vigils and fastings with which she afflicted herself. When all her sins rise up before her, she gathers them together, and as she reviews them, she repeatedly exclaims: “Alas! of what was I thinking when my lover stood before me and I should have welcomed him, that I would not listen to his words? Was I not a fool, when I refused to look at or speak to him? Foolish indeed? Rather was I base and cruel, so help me God. I intended it as a jest, but he did not take it so, and has not pardoned me. I am sure it was no one but me who gave him his death-blow. When he came before me smiling and expecting that I would be glad to see him and would welcome him, and when I would not look at him, was not that a mortal blow? When I refused to speak with him, then doubtless at one blow I deprived him of his heart and life. These two strokes have killed him, I am sure; no other bandits have caused his death. God! can I ever make amends for this murder and this crime? No, indeed; sooner will the rivers and the sea dry up. Alas! how much better I should feel, and how much comfort I should take, if only once before he died I had held him in my arms! What? Yes, certainly, quite unclad, in order the better to enjoy him. If he is dead, I am very wicked not to destroy myself. Why? Can it harm my lover for me to live on after he is dead, if I take no pleasure in anything but in the woe I bear for him? In giving myself up to grief after his death, the very woes I court would be sweet to me, if he were only still alive. It is wrong for a woman to wish to die rather than to suffer for her lover’s sake. It is certainly sweet for me to mourn him long. I would rather be beaten alive than die and be at rest.”

For two days the Queen thus mourned for him without eating or drinking, until they thought she too would die. There are plenty of people ready to carry bad news rather than good. The news reaches Lancelot that his lady and sweetheart is dead. You need have no doubt of the grief he felt; every one may feel sure that he was afflicted and overcome with grief. Indeed, if you would know the truth, he was so downcast that he held his life in slight esteem. He wished to kill himself at once, but first he uttered a brief lament. He makes a running noose at one end of the belt he wore, and then tearfully communes thus with himself: “Ah, death, how hast thou spied me out and undone me, when in the bloom of health! I am undone, and yet I feel no pain except the grief within my heart. This is a terrible mortal grief. I am willing that it should be so, and if God will, I shall die of it. Then can I not die some other way, without God’s consent? Yes, if he will let me tie this noose around my neck. I think I can compel death, even against her will, to take my life. Death, who covets only those who fear her, will not come to me; but my belt will bring her within my power, and as soon as she is mine, she will execute my desire. But, in truth, she will come too tardily for me, for I yearn to have her now!” Then he delays and hesitates no longer, but adjusts his head within the noose until it rests about his neck; and in order that he may not fail to harm himself, he fastens the end of the belt tightly about the saddle-bow, without attracting the attention of any one. Then he let himself slide to earth, intending his horse to drag him until he was lifeless, for he disdains to live another hour. When those who ride with him see him fallen to earth, they suppose him to be in a faint, for no one sees the noose which he had attached about his neck. At once they caught him in their arms and, on raising him, they found the noose which he had put around his neck and with which he sought to kill himself. They quickly cut the noose; but the noose had so hurt his throat that for some time he could not speak; the veins of his neck and throat are almost broken. Now he could not harm himself, even had he wished to do so; however, he is grieved that they have laid hands on him, and he almost burns up with rage, for willingly would he have killed himself had no one chanced to notice him. And now when he cannot harm himself, he cries: “Ah, vile and shameless death! For God’s sake, why hadst thou not the power and might to kill me before my lady died? I suppose it was because thou wouldst not deign to do what might be a kindly deed. If thou didst spare me, it must be attributed to thy wickedness. Ah, what kind of service and kindness is that! How well hast thou employed them here! A curse upon him who thanks thee or feels gratitude for such a service! I know not which is more my enemy: life, which detains me, or death, which will not slay me. Each one torments me mortally; and it serves me right, so help me God, that in spite of myself I should still live on. For I ought to have killed myself as soon as my lady the Queen showed her hate for me; she did not do it without cause, but she had some good reason, though I know not what it is. And if I had known what it was before her soul went to God, I should have made her such rich amends as would have pleased her and gained her mercy. God! what could my crime have been? I think she must have known that I mounted upon the cart. I do not know what other cause she can have to blame me. This has been my undoing. If this is the reason of her hate, God! what harm could this crime do? Any one who would reproach me for such an act never knew what love is, for no one could mention anything which, if prompted by love, ought to be turned into a reproach. Rather, everything that one can do for his lady-love is to be regarded as a token of his love and courtesy. Yet, I did not do it for my `lady-love’. I know not by what name to call her, whether `lady-love’, or not. I do not dare to call her by this name. But I think I know this much of love: that if she loved me, she ought not to esteem me less for this crime, but rather call me her true lover, inasmuch as I regarded it as an honour to do all love bade me do, even to mount upon a cart. She ought to ascribe this to love; and this is a certain proof that love thus tries his devotees and thus learns who is really his. But this service did not please my lady, as I discovered by her countenance. And yet her lover did for her that for which many have shamefully reproached and blamed him, though she was the cause of it; and many blame me for the part I have played, and have turned my sweetness into bitterness. In truth, such is the custom of those who know so little of love, that even honour they wash in shame. But whoever dips honour into shame, does not wash it, but rather sullies it. But they, who maltreat him so, are quite ignorant of love; and he, who fears not his commands, boasts himself very superior to him. For unquestionably he fares well who obeys the commands of love, and whatever he does is pardonable, but he is the coward who does not dare.”

Thus Lancelot makes his lament, and his men stand grieving by his side, keeping hold of him and guarding him. Then the news comes that the Queen is not dead. Thereupon Lancelot at once takes comfort, and if his grief for her death had before been intense and deep, now his joy for her life was a hundred thousand times as great. And when they arrived within six or seven leagues of the castle where King Bademagu was, grateful news of Lancelot was told him, how he was alive and was coming hale and hearty, and this news the king was glad to hear. He did a very courteous thing in going at once to appraise the Queen. And she replies: “Fair sire, since you say so, I believe it is true, but I assure you that, if he were dead, I should never be happy again. All my joy would be cut off, if a knight had been killed in my service.”

Then the king leaves her, and the Queen yearns ardently for the arrival of her lover and her joy. She has no desire this time to bear him any grudge. But rumour, which never rests but runs always unceasingly, again reaches the Queen to the effect that Lancelot would have killed himself for her sake, if he had had the chance. She is happy at the thought that this is true, but she would not have had it happen so for anything, for her sorrow would have been too great. Thereupon Lancelot arrived in haste. As soon as the king sees him, he runs to kiss and embrace him. He feels as if he ought to fly, borne along by the buoyancy of his joy. But his satisfaction is cut short by those who had taken and bound his guest, and the king tells them they have come in an evil hour, for they shall all be killed and confounded. Then they made answer that they thought he would have it so. “It is I whom you have insulted in doing your pleasure. He has no reason to complain,” the king replies; “you have not shamed him at all, but only me who was protecting him. However you look at it, the shame is mine. But if you escape me now, you will see no joke in this.” When Lancelot hears his wrath, he puts forth every effort to make peace and adjust matters; when his efforts have met with success, the king takes him away to see the Queen. This time the Queen did not lower her eyes to the ground, but she went to meet him cheerfully, honouring him all she could, and making him sit down by her side. Then they talked together at length of all that was upon their hearts, and love furnished them with so much to say that topics did not lack. And when Lancelot sees how well he stands, and that all he says finds favour with the Queen, he says to her in confidence: “Lady, I marvel greatly why you received me with such a countenance when you saw me the day before yesterday, and why you would not speak a word to me: I almost died of the blow you gave me, and I had not the courage to dare to question you about it, as I now venture to do. I am ready now, lady, to make amends, when you have told me what has been the crime which has caused me such distress.” Then the Queen replies: “What? Did you not hesitate for shame to mount the cart? You showed you were loath to get in, when you hesitated for two whole steps. That is the reason why I would neither address nor look at you.” “May God save me from such a crime again,” Lancelot replies, “and may God show me no mercy, if you were not quite right! For God’s sake, lady, receive my amends at once, and tell me, for God’s sake, if you can ever pardon me.” “Friend, you are quite forgiven,” the Queen replies; “I pardon you willingly.” “Thank you for that, lady,” he then says; “but I cannot tell you here all that I should like to say; I should like to talk with you more at leisure, if possible.” Then the Queen indicates a window by her glance rather than with her finger, and says: “Come through the garden to-night and speak with me at yonder window, when every one inside has gone to sleep. You will not be able to get in: I shall be inside and you outside: to gain entrance will be impossible. I shall be able to touch you only with my lips or hand, but, if you please, I will stay there until morning for love of you. Our bodies cannot be joined, for close beside me in my room lies Kay the seneschal, who is still suffering from his wounds. And the door is not open, but is tightly closed and guarded well. When you come, take care to let no spy catch sight of you.” “Lady,” says he, “if I can help it, no spy shall see me who might think or speak evil of us.” Then, having agreed upon this plan, they separate very joyfully.

Lancelot leaves the room in such a happy frame that all his past troubles are forgotten. But he was so impatient for the night to come that his restlessness made the day seem longer than a hundred ordinary days or than an entire year. If night had only come, he would gladly have gone to the trysting place. Dark and sombre night at last won its struggle with the day, and wrapped it up in its covering, and laid it away beneath its cloak. When he saw the light of day obscured, he pretended to be tired and worn, and said that, in view of his protracted vigils, he needed rest. You, who have ever done the same, may well understand and guess that he pretends to be tired and goes to bed in order to deceive the people of the house; but he cared nothing about his bed, nor would he have sought rest there for anything, for he could not have done so and would not have dared, and furthermore he would not have cared to possess the courage or the power to do so. Soon he softly rose, and was pleased to find that no moon or star was shining, and that in the house there was no candle, lamp, or lantern burning. Thus he went out and looked about, but there was no one on the watch for him, for all thought that he would sleep in his bed all night. Without escort or company he quickly went out into the garden, meeting no one on the way, and he was so fortunate as to find that a part of the garden-wall had recently fallen down. Through this break he passes quickly and proceeds to the window, where he stands, taking good care not to cough or sneeze, until the Queen arrives clad in a very white chemise. She wore no cloak or coat, but had thrown over her a short cape of scarlet cloth and shrew-mouse fur. As soon as Lancelot saw the Queen leaning on the window-sill behind the great iron bars, he honoured her with a gentle salute. She promptly returned his greeting, for he was desirous of her, and she of him. Their talk and conversation are not of vulgar, tiresome affairs. They draw close to one another, until each holds the other’s hand. But they are so distressed at not being able to come together more completely, that they curse the iron bars. Then Lancelot asserts that, with the Queen’s consent, he will come inside to be with her, and that the bars cannot keep him out. And the Queen replies: “Do you not see how the bars are stiff to bend and hard to break? You could never so twist, pull or drag at them as to dislodge one of them.” “Lady,” says he, “have no fear of that. It would take more than these bars to keep me out. Nothing but your command could thwart my power to come to you. If you will but grant me your permission, the way will open before me. But if it is not your pleasure, then the way is so obstructed that I could not possibly pass through.” “Certainly,” she says, “I consent. My will need not stand in your way; but you must wait until I retire to my bed again, so that no harm may come to you, for it would be no joke or jest if the seneschal, who is sleeping here, should wake up on hearing you. So it is best for me to withdraw, for no good could come of it, if he should see me standing here.” “Go then, lady,” he replies; “but have no fear that I shall make any noise. I think I can draw out the bars so softly and with so little effort that no one shall be aroused.”

Then the Queen retires, and he prepares to loosen the window. Seizing the bars, he pulls and wrenches them until he makes them bend and drags them from their places. But the iron was so sharp that the end of his little finger was cut to the nerve, and the first joint of the next finger was torn; but he who is intent upon something else paid no heed to any of his wounds or to the blood which trickled down. Though the window is not low, Lancelot gets through it quickly and easily. First he finds Kay asleep in his bed, then he comes to the bed of the Queen, whom he adores and before whom he kneels, holding her more dear than the relic of any saint. And the Queen extends her arms to him and, embracing him, presses him tightly against her bosom, drawing him into the bed beside her and showing him every possible satisfaction; her love and her heart go out to him. It is love that prompts her to treat him so; and if she feels great love for him, he feels a hundred thousand times as much for her. For there is no love at all in other hearts compared with what there is in his; in his heart love was so completely embodied that it was niggardly toward all other hearts. Now Lancelot possesses all he wants, when the Queen voluntarily seeks his company and love, and when he holds her in his arms, and she holds him in hers. Their sport is so agreeable and sweet, as they kiss and fondle each other, that in truth such a marvellous joy comes over them as was never heard or known. But their joy will not be revealed by me, for in a story, it has no place. Yet, the most choice and delightful satisfaction was precisely that of which our story must not speak. That night Lancelot’s joy and pleasure were very great. But, to his sorrow, day comes when he must leave his mistress’ side. It cost him such pain to leave her that he suffered a real martyr’s agony. His heart now stays where the Queen remains; he has not the power to lead it away, for it finds such pleasure in the Queen that it has no desire to leave her: so his body goes, and his heart remains. But enough of his body stays behind to spot and stain the sheets with the blood which has fallen from his fingers. Full of sighs and tears, Lancelot leaves in great distress. He grieves that no time is fixed for another meeting, but it cannot be. Regretfully he leaves by the window through which he had entered so happily. He was so badly wounded in the fingers that they were in sorry, state; yet he straightened the bars and set them in their place again, so that from neither side, either before or behind, was it evident that any one had drawn out or bent any of the bars. When he leaves the room, he bows and acts precisely as if he were before a shrine; then he goes with a heavy heart, and reaches his lodgings without being recognised by any one. He throws himself naked upon his bed without awaking any one, and then for the first time he is surprised to notice the cuts in his fingers; but he is not at all concerned, for he is very sure that the wound was caused by dragging the window bars from the wall. Therefore he was not at all worried, for he would rather have had both arms dragged from his body than not enter through the window. But he would have been very angry and distressed, if he had thus injured and wounded himself under any other circumstances.

In the morning, within her curtained room, the Queen had fallen into a gentle sleep; she had not noticed that her sheets were spotted with blood, but she supposed them to be perfectly white and clean and presentable. Now Meleagant, as soon as he was dressed and ready, went to the room where the Queen lay. He finds her awake, and he sees the sheets spotted with fresh drops of blood, whereupon he nudges his companions and, suspicious of some mischief, looks at the bed of Kay the seneschal, and sees that his sheets are blood-stained too, for you must know that in the night his wounds had begun to bleed afresh. Then he said: “Lady, now I have found the evidence that I desired. It is very true that any man is a fool to try to confine a woman: he wastes his efforts and his pains. He who tries to keep her under guard loses her sooner than the man who takes no thought of her. A fine watch, indeed, has been kept by my father, who is guarding you on my behalf! He has succeeded in keeping you from me, but, in spite of him, Kay the seneschal has looked upon you last night, and has done what he pleased with you, as can readily be proved.” “What is that?” she asks. “Since I must speak, I find blood on your sheets, which proves the fact. I know it and can prove it, because I find on both your sheets and his the blood which issued from his wounds: the evidence is very strong.” Then the Queen saw on both beds the bloody sheets, and marvelling, she blushed with shame and said: “So help me God, this blood which I see upon my sheets was never brought here by Kay, but my nose bled during the night, and I suppose it must be from my nose.” In saying so, she thinks she tells the truth. “By my head,” says Meleagant, “there is nothing in what you say. Swearing is of no avail, for you are taken in your guilt, and the truth will soon be proved.” Then he said to the guards who were present: “Gentlemen, do not move, and see to it that the sheets are not taken from the bed until I return. I wish the king to do me justice, as soon as he has seen the truth.” Then he searched until he found him, and failing at his feet, he said: “Sire, come to see what you have failed to guard. Come to see the Queen, and you shall see the certain marvels which I have already seen and tested. But, before you go, I beg you not to fail to be just and upright toward me. You know well to what danger I have exposed myself for the Queen; yet, you are no friend of mine and keep her from me under guard. This morning I went to see her in her bed, and I remarked that Kay lies with her every night. Sire, for God’s sake, be not angry, if I am disgruntled and if I complain. For it is very humiliating for me to be hated and despised by one with whom Kay is allowed to lie.” “Silence!” says the king; “I don’t believe it.” “Then come, my lord, and see the sheets and the state in which Kay has left them. Since you will not believe my words, and since you think I am lying, I will show you the sheets and the quilt covered with blood from Kay’s wounds.” “Come now,” says the king, “I wish to see for myself, and my eyes will judge of the truth.” Then the king goes directly to the room, where the Queen got up at his approach. He sees that the sheets are blood-stained on her bed and on Kay’s alike and he says: “Lady, it is going badly now, if what my son has said is true.” Then she replies: “So help me God, never even in a dream was uttered such a monstrous lie. I think Kay the seneschal is courteous and loyal enough not to commit such a deed, and besides, I do not expose my body in the market-place, nor offer it of my own free will. Surely, Kay is not the man to make an insulting proposal to me, and I have never desired and shall never desire to do such a thing myself.” “Sire, I shall be much obliged to you,” says Meleagant to his father, “if Kay shall be made to atone for this outrage, and the Queen’s shame thus be exposed. It devolves upon you to see that justice is done, and this justice I now request and claim. Kay has betrayed King Arthur, his lord, who had such confidence in him that he entrusted to him what he loved most in the world.” “Let me answer, sire,” says Kay, “and I shall exonerate myself. May God have no mercy upon my soul when I leave this world, if I ever lay with my lady! Indeed, I should rather be dead than ever do my lord such an ugly wrong, and may God never grant me better health than I have now but rather kill me on the spot, if such a thought ever entered my mind! But I know that my wounds bled profusely last night, and that is the reason why my sheets are stained with blood. That is why your son suspects me, but surely he has no right to do so.” And Meleagant answers him: “So help me God, the devils and demons have betrayed you. You grew too heated last night and, as a result of your exertions, your wounds have doubtless bled afresh. There is no use in your denying it; we can see it, and it is perfectly evident. It is right that he should atone for his crime, who is so plainly taken in his guilt. Never did a knight with so fair a name commit such iniquities as this, and yours is the shame for it.” “Sire, sire,” says Kay to the king, “I will defend the Queen and myself against the accusation of your son. He harasses and distresses me, though he has no ground to treat me so.” “You cannot fight,” the king replies, “you are too ill.” “Sire, if you will allow it, I will fight with him, ill as I am, and will show him that I am not guilty of the crime which he imputes to me.” But the Queen, having secretly sent word to Lancelot, tells the king that she will present a knight who will defend the seneschal, if Meleagant dares to urge this charge. Then Meleagant said at once: “There is no knight without exception, even were he a giant, whom I will not fight until one of us is defeated.” Then Lancelot came in, and with him such a rout of knights that the whole hall was filled with them. As soon as he had entered, in the hearing of all, both young and old, the Queen told what had happened, and said: “Lancelot, this insult has been done me by Meleagant. In the presence of all who hear his words he says I have lied, if you do not make him take it back. Last night, he asserted, Kay lay with me, because he found my sheets, like his, all stained with blood; and he says that he stands convicted, unless he will undertake his own defence, or unless some one else will fight the battle on his behalf.” Lancelot says: “You need never use arguments with me. May it not please God that either you or he should be thus discredited! I am ready to fight and to prove to the extent of my power that he never was guilty of such a thought. I am ready to employ my strength in his behalf, and to defend him against this charge.” Then Meleagant jumped up and said: “So help me God, I am pleased and well satisfied with that: no one need think that I object.” And Lancelot said: “My lord king, I am well acquainted with suits and laws, with trials and verdicts: in a question of veracity an oath should be taken before the fight.” Meleagant at once replies: “I agree to take an oath; so let the relics be brought at once, for I know well that I am right.” And Lancelot answers him: “So help me God, no one who ever knew Kay the seneschal would doubt his word on such a point.” Then they call for their horses, and ask that their arms be brought. This is promptly done, and when the valets had armed them, they were ready for the fight. Then the holy relics are brought forth: Meleagant steps forward, with Lancelot by his side, and both fall on their knees. Then Meleagant, laying his hands upon the relics, swears unreservedly: “So help me God and this holy relic, Kay the seneschal lay with the Queen in her bed last night and, had his pleasure with her.” “And I swear that thou liest,” says Lancelot, “and furthermore I swear that he neither lay with her nor touched her. And may it please God to take vengeance upon him who has lied, and may He bring the truth to light! Moreover, I will take another oath and swear, whoever may dislike it or be displeased, that if I am permitted to vanquish Meleagant to-day, I will show him no mercy, so help me God and these relics here!” The king felt no joy when he heard this oath.

When the oaths had been taken, their horses were brought forward, which were fair and good in every way. Each man mounts his own home, and they ride at once at each other as fast as the steeds can carry them; and when the horses are in mid-career, the knights strike each other so fiercely that there is nothing left of the lances in their hands. Each brings the other to earth; however, they are not dismayed, but they rise at once and attack each other with their sharp drawn swords. The burning sparks fly in the air from their helmets. They assail each other so bitterly with the drawn swords in their hands that, as they thrust and draw, they encounter each other with their blows and will not pause even to catch their breath. The king in his grief and anxiety called the Queen, who had gone up in the tower to look out from the balcony: he begged her for God’s sake, the Creator, to let them be separated. “Whatever is your pleasure is agreeable to me,” the Queen says honestly: “I shall not object to anything you do.” Lancelot plainly heard what reply the Queen made to the king’s request, and from that time he ceased to fight and renounced the struggle at once. But Meleagant does not wish to stop, and continues to strike and hew at him. But the king rushes between them and stops his son, who declares with an oath that he has no desire for peace. He wants to fight, and cares not for peace. Then the king says to him: “Be quiet, and take my advice, and be sensible. No shame or harm shall come to thee, if thou wilt do what is right and heed my words. Dost thou not remember that thou hast agreed to fight him at King Arthur’s court? And dost thou not suppose that it would be a much greater honour for thee to defeat him there than anywhere else?” The king says this to see if he can so influence him as to appease him and separate them. And Lancelot, who was impatient to go in search of my lord Gawain, requests leave of the king and Queen to depart. With their permission he goes away toward the water-bridge, and after him there followed a great company of knights. But it would have suited him very well, if many of those who went had stayed behind. They make long days’ journeys until they approach the water-bridge, but are still about a league from it. Before they came in sight of the bridge, a dwarf came to meet them on a mighty hunter, holding a scourge with which to urge on and incite his steed. In accordance with his instructions, he at once inquired: “Which of you is Lancelot? Don’t conceal him from me; I am of your party; tell me confidently, for I ask the question for your good.” Lancelot replies in his own behalf, and says: “I am he whom thou seekest and askest for.” “Ah,” says the dwarf, “frank knight, leave these people, and trust in me. Come along with me alone, for I will take thee to a goodly place. Let no one follow thee for anything, but let them wait here; for we shall return presently.” He, suspecting no harm in this, bids all his men stay there, and follows the dwarf who has betrayed him. Meanwhile his men who wait for him may continue to expect him long in vain, for they, who have taken and seized him, have no desire to give him up. And his men are in such a state of grief at his failure to return that they do not know what steps to take. They all say sorrowfully that the dwarf has betrayed them. It would be useless to inquire for him: with heavy hearts they begin to search, but they know not where to look for him with any hope of finding him. So they all take counsel, and the most reasonable and sensible agree on this, it seems: to go to the passage of the water-bridge, which is close by, to see if they can find my lord Gawain in wood or plain, and then with his advice search for Lancelot. Upon this plan they all agree without dissension. Toward the water-bridge they go, and as soon as they reach the bridge, they see my lord Gawain overturned and fallen from the bridge into the stream which is very deep. One moment he rises, and the next he sinks; one moment they see him, and the next they lose him from sight. They make such efforts that they succeed in raising him with branches, poles and hooks. He had nothing but his hauberk on his back, and on his head was fixed his helmet, which was worth ten of the common sort, and he wore his iron greaves, which were all rusty with his sweat, for he had endured great trials, and had passed victoriously through many perils and assaults. His lance, his shield, and horse were all behind on the other bank. Those who have rescued him do not believe he is alive. For his body was full of water, and until he got rid of it, they did not hear him speak a word. But when his speech and voice and the passageway to his heart are free, and as soon, as what he said could be heard and understood, he tried to speak he inquired at once for the Queen, whether those present had any news of her. And they replied that she is still with King Bademagu, who serves her well and honourably. “Has no one come to seek her in this land?” my lord Gawain then inquires of them. And they answer him: “Yes, indeed.” “Who?” “Lancelot of the Lake,” they say, “who crossed the sword-bridge, and rescued and delivered her as well as all the rest of us. But we have been betrayed by a pot-bellied, humpbacked, and crabbed dwarf. He has deceived us shamefully in seducing Lancelot from us, and we do not know what he has done with him.” “When was that?” my lord Gawain inquires. “Sire, near here this very day this trick was played on us, while he was coming with us to meet you.” “And how has Lancelot been occupied since he entered this land?” Then they begin to tell him all about him in detail, and then they tell him about the Queen, how she is waiting for him and asserting that nothing could induce her to leave the country, until she sees him or hears some credible news of him. To them my lord Gawain replies: “When we leave this bridge, we shall go to search for Lancelot.” There is not one who does not advise rather that they go to the Queen at once, and have the king seek Lancelot, for it is their opinion that his son Meleagant has shown his enmity by having him cast into prison. But if the king can learn where he is, he will certainly make him surrender him: they can rely upon this with confidence.

They all agreed upon this plan, and started at once upon their way until they drew near the court where the Queen and king were. There, too, was Kay the seneschal, and that disloyal man, full to overflowing of treachery, who has aroused the greatest anxiety for Lancelot on the part of the party which now arrives. They feel they have been discomfited and betrayed, and they make great lament in their misery. It is not a gracious message which reports this mourning to the Queen. Nevertheless, she deports herself with as good a grace as possible. She resolves to endure it, as she must, for the sake of my lord Gawain. However, she does not so conceal her grief that it does not somewhat appear. She has to show both joy and grief at once: her heart is empty for Lancelot, and to my lord Gawain she shows excessive joy. Every one who hears of the loss of Lancelot is grief-stricken and distracted. The king would have rejoiced at the coming of my lord Gawain and would have been delighted with his acquaintance; but he is so sorrowful and distressed over the betrayal of Lancelot that he is prostrated and full of grief. And the Queen beseeches him insistently to have him searched for, up and down throughout the land, without postponement or delay. My lord Gawain and Kay and all the others join in this prayer and request. “Leave this care to me, and speak no more of it,” the king replies, “for I have been ready to do so for some time. Without need of request or prayer this search shall be made with thoroughness.” Everyone bows in sign of gratitude, and the king at once sends messengers through his realm, sagacious and prudent men-at-arms, who inquired for him throughout the land. They made inquiry for him everywhere, but gained no certain news of him. Not finding any, they come back to the place where the knights remain; then Gawain and Kay and all the others say that they will go in search of him, fully armed and lance in rest; they will not trust to sending some one else.

One day after dinner they were all in the hall putting on their arms, and the point had been reached where there was nothing to do but start, when a valet entered and passed by them all until he came before the Queen, whose cheeks were by no means rosy! For she was in such mourning for Lancelot, of whom she had no news, that she had lost all her colour. The valet greeted her as well as the king, who was by her side, and then all the others and Kay and my lord Gawain. He held a letter in his hand which he gave to the king, who took it. The king had it read in the hearing of all by one who made no mistake in reading it. The reader knew full well how to communicate to them what was written in the parchment: he says that Lancelot sends greetings to the king as his kind lord, and thanks him for the honour and kindness he has shown him, and that he now places himself at the king’s orders. And know that he is now hale and hearty at King Arthur’s court, and he bids him tell the Queen to come thither, if she will consent, in company with my lord Gawain and Kay. In proof of which, he affixed his signature which they should recognise, as indeed they did. At this they were very happy and glad; the whole court resounds with their jubilation, and they say they will start next day as soon as it is light. So, when the day broke, they make ready and prepare: they rise and mount and start. With great joy and jubilee the king escorts them for a long distance on their way. When he has conducted them to the frontier and has seen them safely across the border, he takes leave of the Queen, and likewise of all the rest. And when he comes to take his leave, the Queen is careful to express her gratitude for all the kindness he has shown to her, and throwing her arms about his neck, she offers and promises him her own service and that of her lord: no greater promise can she make. And my lord Gawain promises his service to him, as to his lord and friend, and then Kay does likewise, and all the rest. Then the king commends them to God as they start upon their way. After these three, he bids the rest farewell, and then turns his face toward home. The Queen and her company do not tarry a single day until news of them reaches the court. King Arthur was delighted at the news of the Queen’s approach, and he is happy and pleased at the thought that his nephew had brought about the Queen’s return, as well as that of Kay and of the lesser folk. But the truth is quite different from what he thinks. All the town is cleared as they go to meet them, and knights and vassals join in shouting as they approach: “Welcome to my lord Gawain, who has brought back the Queen and many another captive lady, and has freed for us many prisoners!” Then Gawain answered them: “Gentlemen, I do not deserve your praise. Do not trouble ever to say this again, for the compliment does not apply to me. This honour causes me only shame, for I did not reach the Queen in time; my detention made me late. But Lancelot reached there in time, and won such honour as was never won by any other knight.” “Where is he, then, fair dear sire, for we do not see him here?” “Where?” echoes my lord Gawain; “at the court of my lord the King, to be sure. Is he not?” “No, he is not here, or anywhere else in this country. Since my lady was taken away, we have had no news of him.” Then for the first time my lord Gawain realised that the letter had been forged, and that they had been betrayed and deceived: by the letter they had been misled. Then they all begin to lament, and they come thus weeping to the court, where the King at once asks for information about the affair. There were plenty who could tell him how much Lancelot had done, how the Queen and all the captives were delivered from durance by him, and by what treachery the dwarf had stolen him and drawn him away from them. This news is not pleasing to the King, and he is very sorry and full of grief; but his heart is so lightened by the pleasure he takes in the Queen’s return, that his grief concludes in joy. When he has what he most desires, he cares little for the rest.

Image 5.26: Chrétien de Troyes | An etching of the French poet Chrétien working in his studio.

Author: Unknown

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

While the Queen was out of the country, I believe, the ladies and the damsels who were disconsolate, decided among themselves that they would marry, soon, and they organised a contest and a tournament. The lady of Noauz was patroness of it, with the lady of Pomelegloi. They will have nothing to do with those who fare ill, but they assert that they will accept those who comport themselves well in the tournament. And they had the date of the contest proclaimed s long while in advance in all the countries near and far, in order that there might be more participants. Now the Queen arrived before the date they had set, and as soon as the ladies heard of the Queen’s return, most of them came at once to the King and besought him to grant them a favour and boon, which he did. He promised to do whatever they wished, before he knew what their desire might be. Then they told him that they wished him to let the Queen come to be present at their contest. And he who was not accustomed to forbid, said he was willing, if she wished ir so. In happy mood they go to the Queen and say to her: “Lady, do not deprive us of the boon which the King has granted us.” Then she asks them: “What is that? Don’t fail to tell!” Then they say to her: “If you will come to our tournament, he will not gainsay you nor stand in the way.” Then she said that she would come, since he was willing that she should. Promptly the dames send word throughout the realm that they are going to bring the Queen on the day set for the tournament. The news spread far and near, here and there, until it reached the kingdom whence no one used to return—but now whoever wished might enter or pass out unopposed. The news travelled in this kingdom until it came to a seneschal of the faithless Meleagant may an evil fire burn him! This seneschal had Lancelot in his keeping, for to him he had been entrusted by his enemy Meleagant, who hated him with deadly hate. Lancelot learned the hour and date of the tournament, and as soon as he heard of it, his eyes were not tearless nor was his heart glad. The lady of the house, seeing Lancelot sad and pensive, thus spoke to him: “Sire, for God’s sake and for your own soul’s good, tell me truly,” the lady said, “why you are so changed. You won’t eat or drink anything, and I see that you do not make merry or laugh. You can tell me with confidence why you are so sad and troubled.” “Ah, lady, for God’s sake, do not be surprised that I am sad! Truly, I am very much downcast, since I cannot be present where all that is good in the world will be assembled: that is, at the tournament where there will be a gathering of the people who make the earth tremble. Nevertheless, if it pleased you, and if God should incline your heart to let me go thither, you might rest assured that I should be careful to return to my captivity here.” “I would gladly do it,” she replied, “if I did not see that my death and destruction would result. But I am in such terror of my lord, the despicable Meleagant, that I would not dare to do it, for he would kill my husband at once. It is not strange that I am afraid of him, for, as you know, he is very bad.” “Lady, if you are afraid that I may not return to you at once after the tournament, I will take an oath which I will never break, that nothing will detain me from returning at once to my prison here immediately after the tournament.” Upon my word,” said she, “I will allow it upon one condition.” “Lady, what condition is that?” Then she replies: “Sire, upon condition that you wilt swear to return to me, and promise that I shall have your love.” “Lady, I give you all the love I have, and swear to come back.” Then the lady laughs and says: “I have no cause to boast of such a gift, for I know you have bestowed upon some one else the love for which I have just made request. However, I do not disdain to take so much of it as I can get. I shall be satisfied with what I can have, and will accept your oath that you will be so considerate of me as to return hither . . . a prisoner.”

In accordance with her wish, Lancelot swears by Holy Church that he will return without fail. And the lady at once gives him the vermilion arms of her lord, and his horse which was marvellously good and strong and brave. He mounts and leaves, armed with handsome, new arms, and proceeds until he comes to Noauz. He espoused this side in the tournament, and took his lodging outside the town. Never did such a noble man choose such a small and lowly lodging-place; but he did not wish to lodge where he might be recognised. There were many good and excellent knights gathered within the town. But there were many more outside, for so many had come on account of the presence of the Queen that the fifth part could not be accommodated inside. For every one who would have been there under ordinary circumstances, there were seven who would not have come excepting on the Queen’s account. The barons were quartered in tents, lodges, and pavilions for five leagues around. Moreover, it was wonderful how many gentle ladies and damsels were there. Lancelot placed his shield outside the door of his lodging-place, and then, to make himself more comfortable, he took off his arms and lay down upon a bed which he held in slight esteem; for it was narrow and had a thin mattress, and was covered with a coarse hempen cloth. Lancelot had thrown himself upon the bed all disarmed, and as he lay there in such poor estate, behold! a fellow came in in his shirt-sleeves; he was a herald-at-arms, and had left his coat and shoes in the tavern as a pledge; so he came running barefoot and exposed to the wind. He saw the shield hanging outside the door, and looked at it: but naturally he did not recognise it or know to whom it belonged, or who was the bearer of it. He sees the door of the house standing open, and upon entering, he sees Lancelot upon the bed, and as soon as he saw him, he recognised him and crossed himself. And Lancelot made a sign to him, and ordered him not to speak of him wherever he might go, for if he should tell that he knew him, it would be better for him to have his eyes put out or his neck broken. “Sire,” the herald says, “I have always held you in high esteem, and so long as I live, I shall never do anything to cause you displeasure.” Then he runs from the house and cries aloud: “Now there has come one who will take the measure! Now there has come one who will take the measure!” The fellow shouts this everywhere, and the people come from every side and ask him what is the meaning of his cry. He is not so rash as to answer them, but goes on shouting the same words: “Now there has come one who will take the measure!” This herald was the master of us all, when he taught us to use the phrase, for he was the first to make use of it.

Part IV: Vv. 5595 Vv. 7134

Now the crowd was assembled, including the Queen and all the ladies, the knights and the other people, and there were many men-at-arms everywhere, to the right and left. At the place where the tournament was to be, there were some large wooden stands for the use of the Queen with her ladies and damsels. Such fine stands were never seen before they were so long and well constructed. Thither the ladies betook themselves with the Queen, wishing to see who would fare better or worse in the combat. Knights arrive by tens, twenties, and thirties, here eighty and there ninety, here a hundred, there still more, and yonder twice as many yet; so that the press is so great in front of the stands and all around that they decide to begin the joust. As they assemble, armed and unarmed, their lances suggest the appearance of a wood, for those who have come to the sport brought so many lances that there is nothing in sight but lances, banners, and standards. Those who are going to take part begin to joust, and they find plenty of their companions who had come with similar intent. Still others prepare to perform other feats of chivalry. The fields, meadows, and fallow lands are so full of knights that it is impossible to estimate how many of them are there. But there was no sign of Lancelot at this first gathering of the knights; but later, when he entered the middle of the field, the herald saw him and could not refrain from crying out: “Behold him who will take the measure! Behold him who will take the measure!” And the people ask him who he is, but he will not tell them anything.

