V

SIR GAWAYNE AND THE GRENE KNIGHT

ABOUT 1350–75.

Sir Gawayne has been admirably edited by Sir F. Madden for the Bannatyne Club, 1839; by R. Morris for the Early English Text Society; and in a useful students’ edition by E. V. Gordon and J. R. R. Tolkien, Oxford 1925. It is found in British Museum MS. Nero A X, together with three other alliterative poems, named from their first words Pearl, Patience, and Cleanness. Pearl supplies the next specimen; Patience exemplifies the virtue by the trials of Jonah; Cleanness teaches purity of life from Scriptural stories. All these poems are in the same handwriting; all are in a West-Midland dialect; all appear to be of the same age; and none is without literary merit. For these reasons, which are good but not conclusive, they are assumed to be by the same author. Attempts to identify this author have been unsuccessful.

The story runs as follows:

King Arthur is making his Christmas feast with his court at Camelot. On New Year’s Day he declares that he will not eat until he has seen or heard some marvel. The first course of the feast is barely served when a tall knight, clad all in green, with green hair, and a green horse to match, rides into the hall. He carries a holly bough and a huge axe, and tauntingly invites any knight to strike him a blow with the axe, on condition that he will stand a return blow on the same day a year hence. Gawayne accepts the challenge and strikes off the Green Knight’s head. The Green Knight gathers up his head, gives Gawayne an appointment for next New Year’s Day at the Green Chapel, and rides off.

The year passes, and Gawayne, despite the fears of the court, sets out in quest of the Green Chapel. On Christmas Eve he arrives at a splendid castle, and finding that the Green Chapel is close at hand, accepts an invitation to stay and rest until New Year’s Day. On each of three days the knight of the castle goes hunting, and persuades Gawayne to rest at home. They make an agreement that each shall give the other whatever he gets. The lady of the castle makes love to Gawayne, and kisses him once on the first day, twice on the second day, thrice on the third day; and on the third day she gives him her girdle, which he accepts because it has the magic power of preserving the wearer from wounds. Each evening he duly gives the kisses to the knight, and receives in return the spoils of the hunting of deer and boar and fox. But he conceals the girdle.

The extract begins with Gawayne preparing on New Year’s morning to stand the return blow at the Green Chapel.

The poem ends by the Green Knight revealing that he is himself the lord of the castle; that he went to Arthur’s court at the suggestion of Morgan la Fay; that he had urged his wife to make love to Gawayne and try his virtue; and that he would not have harmed him at all, if he had not committed the slight fault of concealing the girdle. Gawayne returns to the court, bearing the girdle as a sign of his shame, and tells his story. The knights of the court agree in future to wear a bright green belt for Gawayne’s sake.

Sir Gawayne is admittedly the best of the alliterative romances. It must have come down to us practically as it was written by the poet, for it is free from the flatness and conventional phrasing which is characteristic of romances that have passed through many popular recensions. The descriptions of nature, of armour and dresses, the hunting scenes, and the love making, are all excellently done; and the poet shows the same richness of imagination and skill in producing pictorial effects that are so noticeable in Pearl. He has too a quiet humour that recalls Chaucer in some of his moods.

THE TESTING OF SIR GAWAYNE.

British Museum MS. Nero A X (about 1400); ed. R. Morris, 11. 2069 ff. Facsimile of MS. ed. Sir Israel Gollancz, E. E. T. S. 1924.

     THE brygge wat brayde doun, and þe brode ate

     Vnbarred and born open vpon boþe halue.

     Þe burne blessed hym bilyue, and þe brede passed;

     Prayses þe porter bifore þe prynce kneled,

     Gef hym God and goud day, þat Gawayn He saue,     5

     And went on his way with his wye one,

     Þat schulde teche hym to tourne to þat tene place

     Þer þe ruful race he schulde resayue.

     Þay boen bi bonkke þer boe ar bare;

     Þay clomben bi clyffe þer clenge þe colde.     10

     Þe heuen wat vp halt, bot vgly þer vnder,—

     Mist muged on þe mor, malt on þe mounte,

     Vch hille hade a hatte, a myst-hakel huge.

