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THE ROMANCE OF TRISTAN AND ISEULT

RETOLD BY JOSEPH BÉDIER

RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BY HILAIRE BELLOC

COMPLETED & RESTORED BY VINCENT NICOLOSI

TRANSLATION ASSISTANCE BY VITTORIO RINTOUL & WILLIAM G. BECKFORD

This Fonthill Press edition includes the original

PREFACE BY GASTON PARIS

& ON THE NATURE OF

THE LEGEND OF TRISTAN AND ISEULT

By Joseph Bédier’s Essay based on Susan Hilles Taber’s translation

FONTHILL PRESS EDITION 2011

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Bédier, Joseph 1864–1938 [Bédier, English]

[Roman de Tristan et Iseult, English] The Romance of Tristan and Iseult / Retold by Joseph Bédier

Translation by Hilaire Belloc Completed by Vincent Nicolosi

Translation Assistance by Vittorio Rintoul & William Beckford Fonthill Press LLC edition

US International Standard Book Number: 978-0-9844677-0-9 1. Tristan and Iseult—Legends—Romances

2. Tristan—Romances—Adaptation 3. Iseult—Romances—Adaptation

4. Arthurian Romances—Adaptations

Manufactured in the United States of America

“LE ROMAN DE TRISTAN ET ISEUT”

BY M. JOSEPH BÉDIER WAS CROWNED BY THE FRENCH ACADEMY

En vos ma mort, en vos ma vie

MMXI

One could sooner dry up The deep sea

And hold back its waves Than I could restrain

Myself from loving you; For my thoughts,

My memories, my pleasures— All my desires are perpetually

Of you, whom I can neither forsake, Nor even briefly forget.

Guillaume de Machaut

They would share one death and one life, one sorrow and one joy.

Gottfried von Strassburg

Life was so weighed down by the emptiness of the great forests and by the mystery of all things, and by the greatness of its own desires, and, as I think, by the loneliness of much beauty; and seemed so little and so fragile and so brief, that nothing could be more sweet in the memory than a tale

that ended in death and parting, and than a wild and beautiful lamentation.

William Butler Yeats

Contents

Foreword by William Beckford

Introduction by Vincent Nicolosi

Preface by Gaston Paris

Notes on the Sources by Joseph Bédier

The Romance of Tristan and Iseult

Part the First

The Childhood of Tristan

The Morholt Out of Ireland

The Quest of the Lady with the Hair of Gold

The Philtre

Brangien Delivered to the Serfs

The Tall Pine-Tree Joseph Bédier

The Dwarf Frocin

The Chantry Leap

Part the Second

The Wood of Morois

Ogrin the Hermit

At the Ford of Providence

The Ordeal by Iron

Part the Third

The Song of the Nightingale

The Little Faëry Bell

Iseult of the White Hands

Kaherdin

Dinas of Lidan

The Madness of Tristan

Death

On the Nature of the Legend of Tristan and Iseult

Foreword

We believe this Fonthill Press edition of Joseph Bédier’s The Romance of Tristan and Iseult is the most complete version available in the English language to date. And such a volume is long overdue.

Joseph Bédier published Le Roman de Tristan et Iseut in 1900 in Paris. A few years later Hilaire Belloc first introduced the English-speaking world to this marvelous tale with his equally marvelous translation. Or rather, he introduced the English-speaking world to part of this tale. One definite shortcoming of Belloc’s otherwise compelling and exquisite translation is that he omitted so very much; in fact, he omitted, suppressed, four chapters, either in their entirety or in part, along with a scattering of sections, phrases, and single words. Many, if not most, of Belloc’s omissions were inexplicable, if not downright eccentric, though he obviously found other passages indelicate. Decades later, and decades ago, Paul Rosenfeld restored many of Belloc’s omissions. But most certainly not all. Likewise, where needed, we have made corrections in the text, as when Belloc translates qu’il garnit de froment as “he packed corn” as opposed to “he packed wheat.” (Historically, Tristan of course could not have known anything of corn, for the introduction of maize to the Europeans was centuries away, in November of 1492, when Columbus first visited Cuba.)

One omission in both the early and later English versions was Gaston Paris’s insightful preface, which is as timely today as it was in 1900. In this Fonthill edition we have restored the missing preface. Likewise, we have restored the use of short introductory inscriptions that once preceded each chapter.

We are also pleased to include here Joseph Bédier’s essay “On the Nature of the Legend of Tristan and Iseult.” It appeared after the original volume, though it seems helpful.

We decided early on—guided by Bédier—that this would be a volume

for general readers, for lovers of literature, and simply and mostly for lovers; although we have referenced things both preceding and following the Romance, you will not find the text encumbered by footnotes. Vincent Nicolosi, in whose voice Belloc’s suppressed sections now speak, has also written some introductory notes, filling in some areas about the Celts. In all, Fonthill has endeavored to make available, finally, a full and more complete restoration of this most wonderful story, The Romance of Tristan and Iseult, and to do so in an exquisite, archival edition, one very much like the tale itself: digne des âges—worthy of the ages.

William Beckford, Publisher Fonthill Press

New York

Introduction

The eminent playwright, scholar, and translator Lewis Galantiere said of Tristan and Iseult: “Theirs is incomparably the greatest love story in the world.” And Jean-Charles Payen, renowned scholar of the French Academy, regarded Tristan and Iseult as the most beautiful love story of all time. Certainly, in calamity and ardor this supreme tale of youthful passion and forbidden love ranks with Romeo and Juliet, predating even the source of the play’s provenance by centuries. In epic scope and intensity—spanning years and kingdoms—the legend of Tristan and Iseult, the beautiful and the doomed, stands without parallel. Like Romeo and Juliet this perennial tale is voluptuous and brutal, grave and archetypical, speaking in lovely and charming utterances, everlastingly, across the centuries.

As with so many myths and legends, the origins of Tristan and Iseult* are about as tangible as dreams and have vanished into remote history. Curious leavings remain. To this day the sixth century Tristan Stone stands lonely and weathered in Cornwall, in southwestern England, bearing an inscription now worn to the point of ghostly: Drustans hic iacet Cunomori filius—“Here lies Drustanus son of Cunomorus.” Was this Drustanus the Tristan of legend? Where does myth end and history begin? Did a blurred confluence once exist between the two? Doubtless, the truth will forever remain cloaked in Celtic mist, and mystery becomes the legend. We wonder too at the elusive juncture of folklore and the past, between the mystical and the geographic. Tintagel Castle, seat of King Mark’s court and place of King Arthur’s conception, now stands in windswept ruins on cliffs above the Atlantic, where solitude and evanescence are aspects of earth, sea, and sky. And the Isle of St Samson, where Tristan engaged and slew the Morholt, remains as desolate now as a thousand years ago when these or similar events were dreamed of or somewhat transpired. The twelfth century French poet Béroul, upon whose Tristan Joseph Bédier

based much of his Romance, includes various recognizable locations in Cornwall for major and minor events of the story. Oliver Padel, authority on English place names and professor of Celtic studies, cites the wood of Morois—into which the lovers flee in exile—as extant even today, at least in part, as the woodlands hard by the manor of Moresk, in the parish of St Clement. Mr. Padel locates the Ford of Providence (in Béroul le Mal Pas) —where Iseult crosses in the arms of her lover disguised as a pilgrim— appropriately enough, as the village of Malpas, where the rivers Truro and Tresillian converge; and the high hunting grounds known as the White Lands (in Béroul la Blanche Lande) lie to the west. While the Isle of St Samson—where Tristan fights and kills the Morholt—is a goodly distance from Tintagel, nevertheless, many of the riding and walking distances correspond, and in Medieval times two markets selling lavish goods were found across from St Michael’s Mount, to which the hermit Ogrin journeys, on his crutch, to buy exquisite apparel and a palfrey for the Queen’s return to the Court of King Mark, from her exigencies in the wilderness.

The tale, with its roots in the wild borderlands of the world, and in Celtic magic, appears to have spread from Cornwall into Wales and throughout the British Isles, to Brittany and thence through the rest of France, to Germany, and northward into Scandinavia and Europe. Surely the legend arrived on American shores long ago in the anamnesis of early European settlers, though in the New World the tale did not gain much currency until the twentieth century. Along the way, or even from the time of its origins, the legend gleaned or mirrored aspects of the faraway and the not so faraway: Tristan’s early voyage of chance and healing, casting his fate to the sea as he lay dying of the Morholt’s poison, resonates with St Brendan’s voyage, for he yielded sail and rudder to God; the quest for the lady with the golden hair echoes a story in the Welsh Mabinogion, wherein Emperor Maximus dreams of a beautiful maiden and sends envoys in quest of her; and the lovers’ flight into the forest parallels the Old Irish Aitheda. We also see parallels in remote Greek legends, in Perseus and Theseus. Tristan slays a dragon in Ireland and receives from the King his daughter Iseult, and Perseus slays the Gorgon Medusa and then the sea monster about to devour Andromeda, whom he then claims and carries home. After slaying the Minotaur and thus saving the youth of Athens, Theseus, under a curse of forgetfulness and beneath a black sail, returns to Athens, inadvertently issuing false tidings to his father, thereby causing Aegeus to hurl himself into the sea, which now bears his name; centuries and epochs later, upon that cloud-coloured other-sea, beyond the

Pillars of Hercules, a sail appears, and deceit and false tidings in turn bring death to Tristan. More subtle parallels exist. Perseus, Theseus, and Tristan are slight of build, but each possesses superhuman strength, skills, and cunning, thus enabling his feats. They seem demigods as much as heroes, and in their legends we perceive an intercourse with the supernatural, the bestowment of divine and marvelous favors.

In his preface to The Romance of Tristan and Iseult, Gaston Paris indicates that the concept of the love potion with its tumultuous results bewildered men and ladies of the Medieval French courts, where ideals regarding love and comportment contrasted sharply with the ferocity and seizure found in the lush passions of this tale. But the Celts—scattered along the outer edges of the world, in their harsh lands of seashores and peninsulas, rocks and highlands—maintained with the forests and the seas an ancient pre-Christian affinity linking them to the great mystery inherent in nature, and thus to the subterranean echelons of the world. In such a people we find an atavistic predisposition to the supernal. In such realms dragons prowl and giants lurk in caves, love gifts arrive from Avalon, and the sea is aware of her mariners, giving no rest to abductors of God’s favored one, the child Tristan. An evil dwarf scatters flour upon a floor and reads immediate goings-on in the stars; thus the heavens are usurped as a celestial, telltale looking glass disclosing amorous escapades transpiring within bedchambers, or within palisades. Amidst these pagan possibilities, the remote and silent God of Abraham and the Church watches, intervening when He sees fit (or not intervening when He sees fit) in the lives and concealments of the adulterous lovers, to whom He extends not simply dispensation, but benediction. Tristan leaps from the window of a “chantry, sea-facing on a sheer and windy cliff towering above the waves; the illuminated windows in the apse, the handiwork of a saint long ago”—and his survival, unscathed, is miraculous. Perhaps less spectacular, but no less evident: the design and coincidence enabling Tristan’s immediate rescue of Iseult and their consequent flight into the wilderness, the wood of Morois. To prove her innocence of unholy love in the presence of King Mark, King Arthur, and their assembled knights, Iseult concocts a scheme involving her lover disguised as a weary pilgrim, and swears an oath to God, who accepts and guards her subterfuge, enabling her to grasp unscathed the red-hot iron. Here the lovers—at once errant and devout (more or less)—are God-watched; here God, sympathetic, abjures His own Commandment and abets the lovers’ lack of repentance and profane and passionate intentions—so sympathetically inclined is He to His favored sinners, to His lost ones, perpetually doomed

by the magical potion/ poison they inadvertently shared upon the high seas. Here love evokes a primal, even savage state where, by enchantment gone awry, the lovers are ripped from their intended lives and cultural duties and flung into a destiny beyond the outer fringes of existence. Here love links the arboreal and the sacred, returning the lovers to a wild and primitive center where dangers are most potent and lethal, where love consumes sacred oaths and cultural ideals while the lovers, in love’s embrace, fall to ruin. Nevertheless, and throughout Tristan and Iseult, the supernal communes with the sensual; indeed, the lovers themselves are a bit godlike, as must be anyone ill fated yet valiantly contending with destiny. We can imagine Iseult’s solar radiance and Tristan’s Apollonian physicality—their extraordinary beauty and loveliness of form and feature —arousing devotion and jealousies among gods of an earlier time. So too can we imagine solicitations of a varied sort in the Athens of Praxiteles, the Rome of Catullus or Hadrian, and the Florence of Cellini and Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Botticelli. And yet we likewise see mixed within the richness of this tale—even if only at its hermetic fringes—the brooding abstract meditation, of which Yeats speaks, that lures men from visible beauty.

Like Romeo and Juliet, the forbidden love of Tristan and Iseult is, if anything, passionately requited, and yet within the Tristan tale we also see what Ernest Renan regarded as the Celts’ “invincible need of illusion,” the wild pursuit “of the unknown, an endless quest after an object ever flying from desire.” Ever driven by ever-insatiable passion, their love ever unattainable even when attained, their passion a restless evanescence, the impossible ever outlasts the possible and flees before them, even as they embrace. Their love is forever a lost cause, the end awaiting them from the beginning. In the wilderness, in the wood of Morois, their love becomes an arduous Eden, an unredeeming Purgatory, an isolated, outlaw realm of eroticized melancholy and exile—a shutting in and a shutting out of the world. Like the Celtic people, they live a defiant, secluded life. While their story is not a tragedy in the classical sense—after all, their fate arises from the potion, not from inner flaws—nevertheless, they are tormented by a pervading sense of disunion and variance, by disjuncture from their duties and culture. As a knight, Tristan owes honor and fidelity to his uncle, King Mark, on whose behalf he risks his life: once against the Morholt, for the King and the people of Cornwall, and again by his return to Ireland to claim for his King the Lady with the Hair of Gold. Against the laws of God and Rome, and against his own will and wishes, Tristan takes Iseult, his King’s betrothed, on the high seas—and she takes him—and they

continue to love and enjoy bliss in stolen moments long after Iseult becomes Mark’s wife. Considering the ideals of knighthood and codes of chivalry, of pledged loyalty to the King, one may assume without overmuch conjecture or license that the lovers, although pure of repentance, nonetheless suffer misgivings in spite of the fervor of their adamancy. Tristan becomes a master of disguises: as a leper, a pilgrim, a fisherman, a madman, and a fool—each so antithetical to be debasing to his true identity as a Knight and heir to the Kingdom of Lyonesse. From the very first the lovers become cunning and clandestine renegades— compelled to adultery by mischance, and thus to deception and treason— adept, arch innocents doomed by passion they did not seek, but which has flung them into each other’s arms, and by which they must remain forever intoxicated even unto death, and thereafter.

Centuries earlier Valerius Maximus wrote of the Celts: “They would fain make us believe that the souls of men are immortal.” Indeed, the sense of a life beyond the grave awaiting Tristan and Iseult haunts this most sensuous and passionate of earthly tales, and all the while and at last the doomed lovers’ faith in the “fortunate land,” the “happy land of the living,” a “palace of crystal, all compact of roses and morning,” of Elysium, is their lone enduring hope, their solitary aspiration toward the fulfillment of a future united. Knowing from the very first that their love will end in elegy, death becomes for them the ultimate anticipated elopement. Recipients of miracles and coincidence, the lovers are keenly aware of Divine favor, thus of their putative celestial exemption from codes binding and regulating society and human life on earth—or if that goes too far, then their exemption from Divine wrath and retribution. Even in the wood of Morois, after the King has called upon the sleeping lovers unawares, even thereafter in their contrite midnight meditations filled with remorse for each other, they scarcely acknowledge or even consider their grave sin of adultery—a sin against God and ordered culture. For their exemption accrues from the potion, imbuing the lovers with a sense of absolution, and therefore liberty. It is a sense of absolution shared by the narrator, by the common folk of Tintagel and the lords alike—with the exception, of course, of the four felons and a woodsman, who suffer almost celestially assured vengeance for their transgressions and annoyances against the sinful lovers. The hermit Ogrin adjures Tristan and Iseult to repent, but no repentance do they feel. Tristan’s request to prove his innocence via trial-by-arms is surely prompted by his assurance not only of his own valor, prowess, and godlike invincibility, but also, if not more so, by his utter faith in God’s sanction—just as Iseult’s faith led her

with open hands to the brazier, with its red-hot iron. And yet, to say the least, their devotion scarcely leads the lovers to pieties of any sort and most certainly not to the foot of a confessor—excepting the hermit Ogrin, to whom they really have nothing they care to confess. Thus Tristan’s and Iseult’s faith—their outward manifestation of faith—is both cursory and profound, yet their unwavering conviction leads them toward a sense of immortality.

We see the lovers’ notion of immortality change over time, corresponding with their distance from, and the gradual imminence of, death. There is that beautiful moment at night’s end in the orchard wherein Iseult recalls seafarers’ lore that Tintagel Castle is fairy, that twice a year, winter and summer, it wholly vanishes away. So she believes it has vanished now, and that she and Tristan are in the enchanted orchard of which the harpers sing. To her lover she says, “A wall of air encircles it on all sides; trees flower from the fragrant earth; and here the hero lives without age in his friend’s arms, and no hostile power can breach the wall of air.”

Thus in Iseult’s mind, in her vision, immortality eclipses and overspreads time and place—the present at Tintagel Castle—enhanced and aeonian, a fragrant earth where lovers embrace forever—looming even now, at least in conception, in daybreak’s mists. But even as she speaks, Tintagel’s sentinels bugle dawn from its ramparts.* Upon this same occasion, Tristan speaks of immortality awaiting them, elsewhere, timelessness in another time:

“No, already the wall of air lies shattered, and this is not the enchanted orchard of which the harpers sing. But one day, friend, we shall go forth together to a fortunate land from which none ever returns. There rises a castle of white marble; in each of its thousand windows, a lighted candle burns and a minstrel plays soft melodies without end; there the sun does not show his face but none regrets his light, for that is the happy land of the living.”

This enchanted world of gentle music and candles burning in palace windows, of radiant, Dionysian darkness where “the sun does not show his face” is Tristan’s early vision of their shared immortality: like Iseult’s, an ideal afterlife for sensuous young lovers, ever forced into the shadows and doomed to die young. Both conceptions are more Celtic than Christian and certainly do not reflect the doctrines of the early Church. Nowhere lurks even a hint of the long, slumbering wait for Resurrection upon the Second

Coming, as anticipated by the early Fathers of the Church; nor lurks for the lovers—powerless over their adultery—any thought of reconsignment to Purgatory, after long-suffering torment, hiding, separation, and ceaseless longing during their earthly time. Rather, a Druidic afterlife, as the Roman poet Marcus Annaeus Lucanus wrote of the Celts in his Pharsalia (I. 456– 7): Pallida regna petunt: regit idem spiritus artus orbe alio—“Pale kingdoms they seek: the same spirit guides limbs in another world.”

As time passes and their lives darken toward death, radiance enters their pending eternity. When Tristan, ever more adept at stratagems of disguise and concealment, crosses the sea in mad desperation—first disguised as a fisherman and then as a madman, a fool—for what is to be his last temporal reunion with Iseult, he makes the rather bawdy offer of his nonexistent sister, Brunehild, in exchange to King Mark for Iseult—the sort of insolent advance that a madman could, apparently (at least in this case), make with a jester’s impunity to a sovereign in a Medieval court. Indeed, the King laughs and asks, “Fool, if I gave you the Queen, where would you take her, pray?”

“Oh! very high, between the clouds and heaven, into a fair chamber glazed. The beams of the sun shine through, yet the winds bring no troubles at all. There would I bear the Queen into my palace of crystal, all compact of roses and morning.”

This celestial setting, so near to heaven (but not in heaven), is a radiant and florescent paradise this side of Paradise, an island-like palace in the empyrean, in proximity to the sun—a place of roses, crystal-light, and morning: very different indeed from the emptiness of the lovers’ lives on earth, where their love is forever a tomorrowless future. Tristan’s vision, his seeming ravings—“the chamber glazed...the palace of crystal”—an ethereal place in compensation for their earthly woes—also reminds us of the allure crystal and glass held for the Celts, the requisition of light. In Celtic essence, glass and things lucent bore tangible associations with Elysium, which is still manifest to us today in their lore and the relics of their craftsmanship. Even the Isle of Avalon—an otherworldly island to the west, always to the west—evinces the Celtic fascination with things lucent and fuses with Elysium, and thus with the Divine. For centuries Avalon has been associated with Glastonbury; according to the Medieval chronicler Giraldus Cambrensis, in antiquity what is now Glastonbury was, in Brythonic, Inis Gutrin—in Latin, Insula Vitrea: “Island of Glass.” From this the invading Saxons thereafter called the place Glastingeburi;

glas in Saxon is vitrum in Latin, and buri is castrum: thus, “glass castle.”* Hence, Tristan’s mad vision of Elysium, to which he will carry his beloved Iseult, obliquely touches upon the shores of Avalon—ever associated with immortal beings and life everlasting.

The lovers’ final reunion ensues; in their last embrace, their ultimate earthly parting, each evokes eternity, immortality, and escape from the deathly confines of tragic love. Iseult speaks of the “fortunate land,” “the blessed land;” Tristan, of the “Fortunate Land of the Living.” Elysium in the offing:

Tristan took Iseult in his arms: “Friend, I must fly now, for soon I will be discovered. I must hasten forth and may never return. My death is near: far from you, I die of my desire.”

“Friend, close your arms about me and hold me so tightly that our hearts shall break in one final embrace and our souls fly away forever, free at last! Take me now to that fortunate land you spoke of once, that blessed land of no return, where singers ceaselessly sing their sweet songs. Take me there! Take me there now!”

“Soon, friend, soon I shall take you to the Fortunate Land of the Living. Our time is near. We have tasted all misery, all joy, and the time approaches when all shall be finished…”

Thus our lovers depart yet again, each from the other, as their tragic story wends toward death inevitable, and toward their hopes for sanction in immortality.

Their last desperate attempt at reunion, in this life, thwarted: Tristan, dying of poison from his last heroic wound, supine—at first on a litter, gazing westward from the rocky windswept coast of Brittany, and then even more abated in his bed chamber, waiting in futility for deliverance from his lover; and Iseult, beneath the white sail, countered by God; or, if that sounds too pious, by Fate: the depriving winds, the ocean swells—the forces of earth.

And in terminus, too, countered by deception of a kind they themselves mastered long before, and now, at last, are mastered by.

Vincent Nicolosi

Preface

I am pleased to introduce readers to the most recent poem engendered by the timeless legend of Tristan and Iseult. This new work is indeed a poem, even if written in prose of exquisite simplicity. Monsieur Joseph Bédier is a worthy successor of the troubadours of old who so long ago poured into words the intoxicating drink by which the Cornwall lovers tasted love and death. His tale retells the saga of the lovers’ lives and enchantment as they emanated centuries ago from the depths of Celtic dreams: their joys and sorrows, and at last their deaths.

By dint of sympathetic imagination and patient erudition Monsieur Bédier has resurrected this marvelous tale, conjuring its very soul and essence, unraveling its tender emotions, allowing himself to be overwhelmed by a legend which, in part, seems to have charmed itself into existence. If a complete French composition of the story had survived,* then doubtless M. Bédier would have produced just a faithful translation in order to familiarize contemporary readers with this legend. But the tale’s singular fate, to reach us only in assorted scattered fragments, forced him to take a more active role, and that role required far more than simply a scholar; it required a poet.

The Tristan novels we know of, which should all be of great length, those of Chrétien de Troyes and La Chèvre, perished entirely; from Béroul we have about three thousand lines of verse, and as many from Thomas; and fifteen hundred lines attributed to an anonymous poet. Then there are foreign translations, three of which completely deliver the work of Thomas in terms of substance, but not form, including one that gives us a poem very similar to that of Béroul’s, sometimes with very choice allusions. And then there are small sporadic poems, and finally the dense novel in prose, in which fragments of old poems have been preserved in a constant jumble, further swelled over time by successive editors.

What could one do with such a heap of debris if one wished to restore a

collapsed structure? Two paths lay open: focus on Thomas or on Béroul. The first path had the advantage of leading surely to the return of a complete and consistent narrative, thanks to foreign translations. Its drawback: it only recovered “the newest of the ancient” Tristan poems, one in which the old barbarous element had been completely assimilated into the spirit and works of Anglo-French chivalrous society. M. Bédier chose the latter course, much more difficult but more tempting for its art and knowledge, and more suitable to the purpose intended: to revive the legend of Tristan in its most ancient form for us, readers of a far later time. Thus, he started by translating as closely as he could the surviving Béroul fragment, which commences and takes place in about the middle of the story. Having penetrated the spirit of the old storyteller, having assimilated Béroul’s simple way of feeling, his simple way of thinking, at times to the point of capturing the old poet’s sometimes awkward, childlike grace and style, M. Bédier reconstructed a head and limbs on a torso, not by simple mechanical juxtaposition, but by a kind of organic regeneration of the sort displayed by some creatures which, when mutilated, enable them to call forth an inner force, re-engendering themselves to their former perfect form. As we know, regeneration is successful when the body is primitive and less developed. Indeed, this was the case for Béroul. He was assimilating elements from all sources, sometimes quite disparate, but this disparity seems not to have troubled him, especially since he often labored an adaptation, a part, to bring a oneness to the whole, a consistent surface.

Here our “modern Béroul” proceeds in the same manner. From the anonymous fragment that comes after the Béroul fragment, from the German translation of a poem similar to that of Béroul, from Thomas and his translators, from allusions and sporadic poems, from the prose novel itself, M. Bédier had enough to recreate a beginning for the remaining excerpt, a continuation and an end, always seeking, among the many variants of the story, the one best suited to the spirit and tone of the authentic excerpt. Then—and this is the wisest and most delicate effort of his art—he tried to give all these disparate bits and pieces the consistent form and colour that Béroul would have given them. Certainly, I cannot swear how similar the lost portions of Béroul’s poem would have been to M. Bédier’s Romance, but I shall aver that, if the old poet returned today and inquired what had become of his work, he would be astonished to see the extent of devotion, intelligence, labor, and indeed success with which M. Bédier lifted his fragment from the abyss and, from a single chunk of debris, managed to recreate a story that is probably even more complete, more brilliant, and brighter than it was when Béroul’s poem first embarked

upon its way so very long ago. Thus, a French poem of the mid-twelfth century, recomposed in the late

nineteenth century, constitutes M. Bédier’s timeless lyrical tale. This is an appropriate way to introduce readers to the modern story of Tristan and Iseult, for it was by donning attire of the twelfth century that the tale once gripped the imaginations of all, because all shapes it assumes travel back to the first French form; thus we see Tristan in the armour of knighthood and Iseult in the long straight attire of statues in our cathedrals. However, this French and chivalrous costume is not the original suit; it belongs no more to our heroes than to those of Greece and Rome who were sometimes depicted, during the Middle Ages, donned in the contemporary dress of that far later age. Such anachronisms can be observed here and there in more than one feature retained by the adapters. Béroul in particular, who rejoiced in having deleted some vestiges of the original barbarism, allowed many other instances to survive in his tale; Thomas himself, the most careful observer of the rules of courtesy, here and there opens strange perspectives on the true character of his heroes and the milieu in which they move. By combining the often very fugitive information of French storytellers, we come to glimpse what may have been that primeval poem for the Celts, its whole cradled by the sea and enveloped in the forest, whose hero, rather a demigod than a human being, was presented as master or even originator of all barbaric arts: killer of deer and boar, expert on the crafts of venery, unmatched wrestler and agile leaper of palisades, intrepid navigator, the best harpist and lyrist, peerless mimic of songbirds, and additionally, of course, invincible warrior, slayer of monsters, ruthless vindicator and defender of the faithful, living an almost superhuman life, constant object of admiration, dedication, and desire. This archetype was certainly cast early in the Celtic world—and the hero could only be completed by love.

I scarcely need to repeat here the source and nature of the passion that binds the lovers in the legend of Tristan and Iseult, which likewise makes the legend, in its various forms, an incomparable love epic. I only remind that the idea of symbolizing involuntary, insatiable, and eternal love by this drink, this bewitching potion whose action—and this is what separates it from other ordinary potions—continues throughout life and persists even after death, that this idea, which gives this love story its fatal and mysterious nature, obviously has its origin in ancient magic practices of the Celtic world. I do not wish to dwell further on the barbarous manners and feelings that I mentioned earlier, which make every moment so singular and powerful in the quiet recital of French storytellers. Naturally,

M. Bédier has collected them with a predilection to complete Béroul’s work in his assiduous mosaic recreation. The story that our French poets of the twelfth century told their contemporaries was unusually foreign to the environment in which they spread the tale, and where they attempted to integrate it, in vain.*

What motivated bards and troubadours to carry the poem to other lands, what attracted listeners to Tristan and Iseult and held them in sway in spite of possible difficulties and obscurities entailed by the poem’s octosyllabic verses, indeed, what won for the legend unprecedented popularity throughout the Romano-Germanic world is the force that animates it from beginning to end and circulates throughout all its episodes as the “love potion” flowing through the veins of the two heroes—which is to say, essentially: the idea of inevitable love that knows no rules and rises above all laws. Embodied in two exceptional people, this inevitability resonates within the profound and secret feelings of so many men and women, and the inexorableness of this love has itself seized hearts, purified within the legend by suffering and enshrined, at last, in death. In the midst of the fragility of human feelings and the repeated disappointments from an ever renewed illusion, Tristan and Iseult, riveted from the start by a mysteriously inseparable relationship, battered by and enduring all the storms that assail them, try in vain to free themselves and eventually prevail in a final and eternal embrace. The lovers appeared, and still appear, as the incarnation of an ideal, whose multifaceted aspects reflect man’s stubborn desire for fulfillment. If this ideal is one of the most attractive and moving, it is also one of the most dangerous: doubtless through the centuries the story of Tristan and Iseult has injected a subtle poison into more than one unwary soul; even today, prepared by a conjurer who has assumed modern power with this musical incantation, the love potion will certainly disturb once again and perhaps mislead more than one credulous heart. However, no ideal exists whose charm is without peril, and yet, one cannot deprive life of ideals without sentencing it to triviality or dull despair. When one sails by the caves of the Sirens, one must know to hold firmly to the mast—without renouncing to hear the divine and blissful song of the superhuman.

Moreover, if the appeal of the old poem survives in the “renewal” that we are going to read, then the danger it posed to Béroul’s contemporaries is attenuated in our own age. Passions are particularly contagious when they rise amid like souls: for distant and different souls, if not in substance, then at least in the external conditions of their activity, passions keep all their grandeur and beauty, but lose much of their suggestive power.

Béroul’s Tristan and Iseult, brought back to life by M. Bédier with their yesteryear costumes and manners, with their ways of living, of feeling and speaking, half barbaric, half Medieval, will be to modern readers like the characters in an old display window, bearing stiff gestures and naive expressions in an enigmatic tableau. Yet, within this image marked by the special patina of an age, as if the evening sun were glowing upon the window, one sees shining passion, equally requited, illuminating and causing the tale to glow as a whole. A meditation on the eternal motives and disorders of the heart, portrayed by figures in archaic garb—this is the essence of Béroul’s poem, as restored by M. Bédier. There is already plenty to charm curious readers, both with history and poetry. But what will be discovered with delight only upon reading this classical work are the spellbinding details, the mysterious and legendary beauty of some episodes, the happy invention of more modern episodes, the unexpected situations and feelings, everything that makes this poem a unique blend of immemorial dilapidation and ever renewed freshness, of Celtic melancholy and French charm, of powerful naturalism and astute psychology. I have no doubt that, among our contemporaries, and those who come after us, the tale will find the same success it obtained from our ancestors at the time of the Crusades. Truly it belongs to the “world literature” mentioned by Goethe*; the tale once disappeared by undeserved bad luck: we, and those who come after us, must be infinitely grateful to Monsieur Joseph Bédier for his revival of the Romance.

