The Romance of Tristan: The Tale of Tristan's Madness (Classics) (3 page)

The love potion is clearly a great convenience for the story, firstly by removing the moral stain from the lovers’ adulterous passion when its influence begins, and secondly by enabling the lovers to return to Mark when its influence stops. In addition, the poet’s treatment of the potion theme highlights a principle of his aesthetic which is in sharp contrast to modern notions. To state this simply: before we can begin to appreciate the story in Beroul’s terms we have to ignore the impulse to carry over the facts learned in one episode to a second episode.
It may well happen that all the details of a given scene are not relevant in another scene dealing with the same theme; and this is doubtless the explanation, at least in part, for a number of discrepancies and contradictions in the narrative.

It is necessary to insist on this question of episodic structure because Beroul’s poem, written in rhyming couplets, has all the appearance of a long continuous narrative; in this respect it contrasts with the older French epic poems, composed in narrative units known as
laisses
, varying in length from a few lines to over a hundred, in which all the lines end with the same assonance or rhyme. Hence these epic poems actually look as if they have an episodic structure. What Beroul did may be broadly described as combining the structure of the epic poems with the verse form of continuous narrative, with the result that his poem may be considered a
chanson de geste
in octosyllabic couplets.

That Beroul’s narrative proceeds in a series of episodes is something that can be easily observed and accepted; that this episodic structure is a cornerstone of the aesthetic which underlies the poem is less easy to accept. Where the narrator’s attention is concentrated on the single episode, on what M. P. Le Gentil has called ‘the impression of the moment’, a detail which has its place in one episode may implicitly or explicitly contradict a detail in another episode.

The love potion itself seems to be one example, and this point can be further illustrated. When Mark is reassured of the lovers’ innocence after the scene of ‘The Tryst under the Tree’, he resolves to have the evil dwarf
put to death; the dwarf learns of the king’s intention and immediately flees towards Wales. At the beginning of the episode of ‘The Flour on the Floor’, which follows soon after, the three barons arouse Mark’s suspicions again and, to help in devising a means to trap the lovers, send for the dwarf; he has apparently been waiting outside the room, for he comes in quickly (p. 61). The poet tells us neither where the dwarf has come from nor what is Mark’s attitude to him. A sharper contradiction appears later in the story when Yseut is returned to Mark, and the three barons advise him not to allow Tristan at his court for a time. Mark accepts this advice, saying that he will always follow their advice, whatever happens (p. 112). But less than a month later, when the same three barons advise Mark to order Yseut to vindicate herself publicly against the accusation of loving Tristan, the king refuses angrily and his wrath is so fierce that the barons retreat in alarm (p. 115).

It is the existence of these and other similar discrepancies which has led to the appearance of a number of different theories of the work’s composition, ranging from the serious and recondite to the frankly entertaining. This is not the place to discuss these theories, and I have already suggested that it may not be necessary in approaching Beroul’s poem from a purely literary angle. But I will call attention to a strange theory which was advanced a century ago by the German scholar Heinzel. He noted that the poem could be divided into nineteen episodes, some of which contradict each other in some way; he believed he could detect the passages where these episodes had been cobbled together; and in consequence
postulated nineteen different authors. Now this is not very good logic: Ockham’s razor will shave away most of those nineteen hypothetical figures. Even so, Heinzel’s theory holds to my mind a valuable clue to a truer appreciation of Beroul’s poem simply by underlining the possibility of a comparable division of the narrative. With the principle of division into episodes we cannot seriously take issue; but in place of Heinzel’s interpretation I would advance a much simpler suggestion: that since Beroul’s poem exists as a narrative made up by joining together a series of single episodes we should accept this as a legitimate means of telling a story. As the author of Beroul’s poem I would propose, not Heinzel’s collaboration of bunglers, but one man who knew what he was doing; not nineteen men who failed to produce a story according to our literary standards, but one man who composed a story according to his own standards. I do not mean to imply that contradictions in the narrative, which seem to us to be faults, are in reality virtues according to Beroul’s aesthetic; but an assessment of the poem’s artistic merit cannot be made until these fundamental differences are known and allowed for.

