Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (7 page)

BOOK: Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology
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Whether a monk, or a priest who says Mass, or anybody else,

He thinks it as fi ne to murder a man as to stay alive himself.

Th

erefore I have to say to you, as sure as you sit in your saddle,

If you go there, you will be killed, if that knight has his way—

Trust me, I’m telling you the truth—even if you had twenty lives

To spend.

He has lived a long time in this land,

And stirred up strife no end;

Against his deadly hand

Th

ere’s no way to defend.

“Th

erefore, good Sir Gawain, please leave the man alone

And ride away by some other road, for God’s sake and your own.

Take yourself off to another land, where Christ may give you speed!

And I shall hurry home again; and further, I promise you

Th

at I shall swear on oath, ‘By God and all his hallowed saints,

So help me God and the holy relics,’ and other oaths enough—

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Th

at I shall loyally keep your secret, and never let drop a word

Th

at ever you tried to run away from any man I know of.”

“Th

ank you so much,” Gawain replied, though he said it with irritation.

“I should, I suppose, wish you good luck for caring about my welfare,

And you say you will loyally keep my secret, as I believe you would;

But, though you kept it ever so close, if I hurried past this place,

Fleeing away from him out of fear, in the fashion you propose,

I would be called a cowardly knight and could not be excused.

So I will go on to the Green Chapel, to whatever challenge I meet,

And talk there to that knight himself, and tell him whatever I think;

Whether it brings me well or woe, it will only be what Fate

Decrees.

He may be a fearsome knave

Who could club me to my knees,

But God shapes things to save

His servants, should He please.”

“By Mary!” said the other man. “Since now you have spelled it out

Th

at you are bringing your own destruction down upon yourself,

And it pleases you to lose your life, I will say nothing against it.

Here, put your helmet on your head, and take your spear in hand,

And ride this rough path downstream by the side of that rock yonder,

Till it brings you to the bottom of the broad and rugged valley.

Th

en look to the glade not far away, a little off to the left ,

And you shall see, set in that dale, the very chapel you’re aft er,

And on its grounds the burly brute who keeps it in his care.

Now farewell, noble Gawain, in God’s name, fare thee well!

For all the gold there is in the earth I would not go with you,

Nor travel in your company through this forest one foot farther.”

With that, in the middle of the wood, the fellow yanked his bridle,

Kicked his horse’s fl anks with his heels as hard as he could spur,

Galloped him off across the glade, and left the knight there, all

Alone.

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“By God’s own Self,” he said,

“I will not weep or groan.

God’s will must be obeyed,

His wishes are my own.”

Th

en he struck his spurs into Gringolet, and followed the stream path down:

He pushed his way on past the rock, at the edge of a small thicket,

And rode along the ragged bank to the bottom of the dale.

Th

en he looked around on every side, and it seemed a wilderness.

Nowhere could he see a sign of a place where he might shelter,

Only high banks rising steeply, on both halves of the dale,

And rough and knobby rocky knolls, with sharp and craggy outcrops;

It seemed to him that the lowering clouds were grazed by the jutting rocks.

Th

en he drew his horse to a halt, checked for a little while

As he sat him, turning this way and that, to seek the chapel out.

He saw no such thing on any side—and that seemed strange to him—

Except that a little off to the left in the glade was a sort of mound,

Or a smooth and rounded barrow on a bank-side above the brim

Of the channel of a watercourse that was fl owing freely through;

Th

e brook was bubbling within, as if it had come to a boil.

Th

e knight then urged his horse along, bringing him up to the knoll,

Alighted from him gracefully, and at a linden tree

Attached the reins of his noble steed to one of the rough branches.

And then he walked across to the mound and he strode all around it,

Turning over in his mind what this strange thing might be.

It had a hole on one end, and the same on either side,

And it was overgrown with grass in patches everywhere,

And all was hollow on the inside—nothing but an old cave

Or a crevice in an old crag, but which it was he could not

Be

sure.

“Ah, Lord!” sighed the noble knight,

“Can the Green Chapel be here,

Where the Devil, around midnight,

Might say his morning prayer?

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“Now indeed,” said Gawain, “without doubt this is a wasteland;

Th

is chapel is horrifying, overgrown with greenery—

A very fi tting place for that man who dresses himself in green

To do his devotions dutifully—in the Devil’s fashion.

Now I feel in my fi ve senses that in fact it is the Fiend

Who has imposed this tryst on me, and will destroy me here.

Th

is is a chapel of mischance—may it be checkmated!—

It is the cursedest kind of church that ever I came into!”

With his helmet high up on his head and his lance held in his hand

He climbed up to the top of the roof above the rough abode

Th

en, farther up on the high hill, he heard, by a hard rock,

Beyond the brook, above the bank, a wondrously loud noise.

What! It clattered against the cliff as if it would cleave it in two,

Like someone at a grindstone who was sharpening a scythe.

What! It whirred and whetted, like water at a mill!

What! It made a rushing, and a ringing, harsh to hear.

Th

en, “By God!” Sir Gawain said, “that weapon is being prepared

To welcome me as a knight of my rank ought to be greeted, it would

Appear.

God’s will be done. To moan

Will never help me here.