When Lancelot entered the tournament, he was as good as twenty of the best, and he began to fight so doughtily that no one could take his eyes from him, wherever he was. On the Pomelegloi side there was a brave and valorous knight, and his horse was spirited and swifter than a wild stag. He was the son of the Irish king, and fought well and handsomely. But the unknown knight pleased them all more a hundred times. In wonder they all make haste to ask: “Who is this knight who fights so well?” And the Queen privily called a clever and wise damsel to her and said: “Damsel, you must carry a message, and do it quickly and with few words. Go down from the stand, and approach yonder knight with the vermilion shield, and tell him privately that I bid him do his `worst’.” She goes quickly, and with intelligence executes the Queen’s command. She sought the knight until she came up close to him; then she said to him prudently and in a voice so low that no one standing by might hear: “Sire, my lady the Queen sends you word by me that you shall do your `worst’.” When he heard this, he replied: “Very willingly,” like one who is altogether hers. Then he rides at another knight as hard as his horse can carry him, and misses his thrust which should have struck him. From that time till evening fell he continued to do as badly as possible in accordance with the Queen’s desire. But the other, who fought with him, did not miss his thrust, but struck him with such violence that he was roughly handled. Thereupon he took to flight, and after that he never turned his horse’s head toward any knight, and were he to die for it, he would never do anything unless he saw in it his shame, disgrace, and dishonour; he even pretends to be afraid of all the knights who pass to and fro. And the very knights who formerly esteemed him now hurled jests and jibes at him. And the herald who had been saying: “He will beat them all in turn!” is greatly dejected and discomfited when he hears the scornful jokes of those who shout: “Friend, say no more! This fellow will not take any one’s measure again. He has measured so much that his yardstick is broken, of which thou hast boasted to us so much.” Many say: “What is he going to do? He was so brave just now; but now he is so cowardly that there is not a knight whom he dares to face. The cause of his first success must have been that he never engaged at arms before, and he was so brave at his first attack that the most skilled knight dared not withstand him, for he fought like a wild man. But now he has learned so much of arms that he will never wish to bear them again his whole life long. His heart cannot longer endure the thought, for there is nothing more cowardly than his heart.” And the Queen, as she watches him, is happy and well-pleased, for she knows full well, though she does not say it, that this is surely Lancelot. Thus all day long till evening he played his coward’s part, and late in the afternoon they separated. At parting there was a great discussion as to who had done the best. The son of the Irish king thinks that without doubt or contradiction he has all the glory and renown. But he is grievously mistaken, for there were plenty of others as good as he. Even the vermilion knight so pleased the fairest and gentlest of the ladies and damsels that they had gazed at him more than at any other knight, for they had remarked how well he fought at first, and how excellent and brave he was; then he had become so cowardly that he dared not face a single knight, and even the worst of them could defeat and capture him at will. But knights and ladies all agreed that on the morrow they should return to the list, and the damsels should choose as their lords those who should win honour in that day’s fight: on this arrangement they all agree. Then they turn toward their lodgings, and when they had returned, here and there men began to say: “What has become of the worst, the most craven and despised of knights? Whither did he go? Where is he concealed? Where is he to be found? Where shall we search for him? We shall probably never see him again. For he has been driven off by cowardice, with which he is so filled that there is no greater craven in the world than he. And he is not wrong, for a coward is a hundred times more at ease than a valorous fighting man. Cowardice is easy of entreaty, and that is the reason he has given her the kiss of peace and has taken from her all she has to give. Courage never so debased herself as to lodge in his breast or take quarters near him. But cowardice is altogether lodged with him, and she has found a host who will honour her and serve her so faithfully that he is willing to resign his own fair name for hers.” Thus they wrangle all night, vying with each other in slander. But often one man maligns another, and yet is much worse himself than the object of his blame and scorn. Thus, every one said what he pleased about him. And when the next day dawned, all the people prepared and came again to the jousting place. The Queen was in the stand again, accompanied by her ladies and damsels and many knights without their arms, who had been captured or defeated, and these explained to them the armorial bearings of the knights whom they most esteem. Thus they talk among themselves: “Do you see that knight yonder with a golden band across the middle of his red shield? That is Governauz of Roberdic. And do you see that other one, who has an eagle and a dragon painted side by side upon his shield? That is the son of the King of Aragon, who has come to this land in search of glory and renown. And do you see that one beside him, who thrusts and jousts so well, bearing a shield with a leopard painted on a green ground on one part, and the other half is azure blue? That is Ignaures the well-beloved, a lover himself and jovial. And he who bears the shield with the pheasants portrayed beak to beak is Coguillanz of Mautirec. Do you see those two side by side, with their dappled steeds, and golden shields showing black lions? One is named Semiramis, and the other is his companion; their shields are painted alike. And do you see the one who has a shield with a gate painted on it, through which a stag appears to be passing out? That is King Ider, in truth.” Thus they talk up in the stand. “That shield was made at Limoges, whence it was brought by Pilades, who is very ardent and keen to be always in the fight. That shield, bridle, and breast-strap were made at Toulouse, and were brought here by Kay of Estraus. The other came from Lyons on the Rhone, and there is no better under heaven; for his great merit it was presented to Taulas of the Desert, who bears it well and protects himself with it skilfully. Yonder shield is of English workmanship and was made at London; you see on it two swallows which appear as if about to fly; yet they do not move, but receive many blows from the Poitevin lances of steel; he who has it is poor Thoas.” Thus they point out and describe the arms of those they know; but they see nothing of him whom they had held in such contempt, and, not remarking him in the fray, they suppose that he has slipped away. When the Queen sees that he is not there, she feels inclined to send some one to search for him in the crowd until he be found. She knows of no one better to send in search of him than she who yesterday performed her errand. So, straightway calling her, she said to her: “Damsel, go and mount your palfrey! I send you to the same knight as I sent you yesterday, and do you seek him until you find him. Do not delay for any cause, and tell him again to do his ‘worst’. And when you have given him this message, mark well what reply he makes.” The damsel makes no delay, for she had carefully noticed the direction he took the night before, knowing well that she would be sent to him again. She made her way through the ranks until she saw the knight, whom she instructs at once to do his “worst” again, if he desires the love and favour of the Queen which she sends him. And he makes answer: “My thanks to her, since such is her will.” Then the damsel went away, and the valets, sergeants, and squires begin to shout: “See this marvellous thing! He of yesterday with the vermilion arms is back again. What can he want? Never in the world was there such a vile, despicable, and craven wretch! He is so in the power of cowardice that resistance is useless on his part.” And the damsel returns to the Queen, who detained her and would not let her go until she heard what his response had been; then she heartily rejoiced, feeling no longer any doubt that this is he to whom she altogether belongs, and he is hers in like manner. Then she bids the damsel quickly return and tell him that it is her command and prayer that he shall do his “best “; and she says she will go at once without delay. She came down from the stand to where her valet with the palfrey was awaiting her. She mounted and rode until she found the knight, to whom she said at once: “Sire, my lady now sends word that you shall do the `best’ you can!” And he replies: “Tell her now that it is never a hardship to do her will, for whatever pleases her is my delight.” The maiden was not slow in bearing back this message, for she thinks it will greatly please and delight the Queen. She made her way as directly as possible to the stand, where the Queen rose and started to meet her, however, she did not go down, but waited for her at the top of the steps. And the damsel came happy in the message she had to bear. When she had climbed the steps and reached her side, she said: “Lady, I never saw so courteous g knight, for he is more than ready to obey every command you send to him, for, if the truth be known, he accepts good and evil with the same countenance. “Indeed,” says the Queen, “that may well be so.” Then she returns to the balcony to watch the knights. And Lancelot without delay seizes his shield by the leather straps, for he is kindled and consumed by the desire to show his prowess. Guiding his horse’s head, he lets him run between two lines. All those mistaken and deluded men, who have spent a large part of the day and night in heaping him with ridicule, will soon be disconcerted. For a long time they have had their sport and joke and fun. The son of the King of Ireland held his shield closely gripped by the leather straps, as he spurs fiercely to meet him from the opposite direction. They come together with such violence that the son of the Irish king having broken and splintered his lance, wishes no more of the tournament; for it was not moss he struck, but hard, dry boards. In this encounter Lancelot taught him one of his thrusts, when he pinned his shield to his arm, and his arm to his side, and brought him down from his horse to earth. Like arrows the knights at once fly out, spurring and pricking from either side, some to relieve this knight, others to add to his distress. While some thus try to aid their lords, many a saddle is left empty in the strife and fray. But all that day Gawain took no hand at arms, though he was with the others there, for he took such pleasure in watching the deeds of him with the red painted arms that what the others did seemed to him pale in comparison. And the herald cheered up again, as he shouted aloud so that all could hear: “Here there has one come who will take the measure! To-day you shall see what he can do. To-day his prowess shall appear.” Then the knight directs his steed and makes a very skilful thrust against a certain knight, whom he strikes so hard that he carries him a hundred feet or more from his horse. His feats with sword and lance are so well performed that there is none of the onlookers who does not find pleasure in watching him. Many even of those who bear arms find pleasure and satisfaction in what he does, for it is great sport to see how he makes horses and knights tumble and fall. He encounters hardly a single knight who is able to keep his seat, and he gives the horses he wins to those who want them. Then those who had been making game of him said: “Now we are disgraced and mortified. It was a great mistake for us to deride and vilify this man, for he is surely worth a thousand such as we are on this field; for he has defeated and outdone all the knights in the world, so that there is no one now that opposes him.” And the damsels, who amazed were watching him, all said that he might take them to wife; but they did not dare to trust in their beauty or wealth, or power or highness, for not for her beauty or wealth would this peerless knight deign to choose any one of them. Yet, most of them are so enamoured of him that they say that, unless they marry him, they will not be bestowed upon any man this year. And the Queen, who hears them boast, laughs to herself and enjoy the fun, for well she knows that if all the gold of Arabia should be set before him, yet he who is beloved by them all would not select the best, the fairest, or the most charming of the group. One wish is common to them all—each wishes to have him as her spouse. One is jealous of another, as if she were already his wife; and all this is because they see him so adroit that in their opinion no mortal man could perform such deeds as he had done. He did so well that when the time came to leave the list, they admitted freely on both sides that no one had equalled the knight with the vermilion shield. All said this, and it was true. But when he left, he allowed his shield and lance and trappings to fall where he saw the thickest press, then he rode off hastily with such secrecy that no one of all the host noticed that he had disappeared. But he went straight back to the place whence he had come, to keep his oath. When the tournament broke up, they all searched and asked for him, but without success, for he fled away, having no desire to be recognised. The knights are disappointed and distressed, for they would have rejoiced to have him there. But if the knights were grieved to have been deserted thus, still greater was the damsels’ grief when they learned the truth, and they asserted by St. John that they would not marry at all that year. If they can’t have him whom they truly love, then all the others may be dismissed. Thus the tourney was adjourned without any of them choosing a husband. Meanwhile Lancelot without delay repairs to his prison. But the seneschal arrived two or three days before Lancelot, and inquired where he was. And his wife, who had given to Lancelot his fair and well-equipped vermilion arms, as well as his harness and his horse, told the truth to the seneschal—how she had sent him where there had been jousting at the tourney of Noauz. “Lady,” the seneschal replies, “you could truly have done nothing worse than that. Doubtless, I shall smart for this, for my lord Meleagant will treat me worse than the beach-combers’ law would treat me were I a mariner in distress. I shall be killed or banished the moment he hears the news, and he will have no pity for me.” “Fair sire, be not now dismayed,” the lady said; “there is no occasion for the fear you feel. There is no possibility of his detention, for he swore to me by the saints that he would return as soon as possible.”

Image 5.27: Knights’ Tournament | Two knights fight while the audience looks on from the background.

Author: User “Ssire”

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

Then the seneschal mounts, and coming to his lord, tells him the whole story of the episode; but at the same time, he emphatically reassures him, telling how his wife had received his oath that he would return to his prison. “He will not break his word, I know,” says Meleagant: “and yet I am very much displeased at what your wife has done. Not for any consideration would I have had him present at that tournament. But return now, and see to it that, when he comes back, he be so strictly guarded that he shall not escape from his prison or have any freedom of body: and send me word at once.” “Your orders shall be obeyed,” says the seneschal. Then he goes away and finds Lancelot returned as prisoner in his yard. A messenger, sent by the seneschal, runs back at once to Meleagant, appraising him of Lancelot’s return. When he heard this news, he took masons and carpenters who unwillingly or of their own free-will executed his commands. He summoned the best artisans in the land, and commanded them to build a tower, and exert themselves to build it well. The stone was quarried by the seaside; for near Gorre on this side there runs a big broad arm of the sea, in the midst of which an island stood, as Meleagant well knew. He ordered the stone to be carried thither and the material for the construction of the tower. In less than fifty-seven days the tower was completely built, high and thick and well-founded. When it was completed, he had Lancelot brought thither by night, and after putting him in the tower, he ordered the doors to be walled up, and made all the masons swear that they would never utter a word about this tower. It was his will that it should be thus sealed up, and that no door or opening should remain, except one small window. Here Lancelot was compelled to stay, and they gave him poor and meagre fare through this little window at certain hours, as the disloyal wretch had ordered and commanded them.

Now Meleagant has carried out all his purpose, and he betakes himself to King Arthur’s court: behold him now arrived! And when he was before the King, he thus spoke with pride and arrogance: “King, I have scheduled a battle to take place in thy presence and in thy court. But I see nothing of Lancelot who agreed to be my antagonist. Nevertheless, as my duty is, in the hearing of all who are present here, I offer myself to fight this battle. And if he is here, let him now step forth and agree to meet me in your court a year from now. I know not if any one has told you how this battle was agreed upon. But I see knights here who were present at our conference, and who, if they would, could tell you the truth. If he should try to deny the truth, I should employ no hireling to take my place, but would prove it to him hand to hand.” The Queen, who was seated beside the King, draws him to her as she says: “Sire, do you know who that knight is? It is Meleagant who carried me away while escorted by Kay the seneschal; he caused him plenty of shame and mischief too.” And the King answered her: “Lady, I understand; I know full well that it is he who held my people in distress.” The Queen says no more, but the King addresses Meleagant: “Friend,” he says, “so help me God, we are very sad because we know nothing of Lancelot.” “My lord King,” says Meleagant, “Lancelot told me that I should surely find him here. Nowhere but in your court must I issue the call to this battle, and I desire all your knights here to bear me witness that I summon him to fight a year from to-day, as stipulated when we agreed to fight.”

At this my lord Gawain gets up, much distressed at what he hears: “Sire, there is nothing known of Lancelot in all this land,” he says; “but we shall send in search of him and, if God will, we shall find him yet, before the end of the year is reached, unless he be dead or in prison. And if he does not appear, then grant me the battle, and I will fight for him: I will arm myself in place of Lancelot, if he does not return before that day.” “Ah,” says Meleagant, “for God’s sake, my fair lord King, grant him the boon. I join my request to his desire, for I know no knight in all the world with whom I would more gladly try my strength, excepting only Lancelot. But bear in mind that, if I do not fight with one of them, I will accept no exchange or substitution for either one.” And the King says that this is understood, if Lancelot does not return within the time. Then Meleagant left the royal court and journeyed until he found his father, King Bademagu. In order to appear brave and of consideration in his presence, he began by making a great pretence and by assuming an expression of marvellous cheer. That day the king was holding a joyous court at his city of Bade; it was his birthday, which he celebrated with splendour and generosity, and there were many people of divers sorts gathered with him. All the palace was filled with knights and damsels, and among them was the sister of Meleagant, of whom I shall tell you, farther on, what is my thought and reason for mentioning her here. But it is not fitting that I should explain it here, for I do not wish to confuse or entangle my material, but rather to treat it straight forwardly. Now I must tell you that Meleagant in the hearing of all, both great and small, spoke thus to his father boastingly: “Father,” he says, “so help me God, please tell me truly now whether he ought not to be well-content, and whether he is not truly brave, who can cause his arms to be feared at King Arthur’s court?” To this question his father replies at once: “Son,” he says, “all good men ought to honour and serve and seek the company of one whose deserts are such.” Then he flattered him with the request that he should not conceal why he has alluded to this, what he wishes, and whence he comes. “Sire, I know not whether you remember,” Meleagant begins, “the agreements and stipulations which were recorded when Lancelot and I made peace. It was then agreed, I believe, and in the presence of many we were told, that we should present ourselves at the end of a year at Arthur’s court. I went thither at the appointed time, ready equipped for my business there. I did everything that had been prescribed: I called and searched for Lancelot, with whom I was to fight, but I could not gain a sight of him: he had fled and run away. When I came away, Gawain pledged his word that, if Lancelot is not alive and does not return within the time agreed upon, no further postponement will be asked, but that he himself will fight the battle against me in place of Lancelot. Arthur has no knight, as is well known, whose fame equals his, but before the flowers bloom again, I shall see, when we come to blows, whether his fame and his deeds are in accord: I only wish it could be settled now!” “Son,” says his father, “thou art acting exactly like a fool. Any one, who knew it not before, may learn of thy madness from thy own lips. A good heart truly humbles itself, but the fool and the boastful never lose their folly. Son, to thee I direct my words, for the traits of thy character are so hard and dry, that there is no place for sweetness or friendship. Thy heart is altogether pitiless: thou art altogether in folly’s grasp. This accounts for my slight respect for thee, and this is what will cast thee down. If thou art brave, there will be plenty of men to say so in time of need. A virtuous man need not praise his heart in order to enhance his deed; the deed itself will speak in its own praise. Thy self-praise does not aid thee a whit to increase in any one’s esteem; indeed, I hold thee in less esteem. Son, I chasten thee; but to what end? It is of little use to advise a fool. He only wastes his strength in vain who tries to cure the madness of a fool, and the wisdom that one teaches and expounds is worthless, wasted and unemployed, unless it is expressed in works.” Then Meleagant was sorely enraged and furious. I may truly say that never could you see a mortal man so full of anger as he was; the last bond between them was broken then, as he spoke to his father these ungracious words: “Are you in a dream or trance, when you say that I am mad to tell you how my matters stand? I thought I had come to you as to my lord and my father; but that does not seem to be the case, for you insult me more outrageously than I think you have any right to do; moreover, you can give no reason for having addressed me thus.” “Indeed, I can.” “What is it, then?” “Because I see nothing in thee but folly and wrath. I know very well what thy courage is like, and that it will cause thee great trouble yet. A curse upon him who supposes that the elegant Lancelot, who is esteemed by all but thee, has ever fled from thee through fear. I am sure that he is buried or confined in some prison whose door is barred so tight that he cannot escape without leave. I should surely be sorely grieved if he were dead or in distress. It would surely be too bad, were a creature so splendidly equipped, so fair, so bold, yet so serene, to perish thus before his time. But, may it please God, this is not true.” Then Bademagu said no more; but a daughter of his had listened attentively to all his words, and you must know that it was she whom I mentioned earlier in my tale, and who is not happy now to hear such news of Lancelot. It is quite clear to her that he is shut up, since no one knows any news of him or his wanderings. “May God never look upon me, if I rest until I have some sure and certain news of him!” Straightway, without making any noise or disturbance, she runs and mounts a fair and easy-stepping mule. But I must say that when she leaves the court, she knows not which way to turn. However, she asks no advice in her predicament, but takes the first road she finds, and rides along at random rapidly, unaccompanied by knight or squire. In her eagerness she makes haste to attain the object of her search. Keenly she presses forward in her quest, but it will not soon terminate. She may not rest or delay long in any single place, if she wishes to carry out her plan, to release Lancelot from his prison, if she can find him and if it is possible. But in my opinion, before she finds him she will have searched in many a land, after many a journey and many a quest, before she has any news of him. But what would be the use of my telling you of her lodgings and her journeyings? Finally, she travelled so far through hill and dale, up and down, that more than a month had passed, and as yet she had learned only so much as she knew before—that is, absolutely nothing. One day she was crossing a field in a sad and pensive mood, when she saw a tower in the distance standing by the shore of an arm of the sea. Not within a league around about was there any house, cottage, or dwelling-place. Meleagant had had it built, and had confined Lancelot within. But of all this she still was unaware. As soon as she espied the tower, she fixed her attention upon it to the exclusion of all else. And her heart gives her assurance that here is the object of her quest; now at last she has reached her goal, to which Fortune through many trials has at last directed her.

The damsel draws so near to the tower that she can touch it with her hands. She walks about, listening attentively, I suppose, if perchance she may hear some welcome sound. She looks down and she gazes up, and she sees that the tower is strong and high and thick. She is amazed to see no door or window, except one little narrow opening. Moreover, there was no ladder or steps about this high, sheer tower. For this reason she surmises that it was made so intentionally, and that Lancelot is confined inside. But she resolves that before she tastes of food, she will learn whether this is so or not. She thinks she will call Lancelot by name, and is about to do so when she is deterred by hearing from the tower a voice which was making a marvellously sad moan as it called on death. It implores death to come, and complains of misery unbearable. In contempt of the body and life, it weakly piped in a low, hoarse tone: “Ah, fortune, how disastrously thy wheel has turned for me! Thou hast mocked me shamefully: a while ago I was up, but now I am down; I was well off of late, but now I am in a sorry state; not long since thou didst smile on me, but now thy eyes are filled with tears. Alas, poor wretch, why didst thou trust in her, when so soon she has deserted thee! Behold, in a very little while she has cast thee down from thy high estate! Fortune, it was wrong of thee to mock me thus; but what carest thou! Thou carest not how it may turn out. Ah, sacred Cross! All, Holy Ghost! How am I wretched and undone! How completely has my career been closed! Ah, Gawain, you who possess such worth, and whose goodness is unparalleled, surely I may well be amazed that you do not come to succour me. Surely you delay too long and are not showing courtesy. He ought indeed to receive your aid whom you used to love so devotedly! For my part I may truly say that there is no lodging place or retreat on either side of the sea, where I would not have searched for you at least seven or ten years before finding you, if I knew you to be in prison. But why do I thus torment myself? You do not care for me even enough to take this trouble. The rustic is right when he says that it is hard nowadays to find a friend! It is easy to rest the true friend in time oú need. Alas! more than a year has passed since first I was put inside this tower. I feel hurt, Gawain, that you have so long deserted me! But doubtless you know nothing of all this, and I have no ground for blaming you. Yes, when I think of it, this must be the case, and I was very wrong to imagine such a thing; for I am confident that not for all the world contains would you and your men have failed to come to release me from this trouble and distress, if you were aware of it. If for no other reason, you would be bound to do this out of love for me, your companion. But it is idle to talk about it—it cannot be. Ah, may the curse and the damnation of God and St. Sylvester rest upon him who has shut me up so shamefully! He is the vilest man alive, this envious Meleagant, to treat me as evilly as possible!” Then he, who is wearing out his life in grief, ceases speaking and holds his peace. But when she, who was lingering at the base of the tower, heard what he said, she did not delay, but acted wisely and called him thus: “Lancelot,” as loudly as she could; “friend, up there, speak to one who is your friend!” But inside he did not hear her words. Then she called out louder yet, until he in his weakness faintly heard her, and wondered who could be calling him. He heard the voice and heard his name pronounced, but he did not know who was calling him: he thinks it must be a spirit. He looks all about him to see, I suppose, if he could espy any one; but there is nothing to be seen but the tower and himself. “God,” says he, “what is that I heard? I heard some one speak, but see nothing! Indeed, this is passing marvellous, for I am not asleep, but wide awake. Of course, if this happened in a dream, I should consider it an illusion; but I am awake, and therefore I am distressed.” Then with some trouble he gets up, and with slow and feeble steps he moves toward the little opening. Once there, he peers through it, up and down and to either side. When he had looked out as best he might, he caught sight of her who had hailed him. He did not recognise her by sight. But she knew him at once and said: “Lancelot, I have come from afar in search of you. Now, thank God, at last I have found you. I am she who asked of you a boon as you were on your way to the sword-bridge, and you very gladly granted it at my request; it was the head I bade you cut from the conquered knight whom I hated so. Because of this boon and this service you did me, I have gone to this trouble. As a guerdon I shall deliver you from here.” “Damsel, many thanks to you,” the prisoner then replied; “the service I did you will be well repaid if I am set at liberty. If you can get me out of here, I promise and engage to be henceforth always yours, so help me the holy Apostle Paul! And as I may see God face to face, I shall never fail to obey your commands in accordance with your will. You may ask for anything I have, and receive it without delay.” “Friend, have no fear that you will not be released from here. You shall be loosed and set free this very day. Not for a thousand pounds would I renounce the expectation of seeing you free before the datum of another day. Then I shall take you to a pleasant place, where you may rest and take your ease. There you shall have everything you desire, whatever it be. So have no fear. But first I must see if I can find some tool anywhere hereabouts with which you might enlarge this hole, at least enough to let you pass.” “God grant that you find something,” he said, agreeing to this plan; “I have plenty of rope in here, which the rascals gave me to pull up my food—hard barley bread and dirty water, which sicken my stomach and heart.” Then the daughter of Bademagu sought and found a strong, stout, sharp pick, which she handed to him. He pounded, and hammered and struck and dug, notwithstanding the pain it caused him, until he could get out comfortably. Now he is greatly relieved and glad, you may be sure, to be out Of prison and to get away from the place where he has been so long confined. Now he is at large in the open air. You may be sure that he would not go back again, were some one to gather in a pile and give to him all the gold there is scattered in the world.

Behold Lancelot now released, but so feeble that he staggered from his weakness and disability. Gently, without hurting him, she sets him before her on her mule, and then they ride off rapidly. But the damsel purposely avoids the beaten track, that they may not be seen, and proceeds by a hidden path; for if she had travelled openly, doubtless some one would have recognised them and done them harm, and she would not have wished that to happen. So she avoided the dangerous places and came to a mansion where she often makes her sojourn because of its beauty and charm. The entire estate and the people on it belonged to her, and the place was well furnished, safe, and private. There Lancelot arrived. And as soon as he had come, and had laid aside his clothes, the damsel gently laid him on a lofty, handsome couch, then bathed and rubbed him so carefully that I could not describe half the care she took. She handled and treated him as gently as if he had been her father. Her treatment makes a new man of him, as she revives him with her cares. Now he is no less fair than an angel and is more nimble and more spry than anything you ever saw. When he arose, he was no longer mangy and haggard, but strong and handsome. And the damsel sought out for him the finest robe she could find, with which she clothed him when he arose. And he was glad to put it on, quicker than a bird in flight. He kissed and embraced the maid, and then said to her graciously: “My dear, I have only God and you to thank for being restored to health again. Since I owe my liberty to you, you may take and command at will my heart and body, my service and estate. I belong to you in return for what you have done for me; but it is long since I have been at the court of my lord Arthur, who has shown me great honour; and there is plenty there for me to do. Now, my sweet gentle friend, I beg you affectionately for leave to go; then, with your consent, I should feel free to go.” “Lancelot, fair, sweet dear friend, I am quite willing,” the damsel says; “I desire your honour and welfare above everything everywhere.” Then she gives him a wonderful horse she has, the best horse that ever was seen, and he leaps up without so much as saying to the stirrups “by your leave”: he was up without considering them. Then to God, who never lies, they commend each other with good intent.

Lancelot was so glad to be on the road that, if I should take an oath, I could not possibly describe the joy he felt at having escaped from his trap. But he said to himself repeatedly that woe was the traitor, the reprobate, whom now he has tricked and ridiculed, “for in spite of him I have escaped.” Then he swears by the heart and body of Him who made the world that not for all the riches and wealth from Babylon to Ghent would he let Meleagant escape, if he once got him in his power: for he has him to thank for too much harm and shame! But events will soon turn out so as to make this possible; for this very Meleagant, whom he threatens and presses hard, had already come to court that day without being summoned by any one; and the first thing he did was to search until he found my lord Gawain. Then the rascally proven traitor asks him about Lancelot, whether he had been seen or found, as if he himself did not know the truth. As a matter of fact, he did not know the truth, although he thought he knew it well enough. And Gawain told him, as was true, that he had not been seen, and that he had not come. “Well, since I don’t find him,” says Meleagant, “do you come and keep the promise you made me: I shall not longer wait for you.” Then Gawain makes answer: “I will keep presently my word with you, if it please God in whom I place my trust. I expect to discharge my debt to you. But if it comes to throwing dice for points, and I should throw a higher number than you, so help me God and the holy faith, I’ll not withdraw, but will keep on until I pocket all the stakes.” Then without delay Gawain orders a rug to be thrown down and spread before him. There was no snivelling or attempt to run away when the squires heard this command, but without grumbling or complaint they execute what he commands. They bring the rug and spread it out in the place indicated; then he who had sent for it takes his seat upon it and gives orders to be armed by the young men who were standing unarmed before him. There were two of them, his cousins or nephews, I know not which, but they were accomplished and knew what to do. They arm him so skilfully and well that no one could find any fault in the world with them for any mistake in what they did. When they finished arming him, one of them went to fetch a Spanish steed able to cross the fields, woods, hills, and valleys more swiftly than the good Bucephalus. Upon a horse such as you have heard Gawain took his seat—the admired and most accomplished knight upon whom the sign of the Cross was ever made. Already he was about to seize his shield, when he saw Lancelot dismount before him, whom he was not expecting to see. He looked at him in amazement, because he had come so unexpectedly; and, if I am not wrong, he was as much surprised as if he had fallen from the clouds. However, no business of his own can detain him, as soon as he sees Lancelot, from dismounting and extending his arms to him, as he embraces, salutes and kisses him. Now he is happy and at ease, when he has found his companion. Now I will tell you the truth, and you must not think I lie, that Gawain would not wish to be chosen king, unless he had Lancelot with him. The King and all the rest now learn that, in spite of all, Lancelot, for whom they so long have watched, has come back quite safe and sound. Therefore they all rejoice, and the court, which so long has looked for him, comes together to honour him. Their happiness dispels and drives away the sorrow which formerly was theirs. Grief takes flight and is replaced by an awakening joy. And how about the Queen? Does she not share in the general jubilee? Yes, verily, she first of all. How so? For God’s sake, where, then, could she be keeping herself? She was never so glad in her life as she was for his return. And did she not even go to him? Certainly she did; she is so close to him that her body came near following her heart. Where is her heart, then? It was kissing and welcoming Lancelot. And why did the body conceal itself? Why is not her joy complete? Is it mingled with anger or hate? No, certainly, not at all; but it may be that the King or some of the others who are there, and who are watching what takes place, would have taken the whole situation in, if, while all were looking on, she had followed the dictates of her heart. If common-sense had not banished this mad impulse and rash desire, her heart would have been revealed and her folly would have been complete. Therefore reason closes up and binds her fond heart and her rash intent, and made it more reasonable, postponing the greeting until it shall see and espy a suitable and more private place where they would fare better than here and now. The King highly honoured Lancelot, and after welcoming him, thus spoke: “I have not heard for a long time news of any man which were so welcome as news of you; yet I am much concerned to learn in what region and in what land you have tarried so long a time. I have had search made for you up and down, all the winter and summer through, but no one could find a trace of you.” “Indeed, fair sire,” says Lancelot, “I can inform you in a few words exactly how it has fared with me. The miserable traitor Meleagant has kept me in prison ever since the hour of the deliverance of the prisoners in his land, and has condemned me to a life of shame in a tower of his beside the sea. There he put me and shut me in, and there I should still be dragging out my weary life, if it were not for a friend of mine, a damsel for whom I once performed a slight service. In return for the little favour I did her, she has repaid me liberally: she has bestowed upon me great honour and blessing. But I wish to repay without delay him for whom I have no love, who has sought out and devised for me this shame and injury. He need not wait, for the sum is all ready, principal and interest; but God forbid that he find in it cause to rejoice!” Then Gawain said to Lancelot: “Friend, it will be only a slight favour for me, who am in your debt, to make this payment for you. Moreover, I am all ready and mounted, as you see. Fair, sweet friend, do not deny me the boon I desire and request.” But Lancelot replies that he would rather have his eye plucked out, or even both of them, than be persuaded to do this: he swears it shall never be so. He owes the debt and he will pay it himself: for with his own hand he promised it. Gawain plainly sees that nothing he can say is of any avail, so he loosens and takes off his hauberk from his back, and completely disarms himself. Lancelot at once arms himself without delay; for he is impatient to settle and discharge his debt. Meleagant, who is amazed beyond measure at what he sees, has reached the end of his good fortunes, and is about to receive what is owing him. He is almost beside himself and comes near fainting. “Surely I was a fool,” he says, “not to go, before coming here, to see if I still held imprisoned in my tower him who now has played this trick on me. But, God, why should I have gone? What cause had I to think that he could possibly escape? Is not the wall built strong enough, and is not the tower sufficiently strong and high? There was no hole or crevice in it, through which he could pass, unless he was aided from outside. I am sure his hiding-place was revealed. If the wall were worn away and had fallen into decay, would he not have been caught and injured or killed at the same time? Yes, so help me God, if it had fallen down, he would certainly have been killed. But I guess, before that wall gives away without being torn down, that all the water in the sea will dry up without leaving a drop and the world will come to an end. No, that is not it: it happened otherwise: he was helped to escape, and could not have got out otherwise: I have been outwitted through some trickery. At any rate, he has escaped; but if I had been on my guard, all this would never have happened, and he would never have come to court. But it’s too late now to repent. The rustic, who seldom errs, pertinently remarks that it is too late to close the stable when the horse is out. I know I shall now be exposed to great shame and humiliation, if indeed I do not suffer and endure something worse. What shall I suffer and endure? Rather, so long as I live, I will give him full measure, if it please God, in whom I trust.” Thus he consoles himself, and has no other desire than to meet his antagonist on the field. And he will not have long to wait, I think, for Lancelot goes in search of him, expecting soon to conquer him. But before the assault begins, the King bids them go down into the plain where the tower stands, the prettiest place this side of Ireland for a fight. So they did, and soon found themselves on the plain below. The King goes down too, and all the rest, men and women in crowds. No one stays behind; but many go up to the windows of the tower, among them the Queen, her ladies and damsels, of whom she had many with her who were fair.

In the field there stood a sycamore as fair as any tree could be; it was wide-spread and covered a large area, and around it grew a fine border of thick fresh grass which was green at all seasons of the year. Under this fair and stately sycamore, which was planted back in Abel’s time, there rises a clear spring of water which flows away hurriedly. The bed of the spring is beautiful and as bright as silver, and the channel through which the water flows is formed, I think, of refined and tested gold, and it stretches away across the field down into a valley between the woods. There it pleases the King to take his seat where nothing unpleasant is in sight. After the crowd has drawn back at the King’s command, Lancelot rushes furiously at Meleagant as at one whom he hates cordially, but before striking him, he shouted with a loud and commanding voice: “Take your stand, I defy you! And take my word, this time you shall not be spared.” Then he spurs his steed and draws back the distance of a bow-shot. Then they drive their horses toward each other at top speed, and strike each other so fiercely upon their resisting shields that they pierced and punctured them. But neither one is wounded, nor is the flesh touched in this first assault. They pass each other without delay, and come back at the top of their horses: speed to renew their blows on the strong, stout shields. Both of the knights are strong and brave, and both of the horses are stout and fast. So mighty are the blows they deal on the shields about their necks that the lances passed clean through, without breaking or splintering, until the cold steel reached their flesh. Each strikes the other with such force that both are borne to earth, and no breast-strap, girth, or stirrup could save them from falling backward over their saddle-bow, leaving the saddle without an occupant. The horses run riderless over hill and dale, but they kick and bite each other, thus showing their mortal hatred. As for the knights who fell to earth, they leaped up as quickly as possible and drew their swords, which were engraved with chiselled lettering. Holding their shields before the face, they strive to wound each other with their swords of steel. Lancelot stands in no fear of him, for he knew half as much again about fencing as did his antagonist, having learned it in his youth. Both dealt such blows on the shield slung from their necks, and upon their helmets barred with gold, that they crushed and damaged them. But Lancelot presses him hard and gives him a mighty blow upon his right arm which, though encased in mail, was unprotected by the shield, severing it with one clean stroke. And when he felt the loss of his right arm, he said that it should be dearly sold. If it is at all possible, he will not fail to exact the price; he is in such pain and wrath and rage that he is well-nigh beside himself, and he has a poor opinion of himself, if he cannot score on his rival now. He rushes at him with the intent to seize him, but Lancelot forestalls his plan, for with his trenchant sword he deals his body such a cut as he will not recover from until April and May be passed. He smashes his nose-guard against his teeth, breaking three of them in his mouth. And Meleagant’s rage is such that he cannot speak or say a word; nor does he deign to cry for mercy, for his foolish heart holds tight in such constraint that even now it deludes him still. Lancelot approaches and, unlacing his helmet, cuts off his head. Never more will this man trouble him; it is all over with him as he falls dead. Not a soul who was present there felt any pity at the sight. The King and all the others there are jubilant and express their joy. Happier than they ever were before, they relieve Lancelot of his arms, and lead him away exultingly.

My lords, if I should prolong my tale, it would be beside the purpose, and so I will conclude. Godefroi de Leigni, the clerk, has written the conclusion of “the Cart”; but let no one find fault with him for having embroidered on Chretien’s theme, for it was done with the consent of Chretien who started it. Godefroi has finished it from the point where Lancelot was imprisoned in the tower. So much he wrote; but he would fain add nothing more, for fear of disfiguring the tale.

THE SONG OF THE CID

Anonymous

Composed ca. 1195-1207 C.E.

Spain

The Song of the Cid (called both El Cantar de Mio Cid and El Poema de Mio Cid in Spanish) is based on real people and events. The hero of the story is Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (1043-1099 C.E.), called Mío Cid (my Lord) by the narrator, El Cid by Moors, and El Campeador (the Champion) by Christians. In the Cid’s lifetime, Spain was a collection of kingdoms, with various Muslim rulers in south and central Spain, and several Christian rulers in the north. Muslim and Christian rulers often formed alliances, and the historical Cid led a combined army of Christian and Muslim troops, working alternately for rulers of both religions. In the story, his fame as a military leader does not protect him or his family from betrayal. Before the story begins, the Cid has been exiled by a Christian ruler based on slander by jealous courtiers. The Cid’s sense of honor drives the plot, and his fame lives on to the present day, where he is celebrated as a hero of Spain.

