The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun
Page 6
there children two, a boy and maid,
yet half-imagined, danced and played.
Though spring and summer wear and fade,
though flowers fall, and leaves are laid,
and winter winds his trumpets loud
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mid snows that fell and forest shroud;
though roaring seas upon the shore
go long and white, and neath the door
the wind cries with houseless voice,
yet fire and song may men rejoice,
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till as a ship returns to port
the spring comes back to field and court.
A song there falls from windows high,
like gold that droppeth from the sky
soft in the early eve of spring.
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‘Why do they play? Why do they sing?’
‘Light may she lie, our lady fair!
Too long hath been her cradle bare.
Yestreve there came as I passed by
the cry of babes from windows high –
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twin children, I am told, there be.
Light may they lie and sleep, all three!’
‘Would every prayer were answered twice!
Half or nothing must oft suffice
for humbler men, though they wear their knees
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more bare than lords, as oft one sees.’
‘Not every lord wins such fair grace.
Come, wish them speed with kinder face!
Light may she lie, my lady fair;
long live her lord her joy to share!’
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A manchild and an infant maid
as lilies fair were in cradle laid,
and mirth was in their mother’s heart
like music slow in deeps apart.
Glad was that lord, as grave he stood
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beside her bed of carven wood.
‘Now full,’ he said, ‘is granted me
both hope and prayer, and what of thee?
Is ’t not, fair love, most passing sweet
the heart’s desire at last to meet?
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‘Yet if thy heart still longing hold,
or lightest wish remain untold,
that will I find and bring to thee,
though I should ride both land and sea!’
‘Aotrou mine,’ she said, ‘’tis sweet
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at last the heart’s desire to meet
thus after waiting, after prayer,
thus after hope and nigh despair.
I would not have thee ride nor run
from me beside nor from thy son!
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– yet after sickness, after pain
oft cometh hunger sharp again.’
‘Nay, Itroun, if thirst or hunger strange
for bird or beast on earth that range,
for wine, or water from what well
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in any secret fount or dell,
thee vex,’ he smiled, ‘now swift declare!
If, more than gold or jewel rare,
from greenwood, haply, fallow deer,
or fowl that swims the shallow mere
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thou cravest, I will bring it thee,
though I should hunt oer land and lea.
No gold nor silk nor jewel bright
can match my gladness and delight,
the boy and maiden lily-fair
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that here do lie and thou didst bear.’
‘Aotrou, lord,’ she said, ‘’tis true,
a longing strong and sharp I knew,
in dream, for water cool and clear
and venison of the greenwood deer;
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for waters crystal-clear and cold
and deer no earthly forests hold;
and still in waking comes unsought
the foolish wish to vex my thought.
But I would not have thee ride nor run
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from me beside nor from thy son!’
In Brittany beyond the seas
the wind blows ever through the trees;
in Brittany the forest pale
marches slow oer hill and dale.
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There seldom ever horns were wound,
and seldom ran there horse or hound.
His lance of ash the lord then caught,
the wine was to his stirrup brought.
His black horse bore him oer the land
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to the green boughs of Broceliande,
to the green dales where the listening deer
seldom hunter or hoof do hear –
his horn they hearken, as they stare and stand,
echoing in Broceliande.
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Beneath the deepest woodland’s eaves
a white doe startled under leaves;
strangely she glistered in the sun
as leaping forth she turned to run.
He hunted her from forest-eaves
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into the twilight under leaves.
Ever he rode on reckless after,
and heard no sound of distant laughter.
The earth was shaken under hoof,
till the boughs were bent into a roof,
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and the sun was woven in a snare;
and still there was laughter on the air.
The sun was fallen. Dim there fell
a silence in the forest dell.
No sight nor slot of doe was seen,
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but shadows dark the trees between;
and then a longing sharp and strange
for deer that free and fair do range
him vexed, for venison of the beast
whereon no mortal hunt shall feast;
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for water crystal-clear and cold
that never in holy fountain rolled.
The sun was lost; all green was grey;
but twinkled the fountain of the fay
before her cavern on silver sand
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under dark boughs of Broceliande.
Soft was the grass and clear the pool;
he laved his face in water cool,
and then he saw her on silver chair
before her cavern. Pale her hair,
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slow was her smile, and white her hand
beckoning in Broceliande.