Gaston Paris, 1900 Translator: Vittorio Rintoul

Notes on the Sources *

As Monsieur G. Paris has so kindly noted, I have in this work endeavored to avoid a mixture of the ancient and the modern. To elude disparities and anachronisms, to evade ornaments and overstatements and, by dint of historical and critical sympathy, to disallow the imposition of current modes and conceptions upon ancient ways of thinking and feeling; such has been my intention, my endeavor and, alas, doubtless my delusion. My text’s sources are quite mixed, and if I were to indicate each throughout, I would burden this little book with an over encumbrance of footnotes. Nevertheless, I owe the reader these general indications:

The surviving fragments of most of the ancient French poems were published by Francisque Michel as Tristan, recueil de ce qui reste des poèmes relatifs à ses aventures (Paris: Techener, 1835–1839).

“The Childhood of Tristan” is a highly abridged abstract of various poems, but mostly from Thomas [of Britain], as he is represented by his numerous traditional and foreign adaptations. “The Morholt Out of Ireland” and “The Quest of the Lady with the Golden Hair” are based on Eilhart von Oberg (Lichtenstein, Strasbourg, 1878). “The Philtre” on the whole follows tradition, especially after Eilhart, though some features are derived from Gottfried von Strasbourg (ed. W. Golther: Berlin and Stuttgart, 1888). “Brangien Delivered to the Serfs” is based on Eilhart. “The Tall Pine-Tree”: in the midst of this chapter, wherein Iseult arrives for her rendezvous under the pine, the story takes up where Béroul’s fragment commences, and we follow him faithfully through: “The Dwarf Frocin”, “The Chantry Leap”, “The Wood of Morois”, “Ogrin the Hermit”, “At the Ford of Providence”—with occasional interpretations, ventured to and fro, according to Eilhart and various traditional sources. “The Ordeal by Iron”: this is a very free summary of the anonymous fragment following the fragment of Béroul. “The Voice of the Nightingale”: inserted according to the didactic poem of the thirteenth century, the Le Domnei

des Amanz. “The Faëry Bell”: adapted from Gottfried von Strasbourg. “Iseult of the White Hands”, “Kaherdin”, and “Dinas of Liden”, the episodes of Kaherdin and Tristan as lepers [(sic) pilgrims] are borrowed from Thomas and the rest is treated in general, according Eilhart. “The Madness of Tristan” is a rearrangement of a short French poem that treats the episode independently. “Death” is translated from Thomas; certain episodes are taken from Eilhart and a French romance in prose, contained in manuscript 103 of the Bibliothèque Nationale [Paris].

Joseph Bédier

Part the First

I know, he said, when you embark upon that ship, a storm and a contrary wind shall come upon you.

The Venerable Bede

The Childhood of Tristan

No youth more fortunate of gifts was ever born to woman. In beauty, all about him was exceedingly rare, and he was most exquisite of mind and manners. Alas, fair Fortune likewise marked him for unassailable calamity.

Gottfried von Strassburg

M Y LORDS, IF YOU WOULD HEAR A HIGH TALE OF LOVE AND OF death, here is that of Tristan and Queen Iseult; how to their full joy, but to their sorrow also, they loved each other, and how at last they died of that love together upon a single day; she by him and he by her.

Long ago, when Mark was King over Cornwall, Rivalen, King of Lyonesse, heard that Mark’s enemies waged war upon him; so he crossed the sea to bring him aid; and so faithfully did he serve with counsel and sword that Mark gave him his sister Blanchefleur, whom King Rivalen loved most marvelously.

He wed her in Tintagel Minster, but hardly was she wed when the news came to him that his old enemy Duke Morgan had fallen on Lyonesse and was wasting town and field. Then Rivalen manned his ships in haste, and took Blanchefleur with him to his far land; but she was with child. He landed below his Castle of Kanoël and gave the Queen in ward to his Marshal Rohalt, and after that set off to wage his war.

Blanchefleur waited for him continually, but he did not return, till she learnt upon a day that Duke Morgan had killed him in foul ambush. She did not weep: she made no cry or lamentation, but her limbs failed her and

she grew weak, and her soul was filled with a strong desire to be rid of the flesh. Rohalt tried to soothe her: “Queen,” said he, “nothing can be gained in the laying of grief upon grief. Those who are born, must they not die as well? May God receive the dead and preserve the living!”

But she would not hear. Three days she awaited reunion with her lord, and on the fourth she brought forth a son; and taking him in her arms she said: “Little son, I have longed a while to see you, and now I see you the fairest child ever a woman bore. In sorrow came I hither, in sorrow did I bring you forth, and in sorrow has your first feast day come and gone. And as by sorrow you came into the world, your name shall be called Tristan; that is, child of sorrows.”

After she said these words she kissed him, and immediately she died. Rohalt, keeper of faith, took the child, but already Duke Morgan’s men

besieged the Castle of Kanoël all round about. How could Roholt have waged a long war? There is a wise saying: “Fool-hardy was never hardy,” and he was compelled to yield to Duke Morgan at his mercy: but for fear that Morgan might slay Rivalen’s heir, the Marshal concealed Tristan amongst his own sons.

When seven years passed and the time came to take the child from the women, Rohalt placed Tristan under a good master, the Squire Gorvenal, and Gorvenal taught him in a few years the arts that go with Barony. He taught him the use of lance and sword, and escutcheon and bow, and how to cast stone quoits and to leap wide dykes: and he taught him to hate every lie and felony and keep his given word; and he taught him the various kinds of song and harp-playing, and the hunter’s craft; and when the child rode amongst the young squires you would have said that he and his horse and his armour were one. To see him so noble and so proud, broad in the shoulders, lean of flank, loyal, strong and right, all men glorified Rohalt in such a son. But Rohalt remembering Rivalen and Blanchefleur (of whose youth and grace all this was a resurrection) loved Tristan indeed as a son, but in his heart revered him as his lord.

Now all his joy was snatched from him on a day when certain merchants of Norway, having lured Tristan to their ship, bore him away as a rich prize, though Tristan fought hard, as a young wolf struggles, caught in a snare. But it is a truth well proved, and every sailor knows it, that the sea will hardly bear a felon ship, and gives no aid to rapine. The sea rose and cast a dark storm round the ship and drove it eight days and eight nights hither and yon, till the mariners caught through the mist a coast of awful cliffs and sea-ward rocks whereon the sea would have ground their hull to pieces: then they did penance, knowing that the anger of the sea came of

the lad, whom they had stolen in an evil hour, and they vowed his deliverance and made ready a boat to put him, if it might be, ashore. Then the wind and sea fell and the sky shone, and as the ship of Norway grew small in the offing, a gentle tide drew Tristan onward and set the boat upon a beach of sand.

Painfully he climbed the cliff and saw a lonely rolling heath and a forest stretching out and beyond, endlessly away. And he wept, remembering Gorvenal, his father, and the land of Lyonesse. Then the distant cry of a hunt, with horse and hound, came suddenly and lifted his heart, and a tall stag broke cover at the forest edge. The pack and the hunt streamed after it with a tumult of cries and winding horns, but just as the hounds were racing clustered at the haunch, the quarry turned to bay at a stone’s throw from Tristan; a huntsman gave him the thrust, while all around the hunt had gathered and was winding the kill. But Tristan, seeing by the gesture of the huntsman that he made to cut the neck of the stag, cried out: “My lord, what would you do? Is it fitting to cut up so noble a beast like any farm-yard hog? Is that the custom of this country?”

And the huntsman answered: “Fair friend, what startles you? Why yes, first I take off the head of a stag, and then I cut it into quarters and we carry it on our saddle bows to King Mark, our lord: so do we, and so since the days of the first huntsmen have done the Cornish men. If, however, you know of some nobler custom, teach it to us: take this knife and we will learn willingly.”

Then Tristan knelt and skinned the stag before he cut it up, and quartered it all in order leaving the crow-bone all whole, as is meet, and putting aside at the end the head, the haunch, the tongue and the great heart’s vein; and the huntsmen and the kennel hinds stood over him with delight, and the Master Huntsman said: “Friend, these are good ways. In what land learnt you them? Tell us your country and your name.”

“Good lord, my name is Tristan, and I learnt these ways in my country of Lyonesse.”

“Tristan,” said the Master Huntsman, “God reward the father that brought you up so nobly; doubtless he is a baron, rich and strong.”

Now Tristan knew both speech and silence, and he answered: “No, lord; my father is a burgess. I left his home unbeknownst upon a ship that trafficked to a far place, for I wish to learn the ways of men in foreign lands. But if you will accept me of the hunt I will follow you gladly and teach you other crafts of venery.”

“Fair Tristan, I marvel there should be a land where a burgess’ son can know what a knight’s son knows not elsewhere, but come with us since

you will it; and welcome: we will bring you to King Mark, our lord.” Tristan completed his task; to the dogs he gave the heart, the head, offal

and ears; and he taught the hunt how the skinning and the ordering should be done. Then he thrust the pieces upon pikes and gave them to this huntsman and to that to carry, to one the snout, to another the haunch, to another the flank, and to another the chine; and he taught them how to ride by twos in rank, according to the dignity of the pieces each might bear.

So they took the road and spoke together, till they came upon a great castle and round it fields and orchards, and living waters and fish ponds and plough lands, and many ships lay anchored in the haven, for that castle stood high above the sea. It was well walled against assault and all engines of war, and its keep, which the giants of old had built long ago, was compact of great stones, like a chessboard of vert and azure.

And when Tristan asked its name: “Good liege,” they said, “we call it Tintagel.”

And Tristan cried out: “Tintagel! Blessed be thou of God, and blessed be they that dwell within thee.”

(Therein, my lords, had Rivalen taken Blanchefleur to wife, though their son knew it not.)

When they came before the keep the horns brought the barons to the gates and King Mark himself. And when the Master Huntsman had told him all the story, and King Mark marveled at the good order of the cavalcade, and the cutting of the stag, and the high art of venery in all, yet most he wondered at the stranger boy, and still gazed upon him, troubled and wondering whence came his tenderness, and his heart would answer him nothing; but, my lords, it was blood that spoke, and the love he had long since borne his sister Blanchefleur.

That evening, when the boards were cleared, a singer out of Wales, a master, came forward among the barons in Hall and sang a harper’s song, and as this minstrel touched the strings of his harp, Tristan who sat at the King’s feet, spoke thus to him: “Oh master, that is the first of songs! The Bretons of old wove it once to chant the loves of Graëlent. And the melody is rare and rare are the words: master, your voice is subtle: harp us that well.”

But when the Welshman had sung, he answered: “Boy, what do you know of the craft of music? If the burgesses of Lyonesse teach their sons harp—play also, and rotes and viols too, rise, and take this harp and show your skill.”

Then Tristan took the harp and sang so well that the barons softened as they heard, and King Mark marveled at the harper from Lyonesse whither

so long ago Rivalen had taken Blanchefleur away. When the song ended, the King was silent a long space, but he said at

last: “Son, blessed be the master that taught thee, and blessed be thou of God: for God loves good singers. Their voices and the voice of the harp enter the souls of men and wake dear memories and cause them to forget many a mourning and many a sin. For our joy did you come to this roof, stay near us a long time, friend.”

And Tristan answered: “Very willingly shall I serve you, sire, as your harper, your huntsman and your liege.”

And so he did, and for three years a mutual love grew in their hearts. By day Tristan followed King Mark at pleas and in saddle; by night he slept in the royal room with the counsellors and peers, and if the King were sad, Tristan would harp to him to soothe his care. The barons also cherished him, and (as you shall learn) Dinas of Lidan, the seneschal, beyond all others. And more tenderly than the barons and than Dinas, did the King love him. But Tristan could not forget, neither Rohalt his father, nor his master Gorvenal, nor the land of Lyonesse.

My lords, a teller that would please, should not stretch his tale too long, and truly this tale is so various and so high that it needs no straining. Then let me shortly tell how Rohalt himself, after long wandering by sea and land, came into Cornwall, and found Tristan, and showing the King the garnet that once was Blanchefleur’s, said: “King Mark, here is your nephew Tristan, son of your sister Blanchefleur and of King Rivalen. Duke Morgan holds his land most wrongfully; it is time such land came back to its rightful lord.”

And Tristan (in a word) when his uncle had armed him knight, crossed the sea, and was hailed of his father’s vassals, and killed Rivalen’s slayer and was reseized of his land.

Then remembering how King Mark could no longer live in joy without him, and as the nobility of his nature ever revealed to him the wisest course, he summoned his council and his barons and said: “Lords of the Lyonesse, I have retaken this place and avenged King Rivalen by the help of God and of you. Thus I have rendered to my father what is his by right. But two men, Rohalt and King Mark of Cornwall, nourished me, an orphan, and a wandering boy. So should I call them also fathers. To those, too, must I not also render what is due them? Now a free man has two possessions thoroughly his own, his body and his land. To Rohalt then, here, I will release my land. Do you hold it, Father, and your son shall hold it after you. But my body I give up to King Mark. I shall leave this country, dear though it be, and in Cornwall I shall serve King Mark as my

lord. Such is my judgment, but you, my lords of Lyonesse, are my lieges, and owe me counsel; if then, some one of you will counsel me another way, let him rise and speak.”

But all the barons praised him, though they wept; and taking with him Gorvenal only, Tristan set sail for King Mark’s land.

The Morholt Out of Ireland

“Lord King, by your leave I shall do battle.”

Eilhat d’Oberg

W HEN TRISTAN RETURNED TO THAT LAND, KING MARK AND all his Barony were mourning; for the King of Ireland had manned a fleet to ravage Cornwall, should King Mark refuse, as he had refused these fifteen years, to pay a tribute his fathers had paid.

Now at that time certain old treaties yet existed giving the men of Ireland the right to burden the men of Cornwall with levies: one year three hundred pounds of copper, another year that same measure in silver, and on the third—gold of equal measure. When the fourth year circled round again: three hundred youths and three hundred maidens fair, of fifteen years of age, determined by lots, amongst the Cornish folk. That year this King of Ireland again sent to Tintagel, to carry his summons, a giant knight; the Morholt, whose sister he had wed, and whom no man had yet been able to overcome: so King Mark had summoned all the barons of his land to council, by letters sealed.

On the day assigned, when the barons were gathered in hall, and when the King had taken his throne, the Morholt spoke these words: “King Mark, hear for the last time the summons of the King of Ireland, my lord. He arraigns you to pay at last that which you have owed so long, and because you have refused too long, already he bids you give over to me this day three hundred youths and three hundred maidens drawn by lot from among the Cornish folk. My ship, anchored in Tintagel Haven, shall

bear them away to Ireland to be our serfs. However, as well it should be— and I expect that you, King Mark, will not forbear it—if any of your barons so wishes to prove through trial of combat that the King of Ireland wrongly receives this tribute, then I shall meet his wager. Which among you, my Cornish lords, will fight to redeem this land?”

The barons glanced amongst each other, and bowed their heads. This one to himself said: “Behold, unhappy man, the stature of the Morholt of Ireland. Alone he is stronger than four robust men. And behold his sword; you know, through all the years since yet the King of Ireland has sent this giant to do his bidding, his sword has by sorcery severed the heads of the boldest champions. Weakling, does it avail you to court death too? To what end would you tempt God?”

This other to himself said, “My dear sons, I did not raise you to become serfs in Ireland; nor you dear daughters, to be sent to harlotry. If my death would save you, then so be it. But I would die and leave your mother widowed, and still the Morholt would bear you away to Ireland.”

Again the Morholt cried out: “Lords of Cornwell, which among you will accept my challenge? I offer you honor in noble battle waged. Three days hence, we shall sail for the Isle of St Samson, in the offing of Tintagel. There you and I shall fight in solitary battle, and honor will befall the kinsmen of he who wages this battle. Who amongst you, then, is champion?”

But still all remained silent, for the Morholt was like a gyrfalcon shut up in a cage with small, cowering birds; when he enters, all fall mute with fear.

For the third time the Morholt spoke: “Well then, rare and gallant knights of Cornwall, since you see it as the more noble course, draw your lots and bring forth your children, so that I may bear them away to serfdom in Ireland—though till now, hardly did I believe this was a land inhabited solely by peasants.”

Then Tristan knelt at the feet of King Mark and said: “Lord King, by your leave I shall do battle.”

And in vain would King Mark have turned him from his purpose, thinking, how could even valour save so young a knight? But the youth threw down his gage to the Morholt, and the Morholt took up the gage.

On the appointed day Tristan had himself clad for a great feat of arms in a hauberk and in his helmet of burnished steel. With pity the barons wept for the valiant young knight—and for the disgrace they brought upon themselves. “Ah, Tristan,” said they amongst themselves, “brave baron

and beautiful youth, why have I not, rather more than you, acceded to this battle? My death would sow far less sorrow upon this earth than yours.”

The bells of Tintagel pealed, and all assembled, those highborn and those of low degree, the old men, the women and children, all weeping and praying, escorted Tristan to the shore. But deep in their despair, they harbored hope; for hope flowers even within dire pastures.

Thus from Tintagel Tristan embarked alone to the Isle of St Samson, where the knights would wage their solitary battle. Now the Morholt had hoisted to his mast a sail of rich purple, and coming fast to land, he moored his boat on the shore. And Tristan with his foot pushed his own boat adrift, back into the sea.

“Vassal, what is it you do?” the Morholt asked. “Why have you not moored your boat to the land, as I have done?”

Tristan replied, “Vassal, why bother? Only one of us will go hence alive. A single bark will serve.”

And each rousing the other to the fray, they passed into the isle. No man saw the sharp combat; but thrice did the salt sea-breeze waft, or

seemed to waft, a cry of fury and clash of arms to the land. Then in mourning the women beat their palms in chorus, while the companions of the Morholt amassed before their tents, laughing at their sorrow.

Then at last toward the hour of noon the purple sail showed far off; the Irish boat appeared from the island shore, and there rose a clamour of despair: “The Morholt! The Morholt!”

When suddenly, as the boat grew larger on the sight and topped a wave, they saw a knight standing on the prow, each of his fists brandishing a sword, and that knight was Tristan. Immediately twenty boats set forth to welcome him, and the young men flung themselves into the sea and swam to meet the victor. The good knight leapt ashore, and as the mothers kissed the steel upon his feet, he cried to the Morholt’s men: “My lords of Ireland, the Morholt fought well. See here, my sword is broken and a splinter of it stands fast in his skull. Take you that steel splinter, my lords; that splinter is Cornwall’s tribute to Ireland.”

Then he went up to Tintagel and as he went the people he had freed waved green boughs, and rich cloths were hung at the windows. But when Tristan reached the castle amid the pealing bells and songs of jubilation, amid the horns and trumpets sounding about him so lusty that one could not have heard God had He thundered above them, he drooped in the arms of King Mark, for the blood ran from his wound.

The Morholt’s men, they landed in Ireland quite cast down. For when ever he returned to Whitehaven the Morholt had been wont to take joy in

the sight of his clan upon the shore, of the Queen his sister, and of his niece Iseult the Fair, whose golden hair and beauty shown more brilliantly than the sun at dawn. Tenderly had they cherished him of old, and had he taken some wound, they healed him, for they were skilled in balms and potions. But now their magic was vain, for he lay dead, sewn in a shroud of deer hide and the splinter of the foreign brand yet stood in his skull, till Iseult plucked it out and shut it in an ivory coffer, precious as a reliquary. They led the women in funeral lamentations and, bending over the great corpse, mother and daughter ceaselessly repeated the illustrious deeds of their beloved dead; likewise did they hurl anathema upon the name of the slayer, Tristan of Lyonesse.

From that day hence Iseult the Fair knew and hated the name of Tristan of Lyonesse.

But over in Tintagel, Tristan languished, for there trickled a poisonous blood from his wound. The doctors found that the Morholt had thrust into his loin a poisoned barb, and as their potions and their theriac could never heal him, they left him in the hands of God. So hateful a stench rose from his wound that all his dearest friends fled him, all save King Mark, Gorvenal and Dinas of Lidan. Always they could stay near his couch for their love overcame their abhorrence. At last Tristan had himself carried to a sea-facing hut, and there he awaited death. He thought: “Have you thus abandoned me, King Mark, I who saved the honor of your land? But no, it is not so, for I know, fair uncle, that you would lay down your life for me, but what can your love avail me now? For I must die; but it is good to see the sun and my heart is still high. I would like to try the sea that brings all chances…I would have the sea bear me far off, alone, to what land no matter, so that it heal me of my wound. And perhaps one day I shall serve you again, fair uncle, as your harper, your huntsman, and your faithful liege.”

He begged so long that King Mark accepted his desire. He bore him into a boat with neither sail nor oar, and Tristan wished that his harp only should be placed beside him: for sails he could not lift, nor oar ply, nor sword wield; and as a seaman on some long voyage casts to the sea a beloved companion dead, so Gorvenal pushed out to sea that boat where his dear son lay; and the sea drew him away.

For seven days and seven nights the sea so drew him; at times to charm his grief, he harped; and when at last the sea brought him near a shore where fishermen had left their port that night to fish far out, they heard as they rowed a sweet and strong and living tune floating above the sea, and feathering their oars, they listened.

In the first whiteness of the dawn they saw the boat in the mists: “Just so,” said they, “did celestial music attend St Brendan’s ship as he sailed to the Fortunate Isles over a milk-white sea.”

She went at random and nothing seemed to live in her except the voice of the harp. But as they neared, the air grew weaker and died; and when they hailed her, Tristan’s hands had fallen lifeless on the strings though they still trembled. The fishermen took him in and bore him back to port, to their lady who was merciful and perhaps would heal him.

It was that same port of Whitehaven where the Morholt now lay in his grave, and their lady was Iseult the Fair.

She alone, being skilled in philtres, could save Tristan, but she alone wished him dead. When Tristan knew himself again (for her art restored him) he knew himself to be in the land of peril. But he was yet strong to hold his own and found good crafty words. He told a tale of how he was a seer that had taken passage on a merchant ship and sailed to Iberia to learn the art of reading the stars—of how pirates had boarded the ship and of how, though wounded, he had fled into that boat.

He was believed, nor did any of the Morholt’s men know his face again, so hardly had the poison used him. But when, after forty days, Iseult of the Golden Hair had all but healed him, when already his limbs had recovered and the grace of youth returned, he knew he must escape, and he fled and after many dangers he came again before Mark, the King.

The Quest of the Lady with the Hair of Gold

Thus good and bad, triumph and disaster, pleasure and pain, were perpetual accomplices within one heart.

Gottfried von Strassburg

M Y LORDS, THERE WERE IN THE COURT OF KING MARK FOUR barons, the basest of men, who hated Tristan with a hard hate, for his greatness and for the tender love the King bore him. And well do I know their names: Andret, Guenelon, Gondoïne and Denoalen; like Tristan, Duke Andret was nephew to King Mark. They knew that the King had intent to grow old childless and to leave his land to Tristan; and their envy swelled and by lies they angered the chief men of Cornwall against Tristan. They said: “There have been too many marvels in the life of this young man, but you are men of great prudence and rationality, and doubtless can explain them. It was marvel enough that he vanquished the Morholt, but by what sorcery did he try the sea alone at the point of death, or which of us, my lords, could voyage without oars and mast or sail? They say that warlocks can. It was sure a warlock feat, and that is a warlock harp of his pours poison daily into the King’s heart. See how he has bent that heart by power and chain of sorcery! He will be king yet, my lords, and you will hold your lands of a wizard.”

They brought over the greater part of the barons, for many men are unaware that what seems solely within the sorcerer’s power to conjure, the heart too can bring forth by powers of boldness and love and venture. These pressed King Mark to take to wife some king’s daughter who should give him an heir, else they threatened to return each man into his castle

give him an heir, else they threatened to return each man into his castle keep and wage him war. But the King turned against them and swore in his heart that so long as his dear nephew lived, no king’s daughter should come to his bed. Then in his turn did Tristan (in his shame—to be thought to serve for greed of his uncle’s kingdom) threaten that if the King yielded not to his barons, he would himself go over sea and serve some great king. At this, King Mark made a term with his barons and gave them forty days to hear his decision.

On the appointed day he waited alone in his chamber and sadly mused: “Where shall I find a king’s daughter so fair and yet so distant that I may feign to wish her my wife?”

Just then by his window that looked out upon the sea, two building swallows fluttered in, quarrelling together. Then, startled, they flew out, but as they did so, they let fall from their beaks a woman’s hair, long and fine, and shining like a beam of golden light.

King Mark took up that strand of golden hair, and called his barons and Tristan and said: “To please you, lords, I will take a wife; but you must seek her whom I have chosen.”

“Fair lord, we wish it all,” they said, “and who may she be?” “Why,” said he, “she whose hair this is; nor will I take another.” “And whence, lord King, comes this Hair of Gold; who brought it and

from what land?” “It comes, my lords, from the Lady with the Hair of Gold; the swallows

brought it to me. They know from what land it came.” Then the barons saw themselves mocked and cheated, and they turned

with sneers to Tristan, for they thought him to have counselled the trick. But Tristan, when he looked on the Hair of Gold, remembered Iseult the Fair and smiled and said: “King Mark, can you not see that the doubts of these lords shame me? You have designed in vain. I shall go seek the Lady with the Hair of Gold. Know King Mark that the search is perilous and my return from that country will be more difficult than from the island where I slew the Morholt; nevertheless, my uncle, I would once more put my body and my life into peril for you; and so that your barons may know I love you loyally, I take this oath: to die on the adventure or to bring back to this castle of Tintagel the Queen with that fair hair.”

He fitted out a great ship and loaded it with wheat and wine, with honey and all manner of good things; he manned it with Gorvenal and a hundred young knights of high birth, chosen among the bravest, and he clothed them in coats of home-spun and in hair cloth so that they seemed merchants only: but under the deck he hid rich cloth of gold and scarlet as

for a great king’s messengers. When the ship had taken the sea the helmsman asked him: “Lord, to

what land shall I steer?” “Sir,” said he, “steer for Ireland, straight for Whitehaven harbour.” The helmsman shuddered. Did Tristan not know that, since the slaying

of the Morholt, the King of Ireland harried Cornish ships, seized the mariners and hung them at the crossroads?

Nevertheless, the helmsman obeyed and achieved the perilous land. At first Tristan made believe to the men of Whitehaven that his friends

were merchants of England come peacefully to barter; but as these strange merchants passed the day in the useless games of draughts and chess, and seemed to know dice better than the bargain price of wheat, Tristan feared discovery and knew not how to pursue his quest.

Now it chanced once upon the break of day that he heard a cry so terrible that one would have called it a demon’s cry; nor had he ever heard a brute bellow in such wise, so awful and strange it seemed. He called a woman who passed by the harbour, and said: “Tell me, lady, whence comes that voice I have heard, and hide me nothing.”

“My lord,” said she, “I will tell you truly. It is the roar of a dragon, the most terrible and dauntless upon earth. Daily it leaves its den and stands at one of the gates of the city: nor can any come out or go in till a maiden has been given up to it; and when it has her in its claws it devours her in less time than it takes to pray a Pater Noster.”

“Lady,” said Tristan, “make no mock of me, but tell me outright: can a man born of woman kill this thing?”

“Fair sir, and gentle,” said she, “I cannot say; but this is sure: twenty knights have tried and run the venture, because the King of Ireland has published it that he will give his daughter, Iseult the Fair, to whomsoever shall kill the monster; but it has devoured them all.”

Tristan left the woman and returning to his ship armed himself in secret, and it was a fine sight to see so noble a charger and so good a knight come out from such a merchant-hull: but the haven was empty of folk, for the dawn had barely broken and none saw him as he rode to the gate. And hardly had he passed it, when he met suddenly five men at full gallop flying towards the town. Tristan seized one by his hair, as he passed, and dragged him over his mount’s crupper and held him fast: “God save you, my lord,” said he, “and whence does the dragon come?” And when the other had shown him by what road, he let him go.

As the monster neared, he showed the head of a bear and red eyes like coals of fire and hairy tufted ears, lion’s claws, a serpent’s tail, and a

griffin’s body. Tristan charged his horse at him so strongly that, though the beast’s

mane stood with fright yet he drove at the dragon: his lance struck its scales and shivered. Then Tristan drew his sword and struck at the dragon’s head, but he did not so much as cut the hide. The beast felt the blow: with its claws he dragged at the shield and broke it from the arm; then, his breast unshielded, Tristan used the sword again and struck so strongly that the air rang all round about: but in vain, for he could not wound and meanwhile the dragon vomited from his nostrils two streams of loathsome flames, and Tristan’s helm blackened like a cinder and his horse stumbled and fell down and died; but Tristan standing on his feet thrust his sword right into the beast’s jaws, and split its heart in two. For one last time the dragon made its horrible shriek and died.

Then he cut out the tongue and put it into his hose, but as the poison came against his flesh, the hero fainted and fell in the high grass that bordered the marsh around.

Now the man he had stopped in flight was Aguyngùerran the Red, with his braided red hair—the seneschal of Ireland, and he desired Iseult the Fair: and though he was a coward, he had dared so far as to return with his companions secretly, and as he found the dragon slain, the horse dead, the shield shattered, he thought the victor had crawled off and died in some forsaken place, and so he cut off the dragon’s head and bore it to the King to claim the great reward.

The King could credit his prowess but hardly, yet wished justice done and summoned his vassals to court, so that there, before the Barony assembled, the seneschal should furnish proof of his victory won.

When Iseult the Fair heard that she was to be given to this coward, first she laughed, and then she wailed. But on the morrow, doubting some trick, she took with her Perinis her squire and Brangien her maid, and all three rode unbeknownst towards the dragon’s lair: and Iseult saw such a trail on the road as made her wonder—for the hoofs that made it had never been shod in her land. Then she came on the dragon, headless, and a dead horse beside him: nor was the horse harnessed in the fashion of Ireland. Some foreign man had slain the beast, but they knew not whether he still lived or no.

They sought him long, Iseult and Perinis and Brangien together, till at last Brangien saw the helm glittering in the marshy grass: and Tristan still breathed. Perinis put him on his horse and bore him secretly to the women’s rooms. There Iseult told her mother the tale and left the hero with her, and as the Queen unharnessed him, the dragon’s tongue fell from his

boot of steel. Then, the Queen of Ireland revived him by the virtue of an herb and said: “Stranger, I know you for the true slayer of the dragon: but our seneschal, a felon, cut off its head and claims my daughter Iseult for his wage; will you be ready two days hence to give him the lie in battle?”

“Queen,” said he, “the time is short, but you, I think, can cure me in two days. Upon the dragon I conquered Iseult, and on the seneschal perhaps I shall reconquer her.”

Then the Queen brewed him strong brews, and on the morrow Iseult the Fair made ready his bath and anointed him with a balm conjured by her mother. As her gaze returned and lingered on the face of the wounded, she began to think, “Surely, if his prowess equals his beauty, then my champion wages a most valiant battle.” And revived by the warmth of the water and the strength of the spices, Tristan likewise regarded Iseult the Fair, and through his mind ran the thought: “So I have found the Queen of the Hair of Gold.” And thinking this, he smiled at his find. Iseult, noting this, wondered in turn, “Why does this stranger smile to himself as such? Have I committed an unsuitable act? Have I neglected some service that a maiden owes her guest? Ah, perhaps he smiles thinking I have forgotten to burnish his armour, tarnished by venom.”