Written by Laura J. Getty

Image 5.28: Statue of the Cid | The Cid sits on his horse with his sword pointed forward.

Author: User “chicadelatele”

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: CC BY 2.0

5.9.1 The Lay of the Cid

Cid, Translated by R. Seldon Rose and Leonard Bacon

License: Public Domain

Image 5.29: The Cid’s Signature | An autographed signature of the Cid.

Author: User “Escarlati”

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

Cantar I

The Banishment of the Cid I

I

He turned and looked upon them, and he wept very sore

As he saw the yawning gateway and the hasps wrenched off the door,

And the pegs whereon no mantle nor coat of vair there hung.

There perched no moulting goshawk, and there no falcon swung.

My lord the Cid sighed deeply such grief was in his heart

And he spake well and wisely:

“Oh Thou, in Heaven that art

Our Father and our Master, now I give thanks to Thee.

Of their wickedness my foemen have done this thing to me.”

II

Then they shook out the bridle rein further to ride afar.

They had the crow on their right hand as they issued from Bivár;

And as they entered Burgos upon their left it sped.

And the Cid shrugged his shoulders, and the Cid shook his head:

“Good tidings, Alvar Fañez. We are banished from our weal,

But on a day with honor shall we come unto Castile.”

III

Roy Diaz entered Burgos with sixty pennons strong,

And forth to look upon him did the men and women throng.

And with their wives the townsmen at the windows stood hard by,

And they wept in lamentation, their grief was risen so high.

As with one mouth, together they spake with one accord:

“God, what a noble vassal, an he had a worthy lord.

IV

Fain had they made him welcome, but none dared do the thing

For fear of Don Alfonso, and the fury of the King.

His mandate unto Burgos came ere the evening fell.

With utmost care they brought it, and it was sealed well

‘That no man to Roy Diaz give shelter now, take heed

And if one give him shelter, let him know in very deed

He shall lose his whole possession, nay! the eyes within his head

Nor shall his soul and body be found in better stead.’

Great sorrow had the Christians, and from his face they hid.

Was none dared aught to utter unto my lord the Cid.

Then the Campeador departed unto his lodging straight.

But when he was come thither, they had locked and barred the gate.

In their fear of King Alfonso had they done even so.

An the Cid forced not his entrance, neither for weal nor woe

Durst they open it unto him. Loudly his men did call.

Nothing thereto in answer said the folk within the hall.

My lord the Cid spurred onward, to the doorway did he go.

He drew his foot from the stirrup, he smote the door one blow.

Yet the door would not open, for they had barred it fast.

But a maiden of nine summers came unto him at last:

“Campeador, in happy hour thou girdedst on the sword.

‘This the King’s will. Yestereven came the mandate of our lord.

With utmost care they brought it, and it was sealed with care:

None to ope to you or greet you for any cause shall dare.

And if we do, we forfeit houses and lands instead.

Nay we shall lose, moreover, the eyes within the head

And, Cid, with our misfortune, naught whatever dost thou gain.

But may God with all his power support thee in thy pain.”

So spake the child and turned away. Unto her home went she.

That he lacked the King’s favor now well the Cid might see.

He left the door; forth onward he spurred through Burgos town.

When he had reached Saint Mary’s, then he got swiftly down

He fell upon his knee and prayed with a true heart indeed:

and when the prayer was over, he mounted on the steed.

North from the gate and over the Arlanzon he went.

Here in the sand by Burgos, the Cid let pitch his tent.

Roy Diaz, who in happy hour had girded on the brand,

Since none at home would greet him, encamped there on the sand.

With a good squadron, camping as if within the wood.

They will not let him in Burgos buy any kind of food.

Provender for a single day they dared not to him sell.

V

Good Martin Antolínez in Burgos that did dwell

To the Cid and to his henchmen much wine and bread gave o’er,

That he bought not, but brought with him--of everything good store.

Content was the great Campeador, and his men were of good cheer.

Spake Martin Antolínez. His counsel you shall hear.

“In happy hour, Cid Campeador, most surely wast thou born.

Tonight here let us tarry, but let us flee at morn,

For someone will denounce me, that thy service I have done.

In the danger of Alfonso I certainly shall run.

Late or soon, if I ‘scape with thee the King must seek me forth

For friendship’s sake; if not, my wealth, a fig it is not worth.

VI

Then said the Cid, who in good hour had girded on the steel:

“Oh Martin Antolínez, thou art a good lance and leal.

And if I live, hereafter I shall pay thee double rent,

But gone is all my silver, and all my gold is spent.

And well enough thou seest that I bring naught with me

And many things are needful for my good company.

Since by favor I win nothing by might then must I gain.

I desire by thy counsel to get ready coffers twain.

With the sand let us fill them, to lift a burden sore,

And cover them with stamped leather with nails well studded o’er.

VII

Ruddy shall be the leather, well gilded every nail.

In my behalf do thou hasten to Vidas and Raquél.

Since in Burgos they forbade me aught to purchase, and the King

Withdraws his favor, unto them my goods I cannot bring.

They are heavy, and I must pawn them for whatso’er is right.

That Christians may not see it, let them come for them by night.

May the Creator judge it and of all the Saints the choir.

I can no more, and I do it against my own desire.”

VIII

Martin stayed not. Through Burgos he hastened forth, and came

To the Castle. Vidas and Raquél, he demanded them by name.

IX

Raquél and Vidas sate to count their goods and profits through,

When up came Antolínez, the prudent man and true.

“How now Raquél and Vidas, am I dear unto your heart,

I would speak close.” They tarried not. All three they went apart.

“Give me, Raquél and Vidas, your hands for promise sure

That you will not betray me to Christian or to Moor.

I shall make you rich forever. You shall ne’er be needy more.

When to gather in the taxes went forth the Campeador,

Many rich goods he garnered, but he only kept the best.

Therefore this accusation against him was addressed.

And now two mighty coffers full of pure gold hath he.

Why he lost the King’s favor a man may lightly see.

He has left his halls and houses, his meadow and his field,

And the chests he cannot bring you lest he should stand revealed.

The Campeador those coffers will deliver to your trust.

And do you lend unto him whatsoever may be just.

Do you take the chests and keep them, but swear a great oath here

That you will not look within them for the space of all this year.”

The two took counsel:

“Something to our profit must inure

In all barter. He gained something in the country of the Moor

When he marched there, for many goods he brought with him away.

But he sleeps not unsuspected, who brings coined gold to pay.

Let the two of us together take now the coffers twain.

In some place let us put them where unseen they shall remain.

“What the lord Cid demandeth, we prithee let us hear,

And what will be our usury for the space of all this year?”

Said Martin Antolínez like a prudent man and true:

“Whatever you deem right and just the Cid desires of you.

He will ask little since his goods are left in a safe place.

But needy men on all sides beseech the Cid for grace.

For six hundred marks of money, the Cid is sore bested.”

“We shall give them to him gladly,” Raquél and Vidas said.

“‘Tis night. The Cid is sorely pressed. So give the marks to us.

Answered Raquél and Vidas: “Men do not traffic thus.

But first they take their surety and thereafter give the fee.”

Said Martin Antolínez:

“So be it as for me.

Come ye to the great Campeador for ‘tis but just and fair

That we should help you with the chests, and put them in your care,

So that neither Moor nor Christian thereof shall hear the tale.”

“Therewith are we right well content,” said Vidas and Raquél,

“You shall have marks six hundred when we bring the chests again.”

And Martin Antolínez rode forth swiftly with the twain.

And they were glad exceeding. O’er the bridge he did not go,

But through the stream, that never a Burgalese should know

Through him thereof. And now behold the Campeador his tent.

When they therein had entered to kiss his hands they bent.

My lord the Cid smiled on them and unto them said he:

“Ha, don Raquél and Vidas, you have forgotten me!

And now must I get hence away who am banished in disgrace,

For the king from me in anger hath turned away his face.

I deem that from my chattels you shall gain somewhat of worth.

And you shall lack for nothing while you dwell upon the earth.’

A-kissing of his hands forthwith Raquél and Vidas fell.

Good Martin Antolínez had made the bargain well,

That to him on the coffers marks six hundred they should lend.

And keep them safe, moreover, till the year had made an end.

For so their word was given and sworn to him again,

If they looked ere that within them, forsworn should be the twain,

The Cid would never give them one groat of usury.

Said Martin, “Let the chests be ta’en as swiftly as may be,

Take them, Raquél and Vidas, and keep them in your care.

And we shall even go with you that the money we may bear,

For ere the first cock croweth must my lord the Cid depart.”

At the loading of the coffers you had seen great joy of heart.

For they could not heave the great chests up though they were

stark and hale.

Dear was the minted metal to Vidas and Raquél;

And they would be rich forever till their two lives it were o’er

X

The hand of my good lord the Cid, Raquél had kissed once more:

“Ha! Campeador, in happy hour thou girdedst on the brand.

Forth from Castile thou goest to the men of a strange land.

Such is become thy fortune and great thy gain shall be

Ah Cid, I kiss thine hands again--but make a gift to me

Bring me a Moorish mantle splendidly wrought and red.”

“So be it. It is granted,” the Cid in answer said,

“If from abroad I bring it, well doth the matter stand;

If not, take it from the coffers I leave here in your hand.”

And then Raquél and Vidas bore the two chests away.

With Martin Antolínez into Burgos entered they.

And with fitting care, and caution unto their dwelling sped.

And in the midmost of the hall a plaited quilt they spread.

And a milk-white cloth of linen thereon did they unfold.

Three hundred marks of silver before them Martin told.

And forthwith Martin took them, no whit the coins he weighed.

Then other marks three hundred in gold to him they paid.

Martin had five esquires. He loaded all and one.

You shall hear what said don Martin when all this gear was done:

“Ha! don Raquél and Vidas, ye have the coffers two.

Well I deserve a guerdon, who obtained this prize for you.”

XI

Together Vidas and Raquél stepped forth apart thereon:

“Let us give him a fair present for our profit he has won.

Good Martin Antolínez in Burgos that dost dwell,

We would give thee a fair present for thou deserves well.

Therewith get breeches and a cloak and mantle rich and fine.

Thou hast earned it. For a present these thirty marks are thine.

For it is but just and honest, and, moreover, thou wilt stand

Our warrant in this bargain whereto we set our hand.”

Don Martin thanked them duly and took the marks again.

He yearned to leave the dwelling and well he wished the twain.

He is gone out from Burgos. O’er the Arlanzon he went.

And him who in good hour was born he found within his tent.

The Cid arose and welcomed him, with arms held wide apart:

“Thou art come, Antolínez, good vassal that thou art!

May you live until the season when you reap some gain of me.”

“Here have I come, my Campeador, with as good heed as might be.

Thou hast won marks six hundred, and thirty more have I.

Ho! order that they strike the tents and let us swiftly fly.

In San Pedro de Cardeñas let us hear the cock ere day.

We shall see your prudent lady, but short shall be our stay.

And it is needful for us from the kingdom forth to wend,

For the season of our suffrance drawns onward to its end.”

XII

They spake these words and straightaway the tent upgathered then,

My lord the Cid rode swiftly with all his host of men.

And forth unto Saint Mary’s the horse’s head turned he,

And with his right hand crossed himself: “God, I give thanks to thee

Heaven and Earth that rulest. And thy favor be my weal

Holy Saint Mary, for forthright must I now quit Castile.

For I look on the King with anger, and I know not if once more

I shall dwell there in my life-days. But may thy grace watch o’er

My parting, Blessed Virgin, and guard me night and day.

If thou do so and good fortune come once more in my way,

I will offer rich oblations at thine altar, and I swear

Most solemnly that I will chant a thousand masses there.”

XIII

And the lord Cid departed fondly as a good man may.

Forthwith they loosed the horses, and out they spurred away.

Said good Martin Antolínez in Burgos that did dwell:

“I would see my lady gladly and advise my people well

What they shall do hereafter. It matters not to me

Though the King take all. Ere sunrise I shall come unto thee.”

XIV

Martin went back to Burgos but my lord the Cid spurred on

To San Pedro of Cardeñas as hard as horse could run,

With all his men about him who served him as is due.

And it was nigh to morning, and the cocks full oft they crew,

When at last my lord the Campeador unto San Pedro came.

God’s Christian was the Abbot. Don Sancho was his name;

And he was saying matins at the breaking of the day.

With her five good dames in waiting Xiména there did pray.

They prayed unto Saint Peter and God they did implore:

“O thou who guidest all mankind, succor the Campeador.”

XV

One knocked at the doorway, and they heard the tidings then.

God wot the Abbot Sancho was the happiest of men.

With the lights and with the candles to the court they ran forth right,

And him who in good hour was born they welcomed in delight.

“My lord Cid,” quoth the Abbot, “Now God be praised of grace!

Do thou accept my welcome, since I see thee in this place.”

And the Cid who in good hour was born, hereunto answered he:

“My thanks to thee, don Sancho, I am content with thee.

For myself and for my vassals provision will I make.

Since I depart to exile, these fifty marks now take.

If I may live my life-span, they shall be doubled you.

To the Abbey not a groatsworth of damage will I do.

For my lady do I give you an hundred marks again,

Herself, her dames and daughters for this year do you maintain.

I leave two daughters with you, but little girls they be.

In thine arms keep them kindly. I commend them here to thee.

Don Sancho do thou guard them, and of my wife take care.

If thou wantest yet and lackest for anything whate’er,

Look well to their provision, thee I conjure once more,

And for one mark that thou spendest the Abbey shall have four.”

And with glad heart the Abbot his full assent made plain.

And lo! the Dame Xiména came with her daughters twain.

Each had her dame-in-waiting who the little maiden bore.

And Dame Xiména bent the knee before the Campeador.

And fain she was to kiss his hand, and, oh, she wept forlorn!

“A boon! A boon! my Campeador. In a good hour wert thou born.

And because of wicked slanderers art thou banished from the land.

XVI

“Oh Campeador fair-bearded, a favor at thy hand!

Behold I kneel before thee, and thy daughters are here with me,

That have seen of days not many, for children yet they be,

And these who are my ladies to serve my need that know.

Now well do I behold it, thou art about to go.

Now from thee our lives a season must sunder and remove,

But unto us give succor for sweet Saint Mary’s love.”

The Cid, the nobly bearded, reached down unto the twain,

And in his arms his daughters has lifted up again,

And to his heart he pressed them, so great his love was grown,

And his tears fell fast and bitter, and sorely did he moan:

“Xiména as mine own spirit I loved thee, gentle wife;

But o’er well dost thou behold it, we must sunder in our life.

I must flee and thou behind me here in the land must stay.

Please God and sweet Saint Mary that yet upon a day

I shall give my girls in marriage with mine own hand rich and well,

And thereafter in good fortune be suffered yet to dwell,

May they grant me, wife, much honored, to serve thee then once more.”

XVII

A mighty feast they had prepared for the Great Campeador

The bells within San Pedro they clamor and they peal.

That my lord the Cid is banished men cry throughout Castile.

And some have left their houses, from their lands some fled away.

Of knights an hundred and fifteen were seen upon that day,

By the bridge across the Arlanzon together they came o’er.

One and all were they calling on the Cid Campeador.

And Martin Antolínez has joined him with their power.

They sought him in San Pedro, who was born in a good hour.

XVIII

When that his host was growing, heard the great Cid of Bivár,

Swift he rode forth to meet them, for his fame would spread afar.

When they were come before him, he smiled on them again.

And one and all drew near him and to kiss his hand were fain.

My lord the Cid spake gladly: “Now to our God on high

I make my supplication that ere I come to die I

may repay your service that house and land has cost,

And return unto you double the possession that ye lost.”

My lord the Cid was merry that so great his commons grew,

And they that were come to him they all were merry too.

Six days of grace are over, and there are left but three,

Three and no more. The Cid was warned upon his guard to be,

For the King said, if thereafter he should find him in the land,

Then neither gold nor silver should redeem him from his hand.

And now the day was over and night began to fall

His cavaliers unto him he summoned one and all:

“Hearken, my noble gentlemen. And grieve not in your care.

Few goods are mine, yet I desire that each should have his share.

As good men ought, be prudent. When the cocks crow at day,

See that the steeds are saddled, nor tarry nor delay.

In San Pedro to say matins the Abbot good will be;

He will say mass in our behalf to the Holy Trinity.

And when the mass is over, from the abbey let us wend,

For the season of our sufferance draws onward to an end.

And it is sure, moreover, that we have far to go.”

Since so the Cid had ordered, they must do even so.

Night passed, and came the morning. The second cock he crew;

Forthwith upon the horses the caparisons they threw.

And the bells are rung for matins with all the haste they may.

My lord Cid and his lady to church they went their way.

On the steps Xiména cast herself, that stood the shrine before,

And to God passionately she prayed to guard the Campeador:

“Our Father who art in Heaven, such glory is in Thee!

Thou madest firmament and earth, on the third day the sea.

The stars and moon Thou madest, and the great sun to warm.

In the womb of Mary Mother, Thou tookest human form.

Thou didst appear in Bethlehem as was Thy will and choice.

And in Thy praise and glory shepherds lifted up their voice.

And thither to adore Thee from Arabia afar

Came forth the three kings, Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar.

And gold and myrrh and frankincense they proffered eagerly.

Thou didst spare the prophet Jonah when he fell into the sea.

And Thou didst rescue Daniel from the lions in the cave.

And, moreover, in Rome city Saint Sebastian didst Thou save.

From the sinful lying witness Saint Susanna didst Thou ward.

And years two and thirty didst Thou walk the Earth, our Lord,

Showing, the which all men take heed, Thy miracles divine.

Of the stone, bread Thou madest, and of the water, wine.

Thou didst raise up Saint Lazarus according to Thy will.

Thou didst let the Hebrews take Thee. On Calvary the hill,

In the place Golgotha by name, Thee, Lord, they crucified.

And the two thieves were with Thee, whom they hanged on either side,

One is in heaven, the other he came not thereunto.

A miracle most mighty on the cross there didst Thou do.

Blind was Longinus never had seen from his birth-year.

The side of our Lord Jesus he pierced it with the spear.

Forth the blood issued swiftly, and ran down the shaft apace.

It stained his hands. He raised them and put them to his face.

Forthwith his eyes were opened and in every way might see.

He is ransomed from destruction for he straight believed on Thee.

From the sepulchre Thou rosest, and into Hell didst go,

According to Thy purpose, and its gates didst overthrow,

To bring forth the Holy Fathers. And King of Kings Thou art,

And of all the world the Father, and Thee with all my heart

Do I worship and acknowledge, and further I implore

That Saint Peter speed my prayer for the Cid Campeador,

That God keep his head from evil; and when this day we twain

Depart, then grant it to us that we meet in life again.”

And now the prayer is over and the mass in its due course.

From church they came, and already were about to get to horse.

And the Cid clasped Xiména, but she, his hand she kissed.

Sore wept the Dame, in no way the deed to do she wist.

He turned unto his daughters and he looked upon the two:

“To the Spiritual Father, have I commended you.

We must depart. God knoweth when we shall meet again.”

Weeping most sore--for never hast thou beheld such pain

As the nail from the flesh parteth, from each other did they part.

And Cid with all his vassals disposed himself to start,

And as he waited for them anew he turned his head,

Minaya AIvar Fañez then in good season said:

“Cid! Where is now thy courage? Upon a happy day

Wast thou born. Let us bethink us of the road and haste away.

A truce to this. Rejoicing out of these griefs shall grow.

The God who gave us spirits shall give us aid also.”

Don Sancho the good Abbot, they charged him o’er again

To watch and ward Xiména and likewise her daughters twain,

And the ladies that were with them. That he shall have no lack

Of guerdon let the Abbot know. By this was he come back,

Then out spake Alvar Fañez: “Abbot, if it betide

That men should come desirous in our company to ride,

Bid them follow but be ready on a long road to go

Through the sown and through the desert; they may overtake us so.”

They got them upon horseback, they let the rein go slack.

The time drew near when on Castile they needs must turn the back.

Spinaz de Can, it was the place where the Cid did alight.

And a great throng of people welcomed him there that night.

On the next day at morning, he got to horse once more,

And forth unto his exile rode the true Campeador.

To the left of San Estévan the good town did he wheel.

He marched through Alcobiella the frontier of Castile.

O’er the highway to Quinéa his course then has he bent.

Hard by Navas de Palos o’er Duéro stream he went.

All night at Figueruéla did my lord the Cid abide.

And very many people welcomed him on every side.

XIX

When it was night the Cid lay down. In a deep sleep he fell,

And to him in a vision came the angel Gabriel:

“Ride, Cid, most noble Campeador, for never yet did knight

Ride forth upon an hour whose aspect was so bright.

While thou shalt live good fortune shall be with thee and shine.”

When he awoke, upon his face he made the holy sign.

XX

He crossed himself, and unto God his soul commended then,

he was glad of the vision that had come into his ken

The next day at morning they began anew to wend.

Be it known their term of sufferance at the last has made an end.

In the mountains of Miédes the Cid encamped that night,

With the towers of Atiénza where the Moors reign on the right.

XXI

‘Twas not yet come to sunset, and lingered still the day.

My lord the Cid gave orders his henchmen to array.

Apart from the footsoldiers, and valiant men of war,

There were three hundred lances that each a pennon bore.

XXII

“Feed all the horses early, so may our God you speed.

Let him eat who will; who will not, let him get upon the steed.

We shall pass the mountain ranges rough and of dreadful height.

The land of King Alfonso we can leave behind tonight.

And whosoe’er will seek us shall find us ready then.”

By night the mountain ranges he traversed with his men.

Morn came. From the hills downward they were about to fare.

In a marvelous great forest the Cid bade halt them there,

And to feed the horses early; and he told them all aright

In what way he was desirous that they should march by night.

They all were faithful vassals and gave assent thereto;

The behests of their great captain it behooved them all to do.

Ere night, was every man of them unto the riding fit.

So did the Cid that no man might perchance get wind of it.

They marched all through the night-tide and rested not at all.

Near Henáres a town standeth that Castejón men call.

There the Cid went into ambush with the men of his array.

XXIII

He couched there in the ambush till the breaking of the day.

This Minaya Alvar Fañez had counselled and had planned:

“Ha, Cid, in happy hour thou girdedst on the brand.

Thou with an hundred henchmen shalt abide to hold the rear.

Till we have drawn forth Castejón unto the bushment here.

But give me now two hundred men on a harrying raid to ride.

We shall win much if thy fortune and our God be on our side.

“Well didst thou speak, Minaya,” the Campeador he said,

“Do thou with the two hundred ride on a harrying raid.

With Alvar Salvadórez, Alvar Alvarez shall advance,

likewise Galínd Garcíaz, who is a gallant lance.

Let them ride beside Minaya, each valiant cavalier.

Let them ride unfearing forward and turn from naught for fear.

Out unto Guadalajára, from Hita far and wide,

To Alcalá the city forth let the harriers ride.

That they bring all the booty let them be very sure,

Let them leave naught behind them for terror of the Moor.

Here with an hundred lances in the rear will I remain,

And capture Castejón good store of provender to gain.

If thou come in any danger as thou ridest on the raid,

Send swiftly hither, and all Spain shall say how I gave aid.”

Now all the men were chosen who on the raid should ride,

And those who in the rearguard with the lord Cid should abide.

And now the dawn was breaking and morning coming on,

And the sun rising. Very God! how beautifully it shone!

All men arose in Castejón, and wide they threw the gates;

And forth they went to oversee their farmlands and estates.

All were gone forth, and the gates stand open as they were thrown,

And but a little remnant were left in Castejón.

Round the city were the people scattered the whole country o’er.

Then forth out of the ambush issued the Campeador.

And without fail round Castejón he rushed along his way.

The Moors, both men and women, he took them for a prey,

And of their flocks as many as thereabouts there strayed.

My lord Cid don Rodrigo straight for the gateway made,

And they that held it, when they saw that swift attack begin,

Fled in great fear, and through the gates Roy Diaz entered in

With the sword naked in his hand; and fifteen Moors he slew

Whom he ran down. In Castejón much gold, and silver too,

He captured. Then unto him his knights the booty brought.

To my lord Cid they bore it. The spoil they valued naught.

Lo! the two hundred men and three to plunder that rode out,

Sped fearlessly, and ravaged the country roundabout.

For the banner of Minaya unto Alcalá did gleam.

Then they bore home the booty up the Henáres stream

Past Guadalajára. Booty exceeding great they bore

Of sheep and kine and vesture and of other wealth good store.

Straightway returned Minaya. None dared the rear attack.

With the treasure they had taken his company turned back.

Lo, they wore come to Castejón, where the Campeador abode.

He left the hold well guarded. Out from the place he rode.

With all his men about him to meet them did he come,

And with arms wide asunder welcomed Minaya home:

“Thou art come, Alvar Fañez, good lance thou art indeed.

Whereso I send thee, in such wise I well may hope to speed.

Put straightway all together the spoil both shine and mine;

The fifth part of all, Minaya, an thou so desire, is thine.”

XXIV

“Much do I thank thee for it, illustrious Campeador.

With what thou giv’st me, the fifth part of all our spoils of war,

The King Alfonso of Castile full well content would be.

I renounce it in thy favor; and without a claim to thee.

But I swear to God who dwelleth in the high firmament,

That till upon my charger I gallop in content

Against the Moors, and till I wield both spear and brand again,

And till unto my elbow from the blade the blood doth drain

Before the Cid illustrious, howe’er so small it be,

I will not take the value of a copper groat from thee.

When through me some mighty treasure thou hast at thy command.

I will take thy gift; till such a time, all else is in thine hand.”

XXV

They heaped the spoil together. Pondered the Cid my lord,

He who in happy hour had girded on the sword,

How tidings of his raiding to the King would come ere long,

And Alfonso soon would seek him with his host to do him wrong.

He bade his spoil-dividers make a division fair,

And furthermore in writing give to each man his share.

The fortune of each cavalier had sped exceeding well,

One hundred marks of silver to each of them there fell,

And each of the foot soldiers the half of that obtained.

A round fifth of the treasure for my lord the Cid remained

But here he could not sell it, nor in gifts give it away.

No captives, men or women, he desired in his array.

And with the men of Castejón he spoke to this intent

To Hita and Guadalajára ambassadors he sent

To find how high the ransom of the fifth part they would rate.

Even as they assessed it, his profit would be great.

Three thousand marks of silver the Moors agreed to pay.

The Cid was pleased. And duly was it paid on the third day.

My lord the Cid determined with all his men of war

That there within the castle they would abide no more,

And that they would have held it, but that water sore it lacked:

“Ye Moors are friendly to the King; even so runs the pact,

With his host will he pursue us. And I desire to flee

From Castejón; Minaya and my men, so hark to me;

XXVI

“Nor take it ill, mine utterance. For here we cannot stay.

The king will come to seek us, for he is not far away;

But to destroy the castle seems in no way good to me.

An hundred Moorish women in that place I will set free

And of the Moors an hundred. Since there, as it befell,

I captured them. Hereafter shall they all speak of me well.

Ye all are paid; among you is no man yet to pay.

Let us on the morrow morning prepare to ride away,

For against my lord AIfonso the strife I would not stir.”

What the Cid said was pleasing to his every follower.

Rich men they all departed from the hold that they had ta’en

And the Moors both men and women blessed them o’er and o’er again.

Up the Henáres hastened they and hard they rode and strong.

They passed through the Alcárrias, and swift they marched along,

By the Caverns of Anquíta they hastened on their way.

They crossed the stream. Into Taránz the great plain entered they,

And on down through that region as hard as they might fare.

Twixt Faríza and Cetína would the Cid seek shelter there.

And a great spoil he captured in the country as he went,

For the Moors had no inkling whatso’er of his intent.

On the next day marched onward the great Cid of Bivár,

And he went by Alháma, and down the vale afar.

And he passed Bubiérca and Atéca likewise passed,

And it was nigh to Alcocér that he would camp at last

Upon a rounded hillock that was both strong and high.

They could not rob him of water; the Jalón it flowed hard by.

My lord Cid don Rodrigo planned to storm Alcocér.

XXVII. He pitched a strong encampment upon the hillock there,

Some men were toward the mountains, some by the stream arrayed.

The gallant Cid, who in good hour had girded on the blade,

Bade his men near the water dig a trench about the height,

That no man might surprise them by day nor yet by night.

So might men know that there the Cid had taken up his stand.

XXVII

He pitched a strong encampment upon the hillock there,

Some men were toward the mountains, some by the stream arrayed.

The gallant Cid, who in good hour had girded on the blade,

Bade his men near the water dig a trench about the height,

That no man might surprise them by day nor yet by night.

So might men know that there the Cid had taken up his stand.

XXVIII

And thereupon the tidings went out through all that land,

How my lord Cid the Campeador had there got footing sure,

He is gone forth from the Christians, he is come unto the Moor,

In his presence no man dareth plough the farmlands as of yore.

Very merry with his vassals was the great Campeador.

And Alcocér the Castle wider tribute had he laid.

XXIX

In Alcocér the burghers to the Cid their tribute paid

And all the dwellers in Terrér and Teca furthermore.

And the townsmen of Calatayúd, know well, it irked them sore.

Full fifteen weeks he tarried there, but the town yielded not

And when he saw it forthwith the Cid devised a plot.

Save one left pitched behind him, he struck his every tent.

Then with his ensign lifted, down the Jalón he went,

With mail-shirts on and girded swords, as a wise man should him bear.

To draw forth to his ambush the men of Alcocér.

And when they saw it, name of God! How glad was everyone!

“The provender and fodder of my lord the Cid are gone.

If he leaves one tent behind him, the burden is not light

Of the others that he beareth. He ‘scapes like one in flight.

Let us now fall upon him, great profit shall we gain.

We shall win a mighty booty before he shall be ta’en

By them who have their dwelling in the city of Terrér;

For if by chance they take him, in the spoil we shall not share.

The tribute that he levied, double he shall restore.”

Forth from the town of Alcocér in wild haste did they pour.

When the Cid saw them well without he made as if he fled;

With his whole host in confusion down the Jalón he sped.

“The prize ‘scapes,” cried the townsmen. Forth rushed both great and small,

In the lust of conquest thinking of nothing else at all.

They left the gates unguarded, none watched them any more.

And then his face upon them turned the great Campeador,

He saw how twixt them and their hold there lay a mighty space;

He made them turn the standard. They spurred the steeds apace.

“Ho! cavaliers! Now swiftly let every man strike in,

By the Creator’s favor this battle we shall win.”

And there they gave them battle in the midmost of the mead.

Ah God! is the rejoicing on this morning great indeed.

The Cid and Alvar Fañez went spurring on ahead;

Know ye they had good horses that to their liking sped.

‘Twixt the townsmen and the castle swiftly the way they broke.

And the Cid’s henchmen merciless, came striking stroke on stroke,

In little space three hundred of the Moors they there have slain.

Loud was the shouting of the Moors in the ambush that were ta’en.

But the twain left them; on they rushed. Right for the hold they made

And at the gate they halted, each with a naked blade.

Then up came the Cid’s henchmen for the foe were all in flight.

Know ye the Cid has taken Alcocér by such a sleight.

XXX

Per Vermudóz came thither who the Cid’s flag did bear.

On the high place of the city he lifted it in air.

Outspoke the Cid Roy Diaz. Born in good hour was he:

“To God in Heaven and all his saints great thanks and praises be.

We shall better now our lodging for cavalier and steed.”

XXXI

Alvar Fañez and all ye my knights, now hearken and give heed

We have taken with the castle a booty manifold.

Dead are the Moors. Not many of the living I behold

Surely we cannot sell them the women and the men;

And as for striking off their heads, we shall gain nothing then.

In the hold let us receive them, for we have the upper hand.

When we lodge within their dwellings, they shall do as we

command.”

XXXII

The Cid with all his booty lieth in Alcocér.

He let the tent be sent for, that he left behind him there.

It irked the men of Teca, wroth in Terrér were they;

Know ye on all Calatayúd sorely the thing did weigh.

To the Sovereign of Valencia they sent the news apace:

How that the King Alfonso hath banished in disgrace

One whom men call my lord the Cid, Roy Diaz of Bivár,

He came to lodge by Alcocér, and strong his lodgings are.

He drew them out to ambush; he has won the castle there.

“If thou aidest not needs must thou lose both Teca and Terrér,

Thou wilt have lost Calatayúd that cannot stand alone.

All things will go to ruin on the banks of the Jalón,

And round about Jilóca on the far bank furthermore.”

When the King Tamín had heard it, his heart was troubled sore:

“Here do I see three Moorish kings. Let two without delay

With three thousand Moors and weapons for the fight ride there away;

Likewise they shall be aided by the men of the frontier.

See that ye take him living and bring him to me here.

He must pay for the realm’s trespass till I be satisfied.”

Three thousand Moors have mounted and fettled them to ride.

All they unto Segórbe have come to lodge that night.

The next day they got ready to ride at morning light.

In the evening unto Celfa they came the night to spend.

And there they have determined for the borderers to send.

Little enow they tarried; from every side they came.

Then they went forth from Celfa (of Canál it has its name),

Never a whit they rested, but marched the livelong day.

And that night unto their lodging in Calatayúd came they.

And they sent forth their heralds through the length of all the land.

A great and sovran army they gathered to their hand.

With the two Kings Fáriz and Gálve (these are the names they bear).

They will besiege my noble lord the Cid in Alcocér.

XXXIII

They pitched the tents and got them to their lodging there and then.

Strong grew their bands for thereabouts was found great store of men.

Moreover all the outposts, which the Moors set in array,

Marched ever hither and thither in armour night and day.

And many are the outposts, and great that host of war.

From the Cid’s men, of water have they cut off all the store.

My lord the Cid’s brave squadrons great lust to fight they had,

But he who in good hour was born firmly the thing forbade.

For full three weeks together they hemmed the city in.

XXXIV

When three weeks were well nigh over and the fourth would soon begin,

My lord Cid and his henchmen agreed after this guise:

“They have cut us off from water; and our food must fail likewise.

They will not grant unto us that we depart by night,

And very great is their power for us to face and fight.

My knights what is your pleasure, now say, that we shall do?

Then first outspake Minaya the good knight and the true:

“Forth from Castile the noble unto this place we sped;

If with the Moors we fight not, they will not give us bread.

Here are a good six hundred and some few more beside.

In the name of the Creator let nothing else betide:

Let us smite on them tomorrow.”

The Campeador said he:

“Minaya Alvar Fañez, thy speaking liketh me.

Thou hast done thyself much honor, as of great need thou must.”

All the Moors, men and women, he bade them forth to thrust

That none his secret counsel might understand aright

And thereupon they armed them all through that day and night.

And the next day in the dawning when soon the sun should rise,

The Cid was armed and with him all the men of his emprise.

My lord the Cid spake to them even as you shall hear.

“Let all go forth, let no one here tarry in the rear,

Save only two footsoldiers the gates to watch and shield.

They will capture this our castle, if we perish in the field;

But if we win, our fortunes shall grow both great and fair.

Per Vermudóz, my banner I bid thee now to bear;

As thou art very gallant, do thou keep it without stain.

But unless I so shall order thou shalt not loose the rein.”

He kissed the Cid’s hand. Forth he ran the battle-flag to take.

They oped the gates, and outward in a great rush did they break.

And all the outposts of the Moor beheld them coming on,

And back unto the army forthwith they got them gone.

What haste there was among the Moors! To arm they turned them back.

With the thunder of the war-drum the earth was like to crack.

There might you see Moors arming, that swift their ranks did close.

Above the Moorish battle two flags-in-chief arose,

But of their mingling pennons the number who shall name?

Now all the squadrons of the Moors marching right onward came,

That the Cid and all his henchmen they might capture out of hand.

“My gallant men here in this place see that ye firmly stand,

Let no man leave the war-ranks till mine order I declare.”

Per Vermudóz, he found it too hard a thing to bear,

He spurred forth with the banner that in his hand he bore:

“May the Creator aid thee, thou true Cid Campeador,

Through the line of battle yonder thy standard I will take;

I shall see how you bring succor, who must for honor’s sake.”

Said the Campeador: “Of charity, go not to the attack.”

For answer said Per Vermudóz: “Is naught shall hold me back.”

Spurring the steed he hurled him through the strong line of the foes.

The serried Moors received him and smote him mighty blows,

To take from him the banner; yet they could not pierce his mail.

Said the Campeador: “Of charity go help him to prevail.”

XXXV

Before their breasts the war-shields there have they buckled strong,

The lances with the pennons they laid them low along,

And they have bowed their faces over the saddlebow,

And thereaway to strike them with brave hearts did they go.

He who in happy hour was born with a great voice did call:

“For the love of the Creator, smite them, my gallants ah.

I am Roy Diaz of Bivár, the Cid, the Campeador.”

At the rank where was Per Vermudóz the mighty strokes they bore.

They are three hundred lances that each a pennon bear.

At one blow every man of them his Moor has slaughtered there,

And when they wheeled to charge anew as many more were slain.

