The Tale
Pars
Prima
At Sarra, in the land of Tartary,
There dwelt a king that warrayed Russie,
Through which there died many a doughty man;
This noble king was called Cambuscan,
Which in his time was of so great renown,
That there was nowhere in no regioún
So excellent a lord in allë thing:
Him lacked nought that longeth to a king,
As of the sect of which that he was born.
He kept his law to which he was y-sworn,
And thereto he was hardy, wise, and rich,
And piteous and just, always y-lich;
True of his word, benign and honouráble;
Of his coráge as any centre stable;
Young, fresh, and strong, in armës desiroús
As any bachelor of all his house.
A fair persón he was, and fortunate,
And kept alway so well his royal estate,
That there was nowhere such another man.
This noble king, this Tartar Cambuscan,
Haddë two sons by Elfeta his wife,
Of which the eldest hightë Algarsife,
The other was y-callëd Camballó.
A daughter had this worthy king also,
That youngest was, and hightë Canacé:
But for to tellë you all her beautý,
It lies not in my tongue, nor my conníng;
I dare not undertake so high a thing:
Mine English eke is insufficient,
It mustë be a rhetor excellent,
That couth his colours longing for that art,
If he should her describen any part;
I am none such, I must speak as I can.
And so befell, that when this Cambuscan
Had twenty winters borne his diadem,
As he was wont from year to year, I deem,
He let the feast of his nativity
Do cryë, throughout Sarra his citý,
The last Idus of March, after the year.
Phoebus the sun full jolly was and clear,
For he was nigh his exaltatión
In Martë’s face, and in his mansión
In Aries, the choleric hot sign:
Full lusty was the weather and benign;
For which the fowls against the sunnë sheen,
What for the season and the youngë green,
Full loudë sangë their affectións:
Them seemed to have got protectións
Against the sword of winter keen and cold.
This Cambuscan, of which I have you told,
In royal vesture, sat upon his dais,
With diadem, full high in his palace;
And held his feast so solemn and so rich,
That in this worldë was there none it lich.
Of which if I should tell all the array,
Then would it occupy a summer’s day;
And eke it needeth not for to devise
At every course the order of servíce.
I will not tellen of their strangë sewes,
Nor of their swannës, nor their heronsews.
Eke in that land, as tellë knightës old,
There is some meat that is full dainty hold,
That in this land men reck of it full small:
There is no man that may reporten all.
I will not tarry you, for it is prime,
And for it is no fruit, but loss of time;
Unto my purpose I will have recourse.
And so befell that, after the third course,
While that this king sat thus in his nobley,
Hearing his ministrelës their thingës play
Before him at his board deliciously,
In at the hallë door all suddenly
There came a knight upon a steed of brass,
And in his hand a broad mirrór of glass;
Upon his thumb he had of gold a ring,
And by his side a naked sword hangíng:
And up he rode unto the highë board.
In all the hall was there not spoke a word,
For marvel of this knight; him to behold
Full busily they waited, young and old.
This strangë knight, that came thus suddenly,
All armed, save his head, full richëly,
Saluted king, and queen, and lordës all,
By order as they satten in the hall,
With so high reverence and óbservánce,
As well in speech as in his countenánce,
That Gawain with his oldë courtesý,
Though he were come again out of Faerie,
Him couldë not amendë with a word.
And after this, before the highë board,
He with a manly voice said his messáge,
After the form used in his languáge,
Withoutë vice of syllable or letter.
And, for his talë shouldë seem the better,
Accordant to his wordës was his cheer,
As teacheth art of speech them that it lear.
Albeit that I cannot sound his style,
Nor cannot climb over so high a stile,
Yet say I this, as to commúne intent,
Thus much amounteth all that ever he meant,
If it so be that I have it in mind.
He said; “The king of Araby and Ind,
My liegë lord, on this solemnë day
Saluteth you as he best can and may,
And sendeth you, in honour of your feast,
By me, that am all ready at your hest,
This steed of brass, that easily and well
Can in the space of one day naturel
(This is to say, in four-and-twenty hours),
Whereso you list, in drought or else in show’rs,
Bearë your body into every place
To which your heartë willeth for to pace,
Withoutë wem of you, through foul or fair.
