克利杰斯

中文导读

《克利杰斯》是克雷蒂安·德·特鲁瓦的第二部作品，约作于 1176 年。它在五部现存 romance 中地位特殊：带有明显的拜占庭色彩，叙事跨度从不列颠延伸到君士坦丁堡。克雷蒂安在序言中声称本诗是"塔伊斯的故事的反面"——试图把特里斯坦式的禁忌之恋重新导向合法婚姻。

故事从克利杰斯的父亲亚历山大开始：亚历山大是拜占庭皇子，年轻时赴亚瑟王宫廷受训成为骑士，娶了亚瑟王的外甥女，生下克利杰斯后返回君士坦丁堡。克利杰斯长大后被继父（篡位的叔父）派往亚瑟王宫廷，在那里成为出色的骑士。回到拜占庭后，他爱上了继父的新妻范妮丝（Fenice）——范妮丝不愿像伊索尔德那样成为"一个国王的情人和另一个国王的妻子"，于是设计假装死亡，与克利杰斯在密室中秘密生活。

这部作品在五部中最少被讨论，但有几个值得注意的特征。第一是跨文化设定：拜占庭宫廷的阴谋与不列颠的骑士冒险并置，暗示了 12 世纪法国贵族对地中海东部世界的想象。第二是范妮丝对伊索尔德模式的拒绝——她不愿做"两个人的女人"，要设计出一种既保有爱情又不违反婚姻誓言的方案。这是克雷蒂安对同时代特里斯坦传统的一次有意识的修正。

公版英译全文（W. W. Comfort 1914）

CLIGES [21]

(Vv. 1-44.) He who wrote of Erec and Enide, and translated into French
the commands of Ovid and the Art of Love, and wrote the Shoulder
Bite, [22] and about King Mark and the fair Iseut, [23] and about the
metamorphosis of the Lapwing, [24] the Swallow, and the Nightingale,
will tell another story now about a youth who lived in Greece and was
a member of King Arthur's line. But before I tell you aught of him, you
shall hear of his father's life, whence he came and of what family. He
was so bold and so ambitious that he left Greece and went to England,
which was called Britain in those days, in order to win fame and renown.
This story, which I intend to relate to you, we find written in one of
the books of the library of my lord Saint Peter at Beauvais. [25] From
there the material was drawn of which Chretien has made this romance.
The book is very old in which the story is told, and this adds to its
authority. [26] From such books which have been preserved we learn the
deeds of men of old and of the times long since gone by. Our books have
informed us that the pre-eminence in chivalry and learning once belonged
to Greece. Then chivalry passed to Rome, together with that highest
learning which now has come to France. God grant that it may be
cherished here, and that it may be made so welcome here that the honour
which has taken refuge with us may never depart from France: God had
awarded it as another's share, but of Greeks and Romans no more is
heard, their fame is passed, and their glowing ash is dead.

(Vv. 45-134.) Chretien begins his story as we find it in the history,
which tells of an emperor powerful in wealth and honour who ruled over
Greece and Constantinople. A very noble empress, too, there was, by
whom the emperor had two children. But the elder son was already so
far advanced before the younger one was born that, if he had wished, he
might have become a knight and held all the empire beneath his sway.
The name of the elder was Alexander, and the other's name was Alis.
Alexander, too, was the father's name, and the mother's name was
Tantalis. I shall now say nothing more of the emperor and of Alis; but
I shall speak of Alexander, who was so bold and proud that he scorned
to become a knight in his own country. He had heard of King Arthur, who
reigned in those days, and of the knights whom he always kept about
him, thus causing his court to be feared and famed throughout the world.
However, the affair may result and whatever fortune may await him,
nothing can restrain Alexander from his desire to go into Britain, but
he must obtain his father's consent before proceeding to Britain and
Cornwall. So Alexander, fair and brave, goes to speak with the emperor
in order to ask and obtain his leave. Now he will tell him of his desire
and what he wishes to do and undertake. "Fair sire," he says, "in quest
of honour and fame and praise I dare to ask you a boon, which I desire
you to give me now without delay, if you are willing to grant it to me."
The emperor thinks no harm will come from this request: he ought rather
to desire and long for his son's honour. "Fair son," he says, "I grant
you your desire; so tell me now what you wish me to give you." Now the
youth has accomplished his purpose, and is greatly pleased when the boon
is granted him which he so greatly desired. "Sire," says he, "do you
wish to know what it is that you have promised me? I wish to have a
great plenty of gold and silver, and such companions from among your
men as I will select; for I wish to go forth from your empire, and to
present my service to the king who rules over Britain, in order that he
may make me a knight. I promise you never in my life to wear armour on
my face or helmet upon my head until King Arthur shall gird on my sword,
if he will graciously do so. For from no other than from him will I
accept my arms." Without hesitation the emperor replies: "Fair son, for
God's sake, speak not so! This country all belongs to you, as well as
rich Constantinople. You ought not to think me mean, when I am ready
to make you such a gift. I shall be ready soon to have you crowned, and
to-morrow you shall be a knight. All Greece will be in your hands, and
you shall receive from your nobles, as is right, their homage and oaths
of allegiance. Whoever refuses such an offer is not wise."

(Vv. 135-168.) The youth hears the promise how the next morning after
Mass his father is ready to dub him knight; but he says he will seek his
fortune for better or worse in another land. "If you are willing in this
matter to grant the boon I have asked of you, then give me mottled and
grey furs, some good horses and silken stuffs: for before I become
a knight I wish to enrol in King Arthur's service. Nor have I yet
sufficient strength to bear arms. No one could induce me by prayer or
flattery not to go to the foreign land to see his nobles and that king
whose fame is so great for courtesy and prowess. Many men of high degree
lose through sloth the great renown which they might win, were they to
wander about the world. [27] Repose and glory ill agree, as it seems to
me; for a man of wealth adds nothing to his reputation if he spends all
his days at ease. Prowess is irksome to the ignoble man, and cowardice
is a burden to the man of spirit; thus the two are contrary and
opposite. He is the slave of his wealth who spends his days in storing
and increasing it. Fair father, so long as I have the chance, and so
long as my rigour lasts, I wish to devote my effort and energy to the
pursuit of fame."

(Vv. 169-234.) Upon hearing this; the emperor doubtless feels both joy
and grief: he is glad that his son's intention is fixed upon honour,
and on the other hand he is sorrowful because his son is about to be
separated from him. Yet, because of the promise which he made, despite
the grief he feels, he must grant his request; for an emperor must keep
his word. "Fair son," he says, "I must not fail to do your pleasure,
when I see you thus striving for honour. From my treasure you may have
two barges full of gold and silver; but take care to be generous and
courteous and well-behaved." Now the youth is very happy when his father
promises him so much, and places his treasure at his disposal, and bids
him urgently to give and spend generously. And his father explains his
reason for this: "Fair son," he says, "believe me, that generosity is
the dame and queen which sheds glory upon all the other virtues. And the
proof of this is not far to seek. For where could you find a man, be he
never so rich and powerful, who is not blamed if he is mean? Nor could
you find one, however ungracious he may be, whom generosity will not
bring into fair repute? Thus largess makes the gentleman, which
result can be accomplished neither by high birth, courtesy, knowledge,
gentility, money, strength, chivalry, boldness, dominion, beauty, or
anything else. [28] But just as the rose is fairer than any other flower
when it is fresh and newly blown, so there, where largess dwells, it
takes its place above all other virtues, and increases five hundred fold
the value of other good traits which it finds in the man who acquits
himself well. So great is the merit of generosity that I could not tell
you the half of it." The young man has now successfully concluded the
negotiations for what he wished; for his father has acceded to all
his desires. But the empress was sorely grieved when she heard of the
journey which her son was about to take. Yet, whoever may grieve or
sorrow, and whoever may attribute his intention to youthful folly, and
ever may blame and seek to dissuade him, the youth ordered his ships to
be made ready as soon as possible, desiring to tarry no longer in his
native land. At his command the ships were freighted that very night
with wine, meat, and biscuit.

(Vv. 235-338.) The ships were loaded in the port, and the next morning
Alexander came to the strand in high spirits, accompanied by his
companions, who were happy over the prospective voyage. They were
escorted by the emperor and the empress in her grief. At the port they
find the sailors in the ships drawn up beside the cliff. The sea was
calm and smooth, the wind was light, and the weather clear. When he had
taken leave of his father, and bidden farewell to the empress, whose
heart was heavy in her bosom, Alexander first stepped from the small
boat into the skip; then all his companions hastened by fours, threes,
and twos to embark without delay. Soon the sail was spread and the
anchor raised. Those on shore whose heart is heavy because of the men
whom they watch depart, follow them with their gaze as long as they can:
and in order to watch them longer, they all climb a high hill behind
the beach. From there they sadly gaze, as long as their eyes can follow
them. With sorrow, indeed, they watch them go, being solicitous for
the youths, that God may bring them to their haven without accident and
without peril. All of April and part of May they spent at sea. Without
any great danger or mishap they came to port at Southampton. [29]
One day, between three o'clock and vespers, they cast anchor and
went ashore. The young men, who had never been accustomed to endure
discomfort or pain, had suffered so long from their life at sea that
they had all lost their colour, and even the strongest and most vigorous
were weak and faint. In spite of that, they rejoice to have escaped from
the sea and to have arrived where they wished to be. Because of their
depleted state, they spend the night at Southampton in happy frame, and
make inquiries whether the King is in England. They are told that he
is at Winchester, and that they can reach there in a very short time if
they will start early in the morning and keep to the straight road. At
this news they are greatly pleased, and the next morning at daybreak the
youths wake early, and prepare and equip themselves. And when they were
ready, they left Southampton, and kept to the direct road until they
reached Winchester, where the King was. Before six o'clock in the
morning the Greeks had arrived at the court. The squires with the horses
remain below in the yard, while the youths go up into the presence of
the King, who was the best that ever was or ever will be in the world.
And when the King sees them coming, they please him greatly, and meet
with his favour. But before approaching the King's presence, they
remove the cloaks from about their necks, lest they should be considered
ill-bred. Thus, all unmantled, they came before the King, while all the
nobles present held their peace, greatly pleased at the sight of these
handsome and well-behaved young men. They suppose that of course they
are all sons of counts or kings; and, to be sure, so they were, and of a
very charming age, with graceful and shapely forms. And the clothes
they wore were all of the same stuff and cut of the same appearance and
colour. There were twelve of them beside their lord, of whom I need tell
you no more than that there was none better than he. With modesty and
orderly mien, he was handsome and shapely as he stood uncovered before
the King. Then he kneeled before him, and all the others, for honour's
sake, did the same beside their lord.

(Vv. 339-384.) Alexander, with his tongue well skilled in speaking fair
and wisely, salutes the King. "King," he says, "unless the report is
false that spreads abroad your fame, since God created the first man
there was never born a God-fearing man of such puissance as yours. King,
your widespread renown has drawn me to serve and honour you in your
court, and if you will accept my service, I would fain remain here
until I be dubbed a knight by your hand and by no one else. For unless
I receive this honour from your hand, I shall renounce all intention of
being knighted. If you will accept my service until you are willing
to dub me a knight, retain me now, oh gentle King, and my companions
gathered here." To which at once the King replies: "Friend, I refuse
neither you nor your companions. Be welcome all. For surely you seem,
and I doubt it not, to be sons of high-born men. Whence do you come?"
"From Greece." "From Greece?" "Yes." "Who is thy father?" "Upon my word,
sire, the emperor." "And what is thy name, fair friend?" "Alexander is
the name that was given me when I received the salt and holy oil, and
Christianity and baptism." "Alexander, my dear, fair friend. I will keep
you with me very gladly, with great pleasure and delight. For you have
done me signal honour in thus coming to my court. I wish you to be
honoured here, as free vassals who are wise and gentle. You have been
too long upon your knees; now, at my command, and henceforth make your
home with man and in my court; it is well that you have come to us."

(Vv. 385-440.) Then the Greeks rise up, joyful that the King has so
kindly invited them to stay. Alexander did well to come; for he lacks
nothing that he desires, and there is no noble at the court who does not
address him kindly and welcome him. He is not so foolish as to be puffed
up, nor does he vaunt himself nor boast. He makes acquaintance with my
lord Gawain and with the others, one by one. He gains the good graces of
them all, but my lord Gawain grows so fond of him that he chooses him as
his friend and companion. [210] The Greeks took the best lodgings to be
had, with a citizen of the town. Alexander had brought great possessions
with him from Constantinople, intending to give heed above all to the
advice and counsel of the Emperor, that his heart should be ever
ready to give and dispense his riches well. To this end he devotes his
efforts, living well in his lodgings, and giving and spending liberally,
as is fitting in one so rich, and as his heart dictates. The entire
court wonders where he got all the wealth that he bestows; for on all
sides he presents the valuable horses which he had brought from his own
land. So much did Alexander do, in the performance of his service,
that the King, the Queen, and the nobles bear him great affection.
King Arthur about this time desired to cross over into Brittany. So he
summons all his barons together to take counsel and inquire to whom he
may entrust England to be kept in peace and safety until his return.
By common consent, it seems, the trust was assigned to Count Angres of
Windsor, for it was their judgement that there was no more trustworthy
lord in all the King's realm. When this man had received the land, King
Arthur set out the next day accompanied by the Queen and her damsels.
The Bretons make great rejoicing upon hearing the news in Brittany that
the King and his barons are on the way.

(Vv. 441-540.) Into the ship in which the King sailed there entered
no youth or maiden save only Alexander and Soredamors, whom the Queen
brought with her. This maiden was scornful of love, for she had never
heard of any man whom she would deign to love, whatever might be his
beauty, prowess, lordship, or birth. And yet the damsel was so charming
and fair that she might fitly have learned of love, if it had pleased
her to lend a willing ear; but she would never give a thought to love.
Now Love will make her grieve, and will avenge himself for all the pride
and scorn with which she has always treated him. Carefully Love has
aimed his dart with which he pierced her to the heart. Now she grows
pale and trembles, and in spite of herself must succumb to Love. Only
with great difficulty can she restrain herself from casting a glance
toward Alexander; but she must be on her guard against her brother, my
lord Gawain. Dearly she pays and atones for her great pride and disdain.
Love has heated for her a bath which heats and burns her painfully. At
first it is grateful to her, and then it hurts; one moment she likes it,
and the next she will have none of it. She accuses her eyes of treason,
and says: [211] "My eyes, you have betrayed me now! My heart, usually
so faithful, now bears me ill-will because of you. Now what I see
distresses me. Distresses? Nay, verily, rather do I like it well. And if
I actually see something that distresses me, can I not control my eyes?
My strength must indeed have failed, and little should I esteem myself,
if I cannot control my eyes and make them turn their glance elsewhere.
Thus, I shall be able to baffle Love in his efforts to get control of
me. The heart feels no pain when the eye does not see; so, if I do not
look at him, no harm will come to me. He addresses me no request or
prayer, as he would do were he in love with me. And since he neither
loves nor esteems me, shall I love him without return? If his beauty
allures my eyes, and my eyes listen to the call, shall I say that I love
him just for that? Nay, for that would be a lie. Therefore, he has no
ground for complaint, nor can I make any claim against him. One cannot
love with the eyes alone. What crime, then, have my eyes committed, if
their glance but follows my desire? What is their fault and what their
sin? Ought I to blame them, then? Nay, verily. Who, then, should be
blamed? Surely myself, who have them in control. My eye glances at
nothing unless it gives my heart delight. My heart ought not to have any
desire which would give me pain. Yet its desire causes me pain. Pain?
Upon my faith, I must be mad, if to please my heart I wish for something
which troubles me. If I can, I ought to banish any wish that distresses
me. If I can? Mad one, what have I said? I must, indeed, have little
power if I have no control over myself. Does Love think to set me in
the same path which is wont to lead others astray? Others he may lead
astray, but not me who care not for him. Never shall I be his, nor
ever was, and I shall never seek his friendship." Thus she argues with
herself, one moment loving, and hating the next. She is in such doubt
that she does not know which course she had better adopt. She thinks to
be on the defence against Love, but defence is not what she wants. God!
She does not know that Alexander is thinking of her too! Love bestows
upon them equally such a share as is their due. He treats them very
fairly and justly, for each one loves and desires the other. And this
love would be true and right if only each one knew what was the other's
wish. But he does not know what her desire is, and she knows not the
cause of his distress.

(Vv. 541-574.) The Queen takes note of them and sees them often blanch
and pale and heave deep sighs and tremble. But she knows no reason why
they should do so, unless it be because of the sea where they are. I
think she would have divined the cause had the sea not thrown her off
her guard, but the sea deceives and tricks her, so that she does not
discover love because of the sea; and it is from love that comes the
bitter pain that distresses them. [212] But of the three concerned,
the Queen puts all the blame upon the sea; for the other two accuse the
third to her, and hold it alone responsible for their guilt. Some one
who is not at fault is often blamed for another's wrong. Thus, the Queen
lays all the blame and guilt upon the sea, but it is unfair to put the
blame upon the sea, for it is guilty of no misdeed. Soredamors' deep
distress continued until the vessel came to port. As for the King, it is
well known that the Bretons were greatly pleased, and served him gladly
as their liege lord. But of King Arthur I will not longer speak in
this place; rather shall you hear me tell how Love distresses these two
lovers whom he has attacked.

(Vv. 575-872.) Alexander loves and desires her; and she, too, pines for
the love of him, but he knows it not, nor will he know it until he
has suffered many a pain and many a grief. It is for her sake that he
renders to the Queen loving service, as well as to her maids-in-waiting;
but to her on whom his thoughts are fixed, he dares not speak or address
a word. If she but dared to assert to him the right which she thinks she
has, she would gladly inform him of the truth; but she does not dare,
and cannot do it. They dare neither speak nor act in accordance with
what each sees in the other--which works a great hardship to them both,
and their love but grows and flames the more. However, it is the custom
of all lovers to feast their eyes gladly with gazing, if they can do
no more; and they assume that, because they find pleasure in that which
causes their love to be born and grow, therefore it must be to their
advantage; whereas it only harms them more, just as he who approaches
and draws close beside the fire burns himself more than he who holds
aloof. Their love waxes and grows anon; but each is abashed before the
other, and so much is hidden and concealed that no flame or smoke arises
from the coals beneath the ashes. The heat is no less on this account,
but rather is better sustained beneath the ashes than above. Both of
them are in great torment; for, in order that none may perceive their
trouble, they are forced to deceive people by a feigned bearing; but at
night comes the bitter moan, which each one makes within his breast. Of
Alexander I will tell you first how he complains and vents his grief.
Love presents before his mind her for whom he is in such distress; it is
she who has filched his heart away, and grants him no rest upon his bed,
because, forsooth, he delights to recall the beauty and the grace of her
who, he has no hope, will ever bring him any joy. "I may as well hold
myself a madman." he exclaims. "A madman? Truly, I am beside myself,
when I dare not speak what I have in mind; for it would speedily fare
worse with me (if I held my peace). I have engaged my thoughts in a mad
emprise. But is it not better to keep my thoughts to myself than to be
called a fool? My wish will never then be known. Shall I then conceal
the cause of my distress, and not dare to seek aid and healing for my
wound? He is mad who feels himself afflicted, and seeks not what will
bring him health, if perchance he may find it anywhere; but many a one
seeks his welfare by striving for his heart's desire, who pursues only
that which brings him woe instead. And why should one ask for advice,
who does not expect to gain his health? He would only exert himself
in vain. I feel my own illness to be so grievous that I shall never be
healed by any medicine or draught, by any herb or root. For some ills
there is no remedy, and mine lies so deep within that it is beyond the
reach of medicine. Is there no help, then? Methinks I have lied. When
first I felt this malady, if I had dared to make mention of it. I might
have spoken with a physician who could have completely cured me. But I
like not to discuss such matters; I think he would pay me no heed and
would not consent to accept a fee. No wonder, then, if I am terrified;
for I am very ill, yet I do not know what disease this is which has me
in its grip, and I know not whence this pain has come. I do not know? I
know full well that it is Love who does me this injury. How is that? Can
Love do harm? Is he not gentle and well-bred? I used to think that there
was naught but good in Love; but I have found him full of enmity. He who
has not had experience of him does not know what tricks Love plays.
He is a fool who joins his ranks; for he always seeks to harm his
followers. Upon my faith, his tricks are bad. It is poor sport to play
with him, for his game will only do me harm. What shall I do, then?
Shall I retreat? I think it would be wise to do so, but I know not
how to do it. If Love chastens and threatens me in order to teach and
instruct me, ought I to disdain my teacher? He is a fool who scorns his
master. I ought to keep and cherish the lesson which Love teaches me,
for great good may soon come of it. But I am frightened because he beats
me so. And dost thou complain, when no sign of blow or wound appears?
Art thou not mistaken? Nay, for he has wounded me so deep that he has
shot his dart to my very heart, and has not yet drawn it out again.
[213] How has he pierced thy body with it, when no wound appears
without? Tell me that, for I wish to know. How did he make it enter in?
Through the eye. Through the eye? But he has not put it out? He did not
harm the eye at all, but all the pain is in the heart. Then tell me, if
the dart passed through the eye, how is it that the eye itself is not
injured or put out. If the dart entered through the eye, why does the
heart in the breast complain, when the eye, which received the first
effect, makes no complaint of it at all? I can readily account for that:
the eye is not concerned with the understanding, nor has it any part in
it; but it is the mirror of the heart, and through this mirror passes,
without doing harm or injury, the flame which sets the heart on fire.
For is not the heart placed in the breast just like a lighted candle
which is set in a lantern? If you take the candle away no light will
shine from the lantern; but so long as the candle lasts the lantern is
not dark at all, and the flame which shines within does it no harm or
injury. Likewise with a pane of glass, which might be very strong and
solid, and yet a ray of the sun could pass through it without cracking
it at all; yet a piece of glass will never be so bright as to enable one
to see, unless a stronger light strikes its surface. Know that the same
thing is true of the eyes as of the glass and the lantern; for the
light strikes the eyes in which the heart is accustomed to see itself
reflected, and lo! it sees some light outside, and many other things,
some green, some purple, others red or blue; and some it dislikes, and
some it likes, scorning some and prizing others. But many an object
seems fair to it when it looks at it in the glass, which will deceive it
if it is not on its guard. My mirror has greatly deceived me; for in
it my heart saw a ray of light with which I am afflicted, and which has
penetrated deep within me, causing me to lose my wits. I am ill-treated
by my friend, who deserts me for my enemy. I may well accuse him of
felony for the wrong he has done to me. I thought I had three friends,
my heart and my two eyes together; but it seems that they hate me. Where
shall I ever find a friend, when these three are my enemies, belonging
to me, yet putting me to death? My servants mock at my authority, in
doing what they please without consulting my desire. After my experience
with these who have done me wrong, I know full well that a good man's
love may be befouled by wicked servants in his employ. He who is
attended by a wicked servant will surely have cause to rue it, sooner or
later. Now I will tell you how the arrow, which has come into my keeping
and possession, is made and fashioned; but I fear greatly that I shall
fail in the attempt; for the fashion of it is so fine that it will be no
wonder if I fail. Yet I shall devote all my effort to telling you how
it seems to me. The notch and the feathers are so close together, when
carefully examined, that the line of separation is as fine as a hair's
breadth; but the notch is so smooth and straight that in it surely no
improvement could be made. The feathers are coloured as if they were
of gold or gilt; but gilt is here beside the mark, for I know these
feathers were more brilliant than any gilt. This dart is barbed with the
golden tresses that I saw the other day at sea. That is the dart which
awakes my love. God! What a treasure to possess! Would he who could gain
such a prize crave other riches his whole life long? For my part I could
swear that I should desire nothing else; I would not give up even the
barb and the notch for all the gold of Antioch. And if I prize so highly
these two things, who could estimate the value of what remains? That is
so fair and full of charm, so dear and precious, that I yearn and long
to gaze again upon her brow, which God's hand has made so clear that it
were vain to compare with it any mirror, emerald, or topaz. But all this
is of little worth to him who sees her flashing eyes; to all who gaze on
them they seem like twin candles burning. And whose tongue is so expert
as to describe the fashion of her well-shaped nose and radiant face, in
which the rose suffuses the lily so as to efface it somewhat, and thus
enhance the glory of her visage? And who shall speak of her laughing
mouth, which God shaped with such great skill that none might see it and
not suppose that she was laughing? And what about her teeth? They are so
close to one another that it seems they are all of one solid piece,
and in order that the effect might still be enhanced Nature added her
handiwork; for any one, to see her part her lips, would suppose that the
teeth were of ivory or of silver. There is so much to be said were I
to portray each detailed charm of chin and ears, that it would not be
strange were I to pass over some little thing. Of her throat I shall
only say that crystal beside it looks opaque. And her neck beneath her
hair is four times as white as ivory. Between the border of her gown and
the buckle at the parted throat, I saw her bosom left exposed and whiter
than new-fallen snow. My pain would be indeed assuaged, if I had seen
the dart entire. Gladly would I tell, if I but knew, what was the nature
of the shaft. But I did nor see it, and it is not my fault if I do
not attempt to describe something I have never seen. At that time Love
showed me only the notch and the barb; for the shaft was hidden in the
quiver, to wit, in the robe and shift in which the damsel was arrayed.
Upon my faith, malady which tortures me is the arrow--it is the dart at
which I am a wretch to be enraged. I am ungrateful to be incensed. Never
shall a straw be broken because of any distrust or quarrel that may
arise between Love and me. Now let Love do what he will with me as with
one who belongs to him; for I wish it, and so it pleases me. I hope that
this malady may never leave me, but that it may thus always maintain its
hold, and that health may never come to me except from the source of my
illness."

