To make a strong and lasting peace, Alis sent one of his chief officers to invite Alexander to come to him. His brother would be given governance of the land if he would honour Alis with the title of emperor and allow him to wear the crown; on these terms a settlement between them could be reached, if he agreed.
As soon as this was told to Alexander, he and his men mounted and rode to Athens, where they were joyously received. But Alexander would not agree to let his brother have the crown and the empire, unless he gave him a pledge never to marry, so that after him Cligés would become emperor of Constantinople. On these terms the brothers reached their settlement. Alexander swore his oath, and Alis in turn granted and pledged that he would never take a wife as long as he lived. They made their peace and were friends again. The barons rejoiced and took Alis as their emperor, but both great and small affairs were presented to Alexander: whatever he commanded and said was done, and little was done without his approval. Alis had only the name of emperor, but his brother was served and loved, and whoever did not serve him for love did so from fear. And so with the aid of others Alexander himself ruled the whole empire as he saw fit.
But she who is called Death spares neither the weak man nor the strong, for she slays and kills them all. Alexander, too, had to die, since he became prisoner to a disease for which there was no cure. But before Death overcame him, he summoned his son and said to him: ‘My dear son, Cligés, you will never know the extent of your valour and might if you do not go to test yourself against the Bretons and French at King Arthur’s court. If adventure leads you there, take care not to be recognized until you have tried yourself against the finest knights at the court. I urge you to believe what I tell you; and should the occasion arise, do not be afraid to test yourself against your uncle, my lord Gawain. I pray you never to forget this advice.’
After giving this exhortation, Alexander did not live for very long. Soredamors’s grief was such that she could not survive him, so she died in sorrow with him. Both Alis and Cligés mourned them as was proper, but afterwards gained mastery of their sorrow, for no good can come from continual grieving.
So the time of mourning passed and for a long while the emperor, intent on remaining true to his promise, refrained from taking a wife. But there is no court in all the world that is free of wicked counsel, and barons often stray from the paths of loyalty in believing wicked counsel. The emperor’s men came repeatedly to urge him to take a wife; they exhorted and importuned him daily to do so, and by their persistence convinced him to break his oath and agree to do their will. But he insisted that the future empress of Constantinople must be graceful, beautiful, wise, rich, and noble. Then his advisers told him they wished to make preparations for a journey to Germany to seek the hand of the emperor’s daughter. They urged him to take her, for the emperor of Germany was very rich and powerful and his daughter was so fair that no maiden in all Christendom could rival her in beauty. The emperor Alis acceded fully to their wishes and they set off, richly provided for, and rode on by day until they found the German emperor at Regensburg. There they requested on behalf of their lord that he give them his eldest daughter.
The emperor was delighted by this request and gladly gave them his daughter, for such a union in no way diminished his prestige or lessened his honour. But he added that he had already promised to give her to the Duke of Saxony, and they would not be able to escort her back unless their emperor came with a mighty army to keep the duke from doing her any harm or injury on the trip back to Greece. As soon as the messengers heard the emperor’s reply, they took their leave and returned. They came back to their land and their lord, before whom they repeated the emperor’s response. At once Alis selected the best men he could find, knights proven in battle, and along with him he took his nephew, on whose behalf he had sworn never to take a wife as long as he lived. Yet he intended to break this vow if he could reach Cologne.
Then one day he left Greece in the direction of Germany, for no words of blame or reproach could prevent his taking a wife, even though his honour would be diminished. He did not stop until he reached Cologne, where the emperor had gathered his court to celebrate a German festival. When the company of Greeks reached Cologne, there were so many Greeks and Germans there that more than sixty thousand had to be lodged outside the city walls.
Great was the crowd of people and great was the happiness of the two emperors, who were glad to meet each other. The barons assembled in the vast palace and the emperor immediately sent for his comely daughter. The maiden did not delay, but came immediately into the palace. She was of surpassing beauty and figure, for it had pleased God Himself to shape her in order to make men marvel. And God who fashioned her has given no man words sufficient to describe her great beauty.
