The Portable Medieval Reader

by James Bruce Ross

  Even so was it with the maiden: she was as a bird that is snared with lime. When she knew the snare of love and saw that her heart was indeed taken therein, she strove with all her power to free herself, yet the more she struggled the faster was the hold Love laid upon her, and, unwilling, she must follow whither Love led. As with hands and feet she strove to free herself, so were hands and feet even more bound and fettered by the blinding sweetness of the man and his love, and never half a foot’s length might she stir save that Love were with her. Never a thought might Iseult think save of Love and Tristan, yet she fain would hide it. Heart and eyes strove with each other; Love drew her heart towards him, and shame drove her eyes away. Thus Love and maiden shame strove together till Iseult wearied of the fruitless strife, and did as many have done before her—vanquished, she yielded herself body and soul to the man, and to Love.

  Shyly she looked on him, and he on her, till heart and eyes had done their work. And Tristan, too, was vanquished, since Love would have it none otherwise. Knight and maiden sought each other as often as they might do so, and each found the other fairer day by day. For such is the way of Love, as it was of old, and is today, and shall be while the world endures, that lovers please each other more as love within them waxeth stronger, even as flowers and fruit are fairer in their fulness than in their beginning; and Love that beareth fruit waxeth fairer day by day till the fulness of time be come.

  Love doth the loved one fairer make,

  So love a stronger life doth take.

  Love’s eyes wax keener day by day,

  Else would love fade and pass away.

  So the ship sailed gaily onwards, even though Love had thus turned two hearts aside, for she who turneth honey to gall, sweet to sour, and dew to flame, had laid her burden on Tristan and Iseult, and as they looked on each other their colour changed from white to red and from red to white, even as it pleased Love to paint them. Each knew the mind of the other, yet was their speech of other things.

  From The Story of Tristan and Iseult, trans. J. L. Weston (London: Nutt, 1899).

  Of the Churl Who Won Paradise

  French; twelfth—thirteenth century

  WE FIND in writing a wondrous adventure that of old befell a churl. He died of a Friday morning, and it so chanced, neither angel nor devil came thither, and at the hour of his death when the soul departed out of his body, he found none to ask aught of him or to lay any command upon him. Know ye that full glad was that soul for he was sore afraid. And now as he looked to the right towards Heaven, he saw Saint Michael the Archangel who was bearing a soul in great joy; forthright he set out after the angel, and followed him so long, meseemeth, that he came into Paradise.

  Saint Peter who kept the gate, received the soul borne by the angel, and after he had so done, turned back towards the entrance. There he found the soul all alone, and asked him who had brought him thither: “For herein none hath lodging and if he have it not by judgment. Moreover, by Saint Alain, we have little love for churls, for into this place the vile may not enter.” “Yet greater churl than you yourself is there none, fair Sir Peter,” saith the soul, “for you were ever harder than a stone; and by the holy Paternoster, God did folly when he made you His apostle, little honour shall be His thereby, in that three times you denied your Lord. Full little was your faith when thrice you denied Him, and though you be of His fellowship, Paradise is not for you. Go forth, and that straightway, ye disloyal soul, but I am true and of good faith, and bliss is rightfully mine.”

  Strangely shamed was Saint Peter; quickly he turned away, and as he went, he met Saint Thomas, to whom he told all his misadventure word for word, and all his wrath and bitterness. Then saith Saint Thomas; “I myself will go to this churl; here he shall not abide, and it please God.” So he goeth into the square to the countryman. “Churl,” quoth the apostle, “this dwelling belongeth of right to us and to the martyrs and confessors; wherein have you done such righteousness that you think to abide in it? Here you cannot stay, for this is the hostel of the true-hearted.” “Thomas, Thomas, like unto a man of law ye are overquick to make answer; yet are not you he who, as is well known, spake with the apostles when they had seen the Lord after His resurrection? Then you made oath that never would you believe it and if you felt not His wounds with your hands; false and unbelieving were ye.” Then Saint Thomas hung his head, and yielded him in the dispute; and thereafter he went to Saint Paul and told him of his discomfiture. “By my head,” quoth Saint Paul, “I will go thither, and try if he will argue.”

  Meantime, the soul who feareth not destruction taketh his delight down in Paradise. “Soul,” quoth Saint Paul, “who brought thee hither, and wherein have you done such righteousness that the gate should be opened to you? Get you gone out of Paradise, you false churl.” “How is this, Don Paul of the bald pate, are you now so wrathful who erst was so fell a tyrant? Never will there be another so cruel; Saint Stephen paid dear for it when you had him stoned to death. Well know I the story of your life; through you many a brave man died, but in the end God gave you a good big blow. Have we not had to pay for the bargain and the buffet? Ha, what a divine and what a saint! Do ye think that I know you not?” Then had Saint Paul great sorrow.