(Vv. 873-1046.) Alexander's complaint is long enough; but that of the
maiden is nothing less. All night she lies in such distress that
she cannot sleep or get repose. Love has confined within her heart a
struggle and conflict which disturbs her breast, and which causes her
such pain and anguish that she weeps and moans all night, and tosses
about with sudden starts, so that she is almost beside herself. And when
she has tossed and sobbed and groaned and started up and sighed again
then she looked within her heart to see who and what manner of man it
was for whom Love was tormenting her. And when she has refreshed herself
somewhat with thinking to her heart's content, she stretches and tosses
about again, and ridicules all the thoughts she has had. Then she takes
another course, and says: "Silly one, what matters it to me if this
youth is of good birth and wise and courteous and valorous? All this is
simply to his honour and credit. And as for his beauty, what care I? Let
his beauty be gone with him! But if so, it will be against my will, for
it is not my wish to deprive him of anything. Deprive? No, indeed! That
I surely will not do. If he had the wisdom of Solomon, and if Nature had
bestowed on him all the beauty she can place in human form, and if God
had put in my power to undo it all, yet would I not injure him; but I
would gladly, if I could, make him still more wise and fair. In faith,
then, I do not hate him! And am I for that reason his friend? Nay, I am
not his any more than any other man's. Then what do I think of him so
much, if he pleases me no more than other men? I do not know; I am all
confused; for I never thought so much about any man in the world, and
if I had my will, I should see him all the time, and never take my eyes
from him. I feel such joy at the sight of him! Is this love? Yes, I
believe it is. I should not appeal to him so often, if I did not love
him above all others. So I love him, then, let it be agreed. Then shall
I not do what I please? Yes, provided he does not refuse. This intention
of mine is wrong; but Love has so filled my heart that I am mad and
beside myself, nor will any defence avail me now, if I must endure the
assault of Love. I have demeaned myself prudently toward Love so long,
and would never accede to his will; but now I am more than kindly
disposed toward him. And what thanks will he owe to me, if he cannot
have my loving service and good-will? By force he has humbled my pride,
and now I must follow his pleasure. Now I am ready to love, and I have
a master, and Love will teach me--but what? How I am to serve his will.
But of that I am very well informed, and am so expert in serving him
that no one could find fault with me. I need learn no more of that. Love
would have it, and so would I, that I should be sensible and modest and
kind and approachable to all for the sake of one I love. Shall I love
all men, then, for the sake of one? I should be pleasant to every one,
but Love does not bid me be the true friend of every one. Love's lessons
are only good. It is not without significance that I am called by the
name of Soredamors. [214] I am destined to love and be loved in turn,
and I intend to prove it by my name, if I can find the explanation
there. There is some significance in the fact that the first part of
my name is of golden colour; for what is golden is the best. For this
reason I highly esteem my name, because it begins with that colour with
which the purest gold harmonises. And the end of the name calls Love to
my mind; for whoever calls me by my right name always refreshes me with
love. And one half gilds the other with a bright coat of yellow gold;
for Soredamors has the meaning of 'one gilded over with Love.' Love has
highly honoured me in gilding me over with himself. A gilding of
real gold is not so fine as that which makes me radiant. And I shall
henceforth do my best to be his gilding, and shall never again complain
of it. Now I love and ever more shall love. Whom? Truly, that is a fine
question! Him whom Love bids me love, for no other shall ever have
my love. What will he care in his ignorance, unless I tell him of it
myself? What shall I do, if I do not make to him my prayer? Whoever
desires anything ought to ask for it and make request. What? Shall I
beseech him, then? Nay. Why? Did ever such a thing come about that a
woman should be so forward as to make love to any man; unless she were
clean beside herself. I should be mad beyond question if I uttered
anything for which I might be reproached. If he should know the truth
through word of mine I think he would hold me in slight esteem, and
would often reproach me with having solicited his love. May love never
be so base that I should be the first to prefer a request which would
lower me in his eyes! Alas, God! How will he ever know the truth, since
I shall not tell him of it? As yet I have very little cause to complain.
I will wait until his attention is aroused, if ever it is to be aroused.
He will surely guess the truth, I think, if ever he has had commerce
with Love, or has heard of it by word of mouth. Heard of it? That is a
foolish thing to say. Love is not of such easy access that any one may
claim acquaintance by hear-say only and without personal experience.
I have come to know that well enough myself; for I could never learn
anything of love through flattery and wooing words, though I have often
been in the school of experience, and have been flattered many a time.
But I have always stood aloof, and now he makes me pay a heavy penalty:
now I know more about it than does the ox of ploughing. But one thing
causes me despair: I fear he has never been in love. And if he is not in
love, and never has been so, then I have sowed in the sea where no seed
can take root. So there is nothing to do but wait and suffer, until
I see whether I can lead him on by hints and covered words. I shall
continue this until he is sure of my love and dares to ask me for it. So
there is nothing more about the matter, but that I love him and am his.
If he loves me not, yet will I love him."

(Vv. 1047-1066.) Thus he and she utter their complaint, unhappy at night
and worse by day, each hiding the truth from the other's eyes. In such
distress they remained a long time in Brittany, I believe, until the end
of the summer came. At the beginning of October there came messengers
by Dover from London and Canterbury, bearing to the King news which
troubled him. The messengers told him that he might be tarrying too long
in Brittany; for, he to whom he had entrusted the kingdom was intending
to withstand him, and had already summoned a great army of his vassals
and friends, and had established himself in London for the purpose of
defending the city against Arthur when he should return.

(Vv. 1067-1092.) When the King heard this news, angry and sore
displeased he summons all his knights. In order the better to spur them
on to punish the traitor, he tells them that they are entirely to blame
for his trouble and strife; for on their advice he entrusted his land to
the hands of the traitor, who is worse than Ganelon. [215] There is not
a single one who does not agree that the King is right, for he had only
followed their advice; but now this man is to be outlawed, and you may
be sure that no town or city will avail to save his body from being
dragged out by force. Thus they all assure the King, giving him their
word upon oath, that they will deliver the traitor to him, or never
again claim their fiefs. And the King proclaims throughout Brittany that
no one who can bear arms shall refuse to follow him at once.

(Vv. 1093-1146.) All Brittany is now astir. Never was such an army seen
as King Arthur brought together. When the ships came to set sail, it
seemed that the whole world was putting out to sea; for even the water
was hid from view, being covered with the multitude of ships. It is
certainly true that, to judge by the commotion, all Brittany is under
way. Now the ships have crossed the Channel, and the assembled host is
quartered on the shore. Alexander bethought himself to go and pray the
King to make him a knight, for if ever he should win renown it will be
in this war. Prompted by his desire, he takes his companions with him
to accomplish what he has in mind. On reaching the King's quarters, they
found him seated before his tent. When he saw the Greeks approaching, he
summoned them to him, saying: "Gentlemen, do not conceal what business
has brought you here." Alexander replied on behalf of all, and told him
his desire: "I have come," he says, "to request of you, as I ought to do
of my liege lord, on behalf of my companions and myself, that you should
make us knights." The King replies: "Very gladly; nor shall there be any
delay about it, since you have preferred your request." Then the
King commands that equipment shall be furnished for twelve knights.
Straightway the King's command is done. As each one asks for his
equipment, it is handed to him--rich arms and a good horse: thus each
one received his outfit. The arms and robes and horse were of equal
value for each of the twelve; but the harness for Alexander s body, if
it should be valued or sold, was alone worth as much as that of all the
other twelve. At the water's edge they stripped, and then washed and
bathed themselves. Not wishing that any other bath should be heated for
them, they washed in the sea and used it as their tub. [216]

(Vv. 1147-1196.) All this is known to the Queen, who bears Alexander no
ill will, but rather loves, esteems, and values him. She wishes to make
Alexander a gift, but it is far more precious than she thinks. She seeks
and delves in all her boxes until she finds a white silk shirt, well
made of delicate texture, and very soft. Every thread in the stitching
of it was of gold, or of silver at least. Soredamors had taken a hand in
the stitching of it here and there, and at intervals, in the sleeves and
neck, she had inserted beside the gold a strand of her own hair, to see
if any man could be found who, by close examination, could detect the
difference. For the hair was quite as bright and golden as the thread of
gold itself. The Queen takes the shirt and presents it to Alexander. Ah,
God! What joy would Alexander have felt had he known what the Queen was
giving him! And how glad would she, too, have been, who had inserted her
own hair, if she had known that her lover was to own and wear it! She
could then have taken great comfort; for she would not have cared
so much for all the hair she still possessed as for the little that
Alexander had. But, more is the pity, neither of them knew the truth.
The Queen's messenger finds the youths on the shore where they are
bathing, and gives the shirt to Alexander. He is greatly pleased with
it, esteeming the present all the more because it was given him by the
Queen. But if he had known the rest, he would have valued it still more;
in exchange for it he would not have taken the whole world, but rather
would have made a shrine of it and worshipped it, doubtless, day and
night.

(Vv. 1197-1260.) Alexander delays no longer, but dresses himself at
once. When he was dressed and ready, he returned to the King's tent with
all his companions. The Queen, it seems, had come there, too, wishing
to see the new knights present themselves. They might all be called
handsome, but Alexander with his shapely body was the fairest of them
all. Well, now that they are knights I will say no more of them for the
present, but will tell of the King and of his host which came to
London. Most of the people remained faithful to him, though many allied
themselves with the opposition. Count Angres assembled his forces,
consisting of all those whose influence could be gained by promises or
gifts. When he had gathered all his strength, he slipped away quietly at
night, fearing to be betrayed by the many who hated him. But before he
made off, he sacked London as completely as possible of provisions, gold
and silver, which he divided among his followers. This news was told to
the King, how the traitor had escaped with all his forces, and that
he had carried off from the city so many supplies that the distressed
citizens were impoverished and destitute. Then the King replied that
he would not take a ransom for the traitor, but rather hang him, if he
could catch him or lay hands on him. Thereupon, all the army proceeded
to Windsor. However it may be now, in those days the castle was not easy
to take when any one chose to defend it. The traitor made it secure, as
soon as he planned his treacherous deed, with a triple line of walls
and moats, and had so braced the walls inside with sharpened stakes that
catapults could not throw them down. They had taken great pains with the
fortifications, spending all of June, July, and August in building walls
and barricades, making moats and drawbridges, ditches, obstructions, and
barriers, and iron portcullises and a great square tower of stone. The
gate was never closed from fear or against assault. The castle stood
upon a high hill, and around beneath it flows the Thames. The host
encamped on the river bank, and that day they have time only to pitch
camp and set up the tents.

(Vv. 1261-1348.) The army is in camp beside the Thames, and all the
meadow is filled with green and red tents. The sun, striking on the
colours, causes the river to flash for more than a league around. Those
in the town had come down to disport themselves upon the river bank with
only their lances in their hands and their shields grasped before their
breasts, and carrying no other arms at all. In coming thus, they showed
those without the walls that they stood in no fear of them. Alexander
stood aloof and watched the knights disporting themselves at feats of
arms. He yearns to attack them, and summons his companions one by one
by name. First Cornix, whom he dearly loved, then the doughty Licorides,
then Nabunal of Mvcene, and Acorionde of Athens, and Ferolin of
Salonica, and Calcedor from Africa, Parmenides and Francagel, mighty
Torin and Pinabel, Nerius and Neriolis. "My lords," he says, "I feel the
call to go with shield and lance to make the acquaintance of those who
disport themselves yonder before our eyes. I see they scorn us and hold
us in slight esteem, when they come thus without their arms to exercise
before our very eyes. We have just been knighted, and have not yet given
an account of ourselves against any knight or manikin. [217] We have
kept our first lances too long intact. And for what were our shields
intended? As yet, they have not a hole or crack to show. There is no use
in having them except in a combat or a fight. Let's cross the ford and
rush at them!" "We shall not fail you," all reply; and each one adds:
"So help me God, who fails you now is no friend of yours." Then they
fasten on their swords, tighten their saddles and girths, and mount
their steeds with shields in hand. When they had hung the shields about
their necks, and taken their lances with the gaily coloured ensigns,
they all proceed to the ford at once. Those on the farther side lower
their lances, and quickly ride to strike at them. But they (on the
hither bank) knew how to pay them back, not sparing nor avoiding them,
nor yielding to them a foot of ground. Rather, each man struck his
opponent so fiercely that there is no knight so brave but is compelled
to leave the saddle. They did not underestimate the experience, skill,
and bravery of their antagonists, but made their first blows count, and
unhorsed thirteen of them. The report spread to the camp of the fight
and of the blows that were being struck. There would soon have been a
merry strife if the others had dared to stand their ground. All through
the camp they run to arms, and raising a shout they cross the ford. And
those on the farther bank take to flight, seeing no advantage in staying
where they are. And the Greeks pursue them with blows of lance and
sword. Though they struck off many a head they themselves did not
receive a wound, and gave a good account of themselves that day. But
Alexander distinguished himself, who by his own efforts led off four
captive knights in bonds. The sands are strewn with headless dead, while
many others lie wounded and injured.

(Vv. 1349-1418.) Alexander courteously presents the victims of his first
conquest to the Queen, not wishing them to fall into the hands of the
King, who would have had them all hanged. The Queen, however, had them
seized and safely kept under guard, as being charged with treason.
Throughout the camp they talk of the Greeks, and all maintain that
Alexander acted very courteously and wisely in not surrendering the
knights whom he had captured to the King, who would surely have had them
burned or hanged. But the King is not so well satisfied, and sending
promptly to the Queen he bids her come into his presence and not detain
those who have proved treacherous towards him, for either she must give
them up or offend him by keeping them. While the Queen was in conference
with the King, as was necessary, about the traitors, the Greeks
remained in the Queen's tent with her maids-in-waiting. While his twelve
companions conversed with them, Alexander uttered not a word. Soredamors
took note of this, seated as she was close by his side. Her head resting
upon her hand, it was plain that she was lost in thought. [218] Thus
they sat a long time, until Soredamors saw on his sleeve and about his
neck the hair which she had stitched into the shirt. Then she drew a
little closer thinking now to find an excuse for speaking a word to him.
She considers how she can address him first, and what the first word is
to be--whether she should address him by his name; and thus she takes
counsel with herself: "What shall I say first?" she says; "shall I
address him by his name, or shall I call him 'friend'? Friend? Not I.
How then? Shall I call him by his name? God! The name of 'friend' is
fair and sweet to take upon the lips. If I should dare to call him
'friend'! Should I dare? What forbids me to do so? The fact that that
implies a lie. A lie? I know not what the result will be, but I shall be
sorry if I do not speak the truth. Therefore, it is best to admit that
I should not like to speak a lie. God! yet he would not speak a lie were
he to call me his sweet friend! And should I lie in thus addressing him?
We ought both to tell the truth. But if I lie the fault is his. But why
does his name seem so hard to me that I should wish to replace it by a
surname? I think it is because it is so long that I should stop in the
middle. But if I simply called him 'friend', I could soon utter so short
a name. Fearing lest I should break down in uttering his proper name, I
would fain shed my blood if his name were simply 'my sweet friend.'"

(Vv. 1419-1448.) She turns this thought over in her mind until the Queen
returns from the King who had summoned her. Alexander, seeing her come,
goes to meet her, and inquires what is the King's command concerning
the prisoners, and what is to be their fate. "Friend," says she, "he
requires of me to surrender them at his discretion, and to let his
justice be carried out. Indeed, he is much incensed that I have not
already handed them over. So I must needs send them to him, since I see
no help for it." Thus they passed that day; and the next day there was
a great assembly of all the good and loyal knights before the royal tent
to sit in judgment and decide by what punishment and torture the four
traitors should die. Some hold that they should be flayed alive, and
others that they should be hanged or burned. And the King, for his part,
maintains that traitors ought to be torn asunder. Then he commands them
to be brought in. When they are brought, he orders them to be bound, and
says that they shall not be torn asunder until they are taken beneath
the town, so that those within may see the sight. [219]

(Vv. 1449-1472.) When this sentence was pronounced, the King addresses
Alexander, calling him his dear friend. "My friend," he says, "yesterday
I saw you attack and defend yourself with great bravery. I wish now
to reward your action! I will add to your company five hundred Welsh
knights and one thousand troopers from that land. In addition to what I
have given you, when the war is over I will crown you king of the best
kingdom in Wales. Towns and castles, cities and halls will I give you
until the time you receive the land which your father holds, and
of which you are to be emperor." Alexander's companions join him in
thanking the King kindly for this boon, and all the nobles of the court
say that the honour which the King has bestowed upon Alexander is well
deserved.

(Vv. 1473-1490.) As soon as Alexander sees his force, consisting of the
companions and the men-at-arms whom it had pleased the King to give him,
straightway they begin to sound the horns and trumpets throughout the
camp. Men of Wales and Britain, of Scotland and Cornwall, both good and
bad without exception--all take arms, for the forces of the host were
recruited from all quarters. The Thames was low because of the drought
resulting from a summer without rain, so that all the fish were dead,
and the ships were stranded upon the shore, and it was possible to ford
the stream even in the widest part.

(Vv. 1491-1514.) After fording the Thames, the army divided, some taking
possession of the valley, and others occupying the high ground. Those
in the town take notice of them, and when they see approaching the
wonderful array, bent upon reducing and taking the town, they prepare
on their side to defend it. But before any assault is made, the King has
the traitors drawn by four horses through the valleys and over the hills
and unploughed fields. At this Count Angres is much distressed, when he
sees those whom he held dear dragged around outside the town. And his
people, too, are much dismayed, but in spite of the anxiety which they
feel, they have no mind to yield the place. They must needs defend
themselves, for the King makes it plain to all that he is angry, and
ill-disposed, and they see that if he should lay hands upon them he
would make them die a shameful death.

(Vv.1515-1552.) When the four had been torn asunder and their limbs lay
strewn upon the field, then the assault begins. But all their labour is
in vain, for no matter how much they cast and shoot, their efforts are
of no effect. Yet they strive to do their utmost, hurling their javelins
amain, and shooting darts and bolts. On all sides is heard the din of
cross-bows and slings as the arrows and the round stones fly thick,
like rain mixed with hail. Thus all day long the struggle of attack and
defence continues, until the night separates them. And the King causes
to be proclaimed what gift he will bestow upon him who shall effect the
surrender of the town: a cup of great price weighing fifteen marks of
gold, the richest in his treasure, shall be his reward. The cup will be
very fine and rich, and, to tell the truth, the cup is to be esteemed
for the workmanship rather than for the material of which it is made.
But good as the workmanship may be, and fine though the gold, if the
truth be told, the precious stones set in the outside of the cup were of
most value. He through whose efforts the town shall be taken is to have
the cup, if he be only a foot soldier; and if the town is taken by a
knight, with the cup in his possession he shall never seek his fortune
in vain, if there is any to be found in the world.

(Vv. 1553-1712.) When this news was announced, Alexander had not
forgotten his custom of going to see the Queen each evening. That night,
too, he had gone thither and was seated beside the Queen. Soredamors was
sitting alone close by them, looking at him with such satisfaction
that she would not have exchanged her lot for Paradise. The Queen took
Alexander by the hand, and examined the golden thread which was showing
the effects of wear; but the strand of hair was becoming more lustrous,
while the golden thread was tarnishing. And she laughed as she happened
to recall that the embroidery was the work of Soredamors. Alexander
noticed this, and begged her to tell him, if suitable, why she laughed.
The Queen was slow to make reply, and looking toward Soredamors, bade
her come to her. Gladly she went and knelt before her. Alexander was
overjoyed when he saw her draw so near that he could have touched her.
But he is not so bold as even to look at her; but rather does he so lose
his senses that he is well-nigh speechless. And she, for her part, is so
overcome that she has not the use of her eyes; but she casts her glance
upon the ground without fastening it upon anything. The Queen marvels
greatly at seeing her now pale, now crimson, and she notes well in her
heart the bearing and expression of each of them. She notices and thinks
she sees that these changes of colour are the fruit of love. But not
wishing to embarrass them, she pretends to understand nothing of what
she sees. In this she did well, for she gave no evidence of what was in
her mind beyond saying: "Look here, damsel, and tell us truly where the
shirt was sewed that this knight has on, and if you had any hand in
it or worked anything of yours into it." Though the maiden feels some
shame, yet she tells the story gladly; for she wishes the truth to be
known by him, who, when he hears her tell of how the shirt was made, can
hardly restrain himself for joy from worshipping and adoring the golden
hair. His companions and the Queen, who were with him, annoy him and
embarrass him; for their presence prevents him from raising the hair to
his eyes and mouth, as he would fain have done, had he not thought that
it would be remarked. He is glad to have so much of his lady, but he
does not hope or expect ever to receive more from her: his very desire
makes him dubious. Yet, when he has left the Queen and is by himself, he
kisses it more than a hundred thousand times, feeling how fortunate he
is. All night long he makes much of it, but is careful that no one shall
see him. As he lies upon his bed, he finds a vain delight and solace in
what can give him no satisfaction. All night he presses the shirt in his
arms, and when he looks at the golden hair, he feels like the lord of
the whole wide world. Thus Love makes a fool of this sensible man,
who finds his delight in a single hair and is in ecstasy over its
possession. But this charm will come to an end for him before the sun's
bright dawn. For the traitors are met in council to discuss what they
can do; and what their prospects are. To be sure they will be able to
make a long defence of the town if they determine so to do; but they
know the King's purpose to be so firm that he will not give up his
efforts to take the town so long as he lives, and when that time comes
they needs must die. And if they should surrender the town, they need
expect no mercy for doing so. Thus either outcome looks dark indeed, for
they see no help, but only death in either case. But this decision at
last is reached, that the next morning, before dawn appears, they shall
issue secretly from the town and find the camp disarmed, and the knights
still sleeping in their beds. Before they wake and get their armour
on there will have been such slaughter done that posterity will always
speak of the battle of that night. Having no further confidence in life,
the traitors as a last resort all subscribe to this design. Despair
emboldened them to fight, whatever the result might be; for they see
nothing sure in store for them save death or imprisonment. Such an
outcome is not attractive; nor do they see any use in flight, for they
see no place where they could find refuge should they betake themselves
to flight, being completely surrounded by the water and their enemies.
So they spend no more time in talk, but arm and equip themselves and
make a sally by an old postern gate [220] toward the north-west, that
being the side where they thought the camp would least expect attack.
In serried ranks they sallied forth, and divided their force into five
companies, each consisting of two thousand well armed foot, in addition
to a thousand knights. That night neither star nor moon had shed a ray
across the sky. But before they reached the tents, the moon began to
show itself, and I think it was to work them woe that it rose sooner
than was its wont. Thus God, who opposed their enterprise, illumined
the darkness of the night, having no love for these evil men, but rather
hating them for their sin. For God hates traitors and treachery more
than any other sin. So the moon began to shine in order to hamper their
enterprise.

