# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Krijime në gjuhë të huaja >  Marie de France -- mesjeta ne France

## Leila

THE LAY OF THE NIGHTINGALE
Perktheu: Eugene Mason.

Now will I tell you a story, whereof the Breton harper already has
made a Lay. Laustic, I deem, men name it in that country, which, being
interpreted, means rossignol in French, and nightingale in good plain
English.

In the realm of Brittany stands a certain rich and mighty city, called
Saint Malo. There were citizens of this township two knights, so well
spoken and reputed of all, that the city drew therefrom great profit
and fame. The houses of these lords were very near the one to the
other. One of the two knights had to wife a passing fair lady, right
gracious of manner and sweet of tongue. Wondrous pleasure found this
dame to array herself richly, after the wont and fashion of her time.
The other knight was yet a bachelor. He was well accounted of amongst
his fellows as a hardy knight and as an honourable man. He gave
hospitality gladly. Largely he gained, largely he spent, and willingly
bestowed gifts of all that he had.

This bachelor set his love upon his neighbour's wife. By reason of his
urgent prayers, his long suit and service, and by reason that all men
spake naught of him but praise--perchance, also, for reason that he
was never far from her eye--presently this lady came to set her heart
on him again. Though these two friends loved right tenderly, yet were
they so private and careful in their loves that none perceived what
was in their hearts. No man pried on them, or disturbed their goings
and comings. These were the more easy to devise since the bachelor and
the lady were such near neighbours. Their two houses stood side by
side, hall and cellar and combles. Only between the gardens was built
a high and ancient wall, of worn gray stone. When the lady sat within
her bower, by leaning from the casement she and her friend might speak
together, he to her, and she to him. They could also throw messages in
writing, and divers pretty gifts, the one to the other. Little enough
had they to displease them, and greatly were they at their ease, save
only that they might not take their pleasure together, so often as
their hearts had wished. For the dame was guarded very straitly when
her husband was abroad. Yet not so strictly but that they might have
word and speech, the now by night and now by day. At least, however
close the watch and ward, none might hinder that at times these fair
lovers stood within their casements, and looked fondly on the other's
face.

Now after these friends had loved for a great space it chanced that
the season became warm and sweet. It was the time when meadow and
copse are green; when orchards grow white with bloom, and birds break
into song as thickly as the bush to flower. It is the season when he
who loves would win to his desire. Truly I tell you that the knight
would have done all in his power to attain his wish, and the lady, for
her part, yearned for sight and speech of her friend. At night, when
the moon shone clearly in the sky, and her lord lay sleeping at her
side, often the dame slipped softly from her bed, and hastening to the
casement, leaned forth to have sight of him who watched. The greater
part of the dark they kept vigil together, for very pleasant it is to
look upon your friend, when sweeter things are denied.

This chanced so often, and the lady rose so frequently from her bed,
that her lord was altogether wrathful, and many a time inquired the
reason of her unrest.

"Husband," replied the dame, "there is no dearer joy in this world,
than to hear the nightingale sing. It is to hearken to the song that
rises so sweetly on the night, that I lean forth from the casement.
What tune of harp or viol is half so fair! Because of my delight in
his song, and of my desire to hear, I may not shut my eyes till it be
morn."

When the husband heard the lady's words he laughed within himself for
wrath and malice. He purposed that very soon the nightingale should
sing within a net. So he bade the servants of his house to devise
fillets and snares, and to set their cunning traps about the orchard.
Not a chestnut tree nor hazel within the garth but was limed and
netted for the caging of this bird. It was not long therefore ere the
nightingale was taken, and the servants made haste to give him to the
pleasure of their lord. Wondrous merry was the knight when he held him
living in his hand. He went straightway to the chamber of his dame,
and entering, said,

"Wife, are you within? Come near, for I must speak with you. Here is
the nightingale, all limed and taken, who made vigil of your sleeping
hours. Take now your rest in peace, for he will never disturb you
more."

When the lady understood these words she was marvellously sorrowful
and heavy. She prayed her lord to grant her the nightingale for a
gift. But for all answer he wrung his neck with both hands so fiercely
that the head was torn from the body. Then, right foully, he flung the
bird upon the knees of the dame, in such fashion that her breast
was sprinkled with the blood. So he departed, incontinent, from the
chamber in a rage.

The lady took the little body in her hands, and wept his evil fate.
She railed on those who with nets and snares had betrayed the
nightingale to his death; for anger and hate beyond measure had gained
hold on her heart.