If the foregoing argument is correct, it follows that Beroul and his audience could enjoy a story, unworried by discrepancies existing between different episodes. This is a crucial point in Beroul’s aesthetic, for Beroul’s poem is an example of the purely fictional mode of narrative literature.
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An essential feature of that mode is that it is unquestioning, in contrast to the so-called
thematic mode, in which the reader is expected and invited to ponder on the meaning of the material before him. This point may be clarified with an example, and there is in Beroul’s poem an excellent illustration of the author’s cultivation of the fictional mode as opposed to the thematic. When King Mark comes upon the lovers asleep in the forest and is convinced of their chastity when he sees the sword placed unexpectedly between them (p. 92), it is probably fair to say that the king’s surprise is matched by the reader’s, for this is an example of one aspect of Beroul’s narrative art which is diametrically opposed to our own. The events leading up to the scene which the king witnesses may be briefly retold: Tristan comes back to the bower after hunting a stag; he is tired and wants to sleep. The poet describes with care the positions taken up by the lovers: first he tells us that Tristan placed his sword between their bodies, next that they are fully clothed. This is a strange way for two lovers to go to sleep, and the poet hastens to assure us that their love has not diminished by adding that their arms were round each other and their lips close, although there was a space between them. The poet’s comment on this extraordinary situation is most illuminating: he does not say why the lovers were fully clothed, nor why Tristan’s sword was placed between them. All that he does say is that if Yseut had been naked that day dreadful harm would have come to them. This comment looks forward to their discovery by Mark; in other words, these remarkable details have their place in the context of the fictional mode, but not the thematic mode.

None of the remarks made in the preceding pages has
a direct bearing on an assessment of the poem’s literary merit. I have simply attempted to give a broad outline of the aesthetic framework within which such an assessment can be fairly made. In judging the poem’s literary merit we find ourselves on familiar ground, for we need only apply to this poem the standards by which all literature is judged. It is not for me to usurp the reader’s function at this point, although I willingly confess to a great liking for the poem.

We cannot, however, praise it unreservedly, and no one would think of claiming that Beroul’s poem is without faults. For instance, it is disconcerting to find that the death of one of the three barons in the forest is apparently overlooked in later episodes; no less disconcerting is Tristan’s unannounced arrival at some point during Yseut’s monologue after the potion has worn off (p. 97); and there are other similar examples. It is also true that Beroul’s versification is mediocre, although I would plead that the skill of the poet is sufficient compensation for the clumsiness of the versifier.

It is important to remember that the poem’s structure, which requires attention to be concentrated on one episode at a time, does not preclude an overall theme which binds together the different episodes; and this is precisely the role of the theme of tragic love, which runs through the entire poem and gives a sense of unity to the whole. There is consistency, too, in the presentation of the characters, however much we may doubt the narrator’s expressed opinions: the villains are always villainous; Governal and Brangain are always loyal; Mark is consistent in his vacillation; and the love of Tristan
and Yseut does not waver in intensity, although its nature seems to change.

The narrative itself is full of excitement and swift action, and here the abrupt transitions between episodes are a contributory factor, for the element of surprise is always at hand. The vigorous narration of the lovers’ escape from Mark’s court (p. 68ff.), with Tristan’s sudden and daring leap from the chapel and the quick and violent rescue of Yseut from the lepers’ clutches – a scene which includes touches of comedy in the lepers’ puffing and panting – offers a good example of the ease with which the story can move rapidly. Suspense is constantly created through ominous remarks by the poet (p. 55): ‘The king failed to find his dwarf (God, so much the worse for Tristan!)’; and through the poet’s anxious intervention at moments of crisis (p. 63): ‘God, why did [Tristan] do this?’

