Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of Eliduc

IV
THE LAY OF ELIDUC
Now will I rehearse before you a very ancient Breton Lay. As the talewas told to me, so, in turn, will I tell it over again, to the best ofmy art and knowledge. Hearken now to my story, its why and its reason.
In Brittany there lived a knight, so courteous and so brave, that inall the realm there was no worthier lord than he. This knight wasnamed Eliduc. He had wedded in his youth a noble lady of proud raceand name. They had long dwelt together in peace and content, for theirhearts were fixed on one another in faith and loyalty. Now it chancedthat Eliduc sought his fortune in a far land, where there was a greatwar. There he loved a Princess, the daughter of the King and Queen ofthose parts. Guillardun was the maiden's name, and in all the realmwas none more fair. The wife of Eliduc had to name, Guildeluec, in herown country. By reason of these two ladies their story is known as theLay of Guildeluec and Guillardun, but at first it was rightly calledthe Lay of Eliduc. The name is a little matter; but if you hearken tome you shall learn the story of these three lovers, in its pity andits truth.
Eliduc had as lord and suzerain, the King of Brittany over Sea. Theknight was greatly loved and cherished of his prince, by reason of hislong and loyal service. When the King's business took him from hisrealm, Eliduc was his master's Justice and Seneschal. He governed thecountry well and wisely, and held it from the foe with a strong hand.Nevertheless, in spite of all, much evil was appointed unto him.Eliduc was a mighty hunter, and by the King's grace, he would chasethe stag within the woods. He was cunning and fair as Tristan, andso wise in venery, that the oldest forester might not gainsay him inaught concerning the shaw. But by reason of malice and envy, certainmen accused him to the King that he had meddled with the royalpleasaunce. The King bade Eliduc to avoid his Court. He gave no reasonfor his commandment, and the knight might learn nothing of the cause.Often he prayed the King that he might know whereof he was accused.Often he begged his lord not to heed the specious and crafty words ofhis foes. He called to mind the wounds he had gained in his master'swars, but was answered never a word. When Eliduc found that he mightget no speech with his lord, it became his honour to depart. Hereturned to his house, and calling his friends around him, openedout to them this business of the King's wrath, in recompense for hisfaithful service.
"I did not reckon on a King's gratitude; but as the proverb says, itis useless for a farmer to dispute with the horse in his plough. Thewise and virtuous man keeps faith to his lord, and bears goodwill tohis neighbour, not for what he may receive in return."
Then the knight told his friends that since he might no longer stay inhis own country, he should cross the sea to the realm of Logres, andsojourn there awhile, for his solace. His fief he placed in the handsof his wife, and he required of his men, and of all who held him dear,that they would serve her loyally. Having given good counsel to theutmost of his power, the knight prepared him for the road. Right heavywere his friends and kin, that he must go forth from amongst them.
Eliduc took with him ten knights of his household, and set out on hisjourney. His dame came with him so far as she was able, wringing herhands, and making much sorrow, at the departure of her husband. At theend he pledged good faith to her, as she to him, and so she returnedto her own home. Eliduc went his way, till he came to a haven on thesea. He took ship, and sailed to the realm of Totenois, for many kingsdwell in that country, and ever there were strife and war. Now, nearto Exeter, in this land, there dwelt a King, right rich and strong,but old and very full of years. He had no son of his body, but onemaid only, young, and of an age to wed. Since he would not bestow thisdamsel on a certain prince of his neighbours, this lord made mortalwar upon his fellow, spoiling and wasting all his land. The ancientKing, for surety, had set his daughter within a castle, fair and verystrong. He had charged the sergeants not to issue forth from thegates, and for the rest there was none so bold as to seek to storm thekeep, or even to joust about the barriers. When Eliduc was told ofthis quarrel, he needed to go no farther, and sojourned for awhilein the land. He turned over in his mind which of these princes dealtunjustly with his neighbour. Since he deemed that the agèd king wasthe more vexed and sorely pressed in the matter, he resolved to aidhim to the best of his might, and to take arms in his service. Eliduc,therefore, wrote letters to the King, telling him that he had quittedhis own country, and sought refuge in the King's realm. For his parthe was willing to fight as a mercenary in the King's quarrel, and if asafe conduct were given him, he and the knights of his company wouldride, forthwith, to their master's aid. This letter, Eliduc sent bythe hands of his squires to the King. When the ancient lord had readthe letter, he rejoiced greatly, and made much of the messengers. Hesummoned his constable, and commanded him swiftly to write out thesafe conduct, that would bring the baron to his side. For the rest hebade that the messengers meetly should be lodged and apparelled, andthat such money should be given them as would be sufficient to theirneeds. Then he sealed the safe conduct with his royal seal, and sentit to Eliduc, straightway, by a sure hand.
When Eliduc came in answer to the summons, he was received with greathonour by the King. His lodging was appointed in the house of a graveand courteous burgess of the city, who bestowed the fairest chamber onhis guest. Eliduc fared softly, both at bed and board. He called tohis table such good knights as were in misease, by reason of prison orof war. He charged his men that none should be so bold as to take pelfor penny from the citizens of the town, during the first forty days oftheir sojourn. But on the third day, it was bruited about the streets,that the enemy were near at hand. The country folk deemed that theyapproached to invest the city, and to take the gates by storm. Whenthe noise and clamour of the fearful burgesses came to the ears ofEliduc, he and his company donned their harness, and got to horse,as quickly as they might. Forty horsemen mounted with him; as to therest, many lay sick or hurt within the city, and others were captivesin the hands of the foe. These forty stout sergeants waited for nosounding of trumpets; they hastened to seek their captain at hislodging, and rode at his back through the city gate.
"Sir," said they, "where you go, there we will follow, and what youbid us, that shall we do."
"Friends," made answer the knight, "I thank you for your fellowship.There is no man amongst us but who wishes to molest the foe, and dothem all the mischief that he is able. If we await them in the town,we defend ourselves with the shield, and not with the sword. To mymind it is better to fall in the field than to hide behind walls; butif any of you have a wiser counsel to offer, now let him speak."
"Sir," replied a soldier of the company, "through the wood, in goodfaith, there runs a path, right strict and narrow. It is the wont ofthe enemy to approach our city by this track. After their deeds ofarms before the walls, it is their custom to return by the way theycame, helmet on saddle bow, and hauberk unbraced. If we might catchthem, unready in the path, we could trouble them very grievously, eventhough it be at the peril of our lives."
"Friends," answered Eliduc, "you are all the King's men, and are boundto serve him faithfully, even to the death. Come, now, with me whereI will go, and do that thing which you shall see me do. I give you myword as a loyal gentleman, that no harm shall hap to any. If we gainspoil and riches from the foe, each shall have his lot in the ransom.At the least we may do them much hurt and mischief in this quarrel."
Eliduc set his men in ambush, near by that path, within the wood. Hetold over to them, like a cunning captain, the crafty plan he haddevised, and taught them how to play their parts, and to call uponhis name. When the foe had entered on that perilous path, and werealtogether taken in the snare, Eliduc cried his name, and summoned hiscompanions to bear themselves like men. This they did stoutly, andassailed their enemy so fiercely that he was dismayed beyond measure,and his line being broken, fled to the forest. In this fight was theconstable taken, together with fifty and five other lords, who ownedthemselves prisoners, and were given to the keeping of the squires.Great was the spoil in horse and harness, and marvellous was thewealth they gained in gold and ransom. So having done such great deedsin so short a space, they returned to the city, joyous and content.
The King looked forth from a tower. He feared grievously for his men,and made his complaint of Eliduc, who--he deemed--had betrayed him inhis need. Upon the road he saw a great company, charged and laden withspoil. Since the number of those who returned was more than those whowent forth, the king knew not again his own. He came down from thetower, in doubt and sore trouble, bidding that the gates should bemade fast, and that men should mount upon the walls. For such coil asthis, there was slender warrant. A squire who was sent out, came backwith all speed, and showed him of this adventure. He told over thestory of the ambush, and the tale of the prisoners. He rehearsed howthe constable was taken, and that many a knight was wounded, and manya brave man slain. When the King might give credence thereto, he hadmore joy than ever king before. He got him from his tower, and goingbefore Eliduc, he praised him to his face, and rendered him thecaptives as a gift. Eliduc gave the King's bounty to his men. Hebestowed on them besides, all the harness and the spoil; keeping, forhis part, but three knights, who had won much honour in the battle.From this day the King loved and cherished Eliduc very dearly. He heldthe knight, and his company, for a full year in his service, and atthe end of the year, such faith had he in the knight's loyalty, thathe appointed him Seneschal and Constable of his realm.
Eliduc was not only a brave and wary captain; he was also a courteousgentleman, right goodly to behold.
That fair maiden, the daughter of the King, heard tell of his deeds,and desired to see his face, because of the good men spake of him. Shesent her privy chamberlain to the knight, praying him to come to herhouse, that she might solace herself with the story of his deeds, forgreatly she wondered that he had no care for her friendship. Eliducgave answer to the chamberlain that he would ride forthwith, sincemuch he desired to meet so high a dame. He bade his squire to saddlehis destrier, and rode to the palace, to have speech with the lady.Eliduc stood without the lady's chamber, and prayed the chamberlain totell the dame that he had come, according to her wish. The chamberlaincame forth with a smiling face, and straightway led him in thechamber. When the princess saw the knight, she cherished him verysweetly, and welcomed him in the most honourable fashion. The knightgazed upon the lady, who was passing fair to see. He thanked hercourteously, that she was pleased to permit him to have speech with sohigh a princess. Guillardun took Eliduc by the hand, and seated himupon the bed, near her side. They spake together of many things, foreach found much to say. The maiden looked closely upon the knight, hisface and semblance; to her heart she said that never before had shebeheld so comely a man. Her eyes might find no blemish in his person,and Love knocked upon her heart, requiring her to love, since her timehad come. She sighed, and her face lost its fair colour; but she caredonly to hide her trouble from the knight, lest he should think her theless maidenly therefore. When they had talked together for a greatspace, Eliduc took his leave, and went his way. The lady would havekept him longer gladly, but since she did not dare, she allowed himto depart. Eliduc returned to his lodging, very pensive and deep inthought. He called to mind that fair maiden, the daughter of hisKing, who so sweetly had bidden him to her side, and had kissed himfarewell, with sighs that were sweeter still. He repented him rightearnestly that he had lived so long a while in the land withoutseeking her face, but promised that often he would enter her palacenow. Then he remembered the wife whom he had left in his own house. Herecalled the parting between them, and the covenant he made, that goodfaith and stainless honour should be ever betwixt the twain. But themaiden, from whom he came, was willing to take him as her knight! Ifsuch was her will, might any pluck him from her hand?
All night long, that fair maiden, the daughter of the King, hadneither rest nor sleep. She rose up, very early in the morning, andcommanding her chamberlain, opened out to him all that was in herheart. She leaned her brow against the casement.
"By my faith," she said, "I am fallen into a deep ditch, and sorrowhas come upon me. I love Eliduc, the good knight, whom my father madehis Seneschal. I love him so dearly that I turn the whole night uponmy bed, and cannot close my eyes, nor sleep. If he assured me of hisheart, and loved me again, all my pleasure should be found in hishappiness. Great might be his profit, for he would become King of thisrealm, and little enough is it for his deserts, so courteous is he andwise. If he have nothing better than friendship to give me, I choosedeath before life, so deep is my distress."
When the princess had spoken what it pleased her to say, thechamberlain, whom she had bidden, gave her loyal counsel.
"Lady," said he, "since you have set your love upon this knight, sendhim now--if so it please you--some goodly gift-girdle or scarf orring. If he receive the gift with delight, rejoicing in your favour,you may be assured that he loves you. There is no Emperor, underHeaven, if he were tendered your tenderness, but would go the morelightly for your grace."
The damsel hearkened to the counsel of her chamberlain, and madereply, "If only I knew that he desired my love! Did ever maiden wooher knight before, by asking whether he loved or hated her? What if hemake of me a mock and a jest in the ears of his friends! Ah, if thesecrets of the heart were but written on the face! But get you ready,for go you must, at once."
"Lady," answered the chamberlain, "I am ready to do your bidding."
"You must greet the knight a hundred times in my name, and will placemy girdle in his hand, and this my golden ring."
When the chamberlain had gone upon his errand, the maiden was sosick at heart, that for a little she would have bidden him return.Nevertheless, she let him go his way, and eased her shame with words.
"Alas, what has come upon me, that I should put my heart upon astranger. I know nothing of his folk, whether they be mean or high;nor do I know whether he will part as swiftly as he came. I have donefoolishly, and am worthy of blame, since I have bestowed my love verylightly. I spoke to him yesterday for the first time, and now I prayhim for his love. Doubtless he will make me a song! Yet if he be thecourteous gentleman I believe him, he will understand, and not dealhardly with me. At least the dice are cast, and if he may not love me,I shall know myself the most woeful of ladies, and never taste of joyall the days of my life."
Whilst the maiden lamented in this fashion, the chamberlain hastenedto the lodging of Eliduc. He came before the knight, and havingsaluted him in his lady's name, he gave to his hand the ring and thegirdle. The knight thanked him earnestly for the gifts. He placed thering upon his finger, and the girdle he girt about his body. He saidno more to the chamberlain, nor asked him any questions; save onlythat he proffered him a gift. This the messenger might not have, andreturned the way he came. The chamberlain entered in the palace andfound the princess within her chamber. He greeted her on the part ofthe knight, and thanked her for her bounty.
"Diva, diva," cried the lady hastily, "hide nothing from me; does helove me, or does he not?"
"Lady," answered the chamberlain, "as I deem, he loves you, and truly.Eliduc is no cozener with words. I hold him for a discreet and prudentgentleman, who knows well how to hide what is in his heart. I gave himgreeting in your name, and granted him your gifts. He set the ringupon his finger, and as to your girdle, he girt it upon him, andbelted it tightly about his middle. I said no more to him, nor he tome; but if he received not your gifts in tenderness, I am the moredeceived. Lady, I have told you his words: I cannot tell you histhoughts. Only, mark carefully what I am about to say. If Eliduc hadnot a richer gift to offer, he would not have taken your presents atmy hand."
"It pleases you to jest," said the lady. "I know well that Eliduc doesnot altogether hate me. Since my only fault is to cherish him toofondly, should he hate me, he would indeed be blameworthy. Never againby you, or by any other, will I require him of aught, or look to himfor comfort. He shall see that a maiden's love is no slight thing,lightly given, and lightly taken again--but, perchance, he will notdwell in the realm so long as to know of the matter."
"Lady, the knight has covenanted to serve the King, in all loyalty,for the space of a year. You have full leisure to tell, whatever youdesire him to learn."
When the maiden heard that Eliduc remained in the country, sherejoiced very greatly. She was glad that the knight would sojournawhile in her city, for she knew naught of the torment he endured,since first he looked upon her. He had neither peace nor delight, forhe could not get her from his mind. He reproached himself bitterly.He called to remembrance the covenant he made with his wife, when hedeparted from his own land, that he would never be false to his oath.But his heart was a captive now, in a very strong prison. He desiredgreatly to be loyal and honest, but he could not deny his love for themaiden--Guillardun, so frank and so fair.
Eliduc strove to act as his honour required. He had speech and sightof the lady, and did not refuse her kiss and embrace. He never spokeof love, and was diligent to offend in nothing. He was careful inthis, because he would keep faith with his wife, and would attempt nomatter against his King. Very grievously he pained himself, but at theend he might do no more. Eliduc caused his horse to be saddled, andcalling his companions about him, rode to the castle to get audienceof the King. He considered, too, that he might see his lady, and learnwhat was in her heart. It was the hour of meat, and the King havingrisen from table, had entered in his daughter's chamber. The King wasat chess, with a lord who had but come from over-sea. The lady satnear the board, to watch the movements of the game. When Eliduc camebefore the prince, he welcomed him gladly, bidding him to seat himselfclose at hand. Afterwards he turned to his daughter, and said,"Princess, it becomes you to have a closer friendship with this lord,and to treat him well and worshipfully. Amongst five hundred, there isno better knight than he."
When the maiden had listened demurely to her father's commandment,there was no gayer lady than she. She rose lightly to her feet, andtaking the knight a little from the others, seated him at her side.They remained silent, because of the greatness of their love. She didnot dare to speak the first, and to him the maid was more dreadfulthan a knight in mail. At the end Eliduc thanked her courteously forthe gifts she had sent him; never was grace so precious and so kind.The maiden made answer to the knight, that very dear to her was theuse he had found for her ring, and the girdle with which he had beltedhis body. She loved him so fondly that she wished him for her husband.If she might not have her wish, one thing she knew well, that shewould take no living man, but would die unwed. She trusted he wouldnot deny her hope.
"Lady," answered the knight, "I have great joy in your love, and thankyou humbly for the goodwill you bear me. I ought indeed to be ahappy man, since you deign to show me at what price you value ourfriendship. Have you remembered that I may not remain always in yourrealm? I covenanted with the King to serve him as his man for thespace of one year. Perchance I may stay longer in his service, for Iwould not leave him till his quarrel be ended. Then I shall return tomy own land; so, fair lady, you permit me to say farewell."
The maiden made answer to her knight, "Fair friend, right sweetly Ithank you for your courteous speech. So apt a clerk will know, withoutmore words, that he may have of me just what he would. It becomes mylove to give faith to all you say."
The two lovers spoke together no further; each was well assured ofwhat was in the other's heart. Eliduc rode back to his lodging, rightjoyous and content. Often he had speech with his friend, and passinggreat was the love which grew between the twain.
Eliduc pressed on the war so fiercely that in the end he took captivethe King who troubled his lord, and had delivered the land from itsfoes. He was greatly praised of all as a crafty captain in the field,and a hardy comrade with the spear. The poor and the minstrel countedhim a generous knight. About this time that King, who had biddenEliduc avoid his realm, sought diligently to find him. He had sentthree messengers beyond the seas to seek his ancient Seneschal. Astrong enemy had wrought him much grief and loss. All his castles weretaken from him, and all his country was a spoil to the foe. Often andsorely he repented him of the evil counsel to which he had given ear.He mourned the absence of his mightiest knight, and drove from hiscouncils those false lords who, for malice and envy, had defamed him.These he outlawed for ever from his realm. The King wrote letters toEliduc, conjuring him by the loving friendship that was once betweenthem, and summoning him as a vassal is required of his lord, to hastento his aid, in that his bitter need. When Eliduc heard these tidingsthey pressed heavily upon him, by reason of the grievous love he borethe dame. She, too, loved him with a woman's whole heart. Between thetwo there was nothing but the purest love and tenderness. Never byword or deed had they spoiled their friendship. To speak a littleclosely together; to give some fond and foolish gift; this was the sumof their love. In her wish and hope the maiden trusted to hold theknight in her land, and to have him as her lord. Naught she deemedthat he was wedded to a wife beyond the sea.
