A Romance

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Cliges: A Romance by Chretien de Troyes, trans. L. J.
Gardiner.

This translation was published with no copyright notice in 1966.
"T. Camp" miralink.com>

CLIGES: A ROMANCE

NOW TRANSLATED BY L. J. GARDINER, M.A.
FROM THE OLD FRENCH OF CHRETIEN DE TROYES

COOPER SQUARE PUBLISHERS, INC.
NEW YORK 1966
Published 1966 by Cooper Square Publishers, Inc.
59 Fourth Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10003
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 66-23315
Printed in the United States of America
By Noble Offset Printers, Inc., New York, N. Y. 10003

INTRODUCTION

IT is six hundred and fifty years since Chretien de Troyes wrote
his Cliges. And yet he is wonderfully near us, whereas he is
separated by a great gulf from the rude trouveres of the Chansons
de Gestes and from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which was still
dragging out its weary length in his early days. Chretien is as
refined, as civilised, as composite as we are ourselves; his
ladies are as full of whims, impulses, sudden reserves,
self-debate as M. Paul Bourget's heroines; while the problems of
conscience and of emotion which confront them are as complex as
those presented on the modern stage. Indeed, there is no break
between the Breton romance and the psychological-analytical novel
of our own day.

Whence comes this amazing modernity and complexity? From many
sources:--Provencal love-lore, Oriental subtlety, and Celtic
mysticism--all blended by that marvellous dexterity, style,
malice, and measure which are so utterly French that English has
no adequate words for them. We said "Celtic mysticism," but there
is something else about Chretien which is also Celtic, though
very far from being "mystic". We talk a great deal nowadays about
Celtic melancholy, Celtic dreaminess, Celtic "other-worldliness";
and we forget the qualities that made Caesar's Gauls, St. Paul's
Galatians, so different from the grave and steadfast Romans--that
loud Gaulois that has made the Parisian the typical Frenchman. A
different being, this modern Athenian, from the mystic Irish
peasant we see in the poetic modern Irish drama!--and yet both
are Celts.

Not much "other-worldliness" about Chretien. He is as positive as
any man can be. His is not of the world of Saint Louis, of the
Crusaders, of the Cathedral-builders. In Cliges there is no
religious atmosphere at all. We hear scarcely anything of Mass,
of bishops, of convents. When he mentions Tierce or Prime, it is
merely to tell us the hour at which something happened--and this
something is never a religious service. There is nothing behind
the glamour of arms and love, except for the cas de conscience
presented by the lovers. Nothing but names and framework are
Celtic; the spirit, with its refinements and its hair-splitting,
is Provencal. But what a brilliant whole! what art! what measure!
Our thoughts turn to the gifted women of the age--as subtle, as
interesting, and as unscrupulous as the women of the
Renaissance--to Eleanor of Aquitaine, a reigning princess, a
troubadour, a Crusader, the wife of two kings, the mother of two
kings, to the last, intriguing and pulling the strings of
political power--"An Ate, stirring him [King John] to blood and
strife."

The twelfth century was an age in which women had full scope--in
which the Empress Maud herself took the field against her foe, in
which Stephen's queen seized a fortress, in which a wife could
move her husband to war or to peace, in which a Marie of
Champagne (Eleanor's daughter) could set the tone of great poets
and choose their subjects.

If, then, this woman-worship, this complexity of love, this
self-debating, first comes into literature with Chretien de
Troyes, and is still with us, no more interesting work exists
than his earliest masterpiece, Cliges. The delicate and reticent
Soredamors; the courteous and lovable, Guinevere; the proud and
passionate Fenice, who will not sacrifice her fair fame and
chastity; the sorceress Thessala, ancestress of Juliet's
nurse--these form a gallery of portraits unprecedented in
literature.

The translator takes this opportunity of thanking Mr. B. J.
Hayes, M.A., of St. John's College, Cambridge, for occasional
help, and also for kindly reading the proofs.