So she came to where Tristan’s armour had been laid aside. “This helmet is of the finest steel,” thought she, “and will not fail in its hour of need. And this hauberk, just as strong as it is light, and worthy of a great lord.” And then she regarded the sword by its hilt, thinking, “Truly, this is a most beautiful weapon, one befitting the greatest of barons.” To wipe it clean and burnish the steel, she drew the bloodied blade from its rich sheath, noting its dents and notches. As she did, she examined the gap along its length, from which a sliver of steel was missing, and she mused in wonder, “Could this be the blade from whence came the steel splinter that lodged in the Morholt’s skull?” She balanced a moment in doubt, then she went to where she kept the steel she had found in the skull and put it to the sword, and it fitted so that the join was hardly seen.

She ran to where Tristan lay wounded in his bath, and with the sword above him she cried: “You are that Tristan of the Lyonesse, who killed the Morholt, my mother’s brother, and now you shall die in your turn.”

Tristan strained to ward the blow, but he was too weak; his wit, however, stood firm in spite of evil and he said: “So be it, let me die: but to save yourself long memories, listen awhile. King’s daughter, my life is not only in your power but is yours of right. My life is yours because you have twice returned it me. Once, long ago: for I was the wounded harper whom you healed of the poison of the Morholt’s shaft. Nor repent the

healing: were not these wounds had in fair fight? Did I kill the Morholt by treachery? Had he not defied me and was I not held to the defence of my body? And now this second time also you have saved me. It was for you I fought the beast…

“But let us leave these things. I would but show you how my life is your own. Kill me then, and win praise and glory. Doubtless, when lying in the arms of the valiant seneschal, you will sweetly regard your wounded guest, who risked his life to conquer you, and whom you slew defenceless in his bath.”

Iseult replied: “I hear strange words. Why should he that killed the Morholt seek me also, his niece? Doubtless because the Morholt came for a tribute of maidens from Cornwall, so you came to boast returning that you had brought back the maiden who was nearest to him, to Cornwall, a slave.”

“King’s daughter,” said Tristan, “No…One day two swallows flew, and flew to Tintagel and bore one hair out of all your hairs of gold, and I thought they brought me goodwill and peace, so I came to find you over- seas. So I braved the monster and its venom. See here, amid the threads of gold upon my coat your hair is sewn: the threads are tarnished, but your bright hair still shines.”

Iseult put down the sword and taking up the Coat of Arms she saw upon it the Hair of Gold and was silent a long space, till she kissed him on the lips to prove peace, and she put rich garments over him.

On the day of the barons’ assembly, Tristan sent Perinis privily to his ship to summon his companions that they should come to court adorned as befitted the envoys of a great king, for he hoped to fulfill his adventure that very day. By now, Gorvenal and the hundred knights had grieved through four days, thinking Tristan lost, and they delighted in the tidings.

One by one the hundred knights passed into the hall where all the barons of Ireland stood; they entered in silence and sat all in rank together: gems gleaming on their scarlet and purple.

The Irish said amongst themselves: “Who are these lords so splendidly arrayed? Whosoever knows them? From whence came they? Behold their sumptuous cloaks trimmed in sable and embroidery. Behold their shimmering sword hilts, the broaches buckling their cloaks, decorated with emeralds and rubies, beryl, and with gems whose very names we know not. Whosoever has seen splendor equal to theirs? From whence cometh these lords? Who are they?”

But the hundred knights remained in silence, nor did they stir from their seats, no matter who entered.

When the King had taken his throne, the seneschal arose to prove by witness and by arms that he had slain the dragon, and that Iseult was thus won. Then Iseult bowed to her father and said: “King, I have here a man who challenges your seneschal for lies and felony. Promise that you will pardon this man all his past deeds, no matter what they were, for he stands to prove that he and none other slew the dragon, and grant him forgiveness and your peace.”

The King reflected and did not hasten his reply, and as he thought, the barons began to clamor and to shout en masse, “Grant it, Sire, grant it!”

The King said, “I grant it.” But Iseult knelt at his feet and said, “Father, first give me the kiss of

peace and forgiveness, as a sign that you will give him the same.” Then she found Tristan and led him before the Barony. And as he

entered the hall the hundred knights rose all together, and crossed their arms upon their breasts and bowed, so the Irish knew that he was their lord.

But amongst the Irish many knew him again and cried, “Tristan of Lyonesse that slew the Morholt!” They drew their swords and clamoured for death. But Iseult cried: “King, kiss this man upon the lips as was your oath.”

And the King kissed him upon the lips, and the clamour fell. Then Tristan showed the dragon’s tongue and offered the seneschal

battle, but the seneschal looked at his face and dared not. Then Tristan said: “My lords, you have said it, and it is truth: I killed the

Morholt. But I crossed the sea to offer you a good blood-fine, to ransom that deed and get me quit of it.

“I put my body in peril of death and rid you of the beast and have so conquered Iseult the Fair, and having conquered her I will bear her away on my ship.

“But that these lands of Cornwall and Ireland may know no more hatred, but love only, learn that King Mark, my lord, will marry her. Here stand a hundred knights of high name, who all will swear with an oath upon the relics of the holy saints, that King Mark sends you by their embassy offer of peace and of brotherhood and goodwill; and that he would by your courtesy hold Iseult as his honored wife, and that he would have all the men of Cornwall serve her as their Queen.”

When the lords of Ireland heard this, they acclaimed it, and the King also was content.

Then, since that treaty and alliance was to be made, the King, her father, took Iseult by the hand and asked of Tristan that he should take an oath; to

wit, that he would lead her loyally to his lord, and Tristan took that oath and swore it before the knights and the Barony of Ireland assembled. Iseult trembled with shame and anguish. So, Tristan having conquered her, now disdained her. That fine tale of the hair of gold was but a lie, for into the arms of another would he deliver her.

Then the King put Iseult’s right hand into Tristan’s right hand, and Tristan held it for a space in token of seizin for the King of Cornwall.

So, for the love of King Mark, did Tristan conquer the Queen of the Hair of Gold.

The Philtre

Now she had found not wine—but Passion and Joy most sharp, and Anguish without end, and Death.

Eilhat d’Oberg

W HEN THE DAY OF ISEULT’S LIVERY TO THE LORDS OF CORNWALL drew near, her mother gathered herbs and flowers and roots and steeped them in wine, and brewed a potion of might, and having perfected it by science and allurement, she poured it into a pitcher, and said apart to Brangien: “Child, it is yours to go with Iseult to King Mark’s country, for you love her with a faithful love. Take then this pitcher and remember well my words. Hide it so that no eye shall see nor lip go near this potion: but when the wedding- night has come and that moment in which the wedded are left alone, pour this essenced wine into a goblet and offer it to King Mark and to Iseult his queen. Oh! Take all care, my child, that they alone shall taste this brew. For this is its power: that whosoever drinks of it together shall love each other with their every single sense and with their every thought, forever and ever, in life and in death.”

And Brangien promised the Queen that she would do her bidding. The ship bore Iseult away. And the farther it furrowed the waves and

carried her from Ireland, the more sorrowfully the young girl lamented. Seated beneath the tent of her seclusion, with none but Brangien her maid, she wept, remembering her homeland. Where were these foreigners dragging her? Towards whom? And towards what fate? When Tristan approached, wanting to sooth her with gentle words, she angered, she repulsed him, and hatred swelled in her heart. He—the murderer of the

repulsed him, and hatred swelled in her heart. He—the murderer of the Morholt—had come to her homeland as captor, as ravisher, and with deceit in his heart and on his tongue. He had torn her from her mother and her country; he had won her, and yet did not deign to keep her for himself, and now he was bearing her off as his prey, over hurling waves, into enemy lands. “Accursed be the sea that bears me, for rather would I lie dead upon the earth where I was born than live out there, beyond the waves…”

One day when the wind had fallen and the sails hung slack Tristan dropped anchor by an island and the hundred knights of Cornwall and the sailors, weary of the sea, landed all. Iseult alone remained aboard with a little serving maid, and Tristan again came near the Queen to soothe her sorrow. The sun shown hot, high above and they were athirst and, as they called, the little maid looked about for drink for them and found that pitcher which the mother of Iseult had given into Brangien’s keeping. And when she came upon it, the child cried, “Ah, I have found you wine!”

Now she had found not wine—but Passion and Joy most sharp, and Anguish without end, and Death.

The child filled a goblet and presented it to her mistress. The Queen drank deep of that draught and gave it to Tristan and he drank also long and emptied it all.

Brangien came in upon them; she saw them gazing at each other in silence as though ravished and apart; she saw the pitcher standing there before them, and the goblet; she snatched up the pitcher and cast it into the shuddering sea and cried aloud: “Cursed be the day I was born and cursed be the day that first I trod this deck. Iseult, my friend, and Tristan, together you have drunk death.”

And once more the bark ran free for Tintagel. But it seemed to Tristan as though an ardent briar, sharp-thorned but with flowers most fragrant, drave deep roots into his blood and laced the lovely body of Iseult all round about and bound her body to his, and she to his every thought and desire. And he thought, “Andret, Denoalen, Guenelon and Gondoïne, felons, that charged me with coveting King Mark’s land, I have fallen lower by far, for it is not his land I covet. Fair uncle, who loved me as an orphan, ere you ever knew in me the blood of your sister Blanchefleur, you who wept as you bore me to that boat alone, why did you not drive out the boy who was to betray you? Ah! What thought was that! Iseult is yours and I am but your vassal; Iseult is yours and I am your son; Iseult is yours and may not love me.”

But Iseult loved him, though she would have hated. She could not hate,

for a tenderness more sharp than hatred tore at her. And Brangien watched in anguish, suffering more cruelly because she

alone knew the depth of evil done. Two days she watched them, seeing them refuse all food or comfort and

seeking each other as blind men seek, wretched apart, and together more wretched still; for they trembled each for the first avowal from the other.

On the third day, as Tristan neared the tent on deck where Iseult sat, she saw him coming and she said to him, very humbly, “Come in, my lord.”

“Queen,” said Tristan, “why do you call me lord? Am I not your liege and vassal, to revere and serve and cherish you as my lady and Queen?”

But Iseult answered, “No, you know that you are my lord and my master, and I your slave. Ah, why did I not sharpen those wounds of the wounded singer, or let die that dragon-slayer in the marsh grasses? But I did not know then what I know now!”

“And what is it that you know now, Iseult? What torments you?” “Ah, all that I know torments me, and all I see. This sky, this sea

torment me, and my body and my life.” She laid her arm upon Tristan’s shoulder, the light of her eyes was

drowned and her lips trembled. “Friend, what is it that torments you so?” “The love of you,” said she. Whereat he put his lips to hers. But as they thus tasted their first joy, Brangien, who watched them,

stretched out her arms and cried at their feet in tears: “Stay, return if still you can…But oh! I know that path has no returning. For already Love and his strength drag you onward, and now, henceforth and forever, you shall never know joy without pain. The wine possesses you, the draught your mother gave me, the draught the King alone should have drunk with you: but that old Enemy has tricked us, all us three; it is you who have drained the goblet. Friend Tristan, Iseult my friend, for the bad ward I kept, take here my body, my life, for through me and in that cup you have drunk not love alone, but Love and Death together.”

The lovers held each other; life and desire trembled through their youth, and Tristan said, “Well then, welcome, and come thou, Love and Death, lords of all.”

As evening gathered and night fell upon the bark that heeled and ran to King Mark’s land, Tristan and Iseult gave themselves utterly to love.

Brangien Delivered to the Serfs

I had thrust upon me the most beautiful of gifts. In this way the veil passed to thy keeping, and thy giving. A debt of love bestowed, a debt of love summoned.

Bertrand-Rambaut, Count of Orange

A S KING MARK CAME DOWN TO GREET ISEULT UPON THE SHORE, Tristan took her hand and led her to the King and the King took seizin of her, taking her hand. He led her in great pomp to his castle of Tintagel, and as she entered the hall amid the vassals, her beauty shone so that the walls were lit as they are lit at dawn. Then King Mark blessed those swallows which, by happy courtesy, had brought the Hair of Gold, and Tristan also he blessed, and the hundred knights who, on that adventurous bark, had gone to find him joy of heart and eyes; yet to him that ship was also to bring sting, torment and mourning.

But on the wedding night, to conceal the Queen’s dishonor and to save her from death, Brangien took Iseult’s place in the bridal bed. Thus the loyal maid sacrificed her purity of body out of love for her friend, and in repentance for the poor watch she kept at sea; the darkness of night veiled her dishonor and deception from the King.

Here certain storytellers say that Brangien had not cast into the sea the flagon of spiced wine, which the lovers had not wholly emptied; they say that at dawn, after her lady had slipped into King’s Mark’s bed, to be with him upon his wakening, Brangien poured what remained of the philtre into a goblet, and offered it to the King and Queen, and that Mark drank thereof

a goblet, and offered it to the King and Queen, and that Mark drank thereof deeply, but that Iseult, in her slyness, poured hers away.

But know you, my lords, that these storytellers have distorted and corrupted the history of Tristan and Iseult, and of King Mark. This error they conceived in paltry understanding of the marvelous love Mark held for his Queen. In truth—as soon you shall hear—never, despite anguish, torment and terrible reprisals, could Mark exile either Tristan or Iseult from his heart; yet know also, my lords, that he had not drunk of the spiced wine. Neither wine nor sorcery inspired King Mark’s love for his wife and lady, the Queen—only the tender nobility of his heart.

Thus Iseult reigned as Queen of Cornwall and seemed to live in joy, yet she lived in sorrow. She had King Mark’s affection, honor from the barons and she was cherished by the common folk. She passed her days amid richly appointed chambers, frescoed walls and flower-strewn floors; noble jewels had she and purple cloaks, rich tapestries from Thessaly and Hungary, the songs of harpers, curtains depicting leopards and eagles, popinjays and all manner of beasts of the seas and forests. And her love too she had, love bright and beautiful, for as is the custom of great lords, the private and the faithful, Tristan could ever be near her, at his leisure and his dalliance, night and day: for he slept in the royal chamber, as great lords do, among the lieges and the counsellors. Yet still she feared, for though their love was secret and Tristan unsuspected (for who suspects a son?) still the Queen lived in dread, for she felt the presence of a witness aware, a spy ever watching: Brangien knew; Brangien watched.

Thus did she come to possess the Queen’s mind, for Brangien alone knew the manner of Iseult’s life; thus the Queen lived at the mercy of her handmaiden. And the Queen thought: “Ah, if some day she wearies of serving as a slave by the bed where once she passed for Queen…If Tristan should die by her betrayal!”

So fear maddened the Queen, but in truth, not from Brangien did this fear arise, for she was loyal; the Queen’s own heart bred this fear, this torment.

Listen now to the great treachery she conceived; but God, as you shall hear, took pity upon her; be you, my lords, merciful as well.

On that day, the King and Tristan hunted afar, and so Tristan knew nothing of this crime. Iseult called two serfs before her and promised them freedom and sixty gold bezants if they swore to do her will. They swore an oath.

“I shall give you a girl,” said she, “take her hence into the forest, near or far, it matters not, but to some lonely spot where none shall ever learn

what happened. Kill her. Bring back to me her tongue and pay heed— remember her words, whatsoever she will say, tell me of her words. Go hence now. Upon your return you shall be free, and you shall be rich.”

Then she called Brangien. “Friend, you see how my body languishes and suffers. Will you not go search in the forest for plants suitable to cure this malady? These two serfs will lead you; they know the place where the healing herbs grow in plenty. Thus follow them hence, sister, and know that I send you into the forest for the sake of my peace and my life.”

The serfs led her away, and soon within the forest she wanted to stop at a place where curative plants grew in abundance. But they said, “Come, this is not the proper place.”

And so they led her deeper into the woods. One serf strode before her; the other after, and the beaten path soon fell

away into a tangle of brambles, thistles and thorns. Of a sudden, the one in the lead turned and drew his sword; she fell back towards the other, but he too held his naked blade by the hilt; said he: “Young girl, we must slay thee.”

Brangien fell into the weeds and with her arms attempted to turn aside the sword tips. She begged mercy in voice so innocent and sweet they were moved to say: “Young girl, if Queen Iseult, your lady and ours, wants you dead, then doubtless, you wronged her greatly.”

She answered, “I know not, friends; I remember but one transgression. When we sailed from Ireland, each took with us, chief among our ornaments, a snow-white veil, apparel for a wedding night. On the sea it happened that Queen Iseult tore hers, and on her wedding night, I lent her mine. Friends, that was my one transgression. Yet since my lady wishes me to die, tell her that I send her gratitude and honor for all the goodness she has shown me since childhood, when I was stolen by pirates and sold into her mother’s keeping. May God in His goodness preserve my lady’s honor, her person and her life. Brothers, now strike.”

But the serfs felt pity. They held council and, believing that perhaps such a minor transgression did not merit death, they tied her to a tree. Then they killed a young dog; one of them cut out its tongue, pressed it into the hem of his jerkin and soon both reappeared before Iseult.

“Tell me, did she speak?” she asked. “Yes, Queen, she spoke. She said you were angered with her by a single

wrong: that on the high seas you had torn your snow-white veil that you had brought from Ireland for your wedding night, and that she lent you hers. That, she said, was her sole crime and transgression. She sent you thanks for the many blessings you bestowed upon her since childhood; she

prayed God protect you in your honor and in your life. In all, she sent you gratitude and love. Queen, here is the child’s tongue, which you asked for.”

“Murderers,” she wailed, “give me back my Brangien, my dear and beloved maid. Did you not know she was my only friend? Murderers, give her back to me!”

“Queen, it is well said that ‘Woman is fickle; in a single hour she laughs, weeps, loves and hates.’ You ordered us to kill her; we did as you bade.”

“How could I have bidden you this? For what mischief? Was she not my dear companion—gentle, loyal, and beautiful? You knew this, murderers. I sent her to gather healing herbs and entrusted her life to you along the way. And I shall say you killed her and you will be burnt alive on red-hot coals.”

“Queen, know that she yet lives, and that we shall bring her back to you sound and sturdy.”

But she did not believe these serfs and, like one lost and maddened, she by turns cursed the murderers and cursed herself. One serf she had held by her side. The other hastened into the forest, to the tree where Brangien was bound: “Young maiden, God has been merciful. Your lady summons you back.”

When she reappeared in Iseult’s presence, Brangien knelt before her Queen, begging pardon for her faults, but the Queen also fell to her knees, before her handmaiden, and they embraced in each other’s arms, and both swooned deeply away.

The Tall Pine–Tree

It stood them both in good stead that cunning was met with cunning.

Gottfried von Strassburg

N OT BRANGIEN WHO WAS FAITHFUL, NO, NOT BRANGIEN, BUT themselves had these lovers to fear, for hearts so stricken lose vigilance. Love pressed them hard, as thirst presses hard the dying stag to the stream; love dropped upon them from high heaven, as a hawk slipped after long hunger falls swiftly upon the bird. And love will not be hidden. Brangien, indeed by her prudence, served them well, nor ever were the Queen and her lover unguarded. But in every hour and every place every man could see the seething of Love terrible, that rode them, and could see in these lovers their every sense overflowing like new wine seething in a vat.

The four felons at court, who had hated Tristan of old for his prowess, now watched the Queen; they had guessed that great love, and they burnt with envy and hatred and now a kind of evil glee. They planned to give news of their watching to the King, to see his tenderness turned to fury, Tristan thrust out or slain, and the Queen in torment; for though they feared Tristan, their hatred mastered their fear; and, upon a day, the four barons called King Mark to parley; Andret said: “Fair King, your heart will be troubled and we four also mourn; yet are we bound to reveal what we know. You have placed your trust in Tristan and Tristan would shame you. In vain we warned you. For the love of one man you have mocked ties of blood and all of your Barony. Learn then that Tristan loves the Queen; it is truth proved and many a word is passing on it now.”

The royal King shrank and answered: “Coward! What thought was that?

The royal King shrank and answered: “Coward! What thought was that? Indeed I have placed my trust in Tristan. And rightly, for on the day when the Morholt offered combat to all, you hung your heads and were dumb, and you trembled before him; but Tristan dared him for the honor of this land, and took mortal wounds. Therefore do you hate him, and therefore do I cherish him beyond thee, Andret, and beyond any other; but what then have you seen or heard or known?”

“Naught, lord, save what your eyes could see and your ears hear. Look you and listen, Sire, if there is yet time.”

Thus did they leave him to savor their poison. King Mark could not shake the curse. In turn, against his heart, he kept

watch upon his nephew; he kept watch upon the Queen; but Brangien, noting this, warned them and the King watched in vain; thus wearying of the indignity of his task, but knowing he could not surmount his suspicion, he summoned Tristan and said: “Tristan, leave this castle; and having left it, remain apart and do not think to return, and do not repass its moat or boundaries. Felons have charged you with an awful treason, but ask me nothing; I could not speak their words without shame to us both, and for your part seek you no word to appease. I have not believed them…had I done so, would I not long since have flung you to a shameful death? But their evil words have troubled all my soul and only your absence can sooth my disquiet. Go; doubtless I will soon recall you. Go, my son; you are still dear to me.”

When the felons heard the news they said amongst themselves, “He is gone, the wizard; he is driven out. Surely he will cross the sea on far adventures to carry his traitor service to some distant king.”

But Tristan had not strength to depart altogether; and when he had crossed the moats and boundaries of the castle he knew he could go no further. He tarried in Tintagel town and lodged with Gorvenal in a burgess’ house, and languished, oh! more wounded than in that past day when the shaft of the Morholt tainted his body with poison. In that former time, when he lay helpless in the hut by the sounding waves, when all had fled the stench of his wounds, three men, nevertheless, attended him: Gorvenal, Dinas of Lidan and King Mark. Gorvenal and Dinas still kept faith with him, but King Mark came no more, and Tristan lamented: “In truth, fair uncle, my presence now sheds a far more reeking poison, for your love no longer prevails upon your horror.”

But in the ardor of this new fever, desire without redress carried him as if upon a wild and rampant horse bolting towards the sealed towers that shut away the Queen; horse and rider flung themselves and broke against

the walls of stone; but horse and rider ever resumed the field, endlessly and ever hurling themselves upon the mad and selfsame ride.

In the close towers Iseult the Fair drooped also, but more wretched still. For it was hers all day long to feign laughter and all night long to conquer fever and despair. And all night as she lay by King Mark’s side, fever kept her waking, and she stared deep into darkness. She longed to fly to Tristan and she too dreamt dreams—of running from the gates and of finding there sharp scythes hidden in the grasses, traps of the felons, that cut her tender knees; and she dreamt of weakness and falling, and that her wounds had shed her blood upon the ground. Now these lovers would have died, but Brangien succoured them. At peril of her life she found the house where Tristan lay. There Gorvenal opened to her very gladly, knowing what salvation she could bring.

So she found Tristan, and to save the lovers she taught him a device, nor was there ever known, my lords, a more subtle ruse of love.

Behind the castle of Tintagel lay an orchard fenced round and wide all closed in with stout and pointed stakes; numberless fruit trees and clusters of sweet grapes grew in this arboretum, plentiful of birds. And furthest from the castle, by the palisades, grew a tall pine-tree, straight with heavy branches spreading from its trunk. At its root a living spring welled calm into a marble fountain, then ran between two borders winding, through the orchard and so on, till it flowed at last via troughs into the castle and through the women’s rooms.

And every evening, by Brangien’s counsel, Tristan leapt the sharp palisades, cut him twigs and bark, and having come beneath the pine, cast them into the clear spring; they floated light as foam down the stream to the women’s rooms; and Iseult watched for their coming, and on those evenings she would wander out into the orchard and find her friend. Lithe and in fear would she come, watching at every step for what might lurk amid the trees observing, foes or felons whom she knew. Tristan, upon sight of her, would spring towards her with open arms; and the night and the branches of the pine concealed and protected them.

And so one night very late, while they lay in each other’s embrace, she said, “Tristan, seafarers say that Tintagel Castle is faëry and twice a year, winter and summer, it vanishes away. So it has vanished now, and this is the enchanted orchard of which the harpers sing. A wall of air encircles it on all sides; trees flower from the fragrant earth; and here the hero lives without age in his friend’s arms, and no hostile power can breach the wall of air.”

But even as she spoke, from the ramparts of Tintagel Castle, sentinels

bugled dawn. “No,” said Tristan, “already the wall of air lies shattered, and this is not

the enchanted orchard of which the harpers sing. But one day, friend, we shall go forth together to a fortunate land from which none ever returns. There rises a castle of white marble; in each of its thousand windows, a lighted candle burns and a minstrel plays soft melodies without end; there the sun does not show his face but none regrets his light, for that is the happy land of the living.”

Dawn now illuminated the high towers of Tintagel Castle, glowing upon its variegated stones of vert and azure.

Iseult had refound her joy. Mark’s thought of ill-ease grew faint; but the felons felt or knew which way lay truth, and they guessed that Tristan had met the Queen. Till at last Duke Andret (whom God shame) said to his peers: “My lords, let us take counsel of Frocin the Dwarf; for he knows the seven arts, and magic and every kind of charm. He knows the art of observing the seven planets and the course of the stars so that, at the birth of a child, he can foretell the occasions of his life. By the power of Bugibus and Noiron he divines secret truths concealed. He can teach us, if he will, the trickery of Iseult the Fair.”

And so in hatred of beauty and prowess, the evil little man summoned the characters of sorcery; he cast spells and traced the meaning of charms and, considering the transit of Orion and divining the will of Lucifer, he said at last: “Sirs, high good lords, this night shall you seize them both.”

Then they led the little wizard to the King, and he said: “Sire, bid your huntsmen leash the hounds and saddle the horses, proclaim a seven days’ hunt in the forest and seven nights abroad therein, and hang me high if you do not hear this night what converse Tristan holds.”

So did the King unwillingly; and at fall of night he left the hunt taking the dwarf in pillion and entered the orchard, and the dwarf took him to the tall pine-tree, saying: “Fair King, climb into the branches of this tree, and take with you your arrows and your bow, for you may need them; and bide you still. You will not need to tarry long.”

“Begone, dog of the Evil One!” answered Mark. And the dwarf departed, taking with him the horse. He had not erred, for the King did not have long to wait. This night the

moon shone clear and radiant. Hidden within the pine boughs, the King saw his nephew leap the high palisades and gather bits of bark and branches. But as Tristan scattered them into the stream, he spied in the fount the dark reflection of the King. But he spied too late, for the wood

chips swirled away and ran fast towards the ladies’ chambers, where Iseult kept watch, and from which she would soon hasten. May God protect the lovers!

She came, and Tristan watched her motionless. Above him in the tree he heard the click of the arrow when it is fixed

upon the string. She approached, but with more prudence than her wont, thinking, “What

has passed, that Tristan does not come to meet me? He has seen some foe.” She stopped short and, with a glance, surveyed the dark woods. Of an

instant, she discerned in the moonlight the King’s form in the darkness above the fount. She showed the wit of women well; she did not lift her eyes.

“Lord God,” she said, low down, “grant I may be the first to speak.” She drew closer. Now hear how she overtook and presaged her friend:

“Tristan,” said she, “what have you dared to do, calling me hither at such an hour? Often have you called me—to ‘beseech,’ as you said. And Queen though I am—I know you won me that title—I have come. What would you?”

“Queen, I would have you pray the King for me.” She was in tears and trembling, but Tristan praised God the Lord who

had shown his friend their peril. “Queen,” he went on, “often and in vain have I summoned you; but

never since the King drove me away have you deigned to come to my call. Take pity; the King hates me, I know not why. Perhaps you know the cause and can charm his anger. For whom can he trust if not you, chaste and courteous Queen, Iseult?”

“In truth, Sir Tristan, do you not know that he doubts us both? And I, to add to my shame, must acquaint you of this! My lord believes that I love you with a guilty love. Yet God knows—and if I lie, may He cover my body with dishonor—that I have never given my love to any man, save he who first took me a virgin in his arms. And yet you want, Sir Tristan, that I should beg your pardon of the King? Why, if he knew that I stood beneath this pine tonight, then tomorrow he would cast my ashes to the wind.”

Tristan groaned: “Oh, fair uncle, in sooth it is said, ‘No man is a villain lest he commits villainy.’ But in what manner of heart has such suspicion been born?”

“Sir Tristan, what is it you say? My lord the King would not have imagined such wickedness. But the felons of this land contrived and convinced him of their lie, for it is easy to deceive the loyal heart. ‘They love each other,’ they told my lord, and so the felons charged us with false

crime. Yes, you love me, Tristan, why deny it? Am I not your uncle’s wife? Did I not twice save you from death? And yes, I love you in return. Are you not the lineage of my husband and my King? Often have I heard my mother say that no woman loves her lord if she does not love his kindred. For love of the King, do I love you Tristan, and should he take you again into his good graces, I would be gladdened. But my body trembles and I am afraid. I must fly in haste, for I have lingered over long.”

In the branches the King smiled and had pity. “Queen, in the name of our Savior, for charity’s sake, assist me. The

cowards would remove from the King’s side all who love him; they have succeeded and now they ridicule him. So be it; I shall depart from this land, miserable as first I came: but at the very least, prevail upon the King to recognize my past services, so that I may ride without shame into other lands—to allot to me enough from his treasury to discharge my obligations, to redeem my horse, my arms.”

“No Tristan, you should not make this request of me. I am alone in this land, alone in a palace where no one loves me, unsupported and at the mercy of the King. Do you not see that, should I risk a word on your behalf, I would likewise risk a shameful death? Friend, God protect you. The King wrongs you but the Lord God will be your true friend in any land to which you go.”

Thus did the Queen return to her rooms and tell all to Brangien, who cried: “Iseult, my lady, God has worked a miracle for you, for He is compassionate and protects the innocent in heart!”

Under the tall pine-tree Tristan, leaning upon the fount’s marble rim, lamented: “May God have pity on me and repair the great injustice that I suffer from my beloved lord.”

At this the King smiled, and after Tristan departed the orchard, he said: “Beautiful nephew, blessed be this hour. Behold: the long ride you contemplated for the morrow is over.”

But in an open glade apart, Frocin the Dwarf read in the clear stars that the King now meant his death; he blackened with shame and fear and swelled with rage, and fled into the land of Wales.

The Dwarf Frocin

His desire was at its height and he acted in keeping with the saying that passion and love should know no fear when it is in deadly earnest.

Gottfried von Strassburg

K ING MARK MADE PEACE WITH TRISTAN. TRISTAN RETURNED TO the castle as of old. Tristan slept in the King’s chamber with his peers. He could come or go; the King thought no more of it.

Mark had pardoned the felons, and as the seneschal, Dinas of Lidan, found the dwarf wandering in a forest abandoned, he brought him home, and the King had pity and pardoned even him.

But his goodness did but feed the ire of the barons, who again having surprised Tristan and the Queen swore this oath: if the King kept Tristan in the land they would withdraw to their strongholds as for war, and they called the King to parley.

“Lord,” said they, “love us, hate us, at your will, but we desire that you drive Tristan forth. He loves the Queen as all who choose can see, but as for us we will bear it no more.”

And the King sighed, looking down in silence. “King,” they went on, “we shall not bear it, for we know now that this is

known to you and yet you will not move. Parley you, and take counsel. As for us, if you will not exile this youth, your nephew, and drive him forth from your kingdom forever, we shall withdraw within our bailiwicks and take our neighbors also from your court: for we cannot endure his presence

longer in this place. Such is your balance: now choose.” “My lords,” said he, “once I hearkened to the evil words you spoke of

Tristan, yet was I wrong in the end. But you are my lieges and I would not lose the service of my men. Counsel me therefore, I charge you, you that owe me counsel. You know me for a man neither proud nor overstepping.”

“Lord,” said they, “call then Frocin hither. You mistrust him for that orchard night. Still, was it not he who read in the stars of the Queen’s coming and to the very pine-tree too? He is very wise; take counsel of him.”

