X. Chaitivel

There is an old lay I shall tell

that is widely known as “Chaitivel,”

which means “the unhappy one,” but you

will hear of “Les Quatre Deuls,” too,

or “the four sorrows.” With either name

the plot and the characters are the same.

In Nantes, a city in Brittany,

there dwelt a lady of high degree,

intelligent, and fair of face

whom any knight with any trace

of spirit would want to love and claim

for himself. She thought it was a shame

that loving all of them would not be

possible. Still with courtesy she

wanted not to give offence

to any of them. It made no sense

but it was true that a man could fall

safely in love with any and all

women in the land. But refuse

a single suitor, and ladies can lose

their reputations and risk even more.

Therefore women must with a store

of coquettish small talk and jokes divert

all suitors and keep them from feeling hurt.

Their attentions are a kind

of flattery: she could bear in mind

their intent, in a clumsy way.

to compliment her. Night and day,

admirers swarmed about her and she

was the object of their gallantry.

There lived in Brittany at that time

four young men (I’m afraid that I’m

ignorant of their names). Each one

was handsome, brave, and courtly. None

could be impugned for even a small

fault — except that they were all

in love with the lady and, trying to show

the depth of their passions, were willing to go

to any lengths to demonstrate

their merits, which in each were great.

Among them how could she possibly choose?

And why pick one, if she had to lose

the other three? To each she displayed

a friendly mien, and each she repaid

with letters and her presents. Although

she couldn’t let anybody know

about the others’ successes, she

maneuvered quite successfully

among the unsuspecting four,

each of whom in tourneys wore

her love tokens or coloured strips

of her clothing and upon the lips

of each of them there was the same

battle cry — the lady’s name.

With the exercise of impressive tact

she maintained this delicate balancing act

until one year at Eastertide

knights came to Nantes from far and wide

for a tournament — French and Flemish, too,

and from Brabant and from Anjou,

as well as those who lived nearby

who appeared there, each resolved to try

for the glory that success produces.

There was some boasting, but no excuse is

adequate to explain the fights

that broke out among the assembled knights.

When the four lovers left the town

together others tracked them down —

two from Flanders and two from Hainault —

delighted to battle any foe.

The lovers, when they looked around,

saw them coming but stood their ground,

lowered their lances to charge, and they

unhorsed each of the four that way.

They did not trouble themselves about

the riderless horses but without

delay gathered around the fallen

whose friends, responding to their call in

haste, were coming to the defence

of their friends — or that was their pretense —

with swords and battle-axes. They,

the four lovers, in this mêlée

were splendid in this critical hour.

The lady, meanwhile, high in her tower

was able to follow all the action

from which she took much satisfaction.

The following day, the tournament

began, and all the contests went

well for the four lovers, who

among them carried off all the blue

ribbons. It was only later while they

were celebrating they went astray

in a dark alley that men whom they’d

bested during the tourney made

a sneak attack from the side and spilled

their blood in the gutter. Three were killed

and the fourth was wounded in the thigh

quite badly, but he didn’t die.

Bizarrely, their assailants then

regretted having murdered these men,

which was more than they had meant to do.

A clamor soon arose and grew

to huge proportions as people came

from all directions to look with shame

at what had happened. Visors were doffed

as thousands of men carried aloft

the three corpses, each on its shield,

and bore them from the killing field.

News of this misfortune soon

spread. The lady fell into a swoon

as soon as she heard it, but then she woke

and in between her sobs she spoke,

lamenting each by name. “Alas,

that such a thing has come to pass!

I loved each of them, as I should

have done, for each of them was good,

so good, in fact, that I could not choose

among them and did not want to lose

a single one.” And having said

this, she resolved to bury the dead

and do what she could for the fourth knight

who still could recover. To the abbey she sent

funds that the funeral sacrament

might be observed. The doctors did

all they could for the invalid,

but she helped, visiting the dear

lad, whom she endeavored to cheer.

But when she was alone she was filled

with grief for the three who had been killed.

Sometime later, the lady met

that knight in the garden. Her cheeks were wet

with tears, and he asked her to confess

to him the reason for her distress.

“Put aside your grief, and be

comforted if you can. Tell me

what troubles you?” She nodded her head

and in a mournful manner said,

“I think of your companions who are

dead and gone. I have been far

more fortunate in love than any

lady I know to have had so many

splendid men in love with me.

That moment of felicity

has vanished, but I want my grief

to be remembered. Time is a thief,

but poetry can defy it. I

shall write a lay recording my

experience. I’ll call it ‘The Four

Sorrows,’ I think.” She could say no more

for the knight said that she should indeed

compose such a lay for people to read.

“But call it ‘The Unhappy One.’

They days of the other three are done

and their longing for you has cooled, but I

remain alive and it is my

destiny to meet like this

the woman I love but know the bliss

I sought I cannot have. I long

for her embrace that would be wrong

and, therefore, I suffer with every breath

and envy the others in their death.

The true name you should give your lay

is ‘The Unhappy One.’ In my dismay

I beg you to recognize the true

name you should be giving to

your poem.” With this suggestion she

could not argue but had to agree.

Thus was the lay begun and thus

was it completed and given to us.

Some give it one name, but others call it

“The Unhappy One,” for after all it

lends itself to either name

with the people and their deeds the same.

Here it ends, for there’s no more

that I have heard or can vouch for.