Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

Preface

The original of the poem here printed can be found in several editions, of which the most accessible are that published by the Early English Text Society and the more recent Clarendon Press edition, excellently annotated by Tolkien and Gordon.

The present version, which is intended for the ordinary reader, is a lineal rendering, and has therefore the same number of lines as the original, viz. 2,530; I have sought to preserve the alliterative metre (with certain simplifications mentioned in the Introduction) and as much of the language as was possible without being obscure. The rhyming pieces, which usually alliterate also, at the end of each stanza are often difficult, and I will only say that I have done what I could with them.

I have followed the text of the Clarendon Press edition mentioned above, and my obligations to that edition are hereby heartily acknowledged, though I have not invariably accepted its interpretations.

Introduction

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a poem in four “fits,” and the story is as follows:

King Arthur is holding his Christmas court at Camelot, with feasting and revelry. On New Year’s Day, just as dinner is being served, there enters, suddenly and unannounced, a green knight on a green horse. He rides straight up to the high table and, without dismounting, challenges the company to a Christmas game: he will take from anyone present a stroke with a huge axe which he carries, on condition that in a twelvemonth the striker submits to a return blow. After some parley Gawain accepts the challenge, and gives an undertaking to seek out the strange knight at his own place in a year’s time. Gawain now makes his stroke and cuts off the Green Knight’s head, so that it rolls along the floor; the decapitated man at once picks it up, leaps into his saddle, and, holding the head by the hair, adjures Gawain to meet him at the Green Chapel on the appointed day; and so departs. (Fit I.)

A year quickly passes, and on All Saints’ Day Gawain rides to seek the Green Chapel. After many hardships and adventures, he comes into North Wales and then into the Wirral and the country beyond. On Christmas Eve he is still in the wilds, but his prayer that he may find some shelter for the holy tide is answered that day. He comes to a castle in a forest. Here he is welcomed and entertained until St. John’s Day by the lord and the two ladies of the castle, one of them the lord’s young wife, the other an ancient as hideous as the wife is beautiful. He now wishes to depart, but on being assured by the lord that the Green Chapel is not two miles distant and that he shall be escorted to it in good time, he consents to prolong his stay till New Year’s morning. The lord intends to hunt on the last three days of the year, while Gawain rests his weary bones at home, and he proposes to Gawain a playful compact that they shall exchange each evening whatever they have won during the day. (Fit II.)

On each of the three days while the lord is afield Gawain lies late in bed and is visited by the lady in his chamber, where she does all she can to get him to make love to her. Though hard pressed, he resists her wiles and will only consent to allow her to kiss him, once on the first day, twice on the second, and three times on the last. These kisses he faithfully delivers to the lord, but without telling him where he won them, and he receives in exchange the lord’s winnings afield, venison, a boar’s head, and a fox-skin. On the third day, however, Gawain has accepted from the lady a green lovelace, or girdle, which she tells him will protect anyone wearing it from being wounded, and this part of his winnings, at her request but contrary to his compact, he conceals from the lord. (Fit III.)

On New Year’s morning Gawain is escorted by a squire to the head of a wild valley, where he is given directions for finding the Green Chapel. After some search he finds it, a green mound or barrow; and on the hillside he hears a sound as of an axe being sharpened. The Green Knight appears, and after greeting Gawain bids him prepare for the stroke. As the axe descends Gawain shrinks, and the Knight checks the blow and pauses to reprove him. The second stroke is a feint, but at the third he lets the axe come down fair. Gawain, however, suffers no hurt except a little cut on his neck; having kept his bargain he is preparing to defend himself when the Green Knight changes his note and speaks to him friendly words. The first two strokes (he tells him) were intended only as feints because Gawain had kept troth in the matter of his winnings on the first two days; at the third stroke he had wounded him because on the third day he had a little failed in lealty by keeping back the girdle. Gawain, who now sees that the Green Knight and his host are one, is overwhelmed with shame. The Knight, however, comforts him and tells him that the wooing at the castle was a temptation wrought by himself to test him, and that it has proved him the most faultless knight on earth. He gives him the girdle as a present and tells him, further, that the whole adventure from beginning to end was the wicked work of the enchantress, Morgan la Fay, who hates Guinevere and the Round Table. So Gawain rides again to Camelot and is welcomed by Arthur and his knights. (Fit IV.)

It is an excellent story, quite outside the regular Arthurian cycle, and the reader will naturally ask where it has come from. The two incidents of which it is composed, the Beheading and the Wooing, are nowhere else found in combination, but there are extant in various languages romances in which one or the other is described separately; romances of which Gawain is the hero. The temptation theme, indeed, is a fairly common one and need not be further discussed. The beheading theme, with differences, is found in at least two Gawain romances, one French, “La Mule sans Frein,” the other German, Diu Krone. The oldest example of it, however, is in the Irish romance “Fled Bricrend” (“Bricriu’s Feast”), belonging to the Cuchulinn cycle. In this, three heroes at Conchobar’s court dispute about the chief place at the feast; Conchobar, refusing to decide the issue himself, sends them to submit their claims to a giant, Gath. After exacting from them a promise to undergo any form of trial which he may appoint, Uath prescribes a beheading test which consists of a blow by each of them at himself and a blow by him at each in return. Cuchulinn alone keeps to his agreement; after beheading the giant and submitting to nothing more than three feints in return, he is awarded the hero’s portion. Here there are obvious affinities with the story of the Green Knight: in both the proposer of the test is a giant, in both there are three blows at the hero, and in both the beheading is a test of courage. In folklore, and even in some of the romances, beheading is merely a means of disenchantment, not a test of courage. We must not, however, press such correspondences as have been mentioned too far. We are not dealing with folklore. Folklore is rigidly conservative, and in it incidents have a fixed, unalterable shape. When story has once emerged out of the stage of folklore into that of romance the conditions are different; the romancers select, combine, and transfer quite freely. In Diu Krone the challenger is a shape-shifter, as in Sir Gawain; but it does not follow that one borrowed from the other, for in medieval romance almost any stranger may prove to be a shape-shifter. The author of Sir Gawain would assuredly not be dependent on a particular romance for a knowledge of shape-shifters, or green men (green being the fairy colour), or enchantresses, or magic laces, or faery chapels. It is, indeed, quite likely that the poet found one, or both, of the two main incidents in French romances and borrowed them in the same way that Shakespeare borrowed many of his plots. But the quality of the poem itself is good evidence that he had sufficient genius to use his materials with a poet’s imagination.1