And he came, did that hunchback of Hell: the felons greeted him and he planned this evil.

“Sire,” said he, “let your nephew ride hard on the morrow at dawn with a brief drawn up upon parchment and well secured with a seal: bid him ride to King Arthur at Carduel. Sire, he sleeps with the peers in your chamber; go you out when the first sleep falls upon men, and if he love Iseult so madly, why, then I swear by God and by the laws of Rome, he will try to speak with her before he rides. But if he do so unbeknownst to you or to me, then slay me. As for the trap, let me lay it, but do you say nothing to him of his ride until the time for sleep.”

And when King Mark had agreed, this dwarf did a vile thing. He bought of a baker four farthings’ worth of flour, and hid it in the turn of his coat. That night, when the King had supped and the men-at-arms lay down to sleep in the hall, Tristan came to the King, as custom was, and the King said: “Fair nephew, do my will: ride tomorrow night to King Arthur at Carduel, and give him this brief, with my greeting, that he may open it: and stay you with him but one day.”

And when Tristan said: “I shall take it on the morrow.” The King added: “Aye, and before day dawn.” But that night as the peers slept all round the King, their lord, a mad

thought took Tristan that, before he rode—he knew not for how long— before dawn, he would say a last word to the Queen. And there was a spear length in the darkness between them. Now the dwarf slept with the rest in the King’s chamber, and when he thought that all slept he rose and scattered the flour silently in the spear length that lay between Tristan and the Queen. Should one of the two lovers join the other, the flour would bear witness with the imprint of the steps. But Tristan watched through the darkness and saw him, and said to himself: “It is to mark my footsteps, but there shall be no marks to show.”

At midnight, when all was dark in the room, no candle nor any lamp glimmering, the King went out silently by the door and with him the

dwarf. Then Tristan rose in the darkness and judged the spear length and leapt the space between, for his farewell. But that day in the hunt a boar had wounded him in the leg, and in this effort the wound bled. He did not feel it or see it in the darkness, but the blood dripped upon the couches and the flour strewn between; and outside in the moonlight the dwarf read the heavens and knew that the lovers were reunited. He trembled with evil joy and cried: “Enter, my King, and if you do not hold them, then hang me high.”

Then the King and the dwarf and the four felons ran in with lights and noise, and though Tristan had regained his place there was blood for witness, and though Iseult feigned sleep, and Perinis too, who lay at Tristan’s feet, yet there was the blood for witness. And the King looked in silence at the blood where it lay upon the bed and the boards and trampled into the flour.

And the four barons held Tristan down upon his bed and mocked the Queen also, promising her full justice; and they bared and showed the wound whence the blood flowed.

Then the King said: “Tristan, now nothing longer holds. Tomorrow you shall die.”

And Tristan answered: “Have mercy, Lord, in the name of God that suffered the Cross!”

But the felons called on the King to take vengeance, saying: “Do justice, King: take vengeance.”

And Tristan went on, “Have mercy, not on me—for why should I stand at dying?—Truly, but for you, I would have sold my honor high to cowards who, under your peace, have put hands on my body—but in homage to you I have yielded and you may do with me what you will. But, lord, remember the Queen!”

And as he knelt at the King’s feet he still complained: “Remember the Queen; for if any man of your household make so bold as to maintain the lie that I loved her unlawfully I will stand up armed to him in a ring. Sire, in the name of God the Lord, have mercy on her.”

Then the barons bound him with ropes, and the Queen also. But had Tristan known that trial by combat was to be denied him, certainly he would not have suffered it.

For he trusted in God and knew no man in the lists dared draw sword against him. And truly he did well to trust in God, for though the felons mocked him when he said he had loved loyally, yet I call you to witness, my lords who read this, and who know of the philtre drunk upon the high seas, and who understand whether his love were disloyalty indeed. For

men see this and that outward thing, but God alone the heart, and in the heart alone is crime and the sole final judge is God. Therefore did He lay down the law that a man accused might uphold his cause by battle, and God Himself fights for the innocent in such a combat.

Therefore did Tristan claim justice and the right of battle and therefore was he careful to fail in nothing of the homage he owed King Mark, his lord.

But had he known what was coming, he would have killed the felons. Lord God, why did he not kill them!

The Chantry Leap

“God,” cried Tristan, “what blessed fortune! Alas, lovely Iseult, to think that you were to die for me and I for you!”

Béroul

D ARK WAS THE NIGHT, AND THE NEWS RAN THAT TRISTAN AND the Queen were held and that the King would kill them; and wealthy burgess, or common man, they wept and hastened to the palace.

“Alas, all must weep! Tristan, bold baron, must you die by such hideous treachery? And you, gracious and honored Queen, in what land was ever born a king’s daughter so lovely, so dear? Is this, humped-back dwarf, the handiwork of your wickedness? May he who finds you, and does not thrust a spear into you, never see the face of God! And Tristan, dear and beautiful friend, when the Morholt set foot upon our shores to ravish our youth, not one of our barons dared raise arms against him; all stood by, timid and silent as mutes. But you, Tristan, instead of the men of Cornwall, fought for us, fought for our children and slew the Morholt; and you nearly died for us of his treachery, grazed by his poisoned spear. In remembrance of such things, can we consent to your death this day?”

And the murmurs and the cries ran through Tintagel, but such was the King’s anger in his high castle that not the strongest nor the proudest baron dared move him.

Night ended and day drew near. Mark, before dawn, rode forth to the place where he held pleas and judgment. He ordered a ditch to be dug in the earth and knotty vineshoots and thorns to be laid therein.

At the hour of Prime he had a ban cried through his land to gather the men of Cornwall; they came with a great noise and all wept—save but the four felons and the dwarf of Tintagel. The King spoke them thus: “My lords, I have made here a faggot of thorns for Tristan and the Queen; for they have fallen.”

But they cried all, with tears: “A sentence, lord, a sentence; an indictment and pleas; for killing without trial is shame and crime. King, respite and mercy for them.”

But Mark answered in his anger: “Neither respite, nor delay, nor pleas, nor sentence. By God that made the world, if any dare petition me, he shall burn first!”

He ordered the fire lit, and Tristan to be called. The flames rose, and all were silent before the fire, and the King waited. The servants ran to the room where watch was kept on the two lovers;

and they dragged forth Tristan, his hands bound by ropes. By God, it was vile to see him thus fettered! He wept at the insult, but of what use his tears? Shamefully, they dragged him away, and the Queen—nearly maddened by anguish—called after him: “To be killed, friend, that you might live, that would give me great joy!”

The guards dragged Tristan down from the city towards the fire, and as they went, a gallant knight galloped from behind and joined them—Dinas, the good seneschal. At news of the misfortune, he rode hard from his castle of Lidan; foam, sweat and blood ran from the flanks of his horse: “Son, I hasten towards the King. Perhaps God will there grant me some counsel that may assist you both. Already I can allow you this tiny courtesy. Friends,” said he to the servants, “you shall lead him unfettered.” And Dinas cut the shameful ropes. “Should he try to flee, do you not have swords?”

He kissed Tristan upon the lips, leapt into his saddle, and his horse bore him away.

Now hear how the Lord God is full of pity. He who does not want the death of the sinner heard the prayers and lamentations of the humble, beseeching Him on behalf of the tormented lovers. Along the road where Tristan passed stood a chantry, sea facing on a sheer and windy cliff towering high above the waves; the illuminated windows in the apse, the handiwork of a saint long ago. Tristan said to those leading him: “Lords, see you this chantry? Permit me to enter. My death is near and I shall ask God to bestow mercy upon me, for I have grievously offended Him. As you can see, my lords, but one threshold serves, and each of you has your sword at the ready. Thus when I have uttered my last prayer to God, I must

pass into your hands once again.” And one of the guards said: “Why, let him enter.” So they let him enter to pray. But he, once in, dashed through the nave,

leapt the altar rail, and the altar too, forced a window of the apse, and leapt over the cliff’s edge. This so he might die, but not of that shameful death before the people.

Now learn, my lords, how generous was God upon that day. The wind lifted Tristan’s cloak and he fell upon a smooth rock at the cliff’s foot, which to this day the men of Cornwall call “Tristan’s Leap.”

His guards still awaited him at the chantry door, but vainly, for God was now his sentinel. And he ran, and the fine sand shifted beneath his feet, and far off he saw the faggot burning, the smoke and the crackling flames; and he fled.

Sword girt and bridle loose, Gorvenal had fled the city, lest the King burn him in his master’s place: and he came upon Tristan on the shore.

“Master,” said Tristan, “God has saved me, but oh! master, to what end? For without Iseult I may not live and will not, and rather had I died of my fall. They will burn her for me, then I too will die for her.”

“Lord,” said Gorvenal, “take no counsel of anger. See here this thicket with a ditch dug round about it. Let us hide therein where the track passes near, and comers by will tell us news; and, boy, if they burn Iseult, I swear by God, the Son of Mary, never to sleep under a roof again until she be avenged.”

“Good master, I do not have my sword.” “Here, I brought it for you.” “Well done; now I fear nothing, save God.” “Son, under my jerkin have I something else that will cheer you: this

hauberk strong and light, which can serve you well.” “Again, well done, fair master. For God, whose presence I always sense,

I shall go now to free my friend.” “No, Tristan, bide with me a while. For doubtless God has reserved for

you some finer vengeance. And realize it is not in your power to approach the stake; guards surround it and fear the King: Son, it is well said, ‘Folly summons not prowess.’ Thus, bide with me…”

There was a poor man of the common folk who had seen Tristan’s fall, and had seen him stumble and rise after, and he crept to Tintagel and to Iseult where she was bound, and said: “Queen, weep no more. Your friend has fled safely.”

“Then I thank God,” said she, “and whether they bind or loose me, and whether they kill or spare me, I care but little now.”

And though blood came at the cord-knots, so tightly had the traitors bound her, yet still she said, smiling: “Did I weep for myself when God has delivered my friend, then I should be of little worth.”

When the news came to the King that Tristan had leapt that leap and was lost, he paled with anger, and bade his men bring forth Iseult.

They dragged forth the Queen from her room, and brought her before the crowd, her delicate hands bound, from which blood dripped, and the crowd called: “Have pity on her—the loyal Queen and honored! Surely they that gave her up have brought mourning on us all—our curses upon them!”

But the King’s men dragged her to the thorn faggot as it blazed. Then Dinas, lord of Liden, knelt before the King.

“Sire, hear me. Loyally have I served you for these many years now without reward; for neither pauper, nor orphan, nor aged woman ever gave me a penny for my stewardship, which I have held and freely given to you throughout my life. In recompense, grant me but this one favor: your mercy to the Queen. You wish to burn her without trial; such is malfeasance, for she does not acknowledge the crime of which you accuse her. And consider this: if you burn her, all safety flees your kingdom, for Tristan has escaped. Well versed is he in the byways of the woodlands and plains, and fords, indeed, with all the places and passes hereabouts; and intrepid is he. Of course, you are his uncle; he will bring you no harm; but every baron, every vassal incident to this crime, he may stalk and kill.”

The four villains blanched with dread, for already each sensed Tristan lurking unseen, lying in wait, in the distance, in the offing, hidden eyes fixed upon him.

“King,” said the seneschal, “if it is true that I have faithfully served you through all of my days, then give to me Iseult. I shall answer as her keeper and her warrantor.”

But the King took Dinas by the hand and swore by the names of the saints that he would immediately commence with his vengeance.

Dinas arose: “King, I relinquish your service and return to Liden.” Iseult smiled sadly. He mounted his horse and rode off, wretched,

dejected and disconsolate in spirit. Iseult stood before the flames, and the crowd cried its anger, and cursed

the traitors and the King. She was so tightly bound that none could see her without pity, unless he harboured within him a felon’s heart. Tears ran down her face and fell upon her grey gown where ran a little thread of gold, and a thread of gold was twined into her hair.

Just then there had come along the road a hundred of the King’s lepers,

deformed and broken, white horribly, and limping on their crutches to the clatter of hand-rattles. They gathered before the pyre; their bloodshot eyes festering beneath swollen eyelids, gleaming at the awful spectacle. And they drew near the flames, and being evil, they loved the sight. And their chief, Yvain, the ugliest of all, cried to the King in a quavering voice: “O King, you would burn this woman in the flames, and it is sound justice, but too swift, for soon the fire will fall, and her ashes will be scattered by the high winds, her agony done. Would you have me show you a far worse punishment, by which she would live for a time, but in great shame and torment, ever desirous of death, even by fire? Would you like that, King?”

“Yes, life for her then, but in shame worse than death—I could love him who teaches me such a torture.”

“Lord, then I shall briefly state my notion. See, I have here a hundred companions. Give to us Iseult so that we may share and enjoy her in common. Our leprous disease sharpens our lust rather than dulls it. Give her to your lepers; never shall a lady come to a more bitter end. See how our rags stick to our festering and oozing sores. She who delighted in rich fabrics trimmed in furs and in precious jewels, she who lived in marble halls and enjoyed exquisite wines, marks of joy and esteem, why, when she beholds the low court of your lepers, when she has to stoop to enter our hovels, when she lies with us, then Iseult the Fair, the Beautiful, will recognize her sin and shall regret having missed the quickness and agony of this fine, black-thorn fire.”

And as the King heard them, he stood a long time without moving; then he ran to the Queen and seized her by the hand, and she cried: “Burn me! rather burn me!”

But the King gave her up, and Yvain took her, and the hundred lepers pressed around. But Yvain had an evil gladness, and as he went he dragged her out of the borough bounds, with his hideous company.

Now they took that road where Tristan lay in hiding, and Gorvenal said to him: “Son, here is your friend. Will you do naught?”

Then Tristan mounted the horse and spurred it out of the bush, and cried: “Yvain, you have been at the Queen’s side but a moment, and a moment too long. Now leave her if you would live.”

But Yvain threw his cloak away and shouted: “Your clubs, comrades, and your staves! Crutches in the air—for a fight is on!”

Then it was fine to see the lepers throwing their capes aside, and stirring their sick legs, and brandishing their crutches, some threatening: groaning all; but to strike them, Tristan was too noble. There are singers who sing that Tristan killed Yvain, but that is a lie. Too great of a knight was he to

kill such vile things. Gorvenal indeed, snatching up an oak sapling, crashed it upon Yvain’s head till his blood ran down to his misshapen feet. Then Tristan took the Queen.

Henceforth near him, she felt no further evil. He cut the cords that bound her arms so severely, and he left the plain so that they plunged deep into the wood of Morois; and there in the thick wood Tristan was as sure as in a castle keep.

And as the sun fell they halted all three at the foot of a little hill: fear had wearied the Queen, and she leant her head upon Tristan’s body and slept.

But in the morning, Gorvenal stole from a woodsman his bow and two good arrows plumed and barbed, and gave them to Tristan, the great archer, and he shot him a fawn and killed it. Then Gorvenal gathered dry twigs, struck flint, and lit a great fire to cook the venison. And Tristan cut branches and made a hut garnished with leaves. And Iseult slept upon the thick leaves there.

So, in the depths of the wild wood began for the lovers that savage life which yet they loved very soon.

Part the Second

Who would give a law unto lovers? Love is unto itself a higher law.

Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius

The Wood of Morois

“We have lost the world, and the world has lost us, It has passed from us, utterly away, and we from it. What thinkest thou, Tristan, my friend?” “Friend, were all worlds with us here and now, I would see but thee.”

Prose Romance of Tristan, Luce de Gat

T HEY WANDERED IN THE DEPTHS OF THE WILD WOOD, RESTLESS and in haste like hunted beasts, nor did they often dare to return by night to the shelter of yesterday. They ate but the flesh of wild animals, and missed the taste of salt. Their faces sank and grew white, their clothes ragged; for the briars tore them. They loved each other and they did not know that they suffered.

One day, as they were wandering in these high woods that had never yet been felled or ordered, they came upon the hermitage of Ogrin.

The old man limped in the sunlight under a light growth of maples near his chapel: he leant upon his crutch, and cried: “Lord Tristan, hear the great oath which the Cornish men have sworn. The King has published a ban in every parish: whosoever may seize you shall receive a hundred marks of gold for his guerdon, and all the barons have sworn to give you up alive or dead. Do penance, Tristan! God pardons the sinner who turns to repentance.”

“And of what sin should I repent, Ogrin, my lord? Or of what crime? You that sit in judgment upon us here, do you know what cup it was we drank upon the high seas? That good, great draught inebriates us both. I

drank upon the high seas? That good, great draught inebriates us both. I would rather beg my life long and live of roots and herbs with Iseult than, lacking her, be king of a great and far-flung kingdom.”

“God aid you, Lord Tristan; for you have lost both this world and the next. A man that is traitor to his lord is worthy to be torn by horses and burnt upon the faggot, and wherever his ashes fall no grass shall grow and all tillage is waste, and the trees and the green things die. Lord Tristan, give back the Queen to the man who lawfully espoused her according to the laws of Rome.”

“He has forfeited his claim; no longer is she his. He gave her to his lepers. From these lepers I myself conquered her with my own hand; and henceforth she is altogether mine. She cannot pass from me nor I from her.”

Ogrin sat down; but at his feet Iseult, her head upon the knees of that man of God, wept silently. The hermit told her and retold her the words of his holy book, but still while she wept she shook her head, and refused the faith he offered.

“Ah me,” said Ogrin then, “what comfort can one give to the dead? Do penance, Tristan, for a man who lives in sin without repentance is a man already dead.”

“Oh no,” said Tristan, “I live and I do no penance. We shall go back into the high wood which comforts and wards us all round about. Come with me, Iseult, my friend.”

Iseult rose up; they held each other’s hand. They passed through the high grasses and into the underwood: the trees enfolded round and hid them within their branches, and so they disappeared into the wilderness, beyond the leaves.

Listen, my lords, and you shall hear of a great and good adventure. Tristan had raised a dog, a greyhound, beautiful and eager, and fleet of foot; neither count nor king had better at the chase. They called him Hodain. He had been locked in a dungeon, fettered to a log since the day he ceased seeing his master; he had refused all sustenance, scratching the earth with his paws, weeping from his eyes and howling most plaintively. Many pitied him. “Hodain,” said they: “no being has ever loved more truly than you. Solomon said wisely, ‘My true friend is my greyhound.’ ”

And King Mark, remembering bygone days, thought in his heart: “This dog shows great wisdom in weeping for his lord; for in all of Cornwall, is there a man half as worthy as Tristan?”

Three barons approached the King: “Sire, unchain Hodain: well do we

know he bereaves his master; if you do not, you will see him, as soon as he is set free, chasing men and beasts with gaping maw, tongue in the wind, to rend them.”

They unchained him. He sprang from the door and raced to the chamber where formerly dwelt his lord. There he growled and wailed and sniffed about and finally found the trace of a scent and, step-by-step, he pursued the course by which Tristan had been led toward the fire. All followed. Eagerly he barked now and climbed the cliff to the chantry where, within, he leapt upon the altar and thence through the very window from which Tristan fell to the rock below. And Hodain’s leap too was enchanted, for he skirted down the cliff like a squirrel, and lived. Upon the beach, he recovered his master’s trail and followed the scent to the flowering grove; thereabouts he sniffed for a moment where Tristan had waited in ambush.

And then he lit out for the forest. All who saw felt moved. Now said the knights: “Fair King, let us cease our pursuit, for it may

lead us to a place of perilous adventures and uncertain return.” Thus they let him be and turned away. And deep in the underwood, Hodain gave voice to his quest, the forest

resounding near and far with his bays. After a time, in the great distance, Tristan, Iseult and Gorvenal at last heard his bays, and Tristan said: “It is Hodain!”

But they became frightened, thinking the King was hunting them like deer with his bloodhounds. Iseult and Gorvenal hid themselves in a thicket, while at its edge Tristan waited with his bow arched and ready. But when Hodain saw his lord, he sprang to him, wagged his head and tail all about, and arched his back and rolled in joyous circles all around him. Whoever saw such rejoicing! Then he sprang to Iseult, thence Gorvenal; he even celebrated seeing Tristan’s horse.

Tristan was deeply moved, but bewildered: “Alas! By what misfortune has Hodain found us! Of what good is he, who cannot keep silent, to a harassed man, a fugitive? Even now the King is beating plains and through woods, stalking us throughout his kingdom. Hodain will betray us by his bayings. For the very love of me and through the nobility of his nature, he has come seeking his own death. Alas, we must protect ourselves! Oh, what is to be done? Give me good counsel!”

Iseult caressed and petted Hodain. “Sire,” said she: “spare him! I heard tell of a Welsh woodsman who trained his dog to follow the trace of blood from wounded deer without barking. Friend Tristan, what joy it would be to train Hodain as well!”

For a while he thought in silence, while the dog now quietly licked the hands of Iseult. Tristan, feeling great affection and pity, said: “I must try; I cannot bear to kill him.”

Soon setting out on the hunt, Tristan startled a buck and wounded him with an arrow. The dog darted after, baying so loudly the woods resounded. Tristan struck him into silence; Hodain raised his head towards his master, confused and astonished; thus he dared not bark and ceased his chase, and then taking him between his knees, Tristan beat his own boot with a chestnut stick, as huntsmen do to excite the dogs. At the signal, his dog again began to bark and Tristan chastised him yet again. Teaching him thus, at the limit of scarcely a month, he trained Hodain to hunt in silence.

So the summer passed away and winter came, and the two lovers lived, all hidden in the hollow of a rock, and on the frozen earth the cold crisped their couch with dead leaves. In the strength of their love neither felt these mortal things. When the open skies returned with springtime, Tristan made a dwelling place. With his sword he hewed green branches to make a verdant bower beneath great trees, and Iseult blanketed the ground thickly with soft leaves.

Tristan had known, ever since his childhood, that art by which a man may sing the song of birds in the woods, and at his fancy, he would call as call the thrush, the blackbird and the nightingale, and all winged things; and sometimes in reply very many birds would light upon the branches of his hut and sing their song full-throated in the new light of spring.

The lovers ceased to wander through the forest now, for none of the barons ran the risk of their pursuit, knowing well that Tristan would have hanged them from the branches of a tree. Upon a day, however, one of the four traitors, Guenelon—God blast!—drawn by the heat of the hunt, dared enter the Morois. And that morning, on the forest edge in a ravine, Tristan’s equerry Gorvenal, having unsaddled his horse, let him graze upon the new grasses, while far off in their hut Tristan held the Queen, and they slept. Then suddenly Gorvenal heard the cry of the pack; the hounds pursued a deer, which fell into that ravine. And far on the heath the hunter showed—and Gorvenal knew him for the man whom his master hated above all. Alone, with bloody spurs, and striking his horse’s mane, he galloped on; but Gorvenal watched him from ambush: he came fast, he would return more slowly. He passed and Gorvenal leapt from his ambush and seized the rein and, suddenly, remembering all the wrong that man had done, hewed him to death and carried off his head in his hands. And when the hunters found the headless body, as they followed, they thought Tristan

had come and they fled in fear of death, and thereafter no man hunted in that wood. And far off, in the hut upon their couch of leaves, slept Tristan and the Queen in close embrace.

There came Gorvenal, noiseless, the dead man’s head in his hands that he might lift his master’s heart at his awakening. He hung it by its hair outside the hut, and garlanded it with the leaves about. Tristan awoke and saw the face, half hidden in the leaves, staring at him as he gazed, and he became afraid. But Gorvenal said: “Fear not, my lord, he is dead. I killed him with this sword. He was your foe.”

Then Tristan was glad, and henceforward from that day no one dared enter the Morois, for terror guarded that place and the lovers were lords of the wild wood: and then it was that Tristan fashioned his bow “Failnaught” which struck home always, man or beast, wheresoever it aimed.

My lords, upon a summer day, when mowing is, a little after Whitsuntide, as the birds sang dawn, Tristan left his hut and girt his sword, and took his bow “Failnaught” and went off to hunt in the wood; but in the hours before evening, great evil was to fall on him, for no lovers ever loved so much or paid so dear a price for their love.

When Tristan returned, broken by the heat, the Queen said: “Friend, where have you been?”

Said he, “Hunting a hart that wearied me. I would lie down now and sleep.”

So he lay down to sleep, and she too, and between them Tristan laid his naked sword, and on the Queen’s finger was that ring of gold with emeralds set therein, which Mark had given her on her bridal day; but her hand was so wasted that the ring hardly held. And no wind blew, and no leaves stirred, but through a crevice in the branches a bright sunbeam fell upon the face of Iseult and her countenance shone white like ice. Now a woodsman found in the wood a place where the leaves were crushed, where the lovers had halted and slept, and he followed their track and found the bower, and saw them sleeping and fled off, fearing the terrible awakening of that lord. He fled to Tintagel, and running up the stairs of the palace, found the King as he held his pleas in hall amid the vassals assembled.

“Friend,” said the King, “what came you hither to seek in haste and breathless, like a huntsman who has followed the dogs afoot? Have you some wrong to right, or has any man driven you?”

But the woodsman took him aside and said low down: “I have seen the Queen and Tristan, and I feared and fled.”

“Where saw you them?”

“In a bower in the wood of Morois, they slept side by side. Come swiftly and take your vengeance.”

“Go,” said the King, “and await me at the forest edge where the Red Cross stands, and tell no man what you have seen. You shall have gold and silver at your will.”

The woodsman sat beneath the Red Cross and waited. Cursed be the spy! But he was to die ignominiously, as this history shall soon tell.

The King saddled his horse and girt his sword and left the city alone, and as he rode he minded him of the night when he had seen Tristan under the great pine-tree, and Iseult with her clear face, and he thought: “If I find them I shall avenge this awful wrong.”

At the foot of the Red Cross he came upon the woodsman and said: “Go first, and lead me thither, straight and quick.”

The dark shade of the great trees wrapped them round, and as the King followed the spy he felt his sword, and trusted it for the great blows it had struck in days of old; and surely had Tristan wakened, one of the two had stayed there dead. Then the woodsman said: “King, we are near.”

He held the stirrup, and tied the rein to a green apple-tree, and saw in a sunlit glade the bower with its flowers and leaves. Then the King cast aside his cloak with its fine buckle of gold and drew his sword from its sheath and said again in his heart that they or he should die. And he signed to the woodsman to be gone.

He entered alone into that embowered place, sword bare, and watched them as they lay: but he saw that they were apart, fully clothed, and he wondered because between them had been placed the naked blade.

Then he said to himself: “My God, what can this be? I cannot kill them! Through all of this time have they lived as such together in this wood; why, had they done so with mad love, would they have placed this sword between them? Does not all the world know that a naked blade between two bodies is testimony and guardian of chastity? If they loved with mad love, would they lie here clothed so purely? No, I shall not kill; I cannot kill, for murder would be an unpardonable sin; and if I woke this sleeper, and one of us were to die at the other’s hand, then men would speak of the crime long after, and to our dishonor. But I shall do such that, upon awakening, the sleepers shall know that I was here, that I found them and did not want their death and that God has taken pity.”

And yet the sunbeam fell upon the white face of Iseult, and the King took his gloves trimmed with ermine: “It was she,” thought he, “who lately brought these gloves to me from Ireland.” He placed them over the portal of foliage through which the sunbeam streamed. Gently he then removed

the emerald ring he had given the Queen; the day he had given it her, the ring he had to press onto her finger, but now her fingers were so thin that her ring slipped easily away. In its stead the King placed the ring she had once given him. Then he lifted away the sword separating the lovers, the very one—well he knew this—that had left a sliver of steel in the Morholt’s skull, and softly he lay his own in its place.

And then he quit the bower, leapt into his saddle and said to the woodsman, “Fly now and save your hide, if you can!”

Then in her sleep a vision came to Iseult. She seemed to be in a vast wood and two great lions fought for her, and she gave a sudden cry and awoke, and the gloves fell upon her breast; and at the cry Tristan also awoke, and made to seize his sword, and saw by the precious hilt of gold that it was the King’s. And the Queen saw on her finger the King’s ring, and she cried: “O, my lord, the King has found us here!”

And Tristan said: “He has taken my sword; he was alone, but he will return, and will burn us before the people. Let us fly.”

So by great marches with Gorvenal alone they fled towards Wales, to the distant margins of the wood of Morois.

Oh, the torture their love has brought upon them!

Ogrin the Hermit

A hard and bitter path draws them ever onward to their destiny; But always their great love succours and avails them, Always the suffering they feel for one another.

Béroul

A FTER THREE DAYS IT HAPPENED THAT TRISTAN, IN FOLLOWING a wounded deer far out into the wood, was caught by nightfall, and took to thinking thus under the dark wood alone:

“Nay, not by fear did the King spare us… my sword lay before him and I asleep, and thus at his mercy; he could have struck; no assistance needed he. Or had he wished to take us alive, then why, having disarmed me, would he have left me his own sword? Ah, dear father, I begin to know thy heart. Not by fear, but by tenderness and pity did you spare us in forgiveness. But what of that? For who could forgive in this matter without shame? Not by pardon merely, but by understanding did my fair uncle withhold his hand. The faggot and the chantry leap and the leper ambush have shown him that God is on our side. And he remembered the boy who long ago harped at his feet, and the distant land of Lyonesse I forsook for love of him, the Morholt’s spear and blood shed in his honor. He remembered that I made no avowal and that, in futility, I appealed for trial at arms, and the high nobility of his nature has granted him the understanding that eludes his courtiers; never can he know of the enchantment, yet he doubts and hopes and discerns that I did not lie, and now would have me prove my cause. Ah, fair uncle, but to win at arms, by

God’s aid, to take again the hauberk and the helmet and win your peace anew…But what am I thinking? The King would also take Iseult anew… And I, deliver her? Why, it would have been far better had he slain me in my sleep. While formerly hunted, I could hate him and forget; he had cast Iseult to the lepers; she was his no more, but mine; and now by his compassion has he reawakened my heart and reclaimed the Queen. The Queen… ah, she was Queen at his side, but in this wood she is a slave and I squander her youth. For rooms hung with silken tapestries, she has this Celtic wilderness, a hut for splendid halls; for me she treads this dreadful road. Lord God, King of the World, I cry out to Thee—grant me strength to yield the Queen again to King Mark! Is she not still his wife by the laws of Rome, and before the Barony of this land?”

And as he thought thus, he rested upon his bow, and all through the night he considered his sorrow.

Within the hollow of thorns that was their resting-place Iseult the Fair awaited Tristan’s return. The golden ring that King Mark had slipped there on her finger glistened in the soft and pale moonlight, and she thought:

“He who through the courtesy of his heart placed this ring upon my finger, is not the man who, in wrath, threw me to the lepers; rather he is the compassionate lord who, from the day I touched his shore, received and protected me. And oh, how he once loved Tristan! But then along I came, and behold the calamity I have wrought! Should not Tristan dwell this very day in the King’s palace with a hundred equerries forming his retinue and serving him? Should he not ride through the King’s lands and barons’ courses seeking fitting adventure? But through me he relinquishes knighthood; through me he is exiled from court and hunted, through me he leads this savage life…”

Just then she heard the feet of Tristan rustling over the dead leaves and twigs. She came to meet him, as was her wont, to relieve him of his arms, and she took from him his bow, “Failnaught,” and his arrows, and she unbuckled his sword-straps.

“Friend,” said he, “it is the King’s sword. It should have slain, but it spared us.”

Iseult took the sword, and kissed the hilt of gold, and Tristan saw her weeping.

“Friend,” said he, “if I could make my peace with the King, if he would allow me to sustain in arms that neither by act nor word have I loved you with a wrongful love, then any knight from the Marshes of Ely right away to Dureaume that would gainsay me, would find me armed in the ring. If the King would suffer to keep me in his household, I would serve him with

all grace and honor as my lord and father; if he would keep you and drive me out, then I would cross into the Lowlands or into Brittany, with Gorvenal alone. But wherever I went and always, Queen, I should be yours; nor would I have spoken thus, Iseult, but for the wretchedness you have borne so long for my sake in this desert land.”