CLIGES

THE clerk who wrote the tale of Erec and Enid, and translated the
Commandments of Ovid and the Art of Love, and composed the Bite
of the Shoulder, and sang of King Mark and of the blonde Iseult,
and of the metamorphosis of the Hoopoe and of the Swallow and of
the Nightingale, is now beginning a new tale of a youth who was
in Greece of the lineage of King Arthur. But before I tell you
anything of him, you shall hear his father's life--whence he was
and of what lineage. So valiant was he and of such proud spirit,
that to win worth and praise he went from Greece to England,
which was then called Britain. We find this story that I desire
to tell and to relate to you, recorded in one of the books of the
library of my lord Saint Peter at Beauvais. Thence was taken the
tale from which Chretien framed this romance. The book, which
truthfully bears witness to the story, is very ancient; for this
reason it is all the more to be believed. From the books which we
possess, we know the deeds of the ancients and of the world which
aforetime was. This our books have taught us: that Greece had the
first renown in chivalry and in learning. Then came chivalry to
Rome, and the heyday of learning, which now is come into France.
God grant that she be maintained there; and that her home there
please her so much that never may depart from France the honour
which has there taken up its abode. God had lent that glory to
others; but no man talks any longer either more or less about
Greeks and Romans; talk of them has ceased, and the bright glow
is extinct.

Chretien begins his tale--as the story relates to us--which tells
of an emperor mighty in wealth and honour, who ruled Greece and
Constantinople. There was a very noble empress by whom the
emperor had two children. But the first was of such an age before
the other was born, that if he had willed he might have become a
knight and held all the empire. The first was named Alexander;
the younger was called Alis. The father too had for name
Alexander; and the mother had for name Tantalis. I will
straight-away leave speaking of the empress Tantalis, of the
emperor, and of Alis. I will speak to you of Alexander, who was
so great-hearted and proud that he did not stoop to become a
knight in his own realm. He had heard mention made of King
Arthur, who was reigning at that time; and of the barons which he
ever maintained in his retinue wherefore his Court was feared and
famed throughout the world. Howe'er the end may fall out for him
, and whate'er may come of it for the lad, there is nought that
will hold him from his yearning to go to Britain; but it is meet
that he take leave of his father before he goes to Britain or to
Cornwall. Alexander the fair, the valiant, goes to speak to the
emperor in order to ask permission and to take his leave. Now
will he tell him what is his vow, and what he would fain do and
take in hand. "Fair sire, that I may be schooled in honour and
win worth and renown, a boon," quoth he, "I venture to crave of
you--a boon that I would have you give me; never defer it now for
me if you are destined to grant it." The emperor had no thought
of being vexed for that, either much or little; he is bound to
desire and to covet honour for his son above aught else. He would
deem himself to be acting well--would deem? ay, and he would be
so acting--if he increased his son's honour. "Fair son," quoth
he, "I grant you your good pleasure, and tell me what you would
have me give you." Now the lad has done his work well; and right
glad was he of it when is granted him the boon that he so longed
to have. "Sire," quoth he, "would you know what you have promised
me? I wish to have in great store of your gold and of your silver
and comrades from your retinue such as I shall will to choose;
for I wish to go forth from your empire, and I shall go to offer
my service to the king who reigns over Britain, that he may dub
me knight. Never, indeed, on any day as long as I live shall I
wear visor on my face or helm on my head, I warrant you, till
King Arthur gird on my sword if he deign to do it; for I will
receive arms of no other." The emperor without more ado replies:
"Fair son, in God's name, say not so. This land and mighty are
diverse and contrary. And that man is a slave. Constantinople is
wholly yours. You must not hold me a niggard when I would fain
give you so fair a boon. Soon will I have you crowned; and a
knight shall you be to-morrow. All Greece shall be in your hand;
and you shall receive from your barons--as indeed you ought to
receive--their oaths and homage. He who refuses this is no wise
man."

The lad hears the promise--namely, that his father will dub him
knight on the morrow after Mass--but says that he will prove
himself coward or hero in another land than his own. "If you will
grant my boon in that matter in which I have asked you; then give
me fur both grey and of divers colour and good steeds and silken
attire; for before I am knight I will fain serve King Arthur. Not
yet have I so great valour that I can bear arms. None by entreaty
or by fair words could persuade me not to go into the foreign
land to see the king and his barons, whose renown for courtesy
and for prowess is so great. Many high men through their idleness
lose great praise that they might have if they wandered o'er the
world. Repose and praise agree all together, as it seems to me;
for a man of might who is ever resting in no wise becomes famous.
Prowess is a burden to a cowardly man; and cowardice is a burden
to the brave; thus the twain to his possessions who is ever
heaping them up and increasing them. Fair sire, as long as I am
allowed to win renown, if I can avail so much, I will give my
pains and diligence to it."