     Broke byled and breke bi bonkke aboute,

     Schyre schaterande on schore, þer þay doun schowued.     15

     Wela wylle wat þe way þer þay bi wod schulden,

     Til hit wat sone sesoun þat þe sunne ryses

     þat tyde.

     Þay were on a hille ful hye,

     Þe quyte snaw lay bisyde;     20

     Þe burne þat rod hym by

     Bede his mayster abide.

     ‘For I haf wonnen yow hider, wye, at þis tyme,

     And now nar e not fer fro þat note place

     Þat e han spied and spuryed so specially after.     25

     Bot I schal say yow for soþe, syþen I yow knowe,

     And e ar a lede vpon lyue þat I wel louy,

     Wolde e worch bi my wytte, e worþed þe better.

     Þe place þat e prece to ful perelous is halden.

     Þer wone a wye in þat waste, þe worst vpon erþe,     30

     For he is stiffe and sturne, and to strike louies,

     And more he is þen any mon vpon myddelerde,

     And his body bigger þen þe best fowre

     Þat ar in Arþure hous, Hestor, oþer oþer.

     He cheue þat chaunce at þe chapel grene,     35

     Þer passes non bi þat place so proude in his armes

     Þat he ne dynge hym to deþe with dynt of his honde;

     For he is a mon methles, and mercy non vses,

     For be hit chorle oþer chaplayn þat bi þe chapel rydes,

     Monk oþer masse-prest, oþer any mon elles,     40

     Hym þynk as queme hym to quelle as quyk go hymseluen.

     Forþy I say þe, as soþe as e in sadel sitte,

     Com e þere, e be kylled, may þe, knyt, rede—

     Trawe e me þat trwely—þa e had twenty lyues

     to spende.     45

     He hat wonyd here ful ore,

     On bent much baret bende,

     Aayn his dynte sore

     e may not yow defende.

     ‘Forþy, goude Sir Gawayn, let þe gome one,     50

     And got away sum oþer gate, vpon Godde halue!

     Cayre bi sum oþer kyth, þer Kryst mot yow spede,

     And I schal hy me hom aayn, and hete yow fyrre

     Þat I schal swere bi God and alle His gode hale,

     As help me God and þe halydam, and oþe innoghe,     55

     Þat I schal lelly yow layne, and lance neuer tale

     Þat euer e fondet to fle for freke þat I wyst.’

     ‘Grant merci,’ quod Gawayn, and gruchyng he sayde:

     ‘Wel worth þe, wye, þat wolde my gode,

     And þat lelly me layne I leue wel þou wolde.     60

     Bot helde þou hit neuer so holde, and I here passed,

     Founded for ferde for to fle, in fourme þat þou telle,

     I were a knyt kowarde, I myt not be excused.

     Bot I wyl to þe chapel, for chaunce þat may falle,

     And talk wyth þat ilk tulk þe tale þat me lyste,     65

     Worþe hit wele oþer wo, as þe wyrde lyke

     hit hafe.

     Þae he be a sturn knape

     To stitel, and stad with staue,

     Ful wel con Drytyn schape     70

     His seruaunte for to saue.’

     ‘Mary!’ quod þat oþer mon, ‘now þou so much spelle

     Þat þou wylt þyn awen nye nyme to þyseluen,

     And þe lyst lese þy lyf, þe lette I ne kepe.

     Haf here þi helme on þy hede, þi spere in þi honde,     75

     And ryde me doun þis ilk rake bi on rokke syde

     Til þou be brot to þe boþem of þe brem valay.

     Þenne loke a littel on þe launde, on þi lyfte honde,

     And þou schal se in þat slade þe self chapel,

     And þe borelych burne on bent þat hit kepe.     80

     Now fare wel, on Gode half! Gawayn þe noble;

     For alle þe golde vpon grounde I nolde go wyth þe,

     Ne bere þe felaschip þur þis fryth on fote fyrre.’