“Tristan,” said she, “let us return to the hermit Ogrin and cry mercy to the King of Heaven.”

They wakened Gorvenal; Iseult mounted the steed, and Tristan led it by the bridle, and all night long they passed for the last time through the woods of their love, and they did not speak a word. By morning they came to the hermitage, where Ogrin read at the threshold and, seeing them, he called them tenderly: “Friends,” he cried, “see how Love drives you still to further wretchedness. Will you not do penance at last for your madness?”

“Lord Ogrin,” said Tristan, “hear us. Help us to offer peace to the King, and I shall yield him the Queen, and shall myself go far away into Brittany or the Lowlands, and if some day the King shall suffer me, then I shall return and serve as I should.”

And at the hermit’s feet Iseult said in her turn: “Nor shall I live longer so, for though I will not say one word of penance for my love, which is there and remains forever, yet hence shall I be separated from my beloved.”

Then the hermit wept and praised God and cried: “High King, I praise Thy Name, that Thou hast let me live so long as to give aid to these lost ones!”

And he gave them wise counsel, and took ink, and wrote a little writ offering the King what Tristan said. When he had written all, the latter sealed it with his ring.

“Who will bear this warrant?” asked the hermit. “I shall bear it myself.” “But no, Sir Tristan, you must not attempt this dangerous ride! I will go

in your stead. I know the people of the castle well.” “Give it me, fair master, Ogrin. The Queen will remain in your

hermitage and, come nightfall, I shall ride forth with my equerry.” When night settled upon the land, Tristan set out upon his journey with

Gorvenal. At the gates of Tintagel, he quit him. From the high walls the sentinels sounded their horns. He slipped into the moat and then made his way through the town, in peril of his life. As in former times he leapt the palisades and saw again the marble fountain and the tall pine-tree, and came at last beneath the window of the room where slept the King. Gently did he call, and Mark awoke; he came to the sill and into the darkness

whispered: “Who are you that awakens me at such an hour?” “Lord, I am Tristan. I bring you a writ and lay it here by this window

grate. Please, Sire, if you will hang your reply on the arm of the Red Cross.”

Then the King cried out: “Nephew! Nephew! For God’s sake, tarry a while.”

Now he cried into the night: “Tristan! Tristan! Oh, Tristan, my son! My son, Tristan!”

But Tristan fled into the night. Joining his equerry, he leapt into the saddle, and Gorvenal cried:

“Tristan, this is madness! Let us fly from this place!” After a long ride they reached the hermitage. They found Ogrin at

prayer, and Iseult silently weeping.

At the Ford of Providence

When Tristan learned that resolution would not be his, that King Mark wanted him to pass from his Kingdom, he took his leave of the Queen, and departed; many hearts mourned his going forth.

Béroul

M ARK AWAKENED HIS CHAPLAIN AND GAVE HIM THE WRIT TO read; the chaplain broke the seal, saluted in Tristan’s name, and then, when he made out the written words, he told the King what Tristan offered; and Mark heard without speaking, but his heart was glad, for still King Mark loved the Queen.

He summoned by name the choicest of his baronage, and when they assembled and were silent, the King spoke: “My lords, here is a writ, just sent me. I am your King, and you my lieges. Hear what is offered me, and then counsel me, for you owe me counsel.”

The chaplain rose, unfolded the writ, and said, upstanding: “My lords, it is Tristan that first sends love and homage to the King and all his Barony, and he adds, ‘O King, when I slew the dragon and conquered the King of Ireland’s daughter, it was to me they gave her. I was to ward her at will and I yielded her to you. Yet hardly had you wed her when felons made you accept their lies, and in your anger, fair uncle, my lord, you would have had us burnt without trial. But God took compassion upon us; we prayed Him and He saved the Queen, as justice was: and me also—though I leapt from a high rock, I was saved by the power of God. Since then what have I done blameworthy? The Queen was thrown to the lepers; I came to

her succour and bore her away. Could I have done less for a woman, who all but died innocent through me? I fled through the woods. Nor could I have come down into the vale and yielded her, for there was a ban to take us dead or alive. But now, as then, I am ready, my lord, to sustain in arms against all comers—that never had the Queen for me, nor I for her, a love dishonorable to you. Publish the lists, and if I cannot prove my right in arms, burn me before your men. But if I conquer and you take back Iseult, no baron of yours will serve you as will I; but if you will not have me, I will offer myself to the King of Galloway, or to him of the Lowlands, and you will hear of me no more. Take counsel, King, for if you will make no terms, I will take back Iseult to Ireland, and she shall be Queen in her own land.’ ”

When the barons of Cornwall heard how Tristan offered battle, they said to the King: “Sire, take back the Queen. They were madmen that belied her to you. As for Tristan, let him go and war it in Galloway, or in the Lowlands. Bid him bring back Iseult on such a day, and that soon.”

Then the King called thrice clearly: “Will any man rise in accusation against Tristan?”

And as none replied, he said to his chaplain: “Write me a writ in haste. You have heard what you shall write. Iseult has suffered enough in her youth. And let the writ be hung upon the arm of the Red Cross before evening. Write speedily.”

And he added: “You shall also say that I send them salutations—and love.”

Toward midnight, Tristan crossed the White Lands and found the writ, and bore it sealed to Ogrin, and the hermit read the letter: how Mark consented, by the counsel of all his barons to accept again Iseult, but not to keep Tristan as his liege. Rather, three days hence, after he had restored the Queen to Mark at the Ford of Providence, Tristan should cross the sea, and vanish from his kingdom.

Then Tristan said to the Queen: “O, my God! I must lose you, dear friend! But it must be, since I can thus spare you what you suffer for my sake. But when we part forever I will give you a pledge of mine to keep, and from whatever unknown land I reach, I will send some messenger, and he will bring back word of you, and at your call shall I come forth from far away.”

Iseult said, sighing: “Tristan, leave me your greyhound, Hodain, and every time I see him I will remember you, and will be less sad. And, friend, I have here a ring of green jasper. Take this for the love of me, and

wear it on your finger; then if anyone comes saying he is from you, I will not trust him lest he show me this ring, but once I have seen it, no power or royal ban will prevent me from doing your bidding—be it wisdom or folly.”

“Friend,” said he, “here I give you Hodain.” “Friend,” she replied, “take you this ring.” And they kissed each other on the lips. Now Ogrin, having left the lovers in the hermitage, hobbled upon his

crutch to the place called St Michael’s Mount, and he bought ermine there and fur and cloth of silk and purple and scarlet, linen whiter than lilies, and a gentle palfrey harnessed in gold that stepped softly, and the folk laughed to see the hermit spending upon these, the small moneys he had amassed over so very long; but the old man put the rich stuffs upon the palfrey and returned to Iseult.

And he said: “Queen, your raiment falls to tatters; accept these gifts, so that you are most beautiful on the day you appear at the Ford of Providence. I fear though that I may displease you; I am not well versed in the selection of fineries.”

Meanwhile the King had cried through Cornwall the news that on the third day he would make his peace with the Queen at the Ford, and knights and ladies came in a crowd to the gathering, for all loved the Queen and would see her, save the three felons who yet survived. But of these three, one will die by the sword; another by an arrow pierced; the other drowned; and Perinis, the loyal, the fair, will slay the woodsman in the forest with blows from his club. Thus God, who hates all excess, will avenge the lovers upon their enemies.

On the day chosen for the meeting, the field shone far with the rich tents of barons. Through the forest Tristan rode with Iseult. In fear of ambush he wore his hauberk beneath his rags. Suddenly Tristan and Iseult emerged at the forest’s edge, and caught sight of King Mark far off among his Barony: “Friend,” said Tristan, “there is the King, your lord—his knights and his men; they are coming towards us, and very soon we may not speak to each other again. By the God of Power I conjure you, if ever I send you a word, do you my bidding.”

“Friend,” said Iseult, “on the day that I see the ring, nor tower, nor wall, nor stronghold will keep me from doing the will of my friend.”

“Why then,” he said, “Iseult, may God reward you.” Their horses went abreast and he drew her towards him with his arm. “Friend,” said Iseult, “attend to what I say and hear my last prayer: you

will leave this land, but wait some days; hide till you know how the King

may treat me, whether in wrath or kindness, for I am afraid. Friend, Orri the woodsman will entertain you hidden. Go you by night to the abandoned cellar beneath his hut and I will send Perinis there to say if anyone misuse me.”

“Friend, none would dare. I will stay hidden with Orri, and if any misuse you let him fear me as the Enemy himself.”

Now the two troops were near and they saluted each other, and the King rode a bow-shot before his men and with him Dinas of Lidan; and when the barons had come up, Tristan, holding Iseult’s palfrey by the bridle, bowed to the King and said: “O King, I restore to you the noble Iseult the Fair. No man ever made a finer restitution, and I summon you, before the men of your land, that I may defend myself in your court, for I have had no judgment. Let me have trial at arms, and if I am conquered, burn me, but if I conquer, keep me by you, or, if you will not, I will be off to some far country.”

But no one took up Tristan’s wager, and the King, taking Iseult’s palfrey by the bridle, gave it to Dinas, and went apart to take counsel.

Dinas, in his joy, gave all honor and courtesy to the Queen. He lifted from her shoulders the sumptuous cloak of scarlet, and her graceful shape appeared in the costly tunic and kirtle of silk. And the Queen smiled, recalling the old hermit, who spared not his coins on her behalf. Exquisite her gown, delicate her limbs, her eyes azure, her golden hair radiant as the sun’s rays.

But when the felons saw her so fair and honored as of old, they were stirred and rode to the King, and said: “King, hear our counsel. That the Queen was slandered we admit, but if she and Tristan re-enter your court together, rumour will revive again. Rather let Tristan go abroad awhile. Doubtless some day you may recall him.”

And so Mark did, and he ordered Tristan by his barons to go off without delay.

Then Tristan came near the Queen for his farewell, and as they looked at one another the Queen in shame of that assembly blushed, but the King pitied her, and spoke to his nephew thus for the first time: “You cannot leave in these rags; take then from my treasury gold and silver and white fur and grey, as much as you will.”

“King,” said Tristan, “neither a penny nor a link of mail. I shall go as I came, and serve with high heart the mighty King in the Lowlands.”

And he turned rein and rode down towards the sea, and Iseult followed him with her eyes for so long as he could be seen, a long way off, and she did not turn away.

Now at the news of the peace, men, women, and children, great and small, ran from Tintagel in a crowd to greet and welcome their Queen, and while they mourned Tristan’s exile they rejoiced at Iseult’s return.

And to the ringing of bells, and over pavings strewn with leaves and flowers, the King and his counts and princes made her escort, and the gates of the palace were thrown open to rich and poor alike, that they might enter and eat and drink at will.

And Mark freed a hundred of his slaves, and armed a score of squires that day with hauberk and with sword.

But Tristan that night hid with Orri, as the Queen had counselled him.

The Ordeal by Iron

God is the true judge of virtue.

Béroul

D ENOALEN, ANDRET, AND GONDOÏNE HELD THEMSELVES SAFE; Tristan was far over sea, far away in service of a distant king, and they beyond his power. Therefore, during a hunt one day, as the King rode apart in a glade where the pack would pass, and hearkening to the hounds, they all three rode towards him, and said: “O King, we have somewhat to say. Once you condemned the Queen without judgment, and that was wrong; now you acquit her without judgment, and that too is wrong. She is not quit by trial, and the barons of your land blame you both. Counsel her, then, to claim the ordeal in God’s judgment, for since she is innocent, she may swear on the relics of the saints that she has never erred, and hot iron will not harm her. For so custom runs, and in this easy way are doubts dissolved. God is the true judge of virtue; for He will ever scatter the old grievances.”

But Mark answered: “God strike you, my Cornish lords, how you relentlessly seek my shame! For you have I exiled my nephew, and what would you now? Would you have me drive the Queen to Ireland too? What novel plaints have you to plead this time? Did not Tristan offer you battle in this matter? He offered battle to clear the Queen forever: he offered and you heard him all. Where then were your lances and your shields? My lords, your demands are wicked; beware, lest I call back the man I exiled for your sake.”

The cowards trembled; already they saw Tristan returned, and their whitening bodies trickling forth blood upon the earth.

whitening bodies trickling forth blood upon the earth. “Sire,” said they, “we have counselled you loyal counsel as lieges and to

your honor; henceforward we hold our peace. Put aside your anger and give us your safe-guard.”

But Mark stood up in the stirrup and cried: “Out of my land, and out of my peace, all of you! Tristan I exiled for you, and now go you in turn, out of my land!”

But they answered: “Sire, it is well. Our keeps are strong and fenced, and stand upon high rocks not easy for men to climb.”

And they rode off without salutation. But the King (not tarrying for huntsman or for hound but straight away)

spurred his horse to Tintagel; and as he sprang up the stairs the Queen heard the jangle of his spurs upon the stones.

She rose to meet him and took his sword as she was wont, and bowed before him, as was also her wont; but Mark raised her, holding her hands; and when Iseult looked up she saw his noble face in just that wrath she had seen before the faggot fire.

She thought that Tristan was found, and her heart grew cold, and without a word she fell at the King’s feet.

He took her in his arms and kissed her gently till she could speak again, and then he said: “Friend, friend, what evil tries you?”

“Sire, I am afraid, for I have seen your anger.” “Yes, I was angered at the hunt.” “My lord, should one take so deeply the mischances of the chase?” Mark smiled and said: “No, friend; no chance of hunting vexed me, but

those three felons. You know them: Andret, Denoalen and Gondoïne. I have driven them forth from my Kingdom.”

“Sire, what did they say, or dare to say of me?” “What matter? I have driven them forth.” “Sire, all living have this right: to say the word they have conceived.

But I also have the right to know the nature of the blame cast upon me. And from whom can I hear it, if not you? I am alone in a foreign land, and have no one else to defend me.”

“They would have it that you should quit yourself by solemn oath and by the ordeal of iron, saying ‘that God was a true judge, and that as the Queen was innocent, she herself should seek such judgment as would clear her forever. These ordeals are without terror for one who knows oneself innocent. God is the true judge of virtue; for He will ever scatter the old grievances.’ This was their incessant clamour and demand. But let us leave it. I tell you, I have driven them forth.”

Iseult trembled, but looking straight at the King, she said: “Sire, call them back; I shall clear myself by oath.”

“When?” “On the tenth day.” “Friend, that date is very near.” “It is all too far. But I bargain this: that on the appointed day you call

King Arthur and Lord Gawain, Girflet, Kay the Seneschal, and a hundred of his knights to ride to the White Lands where your land marches with his, and a river flows between; for I will not swear before your barons alone, lest they should demand some new thing, and lest there should be no end to my trials. But if my warrantors, King Arthur and his knights, be there, the barons will not dare dispute the judgment.”

But as the heralds rode to Carduel, Iseult secretly sent to Tristan her squire Perinis: and he ran through the underwood, avoiding paths, till he found the hut of Orri, the woodsman, where Tristan for many days had awaited news. Perinis told him all: the ordeal, the place, the time, and added: “My lord, the Queen requests of you that, on the appointed day, you come to the White Lands dressed as a pilgrim, so cleverly disguised that none may know you, and unarmed, so that none may challenge. She must cross the river, to the place of trial, by skiff. On the farther bank, where wait the knights of King Arthur, you too will wait. There, doubtless, you will be able to help her. My lady dreads the day of judgment, but trusts in the courtesy of God, who already delivered her from the hands of the lepers.”

Then Tristan answered: “Go back, friend Perinis, return you to the Queen, and say that I shall do her bidding.”

And you must know, my lords, that as Perinis returned to Tintagel he caught sight of the same woodsman who, having stumbled upon the sleeping lovers, betrayed them to the King; while drunk, he had boasted of his treachery. Now this woodsman had just dug a deep pitfall for wolves and wild boars, and concealed it with leafy branches. When Perinis came near, the woodsman fled, but Perinis drove him and caught him at the pit’s gaping maw.

“Spy, who sold the Queen, why run? Stay by your grave, which you have taken the trouble to dig.”

His staff whirled and sung in the air. Staff and skull broke at one time, and Perinis the Blond, the Faithful, kicked the corpse into the pitfall covered with branches.

On the appointed day King Mark and Iseult, and the barons of Cornwall,

having ridden as far as the White Lands, arrived in fine array at the river’s edge. Amassed on the other shore, the entire host of King Arthur and his knights bowed to them their brilliant standards.

And just before them, sitting on the shore, was a poor pilgrim, wrapped in cloak and hood, who held his wooden platter and begged alms, in tones pathetic and mournful.

Now as the Cornish boats came to the shoal of the further bank, Iseult said to the knights: “My lords, how shall I land without befouling my garments in the river-mud? Fetch me a ferryman.”

And one of the knights hailed the pilgrim, and said: “Friend, truss your coat, and try the water; carry you the Queen to shore, unless you fear the burden.”

But as he took the Queen in his arms she whispered to him: “Friend.” And then she whispered to him, lower still, “Stumble you upon the

sand.” And as he touched shore, he stumbled, holding the Queen in his arms;

and the squires and boatmen with their oars and boat-hooks drove the poor pilgrim away.

But the Queen said: “Let him be; some great travail and journey has weakened him.”

And she threw to the pilgrim a little clasp of gold. Before the tent of King Arthur was spread a rich Nicean cloth upon the

grass, and the holy relics were set upon it, taken from their shrines and tabernacles.

And round the holy relics on the sward stood a guard more than a king’s guard, for Lord Gawain, Girflet, and Kay the Seneschal kept ward over them.

The Queen having prayed God, took the jewels from her neck and hands, and gave them to the beggars around; she took off her purple mantle, and her overdress, and her shoes with their precious stones, and gave them also to the poor who loved her.

She kept upon her only the sleeveless tunic, and then with arms and feet quite bare she came between the two Kings, and all around the barons watched her in silence, and some wept, for near the holy relics was a brazier burning.

And trembling a little she stretched her right hand towards the bones and said: “Kings of Logres and of Cornwall; my lords Gawain, and Kay, and Girflet, and all of you who are my warrantors, by these holy relics and all the holy articles of earth, I swear that no man has held me in his arms saving King Mark, my lord, and that poor pilgrim. King Mark, will that

oath stand?” “Yes, Queen,” said he, “and God see to it.” “Amen,” said Iseult, and then she approached near the brazier, pale and

stumbling, and all were silent. The iron was glowing red, but she thrust her bare arms among the coals and seized it, and bearing it walked nine steps.

Then, as she cast the hot iron from her, she stretched her arms out in a cross, with the palms of her hands wide open, and all men beheld them fresh and clean and cold. Seeing that great marvel the Kings and the barons and the people stood for a moment silent, then they stirred together and then they praised God loudly all around.

Part the Third

Their hands outstretched in yearning for the father shore.

Virgil

The Song of the Nightingale

In the orchard sings the nightingale, Tristan’s lament; Summer’s close, winter in the offing, Rapture calls through Sorrow’s complaint.

The Land of Lovers

W HEN TRISTAN RETURNED TO THE CABIN OF THE WOODSMAN Orri, he laid aside the heavy pilgrim’s cloak and knew in his heart that the time had come to keep his oath to King Mark, to depart from the Kingdom of Cornwall. Why tarry longer? The Queen had been justified; the King loved and honored her. Arthur, if needs be, would take her under his protection; and no felony could prevail against her. Thus why abide in Tintagel, roaming its outer precincts? In vain did Tristan risk his life and the life of the woodsman; in vain too did he risk Iseult’s tranquility. Yes, the time had come now and he must be off; for one last occasion, in his pilgrim’s cloak at the White Lands, had he held Iseult in his arms and felt her fair and beautiful body in his embrace.

For three more days did he abide, unable to cast off the country where dwelt his beloved, but on the fourth day he look leave of the woodsman, thanked him and said to Gorvenal: “Good master, at last the hour of long separation has come; now we must go hence to the land of Wales.”

Thus they sadly began their trek into the night. But their way skirted the orchard enclosure of Castle Tintagel where, in past times, Tristan rendezvoused with his friend. The night shone clear and, at the bend in the road, he paused as he beheld the robust trunk of the tall pine, its stout

road, he paused as he beheld the robust trunk of the tall pine, its stout boughs all veiled in a heavenly glow of moonlight.

“Good master, tarry a bit in the woods, and soon I will return.” “Where are you going?” But Tristan did not linger or even turn, and

Gorvenal spoke again, “Madman! Will you never take respite from chasing death?”

But already with a single leap had Tristan cleared the palisades and, in a moment, he stood ’neath the boughs of the tall pine by the marble fount. But what use now, scattering woodchips upon these gentle waters? Iseult would come not.

With lithe and prudent steps he ventured towards the castle along the path formerly followed by the Queen.

Within the castle Iseult lay sleepless in the arms of the sleeping King. Suddenly, through the open window, where the moonbeams played

upon the sill, floated the voice of a nightingale. Startled, Iseult listened to the saddest of songs charming the night with its resonant lament; never existed a heart so cruel, no, not even the heart of a murderer, that would not have been moved by those tones so sweet and plaintive. In wonderment, thought the Queen, “Whence comes this lovely melody?”

In that same instant, she knew: “Tristan! Ah, it is Tristan! Thus in the wood of Morois did he mimic songbirds for my delight. My friend is taking leave of this country, and this—his final adieu! Oh, how he laments, like the nightingale at summer’s end! Friend, never again shall I hear thy sweet voice!”

Through the darkness the melody persisted with ardent desire. “But what are you asking? That I come to you? No, friend, remember

the hermit Ogrin; remember the oaths I swore! Thus be still now; death can wait.” But the plaintive call continued, and the Queen thought, “What is death? Ah, what does death matter to me? You call, friend, and I come!”

Softly slipping the King’s embrace, she donned a cloak of grey fur about her naked body. She had to traverse the hall where, each night, ten knights kept watch by turn; while five slept, five stood fully armed at the doors and windows. But by chance, on this night all slumbered: five on beds, five on flagstones. Iseult stepped lightly over their scattered forms and raised the bar of the great door: the iron screeched, but without rousing the watch.

When she stepped across the threshold, the songster fell silent. Beneath the trees, without a word, Tristan pressed Iseult to his breast;

their arms enclosed each other and their bodies became locked in a single

tight embrace. That night, despite the King and his sentinels, the lovers once again

tasted fully of bliss.

This night maddened the lovers; on the following days, Mark having quit Tintagel Castle to preside at Saint-Lubin, Tristan—who had returned to Orri’s cabin—dared to slip each morning in the bright sunlight through the orchard to the women’s quarters.

A serf caught sight of him and sought out Andret, Denoalen, and Gondoïne: “My lords,” said he, “the beast you thought driven forth afield has slipped yet again into his lair.”

“Who?” “Tristan.” “When did you see him?” “This very morning, and I knew him well. And tomorrow at dawn you

can likewise see him coming, girt with sword, a bow in one hand, two arrows in the other.”

“Where can we see him?” “From such a window as I know. But if I show you, then how much for

me?” “A silver mark, and you will be a rich churl.” “Listen then,” said he, “One can peer into the Queen’s chamber from a

certain narrow window that commands the room, for it is cut in the wall very high. But a great curtain stretches across the room, concealing the opening. Tomorrow, let one of you three enter the orchard, cut a long branch and sharpen it at the end; let him hoist himself to the high window and, with the branch, pierce the curtain fabric like a pin; thus he can lightly divide it. Lords, you can burn me if behind that curtain you do not see what I have told you.”

Now Andret, Denoalen, and Gondoïne bickered amongst themselves regarding who, of the three, should have the pleasure of beholding the sight, and finally agreed to award it to Gondoïne. They parted: tomorrow at dawn, they would meet.

Tomorrow at dawn, fair lords, beware of Tristan!

On the morrow, while night still lay across the land, Tristan departed the hut of Orri the woodsman and crept through thickets and thorns toward the castle. As he emerged from a copse into a clearing, he saw Gondoïne departing his manor. Tristan hid himself behind thorns and lurked in ambush: “Oh, God, grant me this favor: that he who approaches will not

see me till the right instant.” Sword in hand, he waited; but by chance Gondoïne chose another path,

and moved on. Disappointed, Tristan emerged from the thicket, drew his bow and took aim.

Alas, already the man had passed from range. But at this same moment, he beheld, coming from afar, gently down the

path at the pace of his small black palfrey, Denoalen, followed by two tall greyhounds. Tristan watched, concealed by an apple-tree. He saw the man excite his hounds to raise a boar from a thicket. But before the hounds shall have driven the boar from his lair, their master will have received a wound of the sort that no physician can heal. When Denoalen was near, Tristan cast off his cape, sprang forth and stood face-to-face with his enemy. The traitor sought to flee, but in vain; he had not the time to even cry out, ere he fell from his horse. Tristan beheaded him and sliced off the braids that dangled about his face; these he placed in his hose, wishing to show them to Iseult and thus gladden his friend’s heart.

“Alas,” thought he, “what has become of Gondoïne? He has escaped; if only I could grant him the same reward as Denoalen.”

He wiped blood from his sword and returned the blade to its scabbard; after he dragged and concealed the bloody corpse beneath a tree trunk, he hastened toward his friend, his hood covering his head.

Already at Tintagel Castle, Gondoïne had climbed the high window and pierced the sharpened end of a long branch into the curtain hangings. Now slightly dividing the twin bolts of heavy fabric, he peered into the Queen’s chamber. First he saw only Perinis; then Brangien, holding the comb with which she had been tending to the Queen’s golden hair.

But soon Iseult entered, then Tristan. In one hand he carried his bow of alburnum and two arrows; in the other, the two long tresses of a man’s hair. He let his cape drop, and as he did, the fine figure of his body appeared. Iseult bowed in greeting, and as she rose again to face her lover, she saw, cast upon the hangings, the shadow of Gondoïne’s head.

Tristan said: “Behold these fine braids. They belonged to Denoalen. I have taken vengeance upon him. Never more shall he buy or sell shield or lance.”

“Well done, sir, but I pray you, my lord, draw this bow. I desire to see the facility of its arc.”

Astonished, Tristan drew, half gathering her import. Taking one of the arrows, Iseult fitted its notch to the string and, finding

it secure and ready, she spoke in a rapid whisper: “I see something that

displeases me; aim well, Tristan.” Upon raising his eyes, he saw the shadow of Gondoïne’s head cast upon

the curtain. Of a sudden he drew his arrow, praying, “God, guide this arrow in its flight.” Thus uttering his prayer, he let fly the shaft; the arrow whistled through the air swifter than the swallow’s flight, and swifter than the hawk’s, piercing the eye of the traitor, slicing through his brain like the flesh of an apple, its point lodging in the back of his skull, the feathered end quivering in the air during that instant ere he fell.

Without a cry, Gondoïne dropped from his high perch and was impaled on a stake below.

Iseult said, “Fly now, friend! You see, the felons have discovered your refuge, and Andret yet lives; he will inform the King. You are no longer safe in the woodsman’s hut. Perinis the Faithful will stash the body deep in the forest, and the King will never know of this. But you must fly the land, Tristan—fly! For your sake and mine!”

Tristan said: “How can I live?” “Yes, friend. Our lives are intertwined and woven, one with the other.

And I, how can I live? Here remains my body, but with you, Tristan, dwells my heart.”

“Iseult, my friend, I go; I know not to what land. But if ever again you see the ring of green jasper, will you do what I bid you through it?”

“Yes, know this: if ever again I see the ring of green jasper, then neither tower, nor castle walls, nor royal prohibition shall keep me from doing the bidding of my friend: be that bidding of wisdom or folly.”

“Friend, may the God born in Bethlehem keep thee!” “Friend, may God watch over thee!”

The Little Faëry Bell

So sweet was the tinkling of the bell that none could hear it without pain waning, And all cares vanishing away.

Gottfried von Strassburg

T RISTAN SOUGHT REFUGE IN WALES, IN THE LAND OF THE GREAT Duke Gilian, who was young, powerful and frank in spirit, and he welcomed Tristan nobly as a God-sent guest.

Indeed, he did everything to do him honor and give him joy; but he found that neither adventure, nor feast could soothe the anguish that Tristan suffered.

One day, as he sat with the young Duke, so heavily did his spirit weigh upon him that he moaned without knowing that he did so. To soothe this bleakness in Tristan’s soul, Duke Gilian ordered that his favorite toy, a faëry thing, be brought from his private chambers. On a table covered with a cloth of rich and noble purple, his attendants placed his little dog, Pticru. This was a dog of enchantment, born on the isle of Avalon. A faëry had sent her as a love-gift, and no words can quite describe her beauty or her nature. So marvelously arrayed were the nuances of Pticru’s fur that none could say that the little dog was this colour or that: at once the fur about her neck seemed whiter than snow; her back as green as clover; one flank the scarlet of cinnabar; the other yellow as saffron; her belly the blue of lapis-lazuli; and her back, the hue of roses. Yet if one looked a while longer, these colours began to dance in the eye and transform themselves, white blending into green, or each in turn shifting golden, sapphire,

amethyst, perhaps darkening, perhaps brightening. About her neck, a little bell dangled from a chain of gold. The bell tinkled so gaily, so softly and clearly that, when Tristan heard its soothing ring, he became comforted; his anguish melted away and he forgot all he suffered for the Queen; for such was the virtue of the bell, and such its properties, that whosoever heard its sweet resonance, yielded all pain and suffering. And as Tristan stroked this little faëry thing, this dog that expelled all sorrows, he saw how delicate she was, how fine, and how her fur was soft as samite, and he thought how good a gift she would make for the Queen. But he dared not ask for the little dog outright, for he knew the Duke loved Pticru beyond all else in this world, and would yield her not—neither to prayers, nor wealth, nor wile. So one day Tristan having conceived a plan said this to him: “Lord, what would you give to the man who could rid your land of the hairy giant Urgan, that levies such a toll?”

“Truly, the victor might choose what he would, but none will dare.” Said Tristan: “Those are strange words, for good comes to no land save

by risk and daring, and not for all the gold in Milan would I renounce my desire to find him in his wood and bring him down.”

“Then,” said Duke Gilian, “may the God born of the Virgin be with you and preserve you from death.”

Tristan set out and found Urgan in his den. A long time they fought furiously, until at last valor triumphed over brawn, and then with his agile sword, Tristan, sliced off the right hand of the giant and brought it back to the Duke.

And “Sire,” said he, “since I may choose a reward, according to your word, give me Pticru, your little faëry dog.”

“Friend, what have you asked! Take rather my sister and half my land, but leave me Pticru!”

“Sire, your sister is beautiful, your land beautiful too, but it was to earn your little faëry dog that I attacked Urgan the Hairy. Remember your promise!”

Then Tristan took the little faëry dog and gave her in ward to a Welsh harper, who was cunning and bore her to Cornwall till he came to Tintagel, and having come there put her secretly into Brangien’s hands, and the Queen was so pleased that she gave ten marks of gold to the harper, but she put it about that the Queen of Ireland, her mother, had sent the little dog. And she had a goldsmith work a little kennel for Pticru, all bejeweled, and incrusted with gold and enamel inlay; and wherever she went she carried the dog with her in memory of her friend, and as she watched Pticru all sadness and anguish and regrets melted from her heart.

At first she did not guess the marvel, but thought her consolation was because the gift was Tristan’s, till one day she found that it was faëry, and that it was the little bell that charmed her soul; then she thought: “What have I to do with comfort since Tristan is sorrowing? He could have kept it too and have forgotten his sorrow; but with high courtesy he sent Pticru to me to give me his joy and to take up his own pain again. Friend, whilst you suffer, I suffer too.”