At this, without doubt, the emperor feels joy and anxiety--joy
has he; for that he perceives that his son aims at valiant deeds;
and anxiety on the other hand, for that he is leaving him. But
because of the promise that he has made him it behoves him to
grant his boon whatever anxiety he feel about it; for an emperor
must not lie. "Fair son," quoth he, "I ought not to fail to do
your pleasure, since I see that you aspire to honour. You may
take from my treasury two barques full of gold and silver; but
take care that you be very generous and courteous and well-bred."
Now is the youth right glad; for his father promises him so much
that he puts his treasure at his free disposal and exhorts and
commands him to give and to spend liberally; and also he tells
him the reason wherefore: "Fair son," quoth he, "believe me in
this; that open-handedness is the lady and queen who illumines
all virtues; and it is not a whit difficult to prove this. In
what place could one find a man, however mighty and magnificent
he be, that is not blamed if he be a niggard; or any man, however
ill-reputed he be, whom liberality does not render praised?
Liberality of itself makes a man of honour--which neither high
Rank, nor courtesy, nor knowledge, nor noble birth, nor wealth ,
nor strength, nor chivalry, nor courage, nor lordship, nor
beauty, nor any other thing, can do. But just as the rose is
fairer than any other flower when she buddeth fresh and new; so
where liberality comes she holds herself above all virtues, and
she multiplies five hundredfold the virtues that she finds in an
honourable man who proves his worth. There is so much to say
about liberality that I could not tell the half of it." Well has
the lad succeeded in whatsoever he has requested and asked; for
his father has found for him all that his desire conceived.
Exceeding sorrowful was the empress when she heard of the road
which her son must needs follow; but whoever has grief and
anxiety thereof, or whoever deems his conduct but folly, or
blames and dissuades him, the youth as quickly as he could bade
his ships be got ready; for he had no wish to stay longer in his
own country. The ships were loaded that night by his command with
wine with meat and with biscuits.

The ships are loaded in the harbour and on the morrow with great
joyance came Alexander to the sandy shore; and with him his
comrades who were fain of the journey. The emperor convoys him
and the empress who was sad at heart. In the harbour they find
the mariners in the ships beside the cliff. The sea was peaceful
and smooth the wind gentle and the air serene. Alexander first of
all, when he had parted from his father and on taking leave of
the empress whose heart was sad within her, enters from the boat
into the ship and his comrades with him. Four, three, and two ,
they simultaneously strive to enter without delay. Full soon was
the sail spread and the anchor of the barque weighed. Those on
land, who were sore at heart for the lads whom they see
departing, follow them with their eyes' ken as far as they can;
and so that they may watch them the better and the further, they
go off and climb together a high peak by the shore. Thence they
watch their sorrow as far as they can see them. They gaze at
their own sorrow in sooth; for great is their sorrow for the
lads: may God lead them to port without disaster and without
peril!

They were at sea all April and part of May. Without great peril
and without alarm they made land above Southampton. One day
'twixt Nones and Vespers they cast anchor and have made the port.
The youths, who had never previously learned to suffer discomfort
or pain, had stayed on the sea which was not wholesome for them
so long that all are pale and all the strongest and most healthy
are weakened and nerveless. And, nevertheless, they show great
joy; for that they have escaped from the sea and come hither
where they would be. And because they were suffering greatly,
they lie that night above Southampton and show great joy and let
ask and inquire whether the king is in England. They are told
that he is at Winchester; and that they can be there full soon if
they will depart with morning provided that they keep to the
right way. This news pleases them well; and on the morrow, when
the day is born, the lads wake up with morning and equip and
prepare themselves. And when they were equipped they have turned
from above Southampton and have kept to the right way till they
have reached Winchester where the king was tarrying. Before Prime
the Greeks had come to Court. They dismount at the foot of the
steps, the squires and the horses stayed in the court below; and
the youths ascend to the presence of the best king that ever was
or ever may be in the world. And when the king sees them come,
they please and delight him much; but ere they had come before
him, they throw off the cloaks from their necks that they might
not be taken for clowns. Thus all having thrown off their cloaks
have come before the king. And the barons one and all keep
silence; for the youths please them mightily for that they see
them fair and comely. Never do they dream that they are all sons
of counts or of a king; yet truly so they were, and they were in
the flower of their youth, comely and well set up in body; and
the robes that they wore were of one cloth and one cut, of one
appearance and one colour. Twelve were they without their lord of
whom I will tell you this much without more ado; that none was
better than he; but without arrogance and yet unabashed he stood
with his mantle off before the king, and was very fair and well
shaped. He has kneeled down before him, and all the others from
courtesy, kneel beside their lord.