The girl was named Fenice,8 and not without reason, for just as the phoenix is the most beautiful of birds and unique of its kind, so Fenice, it seems to me, had no equal for beauty. She was a miracle and marvel whose equal Nature could never again create. Since my words would never be equal to the task, I do not wish to describe her arms or body or head or hands; even if I had a thousand years to live and my skill doubled each day, still my time would be wasted in trying to describe her as she truly was. I know that if I tried I would exhaust all my skill and waste all my talent, and my efforts would be in vain.
The maiden had hastened, so that she arrived in the palace with her head uncovered and face exposed and the radiance of her beauty brightened the palace more than four carbuncles would have done. Cligés stood in front of his uncle, the emperor, with his mantle removed. Though the day was cloudy, Cligés and the girl were both so beautiful that a ray of their beauty shone forth that illumined the palace just as the sun shines clear and red in the morning.
In order to describe Cligés’s beauty I would like to paint a verbal portrait, which will not be long. He was in his flower, for he was nearly fifteen years of age; he was more handsome and comely than Narcissus, who saw his reflection in the pool beneath the elm-tree and fell so in love upon seeing it that he died, so they say, because he was unable to possess it.9 Narcissus was very handsome, but not so sensible. But just as pure gold surpasses copper, so Cligés outstripped him in good sense even more than I can tell. His hair resembled pure gold and his face the morning rose. His nose was well-made and his mouth fair, and he was built according to Nature’s finest pattern, for in him she brought together what she only parcelled out piecemeal to others. Nature was so generous with him that she gathered all her gifts in him and gave him all she could. This was Cligés, who combined good sense and beauty, generosity and strength. He had the heartwood along with the bark: he knew more about fencing and archery than did King Mark’s nephew Tristan,10 and more about birds and more about hounds. In Cligés there was nothing lacking.
Cligés stood in front of his uncle in all his beauty, and those who did not know him could not take their eyes from him; and in similar fashion, those who did not know the girl gazed on her fervently, as on a marvel. But Cligés, for love, cast his eyes upon her secretly and withdrew them again so subtly that neither their going nor their coming could be considered foolhardy. He gazed upon her most tenderly, but he did not notice that she was offering him fair exchange: in true love, without deceit, she offered him her gaze and then took his. This trade seemed excellent to her, and would have seemed even better had she known something of who he was. But she knew only that he looked beautiful to her, and if ever she were to love anyone for his beauty, it would not have been right to bestow her heart elsewhere. She bestowed on him her eyes and her heart, and he in turn pledged his to her. Pledged? Rather gave outright. Gave? Not so, in faith, I lie, for no one can give away his heart. I must put it another way.
I shall not argue on behalf of those who claim two hearts may be united in a single body, for it is not true or plausible that two hearts can be in one body; and even if they could join there, it could never seem true. But if it pleases you to listen, I can explain to you how two hearts ca
n be as one without ever coming together. They are only one in so far as each one’s desire flows into the other; they each desire the same thing and, in as much as they have this common desire, there are those who say that each of them has both hearts. But one heart is not in two places. Their desire can easily be shared, but each still has their own heart, just as many different men can sing a song or melody in unison. By this analogy I have proven to you that one person does not have two hearts simply by knowing another’s desire, nor because the one knows what the other likes or dislikes. A body cannot have more than one heart, any more so than voices that join together seem to be but one yet cannot come from the same person. But it is not useful for me to linger over this, for another task is fast approaching.
Now I must speak of the maiden and of Cligés; and you will hear of the Duke of Saxony, who sent a quite young nephew of his, not yet knighted, to Cologne to inform the emperor that he could expect no truce or peace from his uncle the duke unless he sent him his daughter. And if the man who was intending to carry her back to Greece with him should set out, he would find the road cut off and well defended unless he handed her over. The young man delivered his message well, without haughtiness or insult, but he received no reply from anyone, neither knight nor emperor. When he saw that no one would speak and that their silence was filled with scorn, he strode defiantly from the court; but as he was leaving, his youthful impetuosity led him to challenge Cligés to a tournament.