"Alas," cried she, "evil is come upon me. Never again may I rise from
my bed in the night, and watch from the casement, so that I may see my
friend. One thing I know full well, that he will deem my love is no
more set upon him. Woe to her who has none to give her counsel. This I
will do. I will bestow the nightingale upon him, and send him tidings
of the chance that has befallen."

So this doleful lady took a fair piece of white samite, broidered with
gold, and wrought thereon the whole story of this adventure. In this
silken cloth she wrapped the body of the little bird, and calling to
her a trusty servant of her house, charged him with the message, and
bade him bear it to her friend. The varlet went his way to the knight,
and having saluted him on the part of the lady, he told over to him
the story, and bestowed the nightingale upon him. When all had been
rehearsed and shown to him, and he had well considered the matter,
the knight was very dolent; yet in no wise would he avenge himself
wrongfully. So he caused a certain coffret to be fashioned, made not
of iron or steel, but of fine gold and fair stones, most rich and
precious, right strongly clasped and bound. In this little chest he
set the body of the nightingale, and having sealed the shrine, carried
it upon him whenever his business took him abroad.

This adventure could not long be hid. Very swiftly it was noised about
the country, and the Breton folk made a Lay thereon, which they
called the Lay of the Laustic, in their own tongue.

----------


## Leila

THE LAY OF THE TWO LOVERS

Once upon a time there lived in Normandy two lovers, who were passing fond, and were brought by Love to Death. The story of their love was bruited so abroad, that the Bretons made a song in their own tongue, and named this song the Lay of the Two Lovers.

In Neustria—that men call Normandy—there is verily a high and marvellously great mountain, where lie the relics of the Two Children. Near this high place the King of those parts caused to be built a certain fair and cunning city, and since he was lord of the Pistrians, it was known as Pistres. The town yet endures, with its towers and houses, to bear witness to the truth; moreover the country thereabouts is known to us all as the Valley of Pistres.

This King had one fair daughter, a damsel sweet of face and gracious of manner, very near to her father's heart, since he had lost his Queen. The maiden increased in years and favour, but he took no heed to her trothing, so that men—yea, even his own people—blamed him greatly for this thing. When the King heard thereof he was passing heavy and dolent, and considered within himself how he might be delivered from this grief. So then, that none should carry off his child, he caused it to be proclaimed, both far and near, by script and trumpet, that he alone should wed the maid, who would bear her in his arms, to the pinnacle of the great and perilous mountain, and that without rest or stay. When this news was noised about the country, many came upon the quest. But strive as they would they might not enforce themselves more than they were able. However mighty they were of body, at the last they failed upon the mountain, and fell with their burthen to the ground. Thus, for a while, was none so bold as to seek the high Princess.

Now in this country lived a squire, son to a certain count of that realm, seemly of semblance and courteous, and right desirous to win that prize, which was so coveted of all. He was a welcome guest at the Court, and the King talked with him very willingly. This squire had set his heart upon the daughter of the King, and many a time spoke in her ear, praying her to give him again the love he had bestowed upon her. So seeing him brave and courteous, she esteemed him for the gifts which gained him the favour of the King, and they loved together in their youth. But they hid this matter from all about the Court. This thing was very grievous to them, but the damoiseau thought within himself that it were good to bear the pains he knew, rather than to seek out others that might prove sharper still. Yet in the end, altogether distraught by love, this prudent varlet sought his friend, and showed her his case, saying that he urgently required of her that she would flee with him, for no longer could he endure the weariness of his days. Should he ask her of the King, well he knew that by reason of his love he would refuse the gift, save he bore her in his arms up the steep mount. Then the maiden made answer to her lover, and said,

"Fair friend, well I know you may not carry me to that high place. Moreover should we take to flight, my father would suffer wrath and sorrow beyond measure, and go heavily all his days. Certainly my love is too fond to plague him thus, and we must seek another counsel, for this is not to my heart. Hearken well. I have kindred in Salerno, of rich estate. For more than thirty years my aunt has studied there the art of medicine, and knows the secret gift of every root and herb. If you hasten to her, bearing letters from me, and show her your adventure, certainly she will find counsel and cure. Doubt not that she will discover some cunning simple, that will strengthen your body, as well as comfort your heart. Then return to this realm with your potion, and ask me at my father's hand. He will deem you but a stripling, and set forth the terms of his bargain, that to him alone shall I be given who knows how to climb the perilous mountain, without pause or rest, bearing his lady between his arms."

