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 T' O i
 
 THREE LAYS OF 
 MARIE DE FRANCE 
 
 •I 
 
 Ret«ld in Englhh Vtrtt 
 h 
 
 FREDERICK BLISS LUQUIENS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
 
 
 NINKy MOLT AND COMrANT 
 
 ^' •. 
 
 é M*» M. I 
 
 ®ClA28«t732
 
 
 WK 
 
 
 TO 
 E, K. L
 
 s
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Those who have studied the literature of 
 medisval France are often aggrieved by the 
 general reader's utter ignorance of their favor- 
 ite authors. Chaucer, Dante, The Nibclungen, 
 The Cid, are names familiar to all — but no one 
 know, even the names of medisval French poets 
 or poems. 
 
 Such a grievance is the present writer's only 
 excuse for attempting to make Marie dc France 
 better known to Anglo-Saxon readers. May she 
 some day find a worthier sponsor I 
 
 Her poems are of the kind that defy 
 translation. Poems whose beauty is due to 
 sublimity of thought may be more or less 
 successfully translated, but those which, like 
 hers, are merely very charming, resemble many 
 a pretty woman who never takes a good picture. 
 Therefore I have retold, not translated.
 
 tI Preface 
 
 I hive uied, however imperfectly, the metre, 
 vocibuliry, and phraseology of those poemi 
 which we most naturally associate with the 
 Matter of Britain—" The Idylls of the King." 
 The use of blank verse to represent an original 
 in octosyllabic couplets may seem unwise to some, 
 but here, also, I feared that overfaithfulness to 
 Marie de France would result in injustice to her. 
 Perhaps my violation of the letter of her verse 
 has enabled me the more successfully to repro< 
 duce its spirit. 
 
 Although my book is intended primarily for 
 those whom intellectual or esthetic curiosity in* 
 cites to excursions into the literatures of times 
 and countries not their own, I hope that it may 
 also be useful to beginners in the study of me* 
 dicval French literature, especially as an enter* 
 ing wedge into the difficulties connected with the 
 question of Marie's Celtic sources. For the 
 benefit af such readers there shall be added ft 
 chapter of bibliography— chained at the end of 
 the book, lest it terrify readers unKientifically in-
 
 Pre F AC B vii 
 
 dined— which mty facilitate further and Inde* 
 pendent itudy. 
 
 It il a pleasure to acknowledge my indebted* 
 neii to Mr. Will Hutchini for many helpful 
 criticiimi, and to Mr. Huc-Mazelet Luquieni 
 for the lettering on the cover of the book. 
 
 YAti UllITMItTT,
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction '* 
 
 Sir Launfal * 
 
 The Maiden of the Ash . . • «5 
 
 The Lovers Twain 45 
 
 BiBLIOORAPHY 57
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 I 
 
 We know but little of the life of Mirle de 
 France. From hinti given us in her own writ* 
 ings we are lure that ihe lived in the latter half 
 of the twelfth century; that she was a French- 
 woman; that most of her life, however, wai 
 «pent in the court, then entirely French in speech 
 and spirit, of Henry the Second of England i 
 that she there wrote the poems of which we shall 
 speak presently. Of her personality we may 
 judge somewhat from the nature of her writings. 
 They show us that she was a well-educatcd 
 woman, for besides her native tongue she knew 
 Latin and English, and a bit of Breton and 
 Welsh. This intellectuality impresses us; an* 
 other quality, womanly refinement, wins us. 
 Although her poems are not entirely proof 
 •gainst the expurgatorial pen of to-day — times 
 have changed too much — there is not, from
 
 X Lays of Marie de France 
 
 her first to her lait line, the ilighteit lem- 
 blance of freedom for freedom'i sake. We 
 know, laitly, what her public thought of her ai 
 •n Ruthoreii, for we find «n over-ierlouily 
 minded writer of a little later than her time 
 complnining that the lords and ladiei of Eng- 
 land and France love better to read the layi of 
 " dame Marie " than the livci of holy lainti— 
 in unintentional, but all the more convincing, 
 teitimonial to her popularity. 
 
 With this, however, we have laid all that 
 we are able to say of Marie's life. We are 
 nowhere told whether she was of noble birth; 
 whether she was prosperous; whether she was 
 married. We have no grounds for imagining 
 —as one always does of famous women— that 
 she was fair to look upon. We are not even 
 certain that her contemporaries called her, ai 
 we do, Marie de France; scholan have manu- 
 factured the name out of a line of her writings: 
 " Marie ai num, ai lui de France "— *' Marie il 
 my name, and I am of France."
 
 Introduction xi 
 
 Her writings— nil in French and all In verie 
 — were three: a collection of about one hun- 
 dred fablci in the y'Msopic manner; twelve lO' 
 called " Breton Lnyi," and a poem entitled 
 /•The Purgatory of Saint Potrick." Theie 
 three worki have been handed down to ui in 
 rnedioival manuscripti, and well edited by mod- 
 ern scholars. Scholars agree that the three were 
 all written during the latter half of the twelfth 
 century, but they disagree as to their exact 
 dates, and also as to the order in which they 
 followed one another. Unless entirely new evi- 
 dence is discovered, the question will probably 
 hever be satisfactorily settled. 
 I There is no disagreement, however, as to the 
 Relative value of the three. The Fables, it is 
 true, are well written and entertaining; the Pur- 
 gatory is not uninteresting; but the Breton Lays 
 are immortal. With the passing centuries, said 
 Goethe, they grow ever more charming and more 
 (dear—-" anmutiger und lieber." Because of this 
 iiurpaiiing merit of the Lays we shall confine
 
 xii Lays op Marib db Francs 
 ourielvei in thii imall book, which ii on\y i 
 •ort of letter of introduction written by ui for 
 our twelfth*ccntury friend, to the explanation 
 and interpretation of them alone. 
 
 II 
 
 The Lays are twelve in number. They are 
 narrative poems, varying in length — the ihort* 
 eat containi ii8 lines, the longest 1,184. They 
 are all love-stories. They are all of a romantic 
 nature; though, as we shall see, in varying de< 
 grees. They are almost all Celtic, in the sense 
 that Tennyson's " Idylls of the King" are so; 
 that is, Celtic traditions recast in non-Celtic 
 molds. 
 
 In order to judge of Marie's poetic genius 
 we must understand what the medieval Celtic 
 material was, and how she handled it. The 
 subject is of interest not only to students of 
 French literature, but also, inasmuch as medi< 
 cval Celtism has come down to our day through 
 various channels, to many others i to Tennyson-
 
 Introduction xiii 
 
 loveri, for instance, iceking the ultimate lourcei 
 of the Idyll stories; to Wagnerinns desirous of 
 knowing whence cnme Lohengrin, whence Pnr* 
 cival; to students of painting curious as to the 
 motives of Edwin Abbey's " Quest of the 
 Holy Grail." 
 
 The plan of our discussion will be as fol* 
 lows: since the Lays were, as already intimated, 
 but a small fraction of a general Celtism of 
 Marie's day, we shall first draw an outline of 
 the larger movement, against which as a back* 
 ground the individuality and the value of her 
 Celtism will stand out in the proper relief. 
 
 First of all, then, why did mcdiicvnl French 
 writers turn Celtists? About the middle of the 
 twelfth century French literature was In a 
 critical state, near unto death from utter lack 
 of wholesome nourishment. All the meat had 
 long since been extracted from the themes of 
 national tradition; poets and audiences alike 
 were beginning to tire of tales of Charlemagne 
 ind of Roland and of their ions and grandioni
 
 xiv Lays of Marie de France 
 and great-grandsons, and of their fathers and 
 grandfathers and great-grandfathers. A newer 
 kind of poetry, imitating pseudo-classical orig- 
 inals, hardly appealed to the masses; nor in- 
 deed could true poets find inspiration in the task 
 of recoloring faded A'lncases and dim Dldos. 
 So some writer, or perhaps several writers at 
 the same time, acting on one of those mysterious 
 common impulses which often affect men's 
 thoughts, conceived the idea of turning to Cel- 
 tic tradition for fresh material; and for over a 
 century Celtism ruled French writing. 
 
 But how, in days when the study of folk- 
 lore was not yet invented, did all these Celtic 
 stories come to the knowledge of the French 
 writers? Undoubtedly through strolling Cel* 
 tic minstrels, who had begun to wander abroad 
 at least as early as the eleventh century. For 
 the latter half of the following century we have 
 certain proof of their presence in non-Celtic ter* 
 ritory, Inasmuch as many French writers of that 
 period mention them explicitly. For the eleventh
 
 Introduction xv 
 
 we have no absolute proof, but just after its close 
 we find such plain traces of the prevalence of 
 their stories— for example, the curious fact that 
 Italian parents were already naming their sons 
 Arthur and Gawain — that we may be sure they 
 had begun their wanderings at least several dec* 
 ades before. And it was but natural that they 
 should travel abroad, for not only were they 
 bold for such venture because of the traditional 
 high repute of their calling— have not the names 
 of Irish bards come down to us coupled with 
 names of kings?— but, furthermore, their pro* 
 fession had become overcrowded, as witness me* 
 diteval Welsh laws forbidding it to any but 
 freemen, and their wares were becoming a drug 
 in the home marketi. 
 