(Vv. 1713-1858.) They are much hampered by the moon, as it shines upon
their shields, and they are handicapped by their helmets, too, as they
glitter in the moonlight. They are detected by the pickets keeping watch
over the host, who now shout throughout the camp: "Up, knights, up! Rise
quickly, take your arms and arm yourselves! The traitors are upon us."
Through all the camp they run to arms, and hastily strive to equip
themselves in the urgent need; but not a single one of them left his
place until they were all comfortably armed and mounted upon their
steeds. While they are arming themselves, the attacking forces are eager
for battle and press forward, hoping to catch them off their guard and
find them disarmed. They bring up from different directions the five
companies into which they had divided their troops: some hug the woods,
others follow the river, the third company deploys upon the plain, while
the fourth enters a valley, and the fifth proceeds beside a rocky cliff.
For they planned to fall upon the tents suddenly with great fury.
But they did not find the path clear. For the King's men resist them,
defying them courageously and reproaching them for their treason. Their
iron lance-tips are splintered and shattered as they meet; they come
together with swords drawn, striking each other and casting each other
down upon the face. They rush upon each other with the fury of lions,
which devour whatever they capture. In this first rush there was heavy
slaughter on both sides. When they can no longer maintain themselves,
help comes to the traitors, who are defending themselves bravely and
selling their lives dearly. They see their troops from four sides arrive
to succour them. And the King's men ride hard with spur to attack them.
They deal such blows upon their shields that, beside the wounded, they
unhorse more than five hundred of them. Alexander, with his Greeks,
has no thought of sparing them, making every effort to prevail into the
thickest of the fight he goes to strike a knave whose shield and hauberk
are of no avail to keep him from falling to the earth. When he has
finished with him, he offers his service to another freely and without
stint, and serves him, too, so savagely that he drives the soul from his
body quite, and leaves the apartment without a tenant. After these two,
he addresses himself to another, piercing a noble and courteous knight
clean through and through, so that the blood spurts out on the other
side, and his expiring soul takes leave of the body. Many he killed and
many stunned, for like a flying thunderbolt he blasts all those whom
he seeks out. Neither coat of mail nor shield can protect him whom he
strikes with lance or sword. His companions, too, are generous in the
spilling of blood and brains, for they, too, know well how to deal their
blows. And the royal troops butcher so many of them that they break them
up and scatter them like low-born folk who have lost their heads. So
many dead lay about the fields, and so long did the battle rage, that
long before the day dawned the ranks were so cut in pieces that the rows
of dead stretched for five leagues along the stream. Count Angres leaves
his banner on the field and steals away, accompanied by only seven of
his men. Towards his town he made his way by a secret path, thinking
that no one could see him. But Alexander notices this, and sees them
escaping from the troops, and he thinks that if he can slip away without
the knowledge of any one, he will go to catch up with them. But before
he got down into the valley, he saw thirty knights following him down
the path, of whom six were Greeks, and twenty-four were men of Wales.
These intended to follow him at a distance until he should stand in need
of them. When Alexander saw them coming, he stopped to wait for them,
without failing to observe what course was taken by those who were
making their way back to the town. Finally, he saw them enter it. Then
he began to plan a very daring deed and a very marvellous design. And
when he had made up his mind, he turned toward his companions and thus
addressed them: "My lords," says he, "whether it be folly or wisdom,
frankly grant me my desire if you care for my good-will." And they
promised him never to oppose his will in aught. Then he says: "Let
us change our outer gear, by taking the shields and lances from the
traitors whom we have killed. Thus, when we approach the town, the
traitors within will suppose that we are of their party, and regardless
of the fate in store for them, they will throw open the gates for us.
And do you know what reward we shall offer them? If God so will we shall
take them all dead or alive. Now, if any of you repents of his promise,
be sure that, so long as I live, I shall never hold him dear."

(Vv. 1859-1954.) All the others grant his boon, and, despoiling the
corpses of their shields, they arm themselves with them instead. The
men within the town had mounted to the battlements, and, recognising the
shields, suppose that they belong to their party, never dreaming of the
ruse hidden beneath the shields. The gatekeeper opens the gate for
them and admits them to the town. He is beguiled and deceived in not
addressing them a word; for no one of them speaks to him, but silently
and mute they pass, making such a show of grief that they trail their
lances after them and support themselves upon their shields. Thus it
seems that they are in great distress, as they pass on at their own
sweet will until they are within the triple walls. Inside they find a
number of men-at-arms and knights with the Count. I cannot tell you
just how many; but they were unarmed, except eight of them who had just
returned from the fight, and even they were preparing to remove their
arms. But their haste was ill considered; for now the other party make
no further pretence, but without any challenge by way of warning, they
brace themselves in the stirrups, and let their horses charge straight
at them, attacking them with such rigour that they lay low more than
thirty-one of them. The traitors in great dismay shout out: "We are
betrayed, betrayed!" But the assailants take no heed of this, and let
those whom they find unarmed feel the temper of their swords. Indeed,
three of those whom they found still armed were so roughly handled that
but five remained alive. Count Angres rushed at Calcedor, and in the
sight of all struck him upon his golden shield with such violence that
he stretched him dead upon the ground. Alexander is greatly troubled,
and is almost beside himself with rage when he sees his companion dead;
his blood boils with anger, but his strength and courage are doubled
as he strikes the Count with such fury that he breaks his lance. If
possible, he would avenge his friend. But the Count was a powerful man
and a good and hardy knight, whose match it would have been hard to
find, had he not been a base traitor. He now returns the blow, making
his lance double up so that it splits and breaks; but the other's shield
holds firm, and neither gives way before the other any more than a rock
would do, for both men were passing strong. But the fact that the Count
was in the wrong disturbs him greatly and troubles him. [221] The anger
of each rises higher as they both draw their swords after their lances
had been broken. No escape would have been possible if these two
swordsmen had persisted in continuing the fight. But at last one or the
other must die. The Count dares not longer hold his ground, when he sees
lying dead about him his men who had been caught unarmed. Meanwhile the
others press them hard, cutting, slashing, and carving them, spilling
their brains, and reproaching the Count for his treachery. When he hears
himself accused of treason, he flees for safety to his tower, followed
by his men. And their enemies follow after them, fiercely charging them
from the rear, and not letting a single one escape of all upon whom they
lay their hands. They kill and slay so many of them that I guess not
more than seven made good their escape.

(Vv. 1955-2056.) When they had got inside the tower, they made a stand
at the gate; for those who were coming close behind had followed so
closely after them that they too would have pressed in had the gateway
been left exposed. The traitors make a brave defence, waiting for
succour from their friends, who were arming themselves down in the town.
But upon the advice of Nabunal, who was a Greek of great wisdom, the
approach was blocked so that relief could not arrive in time; for those
below had tarried too long, either from cowardice or sloth. Now there
was only one entrance to the stronghold; so that, if they stop that
entrance-way, they need have no fear that any force shall approach to do
them harm. Nabunal bids and exhorts twenty of them to hold the gate;
for soon such a company might arrive with force as would do them harm
by their assault and attack. While these twenty hold the gate, the
remaining ten should attack the tower and prevent the Count from
barricading himself inside. Nabunal's advice is taken: ten remain to
continue the assault at the entrance of the tower, while twenty go to
defend the gate. In doing so, they delay almost too long; for they see
approaching, furious and keen for the fight, a company containing many
cross-bow men and foot soldiers of different grades who carried arms
of divers sorts. Some carried light missiles, and others Danish axes,
lances and Turkish swords, bolts for cross-bows, arrows and javelins.
The Greeks would have had to pay a heavy score, if this crowd had
actually fallen upon them; but they did not reach the place in time.
Nabunal by his foresight and counsel had blocked their plans, and they
were forced to remain outside. When they see that they are shut out,
they pause in their advance, as it is evident they can gain nothing by
making an assault. Then there begins such weeping and wailing of women
and young children, of old men and youths, that those in the town
could not have heard a thunder-clap from heaven. At this the Greeks are
overjoyed; for now they know of a certainty that the Count by no good
luck can escape capture. Four of them mount the walls to keep watch lest
those outside by any means or ruse should enter the stronghold and
fall upon them. The remaining sixteen returned to where the ten were
fighting. The day was already breaking, and the ten had fought so well
that they had forced their way within the tower. The Count took his
stand against a post, and, armed with a battleaxe, defended himself with
great bravery. Those whom he reaches, he splits in half. And his men
line up about him, and are not slow to avenge themselves in this last
stand of the day, Alexander's men have reason to complain, for of the
original sixteen there remain now but thirteen. Alexander is almost
beside himself when he sees the havoc wrought among his dead or
exhausted followers. Yet his thoughts are fixed on vengeance: finding at
hand a long heavy club, he struck one of the rascals with it so fiercely
that neither shield nor hauberk was worth a button in preventing him
from failing to the ground. After finishing with him, he pursues the
Count, and raising his club to strike him he deals him such a blow with
his square club that the axe falls from his hands; and he was so stunned
and bewildered that he could not have stood up unless he had leaned
against the wall.

(Vv. 2057-2146.) After this blow the battle ceases. Alexander leaps at
the Count and holds him so that he cannot move. Of the others nothing
need be said, for they were easily mastered when they saw the capture
of their lord. All are made prisoners with the Count and led away in
disgrace, in accordance with their deserts. Of all this the men outside
knew nothing. But when morning came they found their companions shields
lying among the slain when the battle was over. Then the Greeks, misled,
made a great lament for their lord. Recognising his shield, all are in
an agony of grief, swooning at sight of his shield and saying that
now they have lived too long. Cornix and Nerius first swoon, then,
recovering their senses, wish they were dead. So do Torin and Acorionde.
The tears run down in floods from their eyes upon their breasts. Life
and joy seem hateful now. And Parmenides more than the rest tore his
hair in dire distress. No greater grief could be shown than that of
these five for their lord. Yet, their dismay is groundless, for it is
another's body which they bear away when they think to have their lord.
Their distress is further increased by the sight of the other shields,
which cause them to mistake these corpses for their companions. So over
them they lament and swoon. But they are deceived by all these shields,
for of their men only one was killed, whose name was Neriolis. Him,
indeed, they would have borne away had they known the truth. But they
are in as great anxiety for the others as for him; so they bore them
all away. In every case but one they were misled. But like the man who
dreams and takes a fiction for the truth, so the shields cause them to
suppose this illusion to be a reality. It is the shields, then, that
cause this mistake. [222] Carrying the corpses, they move away and come
to their tents, where there was a sorrowing troop. Upon hearing the
lament raised by the Greeks, soon all the others gathered, until there
was but one great outcry. Now Saredamors thinks of her wretched estate
when she hears the cry and lament over her lover. Their anguish and
distress cause her to lose her senses and her colour, and her grief and
sorrow are increased because she dares not openly show a trace of her
distress. She shut up her grief within her heart. Had any one looked at
her, he could have seen by the expression of her face what agony she was
in; but every one was so engrossed with his own sorrow that he had no
care for another's grief. Each one lamented his own loss. For they find
the river bank covered with their relatives and friends, who had been
wounded or roughly treated. Each one wept for his own heavy and bitter
loss: here is a son weeping for a father, there a father for a son;
one swoons at the sight of his cousin, another over his nephew. Thus
fathers, brothers, and relatives bemoan their loss on every side. But
above all is noticeable the sorrow of the Greeks; and yet they might
have anticipated great joy, for the deepest grief of all the camp will
soon be changed into rejoicing.

(Vv. 2147-2200.) The Greeks outside continue their lament, while
those inside strive to let them know the news which will cause them to
rejoice. They disarm and bind their prisoners, who pray and beg of them
to strike off their heads straightway. But the Greeks are unwilling, and
disdain their entreaties, saying that them will keep then under guard
and hand them over to the King, who will grant them such recompense as
shall require their services. When they had disarmed them all they made
them go up on the wall that they might be seen by the troops below. This
privilege is not to their liking, and when they saw their lord bound as
a prisoner, they were unhappy men. Alexander upon the walls swears to
God and all the saints that he will not let one of them live, but will
kill them all speedily, unless they will go to surrender to the King
before he can seize them. "Go," says he, "confidently to the King at
my command, and cast yourselves upon his mercy. None of you, except the
Count, has deserved to die. You shall not lose either life or limb if
you surrender to the King. If you do not deliver yourselves from death
by crying for mercy, you need have little hope of saving your lives or
bodies. Go forth disarmed to meet the King, and tell him from me that
Alexander sends you to him. Your action will not be in vain; for my lord
the King is so gentle and courteous that he will lay aside his wrath and
anger. But if you wish to act otherwise, you must expect to die, for his
heart will be closed to pity." All agree in accepting this advice, and
do not hesitate until they come to the King's tent, where they all fall
at his feet. The story they told was soon known throughout the camp.
The King and all his men mounted and spurred their horses to the town
without delay.

(Vv. 2201-2248.) Alexander goes out from the town to meet the King, who
was greatly pleased, and to surrender to him the Count. The King did not
delay in fitly punishing him. But Alexander is congratulated and praised
by the King and all the others who esteem him highly. Their joy drives
away the grief which they had felt not long before. But no joy of the
others can compare with the exultation of the Greeks. The King presents
him with the precious cup, weighing fifteen marks, and tells him
confidently that there is nothing in his possession so valuable that he
would not place it in his hands upon request--save only the crown and
the Queen. Alexander dares not mention his heart's desire, though he
knows well that he would not be refused in asking for his sweetheart's
hand. But he fears so much lest he might displease her, whose heart
would have been made glad, that he prefers to suffer without her rather
than to win her against her will. Therefore, he asks for a little time,
not wishing to prefer his request until he is sure of her pleasure. But
he asked for no respite or delay in accepting the cup of gold. He takes
the cup, and courteously begs my lord Gawain to accept this cup as
a gift from him, which Gawain did most reluctantly. When Soredamors
learned the truth about Alexander she was greatly pleased and delighted.
When she heard that he was alive, she was so happy that it seemed to
her as though she could never be sad again. But she reflects that he is
slower in coming than is his wont. Yet in good time she will have her
wish, for both of them in rivalry are occupied with one common thought.

(Vv. 2249-2278.) It seemed to Alexander an age before he could feast
his eyes with even one soft glance from her. Long ago he would fain have
gone to the Queen's tent, if he had not been detained elsewhere. He was
much put out by this delay, and as soon as he could, he betook himself
to the Queen in her tent. The Queen went to greet him, and, without his
having confided in her, she had already read his thoughts, and knew what
was passing in his mind. She greets him at the entrance of the tent, and
strives to make him welcome, well knowing for what purpose he has come.
Desirous of according him a favour, she beckons Soredamors to join them,
and they three engage in conversation at some distance from the rest.
The Queen first speaks, in whose mind there was no doubt that this
couple were in love. Of this fact she is quite sure, and is persuaded
moreover that Soredamors could not have a better lover. She took her
place between the two and began to say what was appropriate.

(Vv. 2279-2310.) "Alexander," says the Queen, "any love is worse than
hate, when it torments and distresses its devotee. Lovers know not what
they do when they conceal their passion from one another. Love is a
serious business, and whoever does not boldly lay its foundation firm
can hardly succeed in completing the edifice. They say there is nothing
so hard to cross as the threshold. Now I wish to instruct you in the
lore of love; for I know well that Love is tormenting you. Therefore, I
have undertaken to instruct you; and do you take good care not to keep
anything back from me, for I have plainly seen in the faces of you both
that of two hearts you have made but one. So beware, and conceal nothing
from me! You are acting very foolishly in not speaking out your mind;
for concealment will be the death of you; thus you will be the murderers
of Love. Now I counsel you to exercise no tyranny, and to seek no
passing gratification in your love; but to be honourably joined together
in marriage. So, I believe, your love shall long endure. I can assure
you that, if you agree to this, I will arrange the marriage."

(Vv. 2311-2360.) When the Queen had spoken her mind, Alexander thus made
reply: "Lady," he says, "I enter no defence against the charge you make,
but rather admit the truth of all you say. I wish never to be deserted
by love, but always to fix my thoughts on it. I am pleased and delighted
by what you have so kindly said. Since you know what my wishes are, I
see no reason why I should conceal them from you. Long ago, if I had
dared I would have confessed them openly; for the silence has been hard.
But it may well be that for some reason this maiden may not wish that I
be hers and she mine. But even if she grant me no rights over her, yet
will I place myself in her hands." At these words she trembled, having
no desire to refuse the gift. Her heart's desire betrays itself in her
words and her countenance. Falteringly she gives herself to him, and
says that without exception her will, her heart, and her body all is at
the disposal of the Queen, to do with her as she may please. The Queen
clasps them both in her arms, and presents one to the other. Then
laughingly she adds: "I give over to thee, Alexander, thy sweetheart's
body, and I know that thy heart does not draw back. Whoever may like it
or like it not, I give each of you to the other. Do thou, Soredamors,
take what is thine, and thou, Alexander, take what is thine!" Now she
has her own entire, and he has his without lack. At Windsor that day,
with the approval and permission of my lord Gawain and the King, the
marriage was celebrated. No one could tell, I am sure, so much of the
magnificence and the food, of the pleasure and entertainment, at this
wedding without falling short of the truth. Inasmuch as it would be
distasteful to some, I do not care to waste further words upon the
matter, but am anxious to turn to another subject.

(Vv. 2361-2382.) That day at Windsor Alexander had all the honour and
happiness that he could desire. Three different joys and honours were
his: one was the town which he captured; another was the present of the
best kingdom in Wales, which King Arthur had promised to give him when
the war was over; that very day he made him king in his hall. But the
greatest joy of all was the third--that his sweetheart was queen of the
chess-board where he was king. Before five months had passed, Soredamors
found herself with child, and carried it until the time was fulfilled.
The seed remained in germ until the fruit was fully matured. No more
beautiful child was ever born before or since than he whom they now
called Cliges.

(Vv. 2383-2456.) So Cliges was born, in whose honour this story has
been put in the Romance tongue. You shall hear me tell of him and of his
valorous deeds, when he shall have grown to manhood and obtained a good
report. But meanwhile in Greece it came about that he who ruled over
Constantinople drew near his end. He died, as indeed he must, not being
able to outlive his time. But before he died he assembled all the nobles
of his land to send and seek for his son Alexander, who was happily
detained in Britain. The messengers start out from Greece, and begin
their voyage over the seas; but a tempest catches them in its grasp, and
damages their ship and company. They were all drowned at sea, except one
unfaithful wretch, who was more devoted to Alis the younger son than to
Alexander the eider. When he escaped from the sea, he returned to
Greece with the story that they had all been lost at sea as they were
conducting their lord back from Britain, and that he was the only
survivor of the tragedy. They believed this lie of his, and, taking Alis
without objection or dissent, they crowned him emperor of Greece. But
it was not long before Alexander learned that Alis was emperor. Then he
took leave of King Arthur, unwilling to let his brother usurp his land
without protest. The King makes no opposition to his plan, but bids him
take with him so great a company of Welshmen, Scots, and Cornishmen that
his brother will not dare to withstand him when he sees him come with
such a host. Alexander, had he pleased, might have led a mighty force;
but he has no desire to harm his own people, if his brother will consent
to do his will. He took with him forty knights besides Soredamors and
his son; these two persons, who were so dear to him, he did not wish
to leave behind. Escorted as far as Shoreham by the entire court, they
there embarked, and with fair winds their ship made way more quickly
than a fleeing stag. Within a month, I think, they arrived in port
before Athens, a rich and powerful city. Indeed, the emperor was
residing there, and had convoked, a great assembly of his noblemen. As
soon as they arrived Alexander sent a privy messenger into the city to
learn whether they would receive him, or whether they would resist his
claim to be their only lawful lord.

(Vv. 2457-2494.) He who was chosen for this mission was a courteous
knight with good judgment, named Acorionde, a rich man and eloquent;
he was a native of the country, too, having been born in Athens. His
ancestors for generations had always exercised lordship in the city.
When he had learned that the emperor was in the city he went and
challenged the crown on behalf of his brother Alexander, accusing him
openly of having usurped it unlawfully. Arriving at the palace, he finds
plenty of people who welcome him; but he says nothing to any of those
who greet him until he learns what is their attitude and disposition
toward their lawful lord. Coming into the presence of the emperor he
neither greets him nor bows before him nor calls him emperor. "Alis,"
he says, "I bring thee tidings of Alexander, who is out yonder in the
harbour. Listen to thy brother's message: he asks thee for what belongs
to him, nor does he demand what is unjust. Constantinople, which thou
dost hold, should be his and shall be his. It would be neither just nor
right that discord should arise between you two. So give him the crown
without contest, for it is right that thou shouldst surrender it."

(Vv. 2495-2524.) Alis replies: "Fair gentle friend, thou hast undertaken
a mad enterprise in bearing this message. There is little comfort in
thy speech, for well I know that my brother is dead. I should rejoice,
indeed, to learn that he was still alive. But I shall not believe the
news until I have seen him with my eyes. He died some time ago, alas!
What thou sayest is not credible. And if he lives, why does he not come?
He need never fear that I will not bestow on him some lands. He is a
fool to hold aloof from me, for in serving me he will find profit. But
no one shall possess the crown and empire beside me." He liked not the
speech of the emperor, and did not fail to speak his mind in the reply
he made. "Alis," he says, "may God confound me if the matter is thus
allowed to stand. I defy thee in thy brother's name, and dutifully
speaking in his name, I summon all those whom I see here to renounce
thee and to join his cause. It is right that they should side with him
and recognise him as their lord. Let him who is loyal now stand forth."

(Vv. 2525-2554.) Upon saying this he leaves the court, and the emperor
summons those in whom he has most confidence. He requests their advice
concerning this defiance upon his brother's part, and wishes to learn
if he can trust them to lend no support or help to his brother's claim.
Thus he tries to test the loyalty of each; but he finds not one who
sides with him in the dispute, rather do they all bid him remember the
war which Eteocles undertook against his own brother Polynices, and how
each one died by the other's hand. [223] "So, too, it may happen to you,
if you undertake a war, and all the land will be distressed." Therefore,
they advise that such a peace be sought as shall be both reasonable and
just, and that neither one make excessive demands. Thus Alis understands
that if he does not make an equitable agreement with his brother all his
vassals will desert him; so he says that he will respect their wishes in
making any suitable contract, provided that however the affair may rum
out the crown shall remain in his possession.

(Vv. 2555-2618.) In order to secure a firm and stable peace Alis sends
one of his officers to Alexander, bidding him come to him in person and
receive the government of the land, but stipulating that he should leave
to him the honour of emperor in name and of wearing the crown: thus, if
Alexander is willing, peace may be established between them. When this
news was brought to Alexander his men made ready with him and came to
Athens, where they were received with joy. But Alexander is not willing
that his brother should have the sovereignty of the empire and of the
crown unless he will pledge his word never to take a wife, and that
after him Cliges shall be emperor of Constantinople. Upon this the
brothers both agreed. Alexander dictated the terms of the oath, and his
brother agreed and gave his word that he would never in his life take a
wife in marriage. So peace is made, and they are friends again, to the
great satisfaction of the lords. They hold Alis as their emperor, but
all business is referred to Alexander. What he commands is done, and
little is done except through him. Alis has nothing but the name of
emperor; but Alexander is served and loved; and he who does not serve
him for love must needs do so from fear. Through the effect of one or
the other of these two motives he has all the land within his power. But
he whom they call Death spares neither the strong man nor the weak, but
kills and slays them all. So Alexander had to die; for a disease caught
him in its grip from which he could obtain no relief. But before he
was surprised by death he summoned his son and said to him: "Fair son
Cliges, thou canst never know that prowess and valour are thine unless
thou go first to make test of them with the Bretons and French at King
Arthur's court. If adventure takes thee thither, so conduct and demean
thyself that thy identity be not known until thou hast tried thy
strength with the most excellent knights of that court. I beg thee to
heed my counsel in this matter, and if the occasion arises have no fear
to measure thy skill with thy uncle, my lord Gawain. Do not forget this
advice, I pray."