Or if you list to fly as high in air
As doth an eagle, when him list to soar,
This samë steed shall bear you evermore
Withoutë harm, till ye be where you lest
(Though that ye sleepen on his back, or rest),
And turn again, with writhing of a pin.
He that it wrought, he coudë many a gin;
He waited in any a constellatión,
Ere he had done this operatión,
And knew full many a seal and many a bond.
This mirror eke, that I have in mine hond,
Hath such a might, that men may in it see
When there shall fall any adversitý
Unto your realm, or to yourself also,
And openly who is your friend or foe.
And over all this, if any lady bright
Hath set her heart on any manner wight,
If he be false, she shall his treason see,
His newë love, and all his subtlety,
So openly that there shall nothing hide.
Wherefore, against this lusty summer-tide,
This mirror, and this ring that ye may see,
He hath sent to my lady Canacé,
Your excellentë daughter that is here.
The virtue of this ring, if ye will hear,
Is this, that if her list it for to wear
Upon her thumb, or in her purse it bear,
There is no fowl that flyeth under heaven,
That she shall not well understand his steven,
And know his meaning openly and plain,
And answer him in his languáge again:
And every grass that groweth upon root
She shall eke know, to whom it will do boot,
All be his woundës ne’er so deep and wide.
This naked sword, that hangeth by my side,
Such virtue hath, that what man that it smite,
Throughout his armour it will carve and bite,
Were it as thick as is a branched oak:
And what man is y-wounded with the stroke
Shall ne’er be whole, till that you list, of grace,
To stroke him with the flat in thilkë place
Where he is hurt; this is as much to sayn,
Ye mustë with the flattë sword again
Stroke him upon the wound, and it will close.
This is the very sooth, withoutë glose;
It faileth not, while it is in your hold.”
And when this knight had thus his talë told,
He rode out of the hall, and down he light.
His steedë, which that shone as sunnë bright,
Stood in the court as still as any stone.
The knight is to his chamber led anon,
And is unarmed, and to meat y-set.
These presents be full richëly y-fet—
This is to say, the sword and the mirroúr—
And borne anon into the highë tow’r,
With certain officers ordain’d therefor;
And unto Canacé the ring is bore
Solemnëly, where she sat at the table;
But sickerly, withouten any fable,
The horse of brass, that may not be remued.
It stood as it were to the ground y-glued;
There may no man out of the place it drive
For no engíne of windlass or polive;
And causë why, for they can not the craft;
And therefore in the place they have it laft,
Till that the knight hath taught them the mannére
To voidë him, as ye shall after hear.
Great was the press, that swarmed to and fro
To gauren on this horse that stoodë so:
For it so high was, and so broad and long,
So well proportioned for to be strong,
Right as it were a steed of Lombardy;
Therewith so horsely, and so quick of eye,
As it a gentle Poileis courser were:
For certes, from his tail unto his ear
Nature nor art ne could him not amend
In no degree, as all the people wend.
But evermore their mostë wonder was
How that it couldë go, and was of brass;
It was of Faerie, as the people seem’d.
Diverse folk diversëly they deem’d;
As many heads, as many wittës been.
They murmured, as doth a swarm of been,
And madë skills after their fantasies,
Rehearsing of the oldë poetries,
And said that it was like the Pegasé,
The horse that haddë wingës for to flee;
Or else it was the Greekë’s horse Sinon,
That broughtë Troyë to destructión,
As men may in the oldë gestës read.
“Mine heart,” quoth one, “is evermore in dread;
I trow some men of armës be therein,
That shapë them this city for to win:
It were right good that all such thing were know.”
Another rowned to his fellow low,
And said, “He lies; for it is rather like
An ápparéncë made by some magíc,
As jugglers playen at these feastës great.”
Of sundry doubts they jangle thus and treat.
As lewëd people deemë commonly
Of thingës that be made more subtilly
Than they can in their lew’dness comprehend;
They deemë gladly to the badder end.
And some of them wonder’d on the mirroúr,
That borne was up into the master tow’r,
How men might in it suchë thingës see.
Another answér’d and said, it might well be
Naturallý by compositións
Of angles, and of sly reflectións;
And saidë that in Rome was such a one.