"Alas," said Eliduc, "I have loitered too long in this country, andhave gone astray. Here I have set my heart on a maiden, Guillardun,the daughter of the King, and she, on me. If, now, we part, there isno help that one, or both, of us, must die. Yet go I must. My lordrequires me by letters, and by the oath of fealty that I have sworn.My own honour demands that I should return to my wife. I dare notstay; needs must I go. I cannot wed my lady, for not a priest inChristendom would make us man and wife. All things turn to blame. God,what a tearing asunder will our parting be! Yet there is one who willever think me in the right, though I be held in scorn of all. I willbe guided by her wishes, and what she counsels that will I do. TheKing, her sire, is troubled no longer by any war. First, I will go tohim, praying that I may return to my own land, for a little, becauseof the need of my rightful lord. Then I will seek out the maiden, andshow her the whole business. She will tell me her desire, and I shallact according to her wish."
The knight hesitated no longer as to the path he should follow. Hewent straight to the King, and craved leave to depart. He told himthe story of his lord's distress, and read, and placed in the King'shands, the letters calling him back to his home. When the King hadread the writing, and knew that Eliduc purposed to depart, he waspassing sad and heavy. He offered the knight the third part of hiskingdom, with all the treasure that he pleased to ask, if he wouldremain at his side. He offered these things to the knight--these, andthe gratitude of all his days besides.
"Do not tempt me, sire," replied the knight. "My lord is in suchdeadly peril, and his letters have come so great a way to require me,that go I must to aid him in his need. When I have ended my task, Iwill return very gladly, if you care for my services, and with me agoodly company of knights to fight in your quarrels."
The King thanked Eliduc for his words, and granted him graciously theleave that he demanded. He gave him, moreover, all the goods of hishouse; gold and silver, hound and horses, silken cloths, both rich andfair, these he might have at his will. Eliduc took of them discreetly,according to his need. Then, very softly, he asked one other gift.If it pleased the King, right willingly would he say farewell to theprincess, before he went. The King replied that it was his pleasure,too. He sent a page to open the door of the maiden's chamber, and totell her the knight's request. When she saw him, she took him bythe hand, and saluted him very sweetly. Eliduc was the more fain ofcounsel than of claspings. He seated himself by the maiden's side, andas shortly as he might, commenced to show her of the business. He haddone no more than read her of his letters, than her face lost its faircolour, and near she came to swoon. When Eliduc saw her about to fall,he knew not what he did, for grief. He kissed her mouth, once andagain, and wept above her, very tenderly. He took, and held her fastin his arms, till she had returned from her swoon.
"Fair dear friend," said he softly, "bear with me while I tell youthat you are my life and my death, and in you is all my comfort. Ihave bidden farewell to your father, and purposed to go back to my ownland, for reason of this bitter business of my lord. But my will isonly in your pleasure, and whatever the future brings me, your counselI will do."
"Since you cannot stay," said the maiden, "take me with you, whereveryou go. If not, my life is so joyless without you, that I would wishto end it with my knife."
Very sweetly made answer Sir Eliduc, for in honesty he loved honestmaid, "Fair friend, I have sworn faith to your father, and am his man.If I carried you with me, I should give the lie to my troth. Let thiscovenant be made between us. Should you give me leave to return to myown land I swear to you on my honour as a knight, that I will comeagain on any day that you shall name. My life is in your hands.Nothing on earth shall keep me from your side, so only that I havelife and health."
Then she, who loved so fondly, granted her knight permission todepart, and fixed the term, and named the day for his return. Greatwas their sorrow that the hour had come to bid farewell. They gaverings of gold for remembrance, and sweetly kissed adieu. So theysevered from each other's arms.
Eliduc sought the sea, and with a fair wind, crossed swiftly to theother side. His lord was greatly content to learn the tidings of hisknight's return. His friends and his kinsfolk came to greet him, andthe common folk welcomed him very gladly. But, amongst them all, nonewas so blithe at his home-coming as the fair and prudent lady who washis wife. Despite this show of friendship, Eliduc was ever sad, anddeep in thought. He went heavily, till he might look upon his friend.He felt no happiness, nor made pretence of any, till he should meetwith her again. His wife was sick at heart, because of the coldness ofher husband. She took counsel with her soul, as to what she had doneamiss. Often she asked him privily, if she had come short or offendedin any measure, whilst he was without the realm. If she was accused byany, let him tell her the accusation, that she might purge herself ofthe offence.
"Wife," answered Eliduc, "neither I, nor any other, charge you withaught that is against your honour to do. The cause of my sorrow isin myself. I have pledged my faith to the King of that country, fromwhence I come, that I will return to help him in his need. When mylord the King has peace in his realm, within eight days I shall beonce more upon the sea. Great travail I must endure, and many pains Ishall suffer, in readiness for that hour. Return I must, and till thenI have no mind for anything but toil; for I will not give the lie tomy plighted word."
Eliduc put his fief once more in the hands of his dame. He soughthis lord, and aided him to the best of his might. By the counsel andprowess of the knight, the King came again into his own. When the termappointed by his lady, and the day she named for his return drew near,Eliduc wrought in such fashion that peace was accorded between thefoes. Then the knight made him ready for his journey, and took thoughtto the folk he should carry with him. His choice fell on two of hisnephews, whom he loved very dearly, and on a certain chamberlain ofhis household. These were trusted servitors, who were of his inmostmind, and knew much of his counsel. Together with these went hissquires, these only, for Eliduc had no care to take many. All these,nephew and squire and chamberlain, Eliduc made to promise, and confirmby an oath, that they would reveal nothing of his business.
The company put to sea without further tarrying, and, crossingquickly, came to that land where Eliduc so greatly desired to be. Theknight sought a hostel some distance from the haven, for he wouldnot be seen of any, nor have it bruited that Eliduc was returned. Hecalled his chamberlain, and sent him to his friend, bearing lettersthat her knight had come, according to the covenant that had beenmade. At nightfall, before the gates were made fast, Eliduc issuedforth from the city, and followed after his messenger. He had clothedhimself in mean apparel, and rode at a footpace straight to the city,where dwelt the daughter of the King. The chamberlain arrived beforethe palace, and by dint of asking and prying, found himself within thelady's chamber. He saluted the maiden, and told her that her loverwas near. When Guillardun heard these tidings she was astonied beyondmeasure, and for joy and pity wept right tenderly. She kissed theletters of her friend, and the messenger who brought such welcometidings. The chamberlain prayed the lady to attire and make her readyto join her friend. The day was spent in preparing for the adventure,according to such plan as had been devised. When dark was come,and all was still, the damsel stole forth from the palace, and thechamberlain with her. For fear that any man should know her again,the maiden had hidden, beneath a riding cloak, her silken gown,embroidered with gold. About the space of a bow shot from the citygate, there was a coppice standing within a fair meadow. Near by thiswood, Eliduc and his comrades awaited the coming of Guillardun. WhenEliduc saw the lady, wrapped in her mantle, and his chamberlainleading her by the hand, he got from his horse, and kissed her righttenderly. Great joy had his companions at so fair a sight. He sether on the horse, and climbing before her, took bridle in glove,and returned to the haven, with all the speed he might. He enteredforthwith in the ship, which put to sea, having on board none, saveEliduc, his men, and his lady, Guillardun. With a fair wind, and aquiet hour, the sailors thought that they would swiftly come to shore.But when their journey was near its end, a sudden tempest arose on thesea. A mighty wind drove them far from their harbourage, so that theirrudder was broken, and their sail torn from the mast. Devoutly theycried on St. Nicholas, St. Clement, and Madame St. Mary, to aid themin this peril. They implored the Mother that she would approach herSon, not to permit them to perish, but to bring them to the harbourwhere they would come. Without sail or oar, the ship drifted here andthere, at the mercy of the storm. They were very close to death, whenone of the company, with a loud voice began to cry, "What need isthere of prayers! Sir, you have with you, her, who brings us to ourdeath. We shall never win to land, because you, who already have afaithful wife, seek to wed this foreign woman, against God and Hislaw, against honour and your plighted troth. Grant us to cast her inthe sea, and straightway the winds and the waves will be still."
When Eliduc heard these words he was like to come to harm for rage.
"Bad servant and felon traitor," he cried, "you should pay dearly foryour speech, if I might leave my lady."
Eliduc held his friend fast in his arms, and cherished her as well ashe was able. When the lady heard that her knight was already weddedin his own realm, she swooned where she lay. Her face became pale anddiscoloured; she neither breathed nor sighed, nor could any bringher any comfort. Those who carried her to a sheltered place, werepersuaded that she was but dead, because of the fury of the storm.Eliduc was passing heavy. He rose to his feet, and hastening to hissquire, smote him so grievously with an oar, that he fell senseless onthe deck. He haled him by his legs to the side of the ship and flungthe body in the sea, where it was swiftly swallowed by the waves. Hewent to the broken rudder, and governed the nave so skilfully, that itpresently drew to land. So, having come to their fair haven, they castanchor, and made fast their bridge to the shore. Dame Guillardun layyet in her swoon, and seemed no other than if she were really dead.Eliduc's sorrow was all the more, since he deemed that he had slainher with his hand. He inquired of his companions in what near placethey might lay the lady to her rest, "for I will not bid her farewell,till she is put in holy ground with such pomp and rite as befit theobsequies of the daughter of a King." His comrades answered him nevera word, for they were all bemused by reason of what had befallen.Eliduc, therefore, considered within himself to what place he shouldcarry the lady. His own home was so near the haven where he had come,that very easily they could ride there before evening. He called tomind that in his realm there was a certain great forest, both long anddeep. Within this wood there was a little chapel, served by a holyhermit for forty years, with whom Eliduc had oftimes spoken.
"To this holy man," he said, "I will bear my lady. In his chapel heshall bury her sweet body. I will endow him so richly of my lands,that upon her chantry shall be founded a mighty abbey. There someconvent of monks or nuns or canons shall ever hold her in remembrance,praying God to grant her mercy in His day."
Eliduc got to horse, but first took oath of his comrades that never,by them, should be discovered, that which they should see. He set hisfriend before him on the palfrey, and thus the living and the deadrode together, till they had entered the wood, and come before thechapel. The squires called and beat upon the door, but it remainedfast, and none was found to give them any answer. Eliduc bade that oneshould climb through a window, and open the door from within. Whenthey had come within the chapel they found a new made tomb, and writthereon, that the holy hermit having finished his course, was madeperfect, eight days before Passing sad was Eliduc, and esmayed. Hiscompanions would have digged a second grave, and set therein, hisfriend; but the knight would in no wise consent, for--he said--hepurposed to take counsel of the priests of his country, as to buildingsome church or abbey above her tomb. "At this hour we will but lay herbody before the altar, and commend her to God His holy keeping."He commanded them to bring their mantles and make a bed upon thealtar-pace. Thereon they laid the maiden, and having wrapped her closein her lover's cloak, left her alone. When the moment came for Eliducto take farewell of his lady, he deemed that his own last hour hadcome. He kissed her eyes and her face.
"Fair friend," said he, "if it be pleasing to God, never will I bearsword or lance again, or seek the pleasures of this mortal world. Fairfriend, in an ill hour you saw me! Sweet lady, in a bitter hour youfollowed me to death! Fairest, now were you a queen, were it not forthe pure and loyal love you set upon me? Passing sad of heart am I foryou, my friend. The hour that I have seen you in your shroud, I willtake the habit of some holy order, and every day, upon your tomb, Iwill tell over the chaplet of my sorrow."
Having taken farewell of the maiden, Eliduc came forth from thechapel, and closed the doors. He sent messages to his wife, that hewas returning to his house, but weary and overborne. When the dameheard these tidings, she was happy in her heart, and made ready togreet him. She received her lord tenderly; but little joy came of herwelcome, for she got neither smiles in answer, nor tender words inreturn. She dared not inquire the reason, during the two days Eliducremained in the house. The knight heard Mass very early in themorning, and then set forth on the road leading to the chapel wherethe maiden lay. He found her as he had parted, for she had not comeback from her swoon, and there was neither stir in her, nor breath. Hemarvelled greatly, for he saw her, vermeil and white, as he had knownher in life. She had lost none of her sweet colour, save that she wasa little blanched. He wept bitterly above her, and entreated for hersoul. Having made his prayer, he went again to his house.
On a day when Eliduc went forth, his wife called to her a varlet ofher household, commanding him to follow his lord afar off, and markwhere he went, and on what business. She promised to give him harnessand horses, if he did according to her will. The varlet hid himself inthe wood, and followed so cunningly after his lord, that he was notperceived. He watched the knight enter the chapel, and heard thecry and lamentation that he made. When Eliduc came out, the varlethastened to his mistress, and told her what he had seen, the tears anddolour, and all that befell his lord within the hermitage. The ladysummoned all her courage.
"We will go together, as soon as we may, to this hermitage. My lordtells me that he rides presently to the Court to speak with the King.I knew that my husband loved this dead hermit very tenderly, but Ilittle thought that his loss would make him mad with grief."
The next day the dame let her lord go forth in peace. When, aboutnoon, Eliduc rode to the Court to greet his King, the lady rosequickly, and carrying the varlet with her, went swiftly to thehermitage. She entered the chapel, and saw the bed upon thealtar-pace, and the maiden thereon, like a new sprung rose. Stoopingdown the lady removed the mantle. She marked the rigid body, the longarms, and the frail white hands, with their slender fingers, folded onthe breast. Thus she learned the secret of the sorrow of her lord. Shecalled the varlet within the chapel, and showed him this wonder.
"Seest thou," she said, "this woman, who for beauty shineth as a gem!This lady, in her life, was the lover of my lord. It was for her thatall his days were spoiled by grief. By my faith I marvel little athis sorrow, since I, who am a woman too, will--for pity's sake orlove--never know joy again, having seen so fair a lady in the dust."
So the wife wept above the body of the maiden. Whilst the ladysat weeping, a weasel came from under the altar, and ran acrossGuillardun's body. The varlet smote it with his staff, and killed itas it passed. He took the vermin and flung it away. The companion ofthis weasel presently came forth to seek him. She ran to the placewhere he lay, and finding that he would not get him on his feet,seemed as one distraught. She went forth from the chapel, and hastenedto the wood, from whence she returned quickly, bearing a vermeilflower beneath her teeth. This red flower she placed within the mouthof that weasel the varlet had slain, and immediately he stood upon hisfeet. When the lady saw this, she cried to the varlet,
"Throw, man, throw, and gain the flower."
The servitor flung his staff, and the weasels fled away, leaving thatfair flower upon the floor. The lady rose. She took the flower, andreturned with it swiftly to the altar pace. Within the mouth of themaiden, she set a flower that was more vermeil still. For a shortspace the dame and the damsel were alike breathless. Then the maidencame to herself, with a sigh. She opened her eyes, and commenced tospeak.
"Diva," she said, "have I slept so long, indeed!"
When the lady heard her voice she gave thanks to God. She inquired ofthe maiden as to her name and degree. The damsel made answer to her,"Lady, I was born in Logres, and am daughter to the King of thatrealm. Greatly there I loved a knight, named Eliduc, the seneschal ofmy sire. We fled together from my home, to my own most grievous fault.He never told me that he was wedded to a wife in his own country, andhe hid the matter so cunningly, that I knew naught thereof. When Iheard tell of his dame, I swooned for pure sorrow. Now I find thatthis false lover, has, like a felon, betrayed me in a strange land.What will chance to a maiden in so foul a plight? Great is thatwoman's folly who puts her trust in man."
"Fair damsel," replied the lady, "there is nothing in the whole worldthat can give such joy to this felon, as to hear that you are yetalive. He deems that you are dead, and every day he beweeps your swoonin the chapel. I am his wife, and my heart is sick, just for lookingon his sorrow. To learn the reason of his grief, I caused him tobe followed, and that is why I have found you here. It is a greathappiness for me to know that you live. You shall return with me to myhome, and I will place you in the tenderness of your friend. Then Ishall release him of his marriage troth, since it is my dearest hopeto take the veil."
When the wife had comforted the maiden with such words, they wenttogether to her own house. She called to her servitor, and bade himseek his lord. The varlet went here and there, till he lighted onEliduc. He came before him, and showed him of all these things. Eliducmounted straightway on his horse, and waiting neither for squire orcompanion, that same night came to his hall. When he found alive, her,who once was dead, Eliduc thanked his wife for so dear a gift. Herejoiced beyond measure, and of all his days, no day was more happythan this. He kissed the maiden often, and very sweetly she gave himagain his kiss, for great was the joy between the twain. The damelooked on their happiness, and knew that her lord meetly had bestowedhis love. She prayed him, therefore, that he would grant her leave todepart, since she would serve God as a cloistered nun. Of his wealthshe craved such a portion as would permit her to found a convent. Hewould then be able to wed the maiden on whom his heart was set, for itwas neither honest nor seemly that a man should maintain a wife witheither hand.
Eliduc could do no otherwise than consent. He gave the permission sheasked, and did all according to her will. He endowed the lady of hislands, near by that chapel and hermitage, within the wood. There hebuilt a church with offices and refectory, fair to see. Much wealth hebestowed on the convent, in money and estate. When all was brought toa good end, the lady took the veil upon her head. Thirty other ladiesentered in the house with her, and long she ruled them as theirAbbess, right wisely and well.
Eliduc wedded with his friend, in great pomp, and passing rich was themarriage feast. They dwelt in unity together for many days, for everbetween them was perfect love. They walked uprightly, and gave alms oftheir goods, till such a time as it became them to turn to God. Aftermuch thought, Eliduc built a great church close beside his castle.He endowed it with all his gold and silver, and with the rest of hisland. He set priests there, and holy layfolk also, for the business ofthe house, and the fair services of religion.
When all was builded and ordered, Eliduc offered himself, with them,that he--weak man--might serve the omnipotent God. He set with theAbbess Guildeluec--who once was his dame--that wife whom he loved sodearly well. The Abbess received her as a sister, and welcomed herright honourably. She admonished her in the offices of God, and taughther of the rules and practice of their holy Order. They prayed to Godfor their friend, that He would grant him mercy in His day. In turn,he entreated God for them. Messages came from convent and monastery asto how they fared, so that each might encourage the other in His way.Each strove painfully, for himself and his, to love God the moredearly, and to abide in His holy faith. Each made a good end, and themercy of God was abundantly made clear to all.
Of the adventure of these three lovers, the courteous Bretons madethis Lay for remembrance, since they deemed it a matter that menshould not forget.

Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of the Dolorous Knight

III
THE LAY OF THE DOLOROUS KNIGHT
Hearken now to the Lay that once I heard a minstrel chanting to hisharp. In surety of its truth I will name the city where this storypassed. The Lay of the Dolorous Knight, my harper called his song,but of those who hearkened, some named it rather, The Lay of the FourSorrows.
In Nantes, of Brittany, there dwelt a dame who was dearly held ofall, for reason of the much good that was found in her. This lady waspassing fair of body, apt in book as any clerk, and meetly schooled inevery grace that it becometh dame to have. So gracious of person wasthis damsel, that throughout the realm there was no knight couldrefrain from setting his heart upon her, though he saw her but oneonly time. Although the demoiselle might not return the love of somany, certainly she had no wish to slay them all. Better by far thata man pray and require in love all the dames of his country, than runmad in woods for the bright eyes of one. Therefore this dame gavecourtesy and good will to each alike. Even when she might not hear alover's words, so sweetly she denied his wish that the more he heldher dear and was the more her servant for that fond denial. So becauseof her great riches of body and of heart, this lady of whom I tell,was prayed and required in love by the lords of her country, both bynight and by day.
Now in Brittany lived four young barons, but their names I cannottell. It is enough that they were desirable in the eyes of maidens forreason of their beauty, and that men esteemed them because they werecourteous of manner and open of hand. Moreover they were stout andhardy knights amongst the spears, and rich and worthy gentlemen ofthose very parts. Each of these four knights had set his heart uponthe lady, and for love of her pained himself mightily, and did allthat he was able, so that by any means he might gain her favour. Eachprayed her privily for her love, and strove all that he could to makehim worthy of the gift, above his fellows. For her part the lady wassore perplexed, and considered in her mind very earnestly, which ofthese four knights she should take as friend. But since they all wereloyal and worthy gentlemen, she durst not choose amongst them; forshe would not slay three lovers with her hand so that one might havecontent. Therefore to each and all, the dame made herself fair andsweet of semblance. Gifts she gave to all alike. Tender messages shesent to each. Every knight deemed himself esteemed and favoured abovehis fellows, and by soft words and fair service diligently strove toplease. When the knights gathered together for the games, each ofthese lords contended earnestly for the prize, so that he might befirst, and draw on him the favour of his dame. Each held her for hisfriend. Each bore upon him her gift--pennon, or sleeve, or ring. Eachcried her name within the lists.
Now when Eastertide was come, a great tournament was proclaimed to beheld beyond the walls of Nantes, that rich city. The four lovers werethe appellants in this tourney, and from every realm knights rodeto break a lance in honour of their dame. Frenchman and Norman andFleming; the hardiest knights of Brabant, Boulogne and Anjou; eachcame to do his devoir in the field. Nor was the chivalry of Nantesbackward in this quarrel, but till the vespers of the tournament wascome, they stayed themselves within the lists, and struck stoutly fortheir lord. After the four lovers had laced their harness upon them,they issued forth from the city, followed by the knights who were oftheir company in this adventure. But upon the four fell the burden ofthe day, for they were known of all by the embroidered arms upon theirsurcoat, and the device fashioned on the shield. Now against the fourlovers arrayed themselves four other knights, armed altogether incoats of mail, and helmets and gauntlets of steel. Of these strangerknights two were of Hainault, and the two others were Flemings. Whenthe four lovers saw their adversaries prepare themselves for thecombat, they had little desire to flee, but hastened to join them inbattle. Each lowered his spear, and choosing his enemy, met him soeagerly that all men wondered, for horse and man fell to the earth.The four lovers recked little of their destriers, but freeing theirfeet from the stirrups bent over the fallen foe, and called on him toyield. When the friends of the vanquished knights saw their case,they hastened to their succour; so for their rescue there was a greatpress, and many a mighty stroke with the sword.
The damsel stood upon a tower to watch these feats of arms. By theirblazoned coats and shields she knew her knights; she saw theirmarvellous deeds, yet might not say who did best, nor give to one thepraise. But the tournament was no longer a seemly and ordered battle.The ranks of the two companies were confused together, so that everyman fought against his fellow, and none might tell whether he struckhis comrade or his foe. The four lovers did well and worshipfully, sothat all men deemed them worthy of the prize. But when evening wascome, and the sport drew to its close, their courage led them tofolly. Having ventured too far from their companions, they were setupon by their adversaries, and assailed so fiercely that three wereslain outright. As to the fourth he yet lived, but altogether mauledand shaken, for his thigh was broken, and a spear head remained in hisside. The four bodies were fallen on the field, and lay with those whohad perished in that day. But because of the great mischief thesefour lovers had done their adversaries, their shields were castdespitefully without the lists; but in this their foemen didwrongfully, and all men held them in sore displeasure.
Great were the lamentation and the cry when the news of this mischancewas noised about the city. Such a tumult of mourning was never beforeheard, for the whole city was moved. All men hastened forth to theplace where the lists were set. Meetly to mourn the dead there rodenigh upon two thousand knights, with hauberks unlaced, and uncoveredheads, plucking upon their beards. So the four lovers were placed eachupon his shield, and being brought back in honour to Nantes, werecarried to the house of that dame, whom so greatly they had loved.When the lady knew this distressful adventure, straightway she fellto the ground. Being returned from her swoon, she made her complaint,calling upon her lovers each by his name.
"Alas," said she, "what shall I do, for never shall I know happinessagain. These four knights had set their hearts upon me, and despitetheir great treasure, esteemed my love as richer than all theirwealth. Alas, for the fair and valiant knight! Alas, for the loyal andgenerous man! By gifts such as these they sought to gain my favour,but how might lady bereave three of life, so as to cherish one. Evennow I cannot tell for whom I have most pity, or who was closest to mymind. But three are dead, and one is sore stricken; neither is thereanything in the world which can bring me comfort. Only this is thereto do--to give the slain men seemly burial, and, if it may be, to healtheir comrade of his wounds."
So, because of her great love and nobleness, the lady caused thesethree distressful knights to be buried well and worshipfully in arich abbey. In that place she offered their Mass penny, and gave richofferings of silver and of lights besides. May God have mercy on themin that day. As for the wounded knight she commanded him to be carriedto her own chamber. She sent for surgeons, and gave him into theirhands. These searched his wounds so skilfully, and tended him with sogreat care, that presently his hurt commenced to heal. Very often wasthe lady in the chamber, and very tenderly she cherished the strickenman. Yet ever she felt pity for the three Knights of the Sorrows, andever she went heavily by reason of their deaths.
Now on a summer's day, the lady and the knight sat together aftermeat. She called to mind the sorrow that was hers; so that, in aspace, her head fell upon her breast, and she gave herself altogetherto her grief. The knight looked earnestly upon his dame. Well he mightsee that she was far away, and clearly he perceived the cause.
"Lady," said he, "you are in sorrow. Open now your grief to me. If youtell me what is in your heart perchance I may find you comfort."
"Fair friend," replied she, "I think of what is gone, and rememberyour companions, who are dead. Never was lady of my peerage, howeverfair and good and gracious, ever loved by four such valiant gentlemen,nor ever lost them in one single day. Save you--who were so maimed andin such peril--all are gone. Therefore I call to mind those who lovedme so dearly, and am the saddest lady beneath the sun. To rememberthese things, of you four I shall make a Lay, and will call it the Layof the Four Sorrows."
When the knight heard these words he made answer very swiftly, "Lady,name it not the Lay of the Four Sorrows, but, rather, the Lay of theDolorous Knight. Would you hear the reason why it should bear thisname? My three comrades have finished their course; they have nothingmore to hope of their life. They are gone, and with them the pang oftheir great sorrow, and the knowledge of their enduring love for you.I alone have come, all amazed and fearful, from the net wherein theywere taken, but I find my life more bitter than my comrades found thegrave. I see you on your goings and comings about the house. I mayspeak with you both matins and vespers. But no other joy do I get--neither clasp nor kiss, nothing but a few empty, courteous words.Since all these evils are come upon me because of you, I choose deathrather than life. For this reason your Lay should bear my name, and becalled the Lay of the Dolorous Knight. He who would name it the Layof the Four Sorrows would name it wrongly, and not according to thetruth."
"By my faith," replied the lady, "this is a fair saying. So shall thesong be known as the Lay of the Dolorous Knight."
Thus was the Lay conceived, made perfect, and brought to a fair birth.For this reason it came by its name; though to this day some call itthe Lay of the Four Sorrows. Either name befits it well, for the storytells of both these matters, but it is the use and wont in this landto call it the Lay of the Dolorous Knight. Here it ends; no more isthere to say. I heard no more, and nothing more I know. Perforce Ibring my story to a close.

Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of Gugemar

II
THE LAY OF GUGEMAR
Hearken, oh gentles, to the words of Marie. When the minstrel tellshis tale, let the folk about the fire heed him willingly. For his partthe singer must be wary not to spoil good music with unseemly words.Listen, oh lordlings, to the words of Marie, for she pains herselfgrievously not to forget this thing. The craft is hard--then approvethe more sweetly him who carols the tune. But this is the way of theworld, that when a man or woman sings more tunably than his fellows,those about the fire fall upon him, pell-mell, for reason of theirenvy. They rehearse diligently the faults of his song, and steal awayhis praise with evil words. I will brand these folk as they deserve.They, and such as they, are like mad dogs--cowardly and felon--whotraitorously bring to death men better than themselves. Now let thejaper, and the smiler with his knife, do me what harm they may. Verilythey are in their right to speak ill of me.
Hearken, oh gentles, to the tale I set before you, for thereof theBretons 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 andscripture, now I relate a certain adventure, which bechanced in therealm of Brittany, in days long gone before.
In that time when Arthur maintained his realm, the now in peace, thenow in war, the King counted amongst his vassals a certain baron,named Oridial. This knight was lord of Leon, and was very near to hisprince's heart, both in council chamber and in field. From his wife hehad gotten two children, the one a son and the other a fair daughter.Nogent, he had called the damsel at the font, and the dansellon wasnamed Gugemar--no goodlier might be found in any realm. His mother hadset all her love upon the lad, and his father shewed him every goodthat he was able. When the varlet was no more a child, Oridial senthim to the King, to be trained as a page in the courtesies of theCourt. Right serviceable was he in his station, and meetly praisedof all. The term of his service having come, and he being found offitting years and knowledge, the King made him knight with his ownhand, and armed him in rich harness, according to his wish. So Gugemargave gifts to all those about his person, and bidding farewell, tookleave, and departed from the Court. Gugemar went his way to Flanders,being desirous of advancement, for in that kingdom ever they havestrife and war. Neither in Loraine nor Burgundy, Anjou nor Gascony,might be found in that day a better knight than he, no, nor one hispeer. He had but one fault, since of love he took no care. There wasneither dame nor maiden beneath the sky, however dainty and kind, towhom he gave thought or heed, though had he required her love of anydamsel, very willingly would she have granted his desire. Many therewere who prayed him for his love, but might have no kiss in return. Soseeing that he refrained his heart in this fashion, men deemed him astrange 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 hissister, even as he very tenderly desired. He lodged with them for thespace of a long month, and at the end of that time had envy to huntwithin the wood. The night being come, Gugemar summoned his prickersand his squires, and early in the morning rode within the forest.Great pleasure had Gugemar in the woodland, and much he delighted inthe chase. A tall stag was presently started, and the hounds beinguncoupled, all hastened in pursuit--the huntsmen before, and the goodknight following after, winding upon his horn. Gugemar rode at a greatpace after the quarry, a varlet riding beside, bearing his bow, hisarrows and his spear. He followed so hotly that he over-passed thechase. Gazing about him he marked, within a thicket, a doe hiding withher fawn. Very white and wonderful was this beast, for she was withoutspot, and bore antlers upon her head. The hounds bayed about her, butmight not pull her down. Gugemar bent his bow, and loosed a shaftat the quarry. He wounded the deer a little above the hoof, so thatpresently she fell upon her side. But the arrow glanced away, andreturning upon itself, struck Gugemar in the thigh, so grievously,that straightway he fell from his horse upon the ground. Gugemar layupon the grass, beside the deer which he had wounded to his hurt. Heheard her sighs and groans, and perceived the bitterness of her pity.Then with mortal speech the doe spake to the wounded man in suchfashion 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 fromthe vengeance of thy destiny. Never may surgeon and his medicine healyour hurt. Neither herb nor root nor potion can ever cure the woundwithin your flesh: For that there is no healing. The only balm toclose that sore must be brought by a woman, who for her love willsuffer such pain and sorrow as no woman in the world has enduredbefore. And to the dolorous lady, dolorous knight. For your part youshall do and suffer so great things for her, that not a lover beneaththe sun, or lovers who are dead, or lovers who yet shall have theirday, but shall marvel at the tale. Now, go from hence, and let me diein peace."
Gugemar was wounded twice over--by the arrow, and by the words he wasdismayed to hear. He considered within himself to what land he must goto find this healing for his hurt, for he was yet too young to die. Hesaw clearly, and told it to his heart, that there was no lady in hislife to whom he could run for pity, and be made whole of his wound. Hecalled 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 heatand fever of his hurt. When he was gone, Gugemar tore the hem from hisshirt, and bound it straitly about his wound. He climbed painfullyupon the saddle, and departed without more ado, for he was with childto be gone before any could come to stay him from his purpose. A greenpath led through the deep forest to the plain, and his way across theplain brought him to a cliff, exceeding high, and to the sea. Gugemarlooked upon the water, which was very still, for this fair harbouragewas land-locked from the main. Upon this harbour lay one only vessel,bearing a rich pavilion of silk, daintily furnished both without andwithin, and well it seemed to Gugemar that he had seen this shipbefore. Beneath the sky was no ship so rich or precious, for there wasnot 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 Gugemarheld it in sore displeasure. He marvelled greatly from what country ithad come, and wondered long concerning this harbour, and the ship thatlay therein. Gugemar got him down from his horse upon the shore, andwith mighty pain and labour climbed within the ship. He trusted tofind merchantmen and sailors therein, but there was none to guard, andnone he saw. Now within the pavilion was a very rich bed, carved bycunning workmen in the days of King Solomon. This fair bed was wroughtof cypress wood and white ivory, adorned with gold and gems mostprecious. Right sweet were the linen cloths upon the bed, and so softthe pillow, that he who lay thereon would sleep, were he sadder thanany other in the world. The counterpane was of purple from the vatsof Alexandria, and over all was set a right fair coverlet of cloth ofgold. The pavilion was litten by two great waxen torches, placed incandlesticks of fine gold, decked with jewels worth a lord's ransom.So the wounded knight looked on ship and pavilion, bed and candle, andmarvelled greatly. Gugemar sat him down upon the bed for a little,because of the anguish of his wound. After he had rested a space hegot upon his feet, that he might quit the vessel, but he found thatfor him there was no return. A gentle wind had filled the sails, andalready he was in the open sea. When Gugemar saw that he was far fromland, he was very heavy and sorrowful. He knew not what to do, byreason of the mightiness of his hurt. But he must endure the adventureas 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 himfrom the peril of death. Then climbing upon the couch, he laid hishead upon the pillow, and slept as one dead, until, with vespers, theship drew to that haven where he might find the healing for his hurt.
Gugemar had come to an ancient city, where the King of that realm heldhis court and state. This King was full of years, and was wedded toa dame of high degree. The lady was of tender age, passing fresh andfair, and sweet of speech to all. Therefore was the King jealous ofhis wife beyond all measure. Such is the wont of age, for much itfears that old and young cannot mate together, and that youth willturn to youth. This is the death in life of the old.
The castle of this ancient lord had a mighty keep. Beneath this towerwas a right fair orchard, together with a close, shut in by a wall ofgreen marble, very strong and high. This wall had one only gate, andthe door was watched of warders, both night and day. On the other sideof this garden was the sea, so that none might do his errand in thecastle therefrom, save in a boat. To hold his dame in the greatersurety, the King had built a bower within the wall; there was nofairer chamber beneath the sun. The first room was the Queen's chapel.Beyond this was the lady's bedchamber, painted all over with shapesand colours most wonderful to behold. On one wall might be seen DameVenus, the goddess of Love, sweetly flushed as when she walked thewater, lovely as life, teaching men how they should bear them in loyalservice to their lady. On another wall, the goddess threw Ovid's bookwithin a fire of coals. A scroll issuing from her lips proclaimed thatthose who read therein, and strove to ease them of their pains, wouldfind from her neither service nor favour. In this chamber the lady wasput in ward, and with her a certain maiden to hold her company. Thisdamsel was her niece, since she was her sister's child, and there wasgreat love betwixt the twain. When the Queen walked within the garden,or went abroad, this maiden was ever by her side, and came again withher to the house. Save this damsel, neither man nor woman entered inthe bower, nor issued forth from out the wall. One only man possessedthe key of the postern, an aged priest, very white and frail. Thispriest recited the service of God within the chapel, and served theQueen's plate and cup when she ate meat at table.
Now, on a day, the Queen had fallen asleep after meat, and on herawaking would walk a little in the garden. She called her companion toher, and the two went forth to be glad amongst the flowers. As theylooked across the sea they marked a ship drawing near the land, risingand falling upon the waves. Very fearful was the Queen thereat, forthe vessel came to anchorage, though there was no helmsman to directher course. The dame's face became sanguine for dread, and she turnedher about to flee, because of her exceeding fear. Her maiden, who wasof more courage than she, stayed her mistress with many comfortingwords. For her part she was very desirous to know what this thingmeant. She hastened to the shore, and laying aside her mantle, climbedwithin this wondrous vessel. Thereon she found no living soul, saveonly the knight sleeping fast within the pavilion. The damsel lookedlong upon the knight, for pale he was as wax, and well she deemedhim dead. She returned forthwith to the Queen, and told her of thismarvel, and of the good knight who was slain.
"Let us go together on the ship," replied the lady. "If he be dead wemay give him fitting burial, and the priest shall pray meetly for hissoul. Should he be yet alive perchance he will speak, and tell us ofhis case."
Without more tarrying the two damsels mounted on the ship, the ladybefore, and her maiden following after. When the Queen entered in thepavilion she stayed her feet before the bed, for joy and grief of whatshe saw. She might not refrain her eyes from gazing on the knight,for her heart was ravished with his beauty, and she sorrowed beyondmeasure, because of his grievous hurt. To herself she said, "In a badhour cometh the goodly youth." She drew near the bed, and placing herhand upon his breast, found that the flesh was warm, and that theheart beat strongly in his side. Gugemar awoke at the touch, andsaluted the dame as sweetly as he was able, for well he knew that hehad come to a Christian land. The lady, full of thought, returned himhis salutation right courteously, though the tears were yet in hereyes. Straightway she asked of him from what realm he came, and ofwhat people, and in what war he had taken his hurt.
"Lady," answered Gugemar, "in no battle I received this wound. If itpleases you to hear my tale I will tell you the truth, and in nothingwill I lie. I am a knight of Little Brittany. Yesterday I chased awonderful white deer within the forest. The shaft with which I struckher to my hurt, returned again on me, and caused this wound upon mythigh, which may never be searched, nor made whole. For this wondrousBeast raised her plaint in a mortal tongue. She cursed me loudly, withmany evil words, swearing that never might this sore be healed, saveby 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 boatravished me from shore; so that I know not where I have come, nor whatis the name of this city. Fair lady, for God's love, counsel me ofyour good grace, for I know not where to turn, nor how to govern theship."
The lady made answer, "Fair sir, willingly shall I give you such goodcounsel as I may. This realm and city are the appanage of my husband.He is a right rich lord, of high lineage, but old and very full ofyears. Also he is jealous beyond all measure; therefore it is that Isee you now. By reason of his jealousy he has shut me fast betweenhigh walls, entered by one narrow door, with an ancient priest to keepthe key. May God requite him for his deed. Night and day I am guardedin this prison, from whence I may never go forth, without theknowledge of my lord. Here are my chamber and my chapel, and here Ilive, with this, my maiden, to bear me company. If it pleases you todwell here for a little, till you may pass upon your way, right gladlywe shall receive you, and with a good heart we will tend your wound,till you are healed."
When Gugemar heard this speech he rejoiced greatly. He thanked thelady with many sweet words, and consented to sojourn in her hallawhile. He raised himself upon his couch, and by the courtesy of thedamsels left the ship. Leaning heavily upon the lady, at the end hewon to her maiden's chamber, where there was a fair bed covered with arich dossal of broidered silk, edged with fur. When he was entered inthis bed, the damsels came bearing clear water in basins of gold, forthe cleansing of his hurt. They stanched the blood with a towel offine linen, and bound the wound strictly, to his exceeding comfort. Soafter the vesper meal was eaten, the lady departed to her own chamber,leaving the knight in much ease and content.
Now Gugemar set his love so fondly upon the lady that he forgot hisfather's house. He thought no more of the anguish of his hurt, becauseof another wound that was beneath his breast. He tossed and sighed inhis unrest, and prayed the maiden of his service to depart, so thathe might sleep a little. When the maid was gone, Gugemar consideredwithin himself whether he might seek the dame, to know whether herheart was warmed by any ember of the flame that burned in his. Heturned it this way and that, and knew not what to do. This only wasclear, that if the lady refused to search his wound, death, for him,was sure and speedy.
"Alas," said he, "what shall I do! Shall I go to my lady, and pray herpity on the wretch who has none to give him counsel? If she refusemy prayer, because of her hardness and pride, I shall know there isnought for me but to die in my sorrow, or, at least, to go heavily allthe days of my life."
Then he sighed, and in his sighing lighted on a better purpose; for hesaid within himself that doubtless he was born to suffer, and thatthe best of him was tears. All the long night he spent in vigil andgroanings and watchfulness. To himself he told over her words and hersemblance. He remembered the eyes and the fair mouth of his lady, andall the grace and the sweetness, which had struck like a knife at hisheart. Between his teeth he cried on her for pity, and for a littlemore would have called her to his side. Ah, had he but known the feverof the lady, and how terrible a lord to her was Love, how great hadbeen 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 smallcause to boast herself of health. The lady rose early from her bed,since she might not sleep. She complained of her unrest, and of Lovewho rode her so hardly. The maiden, who was of her company, sawclearly enough that all her lady's thoughts were set upon the knight,who, for his healing, sojourned in the chamber. She did not knowwhether his thoughts were given again to the dame. When, therefore,the lady had entered in the chapel, the damsel went straightway to theknight. 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 riseso early from her bed?"
