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  Yvain

  Yvain: The Knight of the Lion

  Chrétien de Troyes

  Translated from the Old French by Burton Raffel

  Afterword by Joseph J. Duggan

  Yale University Press

  New Haven and London

  This translation would not have been possible without the generous support of The Sagan Foundation.

  Copright © 1987 by Burton Raffel.

  Afterword copyright © 1986 by Joseph J. Duggan.

  All rights reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers.

  Designed by Nancy Ovedovitz and set in Garamond No. 3 type by Brevis Press. Printed in the United States of America.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Chrétien, de Troyes, 12th cent.

  Yvain, the Knight of the Lion.

  Bibliography: p. 227

  I. Ywain (Legendary character)—Romances.

  I. Raffel, Burton. II. Title.

  PQ1447.E5R34 1987 841’.1 86-23346

  ISBN 0-300-03837-2 (cloth)

  ISBN 978-0-300-03838-5 (pbk.)

  The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

  19 18 17 16 15 14

  for Eli Sagan, of course

  Contents

  Translator’s Preface

  by Burton Raffel

  Yvain: The Knight of the Lion

  by Chrétien de Troyes

  Afterword

  by Joseph J. Duggan

  Suggestions for Further Reading

  Translator’s Preface

  My basic text has been Chrestien de Troyes, Yvain: Le Chevalier au Lion (Manchester, England: Manchester University Press, 1967), incorporating the critical text of Wendelin Foerster and with an introduction, notes, and glossary by T. B. W. Reid. I have sometimes disagreed with both Foerster and Reid as to matters of punctuation, and less often as to the precise meaning of a particular disputed passage. Two volumes I found absolutely indispensable are A.-J. Greimas, Dictionnaire de l’ancien français, jusqu’au milieu du XIVe siècle (Paris: Larousse, 1980) and Frédéric Godefroy, Lexique de l’ancien français, ed. J. Bonnard and Am. Salmon (Paris: Champion, 1976). I sometimes drew upon (and always enjoyed) William W. Kibler’s beautifully written and sensitively conceived An Introduction to Old French (New York: The Modern Language Association of America, 1984).

  The most important decision for anyone translating a poem like Yvain is formal: what does one do, in Modern English, with Chrétien’s octosyllabic rhyming couplets? His metre is plainly an impossible one for the English version of a poem of 6,818 lines. (For comparative purposes, note that Beowulf has 3,182 lines, and the Odyssey roughly 12,000.) The closest formal equivalent, iambic tetrameter, would be more than risky. One necessarily tends, given the physical constraints of the measure, to place the caesura after every second foot. The great strength of iambic pentameter, never more fully demonstrated than in the end-stopped couplets of Alexander Pope, is that the caesura not only can never be placed in the exact middle of the line, there being indeed no exact middle available in a line of five rather than of four metrical feet, but that the greater length of the iambic pentameter line encourages placement of the caesura after the first, second, third, or fourth foot—and also permits use of more than one caesura in a line. Two marked metrical pauses would annihilate an iambic tetrameter line, which as I say naturally and almost inevitably tends to break at the midpoint. This makes iambic tetrameter excessively even, often monotonous, and especially monotonous at any length greater than that of a short lyric. Not surprisingly, in this century it is a metre that has been little used, even in shorter poems. The only modern poet to make extensive use of iambic tetrameter is AE (George William Russell). The best-informed and fairest critic of twentieth-century English and American poetry, David Perkins, rightly says that “the poetry of Russell is inadequate to its theme, but in his case the trouble is not his experience, which was surely genuine, but his lack of technical and imaginative . . . skill” (A History of Modern Poetry: From the 1890s to the High Modernist Mode [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1976], p. 256). Metre is neither the beginning nor the end of Russell’s limitations, but it is a significant part of them.

  Rhyme is an equally difficult matter. Not only is French considerably more rhyme-rich than is English, but it is also a syllable-timed rather than a stress-timed language. French prosody is therefore syllabic, while both the native form of English prosody—employed in the poetry composed during the Old English period, including Beowulf—and the combination of stress and syllable-count prosody worked out in England in the centuries after the Norman Conquest, rely heavily on stress patterns. Milton could argue against, and dispense with, the use of rhyme for his Paradise Lost. No French poet either could or did make the same argument or follow the same practice.

  And both metre and rhyme played poetic roles, for Chrétien, that they play no longer. Chrétien wrote his poetry; it is not oral verse in the sense that Homer’s and much of Old English poetry have been shown to be. But like the other poets of his time, Chrétien regularly recited his poetry to the courtly audiences for whom it was written (as indeed Aucassin et Nicolette, perhaps half a century later, was alternatively recited, in its prose portions, and sung, in its poetic portions). “Since we lack access to native speakers of Old French,” as Kibler drily observes, “we cannot hope to acquire a perfect understanding of its pronunciation.” But we do know that “There was word stress (as in modern English) rather than only sentence stress (characteristic of modern French)” (Kibler, pp. 8—9). The movement of Chrétien’s verse, accordingly, is both designed for a distinctly colloquial mode and, in certain of its linguistic features, closer to English than the verse of, say, Racine or Baudelaire or Claudel. It is distinctly speech-like in syntax and lexicon. Rhyming octosyllabic couplets nicely carried those qualities, for Chrétien; they would not do the same for modern English or for modern English readers.