     Bi þat þe wye in þe wod wende his brydel,

     Hit þe hors with þe hele as harde as he myt,     85

     Lepe hym ouer þe launde, and leue þe knyt þere

     al one.

     ‘Bi Godde self!’ quod Gawayn,

     ‘I wyl nauþer grete ne grone;

     To Godde wylle I am ful bayn,     90

     And to Hym I haf me tone.’

     Thenne gyrde he to Gryngolet, and gedere þe rake,

     Schowue in bi a schore at a schae syde,

     Ride þur þe roe bonk ryt to þe dale;

     And þenne he wayted hym aboute, and wylde hit hym þot,

     And see no syngne of resette bisyde nowhere,     96

     Bot hye bonkke and brent vpon boþe halue,

     And rue knokled knarre with knorned stone;

     Þe skwe of þe scowtes skayned hym þot.

     Þenne he houed, and wythhylde his hors at þat tyde,     100

     And ofte chaunged his cher þe chapel to seche:

     He se non suche in no syde, and selly hym þot

     Sone, a lyttel on a launde, a lawe as hit we〈re〉,

     A bal ber bi a bonke, þe brymme bysyde,

     Bi a for of a flode þat ferked þare;     105

     Þe borne blubred þerinne as hit boyled hade.

     Þe knyt kache his caple, and com to þe lawe,

     Lite doun luflyly, and at a lynde tache

     Þe rayne and his riche with a roe braunche.

     Þenne he boe to þe bere, aboute hit he walke,     110

     Debatande with hymself quat hit be myt.

     Hit hade a hole on þe ende and on ayþer syde,

     And ouergrowen with gresse in glodes aywhere,

     And al wat hol inwith, nobot an olde caue,

     Or a creuisse of an olde cragge, he couþe hit not deme     115

     with spelle.

     ‘We! Lorde,’ quod þe gentyle knyt,

     ‘Wheþer þis be þe grene chapelle?

     He〈re〉 myt aboute mydnyt

     Þe dele his matynnes telle!     120

     ‘Now iwysse,’ quod Wowayn, ‘wysty is here;

     Þis oritore is vgly, with erbe ouergrowen;

     Wel biseme þe wye wruxled in grene

     Dele here his deuocioun on þe deuele wyse.

     Now I fele hit is þe fende, in my fyue wytte,     125

     Þat hat stoken me þis steuen to strye me here.

     Þis is a chapel of meschaunce, þat chekke hit bytyde!

     Hit is þe corsedest kyrk þat euer I com inne!’

     With hee helme on his hede, his launce in his honde,

     He rome vp to þe rokke of þo ro wone.     130

     Þene herde he, of þat hye hil, in a harde roche,

     Bionde þe broke, in a bonk, a wonder breme noyse.

     Quat! hit clatered in þe clyff, as hit cleue schulde,

     As one vpon a gryndelston hade grounden a syþe;

     What! hit wharred and whette, as water at a mulne;     135

     What! hit rusched and ronge, rawþe to here.

     Þenne ‘Bi Godde!’ quod Gawayn, ‘þat gere as I trowe

     Is ryched at þe reuerence me, renk, to mete

     bi rote.

     Let God worche, we loo!     140

     Hit helppe me not a mote.

     My lif þa I forgoo,

     Drede dot me no lote.’

     Thenne þe knyt con calle ful hye:

     ‘Who stitle in þis sted, me steuen to holde?     145

     For now is gode Gawayn goande ryt here.

     If any wye ot wyl, wynne hider fast,

     Oþer now oþer neuer, his nede to spede.’

