Laüstic or The Lay of the Nightingale

The well-known Marie de France wrote her exquisitely crafted little love stories, called “lais,” in the late twelfth century. Although this story is short, it contains many of the customary courtly themes:

1. The lady is fair, well-mannered; she dresses well;

2. The two knights are courteous and generous and of great renown;

3. The two lovers are distanced, not only by a wall, but also by the honor and respect the knight owes his lover’s husband;

4. The lovers exchange gifts and messages.

An interesting twist comes into the story when the nightingale, which had before this point been both an excuse for the lady’s getting up in the night and a well-known symbol for love, is actually trapped and brutally killed as a real bird. When the woman wraps it in precious embroidered cloth and her lover makes a jeweled case to keep it in, the analogy to saints’ relics and their reliquaries is clear. The real bird has died a martyr to the lovers’ unrequited relationship, and with the death of the bird (and the detection of their love by the husband), their relationship ends. Courtoisie and propriety rule the day. Love plays by the chivalric code to which the two gentlemen are bound.

Laüstic

A story I will tell you—
The Britons made a lay of it—
Laüstic was its name, I think,
Or so they name it in their country.
This is rossignol in French
And nightingale in good plain English.

In Saint Malo in Brittany
There was a renowned city.
Two knights dwelt there
And each had a large house.
Because of these two barons’ benevolence,
The city had a good name.
One had married a woman,
Well mannered, courteous and comely;
Richly she adorned herself,
According to the custom and fashion of the time.
The other knight was a bachelor
Well known among his peers
For his bravery and great valor.
Gladly he gave hospitality:
Much he gained and much he spent
And much he gave away of what he had.
The wife of his neighbor he loved;
So much he wooed her, so often he prayed,
And so widely was his reputation known
That she began to love him above all else—
Partly because of the good things she’d heard about him,
Partly because he lived so close to her.
Prudently and well they conducted their love;
Carefully they hid it and took care
Not to be noticed
Not to be disturbed, not to be suspected.
And this they could easily arrange,
For close together were their dwellings.
Indeed, their houses were side by side—
And their rooms and their keeps.
There were no bars or other barriers,
Except for a high wall of grey stone.
In her bedchambers
The lady could sit by her window
And speak to her friend,
And he in his window could speak to her.
They could throw notes and gifts back and forth.
Little they had to displease them;
They were both very much at ease,
Except that they could not come together
Entirely at their pleasure,
For the lady was very strictly guarded
When her husband was away.
But they could manage to speak together,
Sometimes at night, sometimes in the day;
And no one could prevent them
From going to their windows
And gazing at each other.
A long time they had been in love
When there came a summer
When woodland and field are green,
And the orchards are in flower,
And the little birds sweetly
Sing their joy from atop the flowers.
It is not surprising that he who loves greatly
Becomes intent upon it.
Now this knight, I tell you truly,
Wanted with all his heart
To talk with and gaze upon his lady—
And she likewise him.
At night, when the moon was shining,
And her husband was asleep,
The lady often rose from beside him
And, putting on her mantle,
She came to stand at the window,
For she knew her lover would be there.
They kept watch the greater part of the night,
For it was pleasurable just to see one another
When more they could not have.
She woke and went to the window so often
That her lord became angry,
Often asking her why she got up
And where she was going.
“My lord,” the lady answered,
“He has not had joy in this world
Who has not heard the nightingale sing—
That is why you see me standing here.
I hear him singing so sweetly at night
That it seems to me a great delight.
It seems such a pleasure to me,
And I desire it so much,
That I cannot sleep at all.”
When her lord heard what she said,
He laughed in anger and spite.
He had an idea:
He would trap the nightingale.
There was not a servant in his house
Who did not make a net
Or a snare,
And they put them in the orchard.
There was not a hazel-nut tree nor a chestnut
Where they failed to place a snare, or glue;
And they caught and held him.
When the nightingale was taken,
He was delivered to the lord alive.
He rejoiced to have the bird in hand.
He went to his lady’s chamber.
“Lady,” he called, “where are you?
Come, speak to us.
I have captured the nightingale
Who has so often kept you awake.
From now on, you can sleep in peace;
He’ll not awaken you again.”
When the lady heard this,
She became both sad and angry.
She asked her lord for the bird,
But, in a temper, he killed it;
He broke its neck with his two hands—
In this he acted too meanly—
And he threw the body on the lady,
Spattering with blood
The linen chemise upon her breast.
Thereupon, he left her room.
The lady took up the little body.
Bitterly she wept and cursed
Those who had made the nets and snares;
For they had taken from her great pleasure.
“Alas,” she wept, “how unfortunate I am.
I can no more rise at night
And stand by the window
Where I used to see my love.
One thing I know truly:
He will think that I am false.
I need to let him know about this.
The nightingale I will send him;
Its story I will tell him.”
She embroidered the tale in gold thread
On a piece of samite,
And in it she wrapped the little bird.
She called one of her valets;
Her message she entrusted to him,
And sent him to her love.
The valet came to the knight,
Greeted him in his lady’s name;
All her message he recounted
And the nightingale he gave him.
When all had been told and shown,
And the knight had listened carefully,
He was dismayed at the misadventure.
But he was neither boorish nor lazy:
A vessel he had wrought,
Not of iron nor of steel,
But of fine gold set with precious stones
Most delicate and most dear.
When its cover was closely fitted,
He placed the nightingale therein,
Then had the casket sealed,
And carried it with him always.

The tale was told—
It could not long be hidden.
The Britons made a lay of it;
“The Nightingale” they call it.