  Swiftly he went thence, and met Saint Thomas who was taking counsel with Saint Peter, and privately he told him of the churl who had so vanquished him: “Rightfully hath he won Paradise of me, and I grant it to him.” Then all three went to bring complaint to God. Fairly Saint Peter told Him of the churl who had spoken shame of them: “By his tongue hath he silenced us, and I myself was so abashed that never again will I speak thereof.” Then spoke our Lord: “I will go thither, for I myself would hear this new thing.”

  He cometh to the soul and bespeaketh him, and asked how it chanced that he had come there without leave: “For herein without consent hath no soul, whether of man or woman, ever entered. My apostles you have slandered and scorned and outraged, yet none the less you think to abide herel” “Lord,” saith the churl, “if judgment be accorded me, my right to dwell here is as good as theirs: for never did I deny You, or doubt You, nor did any man ever come to his death through me, but all these things have they done, and yet are now in Paradise. While I lived on earth my life was just and upright; I gave of my bread to the poor, I harboured them morning and evening, I warmed them at my fire, and saw that they lacked not for shirt or hose; I kept them even till death, and bore them to holy church: and now I know not if I did wisely. Furthermore, I made true confession, and received Your body with due rites; and we are told that to the man who so dies God forgiveth his sins. Well know You if I speak the truth. I entered in and was not denied, and now I am here, why go hence? Were it so, You would gainsay Your word, for surely You have declared that whoso entereth here goeth not out again; and You would never lie because of me.” “Churl,” saith the Lord, “I grant it. You have made good your case against Paradise, and have won it by debate. You were brought up in a good school; ready of tongue are you, and know right well how to turn a tale.”

  The countryman saith in proverb that many a man who hath sought wrong hath won it by argument; wit hath falsified justice, and falsity hath conquered nature; wrong goeth before and right falleth behind. Wit is mightier than force.

  From Tales fromthe Old French, trans. I. Butler (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1910).

  Gather Ye Rosebuds

  French; thirteenth century

  Woman should gather roses ere

  Time’s ceaseless foot o‘ertaketh her,

  For if too long she make delay,

  Her chance of love may pass away,

  And well it is she seek it while

  Health, strength, and youth around her smile.

  To pluck the fruits of love in youth

  Is each wise woman’s rule forsooth,

  For when age creepeth o’er us, hence

  Go also the sweet joys of sense,

  And ill doth she her days employ

  Who lets life pass without lo
ve’s joy.

  And if my counsel she despise,

  Not knowing how ’tis just and wise,

  Too late, alas! will she repent

  When age is come, and beauty spent.

  But witful women will believe

  My words, and thankfully receive

  My counsels and my rules will foster

  With care, and many a paternoster

  Say for my soul’s health when I die

  For teaching them so worthily.

  Well know I that these golden rules

  Shall long be taught in noblest schools.

  From Romance of the Rose, trans. F. S. Ellis (London: Dent, 1900).

  The Canticle of the Sun

  SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI

  Italian; thirteenth century

  Here begin the praises of the creatures which the Blessed Francis made to the praise and honour of God while he was ill at St. Damian’s: Most high, omnipotent, good Lord,

  Praise, glory, and honour and benediction all, are Thine.

  To Thee alone do they belong, most High,

  And there is no man fit to mention Thee.

  Praise be to Thee, my Lord, with all Thy creatures,

  Especially to my worshipful brother sun,

  The which lights up the day, and through him dost Thou

  brightness give;

  And beautiful is he and radiant with splendour great;

  Of Thee, most High, signification gives.

  Praised be my Lord, for sister moon and for the stars,

  In heaven Thou hast formed them clear and precious

  and fair.

  Praised be my Lord for brother wind

  And for the air and clouds and fair and every kind of

  weather,

  By the which Thou givest to Thy creatures nourishment.

  Praised be my Lord for sister water,

  The which is greatly helpful and humble and precious

  and pure.

  Praised be my Lord for brother fire,

  By the which Thou lightest up the dark.

  And fair is he and gay and mighty and strong.

  Praised be my Lord for our sister, mother earth,

  The which sustains and keeps us

  And brings forth diverse fruits with grass and flowers

  bright.

  Praised be my Lord for those who for Thy love forgive

  And weakness bear and tribulation.

  Blessed those who shall in peace endure,

  And by Thee, most High, shall they be crowned.

  Praised be my Lord for our sister, the bodily death,

  From the which no living man can flee.

  Woe to them who die in mortal sin;

  Blessed those who shall find themselves in Thy most

  holy will,

  For the second death shall do them no ill.

  Praise ye and bless ye my Lord, and give Him thanks,

  And be subject unto Him with great humility.