     ‘Abyde,’ quod on on þe bonke abouen ouer his hede,

     ‘And þou schal haf al in hast þat I þe hyt ones.’     150

     et he rusched on þat rurde rapely a þrowe,

     And wyth quettyng awharf, er he wolde lyt;

     And syþen he keuere bi a cragge, and come of a hole,

     Whyrlande out of a wro wyth a felle weppen,

     A Dene ax nwe dyt, þe dynt with 〈t〉o elde,     155

     With a borelych bytte bende by þe halme,

     Fyled in a fylor, fowre fote large,—

     Hit wat no lasse bi þat lace þat lemed ful bryt,—

     And þe gome in þe grene gered as fyrst,

     Boþe þe lyre and þe legge, lokke and berde,     160

     Saue þat fayre on his fote he founde on þe erþe,

     Sette þe stele to þe stone, and stalked bysyde.

     Whan he wan to þe watter, þer he wade nolde,

     He hypped ouer on hys ax, and orpedly stryde,

     Bremly broþe on a bent þat brode wat aboute,     165

     on snawe.

     Sir Gawayn þe knyt con mete,

     He ne lutte hym no þyng lowe;

     Þat oþer sayde ‘Now, sir swete,

     Of steuen mon may þe trowe.     170

     ‘Gawayn,’ quod þat grene gome, ‘God þe mot loke!

     Iwysse þou art welcom, wye, to my place,

     And þou hat tymed þi trauayl as truee mon schulde,

     And þou knowe couenaunte kest vus bytwene:

     At þis tyme twelmonyth þou toke þat þe failed,     175

     And I schulde at þis nwe ere eply þe quyte.

     And we ar in þis valay verayly oure one;

     Here ar no renkes vs to rydde, rele as vus like.

     Haf þy helme of þy hede, and haf here þy pay.

     Busk no more debate þen I þe bede þenne     180

     When þou wypped of my hede at a wap one.’

     ‘Nay, bi God’ quod Gawayn, ‘þat me gost lante!

     I schal gruch þe no grwe for grem þat falle.

     Bot stytel þe vpon on strok, and I schal stonde stylle

     And warp þe no wernyng to worch as þe lyke,’     185

     nowhare.

     He lened with þe nek, and lutte,

     And schewed þat schyre al bare,

     And lette as he not dutte;

     For drede he wolde not dare.     190

     Then þe gome in þe grene grayþed hym swyþe,

     Gedere vp hys grymme tole Gawayn to smyte;

     With alle þe bur in his body he ber hit on lofte,

     Munt as matyly as marre hym he wolde:

     Hade hit dryuen adoun as dre as he atled,     195

     Þer hade ben ded of his dynt þat doty wat euer.

     Bot Gawayn on þat giserne glyfte hym bysyde,

     As hit com glydande adoun on glode hym to schende,

     And schranke a lytel with þe schulderes for þe scharp yrne.

     Þat oþer schalk wyth a schunt þe schene wythhalde,     200

     And þenne repreued he þe prynce with mony prowde worde:

     ‘Þou art not Gawayn,’ quod þe gome, ‘þat is so goud halden,

     Þat neuer ared for no here, by hylle ne be vale,

     And now þou fles for ferde er þou fele harme!

     Such cowardise of þat knyt cowþe I neuer here.     205

     Nawþer fyked I ne flae, freke, quen þou myntest,

     Ne kest no kauelacion, in kynge hous Arthor.

     My hede fla to my fote, and et fla I neuer;

     And þou, er any harme hent, are in hert;

     Wherfore þe better burne me burde be called’     210

     þerfore.

     Quod Gawayn ‘I schunt one,

     And so wyl I no more;

     Bot þa my hede falle on þe stone,

     I con not hit restore.     215

     Bot busk, burne, bi þi fayth! and bryng me to þe poynt.

     Dele to me my destiné, and do hit out of honde,

     For I schal stonde þe a strok, and start no more

     Til þyn ax haue me hitte: haf here my trawþe.’

     ‘Haf at þe þenne! ‘quod þat oþer, and heue hit alofte,     220

     And wayte as wroþely as he wode were.

     He mynte at hym matyly, bot not þe mon ryue,

     Withhelde heterly h〈i〉s honde, er hit hurt myt.

     Gawayn grayþely hit byde, and glent with no membre,

     Bot stode stylle as þe ston, oþer a stubbe auþer     225

     Þat raþeled is in roché grounde with rote a hundreth.