(Vv. 2619-2665.) After he had thus exhorted him, he did not live long.
Soredamors' grief was such that she could not survive him, but
died after him of a broken heart. Alis and Cliges both mourned him
becomingly, but finally they ceased their grief, for sorrow, like
everything else, must be outlived. To continue in sorrow is wrong, for
no good can come from it. So the mourning was ended, and the emperor
refrained for a long time from taking a wife, being careful of his word.
But there is no court in all the world which is free from evil counsel.
Great men often go astray, and do not observe loyalty because of the bad
advice they take. Thus, the emperor hears his men giving him advice and
counselling him to take a wife; and daily they so exhort and urge him
that by their very insistence they persuade him to break his oath, and
to accede to their desire. But he insists that she who is to be mistress
of Constantinople must be gentle, fair, wise, rich, and noble. Then his
counsellors say that they wish to prepare to go away to the German land,
and seek the daughter of the emperor. She is the choice they propose
to him; for the emperor of Germany is very rich and powerful, and his
daughter is so charming that never was there a maid of her beauty in
Christendom. The emperor grants them full authority, and they set out
upon the journey well provided with all they need. They proceeded on
their way until they found the emperor at Regensburg, when they asked
him to give them his oldest daughter at the instance of their lord.

(Vv. 2669-2680.) The emperor was pleased with this request, and gladly
gave them his daughter; for in doing so, he does not debase himself, nor
diminish his honour in any way. But he says that he had promised her
to the Duke of Saxony, and that they would not be able to lead her away
unless the emperor should come with a great army, so that the duke would
be unable to do him any harm or injury while homeward bound.

(Vv. 2681-2706.) When the messengers heard the emperor's reply, they
took leave and departed. They returned to their lord, and bore him
the answer. And the emperor selected a chosen company of the most
experienced knights whom he could find, and took with him his nephew,
in whose interests he had vowed never to marry a wife, but he will not
respect this vow if he can once reach Cologne. [224] Upon a certain day
he leaves Greece and draws near to Germany, intending to take a wife
despite all blame and reproach; but his honour will be smirched. Upon
reaching Cologne, he found that the emperor had assembled all his court
for a festival. When the company of the Greeks reached Cologne, there
was such a great number of Greeks and Germans that it was necessary to
lodge more than sixty thousand of them outside the city.

(Vv.2707-2724.) Great was the crowd of people, and great the joy of the
two emperors when they met. When the barons had gathered in the vast
palace, the emperor summoned his charming daughter. The maiden made no
delay in coming straightway into the palace. She had been made very fair
and shapely by the Creator, whose pleasure it had been to arouse the
people's admiration. God, who had fashioned her, never gave man a word
which could adequately express such beauty as she possessed.

(Vv. 2725-2760.) Fenice was the maiden's name, and for this there
was good reason: [225] for if the Phoenix bird is unique as the most
beautiful of all the birds, so Fenice, it seems to me, had no equal in
beauty. She was such a miracle and marvel that Nature was never able to
make her like again. In order to be more brief, I will not describe in
words her arms, her body, her head and hands; for if I should live a
thousand years, and if my skill were to double every day, yet should
I waste all my time in trying to tell the truth about her. I know very
well, if I should undertake it, that I would exhaust my brain and waste
my pains: it would be but misspent energy. [226] The damsel hastened
until she came into the palace, with head uncovered and face unveiled;
and the radiance of her beauty lighted the palace more brightly than
four carbuncles would have done. Cliges stood, his over-cloak removed,
in his uncle's presence. The day outside was somewhat dark, but he and
the maiden were both so fair that a ray shone forth from their beauty
which illumined the palace, just as the morning sun shines clear and
red.

(Vv. 2761-2792.) I wish to attempt in a very few words to describe the
beauty of Cliges. He was in his flower, being now almost fifteen years
of age. He was more comely and charming than Narcissus who saw his
reflection in the spring beneath the elm-tree, and, when he saw it,
he loved it so that he died, they say, because he could not get it.
Narcissus was fair, but had little sense; [227] but as fine gold
surpasses copper, so was Cliges better endowed with wisdom, and even
then I have not said all. His locks seemed made of fine gold, and his
face was of a fresh rosy colour. He had a well-formed nose and shapely
mouth, and in stature he was built upon Nature's best pattern; for in
him she had united gifts which she is wont to scatter wide. Nature was
so lavish with him that she gave him all she could, and placed all in
one receptacle. Such was Cliges, who combined good sense and beauty,
generosity and strength. He possessed the wood as well as the bark;
he knew more of fencing and of the bow than did Tristan, King Mark's
nephew, and more about birds and hounds than he. [228] In Cliges there
lacked no good thing.

(Vv. 2793-2870.) Cliges stood in all his beauty before his uncle, and
those who did not know who he was looked at him with eager curiosity.
And on the other hand, the interest was aroused of those who did not
know the maiden: wonderingly they gaze upon her. But Cliges, under the
sway of love, let his eyes rest on her covertly, and withdrew them again
so discreetly that in their passage to and fro no one could blame his
lack of skill. Blithely he looks upon the maid, but does not note that
she repays him in kind. Not flattering him, but in sincere love, she
gives him her eyes, and takes back his. This exchange seems good to her,
and would have seemed to her better still had she known something of who
he was. But she knows nothing except that he is fair, and that, if she
is ever to love any one for beauty's sake, she need not seek elsewhere
to bestow her heart. She handed over to him the possession of her eyes
and heart, and he pledged his in turn to her. Pledged? Rather gave
outright. Gave? Nay, upon my faith, I lie; for no one can give away his
heart. I must express it some other way. I will not say it, as some have
done who make two hearts dwell in one body, for it bears not even the
semblance of truth that there should be in one body two hearts; and even
if they could be so united, it would never seem true. But if it please
you to heed my words, I shall be able explain how two hearts form but
one without coming to be identified. Only so far are they merged in one
as the desire of each passes from one to the other, thus joining in one
common desire; and because of this harmony of desire, there are some who
are wont to say that each one has both hearts; but one heart cannot be
in two places. Each one always keeps his own heart, though the desire
be shared by both, just as many different men may sing a song or tune
in unison. By this comparison I prove that for one body to contain two
hearts it is not enough to know each other's wish, nor yet for one to
know what the other loves and what he hates; just as voices which are
heard together seem to be merged in one, and yet do not all come from
one mouth, so it is with a body which can contain but one heart. But
there is no need of further argument, for other matters press upon me.
I must speak now of the damsel and of Cliges, and you shall hear of
the Duke of Saxony, who has sent to Cologne a young nephew of his. This
youth informs the emperor that his uncle, the duke, sends word that
he need expect no peace or trace with him, unless he sends to him his
daughter, and that the one who is intending to carry her away with him
had better not start home, for he will find the road occupied and well
defended unless the maiden be surrendered.

(Vv. 2871-3010.) The youth spoke his message well, without pride and
without insult. But he found neither knight nor emperor who would answer
him. When he saw that they all held their peace and treated him with
scorn, he left the court in defiant mood. But youth and thirst for
daring deeds made Cliges defy him in combat as he left. For the contest
they mount their steeds, three hundred of them on either side, exactly
equal thus in strength. All the palace is quite emptied of knights and
ladies, who mount to the balconies, battlements, and windows to see and
watch those who were about to fight. Even the maiden, whose will Love
had subdued beneath his sway, sought for a point from which to see. She
took her place at a window, where she sat with great delight, because
from there she could get a view of him whom she holds secretly in her
heart with no desire to remove him thence; for she will never love any
other man. But she does not know his name, nor who he is, nor of what
race; for it is not proper to ask questions; but she yearns to hear
tidings which will bring joy to her heart. She looks out of the window
at the shields with their gleaming gold, and she gazes at those who wear
the shields about their necks, as they prepare for the trial at arms.
But all her thoughts and glances soon rest upon one object, and to all
others she is indifferent. Whereever Cliges goes, she seeks to follow
him with her eyes. And he in turn does his best for her, and battles
openly, in order that she at least may hear it said that he is bold and
very skilled: thus she will be compelled to prize him for his prowess.
He attacks the duke's nephew, who was breaking many a lance and sorely
discomfiting the Greeks. But Cliges, who is displeased at this, braces
himself firmly in his stirrups, and goes to strike him so speedily that
in spite of himself he had to vacate the saddle-bows. When he got up,
the uproar was great; for the youth arose and mounted, thinking to
avenge his shame. But many a man only falls into deeper disgrace who
thinks to avenge his shame when he has the chance. The young man rushes
at Cliges, who lowers his lance to meet him, and thrusts at him with
such force that he carries him to earth again. Now his shame is doubled,
and all his followers are in dismay, seeing that they can never leave
the field with honour; for not one of them is so valiant that he can
keep his seat in the saddle when Cliges thrust reaches him. But those of
Germany and the Greeks are overjoyed when they see their party drive off
the Saxons, who retreat discomfited. With mockery they pursue them until
they come up with them at a stream, into which they drive them for
a plunge. In the deepest part of the ford Cliges unhorsed the duke's
nephew and so many of his men that they escaped grieving and sad in
their shame and confusion. But Cliges, twice victor, returned in glee,
and entered a gate which was near the apartment where the maiden was;
and as he passed through the gate she exacted as toll a tender glance,
which he paid her as their eyes met. Thus was the maiden subdued by the
man. But there is not a German of the lowland or highland, possessing
the power of speech who does not cry: "God! who is this in whom such
beauty is radiant? God! how has it happened that so suddenly he has
attained such great success?" Thus one man and another asks: "Who is
this youth, who is he, I say?" Thus, soon throughout the city it is
known what his name is, and who is his father, and what pledge that was
which had been made to him by the emperor. So much was said and noised
about that the news reached the ears of her who in her heart rejoiced
because she could no more say that Love had made sport of her, nor had
she any ground for complaint. For Love has made her give her heart to
the fairest, most courteous, and valiant man that could anywhere be
found. But some force must be employed, if she would gain possession of
him who is not free do her will. This makes her anxious and distraught.
For she has no one with whom to take counsel concerning him for whom
she pines, but must waste herself in thought and vigils. She becomes so
affected by these cares that she loses her colour and grows wan, and
it becomes plain to all that her loss of colour betokens an unfulfilled
desire. She plays less now than she used to do, and laughs less and
loses her gaiety. But she conceals her trouble and passes it off, if any
one asks what her ailment is. Her old nurse's name was Thessala, [229]
who was skilled in necromancy, having been born in Thessaly, where
devilish charms are taught and wrought; for the women of that country
perform many a charm and mystic rite.

(Vv. 3011-3062.) Thessala saw pale and wan her whom Love holds in his
bonds, and thus she addressed her with advice: "God!" she said, "are you
bewitched, my lady dear, that your face should be so pale? I wonder what
your trouble is. Tell me, if you can, where this pain attacks you most,
for if any one can cure you, you may safely trust me to give you back
your health again. I can cure the dropsy, gout, quinsy, and asthma; I am
so expert in examining the urine and the pulse that you need consult no
other physician. And I dare say that I know more than ever Medea [230]
knew of enchantments and of charms which tests have proven to be true.
I have never spoken to you of this, though I have cared for you all your
life; and now I should not mention it did I not plainly see that you are
so afflicted as to need my ministrations. My lady, you will do well to
tell me what your sickness is before its hold becomes more severe. The
emperor has committed you to me in order that I may care for you, and my
devotion has been such that I have kept you safe and sound. Now all my
pains will come to naught if I do not relieve this malady. Take care
not to conceal from me whether this is sickness or something else." The
damsel dares not openly expose her desire in all its fullness for she
is in fear lest she be disapproved and blamed. And when she hears and
understands how Thessala boasts and highly rates herself as being expert
in enchantments, charms, and potions, she decides to tell her what
is the cause of her pale and colourless face; but first she makes her
promise to keep her secret and never to oppose her will.

(Vv. 3063-3216.) "Nurse," she said, "I truly thought I felt no pain, but
I shall soon feel differently. For as soon as I begin to think about it,
I feel great pain, and am dismayed. But when one has no experience,
how can one tell what is sickness and what is health? My illness is
different from all others; for when I wish to speak of it, it causes me
both joy and pain, so happy I am in my distress. And if it can be that
sickness brings delight, then my trouble and joy are one, and in my
illness consists my health. So I do not know why I complain, for I know
not whence my trouble comes, unless it is caused by my desire. Perchance
my desire is my disease, but I find so much joy in it that the suffering
it causes me is grateful, and there is so much contentment in my pain
that it is sweet to suffer so. Nurse Thessala, now tell me true, is not
this a deceitful ill, to charm and torment me both at once? I do not see
how I can tell whether this is a disease or not. Nurse, tell me now its
name, nature, and character. But understand well that I have no desire
to be cured of it, for my distress is very dear to me." Thessala, who
was very wise about love and its symptoms knows full well from what she
hears that it is love which is tormenting her; the tender, endearing
terms she uses are certain proof that she is in love, for all other
woes are hard to bear, except that alone which comes from love; but love
transforms its bitterness into sweetness and joy, then often transforms
them back again. The nurse, who was expert in this matter, thus replies
to her: "Have no fear, for I will tell you at once the name of your
malady. You told me, I believe, that the pain which you feel seems
rather to be joy and health: now of such a nature is love-sickness,
for in it, too, there is joy and bliss. You are in love, then, as I can
prove to you, for I find no pleasure in any malady save only in love.
All other sickness is always bad and horrible, but love is sweet and
peaceable. You are in love; of that I am sure, nor do I see any wrong in
that. But I shall consider it very wrong, if through some childish
folly you conceal from me your heart." "Nurse, there is no need of
your speaking so. But first I must be sure and certain that under no
circumstances will you speak of it to any living soul." "My lady, surely
the winds will speak of it before I do without your leave, and I will
give you my word so to favour your desires that you may safely trust in
having your joy fulfilled through my services." "In that case, Nurse,
I shall be cured. But the emperor is giving me in marriage, wherefore
I grieve and am sorrowful; for he who has won my heart is the nephew of
him whom I must take. And though he may find joy in me, yet is my joy
forever lost, and no respite is possible. I would rather be torn limb
from limb than that men should speak of us as they speak of the loves of
Iseut and Tristan, of so many unseemly stories are told that I should
be ashamed to mention them. I could never bring myself to lead the
life that Iseut led. Such love as hers was far too base; for her body
belonged to two, whereas her heart was possessed by one. Thus all her
life was spent, refusing her favours to neither one. But mine is fixed
on one object, and under no circumstances will there be any sharing
of my body and heart. Never will my body be portioned out between two
shareholders. Who has the heart has the body, too, and may bid all
others stand aside. But I cannot clearly see how he whom I love can have
my body when my father gives me to another, and his will I do not dare
resist. And when this other is lord of my body, and does something which
displeases me, it is not right for me to summon another to my aid.
Nor can this man marry a wife without breaking his plighted word; for,
unless injustice be done, Cliges is to have the empire after his uncle's
death. But I should be well served by you, if you were so skilful as
to present him, to whom I am pledged and engaged, from having any claim
upon me. O Nurse, exert yourself to the end that he may not break the
pledge which he gave to the father of Cliges, when he promised him
solemnly never to take a wife in marriage. For now, if he should marry
me his promise would be broken. But Cliges is so dear to me that I would
rather be under ground than that he should ever lose through me a penny
of the fortune which should be his. May never a child be born to me to
cause his disinheritance! Nurse, now do your best, and I will always be
your slave." Then the nurse tells her and assures her that she will cast
so many charms, and prepare so many potions and enchantments that she
need never have any worry or fear concerning the emperor after he shall
have drunk of the potion which she will give him; even when they shall
lie together and she be at his side, she may be as secure as if there
were a wall between them. "But do not be alarmed, if, in his sleep, he
sports with you, for when he is plunged in sleep he will have his sport
with you, and he will be convinced that he has had you when wide awake,
nor will he think it is all a dream, a fiction, and illusion. Thus he
will have his sport with you when asleep, he will think he is awake."

(Vv. 3217-3250.) The maiden is highly pleased and delighted by the
nurse's kindness and offer of help. Her nurse inspires good hope in her
by the promise which she makes, and which she binds herself to keep;
with this hope she expects to obtain her desire, in spite of wearisome
delay, for if Cliges' nature is as noble as she takes it to be he cannot
fail to take pity upon her when he learns that she loves him, and
that she has imposed virginity upon herself in order to insure his
inheritance. So the maiden believes her nurse, and puts full confidence
in her. One promises to the other, and gives her word, that this plot
shall be kept so secret as never to be revealed. At this point their
conversation ceases, and the next morning the emperor summons his
daughter. At his command she goes to him. But why should I weary you
with details? The two emperors have so settled the matter that the
marriage is solemnised, and joy reigns in the palace. But I do not wish
to stop to describe all this in detail. Rather will I address myself to
Thessala, as she diligently prepares and tempers her potions.

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

(Vv. 3329-3394.) Now the emperor has been deceived. Many bishops and
abbots were present to bless and hallow the marriage-bed. When the time
came to retire, the emperor, as was his right, lay beside his wife that
night. "As was his right;" but the statement is inexact, for he neither
kissed nor fondled her, yet they lay together in one bed. At first the
maiden trembled with fear and anxiety lest the potion should not act.
But it has so mastered him that he will never desire her or any other
woman except in his sleep. But when asleep he will have such sport with
her as one may have in dreams, and he will think the dream is true.
Nevertheless, she is on her guard, and at first, holds aloof from him,
so that he cannot approach her. But now he must needs fall asleep;
then he sleeps and dreams, though, the senses are awake, and he exerts
himself to win the favours of the maid, while she, realising the danger,
defends her virginity. He woos her and calls her gently his sweetheart,
and thinks he possesses her, but in vain. But he is gratified by this
vain semblance, embracing, kissing, and fondling an empty thing, seeing
and speaking to no purpose, struggling and striving without effect.
Surely the potion was effective in thus possessing and mastering him.
All his pains are of no avail, as he thinks and is persuaded that the
fortress is won. Thus he thinks and is convinced, when he desists after
his vain efforts. But now I may say once for all that his satisfaction
was never more than this. To such relations with her he will for ever be
condemned if indeed he can lead her to his own land; but before he can
get her to safety, I judge that there is trouble in store for him. For
while he is on his journey home, the duke, to whom his bride had been
betrothed, will appear upon the scene. The duke gathered a numerous
force, and garrisoned the frontiers, while at court he had his spies to
inform him each day of the emperor's doings and preparations, and how
long they are going to stay, and by what route they intend to return.
The emperor did not tarry long after the marriage, but left Cologne in
high spirits. The German emperor escorted him with a numerous company,
fearing and dreading the force of the Duke of Saxony.

(Vv. 3395-3424.) The two emperors pursued their journey until they were
beyond Regensburg, where one evening they were encamped in a meadow by
the Danube. The Greeks were in their tents in the fields bordering upon
the Black Forest. Opposite to them the Saxons were lodged, spying
upon them. The duke's nephew stood alone upon a hill, whence he could
reconnoitre for a chance to inflict some loss or harm on the enemy.
From that point of vantage he espied Cliges with three of his young men
disporting themselves with lances and shields, eager for a conflict and
shock of arms. If he could get the chance the duke's nephew would gladly
attack them and do them harm. Starting out with five companions he
concealed them in a valley close by a wood, so that the Greeks never saw
them until they emerged from the valley; then the duke's nephew made an
attack, and striking Cliges, wounded him slightly in the back. Cliges,
bending over, avoids the lance which passed him, inflicting only a
slight hurt.

(Vv. 3425-3570.) When Cliges felt himself wounded, he charged the youth,
and struck him with such force that he drove his lance quite through his
heart, and stretched him dead. Then all the Saxons in fear of him betook
themselves to flight through the woods. And Cliges, ignorant of the
ambuscade, courageously but imprudently leaving his companions behind,
pursues them to the place where the duke's troops were in force
preparing to attack the Greeks. Alone he goes in hot pursuit after the
youths, who, in despair over their lord whom they had lost, come running
to the duke and tell him weeping of his nephew's death. The duke saw
no joke in this affair; and, swearing by God and all His saints that he
will take no joy or pride in life so long as the slayer of his nephew
remains alive, he adds that whoever will bring him his head will be his
friend and will serve him well. Then a knight made boast that if he
can find the guilty man, he will present him with Cliges' head. Cliges
follows the young men until he falls among the Saxons, when he is seen
by him who had undertaken to carry off his head, and who starts after
him without delay. But Cliges haste had turned back to escape from his
enemies and came in to where he had left his companions; he found none
there, for they had returned to camp to relate their adventure. And the
emperor ordered to horse the Greeks and Germans in one band. Soon all
through the camp the knights are arming and mounting. Meanwhile Cliges
is hotly pursued by his enemy, all armed and with helmet closed. Cliges,
who never wished to be numbered among the coward and craven-hearted,
notices that he comes alone. First, the knight challenged him, calling
him "fellow," unable to conceal his rage: "Young fellow," he cried,
"thou shalt leave me here a pledge for my lord whom thou hast killed.
If I do not carry away thy head with me, I am not worth a counterfeit
besant. I must make of it a present to the duke, and will accept no
other forfeit. In return for his nephew, I shall make such restitution
that he will profit by the exchange." Cliges hears him reproaching him
thus boldly and with impudence. "Vassal," he says, "be on your guard!
For I will defend my head, and you shall not get it without my leave."
Then the attack begins. The other missed his blow, while Cliges struck
him with such force that horse and rider went down together in one heap.
The horse fell upon him so heavily that he shattered completely one of
his legs. Cliges dismounted on the greensward and disarmed him. When he
had disarmed him, he appropriated his weapons, and cut off his enemy's
head with the sword which had just now been his. After severing his head
he fixed it firmly on the point of his lance, thinking to offer it to
the duke, to whom his nephew had promised to present his own if he
could meet him in the strife. Cliges had no sooner put on the dead man's
helmet and taken his shield and mounted his steed, letting his own stray
at large to terrify the Greeks, than he saw advancing with more than a
hundred banners flying several full squadrons of Greeks and Germans. Now
the fierce and cruel struggles will soon begin between the Saxons and
the Greeks. As soon as Cliges sees his men advancing, he betakes himself
toward the Saxons, his own men hotly pursuing him, and not knowing him
in his disguise. It is no wonder that his uncle is in despair and fear,
when he sees the head he is carrying off. So all the host pursue him
fast, while Cliges leads them on to provoke a fight, until the Saxons
see him drawing near. But they, too, are quite misled by the arms with
which he has armed and equipped himself. He succeeds in deceiving
and mocking them; for the duke and all the rest, when they saw him
approaching lance in rest, cried out: "Here comes our knight! On the
point of his lance he carries Cliges' head, and the Greeks are hotly
pursuing him!" Then, as they give their horses rein, Cliges spurs
to meet the Saxons, crouching low beneath his shield, the lance out
straight with the head affixed. Now, though he was braver than a lion,
he was no stronger than any other man. Both parties think that he is
dead, and while the Saxons rejoice, the Greeks and Germans grieve. But
before long the truth will out. For Cliges no longer held his peace:
but, rushing fiercely at a Saxon, he struck him with his ashen lance
upon the head and in the breast, so that he made him lose his stirrups,
and at the same time he cried aloud: "Strike gentlemen, for I am Cliges
whom you seek. Come on, my bold and hardy knights! Let none hold back,
for the first joust is already won! He is a coward who does not relish
such a dish."

(Vv. 3571-3620.) The emperor's joy was great when he heard the voice of
his nephew Cliges summoning and exhorting them; he was greatly pleased
and comforted. But the duke is greatly chagrined now when he sees he
is betrayed, unless his force should prove the stronger. While he
draws together his troops in serried lines, the Greeks do the same, and
pressing them close, attack and rush upon them. On both sides lances are
lowered as they meet for the proper reception of a hostile host. At the
first shock shields are pierced and lances shattered, girths are cut and
stirrups broken, while the horses of those who fall to earth are left
without a rider. But regardless of what any other does, Cliges and the
duke meet in the fray; holding their lances low, they strike one another
upon the shield with such violence that the strong and well-made lances
fly into splinters. Cliges was skilful on horseback, and sits straight
in his saddle without shaking or losing his balance. But the duke has
lost his seat, and in spite of himself quits the saddle-bows. Cliges
struggled and strove to capture him and carry him away, but his strength
did not suffice, for the Saxons were around about fighting to rescue
him. Nevertheless, Cliges escapes from the conflict without receiving
harm and with a precious prize; for he makes off with the duke's steed,
which was whiter than wool, and was worth more to a gentleman than the
fortune of Octavian [231] at Rome. The steed was an Arabian. The Greeks
and Germans are overjoyed to see Cliges on such a mount, for they had
already remarked the excellence and beauty of the Arab steed. But they
were not on their guard against an ambuscade; and before they are aware
of it great damage will be done.