The moon through leaves then clear and cold
her long hair lit; through comb of gold
she drew her locks, and down they fell
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as the fountain falling in the dell.
He heard her voice and it was cold
as echo from the world of old,
ere fire was found or iron hewn,
when young was mountain under moon.
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He heard her voice like water falling
or wind along a long shore calling,
yet sweet the words: ‘We meet again
here after waiting, after pain!
Aotrou! lo, thou hast returned –
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perchance some kindness I have earned?
What hast thou, lord, to give to me
whom thou hast come thus far to see?’
‘I know thee not, I know thee not,
nor ever saw thy darkling grot.
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O corrigan, ’twas not for thee
I hither came a-hunting free!’
‘How darest then, my water wan
to trouble thus, or look me on?
For this at least I claim my fee,
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if ever thou wouldst wander free.
With love thou shalt me here requite,
for here is long and sweet the night;
in druery dear thou here shalt deal,
in bliss more deep than mortals feel.’
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&
nbsp; ‘I give no love. My love is wed;
my wife now lieth in child-bed,
and I curse the beast that cheated me
and drew me to this dell to thee.’
Her smiling ceased and slow she said:
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‘Forget thy wife; for thou shalt wed
anew with me, or stand as stone
and wither lifeless and alone,
as stone beside the fountain stand
forgotten in Broceliande.’
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‘I will not stand here turned to stone;
but I will leave thee cold, alone,
and I will ride to mine own home
and the waters blest of Christendom.’
‘But three days then and thou shalt die;
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in three days on thy bier lie!’
‘In three days I shall live at ease,
and die but when it God doth please
in eld, or in some time to come
in the brave wars of Christendom!’
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In Britain’s land beyond the waves
are forest dim and secret caves;
in Britain’s land the wind doth bear
the sound of bells along the air
that mingles with the sound of seas
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for ever moving in the trees.
The way was long and woven wild;
the hunter, who to wife and child
did haste, at last he heard a bell
in some spire ring the sacring knell;
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at last he saw the tilth of men,
escaped from thicket and from fen;
the hoar and houseless hills he passed
and weary at his gates him cast.
‘Good steward! if thou love me well,
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bid make my bed! My heart doth swell;
my limbs are numb with heavy sleep,
as there did drowsy poison creep.
All night, as in a fevered maze,
I have ridden dark and winding ways.’
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To bed they brought him and to sleep,
fitful, uneasy; there did creep
the shreds of dreams, wherein no more
was sun nor garden, but the roar
of angry sea and angry wind;
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and there a dark fate leered and grinned,
or changed – and where a fountain fell
a corrigan was singing in a dell;
a white hand as the fountain spilled
a phial of glass with water filled.
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He woke at eve, and murmured: ‘ringing
of bells within my ears, and singing,
a singing is beneath the moon.
I fear my death is meted soon.
Grieve her not yet, nor yet do tell,
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though I am wounded with a spell!
But two days more, and then I die!
And I would have had her sweetly lie,
and sweet arise; and live yet long,
and see our children hale and strong.’
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His words they little understood,
but cursed the fevers of the wood,
and to their lady no word spoke.
Ere second morn was old, she woke,
and to her women standing near
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gave greeting with a merry cheer:
‘Good people, lo! the morn is bright!
Say, did my lord return ere night,
and tarries now with hunting worn?’
‘Nay, lady, he came not with the morn;
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but ere men candles set on board,
thou wilt have tidings of thy lord;
or hear his feet to thee returning,
ere candles in the eve are burning.’
Ere the third morn was wide she woke,
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and eager greeted them, and spoke:
‘Behold the morn is cold and grey,
and why is my lord so long away?
I do not hear his feet returning
neither at evening nor at morning.’
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‘We do not know, we cannot say,’
they answered and they turned away.
Now many days had seen the light
her gentle babes in swaddling white;
and she arose and left her bed,
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and called her maidens and she said:
‘My lord must soon return. Come, bring
my fairest raiments. Stone on ring
and pearl on thread, that him may please
when, coming weary back, he sees.’
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She looked from window tall and high,
and felt a breeze go coldly by;
she saw it pass from tree to tree,
and clouds that lay from hill to sea.
She heard no horn and heard no hoof,
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but rain came pattering on the roof;
in Brittany she heard the waves
on sounding shore in hollow caves.
The day wore on till it was old;
she heard the bells that solemn tolled.