 I have been using the broad term Celtic in 
 ■peaking of these strolleri. May the adjective 
 be narrowed? It Is hardly possible that there 
 were among them any Irish gleemen, for only 
 natives of the bordeMandi of Celtic territory, 
 who ipoke two languages, were capable of
 
 xvl Lays of Marie de France 
 
 •muling foreign ludicncei. But were they then 
 VVelih? or Breton? or of both nationalltiei? 
 If lome of their itorici were prcicrved in the 
 form in which they told them, the problem could 
 be eaiily lolved, for the Welih and Breton dia- 
 lecti of the eleventh century differed coniidcr^ 
 ibly. But not a lingle one of them ii lo pre* 
 ■erved, doubtleii becouie none wai ever con* 
 •igned to writing; in the eleventh century not 
 much but Latin wai coniidered worthy of parch* 
 ment, and later there wai no incentive to guard 
 what French literature had appropriated. Thii 
 road being cloied, let ui try othen. Firit, an 
 i priori argument. Brittany'i more central geo* 
 graphical lituation, and, too, the fact that the 
 •econd tongue of the Bretoni wai French, then 
 the courtly and literary ipeech of almoit all the 
 countriei of Europe, would render likely i 
 Breton preponderance in numben; but at the 
 •tme time It ii very unlikely that the Welih 
 should not follow to lome extent the tempting 
 extmple of their couiint— should not travel it
 
 Introduction xvii 
 
 lent II far ai the French court of England. 
 Secondly, this a priori argument ii supported 
 by careful itudy of the tradition! as presented 
 in the French adaptations. We find that the 
 great majority of them have a Breton tinge- 
 Breton heroes, for example, and Drcton geog» 
 raphy— that some, however, have just as cer* 
 tainly a Welsh tinge. Lastly, let ui consult 
 those mediflîval French writers who mention 
 Celtic minstrels and their stories. Their state- 
 ments at first disconcert us, for they often speak 
 of " matière de Dreiague," and of its dissemi- 
 nation by •' lei Brelons," but never use in this 
 connection the word which means ff^ehh. The 
 definitcness of this information is, however, only 
 apparent, for in the Middle Ages the words 
 " Bretagne " and " Breton " were exceedingly 
 indefinite in signification. We will refrain from 
 the tedious explanation which a full understand- 
 ing of this problem of terminology would re- 
 quire, and merely itate that theie wordi might 
 be applied either to twelfth-century, continental
 
 xriii Lays of Marie de France 
 Brittany, or to sixth-century Britaiit, the insular 
 •bode of the Briions. Furthermore, in the 
 phrase " matière de Bretagne," the preposition 
 de, which may mean either from or about, is a 
 last straw of ambiguity. So, when mediaeval 
 writers use that phrase, we are generally in 
 doubt IS to whether they mean material from 
 Brittany, or about Britain, or vice versa, or 
 both. Indeed, when we gather and compare all 
 of their statements, so great is the resultant con- 
 fusion that we arc tempted to attribute it to 
 an ignorance on the point at issue as great as 
 our own. Their testimony is therefore value- 
 less in itself, and does not warrant the conclu- 
 lion that there were no Welsh minstrels at all. 
 It is not entirely without value, however, for 
 it confirms the conclusion which we reached, 
 I moment ago, by two other lines of argument 
 — that the Breton minstrels far outnumbered 
 the Welsh. From this point of view, indeed, 
 the unfair terminology of the twelfth-century 
 writers is not surprising i they, in thus ignoring
 
 Introduction xix 
 
 the Welsh minstrels, were no more careless than 
 we of to-day in a matter quite analogous, for 
 do we not assume that all our itinerant minstrels 
 are Italians, although some of them are un* 
 doubtcdly Sicilians, or even Corsicans? So the 
 three roads we have taken all lead to the same 
 end, and we may conclude, finally, that the dis* 
 leminators of Celtic tradition were both Breton» 
 ind Welshmen, but chiefly the former.* 
 
 Having thus settled, as well as we may, the 
 nationality of the minstrels, let us inquire into the 
 nature of their stories. Here wc shall not need 
 to differentiate between Breton and Welsh; al- 
 though their stories were tinged differently, as 
 we have said above, the warp and woof were 
 
 •The medlBval phraie "millire de Brctigne," the e«- 
 ■ipcrttlnR Indeflnllene» of which hia been touched upon 
 In thtt parfgriph, hit been idopttd by French literary 
 hliiorlini of to-day to connote the turn of Celtic trtdltloni 
 preraletK In Europe during the Middle Agfi| and En|' 
 llih writers on the lubject uh In turn the phraie " matter 
 of Britain." The term hai become too unlvereal irtr to 
 be ditplantcd, but wc ihould always bear In mind thai 
 it really meani Ctlllt material.
 
 XX Lays op Marie de France 
 
 the lime, for the fabrics had been lirit woven 
 when Breton and Welsh were one people. In 
 ipite of the fact, already pointed out, that not 
 ■ tingle one of these tales has come down to 
 ui in its originol Breton or Welsh form, we 
 have two ways of inferring in regard to them. 
 In the first place, we are helped by Welsh monu- 
 icripts of the thirteenth and fourteenth centu* 
 riei; these are veritable itore*housc8 of retold 
 •tories, which scholars have been able, if not 
 to refashion into their exact originals, at least 
 to rcimagine in the broad outlines and approxi* 
 mate characteristics of those originals. Sec* 
 ondly, we may infer much from medieval 
 French literature, not only from its many re* 
 marks about these stories, but especially from 
 its many adaptations of them. A large part 
 of them, then, were vague and exaggerated hli* 
 toricti memories of the sixth century, that fatal 
 period during which the Britons, though fighting 
 under such chieftains is Arthur, could not stem 
 the tide of Anglo*Sixon Invision, and wert
 
 iNTRODUCTION XXI 
 
 finally driven into the corners of Enjiland and 
 acrosi the channel into Drittany. Others pre* 
 sent striking parallels to Irish traditions, and 
 must be, therefore, remnants of early Celtic 
 mythology and history, incorporated durinR 
 that period when Gaels and Cymri were inter* 
 mingled. These two masses of tradition, of an 
 heroic and martial character, in greater part the 
 gleanings of battle-fields, were interwoven 
 through and through with sprigs of humble 
 folk'lore, plucked along quiet waysides and by 
 peasant doorsteps; and all, finally, was imprrg* 
 nated with that peculiar Celtic charm which 
 baffles definition, but which everyone hat felt 
 at least indirectly, whether through Malory or 
 through Tennyson, or through any other of the 
 great Celtists of literature. We may add, for 
 the lake uf completeness, that the minstrels' 
 repertoires Included i few non-Celtic itoriei, 
 •ome of them thoroughly Celtixed, some of 
 them hardly at all, according ii they hid been 
 appropriated earlier or later.
 
 jwii Lays of Marie dk Franc r 
 
 A» wc have inferred the content, »o we may 
 also infer the form of these «tories, and the 
 manner in which they were presented. The 
 minitrcli recited them in proie, but interspersed 
 them with bits of lyric poetry dealing with im- 
 portant moments of the action, and sung to the 
 •ccompnniment of some musical instrument, Rcn* 
 erally the Celtic " rote," a sort of small harp. 
 These lyrici were called by a name which the 
 medieval French adopted in the Francixed form 
 " lai," and which we in turn have Anglicir.ed 
 into " lay." As to the lanRiingc employed, the 
 narrative portions were undoubtedly recited in 
 the speech of the audience, but the lays, which 
 were prir.ed especially for their music, were 
 •unit with their original words, just as to-day 
 foreign songs are generally sung without regard 
 to the linguistic ability of listeners. 
 
 The stories and songs of the Welsh and 
 Breton minstrels were not, however, the only 
 form in which Celtic material was prevalent in 
 France before French writers adopted it. Their
 
 Introduction xxlil 
 
 performances were rivalled in popularity by the 
 imitations of French strollers called *' conteors *' 
 (recounters)) entertainers of a lower order than 
 any other of the literary purveyors of the time. 
 Not one of these imitations has come down to us 
 —probably none was ever given right of parch- 
 ment — and we must infer their relation to their 
 originals as we infer all else in regard to the 
 *' conteors," from hints given us by contem- 
 poraneous authors, They reproduced with the 
 utmost freedom the prose portions of the pro- 
 ductions of the minstrels, even intermingling 
 with them parts of non-Celtic stories which they 
 had appropriated from elsewhere. Their pro- 
 ductions. In contradistinction to those of the 
 Celtic minstrels, might be called pseudo-Celtic 
 material. 
 
 Such, then, was the Celtic material. In part 
 genuine, In part spurious, which offered Itself to 
 twelfth-century French writers seeking new 
 themes. They seized upon It eagerly. Nor did 
 they distinguish between the genuine and the
 
 xxiv Lays or Marie de '■ 
 •purioui; with typiril medi(cvi* 
 ■cumcn, they used it ail '^' 
 they rebuilt crumbling Frenck 
 
 In doinff thii, however, they ill >. iii.w^ui ex- 
 ception wrought two CMcntial chnnBci in their 
 m«tcrinl. Firit, they ncRlectcd entirely the lyric 
 clement of their originilii Indeed, their ipurioui 
 originali prnbnhly contained none. Doubtlcii 
 it teemed futile to attempt to reproduce the 
 layii the beauty of which wai in their Celtic 
 muiic. Secondly— and here again their pneudo* 
 Celtic originali had undoubtedly anticipated 
 them — they Krancifcd their material at much ai 
 poiiible; cuitomi and coitumei, wayi of think> 
 ing and ipeaking, all are no longer Celtic, but 
 French. For thii, however, we must not blame 
 them too harshly. It was not alone their mediir* 
 va! egoism which caused them to do this; surely 
 •ome divinity, présider over things literary, hat 
 decreed that Celtic tradition should ever be thus 
 de<Celtized, for the modem Celtist, although 
 he usually makei his heroes more Celtic than
 
 Introduction xxv 
 
 theiri «i to the outer man, U apt to tin juit ai 
 much in regard to ihe inner; Tennyion, for ex- 
 ample, il often occuicd of havins turned King 
 Arthur into in Lngliih country-gcntlemon of the 
 nineteenth century. But, after all, they were 
 unable to obicure entirely the Celtic color of 
 tbdr original*, of which even a little ii a power- 
 ful factor fur benuty, ond their work ii a» much 
 entitled to the adjective Celtic ai are the 
 " Idylli of the King," the only difference being 
 that the modern poct'i Celtiim wai conicioui, 
 theiri unconicioui. 
 
 Although the two traiti Juit let forth char- 
 acterize all mcdiirval French Celtiiti, In other 
 regardi they differ radically. In the light of 
 theie differencei their writingi fall into three 
 groupi: the " romani en ven," the " romani en 
 proie," and the " laii," of which lait type Marie 
 wai probably the inventor and certainly the chief 
 exponent.* Since the '* romani," both thoie in 
 
 *Bnldn ih« Lajr* of Mirif df Franct, tbtrt an • icert 
 or M bx 0thir writtri. Ioim of thiN einnet bt eilltd
 
 mm 
 
 xxvi Lays of Marie de France 
 
 verie and those in proic, were already in exiit< 
 ence when Marie wrote her Layi, wc muit, in 
 order to complete the background ngainit which 
 her originality may itand out ai clearly ai pot* 
 ■iblC) undcriiand their cisential characteriitici. 
 The " romani en veri " were narrative 
 poemi, at leait four or five thousand lines in 
 length, written in octosyllabic couplets. Their 
 authors used the Celtic material in much the 
 same manner that authors of the modern his* 
 torica) novel handle their basal data: that is, 
 with great freedom and elaboration. Of their 
 methods of elaboration it is impossible to give 
 an example without quoting at too great length. 
 Whoever desires an illustration— and a few 
 hours of pleasure besides— may read the Welsh 
 tile, " The Lady of the Fountain," in L«dy 
 
 Brtton Lajri, Initmuch ■( thtjr not only coniiin m C«ltJe 
 iBiitrlil, but art not crtn ■icribed by thtir luthori to Cdtte 
 mlnitrtli; ilnct, howfvtr, they irt eilltd "lili" In tht 
 rnfdlvvtl minuKrIpi», It Mcrai nKHiiry to elm thtni with 
 tbt Brtton Layi, and icholari hart colntd th« Inclutir* ttrm 
 " Narratlrt Layt." Of all tht NarratUa Lay» thart art only 
 a ftw which peiteM literary ralua, and not any which peaataa 
 tiM chtna of iha Bratoo Layt of Marit dt Praoea.
 
