Part II: Anglo-Norman Literary Period, part of the Middle Ages Literary Period
Part II: Anglo-Norman Literary Period, part of the Middle Ages Literary Period
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The Lay of Bisclavret (The Werewolf): His wife questions his absences
AMONGST them all, there is one lay
I’d not forget; that of Bisclavret.
Bisclavret is the name in Breton,
Garwaf (Werewolf) in Norman.
Many a year such tales men told,
For it had often chanced, of old,
That humans werewolves became;
From the woods, to kill and maim,
They would roam; savage creatures,
When lodged in wolf-like features,
For men they eat, and ill they wreak,
And then again the wild woods seek.
But word of that I must delay,
To tell you first of Bisclavret.
There lived a lord in Brittany,
I’ve heard him praised handsomely,
A virtuous, a noble knight,
Who sought to act as was right,
His liege-lord, he held him dear,
As did his neighbours far and near.
A worthy woman he had wed,
Fair of seeming, and well-bred,
She loved him and he loved her;
Yet one thing ever troubled her,
That he was lost to her each week
For three whole days, nor would he speak
Of where he went; she knew not then
What befell him, nor did his men.
One day he returned, this knight,
To his house, filled with delight,
Thus she was minded to enquire:
‘My sweet friend, my fair sire,
There is something, I declare
I’ve longed to ask, if I but dare;
I fear you may be angry though,
And there is naught that I fear so.’
On hearing this, he embraced her,
Drew her to him, and kissed her.
‘Now, madam, ask away,’ said he,
‘I’ll hide naught from my lady;
If I can, I’ll ever answer you.’
‘I’faith,’ she said, ‘I breathe anew!
So tell me, for I long to know,
Where you dwell, where you go?
I think you must love elsewhere,
And if you do, I’m in despair.’
The Lay of Bisclavret (The Werewolf): He reveals that he is a werewolf
‘MERCY, in God’s name, my lady!
If I said aught, ill would befall me,
And I would drive your love away,
And lose myself that very day.’
Now the lady felt, on hearing
This, twas less than convincing.
And oft she would raise the matter,
She would wheedle him and flatter,
Asking whither he did venture,
Till, at last, for fear of censure:
‘A werewolf I become,’ he said,
‘In the forest I make my bed,
Through its depths there I stray,
And there it is I find my prey.’
When he’d told her all his tale,
Then she requested this detail,
Whether he his clothes eschewed.
‘Lady,’ he said, ‘I wander nude.’
‘Where then do your clothes abide?’
‘I must not tell you,’ he replied,
‘For if of them I were relieved,
And my altered state perceived,
A werewolf I should be forever.
And naught could help me ever,
My former being to regain;
And so you question me in vain.’
‘Sire,’ she said, ‘I love you more
Than all the world; you, therefore,
Should not hide a thing from me,
Nor ever doubt my loyalty,
For that is not the way of love.
What is my sin, by heaven above,
That you doubt me in anything?
Do right, and tell me everything.’
She so tormented him withal,
He could do naught but tell her all.
‘Lady, quite near the wood,’ said he,
‘Beside the ro