When the varlet heard this cunning counsel of the maiden, he rejoiced greatly, and thanking her sweetly for her rede, craved permission to depart. He returned to his own home, and gathering together a goodly store of silken cloths most precious, he bestowed his gear upon the pack horses, and made him ready for the road. So with a little company of men, mounted on swift palfreys, and most privy to his mind, he arrived at Salerno. Now the squire made no long stay at his lodging, but as soon as he might, went to the damsel's kindred to open out his mind. He delivered to the aunt the letters he carried from his friend, and bewailed their evil case. When the dame had read these letters with him, line by line, she charged him to lodge with her awhile, till she might do according to his wish. So by her sorceries, and for the love of her maid, she brewed such a potion that no man, however wearied and outworn, but by drinking this philtre, would not be refreshed in heart and blood and bones. Such virtue had this medicine, directly it were drunken. This simple she poured within a little flacket, and gave it to the varlet, who received the gift with great joy and delight, and returned swiftly to his own land.

The varlet made no long sojourn in his home. He repaired straightway to the Court, and, seeking out the King, required of him his fair daughter in marriage, promising, for his part, that were she given him, he would bear her in his arms to the summit of the mount. The King was no wise wrath at his presumption. He smiled rather at his folly, for how should one so young and slender succeed in a business wherein so many mighty men had failed. Therefore he appointed a certain day for this judgment. Moreover he caused letters to be written to his vassals and his friends—passing none by—bidding them to see the end of this adventure. Yea, with public cry and sound of trumpet he bade all who would, come to behold the stripling carry his fair daughter to the pinnacle of the mountain. And from every region round about men came to learn the issue of this thing. But for her part the fair maiden did all that she was able to bring her love to a good end. Ever was it fast day and fleshless day with her, so that by any means she might lighten the burthen that her friend must carry in his arms.

Now on the appointed day this young dansellon came very early to the appointed place, bringing the flacket with him. When the great company were fully met together, the King led forth his daughter before them; and all might see that she was arrayed in nothing but her smock. The varlet took the maiden in his arms, but first he gave her the flask with the precious brewage to carry, since for pride he might not endure to drink therefrom, save at utmost peril. The squire set forth at a great pace, and climbed briskly till he was halfway up the mount. Because of the joy he had in clasping his burthen, he gave no thought to the potion. But she—she knew the strength was failing in his heart.

"Fair friend," said she, "well I know that you tire: drink now, I pray you, of the flacket, and so shall your manhood come again at need."

But the varlet answered,

"Fair love, my heart is full of courage; nor for any reason will I pause, so long as I can hold upon my way. It is the noise of all this folk—the tumult and the shouting—that makes my steps uncertain. Their cries distress me, I do not dare to stand."

But when two thirds of the course was won, the grasshopper would have tripped him off his feet. Urgently and often the maiden prayed him, saying,

"Fair friend, drink now of thy cordial."

But he would neither hear, nor give credence to her words. A mighty anguish filled his bosom. He climbed upon the summit of the mountain, and pained himself grievously to bring his journey to an end. This he might not do. He reeled and fell, nor could he rise again, for the heart had burst within his breast.

When the maiden saw her lover's piteous plight, she deemed that he had swooned by reason of his pain. She kneeled hastily at his side, and put the enchanted brewage to his lips, but he could neither drink nor speak, for he was dead, as I have told you. She bewailed his evil lot, with many shrill cries, and flung the useless flacket far away. The precious potion bestrewed the ground, making a garden of that desolate place. For many saving herbs have been found there since that day by the simple folk of that country, which from the magic philtre derived all their virtue.

But when the maiden knew that her lover was dead, she made such wondrous sorrow, as no man had ever seen. She kissed his eyes and mouth, and falling upon his body, took him in her arms, and pressed him closely to her breast. There was no heart so hard as not to be touched by her sorrow; for in this fashion died a dame, who was fair and sweet and gracious, beyond the wont of the daughters of men.

Now the King and his company, since these two lovers came not again, presently climbed the mountain to learn their end. But when the King came upon them lifeless, and fast in that embrace, incontinent he fell to the ground, bereft of sense. After his speech had returned to him, he was passing heavy, and lamented their doleful case, and thus did all his people with him.

Three days they kept the bodies of these two fair children from earth, with uncovered face. On the third day they sealed them fast in a goodly coffin of marble, and by the counsel of all men, laid them softly to rest on that mountain where they died. Then they departed from them, and left them together, alone.