  Vers libre (free verse), though it has become the prevailing prosody of our time, is not truly suitable as an equivalent to Chrétien’s couplets. The medieval concept of a quasi-epic romance requires an underlying formal prosodic regularity, a continuing sense for the audience (hearer or reader) of a reasonably uniform measure which can tie together an often episodic structure. To approximate Chrétien’s verse movement and tone as closely as I could, I have therefore devised a flexible line of an invariable three stresses, but with varying numbers of unstressed syllables. In practice, this measure varies from an extreme of four total syllables to the opposite extreme of thirteen total syllables. A quick but probably largely accurate count reveals only five instances of these extremes, lines 4346, 5180, and 6341 having four total syllables, and lines 5855 and 5987 having thirteen total syllables. Only line 4632 has twelve total syllables. The vast majority of the lines in this translation are clustered within a range of six to nine syllables. The measure seems to me—and more importantly, seems to the scholars whose advice and criticism I have sought, notably Ronnie Apter, John Miles Foley, and Alexandra H. Olsen—to adapt well to the pace and to the moods of Chrétien’s measure.

  The function of rhyme in a poem intended primarily for the ear, rather than for the eye, does not seem reproducible in modern English. Nor does rhyme seem either necessary, given the changed literary conditions of our era, or useful, given (as Milton declares in the prefatory note to Paradise Lost) that “Rime {is} no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verse
, in longer works especially.” As he adds, poets who have used rhyme have been obliged “much to thir own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to express many things otherwise, and for the most part worse than else they would have exprest them.” Three hundred and more years after Milton wrote those indignant sentences, we no longer need to claim “an ancient liberty recover'd to Heroic Poem from the troublesom and modern bondage of Riming.”

  This brief preface is not intended as either a historical or a critical statement. I should note, however, that the translation was undertaken because Chrétien is a great and influential poet who has been virtually nonexistent in English. Further, Yvain can be considered his masterpiece. It is fully as impressive as, though of course different from, such well-known twelfth-century works as Le Chanson de Roland and La Poema de Mió Cid. Those poems have been fortunate enough to find not only one but several superbly capable translators. Chrétien in general, and Yvain in particular, have not been so fortunate. It has been my hope to remedy a situation patently out of balance, and I will be content if this translation allows the modern English reader some reasonably clear view of Chrétien’s swift, clear style, his wonderfully inventive storytelling, his perceptive characterizations and sure-handed dialogue, his racy wit and sly irony, and the vividness with which he evokes, for us as for his twelfth-century audiences, the emotions and the values of a flourishing, vibrant world. Chrétien is a delight to read—and to translate.

  Acknowledgments

  In addition to the scholars already mentioned, I am deeply grateful to Professor Joseph J. Duggan, of the University of California at Berkeley, for agreeing to read through the entire translation with one of the most practiced and knowledgeable eyes in the literary world, for supplying the afterword, and for supplying the bibliography.

  My largest debt, which is expressed in very brief form in the dedication, is to Eli Sagan, a distinguished psycho-sociologist who had the wit to put together Chrétien and myself and whose support in making the translation was literally indispensable.

  B. R.

  Yvain: The Knight of the Lion

  Chrétien de Troyes

  Artus, li buens rois de Bretaingne,

  La cui proesce nos ansaingne,

  Que nos soiiens preu et cortois . . .

  Arthur, good king of Brittany,

  Whose knighthood teaches us

  To be courteous, to be true knights,

  Held court as a king should

  On that holy day always 5

  Known as the Pentecost.

  The king was at Carlisle, in Wales.

  And after eating in those rooms

  The knights gathered there

  Where the ladies called them, 10

  And the young ladies, too, and the girls.

  Some gossiped, told and retold

  Stories, some spoke of love,

  The anguish and the sadness of Love

  And its glories, as Love’s disciples 15

  And followers knew them, then

  When Love flourished, and was rich.

  But today Love is almost

  Deserted, its followers fallen

  Away, its worshippers gone. 20

  For those who practiced Love

  Could truly call themselves courtiers—

  Noble, generous, honorable.

  Love has turned into silly

  Stories, told by liars 25

  Who feel nothing, know nothing, all talk

  And empty boasts, dishonesty

  And vanity and windy noise.

  How much better to speak of those dead

  And gone than bother with the living! 30

  Better a courtier, dead,

  Than a vulgar peasant, alive.

