Four Arthurian Romances
did not suffice, for the Saxons were around about fighting to rescue
him. Nevertheless, Cligés escapes from the conflict without receiving
harm and with a precious prize; for he makes off with the duke's steed,
which was whiter than wool, and was worth more to a gentleman than the
fortune of Octavian [231] at Rome. The steed was an Arabian. The Greeks
and Germans are overjoyed to see Cligés on such a mount, for they had
already remarked the excellence and beauty of the Arab steed. But they
were not on their guard against an ambuscade; and before they are aware
of it great damage will be done.
(Vv. 3621-3748.) A spy came to the duke, bringing him welcome news.
"Duke," says the spy, "not a man remains in all the encampment of the
Greeks who is able to defend himself. If thou wilt take my word for it,
now is the time to have the emperor's daughter seized, while the Greeks
are seen intent upon the battle and the strife. Lend me a hundred of thy
knights, and I will put the lady in their hands. By an old and secluded
path I will lead them so carefully that they will not be seen or met
by any man of Germany, until they can seize the damsel in her tent and
carry her off so handily that no resistance will be made." At this the
duke is highly pleased. He sent a hundred and more tried knights with
the spy, who so successfully conducted them that they carried the maiden
away captive without exerting any force; for they could abduct her
easily. After carrying her some distance from the tents, they send her
on under escort of twelve of their number whom they accompany but a
short distance. While the twelve led the damsel on, the others went to
tell the duke how successful they had been. The duke's desire being now
satisfied, he at once makes a truce with the Greeks until next day. The
truce was sworn by both parties. The duke's men then turned back, while
the Greeks without delay repaired each man to his own tent. But Cligés
stays behind alone, stationed upon a little hill where no one caught
sight of him, until he saw the twelve pass by with her whom they were
carrying off at topmost speed. Cligés, in his thirst for glory, rides
at them without delay; for he thinks within himself, and his heart tells
him, that it is not for nothing that they flee. So, as soon as he espied
them, he spurred after them; and when they saw him coming on, a foolish
thought occurred to them: "It is the duke," they said, "who comes. Let
us rein in a little; for he has left the troops and is riding hard after
us alone." Every man thinks that so it is. They all want to turn back to
meet him, but each one wishes to go alone. Meanwhile, Cligés must
needs descend a deep valley between two mountains. He would never have
recognised their blazons, if they had not come to meet him, or if they
had not awaited him. Six of the twelve come to meet him in an encounter
they will soon regret. The other six stay with the damsel, leading her
gently at a walk and easy jog. And the six ride quickly on, spurring up
the valley, until he who had the swiftest horse reached him first
and cried aloud: "Hail, Duke of Saxony! God bless thee! Duke, we have
recovered thy lady. The Greeks shall not get her now, for she shall be
placed in thy hands." When Cligés heard the words this fellow shouts,
his heart is not gay; rather is it strange that he does not lose his
wits. Never was any wild beast--leopard, tiger, or lion--upon seeing its
young captured, so fierce and furious as Cligés, who sets no value upon
his life if he deserts his sweetheart now. He would rather die than not
win her back. In his trouble he feels great wrath, which gives him the
courage he requires. He urges and spurs the Arab steed, and rushes
to give the Saxon such a blow upon his painted shield that without
exaggeration, he makes his heart feel the lance. This gives Cligés
confidence. He drove and spurred the Arab charger on for more than the
space of an acre before he came upon the next Saxon, for they came up
singly, each fearless of his predecessor's fare, for Cligés fights
them one by one. As he takes them thus individually, no one receives
another's aid. He makes a rush at the second one, who, like the first,
thought to give him joy by telling him of his own evil fate. But Cligés
has no concern to heed his talk and idle charter. Thrusting his lance
into his body so that the blood spurts out when it is withdrawn, he
deprives him of life and the gift of speech. After these two he meets
the third, who expects to find him in good humour and to make him
rejoice over his own mischance. Spurring eagerly he came up to him;
but before he has time to say a word, Cligés ran a fathom of his lance
through the middle of his body, leaving him senseless on the ground.
To the fourth he gives such a blow that he leaves him fainting on the
field. After the fourth he goes at the fifth, and after him he attacks
the sixth. None of them could defend himself, but each was left silent
and mute. He stood in less fear of the others now, and more hardily
pressed after them, taking no further thought of the six dead men.