The men mounted their horses to commence the tournament; the sides were even, with three hundred men on each. The whole palace emptied and not a person remained; all the knights and ladies climbed to the balconies, the battlements, and the windows to watch and observe those who were about to joust. Even the girl whom Love had won and subjected to his will went up and took her place at a window, where she sat very delightedly for from there she could see the man who had stolen her heart. Nor did she have any desire to take it back from him, for she would never love another; but she did not know his name, nor who he was, nor of what lineage, and it was not proper for her to ask, though she was eager to hear words that might cheer her heart. Through the window she observed the shields gleaming with gold, and the men who bore them at their necks who were engaged in the jousting. But all her thoughts and cares were directed to a single place, and nothing else concerned her: she gazed avidly at Cligés, following him with her eyes wherever he went. And he, for love of her, fought bravely for all to see, so that she might hear tell only of his strength and skill; at the least it would then be proper for her to praise him for his valour.
He headed for the duke’s nephew, who had broken many lances and was routing the Greeks. Distressed by this, Cligés braced himself firmly in his stirrups and charged him so hotly that the young envoy could not keep himself from being thrown from his saddle. There was great commotion as he struggled to his feet. He stood up and then remounted, intent on avenging his shame. But some men, when they think they have the chance to avenge their shame only add to it. The youth charged towards Cligés, who lowered his lance to meet him and thrust at him with such might that he threw him to the earth again. Now his shame has doubled and all his men are discomfited, seeing clearly that they will not be able to leave the battlefield with honour. Not one of them had the skill and valour to keep his saddle if attacked by Cligés. The Germans and the Greeks all rejoiced when they saw their men driving off the Saxons, who fled in a rout. They pursued them for their shame and overtook them at a river, in which a good number dived and were soaked. Cligés upended the duke’s nephew in the deepest part of the ford, and so many others in addition that to their shame and disgrace they fled away grieving and dispirited.
Then Cligés returned rejoicing, having been proclaimed the victor by both sides, and came directly to a door that was near the lodgings of the maiden who, as he entered, exacted her toll in the form of a tender glance, which he paid her: for their eyes met and each vanquished the other. But every German there, whether from the northlands or the south, who had the gift of speech exclaimed: ‘My God, who is this young man in whom such beauty has blossomed? Heavens, how is it he has so quickly won such glory?’
So many asked ‘Who is this young man? Who is he?’ that before long throughout the city his name was known, and that of his father, and the pledge that the emperor had given and sworn to him. This news was repeated so often that word even reached the girl, whose heart was overjoyed by it, because now she could no longer say that Love had mocked her. She had no cause for complaint, because Love had made her give her heart to the fairest, the most courteous, and the bravest knight to be found anywhere.
Yet she was being forced to marry someone who could bring her no pleasure, which made her anxious and distraught, and not knowing whom to consult about her love she is left to her own thoughts and sleepless nights. And these two concerns so troubled her that she grew pale and wan, so that it was clear to all from her loss of colour that she did not have everything she desired. She was less given to pleasure than before, laughed less, and was less carefree; but if anyone asked the reason for her change, she hid it well and denied everything.