(Vv. 3621-3748.) A spy came to the duke, bringing him welcome news.
"Duke," says the spy, "not a man remains in all the encampment of the
Greeks who is able to defend himself. If thou wilt take my word for it,
now is the time to have the emperor's daughter seized, while the Greeks
are seen intent upon the battle and the strife. Lend me a hundred of thy
knights, and I will put the lady in their hands. By an old and secluded
path I will lead them so carefully that they will not be seen or met
by any man of Germany, until they can seize the damsel in her tent and
carry her off so handily that no resistance will be made." At this the
duke is highly pleased. He sent a hundred and more tried knights with
the spy, who so successfully conducted them that they carried the maiden
away captive without exerting any force; for they could abduct her
easily. After carrying her some distance from the tents, they send her
on under escort of twelve of their number whom they accompany but a
short distance. While the twelve led the damsel on, the others went to
tell the duke how successful they had been. The duke's desire being now
satisfied, he at once makes a truce with the Greeks until next day. The
truce was sworn by both parties. The duke's men then turned back, while
the Greeks without delay repaired each man to his own tent. But Cliges
stays behind alone, stationed upon a little hill where no one caught
sight of him, until he saw the twelve pass by with her whom they were
carrying off at topmost speed. Cliges, in his thirst for glory, rides
at them without delay; for he thinks within himself, and his heart tells
him, that it is not for nothing that they flee. So, as soon as he espied
them, he spurred after them; and when they saw him coming on, a foolish
thought occurred to them: "It is the duke," they said, "who comes. Let
us rein in a little; for he has left the troops and is riding hard after
us alone." Every man thinks that so it is. They all want to turn back to
meet him, but each one wishes to go alone. Meanwhile, Cliges must
needs descend a deep valley between two mountains. He would never have
recognised their blazons, if they had not come to meet him, or if they
had not awaited him. Six of the twelve come to meet him in an encounter
they will soon regret. The other six stay with the damsel, leading her
gently at a walk and easy jog. And the six ride quickly on, spurring up
the valley, until he who had the swiftest horse reached him first
and cried aloud: "Hail, Duke of Saxony! God bless thee! Duke, we have
recovered thy lady. The Greeks shall not get her now, for she shall be
placed in thy hands." When Cliges heard the words this fellow shouts,
his heart is not gay; rather is it strange that he does not lose his
wits. Never was any wild beast--leopard, tiger, or lion--upon seeing its
young captured, so fierce and furious as Cliges, who sets no value upon
his life if he deserts his sweetheart now. He would rather die than not
win her back. In his trouble he feels great wrath, which gives him the
courage he requires. He urges and spurs the Arab steed, and rushes
to give the Saxon such a blow upon his painted shield that without
exaggeration, he makes his heart feel the lance. This gives Cliges
confidence. He drove and spurred the Arab charger on for more than the
space of an acre before he came upon the next Saxon, for they came up
singly, each fearless of his predecessor's fare, for Cliges fights
them one by one. As he takes them thus individually, no one receives
another's aid. He makes a rush at the second one, who, like the first,
thought to give him joy by telling him of his own evil fate. But Cliges
has no concern to heed his talk and idle charter. Thrusting his lance
into his body so that the blood spurts out when it is withdrawn, he
deprives him of life and the gift of speech. After these two he meets
the third, who expects to find him in good humour and to make him
rejoice over his own mischance. Spurring eagerly he came up to him;
but before he has time to say a word, Cliges ran a fathom of his lance
through the middle of his body, leaving him senseless on the ground.
To the fourth he gives such a blow that he leaves him fainting on the
field. After the fourth he goes at the fifth, and after him he attacks
the sixth. None of them could defend himself, but each was left silent
and mute. He stood in less fear of the others now, and more hardily
pressed after them, taking no further thought of the six dead men.

(Vv. 3749-3816.) Feeling no further care for them, he starts to present
a debt of shame and woe to the others who are leading the maid away. He
caught up with them, and made such an onslaught upon them as a hungry
and ravenous wolf makes when leaping upon its prey. Now he feels his
luck has come, when he can display his chivalry and bravery openly
before her who is his very life. Now may he die, if he does not rescue
her! And she, too, is at death's door from anxiety for his sake, though
she does not know that he is no near. Lance in rest, Cliges made an
attack which pleased him well; for he struck first one Saxon and then
another, so that with a single rush he carried them both to earth,
though it cost him his ashen lance. And they both fall in such distress,
being wounded in the body, that they have no power to rise again and
do him any harm or ill. The other four in bitter rage join in an attack
upon Cliges; but he neither quails nor trembles, and they are unable
to dislodge him from his seat. Quickly drawing his keen sword from its
sheath, in order to please her who awaits his love, he rode hard at a
Saxon and, striking him with his whetted blade, he severed his head and
half his neck from the body: such was the limit of his pity. Fenice, who
witnesses what transpires, does not know yet that this is Cliges. She
wishes that it were he, indeed, but because of the present danger she
says to herself that she would not have him there. Thus, doubly she
shows the devotion of a sweetheart, fearing at once his death, and
desiring that honour may be his. And Cliges sword in hand attacks the
other three, who face him bravely and puncture and split his shield. But
they are unable to lay hands upon him, or to pierce the meshes of his
hauberk. And whatever Cliges reaches cannot stand against his blow,
but must needs be split and torn apart; for he turns faster than a
top driven and lashed by the whip. Boldness and love, which holds him
enthralled, make him eager for the fray. He pressed the Saxons so hard
that he left them all dead and defeated, some only wounded, and others
dead--except one whom he let escape, disdaining to kill him when left
alone at his mercy; besides, he wished him to tell the duke of the loss
and injury he had sustained. But before this fellow left Cliges, he
begged him to tell him his name, which later he repeated to the duke,
thus rousing his bitter ire.

(Vv. 3817-3864.) Now bad luck had fallen to the duke, who was in great
distress and grief. And Cliges takes back Fenice, whose love torments
and troubles him. If he does not confess to her now, love will long be
his enemy, and hers too, if she holds her peace and speaks not the word
which will bring him joy; for now each can tell the other privily the
thoughts that lie within the heart. But they so fear to be refused that
they dare not reveal their hearts. For his part, he fears lest she will
not accept his love, whereas she, too, would have spoken out had she
not feared to be rejected. In spite of this, the eyes of each reveal the
hidden thought, if only they had heeded this evidence. They converse
by glance of eye, but their tongues are so cowardly that they dare not
speak in any wise of the love which possesses them. No wonder if she
hesitates to begin, for a maid must be a simple and shrinking thing; but
he--why does he wait and hold back who was so bold for her just now, but
now in her presence is cowardly? God! whence comes this fear, that he
should shrink from a lonely girl, feeble and timid, simple and mild? It
is as if I should see the dog flee before the hare, and the fish chase
the beaver, the lamb the wolf, and the dove the eagle. In the same
fashion the labourer would forsake his pick with which he strives to
earn a livelihood, and the falcon would flee from the duck, and the
gerfalcon from the heron, and the pike from the minnow, and the stag
would chase the lion, and everything would be reversed. Now I feel
within me the desire to give some reason why it should happen to true
lovers that they lose their sense and boldness to say what they have in
mind when they have leisure and place and time.

(Vv. 3865-3914.) Ye who are interested in the art of Love, who do
faithfully maintain the customs and usage of his court, who never failed
to obey his law, whatever the result might be, tell me if there is
anything that pleases because of love without causing us to tremble
and grow pale. If any one oppose me in this, I can at once refute his
argument; for whoever does not grow pale and tremble, whoever does not
lose his senses and memory, is trying to filch and get by stealth what
does not by right belong to him. The servant who does not fear his
master ought not to remain in his employ nor do his service. He who does
not esteem his lord does not fear him, and whoever does not esteem him
does not hold him dear, but rather tries to deceive him and to steal
from him what is his. The servant ought to tremble with fear when his
master calls or summons him. And whoever commits himself to Love owns
him as his lord and master, and is bound to do him reverence and fear
him much and honour him, if he wishes to be numbered in his court. Love
without alarm or fear is like a fire without flame or heat, day without
sun, comb without honey, summer without flowers, winter without frost,
sky without moon, and a book without letters. Such is my argument
in refutation, for where fear is absent love is not to be mentioned.
Whoever would love must needs feel fear, for otherwise he cannot be in
love. But let him fear only her whom he loves, and for her sake be brave
against all others. Then if he stands in awe of his lady-love Cliges
is guilty of nothing wrong. Even so, he would not have failed to speak
straightway with her of love, whatever the outcome might have been, had
it not been that she was his uncle's wife. This causes the festering of
his wound, and it torments and pains him the more because he dares not
utter what he fain would say.

(Vv. 3915-3962.) Thus they make their way back to their own people, and
if they speak of anything it is nothing of much concern. Each seated on
a white horse, they rode rapidly toward the camp, which was plunged in
great sorrow. The whole army is beside itself with grief, but they are
altogether wrong in supposing Cliges to be dead: hence their bitter and
poignant grief. And for Fenice, too, they are in dismay, thinking never
to win her back again. Thus, for her and him the whole army is in great
distress. But soon upon their return the whole affair will change its
aspect; for now they have reached the camp again, and have quickly
changed the grief to joy. Joy returns and sorrow flees. All the troops
come together and sally forth to welcome them. The two emperors, upon
hearing the report about Cliges and the damsel, go to meet them with
joyful hearts, and each can hardly wait to hear how Cliges found and
recovered the empress. Cliges tells them, and, as they listen, they are
amazed and are loud in their praises of his courage and devotion.
But, for his part, the duke is furious, swearing and proclaiming his
determination to fight Cliges, if he dares, in single combat; and it
shall be agreed that if Cliges wins the battle the emperor shall proceed
unchallenged, and freely take the maiden with him, and if he should kill
or defeat Cliges, who had done him such injury, then let there be no
truce or stay to prevent each party from doing its best. This is what
the duke desires, and by an interpreter of his, who knew both the Greek
and the German tongues, he announces to the two emperors his desire thus
to arrange the battle.

(Vv. 3963-4010.) The messenger delivered his message so well in both
languages that all could understand it. The entire army was in an
uproar, saying that may God forbid that Cliges ever engage in the
battle. Both emperors are in a fright, but Cliges throws himself at
their feet and begs them not to grieve, but if ever he did them any
favour, he prays them to grant him this battle as a guerdon and reward.
And if the right to fight should be denied him, then he will never again
serve for a single day his uncle's cause and honour. The emperor, who
loved his nephew as he should, raised him by the hand and said: "Fair
nephew, I am deeply grieved to know you are so keen to fight; for after
joy, sorrow is to be expected. [232] You have made me glad, I cannot
deny it; but it is hard for me to yield the point and send you forth to
this battle, when I see you still so young. And yet I know you to be
so confident of yourself that I dare not ever refuse anything that you
choose to ask of me. Be assured that, merely to gratify you, it should
be done; but if my request has any power, you would never assume this
task." "My lord, there is no need of further speech," said Cliges; "may
God damn me, if I would take the whole world, and miss this battle! I do
not know why I should seek from you any postponement or long delay."
The emperor weeps with pity, while Cliges sheds tears of joy when the
permission to fight is granted him. Many a tear was shed that day, and
no respite or delay was asked. Before the hour of prime, by the duke's
own messenger the challenge to battle was sent back to him accepted as
he had proposed.

(Vv. 4011-4036.) The duke, who thinks and confidently trusts that Cliges
will be unable to stave off death and defeat at his hands, has himself
quickly armed. Cliges, who is anxious for the fight, feels no concern
as to how he shall defend himself. He asks the emperor for his arms, and
desires him to dub him a knight. So the emperor generously gives him his
arms, and he takes them, his heart being keen for the battle which he
anticipates with joy and eagerness. No time is lost in arming him. And
when he was armed from head to foot, the emperor, all sorrowing, girds
the sword upon his side. Thus Cliges completely armed mounts his white
Arab steed; from his neck he hangs by the straps an ivory shield, such
as will never break or split; and upon it there was neither colour nor
design. All his armour was white, and the steed, and the harness, too,
was all whiter than any snow.

(Vv. 4037-4094.) Cliges and the duke, now being armed, summon each other
to meet half way, and they stipulate that their men shall take their
stand on either side, but without their swords and lances, under oath
and pledge that not a man will be so rash, so long as the battle lasts,
as to dare to move for any reason, any more than he would dare to pluck
out his own eye. When this had been agreed upon, they came together,
each yearning ardently for the glory he hopes to win and for the joy
of victory. But before a single blow was dealt, the empress has herself
borne thither, solicitous for Cliges' fate. It seems to her that if he
dies, she, too, must needs do so. No comfort can avail to keep her from
joining him in death, for, without him, life has no joys for her. When
all were gathered on the field--high and low, young and old--and the
guards had taken their place, then both seized their lances and rushed
together so savagely that they both broke their lances and fell to
the ground, unable to keep their saddles. But not being wounded, they
quickly get upon their feet and attack each other without delay. Upon
their resonant helmets they play such a tune with swords that it seems
to those who are looking on that the helmets are on fire and send forth
sparks. And when the swords rebound in air, gleaming sparks fly off
from them as from a smoking piece of iron which the smith beats upon his
anvil after, drawing it from the forge. Both of the vassals are generous
in dealing blows in great plenty, and each has the best of intentions
to repay quickly what he borrows; neither one holds back from repaying
promptly capital and interest, without accounting and without measure.
But the duke is much chagrined with anger and discomfiture when he fails
to defeat and slay Cliges in the first assault. Such a marvellously
great and mighty blow he deals him that he falls at his feet upon his
knee.

(Vv. 4095-4138.) When this blow brought Cliges down, the emperor was
struck with fear, and would have been no more dismayed had he himself
been beneath the shield. Nor could Fenice in her fear longer contain
herself, whatever the effect might be, from crying: "God help him!"
as loud as she could. But that was the only word she uttered, for
straightway her voice failed her, and she fell forward upon her face,
which was somewhat wounded by the fall. Two high nobles raised her up
and supported her upon her feet until she returned to consciousness.
But in spite of her countenance, none who saw her guessed why she had
swooned. Not a man there blamed her, but rather praised her for her act,
for each one supposes that she would have done the same thing for him,
if he had been in Cliges' place, but in all this they are quite astray.
Cliges heard, and well understood, the sound of Fenice's cry. Her voice
restored his strength and courage, as he leaped up quickly, and came
with fury, toward the duke, so charging and attacking him that the duke
in turn was now dismayed. For now he found him more fierce for the
fray, stronger and more agile and energetic than when at first they came
together. And because he feared his onslaught, he cried: "Young man, so
help me God, I see thou art brave and very bold. If it were not for my
nephew now, whom I shall never more forget, I would gladly make peace
with thee, and leave thy quarrel without interfering in it more."

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

(Vv. 4237-4282.) Now Cliges hears something that does not suit him when
his uncle refuses the prayer and request he made. "Fair sire," said he,
"I am not brave and wise enough, nor would it be seemly for me to join
myself with you or any one else in the duty of governing this empire; I
am too young and inexperienced. They put gold to the test when they wish
to learn if it is fine. And so it is my wish, in brief, to try to prove
myself, wherever I can find the test. In Britain, if I am brave, I can
apply myself to the whetstone and to the real true test, whereby my
prowess shall be proved. In Britain are the gentlemen whom honour and
prowess distinguish. And he who wishes to win honour should associate
himself with them, for honour is won and gained by him who associates
with gentlemen. And so I ask you for leave to go, and you may be very
sure that if you do not grant me the boon and send me thither I shall go
without your leave." "Fair nephew, I will give you leave, seeing you
are so disposed that I cannot keep you back either by force or prayer
of mine. Now since prayer, prohibition, and force do not avail, may God
give you the desire and inclination promptly to return. I wish you to
take with you more than a bushel of gold and silver, and I will give for
your pleasure such horses as you may choose." He had no sooner spoken
than Cliges bowed before him. All that the emperor, mentioned and
promised him was straightway brought thither.

(Vv. 4283-4574.) Cliges took all the money and companions that he
wished and needed. For his personal use he took four horses of different
colours: one white, one sorrel, one fallow red, and one black. But I
must have passed over something which it is not proper to omit. Cliges
goes to ask and obtain leave to depart from his sweetheart Fenice; for
he wishes to commend her to God's safe keeping. Coming before her,
he throws himself upon his knees, weeping so bitterly that the tears
moisten his tunic and ermine, the while keeping his eyes upon the
ground; for he dares not raise his eyes to her, as if he were guilty
of some crime and misdeed toward her, for which he seems overcome with
shame. And Fenice, who timidly and fearfully looks at him, does not know
the occasion of his coming, and speaks to him with difficulty. "Rise,
friend and fair sir! Sit here beside me, and weep no more, and tell me
what your pleasure is." "Lady, what shall I say, and what leave unsaid?
I come to ask your leave." "Leave? To do what?" "Lady, I must go off to
Britain." "Then tell me what your business is, before I give you leave
to go." "Lady, my father, before he departed this life and died, begged
me not to fail to go to Britain as soon as I should be made a knight.
I should not wish for any reason to disregard his command. I must not
falter until I have accomplished the journey. It is a long road from
here to Greece, and if I should go thither, the journey would be too
long from Constantinople to Britain. But it is right that I should ask
leave from you to whom I altogether belong." Many a covert sigh and sob
marked the separation. But the eyes of none were keen enough, nor the
ears of any sharp enough, to learn from what he saw and heard that there
was any love between these two. Cliges, in spite of the grief he felt,
took his leave at the first opportunity. He is full of thought as he
goes away, and so are the emperor and many others who stay behind. But
more than all the others, Fenice is pensive: she finds no bottom or
bound to the reflections which occupy her, so abundantly are her cares
multiplied. She was still oppressed with thought when she arrived in
Greece. There she was held in great honour as mistress and empress; but
her heart and mind belong to Cliges, wherever he goes, and she wishes
her heart never to return to her, unless it is brought back to her by
him who is perishing of the same disease with which he has smitten her.
If he should get well, she would recover too, but he will never be its
victim without her being so as well. Her trouble appears in her pale and
changed colour; for the fresh, clear, and radiant colour which Nature
had given her is now a stranger to her face. She often weeps and often
sighs. Little she cares for her empire and for the riches that are hers.
She always cherishes in her remembrance the hour when Cliges went away,
and the leave he took of her, how he changed colour and grew pale, and
how tearful his expression was, for he came to weep in her presence
humbly and simply upon his knees, as if constrained to worship her.
All this is sweet and pleasant for her to remember and think about. And
afterward, as a little treat, she takes on her tongue instead of spice
a sweet word which for all Greece she would not wish him to have used
contrary to the sense she had understood when he first had uttered
it; for she lives upon no other dainty, and there is nothing else that
pleases her. This word alone sustains and nourishes her, and assuages
all her pain. She cares to eat and drink of no other dish or beverage,
for when the two lovers came to part, Cliges had said he was "altogether
hers." This word is so sweet and tastes so good that from the tongue it
stirs her heart, and she takes it into her mouth and heart to be all the
more sure of it. Under any other lock she would not dare to store this
treasure. Nowhere could it be lodged so well as in her own bosom. She
will never leave it exposed at any price, being in such fear of robbers
and thieves. But there is no ground for her anxiety, and she need have
no fear of the birds of prey, for her treasure is not movable, but is
rather like a house which cannot be destroyed by fire or flood, but will
always stay fixed in a single place. But she feels no confidence in the
matter, so she worries and strives to find and hold some ground on which
to stand, interpreting the situation in divers ways. She both opposes
and defends her position, and engages in the following argument: "With
what intention should Cliges say 'I am altogether yours' unless it was
love that prompted him? What power can I have over him that he should
esteem me so highly as to make me the mistress of his heart? Is he not
more fair than I, and of higher rank than I? I see in it naught but
love, which could vouchsafe me such a boon. I, who cannot escape its
power, will prove by my own case that unless he loved me he would never
say that he was mine; unless love holds him in its toils, Cliges
could never say that he was mine any more than I could say that I was
altogether his unless love had put me in his hands. For if he loves me
not, at least he does not fear me. I hope that love which gives me to
him will in return give him to me. But now I am sore dismayed because it
is so trite a word, and I may simply be deceived, for many there be who
in flattering terms will say even to a total stranger, 'I and all that
I have are yours,' and they are more idle chatterers than the jays. So
I do not know what to think, for it might well turn out that he said it
just to flatter me. Yet I saw his colour change, and I saw him weeping
piteously. In my judgment, the tears and his face confused and pale were
not produced by treachery, nor were they the fruits of trickery. Those
eyes from which I saw tears roll down were not guilty of falsehood.
Signs enough of love I saw, if I know anything about it. Yes, in an
evil hour I thought of love; woe is me that I ever learned it, for the
experience has been bitter. Has it indeed? Yes, verily. I am dead when
I cannot see him who has stolen my heart away by his cajoling flattery,
because of which my heart leaves its dwelling, and will not abide with
me, hating my home and establishment. In truth I have been ill treated
by him who has my heart in his keeping. He who robs me and takes what is
mine cannot love me, of that I am sure. But am I sure? Why then did he
weep? Why? It was not in vain, for there was cause enough. I must not
assume that I was the cause of it, for one is always loath to leave
people whom one loves and knows. So it is not strange if he was sorry
and grieved and if he wept when he left some one whom he knew. But
he who gave him this advice to go and dwell in Britain could not have
smitten me more effectively. He is cut to the quick who loses his heart.
He who deserves it, should be treated ill; but I have never deserved
such treatment. Alas, unhappy one, why has Cliges killed me when I
am innocent? But I am unjust to accuse him thus without cause. Surely
Cliges would never have deserted me if his heart were like mine. I am
sure his heart is not like mine. And if my heart is lodged in his it
will never draw away, and his will never part from mine, for my heart
follows him secretly: they have formed such a goodly company. But, after
all, to tell the truth, they are very different and contrary. How are
they different and contrary? Why, his is the master and mine the slave;
and the slave can have no will of his own, but only do his master's will
and forsake all other affairs. But what reference has that to me? My
heart and service are no concern to him. This arrangement distresses
me, that one is master of us both. Why is not my heart as independent
as his? Then their power would be equalised. My heart is now a prisoner,
unable to move itself unless his moves as well. And whether his heart
wanders or stays still, mine must needs prepare to follow him in his
train. God! why are our bodies not so near one another that I could
in some way bring back my heart! Bring back? Foolish one, if I should
remove it from its joy I should be the death of it. Let it stay there!
I have no desire to dislodge it, but rather wish that it tarry with its
lord until he feel some pity for it. For rather over there than here
ought he to have mercy on his servant, because they are both in a
foreign land. If my heart knows well the language of flattery, as is
necessary for the courtier, it will be rich ere it comes back. Whoever
wishes to stand in the good graces of his lord and sit beside him on his
right, to be in the fashion now-a-days, must remove the feather from
his head, even when there is none there. But there is one bad feature of
this practice: while he is smoothing down his master, who is filled
with evil and villainy, he will never be so courteous as to tell him the
truth; rather he makes him think and believe that no one could compare
with him in prowess and in knowledge, and the master thinks that he is
speaking the truth. That man does not know himself who takes another's
word about qualities which he does not possess. For even if he is a
wicked and insolent wretch, and as cowardly as a hare, mean, crazy, and
misshapen, and a villain both in word and deed--yet some man will praise
him to his face who behind his back will mock at him. But when in his
hearing he speaks of him to some other, he praises him, while his lord
pretends not to hear what they say between themselves; if, however, he
thought that he would not be heard, he would say something his master
would not like. And if his master is pleased to lie, the servant is all
ready with his consent, and will never be backward in averring that all
his master says is true. He who frequents courts and lords must ever be
ready with a lie. So, too, must my heart do if it would find favour with
its lord. Let it flatter and be obsequious. But Cliges is such a knight,
so fair, so open, and so loyal, that my heart, in praising him,
need never be false or perfidious, for in him there is nothing to be
improved. Therefore I wish my heart to serve him, for, as the people's
proverb runs, 'He who serves a noble man is bad indeed if he does not
improve in his company.'"