 Introduction xxvil 
 
 Charlotte Gucst'i translation of the " Mabino* 
 gion," ond follow thii with W. VV. Ncwcll'i 
 translation of '* Yvain," b poem by the greatest 
 of French Celtists, Chrétien de Troyes. Doth 
 stories are retellings of the s*me Welsh orig- 
 inal; whereas, however, the Welsh retcller elabo* 
 rated but little, Chretien, by inserting new inci* 
 dents, by dwelling on interesting episodes, espe* 
 cially by recounting not only the acts of his 
 heroes and heroines, but also their thoughts, 
 many times multiplied his material. As to the 
 other characteristic of their use of the " matière 
 de Bretagne," deliberate alteration as contra- 
 distinct from mere elaboration, we can cite no 
 more striking nor more important instance than 
 their arbitrary introduction of King Arthur into 
 all of their poems, whether or no their originals 
 had any connection with him. It would take us 
 too far afield to explain the origins of that won- 
 derful figure of literature— King Arthur; be- 
 iidei, they are unsurpassably explained in Pro- 
 fcMor Maynadier'i book, " The Arthur of the
 
 xxviiî Lavi op Marie de France 
 
 English Pocti." Suffice it to lay that thii brave 
 ciptiin of the sixth century woke up one morn* 
 Ing — in the pogci of Geoffrey of Monmouth'i 
 •'Iliitorio Rcgurr. Dritanninc," written in 1136 
 —to find himicif famoui. Through Geoffrey, 
 probably, he paiscd into the " romans," and 
 there became no less powerful and omnipresent 
 than Charlemagne had been in the old " Chan- 
 ions de Geste." 
 
 The " romans en prose " were long, im- 
 measurably long prose compilations of Celtic 
 •toriei. The component parts of each compila- 
 tion generally dealt with the same hero— thus 
 we have the so-called " Lancelot en prose," the 
 " Merlin en prose," and so forth— but the 
 whole showed no co-ordination of material, nor 
 my unity of movement. But if the " romana 
 en proie " thus differed from the " romani en 
 yen " in externals, they resembled them 
 closely in ipirit; their authori showed exactly 
 the lime freedom in handling their data, and 
 the same methodi of elaboration, ai the authors
 
 Introduction xxIx 
 
 of whom we have already ipoken. The popu- 
 larity of the pro«e " romans," by the way, 
 proved more lasting than that of those in verse, 
 and they were the vast storehouses which for 
 yean furnished foreign writers— Sir Thomas 
 Malory, for example — with Celtic material. 
 
 Our background is at last fairly " laid in," ai 
 artists say. But, before outlining upon it 
 Marie's individuality, we need to shut oil a ccr* 
 tain annoying light which shines upon our can' 
 vas from an unfortunate angle. I mean the 
 fact that Marie called her poems '* lays," which 
 immediately, and naturally, reminds one of the 
 lyrics which the Breton and Welsh minstrels 
 had called by that name. There Is, however, no 
 direct connection between their lays and those 
 of Marie; she, tike all her contemporaries, neg* 
 lected entirely the lyric portions of her orig* 
 inalsi her poems are purely narrative. Further* 
 more, they were intended to be read, not sung. 
 It U therefore hard to explain this inomaloui 
 term. Perhipi French audiencei, having to
 
 XXX Lays of Marie de France 
 
 often heard the minstrels sing their lays in con' 
 ncction with their prose narrations, applied the 
 name to the whole performance, then to the 
 prose alone when recounted by some " contcor." 
 In that case its adoption by Marie would not have 
 been unnatural. Perhaps Marie, at a loss how 
 to name her new poetic form, called it after 
 the songs which had first attracted her attention 
 to the Celtic traditions — she once speaks of hav- 
 ing enjoyed the good music of a certain lay of 
 the minstrels. In any case, the application of 
 the term to narrative poems was unfortunate, 
 for the word continued also in its original and 
 legitimate use— even in mediatval French lit- 
 erature certain lyrics were called "laia"— and 
 the resultant confusion has lasted down to the 
 present day, as witness our dictionaries, which 
 uy in one tnd the same breath that t lay is a 
 •hort narrative poem and— a lyric. 
 
 To prepare our background has been a long 
 task; to paint upon it Marie's individuality, 
 which wM striking, and not complicated, will
 
 Introduction xxxi 
 
 take but a moment. Like all medieval French 
 Celtists, she Francized her originals, and neg« 
 Iccted their lyric element; like the writers of 
 the verse " romans " she used octosyllabic coup- 
 lets. But she adopted neither of the principles 
 which we found to be essentially characteristic 
 of both schools of " roman "-writers — freedom 
 and elaboration. On the contrary, she told her 
 stories faithfully; to use her own words, she 
 told each " selon le conte que je sais." Therein 
 lies her Individuality as a mediirval French 
 Celtist— in fidelity to her material. 
 
 If, however, Marie had retold the stories of 
 the Breton and Welsh minstrels in a spirit of 
 servile imitation, her principle of fidelity would 
 have been dearly bought. We find the key to 
 her method in two sentences taken from the Lays 
 themselves : as to a certain Lay she says, " Plusur 
 le m'unt cunté ("Several have told it to 
 me ") ; and as to another, that the will tell it 
 " si cum jeo entent la vérité," which we may 
 translate, '* ■• I understand the true version
 
 xxxii Lays of Marif. de France 
 
 to be." She endeavored to be faithful, then, 
 not to one of the lèverai vcriioni in which 
 each Celtic itory must have been prevalent, 
 but to the story itself, to the story as told 
 by its original teller. When, however, we 
 examine her poems carefully, we find that 
 she must have naively considered form — 
 the very quality in which mcdiœval Celtic art 
 WM most wanting — to be the criterion of 
 genuineness. Therefore her versions were 
 less genuine than those she was endeavoring to 
 correct. This very misconception, however, 
 saved her poetic reputation, for although she 
 lowered the Celtic coloring, and lessened the 
 Celtic imagination, of her originals, she gave to 
 those originals— in compensation, as it were — 
 the beauty of form. And that her sense of form \ 
 wii ilmoit infallible li proved by this ; although 1 
 •he told Celtic itoriea more limply— in lower ' 
 terms, one might lay — than any poet hai ever 
 done before or lince, ihe nevertheleii ichiered 
 Inmiortility thereby. '
 
 Introduction xxxiii 
 
 III 
 Of the twelve Lays, I have chosen for thii 
 book those which, taken together, may lead to 
 the fullest appreciation of our poetess. They 
 •re not the best three — the merit of the twelve 
 !• too even to allow of comparison to that ex* 
 tent— but they are certainly among the best. 
 They show, furthermore, the versatility of her 
 narrative talent. " Sir Launfal *' is typical of 
 those of the twelve which are in the nature of 
 fairy stories. *' The Maiden of the Ash " rep- 
 resents several which are almost realistic. 
 " The Lovers Twain " represents still others, 
 which combine the traits of the two aforesaid 
 classes, inasmuch as the possible events therein 
 related shimmer in an atmosphere of faerie, ren* 
 dering ui incapable of deciding whether to call 
 them itoriei of real life or fairy talei.
 
 SIR LAUNFAL 
 
 My lords, the Breton minstrels sing i lay 
 Of one called Launfal. Thus the story runs:— 
 
 What time the rebel Scots and Picts o*e^ 
 
 stepped 
 The border into Logres, and spread war 
 Through Arthur's realm, that high and cour> 
 
 teous King 
 Went northward, and established in Carlisle 
 Mis summer's court. There held he splendid 
 
 sway. 
 Bestowing bounteous favors on the knights 
 Who made his Table Round, guerdoning them 
 With wide-spread lands and love of ladiei fair. 
 
 But there was one who sat in Arthur's hall 
 Yet knew not Arthur's bounties, having come 
 But lately to the court from over aeui
 
 a Lays op Marie de France 
 A king's first ion, but what availed hii name, 
 Far from his kindred, lone in a strange land? 
 Or what availed his proven knightlihood? 
 For many envied him, and slandered him, 
 And Arthur, hearing, miscsteemed his worth. 
 He, all his substance spent, too proud to beg 
 For royal favor, lived in penury 
 And lonely tears. There is no crueller grief 
 Than to be friendless in a foreign land. 
 
 Upon a mom Sir l4iunfal~thui wai called 
 The unhappy knight—rode forth beyond the 
 
 wall 
 Which compassed the drear town, thinking to 
 
 find 
 Some solace in the fields of June, some joy 
 Where unconstrained the gladsome river ran. 
 The horse he rode, a meagre, shufHing jade 
 Lent by a pitying host— for his own iteed 
 Had long ere this been lold— wai weary 
 
 straight. 
 And faltered. So, diimounting, he made Ioom
 
 Sir Launpal 3 
 
 The tattered traps, and left the nag to roll 
 Amid the meadow; then, folding hit cloak 
 Beneath his head, laid him among the flowen, 
 So lorrowful he gat no joy from aught. 
 
 Ai thui he lay, watching acroii hit teari 
 
 The ihimmering stream, along its banks he iiw 
 Two maidens moving. Never had he known 
 Fairer than they, nor ever richer garb 
 Than their dark'Crimson tunics. Straight they 
 
 came 
 To where he lay, and he arose and stood, 
 Awaiting their command. Who spake and 
 
 laid: 
 " Sir Launfal, us our gracious lady sendSi 
 Our lady fair, to bring you unto her. 
 Then hasten I She attends Impatiently." 
 He, marvelling, followed where they led, and 
 
 found 
 A silk pavilion rich beyond all word- 
 Not Queen Semlramis of old might buy 
 One tingle flap thereof! even the cordi
 
 4 Lays or Marie dc France 
 
 And tenting-pini were priceleii. And within 
 A moiden lay, whoic beauty far lurpoiied 
 The flower of the lily, or the roie 
 New opened in the joyful lummertide. 
 She lay upon a couch whoie covcrleti 
 A cattle could not overweigh in worth, 
 And o'er her liiiome grace an ermine cloak, 
 With Alexandrine purple lined, wai flung 
 Unheedingly, nor hindering all the gleam 
 Of ihoulden whiter than the hawthorn-flower. 
 