XXXV

You might see great clumps of lances lowered and raised again,

And many a shield of leather pierced and shattered by the stroke,

And many a coat of mail run through, its meshes all to-broke,

And many a white pennon come forth all red with blood,

And running without master full many a charger good.

Cried the Moors “Mahound!” The Christians shouted on Saint James of grace.

On the field Moors thirteen hundred were slain in little space.

XXXVII

On his gilded selle how strongly fought the Cid, the splendid knight.

And Minaya Alvar Fañez who Zoríta held of right,

And brave Martin Antolínez that in Burgos did abide,

And likewise Muño Gustióz, the Cid’s esquire tried!

So also Martin Gustióz who ruled Montemayór,

And by Alvar Salvadórez Alvar Alvarez made war

And Galínd Garcíaz the good knight that came from Aragon,

There too came Felez Múñoz the Cid his brother’s son.

As many as were gathered there straightway their succor bore,

And they sustained the standard and the Cid Campeador.

XXXVIII

Of Minaya Alvar Fañez the charger they have slain

The gallant bands of Christians came to his aid amain.

His lance was split and straightway he set hand upon the glaive,

What though afoot, no whit the less he dealt the buffets brave.

The Cid, Roy Diaz of Castile, saw how the matter stood.

He hastened to a governor that rode a charger good.

With his right hand he smote him such a great stroke with the sword

That the waist he clave; the half of him he hurled unto the sward.

To Minaya Alvar Fañez forthwith he gave the steed.

“Right arm of mine, Minaya, now horse thee with all speed!

I shall have mighty succor from thee this very day.

The Moors leave not the battle; firm standeth their array,

And surely it behooves us to storm their line once more.”

Sword in hand rode Minaya; on their host he made great war,

Whom he overtook soever, even to death he did.

He who was born in happy hour, Roy Diaz, my lord Cid,

Thrice smote against King Fáriz. Twice did the great strokes fail,

But the third found the quarry. And down his shirt of mail

Streamed the red blood. To leave the field he wheeled his horse away.

By that one stroke the foeman were conquered in the fray.

XXXIX

And Martin Antolínez a heavy stroke let drive

At Gálve. On his helmet the rubies did he rive;

The stroke went through the helmet for it reached unto the flesh.

Be it known, he dared not tarry for the man to strike afresh.

King Fáriz and King Gálve, but beaten men are they.

What a great day for Christendom! On every side away

Fled the Moors. My lord Cid’s henchmen still striking gave them chase.

Into Terrér came Fáriz, but the people of the place

Would not receive King Gálve. As swiftly as he might

Onward unto Calatayúd he hastened in his flight.

And after him in full pursuit came on the Campeador.

Till they came unto Calatayúd that chase they gave not o’er.

XL

Minaya Alvar Fañez hath a horse that gallops well.

Of the Moors four and thirty that day before him fell.

And all his arm was bloody, for ‘tis a biting sword;

And streaming from his elbow downward the red blood poured.

Said Minaya: “Now am I content; well will the rumor run

To Castile, for a pitched battle my lord the Cid hath won.”

Few Moors are left, so many have already fallen dead,

For they who followed after slew them swiftly as they fled.

He who was born in happy hour came with his host once more.

On his noble battle-charger rode the great Campeador.

His coif was wrinkled. Name of God! but his great beard was fair.

His mail-hood on his shoulders lay. His sword in hand he bare.

And he looked upon his henchmen and saw them drawing nigh:

“Since we ha’ won such a battle, glory to God on high!”

The Cid his henchmen plundered the encampment far and wide

Of the shields and of the weapons and other wealth beside.

Of the Moors they captured there were found five hundred steeds and ten.

And there was great rejoicing among those Christian men,

And the lost of their number were but fifteen all told.

They brought a countless treasure of silver and of gold.

Enriched were all those Christians with the spoil that they had ta’en

And back unto their castle they restored the Moors again;

To give them something further he gave command and bade.

With all his train of henchmen the Cid was passing glad.

He gave some monies, some much goods to be divided fair,

And full an hundred horses fell to the Cid’s fifth share.

God’s name! his every vassal nobly did he requite,

Not only the footsoldiers but likewise every knight.

He who in happy hour was born wrought well his government,

And all whom he brought with him therewith were well content.

“Harken to me, Minaya, my own right arm art thou.

Of the wealth, wherewith our army the Creator did endow,

Take in thine hand whatever thou deemest good to choose.

To Castile I fain would send thee to carry there the news

Of our triumph. To Alphonso the King who banished me

A gift of thirty horses I desire to send with thee.

Saddled is every charger, each steed is bridled well.

There hangeth a good war-sword at the pommel of each selle.”

Said Minaya Alvar Fañez: “I will do it with good cheer.

XLI

“Of the gold and the fine silver, behold a bootful here

Nothing thereto is lacking. Thou shalt pay the money down

At Saint Mary’s Church for masses fifty score in Burgos town;

To my wife and to my daughters the remainder do thou bear.

Let them offer day and night for me continually their prayer.

If I live, exceeding wealthy all of those dames shall be.

XLII

Minaya Alvar Fañez, therewith content was he.

They made a choice of henchmen along with him to ride.

They fed the steeds. Already came on the eventide.

Roy Diaz would decide it with his companions leal.

XLIII

“Dost thou then go, Minaya, to the great land of Castile

And unto our well-wishers with a clear heart canst thou say:

‘God granted us his favor, and we conquered in the fray?’

If returning thou shalt find us here in this place, ‘tis well;

If not, where thou shalt hear of us, go seek us where we dwell.

For we must gain our daily bread with the lance and with the brand,

Since otherwise we perish here in a barren land.

And therefore as methinketh, we must get hence away.”

XLIV

So was it, and Minaya went at the break of day.

But there behind the Campeador abode with all his band.

And waste was all the country, an exceeding barren land.

Each day upon my lord the Cid there in that place they spied,

The Moors that dwelt on the frontier and outlanders beside.

Healed was King Fáriz. With him they held a council there,

The folk that dwelt in Teca and the townsmen of Terrér,

And the people of Calatayúd, of the three the fairest town.

In such wise have they valued it and on parchment set it down

That for silver marks three thousand Alcocér the Cid did sell.

XLV

Roy Diaz sold them Alcocér. How excellently well

He paid his vassals! Horse and foot he made them wealthy then,

And a poor man you could not find in all his host of men.

In joy he dwelleth aye who serves a lord of noble heart.

XLVI

When my lord the Cid was ready from the Castle to depart,

The Moors both men and women cried out in bitter woe:

“Lord Cid art thou departing? Still may our prayers go

Before thy path, for with thee we are full well content.”

For my lord the great Cid of Bivár, when from Alcocér he went,

The Moors both men and women made lamentation sore.

He lifted up the standard, forth marched the Campeador.

Down the Jalón he hastened, on he went spurring fast.

He saw birds of happy omen, as from the stream he passed.

Glad were the townsmen of Terrér that he had marched away,

And the dwellers in Calatayúd were better pleased than they.

But in the town of Alcocér ‘twas grief to all and one,

For many a deed of mercy unto them the Cid had done.

My lord the Cid spurred onward. Forward apace he went;

‘Twas near to the hill Monreál that he let pitch his tent.

Great is the hill and wondrous and very high likewise.

Be it known from no quarter doth he need to dread surprise.

And first he forced Doróca tribute to him to pay,

And then levied on Molína on the other side that lay,

Teruél o’er against him to submit he next compelled

And lastly Celfa de Canál within his power he held.

XLVII

May my lord the Cid, Roy Diaz, at all times God’s favor feel.

Minaya Alvar Fañez has departed to Castile.

To the King thirty horses for a present did he bring.

And when he had beheld them beautifully smiled the King:

“Who gave thee these, Minaya, so prosper thee the Lord?”

“Even the Cid Roy Diaz, who in good hour girded sword.

Since you banished him, by cunning has he taken Alcocér.

To the King of Valencia the tidings did they bear.

He bade that they besiege him; from every water-well

They cut him off. He sallied forth from the citadel,

In the open field he fought them, and he beat in that affray

Two Moorish kings he captured, sire, a very mighty prey.

Great King, this gift he sends thee. Thine hands and feet also

He kisses. Show him mercy; such God to thee shall show.”

Said the King:

“‘Tis over early for one banished, without grace

In his lord’s sight, to receive it at the end of three week’s space.

But since ‘tis Moorish plunder to take it I consent.

That the Cid has taken such a spoil, I am full well content.

Beyond all this. Minaya. thine exemption I accord,

For all thy lands and honors are unto thee restored.

Go and come! Henceforth my favor I grant to thee once more.

But to thee I say nothing of the Cid Campeador.

Image 5.30: Jura de Santa Gadea | The “Santa Gadea Oath,” where the man in the center with the red cape swears on the Bible that he did not murder his brother, while the Cid stands witness.

Author: Marcos Hir.ldez Acosta

Source: Wikimedia Commons

License: Public Domain

XLVIII

“Beyond this, Alvar Fañez, I am fain to tell it thee

That whosoever in my realm in that desire may be,

Let them, the brave and gallant, to the Cid betake them straight.

I free them and exempt them both body and estate.”

Minaya Alvar Fañez has kissed the King’s hands twain:

“Great thanks, as to my rightful lord I give thee, King, again.

This dost thou now, and better yet as at some later hour.

We shall labor to deserve it, if God will give us power.”

Said the King: “Minaya, peace for that. Take through Castile thy way.

None shall molest. My lord the Cid seek forth without delay.”

Cantar II

The Marriage of the Cid’s Daughters

XCVIII

O’er the mountains, o’er the rivers, o’er the hills they took the road.

And at length before Valladolíd where the King lay they were.

Minaya and Per Vermudóz sent tidings to him there,

That reception to their followers he might bid his men extend.

“My lord Cid of Valencia presents with us doth send.”

XCIX

Glad was the King. Man gladder you never yet did see.

He commanded all his nobles to ride forth hastily.

And forth among the first of them did King Alfonso go,

Of him who in good hour was born the tidings for to know.

Know you the Heirs of Carrión happed in that place to be,

Also Count don García the Cid’s worst enemy.

Of the tidings some were merry, and some were all folorn.

They caught sight of his henchmen who in happy hour was born.

They feared it was an army for no herald came before.

Straightway the King Alfonso crossed himself o’er and o’er.

Minaya and Per Vermudóz came forward with all speed,

They leaped from the saddle, they dismounted from the steed.

Before the King Alfonso upon their knees they fell.

They kissed the ground beneath him, the kissed his feet as well:

“Now a boon, King Alfonso. Thou art great and glorious.

For my lord Cid the Campeador do we embrace thee thus.

He holds himself thy vassal; he owns thee for his lord.

He prizes high the honor thou didst to him accord.

O King, but a few days agone in the fight he overcame

The King out of Morocco, Yússuf (that is his name),

With a host of fifty thousand from the field he drove away.

The booty that he captured was a great and sovran prey.

Great wealth unto his followers because of this did fall.

He sends thee twoscore horses and doth kiss thy hands withal.

Said King Alfonso:

“Gladly to accept them am I fain.

To the Cid who sent me such a gift I send my thanks again.

When I do unto his liking, may he live to see the day.”

Thereat were many of good cheer and kissed his hands straightway.

Grieved was Count don García. Wroth was his heart within.

Apart he wells a little with ten men of his kin:

“A marvel is this matter of the Cid, so grows his fame.

Now by the honor that he hath we shall be put to shame.

Kings he o’erthroweth lightly, and lightly bringeth steeds

As though he dead had found them; we are minished by his deeds.”

C

Hear now of King Alfonso what he said upon this score:

“Thanks be to the Creator and the lord Saint Isidore

For the two hundred horses that the Cid to me hath sent.

Yet shall he serve me better in this my government.

To Minaya Alvar Fañez and Per Vermudóz I say

That you forthwith clothe your bodies in honorable array,

And as you shall require it of me take battle-gear

Such as before Roy Diaz in good manner shall appear.

Take then the gift I give you even these horses three.

As it seems to my avisement, as my heart telleth me,

Out of all these adventures some good will come to light.”

CI

They kissed his hands and entered to take their rest that night.

In all things that they needed he bade men serve them well.

Of the two Heirs of Carrión now am I fain to tell,

How secretly they counselled what thing should be their cast:

“Of my lord Cid the high affairs go forward wondrous fast.

Let us demand his daughters that with them we may wed.

Our fortune and our honor thereby may be well sped.”

Unto the King Alfonso with their secret forth went they.

CII

“As from our King and master a boon of thee we pray

By favor of thy counsel we desire to obtain

That thou ask for us in marriage of the Cid his daughters twain.

With honor and with profit shall the match for then, be fraught.”

Cantar III

The Affront of Corpes

CXXIV

“Now of the Cid the Campeador let us demand our wives.

Let us say that we will bear them to the lands of Carrión.

The place where they are heiresses shall unto them be shown.

We shall take them from Valencia, from the Campeador his reach.

And then upon the journey we shall work our will on each,

Ere the matter of the lion for a sore reproach and scorn

They turn to our discomfort who are heirs of Carrión born.

We shall bear with us of treasure nigh priceless a fair stock.

Of the daughters of the Campeador we two shall make our mock.

We shall be rich men always who possess such valiant things,

And fit to marry daughters of emperors or kings,

Who art the Counts of Carrión by virtue of our birth.

The Campeador his daughters we shall mock at in our mirth.

Ere the matter of the lion they throw at us in disdain.”

When this they had decided the two returned again.

Ontspake Ferránd Golzalvez for silence in the Court:

“Cid Campeador, so may our God abide thy strong support,

May it please Dame Xiména, but first seem good to thee,

And Minaya Alvar Fañez and all men here that be

Give us our wives. By marriage are they ours in very deed.

Unto our lands in Carrión those ladies we will lead.

With the dower-lands to enfeoff them that we gave for bridal right

Of the lands of our possession, thy daughters shall have sight,

And those wherein the children to be born to us shall share.”

The Cid my lord the Campeador scented no insult there:

“I shall give you my daughters and of my wealth dispone.

Ye gave them glebe of dowry in the lands of Carrión,

Three thousands marks of dower shall to my girls belong.

I will give mules and palfreys both excellent and strong,

And great steeds of battle swift and of mighty thew,

And cloth and silken garments with the gold woven through.

Coláda and Tizón the swords I will give to you likewise

Full well ye know I got them in very gallant guise.

My sons ye are, for to you do I give my daughters two.

My very heart’s blood thither ye carry home with you.

In León and in Galicia and Castile let all men hear

How I sent forth my sons-in-law with such abundant gear.

And serve you well my daughters, your wedded wives that be.

An you serve them well rich guerdon ye shall obtain of me.”

To this the heirs of Carrión their full assent made plain.

The daughters of the Campeador were given them and ta’en,

And they began receiving as the Cid’s orders went.

When of all their heart’s desire they were at last content,

Then Carrión’s heirs commanded that the packs be loaded straight,

Through Valencia the city was the press of business great,

And all have taken weapons and all men gallop strong,

For they must forth the daughters of the Cid to speed along

Unto the lands of Carrión. To mount all men prepare,

Farewell all men are saying. But the two sisters there,

Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, kneeled to the Cid Campeador:

“A boon, so may God keep thee, O father, we implore.

Thou begottest us. Our mother she brought us forth in pain.

Our liege-lord and our lady, here do ye stand ye twain.

Now to the lands of Carrión to send us is your will;

It is our bounden duty thy commandment to fulfil.

And so we two together ask but this boon of thee,

That in the lands of Carrión thy tidings still may be.”

My lord the Cid has clasped them, and he has kissed the twain.

CXXV

This hath he done. Their mother hath doubled it again.

“Go, daughters! the Creator of you henceforth have care

Mine and your father’s blessing you still with you shall bear.

Go forth where you are dowered in Carrión to dwell.

I have, after my thinking, married you passing well.”

The hands of their father and their mother kissed the two.

Blessing and benediction they gave to them anew.

My lord Cid and the others have fettled them to ride,

With armor and with horses and caparisons of pride.

From Valencia the splendid were the Heirs departing then.

They took leave of the ladies and all their bands of men.

Through the meadow of Valencia forth under arms they went.

The Cid and all his armies were very well content.

He who in good hour belted brand in signs had seen it plain

That these marriages in no way should stand without a stain.

But since the twain are married, he may not repent him now.

CXXVI

“My nephew Felez Múñoz, I prithee where art thou?

Thou art my daughters’ cousin in thy soul and in thine heart.

With them even unto Carrión I command thee to depart.

Thou shalt see what lands for dower to my girls are given o’er,

And shalt come again with tidings unto the Campeador.’’

Quoth Felez Múñoz: “Heart and soul that duty pleases me.”

Minaya Alvar Fañez before the Cid came he:

“Back to the town of Valencia, Oh Cid, now let us go;

For if our God and Father the Creator’s will be so,

To Carrión’s lands thy daughters to visit we shall wend.

Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, to God do we commend.

Such things may you accomplish as will make us glad and fain.”

The sons-in-law gave answer: “Now that may God ordain.”

They lamented much at parting. Daughters and sire wept sore,

So also wept the cavaliers of the Cid Campeador.

“Thou, cousin, Felez Múñoz, now hark to this aright.

Thou shalt go by Molína, and there shalt lie one night,

And greet fair the Morisco Avengalvón my friend;

That he may most fair reception to my sons-in-law extend.

Tell him I send my daughters to the lands of Carrión,

In all their needs his courtesy as beseemeth shall be shown.

Let him ward them to Medína for the love he beareth me.

For all that he cloth for them I will give him a rich fee.”

They parted then, as when the nail out of the flesh is torn.

He turned back to Valencia who in happy hour was born.

And now the Heirs of Carrión have fettled them to fare.

Saint Mary of Alvarrazín, their halting-place was there.

From thence the Heirs of Carrión plied furiously the spur.

Ho! in Molína with the Moor Avengalvón they were.

The Morisco when he heard it in his heart was well content,

And forth with great rejoicings to welcome them he went.

Ah, God! how well he served them in what e ‘er their joy might be!

The next day in the morning to horse with them got he.

He bade two hundred horsemen for escort forth to ride.

They crossed the mountains of Luzón (so are they signified),

And the Vale of Arbujuélo to the Jalón they came.

The place where they found lodging, Ansaréra is its name.

Unto the daughters of the Cid, the Moor fair presents gave,

And to either Heir of Carrión beside a charger brave.

For the love he bore the Campeador, all this for them he wrought.

They looked upon the riches that the Moor with him had brought

And then together treason did the brothers twain concert.

“Since the daughters of the Campeador we shortly shall desert,

If but we might do unto death Aengalvon the Moor,

The treasure he possesses for ourselves we should secure

Safe as our wealth in Carrión those goods we will maintain.

And ne’er will the Cid Campeador avenge on us the stain.”

While they of Carrión this shame complotted each with each,

In the midst a Moor o’erheard them, that could of Latin speech.

He kept no secret. With it to Avengalvón he ran:

“Thou art my lord. Be wary of these persons, Castellan.

I heard the heirs of Carrión that plotted death for thee.”

CXXVII

This same Avengalvón the Moor, a gallant man was he

He got straightway on horseback with servitors ten score.

He brandished high his weapons, he came the Heirs before.

And the two Heirs with what he said but little pleased they are:

“If for his sake I forebore not, my lord Cid of Bivár,

I would do such deeds upon you as through all the world should ring,

And then to the true Campeador his daughters would I bring.

And unto Carrión never should you enter from that day.

CXXVIII

What I have done against you, ho! Heirs of Carrión, say,

For without guile I served you, and lo, my death ye plot.

For wicked men and traitors I will leave you on the spot.

Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra with your good leave I go;

For of these men of Carrión I rate the fame but low.

God will it and command it, who is Lord of all the Earth.

That the Campeador hereafter of this match have joy and mirth.”

That thing the Moor has told them, and back he turned him there.

When he crossed over thee Jalón, weapon he waved in air.

He returned unto Molína like a man of prudent heart.

And now from Ansaréra did Carrión’s Heirs depart;

And they began thereafter to travel day and night.

And they let Atiénza on the left, a craggy height.

The forest of Miédes, now have they overpassed,

And on through Montes Claros they pricked forward spurring fast.

And then passed Griza on the left that Alamos did found.

There be the caves where Elpha he imprisoned underground.

And they left San Estévan, on their right that lay afar.

Within the woods of Corpes, the Heirs of Carrión are.

And high the hills are wooded, to the clouds the branches sweep,

And savage are the creatures that roundabout them creep;

And there upon a bower with a clear spring they light

And there the Heirs of Carrión bade that their tent be pight.

There with their men about them, that night they lay at rest.

With their wives clasped to their bosom their affection they protest,

But ill the twain fulfilled it, when the dawn came up the East.

They bade put goods a plenty on the back of every beast.

Where they at night found lodging, now have they struck the tent.

The people of their household far on before them went.

Of the two Heirs of Carrión so the commandment ran,

That none behind should linger, a woman or a man.

But Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra their wives shall tarry still,

With whom it is their pleasure to dally to their fill.

The others have departed. They four are left alone.

Great evil had been plotted by the Heirs of Carrión.

“Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, ye may take this for true:

Here in the desert wildwood shall a mock be made of you.

Today is our departure, we will leave you here behind.

And in the lands of Carrión no portion shall you find.

Let them hasten with these tidings to the Cid Campeador.

Thus, the matter of the lion, we avenge ourselves therefor.”

Their furs and their mantles, from the ladies they have whipped.

In their shifts and their tunics they left the ladies stripped.

With spur on heel before them those wicked traitors stand,

And saddle-girths both stout and strong they have taken in the hand.

When the ladies had beheld it, then out spake Sol the dame:

“Don Diégo, don Ferrándo, we beeech you in God’s name.

You have two swords about you, that for strength and edge are known.

And one they call Coláda, the other is Tizón.

Strike off our heads together, and martyrs we shall die.

The Moriscos and the Christians against this deed shall cry.

It stands not with our deserving that we should suffer thus.

So evil an example, then do not make of us.

Unto our own abasement, if you scourge us, you consent,

That men will bring against you in parle and parliament.”

Naught profits it the ladies, however hard they pray.

And now the Heirs of Carrión upon them ‘gan to lay.

With the buckled girths they scourged them in fashion unbeseen,

And exceeding was their anguish from the sharp spurs and keen.

They rent the shifts and wounded the bodies of the two,

And forth upon the tunics the clear blood trickled through.

In their very hearts the ladies have felt that agony.

What a fair fortune were it, if God’s will it might be,

Had then appeared before them the Cid the Campeador.

Powerless were the ladies, and the brothers scourged them sore.

Their shifts and their sullies throughout the blood did stain.

Of scourging the two ladies wearied the brothers twain,

Which man should smite most fiercely they had vied each with each.

Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra had no longer power of speech.

Within the wood of Corpes for dead they left the pair.

CXXIX

Their cloaks and furs of ermine along with them they bare,

In their shifts and tunics, fainting, they left them there behind,

A prey to every wild-fowl and beast of savage kind.

Know you, for dead, not living, they left them in such cheer.

Good hap it were if now the Cid, Roy Diaz, should appear.

CXXX

The Heirs of Carrión for dead have left them thus arrayed,

For the one dame to the other, could give no sort of aid.

They sang each other’s praises as they journeyed through the wood:

“For the question of our marriage we have made our vengeance good.

Unbesought, to be our lemans we should not take that pair,

Because as wedded consorts for our arms unfit they were.

For the insult of the lion vengeance shall thus be ta’en.”

CXXXI

They sang each other’s praises, the Heirs of Carrión twain.

But now of Felez Múñoz will I tell the tale once more.

Even he that was nephew to the Cid Campeador.

They had bidden him ride onward, but he was not well content.

And his heart smote within him as along the road he went.

Straightway from all the others’ a space did he withraw.

There Felez Múñoz entered into a thick-grown straw,

Till the coming of his cousins should be plain to be perceived

Or what the Heirs of Carrión as at that time achieved.

And he beheld them coming, and heard them say their say,

But they did not espy him, nor thought of him had they.

Be it known death he had not scaped, had they on him laid eye.

And the two Heirs rode onward, pricking fast the spur they ply.

On their trail Felez Múñoz has turned him back again.

He came upon his cousins. In a swoon lay the twain.

And crying “Oh my cousins!” straightway did he alight.

By the reins the horse he tethered, and went to them forthright.

“Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, cousins of mine that be,

The two Heirs of Carrión have borne them dastardly.

Please God that for this dealing they may get a shameful gain.”

And straightway he bestirred him to life to bring the twain.

Deep was their swoon. Of utterance all power they had forlorn.

Of his heart the very fabric thereby in twain was torn.

“Oh my cousins Dame Elvíra and Dame Sol,” he cried and spake,

“For the love of the Creator, my cousins twain, awake,

While yet the day endureth, ere falls the evening-hour,

Lest in the wood our bodies the savage beast devour.”

In Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra fresh life began to rise;

And they looked on Felez Múñoz when at last they oped their eyes:

“For the love of God my cousins, now be of courage stout.

From the time the Heirs of Carrión shall miss me from their rout,

With utmost speed thereafter will they hunt me low and high.

And if God will not help us, in this place we then must die.”

To him out spoke the Lady Sol in bitter agony:

“If the Campeador, our father, deserveth well of thee,

My cousin give us water, so may God help thee too.”

A hat had Felez Múñoz, from Valencia, fine and new,

Therein he caught the water, and to his cousins bore.

To drink their fill he gave them, for they were stricken sore.

Till they rose up, most earnestly he begged them and implored.

He comforts them and heartens them until they are restored.

He took the two and quickly set them a-horse again.

He wrapped them in his mantle. He took the charger’s rein

And sped them on, and through Corpes Wood they took their way.

They issued from the forest between the night and day.

The waters of Duéro they at the last attain.

At Dame Urráca’s tower he left behind the twain,

And then unto Saint Stephen’s did Felez Múñoz fare.

He found Diégo Tellez, Alvar Fañez’ vassal, there.

When he had heard those tidings on his heart great sorrow fell.

And he took beasts of burden and garments that excel.

Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra to welcome did he go.

He lodged the in Saint Stephen’s. Great honor did he show

Those ladies. In Saint Stephen’s very gentle are the men,

When they had heard the tidings their hearts were sorry then.

To the Cid’s daughters tribute of plenteous fare they yield.

In that place the ladies tarried, till the time when they were healed.

Loud they sang each other’s praises, those Heirs of Carrión,

And of their deeds the tidings through all these lands were known.

Of the good King don Alfonso the heart for grief was torn.

To Valencia the city now are the tidings borne.

To my lord Cid the Campeador that message when they brought,

Thereon for a full hour’s space, he pondered and he thought.

His hand he has uplifted and gripped his beard amain:

“Now unto Christ be glory who o’er all the earth doth reign.

Since thus sought they of Carrión to keep mine honor whole.

Now by this beard that never was plucked by living soul,

Thereby the Heirs of Carrión no pleasure shall they gain.

As for the dames my daughters, I shall marry well the twain.

The Cid and all his courtiers were sorry grievously,

Heart and soul Alvar Fañez a sad man was he.

Minaya with Per Vermudóz straightway the steed bestrode,

And good Martin Antolínez in Burgos that abode,

With ten score horse that to that end the Cid set in array.

Most earnestly he charged them to ride both night and day,

And to the town Valencia his daughters twain to bring.

About their lord’s commandment there was no tarrying.

Swiftly they got on horseback and rode both day and night.

Into Gormaz they entered, a strong place of might.

In sooth one night they lodged there. To Saint Stephen’s tidings flew

That Minaya was come thither to bring home his cousins two.

The dwellers in Saint Stephen’s, as becomes the true and brave,

To Minaya and his henchmen a noble welcome gave,

And for tribute to Minaya brought that night of cheer good store.

He desired not to accept it, but he thanked them well therefor;

“Thanks, stout men of Saint Stephen’s, for ye bear you wise and well.

For the honor that ye did us, for the thing that us befel,

Where bides the Cid the Campeador he gives true thanks to you,

As I do here. May God on high give you your payment due.”

Therewith they thanked him greatly, with him were all content

Then swiftly to their lodging to rest that night they went.

Where bode his kin, Minaya to see them went his ways. Dame

Sol and Dame Elvíra upon him fixed their gaze: “So heartily we

thank thee, as our eyes on God were set,

And prithee thank Him for it, since we are living yet.

In the days of ease thereafter, in Valencia when we dwell,

The tale of our affliction, we shall have strength to tell.

CXXXII

The dames and Alvar Fañez, the tears flowed from their eyes.

Per Vermudóz because of them was sorely grieved likewise.

“Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, be not down-hearted still,

Since you are well and living and without other ill.

Ye have lost a good marriage, better matches shall ye make.

Oh may we soon behold the day when vengeance we shall take!”

So all that night they lay there keeping a merry tide.

The next day in the morning they fettled them to ride.

The people of Saint Stephen’s their party escort bore,

With every sort of solace e’en to Riodamor.

There they took leave, and got them in stead to travel back.

Minaya and the ladies rode forward on the track.

They have passed Alcoceva. On the right Gormaz left they.

They have come o’er the river in the place called Vadorrey,

And in the town Berlanga their lodging have they made.

The next day in the morning set forth the cavalcade.

In the place called Medína their shelter have they sought.

From Medína to Molína on the next day were they brought.

And there the Moor Avengalvón was pleased in heart thereby.

Forth with good will he issued to give them welcome high,

For my lord Cid’s love a supper he gave them rich and great.

Thence on unto Valencia they have departed straight.

When to him who in good honor was born the news of it was sent,

Swiftly he got on horseback, and forth to greet them went.

As he rode he brandished weapons; very joyful was his face.

My lord the Cid came forward his daughters to embrace.

And after he had kissed them he smiled upon the two:

“Are ye then come my daughters? ‘Gainst ill God succor you.

This marriage I accepted, daring not say otherwise.

May the Creator grant it, who dwelleth in the skies,

That you with better husbands hereafter I may see.

God! on my sons of Carrión grant me avenged to be.

“The hands of their father to kiss, the two bent down.

And under arms they hastened and came into the town.

Their mother Dame Xiména with them good cheer she made.

And he who in good hour was born, he tarried not nor stayed,

But there unto his comrades so privily he spake:

To King Alfonso of Castile those tidings shall they take.

CL

The Cid then put spur to the charger and made him gallop

so fast that all were astonished at the career he ran.

The King with hand uplifted signed the cross upon his face.

“By San Isidro of León, I swear it by his grace

Is no nobleman so mighty our whole country o’er.”

My lord Cid on the charger came then the King before,

And of his lord Alfonso there has he kissed the hand.

“To start fleet Baviéca thou gavest me command.

Today no Moor nor Christian has a horse so strong and swift.

Sire, unto thee I give him. Say thou wilt accept the gift.”

Then said the King:

“No pleasure would I have therein indeed.

If I took him, then less glorious were the master of the steed.

But a horse like this befitteth too well a man like thee,

Swift to chase the Moors ye routed in the battle, when they flee.

Who that war-horse taketh from thee, God succor not again,

For by thee and by the charger to great honor we attain.”

Their leave then have they taken. He left the Court forthright.

The Campeador most wisely counselled them who were to fight:

“Ha, Martin Antolínez! Per Vermudóz thou, too,

So likewise Muño Gustióz, my tried man and true.

Be resolute in combat like the gentlemen ye be.

See that of you good tidings in Valencia come to me.”

Said Martin Antolínez: “Oh sire, what sayest thou?

For we must bear the burden we accepted even now.

Thou shalt hear naught of the vanquished, though haply of the slain.”

He who in happy hour was born, thereof was glad and fain.

Of all his leave he taketh that for his friends are known.

Went my lord Cid to Valencia, and the King to Carrión.

But now the three weeks’ respite of the term is past and o’er.

Lo! at the time appointed, they who serve the Campeador,

The debt their lord laid on them they were very fain to pay.

In safe-keeping of Alfonso, King of León, were they.

There for the Heirs of Carrión for two days’ space they stayed.

With horses and caparisons, came the Heirs there well arrayed.

And in close compact with them have agreed their kinsmen all,

On the Campeador his henchmen, if in secret they might fall,

To slay them in the meadows, because their lords were silent.

They did not undertake it, though foul was their intent,

For of Alfonso of León they stood in mighty dread.

Watch o’er their arms they kept that night. And prayers to God they said.

At last has night passed over, and breaketh now the dawn,

And many worthy nobles there to the place have drawn,

For to behold that combat, wherefore their mirth was high.

Moreover King Alfonso above all men is by,

Since he desireth justice and that no wrong should be done.

The men of the good Campeador, they get their armour on.

All three are in agreement for one lord’s men are they.

The Heirs of Carrión elsewhere have armed them for the fray.

The Count García Ordoñez sate with them in counsel there.

What suit they planned unto the King Alfonso they declare,

That neither should Coláda nor Tizón share in that war,

That in fight they might not wield them, who served the Campeador

That the brands were given over, they deemed a bitter ill;

Unto the King they told it. He would not do their will:

“When we held the court exception unto no sword did ye take;

But if ye have good weapons, your fortune they will make.

For them who serve the Campeador the swords e’en so will do.

Up, Carrión’s Heirs, to battle now get you forth, ye two!

Like noblemen this combat, ye ought duly to achieve,

For the Campeador his henchmen naught undone therein will leave.

If forth, ye come victorious, then great shall be your fame;

But if that ye are vanquished, impute to us no blame.

All know ye sought it.”

Carrión’s Heirs were filled with grief each one.

And greatly they repented the thing that they had done.

Were it undone fain were they to give all Carrión’s fee.

The henchmen of the Campeador are fully armed all three.

Now was the King Alfonso come forth to view them o’er.

Then spake to him the henchmen that served the Campeador:

“We kiss thy hands as vassals to their lord and master may,

‘Twixt our party and their party thou shalt be judge this day.

For our succor unto justice but not to evil stand.

Here Carrión’s Heirs of henchmen have gathered them a band.

What, or what not, we know not, that in secret they intend;

But our lord in thine hand left us our safety to defend.

For the love of the Creator justly maintain our part.”

Said then the King in answer: “With all my soul and heart.”

They brought for them the chargers of splendid strength and speed.

They signed the cross upon the selles. They leaped upon the steed.

The bucklers with fair bosses about their necks are cast.

And the keen pointed lances, in the hand they grip them fast.

Each lance for each man of the three doth its own pennon bear.

And many worthy nobles have gathered round them there.

To the field where were the boundaries, accordingly they went.

The three men of the Campeador were all of one intent,

That mightily his foeman to smite each one should ride.

Lo! were the Heirs of Carrión upon the other side,

With stores of men, for many of their kin were with the two.

The King has given them judges, justice and naught else to do,

That yea or nay they should not any disputation make.

To them where in the field they sate the King Alfonso spake:

“Hearken, ye Heirs of Carrión, what thing to you I say:

In Toledo ye contrived it, but ye did not wish this fray.

Of my lord Cid the Campeador I brought these knights all three

To Carrión’s land, that under my safe-conduct they might be.

Wait justice. Unto evil no wise turn your intent.

Whoso desireth evil with force will I prevent;

Such a thing throughout my kingdom he shall bitterly bemoan.”

How downcast were the spirits of the Heirs of Carrión!

Now with the King the judges have marked the boundaries out.

They have cleared all the meadow of people roundabout.

And unto the six champions the boundaries have they shown—

Whoever went beyond them should be held for overthrown.

The folk that round were gathered now all the space left clear;

To approach they were forbiddden within six lengths of a spear.

‘Gainst the sun no man they stationed, but by lot gave each his place.

Forth between them came the judges, and the foes are face to face.

Of my lord Cid the henchmen toward the Heirs of Carrión bore,

And Carrión’s Heirs against them who served the Campeador.

The glance of every champion fixes on his man forthright;

Before their breasts the bucklers with their hands have they gripped tight,

The lances with the pennons now have they pointed low,

And each bends down his countenance over the saddlebow;

Thereon the battle-chargers with the sharp spurs smote they,

And fain the earth had shaken where the steeds sprang away.

The glance of every champion fixes on his man forthright.

Three against three together now have they joined the fight.

Whoso stood round for certain deemed that they dead would fall.

Per Vermudóz the challenge who delivered first of all,

Against Ferránd Gonzálvez there face to face he sped.

They smote each other’s bucklers withouten any dread.

There has Ferránd Gonzálvez pierced don Pero’s target through.

Well his lance-shaft in two places he shattered it in two.

Unto the flesh it came not, for there glanced off the steel.

Per Vermudóz sat firmly, therefore he did not reel.

For every stroke was dealt him, the buffet back he gave,

He broke the boss of the buckler, the shield aside he drave.

He clove through guard and armour, naught availed the man his gear.

Nigh the heart into the bosom he thrust the battle-spear.

Three mail-folds had Ferrándo, and the third was of avail.

Two were burst through, yet firmly held the third fold of mail.

Ferrándo’s shirt and tunic, with the unpierced iron mesh,

A handsbreadth by Per Vermudóz were thrust into the flesh.

And forth from his mouth straightway a stream of blood did spout.

His saddle-girths were broken; not one of them held out.

O’er the tail of the charger he hurled him to the ground.

That his death stroke he had gotten thought all the folk around.

He left the war-spear in him, set hand his sword unto.