Having spoken so far, he became silent, and sighed.
"Sir," replied the maiden softly, "you love, and are discreet, but benot too discreet therein. In such a love as yours there is nothing tobe ashamed. He who may win my lady's favour has every reason to beproud of his fortune. Altogether seemly would be your friendship, foryou are young, and she is fair."
The knight made answer to the maiden, "I am so fast in the snare, thatI 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 himof all the good that she was able. So courteous and debonair was themaid.
When the lady had heard Mass, she hastened back to the chamber. Shehad not forgotten her friend, and greatly she desired to know whetherhe was awake or asleep, of whom her heart was fain. She bade hermaiden to summon him to her chamber, for she had a certain thing inher heart to show him at leisure, were it for the joy or the sorrow oftheir days.
Gugemar saluted the lady, and the dame returned the knight hiscourtesy, but their hearts were too fearful for speech. The knightdared ask nothing of his lady, for reason that he was a stranger in astrange land, and was adread to show her his love. But--as says theproverb--he who will not tell of his sore, may not hope for balm tohis hurt. Love is a privy wound within the heart, and none knoweth ofthat bitterness but the heart alone. Love is an evil which may lastfor a whole life long, because of man and his constant heart. Manythere be who make of Love a gibe and a jest, and with specious wordsdefame him by boastful tales. But theirs is not love. Rather it isfolly and lightness, and the tune of a merry song. But let him whohas found a constant lover prize her above rubies, and serve her withloyal service, being altogether at her will. Gugemar loved in thisfashion, and therefore Love came swiftly to his aid. Love put words inhis mouth, and courage in his heart, so that his hope might be madeplain.
"Lady," said he, "I die for your love. I am in fever because of mywound, and if you care not to heal my hurt I would rather die. Fairfriend, I pray you for grace. Do not gainsay me with evil words."
The lady hearkened with a smile to Gugemar's speech. Right daintilyand sweetly she replied, "Friend, yea is not a word of two letters. Ido not grant such a prayer every day of the week, and must you haveyour 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 mayhide 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 herpride in humbleness, and love him again with the same love he hasset on her. So they will be glad together, and since none will haveknowledge 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 Gugemar herlove and her kiss. Henceforward Gugemar lived greatly at his ease, forhe had sight and speech of his friend, and many a time she granted himher embrace and tenderness, as is the wont of lovers when alone.
For a year and a half Gugemar dwelt with his lady, in solace and greatdelight. Then Fortune turned her wheel, and in a trice cast thosedown, whose seat had been so high. Thus it chanced to them, for theywere spied upon and seen.
On a morning in summer time the Queen and the damoiseau sat fondlytogether. The knight embraced her, eyes and face, but the lady stayedhim, saying, "Fair sweet friend, my heart tells me that I shall loseyou soon, for this hidden thing will quickly be made clear. If you areslain, may the same sword kill me. But if you win forth, well I knowthat you will find another love, and that I shall be left alone withmy thoughts. Were I parted from you, may God give me neither joy, norrest, nor peace, if I would seek another friend. Of that you need haveno fear. Friend, for surety and comfort of my heart deliver me nowsome sark of thine. Therein I will set a knot, and make this covenantwith you, that never will you put your love on dame or maiden, saveonly on her who shall first unfasten this knot. Then you will everkeep faith with me, for so cunning shall be my craft, that no womanmay hope to unravel that coil, either by force or guile, or even withher knife."
So the knight rendered the sark to his lady, and made such bargain asshe wished, for the peace and assurance of her mind.
For his part the knight took a fair girdle, and girt it closely aboutthe lady's middle. Right secret was the clasp and buckle of thisgirdle. Therefore he required of the dame that she would never granther love, save to him only, who might free her from the strictness ofthis 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 certainchamberlain was sent by that ancient lord with a message to the Queen.This unlucky wretch, finding that in no wise could he enter within thechamber, looked through the window, and saw. Forthwith he hastenedto the King, and told him that which he had seen. When the agèd lordunderstood these words, never was there a sadder man than he. Hecalled together the most trusty sergeants of his guard, and comingwith them to the Queen's chamber, bade them to thrust in the door.When Gugemar was found therein, the King commanded that he should beslain with the sword, by reason of the anguish that was his. Gugemarwas in no whit dismayed by the threat. He started to his feet, andgazing round, marked a stout rod of fir, on which it is the use forlinen to be hung. This he took in hand, and faced his foes, biddingthem have a care, for he would do a mischief to them all. The Kinglooked earnestly upon the fearless knight, inquiring of him who hewas, and where he was born, and in what manner he came to dwell withinhis house. So Gugemar told over to him this story of his fate. Heshowed him of the Beast that he had wounded to his hurt; of the nave,and of his bitter wound; of how he came within the realm, and of thelady's surgery. He told all to the ancient lord, to the last momentwhen he stood within his power. The King replied that he gave nocredence to his word, nor believed that the story ran as he had said.If, however, the vessel might be found, he would commit the knightagain to the waves. He would go the more heavily for the knight'ssaining, and a glad day would it be if he made shipwreck at sea. Whenthey had entered into this covenant together, they went forth to theharbour, and there discovered the barge, even as Gugemar had said. Sothey set him thereon, and prayed him to return unto his own realm.
Without sail or oar the ship parted from that coast, with no furthertarrying. The knight wept and wrung his hands, complaining of hislady's loss, and of her cherishing. He prayed the mighty God to granthim speedy death, and never to bring him home, save to meet againwith her who was more desirable than life. Whilst he was yet at hisorisons, the ship drew again to that port, from whence she had firstcome. Gugemar made haste to get him from the vessel, so that he mightthe more swiftly return to his own land. He had gone but a little waywhen he was aware of a squire of his household, riding in the companyof a certain knight. This squire held the bridle of a destrier in hishand, though no man rode thereon. Gugemar called to him by name, sothat the varlet looking upon him, knew again his lord. He got him tohis feet, and bringing the destrier to his master, set the knightthereon. Great was the joy, and merry was the feast, when Gugemarreturned to his own realm. But though his friends did all that theywere able, neither song nor game could cheer the knight, nor turn himfrom dwelling in his unhappy thoughts. For peace of mind they urgedthat he took to himself a wife, but Gugemar would have none of theircounsel. Never would he wed a wife, on any day, either for love or forwealth, save only that she might first unloose the knot within hisshirt. When this news was noised about the country, there was neitherdame nor damsel in the realm of Brittany, but essayed to unfasten theknot. But there was no lady who could gain to her wish, whether byforce or guile.
Now will I show of that lady, whom Gugemar so fondly loved. By thecounsel 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 uponher friend.
"Gugemar, dear lord, in an evil hour I saw you with my eyes. Betterfor me that I die quickly, than endure longer my evil lot. Fairfriend, if I could but win to that coast whence you sailed, veryswiftly 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 tothe door was amazed to find therein neither bolt nor key. She issuedforth, without challenge from sergeant or warder, and hastening to theharbour, 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 climbedthereon, but presently bethought her that on this nave her friend hadgone to perish in the sea. At this thought she would have fled againto 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 thewaves, to a port of Brittany, guarded by a castle, strong and veryfair. Now the lord of this castle was named Meriadus. He was a rightwarlike prince, and had made him ready to fight with the prince of acountry near by. He had risen very early in the morning, to send fortha great company of spears, the more easily to ravage this neighbour'srealm. Meriadus looked forth from his window, and marked the shipwhich came to port. He hastened down the steps of the perron, andcalling to his chamberlain, came with what speed he might to the nave.Then mounting the ladder he stood upon the deck. When Meriadus foundwithin the ship a dame, who for beauty seemed rather a fay than a mereearthly woman, he seized her by her mantle, and brought her swiftly tohis keep. Right joyous was he because of his good fortune, for lovelywas the lady beyond mortal measure. He made no question as to who hadset her on the barge. He knew only that she was fair, and of highlineage, and that his heart turned towards her with so hot a love asnever before had he put on dame or damsel. Now there dwelt within thecastle a sister of this lord, who was yet unwed. Meriadus bestowed thelady in his sister's chamber, because it was the fairest in the tower.Moreover he commanded that she should be meetly served, and heldin all reverence. But though the dame was so richly clothed andcherished, ever was she sad and deep in thought. Meriadus came oftento cheer her with mirth and speech, by reason that he wished to gainher love as a free gift, and not by force. It was in vain that heprayed her for grace, since she had no balm for his wound. For answershe showed him the girdle about her body, saying that never would shegive her love to man, save only to him who might unloose the buckle ofthat girdle, without harm to belt or clasp. When Meriadus heard thesewords, he spoke in haste and said,
"Lady, there dwells in this country a very worthy knight, who willtake no woman as wife, except she first untie a certain crafty knot inthe hem of a shirt, and that without force or knife. For a little Iwould wager that it was you who tied this knot."
When the lady heard thereof her breath went from her, and near shecame to falling on the ground. Meriadus caught her in his arms, andcut the laces of her bodice, that she might have the more air. Hestrove to unfasten her girdle, but might not dissever the clasp. Yea,though every knight in the realm essayed to unfasten that cincture, itwould not yield, except to one alone.
Now Meriadus made the lists ready for a great jousting, and called tothat tournament all the knights who would aid him in his war. Many alord came at his bidding, and with them Gugemar, amongst the first.Meriadus had sent letters to the knight, beseeching him, as friend andcompanion, not to fail him in this business. So Gugemar hastened tothe need of his lord, and at his back more than one hundred spears.All these Meriadus welcomed very gladly, and gave them lodging withinhis tower. In honour of his guest, the prince sent two gentlemen tohis sister, praying her to attire herself richly, and come to hall,together with the dame whom he loved so dearly well. These did as theywere bidden, and arrayed in their sweetest vesture, presently enteredin the hall, holding each other by the hand. Very pale and pensive wasthe lady, but when she heard her lover's name her feet failed beneathher, and had not the maiden held her fast, she would have fallen onthe floor. Gugemar rose from his seat at the sight of the dame, herfashion and her semblance, and stood staring upon her. He went alittle 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 herlove? From whence comes she; who might have brought her to this farland? But I speak in my folly, for well I know that this is not mydear. A little red, a little white, and all women are thus shapen.My thoughts are troubled, by reason that the sweetness of this ladyresembles the sweetness of that other, for whom my heart sighs andtrembles. Yet needs must that I have speech of the lady."
Gugemar drew near to the dame. He kissed her courteously, and foundno 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 oftheir trouble. Therefore he feigned mirth.
"Gugemar, dear lord, if it pleases you, let this damsel essay to untiethe knot of your sark, if so be she may loosen the coil."
Gugemar made answer that very willingly he would do this thing. Hecalled to him a squire who had the shirt in keeping, and bade him seekhis charge, and deliver it to the dame. The lady took the sark inhand. Well she knew the knot that she had tied so cunningly, and wasso willing to unloose; but for reason of the trouble at her heart, shedid not dare essay. Meriadus marked the distress of the damsel, andwas 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, andlightly and easily unravelled the tie.
Gugemar marvelled greatly when he saw this thing. His heart told himthat of a truth this was his lady, but he could not give faith to hiseyes.
"Friend, are you indeed the sweet comrade I have known? Tell me trulynow, is there about your body the girdle with which I girt you in yourown realm?"
He set his hands to her waist, and found that the secret belt was yetabout her sides.
"Fair sweet friend, tell me now by what adventure I find you here, andwho has brought you to this tower?"
So the lady told over to her friend the pain and the anguish and thedolour of the prison in which she was held; of how it chanced that shefled from her dungeon, and lighting upon a ship, entered therein, andcame to this fair haven; of how Meriadus took her from the barge, butkept 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 yourarms."
Gugemar stood upon his feet, and beckoned with his hand.
"Lords," he cried, "hearken now to me. I have found my friend, whomI have lost for a great while. Before you all I pray and require ofMeriadus 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, andwith me, of riders, a hundred or more at my back."
Then answered Meriadus, "Gugemar, fair friend, I am not yet so shakenor overborne in war, that I must do as you wish, right humbly. Thiswoman is my captive. I found her: I hold her: and I will defend myright against you and all your power."
When Gugemar heard these proud words he got to horse speedily, him andall his company. He threw down his glove, and parted in anger fromthe tower. But he went right heavily, since he must leave behind hisfriend. In his train rode all those knights who had drawn togetherto that town for the great tournament. Not a knight of them all butplighted faith to follow where he led, and to hold himself recreantand shamed if he failed his oath.
That same night the band came to the castle of the prince with whomMeriadus was at war. He welcomed them very gladly, and gave themlodging in his tower. By their aid he had good hope to bring thisquarrel to an end. Very early in the morning the host came together toset the battle in array. With clash of mail and noise of horns theyissued from the city gate, Gugemar riding at their head. They drewbefore the castle where Meriadus lay in strength, and sought to takeit by storm. But the keep was very strong, and Meriadus bore himselfas a stout and valiant knight. So Gugemar, like a wary captain, sathimself down before the town, till all the folk of that place weredeemed by friend and sergeant to be weak with hunger. Then they tookthat high keep with the sword, and burnt it with fire. The lordthereof they slew in his own hall; but Gugemar came forth, after suchlabours as you have heard, bearing his lady with him, to return inpeace to his own land.
From this adventure that I have told you, has come the Lay thatminstrels chant to harp and viol--fair is that song and sweet thetune.