Since this adventure of the Two Children this hill is known as the Mountain of the Two Lovers, and their story being bruited abroad, the Breton folk have made a Lay thereof, even as I have rehearsed before you.

----------


## Leila

THE LAY OF THE DOLOROUS KNIGHT

Hearken now to the Lay that once I heard a minstrel chanting to his
harp. In surety of its truth I will name the city where this story
passed. The Lay of the Dolorous Knight, my harper called his song,
but of those who hearkened, some named it rather, The Lay of the Four
Sorrows.

In Nantes, of Brittany, there dwelt a dame who was dearly held of
all, for reason of the much good that was found in her. This lady was
passing fair of body, apt in book as any clerk, and meetly schooled in
every grace that it becometh dame to have. So gracious of person was
this damsel, that throughout the realm there was no knight could
refrain from setting his heart upon her, though he saw her but one
only time. Although the demoiselle might not return the love of so
many, certainly she had no wish to slay them all. Better by far that
a man pray and require in love all the dames of his country, than run
mad in woods for the bright eyes of one. Therefore this dame gave
courtesy and good will to each alike. Even when she might not hear a
lover's words, so sweetly she denied his wish that the more he held
her dear and was the more her servant for that fond denial. So because
of her great riches of body and of heart, this lady of whom I tell,
was prayed and required in love by the lords of her country, both by
night and by day.

Now in Brittany lived four young barons, but their names I cannot
tell. It is enough that they were desirable in the eyes of maidens for
reason of their beauty, and that men esteemed them because they were
courteous of manner and open of hand. Moreover they were stout and
hardy knights amongst the spears, and rich and worthy gentlemen of
those very parts. Each of these four knights had set his heart upon
the lady, and for love of her pained himself mightily, and did all
that he was able, so that by any means he might gain her favour. Each
prayed her privily for her love, and strove all that he could to make
him worthy of the gift, above his fellows. For her part the lady was
sore perplexed, and considered in her mind very earnestly, which of
these four knights she should take as friend. But since they all were
loyal and worthy gentlemen, she durst not choose amongst them; for
she would not slay three lovers with her hand so that one might have
content. Therefore to each and all, the dame made herself fair and
sweet of semblance. Gifts she gave to all alike. Tender messages she
sent to each. Every knight deemed himself esteemed and favoured above
his fellows, and by soft words and fair service diligently strove to
please. When the knights gathered together for the games, each of
these lords contended earnestly for the prize, so that he might be
first, and draw on him the favour of his dame. Each held her for his
friend. Each bore upon him her gift--pennon, or sleeve, or ring. Each
cried her name within the lists.

Now when Eastertide was come, a great tournament was proclaimed to be
held beyond the walls of Nantes, that rich city. The four lovers were
the appellants in this tourney, and from every realm knights rode
to break a lance in honour of their dame. Frenchman and Norman and
Fleming; the hardiest knights of Brabant, Boulogne and Anjou; each
came to do his devoir in the field. Nor was the chivalry of Nantes
backward in this quarrel, but till the vespers of the tournament was
come, they stayed themselves within the lists, and struck stoutly for
their lord. After the four lovers had laced their harness upon them,
they issued forth from the city, followed by the knights who were of
their company in this adventure. But upon the four fell the burden of
the day, for they were known of all by the embroidered arms upon their
surcoat, and the device fashioned on the shield. Now against the four
lovers arrayed themselves four other knights, armed altogether in
coats of mail, and helmets and gauntlets of steel. Of these stranger
knights two were of Hainault, and the two others were Flemings. When
the four lovers saw their adversaries prepare themselves for the
combat, they had little desire to flee, but hastened to join them in
battle. Each lowered his spear, and choosing his enemy, met him so
eagerly that all men wondered, for horse and man fell to the earth.
The four lovers recked little of their destriers, but freeing their
feet from the stirrups bent over the fallen foe, and called on him to
yield. When the friends of the vanquished knights saw their case,
they hastened to their succour; so for their rescue there was a great
press, and many a mighty stroke with the sword.

The damsel stood upon a tower to watch these feats of arms. By their
blazoned coats and shields she knew her knights; she saw their
marvellous deeds, yet might not say who did best, nor give to one the
praise. But the tournament was no longer a seemly and ordered battle.
The ranks of the two companies were confused together, so that every
man fought against his fellow, and none might tell whether he struck
his comrade or his foe. The four lovers did well and worshipfully, so
that all men deemed them worthy of the prize. But when evening was
come, and the sport drew to its close, their courage led them to
folly. Having ventured too far from their companions, they were set
upon by their adversaries, and assailed so fiercely that three were
slain outright. As to the fourth he yet lived, but altogether mauled
and shaken, for his thigh was broken, and a spear head remained in his
side. The four bodies were fallen on the field, and lay with those who
had perished in that day. But because of the great mischief these
four lovers had done their adversaries, their shields were cast
despitefully without the lists; but in this their foemen did
wrongfully, and all men held them in sore displeasure.