Alexander, whose tongue was sharpened to speak well and wisely,
greets the king. "King," quoth he, "if renown lie not concerning
you since God made the first man, no king with faith in God was
born so powerful as you. King, the report that is in men's mouths
has brought me to your Court to serve and honour you, and if my
service is pleasing I will stay till I be a new-made knight at
your hand, not at that of another. For never shall I be dubbed
knight if I be not so by you. If my service so please you that
you will to make me a knight, keep me, gracious king, and my
comrades who are here." Straightway the king replies: "Friend,"
quoth he, "I reject not a whit either you or your company; but ye
are all right welcome; for ye have the air, I well think it, of
being sons of men of high rank. Whence are ye?" "We are from
Greece." "From Greece?" "Truly are we." "Who is thy father?"
"Faith, sire, the emperor." "And what is thy name, fair friend?"
"Alexander was the name given me when I received salt and chrism
and Christianity and baptism." "Alexander, fair dear friend, I
keep you right willingly; and much does it please and joy me, for
you have done me exceeding great honour in that you are come to
my Court. It is my good pleasure that you be honoured here as a
noble warrior, wise and gentle. Too long have you been on your
knees: rise, I bid you, and henceforth be free of my Court and of
me; for you have arrived at a good haven."

Forthwith the Greeks rise. Blithe are they for that the king has
thus courteously kept them. Alexander is welcome; for there is no
lack of aught that he wishes nor is there any baron in the Court
so high that he does not speak him fair and welcome him. For he
is not foolish nor boastful nor doth he vaunt his noble birth. He
makes himself known to Sir Gawain and to the others one by one.
He makes himself much loved by each; even Sir Gawain loves him so
much that he hails him as friend and comrade. The Greeks had
taken in the town at the house of a citizen the best lodging that
they could find. Alexander had brought great possessions from
Constantinople: he will desire above aught else to follow
diligently the emperor's advice and counsel--namely, that he
should have his heart wide-awake to give and to spend liberally.
He gives great diligence and pains thereto. He lives well at his
lodging and gives and spends liberally as it beseems his wealth,
and as his heart counsels him. The whole Court marvels whence his
store is taken; for he gives to all horses of great price which
he had brought from his land. So much trouble has Alexander given
himself, and so much has he prevailed by his fair service, that
the king loves and esteems him dearly as well the barons and the
queen.

At that point of time King Arthur desired to pass over into
Brittany. He bids all his barons assemble in order to seek
Counsel, and ask them to whom till he return he can entrust
England, who may keep and maintain it in peace. By the Council it
was with one consent entrusted, as I think, to Count Engres of
Windsor; for till then they deemed no baron more loyal in all the
king's land. When this man had the land in his power, King Arthur
and the queen and her ladies set out on the morrow. In Brittany
folk hear tell that the king and his barons are coming: the
Bretons rejoice greatly thereat.