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‘Good folk, what is this noise they make?
In tower I hear the slow bells shake.
Why sing the white priests chanting low,
as though one to the grave did go?’
‘A man unhappy here there came
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a while agone. His horse was lame;
sickness was on him, and he fell
before our gates, or so they tell.
Here he was harboured, but to-day
he died, and passeth now the way
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we all must go, to church to lie
on bier before the altar high.’
She looked upon them, dark and deep,
and saw them in the shadows weep.
‘Then tall, and fair, and brave was he,
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or tale of sorrow there must be
concerning him, which still ye keep,
if for a stranger thus ye weep!
What know ye more? Ah say, ah say!’
They answered not, and turned away.
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‘Ah me,’ she said, ‘that I could sleep
this night, or least that I could weep!’
But all night long she tossed and turned,
and in her limbs a fever burned;
and yet when sudden under sun
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a fairer morning was begun,
‘Good folk, to church I wend,’ she said,
‘My raiment choose, or robe of red,
or robe of blue, or white and fair,
silver and gold; I do not care.’
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‘Nay, lady,’ said they, ‘none of these.
The custom used as now one sees
for women that to churching go
is robe of black and walking slow.’
In robe of black and walking slow
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the lady did to churching go,
in hand a candle small and white,
her face so fair, her hair so bright.
They passed beneath the western door;
there dark within on stony floor
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a bier before the altar high,
and candles yellow stood thereby.
The watchful candles dim and tall
a light let on the blazon fall,
the arms and banner of her lord:
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in vain his pride, in vain his hoard.
To bed they brought her, swift to sleep
for ever cold, though there did weep
her women by her dark bedside,
or babes in cradle waked and cried.
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There was singing slow at dead of night,
and many feet, a
nd taper-light.
At morn there rang the sacring knell
and far men heard the single bell,
sad, though the sun lay on the land;
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though far in dim Broceliande
a fountain silver flowed and fell
within a darkly-woven dell;
though in the homeless hills a dale
was filled with laughter cold and pale.
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Beside her lord at last she lay
in their long home beneath the clay;
and though their children lived yet long
or played in garden hale and strong,
they saw it not, nor found it sweet
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their hearts’ desire at last to meet.
In Brittany beyond the waves
are sounding shores and hollow caves;
in Brittany beyond the seas
the wind blows ever through the trees.
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Of lord and lady all is said:
God rest their souls, who now are dead.
Sad is the note, and sad the lay;
but mirth we meet not every day.
God keep us all in hope and prayer,
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from evil rede and from despair,
by waters blest of Christendom
to dwell, until at last we come
to joy of Heaven where is queen
the maiden Mary pure and clean.
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NOTES AND COMMENTARY
without an heir did to land and sword (l. 18). The ‘did’ in this line is almost certainly mis-copied from the following line 19, ‘His hungry heart did lonely eld.’ The added word ruins the scansion, the grammar and the meaning of line 18. Nevertheless, it went uncorrected by the poet, and is therefore here retained.
a mad and monstrous rede (l. 23). Carried over from line 12 of the fragment. Compare with ‘cold counsel’ in the parallel passage in the published poem. Tolkien’s use of ‘rede’ here is typical of his tendency to go out of his way to use an archaic form for a conventional meaning. The usual definition of rede, from Old English ræd from Old Norse ráð, is ‘counsel, advice’, not as here, ‘decision’ or ‘resolve’. The editorial ‘mad and monstrous’ makes a judgment of the lord which is lacking in the published poem.
THE TYPESCRIPT
One more iteration of the poem occurs before the final version published in The Welsh Review. This is a typescript with extensive emendations, additions and transpositions added in ink in Tolkien’s hand. It is the typescript version, as Christopher Tolkien points out, which became the basis and probable copy-text for the final version.
The typescript begins with a title-page, tattered and dog-eared along the upper edge, with the words ‘Aotrou & Itroun’ hand-lettered in ink. Below them is the subtitle in typewriter italic ‘Lord and Lady’ and further down the page and again typewritten, A ‘Breton Lay’. Below that in Tolkien’s hand is written: ‘by J.R.R. Tolkien’. At the bottom of the page, upside down and with the letters reversed, are the typewritten words, ‘night-stalking near with needle-eyes’, and below that, ‘in the homeless hills was that hollow dale, black was’. The line runs off the page.