(Vv. 4575-4628.) Thus love harrows Fenice. But this torment is her
delight, of which she can never grow weary. And Cliges now has crossed
the sea and come to Wallingford. There he took expensive quarters in
great state. But his thoughts are always of Fenice, not forgetting her
for a single hour. While he delays and tarries there, his men, acting
under his instructions, made diligent inquiries. They were informed that
King Arthur's barons and the King in person had appointed a tourney to
be held in the plain before Oxford, which lies close to Wallingford.
[234] There the struggle was arranged, and it was to last four days. But
Cliges will have abundant time to prepare himself if in the meantime
he needs anything, for more than a fortnight must elapse before the
tournament begins. He orders three of his squires to go quickly to
London and there buy three different sets of arms, one black, another
red, the third green, and that on the way back each shall be kept
covered with new cloth, so that if any one should meet them on the road
he may not know the colour of the arms they carry. The squires start at
once and come to London, where they find available everything they need.
Having finished this errand, they return at once without losing any
time. When the arms they had brought were shown to Cliges he was
well pleased with them. He ordered them to be set away and concealed,
together with those which the emperor had given him by the Danube, when
he knighted him. I do not choose to tell you now why he had them stored
away; but it will be explained to you when all the high barons of the
land are mounted on their steeds and assemble in search of fame.

(Vv. 4629-4726.) On the day which had been agreed upon, the nobles of
renown came together. King Arthur, with all his men whom he had selected
from among the best, took up his position at Oxford, while most of the
knights ranged themselves near Wallingford. Do not expect me to delay
the story and tell you that such and such kings and counts were there,
and that this, that, and the other were of the number. [235] When the
time came for the knights to gather, in accordance with the custom
of those days, there came forth alone between two lines one of King
Arthur's most valiant knights to announce that the tourney should begin.
But in this case no one dares to advance and confront him for the joust.
There is none who does not hold back. And there are some who ask: "Why
do these knights of ours delay, without stepping forward from the ranks?
Some one will surely soon begin." And the others make reply: "Don't you
see, then, what an adversary yonder party has sent against us? Any one
who does not know should learn that he is a pillar, [236] able to stand
beside the best three in the world." "Who is he, then?" "Why, don't
you see? It is Sagremor the Wild." "Is it he?" "It surely is." Cliges
listens and hears what they say, as he sits on his horse Morel, clad
in armour blacker than a mulberry: for all his armour was black. As he
emerges from the ranks and spurs Morel free of the crowd, there is not
one, upon seeing him, but exclaims to his neighbour: "That fellow rides
well lance in rest; he is a very, skilful knight and carries his arms
right handily; his shield fits well about his neck. But he must be a
fool to undertake of his own free will to joust with one of the most
valiant knights to be found in all the land. Who can he be? Where was
he born? Who knows him here?" "Not I." "Nor I." "There is not a flake
of snow on him; but all his armour is blacker far than the cloak of any
monk or prior." While thus they talk, the two contestants give their
horses rein without delay, for they are very eager and keen to come
together in the fight. Cliges strikes him so that he crushes the shield
against his arm, and the arm against his body, whereupon Sagremor falls
full length. Cliges goes unerringly and bids him declare himself his
prisoner, which Sagremor does at once. Now the tourney is fairly begun,
and adversaries meet in rivalry. Cliges rushes about the field, seeking
adversaries with whom to joust, but not a knight presents himself whom
he does not cast down or take prisoner. He excels in glory, all the
knights on either side, for wherever he goes to battle, there the fight
is quickly ended. That man may be considered brave who holds his ground
to joust with him, for it is more credit to dare face him than it is to
defeat another knight. And if Cliges leads him away prisoner, for this
at least he gains renown that he dared to wait and fight with him.
Cliges wins the fame and glory of all the tournament. When evening came,
he secretly repaired to his lodging-place in order that none might have
any words with him. And lest any one should seek the house where the
black arms are displayed, he puts them away in a room in order that no
one may find them or see them, and he hangs up his green arms at the
street-door, where they will be in evidence, and where passers-by will
see them. And if any one asks and inquires where his lodging is, he
cannot learn when he sees no sign of the black shield for which he
seeks.

(Vv. 4727-4758.) By this ruse Cliges remains hidden in the town. And
those who were his prisoners went from one end of the town to the other
asking for the black knight, but none could give them any information.
Even King Arthur himself has search made up and down for him; but there
is only one answer: "We have not seen him since we left the lists, and
do not know what became of him." More than twenty young men seek him,
whom the King sent out; but Cliges so successfully concealed himself
that they cannot find a trace of him. King Arthur is filled with
astonishment when he is informed that no one of high or low degree
can point out his lodging-place, any more than if he were in Caesarea,
Toledo, or Crete. "Upon my word," he says, "I know not what they may
say, but to me this seems a marvellous thing. Perchance it was a phantom
that appeared in our midst. Many a knight has been unhorsed, and noble
men have pledged faith to one whose house they cannot find, or even his
country or locality; each of these men perforce must fail to keep his
pledge." Thus the King spoke his mind, but he might as well have held
his peace.

(Vv. 4759-4950.) That evening among all the barons there was much talk
of the black knight, for indeed they spoke of nothing else. The next
day they armed themselves again without summons and without request.
Lancelot of the Lake, in whom there is no lack of courage, rides forth
with lance upright to await a contestant in the first joust. Here comes
Cliges tiding fast, greener than the grass of the field, and mounted on
a fallow red steed, carrying its mane on the right-hand side. Wherever
Cliges spurs the horse, there is no one, either with hair or without,
who does not look at him amazed and exclaim to his neighbour on either
side: "This knight is in all respects more graceful and skilful than the
one who yesterday wore the black arms, just as a pine is more beautiful
than a white beech, and the laurel than the elder-bush. As yet we know
not who yesterday's victor was; but we shall know to-night who this man
is." Each one makes reply: "I don't know him, nor did I ever see him,
that I am aware. But he is fairer than he who fought yesterday, and
fairer than Lancelot of the Lake. If this man rode armed in a bag and
Lancelot in silver and gold, this man would still be fairer than he."
Thus they all take Cliges' part. And the two champions drive their
steeds together with all the force of spur. Cliges gives him such a blow
upon the golden shield with the lion portrayed thereon that he knocks
him down from his saddle and stands over him to receive his surrender.
For Lancelot there was no help; so he admitted himself his prisoner.
Then the noise began afresh with the shock of breaking lances. Those who
are on Cliges' side place all their confidence in him. For of those whom
he challenges and strikes, there is none so strong but must fall from
his horse to earth. That day Cliges did so well, and unhorsed and took
captive so many knights, that he gave double the satisfaction to his
side, and won for himself twice the glory that he had gained on the
preceding day. When evening came, he betook himself as fast as he could
to his lodging-place, and quickly ordered out the vermilion shield and
his other arms, while he ordered the arms which he had worn that day to
be laid away: the host carefully put them aside. Again that evening the
knights whom he had captured sought for him, but without hearing any
news of him. In their lodging-places, most of those who speak of him do
so with praise and admiration. The next day the gay and doughty knights
return to the contest. From the Oxford side comes forth a vassal of
great renown--his name was Perceval of Wales. As soon as Cliges saw him
start, and learned certainly who it was, when he had heard the name of
Perceval he was very anxious to contest with him. He issued straightway
from the ranks upon a Spanish sorrel steed, and completely clad in
vermilion armour. Then all gaze at him, wondering more than ever
before, and saying that they had never seen so perfect a knight. And
the contestants without delay spur forward until their mighty blows land
upon their shields. The lances, though they were short and stout, bend
until they look like hoops. In the sight of all who were looking on,
Cliges struck Perceval so hard that he knocked him from his horse and
made him surrender without a long struggle or much ado. When Perceval
had pledged his word then the joust began again, and the engagement
became general. Every knight whom Cliges meets he forces to earth. He
did not quit the lists that day even for a single hour, while all the
others struck at him as at a tower--individually, of course, and not
in groups of two or three, for such was not the custom then. Upon his
shield, as upon an anvil, the others strike and pound, splitting and
hewing it to bits. But every one who strikes him there, he pays back by
casting him from his stirrups and saddle; and no one, unless he wished
to lie, could fail to say when the jousting ceased that the knight with
the red shield had won all the glory on that day. And all the best and
most courtly knights would fain have made his acquaintance. But their
desire was not felt before he had departed secretly, seeing the sun
already set; and he had his vermilion shield and all his other harness
removed, and ordered his white arms to be brought out, in which he had
first been dubbed a knight, while the other arms and the steeds were
fastened outside by the door. Those who notice this realise and exclaim
that they have all been defeated and undone by one single man; for each
day he has disguised himself with a different horse and set of armour,
thus seeming to change his identity; for the first time now they noticed
this. And my lord Gawain proclaimed that he never saw such a champion,
and therefore he wished to make his acquaintance and learn his name,
announcing that on the morrow he himself will be the first at the rally
of the knights. Yet, withal, he makes no boast; on the other hand,
he says that he fully expects the stranger knight will have all the
advantage with the lance; but it may be that with the sword he will not
be his superior (for with the sword Gawain had no master). Now it is
Gawain's desire to measure his strength on the morrow with this strange
knight who changes every day his arms, as well as his horse and harness.
His moultings will soon be numerous if he continues thus each day, as
is his custom, to discard his old and assume new plumage. Thus, when he
thought of the sword and the lance respectively. Gawain disparaged and
esteemed highly the prowess of his foe. The next day he sees Cliges come
back whiter than the fleur-delis, his shield grasped tight by the inside
straps and seated on his white Arab steed, as he had planned the
night before. Gawain, brave and illustrious, seeks no repose on the
battleground, but spurs and rides forward, endeavouring as best he may
to win honour in the fray, if he can find an opponent. In a moment they
will both be on the field. For Cliges had no desire to hold back when he
overheard the words of the men who said: "There goes Gawain, who is no
weakling either on foot or ahorse. He is a man whom no one will attack."
When Cliges hears these words, he rushes toward him in mid-field; they
both advance and come together with a swifter leap than that of the
stag who hears the sound of the dogs as they come baying after him. The
lances are thrust at the shields, and the blows produce such havoc that
the lances split, crack and break clear down to the butt-end, and the
saddle-bows behind give away, and the girths and breast-straps snap.
Both come to earth at once and draw their naked swords, while the others
gather round to watch the battle. Then King Arthur stepped forward to
separate them and establish peace. But before the truce was sworn, the
white hauberks were badly torn and rent apart, the shields were cracked
and hewed to bits, and the helmets crushed.

(Vv. 4951-5040.) The King viewed them with pleasure for a while, as did
many others who said that they esteemed the white knight's deeds of arms
no less than those of my lord Gawain, and they were not ready yet to say
which was the better and which the worse, nor which was likely to win,
if they had been allowed to fight to a finish; but it did not please the
King to let them do more than they had done. So he stepped forward to
separate them, saying: "Stop now! Woe if another blow be struck! Make
peace now, and be good friends. Fair nephew Gawain, I make this request
of you; for without resentment and hate it is not becoming for a
gentleman to continue to fight and defy his foe. But if this knight
would consent to come to my court and join our sport it would not be
to his sorrow or hurt. Nephew, make this request of him." "Gladly, my
lord." Cliges has no desire to refuse, and gladly consents to go when
the tourney is concluded. For now he has more than sufficiently carried
out the injunction of his father. And the King says he has no desire
that the tournament shall last too long, and that they can afford to
stop at once. So the knights drew off, according to the wish and order
of the King. Now that he is to follow in the royal suite, Cliges sends
for all his armour. As soon as he can, he comes to court; but first,
he completely changed his gear, and came dressed in the style of the
French. As soon as he arrived at court, all ran to meet him without
delay, making such joy and festival that never was there greater seen,
and all those call him lord whom he had captured in the joust; but he
would hear none of this, and said they might all go free, if they were
quite sure and satisfied that it was he who had captured them. And there
was not one who did not cry: "You were the man; we are sure of that! We
value highly your acquaintance, and we ought to love and esteem you
and call you our lord, for none of us can equal you. Just as the sun
outshines the little stars, so that their light cannot be seen in the
sky when the sun's rays appear, so is our prowess extinguished and
abased in the presence of yours, though ours too was once famous in
the world." Cliges knows not what to reply, for in his opinion they all
praise him more than he deserves; it pleases him, but he feels ashamed,
and the blood rises in his face, revealing to all his modesty. Escorting
him into the middle of the hall, they led him to the King, where all
ceased their words of compliment and praise. The time for the meal had
come, and those whose duty it was hastened to set the tables. The tables
in the hall were quickly spread, then while some took the towels, and
others held the basins, they offered water to all who came. When all had
washed, they took their seats. And the King, taking Cliges by the hand,
made him sit down in front of him, for he wished to learn this very day,
if possible, who he was. Of the meal I need not further speak, for the
courses were as well supplied as if beef were selling at a penny.

(Vv. 5041-5114.) When all the courses had been served, the King no
longer held his peace. "My friend," he says, "I wish to learn if it
was from pride that you did not deign to come to court as soon as you
arrived in this country, and why you kept aloof from people, and why
you changed your arms; and tell me what your name is, too, and from what
race you spring." Cliges replies: "It shall not be hid." He told and
related to the King everything he wished to know. And when the King had
heard it all, he embraced him, and made much of him, while all joined in
greeting him. And when my lord Gawain learned the truth, he, more than
the others, cordially welcomed him. Thus, all unite in saluting him,
saying that he is very fair and brave. The King loves and honours him
above all his nephews. Cliges tarries with the King until the summer
comes around, in the meantime visiting all Brittany, France, and
Normandy, where he did so many knightly deeds that he thoroughly proved
his worth. But the love whose wound he bears gives him no peace or
relief. The inclination of his heart keeps him fixed upon a single
thought. To Fenice his thought harks back, who from afar afflicts his
heart. The desire takes him to go back; for he has been deprived too
long of the sight of the most desired lady who was ever desired by
any one. He will not prolong this privation, but prepares to return to
Greece, and sets out, after taking leave. The King and my lord Gawain
were grieved, I can well believe, when they could no longer detain him.
But he is anxious to return to her whom he loves and so covets that the
way seems long to him as he passes over land and sea: so ardently he
longs for the sight of her who has stolen and filched Iris heart away.
But she makes him recompense in full; for she pays him, as it were rent,
the coin of her own heart, which is no less dear to her. But he is by no
means sure of that, having no contract or agreement to show; wherefore
his anxiety is great. And she is in just as great distress, harried
and tormented by love, taking no pleasure in aught she sees since that
moment when she saw him last. The fact that she does not even know
whether he be alive or not fills her heart with anguish. But Cliges
draws nearer day by day, being fortunate in having favourable winds,
until he joyfully comes to port before Constantinople. When the news
reached the city, none need ask if the emperor was glad; but a hundred
times greater was the empress's joy.

(Vv. 5115-5156.) Cliges, with his company, having landed at
Constantinople, has now returned to Greece. The richest and most noble
men all come to meet him at the port. And when the emperor encounters
him, who before all others had gone to meet him with the empress by his
side, he runs to embrace and greet him in the presence of them all. And
when Fenice welcomes him, each changes colour in the other's presence,
and it is indeed a marvel, when they are so close together, how they
keep from embracing each other and bestowing such kisses as love would
have; but that would have been folly and madness. The people come
together from all sides with the desire to see him, and conduct him
through the city, some on foot and some on horseback, until they bring
him to the imperial palace. No words can ever tell the joy and honour
and courteous service that were there displayed. But each one strove as
best he might to do everything which he thought would please and gratify
Cliges. And his uncle hands over to him all his possessions, except the
crown: he wishes him to gratify his pleasure fully, and to take all he
desires of his wealth, either in the form of land or treasure. But
he has no care for silver or gold, so long as he dares not reveal his
thoughts to her because of whom he can find no repose; and yet he has
plenty of time and opportunity to speak, if he were not afraid of
being repelled; for now he can see her every day, and sit beside her
"tete-a-tete" without opposition or hindrance, for no one sees any harm
in that.

(Vv. 5157-5280.) Some time after his return, he came alone one day to
the room of her who was not his enemy, and you may be sure that the door
was not barred at his approach. By her side he took his seat, while the
others moved away, so that no one might be seated near them and hear
their words. First, Fenice spoke of Britain, and asked him about the
character and appearance of my lord Gawain, until her words finally hit
upon the subject which filled her with dread. She asked him if he
had given his love to any dame or damsel in that land. Cliges was not
obstinate or slow to respond to this demand, but he knew at once what
reply to make as soon as she had put the question. "Lady," he says, "I
was in love while there, but not with any one of that land. In Britain
my body was without my heart, as a piece of bark without the wood. Since
leaving Germany I have not known what became of my heart, except that it
came here after you. My heart was here, and my body was there. I was not
really away from Greece; for hither my heart had come, for which I now
have come back again; yet, it does not return to its lodging-place,
nor can I draw it back to me, nor do I wish to do so, if I could. And
you--how has it fared with you, since you came to this country? What joy
have you had here? Do you like the people, do you like the land? I ought
not to ask you any other question than whether the country pleases you."
"It has not pleased me until now; but at present I feel a certain joy
and satisfaction, which, you may be sure, I would not lose for Pavia or
Piacenza. From this joy I cannot wrest my heart, nor shall I ever use
force in the attempt. Nothing but the bark is left in me, for I live and
exist without a heart. I have never been in Britain, and yet without
me my heart has been engaged in business there I know not what." "Lady,
when was it that your heart was there? Tell me when it went thither--the
time and season--if it be a thing that you can fairly tell me or any one
else. Was it there while I was there?" "Yes, but you were not aware of
it. It was there as long as you were, and came away again with you."
"God! I never saw it, nor knew it was there. God! why did I not know it?
If I had been informed of this, surely, my lady, I would have borne it
pleasant company." "You would have repaid me with the consolation which
you really owed to me, for I should have been very gracious to your
heart if it had been pleased to come where it might have known I was."
"Lady, surely it came to you." "To me? Then it came to no strange place,
for mine also went to you." "Then, lady, according to what you say, our
hearts are here with us now, for my heart is altogether in your hands."
"You in turn have mine, my friend; so we are in perfect accord. And you
may be sure, so help me God, that your uncle has never shared in me, for
it was not my pleasure, and he could not. Never has he yet known me
as Adam knew his wife. In error I am called a wife; but I am sure that
whoever calls me wife does not know that I am still a maid. Even your
uncle is not aware of it, for, having drunk of the sleeping potion, he
thinks he is awake when he is asleep, and he fancies he has his sport
with me while I lie in his embrace. But his exclusion has been complete.
My heart is yours, and my body too, and from me no one shall ever
learn how to practise villainy. For when my heart went over to you it
presented you with the body too, and it made a pledge that none other
should ever share in it. Love for you has wounded me so deep that I
should never recover from it, any more than the sea can dry up. If I
love you, and you love me, you shall never be called Tristan, nor I
Iseut; [237] for then our love would not be honourable. But I make you
this promise, that you shall never have other joy of me than that you
now have, unless you can devise some means whereby I can be removed from
your uncle and his society without his finding me again, or being able
to blame either you or me, or having any ground for accusation. And
to-morrow you shall tell me of the best plan you have devised, and I,
too, will think of it. To-morrow, as soon as I arise, come and speak
with me; then each of us will speak his mind, and we shall proceed to
execute whatever seems best."

(Vv. 5281-5400.) As soon as Cliges heard her will be fully agreed with
her, and said that would be the best thing to do. He leaves her happy,
and goes off with a light heart himself. That night each one lies awake
thinking over, with great delight, what the best plan will be. The next
morning, as soon as they had arisen, they meet again to take counsel
privately, as indeed they must. Cliges speaks first and says what he
had thought of in the night: "My lady," says he, "I think, and am of
the opinion, that we could not do better than go to Britain; I thought I
might take you there; now do not refuse, for never was Helen so joyfully
received at Troy when Paris took her thither but that still greater joy
would be felt over you and me in the land of the King, my uncle. And if
this plan does not meet with your favour, tell me what you think, for
I am ready, whatever may happen, to abide by your decision." And she
replies: "This is my answer: I will never go off with you thus; for
after we had gone away, every one would speak of us as they do of Iseut
the Blond and of Tristan. And everywhere all men and women would speak
evil of our love. No one would believe, nor is it natural that they
should do so, the truth of the matter. Who would believe that I have
thus, all to no purpose, evaded and escaped from your uncle still a
maid? I should be regarded simply as wanton and dissolute, and you would
be thought mad. It is well to remember and observe the injunction of St.
Paul: if any one is unwilling to live chaste, St. Paul counsels him to
act so that he shall receive no criticism, or blame, or reproach. [238]
It is well to stop evil mouths, and therefore, if you agree, I have
a proposal to make: it seems best to me to consent to feign that I am
dead. I shall fall sick in a little while. And you in the meantime may
plan some preparations for a place of burial. Put all your wits to work
to the end that a sepulchre and bier be so constructed that I shall not
die in it, or be stifled, and that no one shall mount guard over it at
night when you come to take me out. So now seek such a retreat for me,
where no one may see me excepting you; and let no one provide for any
need of mine except you, to whom I surrender and give myself. Never, my
whole life long, do I wish to be served by other man than you. My lord
and my servant you shall be; whatever you do shall seem good to me; and
never shall I be mistress of any empire unless you are its master. Any
wretched place, however dark and foul, will seem brighter to me than
all these halls if you are with me. If I have you where I can see you,
I shall be mistress of boundless treasure, and the world will belong to
me. And if the business is carefully managed, no harm will come of it,
and no one will ever be able to speak ill of it, for it will be believed
throughout the empire that I am mouldering in the ground. My maid,
Thessala, who has been my nurse, and in whom I have great confidence,
will give me faithful aid, for she is very clever, and I trust her
fully." And Cliges, when he heard his sweetheart, replies: "My lady, if
this is feasible, and if you think your nurse's advice reliable, we have
nothing to do but make our preparations without delay; but if we commit
any imprudence, we are lost without escape. In this city there is an
artisan who cuts and carves wonderful images: there is no land where he
is not known for the figures which he has shapen and carved and made.
John is his name, and he is a serf of mine. No one could cope with
John's best efforts in any art, however varied it might be. For,
compared with him, they are all novices, and like a child with nurse.
By imitating his handiwork the artisans of Antioch and Rome have learned
all they know how to do--and besides there is no more loyal man. Now I
want to make a test, and if I can put trust in him I will set him and
all his descendants free; and I shall not fail to tell him of all
our plan if he will swear and give his word to me that he will aid me
loyally, and will never divulge my secret."