Th

ough my life may soon be gone,

A noise won’t make me fear.”

With that the knight cried boldly out, as loudly as he could,

“Who is the master in this place, who holds this tryst with me?

For right now, good Gawain is walking all around, right here.

If any man wants anything, let him appear at once,

It’s now or never, if he intends to get this business done.”

“Wait!” shouted somebody on the bank up above his head,

“And you will quickly have it all, that I once promised you.”

He kept on making that rushing sound, for a while more rapidly,

As he turned back to fi nish his whetting before he would come down.

And then he picked his way past a crag and emerged out of a hole,

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Whirling from a nook nearby, armed with a dreadful weapon:

A Danish axe that was freshly forged to pay the return blow,

With a mighty blade curving back on itself until it touched the helve;

It had been honed on a whetstone, and it was four feet wide—

No less than that if measured by the brightly shining belt!

And the man came out arrayed in green, as he had been at fi rst,

His face and cheeks, his fl owing locks of hair, and his broad beard,

Except that now he went on foot, grandly over the ground,

Setting the haft on the stony earth and stalking along beside it.

When he came to the stream, he wouldn’t pause at the water’s edge to wade,

But hopped across it on his axe, and hurriedly strode on,

Fiercely grim, on a broad and grassy patch of ground that was cloaked

In

snow.

Gawain greeted the seigneur,

Bowing, but not too low.

Th

e other said, “Monsieur,

So—one can trust your vow.

“Gawain,” the Green Knight went on, “may God protect you now!

I bid you welcome, sir, to my place, my chapel and domain,

And you have timed your travels well to reach it when you ought;

And you understand the covenant that was agreed between us:

At this time just twelve months ago, you took what was your lot,

And I, at this New Year, should promptly pay you in return.

And here we are in this valley, which is verily ours alone;

Here are no knights to part us; we may dance our dance as we please.

Take your helmet off your head, and receive your payment now.

Do not resist me any more than I resisted you

When you whipped my head off with a single whack of your battleaxe.”

“No,” said Sir Gawain, “by the God who granted me a soul,

I will not begrudge you a bit for any hurt that happens;

Only hold yourself to a single stroke, and I will stay stock still

And off er no objection at all, whatever you want to do—

Not one.”

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He bent his neck and bowed,

Exposing the bare white skin;

Acting as if uncowed,

Unafraid for him to begin.

Th

en all in a rush the man in green prepared himself to strike:

He grappled and lift ed the grim tool to give Gawain the blow;

With all the force in his massive frame he bore it up aloft

And aimed his swing as mightily as if he meant to destroy him.

If he had driven that stroke down as staunchly as he began,

He would have died from the dreadful blow, the one who was always brave.

But from the corner of his eye Gawain caught a glimpse of the axe

As it came gliding down at him to demolish him in a fl ash,

And he fl inched a little with his shoulders, shrank from the sharp iron.

Th

e other man suddenly checked his swing, held back the shining blade,

And then how he reproved the prince with many disdainful words:

“You are not Gawain,” the Green Knight scoff ed, “who is held to be so good,

Who never quailed on hill or dale before an enemy horde,

And now you fl inch from me for fear before you are even harmed!

I never knew such cowardice on the part of that knight before.

I neither winced nor shied away, friend, when you swung at me,

Nor came up with some caviling argument in King Arthur’s court.

My head fl ew off and fell to my feet, and yet I never fl ed;

But you, before you take any hurt, are terrifi ed in your heart.

So I deserve, without a doubt, to be called the better man,

Th

erefore.”

Said Gawain, “I fl inched once,

But I will not any more,

Th

ough if my head falls on the stones,

It cannot be restored.

“But hurry up, man, by your faith, and come to the point with me—

Deal me the destiny that is mine, and do it out of hand.

For I shall wait to take your stroke and startle at it no more,

Until your axe has hewn into me: you have my plighted oath.”

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“Have at you then!” the other shouted, heaving it up aloft ,

And grimacing as furiously as if he were out of his mind.

Ferociously he swung at him, but did not touch the man,

For in an instant he checked his swing before it might do him harm.

Gawain awaited the blow as he ought, and not a limb of his fl inched,

But he stayed as still as any stone, or rather, like a stump

Th

at is anchored into the rocky ground, locked by a hundred roots.

Th

en once again the man in green harangued him playfully:

“So, now you have your courage back, it’s time to strike the blow.

May that high knighthood Arthur dubbed you with preserve you now,

And save your neck from this next stroke, if it can manage to.”

Gawain’s fury grew more and more, and fi ercely he lashed out,

“Why, thrash away, you fearsome fellow, you waste time fl inging threats!

I suspect that in your heart of hearts you have terrifi ed yourself.”

“Indeed,” replied the other knight, “you speak so defi antly,

I will no longer delay about it and hinder you on your mission—

Right

now.”

He took his stance to strike,

Puckered both lip and brow.

Sir Gawain didn’t like

His chance of rescue now.

Th

e knight lift ed his weapon up, easily, letting it down,

With the sharp blade of the cutting edge onto the bare neck.

Th

ough he hammered with his full force, it harmed him barely enough

BOOK: Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology
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