When Ferránd Gonzálvez saw it, then well Tizón he knew.

He shouted, “I am vanquished,” rather than the buffet bear.

Per Vermudóz, the judges so decreeing, left him there.

CLI

With Dídago Gonzálvez now doth don Martin close

The spears. They broke the lances so furious were the blows.

Martin Antolínez on sword his hand he laid.

The whole field shone, so brilliant and flawless was the blade.

He smote a buffet. Sidewise it caught him fair and right.

Aside the upper helmet the glancing stroke did smite.

It clove the helmet laces. Through the mail-hood did it fall,

Unto the coif, hard slashing through coif and helm and all,

And scraped the hair upon his brow. Clear to the flesh it sped.

Of the helm a half fell earthward and half crowned yet his head.

When the glorious Coláda such a war-stroke had let drive,

Well knew Dídago Gonzálvez that he could not ‘scape alive.

He turned the charger’s bridle rein, and right about he wheeled.

A blade in hand he carried that he did not seek to wield.

From Martin Antolínez welcome with the sword he got.

With the flat Martin struck him. With the edge he smote him not.

Thereon that Heir of Carrión, a mighty yell he gave:

“Help me, Oh God most glorious, defend me from that glaive.”

Wheeling his horse, in terror he fled before the blade.

The steed bore him past the boundary. On the field don Martin stayed.

Then said the King: “Now hither come unto my meinie.

Such a deed thou hast accomplished as has won this fight for thee.”

That a true word he had spoken so every judge deemed well.

CLII

The twain had won. Now let us of Muño Gustióz tell,

How with Ansuór Gonzálvez of himself account he gave.

Against each other’s bucklers the mighty strokes they drave.

Was Ansuór Gonzálvez a gallant man of might.

Against don Muño Gustióz on the buckler did he smite,

And piercing through the buckler, right through the cuirass broke.

Empty went the lance; his body was unwounded by the stroke.

That blow struck, Muño Gustióz has let his buffet fly.

Through the boss in the middle was the buckle burst thereby.

Away he could not ward it. Through his cuirass did it dart.

Through one side was it driven though not nigh unto the heart.

Through the flesh of his body he thrust the pennoned spear,

On the far side he thrust it a full fathom clear.

He gave one wrench. Out of the selle that cavalier he threw.

Down to the earth he cast him, when forth the lance he drew.

And shaft and lance and pennon all crimson came they out.

All thought that he was wounded to the death without a doubt.

The lance he has recovered, he stood the foe above.

Said Gonzálvo Ansuórez: “Smite him not for God his love.

Now is won out the combat for all this game is done.”

“We have heard defeat conceded,” said the judges every one.

The good King don Alfonso bade them clear the field straightway.

For himself he took the armour upon it yet that lay.

In honor have departed they who serve the Campeador.

Glory be to the Creator, they have conquered in the war.

Throughout the lands of Carrión was sorrow at the height.

The King my lord Cid’s henchmen has sent away by night,

That they should not be frightened or ambushed on the way,

Like men of prudent spirit they journeyed night and day.

Ho! in Valencia with the Cid the Campeador they stand.

On Carrión’s Heirs of knavery the three have put the brand,

And paid the debt the lord Cid set upon them furthermore.

On that account right merry was the Cid Campeador.

Upon the heirs of Carrión is come a mighty smirch.

Who flouts a noble lady and leaves her in the lurch,

May such a thing befall him, or worse fortune let him find.

Of Carrión’s Heirs the dealings let us leave them now behind.

For what has been vouchsafed them now were they all forlorn.

Of this man let us make mention who in happy hour was born.

And great are the rejoicings through Valencia the town,

Because the Campeador his men had won such great renown.

His beard their lord Roy Diaz hard in his hand has ta’en:

“Thanks to the King of Heaven, well are ‘venged my daughters twain.

Now may they hold their Carrión lands. Their shame is wiped away.

I will wed them in great honor, let it grieve whom it may.”

They of Navarre and Aragon were busied now to treat,

And with Alfonso of León in conference they meet.

Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra in due course wedded are.

Great were their former matches, but these are nobler far.

He gave with greater honor than before the twain to wed;

He who in happy hour was born still doth his glory spread,

Since o’er Navarre and Aragon as queens his daughters reign;

Today are they kinswomen unto the kings of Spain.

From him came all that honor who in good hour had birth.

The Cid who ruled Valencia has departed from the earth

At Pentecost. His mercy may Christ to him extend.

To us all, just men or sinners, may He yet stand our friend.

Lo! the deeds of the Cid Campeador! Here takes the book an end.

THE TRAVELS OF MARCO POLO

S. Rustichello and Marco Polo (ca. 1254-1324 C.E.)

Written ca. 1298 C.E.

Italy

Marco Polo’s father Niccolò and his uncle Maffeo were merchants and adventurers from Venice, who traded with the Middle East for a long time and traveled to Bukhara (currently, the capital of Uzbekistan) ca. 1250, establishing friendly relations with Kublai Khan of the Mongol empire. Kublai Khan’s empire, which ranged from the Pacific to the Black Sea, occupied all of China and other neighboring regions, and officially established the Yuan dynasty (1271-1368) in China. When Niccolò and Maffeo left for the Mongol Court the second time in 1271, they took Marco, who was about sixteen or seventeen years old. After staying in China and serving the emperor for seventeen years, they returned to Venice in 1295. Soon after his return to Venice, Marco was imprisoned by the Genoese, having joined the battle between Venice and Genoa. In prison, he met Rustichello from Pisa, a writer of romances and chivalry literature. Marco Polo dictated his travel story and Rustichello wrote it down in Franco-Italian. The result was meant to be a “description of the world,” and it became an instant success. The title of a popular version of the manuscript was titled “Il Milione (The Million),” and it is known as The Travels of Marco Polo in English. A classic of travel literature, it was particularly influential in Europe in the 15th and 16th centuries, notably to Christopher Columbus.

Written by Kyounghye Kwon

Image 5.31: The Travels of Marco Polo | Title page for The Travels of Marco Polo published in 1858 by Harper & Brothers.

Author: Hugh Murray

Source: HathiTrust Digital Library

license: Public Domain

5.10.1 Travels of Marco Polo

Marco Polo, translated by Hugh Murray

License: Public Domain

Preliminary Notice

At the time when the events now related took place, ties of a more salutary nature connected Europe with the Eastern world. The Italian towns had become conspicuous as the scenes where arts and commerce, after being nearly crushed by the inroad of the barbarous nations, first began to revive. Their manufacturing industry, indeed, though very considerable, was surpassed by that of the Low Countries; still they formed almost the sole channel by which intercourse was maintained with Asia, whence at that time were imported all articles of luxury,—precious stones, pearls, spices, and cloths of unrivalled fineness. Venice, Genoa, and Pisa contended with each other in this career; but the first, owing to her situation and superior power, held the principal place. Her position was much advanced by a very extraordinary event, which occurred in the beginning of the thirteenth century. A crusade had been organized in France among a number of the nobles, who, proceeding to Venice, procured the necessary shipping by inducing Dandolo, the doge, a gallant chief, with other distinguished persons, to share in the enterprise. On reaching the shores of the Levant, their views took a very singular direction; for instead of advancing to the Holy Land, they turned their arms against Constantinople, carried that capital by storm, and placed Bald win, count of Flanders, on the imperial throne of the East. The Venetians shared, not only the booty, but also the power acquired by this wicked achievement. They were allowed to occupy an extensive quarter of the city, and to maintain there a podesta or bailo, in vested with very ample jurisdiction.

There had never been wanting native merchants, ready to bring the desired commodities from the remoter provinces of Asia to the contiguous parts of Europe. But the Venetian traders, encouraged by their increasing prosperity, and the advantageous position now attained, began to aim at penetrating into the interior, and obtaining the goods on better terms in the country where they were produced. The dominions of the caliph, the head of the Mohammedan faith, opposed, it is true, a powerful obstacle to their taking the most direct route. But the successors of Gengis, though so terrible and merciless in the field, welcomed in their tented cities, without the least distinction of country or religion, all who brought articles that were either ornamental or useful. We have seen from Rubruquis, how Christian merchants, on paving their way with presents, passed unmolested through the camps of Sartach and Baatu. There were soon found distinguished citizens of Venice ready to follow in the same track.

Nicolo and Maffio Polo, two individuals who united the character, then common, of nobles and traffickers, in the middle of the thirteenth century, set out for Constantinople, whence they proceeded to the shores of the Crimea. There they were encouraged to visit a great Tartar chief on the Volga, where a series of events, for which we shall refer to the following narrative, led them on eastwards as far as China. After a short stay, they returned to Venice; and two years later, went back, according to engagement, carrying with them Marco, son to Nicolo, a promising youth. They spent twenty-four years in the East, chiefly at the court of the great khan, the Tartar monarch who ruled over China. At the end of that time they finally returned; but, on reaching Venice, were so completely altered,—their dress, appearance, and even language had become so foreign,—that their nearest friends were unable to recognise them. After obtaining with difficulty access to their paternal mansion, they determined by a public display to satisfy their countrymen as to the happy results of their journey. All their relations and acquaintances were invited to a magnificent feast. They then presented themselves in splendid dresses, first of crimson satin, next of damask, and lastly of velvet bearing the same colour, which they successively threw off and distributed among the company. Returning in their ordinary attire, Marco produced the rags in which they had been disguised, ripped them open, and exhibited such a profusion of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and precious jewels, as completely dazzled the spectators. Mr Marsden questions this anecdote, as unsuitable to the dignity of their characters; yet there is no reason to suppose in them any indifference to display; and Ramusio assures us, that about 200 years after, when he was a boy, he had been told it by Malipiero, an aged and respectable senator, who had heard the story from his own grandfather. It appears certain, that on the news of their wealth and adventures, persons of all ranks, ages, and professions, flocked to the house with congratulations and inquiries. Marco, whose society was courted by all the distinguished youths, stood forth as principal orator. Having often occasion in his enumerations of people and treasure, to repeat the term million, then not very common in Europe, the surname of Millione was applied to him, first in jest, but Ramusio says he has seen him thus named in the records of the republic; and the house in which he lived, down to that day, bore the title of the Corte del Millione. Count Boni has even adopted this as the title of his learned work on the subject.

Meantime, he appears not to have thought of committing his observations to writing; and the fruits of his travels would probably never have reached posterity, but for a severe misfortune by which he was overtaken. Venice and Genoa, those two mighty rivals, were then at open war; and news arrived that a fleet belonging to the latter had appeared on the coast of Dalmatia. Andrea Dandolo was immediately sent against them, when Marco, with characteristic spirit, offered his services, and was appointed to the command of a galley. The squadrons encountered near the island of Curzola; and it was a disastrous day for Venice. Her fleet was completely defeated; and Dandolo himself, who was made prisoner, escaped only by a voluntary death the ignominy of being carried in triumph to Genoa. Marco, also, was wounded and taken; but, too wise to imitate the rash example of his commander, he was conveyed to that city, and lodged in prison. Here, according to Ramusio, his character and adventures excited an extraordinary interest; and being visited by the principal inhabitants, his captivity was rendered as mild as possible. A more important circumstance was, that he had a fellow-prisoner, Rusticians, a citizen of Pisa, though of French origin, who was imbued with an enthusiastic love of legendary and romantic lore. One of such a temper could not but listen with rapture to the wondrous tale of his companion; and it was soon agreed between them, that it would be most unjust to the world to with hold from it the knowledge of so many marvellous scenes as those which he had witnessed. Marco, we suspect, was no great penman; but his companion was fond of composition, though without having attained very high proficiency. We quite agree with Count Boni, from the tenor of the narrative, that the traveller wrote no part of it, but merely dictated; nay, we doubt much if there was any such regular or author-like process as this term would imply. We should rather say that he talked it to his companion, who wrote it down as he best could. The frequent change from the first to the third person seems to prove, that while some parts were thus committed to paper, others were written from memory after the conversation. Thus, by a curious combination of circumstances, was produced, in a foreign language and an irregular form, this extraordinary history. It was still a sealed book to the traveller’s countrymen; but there seems every reason to believe that it soon received an Italian dress, under which it was rapidly circulated. On the 12th May 1299, peace was concluded between the two rival cities; and Marco in consequence regained his liberty.” On his arrival, he found a considerable change in the family. His father, dreading, it is said, that through the son’s captivity there should be no heirs to his great wealth, had taken a young wife; not being, perhaps, unwilling to excuse, on this ground, a step which might seem unsuitable to his age. Hence Marco found on his return three young brothers who had been born during his absence. He had too much discretion to take umbrage at this circumstance, or the consequent diminution of riches, which, indeed, were still sufficiently ample for all parties. Following soon after the example of his parent, he became the father of two daughters, named Moretta and Fantina. The rest of his life was spent in Venice; but modern inquirers have in vain sought to trace in it a single incident. It has only been discovered, that his will was made in 1323, proving him to have at least exceeded the age of sixty-six.

Introductory Narrative of the Journey

Prologue—Journey of Nicolo and Maffio Polo into the East—Their Arrival at the Court of Kublai, the Tartar Emperor of China—Sent back on a Mission to the Pope—Return, carrying Marco with them—Final Departure, and Voyage through the Indian Ocean to Persia—Arrival at Venice.

Prologue

Emperors, kings, dukes, marquises, counts, knights, and all persons wishing to know the various generations of men in the world, also the kingdoms, provinces, and all the regions of the East, read this book: in it you will find very great and wonderful things of the nations, chiefly of Armenia, Persia, and Tartary, India, and various other provinces. In the present work Messer Marco Polo, a prudent and learned citizen of Venice, relates in order the various things which he himself saw, or heard from men of honour and truth. And those who read this book may be assured that all things in it are true. For I would have you to know that, from the creation of Adam to the present day, no Pagan, or Saracen, or Christian, or any other person of whatever race or generation, explored so many parts of the world, or saw such great wonders, as this Messer Marco Polo. He being in the year of our Lord 1295 shut up as a captive in the prisons of Genoa, thought with himself what a great evil it would be, if the wonders seen and heard by him should not be known to those who could not view them with their own eyes. He therefore caused the accounts here contained to be written by Messer S. Rusticians of Pisa, who was confined with him in the same prison, in the year of our Lord 1298.

I—Nicolo and Maffio Polo travel into the East

In the year of our Lord 1250, the Emperor Baldwin reigning at Constantinople, Nicolo Polo, father of the said Marco, and Maffio, brother of Nicole, entered a ship, laden with divers costly goods; and, spreading their sails, committed themselves to the deep. They arrived in safety at Constantinople, where they disposed of their cargo with advantage. They then determined to proceed together, in search of farther profit, to the Greater Sea and, having purchased many precious jewels, departed from Constantinople, and, entering a ship, sailed to Soldaia. After remaining there some days, they resolved to proceed farther, and, mounting on horseback, came by continued journeys to Sara, the residence of Barka Khan, king and lord of the Tartars, who then inhabited Bulgaria. That prince, who was much rejoiced at their arrival, received them very honourably and kindly. They gave him all the jewels brought from Constantinople, which he gladly accepted, and bestowed in return double their value. After they had dwelt in this city a year, a most furious war arose between Barka and Alau, the ruler of Eastern Tartary. Their forces were led against each other; and, after a very sharp contest and much slaughter on both sides, Alau was victorious.) This war rendered it impossible for the Venetians to return with safety by the same road, and they thought it advisable to proceed eastward, and endeavour by another route to find their way back to Venice. Departing from Barka they happily reached a certain city named Oukaka, subject to the dominion of a western chief. Thence they passed a river named Tigris, and wandered through a desert during seventeen successive days, finding no inhabitants, except Tartars dwelling in tents and subsisting by their cattle. They then came to a city in the province of Persia, named Bokhara, the noblest in that country, governed by a king called Barak. Here, being unable to proceed, they remained three full years.

II—They arrive at the Court of the Tartar Emperor of China

While the brothers sojourned in Bokhara, it happened that Alau, lord of the East, despatched ambassadors to the sovereign of all the Tartars, who in their language is called the great khan, meaning the king of kings, and whose name was Kublai. They, on meeting the brothers, felt not a little wonder, having never seen any men from the Latin countries. And dressing them courteously, they besought that they would accompany the embassy to the khan, promising much honour and wealth, since, though wonderfully desirous, he had never seen one of their nation. The Venetians made a suitable answer, and frankly agreed to comply with the request. They set out and continued a whole year travelling in a north-eastern direction; and though much delayed by heavy snows and the swelling of rivers, at length reached the residence of that mighty monarch, having beheld on their way many wonderful objects, which will be described hereafter in this book.

III—Their Reception

Kublai, illustrious for his benignity, received the brothers kindly and joyfully, being very desirous to see Latins. He urgently inquired what sort of emperor they had, how he lived and administered justice; asking questions also respecting the supreme pontiff, and all the acts and manners of the Christians—to which they made judicious replies in the Tartar language, which they had learned.

IV—Sent back on an Embassy to the Pope

This great king and master of all the Tartars in the world, and of all those regions, being informed respecting the actions of the Latins, was greatly pleased. Calling a council of his barons, he informed them, that he wished to send messengers to the pope, the lord of the Christian; which they unanimously approved. He then asked the brothers in friendly terms to be the bearers of his message; and this they prudently declared themselves ready and willing to undertake. He next ordered letters to be written, to be conveyed by them in company with a certain baron named Kogotal, whom he assigned as a companion. He instructed them, after the necessary salutations, to request of his holiness to send a hundred wise men, learned in all the seven arts, who might show to the idolaters, and others subject to his dominion, the diabolical nature of their law, and how that of the Christians was superior. Farther, he piously enjoined them to bring a portion of the oil of the lamp burning in Jerusalem before the sepulchre of our Saviour. Moreover, he gave to them a golden tablet marked with his seal, containing an express order, that wherever they went they should have their necessities supplied. Having received this, and taken leave of the king, barons, and the whole court, they mounted their horses and commenced their journey. After some days, Kogotal, the baron, at a city named Alau, fell sick and could not proceed; but the brothers went on till they came safely to Laias in Armenia. In this journey, however, owing to the bad roads, and the large rivers which they could not cross on horseback, three years were consumed. Wherever they went, on showing the golden tablet, they were received with the greatest honours, and supplied with whatever they wanted.

V—Find him dead, and await a new Election

Departing from Laias in April 1269, the brothers arrived at Acre, where they learned with much grief that his holiness Clement IV was dead. They there fore went to Theobald, viscount of Piacenza, who resided there as legate of the apostolical see, and was a man of high authority and virtue. They related to him the cause why they wished to visit the supreme pontiff. He was struck with admiration, and revolving in his mind, that the holy Roman church and the Christian faith might hence derive the greatest benefit, advised them to wait till another pope should be named, to whom they might deliver their embassy. They there fore determined to spend the interval in visiting their families at Venice. Departing from Acre, they proceeded to Negropont, and thence to their native city. Here Messer Nicolo found that his wife, whom he left pregnant, had died, leaving a son named Marco, the same who wrote this book. Waiting the appointment of another pope, the travellers spent two full years at Venice.

VI—Their Return to Kublai

At last seeing that no pontiff was elected, and unwilling to delay their return to the great khan, they departed, taking with them Marco, son of Nicolo. They repaired to Acre, and told the legate, that having tarried too long, and there being no appearance of an election, they must beg permission, in conformity with that monarch’s injunctions, to take the portion of oil from the lamp burning before the sepulchre. Having obtained his consent, they went to Jerusalem, took what they desired, and returned, when he gave them letters, with permission to depart. They proceeded from Acre to Laias; but during their stay there, were informed that the legate himself had been appointed pope, under the name of Gregory X of Piacenza, being the same who afterwards held a council at Lyons, on the Rhone. The new pontiff sent a messenger after them, desiring their immediate return; and they joyfully obeyed, making the voyage in a galley prepared for them by the King of Armenia. They paid their homage to his holiness, who received them graciously, loaded them with many honours, and gave them two very learned friars, of the order of preachers, the wisest that could be found in those parts, named Nicolo of Vicenza and William of Tripoli, to accompany them to the great khan. He bestowed on them letters and privileges, instructed them in the message which he wished to be conveyed to that monarch, and gave his benediction to Nicolo, Maffio, Marco, and the two friars. They then proceeded together to Laias; but while there, the Soldan of Babylonia, named Bonduchdaree, came with a mighty army to attack the city. In these circumstances, the preachers, struck with the fear of war, and with the dangers already encountered, gave to Nicolo and Maffio certain letters, and resolved to proceed no farther. Then the brothers commenced their journey, and by constant marches arrived safely at a very rich and powerful city named Clemenfu, where the great khan resided. The observations made by them on this expedition will be narrated afterwards in the proper place; but on account of the severe weather, as well as the difficulty and danger of passing the rivers, they consumed in it three years and a half. When their return became known to the khan, he rejoiced exceedingly, and ordered forty of his messengers to go to meet them, by whom they were supplied with every necessary, and loaded with honours.

VII—They are honourably received

Having reached this great city, where the monarch had his abode, they went to his palace, presenting themselves most humbly on bended knees. He desired them to rise, and asked how they did; they replied, that, by the grace of God, they were well, especially since they had found him healthy and cheerful. He then inquired about their transactions with the supreme pontiff, when they explained to him all that they had done, delivering the letters confided to them by Pope Gregory. He received them graciously, commending them for their fidelity and attention. They next presented the oil from the sepulchre, which he reverently accepted. He inquired, who was that young man with them, to which Nicole replied: “my lord, he is your servant, my son.” “Then,” said the great khan, “he is welcome, I am much pleased with him.” He celebrated their return by a joyful feast; and while they remained in his court, they were honoured before all his barons.

VIII—Employments and Missions of Marco

During this stay, Messer Marco acquired the Tartar and four other languages, so as to speak and write them well; he learned also their manners, and became in all things exceedingly sensible and sagacious. When the great khan saw him display so much worth and prudence, he sent him as his messenger to a very distant land, which it required six months to reach. He returned and reported his embassy very sensibly, relating many new things respecting the countries through which he had travelled; while other ambassadors, being able to say nothing, except about the special message intrusted to them, were accounted foolish and ignorant by the khan, who was greatly delighted to become acquainted with the varieties of nations. Messer Marco, aware of this, studied all these strange objects, and thus pleased beyond measure his majesty and the barons, who predicted that, if he lived, he would become an eminent man. In short, he remained in the court of the khan seventeen years, and never ceased to be employed as an ambassador. The other chiefs then began to envy the honours paid to him, and his knowledge of the country, which exceeded that of any other person who ever visited it.

IX—They seek to return Home

After Nicolo, Maffio, and Marco had remained long at the court of the great khan, and accumulated very considerable wealth in gold and jewels, they felt a strong desire to revisit their native country. Nicolo therefore took an opportunity one day, when the monarch seemed in particularly good humour, to throw himself at his feet, and solicit for them all permission to depart; but the sovereign was now so much attached to his visitors that he would by no means listen to this proposal. It happened, however, that the Queen Bolgana, the spouse of Argon, lord of the East, died, and in her last will enjoined that he should receive no wife unless of her family. He therefore sent as ambassadors to the khan three barons, Aulatam, Alpusca, and Goza, with a great train, requesting a lady of the same lineage with the deceased queen. The monarch received the embassy with joy, and selected a young princess of that house. Every thing being arranged, and a numerous train of attendants appointed, they were graciously dismissed, and began their return; but after travelling eight months, their advance was rendered impossible by fresh wars that had arisen among the Tartar princes. They were therefore very reluctantly obliged to retrace their steps, and state the cause that had arrested their progress. It happened that at that time Marco arrived from a voyage to India, and, by relating the novelties he had observed, pleased those envoys very much, proving himself well fitted to guide them by this route, which he recommended as shorter and easier than that by land. They therefore besought as a favour of the khan, that the Latins might accompany them and the queen. The sovereign granted this favour, yet unwillingly, on account of his love for them.

X—Voyage, and Arrival at Venice

When that great monarch saw that they were about to depart, he called them before him, and delivering golden tablets signed with the royal seal, ordered that they should have free passage through his land, and that their charges, with those of all their family, should be every where defrayed. He caused to be prepared fourteen ships, each with four masts, and many with twelve sails; upon which the barons, the lady, and the three brothers took leave, and, with numerous attendants, went on board. The prince gave them their expenses for two years; and after sailing three months, they came to a certain island named Java, where are many wonderful things, which I shall relate in this book. They then departed from it; and I must tell you that they sailed through the seas of India full eighteen months, and saw many strange objects, which will also be hereafter described. At length they came to the court of King Argon, but found that he was already dead, when it was determined to give the princess in marriage to Casan, his son. I must tell you, that though in that vessel there embarked full 600 persons, exclusive of mariners, all died except eighteen and they found the dominion of the land of Argon held by Achatu, to whom they very tenderly recommended the lady on the part of the great khan. Casan was then at a place on the borders of Persia, which has its name from the arbor secco, where an army of 60,000 men was assembled to guard certain positions against hostile irruption. They accordingly went thither, fulfilled their mission, and then returned to the residence of Achatu, where they reposed during the space of nine months. They then took leave and went on their way, when the monarch presented four golden tablets, with instructions that they should be honoured, and all the expenses of themselves and their family defrayed. This was fully executed, so that they frequently went accompanied by 200 horsemen. I have also to tell you to the honour of those three Latins, in whom the great khan had placed such confidence, appointing them to conduct the Queen Cocacin, with a daughter of the King of Manji, to Argon, the lord of the East;—that those two young and beautiful ladies were guarded by them as if they had been their daughters, and bestowed upon them the veneration due to fathers. Indeed, Cocacin and her husband Casan, now reigning, treated the messengers with such kindness, that there was nothing they would not have done for them; and when they were about to depart, the queen grieved very much, and even shed tears. Thus, after much time and many labours, by the grace of God they came to Trebisond, then to Constantinople, Negropont, and finally to Venice. They arrived in the year 1295, bringing with them great riches, and giving thanks to God, who had delivered them from many labours and dangers.

Part I

Description of China, and of the Court of the Emperor Kublai.

Kublai, Great Khan of the Tartars, and Emperor of China—His War with Nayan—Favour for the Christians— Description of Kambalu (Peking)—An Insurrection there—Great Festivals celebrated by the Emperor—Their Order and Pomp—His extensive Hunting Expeditions—Leopards, Falcons, and other Animals employed—Mode of pursuing and taking the Game—Hunting Palace at Shanduin Tartary—At Cianganor—Paper Money—Large Revenue—Arrangement of his Government and Officers—Bounty towards the People—Manners and Superstitions of the Chinese—Marco Polo’s Journey through the Western Provinces—Thibet, Bengal, and the neighbouring Countries—Return to the Vicinity of Peking Journey through the Eastern Provinces—The Yellow River—Manjior Southern China—Its Conquest by Kublai—Character of the deposed king—Nan-king and other great Cities—The Kiang—Its immense Trade and Shipping—Kin-sai, the Capital—Its extra ordinary Extent and Magnificence—Splendour of its Palace—Journey through Tche-kiang and Fo-kien—The Porcelain Manufacture—Arrival at Zai-tun or Amoy.

I—Power and Magnificenco of Kublai

Now I am to give you a wonderful account of the greatest king of the Tartars, still reigning, named Kublai, or lord of lords. That name is assuredly well merited, since he is the most powerful in people, in lands, and in treasure, that is, or ever was, from the creation of Adam to the present day; and by the statements to be made in this book, every man shall be satisfied that he really is so. Whosoever descends in the direct line from Gengis is entitled to be master of all the Tartars, and Kublai is the sixth great khan. He began to reign in the year of our Lord 1256, and maintained the dominion by his valour, address, and wisdom. His brothers sought to oppose his succession, but by bravery and right he triumphed over them. From the beginning of his reign, forty-two years have elapsed to the present day, in the year 1298. He is now full eighty-five years old, and before his accession commanded many armies, when he approved himself good at weapons, and a brave captain. But since that time he has joined the army only once, which was in the year 1286, and I will tell you on what occasion.

II—Insurrection raised by Nayan

You must understand that a certain cousin of his, named Nayan, who, like his ancestors, was his vassal, yet had many lands and provinces of his own, and could raise 400,000 horsemen, being thirty years old, refused to remain longer in subjection, and assumed the whole sovereignty to himself. He sent to a certain great lord, named Kaidu, a nephew of that monarch, but in rebellion against him, and desirous of doing him the greatest injury. To him Nayan proposed to attack the monarch on one side, while he himself advanced on another, so that they might acquire the dominion over his whole territory. Kaidu declared himself well pleased, and promised to be ready at the time appointed. He could bring into the field 100,000 cavalry; and those two assembled a mighty army on horseback and foot, and marched against the great khan.

III—Kublai prepares to meet him

When Kublai learned these things, he was not at all alarmed, but declared, that he wished he might never wear a crown, nor hold sway over a kingdom, if he did not bring the traitors to an evil death. He therefore made his whole army be prepared in twenty-two days, and so secretly, that nothing was known beyond his own council. He raised full 360,000 mounted soldiers, and 100,000 infantry; and the reason of their number not being greater, was, that they consisted only of his huntsmen, and those immediately round his person, the rest being employed in carrying on distant wars; for if he could have assembled his whole host, the multitude would have been such as no man could have numbered. He then called his astrologers, and asked of them if he would be victorious; they answered, that he would do to his enemies according to his pleasure.

IV—Description of the Battle

The great khan having assembled these forces, took his departure, and in twenty days came to a vast plain, where Nayan had assembled all his troops, amounting to 400,000 warriors. The khan took much care to scour the paths, and intercept all who could have carried the intelligence; so that when he approached at dawn of day, the rebel was lying asleep in bed with a favourite wife, not having the least dread of his arrival, and, consequently, no guard on any side of the camp. Kublai then advanced, having a tower fixed upon four elephants, whereon were placed his ensigns, so that he could be seen by the whole army. His men, divided into bands of twenty thousand, surrounded in a moment the adverse force, each soldier having a footman on the crupper behind him, with a bow in his hand. When Nayan and his men saw their camp thus encircled by the khan and his host, they were seized with amaze; yet they ran to arms, formed themselves in order of battle, and were soon prepared to strike. Then began the beating on many instruments, and singing with loud voices; for it is the custom of the Tartars, that until the horn termed naccar is winded the troops do not engage. But when that grand trumpet of the great khan was sounded, all the other performers began playing, and raising their voices very loud, making a noise that was truly most wonderful. Then the two armies rushed against each other with sword, spear, and lance, while the footmen were prepared with bow and quiver. The battle was fierce and cruel; the arrows filled the air like rain; horses and horsemen were seen falling to the ground; and the tumult was such, that if Jove had thundered, he could not have been heard. Nayan was a baptized Christian, and therefore had the cross upon his standard. Never, in our day, was there so hard and terrible a combat, nor so many assembled on one field, especially of horsemen; and the number who fell on both sides was fearful to behold. The battle continued from nine in the morning till mid day; but the great khan at last remained master of the field. When Nayan and his men saw that they could hold out no longer, they betook themselves to flight; but it availed them nothing; he was taken, and all his troops surrendered.

V—The Death of Nayan

When that great monarch heard that Nayan was taken, he ordered him to be put to death in the manner I am now to tell you. He was wrapped in a carpet, and violently tossed to and fro till he died. This mode was adopted, that, being of imperial lineage, his blood might not be shed on the ground, nor his cries ascend into the air. When that battle was gained, four of his provinces paid tribute and homage to the great khan. These were Cicorcia, Cauli, Bastol, and Suchintin.

VI—Kublai silences the Mockery of the Jews and Saracens

When the monarch had achieved this triumph, the Saracens, Pagans, Jews, and other generations of men who believe not in God, expressed wonder at the cross which the vanquished leader had carried on his standard, and said in derision of the Christians,—“see how the cross of your God has aided Nayan and his people.” They made such a noise on this subject, that it came to the ears of the prince, who was much displeased, and sending for the Christians, said to them,—“if your God did not assist Nayan, he acted with great justice, because he is a good and righteous God. Nayan was a traitor and rebel against his lord, and there fore God did well in not assisting him.” Then the Christians replied,—“O, great sire! thou hast spoken the truth, for the cross will aid nothing unjust, and he met only what he well deserved.” Having gained this victory, the great khan returned to his capital, Kambalu, with much festival and rejoicing. When the other king, named Kaidu, heard how his ally had been worsted, he was struck with fear, and did not attempt to lead his army against the monarch. Now you have seen how that prince went to battle, and for what cause, while on all other occasions he sent his son and his barons; but this war was of such magnitude that it seemed to deserve his own immediate presence.

VII—His Opinions as to the Christian Religion

The grand khan, having obtained this splendid victory, returned with great pomp and triumph to his capital of Kambalu. He arrived there in November, and remained till after March, in which month our festival of Easter occurred. Aware that this was one of our most solemn periods, he commanded all the Christians to attend him, bringing with them their book containing the four gospels. He caused it, in a very respectful manner, to be repeatedly perfumed with incense, ordering all his nobles present to do the same. Such was the custom upon each of the two great festivals of Easter and Christmas; and he followed the same course as that pursued by the Saracens, Jews, and idolaters. Being asked the reason of this conduct, he replied,—“there are four great prophets revered and worshipped by different classes of mankind. The Christians hold Christ as their divinity; the Saracens, Mohammed; the Jews, Moses; and the idolaters, Sogomombar Khan, their most distinguished idol. I honour and respect all the four, and seek aid from them, as any one of them may really be supreme in heaven.” Yet, from the behaviour of his majesty towards the Christians, he evidently believed their faith the best and truest; observing, that it enjoined nothing on its professors that was not full of virtue and holiness. He would not indeed allow the cross to be borne before them in processions, because, as he said, on it so exalted a person had been nailed and put to death. Some may ask, why if thus partial to the true faith, he did not openly embrace it? He stated his reason to Nicolo and Maffio Polo, when, on his sending them ambassadors to the Pope, they ventured to address to him a few words on the subject. “Why,” said he,” should I become a Christian? You must yourselves see that the professors of that faith now in this country are ignorant and weak, unable to do anything extraordinary, while the idolaters have power to do whatever they please. While I am seated at table, the cups, filled with wine or other beverage, come to me from the middle of the hall spontaneously, without being touched by any human hand. They are able to control bad weather, and force it to retire to any quarter of the heavens; they can perform other wonderful things of the same nature. You have witnessed their idols exercising the faculty of speech, and predicting whatever events are inquired into. Should I become a convert and profess Christianity, the nobles of my court, and others disinclined to the faith, will ask what adequate motives have induced me to be baptized. What wonders, what miracles, they will say, have its ministers performed? But the idolaters declare, that their exhibitions are made through their own holiness and the might of their idols. To this I shall be unable to make any answer, and be considered as labouring under a grievous mistake, while the heathen teachers, by the profound art which they display, may easily accomplish my death. Return, however, to your pontiff, and present to him my request, that he would send a hundred persons learned in your law, who, when confronted with the others, will be able to control them, and while proving themselves endowed with similar skill, shall render their antagonists unable in their presence to carry on these practices. On witnessing this, I will interdict the exercise of their religion, and suffer myself to be baptized. This example will be followed by all my nobility, and by my subjects in general; so that the Christians in these regions will become more numerous than those inhabiting your own country.” From this language it evidently appears that had the pope sent out persons duly qualified to preach the gospel, the great khan would have embraced that faith, for which he certainly entertained a strong predilection.

VIII—Rewards bestowed on his Soldiers

Now let us tell of the officers and barons of the great khan, and how he rewarded those who fought with him in the battle against Nayan. To those who commanded 100 men, he gave the command of 1,000, and to those of 1,000 that of 10,000; and he bestowed, according to their rank, tablets of gold or of silver, on all of which was written,—“By the might of the great God, and by the favour which he gave to our emperor: may that prince be blessed, and may all those who do not obey him die and be destroyed.” Those who hold these documents enjoy certain privileges, with written instructions how they are to exercise their authority. He who commands 100,000 men receives a golden one, weighing 300 saggi, under which is sculptured a lion on one side, and on the other the sun and moon. Those who bear these noble tablets have instructions, that whenever they ride they should bear above their head an umbrella of gold, and as often as they are seated, it should be upon silver. There are also tablets whereon is sculptured a gerfalcon, which he gives to three great barons, who have then equal authority with himself. They can take, whenever they please, and lead from place to place, the troops and horses of any prince or king; and whoever dares to disobey in any thing their will and mandate, must die as a rebel to the sovereign.” Now let us speak of the outward form and manners of this mighty prince.