 Then paused the knight with gentle courtesy 
 Until the beckoned him before her couch, 
 And ipake him thui: " Launfal, for thee I come 
 From fairyworld, where lie the lands I rule, 
 And if thou provest brave and courteous 
 As thou dost seem, no king of the wide earth 
 Was ever happier, for I love thee, friend." 
 And Launfal looked— and through their joined 
 
 eyes 
 Swift from her heart to his quivered a sparic 
 Of love, and burst to a great flame. And then
 
 Sir Launfal | 
 
 He aniwcred! '• Faircit lady, «n it plcme 
 Your lovclincii to brighten my ltd hetrt, 
 Ye could not Uy upon it my toil 
 Too hard, too grievoui. Gladly will I do 
 Your every heit, for you renounce all men. 
 God grant that I may lerve you evermore." 
 And the in gladncii aniwercd pledge with 
 
 pledge — 
 Thui were the twain made one in trueit love. 
 
 But time leti ever on despite the joy 
 Of loveri true. When evening fell apace, 
 She ipake him, laying thui: " Farewell I for I 
 Muit seek my queendom of the otherworld, 
 Where thou, being mortal, canit not follow me. 
 But grieve thou not. Henceforth, whene'er thy 
 
 heart 
 It filled with yearning love, I ahall find thee, 
 And thou ihalt be content. Yet hearken, friend I 
 Let thia be deeply graven in thy loul I 
 The gift of an immortaPa love enwrapi 
 One firm condition and inviolable —
 
 6 Lays of Marie de France 
 Utter concealment. Heed my wtming; elie 
 For ever ihalt thou loic me, and alone 
 Long for the love thyself hast rendered vain." 
 Thus spake she, wtming. Then bestowed a 
 
 gift 
 Of wondrous tort, t never btrren purse, 
 Wherefrom he could not spend too lavishly, 
 For spending more, the more it clinked with 
 
 gold. 
 And when the maidens twain who served the 
 
 fay 
 Had changed his rags for silken fabrics rich, 
 There was no comelier knight in Arthur's land. 
 They supped i tnd ftirly to his taste, mjf 
 
 lords. 
 For lingering kistei were the tntremttt. 
 Then, for the heartless tun had tet, they 
 
 parted.— 
 He found a splendid steed where late he left 
 His lorry nag, tnd thus rode cityward t 
 Yet ever turning where, unwillingly, 
 He left behind i lovelinesa to dear.
 
 Sir Launfal 7 
 
 But when at last the tent fnJcd from light, 
 Miitrustcd then h!i memory — ny, and wept, 
 Thinking it all n dream. Thus doubting, came 
 Within the city wolls — and doubted not. 
 For ill his men, ill-clad the morn, were garbed 
 In lavish guise, fit followers of a knight, 
 Nor knew— God love us— whence or how this 
 
 change 
 And magic betterment had come upon them. 
 He, who perceived the meaning of the change, 
 D.-tde them make merry, counting not the cost, 
 For— look ye! all my purse aclink with gold I 
 And so it was the morrow, and again 
 The morrow's morrow—Launfol never lacked 
 For gold. And spent it well, aiding therewith 
 Many a knight misused, as he hnd been, 
 By cruel fortune) ransoming those who pined 
 In far captivity 1 clothing wondrous well 
 The merry minstrels 1 sowing everywhere 
 All without stint the seeds of happiness.— 
 But none there wai who knew from whence this 
 
 came.
 
 8 Layi of Marie de Francs 
 
 And all the while, whenever ILtunfal willed, 
 Hii lady iwiftly came from fairyworld. 
 
 And 10 the dnyi flew by on gladiome wing— 
 Midiummer-tidc, methinki, wai come and gone. 
 Upon a morn a band of ihining knighti 
 Disported them within a grove that grew 
 Against the ivied tower of Arthur's Queen i 
 Gawain the Courtly, Ywain called the Fair, 
 With yet a score of others, all renowned. 
 And Launfal, for the change in his estate 
 Had wrought a change in their esteem of 
 
 him— 
 Ay, now they sought, not shunned hit com- 
 pany. 
 While thus within the leafy wood they 
 
 lay. 
 
 And lang, and merry made, the Queen released 
 Her casement— looked upon them— marked Sir 
 
 Launfal. 
 Then suddenly his courtly grace inflamed 
 Her wayward heart with flre unquenchable.
 
 Sir Launfal 9 
 
 Straightway ihe called the maideni of her 
 
 bower, 
 The fairest and most courteous, and ran 
 Trippingly down the castle steps in haste. 
 They charged upon the barons with a war 
 Of mischievous eyes and merrily laughing lips, 
 And soon the summer winds that waved tht 
 
 wood 
 Were fraught with whispered dalliance. One 
 
 alone. 
 Sir Launfal, shunned the common pleasnnce, sat 
 Afar from all, more joyless for their joy. 
 So incomparcd— he thought— to his, were this 
 The hour of tryst with her of faerie. 
 The Queen beheld him sitting thus alone, 
 And drawing near, and sighing, softly spake: 
 •' Launfal, my heart is thine — ay, only thine. 
 Command me as thy slave. For I, the Queen, 
 Am Launfal's slave I Art thou mayhap con* 
 
 tent?" 
 But he dismayed cried outi " Lady, let bel 
 Long have I served the King and in ill faith,
 
 10 Lays op Marif. de Franck 
 And ihall I now be faithlesi to him? Nay, 
 Even the ihining «tain of luch a love 
 Tcmpteth mc not." Then ihc, with a iwift 
 
 rflBe, 
 Scarce knowing what ihe did, ipat in hit face, 
 And hilling if he held hit Queen in icorn 
 It wai not virtue, but bccnuie he loved 
 Some other, called him fool— oy, utter fool— 
 For where, ai far ai Rome and back again, 
 Wai lady fairer than King Arthur'i Queen? 
 Then Launfal, mad with wrath and quick 
 
 deiire 
 To iniwer ell the iniult of her wordi: 
 " Yea, true it ii I love, but whom I love 
 Hath not her match. And hark ye my boait, 
 
 Queen — 
 I fling it in your face for your mad wordi^ 
 The lowlieit maiden of my lady'i train 
 Yet far lurpaiieth you in lovelineii." 
 So ipake the angered knight, and ihe, upiprung, 
 Speechleii from rage, goaded by burning ihame, 
 Fled from before hii face, and lought her couch,
 
 Sir Launpal ii 
 
 Vowing within her heart never to rise 
 Until— God'i name—ihe fashion lome revenge. 
 
 So when the King at eventlJo returned 
 From merry hunt and courting the dim wood, 
 She claiped hit kneei, beieeching hii compa^ 
 
 lion, 
 Sobbing that Launfal would have wronged her 
 
 —yea, 
 Had sought to make her faithless to her 
 
 lord; 
 And when in wrath she scorned hit suit, hid 
 
 flung 
 Vile words and insult on her, vaunting him 
 Of one far more desirable, so fair 
 That even the lowliest maid?n of her train 
 Surpassed great Arthur's Queen in loveliness. 
 Then he, in rightful wrath, for he believed. 
 Swore he would burn the traitor at the stake 
 Or swing him from a gallows'tree, and sent 
 Three barons who should haste and summon 
 
 him
 
 la Lay8 of Marie de France 
 Before the assembled court to make defense— 
 If haply for such crime there were defense. 
 
 Alas, Sir Launfal sorely is bestead 1 
 For now, although an hundred times he criei, 
 From fairyworld his love answers him not. 
 For grief he swoons away, and when hit 
 
 sense 
 Again returns, again calls piteously, 
 And curses heart and tongue— and many times 
 Almost hath riven him upon his sword. 
 
 Thui found him Arthur's knights, tnd turn* 
 
 moned him 
 Before the ordered court. And he complied, 
 Uncaring what befell him there, fordone 
 By ever deepening sorrow, seeming scarce 
 To hear what my said, or understand 
 The sense of aught. Then Arthur cried in 
 
 wrath : 
 " Sir Liegemin— niy, Sir Liegelesi, hiving 
 
 broke
 
 Sir Launfal 13 
 
 All faith— thou wouldst have wrought thy 
 
 Queen's disfame; 
 Failing in that, hast shamed her with rude 
 
 boast. 
 Methinks thy lady must be wondrous fair, 
 That even the mcnne« maid of all her train- 
 God's wounds — is fairer than thy master's 
 
 Queen I " 
 
 And Launfal, thus accused, answered and 
 
 said 
 He had not sought to work the Queen's dil> 
 
 fame, 
 But truth it was that he had vaunted him 
 Of fairer lady. Whereupon the King 
 In angry haste bade all his knights convene 
 For judging him. But they, who much ei« 
 
 teemed 
 Sir Launfal, loth to judge him, made excuse, 
 And prayed the King appoint a day, and call 
 The lords of his wide land to swell his court. 
 This present matter was too grave— they aiid—
 
 14 Lays op Marip. de France 
 To be adjudged by few. Let Launfal find 
 Good luretiei. Then the luckleii knight, lo far 
 From home and kindred, had been loit indeed, 
 Had not Sir Gawain come before the King, 
 Giving himself ond all hii men at pledge 
 That Lnimfnl nniwer on the appointed day. 
 So Arthur ipnkc! " I give him unto you. 
 But at the riik of all ye hold from me 
 Ai lawful matter." They eicorted him 
 Jo hit abodr; essaying all in vain 
 To comfort him. Nay, inconsolable 
 Hit grief. Although they came unceasingly 
 With new attempts to liven his sad mood. 
 Scarce could they make him eat or drink, and 
 
 feared 
 Lett he go mad with lo great suffering. 
 
 Upon the appointed mom from near and far 
 Were Arthur'i baroni gathered to hit court. 
 To them Sir Launfal'i luretiei rendered him. 
 But they, enjoined to judgment by the King, 
 Wert troubled, pitying him of over leaa;
 
 Sir Launpal 15 
 
 Within their hcarti laying— as lunlight ihuni 
 The itagniint fen, to thii man all diifame. 
 Many of them would faineit set him frcci 
 Yet some, fearful of Arthur, were of mood 
 To work him grievous ill. Then rose and spake 
 The Duke of Cornwall: "Sirs, good heed be- 
 hooves us. 
 The pity of our hearts must not prevail 
 Against the law—nor yet too great regard 
 For even Arthur's will. Right must be done, 
 Let laugh or weep who may. Our King makes 
 
 plaint 
 Of this his vassal, charging vile intent 
 Against the Queen's bright fame; and, yet 
 
 again. 
 Rare insolence, boastings not justified. 
 Which set a rival beauty over hers. 
 Yet— mark ye— none accuseth save the King, 
 'And by our law a man shall not be judged 
 Save when two several voices speak against him. 
 Behooves us now « wisdom doubly w lie- 
 To Arthur loyalty is due, and yet
 
 i6 Layi of Marie dr France 
 To Launfal juitice. Trench we the knot thuii 
 Let Launfal luinmon hither whom he lovei, 
 And if it lo appear he boaitcd not 
 Unjuitly of her beauty, be he free, 
 For thui he will have proved that he ipake not 
 To slander the high Queen, but through hit 
 
 love. 
 But elie, let him be cait from Arthur*! court, 
 And ever live dishonored in mcn'i eyei." 
 He ipake, and all were in accord, and bade 
 Sir Launfal summon her he loved. Uut he, 
 Scarce making answer, moaned yet deeplier— 
 Hath he not called her? ay, without all cease? 
 