They speak of Alhazen and Vitellon,
And Aristotle, that wrote in their lives
Of quaintë mirrors, and of próspectives,
As knowë they that have their bookës heard.
And other folk have wonder’d on the swerd,
That wouldë piercë throughout every thing;
And fell in speech of Telephus the king,
And of Achilles for his quaintë spear,
For he could with it bothë heal and dere,
Right in such wise as men may with the swerd
Of which right now ye have yourselvës heard.
They spake of sundry hard’ning of metál,
And spake of medicínës therewithal,
And how, and when, it shouldë harden’d be,
Which is unknowen algate unto me.
Then spakë they of Canacéë’s ring,
And saiden all, that such a wondrous thing
Of craft of ringës heard they never none,
Save that he, Moses, and King Solomon,
Hadden a name of conning in such art.
Thus said the people, and drew them apart.
Put natheless some saidë that it was
Wonder to maken of fern ashes glass,
And yet is glass nought like ashes of fern;
But, for they have y-knowen it so ferne,
Therefore ceaseth their jangling and their wonder.
As sorë wonder some on cause of thunder,
On ebb and flood, on gossamer and mist,
And on all thing, till that the cause is wist.
Thus jangle they, and deemen and devise,
Till that the king gan from his board arise.
Phoebus had left the angle meridional,
And yet ascending was the beast royál,
The gentle Lion, with his Aldrian,
When that this Tartar king, this Cambuscan,
Rose from the board, there as he sat full high:
Before him went the loudë minstrelsy,
Till he came to his chamber of parëments,
There as they sounded diverse instruments,
That it was like a heaven for to hear.
Now danced lusty Venus’ children dear:
For in the Fish their lady sat full high,
And looked on them with a friendly eye.
This noble king is set upon his throne;
This strangë knight is fetched to him full sone,
And on the dance he goes with Canacé.
Here is the revel and the jollity,
That is not able a dull man to devise:
He must have knowen love and his servíce,
And been a feastly man, as fresh as May,
That shouldë you devisë such array.
Who couldë tellë you the form of dances
So úncouth, and so freshë countenances,
Such subtle lookings and dissimulances,
For dread of jealous men’s appérceivíngs?
No man but Launcelot, and he is dead.
Therefore I pass o’er all this lustihead;
I say no more, but in this jolliness
I leave them, till to supper men them dress.
The steward bids the spices for to hie
And eke the wine, in all this melodý;
The ushers and the squiërs be y-gone,
The spices and the wine is come anon;
They eat and drink, and when this hath an end,
Unto the temple, as reason was, they wend;
The service done, they suppen all by day.
What needeth you rehearsë their array?
Each man wot well, that at a kingë’s feast
Is plenty, to the most and to the least,
And dainties more than be in my knowíng.
At after supper went this noble king
To see the horse of brass, with all a rout
Of lordës and of ladies him about.
Such wond’ring was there on this horse of brass,
That, since the greatë siege of Troyë was,
There as men wonder’d on a horse also,
Ne’er was there such a wond’ring as was tho.
But finally the king asked the knight
The virtue of this courser, and the might,
And prayed him to tell his governance.
The horse anon began to trip and dance,
When that the knight laid hand upon his rein,
And saidë, “Sir, there is no more to sayn,
But when you list to riden anywhere,
Ye mustë trill a pin, stands in his ear,
Which I shall tellë you betwixt us two;
Ye mustë name him to what place also,
Or to what country that you list to ride.
And when ye comë where you list abide,
Bid him descend, and trill another pin
(For therein lies th’ effect of all the gin),
And he will down descend and do your will,
And in that place he will abidë still;
Though all the world had the contráry swore,
He shall not thence be throwen nor be bore.
Or, if you list to bid him thennës gon,
Trill this pin, and he will vanísh anon
Out of the sight of every manner wight,
And come again, be it by day or night,
When that you list to clepë him again
In such a guise, as I shall to you sayn
Betwixtë you and me, and that full soon.
Ride when you list, there is no more to do’n.”
Informed when the king was of the knight,
And had conceived in his wit aright
The manner and the form of all this thing,
Full glad and blithe, this noble doughty king
Repaired to his revel as beforn.