(Vv. 5401-5466.) And she replies: "So let it be." With her permission
Cliges left the room and went away. And she sends for Thessala, her
maid, whom she brought with her from her native land. Thessala came at
once without delay, yet not knowing why she was summoned. When she asked
Fenice privately what was her desire and pleasure, she concealed none
of her intentions from her. "Nurse," she said, "I know full well that
anything I tell you will go no further, for I have tried you thoroughly
and have found you very prudent. I love you for all you have done
for me. In all my troubles I appeal to you without seeking counsel
elsewhere. You know why I lie awake, and what my thoughts and wishes
are. My eyes behold only one object which pleases me, but I can have no
pleasure or joy in it if I do not first buy it with a heavy price. For I
have now found my peer; and if I love him he loves me in return, and if
I grieve he grieves too for my pain and sorrow. Now I must acquaint you
with a plan and project upon which we two have privately agreed." Then
she told and explained to her how she was willing to feign illness, and
would complain so bitterly that at last she would pretend to be dead,
and how Cliges would steal her away at night, and then they would be
together all their days. She thinks that in no other way she could
longer bear to live. But if she was sure that she would consent to lend
her aid, the matter would be arranged in accordance with their wishes.
"But I am tired of waiting for my joy and luck." Then her nurse assured
her that she would help her in every way, telling her to have no further
fear. She said that as soon as she set to work she would bring it about
that there would be no man, upon seeing her, who would not certainly
believe that the soul had left the body after she had drunk of a potion
which would leave her cold, colourless, pale, and stiff, without power
of speech and deprived of health; yet she would be alive and well, and
would have no sensations of any kind, and would be none the worse for a
day and a night entire spent in the sepulchre and bier. [239]

(Vv. 5467-5554.) When Fenice heard these words, she thus spoke in reply:
"Nurse, I commit myself to you, and, with full confidence in you, will
take no steps in my own behalf. I am in your hands; so think of my
interests, and tell all the people who are here to betake themselves
away, for I am ill, and they bother me." So, like a prudent woman, she
said to them: "My lords, my lady is not well, and desires you all to
go away. You are talking loud and making a noise, and the noise is
disagreeable to her. She can get no rest or repose so long as you are in
the room. I never remember her to have complained of such a sickness
as this so violent and serious does it seem. So go away, and don't feel
hurt." As soon as she had issued this command, they all quickly go away.
And Cliges sent for John to come quickly, and thus in private spoke to
him: "John, dost thou know what I am about to say? Thou art my slave and
I thy master, and I can give away or sell thy body like a thing which is
my own. But if I could trust thee in an affair I meditate, thou wouldst
go for ever free, as well as the heirs which may be born of thee." John,
in his desire for freedom, replies at once: "My lord, there is nothing
I would not gladly do to see myself, my wife, and children free. Tell me
what your orders are, for nothing can be so hard as to cause me any
work or pain or be hard for me to execute. For that matter, even were
it against my will, I must needs obey your commands and give up my own
affairs." "True, John; but this is a matter of which I hardly dare to
speak, unless thou wilt assure me upon thy oath thou wilt faithfully
give me aid and never betray me." "Willingly, sire," John makes reply:
"have never a fear on that account! For I will swear and pledge my word
that, so long as I live, I will never say a word which I think will
grieve you or cause you harm." "Ah John, even were I to die for it,
there is no man to whom I would dare mention the matter in which I
desire thy counsel; I would rather have my eye plucked out; I would
rather be put to death by thee than that thou shouldst speak of it to
another man. But I hold thee to be so loyal and prudent that I will
reveal to thee all my thought. I am sure thou wilt observe my wishes,
both by aiding me and holding thy peace." "Truly, sire so, help me God!"
Then Cliges speaks and explains to him openly the adventurous plan.
And when he had revealed the project--as you have heard me set it
forth--then John said that he would promise to construct the sepulchre
in accordance with his best skill, and said that he would take him to
see a certain house of his which no one yet had ever seen--not even his
wife or any child of his. This house, which he had built, he would show
him, if he cared to go with him to the place where in absolute privacy
he works and paints and carves. He would show him the finest and
prettiest place that he had ever seen. Cliges replies: "Let us go
thither then."

(Vv. 5555-5662.) Below the city, in a remote spot, John had expended
much labour in the construction of a tower. Thither he conducted Cliges,
leading him through the different storeys, which were decorated with
fine painted pictures. He shows him the rooms and the fire-places,
taking him everywhere up and down. Cliges examines this lonely house
where no one lives or has access. He passes from one room to another,
until he thinks he has seen it all, and he is much pleased with the
tower and says he thinks it is very fine. The lady will be comfortable
there as long as she lives, for no one will know of her dwelling place.
"No sire, you are right; she will never be discovered here. But do you
think you have seen all of my tower and fair retreat? There still remain
rooms so concealed that no man could ever find them out. And if you
choose to test the truth of this by investigating as thoroughly as you
can, you can never be so shrewd and clever in your search as to find
another story here, unless I show you and point it out. You must know
that baths are not lacking here, nor anything else which a lady needs,
and which I can think of or recall. The lady will be here at her ease.
Below the level of the ground the tower widens out, as you will see,
and you cannot anywhere find any entrance-door. The door is made of hard
stone with such skill and art that you cannot find the crack." Cliges
says: "These are wonderful things I hear. Lead on and I will follow you,
for I am anxious to see all this." Then John started on, taking Cliges
by the hand, until he came to a smooth and polished door, all coloured
and painted over. When John came to the wall, he stopped, holding Cliges
by the right hand. "Sire," he says, "there is no one who could see a
window or a door in this wall; and do you think that any one could pass
through it without using violence and breaking it down?" And Cliges
replies that he does not think so, and that he will never think so,
unless he sees it first. Then John says that he shall see it at once,
and that he will open a door in the wall for him. John, who constructed
this piece of work, unfastens the door in the wall and opens it for him,
so that he has to use no strength or violence to force it; then, one
stepping before the other, they descend by a winding-stair to a vaulted
apartment where John used to do his work, when it pleased him to labour
at anything. "Sire," he says, "of all the men God ever made, no one but
us two has ever been where we are now. And you shall see presently
how convenient the place is. My advice is that you choose this as your
retreat, and that your sweetheart be lodged here. These quarters are
good enough for such a guest; for there are bedrooms, and bathrooms
with hot water in the tubs, which comes through pipes under the ground.
Whoever is looking for a comfortable place in which to establish and
conceal his lady, would have to go a long way before he would find
anything so charming. When you shall have explored it thoroughly you
will find this place very suitable." Then John showed him everything,
fine chambers and painted vaults, pointing out many examples of his
work which pleased Cliges much. When they had examined the whole tower,
Cliges said: "John, my friend, I set you free and all your descendants,
and my life is absolutely in your hands. I desire that my sweetheart be
here all alone, and that no one shall know of it excepting me and you
and her." John makes answer: "I thank you, sire. Now we have been here
long enough, and as we have nothing more to do, let us return." "That is
right," says Cliges, "let us be gone." Then they go away, and leave the
tower. Upon their return they hear every one in the city saying to
his neighbour: "Don't you know the marvellous news about my lady, the
empress? May the Holy Spirit give her health--the gentle and prudent
lady; for she lies sick of a grievous malady."

(Vv. 5663-5698.) When Cliges heard this talk he went in haste to the
court. But there was no joy or gladness there: for all the people were
sad and prostrated because of the empress, who is only feigning to be
ill; for the illness of which she complains causes her no grief or pain.
But she has told them all that she wishes no one to enter her room so
long as her sickness maintains its grip with its accompanying pains in
her heart and head. She makes an exception, however, in favour of the
emperor and his nephew, not wishing to place a ban upon them; but she
will not care if the emperor, her lord, does not come. For Cliges' sake
she is compelled to pass through great pain and peril. It distresses
her that he does not come, for she has no desire to see any one but him.
Cliges, however, will soon be there, to tell her of what he has seen and
found. He came into the room and spoke to her, but stayed only a moment,
for Fenice, in order that they might think she was annoyed by what
pleased her so, cried out aloud: "Be gone, be gone! You disturb and
bother me too much, for I am so seriously ill that I shall never rise up
again." Cliges, though pleased with this, goes away with a sad face: you
would never see so woeful a countenance. To judge from his appearance he
is very sad; but within his heart is gay in anticipation of its joy.

(Vv. 5699-5718.) The empress, without being really ill, complains and
pretends that she is sick. And the emperor, who has faith in her, ceases
not to grieve, and summons a physician. But she will not allow any one
to see her or touch her. The emperor may well feel chagrined when she
says that she will never have but one doctor, who can easily restore her
to health whenever it pleases him to do so. He can cause her to die or
to live, and to him she trusts her health and life. They think that she
refers to God; but her meaning is very different, for she is thinking
of no one but Cliges. He is her god who can bring her health, or who can
cause her death.

(Vv. 5719-5814.) Thus the empress takes care that no physician shall
examine her; and more completely to deceive the emperor she refuses to
eat or drink, until she grows all pale and blue. Meanwhile her nurse
keeps busy about her, and with great shrewdness sought privily all
through the city, without the knowledge of any one, until she found a
woman who was hopelessly ill with a mortal disease. In order to perfect
her ruse she used to go to see her often and promised to cure her of her
illness; so each day she used to take a urinal in which to examine the
urine, until she saw one day that no medicine could ever be of any help,
and that she would die that very day. This urine Thessala carried off
and kept until the emperor arose, when she went to him and said: "If now
it be your will, my lord, send for all your physicians; for my mistress
has passed some water; she is very ill with this disease, and she
desires the doctors to see it, but she does not wish them to come where
she is." The doctors came into the hall and found upon examination that
the urine was very bad and colourless, and each one said what he thought
about it. Finally, they all agreed that she would never recover, and
that she would scarcely live till three o'clock, when, at the latest,
God would take her soul to Himself. This conclusion they reached
privately, when the emperor asked and conjured them to tell him the
truth. They reply that they have no confidence in her recovery, and that
she cannot live past three o'clock but will yield up her soul before
that time. When the emperor heard this, he almost fell unconscious to
the floor, as well as many others who heard the news. Never did any
people make such moan as there was then throughout the palace. However,
I will speak no further of their grief; but you shall hear of Thessala's
activities--how she mixes and brews the potion. She mixed and stirred it
up, for she had provided herself a long time in advance with everything
which she would need for the potion. A little before three o'clock she
gives her the potion to drink. At once her sight became dimmed, her face
grew as pale and white as if she had lost her blood: she could not have
moved a foot or hand, if they had flayed her alive, and she does not
stir or say a word, although she perceives and hears the emperor's grief
and the cries which fill the hall. The weeping crowds lament through all
the city, saying: "God! what woe and misfortune has been brought upon us
by wicked death! O covetous and voracious death! Death is worse than a
she-wolf which always remains insatiable. Such a cruel bite thou hast
never inflicted upon the world! Death, what hast thou done? May God
confound thee for having put out the light of perfect beauty! Thou hast
done to death the fairest and most lovely creature, had she but lived,
whom God has ever sought to form. God's patience surely is too great
when He suffers thee to have the power to break in pieces what belongs
to Him. Now God ought to be wroth with thee, and cast thee out of thy
bailiwick; for thy impudence has been too great, as well as thy pride
and disrespect." Thus the people storm about and wring their arms and
beat their hands; while the priests read their psalms, making prayers
for the good lady, that God may have mercy on her soul.

(Vv. 5815-5904.) [240] In the midst of the tears and cries, as the story
runs, there arrived aged physicians from Salerno, where they had long
sojourned. At the sight of the great mourning they stopped to ask and
inquire the cause of the cries and tears--why all the people are in
such sorrow and distress. And this is the answer they receive: "God!
gentlemen, don't you know? The whole world would be beside itself as we
are, if it but knew of the great sorrow and grief and woe and loss which
has come to us this day. God! where have you come from, then, that you
do not know what has happened just now in this city? We will tell you
the truth, for we wish you to join with us in the grief we feel. Do
you not know about grim Death, who desires and covets all things, and
everywhere lies in wait for what is best, do you not know what mad act
she has committed to-day, as it is her wont to do? God has illuminated
the world with one great radiance, with one bright light. But Death
cannot restrain herself from acting as her custom is. Every day, to the
extent of her power, she blots out the best creature she can find. So
she wishes to try her power, and in one body she has carried off more
excellence than she has left behind. She would have done better to take
the whole world, and leave alive and sound this prey which now she has
carried off. Beauty, courtesy, and knowledge, and all that a lady can
possess of goodness has been taken and filched from us by Death, who
has destroyed all goodness in the person of our lady, the empress. Thus
Death has deprived us all of life." "Ah, God!" the doctors say, "we know
that Thou art wroth with this city because we did not reach here sooner.
If we had arrived here yesterday, Death might have boasted of her
strength if she could wrest her prey from us." "Gentlemen, madame would
not have allowed you at any price to see her or to exercise your skill.
Of good physicians there was no lack, but madame would not permit any
one of them to see her or to investigate her malady." "No?" "Truly,
sirs, that she would not." Then they recalled the case of Solomon, who
was so hated by his wife that she deceived him by feigning death. [241]
They think this woman has done the same. But if they could in any way
bring about her cure, no one could make them lie or keep them from
exposing the truth, if they discovered any trickery. So to the court
they take their way, where there was such a noise and cry that you could
not have heard God's thunder crash. The chief of these three doctors,
who knew the most, drew near the bier. No one says to him "Keep hands
off," and no one tries to hold him back. He places his hand on her
breast and side, and surely feels that life is still in the body: he
perceives and knows that well enough. He sees the emperor standing by,
mad and tormented by his grief. Seeing him, he calls aloud: "Emperor,
console thyself! I am sure and plainly see that this lady is not dead.
Leave off thy grief, and be comforted! If I do not restore her alive to
thee, thou mayst kill me or string me up."

(Vv. 5995-5988.) At once throughout the palace the noise is quieted and
hushed. And the emperor bade the doctor tell him fully his orders and
wishes, whatever they might be. If he can restore life in the empress
he will be sire and lord over the emperor himself; but if he has in
any respect lied to him he will be hanged like a common thief. And the
doctor said: "I consent to that, and may you never have mercy upon me
if I do not cause her to speak to you here! Without tarrying and without
delay have the palace cleared at once, and let not a single soul remain.
I must examine in private the illness which afflicts the lady. These two
doctors, who are my friends, will remain with me alone in the room,
and let every one else go out." This order would have been opposed by
Cliges, John, and Thessala; but all the others who were there might have
turned against them if they had tried to oppose his order. So they hold
their peace and approve what they hear approved by the others, and leave
the palace. After the three doctors had forcibly tipped apart the lady's
winding-sheer, without using any knife or scissors, they said to
her: "Lady, don't be frightened, have no fear, but speak to us with
confidence! We know well enough that you are perfectly sound and in good
state. Be sensible and obliging now, and do not despair of anything,
for if you have any need of us we will all three assure you of our aid,
whether for good or ill. We shall be very loyal to you, both in keeping
our counsel and in helping you. Do not keep us talking here! Since
we put at your disposal our skill and service, you should surely not
refuse." Thus they think to hoodwink and deceive her, but they have no
success; for she has no need or care for the service which they promise
her; so they are wasting their time in a vain effort. When the three
physicians see that they will make nothing out of her either by prayer
or flattery, then they take her from her bier, and begin to beat and
belabour her. But their efforts are foolish, for not a word can they
extract from her. Then they threaten and try to terrify her by saying
that if she does not speak she will soon have reason to repent of her
folly, for they are going to do such a wonderful thing to her that such
a thing was never done to the body of any wretched woman. "We know that
you are alive, and will not deign to speak to us. We know that you are
feigning death, and would thus deceive the emperor. Have no fear of us!
If any of us has angered you, before we do you further harm, cease your
mad behaviour now, for you are acting wickedly; and we will lend you
our aid in any enterprise--wise or mad." But it cannot be; they have no
success. Then they renew their attack, striking her with thongs upon the
back, so that the welts are plainly seen, and they combine to tear her
tender flesh until they cause the blood to flow.

(Vv. 5989-6050.) When they had beaten her with the thongs until they had
slashed her flesh, and when the blood is dropping down, as it trickles
from among the wounds, even then their efforts are of no avail to
extract from her a sigh or word, nor to make her stir or move. Then they
say that they must procure fire and lead, which they will melt and lay
upon her hands, rather than fail in their efforts to make her speak.
After securing a light and some lead they kindle a fire and melt the
lead. Thus the miserable villains torment and afflict the lady, by
taking the lead all boiling hot from the fire and pouring it into the
palms of her hands. Not satisfied with pouring the lead clean through
her palms, the cowardly rascals say that, if she does not speak at once
they will straightway stretch her on the grate until she is completely
grilled. Yet, she holds her peace, and does not refuse to have her body
beaten and maltreated by them. Now they were on the point of placing
her upon the fire to be roasted and grilled when more than a thousand
ladies, who were stationed before the palace, come to the door and
through a little crack catch sight of the torture and anguish which they
were inflicting upon the lady, as with coal and flame they accomplished
her martyrdom. They bring clubs and hammers to smash and break down the
door. Great was the noise and uproar as they battered and broke in the
door. If now they can lay hands on the doctors, the latter will not have
long to wait before they receive their full deserts. With a single rush
the ladies enter the palace, and in the press is Thessala, who has no
other aim than to reach her mistress. Beside the fire she finds her
stripped, severely wounded and injured. She puts her back in the bier
again, and over her she spreads a cloth, while the ladies go to give
their reward to the three doctors, without wishing to wait for the
emperor or his seneschal. Out of the windows they threw them down into
the court-yard, breaking the necks, ribs, arms, and legs of all: no
better piece of work was ever done by any ladies.

(Vv. 6051-6162.) Now the three doctors have received their gruesome
reward at the hands of the ladies. But Cliges is terror-stricken and
filled with grief upon hearing of the pain and martyrdom which his
sweetheart has endured for him. He is almost beside himself, fearing
greatly, and with good reason, that she may be dead or badly injured by
the torture inflicted upon her by the three physicians who now are dead.
So he is in despair and despondency when Thessala comes, bringing with
her a very precious ointment with which she has already gently rubbed
the body and wounds of her mistress. When they laid her back in her bier
the ladies wrapped her again in a cloth of Syrian stuff, leaving her
face uncovered. All that night there is no abatement of the cries they
raise unceasingly. Throughout the city, high and low, poor and rich, are
beside themselves with grief, and it seems as if each one boasts that he
will outdo all others in his woe, and would fain never be comforted. All
that night the grief continues. The next morning John came to the court;
and the emperor sends for him and issues to him this command: "John, if
ever thou wroughtest a fine piece of work, now put forth and show all
thy skill in constructing such a sepulchre as for beauty and workmanship
shall have no match." And John, who had already performed the task,
says that he has already completed one which is very fine and cleverly
wrought; but when he began the work he had no thought that other than a
holy body should be laid in it. "Now let the empress be laid in it and
buried in some sacred place, for she, I think, is sanctified." "You have
spoken well," says the emperor; "she shall be buried yonder in my lord
Saint Peter's Church, where bodies are wont to be interred. For before
her death she made this request of me, that I should have her buried
there. Now go about your task, and place your sepulchre in the best
position in the cemetery, where it ought rightfully to be." John
replies: "Very well, my lord." John at once takes his leave, and
prepares the sepulchre with great skill; a feather-bed he placed inside,
because the stone was hard and cold; and in order that the odour may
be sweet, he spreads flowers and leaves about. Another reason for doing
this was that no one might perceive the mattress he had laid within
the grave. Already Mass had been said for the dead in the churches and
parishes, and the bells were tolling continuously as is proper for the
dead. Orders are given to bring the body to be laid in the sepulchre,
which John with all his skill has constructed so richly and handsomely.
In all Constantinople none remains, whether small or great, who does
not follow the body in tears, cursing and reproaching Death. Knights and
youths alike grow faint, while the ladies and damsels beat their breasts
as they thus find fault with Death: "O Death," cries each, "why didst
thou not take ransom for my lady? Surely, thy gain was slight enough,
whereas the loss to us is great." And in this grief Cliges surely bears
his part, as he suffers and laments more than all the others do, and it
is strange he does not kill himself. But still he decides to put this
off until the hour and the time shall come for him to disinter her and
get possession of her and see whether she be alive or not. Over the
gave stand the men who let down the body into its place; but, with John
there, they do not meddle with the adjustment of the sarcophagus, and
since they were so prostrated that they could not see, John had plenty
of time to perform his special task. When the coffin was in its place,
and nothing else was in the grave, he sealed up tightly all the joints.
When this was done, any one would have been skilful who, except by
force or violence, could take away or loosen anything which John had put
inside.

(Vv. 6163-6316.) Fenice lies in the sepulchre until the darkness of
night came on. But thirty knights mount guard over her, and there
are ten tapers burning there, which light up the place all about. The
knights were weary and exhausted by the strain they had undergone; so
they ate and drank that night until they all fell sound asleep. When
night came on, Cliges steals away from the court and from all his
followers, so that there was not a single knight or servant who knew
what had become of him. He did not stop until he found John, who advises
him as best he can. He furnishes him with arms, but he will never
have any need of them. Once armed, they both spur to the cemetery. The
cemetery was enclosed all about with a high wall, so that the knights,
who had gone asleep after making the gate fast within, could rest
assured that no one would enter there. Cliges does not see how he can
get in, for there is no passing through the gate. And yet, somehow he
must pass through, for love bids him and drives him on. He tries the
wall and climbs up, being strong and agile. Inside was a garden planted
with trees, one of which stood so near the wall that it touched it. Now
Cliges had what he needed, and after letting himself down by the tree,
the first thing he did was to go to open the gate for John. Seeing the
knights asleep, they extinguished all the lights, so that the place
remained in darkness. And John now uncovers the grave and opens the
coffin, taking care to do it no harm. Cliges steps into the grave and
lifts out his Sweetheart, all weak and prostrate, whom he fondles,
kisses, and embraces. He does not know whether to rejoice or regret that
she does not stir or move. And John, as quickly as he could, closed
up the sepulchre again, so that it was not apparent that any one had
tampered with it. Then they betook themselves as fast as they could to
the tower. When they had set her in the tower, in the rooms which were
beneath the level of the ground, they took off her grave clothes; and
Cliges, who knew nothing of the potion which she had taken, which made
her dumb and kept her motionless, thinks that she is dead, and is in
despair with anxiety as he heavily sighs and weeps. But soon the time
will come for the potion to lose its force. And Fenice, who hears his
grief, struggles and strives for strength to comfort him by word or
glance. Her heart almost bursts because of the sorrow which he shows.
"Ah Death!" he says, "how mean thou art, to spare and reprieve all
things despicable and vile--to let them live on and endure. Death! art
thou beside thyself or drunk, who hast killed my lady without me? This
is a marvellous thing I see: my lady is dead, and I still live on! Ah,
precious one, why does your lover live to see you dead? One now could
rightly say that you have died in my service, and that it is I who
have killed and murdered you. Sweetheart, then I am the death that has
smitten you. Is not that wrong? For it is my own life I have lost in
you, and have preserved your life in me. For did not your health and
life belong to me, sweet one? And did not mine belong to you? For I
loved nothing excepting you, and our double existence was as one. So now
I have done what was right in keeping your soul in my body while mine
has escaped from your body, and one ought to go to seek the company of
the other, wherever it may be, and nothing ought to separate them." At
this she heaves a gentle sigh and whispers faintly: "Lover mine, I am
not altogether dead, but very near it. I value my life but little now. I
thought it a jest and a mere pretence; but now I am indeed to be pitied,
for death has not treated this as a jest. It will be a marvel if I
escape alive. For the doctors have seriously wounded me, and broken my
flesh and disfigured me. And yet, if it was possible for my nurse to
come here, and if efforts were of any avail, she would restore me to
health again." "Do not worry, dear, about that," says Cliges, "for this
very night I will bring her here." "Dear, let John go for her now." So
John departed and looked for her until he found her, and told her how
he wished her to come along and to let no other cause detain her; for
Fenice and Cliges have sent for her to come to a tower where they are
awaiting her; and that Fenice is in a grievous state, so that she must
come provided with ointments and remedies, and to bear in mind that
she will not live long, if she does not quickly come to bear her aid.
Thessala runs at once and, taking ointments, plaster, and remedies which
she has prepared, she meets John again. Secretly they go out from the
city, until they come straight to the tower. When Fenice sees her nurse,
she feels already cured, because of the loving faith and trust she
places in her. And Cliges greets her affectionately, and says: "Welcome,
nurse, whom I love and prize. Nurse, for God's sake, what do you think
of this young lady's malady? What is your opinion? Will she recover?"
"Yes, my lord, have no fear but that I shall restore her completely.
A fortnight will not pass before I make her so well that she was never
before so lively and strong."

(Vv. 6317-6346.) While Thessala is busy with her remedies, John goes to
provide the tower with everything that is necessary. Cliges goes to the
tower and comes away bravely and openly, for he has lodged a moulting
falcon there, and he says that he goes to visit it; thus no one can
guess that he goes there for any other reason than for the falcon. He
makes long stays there night and day. He orders John to guard the tower,
so that no one shall enter against his will. Fenice now has no further
cause to complain, for Thessala has completely cured her. If Cliges were
Duke of Almeria, Morocco, or Tudela, he would not consider it all worth
a holly-berry compared with the joy which he now feels. Certainly Love
did not debase itself when it joined these two, for it seems to them,
when they embrace and kiss each other, that all the world must be better
for their joy and happiness. Now ask me no more of this, for one can
have no wish in which the other does not acquiesce. Thus they have but
one desire, as if they two themselves were one.