 And so the King, deeming him guilty, urged 
 To speedy judgment, for the incensed Queen 
 Ceased not from praying Launfal's punish* 
 
 ment. 
 Wherefore the lords, compelling their slow 
 
 tongues. 
 Were even passing sentence, when— behold I 
 Two miideni rode within the palace hall
 
 Sir Launpal 17 
 
 On loftly picitig pslfrcyi richly trapped, 
 And both were crimson-rohcd in coitly silki, 
 And buth of benutcoui mien. And Gnwaln 
 
 then, 
 LeapinR to Lmuiftl where he lit «lone, 
 Unmindful for hit grief of all that happed, 
 Dade him lift up hit eyei and be of cheer— 
 For one of thcic 10 fair ii doubtleii the 
 Whom thnu hoit vaunted. He, scarce looking! 
 
 " Nny, 
 I know thcRe maidcni not, nor underitand 
 I'heir coming or their going." Out the twain. 
 Advancing through the throng of wondering 
 
 knighti, 
 Stood from their iteedi before the diiii and 
 
 ipnke; 
 " Who bringeth light from darkneii, right from 
 
 wrong, 
 Preierve thee, Arthur. We entreat of thee 
 A lodging for our lady, who thli eve 
 Deiireth harborage within thy walli." 
 And thii King Arthur granted willingly,
 
 i8 Lays of Marie de France 
 Bidding escort them where they might repose 
 From toil of travel, and await their dame. 
 
 And then the King demanded once again 
 His barons' judgment, crying he was wroth 
 For such delay. But they made answer, " Sire, 
 Doth not the wonder of such loveliness 
 Excuse our slow decision? " — Then once more 
 Their voices rose in ever new debate. 
 
 And while they tarried, all unwilling still 
 (To judge Sir Launfal, other maidens twain. 
 Amount of gently ambling Spanish mules, 
 Rode before Arthur's throne — of fairest mien — 
 Yea, fairer than the twain who erstwhile came. 
 And then again the judges were rejoiced. 
 Thinking that one of these is Launfal's love, 
 Who now hath come to save her lord from 
 
 shame. 
 And Gawain criei, " L4iunfil, for God's iweet 
 
 love, 
 Of these two dimieli, fair beyond ill word,
 
 Sir Launfal 19 
 
 Which i» thy Udy? Speak I" But Ltunftl 
 
 looked— 
 And answered, "Nay, I know these maideni 
 
 not." 
 And they alighted meanwhile, and bowed 
 
 low 
 Before the King, and all who stood about 
 Whispered each other there was none so 
 
 fair 
 In all the court— not saving the high Queen. 
 The elder spake in accents sweet and low 
 As woodland stream : " O gracious King, pre* 
 
 pare 
 Against our lady's coming, who desires 
 To treat with thee on matter of concern." 
 And Arthur, ever courteous, welcomed them, 
 Bidding the servants tend their shining mules. 
 And sprightly squires escort them where abode 
 The twain who came before. But then again 
 Reproached his ever hesitating lords. 
 Crying that there had been enough delay, 
 And more would be an insult to his Queen.
 
 80 Lays of Marie de France 
 
 So now at bit, though none leu loth ind 
 ilow, 
 The judgci nceJs muit vote, nnd spcok the word 
 To banish Launfal from the land, and crush 
 The hope of name nnd fame for aye. But hold! 
 Up through the city, through the palace gate, 
 And into Arthur's hall before the throne, 
 A maiden rides— fairer than all the world. 
 A milk-white palfrey carries her, and limbed 
 More daintily than favored steed of king. 
 Nor is there king so splendid he might buy 
 Its trappings save he sold or pledged his landi. 
 And she is robed in fairest linen white 
 Loose clasped about her shoulders whiter itill— 
 Whiter than snow new-fallen o'er the trees. 
 Lovely her face, with radiant eyes of gray. 
 And laughing lips — yea, every lineament 
 More exquisite than iculptor ever wrought; 
 Her eyebrows bending as a lissome bow, 
 Her hair acurl and yellow — threads of gold 
 Would not outshine those tresses in the lun. 
 Upon her wrlit li perched i ipirrow*hawk,
 
 Sir Launpal ax 
 
 And after her a comely «quire controls 
 A greyhound in the leash. Thus she draws near, 
 And through the city hnsten young and old 
 To feast their eyes upon her, yet more fair 
 Than ever fancy imaged Venus to them. 
 
 Stately she rode among the gathered lords, 
 And there was none so cold whose heart beat 
 
 not 
 The faster for her beauty— nay, not one 
 Of all the court who hnd not leaped and 
 
 laughed. 
 Had she enjoined upon him toil or pain. 
 And those who loved Sir Launfal were rejoiced, 
 And bade him be of cheer and lift his eyes — 
 ** Of all fair women, lo, the fairest comes I " 
 And Launfal — hearing — seeing — hardly 
 
 breathed, 
 And felt the hot blood course his veins, and 
 
 cried 
 " My love I" and then again " My lovet " and 
 
 then
 
 aa Lays of Marie de France 
 " Now care I not whether I die or live. 
 Thou hast forgiven. Yea, I see the light 
 Of thy dear eyes, and all my heart is healed.*' 
 
 And she, advancing through the palace hall- 
 No fairer creature ever entered there — 
 Stepped from her horse before the King, and 
 
 stood 
 Where all might look upon her. Then, when 
 
 all 
 Had looked, and in their eyes she read their 
 
 praise 
 And knew their hearts were won, she spake and 
 
 laid : 
 " Arthur, give ear. And give ye ear who make 
 King Arthur's court. I whom ye look upon 
 Once loved Sir Launfal. Me before this court 
 Hath been accused of crime against the 
 
 Queen.— 
 The Queen hath lied I He loveth me too dear 
 For other love.— Ai for hit bout, my lordi, 
 It il not I, but ye, should make award
 
 Six Launfal 33 
 
 Whether through me he be ncquit thereof." 
 She ipakc, and all with one accord adjudge 
 That Launfal be exonerate from blame.— 
 Nor doth the King gainsay the just decree. 
 
 Then straight — without a word or glance for 
 
 him 
 She came to save — she leaped where stood her 
 
 steed, 
 And though the King and ill hii knighti ei* 
 
 sayed 
 To hinder her, entreating her to stay, 
 Heeded them not, but like a lightning-flash 
 Galloped amid the throng, and through the 
 
 portal. — 
 But Launfal, with the iwiftneii of sharp fear 
 Lett he should lose her alway, ran where rose 
 Without the palace gateway an old stone. 
 Whence Arthur's heavy>armored knighti were 
 
 wont 
 To mount their iteedi. Thence sprang he, with 
 
 mad leap,
 
 14 Lays op Maxib dr Fkancb 
 
 Upon hit lady'i pnlfrcy ii ihe fled 
 
 From out the pilsce, and the hurrying iteed 
 
 Cirrled the twiin twiy to ftiryworld, 
 
 To wondroui Avilon— lo the Bretoni ling— 
 
 And nevermore wai Launfil Men of men.
 
 THE MAIDEN OF THE ASH 
 
 My lortli, among the layi of Breton btirdi 
 Is one they coll " The Maiden of the Aih." 
 The tale it worth the telling— thui it riini: — 
 
 In dnyi of old there lived r valiant lord 
 In Brittany — the itory namei him not— 
 To whom were born two children at one birth. 
 Glad wai the lire, and yet not wholly glad, 
 Until hi» dearest friend might share his joy. 
 A herald sprang to horse, nnd rode apace 
 Through day, through night, and came, and 
 
 cried aloud: 
 " To him thou lovest, children twain are given. 
 One shall be named for thee, and pass with thee 
 The years of youth, shaping his life to thine.*' 
 
 So spake the herald, dropped on bended knee 
 Before the dais, where his master's friend 
 •I
 
 i6 Lays op Maris de France 
 
 And all hii court were gathered it the board. 
 Then he to whom the tidingi came thanked 
 
 God, 
 Giving a goodly iteed to him who brought 
 
 them. 
 Not 10 hit wife, who lat betide her lord, 
 And likewise heard, but laughed right icorn* 
 
 fully- 
 For hen was one of thoie envenomed tonguei 
 Which dart at every chance for a mean word— 
 •' In God'i fair name I I marvel much thy friend 
 Hath tent thee tidings of hit own dishonor I 
 We know full well the true significance 
 Of luch a story. Woman never bore 
 Two children at one birth, nor ever will, 
 Except she serve two maiten I " • Thui ihe 
 
 ipake, 
 
 *11ili itrsngt luptrMlilen It of rtir itMltnl erl|ln. 
 ArlilMl* not onljr elttd Initincti of It, but hlmwlf bflltvid 
 la It. Medirn Invtiilgiton find It nlll Armljr roetfd 
 •moni barbirle nitieni of to*diy. During lh« MIddIt Aft« 
 h wti wldt>ipritd, but enir hill btllirtd In, ti li ihewa 
 hf Mr Ii7, «ftd by msnjr «ih«r midlavil iteritt.
 
 jTS'iSr 
 
 Thr Maiden or tiîe Ash a; 
 
 And though her lord reproached her, and up> 
 
 held 
 The honor of hit friend'i fair dame, the ill 
 Wai done— the ugly rumor ran apace. 
 And many, who were ignorant, believed; 
 And many, who were jealoui, ihook their headi, 
 Saying " Perchance— we know of stranger 
 
 thingi." 
 Whereby the mother suffered, and her lord. 
 
 Yet were they well avenged, for that itm* 
 year 
 The slanderer gave birth to daughters twain I 
 
 Then did the wretched woman, crazed with 
 grief, 
 Cry out upon herself, " What may I do? 
 For ever am I shamed before the world. 
 My lord and all my kin will cast me out 
 When this be known, for I adjudged myself 
 What time I slandered womankind, and sild 
 None ever bore two children at one birth
 
 a8 Layi of Marie dr Francr 
 
 Except ihc icrvcd two mnntcri. Now my wordi 
 Will be remembered for mine own undoing. 
 Ah, they who carp at othcri never know 
 When their own wordi, like treacheroui houndi, 
 
 may turn 
 And tear them. Now— would I eicape dii« 
 
 honor— 
 I necdi mult »hy or one or other babe. 
 Yen, I would rather aniwcr unto God, 
 Thon be for ever ihnmcd before the world." 
 