The bridle is into the tower borne,
And kept among his jewels lefe and dear;
The horse vanish’d, I n’ot in what mannére,
Out of their sight; ye get no more of me:
But thus I leave in lust and jollitý
This Cambuscan his lordës feastying,
Until well nigh the day began to spring.
Pars
Secunda
The norice of digestión, the sleep,
Gan on them wink, and bade them takë keep,
That muchë mirth and labour will have rest:
And with a gaping mouth he all them kest,
And said, that it was timë to lie down,
For blood was in his dominatioún:
“Cherish the blood, natúrë’s friend,” quoth he.
They thanked him gaping, by two and three;
And every wight gan draw him to his rest;
As sleep them bade, they took it for the best.
Their dreamës shall not now be told for me;
Full are their headës of fumosity,
That caused dreams of which there is no charge.
They sleptë till that, it was primë large,
The mostë part, but it was Canacé;
She was full measuráble, as women be.
For of her father had she ta’en her leave,
To go to rest, soon after it was eve;
Her listë not appalled for to be,
Nor on the morrow unfeastly for to see;
And slept her firstë sleep, and then awoke.
For such a joy she in her heartë took
Both of her quaintë a ring and her mirroúr,
That twenty times she changed her coloúr;
And in her sleep, right for th’ impressión
Of her mirrór, she had a visión.
Wherefore, ere that the sunnë gan up glide,
She call’d upon her mistress’ her beside,
And saidë, that her listë for to rise.
These oldë women, that be gladly wise,
As are her mistresses, answér’d anon,
And said; “Madamë, whither will ye gon
Thus early? for the folk be all in rest.”
“I will,” quoth she, “arisë, for me lest
No longer for to sleep, and walk about.”
Her mistresses call’d women a great rout,
And up they rosë, well a ten or twelve;
Up rosë freshë Canacé herselve,
As ruddy and bright as is the youngë sun
That in the Ram is four degrees y-run;
No higher was he, when she ready was;
And forth she walked easily a pace,
Array’d after the lusty season swoot,
Lightëly for to play, and walk on foot,
Nought but with five or six of her meinie;
And in a trench forth in the park went she.
The vapour, which up from the earthë glode,
Made the sun to seem ruddy and broad:
But, natheless, it was so fair a sight
That it made all their heartës for to light,
What for the season and the morrowning,
And for the fowlës that she heardë sing.
For right anon she wistë what they meant
Right by their song, and knew all their intent.
The knottë, why that every tale is told,
If it be tarried till the lust be cold
Of them that have it hearken’d after yore,
The savour passeth ever longer more,
For fulsomness of the prolixitý:
And by that samë reason thinketh me
I should unto the knottë condescend,
And maken of her walking soon an end.
Amid a tree fordry, as white as chalk,
As Canacé was playing in her walk,
There sat a falcon o’er her head full high,
That with a piteous voice so gan to cry;
That all the wood resounded of her cry,
And beat she had herself so piteouslý
With both her wingës, till the reddë blood
Ran endëlong the tree, there as she stood.
And ever-in-one alway she cried and shright,
And with her beak herselfë she so pight,
That there is no tiger, nor cruel beast,
That dwelleth either in wood or in forést;
But would have wept, if that he weepë could,
For sorrow of her, she shriek’d alway so loud.
For there was never yet no man alive,
If that he could a falcon well descrive;
That heard of such another of fairnéss
As well of plumage, as of gentleness,
Of shape, of all that mightë reckon’d be.
A falcon peregrinë seemed she,
Of fremdë land; and ever as she stood
She swooned now and now for lack of blood,
Till well-nigh is she fallen from the tree.
This fairë kingë’s daughter Canacé,
That on her finger bare the quaintë ring,
Through which she understood well every thing
That any fowl may in his leden sayn,
And could him answer in his leden again,
Hath understoodë what this falcon said,
And well-nigh for the ruth almost she died;
And to the tree she went, full hastily,
And on this falcon looked piteously,
And held her lap abroad, for well she wist
The falcon mustë fallë from the twist
When that she swooned next, for lack of blood.
A longë while to waitë her she stood,
Till at the last she apake in this mannére
Unto the hawk, as ye shall after hear.
“What is the cause, if it be for to tell,
That ye be in this furial pain of hell?”
Quoth Canacé unto this hawk above;
“Is this for sorrow of death, or loss of love?