     Þen muryly efte con he mele, þe mon in þe grene:

     ‘So now þou hat þi hert holle, hitte me bihou〈e〉s.

     Halde þe now þe hye hode þat Arþur þe rat,

     And kepe þy kanel at þis kest, if hit keuer may.’     230

     Gawayn ful gryndelly with greme þenne sayde:

     ‘Wy! þresch on, þou þro mon, þou þrete to longe.

     I hope þat þi hert are wyth þyn awen seluen.’

     ‘For soþe,’ quod þat oþer freke, ‘so felly þou speke,

     I wyl no lenger on lyte lette þin ernde     235

     rit nowe.’

     Þenne tas he hym stryþe to stryke,

     And frounses boþe lyppe and browe.

     No meruayle þa hym myslyke

     Þat hoped of no rescowe.     240

     He lyftes lytly his lome, and let hit doun fayre,

     With þe barbe of þe bitte bi þe bare nek,

     Þa he homered heterly, hurt hym no more,

     Bot snyrt hym on þat on syde, þat seuered þe hyde;

     Þe scharp schrank to þe flesche þur þe schyre grece     245

     Þat þe schene blod ouer his schulderes schot to þe erþe;

     And quen þe burne se þe blode blenk on þe snawe,

     He sprit forth spenne fote more þen a spere lenþe,

     Hent heterly his helme, and on his hed cast,

     Schot with his schuldere his fayre schelde vnder,     250

     Brayde out a bryt sworde, and bremely he speke;—

     Neuer syn þat he wat burne borne of his moder

     Wat he neuer in þis worlde wye half so blyþe—

     ‘Blynne, burne, of þy bur, bede me no mo!

     I haf a stroke in þis stede withoute stryf hent,     255

     And if þow reche me any mo, I redyly schal quyte,

     And elde ederly aayn—and þerto e tryst—

     and foo.

     Bot on stroke here me falle—

     Þe couenaunt schop ryt so     260

     〈Schapen〉 in Arþure halle—

     And þerfore, hende, now hoo!’

     The haþel heldet hym fro, and on his ax rested,

     Sette þe schaft vpon schore, and to þe scharp lened,

     And loked to þe leude þat on þe launde ede,     265

     How þat doty, dredles, deruely þer stonde

     Armed, ful ale: in hert hit hym lyke.

     Þenn he mele muryly wyth a much steuen,

     And wyth a ry〈n〉kande rurde he to þe renk sayde:

     ‘Bolde burne, on þis bent be not so gryndel.     270

     No mon here vnmanerly þe mysboden habbe〈〉

     Ne kyd, bot as couenaunde at kynge kort schaped.

     I hyt þe a strok and þou hit hat; halde þe wel payed.

     I relece þe of þe remnaunt of rytes alle oþer.

     Iif I deliuer had bene, a boffet paraunter     275

     I couþe wroþeloker haf waret,—to þe haf wrot anger.

     Fyrst I mansed þe muryly with a mynt one,

     And roue þe wyth no rof sore, with ryt I þe profered

     For þe forwarde þat we fest in þe fyrst nyt,

     And þou trystyly þe trawþe and trwly me halde,     280

     Al þe gayne þow me gef, as god mon schulde.

     Þat oþer munt for þe morne, mon, I þe profered,

     Þou kyssedes my clere wyf, þe cosse me rate.

     For boþe two here I þe bede bot two bare myntes

     boute scaþe.     285

     Trwe mon trwe restore,

     Þenne þar mon drede no waþe.

     At þe þrid þou fayled þore,

     And þerfor þat tappe ta þe.

     For hit is my wede þat þou were, þat ilke wouen girdel,     290

     Myn owen wyf hit þe weued, I wot wel forsoþe.

     Now know I wel þy cosses, and þy costes als,

     And þe wowyng of my wyf: I wrot hit myseluen.