Into the ship in which the king crossed entered neither youth nor
maiden save Alexander alone; and the queen of a truth brought
thither Soredamors, a lady who scorned Love. Never had she heard
tell of a man whom she could deign to love however much beauty
prowess dominion or high rank he had. And yet the damsel was so
winsome and fair that she might well have known Love if it had
pleased her to turn her mind to it; but never had she willed to
bend her mind thereto. Now will Love make her sorrowful; and Love
thinks to avenge himself right well for the great pride and
resistance which she has always shown to him. Right well has Love
aimed; for he has stricken her in the heart with his arrow. Oft
she grows pale; oft the beads of sweat break out, and in spite of
herself she must love. Scarce can she refrain from looking
towards Alexander; but she must needs guard herself against my
Lord Gawain her brother. Dearly does she buy and pay for her
great pride and her disdain. Love has heated for her a bath which
mightily inflames and enkindles her. Now is he kind to her, now
cruel; now she wants him, and now she rejects him. She accuses
her eyes of treachery and says: "Eyes, you have betrayed me.
Through you has my heart which was wont to be faithful conceived
hatred for me. Now does what I see bring grief. Grief? Nay, in
truth, but rather pleasure. And if I see aught that grieves me,
still have I not my eyes under my own sway? My strength must
indeed have failed me; and I must esteem myself but lightly if I
cannot control my eyes and make them look elsewhere. By so doing
I shall be able to guard myself right well from Love, who wishes
to be my master. What the eye sees not the heart does not lament.
If I do not see him there will be no pain. He does not entreat or
seek me: if he had loved me he would have sought me. And since he
neither loves nor esteems me, shall I love him if he loves me
not? If his beauty draws my eyes, and my eyes obey the spell,
shall I for that say I love him? Nay, for that would be a lie. By
drawing my eyes he has done me no wrong of which I can complain;
and I can bring no charge at all against him. One cannot love
with the eyes. And what wrong, then, have my eyes done to me if
they gaze on what I will to look at? What fault and wrong do they
commit? Ought I to blame them? Nay. Whom, then? Myself, who have
them in my keeping? My eye looks on nought unless it pleases and
delights my heart. My heart could not wish for aught that would
make me sorrowful. It is my heart's will that makes me sorrow.
Sorrow? Faith, then, am I mad? since through my heart I desire
that which makes me mad. I ought , indeed, if I can to rid myself
of a will whence grief may come to me. If I can? Fool, what have
I said? Then were I weak indeed if I had no power over myself.
Does Love think to put me in the way which is wont to mislead
other folk? Thus may he lead others; but I am not his at all.
Never shall I be so; never was I so; never shall I desire his
further acquaintance." Thus she disputes with herself, one hour
loves and another hates. She is in such doubt that she does not
know which side to take. She thinks she is defending herself
against Love; but she is in no need of defence. God! Why does she
not know that the thoughts of Alexander, on his side, are
directed towards her? Love deals out to them impartially such a
portion as is meet for each. He gives to them many a reason and
ground that the one should love and desire the other. This love
would have been loyal and right if the one had known what was the
will of the other; but he does not know what she desires, nor
she, for what he is lamenting. The queen watches them and sees
the one and the other often lose colour and grow pale and sigh
and shudder; but she knows not why they do it unless it be on
account of the sea on which they are sailing. Perhaps, indeed,
she would have perceived it if the sea had not misled her; but it
is the sea which baffles and deceives her so that amid the
sea-sickness she sees not the heart-sickness. For they are at
sea, and heart-sickness is the cause of their plight, and
heart-bitterness is the cause of the malady that grips them; but
of these three the queen can only blame the sea; for
heart-sickness and heart-bitterness lay the blame on the
sea-sickness; and because of the third the two who are guilty get
off scot-free. He who is guiltless of fault or wrong often pays
dear for the sin of another. Thus the queen violently accuses the
sea and blames it; but wrongly is the blame laid on the sea, for
the sea has done therein no wrong. Much sorrow has Soredamors
borne ere the ship has come to port. The king's coming is noised
abroad; for the Bretons had great joy thereof and served him
right willingly as their lawful lord. I seek not to speak more at
length of King Arthur at this time: rather shall ye hear me tell
how Love torments the two lovers against whom he has taken the
field.

Alexander loves and desires her who is sighing for his love; but
he knows not, and will not know aught of this until he shall have
suffered many an ill and many a grief. For love of her he serves
the queen and the ladies of her chamber; but he does not dare to
speak to or address her who is most in his mind. If she had dared
to maintain against him the right which she thinks is hers in the
matter, willingly would he have told him of it; but she neither
dares nor ought to do so. And the fact that the one sees the
other, and that they dare not speak or act, turns to great
adversity for them; and love grows thereby and burns. But it is
the custom of all lovers that they willingly feed their eyes on
looks if they can do no better, and think that because the source
whence their love buds and grows delights them therefore it must
help their case, whereas it injures them: just as the man who
approaches and comes close to the fire burns himself more than
the man who draws back from it. Their love grows and increases
continually; but the one feels shame before the other; and each
conceals and hides this love so that neither flame nor smoke is
seen from the gleed beneath the ashes. But the heat is none the
less for that; rather the heat lasts longer below the gleed than
above it. Both the lovers are in very great anguish; for in order
that their complaint may not be known or perceived, each must
deceive all men by false pretence; but in the night great is the
plaint which each makes in solitude.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9