For, as I trow, these be the causes two,
That causë most a gentle heartë woe.
Of other harm it needeth not to speak.
For ye yourself upon yourself awreak;
Which proveth well, that either ire or dread
Must be occasion of your cruel deed,
Since that I see none other wight you chase.
For love of God, as do yourselfë grace,
Or what may be your help? for, west nor east,
I never saw ere now no bird nor beast
That fared with himself so piteously.
Ye slay me with your sorrow verily,
I have of you so great compassioún.
For Goddë’s love come from the tree adown;
And, as I am a kingë’s daughter true,
If that I verily the causes knew
Of your disease, if it lay in my might,
I would amend it, ere that it were night,
So wisly help me the great God of kind.
And herbës shall I right enoughë find,
To healë with your hurtës hastily.”
Then shriek’d this falcon yet more piteously
Than ever she did, and fell to ground anon,
And lay aswoon, as dead as lies a stone,
Till Canacé had in her lap her take,
Unto that time she gan of swoon awake:
And, after that she out of swoon abraid,
Right in her hawkë’s leden thus she said:
“That pity runneth soon in gentle heart
(Feeling his simil’tude in painë’s smart),
Is proved every day, as men may see,
As well by work as by authority;
For gentle heartë kitheth gentleness.
I see well, that ye have on my distress
Compassión, my fairë Canacé,
Of very womanly benignity
That nature in your princples hath set.
But for no hopë for to fare the bet,
But for t’ obey unto your heartë free,
And for to make others aware by me,
As by the whelp chastis’d is the lión,
Right for that cause and that conclusión,
While that I have a leisure and a space,
Mine harm I will confessen ere I pace.”
And ever while the one her sorrow told,
The other wept, as she to water wo’ld,
Till that the falcon bade her to be still,
And with a sigh right thus she said her till:
“Where I was bred (alas that ilkë day!)
And foster’d in a rock of marble gray
So tenderly, that nothing ailed me,
I wistë not what was adversitý,
Till I could flee full high under the sky.
Then dwell’d a tercëlet me fastë by,
That seem’d a well of allë gentleness;
All were he full of treason and falsenéss,
It was so wrapped under humble cheer,
And under hue of truth, in such mannére,
Under pleasánce, and under busy pain,
That no wight weened that he couldë feign,
So deep in grain he dyed his coloúrs.
Right as a serpent hides him under flow’rs,
Till he may see his timë for to bite,
Right so this god of lovë’s hypocrite
Did so his ceremonies and obeisánces,
And kept in semblance all his óbservánces,
That sounden unto gentleness of love.
As on a tomb is all the fair above,
And under is the corpse, which that ye wot,
Such was this hypocrite, both cold and hot;
And in this wise he served his intent,
That, save the fiend, none wistë what he meant:
Till he so long had weeped and complain’d,
And many a year his service to me feign’d,
Till that mine heart, too piteous and too nice,
All innocent of his crowned malíce,
Forfeared of his death, as thoughtë me,
Upon his oathës and his surëtý
Granted him love, on this conditioún,
That evermore mine honour and renown
Were saved, bothë privy and apert;
This is to say, that, after his desert,
I gave him all my heart and all my thought
(God wot, and he, that other wayës nought),
And took his heart in change of mine for aye.
But sooth is said, gone since many a day,
A true wight and a thiefë think not one.
And when he saw the thing so far y-gone,
That I had granted him fully my love,
In such a wise as I have said above,
And given him my truë heart as free
As he swore that he gave his heart to me,
Anon this tiger, full of doubleness,
Fell on his knees with so great humbleness,
With so high reverence, as by his cheer,
So like a gentle lover in mannére,
So ravish’d, as it seemed, for the joy,
That never Jason, nor París of Troy—
Jason? certes, nor ever other man,
Since Lamech was, that alderfirst began
To lovë two, as writë folk beforn,
Nor ever since the firstë man was born,
Couldë no man, by twenty thousand part,
Counterfeit the sophimës of his art;
Nor worthy were t’ unbuckle his galoche,
Where doubleness of feigning should approach,
Nor could so thank a wight, as he did me.
His manner was a heaven for to see
To any woman, were she ne’er so wise;
So painted he and kempt, at point devise,
As well his wordës as his countenánce.