     I sende hir to asay þe, and sothly me þynkke

     On þe fautlest freke þat euer on fote ede.     295

     As perle bi þe quite pese is of prys more,

     So is Gawayn, in god fayth, bi oþer gay knyte.

     Bot here yow lakked a lyttel, sir, and lewté yow wonted;

     Bot þat wat for no wylyde werke, ne wowyng nauþer,

     Bot for e lufed your lyf; þe lasse I yow blame.’     300

     Þat oþer stif mon in study stod a gret whyle,

     So agreued for greme he gryed withinne;

     Alle þe blode of his brest blende in his face,

     Þat al he schrank for schome þat þe schalk talked.

     Þe forme worde vpon folde þat þe freke meled:     305

     ‘Corsed worth cowarddyse and couetyse boþe!

     In yow is vylany and vyse þat vertue disstrye.’

     Þenne he kat to þe knot, and þe kest lawse,

     Brayde broþely þe belt to þe burne seluen:

     ‘Lo! þer þe falssyng! foule mot hit falle!     310

     For care of þy knokke cowardyse me tat

     To acorde me with couetyse, my kynde to forsake,

     Þat is larges and lewté þat longe to knyte.

     Now am I fawty and falce, and ferde haf ben euer

     Of trecherye and vntrawþe: boþe bityde sore     315

     and care!

     I biknowe yow, knyt, here stylle,

     Al fawty is my fare;

     Lete me ouertake your wylle

     And efte I schal be ware.’     320

     Thenn loe þat oþer leude, and luflyly sayde:

     ‘I halde hit hardily hole, þe harme þat I hade.

     Þou art confessed so clene, beknowen of þy mysses,

     And hat þe penaunce apert of þe poynt of myn egge,

     I halde þe polysed of þat plyt, and pured as clene     325

     As þou hade neuer forfeted syþen þou wat fyrst borne;

     And I gif þe, sir, þe gurdel þat is golde-hemmed,

     For hit is grene as my goune. Sir Gawayne, e maye

     Þenk vpon þis ilke þrepe, þer þou forth þrynge

     Among prynces of prys; and þis a pure token     330

     Of þe chaunce at þe grene chapel of cheualrous knyte.

     And e schal in þis nwe er aayn to my wone,

     And we schyn reuel þe remnaunt of þis ryche fest

     ful bene.’

     Þer laþed hym fast þe lord,     335

     And sayde ‘With my wyf, I wene,

     We schal yow wel acorde,

     Þat wat your enmy kene.’

     ‘Nay, for soþe,’ quod þe segge, and sesed hys helme,

     And hat hit of hendely, and þe haþel þonkke,     340

     ‘I haf soiorned sadly; sele yow bytyde!

     And He elde hit yow are þat arkke al menskes!

     And comaunde me to þat cortays, your comlych fere,

     Boþe þat on and þat oþer myn honoured ladye,

     Þat þus hor knyt wyth hor kest han koyntly bigyled.     345

     Bot hit is no ferly þa a fole madde,

     And þur wyles of wymmen be wonen to sore,

     For so wat Adam in erde with one bygyled,

     And Salamon with fele sere, and Samson eftsone

     Dalyda dalt hym hys wyrde, and Dauyth þerafter     350

     Wat blended with Barsabe, þat much bale þoled.

     Now þese were wrathed wyth her wyles, hit were a wynne huge

     To luf hom wel, and leue hem not, a leude þat couþe.

     For þes wer forne þe freest, þat foled alle þe sele

     Exellently of alle þyse oþer vnder heuenryche     355

     þat mused;

     And alle þay were biwyled

     With wymmen þat þay vsed.

     Þa I be now bigyled,

     Me þink me burde be excused.’     360

---

37 dynge] dynne MS.

63 not] mot MS.

69 and] & & MS.

137 as] at MS.

172 welcom] welcon MS.

179 þy (1st)] þy þy MS.

237 he] he he MS.

322 hardily] hardilyly MS.

331 at … of (2nd)] transposed in MS.

358 With] With wyth MS.