 A icrvant itood beside her— one who loved 
 Her miitrcM earneitly— and heord her rave 
 Of murdering one or other child. Who itrove 
 To comfort her: " My lady, thii ii naught. 
 Diimiii your grief, for all ihall yet be well. 
 Give unto me the babe that ye would ilay, 
 And ye ihill be delivered from «11 ihime. 
 For I thii night ihall carry her afar, 
 And leave her it lome monastery door— 
 Someone will find ind pity her, pleaie God, 
 And fetter her, ind love her ai hit own."
 
 Tun Maidrn op the Abii 39 
 
 Thui ipake the girl. The other*i heart grew 
 
 glad 
 With ludden hope— yen, nn «he do thli thing, 
 The guerdon ihall be rare, And 10 they 
 
 wrapped 
 The child— n comely child— in linen white, 
 And bound n golden bracelet on her arm, 
 The rim o'crlcttcrcd with a foreign «cript, 
 A jacinth gleaming from iti yellow grnRp, 
 And over all they threw a lilken cloth 
 Brought from Stamboul, flowered with flowing 
 
 icrolli- 
 The precioui and fair tokeni may apprize 
 Whomever find the babe, and pity her, 
 That the it not of lowly parentage. 
 At midnight, while the lilent cattle lay 
 In thrall of ileep, the girl received the child 
 From out the mother's irmi— with a huihed 
 
 prayer 
 Slipped through • poitern*door where ran the 
 
 roid 
 Amid th« darkened village, and itraight camf
 
 30 Lays op Marie de France 
 Within the forcit. Still the ipcd, nor stopped 
 For all the blacknesi of the deep, dim wood, 
 Until at last she heard, upon the right, 
 Dogt baying, and cocka crowing. Then the 
 
 knew 
 A town was there, and turning thitherward 
 A» speedily as she might for her tired limbs. 
 Descried against the dawn a cloister rich 
 And ample, lifting its gray walls and towers 
 And steeple unto God. In haste she came 
 Before the gate, and laid her burden down, 
 And kneeling, humbly prayed: "Almighty 
 
 God, 
 Except Thy will be otherwise, let live 
 This child, save her from so untimely death." 
 Then rising, looked about her, wondering 
 
 where 
 The child might rest more softly — lo, where 
 
 grew 
 An ash-tree fair, with myriad leaflets green 
 Dancing on countless boughs — and near the 
 
 ground
 
 The Maiden op the Ash 31 
 
 The trunk, four*forked, proffered a roomy 
 
 crotch. 
 Straightway she ran and laid the child therein, 
 Commending her to God nll-powerful. 
 Then fled, and through the forest turned her 
 
 home, 
 And told her mistress all that she had done. 
 
 That morn the keeper of the cloister gate 
 Arose betimes. He r.-tng the matin bells. 
 Lighted the altar candles, then, as wont, 
 Drew back the gate. Lo, mid the leaves of the 
 
 ash 
 A fluttering cloth of silk, all richly hucd. 
 The plunder of some contrite thief — he 
 
 thought — 
 A pledge, perchance, of penitence — and ran, 
 And found the babe enwrapped in the bright 
 
 silk- 
 Still living. Thanking God therefor, he took 
 The bundle in his arms, and carried it 
 Right tenderly within the cloister walU,
 
 3» Lays of Marie de France 
 And called i widowed daughter, who, It 
 
 chanced, 
 Wai nuriing yet her babe. *' Up, girl! " cried 
 
 he, 
 •' Bestir thee, kindle me the fire, and bring 
 A candle here.— A child I In the aih*leavei 
 I found it. Give it of thy milk, and warm 
 And bathe it!" She, complying, suckled her, 
 And found on her white arm the golden band. 
 This, and the precious coverlet of silk, 
 Told them the child was not of lowly birth. 
 So, when the Mass was said, and from the 
 
 church 
 Came forth the Abbess— ye must know, my 
 
 lords. 
 The cloister was of nuns— the worthy man 
 Awaited her, and told her what had chanced. 
 And when the Abbess saw the child, how fair, 
 How richly tired in token of high race. 
 None but herself— she said— might foster her.— 
 And for the manner of her coming to them, 
 The child wu called the Mtiden of the Aih.
 
 The MAiDiiN or tmk Am 33 
 
 Within the cloister walla the foundling grew 
 To gracious girlhood, springing ns a flower. 
 The Abbess, loving her, instructed her 
 In k11 that might befit a noble maid. 
 And clothed her ns the daughter of « king. 
 And when from girlhood into womanhood 
 She slipped, throughout all Drittany was none 
 So good, so fair, so gently courteous. 
 Noble in mien and nobler still in word. 
 
 The strongest baron of the country round- 
 He who was lord of Dol, a man both brave 
 And good — heard of the Foundling of the Ash, 
 Mow courteous she was, how passing fair, 
 And loved her ere he saw her. Seeing, loved 
 Deyond all cure— deeming her fairer still 
 Than he had heard, and still more courteous— 
 And swore that he would win her love, for life 
 Were worthless else. Swore It although he 
 
 knew 
 The girl could never be his wife— the match 
 Were too uneven— he, the Lord of Dol,
 
 34 Lays op Marie de France 
 Unto I nameless foundling! It were vain 
 To seek his vaisals' sanction. So he choked 
 The murmurings of his conscience, holding 
 
 her 
 Too dear— and yet, perchance, not dear enough— 
 To yield her.— Yea— but how to win her 
 
 though? 
 For if he came again and yet again. 
 The Abbess might mistrust, and jealously 
 Protect the maiden from him — thus her love 
 Were lost for ever. Yet he found a way— 
 For love is never long perplexed— he sent 
 A letter to the Abbess, telling her 
 He fain would give the Church of his broad 
 
 lands 
 And of his goods. For oftentimes— he wrote— 
 His soul grew wearied of this turbulent world. 
 And longed for refuge somewhere, to he 
 
 made 
 This gift of land and goods, truating to 
 
 gain 
 A lort of right of city In the doliter.
 
 The Maiden of the Ash 35 
 
 The Abbess, for the gift, right willingly 
 Accorded him the freedom of GoH'i house.— 
 And mnny times that year the Lord of Dol 
 Came to seek refuge from the turbulent world. 
 
 And thus he wooed the Maiden of the Ash 
 Until he won her love. Then, when he knew 
 She loved him, said to her: " Away, dear heart, 
 Lest we be hindered. Once our secret known, 
 Mine eyes would never look on thee again." 
 And she, who loved him dearly, gave consent. 
 And fled, and followed him. But took away, 
 Of all her precious store of ornament 
 And rich attire— gifts of her foster-mother- 
 Only the bracelet and bright cloth of silk, 
 Mer own of right — had she not often heard 
 The story of her coming to the cloister? 
 Thus gave herself the Maiden of the Ash 
 Unto the Lord of Dol— and all his house 
 Soon loved her gentle grace, and her kind 
 
 words, 
 Bestowed with equal courtesy on ill.
 
 36 Lays op Mariu de France 
 
 Long time they lived together happily, 
 Until the baroni of the country round, 
 They who owed /ealty to him of Dol, 
 Degin to murmur, laying they were doomed, 
 If he should die, to lerve a low-born matter — 
 For whence hath come thii woman of the Ash? 
 They haraiicd him, entreating he should take 
 A wife of noble birth, and put aside 
 The other. I'hen, when grumbling naught 
 
 availed, 
 Tlireatening followed: "Well and good, yield 
 
 not — 
 But forfeit then for aye our loyal love." 
 Thus was the knight of Dol enforced to choose 
 Twixt losing her he loved, and bringing war 
 Into his lands. No easy choice, for who 
 May carelessly bring cruel war on those 
 Who trust in him for peace and happiness? 
 Therefore he yielded, bidding bring a wife 
 After their own hard hearts. " Fair Sire," they 
 
 laid, 
 "She la already found; she dwells not far.
 
 The Maiden or the Ash 37 
 
 An only child — ergo, much land to boot. 
 Hard they call her— truly, for the Aiih 
 A good exchange 1 doth not the har.cl bear 
 A taity fruit? the ash'tree bcareth none I" — 
 Coaric pleasantry, uniaid an they had known 
 The Maiden of the Ash— and thence they 
 
 turned 
 In laughter, having let the marriage day. 
 
 But when the Ash-tree Maiden knew of thii 
 She wavered not, nor let the deep pain well 
 To her gray eyei, remembering— gentle heart — 
 The happineii which he had given her, 
 Rather than holding him accountable 
 For happiness which fate had snatched away. 
 But all the household of the Lord of Dot, 
 From knight to page— even the serving-men— 
 Wept bitterly that they must part with her. 
 
 Upon the appointed day the Lord of Dol 
 Summoned his liegemen all. And a gay throng 
 Of knight! ind ladles brought the chosen bride ;
 
 38 Lays of Marie de France 
 Her mother with her, happy for her — yet 
 An undertone of trouble in her laugh, 
 For the had hcnrd how dearly he of Dol 
 Had loved the Maiden of the Ash, and feared 
 He loved her itill, and that their lastinB love 
 Might work her daughter grievoui harm. So 
 
 thought 
 The mother, planning how she might persuade 
 Her daughter's lord to marry a good man 
 With her he put aside, for thus— «uid she — 
 We should be rid of her— and suddenly, 
 Amid the joy, and ringing wedding-bells, 
 A girl of wondrous beauty and sweet grace 
 Ran toward her, blithely welcoming her, and 
 
 held 
 Her stirrup while she stepped from olT her iteed. 
 Partly because she felt It In her heart, 
 And partly for the wonder in the eyei 
 Of thoie who stood about, the lady knew 
 That thii wai ihe—the Maiden of the Aih. 
 And whom i moment gone the feared, he^
 
 Thr Maiden op thf. Ash 39 
 
 She loved. Would the had known, and her own 
 
 child 
 Had never come to darken luch a heart. 
 
 At noon, with solemn pomp, the Lord of 
 Del 
 Wat married to n maiden of high race. 
 Hit own Archbishop joined the twain, and 
 blessed them. 
 