  I prefer to tell a tale

  Worth hearing of a king so famous

  That men still speak of him, near 35

  And far, for the Bretons have told

  His story truly: asleep

  Or awake, he is famous forever.

  And thinking of him we think

  Of those blessed knights, chosen 40

  To struggle for honor at his side.

  And that day those knights were astonished

  At the king, who rose and left them.

  And many knights were deeply

  Insulted, and said so, angrily, 45

  For no one had ever seen him

  Rise from a feast and go

  To his bedroom, to rest or to sleep.

  But that day he did, and the queen

  Kept him, and he stayed so long 50

  Beside her that he forgot himself,

  And forgot his knights, and slept.

  Sitting outside his door

  Were Sagremor and Kay

  And Dodinel and Gawain 55

  And also lord Yvain,

  And also Calgrenant,

  A handsome knight who'd begun

  Telling them a story—not praising

  Himself, but a tale of disgrace. 60

  And as he told his tale

  The queen could hear him, and got up

  From beside the sleeping king

  And came out among them so quietly

  That before they knew she was there 65

  She appeared in their midst, and only

  Calgrenant, and no one else,

  Rose to his feet in her honor.

  And Kay, with his slashing tongue,

  Savage and nasty, snarled: 70

  “By God, Calgrenant!

  What a prancing courtier you've become—

  How nice to see you so gallant,

  Surely the best of us all.

  And you think so, too, don't you, 75

  In that empty skull. Oh, you do,

  You do. How fitting for my lady

  To find you more courteous than any

  Of us, and a better knight.

  We couldn't be bothered to rise, 80

  I suppose; we're all too lazy

  —Or maybe we just didn't care!

  By God, sir, we never

  Saw my lady until

  You stood. That’s all that happened.” 85

  “Now Kay,” said the queen, “I think

  You'd burst, you really would,

  If you couldn't spill out that poisonous

  Spite you're always full of.

  How mean and ugly, how base, 90

  To slander your friends like this.”

  “My lady!” said Kay. “If we haven't

  Gained by your presence, allow us,

  Please, not to lose. I hardly

  Believe I've spoken a word 95

  I need to be scolded for. Please!

  I beg you, say no more.

  There’s neither sense nor courtesy

  In preserving a foolish quarrel.

  Such words should stop right here; 100

  Let no one make more of them. Grumbling

  Be done: command our story

  Teller to finish, now,

  The tale he'd already begun.”

  And Calgrenant spoke up, 105

  Answering Kay’s remarks:

  “Sir! If there’s been a quarrel

  It means little or nothing to me.

  And why should I be bothered?

  You may have been insulting, 110

  But no harm’s been done. My dear

  Sir Kay! You've said such things,

  And often, to better men,

  And wiser, than me. Insulting

  Others is a habit with you. 115

  Manure will always stink,

  And horseflies bite, and bees

  Buzz, and bores be boring.

  But excuse me, my lady, grant me

  Your leave to leave off my story. 120

  I beg you, please, not to speak

  Of it again, nor give me,

  By your grace, so unwelcome an order.”

  “My lady!” said Kay. “Everyone

  Here would be grateful to hear him. 125

  We all wish him to go on.

>   Don't do it simply for me!

  But by the faith you owe the king,

  Your lord and mine, you'd do well

  To order him on, make him 130

  Continue.”

  “Calgrenant!”

  Said the queen. “Don't let yourself worry

  Over insults from our Lord Steward Kay!

  He’s so used to speaking wickedness

  One can hardly even scold him. 135

  I order you, and also implore you,

  Not to be angry on his

  Account, nor to keep from telling us

  Anything pleasant, because

  Of him. If you wish my love, 140

  Tell it again, from the start!”

  “God knows, oh lady, what a terribly

  Painful demand you make of me.

  I'd rather have one of my eyes

  Plucked out than go on with my story, 145

  Except that I fear your anger,

  And so I do what pleases you

  However unpleasant I find it.

  But since you wish it, listen!

  Give me your ears and your mind! 150

  The spoken word is lost

  If your heart and your mind can't hear it.

  There are men, I assure you, who listen

  Happily and hear nothing,

  Men little more than ears, 155

  Their brains distant, detached.

  Words can come to the ear

  Like blowing wind, and neither

  Stop nor remain, just passing

  By, like fleeting time, 160

  If hearts and minds aren't awake,

  Aren't ready and willing to receive them.

  Only the heart can take them

  In, and hold them, and keep them.

  The ears are a road, a door, 165

  For the voice to reach the heart,

  And hearts accept the voice

  In themselves, though it comes through the ear.

  So anyone who truly hears me,

  Give me your ears and your minds, 170

  For my tale has nothing to do

  With dreams, or fables, or lies,

  Like so many others have offered,

  But only what I saw myself.

  It was almost seven years 175

  Ago, I was lonely as a peasant