IX—The Person of Kublai—His Wives, Concubines, and Sons

The great khan, lord of lords, named Kublai, is of a fine middle size, neither too tall nor too short; he has a beautiful fresh complexion, and well-proportioned limbs. His colour is fair and vermeil like the rose, his eyes dark and fine, his nose well formed and placed. He has four ladies, who always rank as his wives; and the eldest son, born to him by one of them, succeeds as the rightful heir of the empire. They are named empresses; each bears his name, and holds a court of her own; there is not one who has not 300 beautiful maidens, with eunuchs, and many other male and female attendants, so that some of the courts of these ladies contain 10,000 persons; and when he wishes to visit any one, he makes her come to his apartment, or sometimes goes to hers. He maintains also a number of concubines. There is a race of Tartars who are called Migrat or Ungrat, and are a very handsome people. From them are selected 100 girls, the most beautiful in all their country, who are conducted to court. He makes them be guarded by the ladies of the palace; and they are examined if they have a sweet breath, and be sound in all their limbs. Those that are approved in every respect wait upon their great lord in the following order: six of them attend every three days, then other six come in their place, and so on throughout the year. It may be asked, if the people of this province do not feel aggrieved by having their children thus forcibly taken away. Assuredly not: on the contrary, they regard it as a favour and an honour; and the fathers feel highly gratified when their daughters are thus selected. If, says one, my daughter is born under an auspicious planet, his majesty can best fulfil her destiny by marrying her more nobly than I can do. On the contrary, if the young lady, by bad conduct or any misfortune, be found disqualified, he attributes the dis appointment to her malignant stars. Know, too, that the great khan has by his wives twenty-two sons; the elder was named Gyngym Khan, and was to be lord of all the empire after his father; but he died, leaving a son named Temur, who in time will succeed; he is a wise and good man, tried in many battles. The monarch has also twenty-five sons by his concubines; and each is a great baron; and of the twenty-two sons by his four wives, seven reign over large kingdoms, like wise and good men, because they resemble their father,—and he is the best ruler of nations and conductor of wars in the world. Now I have told you about himself, his wives, sons, and concubines; next I will relate how he holds his court.

X—His magnificent Palace in Kambaln

He resides in the vast city of Kambalu, three months in the year, December, January, and February, and has here his great palace, which I will now describe. It is a complete square, a mile long on every side, so that the whole is four miles in circuit; and in each angle is a very fine edifice, containing bows, arrows, cords, saddles, bridles, and all other implements of war. In the middle of the wall between these four edifices are others, making altogether eight, filled with stores, and each containing only a single article. Towards the south are five gates, the middle one very large, never opened nor shut unless when the great khan is to pass through; while on the other side is one by which all enter in common. Within that wall is another, containing eight edifices similarly constructed; in which is lodged the wardrobe of the sovereign. These walls enclose the palace of that mighty lord, which is the greatest that ever was seen. The floor rises ten palms above the ground, and the roof is exceedingly lofty. The walls of the chambers and stairs are all covered with gold and silver, and adorned with pictures of dragons, horses, and other races of animals. The hall is so spacious that 6,000 can sit down to banquet; and the number of apartments is incredible. The roof is externally painted with red, blue, green, and other colours, and is so varnished that it shines like crystal, and is seen to a great distance around. It is also very strongly and durably built. Between the walls are pleasant meadows filled with various living creatures, as white stags, the musk animal, deer, wild goats, ermines, and other beautiful creatures. The whole enclosure is full of animals, except the path by which men pass. On the other side, towards the south, is a magnificent lake, whither many kinds of fish are brought and nourished. A river enters and flows out; but the fish are retained by iron gratings. Towards the north, about a bowshot from the palace, Kublai has constructed a mound, full a hundred paces high and a mile in circuit, all covered with evergreen trees which never shed their leaves. When he hears of a beautiful tree, he causes it to be dug up, with all the roots and the earth round it, and to be conveyed to him on the backs of elephants, whence the eminence has been made verdant all over, and is called the green mountain. On the top is a palace, also covered with verdure; it and the trees are so lovely that all who look upon them feel delight and joy. In the vicinity is another palace, where resides the grandson of the great khan, Temur, who is to reign after him, and who follows the same life and customs as his grandsire. He has already a golden bull and the imperial seal; but he has no authority while his grandfather lives.

XI—Description of the City of Kambalu

Having described to you the palaces, I will tell you of the great city of Cathay, which contains them. Near it is another large and splendid one, also named Kambalu, which means in our language city of the lord; but the monarch, finding by astrology that this town would rebel, built another near it, divided only by a river, and bearing the same name, to which its inhabitants were compelled to remove. It forms a regular square, six miles on each side, and thus twenty-four miles in circumference. It is surrounded by walls of earth, ten paces thick and twenty in height; yet the upper part becomes gradually thinner, so that at top the breadth is only three paces. There are twelve gates, each containing an edifice, making one in each square of that wall, and filled with men, who guard the place. The streets are so broad and so straight that from one gate an other is visible. It contains many beautiful houses and palaces, and a very large one in the midst, containing a steeple with a large bell, which at night sounds three times; after which no man must leave the city without some urgent necessity, as of sickness, or a woman about to bear a child. At each gate a thousand men keep guard, not from dread of any enemy, but in reverence of the monarch who dwells within it, and to prevent injury by robbers.

XII—The Suburbs—Merchants

When the monarch comes to his chief city, he remains in his noble palace three days and no more, when he holds a great court, making high festival and rejoicing with his ladies. There is a vast abundance of people through all the suburbs of Kambalu, which are twelve in number, one corresponding to each gate; no one can count the number of residents; and they contain as stately edifices as any in the city, except the king’s palace. No one is allowed to be buried within the city; and no females of bad character can reside there, but most have their dwellings in the suburbs, where there are said to be no fewer than 20,000. There are brought also to Kambalu the most costly articles in the world, the finest productions of India, as precious stones and pearls, with all the produce of Cathay and the surrounding countries, in order to supply the lords and the barons and ladies who reside there. Numerous merchants, likewise, bring more than a thousand wagons laden with grain; and all who are within a hundred miles of the city come thither to purchase what they want.”

XIII—Wicked Administration of Achmac—Insurrection

I will hereafter particularly mention a council of twelve persons, having power to dispose at will of the lands, governments, and all things belonging to the state. One of these, a Saracen, named Achmac, had acquired an extraordinary influence with the great khan; indeed his master was so infatuated with him that he allowed him the most uncontrolled license. It was even discovered after his death that he had employed spells to fascinate the khan, and compel him to give full credit to what was told him by his favourite, who was thus enabled to conduct public affairs according to his pleasure. He disposed of all the commands and public offices; passed sentence upon offenders; and when desirous to inflict an injury on any one whom he hated, needed only to go to the emperor and say, “such a man has been guilty of an offence against your majesty, and deserves death.” The monarch usually replied, do as you judge best, and Achmac then ordered him to be immediately executed. So manifest were the proofs of his influence, and of the sovereign’s implicit reliance on his statements, that no one dared to contradict him on any occasion; even those highest in office stood in awe of him. Any one charged by him with a capital offence, whatever means he might employ to justify himself and refute the accusation, could not find an advocate; for none dared to oppose the purpose of Achmac. Thus he caused unjustly the death of many, and was also en abled to indulge his unlawful propensities. Whenever he saw a woman who pleased him, he contrived either to add her to the number of his wives, or to lead her into a criminal intimacy. On receiving information of any man having a beautiful daughter, he despatched emissaries with instructions to say to him, “what are your views with regard to this handsome girl? the best thing you can do is to give her to the lord-vice gerent;” for so they termed Achmac, implying that he was his majesty’s representative; “we will induce him to appoint you to a certain government or office for three years.” The father was thus tempted to give away his child; and as soon as the affair was arranged, the other went and informed the emperor that a government was vacant, or would become so on a particular day, and recommended the parent as well qualified to discharge its duties. His majesty consented; and the appointment was immediately made. Thus, either through ambition to hold high office, or dread of his power, he obtained possession of the fairest females, under the denomination of wives or of concubines. Besides, he had twenty-five sons, who held the highest offices in the state, and, availing themselves of his authority, were guilty of similar violent and licentious proceedings. He had likewise accumulated great wealth, since every one who obtained an appointment found it requisite to make him a liberal present.

During a period of twenty-two years, he exercised this absolute authority. At length the Kataians, natives of the country, unable to endure longer his multiplied acts of injustice and violation of domestic rights, began to devise means of bringing about his death and the overthrow of the government. Among the leading persons in this plot was Chenku, a commander of 6,000 men, in whose family his dissolute conduct had spread dishonour. He proposed the measure to one of his nation, named Vanku, who commanded 10,000 men, and suggested for its execution the period when the great khan, having completed his three months’ residence in Kambalu, should have departed for his palace at Shandu, while his son Gengis had also retired to the place usually visited by him at that season. The charge of the city was then intrusted to Achmac, who communicated all affairs that occurred during his master’s absence, and received the necessary instructions. Vanku and Chenku, having thus consulted together, imparted the design to some leading persons among the Kataians, and also to their friends in various other cities. They formed an agreement, that on a certain day, immediately on perceiving a signal made by fire, they should rise and put to death all persons wearing beards. This distinction was made be cause they themselves naturally wanted this append age, which characterized the Tartars, the Saracens, and the Christians. The grand khan, having acquired the sovereignty of Kataia, not by any legitimate right, but solely by force of arms, placed no confidence in the natives, and therefore intrusted all the provincial governments to Tartars, Saracens, Christians, and other foreigners belonging to his household. From this cause his reign was universally detested by the people, who found themselves treated as slaves by the Tartars, and still worse by the Saracens.

Vanku and Chenku, having thus arranged their plans, succeeded at night in entering the palace; when the former placed himself on one of the royal seats, made the apartment be lighted up, and sent a messenger to Achmac, then residing in the old city. He professed to come from Gengis, the emperor’s son, who, he said, had unexpectedly arrived, and required his immediate attendance. The viceroy was much surprised by this intelligence; but, as he stood in awe of the prince, he presently obeyed. On passing the gate of the new city, he met the Tartar officer named Kogatai, who commanded the guard of 12,000 men, and who asked him whither he was going at that late hour. He stated his intention of waiting upon Gengis, whose arrival had just been announced to him. “It is very surprising,” said the officer, “how he should have come so secretly that I was not apprized of it, so as to send a party of guards to attend him.” The two Kataians, meantime, felt confident, that if they could succeed in despatching Achmac, they had nothing farther to fear. On entering the palace, and seeing so many lights blazing, he prostrated himself before Vanku, whom he supposed to be the prince, when Chenku, who held a sword ready in his hand, severed his head from his body. Kogatai had stopped at the door; but, seeing this catastrophe, he exclaimed that treason was at work, and presently discharged an arrow, which slew Vanku as he sat upon the throne. He then caused his men to seize the other, and despatched an order to the city to kill every one who should be found abroad. The Kataians, however, seeing the conspiracy discovered, one of their chiefs killed, and the survivor a prisoner, remained in their houses, and could not make the concerted signals to the other towns. Kogatai lost no time in sending messengers with a particular relation of these events to the khan, who, in reply, ordered him diligently to investigate the conspiracy, and to punish according to the degree of their guilt those found implicated in it. Next day, after receiving this command, he examined all the Kataians, and inflicted the punishment of death on the ringleaders. Other cities known to have participated in the guilt suffered similar inflictions.

When his majesty returned to Kambalu, he inquired eagerly into the cause of this disturbance, and learned that the infamous Achmac and seven of his sons (the others being less culpable) had committed several enormities. He gave orders that the treasure, which he had accumulated to an incredible amount, should be removed from his place of residence to the new city, where it was lodged in his own treasury. He directed even that his corpse should be disinterred, and thrown into the street, where the dogs might tear it in pieces. The sons, who had pursued the same criminal course with their father, were ordered to be flayed alive. Considering also the principles of the accursed sect of the Saracens, which allow them to indulge in the commission of every crime, and even to murder those who differ from them on points of belief, whence even the detestable Achmac and his sons might have imagined themselves guiltless, he regarded the whole body with contempt and abomination. Summoning them to his presence, he forbade the continuance of many practices enjoined in their law, ordering that in future their marriages should be arranged according to the Tartar custom; and that, in killing animals for food, instead of cutting their throats, they should rip open the stomach. Marco Polo was on the spot when these events took place.

XIV—Guards of the Great Khan

When the great khan holds a court, he is guarded, on account of his excellency and honour, by 12,000 horsemen, who are called quiesitan, that is, faithful servants of their lord; and this he does not from fear but regard to his high dignity. Over these 12,000 are four captains, so that each commands 3,000; and they keep guard in turn three days and three nights, eating and drinking at the expense of the prince. Then they go away, and another party comes; and so they proceed throughout the whole year.

XV—The Magnificence of his Festivals

When the khan wishes to celebrate a splendid festival, the tables are so arranged that his is much higher than the others, and he sits on the north, with his face toward the south. His first wife is seated beside him on the left, while, on the right, are his sons and nephews, and all those of imperial lineage, who are so stationed that their head is on a level with the feet of the monarch. The barons sit still lower; while the ladies, daughters, and female relations of the khan are placed beneath the queen on the left side, and under them all the wives of the barons; every class knows the spot where they ought to sit. The tables are so arranged that the monarch can see all the company, who are very numerous; and outside of that hall there eat more than 40,000 persons, who have come with presents or remarkable objects from foreign parts, and attend on the days when he holds a court or celebrates a marriage. In the midst of this hall is a very large vessel of fine gold, containing wine, and on each side two smaller ones, whence the liquor is poured out into flagons, each containing fully enough for eight men; and one of these is placed between every two guests, who have besides separate cups of gold to drink out of. This supply of plate is of very great value, and indeed the khan has so many vessels of gold and silver that none without seeing could possibly believe it.

At each door of the great hall, or of any part of the palace occupied by his majesty, stand two officers of gigantic height, holding in their hands staves, to prevent persons who enter from touching the threshold. If any one chances to commit this offence, they take from him his garment, which he must redeem by a payment, or if they spare his dress, inflict at least a number of blows fixed by authority. As strangers may not be aware of this prohibition, officers are appointed to warn them of it at the time of introduction. Since, however, some of the company, on leaving the hall, may be so affected with liquor as to be unable to guard against the accident, it is not then severely punished. Those who serve the khan at table are great barons, who hold their mouths carefully wrapped in rich towels of silk and gold, that their breath may not blow upon the dishes. When he begins to drink, all the instruments, which are very numerous, are sounded, and while the cup is in his hand, the barons and others present fall on their knees, and make signs of great humility; this is done every time he drinks, or when new viands are brought in. These I shall not attempt to recount, since any one may believe that he will have the greatest variety of beasts and birds, wild and domestic, and of fishes in their season, and in the greatest abundance, prepared most delicately in various modes suitable to his magnificence and dignity. Every baron or knight brings his wife, and she sits at table along with the other ladies. When the great sire has eaten, and the tables are removed, a number of jesters, players, and other witty persons perform various pieces, exciting much mirth and pleasure among the company, who then all depart and go to their homes.

XVI—Great Festival at the King’s Birthday

The Tartars celebrate a festival on the day of their nativity. The birthday of the khan is on the 28th September, and is the greatest of all, except that at the beginning of the year. On this occasion he clothes himself in robes of beaten gold, and his twelve barons and 12,000 soldiers wear like him dresses of a uniform colour and shape; not that they are so costly, but similarly made of silk, gilded, and bound by a cincture of gold. Many have these robes adorned with precious stones and pearls, so as to be worth 10,000 golden bezants. The great khan, twelve times in the year, presents to those barons and knights robes of the same colour with his own; and this is what no lord in the world can do. On the day of his nativity, all the Tartars from every province of the world, who hold lands under him, celebrate a festival, and bring presents suited to their station. The same is done by every individual who asks from him any favour or office. He has twelve barons who bestow commands on such persons as they think proper. On that day, the Christians, Saracens, and all the races of men who are subject to him, make prayers to their gods that they will preserve, and grant him a long, healthy, and happy life. I will tell you no more of this festival, but of another which they celebrate at the beginning of the year, called the White Feast.

XVII—Festival of the New Year

The Tartars begin their year in February, when the khan and his people celebrate a feast, where all, both men and women, are clothed in white robes. They consider these as signifying joy and good fortune, and that hence all prosperity will happen to them throughout the year. On that day, all who hold land or any dominion under him, make the most magnificent presents in their power, consisting of gold, silver, pearls, precious stones, and rich white cloths; so that, during the whole year, he may have abundance of treasures, and of the means of enjoying himself. They present also more than 5,000 camels, with about 100,000 beautiful white horses. On that day, too, he is gratified with at least 5,000 elephants covered with cloths of silk and gold, finely wrought with figures of beasts and birds, and each having on his back a box filled with vessels of gold and silver, and other things necessary for the feast. They all pass before the great khan, and form the most brilliant spectacle ever seen in this world. In the morning of that festal day, before the tables are spread, the kings, generals, counts, astrologers, physicians, falconers, and many other officers and rulers, repair to the hall of the sovereign, and those who are not admitted remain without the palace in a place where the monarch can fully see them. They are in the following order:—Foremost, his sons, nephews, and others of his lineage, then kings, generals, and others according to their rank. As soon as each has taken his place, a great prelate rises and says, with a loud voice, “incline and adore;” and presently all bend down, strike their foreheads on the earth, and make prayers to their master, adoring him as a god.” This they do four times, and then go to an altar, on which is written the name of the great khan. Then, out of a beautiful box, they pour incense on that table in reverence of him, and return to their place; they next make those rich and valuable presents which I have described. When all these things have been done, and the prince has seen them all, the tables are placed, and they sit down, when the feast is ordered and celebrated in the manner already explained. Now that I have described to you the joy of the White Feast, I will tell you of a most noble thing done by this monarch; for he has ordered vestments to be bestowed upon the barons there present.

XVIII—Robes bestowed by the Great Khan

He has twelve barons, who are called quiesitan, or the faithful men of the supreme lord. He gives to each thirteen vestments, differing in colour, and adorned with precious stones, pearls, and other great and most valuable articles; also a golden girdle, and sandals worked with threads of silver, so that each, in these several dresses, appears like a king; and there is a regulation what dress ought to be worn at each of the feasts. The monarch has thirteen robes of the same colour with those of his barons, but more costly. And now I will relate a most wonderful thing, namely, that a large lion is led into his presence, which, as soon as it sees him, drops down, and makes a sign of deep humility, owning him for its lord, and moving about without any chain. Now you shall hear of the great huntings made by this powerful ruler.

XIX—Profusion of Game supplied to his Court

He resides in the city of Cathay, that is Kambalu, three months, December, January, and February, and has commanded that, for forty days’ journey round, all the people should engage in hunting and falconry. The various lords of nations and lands are ordered to bring to him large beasts, stags, boars, wild-goats, and other animals. Those at the distance of thirty days’ journey send the bodies preserved with the entrails taken out, while those at forty send only the skins, which are employed as furniture for his army.

XX—Leopards and other wild Animals kept for Hunting

Now let us tell of the beasts which his majesty keeps for hunting. Among these are leopards and lynxes, or stag-wolves, well fitted for that purpose. He has also many lions larger than those of Babylon, of a beautiful hair and colour, striped lengthways, black, red, and white, and trained to catch stags, wild-oxen, hogs, wild-goats, and asses; and it is delightful to see one of these chases, where the hunters go out, carrying the lion in a cage, and with him a small dog. They have likewise abundance of eagles, with which they capture hares, foxes, and even wolves; those which are trained to catch these last are very large, and of great weight, so that no wolf can escape them.

XXL—His numerous Dogs and splendid Hunting Expeditions

Now let us speak of the dogs kept by this monarch. He has two barons who are brothers, named Bayam and Migam; they are called cinuci, that is, the keepers of mastiff dogs, and each commands a party of 10,000 men, one clothed in vermilion, and the other in blue; whenever they go out with the monarch they are dressed in these vestments. In each party there are 2,000 of the men, who guide respectively one, two, or more large mastiffs, making altogether a vast multitude. When his majesty goes to hunt, these two brothers attend him on opposite sides, each with 10,000 men and 5,000 dogs; and they hunt thus a day’s journey distant from each other, and never pursue any animal which is not captured. It is indeed beautiful to see the speed of these dogs and the hunters, for when the prince goes out with his barons, boars and other animals are running on every side, and the dogs pursuing.

XXII—Falconry and the Chase after Birds

When the monarch has remained in Kambalu these three months, he departs and goes southward to the ocean two days’ journey distant. He leads with him 10,000 falconers, conveying full 5,000 gerfalcons, peregrine falcons in abundance, and also many vultures; but do not imagine that these are all kept in one place; there are 200 here, 300 there, and so on. The birds caught are mostly presented to the great sire, and when he goes to hunt with his gerfalcons, vultures, and falcons, 10,000 men are ranged, two together, so as to enclose much ground; these are called toscaor, meaning in our language men who remain on the watch, and each has a call and a hood to invite the birds. And when any falconer, by order of his majesty, sends forth a falcon, he has no need to follow it, because wherever it may go, it is watched by the men ranged in double order, who can either catch it again, or if necessary afford it succour. Each of the birds belonging to the sovereign and barons has a tablet of silver on its feet, with its name and that of the owner inscribed, so that wherever caught, it can be returned to him. If he is unknown, the animal must be carried to a chief named bulangazi, or guardian of things that are lost, who stands with his flag on an elevated spot, and all who have missed any thing go to him and recover it. Whoever finds a horse, a bird, a sword, or any thing else, and does not carry it to the owner or to this officer, is treated as a robber; thus scarcely any thing is ever lost. When the monarch goes upon these excursions, he has with him four elephants, and a chamber prepared, covered within with cloth of beaten gold, and outwardly with lions’ skins, where he keeps twelve of his very best gerfalcons, with twelve barons to amuse him by their society. As the falconers ride by, they call, “Sire, the birds are passing,” when he throws open the chamber, and seeing the object, selects the gerfalcons that please him, and sends them forth against the birds, few of which ever escape. Lying on his couch, he can view and enjoy the chase. Thus, I think, there is not, and never will be, any lord in the world, who has or can have so much diversion as the great khan.

XXIII—Magnificent Tents of the Great Khan

When this mighty monarch comes to one of his places, named Chaccia, he causes his tents to be pitched, with those of his sons and barons. These exceed 10,000 in number, and are very beautiful and rich. That in which he keeps his court is so large that 1,000 knights can dwell in it; this is for his nobles and other attendants. He himself resides in another, looking west ward, where those to whom he wishes to speak are introduced; while there is an interior chamber in which he sleeps. The two halls have each three fine columns of aromatic wood, and are covered outwardly with beautiful lions’ hides, all striped with black, white, and vermilion, so that water cannot enter. The inside is lined with skins of ermine and zibelline, of the highest value, especially the latter, of which a robe suitable for a man would be worth 2,000 golden bezants, while a common one would be worth 1,000. The Tartars call them royal skins, and they are as large as those of a fawn; the whole hall is covered with them, worked most delicately in intaglio. These apartments contain furniture of such value that a little king could not purchase them. Around are large tents for his ladies, and for his gerfalcons and other beasts and birds; for he brings all his train, doctors, astronomers, hunters, and other officials, so that the whole appears a large and crowded city. He remains there till the feast of the Resurrection, during which time he does nothing but chase cranes, swans, and other birds, when those who catch any bring them to him, and thus the sport is beyond what any one can describe. No baron, nor lord, nor husbandman, can keep a dog or falcon for twenty days’ journey round his residence; beyond that distance they may do what they please. No person, too, of whatever condition, must, from March to October, take any game, but leave them to multiply their kind; so that hares and stags become so fearless as frequently to come up to men, yet are not taken. The great khan then returns to the city of Kambalu by the same road, hawking and sporting.

XXIV—Hunting Palace at Shandu in Tartary

At Shandu in Tartary, near the western frontier of China, he has built a very large palace of marble and other valuable stones. The halls are gilded all over and wonderfully beautiful, and a space sixteen miles in circuit is surrounded by a wall, within which are fountains, rivers, and meadows. Here he finds stags, deer, and wild-goats to give for food to the falcons and gyrfalcons, which he keeps in cages, and goes out once a week to sport with them. Frequently he rides through that enclosure, having a leopard on the crupper of his horse, which, whenever he is inclined, he lets go, and it catches a stag, deer, or wild-goat, which is given to the gerfalcons in the cage. In this park, too, the monarch has a large palace framed of cane, the interior gilded all over, having pictures of beasts and birds most skilfully worked on it. The roof is of the same material, and so richly varnished that no water can penetrate. I assure you these canes are more than three palms thick, and from ten to fifteen paces long. They are cut length ways, from one knot to the other, and then arranged so as to form the roof. The whole structure is so disposed that the khan, when he pleases, can order it to be taken down, for it is supported by more than 200 cords of silk. His majesty remains there three months of the year, June, July, and August, the situation being cool and agreeable; and during this period his palace of cane is set up, while all the rest of the year it is down. On the 28th of August, he departs thence, and for the following purpose:—There are a race of marcs white as snow, with no mixture of any other colour, and in number 10,000, whose milk must not be drunk by any one who is not of imperial lineage. Only one other race of men can drink it, called Boriat, because they gained a victory for Gengis Khan. When one of these white animals is passing, the Tartars pay respect to it as to a great lord, standing by to make way for it. The astrologers and idolaters, too, have told the khan, that on the 28th August this milk must be sprinkled through the air, and over the earth, that the spirits may drink plentifully, and may preserve all that belong to him, men, women, beasts, birds, and other things. But there is a wonderful circumstance that I had forgotten. When the monarch remained in that palace, and there came on rain, fog, or any bad weather, he had skilful astronomers and enchanters, who made these mischiefs fly away from his palace, so that none of them could approach it. These wise men are called Tebet and Quesmur; they are idolaters, and more skilful in diabolical arts and enchantments than any other generation; and though they do it by the art of the devil, they make other men believe that it is through their great sanctity and by the power of God. I must tell you, too, another of their customs, that when any man is judged and condemned to death by his lord, they cook and eat him, but not when he dies a natural death. I will tell you, too, a great wonder which these baksi do by their enchantments. When the monarch sits at table in his hall of state, and the cups are ten paces distant, full of wine, milk, and other beverages, they cause them, by their magical spells, to rise from the pavement and place themselves before the prince, without any one touching them; this is done in the presence of 10,000 men; and the fact is real and true, without any lie. These baksi, when the festivals of their idols come round, go to his majesty and say, “Great sire, you know the feast of such an idol approaches, and are aware that he can cause bad weather and much mischief to your cattle and grain. We pray, therefore, that you will give us all the sheep with black heads, also incense, aloe-wood, and such and such other things.” This they tell to the barons, who repeat it to the khan, and he gives what they demand. Then they go to the image and raise in his presence a delicious fragrance, with incense and spices, cook the flesh, and place it with bread before him. Thus every god has his day of commemoration in the same manner as our saints. They have also extensive abbeys and monasteries, one of which here resembles a little city, containing upwards of 2,000 monks, who are clothed in a particular dress, which is handsomer than that of other men. They worship their idols by the grandest feasts, songs, and lights that ever were seen. And I may tell you that many of these baksi, according to their order, may take wives, do so, and have a number of children. Yet there is another kind of religious men called sensi, who observe strict abstinence; they eat nothing but the husks of corn boiled in warm water, fast often in the course of the year, have many large idols, and sometimes adore fire. Their observances differ from those of every other sect; they would not take a wife for any thing in the world. They shave the head and beard, wear black and blue dresses of coarse canvas, sleep upon mats, and lead the hardest life of any men on earth. Their monasteries and their idols all bear the names of women.

XXV—Palace at Cianganor

At Cianganor, too, three days’ journey distant, the khan has a large palace, where he is fond of residing, because there are many lakes and rivers, as well as fine plains, abounding in cranes, pheasants, partridges, and other birds. Here, therefore, he has delightful hawking, and abundant exercise for his falcons and gyrfalcons. There are five kinds of cranes which I must describe. The first are black like crows, and very large. The second are white, and very beautiful, for all the feathers are full of round eyes, like those of the peacock, and glitter like gold. The head is white, black, and red all round, and they are larger than any of the others. The third species resemble ours. The fourth are small, and have in their ears very magnificent red and black feathers. The fifth are all gray, with handsome red and black heads, and are very large. Near this city is a valley where the khan has ordered the erection of various small houses, in which are kept flocks of partridges, and he employs a number of men to guard these birds, so that they are in abundance; and whenever he comes into this palace, he finds as many as he desires.

XXVI—Paper Money—Immense Wealth of the Great Khan

With regard to the money of Kambalu, the great khan may be called a perfect alchymist, for he makes it himself. He orders people to collect the bark of a certain tree, whose leaves are eaten by the worms that spin silk. The thin rind between the bark and the interior wood is taken, and from it cards are formed like those of paper, all black. He then causes them to be cut into pieces, and each is declared worth respectively half a livre, a whole one, a silver grosso of Venice, and so on to the value of ten bezants. All these cards are stamped with his seal, and so many are fabricated, that they would buy all the treasuries in the world. He makes all his payments in them, and circulates them through the kingdoms and provinces over which he holds dominion; and none dares to refuse them under pain of death. All the nations under his sway receive and pay this money for their merchandise, gold, silver, precious stones, and whatever they transport, buy, or sell. The merchants often bring to him goods worth 400,000 bezants, and he pays them all in these cards, which they willingly accept, because they can make purchases with them through out the whole empire. He frequently commands those who have gold, silver, cloths of silk and gold, or other precious commodities, to bring them to him. Then he calls twelve men skilful in these matters, and commands them to look at the articles, and fix their price. What ever they name is paid in these cards, which the merchant cordially receives. In this manner the great sire possesses all the gold, silver, pearls, and precious stones in his dominions. When any of the cards are torn or spoiled, the owner carries them to the place whence they were issued, and receives fresh ones, with a deduction of 3 per cent. If a man wishes gold or silver to make plate, girdles, or other ornaments, he goes to the office, carrying a sufficient number of cards, and gives them in payment for the quantity which he requires. This is the reason why the khan has more treasure than any other lord in the world; nay, all the princes in the world together have not an equal amount.

XXVII—The Twelve Governors of Provinces and their Duty

He has appointed twelve very great barons, who hold command over all things in the thirty-four provinces. They reside in a palace within the city of Kambalu, large and beautiful, containing many halls and apartments; and for every province there is an agent and a number of writers or notaries, having each a house to himself. They manage all the provincial affairs according to the will and pleasure of the twelve barons. The latter have power to appoint the lords of the provinces above mentioned; and having chosen the one whom they judge best qualified, they name him to the great khan, who confirms him, and bestows a golden tablet corresponding to his command. These twelve barons are called in the Tartar language scieng, that is, the greater officers of state. They order the army to go where and in what numbers they please, but all according to the commands of the great sire; and they do every other thing necessary for the provinces. The palace in which they dwell is called scien, and is the largest in all the court; they have the power of doing much good to any one whom they favour.

XXVIII—The Couriers of the Great Khan and their Stations

I must now inform you, that from the city of Kambalu, many messengers are sent to divers provinces, and on all the roads they find, at every twenty-five miles, a post called jamb, where the imperial envoys are received. At each is a large edifice, containing a bed covered with silk, and every thing useful and convenient for a traveller; so that if a king were to come, he would be well accommodated. Here, too, they find full 400 horses whom the prince has ordered to be always in waiting to convey them when sent into any quarter, along the principal roads. When they have to go through any district where there is no habitation, the monarch has caused such edifices to be reared at the distance of thirty-five or at most forty miles; thus they go through all the provinces, finding every where inns and horses for their reception. This is the greatest establishment that ever was kept by any king or emperor in the world; for at those places there are maintained more than 200,000 horses. Also the edifices, furnished and prepared in the manner now described, amount to more than 10,000. Moreover, in the intervals between these stations, at every three miles, are erected villages of about forty houses, inhabited by foot-runners, also employed on these despatches. They wear a large girdle, set round with bells, which are heard at a great distance. When one of them receives a letter or packet, he runs full speed to the next village, where his approach being announced by the bells, another is ready to start and proceed to the next, and so on. By these pedestrian messengers the khan receives news in one day and night from places distant ten days’ journey; in two, from those distant twenty; and in ten, from those distant a hundred. From them he exacts no tribute, but gives them horses and many other things. When his messengers go on horseback to carry intelligence into the provinces or bring tidings from distant parts, and, more especially, respecting any district that has rebelled, they ride in one day and night 200, 250, or even 300 miles; and when there are two, they receive two good horses, bind themselves round the head and body, and gallop full speed from one station to the next at twenty-five miles’ distance, where they find two others fresh and ready harnessed, on which they proceed with the same rapidity. They stop not for an instant day nor night, and are thus enabled to bring news in so short a period. Now, I will tell you the great bounty which the monarch bestows twice in the year.

XXIX—The Care and Bounty of the Monarch towards his Subjects

He sends his messengers through all his kingdoms and provinces, to know if any of his subjects have had their crops injured through bad weather or any other disaster; and if such injury has happened, he does not exact from them any tribute for that season or year; nay, he gives them corn out of his own stores to subsist upon, and to sow their fields. This he does in summer; in winter he inquires if there has been a mortality among the cattle, and in that case grants similar exemption and aid. When there is a great abundance of grain, he causes magazines to be formed, to contain wheat, rice, millet, or barley, and care to be taken that it be not lost or spoiled; then when a scarcity occurs, this grain is drawn forth, and sold for a third or fourth of the current price. Thus there cannot be any severe famine; for he does it through all his dominions; he bestows also great charity on many poor families in Kambalu; and when he hears of individuals who have not food to eat, he causes grain to be given to them. Bread is not refused at the court throughout the whole year to any who come to beg for it; and on this account he is adored as a god by his people. His majesty provides them also with raiment out of his tithes of wool, silk, and hemp. These materials he causes to be woven into different sorts of cloth, in a house erected for that purpose, where every artisan is obliged to work one day in the week for his service. Garments made of the stuffs thus manufactured are given to destitute families for their winter and summer dresses. A dress is also prepared for his armies; and in every city a quantity of woollen cloth is woven, being defrayed from the tithes there levied. It must be observed, that the Tartars, according to their original customs, when they had not yet adopted the religion of the idolaters, never bestowed alms; but when applied to by any necessitous person, repelled him with reproachful expressions, saying,—begone with your complaints of a bad season, God has sent it to you, and had he loved you, as he evidently loves me, you would have similarly prospered. But since some of the wise men among the idolaters, especially the baksi, have represented to his majesty, that to provide for the poor is a good work and highly grateful to their deities, he has bestowed charity in the manner now described, so that, at his court, none are denied food who come to ask for it. He has also so arranged that in all the highways by which messengers, merchants, and other persons travel, trees are planted at short distances on both sides of the road, and are so tall that they can be seen from a great distance. They serve thus both to show the way and afford a grateful shade. This is done whenever the nature of the soil admits of plantation; but when the route lies through sandy deserts or over rocky mountains, he has ordered stones to be set up, or columns erected, to guide the traveller. Officers of rank are appointed, whose duty it is to take care that these matters be properly arranged, and the roads kept constantly in good order. Besides other motives, the great khan is influenced by the declaration of his soothsayers and astrologers, that those who plant trees receive long life as their reward.

XXX—Liquor used for Wine in Cathay

You must know that the greater part of the people of Cathay drink a wine made of rice and many good spices, and prepare it in such a way that it is more agreeable to drink than any other liquid. It is clear and beautiful, and it makes a man drunk sooner than any other wine, for it is extremely hot.

XXXI—Stones which are burnt instead of Wood

It may be observed, also, that throughout the whole province of Cathay, there are a kind of black stones cut from the mountains in veins, which burn like logs. They maintain the fire better than wood. If you put them on in the evening, they will preserve it the whole night, and will be found burning in the morning. Throughout the whole of Cathay this fuel is used. They have also wood indeed; but the stones are much less expensive.

XXXII—The Astrologers of Kambalu—the Tartar Computation of Time

The city of Kambalu contains, inclusive of Christians, Saracens, and Kataians, about 5,000 astrologers and soothsayers, whom the emperor provides with food and clothing, as he does the poor families; and they are constantly practising their art. They have astrolabes, on which are delineated the planetary signs, the hours of passing the meridian, and their successive aspects during the whole year. The astrologers of each separate sect annually examine their respective tables, to ascertain thence the course of the heavenly bodies, and their relative positions for every lunation. From the paths and configurations of the planets in the several signs, they foretell the state of the weather and the peculiar phenomena which are to occur in each month. In one, for instance, there will be thunder and storms; in another earthquakes; in a third violent lightning and rain; in a fourth pestilence, mortality, war, discord, conspiracy. What they find in their astrolabes they predict, adding, however, that God may at his pleasure do either more or less than they have announced.

Their annual prophecies are written on small squares called takuini, which are sold at a moderate price to all persons anxious to search into futurity. Those whose announcements prove more generally correct are accounted the most perfect masters of their art, and consequently held in the highest honour. When any one projects a great work, a long journey for commercial purposes, or any other undertaking, the probable success of which he is desirous to learn, he goes to one of these astrologers, informs him of the time at which he intends to set out, and inquires what aspect the heavens then exhibit. The astrologer replies, that before he can answer, he must be informed of the year, month, and hour of his nativity, on learning which he examines how the constellation that was then in the ascendant corresponds with the aspect of the celestial bodies at the time of the inquiry. Upon this comparison he founds his prediction as to the favourable or unfavourable issue of the enterprise.

The Tartars compute time by a cycle of twelve years, the first of which they name the lion; the second, the ox; the third, the dragon; the fourth, the dog; and so on till all the twelve have elapsed. When any one, therefore, is asked the year in which he was born, he answers, it was in that of the lion, on such a day, and at such an hour and minute; all of which had been care fully noted in a book. When the years of the cycle are completed, they begin again with the first, and constantly go over the same ground.

