Four Arthurian Romances
until he heard among the trees a very loud and dismal cry, and he turned
in the direction whence it seemed to come. And when he had arrived upon
the spot he saw in a cleared space a lion, and a serpent which held
him by the tail, burning his hind-quarters with flames of fire. My lord
Yvain did not gape at this strange spectacle, but took counsel with
himself as to which of the two he should aid. Then he says that he will
succour the lion, for a treacherous and venomous creature deserves to
be harmed. Now the serpent is poisonous, and fire bursts forth from its
mouth--so full of wickedness is the creature. So my lord Yvain decides
that he will kill the serpent first. Drawing his sword he steps forward,
holding the shield before his face in order not to be harmed by the
flame emerging from the creature's throat, which was larger than a pot.
If the lion attacks him next, he too shall have all the fight he wishes;
but whatever may happen afterwards he makes up his mind to help him now.
For pity urges him and makes request that he should bear succour and aid
to the gentle and noble beast. With his sword, which cuts so clean, he
attacks the wicked serpent, first cleaving him through to the earth and
cutting him in two, then continuing his blows until he reduces him to
tiny bits. But he had to cut off a piece of the lion's tail to get at
the serpent's head, which held the lion by the tail. He cut off only so
much as was necessary and unavoidable. When he had set the lion free, he
supposed that he would have to fight with him, and that the lion would
come at him; but the lion was not minded so. Just hear now what the
lion did! He acted nobly and as one well-bred; for he began to make
it evident that he yielded himself to him, by standing upon his two
hind-feet and bowing his face to the earth, with his fore-feet joined
and stretched out toward him. Then he fell on his knees again, and all
his face was wet with the tears of humility. My lord Yvain knows for a
truth that the lion is thanking him and doing him homage because of the
serpent which he had killed, thereby delivering him from death. He was
greatly pleased by this episode. He cleaned his sword of the serpent's
poison and filth; then he replaced it in its scabbard, and resumed his
way. And the lion walks close by his side, unwilling henceforth to part
from him: he will always in future accompany him, eager to serve and
protect him. [321] He goes ahead until he scents in the wind upon his
way some wild beasts feeding; then hunger and his nature prompt him to
seek his prey and to secure his sustenance. It is his nature so to do.
He started ahead a little on the trail, thus showing his master that he
had come upon and detected the odour and scent of some wild game.
Then he looks at him and halts, wishing to serve his every wish, and
unwilling to proceed against his will. Yvain understands by his attitude
that he is showing that he awaits his pleasure. He perceives this and
understands that if he holds back he will hold back too, and that if he
follows him he will seize the game which he has scented. Then he incites
and cries to him, as he would do to hunting-dogs. At once the lion
directed his nose to the scent which he had detected, and by which he
was not deceived, for he had not gone a bow-shot when he saw in a valley
a deer grazing all alone. This deer he will seize, if he has his way.
And so he did, at the first spring, and then drank its blood still warm.
When he had killed it he laid it upon his back and carried it back to
his master, who thereupon conceived a greater affection for him, and
chose him as a companion for all his life, because of the great devotion
he found in him. It was near nightfall now, and it seemed good to him
to spend the night there, and strip from the deer as much as he cared to
eat. Beginning to carve it he splits the skin along the rib, and taking
a steak from the loin he strikes from a flint a spark, which he catches
in some dry brush-wood; then he quickly puts his steak upon a roasting
spit to cook before the fire, and roasts it until it is quite cooked
through. But there was no pleasure in the meal, for there was no bread,
or wine, or salt, or cloth, or knife, or anything else. While he was
eating, the lion lay at his feet; nor a movement did he make, but
watched him steadily until he had eaten all that he could eat of the
steak. What remained of the deer the lion devoured, even to the bones.
And while all night his master laid his head upon his shield to gain
such rest as that afforded, the lion showed such intelligence that he
kept awake, and was careful to guard the horse as it fed upon the grass,
which yielded some slight nourishment.
(Vv. 3485-3562.) In the morning they go off together, and the same sort
of existence, it seems, as they had led that night, they two continued
to lead all the ensuing week, until chance brought them to the spring
beneath the pine-tree. There my lord Yvain almost lost his wits a second
time, as he approached the spring, with its stone and the chapel that
stood close by. So great was his distress that a thousand times he
sighed "alas!" and grieving fell in a swoon; and the point of his sharp
sword, falling from its scabbard, pierced the meshes of his hauberk
right in the neck beside the cheek. There is not a mesh that does not
spread, and the sword cuts the flesh of his neck beneath the shining
mail, so that it causes the blood to start. Then the lion thinks that
he sees his master and companion dead. You never heard greater grief
narrated or told about anything than he now began to show. He casts
himself about, and scratches and cries, and has the wish to kill himself
with the sword with which he thinks his master has killed himself.