Her governess, who had nursed her as a child, was named Thessala and was skilled in necromancy. She was called Thessala because she had been born in Thessaly, where diabolical enchantments flourish and are taught. The women of this land practise magic spells and bewitchments. Thessala saw the wanness and pallor of the girl Love held in his grip and counselled her with these words. ‘Heavens!’ she said, ‘are you bewitched, my dear sweet lady, to have your face so wan? I wonder what could be the matter. Tell me, if you know, where this pain affects you most. If anyone is to heal you, you can count on me, for I know how to restore your health. I know how to cure the dropsy and can heal the gout, quinsy, and asthma. I am so skilled in reading urine and the pulse that you’d be wrong to seek another doctor; and, if I dare say so, I am more familiar with true and proven spells and enchantments than Medea11 ever was. Though I’ve cared for you since birth, I’ve never told you of this until now. But don’t blame me for this, for I would not have told you even now had I not clearly seen that a malady for which you need my aid has overwhelmed you. My lady, you would do well to explain to me your sickness before it afflicts you further. The emperor has placed me in your service to watch over you, and I have always performed my duties so well that I’ve kept you in good health. Now all my efforts will have been in vain if I cannot heal you of this malady. You mustn’t hide from me whether this is a sickness or something else.’
The girl did not dare reveal the fullness of her desire for fear that Thessala might blame or discourage her. However, once she had heard Thessala boast of her skills and knowledge of enchantments, spells, and potions, she determined to reveal the reason why she was pale and wan, but only after having her swear never to reveal her secret and not oppose her will.
‘Without lying, nurse,’ she said, ‘I don’t believe I’ve felt any pain, yet before long I believe I shall. Just thinking of it brings me great pain and grief. But how can anyone who doesn’t experience it know the difference between pain and happiness? My pain is different from any other for, if I’m to tell you the truth, it pleases me though it causes me to suffer, and I take pleasure in my discomfort. And if there’s any pain that can please, then my trouble is what I seek, and my suffering is my health. So I don’t know why I should complain, for nothing I know causes me pain except by my own choosing. My desire is painful, possibly, but I feel so much comfort in my desire that it causes a sweet suffering, and so much joy in my trouble that I am sweetly ill. Nurse Thessala, tell me: this pain that seems sweet to me, yet torments me so, is it not some delusion? I don’t know how to recognize whether it is a sickness or not. Please, nurse, tell me its name, and symptoms, and nature. Yet rest assured that I’ve no desire to be healed in any manner, for I’m very fond of this suffering.’
Thessala, who was very wise in all the ways of love, knew and understood from what she had said that it was
love which was troubling her: since she called her sufferings sweet, it was certain she was in love, for all pains are bitter except that which comes from loving. But Love turns her bitterness to sweetness and delight, and then often turns it back again.
And knowing full well what state she was in, she replied: ‘Have no fear, for I’ll tell you both the name and nature of your pain. You’ve told me, I believe, that the suffering you feel seems both joyful and invigorating: the pain of love is of this nature exactly, for it comes from joy and suffering. Therefore you’re in love, and I can prove it to you, because I find no sweetness in any pain except the pain of love alone. All other sorts of pain are always horrible and cruel, but love is sweet and pleasant. You’re in love, I’m completely sure of it, and I don’t hold it against you; but I would consider it wrong if you were to hide your feelings from me out of silliness or folly.’
‘Nurse, it’s no use trying to draw me out, for first I must be certain and convinced that nothing will ever compel you to speak of this to anyone alive.’
‘My lady, indeed the winds will speak of this before I, unless you give me leave. And moreover, I’ll swear to help you so that you may know for certain that through me you’ll find your happiness.’
‘Then you will have healed me for certain, nurse. But the emperor is marrying me, which makes me sad and angry, for the one I love is the nephew of the man I must wed. And if the emperor takes his pleasure of me, then I will have lost my own happiness and can expect no other. I’d rather be torn limb from limb than have our love remembered like that of Tristan and Isolde, which has become a source of mockery and makes me ashamed to talk of it. I could never agree to lead the life Isolde led. Love was greatly abased in her, for her heart was given entirely to one man, but her body was shared by two; so she spent all her life without refusing either. Her love was contrary to reason, but my love will always be constant, because nothing will ever cause my heart and body to be separated. Truly my body will never be prostituted, nor will it ever be shared. Let him who possesses my heart possess my body, for I abjure all others.
Arthurian Romances Page 22