The poet has an undoubted gift for bringing his descriptions to life by his skilful use of telling details. For example, when Mark rushes into his chamber hoping to catch Tristan with Yseut (p. 64) and suspense is at its height, the poet achieves a most unexpected comic effect by telling us suddenly that Tristan was in his own bed pretending to be asleep and snoring loudly. The danger of Tristan’s leap from the chapel is emphasized by saying that not even a squirrel could hope to jump down that high cliff and live (p. 68). One further example from many may be quoted, this time a single detail which evokes a whole period of physical hardship for the lovers: when Mark finds the lovers asleep in the forest, he exchanges his ring with Yseut’s; formerly the ring had to
be forced on but now it slips off easily, so thin have her fingers become. These small but unerring descriptive touches are one of the most admirable features of Beroul’s poem, and they may well have been for him a virtually indispensable element of the story-teller’s art: bearing in mind that the poem was designed for oral recitation, there is clearly no place for extended descriptions of people or events; hence the special importance of the significant detail.

An unmistakable aspect of Beroul’s artistry is his ability to create and sustain humour of all kinds, varying from broad farce to subtle irony. Probably the episode most likely to produce guffaws from the audience is the farcical account of the arrival of all the people of Cornwall at the mud-covered place where Yseut is to vindicate herself (pp. 129–34). Tristan, disguised as a leper, makes a very creditable buffoon and succeeds in getting alms from King Arthur and King Mark as well as making sure that the three barons end up squarely in the marsh – one of them indeed sinks so deep into the mud that only his hair can be seen standing on end. But there is a subtler kind of comedy in Beroul’s use of irony. The dramatic irony of Yseut’s two false declarations of loyalty to Mark has already been noticed, and the irony of ‘The Tryst under the Tree’ is recalled in Yseut’s conversation with Mark afterwards when she innocently asks the king (p. 57): ‘Were you in the pine tree, then, sire?’ Mark is again the victim of an ironical combination of circumstances when he discovers the lovers asleep in the forest and is convinced by their chaste attitudes of their innocence (p. 92). Nothing could be
further from the truth than Mark’s inference on that occasion; and the irony is here pointed up by the episode a few pages before (p. 87) when Governal kills one of the barons and brings his head to show Tristan and Yseut, for when Governal comes into the bower the lovers are tightly clasped in each other’s arms, which indicates incidentally that Beroul was not altogether careless about structure.

It may even be suggested that Beroul’s whole conception of the story is ironical, for there is an undercurrent of ambiguity running through the poem. The central theme of the love potion is certainly tinged with ambiguity as Beroul presents it: when Tristan and Yseut are on the voyage from Ireland to Cornwall (if we may trust the reconstructed version) they drink a magic potion which causes them to fall instantly in love; at the same time, it is an exceedingly hot day when they drink the potion, their ship is becalmed and the young and handsome pair are separated only by a chess-board. Later in the story, when Tristan correctly submits to being taken captive by the three barons, he expects a judicial combat to be the outcome, and his trust in God is great; at the same time he knows he is the strongest knight at Mark’s court, and he later offers to defend Yseut in combat against the accusation of having loved him wrongfully with the knowledge, as Friar Ogrin points out, that no one is likely to oppose him. When the love potion wears off suddenly, both Tristan and Yseut regret the harm they have done King Mark and think of making amends by returning to his court; at the same time, they have been in the forest for a long time, always on the move
for fear of being captured, they have been short of food and they have become thin and pale, which is the last detail mentioned by the poet before he announces the potion’s limited efficacy (p. 95).

Even from this summary recapitulation of a few events, it does not need a cynic to realize that the whole presentation of the love theme is open to an ambiguous interpretation. It would, however, be falsifying the perspective of Beroul’s poem to carry this a stage further and suggest that the story might take place without the love potion and without God’s help, for this is not the way Beroul told the story. How much weight should be given to the ambiguities is one of the mysteries of the poem, and it is for each reader to give his own answer. Beroul himself was content to tell the story.