Great were the lamentation and the cry when the news of this mischance
was noised about the city. Such a tumult of mourning was never before
heard, for the whole city was moved. All men hastened forth to the
place where the lists were set. Meetly to mourn the dead there rode
nigh upon two thousand knights, with hauberks unlaced, and uncovered
heads, plucking upon their beards. So the four lovers were placed each
upon his shield, and being brought back in honour to Nantes, were
carried to the house of that dame, whom so greatly they had loved.
When the lady knew this distressful adventure, straightway she fell
to the ground. Being returned from her swoon, she made her complaint,
calling upon her lovers each by his name.

"Alas," said she, "what shall I do, for never shall I know happiness
again. These four knights had set their hearts upon me, and despite
their great treasure, esteemed my love as richer than all their
wealth. Alas, for the fair and valiant knight! Alas, for the loyal and
generous man! By gifts such as these they sought to gain my favour,
but how might lady bereave three of life, so as to cherish one. Even
now I cannot tell for whom I have most pity, or who was closest to my
mind. But three are dead, and one is sore stricken; neither is there
anything in the world which can bring me comfort. Only this is there
to do--to give the slain men seemly burial, and, if it may be, to heal
their comrade of his wounds."

So, because of her great love and nobleness, the lady caused these
three distressful knights to be buried well and worshipfully in a
rich abbey. In that place she offered their Mass penny, and gave rich
offerings of silver and of lights besides. May God have mercy on them
in that day. As for the wounded knight she commanded him to be carried
to her own chamber. She sent for surgeons, and gave him into their
hands. These searched his wounds so skilfully, and tended him with so
great care, that presently his hurt commenced to heal. Very often was
the lady in the chamber, and very tenderly she cherished the stricken
man. Yet ever she felt pity for the three Knights of the Sorrows, and
ever she went heavily by reason of their deaths.

Now on a summer's day, the lady and the knight sat together after
meat. She called to mind the sorrow that was hers; so that, in a
space, her head fell upon her breast, and she gave herself altogether
to her grief. The knight looked earnestly upon his dame. Well he might
see that she was far away, and clearly he perceived the cause.

"Lady," said he, "you are in sorrow. Open now your grief to me. If you
tell me what is in your heart perchance I may find you comfort."

"Fair friend," replied she, "I think of what is gone, and remember
your companions, who are dead. Never was lady of my peerage, however
fair and good and gracious, ever loved by four such valiant gentlemen,
nor ever lost them in one single day. Save you--who were so maimed and
in such peril--all are gone. Therefore I call to mind those who loved
me so dearly, and am the saddest lady beneath the sun. To remember
these things, of you four I shall make a Lay, and will call it the Lay
of the Four Sorrows."

When the knight heard these words he made answer very swiftly, "Lady,
name it not the Lay of the Four Sorrows, but, rather, the Lay of the
Dolorous Knight. Would you hear the reason why it should bear this
name? My three comrades have finished their course; they have nothing
more to hope of their life. They are gone, and with them the pang of
their great sorrow, and the knowledge of their enduring love for you.
I alone have come, all amazed and fearful, from the net wherein they
were taken, but I find my life more bitter than my comrades found the
grave. I see you on your goings and comings about the house. I may
speak with you both matins and vespers. But no other joy do I get--
neither clasp nor kiss, nothing but a few empty, courteous words.
Since all these evils are come upon me because of you, I choose death
rather than life. For this reason your Lay should bear my name, and be
called the Lay of the Dolorous Knight. He who would name it the Lay
of the Four Sorrows would name it wrongly, and not according to the
truth."

"By my faith," replied the lady, "this is a fair saying. So shall the
song be known as the Lay of the Dolorous Knight."

Thus was the Lay conceived, made perfect, and brought to a fair birth.
For this reason it came by its name; though to this day some call it
the Lay of the Four Sorrows. Either name befits it well, for the story
tells of both these matters, but it is the use and wont in this land
to call it the Lay of the Dolorous Knight. Here it ends; no more is
there to say. I heard no more, and nothing more I know. Perforce I
bring my story to a close.

----------