  From The Writings of Saint Francis of Assisi, trans. Father P. Robinson (Philadelphia: Dolphin Press, 1906).

  Of the Gentle Heart

  GUIDO GUINICELLI

  Italian; thirteenth century

  Within the gentle heart Love shelters him,

  As birds within the green shade of the grove.

  Before the gentle heart, in Nature’s scheme,

  Love was not, nor the gentle heart ere Love.

  For with the sun, at once,

  So sprang the light immediately; nor was

  Its birth before the sun’s.

  And Love hath his effect in gentleness

  Of very self; even as

  Within the middle fire the heat’s excess.

  The fire of Love comes to the gentle heart

  Like as its virtue to a precious stone;

  To which no star its influence can impart

  Till it is made a pure thing by the sun:

  For when the sun hath smit

  From out its essence that which there was vile,

  The star endoweth it.

  And so the heart created by God’s breath

  Pure, true, and clean from guile,

  A woman, like a star, enamoureth.

  In gentle heart Love for like reason is

  For which the lamp’s high flame is fann’d and bow’d:

  Clear, piercing bright, it shines for its own bliss;

  Nor would it burn there else, it is so proud.

  For evil natures meet

  With Love as it were water met with fire,

  As cold abhorring heat.

  Through gentle heart Love doth a track divine,—

  Like knowing like; the same

  As diamond runs through iron in the mine.

  The sun strikes full upon the mud all day;

  It remains vile, nor the sun’s worth is less.

  “By race I am gentle,” the proud man doth say:

  He is the mud, the sun is gentleness.

  Let no man predicate

  That aught the name of gentleness should have,

  Even in a king’s estate,

  Except the heart there be a gentle man’s.

  The star-beam lights the wave—

  Heaven holds the star and the star’s radiance.

  God, in the understanding of high Heaven,

  Burns more than in our sight the living sun;

  There to behold His face unveil’d is given;

  And Heaven, whose will is homage paid to One,

  Fulfils the things which live

  In God, from the beginning excellent.

  So should my lady give

  That truth which in her eyes is glorified,

  On which her heart is bent,

  To me whose service waiteth at her side.

  My lady, God shall ask, “What dared‘st thou?

  (When my soul stands with all her acts review’d;)

  “Thou passed’st Heaven, into My sight, as now,

  To make Me of vain love similitude.

  To Me doth praise belong,

  And to the Queen of all the realm of grace

  Who endeth fraud and wrong.”

  Then may I plead: ”As though from Thee he came,

  Love wore an angel’s face:

  Lord, if I loved her, count it not my shame.”

  Trans. D. G. Rossetti, in The Early Italian Poets (London: Smith, Elder, 1861).

  My Lady Looks So Gentle

  DANTE ALIGHIERI

  Italian; thirteenth century

  My lady looks so gentle and so pure

  When yielding salutation by the way,

  That the tongue trembles and has nought to say,

  And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.

  And still, amid the praise she hears secure,

  She walks with humbleness for her array;

  Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stay

  On earth, and show a miracle made sure.

  She is so pleasant in the eyes of men

  That through the sight the inmost heart doth gain

  A sweetness which needs proof to know it by:

  And from between her lips there seems to move

  A soothing spirit that is full of love,

  Saying for ever to the soul, “O sighl”

  Trans. D. G. Rossetti in The Early Italian Poets.

  Beauty in Women

  GUIDO CAVALCANTI

  Italian; thirteenth century

  Beauty in woman; the high will’s decree;

  Fair knighthood arm’d for manly exercise;

  The pleasant song of birds; love’s soft replies;

  The strength of rapid ships upon the sea;

  The serene air when light begins to be;

  The white snow, without wind that falls and lies;

  Fields of all flower; the place where waters rise;

  Silver and gold; azure in jewellery:

  Weigh’d against these, the sweet and quiet worth

  Which my dear lady cherishes at
heart

  Might seem a little matter to be shown;

  Being truly, over these, as much apart

  As the whole heaven is greater than this earth.

  All good to kindred natures cleaveth soon.

  Trans. D. G. Rossetti, in The Early Italian Poets.

  Of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and of the Sinner

  JACOPONE DA TODI

  Italian; thirteenth century

  O Queen of all courtesy,

  To thee I come and I kneel,

  My wounded heart to heal,

  To thee for succour I pray—

  To thee I come and I kneel,

  For lo! I am in despair;

  None other help can heal,

  Thou only wilt hear my prayer:

  And if I should lose thy care,

  My spirit must waste away.

  My heart is wounded more,

  Madonna, than tongue can tell;

  Pierced to the very core;

  Rottenness there doth dwell.

  Hasten to make me well!

  How canst thou say me nay?

  Madonna, so fierce the strain

  Of this my perilous hour,

  Nature is turned to pain,

  So strong is evil’s power;