Taking the sword from him with his teeth he lays it on a fallen tree,
and steadies it on a trunk behind, so that it will not slip or give
way, when he hurls his breast against it, His intention was nearly
accomplished when his master recovered from his swoon, and the lion
restrained himself as he was blindly rushing upon death, like a wild
boar heedless of where he wounds himself. Thus my lord Yvain lies in
a swoon beside the stone, but, on recovering, he violently reproached
himself for the year during which he had overstayed his leave, and
for which he had incurred his lady's hate, and he said: "Why does this
wretch not kill himself who has thus deprived himself of joy? Alas! why
do I not take my life? How can I stay here and look upon what belongs
to my lady? Why does the soul still tarry in my body? What is the soul
doing in so miserable a frame? If it had already escaped away it would
not be in such torment. It is fitting to hate and blame and despise
myself, even as in fact I do. Whoever loses his bliss and contentment
through fault or error of his own ought to hate himself mortally. He
ought to hate and kill himself. And now, when no one is looking on, why
do I thus spare myself? Why do I not take my life? Have I not seen this
lion a prey to such grief on my behalf that he was on the point just now
of thrusting my sword through his breast? And ought I to fear death who
have changed happiness into grief? Joy is now a stranger to me. Joy?
What joy is that? I shall say no more of that, for no one could speak of
such a thing; and I have asked a foolish question. That was the greatest
joy of all which was assured as my possession, but it endured for but
a little while. Whoever loses such joy through his own misdeed is
undeserving of happiness."
(Vv. 3563-3898.) While he thus bemoaned his fate, a lorn damsel in sorry
plight, who was in the chapel, saw him and heard his words through
a crack in the wall. As soon as he was recovered from his swoon, she
called to him: "God," said she, "who is that I hear? Who is it that thus
complains?" And he replied: "And who are you?" "I am a wretched one,"
she said, "the most miserable thing alive." And he replied: "Be silent,
foolish one! Thy grief is joy and thy sorrow is bliss compared with that
in which I am cast down. In proportion as a man becomes more accustomed
to happiness and joy, so is he more distracted and stunned than any
other man by sorrow when it comes. A man of little strength can carry,
through custom and habit, a weight which another man of greater strength
could not carry for anything." "Upon my word," she said, "I know
the truth of that remark; but that is no reason to believe that your
misfortune is worse than mine. Indeed, I do not believe it at all, for
it seems to me that you can go anywhere you choose to go, whereas I am
imprisoned here, and such a fate is my portion that to-morrow I shall be
seized and delivered to mortal judgment." "Ah, God!" said he, "and for
what crime?" "Sir knight, may God never have mercy upon my soul, if I
have merited such a fate! Nevertheless, I shall tell you truly, without
deception, why I am here in prison: I am charged with treason, and I
cannot find any one to defend me from being burned or hanged to-morrow."
"In the first place," he replied, "I may say that my grief and woe are
greater than yours, for you may yet be delivered by some one from the
peril in which you are. Is that not true:" "Yes, but I know not yet by
whom. There are only two men in the world who would dare on my behalf
to face three men in battle." "What? In God's name, are there three
of them?" "Yes, sire, upon my word. There are three who accuse me of
treachery." "And who are they who are so devoted to you that either one
of them would be bold enough to fight against three in your defence?" "I
will answer your question truthfully: one of them is my lord Gawain, and
the other is my lord Yvain, because of whom I shall to-morrow be handed
over unjustly to the martyrdom of death." "Because of whom?" he asked,
"what did you say?" "Sire, so help me God, because of the son of King
Urien." "Now I understand your words, but you shall not die, without
he dies too. I myself am that Yvain, because of whom you are in such
distress. And you, I take it, are she who once guarded me safely in the
hall, and saved my life and my body between the two portcullises, when I
was troubled and distressed, and alarmed at being trapped. I should have
been killed or seized, had it not been for your kind aid. Now tell me,
my gentle friend, who are those who now accuse you of treachery, and
have confined you in this lonely place?" "Sire, I shall not conceal it
from you, since you desire me to tell you all. It is a fact that I was
not slow in honestly aiding you. Upon my advice my lady received you,
after heeding my opinion and my counsel. And by the Holy Paternoster,
more for her welfare than for your own I thought I was doing it, and I
think so still. So much now I confess to you: it was her honour and
your desire that I sought to serve, so help me God! But when it became
evident that you had overstayed the year when you should return to my
mistress, then she became enraged at me, and thought that she had been
deceived by putting trust in my advice. And when this was discovered by
the seneschal--a rascally, underhanded, disloyal wretch, who was jealous
of me because in many matters my lady trusted me more than she trusted
him, he saw that he could now stir up great enmity between me and
her. In full court and in the presence of all he accused me of having
betrayed her in your favour. And I had no counsel or aid except my own;
but I knew that I had never done or conceived any treacherous act toward
my lady, so I cried out, as one beside herself, and without the advice
of any one, that I would present in my own defence one knight who should
fight against three. The fellow was not courteous enough to scorn
to accept such odds, nor was I at liberty to retreat or withdraw