And she took the magic bell and shook it just a little, for one last time, and then by the open window she cast it into the sea.

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Iseult of the White Hands

Many are those who would be well advised: Beware the wrath of a woman. He who takes love lightly, Shall, from his lightness, reap hatred.

Thomas of Britain

T HE LOVERS COULD NEITHER LIVE NOR DIE WITHOUT EACH OTHER; apart, they found neither life nor death, but life and death together.

Tristan fled his sorrow through seas and islands and across many lands. He fled till at last he came back to his land of Lyonesse, where Rohalt, keeper of the faith, welcomed him with happy tears and called him son. But he could not live in the peace of his own land, and he turned again and rode through kingdoms and through baronies, seeking adventure. From Lyonesse to the Lowlands, from the Lowlands on to the Germanies; through Germania and into Iberia. And many lords he served, and many deeds he achieved, but for two years no news came to him out of Cornwall, nor friend, nor messenger. Thus he thought Iseult had forgotten.

Now it happened one day that, riding with Gorvenal alone, he came into the land of Brittany. They rode through a wasted plain of ruined walls and empty hamlets and burnt fields all about, the earth deserted of men; and Tristan thought: “I am weary, and my deeds profit me nothing; my lady is far away and I shall never see her again. Or why for two years has she made no sign, or why has she sent no messenger to find me as I wander? But in Tintagel Mark honors her and she gives him joy, and that little faëry bell has done a thorough work; for little she remembers or cares for the

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bell has done a thorough work; for little she remembers or cares for the joys and the mourning of old, little cares she for me, as I wander in this desert place. In my turn, shall I never forget her who forgets me? Shall I never find one to dispel my misery and my torment?”

During two days Tristan and Gorvenal passed through fields and towns without seeing man, cock, or dog. On the third day, at the hour of noon, they approached a hill where stood an old chantry, with a hermitage nearby. The hermit wore no woven fabric, but goatskin and a few woolen rags. Prostrate upon the ground, he prayed Mary Magdalene to inspire him with salutary prayers. He bade the newcomers welcome and, whilst Gorvenal tended the horses, he helped Tristan disarm, and then he laid out the food. He served no delicacies, just barley bread baked upon ashes, and water from a font. After the meal, as night fell, they sat by the fireside, and Tristan asked what desolate land this was.

“Fair lord,” said the hermit, “this is the land of Breton, held by Duke Hoël; once it was a beautiful country, rich in meadows and arable land: mills here, apple orchards there, and small farms all about. But Count Riol of Nantes has laid waste of it. His plunderers have set fires near and far, and everywhere sacked the land of its possessions. His men shall be rich for a long time, but such is the nature of war.”

“Brother,” said Tristan, “why does Count Riol so dishonor your lord, Duke Hoël?”

“My lord, I will tell you the origin of this war. Know that this Count Riol was the vassal of Duke Hoël’s. The Duke has a daughter, beautiful among all the daughters of kings, and Count Riol wanted to take her as his wife. But her father refused to give her to a vassal, and so Count Riol tried to remove her by force. Already many men have died in this quarrel.”

And Tristan asked: “Can Duke Hoël continue to wage this war?” “With great difficulty, my lord. However, his last keep, Castle Carhaix,

continues to resist; the walls are strong, and strong is the heart of Duke Hoël’s son, Kaherdin, a good knight, and a very bold one. But the enemy presses all around and starves them. How will they endure much longer!”

Then Tristan asked: “How far is Castle Carhaix?” “Sire, but two miles hence.” Then Tristan and Gorvenal lay down, for night had fallen. In the morning, after they had slept and the hermit had chanted, and

shared with them his black bread, Tristan took leave of the worthy hermit and rode hard to Castle Carhaix. And as he halted beneath the fast high walls, he saw a little company of men behind the battlements, and he asked if the Duke were there with his son Kaherdin. Now Hoël was among them;

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and when he cried “Yes,” Tristan called up to him and said: “I am that Tristan, King of Lyonesse, and Mark of Cornwall is my uncle. I have heard that your vassals do you a wrong, and I have come to offer you my arms.”

“Alas, Lord Tristan, go you your way alone and God reward you, for here within we have no more food; no wheat, or meat, or any stores but only lentils and a little oats remaining.”

But Tristan said: “For two years I dwelt in a forest, eating nothing save roots and herbs; yet I found it a good life, so open you the door.”

They welcomed him with honor, and Kaherdin showed him the wall and the dungeon keep with all their devices, and from the battlements he showed the plain where far away gleamed the tents of Duke Riol. And when they were down in the castle again he said to Tristan: “Friend, let us go to the hall where my mother and sister sit.”

So, holding each other’s hand, they came into the women’s room, where the mother and the daughter sat together weaving gold upon English cloth and singing a weaving song. They sang of Doette the Fair who sits alone beneath the hawthorn, and round her all about blows the wind. She waits for Doon, her friend, but he tarries long and does not come. This was the song they sang. And Tristan bowed to them, and they to him. Then Kaherdin, showing his mother’s embroidery, said: “See, friend Tristan, what a work-woman is here, and how marvelously she adorns stoles and chasubles for the poor minsters, and how my sister’s hands run thread of gold upon this cloth. Of right, good sister, are you called, ‘Iseult of the White Hands.’ ”

Tristan, hearing her name, smiled and looked at her more gently. Now, the Count Riol had pitched his camp three miles from Castle

Carhaix and, for many days, the men of Duke Hoël dared not cross the blockade to attack him. But on the morrow, Tristan, Kaherdin, and twelve young knights left the castle and rode to a pinewood near the enemy’s tents. And they sprang from ambush and captured a wagon of Count Riol’s food; and from that day, by escapade and ruse they would carry tents and convoys and kill off men, nor ever did they return without booty; so that Tristan and Kaherdin began to be brothers in arms, and kept faith and held tenderness, as history tells. And as they came back from these rides, talking chivalry together, often did Kaherdin praise to his comrade his sister, Iseult of the White Hands, for her simplicity and beauty.

One day, as the dawn broke, a sentinel ran from the tower through the halls crying: “Lords, you have slept too long; rise, for an assault is on.”

And knights and burgesses armed, and ran to the walls, and saw helmets

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shining on the plain, and pennons streaming crimson, like flames, and all the host of Riol in its array. Then the Duke and Kaherdin deployed their horsemen before the gates, and from a bow-length off they stooped, and spurred and charged, and they put their lances down together and the arrows fell upon them like April rain.

Now Tristan armed himself among the last of those the sentinel had roused, and he donned his tunic and his hauberk, laced his shoes of steel, and fastened on his spurs of gold, and placed his helm over the gorget, and he mounted and spurred, with shield on breast, crying: “Carhaix!”

The time had come: already the men of Duke Hoël were falling back towards the palisades. Then it was a sight to see: the mêlée of slaughtered horses and fallen vassals, the blows delivered by the young knights and the grass underfoot all bloodied. Ahead of all, Kaherdin proudly paused, preparing to meet the charge of a bold baron, the brother of the Count Riol. Both clashed with lowered lances. The lance borne by the man of Nantes broke without unseating Kaherdin, who with surer blow split his adversary’s shield and plunged his burnished steel into his side, up to the pennant. Raised from his saddle by the blow, the knight fell to the ground, unhorsed. At the cry of his brother, Count Riol came charging, rein free, but Tristan barred his passage. When they clashed, Tristan’s lance snapped in his hand; but Riol’s spear glanced from the breastplate of Tristan’s horse, so that his charger fell dead beneath him.

But Tristan, standing, drew his burnished sword, and shouted: “Coward! Here is death ready for the dastard that strikes the horse before the rider!”

But Riol answered: “I think you have lied, my lord!” And he charged. And as he passed, Tristan let fall his sword so heavily upon his helm

that he carried away the crest and the nasal, but the sword slipped on the mailed shoulder, and glanced on the horse, and killed it, so that of force Duke Riol must slip the stirrup and leap and feel the ground. Then Riol too was on his feet, and they both fought hard in their broken mail, their escutcheons torn and their helmets loosened and lashing with their dented swords, till Tristan struck Riol just where the helmet buckles, and it yielded and the blow was struck so hard that the baron fell on hands and knees.

“Rise if you can, vassal,” cried Tristan, “it was in an evil hour when you arrived upon this field; for here you must die.” Riol regained his stand, but once more Tristan cut him down with a blow that split the helm, and the headpiece too, and touched steel upon his skull; then Riol cried mercy and begged his life, and Tristan took his sword.

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It was just in time, for from all sides the men of Nantes were hastening to the rescue of their lord. But already their lord had surrendered.

So he promised to enter Duke Hoël’s keep and swear homage to him again, and to restore what he had wasted; and by his order the battle ceased, and his host went off discomfited.

Now when the victors were returned, Kaherdin said to his father: “Sire, keep you Tristan. There is no better knight in all the world, and your land has need of such courage.”

So when the Duke had taken counsel with his barons, he said to Tristan: “Friend, you have won my love, for you have preserved this land. I shall repay you with my daughter, Iseult of the White Hands, who is descended from Dukes and Duchesses, from Kings and Queens. Take her; I give her to you.”

And Tristan answered: “I will take her, Sire.” Ah, my lords, why did he utter these words? By this oath, he shall die. So the day was fixed, and the Duke came with his friends and Tristan

with his, and before all, at the gate of the minster, Tristan wed Iseult of the White Hands, according to the Church’s law. But that same night, as Tristan’s valets undressed him, it happened that in drawing his arm from the sleeve they drew off and let fall from his finger the ring of green jasper, the ring of Iseult the Fair. It sounded upon the stones, and Tristan looked and saw it. Then his heart awoke and he knew that he had done wrong. For he remembered the day when Iseult the Fair had given him the ring. It was in that forest where, for his sake, she had led the hard life with him, and that night he saw again the hut in the wood of Morois, and he was bitter with himself that ever he had accused her of treason; for now it was he who had betrayed, and he was bitter with himself also in pity for his new wife and her simplicity and her beauty. See how these two Iseults had met him in an evil hour, and with each had he broken faith!

Now Iseult of the White Hands, lying at his side and hearing him sigh, wondered, and at last, a little ashamed, she said: “Dear lord, have I offended you in someway? Why do you not give me a single kiss? Tell me, that I may know my error and I will make every effort to amend.”

“Friend,” said Tristan, “do not be angry, but once in another country I made a vow. I fought a dragon and was near death, and I remembered the Mother of God, and to Her I made a vow: If delivered from the monster through Her courtesy, then if ever I were to marry, I would abstain from kissing and embracing my wife for one whole year.”

“If that was your vow,” said Iseult, “then I shall endure.” But in the morning when her handmaidens adjusted upon her the

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wimple of the married woman, she smiled sadly to think how little right she had to don the dignity of that garment.

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Kaherdin

The Queen sang softly, Her voice and the harp of one tone; Her beautiful hands conjuring beauty from the strings, The lay good, Her tones grave, Her voice supple and plaint.

Thomas of Britain

S OME DAYS THEREAFTER, DUKE HOËL, HIS SENESCHAL AND HIS huntsmen, as well as Tristan, Iseult of the White Hands and her brother Kaherdin left the castle to hunt in the forest. On a narrow path, Tristan rode to the left of Kaherdin, while in his right hand he retained the reins of the palfrey upon which rode his wife, Iseult of the White Hands. Now the palfrey stumbled in a puddle and its hoof splashed water so imprudently under Iseult’s clothing that she felt coldness well above her knee. She screamed lightly and, spurring her palfrey, laughed so shrill and loud that Kaherdin, riding and catching up with her, asked: “Fair sister, why do you laugh so?”

“For a thought that struck me, fair brother. When the water splashed up and found me where it did, I said to it, ‘Water, you are bolder than ever was the bold and brave Sir Tristan.’ That is why I laughed. But already have I said far too much, brother, and repent.”

Kaherdin, puzzled and surprised, pressed her so keenly that at length she revealed to him the truth of her marriage.

Tristan joined them and the three rode in silence toward the hunting lodge.

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lodge. Once there, Kaherdin called Tristan into parley. “Lord Tristan,” said he,

“my sister has told me the truth of her marriage. I took you as a comrade and a peer. But you dishonor our family and have betrayed our faith. From this time forth, if you do not give me satisfaction, know that I release and defy you.”

“Yes, I came among you to your misfortune. But learn of my misery, fair and sweet friend, my brother and my companion, and perhaps your heart will be appeased. Know that I have another Iseult, more beautiful than all women, who for me suffered, and still suffers, many sorrows. Yes, your sister loves and honors me, and yet, for the love of me, the other Iseult treats with even more honor than your sister treats me, a dog that I once gave her. Come, let us quit this hunt; follow where I take you and I shall tell you the misery of my life.”

Tristan turned his horse and gave spur. Kaherdin followed after on the trail. Without a word they rode into the forest’s depths. There Tristan unveiled his life to Kaherdin: of how, on the high seas, he drank love and death; of the treachery of the barons and the dwarf; of the Queen being led to the stake and delivered to the lepers; of their love and privation in the wilderness; of how he had restored the Queen to King Mark and, having absolved himself of her, had wished to love Iseult of the White Hands, and at last of how he now knew that he could neither live nor die without the Queen.

Astonished, Kaherdin maintained silence. He felt his anger fade within him, despite his will to give sanction to his umbrage.

“Friend,” said he, at last, “I hear wondrous words, and you have moved my heart to pity, for you have endured such torments as God spare each and all of us! Let us return to Carhaix; on the third day, if I can, I shall tell you my thoughts.”

Within her room at Tintagel, Iseult the Fair sighed for the sake of Tristan. To love him always and forever, she had no other thought, no hope, no will—nothing, beyond that. All her desire resided with him, and yet two long years had passed without word from him. Whither had he gone? To what country? She knew not even if he was among the living or the dead.

Within her room at Tintagel, Iseult the Fair sat alone and sang a sad lay of love and love’s calamities. She sang of Guron, taken and killed for his devotion to the lady he loved above all, and of how by cunning, the Count gave to her Guron’s heart to eat, and of her woe thereof. The Queen sang softly, her voice and the harp of one tone; her beautiful hands conjuring

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beauty from the strings, the lay good, her tones grave, her voice supple and plaint.

Then came in Kariado, a rich count from a far-off island, who had fared to Tintagel to offer his services to the Queen; he had often spoken to her of love, though she disdained his folly. He was a fair and comely knight, smooth of tongue, but haughty and filled with conceits, his prowess best displayed in the chambers of women rather than upon any field of battle.

“Lady,” said he, “how sad your song! As sad as the osprey’s; for do they not say that he sings for death? And your song means that to me: I die for you.”

And Iseult said: “So let it be and may it mean so; die. For never come you hither but to stir within me anger and mourning. Ever were you the screech owl or the osprey that boded ill when you spoke of Tristan; what news bear you now?”

And Kariado answered: “You are angered, I know not why, but who heeds your words? Let the osprey bode me death; here is the evil news the screech owl brings. Lady Iseult, Tristan, your friend, is lost to you. He has wed in a far land. So seek you another, for he mocks your love. He has wed in great pomp Iseult of the White Hands, the King of Brittany’s daughter.”

And Kariado went off in anger, but Iseult bowed her head and wept.

On the third day, Kaherdin called Tristan: “Friend, I have taken counsel in my heart. Yes, if you have told me all, then the life you lead in this land is confusion and madness, and no good can come of it either for you or for my sister Iseult of White Hands. So hear my words. We shall sail together unto Tintagel; you shall see the Queen, and learn if she still regrets you and remains ever faithful. If she has forgotten you, then perhaps you will return with love anew to my dear sister, Iseult, the simple and the beautiful. I shall go with you. Am I not your peer and your companion?”

“Brother,” said Tristan, “it is well said: ‘The heart of a man is worth all the gold of a great kingdom.’ ”

So Tristan and Kaherdin soon took up the bell and cowl of pilgrims, as if to visit the holy relics of saints in distant lands. They bade farewell to Duke Hoël. Tristan took with him Gorvenal; Kaherdin went forth with but a single squire. Secretly they fitted a ship and the four set sail towards Cornwall. The wind was light and good, and they landed one morning, before daybreak, not far from Tintagel, in a lonely cove near Castle Lidan.

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Doubtless there, the good seneschal Dinas of Lidan would welcome them and conceal their coming.

At daybreak, the two companions were ascending toward Lidan when they chanced to see a man traveling along the same route behind them; he was proceeding at the slow gait of his horse. They hid in the woods and the man passed without seeing them, for he slumbered in the saddle. Tristan recognized him: “Brother,” whispered he to Kaherdin: “This is Dinas of Lidan himself. He sleeps. Doubtless he returns from his friend and still dreams of her: it would not be courteous to awaken him, but we will quietly follow.”

Softly they joined Dinas, and Tristan gently took his horse’s bridle and walked at his side. At last a misstep by the horse caused the sleeper to awake. When he opened his eyes, glancing about, he beheld Tristan. Hesitating and astonished, he said, “You, Tristan? Is it truly you? God bless the moment I see you again! How long have I awaited this blessed hour!”

“Friend,” said Tristan: “God save you! What news have you of the Queen?”

“Alas! Harsh news. The King loves her and tries to bring her happiness, but she languishes since your exile and weeps for you. Oh, but why go back to her? Would you still go looking for your own death, and for hers too? Tristan, have mercy on the Queen; leave her be!”

“Friend,” said Tristan: “Grant me this favor: hide me at Lidan. Take the Queen my message and bring it to pass that I may see her yet again, just once.”

Dinas replied: “I pity my lady, and I do not want to be the bearer of your message lest I know that, for you, she has remained beloved above all women.”

“Ah! My lord, you can tell her she has remained dearer to me by far above all women, and that is the truth.”

“Well then, Tristan, continue with me and I shall assist in your design.” At Lidan the seneschal housed Tristan and Gorvenal, and Kaherdin and

his squire; thereafter, when Tristan had told him the story of his life, Dinas traveled to Tintagel to inquire about the news of the court. He learned that, only three days hence, Queen Iseult, King Mark, and his entire troop—all the King’s riders and huntsmen—were set to leave Tintagel for the castle at White Lands where the great hunts would ensue. Then Tristan entrusted the seneschal with the ring of green jasper, and with the message he was to bear to the Queen.

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Dinas of Lidan

Thus it is with us, dear friend: neither you without me, nor me without you.

Marie de France

D INAS RETURNED TO TINTAGEL, ASCENDED THE STAIRCASE AND entered the hall wherein, under a canopy, the King and Queen played chess. Dinas sat on a stool near the Queen, as if to observe her game, and twice, pretending to designate moves, he placed his hand in the field of play; the second time, Iseult recognized, on one of his fingers, the jasper ring. In a moment, she brushed upon Dinas’ arm in such a way that several pawns tumbled in disarray.

“See, seneschal,” said she, “you have disturbed my game and now have prevented me from continuing.”

At that, Mark departed from the hall and Iseult withdrew to her chamber; once there she summoned the seneschal: “Friend, you come as a herald from Tristan?”

“Yes, Queen; he is at Liden, hidden away in my castle.” “Is it true that he has taken a wife in Brittany?” “Queen, you have heard the truth. But he swears that he has not

betrayed you: that not for a single day has he ever stopped loving you above all women. He will die if he does not see you again, if only once. He adjures you, Queen: honor the oath you swore to him upon the last day he spoke with you.”

The Queen kept silent for some time, thinking of the other Iseult. At last she replied: “Yes, well do I remember the last time we spoke; I said: ‘If ever again I see the ring of green jasper, neither tower, nor castle walls,

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nor royal prohibition shall keep me from doing the bidding of my friend: be that bidding of wisdom of folly.’ ”

“Queen, in two days hence the court is to leave Tintagel for the White Lands. Tristan sends you word that he will be hidden along the road in a thicket of thorns. He petitions you to take pity upon him.”

Again the Queen’s mind turned back to that last day, and she repeated to herself, “Thus I said to him: ‘Neither tower, nor castle walls, nor royal prohibition shall keep me from doing the bidding of my friend…’ ”

On the appointed day, whilst Mark’s court prepared to depart Tintagel, Tristan and Gorvenal, Kaherdin and his squire, donned hauberk, took up sword and shield and, by hidden pathways, sallied forth and secreted themselves at the designated place. Through the forest two roads led to the White Lands: the highroad, fine and well-traveled, over which the cavalcade was to pass; the other stony, broken and abandoned. Tristan and Kaherdin posted their squires on the latter; where they would linger with their horses and shields. They themselves slipped through the woods and undergrowth and hid in a thicket near the highroad, where Tristan placed a branch of hazelwood entwined with honeysuckle.

Soon the cavalcade appeared in the distance, progressing along the highroad, the retainers of King Mark at the vanguard. In lovely ordinance advanced the heralds and marshals, the cooks and cup-bearers, the chaplains, the kennel-men leading greyhounds and beagles, the falconers bearing great birds perched on their left fists; the huntsmen followed, then came the knights and barons, passing two by two; so lovely to see them mounted on horses richly caparisoned in velvet studded with silver and gold. As King Mark passed, Kaherdin marveled to see the counsellors gathered about the King, two on each side, appareled in garments of scarlet and gold.

Then advanced the procession of the Queen: first the washerwomen and chambermaids, then the wives and daughters of the barons and counts. They passed, each escorted by a young knight. Finally, a palfrey approached bearing the most beautiful woman Kaherdin had ever beheld: beautiful of face and form, exquisite of hips, well-traced eyebrows, joyful eyes and small teeth; she wore a gown of red samite, and a cord of gold and jewels adorned her brow.

In a whisper Kaherdin marveled, “It is the Queen!” “The Queen!” said Tristan. “No, that is Camille, the Queen’s lady-in-

waiting.” Then followed on a grey palfrey another young lady, whiter than snow

in February, redder than morning’s roses, her sparkling eyes as bright as

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stars trembling in a fountain. “Ah,” marveled Kaherdin again, “now I see her. The Queen!”

“No,” said Tristan: “That is Brangien the Faithful!” And then the road grew luminous and dazzling, as if the sun suddenly

streamed through the rich foliage of the great trees: and Iseult appeared. Duke Andret—God revile him!—rode at her right hand.

At that moment, from a thicket of thorns, arose the joyous songs of warblers and skylarks; and into these sweet melodies, Tristan instilled all his love. The Queen understood her friend’s salutation. And she noted on the ground before her the branch of hazelwood tightly entwined with honeysuckle, and she thought in her heart: “Thus it is with us, dear friend: neither you without me, nor me without you.” She reined her palfrey, dismounted and went to the hackney that bore a small niche adorned with jewels; therein on a purple bed lay Pticru. She took the little dog in her arms, petting and caressing her within her soft ermine mantle. Then, having returned Pticru to her little house, she turned toward the thicket of thorns and said aloud: “Birds of the wood, you gladden my heart with your songs and I take to you into my service. While my lord Mark precedes to the White Lands, I shall sojourn in my castle of Saint-Lubin. Birds, this evening regard me thither and I shall richly compensate you, as good minstrels.”

Tristan rejoiced in these words. But already Andret the felon was unsettled. He helped the Queen into her saddle and the procession moved on.

Now my lords, hear a tale of love’s misfortune. At the very time when the royal procession was passing on the highroad, along the path where Gorvenal and the squire of Kaherdin watched their masters’ horses, came an armed knight named Bleheri. From afar he recognized the shield of Tristan and Gorvenal. “What do I see?” thought he, “there is Gorvenal and the other Tristan himself.” He spurred his horse toward them and shouted: “Tristan!”

But already the two riders had turned bridle and were fleeing. Bleheri launched in pursuit of them repeating: “Tristan! By your

prowess I conjure you: wait!” But the riders fled away. Bleheri then shouted: “Tristan, wait, I beg of you in the name of Iseult

the Fair!” Three times did he appeal to the fugitives in the name of Iseult the Fair,

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but he did so in vain. They vanished, and Bleheri only captured one of their horses.

He reached the castle of Saint-Lubin at the very moment of the Queen’s arrival. And having found her alone, said: “Queen, Tristan is in the country. I saw him on the abandoned road that comes from Tintagel. He fled. Thrice did I summon him to tarry, begging him in the name of Iseult the Fair, but he panicked and dared not await me.”

“Fair sir, you lie and speak in madness. How should Tristan be in this country? How could he have fled before you? How could he not have reined, conjured by my name?”

“Nonetheless, my lady, so well did I see him that I took one of his horses. See it all caparisoned below in the courtyard.”

But Bleheri beheld that wrath now filled the Queen. He was grieving, for he loved Tristan and Iseult. He departed her presence, regretful that he had spoken.

Then Iseult wept and said: “Woe, that I have lived so long that I see the day when Tristan scoffs and makes a joke of me! Once, if conjured by my name, what enemy would he not have faced? He is bold of body: if he has fled Bleheri, if he did not deign to stop in the name of his friend, ah, then it is because the other Iseult has taken possession of his heart! Why did he return to this country? He has betrayed me and now wants to dishonor me as well! Was he not content with my torments of old? Let him return, in turn reviled, to Iseult of the White Hands!”

She called Perinis the Faithful and told him the news brought to her by Bleheri.

She added: “Friend, look for Tristan on the abandoned road that leads from Tintagel to Saint-Lubin. Tell him I do not salute him, and to be not so bold as to dare approach me, lest I have him driven away by my men-at- arms and servants.”

Perinis set out and searched until he found Tristan, and with him Kaherdin; he repeated to them the Queen’s message. “Brother,” cried Tristan: “what is it you say? How could I have fled Bleheri since, as you can well see, we do not even have our horses? Gorvenal and Kaherdin’s squire kept them. We could not find them at the place designated and we are still searching for them.”

At that very moment came Gorvenal and the squire, and they told what had happened.

“Perinis, fair sweet friend,” said Tristan: “return hastily to your lady. Tell her I send her love and greetings, that I have never failed in the loyalty I owe her, that she is dear to me above all women; tell her to send

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you back to me with her salutations. Here I shall await your return.” Forthwith Perinis returned to the Queen and reiterated all he had seen

and heard. But she did not believe him: “Ah! Perinis, once you were my counselor

and my confidant, and my father chose you for my service when you were a mere child. But Tristan, that sorcerer, has enchanted you with his lies and charms. And now you also have betrayed me; go forth now, away from me!”

Perinis knelt before her: “Lady, those are harsh words I hear. Never in my life have I felt such anguish. But I care nothing for myself: I mourn for you, my Lady and my Queen, who are committing an injustice to my dear Lord Tristan, an injustice you shall regret, when it is too late, if you carry it out.”

“Go away, I do not believe you! You too, Perinis the Faithful, you too have now betrayed me!”

Tristan waited long for Perinis to bear to him the forgiveness of the Queen.

But Perinis did not return.

At break of day Tristan painted his face with vermilion and walnut- stain, giving himself the aspect of a man corroded and eaten away by leprosy. He cloaked himself in a ragged mantle, took in his hands a leper’s rattle and a goblet of grained wood for the collection of alms, and thus did he wander into the streets of Saint-Lubin, disguising his voice and begging alms of all passersby.

If only he might see the Queen! And at long last she ventured forth from her castle, with Brangien and

the wives, the servants and her men-at-arms accompanying her. As she followed the path leading to the church, the leper traipsed along, sounding his rattle and begging plaintively: “Queen, be good to me, for you do not know how needy I am!”

By the beauty of his form, Iseult knew him. She shuddered deeply at seeing Tristan again, but lowered her gaze.

The leper begged of her, and it was pitiful to hear him. He dragged himself after her: “Oh, Queen, if I approach you, do not be angry with me; be merciful to me; I deserve your mercy.”

But the Queen called unto her servants and men-at-arms and said: “Drive off this leper! Dispel him!”

The servants shoved and beat him, but he resisted and cried in his shrill

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voice: “Oh, Queen, be merciful to me! I beg of you!” But Iseult laughed. Her laughter still resounded even as she entered the church. Upon

hearing her laughter, the leper slunk back and away. The Queen advanced a few steps into the nave of the minster, but her limbs gave way beneath her and she sagged to her knees, collapsing upon the paving stones, her face hard upon the floor, her arms outstretched in the pattern of a cross.

As for Tristan, his despair was so great that he descended into a kind of madness; he took his leave of Dinas and that very day did his ship set sail for Brittany.

Alas, once he was gone the Queen repented. When she learned from Dinas of Lidan that Tristan had departed in a despair so bleak it ran with madness, she began to believe that Perinis had told her the truth: that Tristan had not fled when conjured in her name, and she knew that she had done a great wrong by driving him away. “What?” thought she, “I have driven you away, oh Tristan, my friend! Henceforth you will hate me, and never shall I see you again. Nor will you ever learn of my repentance, nor of what punishment I shall impose upon myself and offer as a token of my repentance!”

From that day forth, to punish her own error and her folly, Iseult donned a hair shirt, which she wore close against her tender flesh.

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The Madness of Tristan

In her heart did Brangien sense that this fool was keen and knowing, and that a malady far nobler than lunacy assailed him.

Béroul

T RISTAN SAW BRITTANY AGAIN, CARHAIX, DUKE HOËL AND HIS wife Iseult of the White Hands. All welcomed him, but Iseult the Fair had driven him away: thus nothing more mattered. Long he languished far from her, but then upon a day he knew he must see her again, even if she had him driven back by her servants and beaten by her men-at-arms. Far from her, death stole slowly upon him; better to die at once than fade away day-by-day, for whosoever lives in such torment is dead within life. Thus did Tristan pine for death, but death did not come; if only the Queen knew that for her sake he perished, little by little, then surely death would come for him at last, softly, easily.

So he left Carhaix secretly, telling no man, neither his kindred nor even Kaherdin, his brother in arms. He went forth in rags afoot (for no one marks the beggar on the highroad) till he came to the shore of the sea.

He found in a haven a great ship ready, the sail up, the anchor-chain short at the bow.

“God save you, my lords,” said he, “and send you on a good journey. To what land sail you now?”

“To Tintagel,” said they. Then he cried out: “Oh, my lords! Take me with you thither! Take me to

Tintagel!” And he went aboard, and a fair wind filled the sail, and she ran five days

and nights for Cornwall, till, on the sixth day, they dropped anchor in

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Tintagel Haven. The castle stood high upon the cliffs, walled all around. There was but the one armed gate, and two knights watched it night and day. So Tristan went ashore and sat upon the beach, and a man told him that Mark was there and had just held his court.

“But where,” said he, “is Iseult, the Queen, and her fair maid, Brangien?”

“In Tintagel too,” said the other, “and I saw them lately; Queen Iseult sad, as she always is.”

At the hearing of her name, Tristan suffered, and he thought that neither by guile nor by courage could he see his friend, for Mark would kill him.

And he thought, “Let the King kill me and let me die for her, since every day I die. But you, Iseult, even if you knew me here, would you not drive me out?” And he thought, “I shall try guile. I will feign madness, but madness concealing great wisdom. And many far less witted than I shall take me for a very great fool.”

Just then a fisherman passed in a rough cloak and cape, and Tristan seeing him, took him aside, and said: “Friend, will you not trade clothes with me?”

And as the fisherman found it a very good bargain, and said in answer: “Yes, friend, gladly.”

And he changed and ran off at once for fear of losing his gain. Then Tristan shaved his wonderful hair; he shaved it close to his head and left a cross all bald, and he rubbed his face with magic herbs distilled in his own country, and it changed him in colour and skin so that none could know him, and he made him a club from a young tree torn from a hedgerow and hung it about his neck, and he shuffled barefoot towards the castle.

The porter made sure that he had to do with a fool and said: “Good morrow, fool, where have you been this long while?”