XXXIII—Religion and Customs of the Tartars (Chinese)

These people are idolaters, and each person has, for the object of worship, a tablet fixed against an elevated part of the wall of his apartment, having a name written on it which denotes the high, heavenly, and mighty God, and this they daily worship, burning incense before it. Raising their hands, and beating their faces three times against the floor, they entreat from him the blessings of sound understanding and bodily health, addressing no other petition. Below, on the floor, they have a statue named Natigai, considered as the god of terrestrial objects, or of whatever is produced on the earth. They suppose him to have a wife and children, and worship him in the same manner with incense, lifting their hands, and bending to the ground. They pray to him for good weather, plentiful crops, increase of family, and other such objects. They believe the soul to be so far immortal, that immediately after death it enters another body, and according as a man’s actions in this life have been virtuous or wicked, his future state will be progressively more or less fortunate. If he has been poor, yet acted worthily and respectably, he will be born anew, first of a lady, becoming himself a gentleman; then of a woman of rank, becoming a noble man, and he will continually ascend in the scale of existence till he becomes united with the divinity. On the contrary, if a gentleman’s son have acted unworthily, he will, at his next birth, become a clown, and at length a dog; descending always to a condition more vile than the former.

They converse courteously, accosting each other with politeness and with countenances expressive of pleasure; they have a well-bred air, and a manner of eating particularly cleanly. The utmost reverence is shown to parents; and should any child treat his with disrespect, or neglect to assist them, there is a public tribunal having for its especial object to punish the crime of filial ingratitude. Malefactors, when found guilty, after being apprehended and thrown into prison, are strangled; but such as remain till the expiry of three years, a time appointed by his majesty for a general release, are set at liberty, having however a brand fixed on one of the cheeks, by which they may be recognised.

The great khan has prohibited all gambling and other species of fraud, to which this people are addicted beyond any other upon earth; and as a reason for this prohibition, he tells them in his edict, “I subdued you by the power of my sword, and consequently whatever you possess belongs of right to me; in gambling, there fore, you sport with my property.” Yet he does not, by the right thus claimed, take any thing on an arbitrary principle. The orderly and regular manner in which all ranks present themselves before him deserves notice. On approaching within half a mile of his residence, they testify their reverence for his exalted rank by an humble, subdued, and quiet demeanour, so that not the least noise is heard, nor does any one call, or even speak aloud. Every man of rank carries with him, while he continues in the hall of audience, a vessel into which he spits, that he may not soil the floor; and having done so, he replaces the cover, and makes a bow. They usually take with them handsome buskins of white leather, and on reaching the court, before entering the hall, where they wait to be summoned by his majesty, put them on, giving those worn in walking to the care of the servants. This precaution is taken that they may not sully the beautiful carpets, curiously wrought with silk and gold, and exhibiting a variety of colours.

XXXIV—Marco Polo’s Journey—The River Pulisangan and its beautiful Bridge

I have now to inform you that the great khan having sent Messer Marco as his ambassador into the western provinces, he departed from Kambalu, and travelled in that direction full four months. You shall now hear all that he saw on that journey going and returning. When a man leaves Kambalu and has gone ten miles, he finds a river called Pulisangan, which flows on to the ocean, and is crossed by many merchants with their goods. Over it is a grand stone bridge, which has not its equal in the world; it is 300 paces long and eight broad, and ten horsemen can ride abreast over it. It has twenty-four arches, supported by piers in the water, and is wholly of marble, finely wrought into columns in the manner that I will tell you. At the head of the bridge is a column of marble, above and beneath which are beautifully carved lions of the same material, and about a pace distant is another column, with its lions, and between the two are slabs of gray marble, to secure passengers from falling into the water; and the whole bridge thus formed is the most magnificent object in the world.

XXXV—The great City of Gco-gui

After leaving that bridge a man travels thirty miles westward, finding every where fine trees, villages, and inns, and then comes to a city which is named Geo-gui. The country is rich in grain, the people are all idolaters; they live by merchandise and the arts, making cloth of gold, as well as silk, and beautiful linen. There are also numerous houses for the reception of strangers. A mile beyond that city are two roads, one leading westward through Cathay, the other southward to the great province of Manji. In riding westward through Cathay full ten days, you find always handsome cities and castles, abundance of arts and merchandise, fine inns, trees, vines, and a civilized people.

XXXVI—The Cities of Ta-in-fu and Pi-an-fu

At the end of this journey is a kingdom named Ta-in-fu, with a capital of the same name. It contains many arts and much merchandise, with a large supply of stores necessary for the imperial army. The district presents numerous vineyards, and being the only part of Cathay where wine is made, supplies it to the surrounding provinces. It yields also much silk, abounding in the trees on which the worms are fed. A degree of civilisation prevails among all the people of this country, in consequence of their frequent intercourse with the numerous towns which lie very near each other. The merchants are constantly carrying their goods from one to another, as fairs are successively held at each. Five days’ journey beyond the ten already mentioned, there is said to be another city still larger and handsomer, named Achbaluch, where are the limits of his majesty’s hunting-ground, within which no person must sport, except princes of his family, and others whose names are inscribed on the grand falconer’s list; beyond, all persons qualified by their rank have that liberty. The khan scarcely ever follows the chase in this quarter; hence the wild animals, especially hares, multiply to such a degree, as to cause the destruction of all the growing corn. This having come to his knowledge, he was induced to repair thither with his whole court, and prodigious quantities of game were then taken. Leaving Ta-in-fu, and riding westward full seven days through very fine districts, amid numerous merchants, you find a large town, named Pi-an-fu, supported by commerce and the silk manufacture.

XXXVII—The Castle of Caya-fu—Story of its King and Prester John

Two miles west of Pi-an-fu is a famous castle, named Caya-fu, built anciently by a king named Dor. In this castle is a very beautiful palace, with a great hall, containing portraits, beautifully painted, of all the kings who formerly reigned in these provinces. Having mentioned this King Dor, I will tell you a curious story of what passed between him and Prester John. The two sovereigns being at war, Dor was in so strong a situation that the other could not reach him, and was therefore much chagrined; upon which seven of his servants said that they would bring before him his adversary, and if he wished even alive. He said he should be very much obliged to them. Having obtained this permission, they went to the king and presented themselves as strangers desirous to serve him. He gave them an honourable welcome, and they began their duties with the utmost zeal, rendering themselves extremely acceptable. After they had remained two years, he became greatly attached to them, and confided in their love as if they had been his sons. Now hear what these wicked fellows did, and how difficult it is to find defence against a traitor. The king happened to go out on an excursion with a small number of persons, among whom were these seven. When they had passed a river distant from the palace, seeing that the king had not attendants enough to defend him, they laid hands on him, drew their swords, and threatened to kill him unless he instantly went along with them. He was greatly surprised, and said to them,—“What mean you by this, my sons!—what are you saying—whither do you wish me to go!” They replied:—“We wish you to come with us to Prester John, who is our master.” When Dor heard this, he almost died with grief, and said,—“ha! my good friends, have I not honoured and treated you as children; why will you betray me into the hands of my enemy! This would be a most wicked and disloyal action.” They replied that it must be so. They led him to their sovereign, who rejoiced greatly, and addressed the king in very rough language. He made no reply, not knowing what to answer; upon which, the other set him to keep his cattle, as a mark of disgrace and contempt, and during two years he performed this menial office. After that time Prester John was appeased, and resolved to spare his captive. He bestowed on him splendid regal vestments, paying him great honour, and saying,—“Now own you were not a man capable of making war against me.” The king then replied,—“Sire, I always knew that I was unable to contend with you; I repent much of my former bad conduct, and promise faithfully that I will always be your friend.” Then said the Christian prince,—“I will impose upon you no more hardship and grief; you shall receive favour and honour.” Having then supplied him with many horses handsomely equipped, and a numerous attendance, he permitted him to go. Dor then returned to his kingdom, and from that time was a faithful friend and servant of Prester John.

XXXVIII—The great River Kara-moran, and the City Ca-cian-fu

Twenty miles westward from that castle is a river called Kara-moran, so large and broad that it cannot be crossed by a bridge, and flows on even to the ocean. On its banks are many cities and castles, likewise many merchants and manufactured goods; and in the country around ginger grows in great abundance. The number of birds is wonderful, so that for a Venetian grosso one can buy three pheasants; and after travelling three days, you find a noble city named Ca-cian-fu. The people are idolaters, as likewise those of Cathay. It is a city of great merchandise and many arts. They have abundance of silk, with cloth of gold of all fashions. I will go on to tell you of the capital of the kingdom.

XXXIX—The City of Quen-gian-fu

When a man has left the city of Ca-cian-fu, and travel led eight days westward, he finds always cities and castles, merchandise and arts, pleasure-grounds and houses; and the whole country is full of mulberries, producing abundance of silk. The men are idolaters and live by labouring the ground, hunting, and hawking. At the end of the eight days he comes to the noble city of Quen-gian-fu, capital of a kingdom anciently magnificent and powerful, and which had many noble and valiant kings. At present the crown is held by Mangalu, a son of the great khan. That city is rich in merchandise and manufactures, particularly of implements for the supply of an army; likewise every thing necessary for the subsistence of man. The people are all idolaters. Westward is a beautiful palace of King Mangalu, which I will describe to you. It lies in a great plain watered by a river, as also by many lakes and fountains. A wall five miles in circuit, surrounded with battlements, and well built, encloses this splendid edifice, having halls and chambers adorned with beaten gold. Mangalu exercises his dominion with great justice, and is much beloved by his people; the residents in the district enjoy great amusement in hawking and hunting.

XL—The Province of Cun-chin

A man departing from this palace travels three days westward through a very fine plain, always finding villages and castles, with men living by merchandise and rearing silk in great abundance. He then comes to great mountains and valleys belonging to the province of Cun-chin; the people are all idolaters, and subsist by agriculture and hunting, having many forests full of various wild animals. Thus a man rides for twenty days through mountains, valleys, and woods, always finding cities, castles, and good inns.

XLI—The Province of Achalech-Manji

After this journey, he enters a province named Acha lech-Manji, entirely level, and full of cities and castles. The people are all idolaters, and live by merchandise and art, and the province yields such a quantity of ginger, that it is distributed throughout Cathay, to the great profit of the inhabitants. The land also yields rice, wheat, and other grain, and is rich in all productions. The principal country is called Achalech-Manji, which means in our language one of the borders of Manji. This plain lasts for two days, and we then travel twenty through mountains, valleys, and woods, seeing many cities and castles. These people are idolaters, and live on the fruits of the earth and the flesh of birds and beasts; for there are abundance of lions, bears, wolves, stags, deer, and particularly of those animals which yield the musk.

XLII—The Province and City of Sin-din-fu

When a man has left this country and travelled twenty days westward, he approaches a province on the borders of Manji named Sin-din-fu. The capital, bearing the same name, was anciently very great and noble, governed by a mighty and wealthy sovereign. He died, leaving three sons, who divided the city into three parts, and each enclosed his portion with a wall, which was within the great wall of twenty miles in circuit. They ranked still as kings, and had ample possessions; but the great khan overcame them, and took full possession of their territory. Through the city, a large river of fresh water, abounding with fish, passes and flows on to the ocean, distant eighty or a hundred days’ journey; it is called Quian-su. On that current is a very great number of cities and castles, and such a multitude of ships, as no one who has not seen could possibly believe. Equally wonderful is the quantity of merchandise conveyed; indeed it is so broad as to appear a sea and not a river. Within the city, it is crossed by a bridge, wholly of marble, half a mile long and eight paces broad; the upper part is supported by marble columns, and richly painted; and upon it are many houses where merchants expose goods for sale; but these are set up in the morning and taken down in the evening. At one of them, larger than the others, stands the chamberlain of the khan, who receives the duty on the merchandise sold, which is worth annually a thousand golden bezants. The inhabitants are all idolaters; and from that city a man goes five days’ journey through castles, villages, and scattered houses. The people subsist by agriculture, and the tract abounds with wild beasts. There are also large manufactures of gauzes and cloth of gold. After travelling these five days, he comes to Thibet.

XLIII—The Province of Thibet

This is a very large province; the men have a language of their own, and are idolaters. They border upon Manji and many other countries, and are very great robbers; the extent is such, that it contains eight kingdoms and many cities and castles. There are also extensive rivers, lakes, and mountains, where is found a vast quantity of gold. Cinnamon and coral occur, which last is very dear, because they place it round the neck of their women and their idols, and hold it as a precious jewel. Here are made camlets, and other cloths of silk and gold. There are very skillful enchanters and astrologers, but extremely wicked men, who perform works of the devil, which it were unlawful to relate, they would strike with such amazement. They have mastiff dogs as large as asses, and excellent in taking wild animals. This province was entirely destroyed by Mangou, the fifth great khan, in his wars; and its many villages and castles are all demolished. Here grow large canes, fifteen paces long and four palms thick, while from one knot to the other is full three palms. The merchants and travellers, who pass through that country in the night, take these canes and set them on fire, when they make such a loud crackling noise that lions, bears, and other destructive animals are terrified, and dare not approach. They also split them in the middle, and produce thus so mighty a sound, that it would be heard in the night at the distance of five miles; and the explosion is so alarming, that horses unaccustomed to it often break their reins and harness, and take to flight. For this reason, travellers, riding such horses, bind them by the feet, and stop their eyes and ears. A man travels twenty days through these countries without finding either inns or victuals; he must therefore carry with him food for himself and his cattle during the whole of that space, meeting always, too, ferocious wild beasts, which are very dangerous.

XLIV—Another Part of Thibet

The traveller then comes to a part of Thibet where there are houses and castles; but the people have a bad custom. None of them for the whole world will marry a virtuous maiden, saying that she is worth nothing without having had many lovers. When strangers, therefore, pass through, and have pitched their tents, or taken their lodging in inns, the old women bring their daughters, often to the number of thirty or forty, and offer them as wives during their stay; but they must not carry them thence, either back or forward. When the merchant is about to depart, he gives to the lady some toy or jewel as a testimony that she has lived with him. These jewels she hangs to her neck, and is anxious to have at least twenty; for the more she can show, the higher is she valued, and the more readily obtains a husband. After being married, she is strictly watched, and any infidelity is deeply resented. These people are idolatrous and wicked, not holding it sinful to commit wrong and robbery; in short, they are the greatest thieves in the world. They live on the fruits of the earth, but mostly by hunting and falconry; and the country contains many of those animals which produce musk, and are called in the Tartar language gudderi. That sinful people have many good dogs, which they employ in the pursuit of wild animals. They have neither the cards nor money circulated by the great khan, but make money of salt. They are poorly clad with the skins of beasts, canvass, and buckram; they have a language of their own, which they call Tebet. Now I will tell you of Kain-du.

XLV—The Province of Kain-du

This is a province lying to the west, having only one king, the inhabitants idolaters, and subject to the great khan. It contains a number of cities and castles, with a lake, in which are found many pearls; but the monarch forbids them, under a severe penalty, to be removed except for his own use; because, if any one were allowed to take them, they would become worth almost nothing. There is also a mountain, whence are quarried turquoise stones in great abundance, very large and beautiful; but he does not allow them to be removed unless by his mandate. In this province they have a strange and base custom, that a man thinks there is no disgrace in an improper intimacy between his wife or sister and a stranger or other person. On the contrary, when such a one comes to reside in his house, the master presently goes out, and leaves him with his wife. The visiter remains often three days, and places a hat or something else at the window as a signal; and the husband never returns till he sees this taken away. This is said to be done in honour of their idols, who on that account bestow on them many blessings. Their gold is in small rods,—the value being determined according to the weight, and not marked by any stamp. The small money is thus made: they take salt, form it into a shape, so that it weighs about half a pound, and eighty of these are worth a rod of gold. They have a very great number of the animals which yield the musk; likewise fishes from the same lake whence the pearls are drawn; also the usual kinds of wild birds and beasts. No wine is obtained from vines, but it is made from grain or rice with many spices, which makes a good liquor. In that province also grows a tree called garofol; it is small, with leaves like a laurel, but longer and narrower; it bears a small white flower. It yields ginger, cinnamon, and other spices, which come into our country; but I have now said to you enough of Kain-du. After travelling ten days you come to a river which bounds it, named Brius. In it is found a great quantity of gold dust; and on its banks abundance of cinnamon; it flows on to the ocean. Now let us tell you of Caraian.

XLVI—The Province of Caraian

When a man has departed and crossed the river, he enters this province, which is large, and contains seven kingdoms extending westward. The people are all idolaters, and under the dominion of the great khan. The king is a son of his, named Essetemur, and is great, rich, and powerful. He is also brave and upright, ruling his country with much justice.” When the traveller has crossed the river, he passes, during a journey of five days, through a country where there is abundance of cities and castles, with many very good horses; and the people are supported by cattle and the produce of land. Their language is extremely difficult to understand. At the end of these five days, he comes to the capital of the country, named Yaci, which is particularly great and noble, with many merchants and numerous arts. There are here various sects, Saracens, idolaters, and Nestorian Christians. There is a good deal of grain and rice, yet the country is not very fertile. They make a drink of the latter which intoxicates like wine. Money is formed of porcelain, such as is found in the sea, and eighty pieces are worth one bar of gold, or eight of silver. They have pits whence they draw vast quantities of salt, from which the king derives a great revenue. Adultery is not considered as a crime, unless when accompanied with violence. There is a lake here extending a hundred miles, and containing many large fishes, the best in the world. They use the raw flesh of all fowls and beasts; for the poor people go to the market and get it newly taken from the animal, put it in garlic sauce, then eat it; the rich likewise eat it raw, but previously cut into small pieces, and the sauce mixed with good spices.

XLVII—The Province of Karazan and its great Serpents

When a man leaves Yaci, or Chiaci, and goes ten days westward, he finds the province of Karazan, with a capital of the same name. The people are all idolaters, and subject to the great khan; the king is a son of that monarch, named Kogatin. Gold dust is found in the river, and on the mountains in large pieces so abundantly that a bar is given for six of silver. The porcelain, too, formerly described circulates for money, but is procured from India. Here are snakes and serpents so huge as to strike all men with astonishment; they are ten paces long, ten palms broad, and have no feet, but only a hoof like that of the lion; the nose is like a loaf of bread, the mouth so huge that it would swallow at once a man whole; the teeth are immense, nor is there any wild beast whom they do not strike with terror. There are smaller ones eight paces long and six palms broad. The mode of catching them is this:—They remain during the day in great caverns under the earth, to avoid the heat, but at night go out to feed, and seize all the animals whom they can reach; they also seek drink at the rivers, fountains, and lakes, and then make a deep track in the sand, as if a barrel had been dragged through it. In it the people fix a stake, fasten to it a steel instrument sharpened like a razor, and cover it over with sand. When the serpent comes through the track, and strikes against the steel, he is pierced with such violence, that his body is divided from one side to the other, as high as the umbilical cord, and he presently dies. They then take the body and extract the gall-bladder, which they sell very dear, being an excellent medicine for the bite of a mad dog, when administered in small dozes. It is also valuable in childbirth, and when given to the woman, a safe delivery immediately follows. The flesh also is sold at a high price, being considered delicate food. The serpent also enters the dens of lions, bears, and other fierce animals, and devours their whelps, when he can get at them. Here, too, are very large horses, which are carried into India to be sold. They cut two or three nerves from the tail, so that they may not strike with it the man who rides, which is considered disgraceful. These people ride like the French, with long staffs, have arms covered with buffalo hide, and carry lances, spears, and poisoned arrows. Before the great khan conquered them they had a wicked custom, that when any stranger came to lodge with them who was agreeable, wise, and opulent, they killed him during the night by poison or some other mode. This was not out of enmity or with the view of taking his money, but because they imagined that his wisdom and other good qualities would thus remain with them. However, about thirty-five years ago, after that monarch conquered the country, he prohibited this crime, which, from fear of him, they no longer commit. Now let us tell of another province called Kardandan.

XLVIII—The Province of Kardandan

When a man departs from Karazan, and travels to the westward, he enters a province named Kardandan, inhabited by idolaters, and subject to the great khan. The chief city is called Vociam. All the people have their teeth, both upper and lower, covered with gold, which thus appear to be made of that metal. The men are soldiers, and regard nothing but war; the women, with the slaves, perform all the work. When any lady has been delivered of a boy, the husband goes to bed, taking the child with him, and remains there forty days. He thus allows rest to the mother, who is only obliged to suckle the infant. All his friends then come and make a festival, when the wife rises, manages the domestic affairs, and serves her husband, still lying in bed. They eat all kinds of flesh, both raw and cooked, and rice dressed along with it, and make a very good wine of rice and spices. They have money of gold and porcelain, and give a bar of gold for five of silver, having no mines of the latter metal within five days’ distance; by this exchange the merchants make great profit. This people have neither idols nor churches, but adore the master of the house, and say of him, “we are his; and he is our god.” They have neither letters nor writing, which is not wonderful, because they live in an unfrequented place, that cannot be visited in the summer on account of the air, which is then so corrupted and pestilent that no foreigner can live there. Whenever they have dealings together, they select a piece of timber, square or round, cleave it in the middle, and each takes a half; this must be done before two, three, or four witnesses. When the payment comes to be made, the one receives the money and gives his half of the wood. In all those provinces there is no physician, but when any one is sick, doctors and exorcists of evil spirits are sent for, who, on coming to the patient, begin their incantations, beating instruments, singing and dancing. In a short time one of them falls to the ground, foams at the mouth, and becomes half-dead, when the devil enters into his body. The other magicians then ask the half-dead man what is the cause of the patient’s illness. The demon answers from his mouth that the sufferer has given displeasure to such or such a spirit, who is therefore tormenting him. They then say, “we beseech you to pardon him, and take in compensation for his blood the presents which we now exhibit.” Then if the sick man is to die, the fiend in the body of the magician says,—“the spirit has been wronged and displeased to such a degree, that he will not spare him for any thing in the world.” If on the contrary a cure is to take place, the devil from the body says, “take so many sheep and so many dishes of rich pottage, and make a sacrifice of them to the angry spirit.” The relations of the patient do every thing thus ordered, killing the sheep, sprinkling the blood, and preparing the dishes of pottage. A great assemblage is made of men and women, who hold a joyous feast, dancing and singing songs in praise of the spirit. They burn incense and myrrh, with which they fumigate and illuminate the whole house. When they have acted thus for about an hour, the first magician again falls down, and they inquire if the sick man is now pardoned and will be cured. It is then answered that he is not yet pardoned, but something more must be done, after which forgiveness will be granted. This order is obeyed, when he says, “he is pardoned, and will be immediately cured.” The company then exclaim, “the spirit is on our side,” and having eaten the sheep and drunk the pottage with great joy and festivity, they return to their homes.

XLIX—Of the great Battle fought between the Tartars and the King of Mien

Now I must mention a very great battle which was fought in the kingdom of Vociam, and you shall hear all how it happened. In the year of our Lord 1272, the great khan sent a mighty captain, named Nescardin, with 12,000 men, to defend the province of Caraian. He was a prudent man, very strong in arms and skilful in war; and the soldiers with him were good and very brave warriors. Now the King of Mien and of Ban-gala were afraid lest he should invade their territory; yet they thought they were able to overcome and destroy the whole army in such a manner that the great khan might never feel inclined to send another into the same quarter. They assembled, therefore, 60,000 horse and foot, with 2,000 elephants, each of which had on its back a castle well fortified and defended by twelve, fourteen, or sixteen men. The King of Mien came with the above army to the city of Vociam, where was the array of the Tartars, and took post in a plain at the distance of three days’ journey. Nescardin was somewhat alarmed, considering how small a force he had in comparison with the host of the King of Mien; but he took courage, reflecting that his troops were brave and most valiant warriors. He therefore marched to meet them in the plain of Vociam, and pitched his camp near a great forest, filled with lofty trees, into which he was aware that elephants could not enter. The King of Mien, seeing the army of Nescardin, advanced to attack it. The Tartars went with great boldness to meet them, but when their horses saw the elephants with the wooden castles upon them, stationed and arranged in the first line, they were struck with such terror that the riders could not, either by force or any contrivance, make them approach. They, therefore, immediately alighted, and tied them to the trees, when the infantry returned to the line of elephants, and began to discharge their arrows with the utmost violence. Those who were on the backs of the animals fought bravely; but the Tartars were stronger, and more accustomed to battle. They wounded very severely with these missiles a multitude of the elephants, which, being terrified, took to flight and rushed with violence into the adjacent wood. As they could not be restrained from entering, and rushing backward and forward through the thick trees in confusion, they broke the wooden castles on their backs, and destroyed all their equipments. When the Tartars saw these animals disposed of, they ran to their horses, which were bound to the trees, mounted them, and rushed upon the warriors of the King of Mien. They began the attack with a shower of arrows, but as the king and his troops still defended themselves valiantly, they drew their swords, and rushed into close combat. Now mighty blows were struck; swords and spears were fiercely thrust on both sides; heads, arms, and hands were struck off; and many warriors fell to the earth dead and dying. The noise and cries would have drowned the loudest thunder. At length, after mid day, the host of Mien gave way; and the king, with all who survived the battle, took to flight, pursued by the Tartars, who killed many of the fugitives. When satisfied with pursuit, they returned to the wood to catch the elephants. They endeavoured to stop the flight of these animals by cutting down the trees and laying them across; yet they are so intelligent, that the soldiers would not have succeeded but for the aid of some of the captives taken in battle, through whose means they were able to recover two hundred. From this time the great khan began to employ elephants in his army, which he had not hitherto done. Afterwards that monarch conquered the lands of Mien, and added them to his dominion.

L—Of the great Descent

When you have departed from the said province of Caraian, there begins a great descent, which continues for two days and a half; and in all this journey nothing occurs worthy of notice, except that there is a great space in which a market is held on certain days of the year. Thither come many merchants from divers countries and districts, some of whom bring gold and silver to exchange; and they give an ounce of the former for five of the latter. None but those who bring the gold can penetrate into the countries where it is produced, so difficult and intricate are the roads. When a man has travelled these two days and a half, he comes to a district which is called Anniz, on the borders of India, towards the south, and then he goes for fifteen days through a region covered with woods filled with elephants, unicorns, and other savage beasts, but not containing any human habitation.

LI—Of the City of Men, and the most beautiful Tomb of the King

At the termination of these wild and pathless tracts is a large and noble city called Mien, the capital of the province. The people are all idolaters, with a language peculiar to themselves, and are subject to the great khan. About this city I will tell you a thing very remarkable. There was anciently in it a rich and powerful king, who, being about to die, commanded that on his tomb should be erected two towers, one of gold, and the other of silver. They are full ten paces high, and of a suitable thickness; the first, being composed of stone, is covered all over with gold to the thickness of a finger, so that to the spectator it appears wholly of that metal. The summit is round, and filled with little golden bells, which the wind, whenever it strikes them, causes to ring. The other tower is similarly formed, but is coated with silver, and has silver bells. By these buildings the king intended to display his greatness and dignity, and they are the most beautiful and valuable to be seen in the world. Between them he caused the sepulchre to be constructed, where he is now buried. When the great khan conquered that city, he desired all the players and buffoons, of whom there were a great number in his court, to go and achieve the conquest, offering them a captain and some warlike aid. The jesters willingly undertook the affair, and setting out with the proffered assistance, subdued this province of Mien. When they came to that noble city, and saw these splendid edifices, they admired exceedingly, and sent to the great khan an account of their beauty, and of the manner in which they were constructed, asking if he wished them to be demolished, and the gold and silver sent to him. The monarch, on hearing this, commanded that they should not be destroyed, since the king had erected them to commemorate his greatness, and no Tartar touches any thing belonging to a dead man. They were therefore to continue in the same condition as they now stood. This province contains elephants, wild oxen large and beautiful, stags, deer, and other animals. Now, let me tell you of another which is called Bangala.

LII—Of the Province of Bangala

This is a province towards the south, which, in the year 1290, while I, Marco, was at the court of the great khan, was not yet conquered, but the army was there, ready to march for that purpose. It has a king and languages of its own, and the people are most wicked idolaters. They are on the confines of India. The barons and lords of that country have oxen as tall as elephants, but not so weighty; and live on flesh and rice. They have great abundance of silk, with which they carry on extensive manufactures; also ginger, sugar, and many other costly spices. This place is visited by numerous merchants, who purchase slaves, make them eunuchs, and then either sell or convey them to other places.

LIU—Of the Province of Kangigu

Kangigu is a province towards the east, subject to a king; the people are all idolaters; have a language of their own; and owning the supremacy of the great khan, they pay him an annual tribute. The king is so luxurious as to have 300 wives, for as soon as he hears of a beautiful woman in the country he takes her to himself. The people have much gold and many precious spices; but being far from the sea, their commodities do not bring the full value. They have many elephants and beasts of various other kinds. All the men and women paint their bodies, the colours being worked in with the claws of lions, dragons, and eagles, and thus never effaced. In this manner they stain their neck, breast, hands, limbs, and indeed their whole person. This is considered extremely genteel, and the more any one is painted, the higher is his rank considered. Now let us tell you of another province named Amu.

LIV—Of the Province of Amu

Amu is also a province towards the east, subject to the great khan. The people are idolaters, live by pasturage and agriculture, and have a language of their own. The ladies wear on their arms and legs valuable bracelets of gold and silver, and the men have these still finer and rarer. They have good horses in considerable numbers, many of which the Indians purchase and sell again to much advantage. They have also abundance of oxen and buffaloes, because they have extensive and good pastures; in short, they have plenty of the means of subsistence. From Amu to Kangigu, are fifteen days, and thence to Bangala, which is the third province behind, are thirty days. Now let us come to another province, which is called Tholoman, and lies eight journeys from this to the east.

LV—Of the Province of Tholoman

Tholoman is a third province towards the east. All the people are idolaters, have a language of their own, and are under the great khan. They are handsome, of rather a brown complexion, good men at arms, and have a number of cities, castles, and forts, on the top of very high mountains. When they die, the bodies are burned, and the bones which cannot be consumed are placed in chests and carried to the caverns of high mountains, where they are kept suspended, so that neither man nor beast can touch them. Gold is found here; but the smart money is of porcelain, which circulates in all these provinces. The merchants, though few, are rich; the people live on flesh and rice, and have many good spices.

LVI—Of the Province of Cyn-gui and its Lions

Cyn-gui is a province likewise situated towards the east, and when a man leaves Tholoman, he goes twelve days along a river, where there are towns and castles, but nothing else worth mentioning. At the end of these twelve days, he finds the city Sinugul, very large and noble. The inhabitants are all idolaters, and subject to the great khan. They live by merchandise and arts, and weave cloths of the bark of trees, which make fine summer dresses. They are good men at arms; but they have no money except paper. There are in this country so many lions, that if a man were to sleep out of doors, he would presently be killed and eaten by them; and at night, when a bark sails along the river, if it were not kept at a good distance from the bank, they would rush in and carry off the crew. However, though these animals be so large and dangerous, the natives have a wonderful manner of defending themselves; for the dogs of that country are so daring, that they will assault a large one, and, seconded by a man, will kill him. I will tell you how: when a man is on horseback with two of these dogs, as soon as they see a lion, they throw themselves behind him, and bite his thighs and body. The lion turns furiously round, but they wheel about with him so swiftly, that he cannot reach them. He then retreats till he comes to a tree, against which he places his back, and turns his face to the dogs; but they continue always biting him from behind, and making him turn round and round. Meantime the man discharges arrows without ceasing, till the animal falls down dead, and thus one man and two spirited dogs are sufficient to kill a large lion. The inhabitants of this province have a good deal of silk, and a great trade is carried on to all quarters along the river.

LVII—Arrival at Sin-din-fu, and Journey back to Gin-gui

Continuing to journey on its banks for twelve days more, we discover a number of cities and castles. The people are idolaters, subject to the great khan, and use paper money. Some are good at arms, others are merchants and artificers. At the end of the twelve days, the traveller comes to Sin-din-fu, of which mention has been made above. He then rides seventy days through provinces and lands which we formerly went over, and have already described. At the end of that period, he comes to Gin-gui, where we formerly were.

LVIII—Cities of Ca-cian-fu, Cian-glu, and Cian-gli

From Gin-gui or Geo-gui a man travels four days, finding a variety of cities and castles. The people are great artificers and merchants, subject to the mighty khan, and use paper money. At the end of the four days you come to Ca-cian-fu, a large and noble city, lying to the south, in the province of Cathay. The inhabitants are subject to the same monarch, are all idolaters, and burn the bodies of their dead. They have a good supply of silk, which they make into different kinds of cloth. A large river flows past it, along which great abundance of merchandise is conveyed to Kambalu, with which it is made to communicate by the digging of many canals. Now let us pass to another city called Cian-glu. The natives are idolaters, subject to the khan, use paper money, and burn the bodies of their dead. In that city, salt is made very extensively, and I will tell you how. There is a species of earth full of it, and they pile it up in heaps, upon which they throw a great quantity of water, to saturate it with the mineral. They next boil it in large cauldrons of iron, till it evaporates, and leaves a white and minute salt, which is exported to all the countries round. Five days’ journey from Cian-glu is Cian-gli, where are many cities and castles. It is a town of Cathay, and the whole people are idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money. Through the middle of that territory flows a great river, on which is conveyed much merchandise of various kinds.

LIX—Condi-fu—Rebellion against the Great Khan

In departing from Cian-gli, we come in six days to Condi-fu, a great city, which the khan conquered by force of arms, but still it is the noblest in the province. There is a wonderful abundance of silk, as well as orchards with many delicate fruits, and the situation is delightful; it has also under it fifteen other cities of great importance and commerce, whence it derives high honour and dignity. In the year 1273, the khan gave to Litan, one of his barons, 70,000 horse to defend and secure that city; but when the said baron had remained some time in the country, he arranged with certain men to betray it, and rebel against his lord. When the khan knew this, he sent two of his commanders, Aguil and Mongatai, with many troops, against the traitor. On their approach, the rebel went forth to meet them with his forces, consisting of a hundred thousand cavalry and many infantry, both of the country and of those he had brought with him; and there was a very great battle between him and those two chiefs. Litan was killed, with many others; and the khan caused all those who had been guilty to be put to death, and spared the lives of the rest. Now let us tell of another country named Sin-gui.

LX—Cities of Sin-gui, Lin-gui, Pin-gui, and Cin-gui

When a man has gone south from Condi-fu, he finds cities and castles, many animals of the chase and birds, with a vast abundance of all productions, and then comes to Sin-gui, which is noble, great, and beautiful, with much merchandise and many arts; the whole people are idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money. They have a river which is of great utility, because the people of the country have divided the stream which comes from the south into two parts; one goes eastward towards Manji, the other westward towards Cathay; and the land has thus a wonderful number of ships, though not of large size, with which they convey goods to other provinces, and bring thence an almost in credible quantity of merchandise. When a man departs from Sin-gui and goes eight days to the south, he finds many rich cities and castles. The people are idolaters, subject to the khan; they burn the bodies of their dead, and use paper money. At the end of eight days he arrives at a town named Lin-gui, great and noble, with men-at-arms, and also arts and merchandise. Here are wild animals and every kind of provision in abundance. When he departs from Lin-gui, he goes three days to the south, finding cities and castles under the powerful khan; the people idolatrous, and burning the bodies of their dead. There is much excellent hunting of birds and beasts. At the end of these three days, he discovers a very good city named Pin-gui. The people have all things necessary for subsistence, raise much silk, and pay a large revenue to the sovereign. A great quantity of merchandise is laden here for the province of Manji. When a man has departed from Pin-gui, and travelled two days with his face to the south, through beautiful and rich countries, he finds the city of Cin-gui, very large, and full of merchandise and arts. The people are wholly idolatrous, burn the bodies of their dead, their money is paper, and they are under the khan. They have much grain and grass. When a man leaves Cin-gui, he finds cities, villages, and castles, with handsome dogs and good pasturage; the people being such as are above described.

LXI—Of the great River Kara-moran

At the end of two days a man finds the great river called Kara-moran, coming from the lands of Prester John. It is full, broad, and so deep that a large ship can pass through its channel; and there are on it full 15,000 vessels, all belonging to the khan, meant for conveying his goods when he goes to the islands of the sea, which is distant about a day’s journey. And each of these ships requires fifteen mariners, and carries fifteen horses with their riders, provisions, and every thing else necessary for them. When a man passes that river, he enters the province of Manji, and I will tell you how it was conquered by the khan.

LXII—Of the Province of Manji, and how it was made subject to the Great Khan

In the extensive province of Manji there was a lord and king named Facfur, who, excepting the great khan, was the mightiest sovereign in the world, the most powerful in money and people; but the men are not good at arms, nor have horses trained to war, nor experience in battle and military operations, otherwise they would never have lost so strong a country. All the lands are surrounded by waters so deep that they cannot be passed unless by bridges, and the chief cities are encompassed by broad ditches filled with water. The khan, however, in the year of our Lord 1273, sent one of his barons, Bayam Cinqsan, which means Bayam with the Hundred Eyes: for the King of Manji had found out by astrology, that he could lose his kingdom only by a man having a hundred eyes. This Bayam marched with a very great force, many ships, horse and foot, and came to the first city of Manji, called Koi-gan-zu, which we will presently describe. He called upon it to surrender; but the people refused. He then went to another city, which also refused, and so he passed five, leaving them behind, because he knew that the khan was sending a large additional force. He took, however, the sixth by storm, and then successively reduced other twelve; after which he marched direct to the capital of the kingdom, called Kin-sai, where the king and queen resided. When the monarch saw this great army, he was struck with such terror that he fled from the continent with many of his people, having 1,000 ships, and sought refuge among the islands. The queen, however, remained and defended herself as well as she could against Bayam. But having at length asked what was the name of that commander, and being told it was Bayam with the Hundred Eyes, she remembered the prophecy mentioned above, and immediately surrendered the city to him. Presently all the cities of Manji yielded, and the whole world does not contain such a kingdom, and I will now describe its magnificence.