Female Poets-Marie de France Intro to lays

INTRODUCTION
I. PROLOGUE BY WAY OF DEDICATION
II. THE LAY OF GUGEMAR
III. THE LAY OF THE DOLOROUS KNIGHT
IV. THE LAY OF ELIDUC
V. THE LAY OF THE NIGHTINGALE
VI. THE LAY OF SIR LAUNFAL
VII. THE LAY OF THE TWO LOVERS
VIII. THE LAY OF THE WERE-WOLF
IX. THE LAY OF THE ASH TREE
X. THE LAY OF THE HONEYSUCKLE
XI. THE LAY OF EQUITAN
XII. THE LAY OF MILON
XIII. THE LAY OF YONEC
XIV. THE LAY OF THE THORN
XV. THE LAY OF GRAELENT
XVI. A STORY OF BEYOND THE SEA
XVII. THE CHATELAINE OF VERGI


I
PROLOGUE
BY WAY OF DEDICATION
Those to whom God has given the gift of comely speech, should not hidetheir light beneath a bushel, but should willingly show it abroad. Ifa great truth is proclaimed in the ears of men, it brings forth fruita hundred-fold; but when the sweetness of the telling is praised ofmany, flowers mingle with the fruit upon the branch.
According to the witness of Priscian, it was the custom of ancientwriters to express obscurely some portions of their books, so thatthose who came after might study with greater diligence to find thethought within their words. The philosophers knew this well, and werethe more unwearied in labour, the more subtle in distinctions, so thatthe truth might make them free. They were persuaded that he who wouldkeep himself unspotted from the world should search for knowledge,that he might understand. To set evil from me, and to put away mygrief, I purposed to commence a book. I considered within myselfwhat fair story in the Latin or Romance I could turn into the commontongue. But I found that all the stories had been written, andscarcely it seemed the worth my doing, what so many had already done.Then I called to mind those Lays I had so often heard. I doubtednothing--for well I know--that our fathers fashioned them, that menshould bear in remembrance the deeds of those who have gone before.Many a one, on many a day, the minstrel has chanted to my ear. I wouldnot that they should perish, forgotten, by the roadside. In my turn,therefore, I have made of them a song, rhymed as well as I am able,and often has their shaping kept me sleepless in my bed.
In your honour, most noble and courteous King, to whom joy is ahandmaid, and in whose heart all gracious things are rooted, I havebrought together these Lays, and told my tales in seemly rhyme. Erethey speak for me, let me speak with my own mouth, and say, "Sire, Ioffer you these verses. If you are pleased to receive them, the fairerhappiness will be mine, and the more lightly I shall go all the daysof my life. Do not deem that I think more highly of myself than Iought to think, since I presume to proffer this, my gift." Hearken nowto the commencement of the matter.