And he answered: “At the Abbot of St Michael’s wedding, and he wed an abbess, stout and veiled. And from the Alps to Mount St Michael how they came, the priests and abbots, monks and regulars, all dancing on the green with croziers and staves ’neath the high trees’ shade. But I left them all to come hither, for I serve at the King’s board today.”

Then the porter said: “Come in, lord fool; the Hairy Urgan’s son, I know, and very much like your father.”

And when he was within the courts the serving men ran after him and cried: “The fool! The fool!”

And he made play with them though they cast stones and struck him as they laughed, and in the midst of laughter and their cries, as the rout followed him, he came to that hall where, at the Queen’s side, King Mark

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sat under his canopy. And as he neared the door with his club at his neck, the King said:

“Here is a merry fellow, let him in.” And they brought him in, and the King said: “Friend, well come; what

seek you here?” The fool replied in a voice unreal and strangely counterfeit: “Sire, good

and noble King amongst all, I knew that the sight of you would melt my heart with tenderness. God save you, Sire!”

“Friend, what seek you in these lands?” “Iseult,” said he, “whom I love so well; I bring my sister with me,

Brunehild, the beautiful. Come, take her, you are weary of the Queen. Take you my sister and give me here Iseult, and I will hold her and serve you for her love.”

The King said laughing: “Fool, if I gave you the Queen, where would you take her, pray?”

“Oh! very high,” he said, “between the clouds and heaven, into a fair chamber glazed. The beams of the sun shine through, yet the winds bring no troubles at all. There would I bear the Queen into my palace of crystal, all compact of roses and morning.”

The King and his barons laughed and said: “Here is a good fool at no loss for words.”

But the fool as he sat at their feet gazed at Iseult most fixedly. “Friend,” said King Mark, “what warrant have you that the Queen

would heed so foul a fool as you?” “Oh! Sire,” he answered gravely, “many deeds have I done for her, and

my madness is from her alone.” “What is your name?” they said, and laughed. “Tristan,” said he, “who loved the Queen so well, and still till death

shall love her.” But at the name the Queen angered and weakened together, and said:

“Get thee hence, thou evil fool!” But the fool, marking her anger, went on: “Queen Iseult, do you mind

the day, when, poisoned by the Morholt’s spear, I took my harp to sea and fell upon your shore? Your mother healed me with strange herbs. Have you no memory, Queen?”

But Iseult answered: “Out, fool, out! Your folly and you have passed the bounds!”

But the fool, still playing, leapt up and pushed the barons, crying: “Out, madmen, out! Leave me to counsel with Iseult, since I come here for the love of her!”

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And as the King laughed, Iseult blushed and said: “King, drive me forth this fool!”

But the fool still laughed and cried: “Queen, do you mind you of the dragon I slew in your land? I hid its tongue in my hose, and, burnt of its venom, I fell by the roadside. Ah! what a knight was I then, and it was you who succoured me.”

Iseult replied: “Silence! You wrong all knighthood by your words, for you are a fool from birth. Cursed be the seamen who brought you hither; rather should they have cast you into the sea!”

“Queen Iseult,” he still said on, “do you mind you of your haste when you would have slain me with my own sword? And of the Hair of Gold? And of how I stood up to the seneschal?”

“Silence!” said she, “you drunkard. You were drunk last night, and so you dreamt these dreams.”

“Drunk, and still so am I, but of such a draught that never can the influence fade. Queen Iseult, do you mind you of that hot and open day on the high seas? We thirsted and we drank together from the same cup, and since that day have I been drunk with an awful wine.”

When the Queen heard these words, which she alone could understand, she rose and would have gone.

But the King held her by her ermine cloak, and she sat down again. “Wait a while, Iseult, friend; let us hear this prattle to its end. Madman,

tell us what talents you have.” “I have served Kings and Earls.” “In truth? Do you know how to hunt with hounds? With falcons?” “Indeed, Sire. When it pleases me to hunt in the woods, my talents run

to seizing, with my greyhounds, the cranes as they fly through the clouds; with my bloodhounds, the flying swans, the white geese and wood-doves on wing; with my bow do I take the loons and bitterns!”

All laughed quite merrily at the simpleton, and the King asked: “And what do you take, brother, when you chase the great beasts?”

“I take everything I find, Sire; with my hawks, the wolves and bears of the forest; with my gyrfalcons, the wild boars; I seize roebucks and does with sparrow hawks; foxes, with harriers; and hares with merlins. And when I go home to accommodate myself, I brandish the quarter-staff, dealing blows amongst my many grooms; then do I tune my harp and sing sweet songs of the love of Queens, and into fountains I cast woodchips that swirl away upon moonlit streams. In truth, Sire, am I not a good minstrel? Why, this very day, you shall behold how I spar with my staff.”

At that he wielded about and swirled his staff, crying, “Begone from

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here, Cornish lords! Why tarry? Have you not supped enough, have you not already eaten your fill?”

The King, having sufficiently amused himself with this madman, called for his mount and his falcons and prepared to go off and hunt with his knights and squires.

“My lord,” said Iseult, “I now feel weary and distressed. Let me go rest in my chamber, I can suffer these follies no longer.”

And she departed to her room in thought and sat upon her bed and mourned, calling herself a slave, and saying: “Why was I born? Brangien, dear sister, life is so hard to me that death were better! There is a fool without, shaven criss-cross, and come in an evil hour, and he is warlock, for he knows in every part myself and my whole life; he knows what you and I and Tristan only know.”

Then Brangien said: “It may be Tristan.” But—“No,” said the Queen, “for Tristan was beautiful and the first of

knights, but this fool is foul and made awry. Cursed be he of God and cursed be the hour of his birth; cursed be the ship that brought him hither instead of sinking and drowning him out there in the deep, beneath the waves!”

“My lady!” said Brangien, “calm yourself! You curse and excommunicate overmuch these days. Where indeed did you learn such ways? Perchance this man is a herald of Lord Tristan.”

“I cannot tell. I know him not. But go find him, friend, and see if you know him.”

So Brangien went to the hall where the fool still sat alone. Tristan knew her and let fall his club and said: “Brangien, dear Brangien, before God! have pity on me!”

“Foul fool,” she answered, “what devil taught you my name?” “Lady,” he said, “I have known it long. By my head, that once was fair,

if I am mad the blame is yours, for it was yours to watch over the wine we drank on the high seas. The cup was of silver and I held it to Iseult and she drank. Do you remember, lady?”

“No,” said she, and as she trembled and left, he called out: “Pity me!” He followed and saw Iseult. He stretched out his arms, but in her shame,

moist with the sweat of anguish, she recoiled, and seeing that she shunned him, Tristan trembled with humiliation and rage. He fell back towards the wall near the door and cried in his shrill, distorted voice: “Certainly, I have lived too long, for I have seen the day when Iseult rejects me and regards me as vile! Ah, Iseult, like so many, she loves once and then later forgets! Iseult, like a once precious spring, like a sweet rich source flowing wide

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and clear, upon the day the fount fails, it is nothing, nothing: so too love that fails.”

But Iseult said: “Brother, when I look upon you I doubt and shudder. I know you not; in you I do not see Tristan.”

“Queen Iseult, I am Tristan, who loves you. Do you not remember the dwarf who sowed flour between our beds? And the leap I made, and the blood that flowed from my wound? And the gift I sent you, the little dog Pticru with the faëry bell? Do you not remember the bits of wood I cast into the brook?”

Iseult looked upon him, sighed and knew not what to say or think, for this fool knew all things, and yet it would be folly to acknowledge him as Tristan.

And Tristan said to her, “My lady Queen, I know you have withdrawn from me, thus I abjure you for treason. I knew beautiful days when you loved me in the deep forest, under a roof of spreading leaves and branches. Remember you the day when I gave you my good dog Hodain? Ah! Hodain! He at least yet loves me, and for me he would leave Iseult the Fair. Where is he? What have you done with my dog? Where is my good dog Hodain? Hodain—at least he will recognize me.”

“Recognize you? Hodain! Again, you speak madness, for since Tristan left, he stays below, lying in his kennel, threatening any man who approaches. Brangien, bring Hodain hither.”

Brangien, who now sensed something beyond madness in this fool, went out and in a moment came forth with Tristan’s dog.

Tristan called, “Hodain, come hither. You are mine and I take you back.”

Upon hearing his master’s voice, Hodain leapt toward Tristan, yanking his leash from Brangien’s hands, flying to his master and rolling all about his feet, barking with joy and licking his hands.

“Hodain,” cried the Fool, “blessed be the pains I took in raising you! You have better received me than the one I loved so much. She does not recognize me; will she at least recognize this ring she once gave me, long ago, with tears and kisses, on the day of our parting? This little ring has never left me: often in my torment, have I showered its green jasper with burning tears.”

Upon seeing the ring, Iseult opened wide her arms: “Tristan! Take me! Here I am!”

Then Tristan ceased the falsehood of his fool’s voice: “Friend, how could you have failed to know me for so very long, far longer than this dog? Of what importance this ring? How much sweeter to have been

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recognized only by the reminder of our past loves. Of what importance the sound of my voice? You should have listened to the call of my heart.”

“Friend,” said Iseult, “perhaps I did hear earlier than you think, but here we are encircled by treason and duplicity: what if, like this dog, I had followed my desire, at the risk of you being caught and killed before my eyes? I kept myself, and I kept you. At last, neither the recall of our past life, nor the sound of your voice, nor even the ring you showed me prove anything, for all may be the evil contrivances of a sorcerer. Nevertheless, I yield at the sight of this ring: Did I not swear to you long ago that, should I ever again see this ring, I would do your bidding, be it wisdom or folly, even at the peril of my life? Thus, wisdom or folly, again I say, here I am, Tristan, take me!”

The Queen swooned upon the breast of her friend. When she stirred again, Tristan was embracing and kissing her eyes and her face. He drew her away behind the rich, tapestried curtain.

In his arms Tristan held Iseult again.

To have fun with the fool, the servants accommodated him in a room beneath the staircase where he slept like a dog in its kennel. Quietly, he endured their taunts and blows, for time and again, taking on the form of his beauty, he slipped from his hovel and into the Queen’s chamber.

But in the course of days, two maids suspected fraud and warned Andret, who placed three well-armed spies before the entrance to the women’s chambers. When Tristan wanted to enter, they shouted: “Back, fool! Go lie down on your bundle of straw!”

“How now, fair lords!” cried the fool. “Do I not get to kiss the queen this night? Do you not know that she loves and expects me?”

He brandished his staff and they became alarmed; they stood away from the fool and allowed him to enter.

Tristan took Iseult in his arms: “Friend, I must fly now, for soon I will be discovered. I must hasten forth and may never return. My death is near: far from you, I die of my desire.”

“Soon, friend, soon I shall take you to the fortunate land of the living. Our time is near. We have tasted all misery, all joy, and the time

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approaches when all shall be finished. When I call you, Iseult, will you come?”

“Friend, call me, you know I shall come!” “Friend!” said he, “God shall yet reward our love!” When he crossed the threshold, the spies rushed toward him. But the

Fool laughed and, twirling his staff, reproached them: “You drive me away, noble lords, but why bother? I have nothing more to do here, for my lady sends me forth to prepare for her that palace of crystal light I promised her so long ago, all compact of roses and morning!”

“Go then, fool,” said the spies, “go into an evil hour!” They parted for him, and cursed and drove him forth, and off went the

fool, leaping and dancing on his way.

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Death

Love has conducted us together unto one death.

Dante, Inferno

W HEN HE RETURNED TO CARHAIX IN BRITTANY, IT HAPPENED that Tristan, to bring aid to his dear companion Kaherdin, made war against a baron by the name of Bedalis. He fell into an ambush laid by Bedalis and his brothers. Tristan slew all seven of the brothers. But a spear, the blade of which was laced with poison, wounded him.

With great difficulty he returned to Carhaix where his injury was cleansed and dressed. The doctors came in great number, but none could cure him of the poison, for none could discern its nature. They fixed no poultice to draw forth the venom, and in vain did they beat and grind roots, gather herbs and compose their potions. As the poison crept through his body, Tristan receded from the world, growing ever more pale, his bones slowly rising beneath his pallid skin.

As his life ebbed, he knew well that death was settling upon him, and he desired to see once more Iseult the Fair. But how? The sea would kill him, and even if he reached Cornwall how, in his weakness, could he surmount his enemies? Thus suffering the bane, he lamented his life and awaited death.

He called Kaherdin secretly to tell him his pain, for they loved each other with a loyal love; and as he would have no one in the room save Kaherdin, nor even in the neighbouring rooms, Iseult of the White Hands began to wonder. She was afraid and wished to hear, and she came back and listened, her ear pressed at the wall by Tristan’s bed; and as she listened one of her maids kept watch for her.

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Now, within, Tristan had gathered his strength, and had half risen, leaning against the wall; Kaherdin wept beside him. They wept their good comradeship, broken so soon, and their friendship, now cut in twain by calamity; then Tristan again told Kaherdin of his love for that other Iseult, and of the sorrow of his life.

“Fair and gentle friend,” said Tristan, “I am in a foreign land where I have neither friend nor cousin, save you; and you alone in this place have given me comfort. My life is ebbing, and I wish to see once more Iseult the Fair. Ah, did I but know of a messenger who would go to her! For now I know that she will come to me. Kaherdin, my brother in arms, by the nobility of your heart, through our fellowship, I beseech you: for me undertake this adventure, and if you carry forth my words, I shall become your liege and I shall love you forever above all men.”

And as Kaherdin saw Tristan broken down, his heart reproached him and he said: “Fair comrade, do not weep. I shall do what you desire, even at the risk of death I would do it for you. Nor no distress nor anguish shall keep me from doing according to my power. Give me the word you send, and I will make ready.”

And Tristan answered: “Thank you, friend; this is my prayer: take this ring, it is a sign between her and me; and when you come to her land, pass yourself at court for a merchant, and show her silk and stuffs, but make so that she sees the ring, for then she will find some ruse by which to speak with you in secret. Then tell her that my heart salutes her; tell her that she alone can bring me comfort; tell her that if she does not come I shall die. Tell her to remember our past time, our great sorrows, and great joys in our loyal and tender love. And tell her to remember that draught we drank together on the high seas. For we drank our death together. Tell her to remember the oath I swore to serve a single love, for I have been loyal and faithful and kept the oath.”

But behind the wall, Iseult of the White Hands heard all; and Tristan continued: “Hasten, my friend, and come back quickly, or you will not see me again. Take forty days for your term, but come back with Iseult the Fair. And tell your sister nothing, or tell her that you seek some doctor in a far away land. Take my fine ship, and two sails with you, one white, one black. And as you return, if you bring Iseult, hoist the white sail; but if you bring her not, the black. Now I have nothing more to say, but God guide you and return you in safekeeping.”

He sighed, wept and lamented his lot, and Kaherdin too wept; and kissing Tristan, he took leave of him.

With the first fair wind Kaherdin took the open; weighing anchor, he

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hoisted sail and ran with a light air and broke the seas. They bore rich merchandise, dyed silks of rare colours, enamel of Touraine and wines of Poitou, for by this ruse Kaherdin sought to reach Iseult. Eight days and nights they ran full sail to Cornwall.

Now a woman’s wrath is a fearful thing, and all men fear it, for according to her love, so will her vengeance be; and their love and their hate come quickly, but their hate lives longer than their love; and they will make play with love, but not with hate. Standing close to the wall, Iseult of White Hands had overheard every word. Oh, how she had loved Tristan! And now, at last, she knew the truth of his love for another. But she held within her all she had heard, and those words would bear upon her, upon her mind, upon her heart, until that fine day when, at last, in the perfect moment, she could avenge herself upon the one she loved most in this world! But she hid her fury well, and as soon as the doors opened, she entered the chamber and, concealing her wrath, she served him with great cheer, as befits a lover, talking softly and kissing him on the lips. And she asked if Kaherdin would soon return with the physician who would cure him.

But always in her heart she bided her fury; always she yearned for vengeance.

And Kaherdin sailed and sailed till he dropped anchor in Tintagel Haven. He landed and took with him a cloth of rare dye and a cup well worked and chiseled, and made a present of them to King Mark, and courteously begged of him his peace and safeguard that he might traffick in his kingdom; and the King gave him his peace before all the men of his palace.

Then Kaherdin offered the Queen a buckle of fine gold. “Queen,” said he, “the gold is good.”

Then taking from his finger Tristan’s ring, he placed it side by side with the jewel and said: “See, oh, Queen, perhaps the gold of the buckle is the finer gold; yet this ring too has its worth.”

When Iseult saw what ring that was, her heart trembled and her colour changed, and fearing what might next be said she drew Kaherdin apart near a window, as if to see and bargain the better; and Kaherdin said to her, low down: “Lady, Tristan is wounded of a poisoned spear and is about to die. He sends you word that you alone can bring him comfort, and recalls to you the great sorrows that you bore together. Keep you the ring now—it is yours again.”

But Iseult answered, weakening: “Friend, I will follow you; get ready your ship tomorrow at dawn.”

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The next day at sunrise, the Queen announced that she would hunt and had her dogs and falcons made ready. But Duke Andret, who always kept her in his watch, went forth with her. When they arrived in the hunting fields, hard by the sea, a pheasant whirred up from the long grasses. Andret let fly a falcon to seize it, but the weather was beautiful and the sky brightening, and the falcon soared aloft and flew sea-ward, toward the port.

“See, Sir Andret,” said the Queen, “the falcon has perched on the mast of a ship, a ship that I know not. Whose is it?”

“Mistress,” said Andret, “it is the ship of the Breton merchant who yesterday made you a gift of the gold clasp. Let us go there and claim our falcon.”

Kaherdin threw a plank from his ship as a gangway to the shore and came to meet the Queen. “Lady,” said he, “if you wish, please enter my ship where I shall show you my precious wares and cargo.”

“Willingly, sir,” said the Queen. She dismounted her horse and crossed the plank onto the ship. Andret,

seeking to board with her, was on the plank when Kaherdin struck him with the flat of the oar; he staggered at the blow and fell into the sea. Andret struggled to save himself, Kaherdin struck him blow after blow and then held him fast in the sea beneath the water, and he shouted: “Die, traitor, die! Death is your reward for the evil you brought to Tristan and Queen Iseult!”

Thus did God avenge the lovers on each of the felons who had hated them! All four were dead now: Guenelon, Gondoïne, Denoalen and, at last, Andret.

They weighed anchor, stepped mast and hoisted the sail. The fresh breeze of morning rustled in the lines, billowing the sails. Beyond port, into the open sea all white and shinning in the sun’s rays, the wind swept the ship into the far distance.

But at Carhaix Tristan lay and longed for Iseult’s coming. Nothing now filled him any more, and if he lived it was only to await her coming; and day-by-day he sent watchers to the sea to learn if some ship came, and to know the colour of her sail. There was no other care or longing left in his heart.

At last he had himself carried to the cliff of Penmarc’h, which overlooks the sea, and all the daylight long he gazed far off over the water, into the mists.

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Hear now, my lords, a tale most sad and pitiful to all who love. Already was Iseult near; already the cliff of the Penmarc’h showed far away, and the ship ran heartily, when a storm wind rose on a sudden and grew, and struck the sail, and turned the ship all round about, and the sailors bore away and sore against their will they ran before the wind. The wind raged and big seas ran, and the air grew thick with darkness, and the ocean itself turned dark, and the rain drove in gusts and gales. The yard snapped, and the sheet; they struck their sail, and ran with wind and water. In an evil hour they had forgotten to haul their pinnace aboard; it leapt in their wake, and a great sea tore it away.

Then Iseult cried out: “God does not will that I should live to see my love even once more. God wills my drowning at sea. Oh, Tristan, had I but spoken to you once again, it is little I should have cared for death to come afterwards. But now, my love, I cannot come to you; for God wills it thus, and thus is the core of my grief. Death is nothing to me. I accept God’s will, but friend, when you learn of my passing, you too shall die; this I know and this too I lament. Our love is such that you cannot die without me, nor I without you, and so I see your death rising before me at the time of my own. Alas, friend, I have failed in my desire to die in your arms, to be buried with you in your coffin, but we both have failed. I shall die alone, without you, the grey sea closing over me. Perhaps you will not learn of my death, and will live on, ever awaiting my return. God willing, you will recover… Ah, perchance in aftertimes you may love another. I know not how you will fare; for me, friend, if I knew you were dead, I could not live on. May God grant us togetherness; may I heal you, or may we both die of our love—the selfsame anguish!”

And thus the Queen complained so long as the storm endured; but after five days the winds and the tumult finally died away. Kaherdin hoisted the sail, the white sail, right up to the very masthead with great joy; the white sail, that Tristan might know its colour from afar: and already Kaherdin saw Brittany far off floating before them like a cloud. Hardly were these things seen and done when a calm settled upon the waters, and the sea lay even and untroubled. But the sail bellied no longer, and the sailors held the ship now up, now down, the tide, beating backwards and forwards in vain. They saw the shore afar off, but the storm had carried their boat away and they could not land. On the third night Iseult dreamt this dream: that she held in her lap a boar’s head which befouled her skirts with gore; then did she know that she would never again see her lover alive.

Tristan was now too weak to keep his watch from the cliff of the Penmarc’h, and for many long days, within walls, far from the shore, he

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had mourned for Iseult because she did not come. Dolorous and alone, he mourned and sighed in restlessness: he was near to death from desire.

At last the wind freshened and the white sail showed. Then it was that Iseult of the White Hands took her vengeance.

She entered into the chamber where Tristan lay, and she said: “Friend, Kaherdin is here. I have seen his ship upon the sea. She comes up hardly— yet I know her; may he bring that which shall heal you, friend.”

And Tristan trembled and said: “Beautiful friend, you are sure that the ship is his indeed? Then tell me what is the manner of the sail?”

“I saw it plain and well. They have shaken it out and hoisted it very high, for they have little wind. As for its colour, why, it is black.”

And Tristan turned him to the wall, and said: “I cannot keep this life of mine any longer.” He said three times: “Iseult, my friend.” And in saying it the fourth time, he died.

Then throughout the house, the knights and the comrades of Tristan wept aloud, and they took him from his bed and laid him on a rich cloth, and they covered his body with a shroud. But at sea the wind had risen; it struck the white sail fair and full and drove the ship to shore, and Iseult the Fair finally set foot upon the land. She heard loud mourning in the streets, and the tolling of bells in the minsters and the chapel towers; she asked the people the meaning of the knell and of their tears and sorrow. An old man said to her: “Lady, we suffer a great grief. Tristan, who was so loyal and so right, he is dead. He was open to the poor; he ministered to the suffering. It is the chief evil that has ever befallen this land.”

But Iseult, hearing them, could not answer them a word. She proceeded to the palace, following the way, her cloak all random, billowing and wild. The Bretons marveled as she passed; nor had they ever beheld a woman of such beauty, and they said: “Who is she? From whence comes this lady?”

Near Tristan, Iseult of the White Hands crouched, now maddened at the evil she had committed, and calling and lamenting over the dead man. The other Iseult came in and said to her: “Lady, arise now and let me come by him; I have more right to mourn him than have you—believe me. I loved him more.”

And when she had turned to the east and prayed God, she moved the body a little and lay down by the dead man, beside her friend. She kissed his mouth and his face, and clasped him closely; and so she too gave up her soul, and died beside him of grief for her lover.

When King Mark heard of the death of these lovers, he crossed the sea and came into Brittany; and he had two coffins hewn, for Tristan and Iseult, one of chalcedony for Iseult, and one of beryl for Tristan. And he

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took their beloved bodies homeward and away with him upon his ship to Tintagel, and by a chantry to the left and right of the apse he had their tombs built round. But in one night there sprang from the tomb of Tristan a green and leafy briar, strong in its branches and in the scent of its flowers. It climbed the chantry and fell to root again by Iseult’s tomb. Thrice did the peasants cut it down, but thrice it grew again as flowered and as strong. They told the marvel to King Mark, and he forbade them to cut the briar any more.

My lords, the good singers of old, Béroul and Thomas of Britain, Eilhart and Gottfried told this tale for lovers and for none other, and, by my pen, they beg you for your prayers. May this tale pass down through the ages to those who are thoughtful and those who are happy, to those cast down and those in heart, to those troubled and filled with longing, to those consumed with joy and to those disconsolate—to lovers all, everywhere. May all find within this tale strength against inconstancy, against injustice and loss and pain, and all the sweet bitterness of loving.

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On the Nature of the Legend of Tristan and Iseult*

Joseph Bédier

Paris

Wherein the author presents the notion of a single primitive and sovereign French poet—whose name and lyrics have been lost to history—but whose story abides via the words and the telling of others, including his own.

I N ALL THE REALM OF LEGENDS, NONE IS MORE WONDERFUL THAN the story of Tristan and Iseult. Long ago, a trouvère, dedicating his words to posterity wrote, in gentle verse:

I have told this tale for those who love, and for none other. May it go down through the ages to those who are thoughtful, to those who are happy, to those who are disillusioned, to those who are full of longings, to those who are joyful, to those who are troubled, to all lovers, everywhere.

More than seven centuries have now passed, and from the time of Gottfried von Strassburg to Richard Wagner, the philtre of love and death has not lost its power to intoxicate the hearts of men. But, strong as is its hold upon men’s hearts and dear as its theme is to poets, the legend of Tristan is none less beautiful in the eyes of the philologist. In this rests the legend’s supreme dignity. Even as it has engendered the birth of noble poems within our own times, so it has further inspired the admirable scholarly works of Gaston Paris, Heinrich Zimmer, and Wolfgang Golther. Among all the problems the legend of Tristan offers to the critic, I choose to treat here the one highest and most delicate: the considerations of its

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to treat here the one highest and most delicate: the considerations of its origin and formation.

We suffer no lack of hypotheses and heated discussions that seek to explain in detail the mystery of the legend’s genesis and development. But all critics indiscriminately share one general opinion that dominates and overshadows their varied differences. It is this: born of the “depths of Celtic thought,” the legend of Tristan is not the sudden creation of one man, or of a generation of men; long centuries collaborated in the legend’s formation. The day it crossed the frontiers of its own Celtic country, the very nature of Tristan had already passed through various avatars. Notwithstanding, what the Celts transmitted to the Germano-Roman world was not a wholly organized and determinate legend; it was simply this one central theme: Tristan and Iseult ever bound to each other by the power of love.

There were a few lays, that is, short, episodic stories, independent of each other, gravitating around the principal theme, as around a nucleus of crystallization. These lays, these short stories recited to the accompaniment of the harp, the French jongleurs took up and sung in their wanderings. At first they were content simply to repeat their lays, with passive and delighted docility; soon, however, in their turn, they made bold to imagine analogous stories. These were the French lays, very similar to the Celtic lays, but more intricate, of varied motives, old epic or adventurous themes gleaned from universal folklore and, according to the poet’s caprice, united or disunited, bound together or separate. In the hands of these poets the legend was still a sort of indefinite and movable substance whereon gathered the dust of a hundred contradictory stories. Later, they sought to collect these incongruous lays, to bind them into consecutive narratives, but without success; at this time they united the two oldest of these romances, those of Béroul and Eilhart, under the title of the Version des Jongleurs—a name which in itself implies that the legend, given up to the nomadic poets, retained the alluring freedom and uncertainty of their wandering lives; indeed, in their poems were only large aggregates of related pieces, or, to use the word universally adopted —compilations. And when at length the more thoughtful poets of the court, Thomas and Gottfried von Strassburg, endeavored to introduce in them more order, their efforts met with only partial success; beneath their jointures and their paintings over, beneath the wholly superficial homogeneity of their works, the incoherence of the amalgamated stories is still betrayed.

This theory is widely recognized; it is a mere application of one

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formulated to account for the Homeric poems. Scholars tried to apply the theory likewise to the Germanic epic poems and to the French chansons de geste. But when they sought to apply this theory to the Spanish cantares their efforts met with a dismal failure. Just as the French chansons de geste are, as some still believe, chapelets or bouquets de cantalinas, so the stories of Tristan must be mere collections of lays, French and Celtic. It is doubtful, however, whether this theory—as to the formation of epics and legends by simple, mechanical juxtaposition—is a key that will fit all locks.

We wish to reduce the theory to its true value and determine exactly at what point it ceases to be true in the present case. We wish to show that in order to understand the history of the legend of Tristan, we must imagine one great workman instead of the anonymous and almost unconscious activity of several generations of jongleurs, acting by fragmentary inventions and unwittingly collaborating; instead of this indefinite development of the poem from generation to generation, we must picture one sovereign hour, one moment when the man, the individual, appeared, the conscious poet, the Homer who, taking possession of the vague, amorphous formations of earlier times, destined, but for him, to oblivion, laid his law upon them, breathed into them the life of his genius, and alone, the true creator, formed them for the coming ages. We wish to show that underlying all poems of Tristan, there has been one great, single poem from which all others have proceeded. And if our theory prevails, our conclusions—exceeding the legend of Tristan—will themselves contain, perchance, some instruction.

We know that the Celts related stories of Tristan before the French. But, if we seek to discern exactly what tales they related, then we know how difficult the conditions of the problem are; it is the same with any legend in the Matière de Bretagne. Aside from a few rare allusions in Welsh literature to the lovers of Cornwall, the Celtic originals—if, indeed, they were ever set down in writing—have perished; and we have merely the French poems, or derivatives from the French poems to go by, the oldest of which date back to the second half of the twelfth century. From these late texts we must draw any archaic elements that they, perchance, may conceal. And first, something of the history of the characters in the drama may be revealed to the linguist by the different names they bear.

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At the foundation of this onomastic research, and as its firm support, stands the beautiful discovery of M. Heinrich Zimmer. In many Welsh texts, our hero is named Drystan, son of Tallwch; now, in the “Annals of Tigernach” and in the “Annals of Ulster”—which contain lists of the kings who reigned from the sixth to the eighth centuries in the Pict marshlands of the present Scotland and Northumberland—figure the names of the kings Drest, Drust, or (the derivative form) Drostán, and these last named alternate with kings who are named Talorc. One king who reigned over the Picts from 780 to 785 was called Drest filius Talorgen. This name Talorc is found only among the Picts, just as the name of Tallwch is found only among the Welsh, and only in those passages where the father of Drystan is mentioned. Phonetically, Drystan is the derivative of Drostán, Tallwch of Talorc, and the Welsh Drystan, son of Tallwch is identical with the Drostán, son of Talorc of the Picts. If we add, with M. Ferdinand Lot, that Lyonesse, the country of Tristan, and Morois, the forest in which part of the action of our stories takes place, are identical with the two ancient divisions of Scotland, Lyonesse and Moravia, formerly occupied by the Picts, we come to these surprising conclusions: the hero, whose life, according to the French stories, is passed almost entirely in Cornwall, Wales, and Brittany, was originally a stranger to these countries*; without the knowledge of our trouvères, Tristan of Lyonesse was originally called Drostán, son of Talorc; he was a hero of the Picts and his legend was lived in Lothian, on the present confines of England and Scotland, and in Murray, on the plateau of the Scottish Highlands. And, as M. Gaston Paris writes, “There is something fascinating and almost touching in the thought that the soul of this vanished people—who have left us only their name and the names of a few of their chiefs, along with three or four words of their language—should survive even now in our souls, thanks to one of the most beautiful poetical creations of humanity.”

Nothing, however, indicates that this Pict Tristan was already celebrated for love adventures; perhaps he was purely an epic hero and warrior. The Welsh, it seems, were the first to transfer him to their own country, to adopt him and make him the rival in love of King Mark of Cornwall, a semihistorical character of their literature. Whether the Pict Tristan was already a famous lover, or whether the Welsh were the first to conceive the consummation of his heroic type through love, it was they who made him the lover of King Mark’s wife and located his principal adventures in Tintagel, on the coast of Cornwall.