LXIII—Of the Piety and Justice of the King towards his Subjects

This King Facfur maintained 15,000 poor children, because in that province many are exposed as soon as they are born by parents who cannot support them; so, when a rich man had no issue, he went to the king and got as many as he pleased. And when the boys and girls came of age, the king married them together, and gave them the means of living; and thus were educated 20,000 males or females annually. He did another thing: when he went through any place and saw two fine houses, and by the side of them a small one, he inquired why the first were greater than the other; and being told that it be longed to a poor man, who could not afford to build one larger, presently he gave him money enough to enable him to do so. He made himself be served by more than 1,000 domestic servants of both sexes. He maintained his kingdom in such justice, that no evil was done, and all commodities could be left unguarded except by the royal equity. Now I have given you an account of the king; I will tell you of the queen. She was led to the great khan, who made her be honoured and served as a powerful sovereign; but the king, her husband, never came out of the islands of the ocean, and died there, and thus the whole kingdom remained with the khan. Now let us tell of the province of Manji, and the manners and customs of the people; beginning with the city of Koi-gan-zu.

LXIV—Of the Cities of Koi-gan-zu, Pau-chym, and Chaym

Koi-gan-zu is a great, rich, and noble city, at the entrance of the province of Manji, lying to the south. The whole people are subject to the khan; they are idolaters, and burn the bodies of their dead. It lies on the river Kara-moran, and hence is full of ships; for many merchants bring their commodities thither to be distributed throughout other cities. It is the capital of the province. Here is made a very great quantity of salt, which is supplied thence to forty different towns; the khan has a large revenue from this and other trades here carried on. And now let me tell you of another city called Pau-chym. When a man departs from Koi-gan-zu, he goes a whole day along a causeway finely built of stone, and on each side is a large water, so that it is impossible to enter the province unless by this causeway. He then finds a city called Pau-chym; all the people are idolaters, burn the bodies of their dead, and are under the great khan. They are artificers and merchants, have abundance of silk, and make much cloth of it mixed with gold, and thus earn a sufficient livelihood. Through all that country the paper money of the khan is circulated.

When a man sets out from Pau-chym, he travels a day and discovers a very large city named Chaym. There is great abundance of the necessaries of life; fish beyond measure, beasts and birds for sport in great numbers, so that for a Venetian silver grosso you may purchase three pheasants.

LXV—Of the City of Tin-gui, and its great Saltworks

Tin-gui is a pretty agreeable city, a full day’s journey from Chaym. The people are idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money; they have merchandise and arts, and numerous ships belonging to them. It lies to the southeast, and on the left, nearly three days’ journey to the eastward, is the ocean, where salt is made in great quantities. Here is a city named Cyn-gui, large, rich, and noble, to which all the salt is brought, and the khan draws from it a revenue so wonderful that it could not be believed.

LXVI—Of the great City of Yan-gui

When a man leaves Tin-gui he proceeds a day towards the south-east, through a very fine country, finding towns and castles, and then comes to Yan-gui, a large and beautiful city, which has under it twenty-four, all good and of great trade. Its affairs are administered by one of the twelve barons of the khan; Messer Marco Polo, of whom this book treats, governed it three years. Here are made many arms and other equipments for knights and men of war; for in this place and around it numerous troops are quartered. I will now tell you of two great provinces lying to the west, and as I shall have much to say, I will begin with Nan-ghin.

LXVII—Of the great City of Nan-ghin

Nan-ghin is a province towards the west, belonging to Manji, and is very noble and rich. The people are idolaters, use paper money, and are subject to the great khan. They live by merchandise and arts, have silk in abundance, and make cloths of it interwoven with gold, in all fashions. They have an ample supply of every kind of grain and provisions; for the land is very fruitful. There are also lions and animals for hunting. There are many rich merchants who carry on much trade, and pay a large revenue to the great sire. But I will now go to the noble city of Sa-yan-fu, respecting which I shall have much to say.

LXVIII—Of the City of Sa-yan-fu, and how it was taken

Sa-yan-fu is a large and magnificent city, having under it twelve others also great and noble; it is the seat of many valuable arts and of much merchandize. The inhabitants are idolaters; they use paper money, are subject to the khan, and burn the bodies of their dead. This city held out three years after all the rest of the province had yielded to the conqueror, who besieged it with a mighty army; but he could approach it only on the side which lies to the north, because it was elsewhere surrounded by a large and deep lake, by which the besieged obtained abundance of provisions. The army was therefore about to abandon the siege in much grief and wrath, and this news was just brought to the khan, when Messeri Nicolo, Maffio, and Marco Polo said,—“we shall find a way by which the city shall be made to surrender.” The monarch, who was most eagerly bent on its capture, readily listened. Then said the two brothers and their son Marco,—“Great sire, we have with us in our train men who will make such an engine as will discharge large stones, which the citizens will not be able to endure, and will be obliged to yield.” The khan was much rejoiced, and desired that they should execute their plan as soon as possible. Now, they had in their company a German and a Nestorian Christian who were skilful in such works, and made two or three machines sufficient to throw stones of 300 pounds weight. When these were conveyed to the army and set up, they appeared to the Tartars the greatest wonder of the world. They then began discharging stones into the city, which struck the houses, broke and destroyed every thing, and caused the utmost noise and alarm. When the inhabitants saw a calamity such as they had never witnessed before, they knew not what to think or say. They met in council, and concluded that they must be all killed, unless they submitted. They therefore intimated to the lord of the host that they would surrender on the same terms that others had done. This was agreed to, and Sa-yan-fu came under the power of the great khan, through the interposition of Messeri Nicolo, Maffio, and Marco; and it was not a small service, for this town and province are among the best in his possession, and he draws from them a great revenue. Now, we shall leave this subject and treat of a city called Sin-gui.

LXIX—Of the City of Sin-gui and the River Kiang, and the Multitude of Cities on that River

When a man leaves Yan-gui and goes fifteen miles south-east, he perceives a certain city named Sin-gui, which is not very extensive, but has great merchandise and much shipping. The people are idolaters, use paper money, and are subject to the khan. That city stands upon a river, named Kiang, which is the largest in the world; being in some places ten miles broad, and up wards of a hundred days’ journey in length. Through it the inhabitants have a lucrative trade, which yields a large revenue to the khan. And on account of the many cities on it, the ships navigating and the goods conveyed by means of it are more numerous and valuable than in all the rivers of Christendom and the adjacent seas beside. I tell you I have seen at that city no fewer than 5,000 ships sailing at once on its stream. For that river flows through sixteen provinces, and has more than two hundred great towns on its banks. The ships are covered, and have only one mast; yet they are of heavy burden, and carry each from 4,000 to 12,000 cantars. They have ropes composed of cane for drawing them through the water; those belonging to the larger vessels are thick, and fifteen paces in length, being cloven at the end, and bound together in such a way as to make a cord 300 paces long.

LXX—Of the City of Cai-gui

Cai-gui is a small city towards the south-east, situated upon the bank of the above-mentioned river; all the people are idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money. Here are collected large quantities of corn and rice; and there is a passage by water to the city of Kampala and the court of the khan; grain from this place forms a considerable part of the provision required by his court. The monarch made this communication by digging long and deep canals from one river to another, and from lake to lake, so that a large ship may pass through. And by the side of this water-channel goes a road, so that you may take either the one or the other, as is most convenient. In the middle of that river, opposite the city, is an isle of rocks, on which is a monastery of idolaters, where there are 200 monks, who serve a very great number of gods. Now, let us cross the river, and tell of a city named Cin-ghian-fu.

LXXI—Of the City of Cin-ghian-fu

Cin-ghian-fu is a city of Manji, and the people are such as we have already described, idolaters, and subjects of the great khan. They are artificers, merchants, and hunters, raise much grain, and make cloths of silk and gold. Here are two churches of Nestorian Christians, formed in the year 1278; which happened because at that time the governor under the khan was a Nestorian, named Marsarchis, and he caused these two edifices to be built. Now, let us go to the great city of Cin-ghin-gui.

LXXII—Of the City of Cin-ghin-gui, and of a dreadful Slaughter

When a man leaves Cin-ghian-fu, and travels three or four days south-east, he always discovers cities and castles, with much merchandise; the people are all idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money. Then he comes to the city of Cin-ghin-gui great and noble, the people idolaters, and subject to the khan; they have abundance of provisions, produce and manufacture a vast quantity of silk. And here I will tell you a wicked thing which the people of this city did, but it cost them dear. When Bayam, called the chief of the Hundred Eyes, conquered all the province, and took the capital itself, he sent a body of troops to reduce this place. It surrendered, and the soldiers entered and found such good wine, that they drank till they were intoxicated, and became quite insensible. When the men of the city saw them in this condition, that very night they slew them all, so that not one escaped. When Bayam the commander heard of this disloyal conduct, he sent an army who took the town, and put all the inhabitants to the sword. Now, let us go on, and I will tell you of another named Sin-gui.

LXXIII—Of the City of Sin-gui, of Un-gui, and of Ughim

Sin-gui is a very great and noble city. The people are idolaters, subject to the great khan, and use paper money. Most of them live by merchandise and arts, raise much silk, make cloths of it interwoven with gold very costly and fine. The town is forty miles in circuit, and the number of inhabitants is so great, that no person can count them, and if they were men-at-arms, those of the province of Manji would conquer the whole world; they are not so, however, but prudent merchants, and, as already observed, skilful in all the arts. They have also many persons learned in natural science, good physicians, and able philosophers. The city has 1,600 stone bridges under which a galley might pass; and in the mountains adjacent grow rhubarb and ginger in such abundance, that for a Venetian grosso you may buy forty pounds of the latter, fresh and good. Sin-gui has under it sixteen large cities of arts and trade. Its name signifies the earth, and another large town near it is called heaven, and these appellations they derive from their great nobleness. Now, let us depart from this place, and I will tell you of another city called Un-gui. It is a day’s journey from Sin-gui, and is large and good, with merchandise and arts; but there is nothing so remarkable about it as to be worth describing; therefore we shall go on to delineate another called Ughim. It is great and rich; the men are idolaters, subject to the great khan, use paper money, and have abundance of all things. There is nothing else worth mentioning; therefore I will go on to tell you of the noble city of Kin-sai, which is the capital of the kingdom of Manji.

LXXIV—Of the most noble and wonderful City of Kin-sai; and of its Population, Trades, Lake, Villas, and splendid Palace

When a man leaves Ughim, and goes three days, he observes many noble and rich cities and castles, with great merchandise. The people are all idolaters, subject to the khan, use paper money, and have abundant means of subsistence. At the end of these three days, he finds a very noble city named Kin-sai, which means in our language the city of heaven. And now I will tell you all its nobleness; for without doubt it is the largest city in the world. And I will give you the account which was written by the Queen of Manji to Bayam, who conquered that kingdom, to be transmitted to his master, who thereby might be persuaded not to destroy it. And this letter contained the truth, as I Marco saw with my own eyes. It related, that the city of Kin-sai is 100 miles in circumference, and has 12,000 stone bridges; and beneath the greater part of these a large ship might pass, and beneath the others a smaller one. And you need not wonder there are so many bridges; because the city is wholly on the water, and surrounded by it like Venice. It contains twelve arts or trades, and each trade has 12,000 stations or houses; and in each station there are of masters and labourers at least ten, in some fifteen, thirty, and even forty, because this town supplies many others round it. The merchants are so numerous and so rich, that their wealth can neither be told nor believed. They, their ladies, and the heads of the trades do nothing with their own hands, but live as cleanly and delicately as if they were kings. These females also are of angelic beauty, and live in the most elegant manner. But it is established that no one can practise any other art than that which his father followed, even though he were worth 100,000 bezants. To the south of that city is a lake, full thirty miles in circuit; and all around it are beautiful palaces and houses, so wonderfully built that nothing can possibly surpass them; they belong to the great and noble men of the city. There are also abbeys and monasteries of idolaters in great numbers. In the middle of the lake are two islands, on one of which stands a palace, so wonder fully adorned that it seems worthy of belonging to the emperor. Whoever wishes to celebrate a marriage or other festival, goes thither, where he finds dishes, plates, and all implements necessary for the occasion. The city of Kin-sai contains many beautiful houses, and one great stone tower, to which the people convey all their property when the houses take fire, as often happens, because many of them are of wood. They are idolaters, subject to the great khan, and use paper money. They eat the flesh of dogs and other beasts, such as no Christian would touch for the world. On each of the said 12,000 bridges, ten men keep guard day and night, so that no one may dare to raise a disturbance, or commit theft or homicide. I will tell you another thing, that in the middle of the city is a mound, on which stands a tower, wherein is placed a wooden table, against which a man strikes with a hammer, so that it is heard to a great distance; this he does when there is an alarm of fire, or any kind of danger or disturbance. The great khan causes that city to be most strongly guarded, because it is the capital of all the province of Manji, and he derives from it vast treasure and revenue; he is likewise afraid of any revolt. All the streets are paved with stones and bricks; and so are the high roads of Manji, on which account men may travel very pleasantly either on horse back or on foot. In this city, too, are 4,000 baths, in which the citizens, both men and women, take great delight, and frequently resort thither, because they keep their persons very cleanly. They are the largest and most beautiful baths in the world, insomuch that 100 of either sex may bathe in them at once. Twenty-five miles from thence is the ocean, between south and east; and there is a city named Gan-fu, which has a very fine port, with large ships, and much merchandise of immense value from India and other quarters. Past this city to the port flows a stately river, by which the ships can come up to it, and which runs thither from a great distance. The khan has divided the whole province of Manji into nine large kingdoms, all of which pay him annual tribute. In Gan-fu resides one of the kings, who has under him 140 cities. I will tell you a thing you will much wonder at, that in this province there are 1,200 towns, and in each a garrison amounting to 1,000, 10,000, 20,000, and in some instances to 30,000 men. But do not suppose these are all Tartar cavalry; for part are infantry and sent from Cathay. But the riches and profit which the khan derives from the province of Manji is so great that no man could dare to mention it, nor would any one believe him; and therefore I shall be silent. I will tell you, however, some of the customs of Manji. One is, that whenever a boy or girl is born, the day, hour, and minute are written down, also the sign and planet under which the birth takes place, so that all may know their nativity. And when any one wishes to undertake a journey, or do any thing else of importance, he repairs to the astrologer, states these particulars, and asks if he should go or act otherwise. And they are often thus diverted from their journeys and other designs; for these astrologers are skilful in their arts and diabolical enchantments, and tell them many things which they implicitly believe. Another custom is, that when a body is to be burned, all the relations dress them selves in canvass to express grief, and go with the corpse, beating instruments, and making songs and prayers to their idols. When they come to the place where the ceremony is to be performed, they frame images of men, women, camels, horses, clothes, money, and various other things, all of cards. When the fire is fully lighted, they throw in all these things, saying that the dead will enjoy them in the other world, and that the honour now done to him will be done there also by idols. In this city of Kin-sai is a palace of the king who fled, which is the noblest and most beautiful in the world. It is a square, ten miles in circuit, surrounded by a lofty wall, within which are gardens abounding in all the most delicate fruits, fountains, and lakes supplied with many kinds of fish. In the middle is the edifice itself, large and beautiful, with a hall so extensive that a vast number of persons can sit down at table. That hall is painted all over with gold and azure, representing many stories, in which are beasts, birds, knights, ladies, and various wonders. Nothing can be seen upon the walls and roof but these ornaments. There are twenty others of similar dimensions, such that 10,000 men can conveniently sit at table; and they are covered and worked in gold very nobly. This palace contains also 1,000 chambers. In the city are 160 toman of fires, that is, of houses; and the toman is 10,000, making 1,600,000 houses, among which are many great and rich palaces. There is only one church of Nestorian Christians. Each man of that city, as also of the others, has written on his door the name of his wife, his children, of his sons’ wives, his slaves, and of all his household; and when any one is born, he adds the name, and when he dies, takes it away. Thus the governor of each city knows the names of every person in it; and this practice is followed in all the towns of Manji and Cathay. The same account is given of the strangers who reside for a time in their houses, both when they come and when they go; and by that means the great khan knows whoever arrives and departs, which is of great advantage.

LXXV—Farther Particulars of that City

There are within the city ten principal squares or market-places, besides which, numberless shops run along the streets. These squares are each half a mile in length, and have in front the main street, forty paces wide, and reaching in a straight line from one end of the city to the other. Thus they are, altogether, two miles in circuit, and four miles distant from each other. The street is crossed by many low and convenient bridges. Parallel to it, but on the opposite side to the squares, is a very large canal, and on its bank capacious warehouses, built of stone, to accommodate the merchants from India and other countries, and receive their goods; this situation being chosen as convenient with regard to the market-squares. Each of these, on three days in every week, contains an assemblage of from 40,000 to 50,000 persons, who bring for sale every desirable article of provision. There appears abundance of all kinds of game, roebucks, stags, fallow-deer, hares, and rabbits, with partridges, pheasants, francolins, quails, common fowls, capons, ducks and geese almost innumerable; these last being so easily bred on the lake, that for a Venetian silver grosso you may buy a couple of geese and two pairs of ducks. In the same place are also the shambles, where cattle, as oxen, calves, kids, and lambs, are killed for the tables of the rich and of magistrates. These markets afford at all seasons a great variety of herbs and fruits; in particular, uncommonly large pears, weighing each ten pounds, white in the inside like paste, and very fragrant. The peaches also, both yellow and white, are in their season of delicious flavour. Grapes are not cultivated, but very good ones are brought dried from other districts. Wine is not esteemed by the natives, who are accustomed to their own liquor, prepared from rice and various spices. From the sea, twenty-five miles distant, a vast supply of fish is conveyed on the river; and the lake also contains abundance, the taking of which affords constant employment to numerous fishermen. The species vary according to the season, and the offal carried thither from the city renders them large and rich. In short, the quantity in the market is so immense, that you would think it impossible it could find purchasers; yet in a few hours it is all disposed of, so many inhabitants are there who can afford to indulge in such luxuries. They eat fish and flesh at one meal. Each of the ten squares is surrounded with lofty dwelling-houses; the lower part being made into shops, where manufactures of every kind are carried on, and imported articles are sold, as spices, drugs, toys, and pearls. In some shops is kept only the country wine, which is constantly made fresh, and served out at a moderate price. In the several streets connected with the squares are numerous baths, attended by servants of both sexes, to perform the functions of ablution for the male and female visiters, who from their childhood are accustomed to bathe in cold water, as being highly conducive to health. Here, too, are apartments provided with warm water for the use of strangers, who, from want of use, cannot endure the shock of the cold. All are in the daily habit of washing their persons, especially before meals.

In other streets reside the females of bad character, who are extremely numerous; and not only in the streets near the squares, which are specially appropriated to them, but in every other quarter they appear, highly dressed out and perfumed, in well furnished houses, and with a train of domestics. They are perfectly skilled in all the arts of seduction, which they can adapt to persons of every description; so that strangers who have once yielded to their fascination are said to be like men bewitched, and can never get rid of the impression. Intoxicated with these unlawful pleasures, even after returning home, they always long to revisit the place where they were thus seduced. In other streets reside the physicians and the astrologers, who also teach reading and writing, with many other arts. On opposite sides of the squares are two large edifices, where officers appointed by his majesty promptly decide any differences that arise between the foreign merchants and the inhabitants. They are bound also to take care that the guards be duly stationed on the neighbouring bridges, and in case of neglect, to inflict a discretionary punishment on the delinquent.

On each side of the principal street, mentioned as reaching across the whole city, are large houses and mansions with gardens; near to which are the abodes and shops of the working artisans. At all hours you observe such multitudes of people passing backwards and forwards on their various avocations, that it might seem impossible to supply them with food. A different judgment will, however, be formed, when every market-day the squares are seen crowded with people, and covered with provisions brought in for sale by carts and boats. To give some idea of the quantity of meat, wine, spices, and other articles brought for the consumption of the people of Kin-sai, I shall instance the single article of pepper. Marco Polo was informed by an officer employed in the customs, that the daily amount was forty-three loads, each weighing 243 pounds.

The houses of the citizens are well built, and richly adorned with carving, in which, as well as in painting and ornamental buildings, they take great delight, and lavish enormous sums. Their natural disposition is pacific, and the example of their former unwarlike kings has accustomed them to live in tranquillity. They keep no arms in their houses, and are unacquainted with their use. Their mercantile transactions are conducted in a manner perfectly upright and honourable. They also behave in a friendly manner to each other, so that the inhabitants of the same neighbourhood appear like one family. In their domestic relations, they show no jealousy or suspicion of their wives, but treat them with great respect. Any one would be held as infamous that should address indecent expressions to married women. They behave with cordiality to strangers who visit the city for commercial purposes, hospitably entertain them, and afford their best assistance in their business. On the other hand, they hate the very sight of soldiers, even the guards of the great khan; recollecting, that by their means they have been deprived of the government of their native sovereigns.

On the lake above mentioned are a number of pleasure-barges, capable of holding from ten to twenty persons, being from fifteen to twenty paces long, with a broad level floor, and moving steadily through the water. Those who delight in this amusement, and propose to enjoy it, either with their ladies or companions, engage one of these barges, which they find always in the very best order, with seats, tables, and every thing necessary for an entertainment. The boatmen sit on a flat upper deck, and with long poles reaching to the bottom of the lake, not more than two fathoms deep, push along the vessels to any desired spot. These cabins are painted in various colours, and with many figures; the exterior is similarly adorned. On each side are windows, which can at pleasure be kept open or shut, when the company seated at table may delight their eyes with the varied beauty of the passing scenes. Indeed, the gratification derived from these water-excursions exceeds any that can be enjoyed on land; for as the lake extends all along the city, you discover, while standing in the boat, at a certain distance from the shore, all its grandeur and beauty, palaces, temples, convents, and gardens, while lofty trees reach down to the water’s edge. At the same time are seen other boats continually passing, similarly filled with parties of pleasure. Generally, indeed, the inhabitants, when they have finished the labours of the day, or closed their mercantile transactions, think only of seeking amusement with their wives or mistresses, either in these barges or driving about the city in carriages. The main street already mentioned is paved with stone and brick to the width of ten paces on each side, the interval being filled up with small gravel, and having arched drains to carry off the water into the canals, so that it is always kept dry. On this road the carriages are constantly driving. They are long, covered at top, have curtains and cushions of silk, and can hold six persons. Citizens of both sexes, desirous of this amusement, hire them for that purpose, and you see them at every hour moving about in vast numbers. In many cases the people visit gardens, where they are introduced by the managers of the place into shady arbours, and remain till the time of returning home.

The palace already mentioned had a wall with a passage dividing the exterior court from an inner one, which formed a kind of cloister, supporting a portico that surrounded it, and led to various royal apartments. Hence you entered a covered passage or corridor, six paces wide, and so long as to reach to the margin of the lake. On each side were corresponding entrances to ten courts, also resembling cloisters with porticos, and each having fifty private rooms, with gardens attached,—the residence of a thousand young females, whom the king maintained in his service. In the company either of his queen or of a party of those ladies he used to seek amusement on the lake, visiting the idol-temples on its banks. The other two portions of this seraglio were laid out in groves, pieces of water, beautiful orchards, and enclosures for animals suited for the chase, as antelopes, deer, stags, hares, and rabbits. Here, too, the king amused himself,—his damsels accompanying him in carriages or on horseback. No man was allowed to be of the party, but the females were skilled in the art of coursing and pursuing the animals. When fatigued they retired into the groves on the margin of the lake, and, quitting their dresses, rushed into the water, when they swam sportively in different directions,—the king remaining a spectator of the exhibition. Sometimes he had his repast provided beneath the dense foliage of one of these groves, and was there waited upon by the damsels. Thus he spent his time in this enervating society, profoundly ignorant of martial affairs; hence the grand khan, as already mentioned, was enabled to deprive him of his splendid possessions, and drive him with ignominy from his throne. All these particulars were related to me by a rich merchant of Kin-sai, who was then very old; and, having been a confidential servant of King Facfur, was acquainted with every circumstance of his life. He knew the palace in its former splendour, and desired me to come and take a view of it. Being then the residence of the khan’s viceroy, the colonnades were preserved entire, but the chambers had been allowed to go to ruin,—only their foundations remaining visible. The walls, too, including the parks and gardens, had been left to decay, and no longer contained any trees or animals.

LXXVI—Revenues of the Great Khan from Kin-sai and Manji

I will now tell you of the large revenue which the khan draws from this city, and the territory under its jurisdiction, which is the ninth part of the province of Manji. The salt of that country yields to him in the year eighty tomans of gold, and each toman is 70,000 saiks, which amount to 5,600,000, and each saik is worth more than a gold florin; and is not this most great and wonderful! In that country, too, there grows more sugar than in the whole world besides, and it yields a very large revenue. I will not state it particularly, but remark that, taking all spices together, they pay 3 1/3 per cent, which is levied too on all other merchandise. Large taxes are also derived from wine, rice, coal, and from the twelve arts, which, as already mentioned, have each twelve thousand stations. On every thing a duty is imposed; and on silk especially and other articles is paid ten per cent. But I, Marco Polo, tell you, because I have often heard the account of it, that the revenue on all these commodities amounts every year to 210 tomans, or 14,700,000 saiks, and that is the most enormous amount of money that ever was heard of, and yet is paid by only the ninth part of the province of Manji. Now let us depart from this city of Kin-sai, and go to another called Tam-pin-gui.

LXXVII—Tam-pin-gui and other Cities

When a man departs from Kin-sai, and goes a day to the south-east, he finds always most pleasant houses and gardens, and all the means of living in great abundance. At the end of the day he discovers the city already named, which is very large and beautiful, and is dependent on Kin-sai. The people are subject to the khan, use paper money, are idolaters, and burn the bodies of their dead in the manner already described. They live by merchandise and arts, and have an ample supply of provisions. And when a man goes three days to the south-east, seeing very large cities and castles, and much trade, he comes to the city of Un-gui, under the government of Kin-sai, and otherwise like the former. When he departs from Un-gui and goes two days south-east, he every where perceives towns and castles, so that he seems to be going through a city. Every thing is in abundance; and here are the largest and longest canes in all the country, for know that some are four palms in circuit and fifteen paces long. At the end of the two days he comes to Chen-gui, which is large and beautiful. The people, who are idolaters, are under the great khan and the jurisdiction of Kin-sai, and have abundance of silk and provisions. In going four days south-east he finds cities and castles, and all things in the utmost plenty. There are birds and beasts for the chase, with lions very large and fierce. Throughout all the province of Manji there are neither sheep nor lambs, but oxen, goats, and hogs in great variety. At the end of the four days he finds Cian-cian, a town situated on a mountain, which divides the river into two parts, each flowing in a different direction. The people are like the former; and, at the end of three days more we reach the city of Can-giu, large and beautiful; and this is the last under the jurisdiction of Kin-sai; for now commences another kingdom, which is one of the nine parts of Manji, and is called Fu-gui.

LXXVIII—The Kingdom of Fu-gui

When a man goes from the last-mentioned city of Kin-sai he enters the kingdom of Fu-gui and, after travelling seven days, he finds houses and villages, the inhabitants of which are all idolaters, and under the jurisdiction of Fu-gui. They have provisions in great abundance, with numerous wild beasts for hunting; also large and fierce lions. They have ample supplies of ginger and galanga, so that for a Venetian grosso you can buy eighty pounds. And there is a fruit or flower having the appearance of saffron, and though not really so, yet of equal value, being much employed in manufacture. They eat the flesh of the filthiest animals, and even that of a man, provided he has not died a natural death; but if he has been killed, they account his flesh extremely delicate. When they go to war they cut their hair very close, and paint their faces an azure colour like the iron of a lance. They fight all on foot except their chief; and are the most cruel race in the world, because they go about the whole day killing men, drinking their blood, and eating their flesh.

LXXIX—Of the Cities of Que-lin-fu and Un-quem

In the middle of these seven days you come to a city called Que-lin-fu, which is very large and beautiful, subject to the great khan. It has three bridges, the largest and most magnificent in the world; for each is a mile long and ten paces broad, and all supported by columns of marble. The people live by merchandise and arts, and have abundance of silk and ginger. The ladies here are very beautiful. They have another strange thing, hens that have no feathers, but skins like a cat. They lay eggs like those of our hens, and are very good eating. And in the remainder of the seven days’ journey we discover many cities and castles, merchants and merchandise, and men of art. There are lions, great and fierce, doing much injury to the passengers, who on this account cannot travel without imminent danger. At the end of the journey is found a city called Un-quem, where there is made such a quantity of sugar, that the whole court of the khan is thence supplied, which is worth a vast treasure. Beyond it is the large city of Fu-gui, capital of this kingdom.

LXXX—Of the City of Fu-gui

Fu-gui, as just stated, is the capital of the kingdom of Con-cha, which is one of the nine parts of Manji. In that city is much merchandise and art; the people are idolatrous, and subject to the great khan. He keeps there a strong army, because the towns and castles often revolt, and whenever they do so the troops hasten thither, take, and destroy them. Through the middle of that city flows a river a mile broad; here much sugar is made, and an extensive trade is carried on in precious stones and pearls, which are brought by merchants from India and its isles. It is also near the port of Zai-tun on the ocean, whither come many ships from Hindostan with much merchandise; and they ascend by the great river to Fu-gui. The people have abundance of all things necessary for subsistence; fine gardens, with good fruit; and the city is wonderfully well ordered in all respects. But we will now go on to other matters.

LXXXI—Of the most noble Port of Zai-tun, and of Ti-min-gui

When one departs from Fu-gui, passes the river, and goes five days south-east, he finds cities and castles, where there is abundance of all things, woods, birds, and beasts, with the tree which bears camphor. The people are all idolaters, under the great khan and the jurisdiction of Fu-gui. At the end of the five days he finds a city called Zai-tun, which is a noble port, where all the ships of India arrive, and for one laden with pepper which comes from Alexandria to be sold throughout Christendom, there go to that city a hundred. It is one of the two best ports in the world, and the most frequented by merchants and merchandise. Know, too, that the khan draws thence a large revenue, because all the ships from India pay upon their several kinds of goods, stones, and pearls, ten per cent, that is one in ten. The ships take for their height, on small merchandise, thirty per cent.; on pepper, forty-four; on lignum, aloes, sandalwood, and other bulky articles, forty; so that merchants, between the height and the duty, pay a full half of all commodities brought into that port. Those of this country are all idolaters, and have great abundance of every thing necessary for the human body. In that province is a city, named Ti-min-gui, where they make the most beautiful cups in the world; they are of porcelain, and are manufactured in no other part of the earth besides that city; for a Venetian grosso you may purchase three cups of this most elegant ware. The people of Fu-gui have a language of their own. Now, I have told you of this kingdom, which is one of the nine, and the great khan draws from it as much duty and revenue as from that of Kin-sai. We have not told you of the nine kingdoms of Manji, but only of three, Manji, Kin-sai, and Fu-gui, and of these you have heard fully; but the others I cannot now describe, because it would be too tedious, and our book has not yet treated of other things which I wish to write about; for I have to tell you of the Indians, who are well worthy of being known. Their country contains many wonderful things found in none of the other parts of the world, which it will be good and profitable to write. And, I assure you, Marco remained so long in India, and saw so much of its produce, customs, and merchandise, that no man could better tell the truth. Therefore I will put them in writing, precisely as Messer Marco truly said them to me.

  1. Acheron (The River of Woe) is one of the five rivers of the Greco-Roman Underworld. The others are Styx (The River of Hate), Phlegethon (The River of Wrath), Lethe (The River of Forgetfulness), and Cocytus (The River of Wailing).↩

  2. The ferryman of the Underworld.↩

  3. “Phlegethon” means “flaming”.↩

  4. Charlemagne (aka Charles the Great, Charles I), King of the Franks and Lombards, Emperor of Europe (742-814).↩

  5. Charlemagne was on a mission to Christianize Muslim Spain.↩

  6. Saragossa.↩

  7. Apollyon (aka Abaddon, an angel of destruction); medieval Christians believed that Muslims worshipped the unholy trinity of Muhammad, Abaddon, and Termagant. As Termagant is a fiction created by medieval Christians, it is, of course, untrue.↩

  8. “The word “Aoi,” which is placed at the end of every stanza, and found in no other ancient French poems, is interpreted differently by the commentators. M. Francisque Michel assimilated it at first to the termination of an ecclesiastical chant—Preface, xxvii.—and later to the Saxon Abeg, or the English Away, as a sort of refrain which the “jongleur” repeated at the end of the couplets. M. Génin explains it by ad viam, a vei, avoie, away! it is done, let us go on!

    M. Gautier, with his skeptical honesty, declares the word unexplained. See Note 9, p. 4, of his seventh edition.” (Léonce Rabillon, trans. La Chanson de Roland. Leon Gautier, 7th ed. New York: Holt and Company [1885]: x.)↩

  9. The Battle of Ronceval Pass.↩

  10. Roland’s best friend and fellow-Paladin. Roland is engaged to Olivier’s sister, Aude.↩

  11. At Ronceval Pass, the rear-guard is about to be cut off from the rest of the army.↩

  12. The Saracens or Muslim army.↩

  13. Sees.↩

  14. An ivory battle horn.↩

  15. Charlemagne.↩

  16. Roland’s sword.↩

  17. Criminal, unlawful.↩

  18. The battle horn is made of ivory and called an olifant for the animal whence it came (elephant).↩

  19. That is the Barons or French nobility.↩

  20. Ever.↩

  21. Muslims; also dark-skinned men.↩

  22. Before.↩

  23. The French noblemen.↩

  24. A passage so narrow men must march single-file.↩

  25. Aspre is another defile in the Pyrenees.↩

  26. War-horses.↩

  27. Head to toe.↩

  28. Reward.↩

  29. Roland’s war-horse.↩

  30. The afore-mentioned war-cry of Charlemagne.↩

  31. The negative analog to Roland.↩

  32. Corpse.↩

  33. Saddle.↩

  34. Arabia.↩

  35. A Paladin, one of the 12 Peers of Charlemagne.↩

  36. French coin.↩

  37. Satan.↩

  38. Another Paladin.↩

  39. Admiral.↩

  40. Also, Samson; another Paladin.↩

  41. Arabic military title.↩

  42. Paladin.↩

  43. Paladin.↩

  44. Gascon from Gascony, a region in France.↩

  45. Also Otton or Otto; a Paladin.↩

  46. Paladin.↩

  47. That is, the twelve Muslim Peers, negative analogs of the French Peers.↩

  48. Handle.↩

  49. Companion.↩

  50. Another Paladin.↩

  51. Sadness.↩

  52. Tales of Great Deeds.↩

  53. Shield, perhaps.↩

  54. Knights.↩

  55. Nevertheless.↩

  56. Evening.↩

  57. Pack-horse.↩

  58. No mercy.↩

  59. The three Paladins not yet mentioned.↩

  60. That is, Roland beheads Turfaleu, Marsile’s son.↩

  61. Mohammed.↩

  62. Caliph, Islamic nobleman.↩

  63. A French coin.↩

  64. France is the widow, bereft of her greatest defenders.↩

  65. Marquis, another noble title.↩

  66. “A sort of undergarment made of gold and silk brocade worn in time of war under the coat of mail, and in time of peace under the mantle of fur. In the latter case it was of silk.” (Rabillon, 208).↩

  67. Absolves.↩

  68. Crossbow.↩

  69. Believe.↩

  70. Sardonyx, onyx and sard.↩

  71. Brittany.↩

  72. Normandy.↩

  73. Lombardy.↩

  74. Romania (?).↩

  75. Bavaria.↩

  76. Flanders.↩

  77. Bulgaria.↩

  78. Poland.↩

  79. Constantinople.↩

  80. Germany home of the Saxons.↩

  81. Scotland.↩

  82. Gaul (Gallic France).↩

  83. Ireland.↩

  84. England.↩

  85. Baligant is Emir of Babylon.↩

  86. Charlemagne.↩

  87. Mohammed.↩

  88. Baligant.↩

  89. Burdened.↩

  90. On key, in tune.↩

  91. A-N, dancel; boy↩

  92. Whippers, the boys who keep the hunting dogs on the trail.↩

  93. A-N, La nuit somunt ses chevaliers, Ses veneürs e ses berniers; (At night, he summoned his horsemen, his huntsmen, and his whippers)↩

  94. immediately↩

  95. lit↩

  96. A gift of land, an official position, or money given to the younger children of kings and princes to provide for their maintenance. (OED)↩

  97. Shirt or chemise↩

  98. belt↩

  99. War horse↩

  100. an exterior set of steps and a platform at the main entrance to a large building such as a church or mansion.(OED)↩

  101. fairy↩

  102. possession↩

  103. silk↩

  104. aid↩

  105. counsel↩

Annotate

Part 2: The Middle Ages
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