 And while the guests made merry, the Ash- 
 tree Maid 
 Was steadfast in her will to serve her 
 
 master. 
 Calling the chamberlains, she bade prep.ire 
 The marriage couch, and watched them leit 
 
 they shirk. 
 And when they spread a linen coverlet. 
 Was wroth, saying that it was hardly meet- 
 But hers was meet— and brought her cloth of 
 
 iilk 
 And spread it over all, esteeming thus
 
 40 Lays of Marif. df. France 
 
 To do her utmost for the wedded twain— 
 Sive the Archbiihop, none might bleu the 
 couch. 
 
 And when the marriage couch wai thui pre- 
 pared, 
 At nightfall came the mother to the room, 
 Bringing her daughter, bride of him of Dol.— 
 But hirdly entered ere »he grew lo pnle 
 She teemed a ghoit, and groped ai if struck 
 
 blind. 
 Ay, for her heart was fluttering like a leaf. 
 With faltering voice she calls the chamberlains: 
 "Tell me," she cries, "tell me, and in ill 
 
 faith. 
 Where have ye found that cloth of silk? " And 
 
 one: 
 " In sooth, my lady, 'twas the Ash'tree Maid 
 Who threw It over this which lies beneath, 
 Deeming It fitter. TIs her own, I think." 
 The trembling mother scarcely answered HIrIi 
 Motioning more than saying, " Bring her here,"
 
 ^tttftgttéumit m iM • 1^ I ■•■ '** I ' ' •■* I" '"1 
 
 TiiE Maiden of tiih Asii 41 
 i They brought the girl, and thus the mother 
 ] ipake, 
 
 I Fcveriihly ! " Sweet friend, tell me, I pray, 
 Where hoit thou found this silken coverlet? 
 Whence cnme it unto thee? Who gave it thee? 
 Tell me, sweet friend, tell me who gave it thee." 
 And she : •' Lady, the Abbess gave it me, 
 My foster-mother— ay, and n gold band. 
 She had them both from those who brought me 
 
 to her." 
 " Show me the band of gold," the mother cried, 
 And when she saw the bracelet, lettered round 
 With foreign script, doubted no more, but 
 
 knew 
 The Foundling of the Ash was her own child. 
 And lobbing "Girl, thou art my daughter," 
 •wooned. 
 
 But when the iwoon had yielded, bade them 
 find 
 The maiden'i father. Suppliant she clasped 
 His kneei, ind wept. He, understanding not,
 
 4a Layi op Marie dr Francb 
 
 Eiiayed to comfort her: " What meaneit thou? 
 What fcarcit thou from mc, to cower thui 
 All hopclciily? Thou knoweit well— God'i 
 
 rood— 
 I will forgive, however thou hait wrought." 
 And the, through lobi of lorrow and quick Joyi 
 " My lord, lince thou hait pardoned ere thou 
 
 know 
 The fault, lo dare I ipenk. Long yeari agone— 
 May God forgive— I slandered her who bore 
 Two children at one birth. Alan, *twai I 
 Who (uffcred moit from the empoiioncd wordi. 
 I bore thee daughter! twain— yet thou didit 
 
 know 
 Of one alone. The other I cast out. 
 Ay, but aome kindlier instinct made me fold 
 The cloth of lilk about her, thou didst bring 
 From over seas, and bind on her white arm 
 The band of gold thou gavest me that day 
 When first I saw thee — God is merciful: 
 The coverlet, the bracelet, both are found, 
 And with them our lost child. Lo, it is she
 
 Tub Maiden of the Ash 43 
 
 Who itandcth here— the Maiden of the Aih." 
 But he, in glndneii crying " God !• good, 
 Who hath restored her unto ui, ere yet 
 (The wrong were doubled," took her to hit 
 heart. 
 
 And when they told the knight of Dol, he 
 
 reeled 
 As one that comei from dnrkneii to bright 
 
 light. 
 Blinded by joy, icarce able to believe. 
 
 Upon the morrow merrily ring the belli. 
 Ringing with tonei more pure and true, it 
 
 ■eemed. 
 Ringing for her whoie grief wai turned to 
 
 gladneii.— 
 Whom joined the Archbishop but yeiternoon, 
 
 ere now 
 Were sundered, for ill— God wot— had willed 
 
 it 10, 
 Ay, moit of ill the liiter, iharing thui
 
 44 Lays op Marie de France 
 A liiter'i joy— and in after time, forsooth, 
 She too wai wed with one the dearly loved.— 
 And thui, my lordi, in midit of a great mirth, 
 In midit of iplcndor unmatched before or lince, 
 The Aih'tree Maid, lo fair the teemed a queen, 
 Wii joined in wedlock unto him of Dol. 
 
 And when the rumor of it spread abroad 
 Through Brittany, the gleemen lang thereof, 
 CtUing the long "The Maiden of the Aih."
 
 THE LOVERS TWAIN 
 
 My lords, the Breton minitrels ling a lay 
 Of loveri twain who died fur utter love 
 Each of the other. Thui the itory rum:— 
 
 In yore agone there ruled in Normandy 
 A grncioui King and good— unnamed of them 
 Who tell the tale— whose Queen, too frail a 
 
 flower. 
 Fading from life when moat the yearned to live, 
 Yet bore an only child, a daughter fair. 
 And he, who teemed in losing her to lose 
 All will for love, yet learned to love two-fold. 
 For in the child the mother lived again. 
 But when the current of her childhood set 
 To maidenhood, hit heart was filled with fear 
 Lest he might lose her also, not through death. 
 But through the natural law which makei a girl 
 Abandon them the dearly lovei for one 
 
 41
 
 46 Lays of Marie de France 
 She lovci even more. How could he part with 
 
 her, 
 Dear for henelf, for memory dearer itill? 
 Yet hung ever more imminent the cloud 
 Of hii alarm, for many a great lord 
 Besought her hand, and they who made hli 
 
 court 
 Began to eye askance such miserliness. 
 
 ' At last, when murmurings marred the fair 
 
 address 
 Of even truest friends, he cast about 
 For manner of defense against their blame. 
 Wondering how he might contrive that none 
 Should even woo her— thus were he absolved. 
 He bade the heralds cry: " Whoso would win 
 The daughter of the King — so is ordained 
 And clearly writ in statute — must be strong 
 To bear her in hit arms up yonder hill, 
 Nor ever rest him till he reach the top." ) 
 But when the news thereof was spread abroad, 
 Many there were esteemed the prize too fair
 
 The Lovers Twain 47 
 
 For yielding tamely. Yet were all too weak, 
 Hardly climbing beyond the middle slope, 
 Faint and fordone laying their burden down.— ^ 
 The crafty King at last lived unafraid, 
 For none attempted more the hopeless task. 
 
 Now in that land there dwelt a gentle youth, 
 Sprung from a noble line, comely of face 
 And form, and ever fearful lest he be 
 In knightlihood outdone. Who on a time 
 Sojourning with the aged King, beheld 
 And straightway loved his daughter, and im- 
 plored 
 The dear return of even the hundredth part 
 Of all his love. And she, knowing his worth — 
 Had she not heard her father praise him?— 
 
 gave 
 ,The love he asked; ly, gave an hundredfold 
 More than he asked. And many times they met 
 And spake together loyal promises. 
 But ever hiddenly, fearing the King's wrath, 
 Hoping — God guide them — loon or late to win
 
 48 Lays of Marie on France 
 Fivor and countenance, sayin;; each to other 
 'Twcre better to endure, deferring hope, 
 Thin hiite impatiently, and lo loic all. 
 
 But who may brag of patience when true love 
 Torturei without all ceaie? The youthful 
 
 knight, 
 At lait too lore oppresied, besought the girl 
 (To flee away, to abandon all for him. 
 Crying that he could bear hii lufTcring 
 No longer, aniwering it were vain cntrear 
 The obstinate King— not his the strength, ilii, 
 To cirry her so far. But she replied: 
 " Dear love, I know thou art not amply strong 
 To reach the goal unreached by older men? 
 But if I flee with thee, abandoning him 
 Who alway held me dear, and whom I love 
 Second to thee, what should I gain— or thou? 
 For In destroying thus his happiness, 
 I should destroy mine own— ay, also thine. 
 Hold we to other counsel, leu unworthy, 
 (jn fir Salerno, whence my mother cime,
 
 Til r. LovRRs Twain 49 
 
 Still dwclli her elder liitcr. I have heard 
 My kinimen praiic her wondroui mattery 
 Of healing art. ) She knowi the power and 
 
 use 
 Of every root and herb. Go thou, dear love, 
 With thcic my letter! leek the ancient dnmc. 
 (Tell her our plight, and our fond hope deferred, 
 And the will give thee potions strangely made, 
 Whereby thy strength shall be increased ten- 
 fold.^ 
 And when thou comest, thou ihalt isk the 
 
 King 
 For his dcitr child, and he, deeming thee weak 
 After the full'Strengthed men who tried and 
 
 failed, 
 Will laugh, and the more presently accord 
 The hard ordeal. And thou shalt take the 
 
 Nor fail, God willing, to achieve thy bride.*'— 
 And he, hearing her counsel, leapt for joy. 
 That night they parted glad with freshened 
 hope.
 
 50 Lays of Makie de France 
 
 Unto his castle turned the youth, and straight 
 Harnessed his palfreys, henped with a rich store 
 Stout beasts of burden, laid upon his limbs 
 Fair garments, lined his purse with yellow 
 
 gold. 
 And chose, to be companions of his way, 
 Of his true men the truest. Tarrying not 
 They rode, and after many a wearying stage 
 Attained to far Salerno, where they found 
 The practiser of healing art. And she, 
 Reading his letters, gave him welcome glad. 
 And kept him with her many days, and swelled 
 The volume of his strength by dexterous drugs. 
 Then furthermore, when his return was ripe» 
 Placed in his hands a vial dearly filled, 
 For be he never lo o'crworn, even near 
 To death, let him but drink that draught, ind 
 
 loi 
 A wondrous vigoti coursing the dull veini 
 And impotent bones, shall make him strong once 
 
 more.— 
 And he, not thankleii, took the tiny flaikt
 
 The Lovers Twain 51 
 
 (Then turned him back toward France and hit 
 dear love. 
 
 Nor tarried in hit caitlc, but with trust 
 In that new strength hastened before the King, 
 Boldly claiming — ny, sooth — the rude ordeal, 
 And, prospering in this, his daughter's hand. 
 The King refused him not-— though chiding him 
 For so great pride and mad temerity, 
 To hope for happier issue where had failed 
 So many itronger— and set apart a day. 
 