Many of the proper names in our stories bear witness to the activity of the Welsh; take, for instance, that minor character, the seneschal, Dinas of

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Lidan, whose name, misunderstood by the trouvères, means, in Welsh, “lord of the great fortress.” But other names indicate that, if the first stage of the legend was Pict and the second Welsh, still a third people collaborated with the Welsh: Perinis, Iseult’s servant, Hoël de Carhaix, Duke of Brittany; Rivalen, the father of Tristan; Donoalen, the traitor; and many other characters in the stories, bear Breton rather than Welsh names, and we must admit that when the legend was received by the French poets, it was composed of Welsh and Armorican deposits.

Many hypotheses have been suggested to explain these facts but we shall limit ourselves here to pointing out the one that seems the most probable. From the tenth century on, the Norman and Breton aristocracy had become allied by frequent intermarriage, till a Norman castle was more than half Breton. And from very ancient times, the Breton jongleurs had made the Armorican harp resound within these Norman castles, and by their lays, half sung and half recited, they had provoked the first awakening of the Romance imagination to the legends of Brittany. Then came the conquest of England by Duke William, and the whole Romance civilization just as it was, found itself suddenly transplanted into castles beyond the channel. The Armorican jongleurs, who were more than half romanticized, and who lived in the service of the Norman lords, followed their patrons into their new conquest; there they renewed their acquaintance with the Welsh tribes from whom they had been so long separated; they learned certain of their legends, recognized the relationship of these with the legends that they themselves had brought, and leavened the one with the other; it was they who acted as the agents of transmission between the Welsh and the Romance peoples.

Whatever may be the value of this hypothesis, the Celtic, Welsh, and Armorican names, which abound in our poems, prove by their very reiteration, that the Celts bequeathed to the Romance poets many legendary themes. But what were these? Are we authorized to conclude quite sweepingly, because of the many Celtic names, that the legend of Tristan was drawn entirely from “the Celtic soul”? In what measure, in its Welsh period, did it resemble the legend we now know? Is it not possible that the characters in our stories have only their names in common with their Celtic prototypes? Might we not imagine, for example, that, among the Welsh, Tristan, like Cuchulain, the hero of the Irish epic, may have had a legend with many variants among which his love for Iseult was merely an episode? What part did the French jongleurs play in their reception of the legend? Were they simply transposers and rhapsodists, or were they real creators?

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To these questions it is scarcely necessary to say that all the researches of onomatechny cannot supply even the beginning of an answer, and we must now enter upon an entirely new field of inquiry; we must bring before us the whole tradition of Medieval poetry and sum up the Celtic elements that it has preserved, excerpting from the texts features and episodes which imply a civilization neither feudal nor French, and which send us back to very archaic conceptions, to the ways and customs of the Celts. This method has been applied often, and with a bold and deceitful rashness by certain critics; indeed, it is easy for anyone, endowed with a little imagination, to transform our French poems so as to produce a Welsh romance of Tristan with all the colouring of the Eddas or the Nibelungen. But the more difficult task in trying to determine the ethnical elements of a narration is, on the contrary, to yield nothing to one’s imagination. Nevertheless, when this research has once been conducted with the necessary critical skepticism, when we have eliminated many of those pretended mythical features that array Tristan sometimes as a solar god and sometimes as a Theseus, when we have set aside many bold combinations which seek to discover, on every page of the French romances, pre-Christian, pre-Romance, and Welsh survivals, there still remain a few ideas and a few episodes that are assuredly Celtic. If we group them together, we may form some idea of what the legend was at the time the Celts parted with it.

At the outset, we note several features in the character of Tristan, so peculiar, so foreign, and so strangely in contrast with the knights of the chansons de geste or of the romances of chivalry, that we are forced to admit they were not drawn by French poets. There is, first, the fact that Tristan knows how to imitate perfectly the songs of all birds; what French poet would have imagined that of any knight? Further, he fashions and makes the bow, Arc-Qui-ne-faut, “Failnaught,” which always precisely finds its intended mark, be it man or beast. Also, alone of all the epic heroes, he possesses, not a horse, but a favorite dog, loved equally with his dearest friends, and, doubtless, according to the older stories, enchanted like his bow.

There remains, also, the fact that the castle of Tintagel is a “chastel faé,” which twice a year disappears from mortal eyes; such is the castle of the Irish magician, Cúroi. There is also the hall of glass, suspended in the air,

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whither Tristan, in his feigned madness, intends to carry Iseult away; such, again, in the Irish epic, is the chamber of brilliant windows, to which Mac Oc carried Etain Echraide.

Finally, there are several scenes in the legend that we cannot explain if we attribute them to the French poets. First, there is the one in which Tristan, forbidden the sight of Iseult, scatters branches into a stream, to inform his loved one that he is waiting for her beneath a tree that overhangs the brook; this stream flows through Iseult’s very chamber and we must necessarily picture to ourselves, not a feudal castle, but a hut— with a floor of beaten earth.

These are the scenes that we may safely call Celtic. We might, perhaps, by analogy and by making our way from point to point, add a few episodes closely related or bound to these; take, for example, the scene where Mark, clinging to the branches of a tree, his bow in his hand, spies upon the lovers who have made their tryst beneath him. Happily, by the rays of the moonlight, they see Mark’s shadow reflected in the stream which flows at their feet and are prudent; by clever words, they succeed in deceiving the jealous King and even winning his pity. This episode follows almost necessarily that in which Tristan, in order to call Iseult, threw into this same stream the branches.

Is it really this, is it these brutal, half barbaric stories, that make up what we call the legend of Tristan? What do we understand, we men of today, Romanticists, Celtists, or simple literary men, with our knowledge of the story gained either by critical, scholarly study or by simply hearing one of Wagner’s operas, what do we understand when we repeat the names of the lovers of Cornwall or what did Béroul or Gottfried von Strassburg understand, when they told their story long ago for the men of earlier times and for the men of today? What are Tristan and Iseult? They are lovers who drank a philtre and, held captive by its power, suffered the fatality of this love against their will. The bitter conflict of love and law; this is the whole of the legend.

Now, are we authorized in believing that the Celts, beside their bloody tales, invented also this central conception without which the legend would not exist: two central figures, chained by love, but feeling upon them the pressure of the social law which subjects the vassal to his lord, and the wife to her husband, and suffering from this law in such a manner that every one of their pleasures is mingled with horror?

To begin with, we cannot feel at all certain that the invention of the love philtre is Celtic; we merely know that neither the ancient literature of Ireland, nor that of Wales, offers any example of such an enchantment. But

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even so, considering this negative statement to be of little value, if we admit that already in the Welsh story Tristan and Iseult had drunk a love philtre, can we believe that this enchantment had already had for the Celts the same value as for the French trouvères? That even among the Celts the two heroes endured their love as a fatality at once delightful and bitter? The following remarks would seem to contradict this.

That two rivals should contend passionately for a woman is the most elementary of instincts. That others, spectators of the fight, should be amused or moved by it, is also primitive, belonging specifically to neither the Cymri nor the French; the men of the stone age may already have possessed the rudiments of stories analogous to that of Tristan as swineherd. But that the woman and her lover should suffer from this struggle and suffer from their very triumphs, implies a state of culture far more complex. An “epic of adultery” can take place only among a people for whom marriage is an indissoluble and formidable bond. Only those who recognize a strongly imperative, rigid, and stern social law, can build a poem on this social law hostile to love.

The very life of the story as we have it, lies in the fact that nowhere, in any of the known poems, does Iseult dream of leaving King Mark, nor Tristan of carrying her away. It is against their will, that, tracked and hunted, they submit to a common exile in the forest of Morois, but as soon as Tristan feels that the King’s wrath is softened, his only thought is to give him back Iseult. Their love is not a restless lust, seeking to justify itself by the romantic argument of the sovereign rights of passion. Tristan is not in revolt against society, he does not repudiate the social institution; on the contrary, he respects it, he suffers on account of it, and this suffering alone imparts beauty to his actions. He is the nephew and the adopted son of King Mark; he does not dispute the law of gratitude, he violates it and, in violating it, he suffers. He is King Mark’s vassal; he does not dispute the law of a vassal’s honor, he violates it and, in violating it, he suffers. The “idea” of the legend is not that the social law is bad; in all the extant poems of the Middle Ages, it is rather that love brings face to face with the law a world of rights, not superior to the social rights, but without common measure with them, and that it creates between law and nature a struggle which God Himself must judge. The legend is founded wholly upon a social law, recognized as good, necessary, and just. It is founded upon an indissoluble marriage bond.

We may go further; we may set down this proposition as an axiom: the legend of Tristan had neither beauty nor even life until the day when a romance of Tristan existed. By romance, we do not mean necessarily a

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written, completed poem, but at least an epic subject somewhat richly developed. The subject of the Chevalier au lion, of Erec, or of Perceval may be contained in three or four little lays artificially brought together. But the fundamental theme of the legend of Tristan implies something more. It implies the two lovers bound together in life and death, a permanent and manifold conflict between love and the law. So long as this conflict finds expression only in one lay, in one short story, or in a series of little, similar stories (such as the narrations of the feminine strategies by which King Mark is deceived), we may say that the legend does not yet live. It comes to life only on the day when a poet, or a generation of men, represent the development of this conflict in a series of adventures, of struggles, and of obstacles, which attend the lovers from their birth until their death; it exists only from the day when a biographical character is given to the love of Tristan and Iseult.

Now, it is contrary to all we know of the stories of Brittany and of the modes of epic recitation among the Celts, to suppose that they ever possessed a great romance of love about Tristan. It is, however, conformable to all that we know of the poetry of either the Cymri or the Irish, to believe that they possessed and could have transmitted nothing else but lays concerning Tristan; and these were, doubtless, as we have seen, simple stories of adultery. The question, then, is this: what is there at the basis of the French poetical tradition? Lays, episodical narrations, vaguely related to one another? Or is there, indeed, a regular poem?

III

When we approach the comparative study of the poems of Tristan, the first impressions we receive confirm the preconceived theory that these romances are rhapsodies, or “compilations.” What favors this theory is, first of all, the multiplicity of the versions: the English “Sir Tristrem,” the Scandinavian saga, the Tzech “Tristan,” the poems of Gottfried von Strassburg, of Heinrich von Freyberg, of Ulrich von Türheim, the romances in French, German, Italian, and Spanish prose, and twenty other texts which cross and intertwine; secondly, there is the diversity of the different forms which these texts offer for every episode, the slowness of the critic to unravel the relations of these versions, the extreme complications in the method of classing them, all these points strengthening the opinion that we are face to face with an inextricable multitude of amalgamated stories, with a confused material, incompletely

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organized; and we are ready to believe that a vast “sea of stories” is spreading out before us. Nevertheless, as we grow more intimate with the texts, as we profit more and more by the philological works that have accumulated, we perceive that the tradition is not nearly as rich and diverse as we had imagined, that the greater part of the versions must be eliminated entirely as translations or unimportant after-products of preserved works, and we find that the whole legend of Tristan is contained in four, or perhaps five, primary versions, namely:

1. The poem by Béroul, written in Normandy about 1160, of which we possess only a fragment of three thousand lines with a false sequel, added about 1200, by an unknown French jongleur.

2. The French poem, written in England about the same date, 1160, by Thomas, the trouvère, which has come down to us in a very mutilated condition, but whose tenor we are able to reconstruct from the various different versions of it in foreign languages.

3. The poem, composed about 1190, by Eilhart d’Oberg, vassal of Henry the Lion, Duke of Brunswick.

4. The romance in French prose, written about 1230, and later rewritten and added to indefinitely, in which, however, it is easy to find the disjecta membra of an archaic poem.

5. The episodical French poem of the “Folie Tristan” preserved in a manuscript at Berne, and composed in the second half of the twelfth century.

If we compare these primary versions, we see that they are made up of about sixty episodes, twenty of which appear separately, contained in one single romance, while the forty others figure in all five romances or in three or four among them. These sixty episodes, forty of which are preserved in three, four, or five copies, embrace the whole of the legend of Tristan. Beyond them there is nothing, and what impresses us now is not the richness and the multiplicity but the dearth of these legendary themes. In order to examine these, let us, for once, cease to confine our attention exclusively to the criticism of their differences; let us make up, on the contrary, the sum of the episodes common to all and presented in the same order by at least three of the versions. We may imagine as many lost intermediary versions between these primary ones as we wish; but in any case we must find, at the common foundation of these works, one intelligent and conscious thought which first united the common themes in the following order:

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In the olden times, when King Mark reigned in Cornwall, he received at his court a young man, a stranger; this was Tristan, the son of his sister Blanchefleur, whose birth had cost his mother her life and who had grown up, an orphan, in a distant land. King Mark, in whom dwelt all nobility and goodness, loved him from the day he saw him, even before he recognized in him the son of his sister Blanchefleur: Tristan owed to King Mark all that a son can owe his father; to the King’s infinite tenderness, he replied with an equal tenderness. On the very day that he is armed as a knight, Tristan is happy to repay Mark something of his many benefits: the Morholt, a famous knight, comes to Cornwall to claim, in the name of the King of Ireland, a shameful tribute of youth and maidens. No one dared oppose him; Tristan alone engages him in battle; he kills the Morholt, leaving a fragment of his sword buried in the skull of his adversary; he has freed King Mark’s land from the tribute but he is himself wounded by the Morholt’s poisoned spear. Feeling that he is about to die, he causes himself to be laid within a bark, and the sea carries him to Whitehaven, to the hands of the Queen of Ireland and her daughter Iseult; this, above all others, is the country of danger, for Iseult is the Morholt’s niece, but no one recognizes Tristan as the one who slew the Morholt, for the venom in his wound has so disfigured his features, and very soon the Queen of Ireland sends him back, cured, to Cornwall. No sooner has he reached there than, at Mark’s command, he sets forth again for Dublin, at the peril of his life; Mark has commissioned him to bring back Iseult, his enemy’s daughter, for he wishes to make her his bride. It happened that the King of Ireland has promised to give Iseult in marriage to whomsoever should deliver his country from a terrible dragon, devastating it from border to border. Tristan kills the dragon, and cuts out its tongue, but, poisoned by the monster’s venom, he falls senseless among the grasses in a swamp. An impostor cuts off the dragon’s head and, pretending to have killed it, claims the promised reward. But Iseult has discovered Tristan in the swamp and transports him secretly to the castle where she restores him to his senses and makes him well again. One day, when he is in a bath which she has prepared for him, she notices that his sword is notched; she takes the splinter of steel that she has formerly drawn from the head of the Morholt and it fits exactly into the sword; she recognizes the slayer of her uncle, and grasping the huge weapon, wishes to kill Tristan while he is in the bath. He quiets her with skillful words and after confounding the impostor by producing the dragon’s tongue, he reveals to the King of Ireland that he is a messenger from King Mark of Cornwall. He has won the girl both by strategy and by force and he swears upon the relics of the

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saints, before all the barons of Ireland and before a hundred knights of Cornwall, who are his companions, that he will conduct her loyally to her future husband, King Mark.

Thus we pass from scene to scene, and by and by, Tristan and Iseult, by mistake, drink a love philtre while at sea; Mark weds Iseult and the latter substitutes her servant, Brangien, for herself in the King’s bed, et cetera.

We may follow the story in this way until the death of the lovers. And thus we obtain a scenario containing three quarters of all the known episodes of the legend—all that are essential. Now, if we look carefully at this scenario, we are struck by its inward logic, by the harmony of its organic structure. It is not, as the theory of the “lays” and “compilations” sought to prove, a series of episodes whose order we may arrange and rearrange, at pleasure, as we may do without injury to the stories of the knightly deeds of Gawain or Lancelot in the romances of chivalry. Rather, it is a work of the conscious creative will, in which the unity of creation is superbly shown.

This unity of creation shows itself first in what constitutes the scenario, the harmonious series of combinations that lead the two central figures from one vicissitude to another, according to a law of logical progression.

All the incidents of the beginning, which we have just summed up, are put together in such a way that Tristan appears to us dependent upon his uncle Mark (by ties of blood, gratitude, and a vassal’s honor) and yet he appears to us quite independent of him, materially, for he may, if he pleases, go back to a Kingdom which is his own. These incidents tend likewise to show Tristan as independent of Iseult, who hates in him the slayer of the Morholt, and who remains for a long time indifferent to him, until the day when the love philtre makes each as dependent upon the other as possible.

It is a real uniformity of “preparations” which has brought into play the conflict of love and law. The lovers have drunk of the vin herbé; the action is begun. After that, many scenes are unrolled wherein the joys and torments of the two lovers are skillfully graduated. The law of progression is this: the lovers pass through many phases in which they suffer trials constantly increasing in severity; each phase brings suffering unknown in the preceding period of their lives, and each is made ever more intricate with the addition of the kinds of suffering endured in all the preceding periods. The phases of progression:

1. Remorse. In the first phase, no one suspects their love. As yet, they

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suffer from the necessity of hiding their fault (the substitution of Brangien for Iseult) and from the fear aroused by the agitation in their hearts.

2. Remorse and public shame. In the second phase, besides the suffering caused by their betrayal of the King, is added the shame of feeling that they are watched by traitors and suspected by Mark (Tristan’s dismissal from the palace, the first lies, and the scene in which Mark spies upon them, hidden in the branches of the tree).

3. Remorse, public shame, and exile. The King, convinced at length, has driven them both away. They live as outlaws in the forest. This is the culminating point of the legend, where the greatest joys of their love and their worst social miseries entwine among the trees of the wood of Morois. They suffer physical pain, which is added to their increasing remorse and their growing shame at being exiled from the life of men.

4. Remorse, public shame, exile, and separation. Until now, they have, at least, lived near one another. But now a worse trial arises: separation. Iseult is reinstated in her queenly dignity, but henceforth she will always be tormented by Mark’s jealousy, and watched. Tristan continues his life of exile, alone. (Episodes of their exile, and those where Tristan, at the peril of his life, endeavors to see the Queen secretly once more.)

5. Remorse, public shame, exile, separation, and jealousy. Tristan, tortured by the long silence of separation, ends by believing that Iseult no longer loves him. At this time, in a fit of despair, he marries another Iseult, daughter of the Duke of Brittany. But scarcely has he wedded her when he realizes his offence and repents. Iseult the Fair learns of his marriage. Now suspicion and jealousy fill the emptiness of their separation. Thus follows the prolonged cruelest torture of all: jealousy wed to separation, their hearts pursuing their bodies into torment and exile from each other. At length, with a ceaseless, obstinate persistency, in every vile disguise, Tristan returns to the Queen: as Tristan the madman, Tristan the pilgrim, and as Tristan the leper. Each meeting, rather than satiating their longing, augments the torments suffered by the wretched lovers. And what constitutes the grandeur of these episodes—where the lover returns to his beloved, suspecting her even as she suspects him, exiled again and yet again, and yet ever returning—is the desolate feeling of profound solitude and estrangement in their souls, total emptiness from lack of the other. Then, the full cup of misery drunk to the very dregs, but one

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more trial, or rather one refuge remains to them: 6. Death. In this framework common to all the known versions,

beautiful even in the schematic form to which we are here forced to reduce it, how can we doubt the unity of creation? It stands out clearly not only from the ingenious rigor of this scenario, but also from the fact that situations are always subordinate to characters. Through all we see the characters’ constancy and strength: Tristan, knightly and loyal, bringing to his uncle the wife of whom he has already robbed him—disloyalty entwined with loyalty, retaining unto death his early tenderness for Mark; Iseult, sorrowful and strong, loving in the midst of blood shed for her; Mark, more beautiful than the lovers, living solely for the love that he bears to his adopted son, and then to his Queen, punishing them without being able to drive them from his heart, and ending, perchance, by the very strength of his compassion, in half divining the secret of the love philtre. Truly, someone, at some time, combined this plan and these characters.

It is certain, as we have said before, that this someone had Celtic stories with which to work. Further than this, it is possible, it is even infinitely probable, that he did not come directly into contact with the original Celtic sources but that he started from scattered French or English stories, more or less passive translations, more or less remodeled imitations of the Celtic lays. But is it not possible, some will ask, that amongst these varied stories he might have found one that was already enriched with moral ideas foreign to the Celts, and that this privileged story may have provided him with the tone, the keynote, and the colour for his work? And further, is it not possible that the beginnings of great romances in Roman or in Saxon lands may have preceded his romance and that his may be derived from them? It is possible, certainly. Every trick of logic is permissible here; since not one text hinders one’s hypotheses, all are possible, and as none hinders, so none confirms, and all are vain. Our scenario reveals the activity of a man who feels his responsibility as the narrator of so tremendous a romance. Had he forerunners? What matter if these putative forerunners are condemned to remain purely people of our own conjecture? Non sunt entia multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.* This one thing, indeed, is undisputed, that all the tradition known to us, implies this single scenario: not a poem is preserved to us that does not refer or adapt itself to such an archetype; not an episode nor a feature that differs from nor contradicts this archetype. Suppose poems existed anterior to this

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archetype; what do they matter, since they have all been absorbed into this one, and have no life except in and through it?

It is, indeed, the word poem that we must use henceforth, rather than retain any longer the ruder word scenario. Let us venture to consider one of our romances, that by Béroul. Many intermediaries, perhaps, separate him from the original trouvère. However, within a long series of adventures we find the very subsoil, the immediate invention of a single creator. Each episode—from the treason of Frocin the Dwarf; to the lovers being sent without trial to the pyre, including the tears and the pleas of mercy begged upon the King by the people of Tintagel; to Tristan’s leap from the chantry window and his miraculous survival; to the scene with the lepers and his rescue of Iseult, also regarded as an extension of God’s intervention on the lovers’ behalf; to their lives thereafter in the wood of Morois, including the gentle scene when Mark comes upon the sleeping lovers—the naked sword between them—and his consequent surrender of himself to tender mercies; to Tristan’s message to the King; to the assembly at the Ford of Providence, including, the giving over of the Queen to her husband King Mark—each episode follows one upon the other, each implies and upholds the other; each is radiant and beautiful; each weaving into the beauty and luminosity of the others, as the poem becomes an intricate, dynamic whole.

Mark has twice surprised them: that night when Tristan’s blood drips upon the flour spread by the treacherous dwarf Frocin; and again during the poignant scene in the wood of Morois, when the King stands silently watching the sleeping lovers, the bare sword between them signaling abstinence—and thus fidelity to him. What must have passed through his heart on that day in the forest? He has received suggestions of their crimes, but never proof. Did Mark, at this moment, simply admit the possibility of their innocence? Or rather, in the tenderness of his heart did he make himself, in his turn, yet another accomplice to their duplicity? Did he pretend and want to believe in their innocence in order to take back the Queen? We do not know, but the gloves that he left amid the branches, his exchange of swords with Tristan and rings with the sleeping Queen, are signs that now, and henceforth, he too shares sympathy for Tristan and Iseult: he is ready, not to pardon, but to judge.

Indeed, it is judgment that Tristan ceaselessly demands, not pardon. In

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the letter he dictates to Ogrin, the hermit, addressed to the King, he repeats that he has not loved Iseult with a guilty love, that he was forced and constrained to carry her away into the forest in order to save her life, that God Himself has manifested his innocence by two miracles, and that he is ready to uphold innocence against any comer in judiciary battle. At last Mark organizes the judgment and, at the White Lands, Tristan solemnly presents himself for combat. There is no champion found to uphold the accusation, because doubtless everyone recognizes the protection God visibly extends to Tristan and the Queen, and doubtless because the barons, fearing Tristan’s strength and, participating in their turn in the bel mentir of the lovers, pretend to believe them innocent. Henceforth, Tristan is not pardoned; he is justified—a judgment clearly sanctioned by God. For want of an accuser, Tristan is absolved, and Mark is juridically at peace with himself and his barons. He may now take back the Queen: his love now becomes an accomplice of his justice.

Is it not true that this long series of adventures is entirely built upon very particular moral and social postulates—indeed, upon a very specific conception of justice? One idea holds sway in the legend—the lovers’ sanction and absolution by God; indeed, in His direct participation and intervention in their lives. Suppose this central idea were erased, or did not exist—then in a trice, the whole romance would appear wild and ridiculous, at best, or worst, incoherent. Mark would appear as a fool and the admirable scene of the gloves would serve only to bring out his stupid good nature. Ogrin, the venerable hermit, would only be a panderer; the romance itself would be a mockery of the idea upon which the men of the Middle Ages built an entire system of justice. Is it not true that all these scenes could have been invented only in feudal times, at the very moment when, the method of the judiciary duel being still in high favor, men were, nevertheless, beginning, almost unconsciously perhaps, to admit that a little strategy and strength might often help one of the champions? Is it not true that we have here something primary, before which there had been nothing and after which there could be nothing but pitiful deformation? On the one hand, we cannot take these scenes and try to bring them back to a more archaic type; let anyone attempt it, and see the ruin he will make! On the other hand, the scenes cannot be made over in anyway whatsoever to fit a later age; two posterior poets, Thomas and Gottfried von Strassburg, tried to do this, the idea of the judgment of God being already for them something weak and untenable; but all this part of the story, over which they strove hard to preserve some fragments (the betrayal by the dwarf, the life in the forest, and the episode of the gloves), is in their versions a

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lamentable and ridiculous failure. The scenes, the poem as a whole, owe their existence to one common

leaven, to this conception of divine justice, which the poet sets forth and develops through these scenes, and for whose sake alone they exist, to serve as its dramatic illustration. Each is a segment in a series to which the assembly in the White Lands alone gives meaning and conclusion. It follows, then, that one single poet must have composed all these episodes, written each for the other, at one single time. We may suppose as many lost intermediaries as we wish between this poet and Béroul, but this part at least, the remolders thus supposed have not dared remold, and through this conception of divine justice we reach back to the archetype, the primitive and anonymous poet.

But have we not exposed ourselves to a grave objection, by having here attached so much importance to the feudal belief in the judgment of God, behind which Tristan takes shelter and which serves to give unity to the poem? Is not this, one may object, an artifice or resource that indicates a late rather than a primitive state of the poem? Is this not a sort of justification of the lovers, by a juridical trick, attempted as an afterthought? Is it not more probably the invention of a man unfitted to understand the earlier state of the legend, in which love would not take refuge behind the law, but would find justification within itself, with its fatal power and the heavy sacrifices it imposes upon its victims? To reply to this, we should now have to show that between this part of the poem and all the others, are manifold relations that apparent discordances resolve into one intimate and profound harmony, and this would be a long undertaking. All the preceding observations have led us to place, at the foundation of the French and Germanic tradition, not an amorphous vulgate, made up of a mechanical assemblage of scattered narrations, but a regular poem, all the parts of which, created in relation one to another, were bound together by a strong synergy, one and complex. Nevertheless, we cannot doubt but that someone may oppose our views, till now based principally on logical deductions, with other logical combinations. It is enough for us to have proposed here a hypothesis, born of the observation of the facts, which does not meet with any obstacles in the facts, and to have presented it favorably, perhaps, to the attention of criticism. It will remain a hypothesis, we know, so long as we shall be forced to see so

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dimly this archetype, of which we can give here only a suggestion to the reader.

Since the five romances upon which depend all the known texts (those by Béroul, Eilhart, Thomas, the romance in French prose, and the poem of the “Folie Tristan”*) all proceed from the archetype, directly or indirectly, but independently of each other, a comparison of the differences in these five versions allows us to restore the original, the lost archetype. By means of a philological operation—the mechanism of which it would take too long to describe here—the tale is reborn in its archaic grace—at once harsh and delicious, voluptuous and cruel, grave and charming, and with an extraordinary, passionate, and sorrowful exaltation. We must imagine the author of this archetype, doubtless an Anglo-Norman, as living in a remote and early period, his work surely the venerable contemporary of the Pèlerinage de Charlemagne or the Chanson de Roland. Before him there must certainly have been, in the Celtic country, scattered stories of Tristan that gave the first impetus to his genius; but these stories would have lived obscurely and have fallen into oblivion but for him, who, alone, weaved within them an unforeseen value and meaning; through him alone, the poet of Tristan, the legend of the fatal love, stronger than law, stronger than honor, came into being and had life; and this love, being absolute, created for itself a sort of mysterious legitimacy. After him, there came only the remoldings of his poem, very beautiful, assuredly. But what do the works of Thomas and Gottfried von Strassburg represent? They are the reduction to the tone of court poetry, the transposition into the precieux manner of an archaic poem originally foreign to both the precieux and the courtly mind. Charming and exquisite as they are when they embellish and soften the inventions of the primitive poet, these remolders are great only when they preserve the inventions without daring to touch them. The primitive poet alone was the sovereign poet. The theory, according to which a legend, slowly elaborated upon by thousands of poetic hearts, is the fruit of the collaboration of diverse peoples and of manifold generations of bards, has, indeed, romantic nobility. Yet there is another sight no less inspiring: that of a man who, by the power of his heart and his imagination, starting from a few legendary ideas received from outside, creates heroes that will live and breathe, creates the geste that will stir the hearts of men throughout long ensuing centuries.

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* Elsewhere the lovers’ names have, of course, been variously rendered as Drustanus, Drystan, Tristran, Tristram; and Isolde, Yseult, Isode, Isoude, Eselt, Esyllt, et cetera; Iseult is also the name of the Queen of Ireland, Iseult’s mother (though her name is not actually mentioned in the Bédier version); as well as Iseult of the White Hands, future wife of Tristan.

* We may find ourselves reminded of the first and last dawn together of Romeo and Juliet, when awakening, she says: “It was the nightingale, not the lark.” But he: “It was the lark, the herald of the morn.” Hence the star-crossed lovers’ first and last night in each other’s arms ends with day’s beginning.

* For an expansion of these ideas, contemporary to Bédier, see John Arnott MacCullough, The Religion of the Celts, Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1911.

* Both Gaston Paris and Joseph Bédier mention the possibility of a French archetype (estoire), as opposed to an earlier Celtic version. Years before the publication of The Romance of Tristan and Iseult, Ernest Renan wrote in The Poetry of the Celtic Races and Other Essays: “It is even hoped that this curious legend will be discovered complete in some Welsh manuscript.”

* Here M. Paris refers not so much to the bewitching aspect of the love potion, but to the refined ideals of civilized love and honor developing in the courts of twelfth century France, which stood in utter contrast to the seizure, the ferocity of love in this tale.

* “Nowadays, national literature doesn’t mean much: the age of world literature [weltliteratur] is upon us, and we ought to hasten its advent” Goethe, 1827.

* In the original “Notes on the Sources,” Joseph Bédier uses chapter numbers with Roman numerals, as opposed to chapter titles, but nowhere—neither in the original French, nor in the subsequent English versions, and neither in the table of contents nor on the chapter title pages—are chapter numbers used; therefore, here the numeration has been removed.

* Based on Susan Hilles Taber’s 1904 translation. * As noted in the introduction, Ernest Renan may dispute this point, even suggesting the

possibility of a Welsh manuscript. * Generally rendered as Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem: Entities must not

be multiplied beyond necessity. * Bédier has already indicated that he is referring to the Berne version of the “Folie Tristan,”

not the Oxford.

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Foreword by William Beckford
Introduction by Vincent Nicolosi
Preface by Gaston Paris
Notes on the Sources by Joseph Bédier
Part the First
The Childhood of Tristan
The Morholt Out of Ireland
The Quest of the Lady with the Hair of Gold
The Philtre
Brangien Delivered to the Serfs
The Tall Pine-Tree
The Dwarf Frocin
The Chantry Leap
Part the Second
The Wood of Morois
Ogrin the Hermit
At the Ford of Providence
The Ordeal by Iron
Part the Third
The Song of the Nightingale
The Little Faëry Bell
Iseult of the White Hands
Kaherdin
Dinas of Lidan
The Madness of Tristan
Death

On the Nature of the Legend of Tristan and Iseult