And I so lov’d him for his obeisánce,
And for the truth I deemed in his heart,
That, if so were that any thing him smart,
All were it ne’er so lite, and I it wist,
Methought I felt death at my heartë twist.
And shortly, so farforth this thing is went,
That my will was his willë’s instrumént;
That is to say, my will obey’d his will
In allë thing, as far as reason fill,
Keeping the boundës of my worship ever;
And never had I thing so lefe, or lever,
As him, God wot, nor never shall no mo’.
“This lasted longer than a year or two,
That I supposed of him naught but good.
But finally, thus at the last it stood,
That fortune wouldë that he mustë twin
Out of that placë which that I was in.
Whe’er me was woe, it is no questión;
I cannot make of it descriptión.
For one thing dare I tellë boldëly,
I know what is the pain of death thereby;
Such harm I felt, for he might not byleve.
So on a day of me he took his leave,
So sorrowful eke, that I ween’d verily,
That he had felt as muchë harm as I,
When that I heard him speak, and saw his hue.
But natheless, I thought he was so true,
And eke that he repairë should again
Within a little whilë, sooth to sayn,
And reason would eke that he mustë go
For his honoúr, as often happ’neth so,
That I made virtue of necessitý,
And took it well, since that it mustë be.
As I best might, I hid from him my sorrow,
And took him by the hand, Saint John to borrow,
And said him thus; ‘Lo, I am yourës all;
Be such as I have been to you, and shall.’
What he answér’d, it needs not to rehearse;
Who can say bet than he, who can do worse?
When he had all well said, then had he done.
Therefore behoveth him a full long spoon,
That shall eat with a fiend; thus heard I say.
So at the last he mustë forth his way,
And forth he flew, till he came where him lest.
When it came him to purpose for to rest,
I trow that he had thilkë text in mind,
That allë thing repairing to his kind
Gladdeth himself; thus say men, as I guess;
Men love of [proper] kind newfangleness,
As birdës do, that men in cages feed.
For though thou night and day take of them heed,
And strew their cagë fair and soft as silk,
And give them sugar, honey, bread, and milk,
Yet, right anon as that his door is up,
He with his feet will spurnë down his cup,
And to the wood he will, and wormës eat;
So newëfangle be they of their meat,
And love novelties, of proper kind;
No gentleness of bloodë may them bind.
So far’d this tercëlet, alas the day!
Though he were gentle born, and fresh, and gay,
And goodly for to see, and humble, and free,
He saw upon a time a kitë flee,
And suddenly he loved this kite so,
That all his love is clean from me y-go:
And hath his trothë falsed in this wise.
Thus hath the kite my love in her servíce,
And I am lorn withoutë remedy.”
And with that word this falcon gan to cry,
And swooned eft in Canacéë’s barme.
Great was the sorrow, for that hawkë’s harm,
That Canacé and all her women made;
They wist not how they might the falcon glade.
But Canacé home bare her in her lap,
And softëly in plasters gan her wrap,
There as she with her beak had hurt herselve.
Now cannot Canacé but herbës delve
Out of the ground, and makë salvës new
Of herbës precioús and fine of hue,
To healë with this hawk; from day to night
She did her business, and all her might.
And by her beddë’s head she made a mew,
And cover’d it with velouettës blue,
In sign of truth that is in woman seen;
And all without the mew is painted green,
In which were painted all these falsë fowls,
As be these tidifes, tercëlets, and owls;
And piës, on them for to cry and chide,
Right for despite were painted them beside.
Thus leave I Canacé her hawk keeping.
I will no more as now speak of her ring,
Till it come eft to purpose for to sayn
How that this falcon got her love again
Repentant, as the story telleth us,
By mediatión of Camballus,
The kingë’s son of which that I you told.
But hencëforth I will my process hold
To speak of áventures, and of battailes,
That yet was never heard so great marvailles.
First I will tellë you of Cambuscan,
That in his timë many a city wan;
And after will I speak of Algarsife,
How he won Theodora to his wife,
For whom full oft in great períl he was,
N’ had he been holpen by the horse of brass.
And after will I speak of Camballó,
That fought in listës with the brethren two
For Canacé, ere that he might her win;
And where I left I will again begin.
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