(Vv. 3749-3816.) Feeling no further care for them, he starts to present
a debt of shame and woe to the others who are leading the maid away. He
caught up with them, and made such an onslaught upon them as a hungry
and ravenous wolf makes when leaping upon its prey. Now he feels his
luck has come, when he can display his chivalry and bravery openly
before her who is his very life. Now may he die, if he does not rescue
her! And she, too, is at death's door from anxiety for his sake, though
she does not know that he is no near. Lance in rest, Cligés made an
attack which pleased him well; for he struck first one Saxon and then
another, so that with a single rush he carried them both to earth,
though it cost him his ashen lance. And they both fall in such distress,
being wounded in the body, that they have no power to rise again and
do him any harm or ill. The other four in bitter rage join in an attack
upon Cligés; but he neither quails nor trembles, and they are unable
to dislodge him from his seat. Quickly drawing his keen sword from its
sheath, in order to please her who awaits his love, he rode hard at a
Saxon and, striking him with his whetted blade, he severed his head and
half his neck from the body: such was the limit of his pity. Fenice, who
witnesses what transpires, does not know yet that this is Cligés. She
wishes that it were he, indeed, but because of the present danger she
says to herself that she would not have him there. Thus, doubly she
shows the devotion of a sweetheart, fearing at once his death, and
desiring that honour may be his. And Cligés sword in hand attacks the
other three, who face him bravely and puncture and split his shield. But
they are unable to lay hands upon him, or to pierce the meshes of his
hauberk. And whatever Cligés reaches cannot stand against his blow,
but must needs be split and torn apart; for he turns faster than a
top driven and lashed by the whip. Boldness and love, which holds him
enthralled, make him eager for the fray. He pressed the Saxons so hard
that he left them all dead and defeated, some only wounded, and others
dead--except one whom he let escape, disdaining to kill him when left
alone at his mercy; besides, he wished him to tell the duke of the loss
and injury he had sustained. But before this fellow left Cligés, he
begged him to tell him his name, which later he repeated to the duke,
thus rousing his bitter ire.
(Vv. 3817-3864.) Now bad luck had fallen to the duke, who was in great
distress and grief. And Cligés takes back Fenice, whose love torments
and troubles him. If he does not confess to her now, love will long be
his enemy, and hers too, if she holds her peace and speaks not the word
which will bring him joy; for now each can tell the other privily the
thoughts that lie within the heart. But they so fear to be refused that
they dare not reveal their hearts. For his part, he fears lest she will
not accept his love, whereas she, too, would have spoken out had she
not feared to be rejected. In spite of this, the eyes of each reveal the
hidden thought, if only they had heeded this evidence. They converse
by glance of eye, but their tongues are so cowardly that they dare not
speak in any wise of the love which possesses them. No wonder if she
hesitates to begin, for a maid must be a simple and shrinking thing; but
he--why does he wait and hold back who was so bold for her just now, but
now in her presence is cowardly? God! whence comes this fear, that he
should shrink from a lonely girl, feeble and timid, simple and mild? It
is as if I should see the dog flee before the hare, and the fish chase
the beaver, the lamb the wolf, and the dove the eagle. In the same
fashion the labourer would forsake his pick with which he strives to
earn a livelihood, and the falcon would flee from the duck, and the
gerfalcon from the heron, and the pike from the minnow, and the stag
would chase the lion, and everything would be reversed. Now I feel
within me the desire to give some reason why it should happen to true
lovers that they lose their sense and boldness to say what they have in
mind when they have leisure and place and time.
(Vv. 3865-3914.) Ye who are interested in the art of Love, who do
faithfully maintain the customs and usage of his court, who never failed
to obey his law, whatever the result might be, tell me if there is
anything that pleases because of love without causing us to tremble
and grow pale. If any one oppose me in this, I can at once refute his
argument; for whoever does not grow pale and tremble, whoever does not
lose his senses and memory, is trying to filch and get by stealth what
does not by right belong to him. The servant who does not fear his
master ought not to remain in his employ nor do his service. He who does
not esteem his lord does not fear him, and whoever does not esteem him
does not hold him dear, but rather tries to deceive him and to steal
from him what is his. The servant ought to tremble with fear when his
master calls or summons him. And whoever commits himself to Love owns
him as his lord and master, and is bound to do him reverence and fear
him much and honour him, if he wishes to be numbered in his court. Love
without alarm or fear is like a fire without flame or heat, day without
sun, comb without honey, summer without flowers, winter without frost,
sky without moon, and a book without letters. Such is my argument
in refutation, for where fear is absent love is not to be mentioned.
Whoever would love must needs feel fear, for otherwise he cannot be in
love. But let him fear only her whom he loves, and for her sake be brave
against all others. Then if he stands in awe of his lady-love Cligés
is guilty of nothing wrong. Even so, he would not have failed to speak
straightway with her of love, whatever the outcome might have been, had
it not been that she was his uncle's wife. This causes the festering of
his wound, and it torments and pains him the more because he dares not
utter what he fain would say.
(Vv. 3915-3962.) Thus they make their way back to their own people, and
if they speak of anything it is nothing of much concern. Each seated on
a white horse, they rode rapidly toward the camp, which was plunged in
great sorrow. The whole army is beside itself with grief, but they are
altogether wrong in supposing Cligés to be dead: hence their bitter and
poignant grief. And for Fenice, too, they are in dismay, thinking never
to win her back again. Thus, for her and him the whole army is in great
distress. But soon upon their return the whole affair will change its
aspect; for now they have reached the camp again, and have quickly
changed the grief to joy. Joy returns and sorrow flees. All the troops