(Vv. 6347-6392.) Fenice was in the tower, I believe, all that year and
full two months of the next, until summer came again. When the trees
bring forth their flowers and leaves, and the little birds rejoice,
singing gaily their litanies, it came about that Fenice one morning
heard the song of the nightingale. Cliges was holding her tightly
clasped with his arms about her waist and neck, and she held him in a
like embrace, as she said: "Dear fair lover mine. A garden would do me
good, in which I could disport myself. For more than fifteen months I
have not seen the light of moon or sun. If possible, I would fain go out
yonder into the daylight, for here in this tower I am confined. If there
was a garden near, where I could go and amuse myself, it would often do
me good." Then Cliges promises her to consult with John about it as soon
as he can see him. At that very moment John came in, as he was often
wont to do, and Cliges spoke to him of what Fenice desired. John
replies: "All that she asks for is already provided and supplied. This
tower is well equipped with what she wishes and requires." Then Fenice
was very glad, and asked John to take her there, which he said he
would very gladly do. Then John goes and opens a door, constructed in
a fashion which I cannot properly describe. No one but John could have
made it, and no one could have asserted that there was any door or
window there--so perfectly was it concealed.

(Vv. 6393-6424.) When Fenice saw the door open, and the sun come
streaming in, as she had not seen it for many a day, her heart beat high
with joy; she said that now there was nothing lacking, since she could
leave her dungeon-tower, and that she wished for no other lodging-place.
She passed out through the door into the garden, with its pleasures and
delights. In the middle of the garden stood a grafted tree loaded with
blooming flowers and leaves, and with a wide-spreading top. The branches
of it were so trained that they all hung downwards until they almost
touched the ground; the main trunk, however, from which they sprang,
rose straight into the air. Fenice desires no other place. Beneath the
tree the turf is very pleasant and fine, and at noon, when it is hot,
the sun will never be high enough for its rays to penetrate there. John
had shown his skill in arranging and training the branches thus. There
Fenice goes to enjoy herself, where they set up a bed for her by day.
There they taste of joy and delight. And the garden is enclosed about
with a high wall connected with the tower, so that nothing can enter
there without first passing through the tower.

(Vv. 6425-6586.) Fenice now is very happy: there is nothing to cause her
displeasure, and nothing is lacking which she desires, when her lover is
at liberty to embrace her beneath the blossoms and the leaves. [242]
At the season when people take the sparrow-hawk and setter and hunt the
lark and brown-thrush or stalk the quail and partridge, it chanced that
a knight of Thrace, who was young and alert and inclined to knightly
sport, came one day close by the tower in his search for game. The hawk
of Bertrand (for such was his name) having missed a lark, had flown
away, and Bertrand thought how great his loss would be if he should lose
his hunting-bird. When he saw it come down and light in a garden beneath
the tower he was glad, for he thought he could not lose it now. At once
he goes and clambers up the wall until he succeeds in getting over it,
when beneath the tree he sees Fenice and Cliges lying asleep and naked
in close embrace. "God!" said he, "what has happened to me now? What
marvel is this I see? Is that not Cliges? It surely is. Is not that the
empress with him there? Nay, but it looks like her. Never did one thing
so resemble another. Her nose, her mouth, and brow are like those of
my lady the empress. Never did Nature make two creatures of such
similitude. There is no feature in this woman here which I have not seen
in my lady. If she were alive, I should say that it was certainly she
herself." Just then a pear falls down and strikes close by Fenice's ear.
She jumps and awakes and, seeing Bertrand, cries out aloud: "My dear, my
dear, we are lost. Yonder is Bertrand. If he escapes you, we are caught
in a bad trap, for he will tell that he has seen us." Then Bertrand
realised that it was the empress beyond any doubt. He sees the necessity
of leaving at once, for Cliges had brought with him his sword into
the garden, and had laid it down beside the bed. He jumped up now and
grasped his sword, while Bertrand hastily took his leave. As fast as he
could he scaled the wall, and was almost safely over when Cliges coming
after him raised his sword and struck him with such violence that he
severed his leg below the knee, as if it had been a fennel stalk. In
spite of this, Bertrand got away, though badly wounded and maimed.
Beside themselves with grief and wrath at the sight of his sorry state,
his men on the other side picked him up, and insistently inquired who it
was who had used him thus. "Don't speak to me now," he says, "but help
me to mount my horse. No mention shall be made of this excepting to the
emperor. He who thus has treated me must be, and doubtless is, in great
terror; for he is in great danger of his life." Then they set him upon
his palfrey and lead him through the city, sorely grieved in their
fright the while. After them more than twenty thousand others come,
following them to the court. And all the people run together, each
striving to be there first. Bertrand made his complaint aloud, in the
hearing of all, to the emperor: but they took him for an idle chatterer
when he said that he had seen the empress all exposed. The city is in
a ferment of excitement: some regard the news they hear as simple
nonsense, others advise and urge the emperor to visit the tower himself.
Great is the noise and confusion of the people who prepare to accompany
him. But they find nothing in the tower, for Fenice and Cliges make
their escape, taking with them Thessala, who comforts them and declares
to them that, if perchance they see people coming after them to arrest
them, they need have no fear; that they would never approach to do them
harm within the range of a strong cross-bow. And the emperor within the
tower has John sought for and brought. He orders him to be bound and
tied saying that he will have him hanged or burnt, and will have his
ashes scattered wide. He shall receive his due reward for the shame he
has caused the emperor; but this reward will not be agreeable, because
John has hidden in the tower his nephew with his wife. "Upon my word,
you tell the truth," says John; "I will not lie, but will go still
further and declare the truth, and if I have done any wrong it is right
that I should be seized. But I offer this as my excuse: that a servant
ought to refuse nothing when his lawful lord commands. Now, every one
knows forsooth that I am his, and this tower is too." "It is not, John.
Rather is it thine." "Mine, sire? Yes, after him: but neither do I
belong to myself, nor have I anything which is mine, except what he
pleased to bestow on me. And if you should think to say that my lord
is guilty of having done you wrong, I am ready to take up his defence
without any command from him. But I feel emboldened to proclaim openly
what is on my mind, just as I have thought it out, for I know full well
that I must die. So I will speak regardless of results. For if I die
for my lord's sake, I shall not die an ignoble death, for the facts
are generally known about that oath and pledge which you gave to your
brother, that after you Cliges should be emperor, who now is banished as
a wanderer. But if God will, he shall yet be emperor! Hence you are open
to reproach, for you ought not to have taken a wife; yet you married her
and did Cliges a wrong, and he has done you no wrong at all. And if I am
punished with death by you, and if I die wrongfully for his sake, and
if he is still alive, he will avenge my death on you. Now go and do the
best you can, for if I die you shall also die."

(Vv. 6587-6630.) The emperor trembles with wrath upon hearing the
mocking words addressed to him by John. "John," he says, "thou shalt
have so much respite, until we find thy lord, who has done such wrong
to me, though I loved him dearly and had no thought of defrauding him.
Meanwhile, thou shalt stay in prison. If thou knowest what has become of
him, tell me at once, I order thee." "I tell you? How can I commit such
treachery? Were the life to be drawn from my body I would not reveal my
lord to you, even if I knew his whereabouts. As a matter of fact, I do
not know any more than you where they have gone, so help me God! But
there is no need for your jealousy. I do not so much fear your wrath
that I should not say, so that all can hear, how you have been deceived,
even my words are not believed. You were deceived and tricked by potion
you drank on your wedding night. Unless it happened in dream, when you
were asleep, you have never had your pleasure with her; but the night
made you dream, and the dream gave you as much satisfaction as if it had
happened in your waking hours that she had held you in her arms: that
was the sum of your satisfaction. Her heart was so devoted to Cliges
that she feigned death for his sake; and he had such confidence in me
that he explained it all to me and established her in my house, which
rightfully belongs to him. You ought not to find fault with me. I ought,
indeed, to be burnt or hanged, were I to betray my lord or refuse to do
his will."

(Vv. 6631-6784.) When the emperor's attention is recalled to the potion
which he had been pleased to drink, and with which Thessala had deceived
him, then he realised for the first time that he had never had pleasure
with his wife, unless it had happened in a dream: thus it was but an
illusory joy. And he says that if he does not take vengeance for the
shame and disgrace inflicted upon him by the traitor who has seduced
his wife, he will never again be happy. "Now quick!" he says, "as far as
Pavia, and from here to Germany, let no castle, town, or city remain in
which search is not made. I will hold that man above all others dear who
will bring to me captive the two of them. Now up and down, near and far,
go diligently and search!" Then they started out with zeal and spent all
that day in the search. But in the number Cliges had some friends, who,
if they found them, would have led them to some hiding-place rather than
hale them back again. All that fortnight they exhausted themselves in a
fruitless search. For Thessala, who is acting as their guide, conducts
them by her arts and charms in such security that they feel no dread or
fear of all the strength of the emperor. They seek repose in no town
or city; yet they have all they wish or desire, even more so than is
usually the case. For all they need is procured for them by Thessala,
who searches and scours and purveys for them. Nor is there any who hunts
them now, for all have returned to their homes again. Meanwhile Cliges
is not idle, but starts to find his uncle, King Arthur. He continued
his search until he found him, and to him he made his claim and protest
about his uncle, the emperor, who, in order to disinherit him, had
disloyally taken a wife, which it was not right for him to do; for he
had sworn to his father that he would never marry in his life. And the
King says that with a fleet he will proceed to Constantinople, and that
he will fill a thousand ships with knights, and three thousand more with
men-at-arms, until no city or burg, town or castle, however strong or
however high, will be able to withstand their assault. Then Cliges did
not forget to thank the King for the aid he offered him. The King sends
out to seek and summon all the high barons of the land, and causes to be
requisitioned and equipped ships, war vessels, boats, and barks. He has
a hundred ships loaded and filled with shields, lances, bucklers, and
armour fit for knights. The King makes such great preparations for
the war that never did Caesar or Alexander make the like. He orders to
assemble at his summons all England, and all Flanders, Normandy, France,
and Brittany, and all the men as far as the Pyrenees. [243] Already they
were about to set sail, when messengers arrived from Greece who delayed
the embarkation and kept the King and his people back. Among the
messengers who came was John, that trusty man, for he would never be a
witness or messenger of any news which was not true, and which he did
not know for a certainty. The messengers were high born men of Greece,
who came in search for Cliges. They made inquiry and asked for him,
until they found him at the King's court, when they said to him: "God
save you, sire! Greece is made over to you, and Constantinople is given
to you by all those of your empire, because of the right you have to
them. Your uncle (but you know it not) is dead of the grief he felt
because he could not discover you. His grief was such that he lost
his mind; he would neither drink nor eat, but died like a man beside
himself. Fair sire, now come back again! For all your lords have sent
for you. Greatly they desire and long for you, wishing to make you their
emperor." Some there were that rejoiced at this; and others there were
who would have gladly seen their guests elsewhere, and the fleet make
sail for Greece. But the expedition is given up, and the King dismisses
his men, and the hosts depart to their homes again. And Cliges hurriedly
makes haste in his desire to return to Greece. He has no wish to tarry.
His preparations made, he took his leave of the King, and then of all
his friends, and taking Fenice with him, he goes away. They travel until
they arrive in Greece, where they receive him with the jubilation
which they ought to show to their rightful lord, and they give him
his sweetheart to be his wife. Both of them are crowned at once. His
mistress he has made his wife, but he still calls her his mistress and
sweetheart, and she can complain of no loss of affection, for he loves
her still as his mistress, and she loves him, too, as a lady ought to
love her lover. And each day saw their love grow stronger: he never
doubted her, nor did she blame him for anything. She was never kept
confined, as so many women have been who have lived since her time. For
never since has there been an emperor who did not stand in fear of his
wife, lest he should be deceived by her, upon his hearing the story of
how Fenice deceived Alis, first with the potion which he drank, and then
later by that other ruse. Therefore, every empress, however rich and
noble she may be, is guarded in Constantinople as in a prison, for the
emperor has no confidence in her when he remembers the story of Fenice.
He keeps her constantly guarded in her room, nor is there ever allowed
any man in her presence, unless he be a eunuch from his youth; in the
case of such there is no fear or doubt that Love will ensnare them in
his bonds. Here ends the work of Chretien. [244]

----Endnotes: Cliges

Endnotes supplied by Prof. Foerster are indicated by "(F.)"; all other
endnotes are supplied by W.W. Comfort.

[Footnote 21: There is no English version corresponding to the old
French "Cliges". The English metrical romance "Sir Cleges" has nothing
to do with the French romance.]

[Footnote 22: Ovid in "Metamorphosis", vi. 404, relates how Tantalus at
a feast to the gods offered them the shoulder of his own son. It is not
certain, however, that Chretien is referring here to this slight episode
of the "Metamorphosis".]

[Footnote 23: This allusion is generally taken as evidence that the poet
had written previously of the love of Tristan and Iseut. Gaston Paris,
however, in one of his last utterances ("Journal des Savants", 1902,
p. 297), says: "Je n'hesite pas a dire que l'existence d'un poeme sur
Tristan par Chretien de Troies, a laquelle j'ai cru comme presque tout
le monde, me parait aujourd'hui fort peu probable; j'en vais donner les
raisons."]

[Footnote 24: The story of Philomela or Philomena, familiar in Chaucer's
"Legende of Good Women", is told by Ovid in "Metamorphosis", vi.
426-674. Cretiens li Gois is cited by the author of the "Ovide moralise"
as the author of the episode of Philomena incorporated in his long
didactic poem. This episode has been ascribed to Chretien de Troyes by
many recent critics, and has been separately edited by C. de Boer, who
offers in his Introduction a lengthy discussion of its authorship. See
C. de Boer, "Philomena, conte raconte d'apres Ovide par Chretien de
Troyes" (Paris, 1909).]

[Footnote 25: The present cathedral of Beauvais is dedicated to St.
Peter, and its construction was begun in 1227. The earlier structure
here referred to, destroyed in 1118, probably was also dedicated to the
same saint. (F.)]

[Footnote 26: The real kernal of the Cliges story, stripped of its
lengthy introduction concerning Alexandre and Soredamors, is told in a
few lines in "Marques de Rome", p. 135 (ed. J. Alton in "Lit. Verein in
Stuttgart", No. 187, Tubingen, 1889), as one of the tales or "exempla"
recounted by the Empress of Rome to the Emperor and the Seven Sages. No
names are given except that of Cliges himself; the version owes nothing
to Chretien's poem, and seems to rest upon a story which the author may
have heard orally. See Foerster's "Einleitung to Cliges" (1910), p. 32
f.]

[Footnote 27: This criticism of ignoble leisure on the part of a warrior
is found also in "Erec et Enide" and "Yvain".]

[Footnote 28: This allegorical tribute to "largesse" is quite in the
spirit of the age. When professional poets lived upon the bounty of
their patrons, it is not strange that their poetry should dwell upon the
importance of generosity in their heroes. For an exhaustive collection
of "chastisements" or "enseignements", such as that here given to
Alexandre by his father, see Eugen Altner, "Ueber die chastiements in
den altfranzosischen chansons de geste" (Leipzig, 1885).]

[Footnote 29: As Miss Weston has remarked ("The Three Days' Tournament",
p. 45), the peculiar georgraphy of this poem "is distinctly Anglo-Norman
rather than Arthurian".]

[Footnote 210: For this intimate relation between heroes, so common
in the old French heroic and romantic poems, see Jacques Flach, "Le
compagnonnage dans les chansons de geste" in "Etudes romances dediees a
Gaston Paris" (Paris, 1891). Reviewed in "Romania", xxii. 145.]

[Footnote 211: Here begins one of those long dialogues, where one person
is represented as taking both sides of an argument. This rhetorical
device, so wearisome to modern readers, is used by Chretien preferably
when some sentiment or deep emotion is to be portrayed. Ovid may well
have suggested the device, but Ovid never abuses it as does the more
prolix mediaeval poet. For the part playing by the eyes in mediaeval
love sophistry, see J.F. Hanford, "The Debate of Heart and Eye" in
"Modern Language Notes", xxvi. 161-165; and H.R. Lang, "The Eyes as
Generators of Love." id. xxiii. 126-127.]

[Footnote 212: For play upon words and for fanciful derivation of proper
names in mediaeval romance literature, see the interesting article
of Adolf Tobler in "Vermischte Beitrage", ii. 211-266. Gaston Paris
("Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 354) points out that Thomas used the
same scene and the play upon the same words "mer", "amer", and "amers"
in his "Tristan" and was later imitated by Gottfried von Strassburg.]

[Footnote 213: According to the 12th century troubadours, the shafts of
Love entered the victim's body through the eyes, and thence pierced the
heart.]

[Footnote 214: For fanciful derivation of proper names, cf. A. Tobler,
"Vermischte Beitrage", ii. 211-266.]

[Footnote 215: Ganelon, the traitor in the "Chanson de Roland", to
whose charge is laid the defeat of Charlemagne's rear-guard at Ronceval,
became the arch-traitor of mediaeval literature. It will be recalled
that Dante places him in the lowest pit of Hell ("Inferno", xxxii. 122).
(NOTE: There is a slight time discrepance here. Roland, Ganelon, and the
Battle of Ronceval were said to have happened in 8th Century A.D., fully
300 years after Arthur and the Round Table.--DBK).]

[Footnote 216: For the ceremonies attendant upon the conferring of
knighthood, see Karl Treis, "Die Formalitaten des Ritterschlags in der
altfranzosischen Epik" (Berlin, 1887).]

[Footnote 217: The "quintainne" was "a manikin mounted on a pivot and
armed with a club in such a way that, when a man struck it unskilfully
with his lance, it turned and landed a blow upon his back" (Larousse).]

[Footnote 218: This conventional attitude of one engaged in thought or
a prey to sadness has been referred to by G.L. Hamilton in "Ztsch fur
romanische Philologie", xxxiv. 571-572.]

[Footnote 219: Many traitors in old French literature suffered the same
punishments as Ganelon, and were drawn asunder by horses ("Roland",
3960-74).]

[Footnote 220: The same rare words "galerne" and "posterne" occur in
rhyme in the "Roman de Thebes", 1471-72.]

[Footnote 221: This qualified praise is often used in speaking of
traitors and of Saracens.]

[Footnote 222: The failure to identify the warriors is due to the fact
that the knights are totally encased in armour.]

[Footnote 223: A reference to the "Roman de Thebes", 1160 circ.]

[Footnote 224: The disregard of Alis for his nephew Cliges is similar to
that of King Mark for Tristan in another legend. In the latter, however,
Tristan joins with the other courtiers in advising his uncle to marry,
though he himself had been chosen heir to the throne by Mark. cf. J.
Bedier, "Le Roman de Tristan", 2 vols. (Paris, 1902), i. 63 f.]

[Footnote 225: See Endnote #14 above.]

[Footnote 226: Cf. Shakespeare, "Othello", ii. I, where Cassio, speaking
of Othello's marriage with Desdemona, says: "he hath achieved a maid
That paragons description and wild fame; One that excels the quirks of
blazoning pens, And in the essential vesture of creation Does tire the
enginer."]

[Footnote 227: Ovid ("Metamorphosis", iii. 339-510) is Chretien's
authority.]

[Footnote 228: Cf. L. Sudre, "Les allusions a la legende de Tristan dans
la litterature du moyen age", "Romania", xv. 435 f. Tristan was famed as
a hunter, fencer, wrestler, and harpist.]

[Footnote 229: "The word 'Thessala' was a common one in Latin, as
meaning 'enchantress', 'sorceress', 'witch', as Pliny himself tells
us, adding that the art of enchantment was not, however, indigenous to
Thessaly, but came originally from Persia." ("Natural History", xxx.
2).--D.B. Easter, "Magic Elements in the romans d'aventure and the
romans bretons, p. 7. (Baltimore, 1906). A Jeanroy in "Romania", xxxiii.
420 note, says: "Quant au nom de Thessala, il doit venir de Lucain, tres
lu dans les ecoles au XIIe siecle." See also G. Paris in "Journal des
Savants", 1902, p. 441 note. Thessala is mentioned in the "Roman de la
Violetta", v. 514, in company with Brangien of the Tristan legend.]

[Footnote 230: Medea, the wife of Jason, is the great sorceress of
classic legend.]

[Footnote 231: This personage was regarded in the Middle Ages as an
Emperor of Rome. In the 13th-century poem of "Octavian" (ed. Vollmuller,
Heilbronn, 1883) he is represented as a contemporary of King Dagobert!]

[Footnote 232: This commonplace remark is quoted as a proverb of the
rustic in "Ipomedon", 1671-72; id., 10, 348-51; "Roman de Mahomet",
1587-88; "Roman de Renart", vi. 85-86; Gower's "Mirour de l'omme", 28,
599, etc.]

[Footnote 233: It is curious to note that Corneille puts almost
identical words in the mouth of Don Gomes as he addresses the Cid ("Le
Cid", ii. 2).]

[Footnote 234: For this tournament and its parallels in folk-lore,
see Miss J.L. Weston, "The Three Days' Tournament" (London, 1902). She
argues (p. 14 f. and p. 43 f.) against Foerster's unqualified opinion of
the originality of Chretien in his use of this current description of
a tournament, an opinion set forth in his "Einleitung to Lancelot", pp.
43, 126, 128, 138.]

[Footnote 235: Note that Chretien here deliberately avoids such a list
of knights as he introduces in "Erec". (F.)]

[Footnote 236: It must be admitted that the text, which is offered
by all but one MS., is here unintelligible. The reference, if any be
intended, is not clear. (F.)]

[Footnote 237: Much has been made of this expression as intimating that
Chretien wrote "Cliges" as a sort of disavowal of the immorality of
his lost "Tristan". Cf. Foerster, "Cliges" (Ed. 1910), p. xxxix f., and
Myrrha Borodine, "La femme et l'amour au XXIe Seicle d'apres les poemes
de Chretien de Troyes" (Paris, 1909). G. Paris has ably defended another
interpretation of the references in "Cliges" to the Tristan legend in
"Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 442 f.]

[Footnote 238: This curious moral teaching appears to be a perversion
of three passages form St. Paul's Epistles: I Cor. vii. 9, I Cor. x. 32,
Eph. v. 15. Cf. H. Emecke, "Chretien von Troyes als Personlichkeit und
als Dichter" (Wurzburg, 1892).]

[Footnote 239: "This feature of a woman who, thanks to some charm,
preserves her virginity with a husband whom she does not love, is found
not only in widespread stories, but in several French epic poems. In
only one, "Les Enfances Guillaume", does the husband, like Alis, remain
ignorant of the fraud of which he is the victim, and think that he
really possesses the woman.... If Chretien alone gave to the charm
of the form of a potion, it is in imitation of the love potion in
"Tristan". (G. Paris in "Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 446). For
many other references to the effect of herb potions, cf. A. Hertel,
"Verzauberte Oerlichkeiten und Gegenstande in der altfranzosische
erzahlende Dichtung", p. 41 ff. (Hanover, 1908).]

[Footnote 240: I have pointed out the curious parallel between the
following passage and Dante's "Vita Nova", 41 ("Romantic Review", ii.
2). There is no certain evidence that Dante knew Chretien's work (cf. A.
Farinelli, "Dante e la Francia", vol. i., p. 16 note), but it would be
strange if he did not know such a distinguished predecessor.]

[Footnote 241: For the legend of Solomon deceived by his wife, see
Foerster "Cliges" (ed. 1910), p. xxxii. f., and G. Paris in "Romania",
ix. 436-443, and in "Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 645 f. For an
additional reference, add "Ipomedon", 9103.]

[Footnote 242: For an imitation of the following scene, see Hans Herzog
in "Germania", xxxi. 325.]

[Footnote 243: "Porz d'Espaingne" refers to the passes in the Pyrenees
which formed the entrance-ways to Spain. Cf. The "Cilician Gates" in
Xenophon's "Anabasis".]

[Footnote 244: Chretien here insists upon his divergence from the
famous dictum attributed to the Countess Marie de Champagne by Andre le
Chapelain: "Praeceptum tradit amoris, quod nulla etiam coniugata regis
poterit amoris praemio coronari, nisi extra coniugii foedera ipsius
amoris militae cernatur adiuneta". (Andreae Capellini, "De Amore", p.
154; Ed. Trojel, Havniae, 1892).

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