It is very rarely that we find such artistic unity in a medieval romance as in Sir Gawain, and only consummate art could have achieved it. The two incidents, the Beheading and the Wooing, are no longer disconnected themes; they are vitally linked together. The test of Gawain’s courage and the test of his chastity are revealed as one and the same; the same man “wrought them both,” under the spell of the same malicious enchantress. In medieval theory only virtue can defeat enchantment; and had not Gawain been proof against the lady’s wiles which tempted his chastity, the beheading which was to test his courage must (so it appears in the event) have been fatal to him.

The writer was a true poet. Out of the raw material of folklore and the elements of crude magic he has conceived a human story with human motives, without sacrificing anything of the real magic which is the atmosphere in which his story lives. Only sympathy and imagination and a true humanity could have portrayed characters so attractive in their different ways as Gawain, the Green Knight (in both his guises), and the squire. His descriptive power is equal to his conception; he writes with his eye on the object; his phrases are alive and apt, and there is hardly any dead wood. Consequently all his pictures, whether of action or man’s works or wild nature, are as clear and sharp as the miniatures of the period. It is not without reason that the poem has been described by a great scholar and a great lover of letters2 as “the jewel of medieval English literature.”

The name of the author is unknown. He evidently knew the forest of the Wirral (which he describes as a wilderness), and his statement that “few dwelt there that either God or man loved” is the sort of half-malicious generalisation that points to his being a neighbour. He was probably a native either of Lancashire or some part of North Cheshire adjoining it. The date of the manuscript is about 1400, and that of the poem perhaps twenty or thirty years earlier, 1370–1380. This agrees very well with the internal evidence; Sir Gawain’s sabatons, or broad-toed steel shoes, the younger lady’s fretted headdress, and the elaborate details of castle architecture are all features pointing to the last quarter of the fourteenth century.

The poem is written in a Northwestern dialect, which is the ancestor of the South Lancashire folk-speech of today. Characteristic features of it are present plurals in -en (we thinken), second person singulars in -s (thou says), preterites like geet and leet, and the o-sound before nasals in mon, mony, hommer, bront (brand), etc. The reader must be cautioned, however, against supposing that Sir Gawain is a dialect poem in the usual acceptation of the term, written by a rustic bard for a rustic audience. In the fourteenth century there was as yet no standard literary English, and each writer wrote as he spoke, in the dialect of the district to which he was native; for all its dialect, Sir Gawain is as courtly, both in matter and style, as the best of French romances. There is nothing rustic or provincial about it.

The alliterative metre in which the poem is written had evidently come down in an unbroken tradition from Old English times, and was a living thing in the Northwest. In all parts of England except the North and Central West it seems to have been extinct, and even two centuries earlier in Layamon it appears badly broken down. The “Gawain” poet uses it with a sure sense of its varied rhythms. A few brief notes on the metre will, I hope, enable anyone to read it readily and with pleasure.

Alliteration. Normally there are four stresses in a line (two in each half-line or “verse”) of which three alliterate, i.e. are syllables beginning with the same letter. Occasionally there are only two alliterating syllables, one in each verse. Note that:

1. words beginning with any vowel or with h alliterate, e.g.

   Ágravain Hárd-hand at her óther side sat.

2. The first letter in words like knight, wrought, was of course pronounced by the poet, and such words alliterate on the k or w. I have sometimes retained this alliteration as a licence (like the eye-rhymes in modern verse), e.g.:

   Who knéw ever King such coúnsel to take?

Rhythm. In theory there is no limit to the number of unstressed syllables in a line, and we find not infrequently, especially in the first verse or half-line, four or even five such syllables between two adjacent stresses. To a reader accustomed to our modern syllabic metres such an accumulation of unstressed syllables might be strange and difficult, and in this version I have avoided any sequence of more than three.

The two chief rhythms in a verse are the “rising” × × / × × /, and the “falling” (×) / × × / ×; sometimes the same rhythm runs through a whole line, e.g.:

(rising) When the siége and the assáult | were ceásed at Tróy
(falling) Dríving to the dáis | no dánger affráy’d him,

but the half-line is the unit. Occasional variants of the rhythms in the second verse are:

• × / × / × e.g.

  | through reálms so mány

• × / × / e.g.

  | at Gáwain’s hánds

• / × × / e.g.

  | Árthur my náme

A third rhythm, rare except in the second verse, is the “rising-falling” or circumflex × ×/\×, e.g.:

| with a wróth clàmour

or

| by the búrn sìde

It makes a charming variation from the other two.

Long lines. Many lines have three stresses in the first verse. These I have usually simplified; when retained they have the stresses marked, unless the punctuation shows the caesura, e.g.:

And mány a bírd unblíthe on the bare twigs sitting.