Female Poets-Marie de France

I have copied and pasted from project guttenberg some of her writings.






FRENCH MEDIAEVAL ROMANCES
_From the Lays of Marie de France_
_Translated by Eugene Mason_.

1911

INTRODUCTION
The tales included in this little book of translations are derivedmainly from the "Lays" of Marie de France. I do not profess them to bea complete collection of her stories in verse. The ascription varies.Poems which were included in her work but yesterday are withdrawnto-day, and new matter suggested by scholars to take the place of theold. I believe it to be, however, a far fuller version of Marie's"Lays" than has yet appeared, to my knowledge, in English. Marie'spoems are concerned chiefly with love. To complete my book I haveadded two famous mediaeval stories on the same excellent theme.This, then, may be regarded as a volume of French romances, dealing,generally, with one aspect of mediaeval life.
An age so feminist in its sympathies as ours should be attracted themore easily to Marie de France, because she was both an artist and awoman. To deliver oneself through any medium is always difficult. Fora woman of the Middle Ages to express herself publicly by any meanswhatever was almost impossible. A great lady, a great Saint orchurch-woman, might do so very occasionally. But the individualityof the ordinary wife was merged in that of her husband, and for oneAbbess of Shrewsbury or Whitby, for one St. Clare or St. Hilda, therewere how many thousand obscure sisters, who were buried in the dailyroutine of a life hidden with Christ in God! Doubtless the artistictemperament burst out now and again in woman, and would take nodenial. It blew where it listed, appearing in the most unexpectedplaces. A young nun in a Saxon convent, for instance, would writelittle dramas in Latin for the amusement and edification of the noblemaidens under her charge. These comedies, written in the days of theEmperor Otho, can be read with pleasure in the reign of King George,by those who find fragrant the perfumes of the past. They deal withthe pious legends of the Saints, and are regarded with wistfuladmiration by the most modern of Parisian playwrights. In theircombination of audacity and simplicity they could only be performed bySaxon religious in the times of Otho, or by marionettes in the moreself-conscious life of to-day. Or, again, an Abbess, the protagonistof one of the great love stories of the world, by sheer force ofpersonality, would compose letters to one--how immeasurably her moralinferior, in spite of his genius--expressing with an unexampledpoignancy the most passionate emotions of the heart. Or, to take mythird illustration, here are a woman's poems written in an age whenliterature was almost entirely in the hands of men. Consider thestrength of character which alone induced these three ladies to strayfrom the beaten paths of their sex. To the average woman it wasenough to be an object of art herself, or to be the inspiration ofmasterpieces by man. But these three women of the Middle Ages--andsuch as they--shunned the easier way, and, in their several spheres,were by deliberate effort, self-conscious artists.
The place and date of birth of Marie de France are unknown--indeedthe very century in which she lived has been a matter of dispute. Herpoems are written in the French of northern France; but that does notprove her necessarily to be a Frenchwoman. French was the tongueof the English Court, and many Englishmen have written in the samelanguage. Indeed, it is a very excellent vehicle for expression.Occasionally, Marie would insert English words in her French text, thebetter to convey her meaning; but it does not follow therefrom thatthe romances were composed in England. It seems strange that sofew positive indications of her race and home are given in herpoems--nothing is contained beyond her Christian name and the barestatement that she was of France. She took great pride in her work,which she wrought to the best of her ability, and was extremelyjealous of that bubble-reputation. Yet whilst this work was anexcellent piece of self-portraiture, it reveals not one single factor date on which to go. A consensus of critical opinion presumes thatMarie was a subject of the English Crown, born in an ancient towncalled Pitre, some three miles above Rouen, in the Duchy of Normandy.This speculation is based largely on the unwonted topographicalaccuracy of her description of Pitre, given in "The Lay of the TwoLovers." Such evidence, perhaps, is insufficient to obtain a judgmentin a Court of Law. The date when Marie lived was long a matter ofdispute. The Prologue to her "Lays" contains a dedication to someunnamed King; whilst her "Fables" is dedicated to a certain CountWilliam. These facts prove her to have been a person of position andrepute. The King was long supposed to be Henry the Third of England,and this would suggest that she lived in the thirteenth century.An early scholar, the Abbé de La Rue, in fact, said that this was"undoubtedly" the case, giving cogent reasons in support of hiscontention. But modern scholarship, in the person of Gaston Paris,has decided that the King was Henry the Second, of pious memory; theCount, William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, his natural son by FairRosamund; and that Marie must be placed in the second half of thetwelfth century. This shows that scholarship is not an exact science,and that such words as "doubtless" should not be employed more thannecessary. A certain Eastern philosopher, when engaged in instructingthe youth of his country, used always to conclude his lectures withthe unvarying formula, "But, gentlemen, all that I have told you isprobably wrong." This sage was a wise man (not always the same thing),and his example should be had in remembrance. It seems possible (andone hesitates to use a stronger word) that the "Lays" of Marie wereactually written at the Court of Henry of England. From politicalambition the King was married to Eleanor of Aquitaine, a lady ofliterary tastes, who came from a family in which the patronage ofsingers was a tradition. Her husband, too, had a pronounced liking forliterature. He was fond of books, and once paid a visit to Glastonburyto visit King Arthur's tomb. These, perhaps, are limited virtues, butHenry the Second had need of every rag. It is somewhat difficult torecognise in that King of the Prologue, "in whose heart all graciousthings are rooted," the actual King who murdered Becket; who turnedover picture-books at Mass, and never confessed or communicated. It isyet more difficult to perceive "joy as his handmaid" who, because ofthe loss of a favourite city, threatened to revenge himself on God, byrobbing Him of that thing--_i.e._, the soul--He desired most in him;and whose very last words were an echo of Job's curse upon the daythat he was born. Marie's phrases may be regarded, perhaps, as acourtly flourish, rather than as conveying truth with mathematicalprecision. If not, we should be driven to suggest an alternative tothe favourite simile of lying like an epitaph. But I think it unlikelythat Marie suffered with a morbidly sensitive conscience. There islittle enough real devotion to be met with in her "Lays"; and ifher last book--a translation from the Latin of the Purgatory of St.Patrick--is on a subject she avoids in her earlier work, it waswritten under the influence of some high prelate, and may be regardedas a sign that she watched the shadows cast by the western sunlengthening on the grass.
Gaston Paris suggests 1175 as an approximate date for the compositionof the "Lays" of Marie de France. Their success was immediate andunequivocal, as indeed was to be expected in the case of a ladysituated so fortunately at Court. We have proof of this in thetestimony of Denis Pyramus, the author who wrote a Life of St. Edmundthe King, early in the following century. He says, in that poem, "Andalso Dame Marie, who turned into rhyme and made verses of 'Lays' whichare not in the least true. For these she is much praised, and herrhyme is loved everywhere; for counts, barons, and knights greatlyadmire it, and hold it dear. And they love her writing so much, andtake such pleasure in it, that they have it read, and often copied.These Lays are wont to please ladies, who listen to them with delight,for they are after their own hearts." It is no wonder that the lordsand ladies of her century were so enthralled by Marie's romances, forher success was thoroughly well deserved. Even after seven hundredyears her colours remain surprisingly vivid, and if the tapestry isnow a little worn and faded in places, we still follow with interestthe movements of the figures wrought so graciously upon the arras. Ofcourse her stories are not original; but was any plot original atany period of the earth's history? This is not only an old, but aniterative world. The source of Marie's inspiration is perfectly clear,for she states it emphatically in quite a number of her Lays. Thisadventure chanced in Brittany, and in remembrance thereof the Bretonsmade a Lay, which I heard sung by the minstrel to the music of hisrote. Marie's part consisted in reshaping this ancient material in herown rhythmic and coloured words. Scholars tell us that the essence ofher stories is of Celtic rather than of Breton origin. It may be so;though to the lay mind this is not a matter of great importance oneway or the other; but it seems better to accept a person's definitestatement until it is proved to be false. The Breton or Celticimagination had peculiar qualities of dreaminess, and magic andmystery. Marie's mind was not cast in a precisely similar mould.Occasionally she is successful enough; but generally she gives theeffect of building with a substance the significance of which she doesnot completely realise. She may be likened to a child playing withsymbols which, in the hand of the enchanter, would be of tremendousimport. Her treatment of Isoude, for example, in "The Lay of theHoneysuckle," is quite perfect in tone, and, indeed, is a littlemasterpiece in its own fashion. But her sketch of Guenevere in "TheLay of Sir Launfal" is of a character that one does not recall withpleasure. To see how Arthur's Queen might be treated, we have butto turn to the pages of a contemporary, and learn from Chrestien deTroyes' "Knight of the Cart," how an even more considerable poetthan Marie could deal with a Celtic legend. The fact is that Marie'sromances derive farther back than any Breton or Celtic dream. Theywere so old that they had blown like thistledown about the fourquarters of the world. Her princesses came really neither from Walesnor Brittany. They were of that stuff from which romance is shaped."Her face was bright as the day of union; her hair dark as the nightof separation; and her mouth was magical as Solomon's seal." You canparallel her "Lays" from folklore, from classical story and antiquity.Father and son fight together unwittingly in "The Lay of Milon";but Rustum had striven with Sohrab long before in far Persia, andCuchulain with his child in Ireland. Such stories are common property.The writer takes his own where he finds it. Marie is none the lessadmirable because her stories were narrated by the first man in Eden;neither are Boccaccio and the Countess D'Aulnoy blameworthy since theytold again what she already had related so well. Marie, indeed, was anadmirable narrator. That was one of her shining virtues. As a piece ofartful tale telling, a specimen of the craft of keeping a situation insuspense, the arrival of the lady before Arthur's Court, in "The Layof Sir Launfal," requires a deal of beating. The justness and finenessof her sentiment in all that concerns the delicacies of the humanheart are also remarkable. But her true business was that of thestoryteller. In that trade she was almost unapproachable in her day.There may have been--indeed, there was--a more considerable poetliving; but a more excellent writer of romances, than the author of"Eliduc," it would have been difficult to find.
The ladies who found the "Lays" of Marie after their own heartswere not only admirers of beautiful stories; they had the delicateprivilege also of admiring themselves in their habit as theylived--perhaps even lovelier than in reality--amidst their accustomedsurroundings. The pleasure of a modern reader in such tales as theseis enhanced by the light they throw on the household arrangements andcustoms of the gentlefolk of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Itmay be of interest to consider some of these domestic arrangements, asillustrated by stories included in the present volume.
The corporate life of a mediaeval household centered in the hall. Itwas office and dining and billiard room, and was common to gentle andsimple alike. The hall was by far the largest room in the house. Itwas lighted by windows, and warmed by an open fire of logs. The smokedrifted about the roof, escaping finally by the simple means of alantern placed immediately above the hearth. A beaten floor wascovered by rushes and fresh hay, or with rugs in that part affected bythe more important members of the household. The lord himself and hiswife sat in chairs upon a raised daïs. The retainers were seatedon benches around the wall, and before them was spread the diningtable--a mere board upon trestles--which was removed when once themeal was done. After supper, chess and draughts were played, or (aswe may see in "The Lay of the Thorn") minstrels sang ballads and theguest contributed to the general entertainment by the recital of suchjests and adventures as commended themselves to his taste. If the hallmay be considered as the dining room of the mediaeval home, the gardenmight almost be looked upon as the drawing room. You would probablyget more real privacy in the garden than in any other part of thecrowded castle, including the lady's chamber. It is no wonder thatwe read of Guenevere taking Launfal aside for a little privateconversation in her pleasaunce. It was not only the most private,but also the most delightful room in the house--ceiled with blue andcarpeted with green. The garden was laid out elaborately with a perronand many raised seats. Trees stood about the lawn in tubs, and therewas generally a fountain playing in the centre, or possibly a pond,stocked with fish. Fruit trees and flower beds grew thickly about thegarden, and a pleasanter place of perfume and colour and shade itwould be difficult to imagine in the summer heat. The third room ofwhich we hear continually in these romances is the lady's chamber. Itserved the purpose of a boudoir as well as that of a sleeping room,and consequently had little real privacy. It contained the marriagechest with its store of linen, and also the bed. This bed recurseternally in mediæval tales. It was used as a seat during the day, andas a resting-place of nights. It was a magnificent erection, carvedand gilded, and inlaid with ivory. Upon it was placed a mattress offeathers, and a soft pillow. The sheets were of linen or silk, andover all was spread a coverlet of some precious material. An excellentdescription of such a couch is given in "The Lay of Gugemar." Thischamber served also as a bath room, and there the bath was taken,piping hot, in the strange vessel, fashioned somewhat like a churn,that we see in pictures of the Middle Ages.
Of the dress of the ladies who moved about the castle, seeingthemselves reflected from Marie's pages as in a polished mirror, Iam not competent to speak. The type of beauty preferred by the oldromancers was that of a child's princess of fairy tale--blue-eyed,golden-haired, and ruddy of cheek. The lady would wear a shift oflinen, "white as meadow flower." Over this was worn a garment of furor silk, according to the season; and, above all, a vividly colouredgown, all in one line from neck to feet, shapen closely to the figure,or else the more loosely fitting bliaut. Her girdle clipped herclosely about the waist, falling to the hem of her skirt, and her feetwere shod in soundless shoes, without heels. The hair was arranged intwo long braids, brought forward over her shoulders; as worn by thosesmiling Queens wrought upon the western porch of Chartres Cathedral.Out of doors, and, indeed, frequently within, as may be proved by areference to "The Lay of the Ash Tree," the lady was clad in a mantleand a hood. It must have taken a great deal of time and travail toappear so dainty a production. But to become poetry for others, it isnecessary for a woman first to be prose to herself.
I am afraid the raw material of this radiant divinity had much toendure before she suffered her sea change. In mediaeval illustrationswe see the maiden sitting demurely in company, with downcast eyes, andhands folded modestly in her lap. This unnatural restraint was inducedby the lavish compulsion of the rod. If there was one text, above allothers, approved and acted upon by fathers and mothers of the MiddleAges, it was that exhorting parents not to cocker their child, neitherto wink at his follies, but to beat him on the sides with a stick.Turn to "The Lay of the Thorn," and mark the gusto with which a motherdisciplines her maid. Parents trained their children with blows.Husbands (ah, the audacity of the mediaeval husband) scattered thelike seeds of kindness on their wives. In a book written for theedification of his unmarried daughters, Chaucer's contemporary, theKnight of La Tour Landry, tells the following interesting anecdote.A man had a scolding wife, who railed ungovernably upon him beforestrangers, "and he that was angry of her governance smote her with hisfirst down to the earth; and then with his foot he struck her on thevisage, and broke her nose; and all her life after that she had hernose crooked, the which shent and disfigured her visage after, thatshe might not for shame show her visage, it was so foul blemished. Andthis she had for her evil and great language that she was wont to sayto her husband. And therefore the wife ought to suffer, and let thehusband have the words, and to be master." May I give yet anotherillustration before we pass from the subject. This time it is takennot from a French knight, but from a sermon of the great Italianpreacher, St. Bernardino of Siena. "There are men who can bear morepatiently with a hen that lays a fresh egg every day than with theirown wives; and sometimes when the hen breaks a pipkin or a cup hewill spare it a beating, simply for love of the fresh egg which heis unwilling to lose. Oh, raving madmen! who cannot bear a word fromtheir own wives, though they bear them such fair fruit; but when thewoman speaks a word more than they like, then they catch up a stick,and begin to cudgel her; while the hen that cackles all day, and givesyou no rest, you take patience with her for the sake of her miserableegg--and sometimes she will break more in your house than she herselfis worth, yet you bear it in patience for the egg's sake. Manyfidgetty fellows, who sometimes see their wives turn out less neat anddainty than they would like, smite them forthwith; and meanwhile thehen may make a mess on the table, and you suffer her. Have patience;it is not right to beat your wife for every cause, no!"
At the commencement of this Introduction I stated that Marie'sromances are concerned mainly with love. Her talent was not verywide nor rich, and I have no doubt that there were facets of herpersonality which she was unable to get upon paper. The prettiestgirl in the world can only give what she has to give. By the time anyreader reaches the end of this volume he will be assured that thestories are stories of love. Probably he will have noticed also that,in many cases, the lady who inspires the most delicate of sentimentsis, incidentally, a married woman. He may ask why this was so; and inanswer I propose to conclude my paper with a few observations upon thesubject of mediaeval love.
I doubt in my own mind whether romance writers do not exaggerate whatwas certainly a characteristic of the Middle Ages. To be ordinaryis to be uninteresting; and it is obvious that the stranger theexperience, the more likely is it to attract the interest andattention of the hearer. Blessed is the person--as well as thecountry--who has no history. But it was really very difficult forthe twelfth century poet to write a love story, with a maiden as thecentral figure. The noble maiden seldom had a love story. It istrue enough that she was sometimes referred to in the choice of herhusband: two young ladies in "A Story of Beyond the Sea" are bothconsulted in the matter. As a rule, however, her inclination was notpermitted to stand in the way of the interests of her parents orguardians. She was betrothed in childhood, and married very young, formercenary or political reasons, to a husband much older than herself.We read of a girl of twelve being married to a man of fifty. There wasno great opportunity for a love story here; and the strange entreaty,on the part of the nameless French poet, to love the maidens for thesake of Christ's love, passed over the heads of the romance writers.Not that the mediæval maidens showed any shrinking from matrimony."Fair daughter, I have given you a husband." "Blessed be God," saidthe damsel. There spoke a contented spirit. Things have changed, andwe can but sigh after the good old times.
But the maiden inevitably became the wife, and the whirligig of Timebrought in his revenges. The lady now found herself the most importantmember of her sex, in a dwelling filled with men. She had few womenabout her person, and the confidant of a great dame in old romance is,frequently enough, her chamberlain. These young men had no chance ofmarriage, and naturally strove to gain the attention of a lady, whosefavour was to them so important a matter. A mediæval knight was thesworn champion of God and the ladies--but more especially the latter.The chatelaine, herself, found time hang heavily on her hands.Amusements were few; books limited in number; a husband not ofabsorbing interest; so she turned to such distractions as presentedthemselves. The prettier a lady, the sweeter the incense and flatteryswung beneath her nose; for this was one of the disadvantages ofmarrying an attractive woman. "It is hard to keep a wife whom everyoneadmires; and if no one admires her it is hard to have to live with heryourself." One of these distractions took the shape of Courts of Love,where the bored but literary chatelaine discussed delicate problems ofconduct pertaining to the heart. The minstrel about the lady's castle,for his part, sought her favourable notice not only by his songs butalso by giving an object lesson of his melancholy condition. One wouldimagine that his proceedings were not always calculated to furthertheir purpose. A famous singer, for instance, in honour of a lady whowas named Lupa, caused himself to be sewn in a wolf's skin, and ranbefore the hounds till he was pulled down, half dead. Another greatminstrel and lover bought a leper's gown and bowl and clapper fromsome afflicted wretch. He mutilated his forefinger, and sat before hislady's door, in the company of a piteous crowd of sick and maimed, toawait her alms. No doubt he trusted that his devotion would procurehim a different kind of charity. From such discussions as these, andfrom conduct such as this, a type of love came into being which waspeculiar to the period. Since the lovers were not bound in the sweetand common union of children and home, since on the side of the ladyall was of grace and nought of debt, they searched out other bands tounite them together. These they found in a system of devotion, silenceand faithfulness, which added a dignity to their relations. Thesevirtues they took so seriously that we find the Chatelaine of Vergidying because she believed her lover to have betrayed her trust. Themediaeval romancer contemplated such unions with joy and pity; butfor all their virtues we must not deceive ourselves with words. Suchhonour was rooted in dishonour, and the measure of their guilt wasthat they debased the moral currency. Presently the greatest of allthe poets of the Middle Ages would arise, to teach a different fashionof devotion. His was a love that sought no communion with its object,neither speech nor embrace. It was sufficient for Dante to contemplateBeatrice from afar, as one might kneel before the picture of a saint.I do not say that a love like this--so spiritual and so aloof--willever be possible to men. It did not suffice even to Dante, for allhis tremendous moral muscle. Human love must always and inevitably befounded on a physical basis. But the burning drop of idealism thatDante contributed to the passion of the Middle Ages has made possiblethe love of which we now and again catch a glimpse in the union ofselect natures. And that the seed of such flowering may be carriedabout the world is one of the fairest hopes and possibilities of thehuman race.
EUGENE MASON.
The originals of these narratives are to be found in Roquefort'sedition of the Poésies de Marie de France; in a volume of theNouvelles Françoises en Prose, edited by Moland and D'Héricault; andin M. Gaston Raynaud's text of La Chatelaine de Vergi.