 [ Upon the appointed morn from far and neir 
 Were come the liegemen of the King, for so 
 Had he commanded, shrewdly, with Intent 
 That all should sec the madness of a man 
 Who vaunted him of might for the rude task- 
 Thus were his treasure itfe. And when the 
 
 plain 
 Was thickly darkened by the curious throng, 
 In light of all he bide the Impatient youth 
 Riiie in hli arms hit burden— and awiyt
 
 5a Lays of M a rip. pp. Franc p. 
 
 lie, nothinjf loth, obeyed — but ere he leapt 
 Where rose the arduoui path, laid in her hand 
 All lecretly the vial of wondroui charm. 
 Then climbed with rapid stridei, ihc clinging 
 
 to him 
 Light as a feather— hardly weighing more 
 In veriest truth— through fasting many days 
 With hope to aid her lover; ay, that mom 
 Laying her lightest silks on her fair limb». 
 And yet so steep the path her provident heed 
 Availed him naught, for midway of the slope 
 She felt his speed and hurrying steps abate, 
 And cried in fear: '* Drink of the draught, dear 
 
 love. 
 Thou tirest; drink, and find new strength." But 
 
 he: 
 " I need It not, fair friend," for he was mad 
 With all his joy, mistaking love for strength, 
 Thinking to win his bride unhelped by aught 
 Save his own itrength, and so refused — ala»— ^ 
 All other aid. Ay truly, made pretense 
 Of f«tr— if he ihould ilick hit pice to drink—
 
 Till'. LovKRS Twain 53 
 
 That lomc of those who watched from the 
 
 thronRcd plnin, 
 Deeming him faint, would ihout encournse» 
 
 mcnt, 
 And some would hantcr, thus bewildering him 
 With counter criei— far safer not to drink. 
 Dut as he climbed she felt his vigor ebb 
 Like life-blood flowing free from a wide woundi 
 And oftentimes he faltered, almost fell. 
 (And she Implored unceasingly 1 '* Drink, drink, 
 And find new strength.'* Dut he, relying still 
 On strength not strength, but sprung from utter 
 
 love. 
 Still cried her nay, and reached the crest it 
 
 last.- 
 There, victorious, laid his burden down. 
 
 Victorious ?— Ay, my lords, but all for 
 
 naught. 
 Life, like t harp'String stretched too tightly, 
 
 snapped 
 In twiin. He fell, and God received his soul. |
 
 54 La va of Marie d& Trancb 
 
 Then ihe, thinking him iwooned, kneeled by 
 hit tide, 
 Purpoiinff now tt Uit to employ the draught 
 Of wondroui power, In vain I for he lay itill; 
 Nor ipokc, nor opened hii dear cyci; and then— 
 God of heaven— she knew that he wai dead. 
 Never wai pain more poignant, never teari 
 More true, Madly the flung herself beiide him, 
 Holding him closely, killing many timet 
 Thoie cyci and lipi which aniwcrcd not again. 
 I Then suddenly the lorrow pierced her heart 
 Like to a poiioned knife— and thui the died. ) 
 
 And to thii day the hill whereon they died, 
 And where they reit forever— ay, the King, 
 Too late yielding her unto him the loved. 
 Upon the hilUtop laid them in one grave- 
 ls called the Mountain of the Lovers Twain, "t 
 9 9 
 
 But where her faltering hand, my lordi, had 
 dropped 
 The flask, letting the potent liquid flow
 
 The Lovbki Twain 55 
 
 Upon the earth, 1 flower fair upiprsng, 
 And ipreid idown the pith which he hid trod. 
 Whereof ire brewed— lo ting the Breton gle^ 
 
 men— 
 Philtert unfailing, fraught with truest lora. 
 
 i ..
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Tilt fullowlng blbllngriphlcal noln irf iddtd for tht bfnt> 
 tit of tlioH who may bf iimpitd lo iiudy iirtouily ihf Layi 
 of Mirit dt Friiict. 
 
 I'htrt il no bfiicr way of cnirrlns iipan ilit itudy of tbt 
 "Mailèrt dt ItrMoKtit" iliaii through paRei S)9-)S* of ^'• 
 Voreiiicli'i Kinfiilirunt in dm Stuilium drr /lllfraHubiiit/ini 
 Lllnalur, llallr, 1905. Tlitrt tht itudtnl will alio And 
 bIblioBraplilcal data.* 
 
 It II impoullilt to tiudy Marlt'i Ltyi without brcoming 
 InttrrMtd In fulklort. Tht following book* will ftirnUh an 
 Introduction to thli tnirancliig but dlHkult iubjrct: O. L. 
 Oommt, Folkltff at an llhtoriral Sd.ntr, London, 190I1 
 J. O. Frartr, Tht CoUtn Bough : a Sludf in M agir and 
 KtllfUn, ad td., London and New York, 1900. A book 
 which will Introduct tht itudeni to tht tiptclal lubitci of 
 Ctltic folklort II J. Rh^i' Cfltic Folklert, WtUh and Manx, 
 Oxford, 190t. 
 
 Al to MarIt herielf, tht itartlng-point of itudy li of count 
 tht tdltlon of htr Ltyi by Karl Warnkt; Dif Lais dn Marit 
 dt Frantt , , . mil Vfrfltirhtndtn Anmtrkunftn v»n Rein- 
 held KUhltr, ad td., liallt, 1900 1 rtvltwtd In l.lltrarltehtt 
 CtnlralHall, LII (1901), 9!i. and In /.elluhrill fUr frantt- 
 tiitht Sfracht und Lilltralur, XXIV (1901), II, ii-7S< 
 Warnkt'i tdltlon luppllti bibliographical data up to 1900. 
 
 • A knowttdft of Otrman itnd Frtnoh li a prtrtquliltt (or mHoui 
 alady of tht Matter of Britain. Tboit whoM *lmi art not itrloni, 
 but who wUh, nvvtrthtliu, to inform thtniMl vm rtllably , nay rtad 
 pagti i|«-i]l of W. H, Bohofltld'i MngHth Ultralmrt /)tm tht Ntr- 
 man Ctn^ntit t» Chaactr, Ntw York and London, 19061 or pagti i-it* 
 of H. Maynadltr'B rht Arthur a/ tht âtngtith l^tt, Boitoa aad Mtw 
 Yorlmttr. 
 
 17
 
 58 Bibliography 
 
 Tht following bibllogriphy conitltutei an cndfivor to lilt 
 •II booki ind irilciti (Including Importint rtvltwi) con- 
 cerning Marie and the lo-calltd " Narrative Layi," which 
 hire been written ilnce the publication of Warnke'i edition. 
 It doei not include booki or ariiclei dealing lolely with the 
 Fablei or the Purgatory {Dit Fabtin dtr Mar'xi it Frantt, 
 •dited by K. Warnke, Halle, 1I9S; Thi Etfurgatoirt Saint 
 Pâlriu »f Mûrit it frtntt, edited by T. A. Jenklni, Chicago, 
 i»0|). 
 
 On the Subject ■• ■ Whole* 
 
 O. GaâaiR, Crundriii itr Rtmaniifhrn P/iiltlopit, II, Brite 
 Abteilung (1903), S9)-6o3. 
 
 L. FoULlT. The following articlee by Profeiior Foulet deal 
 with variou» mattrri connected with Marie and the 
 Narrative Lays; taken together, they coniiitute a moit 
 valuable work on the «ubject ai a whole: ZRP., XXIX 
 (1905), i9-5«, a9J-î»ï. reviewed in R., XXXIV (1905), 
 479-410, and in R.. XXXV (190e), 1J7; MLN., XX (190$), 
 109-111; MLN.. XXI (I90«), 4«-5o; ^f^P- XXX (190O, 
 691-711, reviewed in R.. XXXVI(i907), 46}; RLR., LI 
 (190»), 97-110; ZRP.. XXXII (190»), I6f-i8j, a57-»«9. re- 
 viewed in R.. XXXVIIl (1909), 161 and 46}; RF., XXII 
 (1908). 599-6*7- 
 
 G. Paws, La Liitirature Françaiu au Mojtn Aft, jd ed, 
 
 • Under each head titlet are listed, unie» for otrvloo» reaaom, In 
 ehronologrical order. The abbreviations used are as follows : 
 KJ. = Kritiscker Jakrtsbericht ibtr die FvrltckritU dtr Rtmm. 
 
 Hischen Pkilologii- 
 LGRP. = LittraturbUtt fUr Gtmunttckt mnd Rtmanttth* Pftilê' 
 
 logit. 
 MLN.= Modem Languagt /fetes. 
 MP. = M»dtm PkHology. 
 PMLA. = PuMcatioHs »/ tke Modem Lanpiagi Association rf 
 
 America. 
 Jt. = Romania, 
 
 MF. = Romamisckt Portekmnftn. 
 RLR. = Rnm* des Langues Romanes. 
 ZRP. = laitstkrift/Br Romanisekt PkiUtogi*.
 
 Bibliography 59 
 
 Parli, 1905. Paragraph a, and bibliographical nntti on 
 
 page 394. 
 C. Vo«F.rZ8Cii, EinfUhruHff In dat Sltidium der AUfrênti- 
 
 tlifhfH Lilffatur, Halle, 190J. Paget J9l-404' 
 H. Maynaoier, Thf Arlfiur of Ih» F.ngtith Poets, Boieon and 
 
 New York, 1907. Page» 51-67. 
 Alicb KïMP-WiitCM, A Twflflfi-Crnturf Romanrt-Wrltir; 
 
 Marlt di Frantt, In Tht Nintlftnlh Ctntury and /Ifltr, 
 
 LXII (July-December, 1907), ioo)-iot}. 
 E. Frivmond, Ltit brfloni und Marit dt Frûnn iSqQ'Iqo», 
 
 In AV., VII!, II, a«i-a«5. A bibliographical eiiay. 
 A. HiLKA, Mnrlt dt Franri und dii Laidithlunf 1903-1906, 
 
 In KJ., VIII, II, )ai-)j6. A bibliographical eiiay. 
 H. 8. Canby, Thi Short Story in Ençlith, New York, 1909. 
 
 Paget 4S-46. 
 
 Le Fraiane 
 
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 1907. Page» i45-«47. 
 
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 Lanyal 
 
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 6o Bibliography 
 
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 R. ZiiHMiRMANN, sir Lnndtval, mllUltnflhckti Ontlckt In 
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 W. M. Hart, Tkt franhllffê Tali, Ctnildtrtd ai a Matltf
 
 63 BlULIOGRAPIIY 
 
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 Bibliography 
 
 63 
 
 and N«w York, ifi» ProM. Cmlilni I'OlitItt tnd 
 
 Oritlint. 
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 Livrt, Pirli, t9ta Centilni tht Itxl of lh« Ltl d'Arli' 
 
 toit from iht Rtnitll iti FâiHauM of Montalglon and 
 
 Rarnaud, with tranilatloni of difficult wordi and phraiii 
 
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