VIII. Laüstic

The Bretons’ title for this tale

in English would be “The Nightingale,”

or in the French, “Le Rossignol.”

The narrative is the same in all

languages. In St. Malo

there lived two knights long ago,

both of whom dwelt in fortified

houses that stood side by side.

Each of these were men of fine

repute whom no one could malign.

One of the knights was married to

a wise and excellent woman who

conducted herself properly

and was all that a good wife should be.

The other one was famous for

his valour in tournaments and in war.

He loved his next-door neighbour’s wife

and wooed her day by day and week

by week, and fervently did speak

of his longing for her and, for her part,

she felt growing within her heart

a warmth for him but, circumspect,

they took care that none might detect

their feelings, which they were able to do,

living in buildings adjacent to

each other, so that when she stood

at her bedroom window she had a good

view of him and he of her

and neither of them had to stir

to have a private conversation.

For quite some time, this odd relation

continued as with cautious skill

each of them at the window sill

spoke to the other in fine words of

eternal and all consuming love.

In the summertime, when the tender crops

are pierced to the root with sweet raindrops,

when the meadows turn a deeper green

and the brightly coloured flowers preen

to the songs of birds that call and respond,

even the sternest hearts grow fond

and feel a freshening of desire,

the aim of the knight’s ambition grew higher

and he and the lady both wanted more

intimacy than hitherto, for

obvious reasons, but what could they do?

At night when the moon was bright she arose,

went to the window, and struck a pose

one sees sometimes in portraiture,

inviting and yet still demure.

For hours they gazed at each other in

contemplation. (That’s no sin.)

The husband after a time became

annoyed that she stood at that same

window for hours. He asked her why

she did this, and her quick reply

was that the song of the nightingale

is a joy beside which others pale.

“With those who do not appreciate

their song I must commiserate

for here for our earthly ears and eyes

are morsels of true paradise.”

The husband, hearing this, was rude

and laughed at her lofty attitude.

He gave his servants orders that they

should set out snares for this irksome prey,

and bird lime too on the chestnut trees.

I cannot say which one of these

worked, but they caught the bird at last

and brought it to him and, right away.

With the bird in hand, he went to say

to his wife that this was the creature that had

kept her awake and driven him mad.

“Now it will trouble you no more,”

he promised. She asked for it, but before

he handed it over, out of spite,

he wrung its neck (it took but a slight

twist) and he hurled it at her so

that the drops of its blood spattered below

her breast on her linen tunic. He

thereupon left the room, and she

cursed all those who had set the snares

and diminished, even if unawares,

the one joy of her life. She wept

for the bird and for herself and kept

thinking how she could no more

stand at the window. “He will think me a poor

lover, surely, and faint of heart.

I must contrive a way to impart

to him what has happened.” She put

the tiny copse in silk that was shot

with threads of gold and gave it to

one of her servants whom she knew

was trustworthy to deliver the thing

along with a message that would bring

the sad news of what had occurred

and explain the gift of a poor dead bird.

The knight listened attentively

and was grieved of course. But what could he

do? He had a casket made

of gold and jewels in which he laid

the body of the nightingale

that he carried with him without fail.

Of this the Bretons composed a lay

they sing in sorrow, even today.