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

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

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

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

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

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

(Vv. 3571-3620.) The emperor's joy was great when he heard the voice of
his nephew Cligés summoning and exhorting them; he was greatly pleased
and comforted. But the duke is greatly chagrined now when he sees he
is betrayed, unless his force should prove the stronger. While he
draws together his troops in serried lines, the Greeks do the same, and
pressing them close, attack and rush upon them. On both sides lances are
lowered as they meet for the proper reception of a hostile host. At the
first shock shields are pierced and lances shattered, girths are cut and
stirrups broken, while the horses of those who fall to earth are left
without a rider. But regardless of what any other does, Cligés and the
duke meet in the fray; holding their lances low, they strike one another
upon the shield with such violence that the strong and well-made lances
fly into splinters. Cligés was skilful on horseback, and sits straight
in his saddle without shaking or losing his balance. But the duke has
lost his seat, and in spite of himself quits the saddle-bows. Cligés
struggled and strove to capture him and carry him away, but his strength
did not suffice, for the Saxons were around about fighting to rescue
him. Nevertheless, 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
come together and sally forth to welcome them. The two emperors, upon
hearing the report about Cligés and the damsel, go to meet them with
joyful hearts, and each can hardly wait to hear how Cligés found and
recovered the empress. Cligés tells them, and, as they listen, they are
amazed and are loud in their praises of his courage and devotion.
But, for his part, the duke is furious, swearing and proclaiming his
determination to fight Cligés, if he dares, in single combat; and it
shall be agreed that if Cligés wins the battle the emperor shall proceed
unchallenged, and freely take the maiden with him, and if he should kill
or defeat Cligés, who had done him such injury, then let there be no
truce or stay to prevent each party from doing its best. This is what
the duke desires, and by an interpreter of his, who knew both the Greek
and the German tongues, he announces to the two emperors his desire thus
to arrange the battle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----Endnotes: Cligés

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 24: The story of Philomela or Philomena, familiar in Chaucer's
"Legende of Good Women", is told by Ovid in "Metamorphosis", vi.
426-674. Cretiens li Gois is cited by the author of the "Ovide moralise"