Female Poets Barret Browning

Christina Rossetti

Christina Rossetti
After Death
Christina Rossetti
Song: When I am dead, my dearest
Christina Rossetti
Sappho
Christina Rossetti
Spring
Christina Rossetti
Another Spring
Christina Rossetti
A Birthday
Christina Rossetti
Good Friday
Christina Rossetti
The Heart Knoweth its own Bitterness
Christina Rossetti
Mid-Winter
Christina Rossetti
Amor Mundi
Christina Rossetti
Remember
Christina Rossetti
Silent Noon
Christina Rossetti
Up-Hill
Christina Rossetti
Song: Oh, roses for the flush of youth
Christina Rossetti
Rest
Christina Rossetti
The First Day
Christina Rossetti
May
Christina Rossetti
Maude Clare
Christina Rossetti
The Thread of Life
Christina Rossetti
Last Night
Christina Rossetti
Soeur Louise de la Misericorde (1674)
Christina Rossetti
There is a Budding Morrow in Midnight
Christina Rossetti
Love came down at Christmas
Christina Rossetti
Hope is Like a Harebell



The Great Poets – Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Christina Rossetti Read by Rachel Bavidge, and Georgina Sutton




A Lover’s Gift: From Her to HimLaura Panton
INCLUDED IN A Lover’s Gift: From Her to Him

Elizabeth Barrett Browning How Do I Love Thee from ‘The Song of Solomon’
Christina Rossetti A Birthday
William Shakespeare from ‘Romeo and Juliet’
Marianna Alcoforado Letter from Marianna Alcoforado (1640−1723) to the Marquis of Chamilly and St. Leger
Mary Wollenstonecraft Letter from Mary Wollenstonecraft (1759−1797) to Gilbert Imlay
Anne Bradstreet To My Dear and Loving Husband
Kuan Tao-Sheng We Two
Julie-Jeanne-Eléonore de l’Espinasse Letter from Julie-Jeanne-Eléonore de l’Espinasse (1732−1776) to the Comte de Guibert
Katherine Mansfield from Psychology
Katherine Mansfield Letter from Katherine Mansfield to John Middleton Murray
Heloïse Letter from Heloïse (1101−1164) to Abelard
Emily Brontë from Wuthering Heights
Christina Rossetti Meeting
Jane Clairmont Letter from Jane Clairmont (1798−1879) to Lord Byron
Elizabeth Barrett Browning If Thou Must Love Me
Charlotte Brontë from Jane Eyre
George Sand Letter from George Sand to Pietro Pagello
Virginia Woolf from Night and Day
from Song of the Geishas
Stevie Smith Conviction IV
Clara Wieck Letter from Clara Wieck (1819−1896) to Robert Schumann
James Joyce from Molly Bloom’s concluding soliloquy − Ulysses



A biography barret browning


http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/152

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Sonnets from the Portuguese XLIII.

"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,
when feeling out of sight for the ends of Being and ideal Grace
I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise
I love thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints,
I love thee with the breath,smiles, tears, of all my life!
--- and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.



I love this beautiful and simple poem.
It's apparently based on a speech from King Lear.

Goneril Sonnet 43
55 Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;
56 Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;
57 Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;
58 No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
59 As much as child e'er loved, or father found;
60 A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;
61 Beyond all manner of so much I love you

from
http://www.accessmylibrary.com/coms2/summary_0286-30252013_ITM

so a little bit of intertextuality going on there, or plagarism as we say today.

I decided to write my own as I am not keen on the thees and lost saints etc



How do I love you?

Let me count the ways
I love you to the depth , breath and height my soul can reach
When you are not there, I love you
I love you to the level of my everyday quiet needs at sunrise and late at night
I love you freely as those people who strive for right
I love you purely as those, they turn from praise
I love you with the reckless passionate depths of my first love
I love you the way I used to love before I knew love could end
I love you with the breath , smiles, tears of all my life
And If it is to be, I would love you after death.